Having 19 Kids would be Awesome! If...

Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar have 19 biological children.

How in the crap does she do that??? Oh, and she homeschools. OH, and the family, um kids and parents, built their 7,000 square foot home. What the crap?

I did some digging around on these Duggars. No, I didn't just watch one episode of their TLC show 19 Kids and Counting. I've seen about 15 episodes and read their book. Here's what idiots who like to spew without facts say about them and how I'd respond based on my (voyeuristic) observations:

1. Don't they know about birth control?

Yes, they do. Michelle took birth control early in their marriage when they thought they'd have 2 or 3 kids. But she miscarried after having her first son and realized the birth control she was taking contributed to that. That would be enough for me to change my mind. Birth control is a booger! Ladies, you know how annoying it is to remember to take the pill. Plus those nasty brown spots on your skin pop up. And dishing out $40 a month for that trash? I'd rather make babies too. In fact, I am!

2. They need to stop contributing to overpopulation.

I taught public school. Anyone who's been to a mall in the last month would agree that a little abstinence from people who don't love their Creator wouldn't hurt. An overpopulation of greedy, self-centered brats does nothing to honor God. I'd prefer folks who collect babies like Webkinz, whether they make 2 or 19, to please stop. But watch a Duggar episode and you'll see these kids are respectful, put others before themselves, and put God before it all. Mom isn't yelling at her children, Dad kisses her when he comes home, and they have devotionals every night. Oh the scandal! Mamma Duggar, please have 10 more!

3. It's not fair that the older kids have to take care of the younger ones.

I don't think it's fair you let your kid get addicted to video games. Or be a family moocher. Or graduate with nothing more than useless, forgotten book facts. 51% of high school seniors flunked a basic personal finance exam. The average college graduate is a complete idiot with zero real experience. The Duggars learn about construction (they built their paid-for "mansion" together over 3 years), child care, education, nursing, restaurant management, budgeting, and most importantly the Word of God. Way to go for encouraging your kids to contribute more than disobedient back-talk to the family!

4. They are a burden on society.

While everyone else stupidly "bought" a sick amount of house with no money and then cursed the bank when THEY couldn't make their increased ARM, the Duggars pay cash for everything. Cars, businesses, land, and HOUSES. And no, their parents aren't wealthy. They made huge sacrifices early on to accept having children without knowing if they would have enough space or money to take care of them. They lived in a 2-bedroom house with six children. Then, when they had enough cash saved they bought (outright!) their second and third (the pre-fab mansion) houses. On one income! Michelle homeschools her children and doesn't take advantage of the public school system they generously fund with property taxes. Their children will, in turn, become responsible people who encourage others to do the same.

Kids are NOT burdens! Our culture treats them like collectibles or expendables, but Psalm 127:3 says Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward.

5. Girls wear long skirts and have weird long hair.

And your kids wear black and get piercings. Modest skirts! Shirts that don't show 2 inches of boob! Call the authorities!!! I think this is an individual family decision. While I don't look like they do, if they're convicted to dress the way they do and it honors God, awesome!

6. Those people need to stop breeding like rabbits.

You need to carefully look at each of those children before you compare them to rabbits. They are children of a God who knew them by name and tell you how many hairs are on each of their heads, way more valuable than animals. According to the Duggars, they didn't start their married life intending to populate a school room. It was a decision they made to take how ever many children God brought to them...by enjoying the heck out of each other physically! How is your bedroom life? And the phrase "in God's time" when it refers to babies is ridiculous when birth control is involved. If you're convinced that it's truly "in God's time" doesn't birth control completely negate that? I'm not commanding you to go commando, but at least admit that you're taking matters into your own hands.

7. They had to do a reality show just to pay for the kids.

This is just ill-informed drivel. The only contributions TLC made to the house was hiring a designer to pick colors for their house and helping out with landscaping. Everything else was paid by them.

8. With 19 kids, how would you ever get to know them.

Since Michelle homeschools, she's with her children most of every day. Consider that your children go to a randomly chosen school, sit in rooms with 30 random kids, and get taught by a stranger who may or may not like his job and subject. Then your kids do hours of homework before falling into bed. You get the worst piece of your children while complete strangers teach them things you may not agree in a room full of THIRTY influential (for the best or worst) other peers.

My hope is that this family would challenge us to really think about our notion that 2.5 children is more than enough. That if God truly blesses people with children, then our conception of what children actually "need" is far off the mark than what they really deserve. Please pray about this. I know I am.

New Beginnings

If I'm in a room of kids and adults, I'll always end up with the kids. The reason being: kids are accepting, quick to forgive, and quick to love. They don't judge my shirt stains or whisper that I've put on a few pounds.

This is why when we bear children, there's this exciting part of us that feels we have a second chance. These new beings know absolutely nothing about us. They don't know the stupid stuff we did in college or that we cussed out our parents. We take great pains to create a new version of ourselves for them. Mom knows how we gossiped with the best of them in junior high, but these tiny folks don't.

Don't believe me? People who guzzle gallons of Coke insist their Precious only have water or milk. Great, sailor-worthy swearers take a bar of Dial to their mouths around Junior. Having kids is the only time we truly get a clean slate. A potential do-over to avoid screwing them up like our parents did to us.

Aside from knowing Christ.

It's beyond difficult to understand that God sees his son when he looks at me. He knows I seek comfort in food, worry about stuff that doesn't matter, and waste time he's given to me--but accepts me because I ask him to be my friend. He knows all the ugly stuff, that nobody else could imagine about me, and still pursues my heart. A twisted part of me wants my kids to love me like that without knowing my past, but with half a brain they'll see through the facade after a few short years. They accept me in a passionate, I-don't-give-a-rip-what-others-think-of-me way.

I'm learning from the way they adore me to love God.

I do get a new beginning, but I can't look to my kids for that. Only God issues do-overs.

Attack of the Drone

If you've ever been a teacher or parent (or a dude in front of a football game) you have surrendered to the dreaded automaton voice aka Drone Speech.

I've noticed it creeping up the last two weeks since the Hot Tamale is really pushing the behavior envelope. When I used to work in prison, er public school, ten seconds into Drone Speech would completely unravel classroom discipline. In the family arena, the voice materializes around 4:30 when tempers, dinner, and thinning patience converge. Drone speech invades everyone at one point or another, sometimes in the form of nagging, but not all nagging is automated. I nag vigorously with flare most of the time.

Some people don't even know they have this capability for Drone Speech! Others use it EXCLUSIVELY!!! (And annoy the watchuzis out of the rest of us!!)

How do you know when you're infected with it??

1. Your voice sounds about a half octave higher.

2. You use the words "ok" and "ready" way too much.

3. The children or folks being addressed are completely oblivious to the words coming out of your mouth.

4. You move very quickly and find it hard to focus your eyes.

5. M-o-n-o-t-o-n-e.

We're (God and I) working on identifying when I start to talk like one of those pull-string toys and zipping it shut before it annoys people, namely Hubs and the HT. SkippyDon would heart me even if talked through a creepy voice modulator--he's no yardstick for my parenting success.

Maybe it's as close to an out-of-body experience as we can get, this Drone Speech, because when it turns on I feel about a second behind the present. Deliberate, intentionally chosen, seasoned speech is 80% of discipline. Shoot, it's 80% of relationships! I must slow down, stop to think, and forget pushing my agenda when the Hot Tamale starts to freak out or it gets as nasty as day-old fries.

SLOW DOWN. Breathe. Pray. And focus. The other stuff can wait.

FREEEEEEEEDOM!!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you, service men for making it possible for us!

We take it for granted every day.

Happy 4th everybody!

My Apologies to the Elderly

Wheelchair users, blue hair lovers, and nursing home gangs beware! The Hot Tamale WILL freak out fifty yards away from you!

Naughty Grandma is doing a bang up job when she watches the kiddies every Wednesday and Thursday morning. She straps them in a stroller and wheels them a couple blocks down to a retirement community to expand their horizons. Visions of sweet little ones crafting God's Eyes and lovingly gifting them to the infirm and lonely brings a lump of choked-up-ness to my throat.

Hooray for soul beauty!

Our spicy munchkin has other plans for these hearing impaired folks. Mom pushes them up to a man who's fishing in the community catch-and-release. "Say hi, sweetie." Terror! Sheer horror! Gnashing, clawing, get-me-outta-here-or-he'll-kill-me-with-his-freeze-ray looks (or so the Naughty Gma says).

The Fish Man makes it worse, poor thing. "Well hi there little fella!" (Talking to her but clearly not noticing the long hair and pink shirt.) Claps three times right in her face. Oh no. Not good. More terror-filled agony. So the elderly gentleman leans closer in. "Whatsa matter?" Even more yelling! "Can I showya howda fish?" By this time any aquatic dweller within five miles has found a hiding spot well beyond diving range.

This charade continues on for a few minutes until the Naughty gives some lame excuse about lunch.

Fast forward to this weekend--our visit with the Great Grandfolks. My Hot Tamale did her best to make her Great Grandfather feel like a two-headed, tarred and feathered leper. At least he didn't realize it was him she was fearing. She sprinted away from him at every sighting shouting, "No? no? no?!?" By the end of two days she barely mustered a bye-bye wave.

What is it with kids and older people? Why do they freak out?!? Maybe it's the way they tend to invade space, or their smell, or the slow way they talk. Maybe kids act the way some of us feel when WE visit with the elderly. My dear HT, we both need some work here. We'll get comfortable around older folks, I promise! After all, we'll be walking in their shoes before we know it!

Unca Monkey

My sweet, sweet pea! My dancing queen! Sunup to sundown you thrill me with new words, new looks, and new naughties!

Match the Hot Tamalified word to their less creative meanings:

A. Paco 1. downstairs

B. Unca Monkey 2. spoon

C. Chuch 3. Church

D. Ah wub vew 4. Red Mango

E. dow tairs 5. I love you.

F. poons 6. Uncle Marty

G. Gang goo 7. Thank you

That LOOK on your face! You have a deliciously devilish ME look. Congrats--the teacher stare is genetic, like webbed fingers or long noses. Just know that I will always have had more practice making it and will win EVERY time in our little showdowns.

Dunking in the pool--listen to me! On THREE your hold your mouth closed because we're going under, got it?? Not four, not seven, not twenty-two, THREE. When we go tomorrow we'll practice more. You're very close to getting it.

Favorite song: Chug-a-lug by Roger Miller

You dance like the roof is coming down! Tippy toes, spins, crazy head movements, all very Cunningham-ish, which is, well, not the Latin side of you I'm afraid. The best part is the beginning when they yell "Whoop whoop whoop whoop".

Hot Tamale, you know EXACTLY where Red Mango is and start having a fit a block out. Dad's Toxic Skittle doesn't hold a candle to my Key Lime Delight.

SkippyDon and you have a good thing going. You are so patient with him on too-long car rides when he loses it. You pat his arm and say "goo goo ga ga" and then both of you laugh. It makes me want to pull over and video tape it, but we both know you won't do it for the camera.

We are entering a new phase in our lives, honey bun. The reign of SELF! You will soon see that the world doesn't spin on your pinky, that other people not only have needs, but that you need to put them before your own, and that no means no. This will be very painful and involve a good number of tears, but just know that God will pull you out of that pit if you ask him to. You'll even enjoy it more that looking out for number 1! Even though I will mess up many, many times, I have your soul in mind, which is way bigger than soda pop-flavored jelly beans.

I think my next note to you will document these times of "sharpening" or "growing". It should be good.

Love you, love you, love you! Get some sleep.

Barista Blessing

I earned a nice, steamy lump of coal on my head yesterday.

[Since stupid Starbucks doesn't offer free wifi (not yet, but word has it they're caving--ha HA!) I headed to Hastings, a really cool college town video/book/music megastore. Needless to say, it's not Starbucks quality. I knew my 16 oz. decaf soy no foam latte would be substandard, but still. Anything over $3 that doesn't have adult-only juice better be at least decent.]

I stare at the menu board (fully knowing my order but unable to prevent the obligatory gawking) then ask if they have soy. The Barista or Coffee Creator or whatever burns through my face with Queen Victoria's best and smirks. "No."

So what that soy is clearly listed as an option? This chick stole my stare! That's my look!

I reluctantly impart the espresso orders, adding a few extra adjectives for good measure, and then...that look...again! Sheesh. This is the worst customer service ever. Starbucks baristas give footrubs with one hand and delight you with quips about the cooling rate of milk while they whip up a beverage. What got into her? Exchange change without a single word and slink to a booth, avoiding all eye contact. I wouldn't put it past her to spit in my drink. Better keep an eye on her.

So I pick up said beverage and, no surprise, it's terrible. At least I'll get some internet for my $4.25 cup 'o bitter.

As soon as I sit back down another customer approaches the counter. He has a limp and a speech impediment. His speech is slow. And it's clear that this isn't the first time he's been here. Oh great. This chick's gonna rip a whole in him.

But as I spy on their conversation, this hardened, lousy latte maker transforms. She asks him how his day is going and knows him by name. They chat about her upcoming wedding, his favorite movie, and the ridiculous heat. And just at the point that gets uncomfortable for most people, she parks it on a stool outside the counter and lets the barrage of questions continue. She talks to him in a respectful, yet simple manner so he understands. She beautifully preserves his dignity. This continues for 40 minutes. He follows her as she wipes the tables and restocks drip coffee, all without a hint of unease. He leaves reassuring her that he'll be back tomorrow.

Should any of my children enter the world a bit slower, a bit more talkative, a bit socially unaware, I pray that they meet this wonderful woman who makes dreadful non-soy lattes. I pray that people like me (who forget that baristas have souls and exist for purposes greater than making my hot beverage) would not judge, as I did in such an ugly and superficial way.

God bless you, barista babe.

To Boob or to Bottle

Is it really that big a deal to wean SkippyDon Juan from the boob?

Yes!!!!

La leche leaguers--don't judge me on this.

It's like choosing menopause, I think. Far more than pregnancy, this is the one area that I feel Hubs has zero connection with. The thing is we're headed to sunny Me-hee-co in a month and it will be a total drag if I have to milk myself in between pina coladas. Plus the extra room in the bag that Sucky Airline will charge $30 for. Let's see...I can work on weight loss more aggressively without being the sole life force for SkippyDon. Don't have to worry about the is-he-isn't-he-getting-enough ever-present question. The bottle doesn't lie or dry up on a bad day. No more suspicious nipple-area wetness in public.

But it's so hard to give up! I like burning 250 calories for nothing and relying on those dangling melons for something other than ogling. I like seeing my son enjoy eating in such a nurturing environment and not having to whip up a bottle in the wee morning hours. Plus it actually feels good! I totally see why the hippie moms breastfeed until their darlings are 48 months.

I'm leaning toward exclusive bottle, as much as it pains me. I feel like we're ready, even though we could probably make it a bit more. The Hot Tamale and I made it 3 months, we're up to 6 with SkippyDon, so Numero 3 will be a 9-monther, no? Maybe I'll feel better about my mothering if I can make that happen.

For now, my tiny chunky hunk, we'll keep going for at least a little while longer...

Chug-a-lug

The current musical fav in the house is...drumroll please...Roger Miller's Chug-a-Lug. Let's take a guess as to who introduced the Hot Tamale to this American gem...anybody? Yes, the Naughty Grandma has pimped out a song about underage drinking to my 20-month old and she loves it.

"Chug! Chug"

Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug

Makes you wanna holler hidey ho!

Burns your tummy don't cha know.

Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug

And we are referring to moonshine here.

Hot Tamale's little brownish body contorts into a whitey, non-rhythm moving toddler rockin' out to redneck country. She gets low, she claps, she sways, but never on any beat. That little thing is Steve Martin in The Jerk. I never thought I'd pine for Miley Cyrus, but I'd give anything for a Hoedown Throwdown right about now. Oh no, here she goes again.

"Chug! Chug!"

Psycho Running: A Play

The conversation that took place in my head during a jog yesterday:

(Girl walks half mile to bridge and stretches, a bit longer than needed to avoid the impending run.)

Voice: Wow it's muggy today. Sure you wanna do this?

(Girl fiddles with iPhone, setting playlist and RunKeeper to start. Ignores voice.)

Voice: You've stretched enough, right? Let's get to it so we can get home and pig out on dark chocolate. Any day now. Remember earlier when you had two bowls of cereal? That run you're about to do will barely pay for that. And then there were those three chicken nuggets.

Girl: We're not doing this today.

Voice pauses thoughtfully, then gently adds--

Voice: Maybe you should go back and let that food settle a bit more. Don't they say that you should wait between 2-4 hours? You ate barely over an hour ago. Wouldn't that be bad for your digestion?

Girl: It will be dark then. No. Like you said, let's get to it. For the chocolate (smirks).

Voice: It's your body. Destroy it if you want.

Girl jogs a half mile in relative quiet noticing the puddles and torn branches left over from a storm the previous night. Her body feels awkward and slightly off. A car drives by.

Voice: Did you seen them look at you? They think your grandma walks faster than this. We're not that far from home. Want to turn around?

Girl: No, it doesn't matter. The first two miles are junk. Just make it through the first two miles and it will feel better. You'll see.

Voice: But don't you think it's weird that this feels so heavy today? Maybe you're developing an injury. Every step you take is making it worse. Ooo! Feel that? There it is again! That's your, um, whatever tendon straining. It really would be better to do this tomorrow. Why don't we walk home and-

Girl: No. We've almost made it a mile. Half-way through the junk.

Voice: Suit yourself.

A few moments pass.

Voice: Say, didn't your aunt--the one who's a physical therapist--tell you that running is the most stressful thing you can do to a body? That humans aren't designed for it? If you want to do something that you aren't designed to do-

Girl: I do!

Voice: That's fine with me. I'm just saying, if you want to train for something, why not train for a cycling race or swimming thing, whatever they do. You can still stop now and make it back sooner than if you finished running the course today. Pause. You're not a quitter. You know that. This wouldn't be quitting. It would be, um, postponing.

Girl: It's just one step at a time. One foot in front of the other. Don't look at the course. Look two steps ahead. I've made it almost halfway there besides.

Voice: Yeah, but look how tired you are. You still have half the course to go. And you really need water. Is there a water fountain around? No? Maybe you should slow down a bit and take it easy. Don't want to get dehydrated and-

Girl: But it doesn't matter.

Voice: Yeah, like it won't matter when they find you blacked out in the gutter. It may start to rain again and you'll slip right down there with the water moccasins. They'll look for days and you'll be dead with the snakes. Great plan.

Girl ignores Voice. Each step is more challenging as she moves ahead. For several minutes Voice is silent. She starts to feels the weight of a slight incline and tires quickly.

Voice: How about you just walk the incline?

Girl: That would be quitting. I don't quit.

Voice: Come on, just once? It won't hurt. You'll get right back into it tomorrow. You'll even go farther then. But if you push it too much today you won't do so well tomorrow. It's up to you. Walking is cross training. You need cross training to become a good runner. Did you do any cross training last week? No? Why not do it now to catch up!

Girl: Shut up.

Voice: This is your pain sensor yelling at you! You're telling me to shut up?!?

Girl: I'm not in pain.

Voice: That's what you think! You're twenty-five pounds overweight and trying to train for a marathon. Do you really think you can do this?

Girl: But it doesn't matter...but it doesn't matter...

Voice: If you can't even complete three miles easily, how will you do ten, fifteen, TWENTY-SIX?!? You're really not a runner. Look at those ankles.

Girl: I'll show you. Shut up.

Voice pauses for dramatic effect. It speaks sweetly in a mothering tone.

Voice: I just want you to be happy. Does this make you happy? Can you honestly tell me you are happy doing this.

Girl: Happy is temporary. Discipline makes joy.

Voice is at a loss for words at the moment. Girl doesn't like the song on her iPhone.

Voice: I know you don't like that song. Why don't you stop and change it? That stupid phone always goes on standby so soon. Just a quick break and fast forward.

Girl: No.

Voice: No, I know you don't want to stop. This isn't stalling, it's adjusting your settings. Is there some law against changing your playlist?

No answer. The Voice continues to wait several more minutes.

Voice: My, my. Look at that mileage.

Girl: Half a mile from home. You proud?

Voice: Absolutely. You've made incredible progress. Waits a bit and then, softly. Maybe you've done enough for the day. Two and a half miles is great! Remember when you could only jog thirty seconds at a time? What an accomplishment.

Girl: Yes it is. A few more minutes.

Voice: But don't you need a cool down? Six minutes is a good amount of time to cool down. You wouldn't want to overheat. Just eat less chocolate and call it a night.

Girl: Finish strong. I'll complete what I start. Keep your mouth shut.

Voice: Well, suit yourself. Ooo! See that water fountain? Run over to it and take a sip! Wow it's humid tonight!

Girl smiles slightly and ignores Voice.

Voice: There's really no need to go all the way. Just a fourth of a mile left? Why are you so legalistic?

Girl smiles bigger, striding confidently.

Voice: That's far enough, really. Let's stretch, you know, to work out the kinks in those legs.

Girl completes run.

Voice: Just remember how tired you are. Next time will be even harder. I'm just saying.

Boobalicious

Haul out several giant soap boxes. Stack them several stories high. Climb on top. Here we go.

Boobs have really received the slimy banana peel end of far too many jokes, songs, commercials, and lurid photography. Because of all this feminine "liberation" in the 70s those of us who'd rather keep the girls strapped in than flaunt them in a two-inch triangle bikini are left in a pickle. We've retreated to the polar opposite viewpoint. We resent our chest because it represents a nasty cultural aberration rather than celebrating them as God intended. Enough is enough!

I can't legitimately despise what has been carefully designed by the Creator for his creation.

Reasons why my boobs are awesome:

1. They feed my children. How cool is that!?! Insert body part and suck. Fascinating!

2. They keep other members of the house happy as well. Please don't use your imagination.

3. Boobs make me look different from men in a good way.

4. If I'm ever stranded in the ocean, they'll help me stay afloat.

5. They have all these ducts and nerves and sensors that I can't explain.

6. Unlike legs or arms or feet they morph into different shapes. How fun is it to travail through life with two little buddy water balloons!

7. I swear I can sense a change in barometric pressure from my boobs. No joke.

8. And did I mention they feed babies?

So enough bemoaning, grumbling, begrudging of our woman parts! Sure bras are the bane of my shopping existence (Victoria's Secret: WE KNOW THEY AREN'T REAL!!), but these two mounds are as female as apple pie is American. Let's enjoy the workings of every part of us.

The rant continues tomorrow on breast feeding in public...

Introducing...SkipppyDon Juan!

I'd like to say that nicknaming our children comes naturally, that it rolls off the tongue. That it's original and cute and completely apropos. But I resort to stealing from children's literature.

So Little Dude it is no more!!

My handsome, googley eyed honey is now officially:

****SkippyDon Juan****

If you haven't read the SkippyJon Jones books yet, you're missing out on a side stitch of fun. And, well, Little Dude casts spells with those peepers. Puss in Boots or Dandy Manny came very close, but I thought he might not appreciate either one.

So, my tiny chunky hunk, my SkippyDon Juan, you are becoming quite the little boy.

• We cut your last twelve baby hairs so they don't tickle your elbows. The Great Uncle Lionel, barber extraordinaire, did the honors at 3:30 on Sunday, May 31st. There was much fanfare and you sat very still for the paparazzi.
• Today was pool day! The plastic one on the patio. You rocked that swim shirt! And thank you for not pooping whilst commando.
• You love to Diaper Jam with the Hot Tamale after bath. Both of you lock hands and open your mouths soooooo wide and try to eat each other. You're losing, but not for long.
• Get it going with that Electric Worm! It will become a crawl very, very, very soon. Dang! Can't park you on the bed anymore.
• Peas, sweet potatoes, carrots, and squash are officially part of your culinary repertoire. But that squash burned the crud out of your hiney area. Sorry bud.
• I just want to kiss your face all day!! And you let me! Thank you, and I apologize in advance for smooching when it becomes embarrassing for you.
• The ladies at the church nursery don't want to let you go. EVERY time we show up YOU are making eyes at them while all the other babies are on the floor.
• What is that squeal noise?!? It's like a half dead kitty falsetto.

SkippyDon Juan, why you are the second of who knows how many children I can't say. I just know that your gentle spirit is a gift to you--not a result of Parenting Book X or your own effort. Please remember that God has placed that tiny, patient heart in your body for a specific reason and your whole existence depends upon using it for just that.

And don't forget that when I disappoint you, when I fail you, when you grow up and realize I'm human too, Jesus will always come through. He loves you and me more than we can fathom.

Buenas, mi amor...

Potty Talk: Would Poop by Any Other Name Smell as Sweet?

When to start the marathon of potty training? Ask any woman over 50 and she'll swear her sweety britches had it mastered by 14 months. Ladies, you are LYING! Or entering the fog of dementia. In which case I should pray for you.


I'm really tired of the advice already and haven't even read much of it. Some people (you know, in the chat rooms on the internet) even do this elimination training whereby baby doesn't wear diaper (??). Mom "senses" when Precious is about to bm and holds him above the toilet. I'm guessing co-sleeping needs to happen so mom can "sense" those leaky little pipes at 2 am. Apparently said kid is "mostly" trained by one year but then it takes until two to be fully accident free. These are the same people whose mutant offspring are on Your Baby Can Read.

The complication continues with entire aisles at Baby MegaPlex devoted to the Holy Potty Grail. Some are insets that perch inside the big person toilet. Others are transformers--whipping from stool to seat within a certain time limit. And, yes, some even sing when tinkled in. Kid MUST be immediately freaked out when the pee starts a rollin'!


But that trash is boring and it's not even worth a few more words on the subject. As long as rich people have rich little babies, product developers and their marketing leeches will always go for the jugular. We have something far more important to decide:


What will we call the excrement????? This will decide what my children call it for their entire childhood. Stories will emerge from these words. It better be good.


The most comprehensive potty dictionary I can develop in ten minutes:


If it's brown, flush it down...

• Poop: Concise. Easy to say. Very public friendly. But it's just no fun and it reminds me of dogs. I hate dogs.
• Poopie: Cute, petite brown floaties. Very playdate-ish. We're liking the poopie. Although not cute coming from my son--he's already a bit on the dandy side.
• Caca: Multicultural, somewhat discreet. Too bad Olivia loves her Kashi cacas. Off the list!
• Doo doo: This says, "I'm a 5th grade boy." Or, "I'm from Arkansas."
• S--t: By far the most appropriate. Very German in inflection. Too bad our society slapped an inappropriate label on it.
• Crap: The WORST verb in human language. As a noun it's not so bad. But I'll keep this one for a fender bender exclamation.
• Fecal Matter: Need a rubber glove and stethoscope for the rights to say that one.
• Turd: Caddyshack Baby Ruth.
• Shite: Love, love, love this one. Why do British folk sound so fancy and talk so good?

If it's yellow, let it mellow...

• Pee pee: That stupid potty book that sold like a bazillion copies somehow uses this to describe a body part on a GIRL. Crazy dumb. No thanks.
• Wee wee: Willy Winky runs through the town! Upstairs, downstairs...
• Piss: Redneck Bubba in a port-a-potty.
• Tinkle: Ooo! Yes! The Tinkle Fairy whisks around the bathroom...I see a wand in the near future.
• Tee tee: Nice. This one feels neutral. Unoffensive, simple. A subtle slam at golf. My kind of word.
• Urine: "We're going to have to put a catheter in, ma'am."
• Number 1: Lame.

Say them all out loud.

Hmm...

I think we'll go with...

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.