Motherhood Uncensored

I Spit, Therefore I Am

I'm betting I'm not the first parent who likes to blame her kids' weird quirks on her husband. Take my son's obsession with the vacuum or my daughter's penchant with making sure there's not a wrinkle in her newly-made bed. I'm pretty sure those were directly inherited from him.

And their striking good looks and sparking personalities can be traced right back to me.

Duh.

Granted, we've got no real proof of these brilliant speculations and I imagine that the 23andme genotyping won't completely exonerate my husband. But I will say that understanding my own genetic background can certainly help me better serve my children's needs. Of course, with knowledge comes power, and with too much knowledge can come other issues that we may or may no be prepared to swallow. Perhaps living in the ignorance of what I perceive as my good genes is bliss. I've had a healthy life thus far, thanks to a pretty strong immune system, and I feel as though I've been fortunate to ride the "lucky" end of the body, skin, and hair genes. (Thanks Mom!)

And don't forget brains. I'm terribly smart (according to me of course).

But in this case, I have to believe that knowledge is a good thing. It gives me the power to pass on more than just the history and legacy my husband and I are creating for our kids. And it gives me the opportunity to learn more about myself so I can hopefully be around long enough to tell them in person.

And okay, the idea of being able to "one-up" my husband (who has got way more things hanging over me than I care to admit), doesn't sound too bad either. That is if you consider having wet ear wax, bitter taste perception, and a higher risk for Psoriasis a "one-up."

Let's hear it for people with dry, itchy skin!

Pregnancy uncensored

I was fortunate to only have a weird bout of migraines, a bizarrely dry elbow, and an echogenic cardio marker (which turned out to be negative) during my pregnancies.

I even consider myself lucky to have only experienced two miscarriages.

But like most pregnant women, I've never had any sort of explanation about any of those things. And while my mind is completely wrapped up in sassy preschoolers, crazy toddlers, and clingy babies, I still sometimes wonder why.

I suppose it's the eternal question of pregnant women everywhere because most everything we've experienced, save the specific diagnosable conditions, don't yet have an explanation. And while that might not affect me right now, it affects millions of preggos every day.

I'm not out to save the world, mind you, but if some of the minor oddities and more painful experiences that I had to endure could actually inform someone else, then I'm all for it.

And so when Jill asked me if I'd be interested in working with 23andme, I told her absolutely. Granted, the whole genotyping thing (which you'll read more about in the coming weeks) completely freaked me out, but I'm happy to be a bit of a guinea pig. Especially when one of the most difficult experiences (the Down Syndrome marker) could have been related to my Asian ancestry, which I only found out about from a blog reader (seriously!).

Okay, I didn't find out I was Asian from a reader (duh), but that the specific marker I have is seen in every 1 out of 3 Asian women. And my genotyping results, even though I'm half Asian with a very German English father, align me strongest with a Chinese person.

Go figure.

So now I know to make sure to check that "Asian, Pacific Islander" box at the doctor. Sounds like small consolation, perhaps, but it could have made a big difference in terms of the information I received from my midwife.

Of course, they could also change those stupid forms to better reflect multiethnic people.

But that aside, as one of the founding bloggers of this pregnancy community, I'll be sharing my pregnancy experiences as well as what I learned about myself through genotyping - like what quirky traits my kids have that I can 100% scientifically blame on my husband (okay, not completely, but still, sort of fun to bring up in an argument - heh). But really, I'm hoping to make a bit of a difference in how pregnant women are treated and how pregnant women treat themselves.

Alone.

I had it in my mind to call my husband and just record Margot screaming at the top of her lungs for the entire bed and bathtime routine yesterday on his voice mail, just so he could hear what I go through when I'm alone with all of them.

This is why when he's home I just want to collapse on the ground in a big ball.

I am cognitively aware that it's not his fault that I'm here, struggling to make it to 9am without crying. He hates leaving and he hates hearing my wobbly voice on the other side of the phone.

But emotionally? I get pissed.

He doesn't have to pilot a plane with a baby attached to his boob or hip. And he doesn't have to make dinner while breaking up fights while a baby screams at the top of her lungs.

It's no wonder women are still often playing catch up to men in the work place. We've got three kids and household chores and fights and bedtime nipping at our heels. I'm pretty sure it's way easier to climb a corporate ladder (or any other kind, for that matter) without those things hanging on your back.

And if we do keep up, damned if we're not completely exhausted and nearly brain dead. I mean, it's amazing I can hold my head up and keep my balance on some days.

I can't help but wonder what I could actually achieve on a full night's rest, let alone with a chef, housekeeper, and everything else that we moms do.

We'd have surely taken over the world by now.

It always takes me by surprise

One instant they're staring blankly past your loving glances, intermittently smiling at the passing gas bubble or tickle on their cheek and entertaining themselves with the shadows on the ceiling.

And then in another, you look over at them with your tired, bloodshot, "isn't red sexy?" eyes and they're sitting straight up out of their bouncy seat;

grabbing at your coffee cup with their other hand full of your hair;

batting at your necklace and hanging on it like it's a zip cord;

belly laughing at the dogs racing around the yard in the warm Spring air;

rolling over with intention and reaching for the smallest, chokeable toy on the floor;

screaming every time you leave the room like you've put nails in their diaper;

smiling at their siblings desperately trying to impress them with fart noises and pirouettes;

and grinning mischievously as they chomp down on your nipple with a couple of brand new razor sharp baby teeth. Can you hear my screams?

All the better to eat from you with, mama

The Plight of the Oldest

When Drew was born, Quinlan went through the typical growing pains that generally accompany adding another baby to the family. But since Margot has arrived and become pretty darn cute, it's been a lot more difficult for her to adjust to being the big girl.

I'm not sure whether it's because Margot is a girl, or because Quinlan is just older now and she can process the change, but either way, she's feeling the effects of being the oldest.

Even though we do our best to give personalized time to each one, we're still stretched thin. And early on, one of us was always holding Margot, so while we tried to focus our attention on the older two, we'd still have a baby with us.

I'm pretty sure we missed half of everything she was saying. And I know we probably responded to almost everything with "Oh that's so cool, honey" - permanent marker art, sinks overflowing with water and bubbles, and who knows what else we waved away.

Truth is, we had a hard time adjusting too.

We expect a lot out of her, not just because she's the oldest, but because she's super responsible, and always has been. And in turn, she's pretty hard on herself, getting overly upset when she can't do something, or when she messes things up.

"I'm afraid you're not going to like me" she says spitefully, just loud enough so we can hear her when she makes a bad choice. "I don't think you want me to be your daughter anymore" she told us after being sent to her room for talking back.

It stings every time.

When she shoots her word darts at me, I tell that it's okay to be angry, but it's certainly not true. I remind her that it's hard to be the oldest, but it's also pretty cool, since she'll get to do a lot of things first - reading, riding bikes, sitting in the front seat, even driving.

And I tell her that I was the oldest too, and that I know what it's like. "Little brothers" we'll say to each other, with a knowing sigh.

But it hurts to watch her look longingly as people dote over Margot when we're out. She'll dance around and talk their ear off if they let her. "Look at me!!!!" she seems to say, with her bright smile and arabesque in the middle of the store. "I'm really cute too."

And she is. She's smart, beautiful, funny, and charming. And they couldn't ask for a better big sister.

And I couldn't ask for a better oldest daughter.