Motherhood Uncensored

The Ultrasound. Yes. That One.

Today I get to march my rapidly growing belly (and ass) into my brand new midwife's office for the ultrasound. It's significant for us because with the other two, we never "officially" found out. With Q, neither of us knew, and with Drew, I found out as did all my friends on and off the internet, but I didn't tell my husband or any of my family. They just thought I was being super progressive by purchasing lots of blue clothes for my daughter OR son.

Don't worry. I already got the whole "what a nasty bitch you are how could you keep that from your husband" comments. (P.S. He didn't want to know and I did so I didn't tell him).

But this time, we both agreed that we wanted to find out and so we shall. Or at least, we shall try.

Or really, I shall try.

The sad irony is that when we can actually stare straight at the in utero private parts of our unborn child without the ultrasound tech zipping around pretending that she didn't see a huge gigantic penis (ahem), he can't be there to do it with me. I'll be the only one staring and uttering smart and nervous things (yes, these ultrasounds actually make me extremely nervous) like "Ooooh look, it's definitely a boy" to which the tech will respond "No, that's a kidney, maam" with my spouse rolling his eyes at me on the phone (we hope).

Seriously, how can they tell these things?

But, that doesn't mean we don't have our guesses, you know, our in-the-gut feelings about who this baby is inside my belly.

And maybe you do too. Or maybe you're just here because you googled "My Mom's Tits" (I'm #1 for that search, by the way) and decided to click around and could care less.

Of course, there's a whopping 50/50 chance (best odds this side of the Mississippi) that you will be right, but it's fun to guess, isn't it? So here are some fun facts for you (without me showing a pic of myself):

a) I'm definitely smaller than I was with the other two but showing and spreading in the same way that I did with both kids.

b) I'm not as emotional as I was with Drew.

c) I have zits all over my face.

d) I had bad migraines and nausea, neither of which I had with the other two.

e) The huz thinks it's a boy and he's been right every time.

f) I'm craving salads, fruit, and anything healthy (can't say that I've ever done that before. Ever.).

g) I didn't have a gut feeling that Quinlan was a girl, but when I was pregnant with Drew, I felt different enough that I was pretty sure it was a boy (before I had the devious ultrasound). I have a bit of a gut feeling now, but I'm not telling you what it is... (or if you listen to my podcast from last night you'll hear it)

h) Quinlan thinks it's a girl. She also thinks she's having twins. And wants to marry Drew when she grows up (damn the South - we need to get this girl up to Yankeeville again).

i) I got pregnant in April *edited: January - not April. That was Drew -- sheesh!*, I'm due in October, and I was 31 when the sex happened (in case you're all about the extremely scientific Chinese Gender Calculator -- I love my ancestors, but sometimes...).

So, if you care to wager a guess, feel free to leave a comment and I'll post later today or tomorrow. Or if you really are looking for your mom's tits, I should tell you something.

They're not here. Just mine. And they're probably not what you're looking for.

This is My "Mommy Blog."

You'll always remember my name, right Mommy?, she asked me yesterday, floating through the kitchen in her fairy wings and knee socks.

Of course I'll remember your name, I told her. 

*****

When you make it through the blur of babydom, it's surprising how much is easily forgotten. Pictures capture brief, fleeting snippets of time - some posed, some not - all goofy, joyous, and proud.

But for each of the 10,000 other moments that were steeped in frustration and confusion, I have no physical record. They sit in my mind's eye, a flat canvas in my head that is slowly fading. Its vivid animation lost in the annals of my tired mind.

The rough feeling of the bald spot on the back of her head that we thought would never grow back. The ache in my arms from rocking her to sleep every night that I thought I'd always have to do. The salty taste of my midnight tears as I held her in the ER after she broke her leg.

That is the beauty of motherhood.

The rough edges that are never quite sanded. The sharp points that bruise but bring texture. The remnants and scraps that don't fit anywhere else.

I package these edges, points, and scraps as best I can, in tidy little stories. Sometimes funny. Sometimes not. For times when she and he and the one soon to be ask me "Do you remember, mama?" and I can no longer laugh or cry and say "Yes, little one..." and recount it like it was yesterday.

For that time when I might stare at their faces, now older and wiser, and grasp their sweet hands in mine and not be able to tell them one single story about their life. Or mine.

They will change and grow and leave and become.

And whether they ask me every day, or never ask at all, and whether I remember their name, or am left to live inside my own head, staring blankly out at a life I do not know, I want them to know my story. And more importantly, I want them to know theirs.

These words will live on past my memory of my daughter's name.

This is my mommy blog.

Of Lollipops, Mystery Illnesses, & Sad Goodbyes

Due to the placement of Drew's staples, the regular old diaper changes aren't the most comfortable thing in the world. Thus we have had to implement the complicated circus-act standing up diaper changes, made fairly simple with two people, but nearly impossible with just one.

That is unless I unleash the power of the lollipop. Apparently the whole world, including a tiny wiggling ass, stands still upon the crinkle of a lollipop wrapper.

Granted he'll probably have rotted teeth, but at least I won't be cleaning his shit up off the floor.

*****

As it turns out, my illness was completely and totally induced by stress and exhaustion. After two full days of tylenol, tons of sleep, and just plain relaxation, I'm fine. My "tired mom flu" has disappeared, and with it comes a realization that I need to take it easy.

There are no expectations but my own to live up to. My husband has transformed himself into an understanding husband who comes home for a few days and works his ass off -- on the house and with the kids.

Sure, he still has asshole moments. We all have asshole moments. But his pleas for me to walk on a specific part of the carpet have turned from annoying to funny. His desire to mop the kitchen floor before even saying "hello" when he gets home is almost endearing.

And his look to me that says "I know this is hard and you're doing the best you can" is the best gift I could have ever gotten.

*****

On Saturday night while we were out for my birthday dinner, Quinlan told the babysitter that she didn't want her daddy to leave again -- that she missed him when he was gone.

As my husband comes and goes for his brief weekend stays, and as the kids get older and wiser, they cling to him more tightly on his return, and verbalize their sadness more clearly upon his departure.

And lately, so do I -- and it's not just because I need the extra hand to change a diaper.

Like Quinlan says when he returns, "We're a whole family again." There's just something beautifully reassuring about the wholeness that I miss ever so desperately.   

And All I Got For Mother's Day Was a Trip to the ER

My super duper birthday/mother's day weekend extravaganza started off with a bang (dinner out, iPhone!, vomiting up the dinner out), and ended with one to Drew's head.

While I was out getting medicine for what I think is the flu (ah the achy legs, vomiting, and diarrhea), Drew pushed himself backwards in his booster seat and hit his head.

Four head staples, two donuts, and the shortest ever trip to the ER (literally 30 minutes tops), we're back and on the mend. I'm popping tylenol, he's popping Baby Motrin, and we're all thankful that we're alive and together today.

And down one really crappy kitchen table and chairs set.

Hope your Mother's Day was decidedly less eventful, at least when it comes to bodily injuries.

What to Wear at BlogHer 2008: A Sleeping Baby

If you don't have one, you might want to snag a wee baby before the BlogHer Conference this summer because they are the "it" accessory for mom bloggers these days. Granted, I would want a baby I could give back after the weekend since I value sleep almost more than my life, but the great thing about a going out with a baby is that you can wear anything and nobody cares.

And there's no need for a nametag because they know your baby.

The truth is, I would have never ventured out to a bar (note to readers: I was actually outside the actual bar) with Quinlan. In fact, I barely ventured outside of my house with her. It was work and then home again. I dreaded the post office, and the grocery store was a nightmare.

And the huz and I almost never had a night out because I was not privvy to this myth called "the trustworthy and responsible babysitter." That's really what they should give you when you check out of the hospital. A list of babysitters.

And The Rookie Moms Handbook.

I've known Whitney and Heather, self-proclaimed geeky girls, since I started blogging. We featured their site on Cool Mom Picks back in the olden days when it was an offshoot of this blog (did you even know that?) and I met both of them at my first BlogHer in 2006.

At the time, I was past my rookie year (basically the first 12 months of a baby's life) and so I didn't take as much notice about the cool stuff they were doing on their site. But if you happen to have a new baby (be it your first or your 16th -- you Duggar, you) or one on the way (oh wait, that's me!) their blog is a must-have resource.

And now so is their book.

It's nothing fancy (although I think it's a swanky looking little gift book) and the activities aren't brain science. They're mostly just common sense activities that you would never ever ever think of doing because you're too sleep deprived to even wipe your own ass or wash your armpits. (They actually give you a quick "how to shower with baby" rundown in the book).

Some of the activities might not appeal to you, but others are must-do-this-instant sort of things -- like emailing your baby. Snag an email with their name and forgo the baby book; just send them email updates of what they are doing, saying, pooping, you name it.

It sure would have saved me scrawling shit out in a stupid flimsy notebook, that's for sure.

This is definitely a book to keep in your "awesome shower gifts" stash. Kudos to them for taking their blog and making it into a kick-ass book. I'd try it with Motherhood Uncensored but I don't see my pubic hair post going over well at a baby shower.

Motherhood Uncensored for New Moms: Shave it Before You Have it. Well, it sort of has a nice ring.

And take my advice, maybe a bar isn't your type of outing with a baby, but the power of a fantastic mei-tai is worth its weight in gold. If my kid can sleep through the gabbing of super fabulous mom bloggers in a loud bar, getting out of the house to anywhere other than the mailbox might be something to think about.

Psst. Share your best, bizarrest, coolest, whatever rookie mom year outing and win some prizes (all weekend long). Go here to learn how to participate. WOO! And if you want to hear what the ladies sound like (and me too), check out my podcast with them!

And thank you thank you for your wonderful birthday wishes and sweet comments about The Today Show. If you live in NYC, I'd be happy to recommend a fantastic hair stylist, make-up artist, and eyebrow genius!

[photo via Rebecca Woolf]