This is one of those topics that I have a hard time with. I can understand both sides of the debate and don’t feel like, as a parent, I have enough information to believe 100 percent in any approach.

To date, we have followed the standard vaccination plan for my daughter and are not planning to take another route. But this is an issue that I am concerned about and plan to continue reading and am open to other options.

#1:  Thou shalt not allow your two-foot child to push the four-foot metal cart.  This results in banged shins for both your families and strangers.  It also results in heels of shoes caught in wheels, and piles of produce dancing in the aisles.

#2: The little miniature grocery carts that someone invented for the littlest shopper are not cute they are stupid.  They multiply your trip by two hours.  Thou shalt avoid them at all costs.

#3:  Same goes for the semis with the cars attached to metal carts that children can “drive” while you shop.  Children never stay in the car; they more often end up on top.  This breaks highway safety rules and shall also be avoided at all costs.  Besides that look inside- they are filthy and never get to the car wash. 

#4:  Thou shalt not open food and let your child eat in the grocery store.  If you have ever seen a checker trying to scan a half-opened bag of Oreos with the bar code on the bottom you will understand this.

#5:  Thou shalt not talk on the cell phone while examining thirty different kinds of pasta while you dig for coupons while your two year old climbs to the top of the cereal aisle.  Shopping requires focus not a chat with your best friend about what your best friend’s ex did with his current girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend.

#6:  Thou shalt not send your five year old on a scavenger hunt to find the snack of his choice.  Unattended children in the grocery store make everyone nervous.

#7:  If your child has a meltdown drag out tantrum though shalt keep your cool as Mommies and Daddies smacking children across the back of their heads and shouting “Shut up” in guttural tones makes for a non pleasant shopping experience and forces us to put our finger on speed dial to child welfare services.

#8:  Thou shalt keep your children in the cart or if they can, let them walk closely nearby the cart.  Other shoppers should not have to dodge small children as they navigate from frozen foods to dairy.

#9:  Thou shalt know when the shopping trip needs to be cut short.  If all havoc is breaking loose as it sometimes does with small children- know when to throw in the towel.

#10:  Thou shalt not stand in the middle of the aisle discussing the nutritional value or lack of it of a box of Lucky Charms with your four year old.  You’ve got the ATM card and you should know how to use it.  Until he starts buying the goods he doesn’t get a say

#11:  Thou shalt hold onto your children in the parking lot.  Sure we are only going fifteen miles an hour but those little whipper snappers are fast.

And finally here’s one for all you non-parents:  If you see a woman with a small crying infant, thou shalt let her cut in line.  To the new mother the cry sounds like a jet engine breaking the sound barrier.  Let her go people let her go.

To Greg M., who never missed a field trip and always made them a little more fun and a lot more unpredictable.

To Dave R., who has logged more volunteer hours then I have spent at my part time job.

To Don T., who always has a kitchen full of kids including my own and doesn’t seem the slightest bit miffed about it.

To Joe B., who coached a decade worth of boy’s soccer teams, some to championships and is more then happy to brag about his boys.

To Bill S., who appears every year in the cousin’s Star Wars video and plays the part of the Syth or Darth Vader without a wink of shame.

To Tom S., who will gladly take a rowdy group of pre-teens to lazer tag, mini golf, or the bowling alley and give them a run for their money every time.

To David T., who tag teams with his wife every Saturday soccer game so they each get to watch a half.

To Bill M., who one Halloween took seven rowdy boys out for a late night game of flashlight tag.

To my father George S., who is not here to share in my boys with me but would have beaten them to the net every time on the basketball court.

And finally to my husband Mike who has an amazing work ethic and has managed to make himself a career as a fireman
here in the city of Richmond but still finds time to play basketball with a soccer ball on a three foot hoop every Sunday
and is not ashamed to spend a Saturday afternoon at the pool being called “Big Daddy Fishy”.

To all these men I say thanks and I also say twenty-one minutes- PSHAW

The problem is; life gets in the way of living.  You are moving along at breakneck speed, doing the right thing, crossing things off your to do list, making sure to get from point A to point B when you realize that’s all you are doing….moving.  To truly be happy we all need different things and what I need is to exercise my mind (writing) my body (running) and my heart (staying close and present with family and friends).  Otherwise I end up feeling like one of those crazy hamsters spinning and spinning on the giant metal wheel of life.  Sure it’s impressive, sure it’s fast but you ain’t getting anywhere lady.

Last night in the great debate with myself as I drifted off to sleep I turned off my alarm.  I would start getting myself together LATER.  I was too tired to get up and write.  I had too many things to do.  Someone had other plans and apparently it was my subconscious telling me it knew better because I sat bolt upright at 6:45 a.m.  Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t coax myself back to sleep and I’m glad because I feel better already just sitting here tapping at these keys. 

As the infamous irritating ridiculous commercial says, “Life comes at you fast.” The trick is not to try to run faster.

That moment was one of the highlights of the day and I resisted the urge to dig out the receipt for his cordless drill.

After searching the Bon Air area for a great breakfast for the new papa, and ending up with coffee at Starbucks, we stayed at home the rest of the afternoon playing, napping and enjoying our family time together.

Gifts were given - my husband specifically requested the drill - and we were intentionally non-productive. The Kid is crawling and pulling herself up on the furniture so we spent a lot of time guiding her around the room.

While fixing dinner (just spaghetti, I didn’t plan well), I realized for the first time that as a parent I see people through a different lens than I did prior to having a child. My heart melts when I see my husband and daughter playing together and I am proud of the father that he is to our child.

I have always found it somewhat easy to be non-judgmental of people’s decisions in life and forgiving of their mistakes. I prescribe to the Nick Hornby idea that “it’s what you like, not what you’re like.” (“High Fidelity”)

In the case of my own father, we do not have a relationship and I have been OK with that for a long time. Fatherhood didn’t work out for him. Our lives have gone on.

But yesterday, while watching my husband play with our daughter, I felt for the first time that when it comes to parenthood there are no free passes. As a parent, it is about “what you’re like.”

There are so many ways to screw it up - I have and will continue to make mistakes. But mistakes while trying are different than not trying at all. Parenthood is an honor.

I am proud of the boy I married. He’s come a long way from his blue hair and wardrobe purchased at the military surplus store. While he still prefers T-shirts from his favorite bands, bristles at the idea of wearing a suit and continues to cultivate an anti-establishment attitude, he does so now with a kid in tow and with her best interest at heart. 

Some mothers will openly admit to hating summer because their kids are home and quite frankly though I am all for honesty that’s not really something you should vocalize moms. It sounds REALLY bad. For the most part I love summer with my kids but I am also lucky enough to have a pool membership, a loving extended family who usually pays for all or part of my yearly vacation, and two children that are giddy all summer so happy are they to be school free.

Yes, summer can be trying when the kids are all of the sudden thrust upon you twenty-four seven but keep positive.

Positive point number one: No more snooze button; over and over and over like a bad rendition of that movie Groundhogs Day I hear alarm pause alarm pause alarm pause coming from my teenager’s room.

Positive point number two: No more scrounging together change for lunches or searching for that old fruit roll-up that’s so smashed in the back of the drawer it’s sort of a fruit rolled-up into a ball now.

Positive point number three: No more after school classes unless you were stupid enough to sign your five year old up for swim team and all of the sudden I’m struggling to get to four practices a week although he does some pretty mean strokes in the bathtub and I’m thinking of asking the coach if that counts for at least one of the practices.

Positive point number four:
Vacation. Yes, vacation can be hellish and more often then not parents on the beach look harried, hot, sunburned and grimy as they shell out fifty bucks for a hot dog and chips lunch for the fam but at least they got it all on film right?

Positive point number five: Though it is NOT proper etiquette to say you are not looking forward to summer at the beginning of your summer holidays it IS proper etiquette to look forward to the first day of school which due to changing school schedules comes approximately eighty four days after the last day of school in June……… but who’s counting.

`

Becuase we moved when the girl was a newborn I didn’t set up a nursery while I was pregnant. I completely skipped the denning process. We were living in a one-bedroom condo so there were no walls to paint or windows to treat anyway. Hence one of the reasons we moved. And while we started calling Richmond home again in November, we kind of hit the ground running here and haven’t had time to stop, look and decorate.

So I have cashed in a few vacation days and plan to turn my house into a home. Yes, by the end of this week there will be organized closets, reconsidered lighting, window treatments and a back porch fit for a family meal. When I am finished the baby’s room will actually look like a child sleeps there and my own closet will look less like the clearance section at Macy’s on a Sunday afternoon.

And the whole place will be baby friendly. The Kid officially crawled for the first time yesterday (she was previously rolling and partially crawling) and is ready to make her way into every corner of the house, so getting this place organized and baby-proofed - and keeping it that way - is a must. 

The thing is as you were looking at your calendar the night before you thought you could not fit another thing into your day.  You thought if you moved quickly and efficiently you might actually “catch up”.  Perhaps one day we humans will realize that there is no actual catching up.  Like a rat running on it’s steel circle the list of things to do just goes on and on until you die and then of course there’s the funeral to plan.

You thought that your plans were immutable; unchangeable no way you could fit another thing in or afford a glitch.  Wrong.  Sick day is big time glitch.  Your plans all the sudden ARE changeable and you find yourself calling employers, schools, doctors, rushing off to get crackers, prescriptions, books to read, ginger ale to sip.  All things not on your to do list.  And this I say to you: Surrender to sick day. Tuck your to-do list under a pillow, cook a nourishing meal, get out the checkbook, and lounge in bed reading to your baby.  If they are older then probably go ahead and skip the lounging and reading to them but at least don’t blame them for the one o’clock doctors appointment right smack in the middle of the day.  They will appreciate your kindness and hey I even got thanks when I brought home a seven-dollar smoothie to ease his sore throat.  The smoothie cost seven bucks and I thought I might whip out my insurance card and make a crack about my co-pay but then….finally…. I had the thought I should have had when I saw him lying miserably in bed this morning.  I thought, anything for my child even if it means tossing aside my to do list and breaking the bank all in one feel swoop.  See, I usually do the right thing….eventually.

Read this article on CNN.com about Mommy’s Bliss Nipple Cream.

According to the article, the cream could cause respiratory distress, vomiting and diarrhea in nursing infants. Yikes!

Today at work I served lunch to ten wonderful women, all of who were more then twice my age.  They were at the point when for women the number no longer becomes an item of shame and instead becomes a proudly worn badge.  “I’m ninety-three and counting,” one women crowed and called for another cup of coffee.  “No decaf for me.”

They talked about a show they longed to see at one of the museums and said it was about the really interesting stuff. Not art but moonshine and said they should bring a jug.  They loved the coffee, the soup, the tea, the hall, the bread, the salad, they loved getting out, and they loved looking at art, they loved the gift shop and my jewelry.  They asked me how I got to be so cute and didn’t I just adore my family.  I said I did but their sheer and utter joy at just being alive made me wonder why we wait until we are almost dead to really start living.

At home, the grass was green, the hammock was in fine form and my family and I stayed up past bedtime just to enjoy each other’s company.  As I said, it’s spring and the weather’s fine.  I’m wearing thirty-six like a badge and trying to enjoy every minute of it.

• ‘For an all-organic formula, baby, that’s sweet’
A report from the New York Times today did a good job of freaking me out and bringing all of my weight issues to the surface this morning. ‘For an all-organic formula, baby, that’s sweet’, exposes the ingredient in Similac Organic that makes it a winner in the baby taste test: sucrose. Turns out sucrose makes the formula sweeter than other organic brands. Similac Organic is sweet like grape juice or Country Time lemonade, as opposed to unsweetened apple juice like other organic brands, according to the article. Concern that the sweeter formula promotes a sweet tooth in kids is part of the controversy.

I am not feeding my daughter Similac Organic, but have considered it at the store. Organic is healthy and good, right? Since I am already unable to shut down my concern over my daughter’s weight and eating habits, this formula is officially embargoed at our house unless I hear more about sucrose and how it affects children’s’ palettes.

• ‘Some new moms bringing baby to work‘
As a working mom, I quickly clicked to watch the video ‘Some new moms bringing baby to work,’ on CNN.com.  Good report on a topic that is on my mind every day of the week. Reporter Alina Cho takes a look at moms who choose to bring their young children to work, and one business in Charlottesville, Virginia that has the door open to bouncy seats.

One mom states that her employer doesn’t expect 100 percent from her, and that she gives 75 - 80 percent in the office.

The man-on-the-street portion of the report represented the critic’s point of view with one man stating that he has “enough problem with them (babies) on airplanes, I couldn’t stand working with them.”

Another woman suggests that working moms who bring their children to office need to “make up their minds.”

Oh, if it was that simple.

I have worked in a baby-friendly small office where there was a Moses basket in the conference room / CEO’s office. The vice president managed to breast feed and grow and promote an online start-up at the same time. It worked.

On the other hand, I have tried to work from home a couple of times since my daughter was born with mixed results. It was great at first, when she was sleeping all day, but we’re at the stage now where her brain and body are moving so fast that I cannot not keep up with her and give anywhere near 75 - 80 percent of myself to my job, and I’m pretty sure my boss is expecting somewhere closer to 100 percent at all times. As he should. My co-workers who do not have children do not ask for ongoing exceptions to the rules, so neither should I if all is to be fair in the workplace.

Those weekends, though, may be a thing of the past. Because while my daughter is getting a good night’s sleep, I am using the time to get caught up on everything else.

My day can be divided into three distinct spheres - work world, baby world and the rest of the world. (Work time, baby time and the rest of the time.)

Juggling these three agendas isn’t easy, but it is necessary because while distinct, each has to be maintained in order to sustain my whole self. Sometimes for practical reasons, my job ensures the bills are paid, and at other times for reasons that are harder to measure (sometimes I just need to soak in the bath and update my MySpace page).

And at times, I am a failed circus act and drop some balls on all three. Right now, my e-mails and to-do lists are piling up, I relied on my husband this week to do a few more feedings and changes, and I am in desperate need of an eyebrow wax.

I have learned that on most days I can get by with four hours of sleep. While the baby slumbers, I try to find the time to stay of top of my job, my personal snail mail and if the mood strikes, shave a leg, sometimes two.

I hear, though, that she is reaching an age where she is going to wake up more during the night. I am told that as she becomes more emotionally aware she will not want to be alone in her room and have a harder time getting back to sleep. I haven’t consulted the experts on this, so more to come as I follow-up.

But if this is the case, I may end up teaching the baby girl about sorting mail and socks. Baby time and the rest of the time are hard to distinguish already. If we’re both going to be up at 3 a.m., we’re just going to have to work together to get some stuff done.

Let’s just say that the first thing I encountered on my frenzied run down the aisles was Paul Newman salad dressing and Paul Newman salad dressing hit the floor till I was running like Road Runner in a slick of oil moving no where.  Knowing I was wasting valuable seconds I decided skating was my next best option.  Not as efficient as running and definitely not as pretty for a tomboy like me but better then pulling a Road Runner at my sweep.

From the salad dressing I went onto peanut butter, coffee, tuna, in that order.  For the coup de grace it was a forty-dollar canister of the finest virgin olive oil available.  With twenty seconds left I was just frantically grasping at items, far from an effective method considering that no family with young children really wants four boxes of Fruit Loop Cereal Straws.  Fruit Loop Cereal Straws being sugar straws used to slurp up the pink and purple after effects of tie-dyed cereal on milk.

I couldn’t stop smiling as I bellied up to the conveyor belt with my overflowing basket.  I was in their words, the all-time winner with almost four hundred dollars worth of free food.  Six months down the road, we are still eating two packets of Albacore tuna every Sunday night; proof that there is meat housed in other regions then the meat aisle and proof that I did indeed do my research before said spree as any good shopper and thrifty mom would. All in a days work.  All in a days work.

This does not compute with me on many levels. I truly cannot wrap my head around their family dynamic. As an only child and a mother of one, my entire life experience is different than any member of this family.

When the Duggar household sits down to dinner they are sharing a meal with more people than I can count in my family, and I am including cousins.

As a new momma, I have to wonder how Michelle Duggar does it. It’s been a while since she was a new momma, but she is regularly the mother of a newborn and has raised, or is raising, more kids than a small day care center.

On their Web site, I learned that the Duggars are licensed real estate agents, host and facilitate the Jim Sammon’s Financial Freedom Seminar and are devoted Christians.

After an early miscarriage, they asked God to “bless them with as many children as He saw fit in His timing.”

Blessed indeed.

But 17 kids and number 18 on the way? I still cannot imagine how that momma must feel - how her body rebounds.

One thing I suspect, though, is that Momma Duggar gets more cards and kisses on Mother’s Day than all the other moms.

One of my co-workers has two daughters who regularly play princess, but sometimes with a twist. They are princess pirates, princess superheroes, etc. They are creative and seem to strike a good balance.

I wore a tiara as recently as last weekend (yes, there is a photo), but I’m a little concerned about the princess culture that seems a necessary part of childhood for little girls. Can we not play Buffy the Vampire Slayer instead? How about Lara Croft?

It’s time to upgrade to a convertible seat - and my “thank you for being a citizen and paying your taxes” bonus rebate cannot arrive soon enough. Seriously, the convertible car seat that appears to rate highest with users (Britax) costs almost $300!

While there’s no price too high for safety, I’m pretty sure the price tag is justified by convenience and ease of use since other less expensive car seats receive good safety ratings as well. But there is something to be said for ease of use!

My mom recalls the days when car seats were less sophisticated and optional. Not with longing, everyone agrees that keeping kids safe is a good idea, but with a sense of wonder about how things have changed.

My great-grandparents regularly drove my cousin and me in their big yellow Buick when we were young kids. The four of us would pile into the front seat, Jason sitting in the middle and me on Nanny’s lap, and we would head down then road. If Jason or I needed a nap, we just laid down in the back seat where Nanny kept a few homemade purple pillows.

Of course, I also remember the night Pappy wrecked the Buick and I was not in a car seat. No one was injured, but my great-grandfather stopped driving after the accident.

Accidents happen still so I need to get the car seat upgraded as soon as possible. Sophia is a big kid (tall and fabulous) and we need to make sure she stays safe.

I need to purchase at least two convertible car seats, possibly three, so I’m going to start shopping for a good deal. I’m a little hesitant to buy used because I want to make sure that I have all the manuals and necessary parts, but I may change my mind if I can find the right deal.

I also have to figure out what to do with the car seat and bases we currently have. Should I take them to consignment store or find a place to store them in case we have another child in a couple of years?

Oh my - I cannot believe that I am already at the stage where I am talking about and considering another child.

Time flies.

“Is that a threat?” he asked.

Perhaps it is.  You see Mother’s Day is MY HOLIDAY.  Some women like big-production birthday parties: some like jewels encased in robin’s egg blue boxes under their Christmas trees; some love a loaded table at Thanksgiving.  I however like Mother’s Day.  I don’t care if it was a holiday made up by Hallmark; it was a good idea and I’m going with it- yay Hallmark.

I like useless ugly knickknacks fashioned firsthand by my children.  I will always cherish the cat Beau made out of floam when he was five even if at this point it has only one whisker and no limbs.  I love that cat-worm.  Then there’s the box he made me when he was ten.  Sure it’s glued shut never to be opened again but it will always have a place in my heart and on my dresser.  Let’s not forget the Fill in the Blank book his teachers had him working on for weeks in first grade; sure I look like Ronald McDonald on crack on the cover but at least he remembered what color my hair was that week and what’s more it was filled with beauties like this:

I KNOW MY MOM IS REALLY MAD WHEN SHE:

“Looks at me with a mean face”

I’d feel bad about that zinger but I figured the teachers just thought he had a vivid imagination because on the very next page he said this:

ALL DAY LONG MY MOM:

“Cleans the house”

As I said, vivid vivid imagination.

So daddies this one really goes out to you.  Crack out the floam, stir up the paints, and go find a skein of yarn to wrap around a juice cup because every Mom needs a pencil cup, limbless cat or three-eyed portrait from their little darling.  Mother’s Day is less then a week away and you and the kids got work to do…or else.

P.S.  As I am writing this I am reminded of a friend whose child would never ever forget Mother’s Day and she has fifteen pairs of earrings to prove it; all of us however are not so duly blessed and unless she’s considering letting me adopt him then my husband better start prompting our kids ASAP.

My mother, who teaches school and is having her cousin watch Sophia during the day, is ecstatic to be Grandma all week. When we spoke on the phone last night she said that baby hugs and kisses are wonderful and something that has been missing from her life for a long time. I’m sure that by the end of the week she’ll be happy to pack up the baby and send her home, but for a few days they are both enjoying the time together.

Here in Richmond, life without baby hasn’t been great. As I have said before, once you have a kid all of the things you thought were wonderful just don’t seem as grand. A good night’s sleep, drinks with friends, time alone - it’s just not the same. It’s those baby hugs and kisses. They’re addictive.

It’s only Wednesday, but in my few days without my daughter around I have confirmed a few things:

1- My hair does look better when I blow it dry. I am going to have to actually spend money on a decent hair dryer so I can fix my hair more often.
2- Fixing my hair only involves blow drying. Hot rollers are a thing of the past.
3- I am going to have to find a real child care solution. My in-laws have been great, but it’s time to enroll the kid in baby school.
4- My house will never again be clean. This doesn’t bother me as much as it should.
5- My old convertible is nice, but the four-door family sedan drives better and is easier to park. Who knew?

I mean what kind of proof did they have?  What made them think they could assess him better than I his very own flesh and blood and the one who birthed him?  He’s my son and I think I know him just a tad bit better.

Let me explain.

From his English teacher:  “A pleasure to teach.”

A pleasure I ask.  Are you certain little Miss English teacher that you know the true meaning of pleasure?  Perhaps your idea of pleasure is cruising around Richmond on a blazing summer day in a wool suit.  What then?

And you Mrs. Geometry: “Actively participates in class and commended for work and study habits.”

Who are we kidding here?  The only thing he actively participates in is falling asleep in front of Everybody Loves Raymond pre-dinner hour snoring loudly and soundly the entire program through.  The only habit he has is to continually leave a sopping wet towel, which I am guessing he actually takes into the shower with him so thoroughly is it drenched, in a big wet pile on his bedroom carpet alongside the six crusty plates on his bedside table.

And finally, you, Mr. Bio Man: “Commended for cooperative attitude.”

Liar, liar pants on fire.  He’s got an attitude for sure but cooperative is not exactly the word to describe it.  Are you really falling for that?  He’s just pretending to be cooperative while he passively aggressively doesn’t pick up the phone when you call, moves slower then a pregnant sloth, and continually forgets his math book, lunch money, soccer shorts, or all of the above.

And so great pretenders, the grades I believe but the comments now those we must have a talk about.

P.S. This is really just a twisted admission of guilt for always being so hard on my son
and thinking the worst instead of the best of a boy who is and will always be my very favorite first-born.

So, you mean to tell me that Oprah Winfrey sent millions of people on a wild goose chase some good ten years ago when she and Sara Ban Breathnach started this whole “Happiness Movement”.  Literally millions of people hit the book store to buy their gratitude journals and a copy of Sara’s newest book and hence a whole new genre of books was created; the “How to be Happy Genre”.

I fell for it, as did hundreds of other women I knew.  There is nothing women are better at then the re-examining of every minute detail of their lives and the lives of the three best girlfriends around them as well as the three best girlfriend’s partners, bosses, and extended family; not to exclude neighbors, pastors, and bartenders.  With the backing of our media giant behind us we began to examine our lives.  Big time. We began with the Gratitude movement, then the Zen movement, then the Simplicity movement, then the Buddhist movement, then the Transcendental movement, then the Spirituality movement, and finally the Movement movement. 

I should have caught on when my husband said, “If those books are supposed to make you happy, why do you have to keep on reading new ones?”, but I am at heart a stubborn girl and I kept with it.  I not only kept with it but I scoffed at him the, unhappy soul.  Don’t beleaguer me on my quest to happiness, peasant.  If there was a secret to a 24-7 smile I wanted in and I was willing to leave all uninvolved parties behind in their mire of unhappiness.

In retrospect, however, perhaps my hubby and Palmer Sondreal were onto something I didn’t know.  Perhaps they knew that no one else can tell you how to be happy.  Perhaps they knew happiness couldn’t be found in the pages of a book. Perhaps they knew that the micromanaging of every aspect of our emotional lives is both fruitless and exhausting and leads to anything but happiness. Perhaps they knew you should just have a yard sale and get rid of all the books on how to be happy and just be.

Because if you really think about your happiest moments you realize that in those moments you weren’t doing much thinking at all.  Way to use your brain Becky….happy now?

It sounded great – a new baby and a new blog to write about our experiences – but it’s been a challenge. If there’s any question, just look at the last time I had the chance to post an entry.

Not that I haven’t thought about blogging, had experiences to share or questions to put out to the world. I have, but I am also still working on the balancing act.

But who isn’t? It’s not just new parents. Everywhere I look people are struggling to fit their life into their schedule. Veteran parents tell me that the first few years are rough, but then it gets easier.

I am unconvinced. It seems that after a few years it’s time to introduce more chaos in the form of classes, play dates and baby meetups.

Regardless, I take some comfort in knowing that there’s a bunch of people who are overworked, stressed and could use a solid week of sleep. I am reassured that I am not alone when my co-workers yawn during meetings – and some of them don’t have babies.

And speaking of the baby, she’s great. I mean really great. I’ve turned into one of those parents who spends too much time answering the obligatory, “How’s your daughter,” question. Just this week I realized that a new grandmother at my office couldn’t wait to get out of the elevator with me because I was going on, and on, and on about Sophia.

As a proud new parent it’s my prerogative. I am holding back somewhat because I want to announce daily to everyone within earshot that I am honored to be a parent and incredibly lucky. I want to make them look at the photos on my iPod.

Instead, I steal glances of my desktop background (one of Sophia’s Easter photos) throughout the day rush home to spend a few hours together each evening. It’s the least I can do before we have to wake up and start the process over again. Which we are getting ready to do right now (She types as she hears the baby beginning to stir.)

a) No, I’m bonding.
b) You can’t unless you’ve had classes.
c) Yes right now and for as long as you can stand it- my arms are exhausted and my hips haven’t stopped swaying since day 1.  I feel like Dancing Elmo except he’s a bit more fluid then I am.

Are you breastfeeding?  And if not….why not?

a) Why, are you hungry?
b) Not unless you think I should.
c) Nunnya- as in none of your business why I am or why I am not- I don’t have to explain myself to you or the La Leche league no matter how strongly you might feel.

Have you let them cry it out yet?

a) NO, but I was thinking I might start tonight.  You’re house 8:00?
b) Absolutely, I believe in hurting their feelings right off the bat- keeps their expectations low.
c) I’m looking for a good psychologist for them first so after they cry it out then we can all talk about their feelings.

Oh gosh- you let them have a pacifier?

a) Sure, it’s real good at shutting them up- want one?
b) NO, he just up and went to the store and got it himself.  Independent lil guy huh?
c) Yes, and next it’s gonna be a big old cigar- it helps em get orally fixated right off the bat.

Don’t you ever get out?

a) Yes, all the time.  I just tuck all this excess flesh in a pair of peg legs and head out the door- dinner, dancing, the works.
b) Yes, yes, after an all-nighter with a screaming baby the first thing I want to do is apply some fresh makeup and really wow my hubby.
c) Why is your talking interrupting my snoring?

Are you expecting?

a) Is someone talking or is that just your mouth moving?
b) Expecting my fist to meet your face soon- yes.
c) Expecting you to have more common sense then to ask a woman with a small child who is carrying a little weight around the waistline if she’s got a bun in the oven.  If she ain’t on the way to the delivery room really it’s just best not to ask.

Any questions?

Yes dammit, all right, we take the blame now move on. 

In the history of mankind, parents have been known to do awful things to their children, but I’m not talking about the obvious horror stories.  I’m talking about kids who are still complaining though generally they must admit their parents loved them.

The “my parents didn’t spend enough time with me,” the “My parents loved my brother more then me,” the “My parents never threw me a birthday party.”

Yes, guilty as charged, I did love your brother better because you were a little pain in the butt drama queen and you still are.

Now that I am a parent I realize that my parents and most I know were just doing the best they could. Sure my mother was oblivious to the fact that I was hanging out my second story window on Thursdays nights in an attempt to get downtown before the cover charge went up five bucks. And yes, my father and I could co-exist for weeks without actual speech imparted. But really, people, they were tired; real life tired.  Twelve-hour shifts at McDonalds tired. Seventy-eight English comp papers to grade on what 78 little brats wanted to be when they grew up tired. Tired I tell you.

And yes, my mom’s cooking sucked.  So would yours if you spent 20 some odd years trying to feed four growing teens on a budget that wouldn’t stretch to include fruit outside of a can or meat not already frozen. I’m only 15 years into it and I long ago resorted to tacos on Monday, leftovers on Friday and God knows what in between.

Have I doomed my child to never enjoying eating at a Mexican restaurant again?

Guilty as charged, now get over it and take me out for tacos. It’s almost Mother’s Day you know.

When I walked into work the other day I had no idea what I was in for.  A simple luncheon for 40 ladies; soup, chicken salad, sorbet- that sort of event. Coffee, tea, me - you know the deal, except the me part really is no joke; some customers would have your soul if you let ‘em.  The minute they walked in the room I smelled danger. 

“Young man?”

“Hi,” I responded.  Yes, I’m neither a man nor young but I am your waitress and you’re not even seated yet so what could you possibly need.

Turns out they needed extra seats as they brought along a few extra bodies.  No biggie right?  WRONG!

Anyone in banquet dining knows that a few more is the kiss of death.  Everything has been pre-set; basically an average of 16 items lovingly arranged by little old me who was there 20 minutes early to make sure the job was done right. Squeezing in 16 pieces of anything at a table set for eight is next to impossible, uncomfortable for all seated and a general pain in the you know where

There’s the matching sorbet spoon, which is different from the soup spoon, coffee spoon or regular spoon. And then there’s three different glasses if you include coffee, which includes sugar spoon and under plate. Then there’s lemon slices for tea and different lemon slices for the water, not to mention bread plate, butter and specially folded napkin.

Big time trouble. 

We hadn’t even served the beet soup and I was sweating already.  Sniff, sniff - smelling trouble again. Who pre-orders beet soup?

So 43 old ladies shuffle around, arrange walkers and purses as big as overnight bags possibly carrying small animals directly in my walking path and sit down to stare at me expectantly with a “where’s our soup” look.

In the kitchen getting cold while I search for the next place setting, if you want the God’s honest truth. 

My ladies and I got through that luncheon, but I felt like I’d been through a couple rounds before all was said and done, and my smile like an evil grimace never left my face nor did an unkind word leave my lips.

My patience served them well just as it does me when like an old trick I pull it out of my pocket when Donovan asks me for the 600th time if I just mind if he just goes upstairs and just changes his shirt maybe just one more time. And the socks aren’t really working either.  I draw a deep breath and head up to his room. 

It has been through so many wardrobe changes that perhaps he hosted fashion week while I slept.

Patience, Rebecca, patience whether it is with beet soup eaters or the fickle fashion consciousness of a 5 year old.

Breathing deep and practicing patience.

Sound crazy? Don’t tell J. Lo and Marc Anthony. Apparently her push presents are quite the showstoppers. I’ve heard about these for a few days now and found this blog post stating that the new momma received a diamond ring and earrings engraved with the twin’s initials.

Ain’t money nice?

But seriously, I didn’t learn about push presents until Sophia was born and am still undecided as to whether I think they’re OK or not. I’m not the type of girl who turns down jewelry, or any gift for that matter, but something about push presents doesn’t agree with me. One issue is the pushing. If you have a C-section, are you still eligible for the gift? There’s technically no pushing, but the result is the same nonetheless.

More importantly, it just seems that the gift has already been given. A healthy child is an amazing gift and diamonds just don’t compare. They’re nice, but not even in the same ballpark.

Of course, if my husband decides to get on trend at this late date I will not push the package away, but I will never appreciate any gift the way I do my daughter. 

This would be fine and dandy, and perhaps expected, except that I’m talking about my teenager not my pre-schooler.

Really, people.

He’s less then a year away from operating a motor vehicle and I still have to reward him with a Capri Sun and a mini bag of chips after a sweaty soccer session?

I know it’s not nice to talk behind someone’s back and I know for sure that the lady who asked meant well, but I may have to take a stand here.

I mean, at this age if Beau forgets his water bottle he can fashion a cup out of a magnolia leaf and drink to his heart’s content for all I care.

It reminds me of a time last semester when he called me and said, “Could you bring me a sandwich I forgot my lunch.”

Yes, son, let me hop to and run on home from work so I can fulfill your dietary needs pronto. 

NO, seriously, I said something more like, “Are you joking?  Borrow money from your friends, scavenge some of their peanut butter crackers, go on a hunger strike but don’t don’t don’t call me because YOU forgot.”

I don’t ask much from my son, but getting himself, the things he needs, the equipment and homework and apparatus of being 15 from school to his father’s house to my house to the soccer game to the car and back is not, I think, asking too much. 

And as for rewarding our little athletes after an intense soccer match, well, he keeps asking me to stop treating him like a little kid and I agreed to try so he can think of the loss of snacks as the first steps towards adulthood.

P.S. I talk big here, but if the lady asks me to my face I’ll probably offer three weeks of snacks and transportation for six to and from every game.

Sunday, around 10 a.m.
It was a lovely Sunday morning. The house was quiet and options for the day were limitless. I held Sophia in my arms feeding her a late morning bottle, we all slept in, thinking about how important these moments are since our life seems so hectic sometimes. After she finished the bottle, I held the baby up to burp her when she projectile vomited the entire bottle back at me. Stunned, drenched and freaked out, I held the baby close and went to the bedroom to clean us up, still trying to process what had just happened. The baby seemed fine after losing her brunch, she was already baby-babbling and grabbing her toes, but something was not right. She hardly ever spits up, and has never thrown-up an entire bottle.

Sunday, between 10 a.m. and noon
I am labeled as someone who overreacts. My husband points out that babies throw up and that Sophia is fine. We can judge that she is fine by the way she is playing, bouncing, babbling and having fun. So what that she hasn’t expressed any interest in food since tossing back up the bottle. She’s not going to eat the same amount every day. What am I going to do, call the doctor and say that my 6 month old threw up?

Sunday, early afternoon
I listen to my husband. This occurrence alone warrants its own blog. I keep an afternoon coffee date with a friend and agree to take the baby along. My husband is trying to finish his thesis and could use a few hours alone to work.

Sunday, 2:30 p.m.
The baby and I meet a friend for coffee. My husband was right, she’s fine. Not hungry, but fine. I’m not at all worried about her. Look at how alert she is and the way she plays and babbles. I won’t think another minute about how the baby feels, or about that fact that my friend has said on many occasions that if she sees a baby vomit she will do the same. It’s a reflex and she cannot stop it.

Sunday, about 2:35 p.m.
An employee at the coffee shop remarks on Sophia’s size. Yes, she’s a good-sized little girl. She’s strong and healthy!

Sunday, about 5:30
The baby is hungry so we give her a bottle. All is well.

Sunday, about 8:30
Sophia finished about half of another bottle and I put her to bed. She’s zonked! She always sleeps a lot when she is at home with us on the weekends.

Sunday, about 11 p.m.
No noise from the nursery for a while so I check the baby monitor. I see that Sophia has moved to the side of her crib and is right against the rail. I’ decide go in and get her situated. When I look in the crib I notice that her hair is wet. Does she have a high fever? I’m freaking out. Then I notice that the crib is wet. It’s not sweat – the baby threw up in her sleep and it’s everywhere. I grab her up, take her to our bedroom and begin cleaning her up and assessing the situation. I call the pediatrician’s office and wait for a callback. In the meantime, my husband and I hold her and let her lay on our bed. I knew something was wrong and I want to cry and tell her that I am sorry.

Sunday, almost midnight
The nurse on call at our pediatrician’s office returns my call and says that there is a stomach bug going around and it sounds like our baby girl caught it. She recommends giving her Pedialyte to prevent dehydration and give the bug couple of days to run its course. If she keeps throwing up, though, we’ll need to bring her to the doctor’s office.

Midnight
My husband leaves in search of Pedialyte. I ask him to get the non-flavored kind so that Sophia will not get addicted to the taste of yummy fruit juice.

Monday, not long after midnight.
I am holding Sophia. I can’t stand the fact that she is sick and I want her to feel well. We walk around the house – it’s quiet and peaceful like it was earlier in the day. The baby throws up again, but this time it’s stomach bile. There’s just not a lot left in her little tummy. I call my husband, and his cell phone rings in the other room. I’m freaking out. I call his parents, they live a few miles away, and ask for a ride to the emergency room. I’m concerned about dehydration. They tell me to call 911. I call 911.

Monday, around 12:45 a.m.
Paramedics arrive at our condo and tell me that the baby is not dehydrated. I tell them about my conversation with the nurse on call at our pediatrician’s office and they concur. They say that if they take us to the hospital, the doctors there are just going to give her Pedialyte. They recommend that I calm down, wait for my husband to return and then administer the magic elixir at home.

Monday, around 1 a.m.
My husband arrives to find paramedics in our house. He’s freaked out. They leave and we prepare the Pedialyte. Sophia hates it. She will not drink it from her bottle or a cup. At this point we decide to administer a half ounce with a medicine dropper. We do this a couple of times over the next hour and she goes to sleep. I do laundry and my husband leaves in search of flavored Pedialyte.

Monday, 6 a.m.
The baby is awake and drinks a couple of ounces of apple flavored Liquilyte, which is what my husband found at the store. I’m relieved knowing that she has something on her tummy and the nurse said that this would soothe her stomach as well. My husband leaves for school in D.C. and I try to get ready for work. The baby is not herself, though, and it’s a struggle.

Monday, during the day
Sophia stays at grandma and grandpa’s house like she usually does during the day. They administer the Liquilyte as suggested and even get her to take a bottle later in the day. The baby is doing well. Not 100 percent, but better. She’s going to be OK. I call way too many times to check up.

Monday, during the evening
Sophia and I have a challenging evening. I’m concerned about her becoming dehydrated since her appetite hasn’t returned. She takes about half a bottle before falling asleep in her playard in the living room. I decide that we need to sleep closer together so I can keep my eyes and ears on her. She’s in the playard, I’m on the couch.

Tuesday, about 4 a.m.
I wake up. All is well and I am debating whether to get up or try to go back to sleep when I hear Sophia’s bowels let loose. I pick her up; the poor thing is still trying to sleep but is covered in phase two of this stomach virus. I take her to bedroom and begin the clean-up. It takes a while but I manage. We go back to the living room and I place her on a blanket in the floor while I try to clean the playard. That’s not going well so I decide to try later. In the meantime, Sophia is ready for another clean-up session. This scenario happens one more time before I have to clean up and get ready for work. Poor kid, she is not feeling well and it appears that the only thing we can do it comfort her and let her work it out. I call my father-in-law and ask him to pick her up instead of having me bring her over this morning. I can’t put her down to get a shower. She needs the attention.

Tuesday, around 10 a.m.
I arrive at work. I’m not feeling well, but who would be after a couple of semi-sleepless nights and a morning of sick baby poo? Even though this is not a major illness it takes a lot of energy, physical and emotional. I bought and iced Americano at Starbucks on the way to work that will perk me up. For some reason, though, I just have no desire to drink my $3 beverage.

Tuesday, around 11 a.m.
I am heading home. I feel awful and am sure that I am ready to throw up the turkey sandwich I ate for breakfast.

Tuesday, noon
Yep. No more turkey sandwich. I have a conference call at 4 p.m. and I am calling in from home, and I have to get some work done before the call. Must finish throwing up before the call. Cannot toss cookies during a conference call. I call the in-laws and let them know that I am down for the count as well. They assure my that while things with the baby are still loose, she’s doing OK. They insist on keeping her until I feel better and I put up little resistance. I’m struggling and scared that I could not take care of both of us.

Tuesday, 4:45 p.m.
Luckily the conference call is wrapping because I need to visit the bathroom again. I seize a moment and leave the call. I spend about 10 minutes throwing up in the bathroom.

Tuesday evening
The house is empty and quiet and I am in a coma-like state in the bedroom. I move periodically from one side of the bed to the other, but am otherwise out of it. The phone rings and it’s my husband calling from D.C. He just threw up as well. I call the in-laws one more time and check on the girl and learn that there’s more concern about her loose stools because she will no longer drink the Liquilyte or Pedialyte, which my father-in-law found. They assure me they are taking good care of her; I know they are and leave it at that.

Tuesday, around 11 p.m.
I try to drink the unflavored Pedialyte because I need something to calm my stomach and this could do the trick. It’s weird how it’s unflavored but doesn’t taste like water. Maybe it’s the consistency. Regardless, I get why the kid doesn’t like it, but I can tell you that it was easy on my stomach. I decide to follow the nurse’s advice and have a small amount every 30 minutes, working up to a bit more if I can. It works and in the course of this regiment I taste the apple and fruit punch flavored versions as well. They also taste bad so I decide that we need to try the grape flavor.

Wednesday
Everyone in my family is sick. The baby has a diarrhea, my husband is throwing up and I am somewhere in between. I call the pediatrician’s office and they tell me that this is how it all plays out. We need to be mindful of dehydration and diaper rash, but otherwise this is just how it is. They suggest giving the baby “binding foods,” such as applesauce, bananas, rice cereal and potatoes. My in-laws make that their mantra and tell me to stay away for another day. I go into the office for a brief meeting but am otherwise asleep or working from home. I cannot take being away from the baby and decide to visit her at the in-laws house. I feel helpless and am thankful that they are taking good care of her. I visit for a while but eventually have to leave. The house is empty when I get home and my heart is broken. I feel like I am not doing a good job taking care of us, but then I remember that asking for help is not a bad thing. My in-laws love Sophia and it seems that somewhere along the way they decided to love me, too. I am grateful. I take another pass at cleaning the base of the playard, ground zero for phase two of the stomach virus, and eventually put it out on the front porch. It smells horrible and my stomach is not strong enough to clean it up. Later on I make chicken broth and eat it with about six saltine crackers.

Thursday
The baby is a bit better. Things are still loose, but better. They have their own thing going on, my in-laws and the baby, and when I call it’s like I am disrupting their thing. I decide this is good, but want to snatch up my baby before she forgets me and decides to call someone else “mommy.” I have to go to work, though, so I will have to wait a few more hours. I take Imodium and head down the road. I look bad and feel worse, but the odds of me losing my chicken broth from one end or the other are slim.

Thursday evening
We’re all at home, we all feel bad but it’s the happiest moment of the week. My husband arrived back from school today and looks like the walking dead. He smells bad as well, but that is also a whole other blog. My baby is not 100 percent but she is getting better. We had a nice warm bath followed by bananas and a bottle and then she was ready for bed. I held her for as long as I could, but eventually put her in the crib since she was trying to stretch and get comfortable and was finding it hard to do so in my arms. I keep checking on her, and her diaper, and all seems well. If this lasts then I think we are out of the woods, otherwise we’re going to the doctor. We are going to have to replace our playard, though, since it’s impossible to clean the base. It cannot be sanitary and I cannot bring myself to bring it inside. I decide that this is how otherwise perfect looking playards end up at Goodwill and the consignment store and decide that I am just going to have to buy a new one.

Scenario one:
Me holding a basketball clinic on the front driveway for seven 5 year olds.  We aren’t just playing ball; we are passing three times before shooting, we are waving bye-bye at the ball when we shoot, and our defensive stance is making my hamstrings scream.  Sure, we are having fun and the kids are laughing, but I do mean for their game to improve in the next 12 minutes.  I’m imagining little LeBron James to emerge after this valuable session of one on seven.

Scenario two:
My nephew’s end-of-the-season soccer tournament.  Just as I am leaning over to remark quietly in my brother’s ear about an opposing parent’s obnoxious behavior, I realize I am talking into thin air.  I look for my brother but he has sprinted down the sidelines next to his son encouraging him and the ball, hopefully, into the goal.  With a few seconds left in the game, said brother sprints after a lost ball to save his son a few seconds and ends up with ripped pants and the entire opposing team clapping derisively for “that guy who may have a heart attack if he doesn’t calm down”

The sad thing is I relate.  OK, so maybe I don’t run laps during a game. But I have watched from the bleachers with legs tense and fists clenched imagining that if Beau glances up to see my determined face then he will give it one last push, that Rocky music will emerge from thin air and the impossible will happen.

Scenario three:
We sign up at the last minute for a benefit race.  What’s it benefiting?  Who cares.  It’s a race.  At one point in fact I ventured that I would beat two ladies who then turned around and on the back of their shirts it said, ‘In memoriam to our dear Dad.” Beating me was the last thing on their minds I assure you.  This alone should have shamed me into submission, but no. I ended up betting a friend of mine.  A friend who is five years younger and at least ten years stronger and he beat me handily.  Though I often have delusions of grandeur and spend weeks or months thinking about how to win, the truth of the matter is he just moved his legs more while I was worried about my music, my outfit and if I’d get a ribbon, bragging rights or both.

There’s a point here.  It’s this: too much of a good thing isn’t a good thing any longer.

Sports are supposed to be fun.  So if I see you at the 10k this weekend you will notice the big smile on my face because I am going to concentrate on just having a good time…I just hope that I can do it fast - or at least faster then you.

Donovan:  I am very upset and sad, Morgan.

Morgan: Tell me why, Donovan.

Donovan:  I don’t know if I can tell you.

Morgan:  Yes, yes, Donovan, you can tell me anything.  Come over here and sit in my lap please tell me…is it school?  Are you upset with your friends?  Did something happen at the playground?

Donovan:  I don’t think I can tell you, but I can tell you I am very upset.

And so the conversation went for an excruciating 20 minutes until finally with much coaxing, much lap holding, much hair smoothing, Donovan said, “Well Morgan, I am so sad because …I don’t like your dress.”

You little ….

It wasn’t hard to guess why this little scenario had played out.  The previous night Donovan had told me my running shoes were ugly.

“Donovan,” I said. “If you don’t have something nice to say them don’t say it”

Apparently he thought if he couched his negative statement under a shroud of dismay and concern that it might be all right if he went ahead and dogged her dress anyway.  The problem is, it’s a hard lesson to learn when you’ve got an older brother who is currently in a constant state of criticizing.  It seems that in his world, nothing can be right:

Would you like ice cream? Is that the ONLY kind we have?

Tacos or burritos?  Steak.

Water or juice? Coke.

Pick you up at 11 or 11? Neither

Love ya. Whatever.

Hello. Bye.

And so we are working on being a bit more positive around here.  If we don’t get this worked out pretty soon we can pretty much kiss our free babysitters goodbye because not getting paid and getting insulted at the same token doesn’t sound too enticing I’m sure.

I don’t know quite how to tell you this but …it’s over.  Yes, I’m dumping you.  After more then 15 years together I have had it with your sugary ways, your mysterious meat products, your slimy eggs, your hockey-puck sausage.  I just can’t take it anymore and neither can the kids.

For years I paid good money for you to serve my kids crappy fried vegetables and every form of chicken known to a microwave.

Why?  Why I ask is it so hard to offer healthy choices?  Food Services, if you don’t change your ways I won’t be the only one dumping you.

The last straw came this month.  All along you have been whoring yourself out with your “free" breakfast for elementary students.  You call that free, my friend?  NO, NO, NO, that costs those kids.  It costs them their attention span, it costs them clean arteries, it costs them pounds at the waistline. 

Food Services, the day you can call a pop tart a main food choice is the day you and I have to part ways. 

And the shame of serving that garishly pink milk for breakfast. Shocking. Shameful.  Food Services, real milk is not pink.

That kids who don’t have breakfast at home should be subjected to your crap under the guise of helping, well… that I cannot take.  I want you to know I will always, always think ill of you as long as you consider a corndog one of the four food groups and funnel cake as a breakfast option. 

Until then, see ya Food Services.  I’ve found someone else and he’s mighty hot. He’s called brown paper bag and his insides have never seen the likes of you.

Sincerely,
Your ex

And as any new parent knows; everyone has an opinoin about parenting.

Animal, vegetable, mineral, otherwise?  Right from the start I’m confused. I suppose biologically it is considered an animal, but most days it feels like wilted spinach which would classify it as a vegetable.  Being a mineral would be AWESOME but otherwise makes it sound like E.T. I’m going with animal.

Can you find it in a house? Yes, when it is not in a car, in a PTA meeting, in black and whites serving raspberry sorbet with chocolate sauce to disgruntled customers or in the grocery store frantically trying to match coupons, sale prices and valued customer card deals.

Is it outside? Sometimes, but it does like its home.  It finds comfort in its nest and it prefers warm weather to cold, so it is spending a lot of time indoors these days.

Is it colorful? What a wonderful question. Yes, a virtual kaleidoscope if I do say so myself.

Is it black and white? No, only on certain issue like dark chocolate vs. white chocolate.

Can you pet it? Hmmm, depends on the day, the hour, the cycle of PMS.

Is it very large?  Larger then life.  No really, it’s been shopping in the pre-teen section its entire life.  Sure, it looks like a worn-out, tired, harassed 12 year old, but it’s really cool that it can sometimes wear the same shirt as its friend’s 3-year-old daughter.

Does it perform? To its husband’s dismay, quite often - YES.  Throw a couple of Heinekens in it and let the show begin.

Can it be used to talk to others? That’s almost a joke it hits so close to home.

Is it Native to South America? What?  More like Philly people – go Sixers.

Does it live in the jungle? No, unless you are referring to the concrete jungle or perhaps the famed 80s Guns and Roses jungle.  However, with three boys ranging in age from 5 to 36, it feels like a jungle sometimes.  Yes, I did just refer to its husband as one of the boys. I tell you, when they are all lounging around with their various piles of dirty laundry at their respective dirty feet, cracking their respective jokes about their respective bodily functions, it FEELS like three boys and a jungle to boot.

Does it make a good pet? I would have to say no, it does not.  It is pretty high maintenance, neurotic, bristly at times and controlling. Imagine all those characteristics in a drooling bounding fur wrapped puppy - not pet-owner bliss.

Is there a hole in it? It’s down about seven ear piercings and a nose piercing in the last few years, but besides that pretty much average on the hole totals.

Is it something you bring along?  This is a question that I am sure has plagued many a boyfriend and future husband in its past.  Do we bring IT home to meet mom?  I say yes, take it on a day trip!

Does it like to run? No, but it does it sometimes anyway.  It runs circles around the truth when asked by its 15 year old if it will EVER quit smoking.  It runs in the occasional 10k thinking every time that it’s coming in first place, even though it forgot to practice. And it runs chasing its 5 year old on a big wheel down city sidewalks.

Is it small? Been there done that people- if it’s not small it’s large. Not large, small.

Is it a small mammal? A small mama?  Yes, wait, no that said small mammal.

Can it carry people? Are you kidding me?  It’s carrying an entire household and the future of the Suder name right now.  It carries worries, fears, hopes, dreams for it and three other people.  Have you seen its to-do list lately - heavy, dude, heavy.

Is it bigger then a breadbox? Where this one comes from I have no idea.  I’m not even sure what a breadbox is.

“OK,” the Web site says – let me guess. “Is it a superhero?”

No, you blessed computer. It’s not a superhero - it’s a mom. 

No special powers and no cool outfit (unless you count yoga pants and running shoes). But in the eyes of a child (and this computer), someone pretty special.  So take heart moms of the world, 20Q is down with you.

OK, I know some people who aren’t church people might be shaking their heads right now, but this is one even an atheist can take to heart, right? 

Now, let’s see how it applies at the indoor playground.

Are parents like me responsible for the reality television, broadcast yourself phenomenon? Our children have cameras in their face before they know they have cameras in their face.

I couldn’t resist the infant monitor with video when shopping at the baby superstore. Sure, it cost more than the non-video monitors and I realize that, theoretically, I should be asleep when my baby’s asleep, rendering the need for video unnecessary, but I bought it anyway. I’m that kind of a gadget geek. When we’re done using it in the nursery we can convert it into a home security system.

The video camera rests on a base with a wireless antenna and can be wall mounted or placed on a shelf or ledge to maximize the view of the crib. The camera in our house stares down on the crib with maximum overview.  There’s a small green light beside the camera indicating that it is powered on and broadcasting.

I think Sophia has figured out that the camera is on her and her time in the crib is broadcast for mom and dad to see. She seems determined to stare at the camera. When I check the portable monitor she’s staring back at me if she’s awake.

My husband doesn’t like the video monitor. He’s not interested in it and since we have a small house he doesn’t have to be (further argument for why I do not need this device). Unless we’re asleep, we can hear Sophia in her nursery when she wakes up or frets during the night.

So while I am willing to admit that I may have overspent on the baby monitor and was lured by the flash of technology, I am having a hard time coping with the fact that I may be this kind of parent - the kind with video cameras mounted in their child’s room.

Sure, she’s a baby and it’s all for safety, but I can’t think of a reason not to have the video camera. I’m not planning to remove it from her room when she’s a toddler and needs less monitoring at night.

I really didn’t see this coming. I was worried about turning into the worst combination of my mother and my aunt, not The Man with a portable video baby monitor clipped to the waistband of her yoga pants.

It is amazing that when I began this venture I worried that I might struggle for topics, for something of interest, for something to say. And then my friend Sara called me.

“You aren’t gonna believe what Lorelei did today,” said Sara, referring to her daughter.

“What,” I asked.

“During her supposed nap time she got up and put on flowered pants, a checkered shirt, gloves, striped knee-highs, red Mary Janes and then came up to me and said ‘Do you like my outfit?’,” explained Sara.

Sara, who would never miss a fashion trend, who carries a Coach bag bigger then my smallest child, whose teenage nieces still take fashion tips from her - that she should have a daughter who likes to dress like Pippi Longstocking…adamantly likes it as only a 3 year old can do.  “Oh sweet justice,” I thought. 

Someone upstairs gets a good little laugh when they imprint our children.  They are either eerily like us, miniature versions of our every character flaw, or they are the exact opposite from the time they exit the birth canal.  Either way you’re butting heads only moments after their first feeding.

I have two sons.  One is nothing like me and I can’t quite understand why.  I puzzle as he decides to sit home on a Saturday night instead of hitting the party he’s been invited to.  He’s about as sentimental as a block of wood.  He’s 15 and I just this year got my first birthday present from him. 

Meanwhile, my 5 year old would clear out Macy’s looking for the perfect gift.  He’s a social, obnoxious, loud and sometimes downright annoying little bundle of energy.  He’s me downsized.

I can’t ignore their differences, but I have learned to appreciate them.  Two of either kind of personality would have made me crazy on different ends of the crazy spectrum. 

So I laugh when I hear about little Pippi who is quite frankly a girl after my own heart and should have been given to me.  In my opinion, striped knee-highs and red Mary Janes are totally hip. 

But in the meantime, while Sara’s trying to groom her little Jackie O, it’s all fodder for the blog, Sara, fodder for the blog.

I mean, I have tattoos.  We went to his dad’s show last month…together.  And it’s not like his dad’s in a Jimmy Buffet tribute band or belting Kenny Loggins’ covers; his dad’s in a punk band that’s pretty well known in Richmond.

Nonetheless, we have managed to turn into skin curdling geeks.  Here’s a typical conversation about my attire, my demeanor and horrible disgusting embarrassing me.

Him: When we go to the pool party, do you have to get in the water?
Me: Well sure - it is a pool you know.
Him: Why did you put those blonde streaks in your hair?  You look just like the girls at Papa’s shows - just like everyone else, except you’re 35.
Me: No, son, I’m 36 but who’s counting.
Him: Are you going to wear those boots? For God’s sake they are knee high black leather with huge buckles - you’re not riding a motorcycle to work are you?
Me: I’m riding a bike and it has two wheels. Does that count?
Him: NO offense, but I don’t really like your tattoos. I mean no offense.
Me: Thanks, considering I have more then I can count on one hand. And by the way, they’re permanent, but I’ll get over it. I’m not offended at all.
Him: Why do you always laugh at your own jokes?
Me: Well, because I’m hilarious, son, if you haven’t noticed. And if I don’t laugh at my jokes then who will?
Him: OK, but do you have to laugh SO loud?
Me: Yes, because they are super funny.
Him: You’re doing that thing again - that thing I can’t stand. Stop it. Stop that.

At this point I don’t even know what I’m doing to annoy him because if I live, breathe or wake up I am apparently doing it wrong. 

I thank God for this stage (well on my better days I do).  Kids need to break free from their parents - especially when their parents are tattooed blonde-streaked hilarious braying idiots like me.

Be free, Beau, be free.

Luckily for me, Mandy Moore is here to inspire me. The young attractive successful singer/actor/fashion designer/corporate spokesperson is promoting a new Web site that will surely save my life and my waistline.

Many Moore wants me, because I am a woman, to visit uPumpItUp.com. More specifically, KraftBrands.com/upumpitup. Yes, the makers or Crystal Light and Mandy Moore have jumped on the social networking bandwagon. (For more on social networking, see my FaceBook page.)

In an Interview with Page Crawford posted on YouTube, Moore says the Web site aims to promote women’s general wellness and wellbeing. It’s about finding balance.

Apparently Crystal Light approached Moore to get involved because their research revealed that three out of four women think their life is unbalanced in some way. Did three out of four women say they wanted Mandy Moore to help them solve this problem?

In the interview, Moore says that the women’s stories on the Web site could be incentive for others to get healthy. Perhaps this is not very Web 2.0 of me, but I never really look to strangers to give me a boost. Their story may be interesting, but I tend to take corporate-sponsored success stories with a grain of salt.

But Mandy Moore says, “It’s positive, you know?”

Yes, Mandy, I do. I think it’s great.

I’m especially looking forward to seeing you address your goals - learning to cook and vacationing alone. I’m sure your experiences as a well-paid singer/actor/fashion designer/corporate spokesperson learning to cook for yourself and venturing into the world without an entourage in tow will really hit home with me. Keep pumping it up! (And if you need some cooking pointers, check out my videos.)

Now excuse me, but I need to run on my treadmill and dye my hair before this kid wakes up. We’re trying applesauce again this morning before I head off to work.

I tell you, Mandy, let me know what it’s like vacationing alone.