Motherhood Uncensored

Get On the Bus

I've never really enjoyed grocery shopping, but I'm pretty sure there's nothing worse (other than changing a large poopy diaper or cleaning up vomit) than a trip to said store with an almost-2-year old. I chuckle when I think back to how I used to roll my no-kids-ever eyes at moms who ripped open a box of animal crackers and allowed their kids to stuff their face while they attempted to quickly pack their shopping cart full of whatever they could find in a 15 minute time span. Now, I head straight for the popsicle section without hesitation. I get a good 12.7 minutes from one Minute Maid Fruit Juice pop, thank you very much.

Aside from the food, I've found my only saving grace (other than the blessed days where I have my babysitter) is what my daughter has proudly named "the bus." You know what I mean, right? It's that big, okay HUGE, shopping cart surrounded by plastic, and made to look like a race car. However, I imagine it drives nothing like a race car and more like a pack of camels in a 7-11. Basically, it's utterly ridiculous.

But, with its little steering wheels and front-facing seats, the thing is truly god's gift to the grocery shopping mama of a toddler. I wipe that sucker down with 14 anti-bac wipes, strap her in, and off I go, barrelling through the store like Sandra Bullock driving the Speed bus. Other than the fact that she requires a "bus" ride regardless of how much shopping I have to do, it's a lifesaver. My husband even had the audacity to MOCK the bus - that was until he had to go food shopping and realized how effective (yet terribly difficult to drive) the bus really can be.

Yes, we are bus converts. And very proud ones at that. Now if they only could fit them with a DVD player, I'd be able to hit Super Target for a whole 92 minutes (the running time of Lady and the Tramp, of course).

Other than wickedly huge shopping carts and food, what do you do to occupy your kids while you grocery shop?

And All I Could Think About Was Pooping...

The family and I verntured out for our first base pool extravaganza this weekend. It's always a risky undertaking, since the weekends tend to be crazy with wild kids and "I-usually-live-under-a-rock-until-the-base-pool-opens" adults, but we figured we'd give ourselves some respite from the near constant "big-pool" chants from our newly chatty daughter and venture out.

We found a cozy corner to rest our 12 bags and appropriately labeled pool toys (we learned our lesson last year with all the little toy thieves), and I was just starting to examine my new found stomach rolls and one lone pubic hair that had made an escape across the panty border (thanks to 2-year-old pregnancy hormones) and missed the clutches of my obviously piss-poor wax attempts, when there she was in all her glory - The teeny-tinyest out-of-womb baby I had EVER seen.

I tried really hard not to stare, but I was distracted by her little red limbs and fist-sized head covered with a huge infant hat. The young mother looked calm and comfy in a tube top and shorts, gently dipping her feet in the baby pool water while glancing lovingly at her little baby. People stopped over to "ooh and ahh" over her. But all I could think was,"Dude. Doesn't your crotch hurt on that cement floor?"

Turns out the baby was TWO DAYS OLD and the mom had enough whatever (morphine, perhaps), to slip on shorts, a tube top, and I imagine a well-designed sanitary pad, and go to the pool. I mean, really. Two days after I had Q, I was either flat on my back, or cringing as she latched on to my scabby boob. "Let's go to the pool for a cool dip" did not enter my mind even ONCE if only to throw my really annoying husband and screaming daughter in (just for a second, mind you).

Moving back to trying to figure out how to maneuver my bikini top so my boobs didn't look so freaking uneven, in comes yet another brand new baby. This one was 9 days old and just as small as the other one. In walked the mom - no waddle or weird "crotch-on-fire" walk to be seen - and down she sat on the very non-hemmarhoid friendly pool chair, smiling all the while. I even said "Wow, you're a trooper" which got a mildly loud chuckle - indicating either they thought they were idiots too, or I just made myself sound like a total wussola.

So then I thought. Who's really the freak here? Did they really have that easy of a time where they can just be out and about after 2 freaking days? Or did I over-exaggerate my total and utter confusion and exhaustion during the first few months... let alone days?

I mean. I'm pretty sure I didn't smile for a long time after having my daughter. And while I loved her with everything I had, I'm quite certain I didn't leave the house for at least the first 2 weeks, let alone slip on a tiny "pool-like" outfit and enjoy the hot Mississippi sun with my brand new baby.

And then I got a little pissed. Not only because I could barely take the heat (even in the shade), but then I was like - all these men, these husbands, are looking at you and your little capable ways and are thinking, "Hm...My wife didn't want to get out of bed for weeks." And then what does that do for the rest of us who couldn't even fathom a post-pardum fart let alone leaving the house for a pool jaunt?

But then I figured (and hoped) that maybe they just don't know any better, and I'd see their hubbies out later at the grocery store picking up Prep H, crotch spray, and gel nipple chillers just like the rest of us. Troopers my ass.

When Do We Get to Have it All?

I've been struggling for the last 20 some odd months with transitioning from woman to mother - and finding the balance between the two. Quite frankly, I dumped way too much of myself out with my 4-day old breastmilk and didn't think I'd ever really have a life outside my daughter.

I didn't intend for that to happen. I was that well-intentioned sassy preggo that vowed never to talk a friend's ear off about her cute kid, still wear the cute shoes and purse combo, and make time for herself in one form or another. But then my daughter came, and through no fault of my own I got sucked into her little vacuum.

It wasn't until I realized that after she was sleeping in a horizontal flat position for naps, and enjoying more than just my boob for her daily nourishment, I had absolutely nothing to call my own. And I was pissed. I wanted it all - a life for my daughter and a life for myself. But, trying to survive a challenging baby in a place that just didn't offer much refuge for a reasonably cultured individual didn't offer many options.

I've since added several hobbies, er, blogging and blogging, as well as a few more babysitting hours, shopping trips, and gulp, a gym membership. And slowly, I feel as though I'm emerging from that scary dark place I hid for awhile, and I'm becoming a mom and woman that I'd be proud to know.

So, when do we get to have it all as mothers and women? And what is that, really, that infamous ALL we all (at one level or another) strive for in our daily lives? Check out my essay at The Whole Mom and let me know what you think.

Who Are We Fighting For?

I've always had a soft spot in my heart for veterans. And homeless veterans? That kills me. It seems like the thanks they receive (random national holidays and meager government assistance) just doesn't do them justice.

And now, here we are. In the middle of another war. Sure we could go on about how it's meaningless. How men and women (like those on 60 Minutes last night) are losing limbs, even lives, for something I'm not even sure is worthwhile. How these soldiers are away from their families for way longer than should be allowed. And how George Bush didn't find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq and should have just taken everyone out of there and gone home.

But saying there is no purpose to the military presence in Iraq does not honor those soldiers that died yesterday, today, and probably tomorrow. It does not pay homage to the ones who suffered brain damage, year long comas, and a prognoses of "permanent vegetative state." And it does not acknowledge the countless number of humans in our history that suffered immense mental and physical anguish in all the wars that, by many, are seen as unnecessary.

So, however you feel about the war, take a moment today to remember that there are dads that haven't seen their kids in a year. There are moms that won't be home for Christmas. And there are folks that have lost a piece of their body, mind, and/or spirit just so we can enjoy our days as they always have been. Free and comfortable.

If you want to do something to help, we featured a couple posts on Cool Mom Picks that might just be what you're looking for.

To Wean or Not to Wean

While I was never diagnosed with PPD, I'm pretty sure I had a "touch" of it. I think I may have cried as much as my newborn daughter those first few weeks, and there were several nights where I paced her room, clutching her tightly, asking myself how I got into this crazy mess of motherhood.

I know some people are not as fortunate as I was and experience a much deeper level of depression, requiring some type of medical intervention, mainly medication and therapeutic support. And for the most part, they are restored back to their "normal" selves (whatever that is after having a kid, right?).

But then, as many of us inevitably do, we start to think about #2. I'm not exactly sure how it happens, considering I'm in no rush to relive the last month of my pregnancy, long labor and delivery, and tenuous first weeks of mothering. But, it does - and we ask ourselves, "when should I try to have the second one?" But for the folks that are still on medication from PPD Round 1, how do they decide when and if to wean themselves?

Thus is the question my dear blog pal A Mommy Story asks her readers. Part of her feels ready to wean and try for #2, while the other part is afraid of what will happen when the hormones take over without the help of the meds. I imagine she is not alone in her dilemma, and so perhaps you can share some insights (either here or there) as to your own experiences - with PPD and trying again - and how you make a decision all while chasing after a toddler (a wonderful form of birth control, in my opinion).