Momopoly Reviews

And the Winner is....

2010-04-23T23:33:00.002-04:00

Congratulations to Dana, the lucky 11th comment* and the winner of the $100 gift card to SkinCare Rx. Thanks to everyone who entered and a big thanks to all my loyal Momopoly readers. :-)

*Comment 55 was excluded since it came in after the giveaway deadline. So sorry!

SkinCareRx Giveaway

2010-04-07T22:00:00.006-04:00

SkinCare Rx, one of the sponsors of Momopoly, has been generous enough to host a $100 gift card giveaway. SkinCare Rx offers a diverse line of products, including the SkinCeuticals Skin Care line. SkinCeuticals provides complete skincare solutions for all skin types.

There are several ways to glean entries for this fantastic giveaway (no, I haven't been paid to say that). Here they are:

One entry for leaving a comment after this post
One entry for becoming a fan of SkinCareRx on Facebook
One entry for following SkinCareRx on Twitter
One entry for following me (Momopoly) on Twitter (or tell me if you already do)
One entry for subscribing to Momopoly's feed or signing up for a free email update (or tell me if you already do)
And...15 entries (that's right - 15) for writing a blog post with a link directed to "SkinCeuticals Skin Care." Your post also must link to Momopoly Spring Giveaway! post and include a minimum of 100 words to qualify. If you choose to write a blog post promoting the giveaway, please be sure to include the link to it in a comment below.

*Please leave all your entries in separate comments so it’s easier for me to count.

The contest will end at 10 p.m. Eastern time on Thursday, April 22, 2010, so be sure to leave your comments on or before then. Winners will be announced here and at my main blog on Friday, April 23rd. Good luck!

Announcing the Giveaway Winners!

2009-12-03T21:36:00.002-05:00

Using the super nifty True Random Number Service, I have four lucky winners for my Giveaway Galore. I've included the winners and the prize each won below. I'll just need you to email me at kmwicker[at]gmail[dot]com with your contact info so I can get the prizes to you. I was touched by all your warm comments and encouraging words - thank you, and thanks to all my blog readers.

Thrifty & Chic Mom: The Heart of Motherhood: Finding Holiness in the Catholic Home

Nicole Palm: A Planet Mom T-shirt

Catholic Mommy Brain: A scone pan from Cookware.com

Cathy Adamkiewicz: A Premium Membership to MyPunchBowl.com

Congratulations!

Giveaway Galore!

2009-11-19T07:27:00.002-05:00

This is my first big giveaway in honor me blogging for nearly three years. My official blogiversary doesn't arrive until February, but I thought it might be nice to do a giveaway before Christmas as a gift to my wonderful readers.

To participate in the giveaway, leave a comment on or before Friday, November 27th. Please be sure to indicate what prize(s) you'd like to enter to win. If you want a chance of winning any of them, just write, "All." There will be one winner per prize. Winners will be announced the first week in December. Good luck, and thank you for encouraging me as a wife, mother, writer, dreamer, goof ball, and a Christian!

Many thanks to my giveaway sponsors!

Prize 1
One Planet Mom T-shirt of your choice. Choose from these witty styles. (I personally like the "Pray-At-Home Mom" and "Seeking Tall, Dark, Rich Cup of Coffee" tees.)

Prize 2
A copy of The Heart of Motherhood by Donna-Marie Cooper O'Boyle. This is one of many books I read while on bed rest, and it was just what my midwife ordered: A book that calmed my soul and encouraged me as a mom. What's more, Donna-Marie endured strict bed rest with her fifth child for almost her entire pregnancy after her uterus hemorrhaged, so I felt a personal connection to her and thought I could surely make it through a month of bed rest with her as my inspiration.

If you've ever questioned your value as a mom (and really, what mom hasn't when at the end of the day she finds streaks of diaper ointment in her hair, finger paint on her walls, and crushed Cheerios in her carpet?), then pick up any one of Donna-Marie's books for a little pick-me-up. In her conversational style, the mother of five extols motherhood as a God-given vocation and as a means of growing in holiness.

Prize 3
A scone pan from Cookware.com, one of the CSN Store brands. Then you can easily whip up some tasty scones for a holiday tea, cookie swap, or potluck! While you're clicking, check out the chic and colorful Alessi line of cookware and home accessories.

Prize 4
A Premium membership upgrade to MyPunchBowl.com, your party planning e-headquarters, for ONE YEAR ( a $49.95 value).

A MyPunchbowl Premium Membership gives you:

- Premium designs
- More fonts, papers, and ribbons
- Advertising free invitations and eCards
- Priority tech support
- Exclusive partner offers

And to all my readers, a 10 percent discount for Tag-A-Bag, a nifty and useful key chain tag that allows you to record all of your children's vital information and then clip it to a diaper bag, backpack, or luggage tote. The Tag-A-Bag kit includes a fold-out card with a spot to attach a recent photograph of your child and record important info like parents' contact information, your pediatrician's phone number, your child's blood type, date of birth, eye and hair color, the poison control number, medication information, and allergies.

The Tag-A-Bag kit also includes a disposable ink strip for recording your child's fingerprint as well as a simple medical release statement you can sign, which authorizes someone else to provide medical treatment in the event that you're not available. Mompreneur Stephanie Green invented Tag-A-Bag a few years ago after sending her then 2-year-old (she has recently added a set of twins to her family!) to stay with her parents. Stephanie's no fear monger; she just wanted to have an easy, convenient way of keeping her daughter's "vitals" in one place.

Tag-A-Bag kits are regularly $6, but visit Tag-A-Bag now and enter "tagmybag" in the coupon field to receive the 10 discount.

Thanks again for supporting Momopoly!

Avent Bottle Review

2009-06-30T07:47:00.002-04:00

This is a compensated review from BlogHer and Avent.

Let me start out by saying that I'm a big fan of Avent Isis Manual Breast Pump and subsequently have always used Avent bottles. So I was thrilled when Avent came out with its BPA-free bottles.

That said, I don't use bottles all that much. I often joke that my kids go straight from my breasts to sippy cups (and they really almost do).

In fact, I practice what's known as ecological breastfeeding (EBF). Which, in a nutshell, means I nurse for both nourishment and comfort without restriction. In other words: I nurse. A. Lot.

But occasionally I do cheat - like when my husband and I have an at-home date night and talk over vino or a mixed drink (my husband makes a mean mojito), and I feel I need to "pump and dump." (Then my husband gets to actually feed his offspring with a bottle.)

Just this past Saturday we decided to go on a real date night where we actually left our little ones, including M.E., my nursing baby, in the competent care of Gaba and Papa (my parents). So I got all dolled up and armed my parents with an Avent bottle and several ounces of pumped breastmilk. We kissed our older girls good-bye and left a very happy grandma who cherishes the rare moments she gets to feed her grandbabies.

Since I'm on my third baby, I wasn't too worried about abandoning my nursing babe (although I typically don't like to leave my babies much at all for at least three months). And we'd already given M.E. a bottle a few times, and she'd been quite pleased with it, actually, because it didn't spray milk down her throat with the force of a fire hose. I've been very blessed to not have any nursing problems other than just making way too much milk. I've been known to refer to my breasts as Super Soakers. But I digress. Again.

The point is I wasn't at all worried about how my baby would fare in my absence or if she would take a bottle. Plus, I nursed her right before we left, so I assumed she might not even need to eat while we were stuffing our faces with Greek cuisine and talking about ~~politics, art, and other cerebral topics~~ our kids.

That was my first mistake. It turns out M.E., who is just shy of three months, was not at all pleased with an MIA mom. Oh, Gaba didn't have it too awful, and she would have called if the baby had been inconsolable. Gaba just had to hold M.E. the entire time (bliss for a grandma) and walk and walk and walk and walk... (I sometimes have to march endlessly with her, too, especially when her reflux flares up). Fortunately, M.E. did take the bottle, but she only slowly slurped up two ounces or so. She kept gagging, Gaba reported.

"I don't think she was really hungry. I think she was just tired," Gaba told me upon our homecoming. Tired, she was. I nursed M.E. for just a few minutes before she went limp against me.

It seems this is my first baby who knows (or cares) when Mommy is away. My oldest didn't start the whole separation anxiety thing until much older, and she always was happy with her Gaba. My second is our laid back kiddo, and she's happy in almost anyone's arms. Just goes to show you that children of the same flesh and blood who even look a lot alike can be as similar as salt and sugar when it comes to personality.

My husband did try the bottle again, and this time she was happy. Perhaps because she knew Mom was in close quarters. And honestly, I think given my crazy milk supply, my baby can actually control the milk flow from this Avent bottle better than from when it comes rushing out of my breast like Niagara Falls. Likewise, the 11-ounce bottle fits onto my pump, so when my husband and I have "pump and dump" nights, I can offer fresh milk before I imbibe.

Also, the bottle is made of honey-colored PES material that provides "extra durability," according to its package. Avent offers five different nipple flow rates. I received the nipple with three holes and, again, considering my breasts spray more streams of milk than I can count, I think M.E. was probably relieved to be able to enjoy a more leisurely meal.

As a breastfeeding mom who only occasionally uses bottles, I'm satisfied with the Avent bottle. I'm definitely not particularly fastidious about my bottles since I don't use them much and like I said, Avent has always been my go-to brand since I've been so happy with their pump.

But enough about me. What about you? I'd love to hear from other moms out there. What's your fave bottle brand? How often do you give your bambino a bottle? Do you "pump and dump" if you feel a wee bit tipsy? (Oh, and have you heard of Milk Screen, an at-home test you can buy to detect how much alcohol is in your breast milk? I hate to waste what I call "liquid gold," so I've considered investing in this.)

Please visit Avent's Official Site for more information on their bottles and other products.

Oh and be sure to enter to win a $500 Visa gift card from Avent at the BlogHer review roundup page!

GM/BlogHer Ride and Drive Recap

2008-11-12T20:09:00.000-05:00

I’m not a huge car person, although I admit my “Mother Ship” (AKA minivan) is a dream come true. Still, I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed an evening out sans the kiddos even if it involved test driving cars.

On Tuesday night I attended the General Motors/BlogHer Ride and Drive. I had the opportunity to meet up with other Atlanta area bloggers and talk blogging, cooking, writing fiction versus nonfiction, homeschooling, and share breastfeeding and pregnancy stories. (I found the whole “momraderie” thing to be going on when I was nibbling on delish chocolate cake nodding sympathetically as a fellow mom/blogger talked about her latch-on problems with baby number two and her painful, cracked nipples. Only moms can safely bring up the word "nipples" during cocktail hour.)

But before I could gab with the girls, I hit the road in two Saturn models*.

First, I slipped into a gray 2009 Saturn AURA XR Sedan with a friendly GM worker as my co-pilot. She told me she had a 2-year-old daughter, so we spent most of the test drive talking about pregnancy nausea, strong-willed toddlers, and pining for sleep.

The sedan provided a smooth ride, which I would honestly expect from any new car, but there was nothing extremely memorable about it. To a lady who’d much rather shop for shoes than cars, show me one sedan and I’ve seen them all.

However, the VUE hybrid was another a story. This car, which apparently was a test model that hasn’t hit the market yet, felt different – in a good way. When I turned the key in the ignition, I thought the engine was dead for a split second because the car was absolutely silent.

“Believe it or not, that’s it. You’re ready to go,” my fellow passenger, another friendly GM worker, from Michigan explained.

The radio was off during my test drive and the dearth of noise from tinkering gears and the rumbling vibrations of a running engine that you usually hear while driving impressed me. As I navigated the streets surrounding a hip part of the ATL called Atlantic Station, my passenger explained how the hybrid works. It uses a unique hybrid powertrain system and alternates between different energy forms (gas and electric) depending on whether you’re accelerating, going up or down a hill, reaching a certain speed, etc. This smart technology helps to ensure the car is running at optimal efficiency, which results in excellent gas mileage so you’ll end up spending a lot less time at the pump. Very cool. No matter how green you consider yourself, who wouldn’t like to save on gas?

In addition, the car utilizes the latest safety features from Europe since this is where it was engineered. For example, the headrest moves forward in the event of an impact to reduce whiplash, and the brakes break off to prevent foot and leg injuries that people often endure in serious crashes (the airbags prevent upper body injuries, but apparently doctors were seeing a lot of leg injuries after car accidents). Technology never ceases to amaze me.

I also liked the fact that I was sitting up higher like I do in my minivan. I drove a sedan for a long time, but I don’t think I’ll ever want to go back to one. It makes me feel safer to have raised vantage point.

As for aesthetics, I liked the look of the hybrid both inside and out.

Geez, am I starting to sound like a car junkie or what?

The sedan and hybrid were the only two models I test drove before networking with fellow bloggers and noshing on hors d'oeuvres (the crunchy spring rolls hit the spot).

I'd been suffering from preggo lethargy and wasn't feeling like making the effort to go out that night, but I’m so glad gave my eyelashes a quick swipe of mascara and headed out to the GM/BlogHer Ride and Drive. It was definitely worth the effort.

Read more about the cars and the event at the BlogHer Round-Up page.

*Can’t let this post go by without some official mumbo jumbo: Yes, I was enumerated for writing up a review of this BlogHer event. But I really did have fun and liked the hybrid. Cross my fingers.

Momopoly Reopened as a Review Site

2008-11-10T21:56:00.001-05:00

That's right, folks. This is now the sister site of my main blog, and it's a place where I'll share my honest reviews of products (other than media - those reviews will remain over at my other site).

I'm looking forward to sharing my insight and another project is just what I needed, being that I'm pregnant with my third child and already have two little ones under my care. I was born a Type-Aer. I can't help myself.

Seriously, my reviews may not be frequent, but I am looking forward to this new venture. As always, I welcome your feedback. Feel free to drop me a comment or to email me at kmwicker[at]gmail[dot].com.

Momopoly Closed for Business

2008-06-22T18:38:00.000-04:00

What are you doing here? The action's taking place over there.

Why? It's simple, really. I have two kids under four, a resident for a husband, a freelance writing career of sorts, homeschoolers to teach, and a faith life to cultivate. Do I really need two blogs?

After much prayer and deliberation, I've come to the conclusion that no, two blogs is one too many. One blog may even be one too many when you happen to give birth to children who think sleep is overrated

My other blog has more of a regular following, so I've decided to close this one down. However, I shouldn't really say Momopoly is closed for business because I'm keeping the name and most of the content but just moving it over yonder.

You'll still get me airing my dirty laundry - you know those days when I make poor Britney Spears look like a model mom (and make other moms feel like they're not the only ones who occasionally yell at their kids). You'll still get stories about my milky boobs and sleepless kiddos. You'll still get inspiration from small people sharing unexpectedly big thoughts. But you may also get some pontificating here and there on some Catholic stuff that might make you say, "Uh what?" (No, I don't worship statues or practice cannibalism.) Above all, you'll get one mom's online tale of how, with the grace of God, she has become a mommy who "will work for children" no matter the cost (even if it means never sleeping a full eight hours again...oh, dear God, I hope not...).

Please, my loyal friends and readers, consider joining me over there by subscribing at KateWicker.blogspot.com. If you haven't already, give Google Reader a try. It makes your blog addiction much easier to sustain. Plus, you can easily peruse what you want to read on a particular blog and skip over the rest.

Thank you for sharing life in the trenches of motherhood with me. I hope you'll continue to trudge along with me.

Stinky Mom

2008-06-19T13:26:00.000-04:00

I'm a stinky mom. Literally.

Madeline: Why can't you stay with me for quiet time?

Me: Because I didn't take a shower this morning.

Madeline: You don't need a shower.

Me: Yes, I do.

Madeline: Why?

Me: Because I'm stinky. (Of course, I'm only jesting with her. I don't really stink.)

Madeline: No, you're not.

Me: Yeah, I am.

Madeline, as she sniffs my face: Ugh. You are stinky.

Me, slightly taken aback: Does my breath smell? (Maybe the morning coffee breath is lingering...)

Madeline: No, it's your skin. It stinks.

I took a whiff of the skin on my arm and it smelled faintly like fruity lotion, but I can't smell my own face. (I tried.) I can only hope she was just trying to get rid of me. Now for that shower I apparently really need...

Write What You WANT to Know

2008-06-19T09:06:00.001-04:00

For all you writers out there, here are some more thoughts on the business of writing.

One of the cardinal rules of writing you’ll discover as soon as start reading some of the popular “how to get published” books is to write what you know.

Well, call me a rebel, call me what you may, but I definitely haven’t made myself a career in freelancing by always writing about things I know. Honestly, when I started occasional freelance work at the ripe, old age of 21, I wasn’t exactly brimming with worldly wisdom. (Who is?)

Sure, finding a niche can help. Since joining the Mommy Club, I write a lot of essays about life in the trenches of motherhood. I also frequently write about pregnancy – what to expect and what not to expect. Many of these articles are about things I’ve learned as a parent. But here’s a little secret: I actually started writing about parenting long before anyone ever called me “Mommy.” My journalism career had its roots in a marketing department for a hospital where I covered the parenting beat (among other things) and wrote tons of articles on topics like getting your kids ready for the school year and games to play with your baby.

I’ve gone back and read some of the articles I wrote in my BC (“before children”) days and I have to say writing about getting your child to sleep through the night is a whole lot easier than actually doing it, especially when you have a child who’s more afraid of Mr. Sandman than the Boogedy Man.

I supposed I’d be considered more of a parenting/pregnancy “expert” now that I have two kiddos under four living in my house, but I’m definitely not yet an authority on MRI magnets, managing big families, or homeschooling, or factitious disorder – all topics I’ve covered in articles. But just as I knew I always wanted kids and enjoyed learning about child development, I had a desire to learn more about these topics. Okay, so maybe I wasn’t all that pumped about writing an article on the physics of an MRI machine, but the paycheck for that one gave me enough incentive to start reading up on how the interaction between radio frequency electromagnetic fields and hydrogen nuclei inside the body in the presence of a strong magnetic field can create a crisp image. (See? You can sound like you know a little something about almost anything.))
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While it can never hurt to have an area of expertise – from politics to parenting and everything in between – one of the things I love the most about being a writer is you never stop learning. You may eventually find a “home” where you most feel comfortable writing. In my case, I’ve recently started narrowing my focus and sticking to parenting and faith-based writing with an occasional health story sprinkled into the mix. But nothing’s off limits. Anything I’d like to know about might be something worth querying. (Don't discount doing PR work for nonprofits you care about or corporations that do interesting work either. I don't do much PR work these days, but this type of writing used to pay a lot of my bills.)

The bottom line is if you're inquisitive and a good writer, you can write about virtually anything. Your job is to convince an editor or publisher that this is true.

So here’s a new writing rule I’d like to toss out there: Write what you want to know.

Perspective

2008-06-17T08:42:00.000-04:00

Hers: This fish sure has lived a long time.
Mine: Uh. Yeah, it's been like 16 hours since we welcomed it into our family.

Hers (showing me a wilted weed): Look at this flower. Isn't it beautiful?
Mine: Well, it's not a rose, but...

Hers (as she throws open the curtains in our dining area): See! Oh, now we can see the beautiful morning. We can see the birdies. And dragonflies. (Pushing the curtains open further.) See that birdie at the top of that tree? See? Isn't it big? Oh, it's really high. Look how high it is, Mommy! Oh, there's a robin. A robin! See him? (Spontaneously singing made-up tune now.) A robin! La-la-la. A robin! (Spontaneous singing stops.) They're eating their breakfast, too!
Mine: Okay, how's that for a good morning? Was I just feeling a wee bit tired and grumpy? Not anymore. It is a rather pretty morning. Gotta take this kiddo to see Oklahoma. Then she can belt out "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning" during breakfast.

Hers: Mommy, can we plant dandelions in our garden someday?
Mine: You don't see the weeds. You only see the beauty. Don't ever change.

So much of the way we view life is a matter of perspective. Madeline is a born optimist. Her go-to response to almost any question is "Great."

"How are you doing?"

"Great."

"How are you feeling?" as snot drips out of her nose.

"Great."

"How's Baby Rae?" who just enjoyed an all-night puke fest.

"Great."

"How did you sleep?"

"Great." She woke up, thrashing from a nightmare, not once, but twice.

Go ahead and ask me how I feel to be the mom of such an eternal optimist and I'll probably say, "Great!" (And a bit proud, too.)

Madeline, thank you for your wonderful outlook on life. Thank you for helping me to rediscover the beauty of a dandelion and a summer morning. I love spending time with you and I'm so lucky to be your mom.

The Par-tee!

2008-06-16T08:17:00.000-04:00

We celebrated Baby Rae's first birthday on Saturday with the grandparents. It was the perfect shindig. The only bummer is the birthday girl came down with a stomach bug that night and Mommy got to see all that cake and corn in a much less appetizing form in the wee hours of the morning. Lucky for you I only took pictures of the original cake, not the encore one.

The cake (I can't take credit. Nana and Pop crafted this delicious concoction. I made these simple treats on the day of Rae's actual birthday.)

The cake (and corn) eater

Think the hat's big enough?

The birthday girl and her big sis

The birthday girl and Daddy

The birthday girl and Mommy (PHOTO CREDIT: Big sister Madeline)

Is "Top Model" accepting new contestants? (NOTE: We always take a few "serious" family photos at special occasions and at least one silly photo.Yes, this is the silly one.)

Happy Father's Day!

2008-06-15T09:29:00.000-04:00

To my own dad and to my girls' Papa, the most generous man I know and the one who gives my babies their first Frito, who can always steal a kiss and make us laugh, the one who works so hard and has never stopped taking care of his little girl...

To my other dad, my girls' Pop, the man who has embraced me as his own daughter and gives up hours (days!) of his retirement to play with his grandchildren so Mommy sometimes doesn't have to, the one who fills our freezer with pork tenderloin and tasty treats and fills our hearts with love...

And finally, to my husband, the father of my children, the man who is more than a figurehead in our family but a real dad who wrestles, kisses, tickles, tucks kids in, and even sometimes vacuums... Thank you for taking care of your girls. We love you.

Where's My Mind?

2008-06-13T15:41:00.000-04:00

Is it still in bed? Maybe. Is it here but just a little slow? Definitely.

Once upon a time I actually got paid to edit others' work. I know, pretty scary, considering all the mental gaffes that find their way into my posts. I had to correct at least a half dozen typos I found in my last post over at my other blog. (Please don't hold it against me, okay?) I swear, I read that post this morning before "publishing" and those typos were not there. It's really kind of starting to freak me out how I'm missing things. Oh, and I don't like the fact that I poured yogurt into the top of the peanut butter jar instead of into a bowl during lunchtime either.

That's not all. I once almost brushed my teeth with diaper ointment, put a carton of eggs in the pantry, and spelled my own last name wrong on an envelope (Wiker instead of Wicker). I wish I could say these sort of things happened in my pre-mom days, but they just didn’t or at least not all in a 24-hour time span. I know countless mothers who lament that their brain cells exponentially die off as their waistlines widen with pregnancy and that they continue perishing after their babies have arrived. One friend of mine said that on a particularly rough day in the trenches of mommyhood, she actually sat down on a toilet and almost started to pee before realizing she hadn’t pulled down her jeans or even unzipped them.

But even though diapers and ditsy spells may seem to go hand in hand, I’m vehemently opposed of the notion that motherhood makes us dumber and that raising young children – while society claims it’s very important – is often dull and depraved of intellectual stimulation. For me, the process of teaching and interacting with a young child demands multitasking, acting quick on my feet, and a good dose of creativity. In any given day, I’m part accountant (quickly calculating the estimated cost of the groceries in my cart), part school-teacher (“B is for ball.”), part engineer (erecting a makeshift blockade that will keep a little one from emptying the bookcase for the umpteenth time), part doctor (determining whether symptoms warrant immediate medical care or just some TLC), and part chef (concocting a meal both children will actually eat instead of chucking across the kitchen).

That said, fussy babies, strong-willed preschoolers, a lack of shuteye and all of the responsibilities that little kids bring can undoubtedly zap their share of brainpower. And it’s easy to feel like I'm losing myself and my mind in a world of baby chatter, board books filled with monosyllabic words and Walt Disney.

In spite of the increased typo occurrences, the funny things that sometimes come out of my mouth, and my absentmindedness, I know my kids make me smarter (or at least wiser), not dumber.

I'm wondering, though, what are some things you've done in a tired mommy state? C'mon, spill the beans. (Is that the right expression? I can't be sure.) Make me feel better. While you're at it, do you have any tips on how you boost your cerebral capacity amidst finger paint, talking vegetables, and temper tantrums? I make myself read and write a little every single day. What about you?

Whole Wheat Banana Pancake Dinner

2008-06-10T17:16:00.002-04:00

What we eat for dinner when Daddy's on call.

Pit Stop for Peace

2008-06-09T20:52:00.000-04:00

I went to confession recently and my penance was to try to make an occasional stop by the adoration chapel. The priest kindly encouraged me to do little things to nurture my prayer life. “Just pay a quick visit, a few minutes or so, and bring the kids.”

So last week we made a pit stop for peace in between running errands.

As I was unbuckling Madeline from her car seat, she asked if she could go in barefoot (she usually takes her shoes off in the car). “No,” I told her.

“Why?”

“Because this is God’s house.”

“We can’t see God or Jesus in there.”

I almost jumped in, assuming she was about to start arguing with me but before I could interrupt her, she went on. “But they’re here in my heart.”

That was enough to reduce a sappy, overtired mom to tears, but there’s more.

We quietly shuffled into the chapel. Madeline dipped her hand into the holy water and made a rudimentary Sign of the Cross. I bowed before the Blessed Sacrament with the baby in my arms. I knelt and started praying. Then, out of the blue, Rachel Marie wiggled in my arms and started waving excitedly looking directly at the monstrance where the heavenly host was displayed. “Hiiiiiiiiiii,” she said happily.

After a brief pause, she gave another shout out to the Lord. "Hiiiiiiiiiii!"

The chapel was empty except for two women behind us. The only one in front of us in the direction of Rachel Marie's enthusiastic salutation was Christ.

As my baby waved to Jesus, I thought about what I’d just been saying in my mind – some formal, stiff prayer about needing to be open to his graces and wanting his presence to be more noticeable in my life. When maybe I was completely missing the boat while my kids were setting sail.

Maybe instead of reciting formal prayers, I should simply try to strike up a conversation with Christ, thank him for all he has done for me, ask him how he’s doing, and better yet, how I’m doing and what I should do to do (be!) better. Maybe I should just say hello to him and wait for him to answer. Maybe I should stop searching for profundity, for the actual feeling of his graces pouring down on me and just know that he’s right there in the Blessed Sacrament. Maybe I should remember that his love is written on my heart and he’s with me even when I can’t feel or see him at all. And maybe I should bring my kids to Adoration more often.

One of Those Days

2008-06-08T18:44:00.000-04:00

June 6, 2008

You know you’re having one of those days when:

You wake up at 2 AMish to hear the sound of your husband dry heaving in the bathroom, sick with the virulent virus you thought had miraculously bypassed your house for the first time in three years.

After putting a damp washcloth on your dearly pathetic…errr… you mean beloved’s neck and fetching him a glass of water, you crawl back into bed and fall back asleep for about 15 minutes before you hear the sound of a baby crying. (You're not dreaming. That's your baby really crying.)

After nursing your baby, you find that the dry heaving has turned into full-blown hurling. You also find your 3-year-old sprawled across your bed. At least she's back asleep and doesn’t seem to notice the fact that her dad sounds like he’s dying from dysentery.

You attempt to offer your husband a little comfort and then return to bed and finally stop staring at those blaring red numbers on the alarm clock long enough to drift off to that hazy world that exists between Slumberland and Wide Awake Land (it's not quite sleep, but you'll take it). Meanwhile, two kids' feet are attempting to burrow into your right ear.

The baby wakes up an hour before she usually does in the morning. Maybe she’s excited about celebrating her first birthday. Or perhaps she has some bad gas. Or she could have heard those blasted police sirens that seem to wail all nightlong. You swear you live in a relatively safe part of the city. The search helicopter has only shone its light down on your street once. It was kind of cool, really. Like something out of 24.

Your coffeemaker goes crazy on you and burns your thumb with an angry puff of steam.

Today's high is 90-plus degrees and you’re outside for several hours to participate in your homeschool co-op’s field day. You keep pumping water into your preschooler, but you forget about drinking anything yourself and end up puking all over your baby while she’s nursing. Talk about an unexpected birthday gift.

> Your preschooler becomes the second burn victim of the day and has three bubbly, white blisters on her fingers. Note to self: The tips of sparklers are very hot even after they've been extinguished.

Speaking of fingers, the baby gets hers stuck in a door hinge for the first time in her 365 days of life and begins to sob. Another nice birthday gift.

The baby recovers. You plop her in the bath with her big sis. Baby gives sheepish grin and explodes (as in poops something more nuclear than plutonium). Your preschooler says, "Ewwwww," as you attempt to recover the slippery Baby Ruth from the bathtub. You can't help but think it's payback time for throwing up all over her earlier that same day.

Your husband, who looks like he’s been run over by a Mack truck, looks at you when you finally come to bed and says, “What a day. You’re amazing. Thank you for all you do.” And you say, “No. I’d be amazing if I didn’t ever complain about it.” And maybe next time you won’t because you start thinking, it has been one of those days.

One of those days when you stumble and puke on your baby, and there’s instantly a throng of women standing by to hold your kids, to hand you a glass of water, and to tell you to take it easy for at least a few minutes.

One of those days when several loved ones call to wish your little one a happy birthday.

One of those days when your 3-year-old looks at you with a concerned face and says, “Don’t worry, Mommy. You’re just hot. You’re not sick like Daddy.” And thank goodness you're not.

One of those days when your sick, sick husband drags himself out of bed so you can sing “Happy Birthday” as a family to your 1-year-old while she claps and smiles in the spotlight.

One of those days your husband gives you a pat on the back just when you’re thinking you could really use a pep talk.

Now that that day is over, you're convinced you occasionally need “one of those days” (or maybe even one of those years or one of those far heavier crosses to carry) just to realize how incredibly lucky you are and how many damn people love you and your family.

Obituary

2008-06-07T19:56:00.001-04:00

Golden (Born ???-died June 5, 2008). Beloved friend to Madeline. Preceded in death by Birdy. Golden began his life in an overcrowded tank at the Pet Supermarket. He watched many of his family members leave their watery sanctuary and bravely awaited the day when he too would bid farewell to the only home he'd ever known. That day came on June 3, 2008 when a smiling 3-year-old named Madeline chose him, along with Birdy who was an older, distant cousin, to be her new pets. Golden loved his new home and seemed the picture of health even when Birdy was in his final hours. Unfortunately, after Birdy, who was more than a tank mate but also a faithful friend, passed on, Golden took a turn for the worse and died only two days later. Golden is survived by Birdy II who seems to be faring well despite the rather bleak track record for the tank of the Wicker household. Some have to make a lot of noise to be heard, but since goldfish can't talk or bark or do much of anything but eat, poop, and die, Golden was heard by his sheer, glittery gold presence. He will be remembered. Golden was laid to rest somewhere in a septic tank. RIP.

Golden, you brought our girls much happiness.

You've Come A Long Way, Baby!

2008-06-06T09:03:00.000-04:00

Happy birthday, Baby Rae! When you were born, I decided I would sing "You Are My Sunshine" to you each night. (Madeline has her own special song that I sing to her at bedtime as well.) Little did I know that you would embrace this as your theme song. You truly are our little "Rae" of sunshine. Thank you for bringing me so much happiness over the past year with your endless giggles, your bright smile, your easy-going disposition, and your frequent squeals of delight. I love you and can't wait to watch you continue to grow.

Four days old

One month

Three months

Six months

Nine months

One year

Ode to a Goldfish

2008-06-05T08:00:00.000-04:00

Oh, Birdy, your life was but a brief breath in a tank.
All too quickly you went belly up and sank.
When I tried to get you out with a net
Your lifeless body played hard to get.

My Madeline, who named you well,
("My fish are Birdy and Golden," she did tell.)
Was so excited about the first pet she could call her own.
But you lasted not even one day in your new home.

Now there's but one goldfish swimming in the blue
And one sweet, little girl who's sorely missing you.
We said a prayer and gave a heartfelt good-bye
And girl and Mommy, too, did their best not to cry.

Then we called Daddy up on the phone
And asked, "Will you please on the way home?
Stop by the pet store so this day we will no longer rue
And get another fishy friend whom Maddy'd like to call Birdy Two?"

Because a goldfish may be just a simple wet pet
That requires no love and no service from a vet.
But to a child, even a fish is something not to ever take for granted at all
Because as she's said before, God is everywhere - in the big and in the small.

To the Newlyweds...

2008-06-04T15:11:00.000-04:00

Congratulations, Rachel and Hendre! We wish we could have been in Greece to eat lots of feta and to celebrate with you. We hope you enjoy married life as much as we have.

Now that you've tied the knot, Dave and I will be waiting for you to submit an application for “Old, Married Fart Club” membership once you have met some of the following prerequisites:

1. You have a mortgage.
2. You reproduce.
3. You purchase your dream car (AKA a minivan).
4. Your idea of “adventure” consists of a trip to the grocery store with a nursing baby and a preschooler. It's crazy fun, let me tell you.
5. Your idea of a “hot date” is an evening of wine-sipping and making it through an entire Netflix selection without one of your children waking up.
6. You’ve learned a thing or two about unconditional love and to not sweat the small stuff – like the fact that your husband leaves piles of scrubs all over the home (your “small stuff” will undoubtedly be different since I hear that Hendre is a neat freak) – and to love him unconditionally because you know that there’s no one out there who’d make you happier. And amazingly, you find your husband loves you unconditionally, too, despite the fact that you are a total Type A freak who can make Monk look laid back. (I’m referring to me, not you.)
7. You find yourself thinking, “Oh my gosh! We’ve been married sooooo long!” and “Oh my gosh! It seems like just yesterday that we were planning our wedding!” at the exact same time.

We love you guys! Here's to many, many, many happy years together!

Next Up: Jeopardy!

2008-06-03T07:17:00.000-04:00

During a recent round of animal trivia:

Madeline: How do cats pee in a box?

Mommy: They walk into the box and start to pee.

Madeline: Yup! You're right! You get a point.

First Love

2008-06-02T10:37:00.000-04:00

I’ve been in kind of a horse crazy stupor lately. Madeline and I recently paid a visit to the mounted police headquarters with our homeschool group where we both delighted in feeding carrots to massive, beautiful Percheron-Thoroughbred crosses. Madeline giggled when their velvety muzzles tickled the palm of her hand as she offered them carrots. My fearless little girl approached one of the beautiful beasts and I found myself holding my breath, despite my horse history, as I watched her small hand pat a muscled neck.

The sweet smell of hay mingled with manure (yes, I love that smell; that’s how you know I’m a horse person) were almost too much for me. Standing in that damp stable surrounded by the familiar smells, I was gripped by a consuming nostalgia. When the officer leading our tour mentioned they had a horse for sale – a reject of the training program but a wonderful animal that would make “a fine show horse” (his words) – I had to remind myself of the million reasons why riding now just doesn’t make sense. We’re on a tight budget. We live in a city for goodness’ sake. And it’s not like I need something else – an all-consuming hobby, no less – in my life. I already have way too many interests as it is (exercising, reading, writing, theatre, blogging, journaling, singing, reading food mags and trying out new recipes, emailing and writing old-fashioned letters, to name a few).

Still, I can’t stop the obsession from taking a hold of me. And it is an obsession. Once you fall in love with the beauty of a horse and feeling the rhythm of its powerful body thunder beneath you, there’s no turning back. So I’ve been sharing stories of my riding days with Madeline, who appears to be a bit horse crazy herself. (It will be interesting to see if this is just a passing phase - any number of girls love horses at some point – or an unrelenting fixation as it was in my case.)I’ve been flipping through my old photo albums, looking at pictures of my first love – Sunny, my beloved Quarter horse – through teary eyes. One of my favorite photos of us is tucked away in a junk drawer that holds numerous snips of sentiment, everything but junk. I can’t stop stealing glances at it - a tattered photo of a gawky 14-year-old proudly holding a prize ribbon up for the photographer (my dad, I think) and broadly smiling despite a mouth full of braces.

Although it’s been years since I’ve ridden a horse, horses were at the center of my childhood. While other little girls were playing Barbie, I was painting red and white stripes on chopsticks transforming them into jumping poles to create an elaborate course for my Breyer horse models to maneuver. I had horse t-shirts, horse stuffed animals and horse books. I think I even had panties imprinted with galloping steeds. I took the label “horse crazy” to an extreme.

For me, the love of horses was not just about the riding. It was about the overall care of a horse – the brushing of coats, the meticulous cleaning of hooves and the braiding manes and tails. Long before I’d even begun to think about motherhood, I had something to take care of, a living creature to look after.

As a highly imaginative child, I was also drawn to horses’ mystic, almost magical quality. When I was still too young to even spell the word “horse,” I remember seeing a pony with a coat like the copper of a penny at a small fair. While others stopped only momentarily to watch it swish away buzzing flies with its long tail, I was mesmerized. To me the pony was nothing less than Pegasus. My parents let me ride the pint-sized equine and though he loped around the ring barely lifting his hooves off the dust, I somehow felt like I was flying. Even on the sluggish, little beast, being removed from the ground, off of my two feet, unleashed something inside of me, something free and full of hope.

When I turned 6, my parents were beginning to see my passion for horses was more than just a fleeting fantasy and let me take riding lessons. Like the stable’s other riding novices, I began my equestrian training on Shadow, a beefy Appaloosa with a coat like a white canvas splattered with black ink droplets. My feverish excitement of being on top of a horse was tempered by his dull lassitude. The gentle gelding was no Secretariat, but he was predictable – just what a beginner needed.

Once I sharpened my equestrian skills, I graduated to a larger and feistier horse – King Rex – a massive animal with racing Thoroughbred in his bloodlines. Rex offered more excitement. He had an innate competitiveness, and we would secretly race the other school horses until my trainer’s cautionary words, “Katie and Rex, slow down.” We would oblige but always felt restrained. We both wanted to run, to become part of the wind.

Although I grew to love the schooling horses, something was missing. The bonding wasn’t complete.

I wanted a horse I could call my own.

When I was only 10, my wish came true. (I was one lucky kid.) My parents surprised me with a golden Palomino. I named him Sunny and to say I was in love with him is an understatement. I was obsessed with him. If the pony from the fair was Pegasus, then Sunny and I were a centaur.

Not surprisingly, my love for horses was, at times, seen as overzealous. On the school bus, boys would sneer and whinny at me, clad in my horsy fashions and stomp their Nikes like hooves.

But their mockery could not keep me from first love. Instead it made me seek solitude on a horse even more. I wanted to ride Sunny all day, every day. And while might argue that horses are peanut-brained animals dedicated to exertion and incapable of love, mine was not an unrequited love. I knew it. I felt it. Like a loyal dog, he came when I called. During lazy trail rides, he allowed me to stand on his back and spring off it like a diving board into a lake. He nuzzled me when I needed to be touched. When I was in the throes of teenage angst (it really wasn't all that dramatic; I actually had a fairly placid adolescence), he would stand stone-still as I sat on his bareback, buried my nose into his mane and let the tears spill out. I could smell his sweet, earthy aroma, and I would lose myself - at least for awhile. I’d forget about the teasing – the boys calling me “horsy girl.” I’d forget about the part of me that longed to be beautiful and popular like the other girls. I'd forget about the growing conflict going on inside me - the need to be a child versus the desire to be an adult.

Sadly, like so many first loves, my affection for Sunny began to slowly fade. My chubby torso slimmed. I got breasts. I got rid of my braces. The same boys who had called me “horsy girl” were now asking me out on dates. Feeding carrots to horses was replaced with searching for the perfect prom dress. Weekend trail rides were replaced with dates. A boy-crazy teenager took the place of horsy girl. Sunny was left to grazing in the pasture as I became absorbed in adolescence.

Before I left for college, I made the decision to sell Sunny. I didn’t even say goodbye. How could I? It’s rare a girl on the brink of becoming a woman has a chance – an exact moment – to give valediction to her youth. I don’t think I wanted to face the finality of it all.

Joyce Carol Oates wrote that “there is no other love like the love for your first horse, but that love is so easy to forget, or misplace; it’s like the love for yourself, the self you outgrow.”

But I haven’t forgotten my first love. Just seeing a horse now stirs something inside of me, a longing for the youth I so desperately wanted to rid myself of. There are days when I want Sunny back. I want to smell his sweet, horse smell. I want to feel the cadence of resounding hooves beneath me as we gallop across an open field. I want the feeling of possibility and adventure I experienced when I was with him. I long for the horse and that self I’ve somehow outgrown. The spirited, carefree self, the innocence of youth that I can now so clearly see in my oldest daughter.

“What age?” Madeline recently asked during a recent conversation about horseback riding.

“What age can you start riding?” I clarified.

“Yes.”

“Four, but Mommy didn’t start until she was six.”

Silence. That will seem like a lifetime to a 3-year-old, but who knows if horses will still captivate her by then? Other interests could easily replace her obsession with horses. In some ways, I hope this is only a fleeting fancy. When I saw her stand by those massive police horses, I couldn’t help but be a bit nervous. I realized how much trust my parents put in me, my trainer, the horse and even God to allow a peanut like me to hop on top of a huge, powerful and let’s face it, sometimes unpredictable animal.

Wherever her interests someday lie, I do hope she won’t be in such a hurry to grow up and shed herself of whatever her first love proves to be – horses, Little House on the Prairie books, singing and dancing without abandon or concern for her audience…

I’ve done plenty of things that make me feel independent in the "adult world" I was so eager to embrace. It would be easy to disregard my love for horses and the carefree quality of my childhood. But catching a glimpse of the photo of me smiling beside a beautiful animal of God’s creation, not worrying about my appearance (how could I? I smelled like horse manure and had hay in my hair) or money or an impressive career, and now seeing my own children and their wonderment and innocence, is like holding onto a part of my once-forgotten youth and I don't plan on letting go of it again any time soon.

When All Else Fails

2008-06-01T22:23:00.001-04:00

...and your preschooler refuses to drift off to the Land of Nod, try spending a weekend at Gaba and Papa's lake house where she can swim and cover more distance than Marlin searching for Nemo.

With any luck, as soon as you hit the highway, she'll be gone.

Inside Out

2008-06-01T21:52:00.001-04:00

What you see isn't always what you get.

Take a loved one who recently had a heart attack. When we heard the news on Wednesday that she was in the hospital after having suffered a heart attack, we were shocked. This is someone who is the picture of health - a spry, fit woman who walks daily even during Maine winters. She's not someone you'd ever describe as "faint of heart." I couldn't imagine her in a hospital bed surrounded by a maze of medical tubes. But she was there. I know because Dave saw her. He's been by her side all weekend and is flying back this evening. He wanted to be with her since a lot of his family is in Greece right now gearing up for his sister's own version of a big, fat Greek wedding. (We're not able to go for various reasons, namely because traveling to a remote, Grecian fishing village with two kids under 4 is best reserved for masochists or maybe Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt).

Our family member was lucky because the damage was not extensive enough to require surgery, so she left the hospital today. When Dave said good-bye, she was resting in her bed with her beloved dog curled beside her. She has strict orders to take it easy for the next week. After that the doctors said she has to figure out how to reduce stress in her life.

This is easier said than done. Especially for a Type Aer like this family member. She admitted to Dave that she does too much. When someone asks her to help out with a bake sale, for example, she doesn't just make a batch of token cookies, she whips up an assortment of made-from-scratch treats that make Martha Stewart look like an amateur.

She tries to be everything to everyone.

"Sound familiar?" Dave asked.

Hmmm...Maybe just a little.

In fact, when I first met this family member while Dave and I were still dating, I immediately clicked with her and thought, "Oh, wow! She's one of my kind!" Besides sharing my love for reading and writing, she was a planner. She was punctual. Oh, and the OCD in me absolutely loved the way she organized her home library by author.

But for her being one of "our kind" had its drawbacks. When you're used to being generous and efficient, going 100 mph all day, every day, something's gotta give and in her case it was her heart.

Of course, I doubt anyone would have suspected she was stressed. Maybe her husband. Maybe a really close friend. I certainly didn't think of her as someone who seemed stress. Not by the way her witty emails always sounded. Not by the way she laughed freely. Heck, she's the one who told me I should do a few yoga stretches every night to unwind.

This got me thinking about the way others come off to me as well as the way I'm perceived by others.

I immediately thought of a friend of mine who is the most beautiful (inside and out), faithful woman; yet, she's crippled by shyness. In fact, when I first met her, I thought she was extremely full of herself and that was why she couldn't stand to talk to me. It wasn't until several months later when we started chatting after Mass that she confessed to me that her intense anxiety around other people made it very difficult for her to meet friends.

I couldn't believe this. Why would she have any problems making friends? She was smart, lovely, and funny. It just didn't make sense to me that she was afraid to put herself out there.

Even now that we live far away from one another, I'll find myself wondering, "Why hasn't she called me back? Why can't she send me a quick email?" I have to remind myself: Because she can't. Because she's terrified of making that call, of clicking "send."

Because what you see isn't always what you get...

Then I pick up the phone again to give her a ring and lo and behold, she answers and we have a wonderful conversation and she thanks me profusely for being understanding and for keeping in touch and I think, next time I won't be so obtuse with her or anyone else.

I'm doing pretty well until I'm on the interstate lugging around precious cargo and some car speeds up behind me and starts tailgating and I'm looking in the rear view mirror, seething. "What a jerk!" I think and I really, really believe that the person driving that car is evil, the spawn of Satan himself. Chances are, he's probably a reasonably nice person who has driven in one too many Atlanta rush hours to keep his sanity and patience on the road. I'm not excusing reckless driving, but I am saying that making global judgments based on a brief encounter on the highway with someone probably isn't the best expression of what it means to be a follower of Christ.

You've got to dig deeper to find out what drives a person to behave a certain way. We're not two-dimensional characters playing the standard good guy/bad guy roles.

God made us a little more complicated than that. But that doesn't mean I don't sometimes try to fit the role I think I should play.

To those outside my close inner circle (and those who haven't read some of my past blog posts), I'm good at playing the part of the proverbial bubbly blonde (except I was never in a sorority, although I was in Beta Club in high school and some honor societies in college with Greek in their titles. Oh, as I've confessed on this blog before, I can't do a cartwheel, so cheerleading was out of the question. I did teach aerobics in college though. But geez...here I go again, making global assumptions about bubbly blondes). I've also got the role of self-confident, happy mom who sometimes writes down pat.

Yes, to casual friends, I'm the at-home mom who manages to shower daily (Ha! I'm on an every-other-day schedule, but I do brush my hair every day.). To fellow churchgoers, I'm the faithful Christian who's there every Sunday (and I am there, physically anyhow, but sometimes my mind is about as antsy as the preschooler and baby next to me).To the grocery store clerk, I'm the mom with the patience of Job who allows her preschooler to help put items on the conveyor belt even when she has a bad case of the dropsies.

In some ways, my "public self" is like a Hollywood starlet on the red carpet, all put together and flashing her pearly whites despite her personal life being in shambles. In truth, my personal life is quite functional, and most of the time I am fairly happy and am managing everything (even daily grooming) just fine. But even when I'm not feeling all chirpy (or clean) or even when I'm in way over my head, I'm afraid to reveal what's going on inside of me. Why? Because I don't want to be seen as weak.

The irony is it takes strength to let go, to let God into your life by accepting your limitations, to rest on your bed with your dog for an entire week not because that's what the doctor ordered, but because it's good for your heart in more ways than one.

The Catholic Church recently celebrated the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus (May 30). The Sacred Heart is a symbol of God's endless love for us all. Similarly, the Immaculate Heart of Mary symbolizes her maternal love for her son and for us all. It also reveals her interior life, her joys and sorrows, her perfection, her acceptance of God's will. What's in her heart as well as in her Son's was reflected in their lives. In other words, they lived their lives from the inside out. When it comes to Christ and his Mother, what you see is most definitely what you get. No guesswork required, no room for wrong assumptions. How refreshing.

Do-It-Yourself Pedicure

2008-05-29T16:38:00.001-04:00

Leave a 3-year-old girl alone with a pink highlighter and here's what might happen:

Do Blondes Really Have More Fun?

2008-05-28T08:10:00.000-04:00

Baby Rae isn't so sure.

Tips for a Healthy Marriage

2008-05-27T13:43:00.001-04:00

Six years ago I was all bubbly with anticipation, a newlywed dreaming of years of happiness and lots of babies.

In some ways, I’m still a lot like that blushing bride. In other ways, I’m more like an old, married and wise fart. Although I readily admit, there are a lot of couples out there who have many, many more years of marriage behind them and experience and wisdom to boot (like my parents who will celebrate their 37th wedding anniversary this August).

Six years ago I also thought I knew a lot about love.

I knew squat.

I still know fairly little, but I like to think I've learned a thing or two. So in honor of recently celebrating my sixth wedding anniversary, I’m sharing below some tips I’ve found to be helpful in having a healthy and happy marriage. What about you? If you're an old, married fart, too, what's your advice for keeping the fire alive and/or for sticking together through good times and bad? (NOTE: The term "old, married fart" is meant to be interpreted loosely. Newlyweds are welcome to comment!)

1. Keep a sense of humor. This past weekend we took what we thought was going to be a relaxing trip to the beach to visit some friends and to celebrate our anniversary. Turns out the kids’ idea of relaxing is bit different than our own. The baby boycotted sleep and Madeline decided to revert back to her hold habits of refusing to go poopy on the potty (I can empathize; I don’t like to go in strange places either), which meant she had a stomach ache and was very clingy and needy.

On the way home, the baby started sobbing even though we'd just stopped so I could nurse her and Madeline was saying she was hungry...again. I smiled in spite of it and said to Dave, “Happy anniversary! Don’t you feel so refreshed and eager to start your work week?” We both burst out laughing. Then we started singing silly songs as a family and both kids and parents stopped fussing and were happy.

Laughter is strong medicine. Dave and I have learned to laugh at silly stuff, things we can't control (antsy babies, constipated preschoolers) as well as more serious things. Sometimes laughing (even through the tears) is all you can do when life hands you lemons and you find you’re all out of sugar and maybe even water, so there's no chance in you-no-where in making any lemonade.

2. Be forgiving of each others’ human wrongs and failures. I’m not perfect and neither is Dave. We’re two imperfect human beings trying to perfect our love for one another, which means we fail…and sometimes a lot. I’ve learned to not sweat the small stuff and to even overlook it most of the time. Does it really matter that Dave still doesn't know where the colander goes and I have to hunt for it a little longer? If it's MIA, then doesn't that mean he unloaded the dishwasher for you?

At the end of the day, we've had to learn to love and to accept one another as we are and to leave any big changing (not the small stuff but my persistent worrying or the fact that Daveisn’t Catholic) that needs to be done in God’s hands.

3. Recognize that marriage has its ups and downs and different stages. I’m a hopeless romantic. I always have been. I like to be spontaneous when it comes to love and to read Shakespearean love sonnets, to listen to the likes of Air Supply, and to be surprised with notes or flowers for no other reason than “just because I love you.” This is all fine and dandy and sometimes it happens. But in the context of a marriage with kids and more kids, thisisn’t always possible. Sometimes spontaneous love fests just ain ’t gonna happen. So we schedule at-home date nights and hope the kids will stay in bed long enough for us to gaze into one another’s eyes for a few seconds or to watch our latest Netflix selection while sitting next to one another.

Marriage isn’t always rosy and romantic. It’s downright hard sometimes. There have been times when I’ve felt like a crazy, lovesick teenager. There have been other times when I’ve felt stressed or exhausted or both, and I’ve really had to work on nurturing my marriage. Romantic love is wonderful, but it’s not enough to sustain a marriage. As Mother Teresa said, it’s not real love until it hurts. What “true love” is really about is making the decision to put someone else’s needs above your own. Yes, love is ultimately a decision. (Never thought a romantic,feely person like myself would ever say that.) I have made the decision to love Dave for better or worse. Thankfully, there's been a lot more of the "better" for us.

4. Always put your marriage first. Marriage needs to take priority over work and your kids. This sounds like a no-brainer, but it's so easy to let your dearly beloved take the backseat when you're worn out from caring for kids all day. Similarly, some men (and women, too) can get so wrapped up in their work and future ambitions that they have little time for their wives. But the best gift you can give to your marriage and to your children is to love your spouse and to put him or her first. A strong marriage not only helps you succeed in other areas of life, but when their parents love each other and frequently show that love, it helps kids to feel more loved and secure.

5. Be cheerful when your husband comes home from work. This is a toughy for me. I’m often more than ready for reinforcements when Dave comes home after a long day and I’m tempted to hand off the kiddos and to retreat. Or, I immediately start venting about how tough my day was. But what I strive to do is to greet Dave like Christ when he comes home each evening. I try (although I frequently fail and he loves me in spite of it; see tip #2) to hold back on emotionally dumping on him, to give him a hug and to ask, “How was your day?” This helps to set the tone for the entire evening.

6. Never underestimate the power of prayer or the sacraments. The best thing I can do when my marriage feels like it’s hurting or even when we’re basking in bliss, which is more often than naught thanks to my great husband, is to have confidence in the graces I receive through prayer and the sacraments. Not one marriage can fail if we invite Jesus to be at its center by regularly praying and participating in the sacraments.

Our Princess and the Pea

2008-05-23T15:59:00.000-04:00

It's only around 10 p.m. and we hear the all too familiar sound of little feet pittering and pattering out in the hall. Then a sleepy Madeline peeks into our doorway.

Daddy: Honey, go back to bed. It's too early to come in here.

Madeline, sniffling: I can't.

Mommy: It's Mommy and Daddy's time now. Go to bed.

Madeline, sniffling more: I can't.

Mommy and Daddy in unison: Yes, you can.

Madeline, sobbing now: I can't. I can't.

Mommy: You can and you will. I'm walking you to bed now.

Madeline: NO! My bed is too lumpy for me. She composes herself, so she'll be taken more seriously. I’m not kidding. I’m really telling the truth, Mommy and Daddy. It's way too lumpy to sleep in there.

Spacing Issues

2008-05-22T09:07:00.000-04:00

My blog is driving me mad when it's supposed to be bringing me peace or something like that. Grrrr.... I'm having formatting/spacing issues, but I don't have the time (or energy or patience) to deal with them right now. I apologize for the maddening appearance.

I Don't Always Get to Write What I Want But...

2008-05-22T07:11:00.000-04:00

Welcome to Writing 101. Okay, so I'm really not that organized, but per this previous post, here's my first installment for all you writers out there. Enjoy!

Preface

Here, I'm going to share something I wrote a few years back for Writers Weekly (a great, free e-newsletter for writers, by the way) that I still have to read from time to time. It doesn't so much talk about the nuts and bolts of crafting a query or the writing business as much as it focuses on the emotions of a writer. You've just go to let go. That essay you wrote on your love for artichokes isn't your baby. (She's the one you're trying to nurse while reading this epic post.) If an editor rejects it, move on. Or, re-work it. Whatever you do, don't think your life is over just because someone didn't share your passion for edible, thistle plants.

Now for the article:

I Don't Always Get to Write What I Want

When I graduated with a journalism degree in 2000, I thought literary writing was the only thing worth doing. I wanted my writing to enlighten, to touch people deeply and maybe even to change the world one word at a time. I was also in my early twenties, so of course I knew absolutely everything. Now several years later I know otherwise. Today I'm a successful freelancer, but how I became one was not as idyllic as I had supposed. Everything I write isn't artsy, nor am I up for a Pulitzer Prize, but my words are being published and I'm getting paid to do what I love (yippee!), and all you other dreamy idealists can too, but you may have to readjust the way you look at your writing.

Here are some lessons that have helped a pensive scribe like myself along the way:

1. Be sneaky if you want to enlighten. In most writing markets, you can choose to edify your readers in which case a lot of them will stop reading, or you can choose to talk to them on their own level, snag their interest and marble in a surprise here and there to intrigue them and make a handful of them think further. It's sort of "stealth edification." I learned this lesson the hard way. I landed my first job as a writer in the marketing department of an academic medical center. I hated writing generic health articles like "how to lower your cholesterol," so I desperately tried to write more substantive and creative pieces...that is until my boss told me I needed to stick to the basic facts and write at a middle school level. At first I was appalled, but then I realized she was right. The audience I was writing for wanted to sink their teeth into quick, healthy bites of information. They weren't looking to leisurely sit down and read Faulkerian sentences or Proust prose.

2. Learn to let go. I used to hate to cut anything from my writing. I was so attached to my words that slashing them was like severing a limb. However, I learned that it was easier for me to edit my work than for it to either not sell or for an editor to change it so much that it didn't even seem like it was mine any longer. It may hurt a little at first, but take a deep breath and let go of any words and sentences that aren't absolutely necessary, especially if you have a strict word count to meet (750 words means 750 words). If you're fond of a particular image ("the trees reached up to the sky like gnarled hands"), then jot it down in a notebook and save it for another piece. Sometimes a sentence or idea may not work for a particular publication (or audience), but it may be perfect for something else.

3. Never lose sight of why you're writing. Do you have a good idea? Is there a point of view you want to promote? Do you want to convince someone to think as you do? Do you want to comfort someone, inspire them, reassure them, horrify them, urge them into action or maybe make them laugh? Whatever it is that you (and the editors - you can never lose sight of their needs) want to accomplish, use the language that will get the job done. That's all that matters. Anything else is like contemplating your navel.

4. Finally, don't take yourself too seriously. Sometimes I get in these ridiculously contemplative moods. I might fill a page with a wordy description of one, stinkin' leaf or I might ponder Communism, vegetarianism, antidisestablishmentarianism or some other 'ism. When I'm writing about it, it all seems to make sense. Yet, sometimes I have to take a step back and say, "Whoa, wait a minute. What is this? Will others really enjoy reading this??" If the answer is no, then it's time to move on. If the answer is yes or even maybe, then I can try to sell it. If it sells, hooray! Bring out the champagne. If it doesn't, que sera, sera. There's always another market, another editor looking for the right query, another day, another leaf and another 'ism.

At the end of the day, if I'm not enjoying what I do and am sweating over every single word or rejection, then it's not worth it. There are too many writers out there who end up sequestered in a little cave with a row of empty gin-and-tonics with an "almost finished" novel and queries that never made it to the outbox. Even if I can't always write exactly what or how I want, I don't intend to join that society anytime soon. Neither should you.

Give It a Rest

2008-05-22T01:00:00.000-04:00

Despite its name, Working Wednesday is not working. Not at this point in my life anyway. I have enough deadlines, commitments, and must-dos looming over me to create a self-imposed one that isn't something I have to do.

There's that whole cliche of striving to be a human being instead of a human doing. Well, I tend to be the latter. I'm always doing, doing, doing, and frankly, I'm tired. Exhausted, really. Not that I won't still be doing very similar posts on a fairly regular basis. I just don't want to tie myself down to doing it on Wednesdays (or any other day). I want to do it when inspiration strikes and when it fits into my life.

I don't need the pressure of having a Wednesday deadline right now. Actually, the ones who really don't need that pressure right now are my kids. I haven't been the kind of mommy I should be lately. I have freelance assignments that help pay the bills. I have other responsibilities I can't let slide. I have prayers to be prayed, a husband to be loved (not just in theory but in action), and a life to be lived that has little to do with what's happening in Cyberspace.

So I'm my giving up on Working Wednesdays for now and I'm going to cut back on the time I spend on the Internet, something I did during Lent that proved to be extremely worthwhile. If I wasn't such a Type-Aer, I might not have to do this. But I am what I am and I'm tired of being, well, tired.

So long as I've brought it up, I'll share a few more thoughts on my exhaustion. I recently read a great post at Et Tu? called Getting my Life Back spurred me to write an email to Jennifer F. I explained that her post spoke to me on many levels but that her words, "agape is not running yourself ragged" screamed out at me.

Like many moms, I'm often physically exhausted. This in and of itself is difficult for me to accept. Once upon a time I ran circles around the Energizer Bunny. Not so much anymore. Some days my entire body literally aches with fatigue. It's the kind of fatigue I used to only experience after running 15 miles on a long Saturday run, but I don't run anywhere anymore (except maybe in the direction of an outlet that somehow missed the child-proofing inspection to prevent Baby from killing herself).

Still, I can deal with this. After all, being physically drained at the end of the day comes with the territory of being a mom of little ones.

But the kind of flattening lethargy I've been experiencing lately is of a different variety and I think I know why. I've got a huge lump of pride I've got to swallow. Here I am thinking that I can do it all – pray (never enough), parent perfectly, freelance write, minister to my husband's needs, write daily blog entries including a weekly one on Wednesdays that inspires the masses (or in reality, if I'm lucky, a handful of blog surfers), whip together home-cooked meals every night, bake healthy snacks and breakfast breads from scratch, vacuum daily, teach creative writing to kids, start thinking about homeschooling my own kids, exercise, volunteer, etc. – without any help from anybody.

Then, when I fail (which I do almost every single day), I beat myself up. It's a vicious cycle. Mom tries to be Super Mommy. Mom finds kryptonite everywhere in the form of physical exhaustion, perfectionism, temper tantrums, a teething baby, battles over potty time, flat tires, leaky sippy cups, looming deadlines, a husband who has to work late again, sick kids, the inability to say no to requests for volunteering efforts, and other toothpick-like crosses (if you can even call them crosses). Eeyore-like Mommy starts to feel sorry for herself, loses her strength, her patience, and sometimes her mind. Mom stays up too late ruminating about all this, blogging about it, reading blogs of other moms who seem to do it all (and they seem to do it much better than this mom), praying for forgiveness…Yada, yada, yada. Baby wakes up early to nurse. Preschooler wakes up after having a bad dream. Hubby starts snoring. Mom wants to scream (when she should want to pray). Mom falls asleep for a few token hours and wakes up exhausted but determined to be a perfect mom in spite of it. Mom fails again.

It's been the story of my life for too long now.

In her post, Jennifer F. admits that after the birth of her first child, whom she loved with all of her heart, she did sometimes felt like her life was on pause and that she couldn't wait to "get her life back" once her youngest was in school. I think this is a very common feeling. But, honestly, when I first became a mom, I never found myself mourning my "old life." Being a mom was all that I'd ever wanted. Now I had it and my life felt perfect. (My family was actually worried I might have something like mom mania instead of those baby blues you hear about because I was in overdrive for the first few months postpartum.)

Motherhood was consuming, but I wanted to be consumed by it. I wanted to soak up every minute of it. But back then, I also wasn't afraid to ask for help from God or anyone else. In fact, I can remember being so thankful to finally have a good enough excuse to cut myself some slack. "I'm sorry. I'm a new mom. I can't." Oh, it felt so good to say no to things. I'd been saying yes to everyone and everything in my life for a long, long time.

I was definitely still tired in those early years of motherhood (if you've stopped by my blog before, you know that my 3 1/2 year old still doesn't sleep through the night; she's what Minnesota Mom and others refer to as a spirited child), but I was able to recharge because I wasn't nearly as prideful. I took a break from freelance writing, didn't have a blog, didn't compare myself to other moms, and prayed for strength before praying for forgiveness.

Somewhere along the way, things seem to have gotten a little mixed up.

Maybe the reason I'm so exhausted – other than the fact that I stay up way too late regretting what I did or didn't do or am constantly trying to keep up with the blogging Joneses – is because I'm failing to accept my limitations and to humble myself before my Loving Father who wants nothing more than to sustain me and to fill me with his graces. But I have to swallow pride and let him. Perhaps my exhaustion is God's way of reminding me that I'm not resting in Him, the one who never grows tired, the one who will lighten my load and give me rest.

Lord Jesus, today I come to you tired and burdened and ask that you give me rest. Right now it's easy to see that I need you. I am exhausted and frazzled. Yet, I ask you to help me to see that I need you even when life is easy and I think that I've got everything under control. Above all, help me to to accept my limitations and to remember that you are the only one I need to always say yes to. Amen.

Looking Back

2008-05-20T22:34:00.000-04:00

One year ago I was on bed rest hoping my little bun would stay cooking in the oven just as long as she needed to. She did. She made her big debut at exactly 37 weeks, a beautiful bundle of perfection.

One year ago I was mourning my papa, the first close family member to die in my lifetime. I still haven’t been able to duplicate his famous cinnamon toast and I still miss him. I prayed for him then. I pray for him now.

One year ago I was wondering if there was going to be enough love to go around when I became a mom of two instead of one. There is. Plenty. Even when you don’t think you’ve got anymore to give, even when the urge to run is great, you find your feet planted on the ground and you think, maybe just maybe, you have an idea of what it means to love until it hurts.

One year ago Dave and I were celebrating five years of marriage, calling ourselves old, married farts. What does that make us now that we’re even older, happily married farts?

One year ago I was quoted as saying, “Madeline doesn’t throw tantrums.” Famous last words.

One year ago I was quoted as saying, “Madeline’s level of empathy is amazing for a child her age.” I stand by what I said.

One year ago I was a tired but happy preggo. Now, another baby and many restless nights later, I’m still tired. And still happy.

One year. Twelve months. 365 days.

In some ways, I don’t feel like time exists anymore. Not since I became a mom and not in the literal sense, anyway. My days often blur together and are now measured in baby milestones, preschooler triumphs, diapers changed, tears spilled (by my children and sometimes by me), hours slept, food cubed into safe, chewable bites, songs sung, books read...

One moment I’m thinking, “I’m going to be wearing nursing bras for the rest of my life."

The next, I’m looking at my babies and they don’t seem like babies much anymore at all.

One moment I’m marveling at how old my girls seem.

Then, in an instant, I’m brought back to the moment they were born, red and angry until they found my breast and their bodies fell limp against my own. Then I see us a few days later, back at home. I'm holding a sleeping infant as sleep smiles flutter across her face. I'm whispering lullabies into her sweet, little ears. I'm covering her body with kisses and soaking up the scent of her skin - baby perfume, an emanation of miracles and dreams. I'm living in the moment, but it's fleeting. Next thing I know, my baby's teetering toward me on two feet.

Then she's running away from me.

Sometimes one year seems like a long time. But mostly, one, two, three, four, five years…They don’t seem long enough at all.

Sibling Revelry

2008-05-20T08:20:00.000-04:00

Calling All Writers!

2008-05-19T08:00:00.000-04:00

From time to time I get an email from someone who is trying to start a freelance writing career asking me for advice. I'm always humbled by these emails. I don't really consider myself an expert in anything, except maybe negotiating with a 3-year-old and convincing her that everyone poops and it's good for her body to do so on a regular basis instead of holding it in until she begins to get a tummy ache, although I'm even running out of ideas in that area. (Any suggestions?)

Whenever a hopeful scribe approaches me, I'm also reminded of all the writers before me who held my hand when I was new to freelancing. I owe a big thanks to Rebecca, a friend and a colleague, who gave me a dream job. She hired me on as an editor of a parenting publication before I even was a parent. (And, oh how I thought I was going to be so prepared for motherhood....Turns out, that reading and writing about how to get your child to take a nap - or poop - is very different than actually doing it.)

Long before Rebecca there were my parents, who always encouraged my dreams - even the ones that revolved around Hollywood and training Seabiscuits. I think they would have said, "Go for it!" if I'd announced I was going to try out for the Olympics' gymnastics team. (People, I can't even do a cartwheel.)

In second grade, there was Mrs. Isaacs who entered a silly, little story I wrote about a plaque detective (see "About Me" section) into a contest and gave me the gift of my first byline. (To the best of my knowledge, her husband was not a dentist). I was hooked after that. Then there was Mrs. Guy and Mrs. Wilhoite in high school who both always encouraged my writing and only pulled out that soul-crushing red pen when absolutely necessary. In college, Dr. Hollifield was my mentor. I remember her telling me, "Whatever you decide to do with your life, don't forget to write about it." What I've most recently done with my life is to become a wife and a mom and Dr. Hollifield, I haven't forgotten to write about it. In fact, my kids and motherhood provide me with an endless supply of ideas.

Of course, a few years back I imagined I'd have my Great American Novel written by now, but things change, babies happen, and honestly, life has turned out a whole lot better for me than any artsy novel floating around in my head probably would.

Anywho...In order to answer some of the questions I'm most often asked by aspiring writers, I've decided to start occasionally including posts devoted to the craft and business of writing. I'd also love to hear any questions you might have. Email me at kmwicker[at]gmail dot com if there's something you want to know. If I don't have the answer, I'll try to find someone, or a website, book, etc. who/that does. (For those of you who could care less about writing, don't worry. I'll still mostly be rambling on about motherhood, faith, and other random stuff.)

Just two quick caveats:

#1 This goes without saying, but I'm, by no means, an expert. I've read many books on the subject of writing. I have my degree in journalism. I belonged to a fiction writing club that included published authors and have attended myriad writing workshops. I've worked with many different editors. I've written everything from press releases to an article on how to raise vegetarian kids. But none of that makes me an expert. I'm just someone who really, really wanted to write and just did it, even when all I had to show for it was lots of drafts, queries, and a growing stash of rejection letters. If you have any talent at all as well as a (strong!) desire to write and get published, you can and will do it. In a way, finding your writing niche is kind of like parenting. You can read all the books in the world about how to "do it," but the bottom line is, you've got to trust your parenting instincts and love your child for whom she is. At the end of the day, you're the only expert your kids need and you sort of just have to learn as you go. Same is true with writing. You can learn everything you need to on how to write, but you'll really only learn how to do it and how to get it published by trying and putting yourself out there.

And that brings me to caveat #2: Even if I was a on staff at the Wall Street Journal or a Random House editor, it would still behoove you to take everything I say with a grain of salt. When you start trying to figure out how to get published, you start hearing all about the "rules" of writing or the "secrets" to a winning query. But one thing I've learned over the past eight years of my writing "career," is that there really are no absolute rules. What works for one editor/publication may not work for another (some, for example, like queries over email; some prefer snail mail). Likewise, what "works" for me may not work for you as a writer. I don't like to outline. I just start writing. Other writers swear by outlining. You'll have to experiment to see what works best for you. Sometimes picking up the pencil or pulling out the laptop is the hardest part. One tip I do stand by is to always be professional. Honestly, I think that's helped me more than anything. I know how to "sell" myself as not only a writer but a professional. Oh, and I meet deadlines. Always. Those two simple things go a long way in helping you to succeed as a writer.

Now stay tuned...I'll be posting my first writing "article" later this week. Until then, what are you waiting for? Start writing!

Brought to You By GPB

2008-05-16T21:35:00.000-04:00

As in God Public Broadcasting... Never underestimate the power of God or television in a 3-year-old's life.

Madeline: Mommy, can I watch Curious George?

Me: No. We're not going to watch any TV today.

Madeline: Peeeaaaaasssss. It's 'ed-juuu-cational.' [translation: educational]

Me: That doesn't matter. We don't need to watch TV every day.

Me again but this time under my breath, or so I thought: Geez...It's amazing the power TV has over kids.

Madeline: That's how God made me.

Me: Huh?

Madeline: He made me to like to watch TV.

Oh, God, how wily....errrr....I mean, wondrous your works.

Together

2008-05-13T22:33:00.000-04:00

My little one had a major meltdown last night. She was beyond exhausted and just couldn't handle anything. Me not reading her mind and knowing what book to read first. Me not rubbing her back the right way. Me tucking her in beneath her soft sheets when she was "all sweaty."

Despite my own bone-aching fatigue from being up most of the night before alternating between comforting two restless kiddos, I was a model mom, patient and gentle with our little ball of fury. I never raised my voice even when her deafening screams woke the baby. I kissed her tear-stained cheeks. I took her thrashing body into my arms and kept it there even after a furled fist popped my chin...hard.

I'm not sharing this to come off as a saint. I'm sharing this because I realized when she had settled down and was wedged between her daddy and me, quietly biting her nails as she always does before finally succumbing to sleep with her bright, brown eyes gazing upward, that there is no way in you-know-where I would have been able to keep my composure if my husband hadn't been there beside me. I'd had a long day and an even longer night. My patience was short-fused all daylong as I played it solo, but once Dave was there in the trenches with me, I felt calmer, stronger, and ready to take on any flying fists or kicking feet that came my way with gentle but firm discipline.

Thanks to God's forethought and his brilliant plan for marriage and family, I'm not alone on this parenting journey. There's someone to lean on when I'm tired or achy or just plain frustrated. There's someone who laughs with me when our children do something funny. There's someone who scoops his daughters into his arms and tickles them and is everything a dad should be – fun, protective, and firm when he needs to be. There's someone who thinks I'm doing the most important job in the world by staying home with our kids – even if it means he has to work harder – and regularly praises me for embracing my vocation. There's someone who, like an answered prayer, walks into our home at the exact moment when I'm on the verge of losing it, someone who puts his hand on the small of my back or plants a soft kiss on my lips or meets my eyes and flashes me a quick smile when our child is in the throes of a tantrum that says what words don't need to – that this too shall pass – and we'll still be together when it does.

"It is not good for man to be alone. I will make a suitable partner for him." (Genesis 2:18).

Wistful Moms

2008-05-13T08:30:00.000-04:00

Last week two blogging friends (thank you, Cathy and Sarah) of mine sent me their thoughts on the seasons of motherhood and aptly quoted Ecclesiastes. Some might argue this was only coincidence. But to me this was God’s way of making me listen to him. See, I can be a bit dense and I don’t always “get” what he’s trying to tell me, so sometimes he has to use some in-your-face techniques.

The day before I’d been feeling down. I confessed to my husband that for the first time in my mothering life I’d been feeling wistful. “I’ve just found myself really missing being able to sleep more and having more time to pray and write and do other things. Being a mom is just so consuming,” I told him.

“I think what you’re feeling is probably completely normal,” he reassured me.

My husband is usually right, but I wasn't completely convinced. Then I read this post from Cathy – a veteran mom who knows a thing or two that I don’t and I realized she was a bit wistful, too, but for different reasons. She’s not pining for sleep right now or sick and tired of wearing bulky nursing bras. No, all her children are out of diapers. In fact, she’s preparing to see not one, but two daughters, get married this summer. Her babies are officially leaving the nest while mine haven’t even sprouted the beginnings of any wings yet.

Okay, so my rational mastermind of a husband was right again. It seems a certain level of nostalgia and wistfulness is normal for all moms – no matter what “season” of motherhood we’re in. And, provided it never becomes a source of discontentment or regret, I think being a wee bit wistful is okay.

Fortunately, even in my most difficult mothering moments, I’ve never felt anything close to regret. Well, that's not completely true. I've certainly felt pangs of regret for my failings as a mom and a human, but not ever, ever for becoming a mom in the first place. Sure, I’ve sometimes found myself wishing I could get through writing one essay without 15 interruptions. There are nights when I have to summon up all my strength to get out of bed to give a thirsty child a sip of water. There are days that begin at a time that I still considered part of the night in my pre-mom days. But these small sacrifices come with the territory of being a mom of young children and for more seasoned moms, I can bet these are some of the very things they're probably missing.

There is a time for diaper changes, potty training, patty-caking and night-waking. It’s that time for me – my time to plant, my time to build, my time to embrace.

But one day it will be my time to uproot the plant I spent so many years nurturing, a time to rend the umbilical cord once and for all, my time to be silent and to write all I want and then find myself yearning for all of those interruptions, those, “Mommy, I need yous,” and the ever-present background noise of my children’s voices. There will come a time for me to be far from the embrace of my babies who will no longer be babies anymore at all. Isn’t that the great mystery of motherhood – how the days can seem so long but the years fly by?

Honestly, I’m not so sure I even really know what it means to be truly wistful. What I sometimes miss these days are things I can someday have back. They’re even things I sometimes get now like on this past Sunday when I was able to take an afternoon doze and actually fall asleep for an hour. But nursing a baby when the rest of the house is quiet, watching Madeline’s excitement when she has accomplished some small feat like putting her clothes on all by herself (“I did it, Mommy! I did it!”), or having the power to stop all tears with only my touch or the soft brush of my lips on a boo-boo – those aren’t things I can completely go back to, not even if I’m blessed with grandchildren. So I’ll sleep and write when I can, but when I can’t, I’ll know I’m doing something far more important. This is my time to keep my babies, the very things that do not keep for very long at all.

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to tear down, and a time to build.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them; a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces.
A time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak.
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
(Ecclesiastes 3:2-8)

Journaling for Moms

2008-05-12T21:33:00.001-04:00

I have a box filled with journals dating back to the second grade. Here's a look at an entry dated April 13, 1986:

"We're mooing. Today I want shoping and we were going to go to Veterans Acres. But Mom was to cold. Sheetie is getting big. I like this day."

No, I did not grow up with a family of cows. I'd actually just learned my family would soon be moving to Georgia from Illinois. Veterans' Acres was a park we frequented and Sheetie refers to Sweetie, our yellow Lab. I love perusing my old journals, although I definitely went through a dark period where my journal read like Sylvia Plath's Bell Jar. (I've always been a bit of a drama queen and sometimes the pages of my journal became a stage for some characters I played in my life such as the heartbroken college girl or the recent graduate who was searching for meaning when it was right there in front of her the whole time in the form of her faith.)

When I became pregnant with my first, I started a journal where I wrote letters to my growing baby. I repeated the tradition with my second child and I *hope* to do it with all of my subsequent children. But this transition from one child to two has been tougher than I expected. I don't have huge blocks of time to muse or to write. The time I do have I often have to use to write things that will actually earn me a paycheck instead of jotting down images I want to remember like the way Rachel Marie, my baby, formed a perfect "O" today with her lips and then started to sing along with her sister, "OHHHHHHHHHHH." (We've definitely got a soprano on our hands.)

Then again, there are days when my only free time must be devoted to things like shaving my legs or scrubbing toilets (I'd rather be writing though).

However, I don't plan to give up journaling all together. No way. No how.

Thankfully, fellow mom and author Heidi Hess Saxton recently wrote a wonderful guest column over at StoryCrafters that has some great advice for journaling when you're a busy and tired mom. I know my biggest problem is that I try to do too much sometimes - keep this blog, write in an old-fashioned journal, keep a fiction journal where I write the "seeds" for stories, jot down favorite Scripture passages and my thoughts based on them, etc. The problem is sometimes I'm spending so much time writing or brainstorming about what I'm going to write about that I'm missing out on the very things I surely want to remember. Motherhood demands that I be present in my children's lives, not just a passive bystander. I always want to carve out some time to journal, but I might not have time to reflect on all of life's mysteries or to write thought-provoking prose.

There will come a day for all that. Right now scribbling down something like the following dialogue between my 3-year-old and me on our way to Mass on Mother's Day is me telling the best story of all:

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"I like your dress."

"Thank you."

"And your earrings."

"Thank you, Madeline."

"Your hair looks nice, too."

"You're so sweet."

"Mommy, I like everything. You look real fancy for church. You're vewry beautiful."

Now who really needs to write beautiful prose when you're like visual poetry in your child's eyes and to her, beautiful in every way?

Saving Charlotte

2008-05-12T10:44:00.001-04:00

When I read this post about creepy crawlies giving Sarah the heeby-geebies, it was one of the first times I couldn't relate to my "kindred spirit." See, I have a soft spot for all living creatures even when they're roaming inside my home. The only bug I've never shown mercy for is the cockroach.

When we lived in Augusta, Georgia a few years back, we rented a small cottage in an area called the Hill. It was a lovely neighborhood. Towering trees dripping with Spanish moss and wisteria shaded sprawling homes reminiscent of the Antebellum period. I always wondered if those gargantuan, elegant homes were immune from having cockroaches - or the more upscale-sounding name of palmetto bugs as Augustans liked to call them - sneak inside their walls. Our modest rental certainly wasn't. We had a bug service, but killing all of those suckers off would have taken a nuclear assault. They weren't rampant in our home, but every once in awhile I'd find one clicking its way across the hardwood floor. And their six feet (minus a few; cockroaches could survive after losing a limb or two) did click. That's how big these things were. They also looked at you like they were completely aware of the fact that you were going to try and kill them and they were going to do everything in their insect power to keep you from doing it.

And for the record, I don't think I'd be too receptive to having scorpions as bed mates either.

But I just can't bring myself to smush spiders despite their fear-inducing reputation. I do transport them outside in a paper towel and am praying during the entire journey to my front door that they won't slip out and attack me, but I just can't kill them. Now I'm approaching 30. I've never been known for my seamless logic, by c'mon, I should be more rational than this. I know spiders can't talk, much less spell or empathize. But every time I see one of these eight-legged critters crawling across my floor or dangling from a web, I can't help thinking of Charlotte. So I save them like she saved Wilbur.

Yet, even my 3-year-old thinks Mommy's a little weird. As she was eating breakfast this morning, she noticed a spider cruising the carpet.

"Spider!" she shouted. "Mommy! Spider!"

"I see it," I said.

"Kill it!"

"Why? It's not bothering anyone."

"Daddy kills spiders."

"I know..."

"Mommy...it's coming at me. Kill it, peaaaassss."

"Don't you remember Charlotte?" I asked. "She was so nice."

"But that's not real. Real spiders aren't nice."

So my preschooler is already more logical than me. Funny thing is, I still couldn't kill the Charlotte lookalike.

Happy Mother's Day!

2008-05-11T08:24:00.000-04:00

"Thank you, women who are mothers! You have sheltered human beings within yourselves in a unique experience of joy and travail. This experience makes you become God's own smile upon the newborn child, the one who guides your child's first steps, who helps it to grow and who is the anchor as the child makes its way along the journey of life." Letter of Pope John Paul II to Women, June 29, 1995

Gaba/Mom, thank you for being God's smile upon my life. You have always been a mom and now a grandma first. Well, except for maybe when the Cubs are playing, but no one is perfect (though you come awfully close). I love you. Go Cubs!!!

Happy Mother's Day!

Just Think of How Many Mother's Day Cards This Mom's Going to Get!

2008-05-09T18:52:00.001-04:00

Fuller house: Arkansas mom pregnant with 18th child

Prayer Request

2008-05-08T21:01:00.000-04:00

Please pray for this little guy. He's recovering from yet another surgery.

Keep Watch Over Your Goats

2008-05-08T18:21:00.001-04:00

Last night I poured my weepy, little heart out to my husband and told him how I was in a rough spot and had been feeling blue for various reasons. Dave patiently listened to me, took me into his arms, and then he reminded of one of the many reasons I love him by making my woeful self laugh.

Me, sniffling: "Just please pray for me. Or do something."

Him: "Okay. I'll sacrifice a goat for you."

Dave, thank you for reminding me to not take myself or life too seriously.

Insomnia

2008-05-08T07:15:00.000-04:00

Burning questions that render me sleepless:

1. Why do kids eat their buggars? (This is purely rhetorical; I'm sure your refined children wouldn't think of snacking on their snot anymore that my children would.)

2. Did I remember to defrost the pork for dinner tonight? (No.)

3. Will Dave do a fellowship?

5. Do other moms sleep more than I do?

6. Did I just skip the number 4? (Yes.)

7. Why am I hungry at 4 a.m.?

8. Do we have any chocolate stashed somewhere?

9. Is that how you spell buggar?

10. Where is Madeline? Is she actually still sleeping in her bed? (Feels kind of lonely in this vast king-sized bed without her...)

And perhaps the greatest question of all...

11. Why in God's name am I not sleeping when the baby is?

What's Wrong with this Picture?

2008-05-07T15:41:00.000-04:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about my previous post and some other posts that were quite “Catholicky” and how I was reluctant to post them here. It just didn’t feel right. I started this blog as an outlet for my writing as well as a place to post things that would encourage or help fellow moms. Likewise, I thought of it as an online journal where I could share both my milestones as a mom and my children’s milestones through photos and words. I started my other blog with some of the same intentions but also wanted to make it a faith journal of sorts – a place where I could perhaps, with the counsel of the Holy Spirit, draw closer to Christ through my reflections. Of course, I also decided I would include more mommy-centered musings. After all, my primary job and God-given vocation is being a mom.

But herein lies the problem: At my so-called Catholic blog, being a woman, a mom, and a Christian were all the same thing. I could not separate the three; they were what made up my identity and as much a part of me as my limbs, my blonde hair and my size 5 feet.

Yet, here I’ve always felt a little uneasy about posting things that were overtly religious. First off, I’ve included this Momopoly blog with my bio for articles that I’ve written for secular publications (while I include the Kate Wicker blog with articles that I write for faith-based markets) and I worried some editor would see my Christian leanings and not want to include the blog in my bio. Well, now that I’ve been thinking (and praying) about it, if someone did choose to omit my blog from his or her publication’s glossy pages in order to be "tolerant" and “open-minded,” then so be it. “Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness.” (Matthew 5:10). C'mon folks, how open-minded would that be? To not publish my blog because it mentions "Jesus"? And, really, why is it that media so often is tolerant of other religions but less receptive to ideas that are associated with Christianity? Ah, but I digress...

Above all, my reluctance to include faith-centric musings here boils down to this: I was afraid of offending someone. I was afraid of isolating potential subscribers to my blog. Sadly, I was afraid of openly admitting my allegiance to Christ.

So over there at my Catholic blog I was like Peter at the Last Supper, pledging my undying love to Christ. Peter assured Jesus he would rather die than deny him; yet, before the cock crowed that very night, he denied his Master three times.

While I haven’t openly claimed to not know Jesus as Peter did, am I any different?

Just a click away, here I was at this blog denying Jesus of the “coverage” he deserved. Maybe it had something to do with the times I’ve been approached by people of different Christian denominations here in the Bible Belt who have suggested I am on the pathway to hell (or maybe I just need a scapegoat to assuage my guilt???). This hasn’t happened often, but there have been a few occasions when I’ve been told that I must be saved if I want to earn a spot in heaven. Or, there was the time, I was at an evangelist church (to support a family member who was receiving an honor during the ceremony) and the preacher, who was a very talented orator, by the way, was talking about the evils of drinking alcohol and specifically spouted a statistic about the number of Catholics who drink. My younger brother, who ironically - you know, being Catholic and all - has never been a drinker, whispered, “I’m going to need a drink after this sermon.” We chuckled to ourselves, perhaps a bit disrespectfully, but I left the church with a bitter taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with downing a shot of liquor (something I don’t do, although I do enjoy an occasional glass of vino).

I knew that as a believer I didn’t want to condemn people the way I felt these probably very upright people inadvertently did to me. And I don’t have to do that here or anywhere else. However, I can’t “hide” the fact that I’m doing my best to lead a faithful Catholic life on this chunk of Cyberspace and then shout it off the blogosphere rooftop on my other blog.

Something is seriously wrong with that. Being Catholic is not something I do as so much as it's something I try to live. And it’s certainly not something I do just when it’s easy and doesn’t have the potential of offending others. Being Catholic is a part of who I am. To be a faithful follower, I must be faithful to God at all times. If I feel like writing about something pertaining to my faith, then I must do it and post it for all to see not just for my regular Catholic readers over yonder.

So where does that leave us, my loyal readers and friends? I haven’t decided yet. I need to pray about this more. What I’m going to do for the time being is to write about the kinds of things I’ve always written about – the joys and challenges of being a mom, breastfeeding, silly anecdotes, what I’ve learned from my children. But I’m also going to include the Catholic/Christian posts I’ve been excluding (I will label them accordingly) on this blog as well. I hope this won’t turn any readers off, but that’s a risk I must take. I do always welcome commentary and dialogue on all things, including religion. In fact, I love learning about other faiths – from Buddhism to Bahá'í. Christianity should never be divisive. I also don’t want to be so filled with puffed-up piety that I turn others away, so let me know if you think that a certain post was a bit on the high and mighty side. I am not “holier than thou.” (Clearly, considering I was afraid to post things pertaining to my faith on a mommy-friendly site. Shame on me.) Neither was Peter. Maybe that’s why Christ chose him to be the rock of the Church “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.” (Matthew 16:18) Jesus can use weak people to build his church. I pray he’ll use me.

Down the road, I may simply use this Momopoly blog as a spot for newsy kind of things pertaining to moms as well as photo album of my kiddos as a way of keeping in touch with friends and family. Or, I'll keep it as is; I just won't be afraid to include a post that revolves around my faith. Oh, and I do include more photos on this site because I don't want to bore people to tears (more personal rather than virtual friends stop by Momopoly).

Finally, I humble myself before Jesus as Peter did.

Lord, I’m going to keep trying, but no matter how badly I fail, please know that the desire of my heart is to love and serve you in with my words, with my role as wife and mom, and with my entire life. Amen.

Thanks for listening and for not judging. I hope you'll stay tuned...

The Power of a Mom

2008-05-07T08:00:00.000-04:00

This is something I wrote over at my Catholic blog, but I felt compelled to share it here as well since it reveals just how important moms are to their children. Next time you're feeling "used" or like your life's work is being taken for granted, consider this orphan's story.

“The first joy of a child is the knowledge that it is loved.” ~Don Bosco

A dear frien“The first joy of a child is the knowledge that it is loved.” ~Don Bosco

A dear friend of mine – we’ll call her Rose – is a true humanitarian. Whether she’s serving her patients as a pediatric resident or volunteering with the Missionaries of Charity in India, Rose is someone who constantly looks outside of herself at the needs of those around her.

Although she’s not yet a biological mother, she has been a mom to countless orphans during several month-long volunteer trips. She has given these abandoned children the knowledge that they are loved, if not by their biological families or the society that has often discarded them as “damaged goods” because their bodies or minds or both are weak, then by God. Rose believes God is love and she shows her love for him by loving and serving others.

Rose shared with me this touching story after her most recent trip to India this past April:

During Rose’s first volunteer experience with the Missionaries of Charity, she encountered a little girl in the orphanage who was obstinate and prone to emotional outbursts. She suffered physically and had some kind of syndrome, much like dwarfism, that left her with some distorted features. She was behind developmentally as well and was not an overly affectionate child. She was, even in orphanage standards in India, one of the poorest of the poor. Perhaps that’s why Rose, ever one to live the Beatitudes, had a special fondness for the child.

Rose was eager to see her little friend again this April. However, she was not prepared for what she saw. The very same child, who just over a year ago had a penchant for fits of temper, now was poised and polite. She listened and asked instead of whined or screamed. Her physical body was still weak; she still suffered developmental delays, but her spirit had been strengthened.

Rose later asked a Sister if anything had happened to cause such a dramatic transformation. The Sister explained that the child’s best friend was adopted, causing her much heartache, not only because she had lost a friend but because she, too, hoped to be adopted.

“I want a mommy! I want a mommy now! Now! Now!” she wailed. To which another child quipped, “No one’s ever going to adopt you. No one wants a child who acts like you do.”

The child became quiet and since then, she no longer exhibits explosive emotions. Her fits have been quelled. She is obedient, affectionate, and giving. Her greatest desire now, it seems, is to please others.

And why? Because above all things, she wants a mother. She yearns for a mother so much that she has willed herself to be more aware of others, to not give in to her impulses and to be the kind of child she thinks a mother would want. That’s how much a mom would mean to this child.

This story is heartbreaking to me for many reasons. It makes me ache for all children who are abandoned. It makes me wonder and pray even more than I have in the past about adoption (my husband and I have discussed the possibility of adopting a child before). It makes me overwhelmingly grateful for my own mom, who gave me the first joy Don Bosco refers to by making sure with her whole heart and her entire life that I felt loved. It makes me implore our Blessed Mother to watch over all of the orphans of the world and anyone who has been deprived of love and protection. It makes me realize just how important I really am to my own children even when I’m feeling sorry for myself and see myself as nothing more than a walking and talking Laundromat, a short-order cook, a maid, a playmate to be bossed around, or a depository for unwarranted complaints. I am their mom. I am the one God has given the awesome responsibility of granting them their first joy in life – of showing them that they are unconditionally loved and in doing so, the one who helps reveal God’s love to them.

Since Rose told me this story, I’ve found myself often praying for that little orphan. I pray she knows that even when she feels unloved, even if she never finds a mom (or a mom never finds her), that she is loved. Not only by God and his own mother but by me, some other children’s mom way over on the other side of the world who hasn’t stopped praying for her since I heard of the personal sacrifice she has made in the hopes of finding a mommy.

Scripture: “But to those who did accept him, he gave power to become children of God, to those who believe in his name…” (John 1:12)

Spiritual Resolution: Pray a Rosary in honor of all orphaned and abandoned children, including the victims of abortion that they may come to know that they are children of God and will always have a mother in Mary.

Prayer: God, be for all your children what mothers cannot be. I ask what needs never to be asked: To love all of your children and to make your love to known to the ones who don’t have a mom to hold them, to plant kisses on their soft heads, to wipe away their tears, so that they will know that even when moms disappoint them or are not there at all, you are all they need.

I also pray for my own mom, who has loved God with all her heart by loving me. She has passed the holy torch of motherhood to me and I am ever grateful for this gift. Help me to to never take all she has done for me (and still does for me!) for granted. I am thankful, too, for my mother-in-law, who has been my like a second mom to me. Finally, I thank you for giving us the perfect model of motherhood in your own mom. Mary, Virgin Most Faithful and Comforter of the Afflicted, pray for your children. Amen.

May all you moms out there have a blessed Mother's Day!

Blueberries for Rae

2008-05-06T21:45:00.000-04:00

Declaring a Mommy Truce

2008-05-06T16:12:00.000-04:00

I read this post (by way of Danielle Bean) at Arwen/Elizabeth, a beauty of a blog I just discovered and it inspired me to write this:

I'm a card-carrying member of the Freak Mom Club. See, I nursed Madeline until she was 22 months and would have kept on nursing had I not been able to get pregnant. The other night my baby asked to nurse during story time. Not that 11-month-old baby, but my 3-year-old. And you know what? Even though she was officially weaned at 22 months, I let her nurse. She needed to feel like a baby, so I let her and my husband looked on lovingly, which I suppose gets him Freak Dad Club membership.

Before becoming a mom, my breast were never something I gave much thought. They were good at holding up the countless strapless bridesmaid dresses I had to wear, but other than that, they were just two lumps of fat that called my chest home. Then Madeline arrived. Minutes after she was born, she latched on and started sucking with gusto. I was in awe of my body and the amazing fact that it could provide my baby with all the nourishment she needed.

Both my girls have been nursing naturals. They've followed their growth curves perfectly and other than making a little too much milk, I've had no problems. I'm a mom who loves nursing.

Much to the dismay of others (excluding my supportive family and most of my friends), my kids remain nursing champs a little longer than what's considered average in this country. I remember when Madeline learned the sign for milk at around a year and would walk around squeezing an imaginary udder with her chubby hands. I never felt like a cow, but I remember that's about when others started looking at me like I’m a freaky dairy queen who relinquished her udders to a tiny tyrant far too easily.

Of course, before Madeline turned 1, I was praised for being a nursing mother. Increased awareness about the benefits of breastfeeding for both mom and baby seemed to override any naysayers. But something happened when Madeline’s first birthday rolled around. While I once felt like a good mom offering my infant my breast, I suddenly felt ostentatious and a little freaky if I dared to – always discretely, I might add – lift my shirt for her hungry lips. Boob-ophobes crawled out of the cracks. Even a few of my friends started making comments. “So when are you planning to wean her?” I was asked more than once. When I told my questioners, I wanted to nurse for at least another year, I was sure a third eye must have popped out of my forehead by the looks I got.

Honestly, I expected some rude comments, especially from ignorant strangers. For ages, people have loved to give moms unwarranted and unsolicited advice and it’s no secret that breasts are highly sexualized in the United States. We forget that our breasts were meant to feed babies, not to be pushed up in miracle bras for men (and women) to gawk at. What I wasn’t prepared for was the source of some of the most hurtful comments – other moms. I’d wrongly assumed that my strongest allies would be other mothers.

Once I was at a get-together for moms in my church when I started to surreptitiously nurse Madeline. A mother told me, “You know, there’s no nutritional value in breastmilk for babies older than a year.” She was very polite, but I was embarrassed and being a new mom, I was afraid to confront this veteran mother of grown children so I kept my mouth shut and just nodded. Another friend went on and on about how she knows a mom who nurses her toddler for comfort. “The nipple is not a pacifier,” she said. Again, I kept quiet.

The worst was yet to come. After discovering I still breastfed, one mom looked at me in surprise. Apparently, I didn’t “look” like a mom who would breastfeed after a year. I asked her what she meant and she stumbled on her words, but what I gathered is that since I don’t have long armpit hair and don’t exist off tofu I don’t fit the long-term breastfeeding mom archetype in her mind. I smiled politely and thought about what I'd like to say to her and anyone who had questioned my decision to embrace extended breastfeeding: "There’s no such thing as ‘one-size-fits-all’ when it comes to motherhood. My daughter and I love nursing. It works for us and I don’t care if that makes us weird.”

The irony is, I don't believe any of these moms are mean-spirited people. They probably didn’t realize how much their subtle comments hurt me. I also know that I have more than once stepped on my own mommy soapbox and volunteered my parenting dogma.

The truth is, while most women don’t reduce themselves to openly criticizing other mothers, there is often unspoken tension between moms of different parenting styles. It’s not just among breastfeeding and non-breastfeeding moms. The battle lines are drawn between spankers and non-spankers, homeschooling moms and school moms, I-let-my-kids-watch-Sesame Street-moms and no-TV-in-the-house-ever moms…the list goes on.

This leads me to ask: Why is it that moms find themselves being so judgmental about others’ choices? To answer this question, I had to examine why I sometimes marble my mommy philosophy into conversation with other mothers. I’m not trying to make other moms feel bad. On the contrary, I’m trying to make myself feel good (or at least a little better) about the choices I make for my children.

Ultimately, motherhood is a job we all feel really passionate about and emotions run high when we talk about why we do the things we do. We’re all trying so hard to do our best that we may sometimes lose sight of the fact that what’s best for us may not be what’s best for someone else. But what we fail to see is that all those derisive zingers and even those more subtle, little comments can obviously be upsetting to the wounded party.

Deciding when to wean is only one of the many decisions I’ll have to make as a parent. I’ve made up my mind to embrace being a so-called freak who nurses beyond a year and even two years, to trust myself and to not let others discount my decision. I’ve also decided to declare a truce in the mommy wars and do everything I can to support my fellow moms and the decisions they make. As moms, we can’t succumb to whatever those outside pressures are, even though they can be very, very strong. Besides, we’ll never make everyone happy. There's an expert out there for every issue of parenting telling you what you should and shouldn't do, and I guarantee it's different from what your mom or mom-in-law or best friend thinks. We’ve just got to go with our guts. We have to do what instinctively feels right for us, our family and our child. And sometimes we have to ask for help from the wisest mom of all time - our Blessed Mother.

When it comes right down to it, whether we breastfeed our children until their 3 months or 3 years, we’re mothers first, and we all have children that we love and we're trying to raise them the best we can.

The Mind's Eye

2008-05-05T13:01:00.000-04:00

Interpreting a work of art is a lesson in subjectivity. Take this recent masterpiece by Madeline. Each of us had our own idea what it was representing. Our intepretations are as follows:

Mommy: A butterfly

Daddy, the radiologist resident who clearly interprets other kinds of images all day and needs to get out more: A thyroid

Madeline, its creator: Two big eyes.

What do you see?

Daddy's Little Girl

2008-05-02T14:54:00.000-04:00

A conversation last night:

Madeline: When's Daddy coming home tonight?

Me: He's not. He has to stay at the hospital. You won't see him until the morning.

Madeline [sadly]: But he's my favorite person to sleep with.

A Sigh of Relief

2008-05-01T14:01:00.000-04:00

Looks like moms everywhere can breathe a sigh of relief if their baby is found licking a big sibling's peanut butter-clad hands.

From a recent Medscape article Nana, my mom-in-law/lactation consultant, sent me:

“If you're going to have a peanut allergy, it has nothing to do with when you were introduced to peanuts. If a mother eats peanuts during pregnancy or lactation or if she feeds her 6-month-old peanut butter, it has no effect on whether you get peanut allergy. If you're going to get it, you're going to get it.”

And the bottom-feeder baby who roams the floor in search of any crumb from a forbidden food that somehow misses the suction of the every-other-day vacuum routine will probably be okay, too:

“Now we can tell mothers: If you have exclusively breastfed for 4 months and your child is not at risk for allergy, you can introduce any food at 6 or 8 months or whatever. [Solid foods should still not be introduced before the infant is 4-6 months old, according to the report.] In children at risk for atopic disease, simply avoiding foods for a certain time may delay the onset of allergy, but it doesn't prevent allergy.”

Read the whole thing here. (You’ll have to complete a free registration process to view it.) The article is based on a revised American Academy of Pediatrics policy statement and recent research findings that downplay the role of diet in the development of allergies.

*Thanks, Nana, for always keeping me abreast – pun intended – of the latest news relating to breastfeeding and baby nutrition.

TV Turnoff Week

2008-04-28T07:39:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time my children NEVER watched any television. I know, I know. I was one of those annoying moms who was floating around in a bubble of pride because my child was shielded from all that junk on TV. Well, let's just say a second child, a slew of Disney movies compliments of the grandparents, and one ongoing sleep deficit later, that bubble's popped big time. Yes, I've joined the ranks of realistic moms and typically allow Madeline a little TV-viewing almost every day. She's only permitted to watch educational DVDs during the week. Then, on Saturday mornings, she can choose from her growing selection of children's movies.

However, I did decide to try and ban TV during this year's annual TV Turnoff Week. I cheated once, but to my credit this was only because the baby was sick and Madeline was bored out of her mind. We don't have a yard; otherwise, I would have been sending her outside to play and enjoy the beautiful, springtime weather. Amazingly, Madeline didn't seem to miss the dearth of talking vegetables, furry, red monsters or Spanish-speaking, pint-sized explorers. Every day she'd ask, "Is it still Turnoff week?" I'd tell her yes and there was no argument. Sometimes my dear one mixed up this screen-free week up with Lent. "No chocolate, either?" she'd ask. I assured her she could still have an occasional sweet.

After this successful week, I've decided I'm going to start introducing more "turnoff days" into our life again. We had so much fun doing other stuff. I've never been much of a TV person (we actually don't even have basic cable), although I don't think watching television in moderation is evil or anything like that. Still, going screen-free is just one way to embrace simplicity, to spend time quality time together, and to get more creative about how to fill your day.

Here's a look at some of the things we did instead of watching TV this week:

1. Doodled.
2. Introduced Baby Rae to the slide and had a picnic with Pop.
3. Attended our parish's production of Beauty and the Beast.
4. Turned our walkway into a canvas.
5. Frolicked in the fountains at the Atlanta Botanical Garden.
6. Soaked up the scents of spring.
7. Played with our food.
8. Baked blueberry muffins and cranberry scones.

Some Great Thoughts on Modesty

2008-04-25T10:33:00.001-04:00

Not by me, by Lindsay at Contrariwise, but I'll weigh in, too:

Now that God has entrusted me with two precious little girls, I have to admit I’ve started worrying about things like body image (because mine isn't always the healthiest), eating disorders (because I had one) and clothing choices (because they'll have to wear something). I want my girls to embrace their femininity. I want them to feel beautiful inside and out. I want them to recognize that their bodies are temples, beautiful vessels for something that’s far more important than sexy curves or flawless skin – their souls.

I don’t want them obsessing about how they look or wearing skimpy clothes, which I think often goes hand-in-hand. I pass by some of the stores designed for tweens and I wince. How could I let my 12-year-old wear that? How will I someday walk the fine line between making them love and respect their bodies and at the same time keep them from flaunting the skin they feel comfortable in? Sure, these aren't exactly pressing issues at the moment. Right now our occasional clothing battles consist of my 3-year-old not wanting to wear any clothes at all (oh how I pray this won't be an issue when she's older!) or asking to wear a ruffly dress as PJs. I suspect things will most likely get a little more complicated as they grow older and become more aware of their bodies, others' perceptions of them (especially boys'...yikes!) and those crazy hormones start kicking in. While I can’t expect them to not want to wear some “cool” trends down the road, I can expect (and require) them to be modest.

The irony of all this talk about modesty is the more a woman flaunts her body, the more likely she is to hate the way she looks or to feel like an object. Oh, there are going to be people who argue this isn’t the case. That there are some women who feel perfectly comfortable wearing revealing clothing. Maybe so. But when I think back to days when I chose to wear a short skirt to some college social event, I can't help but think I was wanting something more than to convey a sense of style. Some small part of me wanted attention. Why? Because, perhaps I didn’t have enough confidence in myself as a woman to believe I was beautiful unless I was showing enough leg to encourage some random guy to give me the once-over. It’s not easy for me to openly admit this, but I know I’m not the only young woman who has struggled with issues of body image and modesty.

That's where Lindsay, 21, comes in. She bravely and refreshingly discusses modesty on her blog Contrariwise and why it’s something to embrace, not a sign of oppression, as some people might claim. She courageously submitted the same article to her campus newspaper and has subsequently been called some nasty names. By some other women, no doubt, who just might be using their anger to assuage their guilt or their own insecurities. Just a theory.

Lindsay writes: “You don’t have to ignore your heart when it reminds you that you’re more than a bunch of body parts. You have more to offer than skin. If you don’t want to be treated like an object, don’t give the world a clear view of the objects you want it to look beyond. Grab some leggings for that mini; the 80s are in right now. No one’s saying you have to grow your hair into long pigtails and find dress patterns from Little House on the Prairie. Try some modesty on for size. You might be surprised at how beautiful you become.”

Amen, sister! And if there’s one thing I can teach my daughters about their bodies and modesty, it would be something along the lines of what Lindsay says here: “You are beautiful You are not gorgeous because of your hot body or sexy clothes. You are so lovely because you are the crown of creation.” Can I hear another, "Amen"?

Read the whole Girls Gone Mild post here.

Disappointment

2008-04-24T16:50:00.001-04:00

The girls and I had plans for a lovely springtime outing today, but you know the best laid plans of munchkins and moms often go awry…or something like that. The baby woke up feeling like a preheated oven as she burrowed into me. I don’t usually take temps – I live by the mantra that what you don’t know can’t worry you – but she felt awfully warm. Turns out, she had a fairly high fever. Poor thing.

As I gently rubbed her clammy head, I turned to her big sister and relayed some disappointing news to her. Our outing might have to wait. Her sister was sick and needed extra TLC and naps at home.

Now Big Sister was sick, too – sick with disappointment.

Honestly, you would have thought I’d announced that there would be no birthdays, no surprises, no chocolate milk or ice cream, no presents from Santa Claus for the rest of her life by the way she was reduced to shaking sobs.

I watched my 3-year-old’s whole body tremble with sadness as she shouted and cried and kicked and I desperately wanted to reassure her that this was not the end of the world. We could go to the Botanical Gardens another day. But to her, in her preschool microcosm, this was an unbearable and cruel twist to her previously happy day.

I took her in one arm while the other arm held the baby. She sniffled and snuffled into my sleeve, and I was tempted, albeit briefly, to try and “fix” things, to perhaps call her Pop and see if he could watch the baby or to even go through with our original plans (which, by the way, we did end up doing later in the day, not because of Madeline’s tears – she really didn't think we were going to go - but because Rae’s fever subsided. The fever’s back now. I probably should have been more prudent, but what’s done is done.)

Like any parent, I hate to see my children’s happiness thwarted, but I know this isn’t the first or the last time my child will be let down. Welcome to Life, Kiddo. It's full of disappointments.

Before I became a mom, I judged doting parents, coined helicopter parents, who hovered over their kids ready to swoop in and provide aid at any sign of distress. I thought, I’ll never do that. Kids have to learn that life is full of ups and downs. I’m won’t be one to inoculate them against struggle and angst. What doesn’t kill my kids will make them stronger. Blah, blah, blah.

Then I became pregnant and even before I held my baby for the first time, I was overwhelmed with an intense desire to protect her and to keep her safe. I was on a walk one day during my first pregnancy and I tripped on an uneven part of a sidewalk. I was quite klutzy in my preggo state and completely lost my balance. I was headed belly-first for the ground, but I somehow managed to throw my body to the side and it was my hip that first made contact with the concrete. Nothing was going to hurt my baby. Nothing.

But now I see that things hurt my baby all of the time. Sometimes it’s even, gasp, me who’s doing the hurting by saying no to her pleas or by not giving her enough attention. There are rainy days when it’s supposed to be sunny so we can go to the zoo. There are dinners that aren't followed by dessert. There are sick siblings who take up too much of Mommy’s time. One day, my kids will likely face much bigger disappointments – broken hearts, rejections from colleges and employers, backstabbing friends and missed opportunities.

Somehow I’m working on finding a middle ground between the no-pain-no-gain fascist I was in my pre-mom days and the vigilant mama bear I became during pregnancy. I know I can’t and shouldn’t shield my children from all the letdowns of life, but I can turn disappointing situations into teaching moments. I can arm my children with the tools they need to overcome defeat and sadness like tenacity, adaptability, optimism, and a faith and trust in God and his plan for them.

Likewise, I’ve learned to not be so eager to jump in and fix things. Recently when Madeline was heartbroken because she couldn’t get her sandals on by herself, I encouraged her to try again. I wanted her to solve her own problem. And she eventually did. She got those tricky sandals on the right feet and buckled up while I stood by and cheered her on and she was better for doing it. Now she regularly puts her shoes on is quite proud of her new skill.

Above all, I've realized that soft love, not tough love, is the best approach when my kids are feeling sad - even when their disappointment manifests itself in the form of a major meltdown. I don’t condone kicking and screaming, but I also try not to say things like, “Get a grip! You’re acting like a baby. This isn’t a big deal.” Because a 3-year-old doesn’t always know how to “get a grip” and she really is still a baby and it is a big deal to her. When I'm really about to show no mercy, I give myself a quick refresher course in empathy. How would I want someone to treat me when I'm feeling dejected or disappointed? After all, God knows, there have been many, many times when I haven't acted much differently than a tantrum-throwing child - crying or venting or seething - in response to one of the curve balls of life.

Out of the Mouth of My Babe

2008-04-23T20:35:00.000-04:00

What I've extracted from the mouth of my very oral, very mobile, and very quick 10-month-old so far this week:

1. One piece of black sidewalk chalk
2. A small rock
3. An angel fish (of the small, plastic and Finding Nemo "tank gang" variety)
4. A scrap of paper
5. An unidentified, nearly fossilized, once edible piece of food

*I really am a relatively vigilant mom and I honestly vacuum every other day, but my child is extremely deft when it comes to trying to kill herself.

Stand By Your Man

2008-04-22T20:49:00.001-04:00

What would I do if my husband frequently expressed concern about how our children were going to turn out? At first, I’d probably really start to wonder what he thought of my mothering skills and at some point I’d most likely burst into tears.

Yet, how often do I fret about money and our future? How often do I ask him about things pertaining to his work with more than a hint of uncertainty in my voice?

Last night we were having one of those fun money talks every couple loves (you know, there's not enough of the green stuff to go around, that sort of thing) and I started expressing worries about our finances and our fiscal future. This isn’t something new. I’ve always worried about money. From the moment I landed my first job in high school, I’ve always saved more than I’ve spent. I don’t just save for a rainy day. I save for a wintry day, an overcast day and even a sunny day. Sometimes I save so much I forget about that little thing known as living. When I do splurge on something other than groceries, I feel terribly guilty. (Sometimes I feel guilty about my grocery bill, although I meal plan, coupon clip and make every effort to stick to a food budget.) I even hoard gift cards. C’mon. They’re gift cards. You're supposed to use them before they expire, lose their value or are simply forgotten.

In fact, I’d just recently used a gift card I’ve had since Christmas for an extremely frivolous pair of blue pumps with towering heels - not exactly stay-at-home-mom-rarely-go-out-to-anywhere-other-than-the-grocery-store-or-the-park-kind-of-shoes. I had to spend a little bit over the value of the card and when Dave brought up the topic of money, I started feeling really guilty. The guilt led to excessive worrying. The excessive worrying led to tears (from me, not the hubby). The deluge led to my questioning my husband and his financial decisions.

That’s when he said calmly with no hint of anger or resentment, “Kate, don’t worry. I’m going to take care of us. I’m going to take care of you. Just trust me.”

Shame on me for ever doubting my hard-working husband. Shame on me for complaining about financial woes when there's definitely light at the end of the tunnel (as in the end of residency). Shame on me for even suggesting we're penniless when we have absolutely no idea what it means to be poor. (I know I'm very well off compared to most of society, but is anyone in America – the country where according to Nielsen Media Research, 99 percent of the households have at least one television – really poor? One of my best friends and Madeline’s godmother who just returned from her second stint volunteering with the Missionaries of Charity in India would argue that, no, we Americans are spoiled and we don’t have any idea what it means to be truly poor, to have maggots burrowing in your scalp, to be surrounded by widespread starvation.)

“I’m going to take care of you,” my husband of almost six years says. And he will. "Just trust me," he says. And I should and I will.

What Makes a Perfect Saturday Morning

2008-04-19T09:39:00.000-04:00

Early morning cuddles with a happy 10-month-old who can't stop reaching for my face as I nurse her. Then, later, Cheerios being stuffed into the mouth of that same happy 10-month-old. A quiet house with the exception of happy squeals intermittently sounding off between mouthfuls of Cheerios and yogurt. A cup of coffee with milk (for me, not the baby who wakes up happy and alert every single morning). A homemade cranberry scone dipped into the coffee. A spontaneous wave to none other than me accompanied by a cheerful, "Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii...." More happy squeals when I wave back. A really happy squeal when I share a bite of the scone (sans the coffee) with a little mouth that opens wide like that of a hungry baby bird. Then a pudgy finger pointing right at me and a sound slipping out of a sticky, yogurty mouth that sounds a whole lot like, “Mama.”

Doctors Know Best

2008-04-16T11:45:00.000-04:00

Doctors, not always moms, are wellsprings of sundry knowledge as these two recent exchanges between my 3-year-old and me illustrate:

Madeline: OW! It hurts! [referring to a boo-boo that starts to sting while she’s eating pineapple chunks]

Me: That’s because pineapple is a citrus fruit and they’re tangy and can make boo-boos sting.

A brief pause ensues as Madeline looks at me with admiration.

Madeline: You’re like a doctor because you know so much.

On another day…

Madeline: See that, Mommy? That holds water, right?

Me: What? I'm not sure what you're talking about. [I’m driving and trying to pay attention to the road.]

Madeline: That - over there.

Me: Over where?

Madeline: Over there. That blue thing.

Finally, it dawns on me. I notice the blue bulbous water tower standing high above the tree line. We recently passed the tower when Daddy was in the car. Madeline asked what it was and Daddy explained that it was a water tower that held water.

Me: Oh, the water tower.

Madeline: Yeah. Mommy, you’re not like a doctor. I’m like a doctor because I know things that you don’t.

The Watering Hole

2008-04-15T10:52:00.001-04:00

Love Your Enemies

2008-04-14T09:28:00.000-04:00

To the person who thinks my home phone number is a fax machine and started calling at midnight on a night when I actually went to bed before midnight and continued calling every 30 minutes until I took the phone off the hook at 1 AM, I am trying really, really hard to love you. The first time you called I worried it was my husband who was on call, working nights. I feared something was wrong. The second time you called I cut you some slack and assumed you would figure out that this number WAS NOT a fax machine. The third time you called I yelled into the phone, "This is not a fax machine. This is the home of a very tired mommy. Stop calling!!!" Only to hear you taunt me, beeping back at me. Then I took the phone off the hook, lest you decided to really try my patience and call again. After all, I am only human and you were proving to be a worthy opponent. However, after I nursed the baby at 3 AMish, the cordless phone started beeping because its battery was low. Somehow I'd forgotten all about you and your mission to make my life miserable and stupidly put the phone back on the hook.

You finally gave me some rest...thank you...but you were back at it at 7:30 AM and you woke up my 3-year-old who never sleeps in and then you kept calling and calling. I yelled into the phone again. My 3-year-old and baby both stared at me, surely worrying that their mommy had lost it and I almost had. You nearly sent me over the edge. I STAR-69ed you and tried to tell you that this number is not a fax machine, but all I heard was the maniacal beeping of you guessed it, a fax machine. You must have programmed this number into your blasted machine. You're probably sleeping peacefully. I'm not, but get this: I love you anyway. Do you hear me, Arch Enemy, Robber of My Precious Sleep? I love you anyway. So what if you kept me awake on a night when my teething baby only woke up once and my preschooler decided to ignore the sun peeping through the blinds and actually remained slumbering on beside me? I will not let this keep me from loving you. So keep on calling. Keep testing me. You will not harden my heart.

Daddy's Lovey

2008-04-09T20:33:00.001-04:00

The girls' Gaba (my mom) recently spent a few days with us. Because our guest room is also Madeline's room, our little jack-in-the-box actually stayed in her bed sleeping contentedly beside her Gaba. Dave said he missed having Madeline snuggled up next to him and told her this much.

Daddy: I've missed having you come sleep by me in the middle of the night.

Madeline: You needed your lovey?

Daddy: Who's my lovey?

Madeline: Maddy.

Thankfully, Daddy can once again rest easy as his 33-pound lovey is generally back in our bed by midnight.

Saturday Night Dance Party

2008-04-07T14:14:00.001-04:00

The highlight of my weekend was a Saturday Night Dance Party held in Dave and my bedroom. We had Elvis Presley’s Hound Dog on repeat and we were all going crazy, dancing with abandon. My normally subdued husband and staunch supporter of the "I don't dance" camp was swiveling his hips in a very Elvisish manner. Meanwhile, Madeline and I were pulling out all our moves. With the exception of the baby, we all started rockin' it with our air guitars during the bridge. Baby Rae, not one to be left alone drooling on the sidelines, joined in with high-pitched screeching.

At one point, I looked over at all my crazy band members and I realized that I wouldn't want to spend a Saturday night any other way. A few other thoughts crossed my mind as we whirled around the room:

Elvis Presley really is the King of Rock 'n' Roll.

Music and dancing can do wonders for a tired mom and dad, cranky preschooler and teething babe.

A dearth of lazy mornings, afternoon naps, novel-reading evenings, uninterrupted writing sessions are small prices to pay for the kind of nonstop entertainment kids offer.

When I can have all of those things again – naps, finished books, written novels – I’m going to really, really miss my little dance partners, jammin' air guitar solos, giggles and getting my husband to dance like that.

And while I've got music on my mind, Joni Mitchell was on to something with her Big Yellow Taxi lyrics: That you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

Amnesia or Maybe Laryngitis?

2008-04-06T09:47:00.000-04:00

Me: What were you going to tell me?

Madeline: I can’t remember.

Me: Well, tell me if you think of it.

Madeline: It might not come back.

A few seconds later…

Madeline: Oh, I ‘member.

Me: What?

Madeline: Nevermind. It’s not in my throat anymore.

Why I Write

2008-04-03T21:55:00.001-04:00

Today I gathered around a kitchen table of a friend’s with four pint-sized wordsmiths. A mom in my homeschooling co-op invited me to come over because her son had apparently decided he wanted to be a writer after we did a creative writing exercise together. She wanted me to tell him what he could do to cultivate his craft – write, write, write and read, read, read! So I sat there with this budding writer and some of his peers and we talked about some of the practical sides of becoming a writer (e.g., good college majors for writers), how we can become better writers (e.g., keep a journal) and most importantly, why we like to write.

J. wants to write fiction to entertain people. He said it makes him feel good to see people enjoying a story he has written. C. likes to write to God. She’s only 6 and she shyly opened her composition book and showed me a prayer she wrote – a beautiful, simple love note to her Creator. I love you, God. I want to give you gory. (I tried not to smile when I saw how she’d spelled “glory.” One of the easiest ways to squash a young child’s creativity is to make him or her self-conscious about their spelling or anything else.) H. , who’s almost 8, says writing makes her feel better. “It helps me with my feelings.” Right you are, wise, little one.

There was one reluctant writer in the group. “I don’t like to write. I like to draw. See I can draw,” he said, showing me an impressive doodle of a rocket he’d just finished. It was later revealed that it wasn’t writing itself that bothered him, but the act of writing. He felt his rusty penmanship prevented him from writing what he really wanted to. “I’m too slow,” he said. I suggested he buy a small tape recorder and say his thoughts aloud and then transcribe them later. Or, I told him he could create rebus stories. That way he could use both drawings and words to communicate his thoughts.

I’m passionate about writing and so were these kids. Growing up, I was fortunate to have people who encouraged me to write. I started keeping a journal in 1986; I was six years old. I showed some of my old journals to the kids and they giggled at my sloppy writing and ubiquitous misspellings. I wrote, “We’re mooing” instead of “We’re moving” and “Sheetie is getting big,” instead of “Sweetie is getting big” when I was referring to our Lab puppy’s growth. I also fed "cartits" instead of carrots to Shadow, the horse I rode at horseback riding lessons.

At one point, C. said she loved to write, but that she wasn't sure if she should do it because her writing was really messy. I pointed out, “So was mine,” and showed her another page from journal filled with chicken scratch.

I told the kids that as a child, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always included “writer” in my top three list (my other two career aspirations were actress and horse trainer). I got my first byline in the second grade when I wrote a story about a plaque detective who climbed into the mouth of children and swung, clutching strands of floss, from molar to molar like a periodontal Tarzan. I'd recently seen the word "neurotic" somewhere and used it completely out of context, describing this plaque monger's work as "very neurotic." My teacher (she was not married to a dentist) loved the story and entered it in a contest. It won, was published and I was hooked.

I want these kids to be hooked, too. I don’t want this passion to die. Even if J., the would-be author, decides to be an engineer instead of a novelist, being a good writer will only help him. Writing is a skill that helps you move ahead in any career.For a brief period, I was in charge of perusing resumes and cover letters to fill a job I was leaving. I was amazed by how many smart people could not write. It can come in handy when you want to become active in politics and write a letter to a senator or file a complaint for bad customer service as well. I told the kids this and encouraged them to write a page a day in some kind of journal. The words didn’t matter, but the act of writing did. They must fill one page with something – it could be fiction, a recount of the day’s happenings, a poem, a letter to a friend, anything that was made up of words.

“And when you’re writing,” I added. “There are no rules.” This made them smile. A subject with no rules! They didn’t need to worry about grammar, paragraph structure or spelling. Not now. Nothing must stand in the way of the creative process. If you start force-feeding punctuation and grammar and other "rules" of writing to fervent scribes too young, too soon, you’ll only make them begin to hate the writing process, or in the very least, they’ll start to self-edit and their creativity will be lost in the frozen, graphic structure of “perfect” syntax.

“Do you want to write something now?” I asked.

“Yes!”

So we did a characterization exercise. In less than five minutes, we developed a character named Fred. He was a 10-year-old boy with brown hair and big feet. He loved to bungee cord jump, but he was deathly afraid of motocross. He worked for the government. Don’t you dare ask how a 10-year-old can work for the government. Set aside your adult logic for just a moment, please.

Then I told them they had to write about this Fred guy. “You may find that your story stops being about Fred and starts being about the orange that started talking to him when he was preparing a snack,” I told them.

They looked at me like I’d lost it. “Remember, there are no rules,” I reiterated.

Then they started to write.

Minutes later, H. asked me if she could read me her paragraph. In only a few sentences, she explained that Fred helped his dad with government projects (see, she didn’t let him being 10 keep him from important work). In addition, she immediately created conflict. Fred’s dad was now missing and he wanted to find him. “I’m hooked,” I said. “I want to know more.” And I did.

She beamed. H. had also written “Fred is a maroon.” One of the other kids asked her what she meant.

“It’s a reddish brown,” she explained.

“Yeah, but what do you mean?”

“Fred is a maroon,” she replied. Like, duh.

I loved this. To her, Fred was a color.

During a prior creative writing class, J. wrote about the adventures Nerd Boy and Sidekick Kid, both of which had a flatulence problem. Another child wrote about a superhero who was horrible at flying his spaceship and often crashed into things. He created such a likable character and was so fired up about him that he filled 10-plus pages about this clumsy and unlikely superhero.

Seeing these kids’ passion for writing and their uninhibited imagination has been a real gift. It’s reminded me of a time when I wasn’t worried about writing for editors or getting published. It reminded me that although I've gotten paid to write PR materials, advetorials, features and essays, fiction is my first love, my real passion. It reminded me that a character can be a color if you want it to be. There are no rules. There are no rules.

I’ve been asked to lead a creative writing workshop/club for homeschool kids. I am humbled by this invitation, but I’m also really excited about it. I’m hoping that my creativity, which these days is too often stifled or self-edited by my worries of what others will think about how I write or what I write about, will feed off theirs. Above all, I’m hoping I can help these children, raw with wonder and imagination, to fall in love with writing and the creative process just like I did with the encouragement of my parents and some teachers and professors of mine. (Thank you, Mom and Dad, Mrs. Isaac, Mrs. Guy, Mrs. Melvin and Dr. Hollifield!)

“Why do you write, Mrs. Wicker?” J. asked.

“For all different reasons,” I answered. “Sometimes I write an article to educate or to inform. I write my blog to chronicle my motherhood and to help me grow in my faith. I keep a prayer journal to force me to meditate and talk to God instead of getting distracted and wondering about what I should make for dinner when I should be praying. Sometimes I write to inspire, to complain or to sort out my feelings. And sometimes, I write just because I want to.”

I should have added that that’s the best reason of all.

The Family Bed...

2008-04-01T20:48:00.000-04:00

...according to a snuggly, dog-loving 3-year-old who never leaves her furry friends behind when she makes her nightly pilgrimage to Mommy and Daddy's bed.

(Madeline arranged these toys in her dollhouse and then proudly exclaimed, "Look! They're all ready for bed!" Just like this poor, plastic couple, I fear we're soon going to be taken over by children and pets and even a king-size bed won't be able to save us.)

Choose Your Words Carefully...

2008-03-31T09:04:00.000-04:00

Madeline, our nocturnal child, is obsessed with what adults do once she retires for the evening. We were downstairs one morning when she saw a DVD cover for 24.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“An adult movie,” I stupidly said.

“You watch this when I sleep?”

“Yes.”

Later that evening as we all sat down for dinner, she announced out of the blue, “When I have kids and they’re in bed, I’m going to watch lots of adult movies, too.”

Yikes! I can just imagine the expression on the sweet, old lady’s face at the grocery store when Madeline tells her that her parents like to watch adult movies when she’s asleep.

I’ve made sure to amend the phrase to “movies for grownups.”

Growing Old Gracefully?

2008-03-29T22:17:00.000-04:00

I really, really try to not get too wrapped up in vanity, but I have to say it’s a teensy-weensy bit disheartening when you’re not even 30 and your 3-year-old is staring at your forehead and asks, “Mommy, what are all those little lines on your face?”

Get to Know Me Meme

2008-03-28T22:01:00.001-04:00

Catherine, another sister in Christ I've recently "discovered" in Cyberspace, tagged me. So here are my answers to another edition of "Get to Know Me":

What I was doing 10 years ago: Scholarly pursuits for some of the time anyway. I was in college and I actually was attending classes (I wasn’t one to skip classes or to stay out all night at bars). I was also dreaming of a career as an actress or a writer. The writing thing stuck. The whole acting gig, not so much, although we’re pretty much a living musical every day around here and both Madeline and I have been known to spontaneously break into song. Baby Rae has started joining along with high-pitched squeals. But I digress… Ten years ago I thought I was pretty wise, but I knew nothing. I still don’t know much, but I like to think the “real world” and parenting have taught me far more than any college course. We'll see how I'll feel 10 years from now.

Five things on my To Do List today:
1. Pray.
2. Write some fiction instead of working on blogging or a freelance assignment.
3. Call the dentist about a billing mistake.
4. Take a shower.
5. Workout.
6. Go on a field trip to the mounted police and then delight in this gorgeous spring weather and have a picnic lunch with the girls.
7. Go to the post office to send a gift for a friend’s child who turns 1 on Monday.
8. Spend some time with the hubby.
9. Read some of my current book selection (A Travel Guide to Heaven by Anthony DeStefano)
10. Vacuum.
11. Pitch a few ideas to a a glossy I've written for before. (Wait, I was supposed to not work on any freelance.)
12. Watch Enchanted.

*My to-do lists are notorious for being overly ambitious.

Snacks I enjoy: Anything with peanut butter and/or dark chocolate. Lattes. Cottage cheese when I’m a preggo.

Things I would do if I were a billionaire:
1. Help those I love.
2. Give to charity.

(I know those answers are cliché and what we’re supposed to say, but I really would want to do both of them.)

3. Write a novel and self-publish it if I couldn’t get an agent.
4. Move into a home with a backyard.
5. Buy a horse and start horseback riding again.
6. Take my whole family – grandparents, uncles, etc. – on a big vacation.
7. Buy a new bra that fits right. (Guess I could do that without having a million buckaroos.)

Three of my bad habits:
1. Venting too much.
2. Worrying.
3. Picking at my kids. (I’m a gorilla mommy.)
4. Sweating the small stuff.
5. Interrupting.

(Couldn't narrow it down to three.)

Five places I have lived:
1. McHenry, Illinois
2. Augusta, Georgia
3. Boiling Springs, South Carolina
4. Los Angeles, California (just for a summer)
5. Reggio Emilia, Italy (again, just for a summer)

Five jobs I’ve had:

Five? I’m not even 30 yet and I’ve had almost a dozen jobs.

1. Gap sales associate
2. Hostess
3. Aerobics instructor
4. NBC Entertainment Intern
5. Office assistant at the American Red Cross
6. Legal clerk
7. Campaign manager for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society
8. Marketing specialist/health writer at an academic medical center
9. Assistant Editor/contributing editor
10. Mom/freelance writer

You Know You're Tired When...

2008-03-27T22:30:00.000-04:00

You get out of the shower, twist your wet hair into a towel turban and realize you never even picked up the soap to wash your bod.

Beach Trip Highlights Via Photos

2008-03-26T10:22:00.000-04:00

Beach Bum

"My future's too bright."

Playing in the Waves

Naptime

Bathing Beauty (There's an uncle under there.)

Joy!

Yummy!

Sleeping Beauty

Dolphin Kisses

Nemo Found

1-2-3-JUMP!

Nirvana for Gaba

My Knight (Madeline took this picture and I just loved it because you can see my hubby in the mirror. Very artsy.)

The Girls

Why I Nurse at the Mall and at Mass

2008-03-24T22:17:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine recently emailed me a link to a wonderful article by Christopher West that defends breastfeeding and describes a nursing mother as "one of the most precious, most beautiful, and most holy of all possible images of woman." Amen! You can find the rest here.

This article really hit home with me. I've always been a strong advocate of breastfeeding and even as a new mom, I felt comfortable nursing in most public places. I never understood women who locked themselves in dark rooms and nursed their babies in seclusion. It's no wonder they hated breastfeeding and wanted to wean as soon as possible. While I've always enjoyed the intimacy and the special bonding that takes place during those middle-of-the-night feedings when it's just my baby and me, I also enjoy being a part of family events and the hustle and bustle of life. I doubt I'd enjoy nursing as much as I do if it forced me to be a hermit. Now, with two kiddos, I often have to nurse in public out of necessity. If Madeline and I want to head out to the playground, we do it. If Baby Rae needs to eat while we're out, so be it.

I've nursed at the airport, sitting on one of those obnoxious 50 cent kids' rides that you see at Chuck E. Cheese's or in the mall, in the grocery store (while my baby was in a sling), on the beach, at the zoo, on a pontoon boat with my baby clad in a bulky lifejacket and at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta. However, there was one place where I was initially reluctant to breastfeed. With my first child, the idea of nursing at church made me feel uneasy and frankly, about as modest as a Playboy centerfold. I just couldn't get myself to do it. Not surprisingly, Mass wasn't a very peaceful experience for me in those early months when Madeline was eating every couple of hours (or less in her case) and planning around her feeding times was next to impossible. Even later, she was my eager nursling and sought comfort at my breast frequently throughout the day. I was always torn. I didn't want to miss Mass or to retreat to the bathroom to feed my baby during the Homily, but I didn't feel like breastfeeding was something I should do at church.

Then, when Madeline was a little over a year, I was at a church event and noticed a woman nursing a toddler right there in the pew in front of me. She happened to be the wife of the event's main speaker and the mother of the nine children who filled the pew beside her. I couldn't stop watching her (I hope she didn't think I was uncomfortable with her nursing; I'd meant to praise her, but I never had a chance to speak with her as she was not a regular parishioner of my church). I was so impressed by the way she was able to discreetly and comfortably feed her child and be present - not just physically but emotionally and spiritually present - at the prayerful event. When it came time for us to quietly pray, she shifted her child's position and knelt just like the rest of us. To me, seeing her provide nourishment to her little one with her body in God's company was, just as Christopher West suggests, the most holy of images.

I realized that if, as I strongly believed, nursing was a part of God's plan for helping mothers bond with their babies and a way of using my body the way he designed it to be used, then of all places, I should feel comfortable breastfeeding my children in God's home. Why should I feel shameful nursing in church but not at the mall? Did I believe breasts were made to feed babies or to be squeezed into rhinestone bras for surfers to ogle on the Internet?

Nowadays you'll find me nursing Rachel Marie using my Modest Mum nursing cover (no, I'm not getting paid to endorse this, but I love it and I've had several moms ask me where I got it) at the mall, the library, the park and at Mass. As of yet, I've never heard any rude comments or noticed any raised eyebrows or disgusted looks. Honestly, I'm not sure if anyone other than fellow nursing moms can even tell I'm breastfeeding, but if they can, I hope they will recognize this act for what it is - an expression of love for my child. And just as that loving mom of nine did for me, maybe as Christopher West encourages, the image of me nursing will inspire another mom to embrace breastfeeding during Mass and otherwise.

Happy Easter!

2008-03-23T22:16:00.000-04:00

Dye Job

2008-03-22T22:10:00.001-04:00

Calling All Martyr Moms

2008-03-20T22:30:00.000-04:00

Do you have trouble asking for or accepting help? Do you oftentimes feel resentful of having to do so much yet are unwilling to allow others to lend a helping hand? I know I sometimes can be a martyr mom, but today I humbled myself and asked for help. I invite you to do the same. Mosey on over to my other blog to read about my Holy Thursday reflection on why it's okay to occasionally send out an SOS.

Why You Should Leave for the Airport At Least Three Hours Before Your Departure

2008-03-19T21:21:00.000-04:00

1. Your 3-year-old might get carsick on the way to airport while sitting in the back of a van that’s whipping along windy, bumpy roads and throw up all over herself and your feet while you're checking your baggage.

2. The ticket agent might forget to print out the boarding pass of the same 3-year-old and you may not realize this oversight until you’re next in line at security.

3. Your children’s Gaba (AKA grandma) may be looking particularly suspicious or maybe just the contents of her purse (think pad of paper and crayons for grandchildren, digital camera chock full of pictures of grandchildren, a wallet and photo sleeve with multiple pictures of grandchildren, etc.) raise security’s eyebrows and have to be thoroughly searched and x-rayed multiple times just to make sure that sneaky Gaba’s not hiding anything dangerous like a grenade.

Out of the Blogosphere Message

2008-03-12T15:00:00.001-04:00

Hello. Thank you for stopping by my blog. I will be on vacation and out of the blogosphere for the next few days or so and will not be setting one finger on a keyboard until my return. Should you need immediate material to satisfy your blog-reading addiction or simply something to occupy your time so you can continue to procrastinate and avoid vacuuming the living room or starting your taxes, please visit another friendly blog or try Googling “blog addiction recovery,” “how to avoid housework” or "Fair Tax."

Until I’m back musing on this chunk of Cyberspace, here’s a look at my itinerary for a family vacation in paradise, compliments of my parents. (For Christmas, the girls’ Gaba and Papa planned an amazing beach trip for all of us – as in my nuclear family and my brothers. Thanks, Mom and Dad!)

WHAT I WILL BE DOING:

--Spending quality time with the hubby, the girls, my parents and my brothers
--Keeping the baby from eating sand
--Building sandcastles with Madeline
--Nursing on the beach (how cool is that?)
--Eating
--Reading
--Writing in a travel journal
--Watching Madeline’s glee as she explores paradise
--Slathering on sunscreen
--Wearing flip-flops, sundresses and other light, airy clothing
--Eating
--Reading
--Going on beach walks
--Reapplying sunscreen
--Writing Madeline’s name in the sand
--Swimming with dolphins (really – my mom arranged a dolphin encounter for me, knowing this is on my “Things to Do Before I Die” list)
--Eating
--Reading
--Wearing green on St. Patrick's Day
--Gathering palms to bring home (at Palm Sunday Mass, not at the beach)
--Laughing (with my dad and brothers around, nonstop hilarity is guaranteed)
--Holding hands with the hubby and/or Madeline on the aforementioned beach walks
--Reluctantly gambling (my aunt gave me some money for Christmas to cash in at the casino. Although I was under strict orders to use it for this purpose only, I admit that being the frugal - okay, cheap - woman that I am, I was really tempted to put it toward groceries.)
--Thanking God for my parents’ generosity, our time together as a family and His creation. "I made the sandy shore the sea's limit." Jeremiah 5:22
--Did I mention reading and eating?

WHAT I WON’T BE DOING:

--Worrying about the elections, freelance deadlines, making Madeline nap, whether or not Dave’s going to do a fellowship or anything else for that matter
--Blogging (or reading blogs)
--Checking email
--Laundry
--Making dinner (or breakfast or lunch)
--Grocery shopping
--Making beds
--Talking on the phone
--Chasing dust bunnies
--Spending an inordinate amount of the time in the bathroom, coaxing Madeline to poop (Instead, I will be putting generous scoops of Miralax into her drinks and hope that it works its wonders)
--Feeling guilty that I’m not worrying about freelancing, Madeline’s naps or bowel movements, checking email, the elections, fellowships, blogging, making dinner, doing laundry, etc.
--Making to-do lists
--Wearing sweaters, jackets or jeans
--Nursing in the minivan parked in a grocery store parking lot
--Wishing I was doing anything other than what I’m doing
--Obsessing over the goopy spit-up stain on the baby’s onesie and my shirt (well, I may still be doing this…just a little.)
--Forgetting to thank God for my many blessings, including Jesus’ death and resurrection (just because I’m in paradise doesn’t mean Lent’s over, after all.)

Stay tuned...

Shameless Personal Plug

2008-03-11T20:50:00.000-04:00

God continues to shower me with blessings!!! My Catholic blog has been nominated for several awards for the 2008 Catholic Blog Awards, including Best New Blog and Best Written Blog. To say I am amazed and humbled by these nominations is an understatement. Much of the content over there is the same as what you read here. Thus, if you're so inclined, check out the Catholic Blog Awards' official website and consider casting a vote. You'll have to register (registration is free) first and then you can view the ballot and vote. I'm a blogging newbie and I certainly don't expect to win a title (there are some amazing, insightful blogs out there), but being nominated is an honor in and of itself. The deadline for voting is March 17th.

Oh, and for the kind, generous soul(s) who overlooked my mommy brain moments (i.e., occasional typos, weird and mombie-induced ramblings, potty humor, etc.) and nominated my blog, thank you, thank you, thank you! I am honored, humbled and encouraged.

Have Kids, Will Travel Li...

2008-03-11T20:34:00.000-04:00

Lightly? Are you kidding? No, if you have kids, there's no such thing as traveling lightly. It’s more like “Have Children, Will Travel Like a Freakin' Pack Mule.” Consider my checklist for my airplane carryon in light of our upcoming trip:

THE BARE NECESSITIES:

--Diapers, lots of them
--Plastic bags, lots of them for dirty diapers or spit-up-saturated clothing
--Burpcloths, lots of them (yes, my 9-month-old still frequently hurls and now that she’s eating solids, her spit-up comes in a rainbow of colors)
--Snacks, lots of them, including Puffs, Cheerios, crackers, raisins, Power Bars (for Mommy and Daddy; we may need the extra power), etc.
--A few jars of baby food and a couple of baby spoons
--Bibs
--My Modest Mum nursing cover
--17 pacis or thereabouts
--Sippy cups
--Distractions for an antsy baby and/or preschooler, including a small stuffed animal, Color Wonder coloring books, a board book or two, a few plastic figurines, teethers, etc.
--The baby's elephant lovey
--Gum for popping ears
--Tylenol (both adult and kids)
--Several $5 bills in case we need to buy drinks for everyone around us to make up for a crying baby and/or a whiny preschooler*

IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY:

--Two changes of clothing for baby and preschooler
--Change of shirt for Mommy
--Manual breast pump
--One receptacle for storing pumped breastmilk
--A few spare pacifiers

IN CASE OF A MIRACLE:

--A novel and magazine for me to read during the flight

*I cannot claim this idea as my own. I credit a friend of mine who recently braved flying alone with her 9-week-old and upon the suggestion of her husband, tucked a few extra $5 bills into her purse just in case her baby had a marathon crying jag and she needed to make nice with her fellow passengers. I spoke with her today and she fortunately returned home with her cash.

Sugar and Spice Meets Sword-Fighting Duel

2008-03-09T07:03:00.000-04:00

Peter Pan (Madeline) daringly lunges at Captain Hook (Mommy) and nearly pierces his enemy with his unsheathed sword (a paper towel roll). Captain Hook laughs maniacally. “Ha, ha, ha! You didn’t get me this time.”

Peter Pan pauses in the midst of the fierce fight and inspects his unadorned sword. “Mommy, we can decorate these? With pretty rhinestones and stuff?”

I could be wrong, but I doubt most little boys would delay an action-packed, pretend brawl to decorate their swords with "pretty rhinestones and stuff."

Gift Ideas for Mommy's Birthday, According to a Preschooler

2008-03-07T15:46:00.001-05:00

1. Baby toy
2. Some zebras (the "real" kind)
3. Flowers
4. Ariel figures
5. A play mat for animal figures
6. A notebook
7. A stopwatch
8. A scarf
9. A ballpopper (As in the Hasbro Playskool Busy Ball Popper, a popular toy around here)

Oh, and Madeline told me a few days ago with obvious pride, “I’m gonna go poop for you, Mommy. I'm gonna poop for everybody's birthday.” I'm not sure how everybody else is going to feel about this gift idea, but considering the constant cajoling required to get her to poop on the potty, I'm really, really excited about this birthday perk.

More Than A Thousand Words

2008-03-06T20:25:00.001-05:00

Sometimes a photo says it all, but I’m notorious for opening my mouth (or my laptop) when nothing really needs to be said.

So briefly: Am I happy?

How could I not be sharing my life with these two bundles of absolute joy?

Nursing Mom's-Eye View

2008-03-04T04:36:00.000-05:00

A Day to Live

2008-03-02T20:18:00.000-05:00

For years now I’ve kept a news clipping wedged in the pages of an old scrapbook as a reminder of my mortality. The headline reads: School in mourning for girl killed in crash. Beneath the headline is a picture of a blonde beauty at the cusp of becoming a woman. Her name was Shauna Casteen. She was an honor student and cheerleader at my high school. She had been 16 for five short days when she was driving down the road and saw her boyfriend going the opposite direction toward his home. They stopped in the middle of the road, exchanged a few words and planned to meet at his house. When Shauna attempted to make a U-turn, a truck slammed into her driver’s car seat.

And that was it.

One slip of judgment, one fatal blow and she was gone. A sweet 16 forever.

Shauna was my first brush with death, so the memories of her wake and funeral have stayed with me all these years. I remember looking at her for the last time in an open casket at her wake and wondering how they had covered up all the bruises. One of my friend’s dads was an EMT who responded at the scene. The story goes, he held her crushed, limp body in his arms while she took her last breath. Now she was lying there so peacefully in a cushion of satin. She reminded me of a china doll – her corn silk hair flowing down to her shoulders, perfect pink lips, rosy cheeks. A sleeping beauty. Only I had to tell myself (over and over) that she wasn't going to wake up.

The church was packed the day of her funeral. It seemed the whole high school – the jocks, the preps, the skaters, the nerds, everyone – came to say good-bye to a friend or maybe just a classmate they had casually passed in the hallway or sat next to in homeroom. I saw glassy eyes everywhere, dripping an endless stream of tears. My own tearful deluge surprised and even embarrassed me. In the car on the way back home, I said to my mom something like, “I shouldn’t be crying so much. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I wasn’t even good friends with her, but it could have been me. It could have been any of us.”

Maybe that’s why we all mourned Shauna’s death so much. She really could have been any of us, and she was proof we weren’t invincible. At the time of her death, most of my friends and I were buoyant after discovering the newfound freedom of driving. In my case, I'd turned 16 within days of Shauna's birthday and we even drove the same kind of car. (Maybe that’s why I always think of her during this time of year when my birthday comes or maybe it has something to do with the springtime and the Easter season when we celebrate new life. Whatever the case, she usually comes to mind around this time.) As teenagers, my friends and I all took risks on the road, made U-turns, rolled to stops and raced through yellow lights. But Shauna’s fatal accident intruded our teenage idyll. Suddenly driving, our whole lives, weren’t so carefree. I learned of her death at an evening soccer game. My friends and I sat on the bleachers and went numb. I drove one of my best friends home. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. We said nothing, and I drove far too slowly.

For months after her death, I couldn’t stop wondering why she was the one who died and not me. (God knows, I made a lot of stupid mistakes the first few weeks of driving.) And even though I strongly believed in an afterlife, I wept for Shauna and all the things she’d never experience. It didn’t seem fair that she’d never go to her senior prom or that she’d never graduate from college or even high school, get married or have children.

Even now I look at her picture and feel a crushing sadness for all of her unrealized dreams. But I also feel a sense of purpose. In some ways, Shauna became a martyr for me. I drove more cautiously after she died, but she affected more than just my life behind the wheel. She made me count my blessings – the fact that I had a chance to wake up each day and live my life, even if I had a big zit on the tip of my nose or was having a bad hair day. Shauna reminded me that life is tenuous and vanity worthless. And that image of her in her casket – so perfect, so beautiful – is always with me. There she is at the height of youth in her newspaper photo, and I can still see her frozen in time, lying there in her coffin with flawless skin and soft, long blonde hair with a serene, carefree expression.

I admit. I’m too vain at times. I’m too caught up in all those superficial details of life and sometimes I can’t help but wonder what Shauna would be thinking seeing so many women (and men, too) zap out wrinkles with Botox or worry about when they'll finally be able to afford that bigger house. I can’t help but think she would have loved to get a few wrinkles and even some gray, wiry hair and wouldn’t have minded living in a smaller house if her family dwelled there. I’m sure she would have embraced stretch marks if it meant she could have a child. I doubt she would have complained if her flowers wilted on her wedding day if she’d just had the chance to be a bride.

Beauty is only skin deep, they say. Life is short, we hear. And isn’t Shauna proof? Tomorrow I may wake up a few pounds heavier, looking older. I may not be able to trade in my old car for a newer version. I may spill hot coffee all over my new shirt. But tomorrow, and every day is a day Shauna didn’t get to live. So I dedicate this day to Shauna and all those whose earthly lives were cut unexpectedly short, and I pray I’ll do more than just drive safely – I pray I’ll live more fully.

Fashionista

2008-02-28T22:58:00.000-05:00

Eat your heart out, J-Lo.

I'm Old, But I'm Still Worth Something...

2008-02-27T23:04:00.000-05:00

Another birthday is around the corner for me, so it's comforting to know that my 3-year-old doesn't view old people as throwaways of society.

Madeline: When I'm older and bigger, I can do lots of things like put things in oven.

Me: Well, you'll have to be a lot older to do that.

Madeline: Are you old?

Me: Yeah. I'm pretty old, especially to you.

Madeline: I still want to keep you.

Momraderie

2008-02-26T08:36:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, among a heap of junk mail, I discovered a package addressed to me. Inside the envelope was the book Raising Up Mommy: Virtues for Difficult Mothering Moments by Heidi Hess Saxton. On the inside cover page I read the following inscription: “For Kate – A much better mom than she thinks!”

Blame it on all the crazy nursing hormones coursing through my body. Blame it on my sleepy state. Blame it on the fact that I needed that encouragement even though I'd been enjoying perfect day that included an impromptu trip to the zoo and a picnic lunch in lovely, 60-degree weather (sorry all you folks up North!) and didn't include any tantrums from either my preschooler or me. Blame it on what you will, but those simple words reduced me to tears – happy and grateful tears for another mom out there who took a few minutes out of her busy, busy life to encourage me.

Heidi’s thoughtful act made me think of other moms in my life who have cheered me on along my mothering journey. Some have been close friends. One of my childhood pals became an official card-carrying member of the Mommy Club just two weeks after I did and we’ve always leaned on one another as we trudge along in the trenches. I trade sleep (or lack thereof) stories with another friend who, like me, has an insomniac in her midst. Then there’s my own mom whom I can call upon at any time, and she's there ready to listen and to offer me her prayers. Or, my mother-in-law, who also happens to be a lactation consultant, who is always on-hand to give breastfeeding advice or to just a lend a hand when I need a brief time out (she’ll swing by on her way home from work and hold the baby just so the dinner hour won’t be quite as chaotic). Then there’s the stranger in church on Ash Wednesday who smiled at me when I was endlessly bouncing to keep Rachel Marie content while holding Madeline’s hand in my own and said, “You’re doing a great job.” Or even the woman who came up to me in a store parking lot and must have noticed just a smidgen of weariness in me and said, “Hang in there. It gets easier.”

Fellow moms like these not only offer me encouragement, they remind me that I'm not alone in this amazing, albeit challenging, mommy road trip. There are moms everywhere who won’t think I’m crazy if I tell them that I recently noticed the beautiful curve of my baby’s ear while she was nursing and started to cry because it was just so perfect; who won’t be totally grossed out if I talk about the color of my baby’s poop (instead they might even compare notes with me); who will notice a white streak of diaper ointment smeared in my hair and still think I’m beautiful; and who can understand the flattening lethargy, the profundity of giving birth, the way an infant’s cries can rip you apart, and the intense love and joy that goes hand-in-hand with being a mom.

We all need a pat on the back from time to time, so here’s my challenge for all you moms out there today: Encourage a fellow mom. Drop a line to a mommy blogger you admire and tell her she inspires you (many thanks to all of you who have taken the time to do this for me). Smile at the woman whose toddler is having a major meltdown in aisle five and say, “I’ve been there.” Call your own mom up and tell her how much you love and appreciate her. Order Raising Up Mommy (a great book for encouraging and empowering moms, by the way) here and send it to a mom pal. (Heidi deserves the plug since she gave me this inspiration to "pay it forward" and give a shout out to my mom comrades!) Send a pregnant woman a card letting her know you're praying for her and her little miracle. Offer to watch an overwhelmed friend’s kids for the afternoon. Just don’t let the day pass by without lifting up at least one mom and reminding her she’s not alone and is a better mom than she thinks she is.

Think Outside the Box

2008-02-23T09:45:00.001-05:00

The toy box, that is. Every seasoned parent knows that babies and young children are more apt to enjoy the box a fancy-schmancy toy came in than the toy itself.

This morning I discovered the synergy of cheap wine and its packaging. Before making some coffee, I plopped Rachel Marie down on the floor to play. She seemed bored with her usual toys and I noticed the box from my recent wine purchase at Trader Joe's. Dave and I like to stock up on the store's famous Two-Buck-Chuck wine. They actually sell pleasing-to-the-palate-wine for $2.49 a bottle. A glass of the stuff makes for an inexpensive, at-home date night and apparently, its packaging is an easy way to entertain an 8-month-old. I pushed the box into Rae's territory and viola! Playtime was instantly a whole lot more fun (and one could argue that so was last night's stay-at-home date).

Picture This

2008-02-22T11:48:00.001-05:00

Need a few minutes to catch your breath or to fold that last pile of clean laundry?

Here’s what you do: Arm your preschooler with a digital camera and a "drooly," one-toothed wonder as a photo subject. Not only will you likely have several uninterrupted minutes to do whatever needs to be done, but you may even end up with a collection of delightful snapshots of a happy baby who knows how to work camera for her photographer/doting big sister.

(Photo Credits: Madeline Wicker, age 3)

Popeye

2008-02-21T08:51:00.001-05:00

Madeline, as she eyed a bowl this morning that had been filled with raw veggies to dip in hummus before she went to bed last night: Who ate up all "dose" vegetables?

Me: Daddy.

Madeline: Oh! Wow! Daddy is such a big man.

No-Hassle, Delicious Slow Cooker Chicken

2008-02-20T09:14:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine passed along this quick and easy crock pot recipe a month or so ago. I finally got around to trying it and it was delicious. The chicken was tender and flavorful and was definitely a crowd pleaser. My preschooler gobbled it up and my husband, who normally isn’t a huge fan of crock pot meals, gave it two-thumbs up. Best of all, it was a no-brainer recipe that didn't require me slaving away in the kitchen at the witching hour when the baby is always starving to nurse and Madeline is starving for Mommy's attention. Instead, the chicken was forgotten and left simmering in a slow cooker, filling the kitchen with a savory aroma. When dinnertime arrived, all I had to do was plop it on a plate with some penne pasta and green beans. Delicious!

Herbed Slow Cooker Chicken

1 T. olive oil
1 tsp paprika
1/2 tsp garlic powder
1/2 tsp seasoned salt (I used Season All)
1/2 tsp dried thyme
1/2 tsp dried basil
1/2 tsp pepper
4(6 oz) chicken breasts
1/2 cup chicken broth

In a small bowl, combine the first 8 ingredients; rub over chicken. Place in 5-quart slow cooker; add broth. Cover and cook on low for 4-5 hours or until meat thermometer reads 170º.

Will Work For Children

2008-02-19T13:35:00.001-05:00

“So what do you do?” It never fails. Within minutes of arriving at a social event (on the rare occasion I attend one), someone invariably asks me that irksome question. So there I am feeling like I’m standing under an interrogation light. My questioner is smiling, eyes attentive, waiting for my reply. A list of responses rifle through my mind. I could always go with the sarcastic response. “I breathe. I sing in the shower. I floss at night. I cry at Disney movies. I nibble at my nails when I’m nervous or anxious. I shave my legs (sometimes). What do you do?”

Or I could pretend that I’m still a regular productive member of society and say, “I’m a writer.” In this case, I’d wait for the ooooohhhs and ahhhhhs as my questioner’s eyes widened with wonder. I’d feel the spotlight shining down on me – it’s no longer a harsh, threatening light, but a warm, pleasing cascade of warmth. I’m a writer. So romantic. So interesting. In my past life, people were always so impressed by my response. Until they asked the inevitable follow-up questions, “What have you written?” or “Where are you published?” The drum roll thunders in my ears. I feel like they’re expecting me to say something like “The Greatest American Novel. It’s up for the Pulitzer.” Still, despite the mild letdown, this response always spawned further conversation, even if my credentials were far more modest than Paris Hilton’s wardrobe.

Or should I come clean about my real full-time job? “Actually, I’m a stay-at-home mom.” Silence. There goes the icebreaker – the small talk ends there. How interesting is that? I feel like a would-be actor who just stammered her lines at a career-defining audition. Unless I’m fortunate enough to be talking to another at-home mom, my questioner shuffles his or her feet and quips with the never-fail exit line, “I’m going to get a drink. Can I get you something?” He or she departs searching the room for someone far more interesting that an at-home mom.

And even if the conversation does continue, what can I really say? If I start talking about the product of my work – two lovely, little girls who give spontaneous hugs and kisses, high fives and a perfect performance of Annie's “Tomorrow” and more fulfillment than any day job I’ve ever had – then I sound like one of those obnoxious moms out there who being convinced her child is a genius, recounts every milestone – “Yesterday he picked his nose and didn’t even eat his buggar! We’re so proud.” No, I refuse to be one of those moms. Unfortunately though, that leaves me with little to say.

The truth is I love being a full-time mom. It’s the best career move I ever made. Still, I dread that proverbial question because in my mind I feel like people want to hear something more interesting than just being a mom. Take my husband. When asked, he gets to say, “I’m a medical resident training to be a radiologist.” This always fascinates people. A budding doctor! How interesting! Tall, handsome and a doctor! Just like Gray’s Anatomy! Dr. McDreamy in the flesh! Of course, he never tells them the truth. That it’s nothing like what you see on TV. Most of the time it’s very unglamorous unless your idea of razzle-dazzle is performing repeated rectal exams or in his case, staring at images from CT scans all day.

Really what he does isn’t that much different than what I do. I see my daughters’ bottoms at least 10 times a day and am constantly trying to interpret the oldest’s Pollack-inspired artwork. But it does sound better.

In others’ minds, especially those who are childless as many of the socialites I encounter are given my relatively early entry into motherhood, being a stay-at-home mom translates to something like: $0 salary. 0 social life unless you count singing along with Elmo (La, La, La, La, It’s Elmo’s Song.). Being knee-deep in dirty diapers. Interacting with germs from constantly wiping all those drippy faucet-noses. Watching soap operas while the kids nap. Not showering. Smelling like poop, spit up, snot, and all those lovely kid smells.

Reality check: I don’t get paid in cash, but I get some pretty amazing benefits – the aforementioned spontaneous kisses top the list. I don’t talk to adults every day, but I do shower (most of the time) and I don’t think I smell. I don’t watch soaps (we don’t even have basic cable), but I do think Elmo’s Song is rather catchy.

Although I’m sure most people respect my decision to be at home and that a lot of my angst stems from my own insecurities, I also know that being a mom – whether you work outside of the home or not – is undervalued in our society. Sure, we give plenty of lip service to the importance of motherhood, but when it all comes down, the role of mothers is often reduced to a string of tedious tasks: laundry, diaper changes, chauffeuring children, serving meals, etc. Then there’s the not-so-subtle message from the media that you can do it all. Mother for hire isn’t enough anymore. Even though I’m doing the most important job in the world, I sometimes feel that if I’m not also balancing a career or am on my way to being an acclaimed humanitarian, I’m a lesser human being.

And don't forget that whole “mommy brain” cliché. Women who stay at home to care for young children don’t partake in stimulating conversations. Their brains turn to mush from all those Barney songs. While everyone else is out in the world making things happen, they’re stuck at home leading dull, intellectually dissatisfying lives. But the way I see it, my job is the most demanding, stimulating and important job in the world. What I do is more than just the day-to-day tasks, which do often include those not-so-clean, not-so-fun chores of grooming a messy, messy baby. What I do demands creativity. We don’t listen to Barney. We make up our own songs, and sometimes we listen to the Beatles and Beethoven. What I do is multi-task like never before. Baby tries to kill herself by sticking finger in outlet. Mom saves child while simultaneously talking on the phone, slicing up onions for dinner, teaching preschooler the ABCs, and filing nails. What I do is teach my child values and empathy. What I do is fill these little black holes of need that we call children with the most love I can in hopes that they’ll one day grow up to be happy, confident and caring women.

Being a mom may not be the most glamorous job in the world. And it may not make good conversation during life’s mix and mingle situations. But someone’s got to do it and it might as well be me.

You know your little girl loves to eat crab...

2008-02-15T19:37:00.000-05:00

...when after eating dinner she slips away from the table and her daddy runs after her and says, "Wait! You have to let me wash your hands, or else they'll turn into little crab claws," and she stops and says, "Ooooohhh. Good, then we can eat them."

When David Met Katie

2008-02-14T23:24:00.001-05:00

Kate and Dave, together forever for better or worse (worse being Billy Bob teeth)

I've been married for nearly six years and they have been the best years of my life. Really.

I'd be spending time with my dearly beloved right now celebrating this holiday of love if he weren't on call and stuck at the hospital. Instead, I did a Billy Banks' Tae Bo DVD from Netflix and am pretty much convinced I looked like a complete dork kung fu fighting in our living room. Then I finished writing out Madeline's valentines for a party we're having tomorrow with our homeschool co-op. I tidied up the kitchen and came upstairs, sighed and wished Dave was here.

I write a lot about my kids, but I don't say as much about my hubby Dave in the blogosphere. My lack of Dave anecdotes is mainly due to the fact that he really not in to being in the spotlight. And he doesn't boycott pooping on the potty or say really funny things like, "Mommy, I 'flied' once. You weren't there, but I did and I'm going to fly again." (Madeline has been obsessed with flying ever since we saw both the Disney version of Peter Pan and a ballet performance where Tinkerbell floated above our seats.) If I, for example, entered Dave into one of those cheesy hot dad contests, it might be grounds for divorce. Not really, of course, but he really, really doesn't like to draw attention to himself (or have his exceedingly proud wife do so). He's private. He's humble. He's grounded. He's secure. He's comfortable in his own skin. But he also looks really hot in his scrubs holding our little girls, but alas, I suppose I'm the only one who'll be able to exalt him with the hot dad title.

Well, in honor of Valentine's Day and the fact that my hubby isn't around to celebrate it (or stop me from blogging about him), I've decided to answer some of the burning questions people have asked about our relationship. Don't worry - nothing too personal. Remember what I just said about Dave. Besides, my parents and in-laws regularly read my blogs as well. Consider this just a little "Dave & Katie 101."

How did you and Dave meet?
On our high school mock trial team, but this wasn't just any team. We ended up winning the national title. Dave was an all-star attorney. I was a sobbing witness, begging the jury to spare the life of my nephew who was facing the death penalty. Court TV actually interviewed me after we won the title and I still get embarrassed when I think of my blond, bubbly self telling my interviewee that crying during the trial was good practice because I quote, "I want to go to Hollywood and be an actress someday." Geez. Sadly, none of our winning team members ever became attorneys and I obviously didn't make it in Tinseltown (although I briefly gave acting a shot). In fact, I was the only one who ever even went to law school. Our wonderful mock trial sponsor was an amazing teacher (she's retired now). She actually came to our wedding, and Dave and I recently met her for dinner and she met our girls for the first time.

Where did you go on your first date?
Okay, so we met in high school, but we weren't teenage sweethearts or anything. We went on a few dates and then amicably parted ways until we were reunited after we'd both graduated from college. Dave will tell you I dumped him for a football player. I'm not sure what happened, but I do remember going on one date with beefy jock shortly after Dave. I was only 16, so cut me some slack. I also remember Dave and my first date as teenagers quite well. Always the hopeless romantic, Dave took me to see Die Hard with a Vengeance and then to the roller rink for some serious skating. (I am a klutz on wheels, but I still tease him about the finesse he demonstrated under the pulsating lights while Stroke It piped through the speakers). On the way home, the Oldsmobile Dave had borrowed from his dad abruptly lost electrical power, including power steering. We fortunately were only yards away from my home and Dave used all his pubescent might to turn the boat into my 300-plus foot driveway and we were able to coast down to the turnaround. A tow truck came to pick up the car the next day. Poor Dave. I imagine he was pretty mortified. Amazingly, when my mom was putting together a wedding scrapbook for us, Dave's mom gave her the ticket stub for Die Hard. I tease him and say he never quite got over me (I'm actually the only person he ever dated). He, in turn, teases me saying that he also kept the white polo shirt he wore on the date to remember me by and because he could never wear it again since it had a big brown smear of my foundation on it (I wore way too much makeup in my early high school days).

Fast forward five years and we were reunited by way of a mutual friend (also a mock trial team alum). I was living at home, working at a posh Atlanta firm gearing up for law school; Dave was crashing at his parents' house as well while working as a car salesman to save some money before embarking on his medical training. We hung out as friends for a bit and then quickly fell in love. (We dated for about a year before we got engaged and were married less than a year after he popped the question.) Our first "real" date the second go-around was to Dante's Down the Hatch, a great fondue restaurant and jazz club located in the heart of Buckhead. We're actually going there for the third time in our life together on Saturday for a big date night. Yippee!

When did you first kiss?
It took us awhile. Like six weeks or so. (We never kissed in high school.) We stood beneath a starry sky in the pale moonlight..in his parents' driveway. He leaned down. I tilted my face upward and...I kissed his chin. I think he may have kissed my nose. That's what happens when you're nervous and the object of your affection is almost a foot taller than you.

How did he propose to you?
He "kidnapped" me from work. He'd called my boss ahead of time and asked if I could have the afternoon off. I'd recently dropped out of law school and was working at the Red Cross. (September 11th had happened only two months before and I'd stopped by the local chapter to volunteer. They ended up hiring me because they'd been inundated with donations.) We drove to the Grove Park Inn in Asheville, NC. We enjoyed the most amazing meal. I had a stuffed portobello mushroom that was to die for. Even my meat-loving husband thought it was delicious. It was a long, drawn-out culinary experience that ended with the waiter placing a single long-stemmed red rose before me. Then Dave and I walked around the Grove Park grounds. Christmas decorations were already in place and out of the blue, Dave commented on some skating bears, and I knew something was up. This is not something that he'd normally notice, let alone acknowledge. Next thing I knew he was on one knee asking me to marry him. I started crying and said yes. (He'd asked my dad for my hand prior to proposing.)

When did you get married?
On May 25, 2002 at St. Oliver's Catholic Church in Snellville, Georgia. It was the most beautiful wedding - a full Mass that included me placing flowers before Mary while a talented friend of my mom's sang Ave Maria. it was followed by a big party that included dancers of all ages - from Dave's spry grandmother to my youngest cousins - tearing up the dance floor. I didn't hire a videographer on purpose because I wanted to remember the day as being perfect. I didn't want to look back and say, "Oh, why did I say that?" Or, "Geez, my hair was falling in my face." So I replay the day in my mind and it seems perfect, like a wonderful dream you don't want to wake up from.

Where did you honeymoon?
Courtesy of my overly generous parents, we spent a week at an opulent resort in Cozumel, Mexico.

What do you love the most about Dave?
I don't think I can narrow it down - he's everything and more that I imagined a husband should be - but here's what immediately comes to mind:

1. His unselfishness. He's someone who consistently puts others' needs before his own. He can be post-call and exhausted, but he'll come home and spend time with the girls and me without uttering one single complaint about how tired he is or how rough it was to be working all night.

2. His sense of humor. We spend a lot of time laughing together. We also spend a lot of time watching 24, our new addiction. We don't have cable TV, but we do have Netflix.

3. The kind of dad he is. I'll watch him wrestling with Madeline or holding Rachel Marie and I can see that being a dad doesn't feel in any way like an obligation or a burden to him. He loves our girls and he loves spending time with them. Just the other day we were watching Rachel Marie, who suddenly seems so old to us, jump and squeal in an exersaucer, and Dave looked at me and said, "Can you imagine if this was it? So many people just stop after two. Can you imagine if this was our last baby?" No, I can't and what's even more wonderful is my husband can't either.

4. His work ethic. When he sold cars, he claimed the title of car salesman of the month several times in a row. Now as a medical resident, he works long hours with not so much compensation (yes, there's definitely light at the end of the tunnel, but it can seem like a long tunnel when you marry a medical student who has four years of med school plus five years of residency and possibly a fellowship), but he just keeps on pushing. He works very hard for our family; yet, he never complains.

5. His kindness. Okay, so here I go again being the boasting wife. Hey, at least I'm not making my girls out to be uber kids (not at this moment, anyway). But not only is Dave brilliant and someone who's achieved many professional accolades as an MD, but he's humble and kind. The few times I've met any of his colleagues at a social event (say his annual Christmas party) I leave feeling proud to be his wife because at least two people always come up to me and say that working with Dave is a pleasure because he's one of the smartest and nicest guys around.

6. His unconditional love. I had an extremely difficult breakup about a year before Dave and I were reunited, and I was convinced that no one, other than God and my parents, would ever love me unconditionally. Then I met Dave. He loves and always has loved me despite my human wrongs and failures. At first, I had a hard time believing and then accepting that he really did love me. I felt unlovable at times and I still do. There are certainly days when I don't deserve to be loved, but he does anyway. Dave has taught me through his actions, his words and his putting our marriage and our family above everything else that love isn't a feeling. It's not about reading Shakespearean sonnets or listening to the likes of Air Supply or Beatles love songs with your head in the clouds. It's many, many times a decision, and from the moment Dave first said, "I'm falling in love with you," he made the decision to love me for better or for worse, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, when I'm grumpy from a lack of sleep, or needy because I miss him, or worried about money, or asking him for the umpteenth time whether or not he's going to do a fellowship or not, or I'm being selfish and not putting his needs above my own, or I vent to him and ramble on and on instead of listening to him first, or I'm frazzled trying to get the girls ready for Mass and am ironically not acting Christian at all, or I serve four vegetarian meals in one week instead of giving the poor carnivorous man some meat on the table... His love is not conditional. It's always there even when he's chained to the hospital reading room on a night like this, I feel infinitely blessed and infinitely loved.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Valentine's Day Cookies

2008-02-12T15:57:00.001-05:00

Madeline and I love spending time in the kitchen. We bake and decorate sugar cookies for several different holidays, including Valentine’s Day. I always let her go wild and unleash her creativity on a few cookies. This usually means emptying almost an entire container of sprinkles onto one cookie. (Notice the tiny heart swimming in varicolored sprinkles in the photo; I'm ashamed to admit that I actually removed some of the sprinkles from this cookie for the photo-op.)

This year we made lots of extra Valentine’s Day cookies to share with her grandparents, uncles and even a neighbor. For those of you who like to bake with your kiddos, I’ve included the recipe for both the sugar cookies and a simple frosting below. This is a new recipe we tried compliments of a friend of mine, and the cookies were even more delicious than usual. Enjoy!

NOTE: We made these before Lent began, so Mommy could sink her teeth into a few of the cookies before facing a dearth of sweets during her Lenten journey. We froze the remaining cookies. They freeze well – just wrap them in saran wrap. The dough also freezes well, so you can double the recipe and save half of it for another holiday. We actually used some dough that was frozen from Christmastime.

Sugar Cookies for Every Season

1 cup sugar
1 stick butter
1 egg
1 tsp. vanilla (you can also use almond extract)
2 cups flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking powder

Cream sugar and butter. Add egg and vanilla. Sift flour, salt, baking powder; add to wet mixture. Chill at least one hour. The dough is easier to cut into shapes when cold. Bake at 375º` for about 8 minutes. Keep an eye on them so as not to burn. Makes 3 dozen cookies.

White Chocolate Frosting

4 two-ounce squares of white chocolate
1/4 cup of whipping cream
Food coloring (I used red to make red and pink frosting and then kept some of it white for our Valentine's Day cookies.)

Microwave chocolate and whipping cream in glass bow at 50% for about 3 minutes, stirring once. Add food coloring to achieve desired color. Warm in microwave if frosting hardens.

Artistic Pursuits

2008-02-07T11:45:00.000-05:00

Elephant & Ladybugs by Madeline

Super, Fat Tuesday

2008-02-05T20:57:00.000-05:00

If only deciding on the best presidential candidate at today’s primary was as simple as choosing tasty toppings for our Fat Tuesday ice cream indulgence…

Bath Time

2008-02-04T20:36:00.000-05:00

Dear Rachel Marie,

On Friday night, we were alone – a rare occurrence for the two of us (aside from middle-of-the-night feedings). Your daddy had to work late and your big sister was having a sleepover at Nana and Pop’s. I took advantage of our solitary pairing and brought you into the bath with me. I cherished this intimate moment together and want to remember this special bath time - the way you looked at me, the way you felt, slippery with soap, the way a simple, everyday grooming ritual passed into a pensive study in motherhood. Thus, I write this letter to you.

I fill the tub with warm water and plop you down, using my legs as a protective border. Your hands slap the water and then slide across my legs slick with bathwater.

You watch me pour water over my head – you notice everything now. Your face breaks into a smile. I must look silly to you, sopping wet. When my hair is drenched and hanging limply in front of my face, you stare at me, slightly bewildered. For a moment, you seem unsure. Who is this sodden thing? But then I speak and your expression shifts to one of recognition. That’s my mommy. You’ve known my voice for a long, long time. By the 25th week of pregnancy, we believe babies can begin to recognize their mother’s voice.

I slather shampoo in my hair and rinse it and then I do the same for you, pouring the warm water slowly over your head that’s covered with soft, blondish hair. You swallow some of the bath water and begin to cough. Red rings form around your eyes. I gently pat your back and the coughing ceases. Then I bathe your body – your soft arms, your round belly, your chunky legs, your dimply butt, your perfect face with your rosebud lips, button nose, and elliptical eyes, which are still a nebulous color – something between a brown and a green.

After I rinse off the soap, I take your bare, squirmy and delicious, little body and put you on my own naked form as I slip beneath the blanket of warm water. We’re chest to chest. You look like a descending skydiver as you balance on your belly with your arms and legs flailing. As you kick, water laps against the sides of the bathtub and splashes onto our bodies. Your eyes gaze into my own until Madeline’s collection of bath toys bobbing around us diverts your attention. You reach for a foam letter and put it to your mouth.

I watch you interacting with your environment, trying to reach a plastic cow that’s floating by, splashing the water, putting everything into your mouth. I marvel at how, on one hand, you seem so old to me, no longer a mewing newborn, but at the same time how feeling your slippery body against my own brings me back full circle to the day you were born and that moment I first held you – my second baby but no less of a miracle.

I speak again and you look at me. You smile. Then your eyes widen with inquisitiveness as you seek out another fascinating object – a blue foam “B.” I stare at your wet hair molded on your head. I caress your wet body, wishing to memorize how your skin feels soft and pudgy, reminding me of flour when it gets wet. And then I become wistful. I know all too well – I’ve had your big sister to show me – how quickly you’re going to grow up.

The sloshing sound the water makes as your arms and legs splash conjures up an image of you floating in my womb. It wasn’t so long ago that my arms were aching to hold you, my eyes burning to see you for the first time. And now here you are, a baby on the cusp of being a toddler (they say the “golden age” of infancy is from 6 to 9 months and you are nearly 8 months old; I suppose that means your reaching your baby mid-life crisis). I know you’ll soon be too big to rest on my chest and maybe even too modest for us to bathe together. You’re frequently sleeping through the night (unlike your restive big sister who still wakes up a few times ) and while I crave sleep, I miss nursing you in the stillness of the night, your body curled into me. You're sitting up, playing with colorful baby toys. You’re on the verge of crawling away from me and toward alluring things. You’re as slippery to me as your wet body in the bath; I can’t hold onto you, not well enough.

So I savor this ritual. A mother and her baby, alone, skin to skin, swathed in warm bathwater. My love for you almost primal. I am made to love you. I think. God designed me to love you.

Another stray bath toy captivates you. You try to grab it. You’re determined, but you’re grasping for something beyond your reach. Frustrated, you cry out. I want to hand you the toy, but I hesitate. I let you struggle. I know you won’t be so helpless for long. I want you to need me.

I wrap my arms around you. You momentarily forget about your pursuit and you reach both of your starburst hands to my face. This time, I willingly let you touch the object of your desire.

Super Bowl Recipes for People Who Actually Get to Watch the Big Game

2008-01-31T23:03:00.000-05:00

Okay, Dave and I are probably some of the only Americans who won’t be watching the Super Bowl on Sunday. Why? Because we don’t have TV. Well, actually that’s not technically accurate. We have a mammoth flat screen TV ostensibly perched in the living room. It was a hand-me-down from my parents and the fact is, I'm far too cheap to pay for the digital cable it requires to produce a picture. I didn’t even like paying $15 a month for basic cable. But we do use that big, old TV for watching DVDs. Honestly, we usually don’t miss surfing channels on the boob tube. However, not being able to watch the Super Bowl in our own living room does feel a little strange and a bit un-American. Not that I care much about football much to the chagrin of my sports-loving family. Here’s another secret: I graduated from the University of Georgia where people bleed red and black and plan their weddings, children’s births and complete lives around college football season. Then there’s me. I didn’t watch a single game last year. I wear my UGA shirt to the gym and people might say something like, “How about ‘dem Dawgs?” I smile and say, “Go Dawgs!” because I feel like I should. When I was at UGA, I went to the games (I'd have felt like a total loser if I didn't show a small measure of team spirit), but I'd often leave early (whether they were winning or not). I just never could get in to football.

Ah, but I digress. Even though we won’t be watching the Giants and the Patriots clash on the playing field (see? I'm not a completely hopeless cause. I at least know who's playing on Sunday), I do enjoy cooking and trying out new recipes, and Dave and I both love tapas-like dishes. I decided to share a few good eats for those of you who will be watching the big game. So, my friends, dish out some good stuff and let me know who wins the Super Bowl, will you? And don’t forget to tell me about all those clever commercials. I’ll probably be curled up with a good book or perhaps more realistically, entwined with a “I-can’t-go-to-sleep-without-Mommy” little girl.

Edamame Dip
Dips are always a hit at Super Bowl parties (or other shindigs such as “We-can’t-watch-the-Super-Bowl-because-Mommy’s-Too-Cheap-But-We’re-Still-Going-to-Have-Fun” gatherings). This is a super-healthy (edamame and cannellini beans are rich in protein and fiber) dip and even my preschooler likes it. I adapted it from a Cooking Light recipe.

1 1/2 cup frozen shelled edamame, thawed
1 T. olive oil
1 T. of plain yogurt
1/2 tsp. coarse salt
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1 T. fresh squeezed lemon juice
1 16-ounce cannellini beans (other white beans work, too)

Place all ingredients in a food processor or blender and process until smooth. Serve immediately or cover and chill. Good dippers include toasted pita triangles (cut pita bread into triangles and toast for about 10 minutes at 375º); toasted tortillas (use cookie cutters to cut out fun shapes from a flour tortilla for the kiddos and bake 10-12 minutes at 350º); or even pretzels.

Pinwheel Sandwiches
3 cups cooked wild rice
1 8-ounce package light cream cheese
1/3 cup grated Parmesan
1 tsp. dried parsley flakes
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2 tsp. Dijon-mustard
2-3 drops hot pepper sauce
3 12-inch soft flour tortillas
2 1/2 ounce thinly sliced roasted turkey
9 spinach leaves

Combine wild rice, cream cheese, Parmesan cheese, parsley, garlic powder, mustard and pepper sauce. Spread evenly over tortillas, leaving 1/2-inch border on one side of each tortilla. Place single layer of turkey over rice and cheese mixture. Top with layer of spinach. Roll each tortilla tightly toward 1/2-inch border. Moisten border of tortilla with water. Press to seal. Tightly wrap in plastic seal and refrigerate several hours or overnight. Cut into 1-inch slices.

Polenta Pizza
Another hit with the kids!
Tube of precooked, plain polenta
Pizza sauce
Shredded mozzarella

Cut polenta into 1/2-inch slices. Top each polenta slice with 1/2 tsp. of pizza sauce. Sprinkle shredded mozzarella over sauce. Place on a cookie sheet lined with tinfoil. Bake at 375º until cheese melts, about 10 minutes.

Spinach Hummus
1 10-ounce can of chickpeas, drained
2 T. turmeric powder
1 T. curry powder
1/2-cup spinach leaves
4-5 garlic cloves, crushed
2 sprigs of thyme
1/4-cup extra virgin olive oil
2 T. tahini
1/2-cup lime juice
1/4 cup lemon juice

Cook chickpeas with the turmeric and curry powder on a skillet over medium heat until golden brown, stirring frequently. Set aside. Using same skillet, sauté spinach, garlic, thyme and olive oil. Drain excess oil. Puree chickpeas and tahini in a food processor or blender, gradually adding spinach and juices. Mix until smooth. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Delicious dippers include raw veggies. Sliced bell peppers are especially tasty and cucumbers work, too. Also, you can never go wrong scooping up hummus with toasted pita triangles. As Rachael Ray would say, "Delish!"

Feezy Lives

2008-01-30T23:09:00.000-05:00

Like Lazarus, it seems Madeline's imaginary friend has a second lease on life. (Read about this bestial man's sudden and unexpected death here.)

Me: Madeline, please stop that. (That referring to her pressing every single button on our landline phone.)

Madeline: I can't. I'm doin' an email.

(No, our landline does not have texting capabilities. Nor does my cell phone. I have no idea where she picks up on this kind of stuff.)

Me: Please stop. Now.

Madeline: I have to finish this email to Feezy.

Me: Feezy? I thought he was dead.

Madeline: No. He's in the phone.

Not on the phone...but in it. So is being trapped in a portable phone some sort of bizarre twist on purgatory for imaginary friends?

Madeline: He's not dead.

I guess not.