Motherhood Uncensored

The water is wide

With Quinlan, I drank in every single nuance of her first year, a mix of sweet nectar, 100 proof scotch, and tears that left me happy and hungover, asking myself "What the hell just happened?" as I scraped myself off the floor and wiped my own drool off my face.

As more first years were celebrated, Drew, then Margot, I built up a tolerance, and the cocktail of those long twelve months became much easier to swallow.

Enjoyable even.

And now, as I watch my last baby, by far my easiest, most pleasant, "let's have another one because this shit is easy" baby, hit one, I realize that it's not just her first year that's coming to an end.

It's the end of all my kids' first years, kept alive by her babbles, her breastfeeding, yes, even her rashy bum.

She's gone from rolling to crawling to standingupwalkingrunningwaaaaaiiiiiit. From boob to bottle to eatingeverythinginsightincludingpencilerasersomfg.

Like someone accidentally pushed fast forward and I'm madly pressing every button I can just to get it to stop.

And there is no rewind, not even a brief pause so I can catch up on what I might have missed.

After four kids, I know now that it's all fleeting. I'll remember as much about their first year as they'll remember themselves, except for what I've captured here, in short stories and photos - my attempt to maintain some semblance of a baby book so that when they're older and asking me, I can say "Here. Read this. See, I was funny. And you were a royal pain in the ass."

Because it will be all I have.

Well, that and the uneven boobs.

With Bridget, it's less about endings than I thought it would be, the milestones reached and marked off in this urban myth they call "baby book."

It's about beginnings. A world opening up in front of her.

And me. The reporter, supporter. The giver, mentor. The presenter, editor.

Mother.

Happy Birthday, Bridget. The world is yours for the taking. A wide open sea of possibility.

3 is 3

You might think that as the 2nd girl and 3rd kid in the family, she'd have a lot to contend with. At least, that's what all the books would have you believe.

But really, it has more to do with our own guilt than anything she's actually feeling.

The hand-me-down clothes are new to her and she wears them proudly, the dresses often backwards because "that's how their sposed to be, mama." 

Why would people put the tag in the back where you can't see it?

The scuffed patent leather red holiday shoes she's dubbed her "tappin' shoes" and will, completely unannounced, break into a song and dance number.

"Tomorrow! Your bottom is only a day awaaaaaaaaay!"

And a mouth that will probably always get her in trouble. All while making everyone around her laugh.

"Mommy, can I have more pizza... ON MY BUTTCRACK? Knock knock? BUTTTTTCRACKKKKKK!"

The experts might somehow explain all her personality traits - funny, easygoing, content, but strong - because of her birth order or gender placement.

But what if she's just like that because she's Margot? And even though being the 2nd girl and 3rd child has influenced her indelibly, she is who she is because that's who she's supposed to be.

"You're my best mama," she whispers to me, with her forehead pressed against mine.

"And you're my best Margot" I reply to her, kissing the points of her smiling cheeks.

Happy 3rd Birthday, Muggle. Unlike your nickname, everything about you is magic.

Margot's Birth Announcement, The Birth Story, 1st Birthday, and 2nd Birthday

How to get that Neutrogena glow

Last week I was on my weekly trip to Target, which usually means I go in with a few things on my "list" and then walk out with four bags and a $150 receipt.

I can't quite pin down exactly what it is -- the fluorescent lights, the bullseye logo, the adorable pumpkin placemats and matching plastic tumblers OMFGIHAVETOHAVETHEM -- but I don't think it's humanly possible for me to leave Target only purchasing exactly what's on my list.

This time I was just about to checkout with my armful of stuff (which consequently is a technique I've tried that involves not taking a cart or basket so you will only leave with what you can carry which turns out is still four bags full) when I mistakenly took my walk of shame past the beauty section.

And there it was. A microdermabrasion system.

And then, the wheels started turning:

"Julie has one of those. And she loves it. But I think hers is a Clairsonic. Hey, I know Neutrogena. They're good. And only $19.99. Ooooh a $3 off peelie!" and just like that, it ended up in my arms.

I excitedly rushed home to electronically scrub the dead skin off my face, loaded up the batteries (included FTW!), and started rolling it on my face. 

And then, as my face foamed and got a little red and sort of stung but felt $16.99 younger by golly, I realized something.

I turned it off.

I took off the cap with the attached pad.

I turned it on medium. Then high. Then medium again.

I put my finger on the flat, plastic surface.

And then...

Well, let's just say now I know why everyone swears by them. Because last time I checked, a good face scrub doesn't give you that youthful glow.