iPad: Beginning of the end?

So I'm trying to watch the end of fill-in-the-blank reality show and that stupid Apple commercial pops up again. Stevie J gave us the best TV ads, perhaps ever, and we've sunk to this? I'm treading on thin ice here since I know less than nothing about anything with wires, but "iPad is thin. iPad is beautiful"?!? iPad's iHair flows through the iBreeze on a motorcycle. Do I really need a reminder how ugly and fat I am from an electronic device?

This is not a PC/Mac debate. Those people who say each are great for different purposes just don't have enough money for Apple. My laptop shuts down in five seconds, your Toshiba takes five minutes. So is PC good for people who have inordinate amounts of time to waste? No, the folks in Cupertino have that argument in the bag. Where they screw up is in Pied Pipering the skinny jean crowd to fall for the Emperor's new clothes. By using a Suave commercial template.

So, listen up lemmings! If you fell for the iPad, you are a complete sucker. It is an iPhone that doesn't make calls and doesn't fit in your pocket. Maybe the point is to carry it in a sling, like a newborn baby, and invite others behind you in Chic Coffee House to coo at it. Good luck with that. It doesn't even have the applications that actually help you get work done. You bought the iPad because 1.) it's Apple; and 2.) that commercial about it being sleek and sexy made you want to be part of the in-crowd.

I'm not saying that the iPad isn't a step toward the future norm. But remember all those folks who fell for Vista? Or laser disc players? Give a thing at least four generations before shelling out some serious dough.

Development Dept. at Apple: watch yourselves. When the lemmings find out you're scamming them, your next new iDevice will fall flat.

Back to mommyhood, where paunchy midsections and dark under-eye circles reign.

Hot Tamale Heads to Kinder

If we thought no day could be more thrilling than the annual Easter mEGGa Hunt, today came very, very close. The Hot Tamale was not only in heaven--she was in the very best parts of it where people eat dark chocolate bon bons by the carload and still keep a cut six-pack. She was so exhausted from exuberance that she requested a nap. At 11:30.

Kindergarten! Land of tripping, slipping, jumping, dancing, singing large-ish little folks. With five days left until summer break, these kids had a bad case of kinderitis and Hot Tamale did her best to keep them even more distracted. Entertain them, she did. Mrs. Gigi loves having bite-sized visitors to spice things up in class, so we decided to introduce HT to the world of alphabet puzzles, home centers, and dull scissors.

"Let's show Hot Tamale how we do calendar. I'm looking for a very quiet boy or girl sitting in their spot." And HT sprints to the carpet. She picks the Qq to sit on, which is perfect since Owen is home sick. She stays there, criss-cross apple sauce, for about 43 seconds and then she's off to inspect backpacks in the cubby area. Oh how big kids straighten up for littler ones! One mommy in particular, Penny, knew exactly how to woo the HT:

"No, Hot Tamale, sit down and look at Mrs. Gigi. Can you dance with us? Let's read this book. No, you can't eat it. [To me with utter confidence.] I have a little brother and a little sister. My mom really wanted a boy and he's the last one. I KNOW how to take care of babies."

Can I take you home in my diaper bag, Pretty Penny? Delicious! HT half listens to the days of the week and skip counting songs and half pesters the big boys (who really want to play with her but don't want the other big boys to know it). In just over four minutes my extra spicy Hot Tamale has demolished the morning routine.

The rest of our hour-long visit HT tippy toes around the room with an entourage of at least five kindergarteners giving her the down low on Oscar the Grouch, alphabet buckets, and how to use the in-class potty. Had P.E. not interrupted the morning, she would easily be reading Dr. Seuss by lunchtime.

Hot Tamale soaked in every ounce of attention showered on her. Hip hip hooray for our second best day ever!

I've got a lovely bunch of coconut...chocolates

Life is like a __________.

You know you said "box of chocolates" in a weird southern accent! Don't lie! My favorites are the cherry filled kind. Or the ones with oozing dark chocolate that you have to slurp. The carmel filled kind are mid-tier. But I hate the coconut ones and always put them back half eaten--not worthy of a trip to the garbage can. That trash is disgusting.

I desperately want to believe God doesn't dole out coconut chocolates when he's disappointed with me. Yes, I know I know I know! He doesn't work on tit-for-tat, you scratch my back I'll scratch yours basis. But when those coconut chocolates start rolling in by the truckload, that evil voice starts spouting, "Well, remember that time you did that thing you shouldn't have? What goes around comes around, honey!"

Let's just say we're in the Valley of Mounds with Almonds right now. Every day we are showered with our manna of chocolate covered coconut flakes and it just stinks. Since going back home we moved in with family, originally by choice but now out of necessity (more on how that happened later). Coordinating life with two adults and two itty bitty babies is confusing and challenging enough without adding doting grandrents and an unhealthy lump of guilt into the daily routine.

It could always be worse. We could have a life-threatening disease. Or be stranded in eel infested waters near the Cliffs of Insanity. But that kitchy silence filler never really comforted anyone. Tell somebody with Stage III cancer that they should be glad it isn't Stage IV. Oh I feel much better! Thank you!

Since suffering is relative, it's very believable that Hot Tamale's time out sentence is as traumatic for her as infertility is to a young couple. So my big battle right now is accepting that God wants more for me than a comfortable, house-wife with picket fence existence. It's pretty lame when I write it down since "it could always be MUCH worse." But I wrestle with so many parts of being an extended guest in someone else's house. Trying to keep it clean. Hiding my milk-making boobs. Finding storage for the kid crap. Maintaining a healthy relationship with Hubs. Truly loving people who are very different from me.

He has work to do through me living with my in-laws. That's clear. And he'll keep me here until that work is done. I get it! He cares far more for my soul than to leave it untested. If I can't be faithful with this tiny trial, what about when the levies really break? Just for the record: God, if you'd rather send me suffering to a beach hut in Costa Rica, I'll leave it all (the bouncy seat and everything) right now. We're talking Friday, May 21 1:45pm! Until then, I'll let you teach me how to love chocolate coconuts...

Blessed Lobotomy

Browsing through iPhoto is especially meaningful when kids come along.

"Pumpkin, who's this?"

"Dada!"

"Very good! Now how about this one?"

"Hah bout Baba!"

"Yes! That's Grandpa!"

But the best part of picture perusing is the complete lack of any painful memory. God, in his timeless wisdom and mercy, just knew that we'd just curl up and suffocate ourselves if we could feel even one tenth the pain of childbirth. Or the vacation where we got on each other's nerves. Instead, this memory will self-destruct after one scrapbook. The remnant is a beautiful, staged memory of the past.

Here are the best uncomfortable-but-the-picture-prooves-otherwise memories:

Two weeks after the Hot Tamale was born. My female parts are radiating fire! And I'm sucking in my stomach like I'm going to swim the English Channel under water.

Love this one! Aren't my children happy, fluttering and dancing in the breeze? That trash itches! Bluebonnets are ridiculously tall and every manner of biting beasty feasted on their smooth baby skin that day.

Remember that awesome scene where they dance around the fountain in Enchanted? That's us frolicking in the EXACT SAME SPOT in NYC! Nevermind that I had walked nearly six miles miles that day eight months pregnant. I was a ball 'o crabby patty all day.

So touching, so tender! Little Dude's first birthday! I have absolutely no recollection of pushing him through the birth canal ten minutes earlier. Literally two minutes before this doc was stitching away...

Five minutes before a torrential downpour and 60-degree weather. In West Texas. In May.

Whoops! That's actually a miracle--point not proven at all.

Only save the skinny, smiley pictures and voila! instant rosiness! Thank you, thank you, thank you for these gracious lobotomies!

The BIG girl bed

The crib is genius. Whatever caveman thought up the baby prison deserves a lifetime achievement award way more than Susan Lucci. Child yawns, walk her to her room, lay down in said jail and bliss! No worries about plummeting to a carpety death and no napping on me in slings. If we are huge fans of the crib, we enjoy hogging our beds just as much.

So when exactly does that moment come when baby needs her own bed? I'd just as soon wait until college but CPS might come poking around. The thing is Little Dude has grown far beyond his pack and play and needs her crib. He gobbled up a loaf of that "Eat Me" bread from the rabbit hole last week and nearly doubled in size. What are those animals that grow to fit their cage? Yeah, he's one of those. So...twin or toddler bed for the girl? Our thinking? When we get pregnant with triplets next time, I'd like for the nursery set to match, at least when they're older. So we'll order a toddler bed in the same finish as the crib set for easy-on-the-eyes room sharing decor.

Toddlerbeds.com is a pretty awesome place to order from--they have free shipping and no tax and great prices. If they'd like to pay me to say that I'll gladly wear a sandwich board, but for now the Cowboy will take care of it. [The bank card has a Dallas Cowboys logo on it, selected by a certain testosterone laden, chest painting member of our family...if you can't beat 'em...] Our Little Dude is in baby heaven, breast stroking his way around his new pad, but the Hot Tamale is another story.

My mom brings this blow up twin mattress for her to use while we wait for the bed to arrive. I bathe her, read several bible stories about Cheesus, and we walk to the new spot. "Oooo," she says. This is going to be a piece of cake. We lay down, sing a song, and I tell her who loves her. "If you need help, just say 'Momma' and I'll be right here." She's all smiles. I am such a good parent! Walk to door, "Nite, nite, honey." And as soon as the door clicks, the siren wailing begins followed by attempted jail break. She sprints to the door and bangs, yelling. Crap!

This was one of those parental forks in the road. Do I re-cuddle and risk an even bigger backlash? Do we tough it out and resist entry as long as possible? Eeesh. Not a good feeling. Lord, a little help!! I open the door and walk her back to the "oooo" big girl bed. "Lay your head down. It's time for nite nite." Second verse, same as the first. Double crap. Wait a little longer. Then open door and point to bed with my best teacher look. The Hot Tamale sprints back this time and puts her head on the pillow. That booger knows what to do--ha! I've got all night, honey.

Repeat two more times...do I really have all night? Yes! Be strong! After thirty minutes of rowdy play with the androgynous baby she passes out.

Missing baby prison already...

Four-mile First

Drumroll please...brrrrrrrrr...four miles straight! All on my own! Without a scooter! If you're just getting into this like I am, know that the first two miles are generally junk, which is why it takes so long to get to three miles consistently. If you can plow through twenty minutes of peanut butter, you'll be rewarded with a bearable finish. This new distance makes me want to eat a donut guilt-free. My next challenge...a marathon, yes? How awesome would that life experience be.


Watch it sister! If the only reason I want to run (ha! jog...slooooowly) a marathon is to say I did it, is it worth it? I don't know if I can mentally psyc myself out for going that distance for bragging rights. But truthfully, that isn't the only reason why. Here they are in order of importance:

1. "I ran a marathon." Wow! Really? Was it hard? Why would you do that? I enjoy answering these inevitable questions in my head. It's my acceptance speech at the Oscars or the perfect end zone dance.
2. I'm sick of elastic pants. I'm sick of forming my rolls into a giant donut on my stomach. And then making it talk. This isn't me in this body--let me out!
3. I want a physical representation of what God wants my spiritual life to look like.


Number three should be number one, and I have faith it will be near mile 22, but probably not a step too soon. This is a serious time commitment and if the end product is an aborted after baby, perhaps that time could be used differently. Paul likens the Christian walk to running, finishing the race strong. The few times I've run longish distances I never felt this more tangibly.


Still toying with the idea. Maybe a half is more reasonable, but how lame is that.
"I ran a half marathon."
"Were'd the other half go?"
You're funny, random sideline heckler.

What's the dill, pickle?

My hot tamale train,

I always had it in mind to start writing to you in utero, but you'll see someday that great intentions don't always pan out like you want them to. Eventually, with the Holy Spirit, you'll be able to not judge me for crap I do or don't do.

You crack me up! And then make me cry--but only on the inside so far. You're flexing your independence wings and very nearly taking flight. This mock hitting thing has got to stop, though. Yes, I can tell you are crossing the line and, no, you can fake like you're burping me and get away with it. Time out, just like in the Olivia book.

Let's see...for nearly three hours straight you walked on your tippy-toes. Your Grammy and I don't see how since you inherited Grandma Lucy's teensy feet. Some other favorites for you right now are:

1. Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus--girl, you rock OUT to that one! And everytime it's like the first time you hear it! "Put your hands up they're playing my song, let the butterflies fly away!"
2. Brother's hands/hair/mouth/tummy--you just can't get enough of him. He doesn't always appreciate the extreme love and someday you'll get what's coming to you.
3. Ming Ming is still in your graces, although Tuck (aka Cut) is wooing you to the turtle dark side.
4. Counting to 20, then shouting "again!"
5. Circles are everywhere. Yes, I see them too!
6. Chee and cackas.
7. Waking up at 5:52. We'll get you an alarm clock, babe, because that trash needs to stop.
8. Asking for Babba and Grandma. They will come home eventually, I promise.
9. Duck Duck Moose is a savior to iPhone moms everywhere. Itsy Bitsy and Wheels on the Bus get picked most often.
10. Milk or awa?

Thank your daddy for the nite nite duties tonight so I could go for a jog. I still feel guilty when I don't tuck you in at night, but I'm just a room away if you need me! Don't forget, Jesus will always get there before I do...

ciao baby

How to have a family outing

I timed it today. 4.5 minutes to get the kids unbuckled, strapped on, and carried/wrapped/punted into the store. And that was pushing it. Is it too much to ask to run through the fabric store without an army of crap and at least one tantrum?? Going anywhere with kids is tantamount to a sprint triathlon. In Texas. In the summer. When people drown in their own sweat walking from the front door to the car. At this moment in my mommy journey I only reserve trips out of the house for speedy, 5-minute grocery runs or other mom houses--basically anything where I can swing an easy exit with minimal collateral damage.

Claire on Modern Family said it beautifully after heading out with the fam to Hawaii--"Honey, I'm on vacation with my children. This isn't romantic. It's a business trip." Yup. That fits like a pair of good jeans. No longer am I running errands. I'm a field trip coordinator. There is a specific list of schtuff every mommy goes through before heading out the door with children. Here's mine:

• Diaper Bag--Don't you dare trust that what you stuffed in there last time is still there. That trash grows legs. Here's what should have been in my bag this morning: wipes, diapers (at least 3 per bottom), more wipes, spare clothes, snacks, other snacks in case those snacks are no good, baby spoon, at least two small toys that can clip to an infant seat, spare mommy shirt for inevitable projectile vomit, formula dispenser, bottle, hooter hider, bottled water, sippy cup of water, bib, sunblock, disposable placemat from Chick-fil-a, hairband, cell phone, wallet. What was actually in my bag? Four dirty baby spoons, the dog collar, a yogurt encrusted finger puppet, and five dead cheerios. Get that lifeline in order while the kids are napping in the morning. Check.
• Kid Transport--Double? Single? Umbrella? Infant carrier? I opted for the shopping cart for toddler and Baby B'jorn for Little Dude, but reluctantly. I hate the Baby B'jorn. Not only does it have a I'm-a-gay-dad-in-Manhattan name, but I read somewhere that they used as a torture device in the sixteen century. At any rate it's vastly quicker than a wrap so short term shopping with it is moderately bearable.
• Food--What a lovely day? Let's have a picnic! Really? Think through this. Blanket to sit on, food chopped/prepared/bagged and loaded in a cooler. Don't forget to put the cooler in the car. That's a good 20 minutes. Now we need the stroller. Let's load that up. 5 minutes. A couple more toys for entertainment.

Pulling up to JoAnn's, there are no cart return stations. Normally I'd park next to one of those so I can still be near the kids and be a responsible cart user. Nope! Not today! We're going to leave it on a grassy island. I leave the car running (since I can cook an egg on the sidewalk in this infernal climate) and unbuckled the Dude. Strap on aforementioned Bee-yorn and thread his little legs down through the bottom. Shut door and walk to other side. Take out Dudette from her car seat--the lot is busy and she is 19 months old so, no, she won't be walking. That means carrying her as well. Shut door. Open passenger side door and grab diaper bag. Shut door. Return to driver's side and turn off vehicle--don't forget to put keys in the diaper bag. Check. Cross busy lot loaded with kid and bag. 4.5 minutes. Whew!

Won't even go there with the picnic...

Fat, Not Pregnant: 8 Things Most People Won't Tell You About Having Babies

Of the many pieces of advice thrust upon me during those long months before baby arrived, by far the best came from my friend Joy. "It will take you a while to lose the weight." No big shocker there. But then seeing my misunderstanding, she qualified that with, "No, you'll look a good five months pregnant for several weeks." Now there's a new thought. Because some extra rolls clinging to my abs is one thing, but now even the shape of my body will be different? What about that "deliverance" from pregnancy? How long does this after baby stick around? Maybe that won't happen to me.

So when I find myself an hour after Olivia squeezed through the birth canal, buck-naked in the bathroom with the nurse helping me change gowns and clean left over inner thigh goo, my first thought looking into the mirror was get-this-fat-suit-off-me. Forget second trimester, we're talking a full seven months pregnant form. Fluid, schmulid. I'm huge.

It takes a good two weeks for the moon-pie face aura to dissipate, another four for the uterus to snuggle back in your pelvis, and what's left is yours to keep. Contrary to my assumption, pregnancy fat is just as (if not more) authentic than Twinkie fat. There's no fat fairy twirling about granting speedy weight loss to new moms and casting anti-aerobic spells on paunchy middle-agers. Fat is fat and working it off takes an equal amount of commitment.

So five days after our second child graced us (a mere 14 months later) I wasn't surprised when the chick behind me in a burrito joint gleefully asked when I was due. Had she not been seven months pregnant herself, more than words would have been exchanged, but I tried to think about Jesus and keep my wrath in check. What followed was a graphic description of the birthing process--including the I'm-sitting-on-barbed-wired-fence-and-can't-get-off feeling that lingers for weeks--as well as my friend Joy's advice that she'd look equally disgusting for quite some time post-baby. After all, we ladies were promised a heinous delivery process, thanks to Eve and that apple, so I chalked my education lesson up to Biblical revelation. The poor girl turned a ghastly yellow, murmured something about charro beans, and slipped out sans burrito.

Comb through every pink What to Expect book at Barnes and Noble--no one will probably told you these things about your impending birth and aftermath. Bear in mind that, just like every other mom who isn't sharing your experience right now, you too will forget any of it happened.

1. People who tell you they loved being pregnant were probably institutionalized. Or should have been.

Their hair felt thick. Skin glowed. Trumpets roared. Madonna and Child. How fun it was to feel the baby kick! They got to eat anything for nine months! Feel free to call these people at 3 a.m. when Junior is kicking the crap out of your kidneys. Or when walking up a flight of stairs sends daggers through your sciatic nerve. Invite them to vomit with you thirteen weeks straight. And don't even get me started on stretch marks. Yes, that baby is precious. Getting there is not. God says so.

2. You can't shave for at least two months.

At the end of your term, forget trying to shave. There's not a razor long enough to reach those ankles and you won't care anyway. Just give it up completely at the end and get your husband to shave for you before you head to the hospital.

3. At some point, your entire wardrobe will not fit.

Buying maternity garb is a much more fun pursuit these days than in the bygone tent-fashion era, but never buy for "down the road". Buy for this month and make sure it's a big on the loose side. Always avoid pants with the thinner elastic band in the third trimester. They cut off circulation and roll down like a canoli.

4. When other moms ask you about your pregnancy, they usually use as an excuse to talk about their experience.

They're listening for any break in the conversation so they can describe their third degree episiotomy. Or how much they miss being pregnant. It comes with the territory--I do the same thing.

5. It really hurts when the doc breaks your water before the epidural.

The first go around I was already juiced up and it just felt like peeing myself in a deep sleep. NOT SO with Little Dude. That trash hurts!! Ask about it ahead of time--maybe the first doc shouldn't have done it, but I sure appreciated the soft opening to labor.

6. The pain inflicted by the baby exiting your body lasts for weeks.

Weeks and weeks of bleeding and you're supposed to put on a Madonna and Child face for the parade of intruders, er visitors, who all want a piece of you. Pain pills will be your best friend so don't be afraid to pop 'em. And the more kids you have, the more excruciating it is for your uterus to spasm shrink as you breastfeed the first few weeks. Really painful cramps! Ouch!

7. The epidural makes your legs feel like rubber chicken thighs.

Giant, Godzilla-sized drumsticks. Next time I'll ask if the doc can just unscrew them for a while until pushing starts. Get your husband to give you a shave if you start labor at home or the morning before a scheduled induction. You'll feel way better.

8. Get ready to enjoy your maternity clothes for several months.

After having Irish twins I'm just getting back into non-elastic waistband clothing. Relearning how to button and zip.

Fast forward three months after number two. I've managed to corral two tiny kids into the local children's museum and, somehow, find ourselves in the dreaded paint corner. I connect with another harried gal who's sporting a pregnancy top with a belly to match along with her year-and-a-half old daughter. After chitchat about new words our girls are spouting, I eyeball her bump. Perfectly round, slim legs and arms. Lucky chick. And then I hear myself asking, so when is the next one due? Due? No, she's forty-three and it's just taking a long time for the weight to come off. Two flushed faces, some stammering, and a speedy exit later, I realize I've become burrito girl.

Mirror, Mirror

So, I wrote this piece last year right after I got knocked up with my second. It's mushy, full of sentiment, and it flew out of me like those bats in New Mexico. It was written for more of a paper publication, but I never had the guts to submit it and face rejection. I'd rather just hold on to it like Gollum and his ring. I just quoted Lord of the Rings. Sorry for that. I hope you can identify with a morsel of it:

I found myself staring at the mirror five months after my daughter was born wondering two things. 1.) Who is that bloated chick staring back at me with a fat suit strapped to her midsection? 2.) Have I made a colossal mistake staying home with her? The first one was warranted a quick cackling "I'll get you my half marathon body, and your tight tushy too." The second one haunted me. Mostly with guilt and a good amount of shame. That I would even doubt my current mom status, the freedom from time clocks and button up starch, really bugged me. Having that thought kept me awake many nights afterward wondering if I should tell my husband, book a therapist, or just paste on a fake smile.

My husband knew something was up. Would I want to go back to work? Do I need time to myself? How about a mother's day out program? The most honest answer I could have given him at the time was yes; I want to go back to work.

Let me start by saying that we didn't win the lottery to "allow" me to be a stay-at-home-mom. My husband earns a modest, not extravagant, salary, we share the same ten-year-old vehicle, and our current residence is an 1,100 square foot apartment on the third floor. No picket fence or plushed-out Odyssey with drop down entertainment cube. A move for me to quit my job is a sacrifice on many fronts. We knew it and are reminded of it each of the thirty-four steps it takes to make the ascent home.

Back to my awkward mirror staring, I have deep struggling that makes me question my role. While I don't regret the decision to stay home, I wonder at the emotional struggle facing me in the gut. Yes, I want to go back to work. Not that teaching is the most enriching, career climbing path. I could leave the polite educator of the year nominations, atta girl emails, and the I'm-so-glad-I-got-you-as-my-teacher's. Although it would be great to bring home some bacon (obviously it would help) that isn't central either.

To be given an assignment, finish it with excellence, and check it off a list gives me a rush. I glean extreme satisfaction from task completion. If working in the corporate world is meticulous and measurable, motherhood is the absolute antithesis. No matter how hard I try, gauging success in parenting is impossible--not in a child's sleep schedule, eating quality, or development. No amount of documentation can identify every problem and solution in Babyland. To be a mother you must only be, not do.

So combine my type-Aism and newly crowned role as caretaker to the nonverbal and you have a borderline depressed individual. Whereas my husband and I were on equal professional footing prior to said bundle of joy, we have morphed into what feels like a subordinate/superior work relationship. And I have the good, family-involved, supportive variety who encourages girls nights out. Yes, I would like to go back to work. But should I?

When I decided to go for the plunge two weeks later and consider job applications and day care, still another feeling crept in. This one wasn't as much self-loathing as the tingling sensation after downing half a bottle of Tums. If I were to go back to the time card punching work force, what deep desire would I be looking to satisfy? How is that life more fulfilling than the mommy kind? My answer was as obvious as the baby weight perched on my hips. I don't feel worthy being "just" a mom.

To make matters worse, the people I've confided in encouraged me to do what makes me happy, a popular yet odd euphemism. Eating five gallons of mint chocolate chip ice cream would make me happy. Hopping on a plane to Italy would make me happy. Even leaving my life seems to offer happiness sometimes. The problem is happy is like a pretty fireworks display. It bursts, colorful and exuberant, igniting smiles and taste of ripe watermelon; then leaves a musty, degenerating skeleton that fades into the nighttime abyss. Happy is deceiving and very temperamental. To pursue it relentlessly it leaves an exhaustion that only steadfast joy can relieve. People who thrive on happiness alone end up with three spouses and a leased convertible.

So if I were to do what makes me happy today, it probably won't do the trick tomorrow. What if I am meant to be my daughter's primary caretaker, whether I want to or not? What if I am the only person on the planet designed to fit that role; that no other person, no matter how benevolent and loving, can even come close to filling my shoes, even on my worst day? Because I only get one shot to share a juicy pineapple with her for the first time. Or teach her how to drink from a straw. Or see a huge toothy grin when she dips her tiny toes in the apartment pool. Simply put: I can, so I should. Not just on the weekends, but everyday.

I don't miss work. I miss the fake feeling of value that comes with a wage. I miss my grande soy lattes and late night movies. I miss size 6 jeans. Yet I know what I don't want to miss the next time I stare into a mirror. Days saturated with airplane leg rides, belly laughs, tears, and mouthfuls of blueberries. From the mundane to the firsts, this fat chick needs to be there.

Is this another one of those?

Why does the world need another attention starved, woe-yet-blessed-am-I-to-be-a-mom wannabe writer? No reason! Google something else. Please! I sure would. This is a painfully generic attempt to vomit thoughts that keep me tossing at 1:32 every night. A verbal expression of my monthly treadmill exorcism.

I'm a mom to two (hope to be four or five or six) kids, wife to the most patient man in at least three centuries, and a self-employed copy writer. We moved back home to College Town, USA and enjoy shedding the past seven years of big city bling and garbage.

It took me several years to finally accept that I'm not original. Then another several more to be ok with it. I'll leave the serious creativity to God and praise him when he lets me piddle with stuff that's has a hint of His fingerprint. The most sincere thing I've produced that has me written all over is is my daughter, and I have no idea how those little swimmers managed to jitterbug their way into a baby.

At this precise moment I'm "working" at Chick-fil-a, and for those of you who don't know, it's the superior quick food joint in the nation. No, this is not a discussion. Chickfuls puts real chicken on real buns and serves it with a sweet side of "it's my pleasure." If you even try to disagree, at the very least, you aren't human. Or lost your taste buds in a freak laser accident. In which case you probably don't have mobility of your tongue. I'm sorry for you, freak laser accident victim.

Here's what we can work toward together:

• I'll try to be honest with you, but I won't make any promises. I can't even be 100% transparent with my husband. What makes you think I can get to the bottom of the deep end of the pool (the side under the high dive) in a blog?
• Most of what I'll put here is boring. But then there's a good amount of sanctity in what we'd call daily crap. I think it's worth discussing.
• I will write or put something here every day.
• I won't mention any names, but I will put pictures up. If they are of you and you don't want them posted, that's just stupid. Unless you're in an official witness protection program I don't think I'll do anything about it. You're really not that big of a deal. Plus I probably won't get around to doing much picture taking anyway.
• My children will be poached for content and I won't apologize for it. Like pimped out child stars that never make any money. Those stage moms are crazy and I'll not damage their reputation.
• Feel free to comment. I don't want to live this life alone and your words let me know that I'm not the only loony on the block.

Enough for now. I'm supposed to be working. Whatever that means.