A Letter to my Little Hitchhiker

Dear Little Hitchhiker,

People ask me if I'm going to find out what you are.  People ask me if I prefer a certain gender over the other.  People ask me what I want this time.

These are all normal questions, little one.  I answer them as such:

Yes, I will find out what you are the day you are born.

No, I do not prefer a certain gender over the other.

The third question is tricky though; the asker is generally soliciting the answer of "boy" or "girl."  For an answer such as that one they can refer to the second question.

But I do know what I want this time, little hitchhiker.  I know because I'm already a mommy to your older brother and I think he is amazing.  When I was pregnant with him I thought the answer was cut and dry:  boy or girl.  Now that I've had him for four years I know the answer is not so cut and dry.

I want you to be healthy.  I want you to love God.  I want you to be kind.  I want you to be funny.  I want you to be smart.  I want for you to live a long life with very little suffering. I want you to be active.  I want you to be compassionate and giving.

I want all these things baby.  That said, when people ask me what I want, I don't think it terms of boy or girl, pink or blue.  I think about the person I am growing and the responsibility I have for you.  I think about how much I already love you, and how much you are already loved by your family.  Your brother pats you every day and asks how you are.  We are excited to have you.  You will complete our family.

So you just grow, grow, grow.  Be what you were meant to be.  We will be waiting for you.  See you in January, little hitchhiker.

I love you
mama

PS
We all think you are going to be a boy.  But if you're a girl, we won't be disappointed.

A Letter to My Boy on His Third Birthday

Dear Toph,

Happy third birthday, precious boy!

Have I ever shared with you my favorite scripture?  It's Matthew 6:21 and it reads, "For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

You are my treasure, pal.  For these past three years, you have had my heart.  You're my treasure, my prize and I am so incredibly blessed to be your mommy.

This past year, the 12 months between 2 and 3, have been tremendous.  You have gone from this:

To this:

You have been amazing us all year long with your intelligence and your words, both funny and serious.  This year, we watched your blossom into the little boy that will one day grow into a big man.  We have learned that you are extremely funny (you make funny voices and making up funny songs), you are smart (Look Mommy, I'm watering the plant's stem!  There's an octagon!) and you are intense.  

You don't walk; you run.  You don't hop, you leap.   You don't tap the ball on the T, you knock the snot out of it. You don't doze off, you pass out.  You don't whine, you all out tantrum.  You don't tiptoe, you sprint.  You don't like, you love.  You look like your daddy, you act like your mommy.  You are fire.  You are three.  You are our most precious baby boy and time has gone by so quickly and so slowly.

These three years have been a wonderful ride, my baby.  I can't wait for all the years to come.  

Happy birthday, my treasure.

Love,

Mama

Half a Year Into 30: A Review

Never did mention this, but back in August, I turned the big 3-0.  It was fun.  Hubs and brother-in-law were in cahoots and threw a wonderful surprise get together for me and my friends.  We ate SO much and laughed SO much and enjoyed ourselves.

Thirty started with a full belly and full heart, a good thing.

Since then, thirty has been really good to me.  But as the photo mentioned, I now officially share some differences with 20 year-olds that I can only say comes from our 10 year age difference.

1.  Bedtime.  I must go to sleep by 9:30 on weekdays. Must do it.  Twenty year old me thought it normal to stay up late, even for no good reason.

2.  Wake up time.  I no longer cry at the thought of waking up at 5:15 every day, even on the weekends.  It's my life.  Sleeping in time is done. (When I was in college, I had an 8am class, for which I had to wake up at 6:30 to get to.  I literally cried at the thought of it.)

3.  Diet and exercise.  Now that I'm 30 and have born a child, I can no longer stuff anything into my mouth and not reap any consequences.  Used to, I'd run an extra mile or so and be fine.  Now, thirty has me watching what I eat and running and still not shedding pounds like I used to.  Oh well.

4.  Being clumsy.  Turning 30 didn't magically change me into a coordinated person, but it did make those clumsy slips much more painful.  I took note of this last week when I slipped on my keys and jarred my back.  Twenty year old me would have brushed it off as nothing, but thirty year old me was paying for it the next day.

5.  Hair dye.  I must dye my hair every four months or show off some terrific grey roots.  I am pretty sure that if I left my hair alone, I would be completed silver haired by forty.  Not ready to embrace that, not yet.

6.  Fun.  It's easier to have fun now that I'm thirty.  I care less about what people think and I'm getting back to having a great time.  It's awesome.  I've taken up running obstacle races and LOVE them and I don't think I would've done something like that as a 20 year old.

7.  Love.  My life is filled with so much love, thanks to my awesome husband and darling son, my family and friends.  My twenty year old self had love in her life, but was also fighting some demons that took the form of an evil stepmother (luckily now completely out of the picture).

Yes, thirty has been good to me.  I am excited to see what the next six months bring, what the next decade brings.  Mostly, I'm excited to share it with my Matt, who saw me through all my twenties and who will see me through all the decades to come.

Whose Child is This?

As both a parent and a teacher, this poem truly hits home in light of Friday's tragic events.



There's not much I can say right now that other's haven't already said.  One moment, the teacher in me weeps for the fallen teachers and administrators, dying to save their kids; and for the ones who helped their children escape safely.

The next moment, the parent in me weeps because I can't imagine the unspeakable horror of waiting, waiting, waiting, only to find out your baby won't be coming out of the school alive.

I pray for comfort for all those in Newtown.

Poem from Erica Bohrer

Shupa-Man

My child has developed a slight obsession over super heroes.  Or, as he says, Shupa-Man.

He has a Shupaman t-shirt and red socks, which he wears on his hands can calls them "Shupa-Man mittens."

You can't make this stuff up.

He flies (runs) around the house with the greatest of ease fighting invisible bad guys and Merry the cat.  He knows Superman can fly and therefore, when he is wearing his Superman shirt, he believes he can fly too.

I'm not a fan of that belief.  You can tell he's about to go "Shupa-Man" on us when he gets this determined look in his eye, walks to the edge of our stairwell and yells, "SHUPA-MAAAAAAN!"  And there's me, trying to grab at his hand and when he shakes it off, whizzing down the first flight of stairs trying to catch him. He then launches himself off the stairwell.

He does this over and over.  When that gets boring, he heads for the couch, where he jumps from couch, to ottoman, to loveseat and back.  He'll suddenly stop and shush me, saying there's bad guys waiting for us.  He'll take off, yell HIIIII-YAA from another room, and come back triumphant.

This child, he is one handful.  A hilarious, never boring, never ceasing to amaze me, handful.  He is a daily adventure and truly, he's a little super hero. My Shupa-Man.

During Which I Contemplate if I am indeed a Hoarder

Deep in the bowels of our freezer, there is a frozen bag of breastmilk.  It was pumped from my body almost two years ago.  It's been in there for two years, and yet, I can't remove it.  I can't throw it away.

I repeat: I am unable to throw away an old, stale, freezer-burned bag of breastmilk.

(If you're finished throwing up in your mouth, read on.)

The reason I can't throw this single, solitary bag of breastmilk away is because it represents something.  It represents a time in my life (not too long ago), during which I had a baby.  A baby who I breastfed, a baby who, although I was a working mom, was never fed formula.

That frozen bag of milk represents a time in my life during which I carved out roughly 90 minutes of my day to pump.  I look back, and knowing that I still have the same job, I wonder how I did it.  How did I find 90 minutes a day to be idle?  To sit and let a machine extract motherly fluid from my body?  I don't know the answer.

That frozen bag of milk represents a time in my life during which, on a nightly basis, I would clean and sanitize three bottles.  I was meticulous about those bottles and the pump parts.  I would hand scrub those bottles, then microwave them in a special sanitizing bag.  Nightly.  I would then pull out frozen bags of milk, unthaw them and pour them into those bottles.  I would pack those bottles oh so lovingly in my son's bottle bag, and send them with him daily to day care.  This was a solid 30 minutes of my evening.  Every day.

There were nights that I would be dead on my feet, scrubbing and pouring and measuring and I would think, "This is never going to end."

Guess what?  That season of our lives did indeed end.  Our boy quit taking the bottle right at his first birthday, thus ending my pumping and bagging of milk.  He finished all but one baggie of breastmilk and we moved on.  He keeps growing and we keep moving on.  Turn, turn, turn.

I look at him now, this whole milk drinking, baseball playing little boy, all knees and elbows, and I am stunned at how quickly he has grown.

I look at the baggie in my freezer, and I am reminded that he will always be my baby. I am reminded that with a child, every season, no matter how trying or tiring, is just that:  a season.  Turn, turn, turn.

The baggie will stay.  I don't know how long it will stay, but for now, I need it to stay.  (Don't trip, we will not be consuming it.)

Perhaps I will give it to him on his 16th birthday?

Insta-gin

An iPhone.  I got one.

For the longest time, I shunned the idea of an iPhone, saying I was not be controlled by a piece of technology.  If my phone could make and take calls, then I was fine.

Then, my upgrade came due and the 4s was only $99.  We both took the plunge and let me tell you, I have not looked back.

My favorite part?  The high quality, easily shareable pictures.  Methinks I'm becoming a regular iPhone photographer.  Our poor Nikon sits collecting dust like an antiquated type writer.  What do you mean, plug the camera in to upload?  Why won't it just send the pics to the cloud?

Here's what we've been up to, iPhone style:

Oh, iPhone.  I'm just so sorry I waited so long!

It's Going To Be a Great Weekend

Last night, we made a last minute change of plans and decided to go out to eat.  This is the first weekend of the school year in which we have not had company and have not been sick.  Just the three of us!

When we got home it was dusk and the whole ride home Toph kept asking if we could play baseball in the backyard.  We got out of the car and didn't even go inside to put our stuff down.  We picked up the ball, glove and bat and got down to business.

My child is going to be a great athlete, and right now he shows a particular interest in baseball.  Don't you dare put the tee in front of him to practice t-ball, no no.  You must pitch it to him so he can hit it "real high."  We pitch underhanded to him and more times than not, he knocks that ball pretty far.

We had been playing for about 15 minutes when he stepped right out of his shoe.  We sat in the middle of the grass to put his shoe back on, giggling together.  Out of the blue, he leans down and lays a kiss on my shoe.

I was like, "Dude, did you just kiss my shoe?"  You know the tone, trying to sound halfway disgusted because we don't kiss shoes. But it was really quite cute.

In response he says, "My love you mommy."

*my eyes well with tears*

I respond, "I love you too, buddy."

He says, "Can you pitch the ball, mommy?"

And I did.  Heart full, we played baseball until it got dark.

That was the start of our weekend.  It's going to be a great one.

The Time I Didn't Put My Car in Park

Yesterday, I woke up with a million things to do.  I got ready and had to go back in the house to grab a forgotten item three times.  My head was in a million places and none of them were the present.

I pulled up into school, slowed down into the parking spot and started rustling all my things together.  Purse, coffee, school work.

I forgot one thing.  To put my car in park.

My colleagues watched as my car slowly inched toward the curb, then began to hop the curb, all with me being completely oblivious.  I looked up with my purse over my shoulder and momentarily wonder why my car won't shut off.  I realize it's still in drive, and that it's MOVING!

I thrust it into park and looked up to see my wide eyed friend Amy staring at me.  I gave her a sheepish grin as she said, "What are you doing?  Are you okay?"

I was okay.  My mind was just not on the task at hand...much like an earlier incident, this one occurring seven years ago during my first year of teaching.

First year teachers have it rough.  They are in charge of 20 something children yet they have really not developed their personal style of teaching or classroom management.  These 20 something children are fully aware of their novice approach and smell it, like fear.

My first year was rough; mostly because I had no idea what I was doing.  One morning, I got to school, halfway dreading the day and halfway sobbing because I really didn't want to be there.  My arrivals were always early because it seemed like my workload never went away (it never goes away).

I was the first one in the parking lot that day and much like yesterday's incident, my mind was not on the immediate task at hand, which was putting the car in gear.

I simply hopped out, and marched my merry way through the doors of Vogel Elementary.

A few minutes later, a sweet first grade teacher stopped by to ask me why I decided to park down by the trees today.  Aghast, I told her I did NOT park by the trees.  I peeked out the window and much to my surprise, there was my silver Cavalier down by the trees.

I had not put the car in gear, rather left it in neutral, and after getting out, my car simply rolled down the slightly inclined parking lot, hopped a curb, and kept rolling until it stopped in the schoolyard, next to some newly planted trees.

First, horror.  Then, mortification.  Finally, relief.  Those feelings washed over me as I moved my car back to my parking spot and put it in gear as well as lifting the emergency break as high as it could go.

At any rate, I'm batting 1000.  Both incidents could have put me on the news and both turned out to be rather minor.  I'm on a roll, folks.

A Letter to my Frenemy, August

Dear August,

We meet again. Doesn't seem like too long ago I sat down to write you last year's letter. Truly, I sat down to write you two years ago and it doesn't seem like that long ago either.

Time. When I was younger it seemed like it was dragging. Now that I have my own young one, time evades me like grains of sand slipping through my grasping fingers.

I realize the tone of my last two letters could best be described as annoyed. You'll be happy to know I come to you this year and I am not annoyed by your arrival.

You see, August, I have a two year old. Truly, he's almost two and a half. He remains the light of my life, my treasure, my prize, but he's almost two and a half. I'm going to say this to you August and I would prefer it if you kept this little secret: my son is no longer a baby. He needs more out of life than mama and daddy.

So, your arrival means he'll be getting more than us. He'll be getting daily buddies, circle time, ABC time (did you know he knows some letters? I didn't) and lots of songs. He'll be going back to day care which is just what he needs. While I still feel little pangs to be so near the end of our beautiful summer, I realize that everything in life has it's season. We are blessed enough to have a season of together time every year. Turn, turn, turn.

Here's another thing, August. This year you bring with you my 30th birthday. 30. Thirty. Three decades. While I realize that this number in no way indicates that I'm old, it does give me the perfect opportunity to reflect on how truly blessed I am, having made it to thirty with a healthy, beautiful child, a great, hardworking husband, a roof over my head, a job I love and family who loves me. I am determined to make 30 the year I give more back. Serve more, as I have been served. To show my gratitude, rather than just state it.

I've realized, August, that you're my January. You're the beginning of a new year for me, every year. Now that I know that, I will welcome you each year a little more warmly.

Here's to you, August. Thank you for arriving so promptly every year for the past thirty years (actually, exactly thirty years ago I think my mom was pretty miserable at this point, but that's another story). If I could, I would give you a hug.

Love
gin

Four Years

Four years.

One thousand, four hundred sixty days.

Thirty five thousand, forty hours.

That's how long we've been married on this day.

One day not too long ago, I was driving to work and I saw an elderly couple out in their front yard, each doing yardwork.  The old white haired man was trimming the shrubs that bordered their little porch, and the little white haired woman was watering the grass.

I thought, That's the goal.  That's what I want.

I want to be the little old lady watering the lawn with my husband.  After the kids are gone, work is finished and life gets a little slower, I want Matt there with me at my side.  I want to live this life with him and see it through it's every phase.  Lucky me; we said those vows and we're in it to win it.  One day, that will be us.  My husband.  My partner. My rock.

Four years of marriage.  They have flown, they have been eventful, they have been fulfilling.

I can't wait for the next four, the next eight, the next sixteen.

Happy anniversary, MGK.  I la la love you, don't mean maybe.

Things My Two Year Old Says

Toph is at an age where he is talking up a storm and his dialect?  Definitely that of a two year old.  I listen to him speak and just want him to speak that way forever.  I can understand him perfectly, but after spending lots of time with new people on our vacation last week, I realized that not everyone is privy to this two year old dialect.

Here is a glossary for you:

my: I
ex.  My play, mama. (I want to play, mama.)

Memmy:  Merry
ex.  Memmy pooped, Mama. (Merry pooped, Mama.) <-------Coincidentally, I know a lot about the cat's bowel movements thanks to Toph.

hungy:  hungry.
ex.  My hungy, Mama.  (I'm hungry, Mama.)

froggies:  kittens
ex.  Let's go check the froggies! (Let's go check the kittens!) <------When our cat first had the kittens, he assured me those were not baby cats but baby frogs.

PB:  TV
ex.  My watch PB, Mama. (I want to watch TV, Mama.)

happitter:  helicopter
ex.  My see happitter, mama! (I see a helicopter, Mama!)

motodoodoo:  motorcycle
ex.  My hear motodoodoo! (I hear a motorcycle!)

big mosher:  big monster
ex.  BIG MOSHER!! (Big monster!) <-------Usually said in reference to the whale in Finding Nemo.

oushide:  outside
ex. My play oushide. (I want to play outside.)

peese:  please
ex. My go oushide peese. (I want to go outside very badly and know you like for me to use the word please.)

tacopeesa:  taco pizza
ex. My eat tacopeesa shuppertime. (I would like taco pizza for supper.) <--------The child's favorite foods are tacos and pizza.

shuppertime:  supper
(See above.)  <-------The cutest thing is that every time he hears the oven timer he yells, "Shuppertime!"

Spoiled Reader

Have you ever read a book in which a beloved character dies?

I'm sure you have; I can think of many characters I've loved that I've had to say goodbye to.  Albus Dumbledore, Boromir, Primrose Everdeen, Seymour Glass, and countless others.

In order to move a terrific plot forward, authors must do away with characters.  It pains me, but it's true.  If a plot is too neatly wrapped up and the author comes away with no blood on his hands (ahem, Stephenie Meyer), I consider that poor writing.

That being said, I find that the book I just read took the whole "blood on his hands" thing a little too far.  So far, in fact, I put the book down with 100 pages left and vowed not to finish it.  Then I got mad and said I would finish it, but not continue with the series.  Then, I finished the book and said I would continue the series, but only if the author did away with no more of my favorite characters.  If he did, I was out.

What book caused this crazy bargaining with myself?  (Get ready for spoilers if you haven't already read it.)

Game of Thrones.


This is an excellent book; its wide array of characters keep you on your toes and Martin weaves a fabulous, bloody tale.  There were certain characters that stood out for me and I loved immediately.  Jon Snow, Tyrion Lannister, Arya Stark, Daenarys Targaryen and...Ned Stark.

I loved Ned Stark from the beginning.  His honor, his sense of duty, his love for his children...all of it.  His chapters were my favorite.

Then, the author had him killed and he didn't even let me, the reader, say goodbye.  You see, he led the reader to believe that Ned would be okay.  All my prior knowledge of plot told me that Ned would make it through the book alive.  Forever changed?  Yes.  Scarred and injured? Yes.  But dead?  No.  That thought didn't even cross my mind.

Kill the protagonist in the first book of the series?  Madness.  And yet, Martin did it.  He did it and I was angry and I put the book down and found that whereas I cried over Albus Dumbledore, I could not cry over Stark. I imagine it was the storytelling and the disbelief I felt at what had just happened.  I even toyed with the thought that maybe he wasn't dead, and then read the part about Sansa visiting his head on the spike.

I put the book down and said, "That's it.  I'm done with this book."  That night, I became worried about my other favorite characters and knew I wouldn't be okay until I knew they were okay (I am such a weirdo).

Therefore, I finished the book and found no such loose ends tied up.  I don't know if my favorites will be okay, therefore, I will continue reading.  Plus, I really want to know how the whole Others storyline plays out.  A medieval fantasy with zombies?  That is RICH!

I told myself I would not read any more if any of my aforementioned favorites die.  I am spoiled, after all, and I want my protagonists to live.  Spoiled rotten, I tell ya.

So, do you think I'll stick to it?  If Arya, Jon, Tyrion or Daenarys die in the upcoming books (and don't tell me if they do), will I put the series down and curse George RR Martin?  Or will I soldier on with a sense of duty akin to Ned Stark?

And, I need to start reading more books that condition me to be not so spoiled.  Which ones would you recommend?

A Plea for Clean Air

As many of you know, I am a teacher.  More specifically, I am a bilingual teacher.  A bilingual teacher in an inner city school.  A bilingual teacher in an inner city school that is close to 60 years old.

I love it here.  My job has its challenges but that's what I like about it.  It's not always easy, but it always makes me think and examine and I am convinced the constant thinking is what keeps me smart. (Kind of smart, at any rate.)

Here's the thing: because my school is so old, it has chalkboards. 

The chalkboards create dust and when you couple that with the perpetual construction that is always outside our window, my room gets very dusty.

This dust is not good for anyone's lungs and not only that, but chalkboards are a thing of the past.  I started thinking what I could do to change it.  I can't fix the construction but I have some control over the chalkboards.

That's when I wrote this:

Click here to see my Donor's Choose project.

I'm writing today to see if you will help cover the last $50. Fifty more dollars and my students can have a dry erase board...a more colorful classroom, less dust to breathe in and, let's face it...a board that many children around the country already have.

If not me, peruse the site.  There are so many worthy projects; choose one and give.  It feels pretty darn good.

Important Parenting Questions

He is eating a booger in this picture.

I have some pressing parenting questions that urgently need your advice.

1.  How do you teach your two year old not to fart in public? Or at least not do it loudly?

2.  How do you teach your two year old not to pick his boogs and eat them, in public or anywhere?

3.  How do you teach your two year old that the iPad is not his toy and stomping feet will not work?

Ah, life with a two year old.  There is a lot of teaching going on these days.

The Time I Farted in Fourth Grade

When I was in the fourth grade, the state assessment was called TAAS. (I think the acronym was Texas Assessment of Academic Skills, but don't quote me.)

I remember the teacher, Ms. Smith, telling us about this test, but only in passing, like, "Hey guys, tomorrow you'll be taking this test. It's called the TAAS. Don't worry about it, it should be easy but it will probably be long."

I didn't worry about it.

The next day, all our desks were spread apart and we had study carrels to cover our tests. Ms. Smith passed our tests out and she read the directions.

I thought that was weird...why was she reading directions to us from a booklet? And, why did I have to break my test open with a pencil? Who thought it was smart to seal a test and let a fourth grader open it? And why was there a separate answer document to bubble in? And, why did I have to bubble my name instead of just writing it?

State tests are crazy, you guys.

My nine year old self set to work. I don't remember it being hard, I just remember sitting behind that desk carrel, flipping to the end of the test to see how long it would take. I also remember playing a little game where I would look at a column of numbers and predict which letter would be chosen the most...a, b, c or d. At the end of the column I would tally the answer choices up to see if my prediction was correct.

State tests are so effective, you guys.

At one point during the test, I sneezed. That sneeze caused me to fart like a 40 year old trucker. I mean, that fart was an earth shaker. Rattled the walls. I was mortified; it was dead quiet in that room and I had just ripped the loudest fart known to man. I knew I was soon to be laughed out of the room.

State tests are so embarrassing, you guys.

Little snickers punctuated the quiet room but before anything could really get going...Mrs. Smith shushed them all down. In a stank, ghetto voiced teacher way. The way only teachers can do when they are bound by law to keep kids quiet. (I can SO relate.)

Since I was behind my study carrel, no one really cottoned on to who farted. At lunch that day there was a great debate and at one point, my name was thrown in the mix. I had the presence of mind to throw out best argument of all farting discussion,

"Oh yeah?? The one who smelt it DEALT it!"

Linking up here:

Mom Enough

By now we've all seen the Time magazine cover. The sight of a grown boy breastfeeding did not offend me; I myself breastfed and am not bothered by seeing those images. I truly think that breastfeeding does need to be more normalized in our society.

Did I think it was an accurate representation of what breastfeeding really looks like? No. However, I guess I would rather young women see breastfeeding glamorized, such was the young lady wearing skinny jeans, flats, perfectly coiffed and beautifully made up. (As opposed to how I often breastfed, with dirty clothes, hair, and dozing because it was the one quiet moment I was afforded. Not glamorous, but definitely real.)

I digress. There was something about the cover of the magazine that bothered me. It was the title:

"Are You Mom Enough?"

I haven't read the article, so I won't pretend to know what it says, although I do know it talks about attachment parenting and Dr. Sears as the leading doctor who supports it.

Attachment parenting doesn't bother me, nor does Dr. Sears.

But that title, man, that bothered me. It angered me.

Once again, it pitted mothers against mothers, waging another battle in the Mommy Wars about who is a better parent. It is from these Mommy Wars that lead women to feel so much guilt about simply not feeling as good as another mom because her parenting choices are different.

I guilted myself for an entire year about not being a SAHM, convincing myself that I was doing my son a disservice, that I was simply a subpar mother. Forget the fact that my income helps us keep a roof over our heads, clothes on our back and food in our bellies, I felt as if I should forgo these necessities and find a way to make it work as a SAHM.

Through much reflection, I realized that I am the perfect mother for Toph. I am exactly what he needs and exactly what he wants. I work. He goes to daycare, where he is flourishing. I go to work, where I am challenged daily and where I am flourishing. I come home exhausted, but happy.

I AM mom enough for Toph.

And let me tell you something, fellow mamas.

You are mom enough too.

If you are feeling any shred of guilt over any part of mommyhood, say it aloud, with me.

You ARE mom enough.

I leave you with an article I read this morning. It was as if the author reached into my heart and typed the words that were written inside it.

Feel no guilt as we head into Mother's Day and know that you are mom enough.

The Definition of Orgasm

Basketball was my sport growing up. I loved to play it and started in middle school. Once high school hit, I was thrown into a world where upper classmen were more influential than my own mother

Consider this...

My freshman year in high school I was sitting in the bleachers with two of my fellow team mates, both upper classmen and both, in my 14 year old opinion, the height of cool. Oh, you guys are seniors and you want me to sit with you? Oh, sure, yeah.

We were waiting for volleyball practice to be over with and chatting. Well, they were chatting. I was hanging onto every word they said. Upper classmen! Sitting with me! Before practice!

The one sentence I managed to utter in front of the senior goddesses was that I had to pee. (I know, I know. It's a wonder they wanted to sit with me at all.) One of the seniors, let's call her Darah, told me I should try to hold it. The other girl, let's call her Beryl, had a knowing grin on her face.

I wanted to know why I needed to hold it. My mom had always told me it was no good to hold it. So, I asked why.

Darah responded, "Well, it makes the muscles around your bladder stronger and when those get stronger..." She began giggling and Beryl had to finish. "Your orgasms are better if you hold your pee because the muscles around your bladder get stronger."

I didn't want to appear uncool and ask what an orgasm was. I just assumed orgasm had something to do with basketball. I mean, these girls were serious athletes and I'm sure it was a drag to have to leave the game to go use the restroom in the middle of third quarter. Orgasm must have had to do with that.

We had a three hour practice and I didn't pee at all, even after frequent water breaks.

Fast forward to that evening. I'm sitting at the breakfast bar doing homework and my mom is in the kitchen making dinner. We are chatting and here is the conversation that ensued:

Me: Mom, you were so wrong to tell me not to hold my pee.

Mom: Oh, why?

Me: Well, because the longer you hold your pee, the better your orgasms are.

(Long silence. Mom appears to have a strange form of paralysis.)

Mom: And what do you think an orgasm is?

Me (in a condescending tone, since mom didn't play basketball she obviously didn't know anything): Okay, Mom. An orgasm is when you have to go to the bathroom in the middle of a game but you practice holding your pee so that way the muscles in your bladder are strong and you don't have to miss any part of the game to pee.

Mom (looking relieved):  Who told you this?

Me:  Beryl and Darah.

Mom:  Don't ever get in a car with them and please don't listen to what they say.

A Startling Slip of the Tongue

Almost a year ago this evening, I was getting ready for bed. It was a Sunday night. I washed my face, brushed my teeth and as I was getting into bed, I flipped the television on.

I ordinarily read before bed, but that night, I felt inclined to watch TV. I hopped in bed hoping to find SNL on Hulu when there his face was.

The most evil human in the world, perpetrator of the 9/11 attacks, glaring at me. Brian Williams was reporting that our Navy Seals had indeed killed him. Osama Bin Laden was dead.

Jubilation. I know I shouldn't have felt that way over his death, but I did. Seeing as how Matt was there with me the day we learned his name, I knew he must be filled in on the news.

I ran downstairs, sputtering and shrieking. I stopped three steps away from the first floor of our house and said very dramatically,

"Matt, Obama is DEAD!"

(Read that carefully.)

Here was my husband's reaction:

(Puts head in hands.) "What? Oh no, oh no, oh no. He's been assassinated. I can't believe it. He's dead? They killed him??" (All in shocked, sad voice.)

While he was processing what I said, I was processing his reaction. Why is he reacting this way? Back up...

Oh, I messed up one little letter and now he thinks....

"No, no honey. OSama Bin Laden is dead. He's dead. Obama is fine. Probably celebrating with Michelle and Bo."

Matt's response?

He told me I'd done enough, and to go to bed.

The Pros and Cons of Two

We are a month into the twos, so I thought I would break down some pros and cons of having a two year old around.
Pros
1.  Talking.  My boy is saying sentences, asking questions, singing songs and has an ever growing vocabulary.  It is so fun to talk to him!

2.  Potty training.  We said good-bye to diapers over Easter weekend and haven't looked back.  I'll go into more detail later, but we followed the Three Day Potty Training Method by Lora Jensen to a T.  We have moved on to big boy undies!

3.  Awesome imagination.  The things this boy comes up with.  He gets busy in his kitchen and makes us wonderful feasts, he sits in his sandbox and epic battles occur.  He's really quite amazing.

4.  Independence.  Whether he's taking off his own shirt, putting his boots on or feeding himself, Toph's motto is "My do it, mama."

5.  Soccer.  He started playing with the Little Kickers group here in town and he LOVES it.  We have a blast watching him run after the ball.

However, the twos have not been all sunshine and butterflies.

1. Tantrums.  He throws them.  They're not fun.

2. Independence.  Oh, was that in my pros column?  Oh, because it's also in my cons column.  If we need to be somewhere, this independence thing can be wearing.

3. Potty accidents.  Hand in hand with potty training, I can handle the accidents.  Especially if they are of the number one variety.  I'm not the biggest fan of the number two accidents, but luckily we've only had one of those.

4.  Talking.  What? This was in the pros section too?  Well, I love how verbal he is!  Until he tells me "Stop it!" or "Leave me lone!"

In sum, I love the twos.  I love my boy.  This is a really great age.