how to alienate other mothers, and other thoughts about playground etiquette

Recently I've identified the biggest source of negative feedback about my stay at home mother (SAHM) role. Her name is LANA. I've complained a great deal about how society doesn't understand what we SAHMs do, and how we don't get any validation for the hard work we put into parenting simply because we don't bring home a paycheck. This is true. But my numerous working mom friends never make me feel bad when I whine about various SAHM challenges. Instead they nod in support and say "yeah, I'm relieved to go to work sometimes because it's far easier!". And when I DO hear a voice saying rude things like "you don't deserve a break, you didn't even go to work today!" it is usually coming from my own hampster-wheel of a brain.

So I've decided that for now, the only way to quell this counterproductive inner monologue of Dutch origin is to treat parenthood like the challenging career that it is. It's a career that provides an abundance of learning opportunities and a vast array of "co-workers". And I get to choose my own work environment. The office has been a bit lonely so far, so I'm trying to leave the cubicle by taking Elliot to music classes, indoor playgrounds, swimming pool visits, and playdates. I've always hated desk jobs anyway.

One challenge I'm encountering in my new position is a lack of social grace. I just don't know what to talk about at the water cooler. For example, every time I take Elliot to an indoor play area, there are usually a few moments where I find myself standing next to another mother as our children play (or more often, ignore each other and play side by side).

You can tell when the other mom wants to talk. Her eager yet timid energy indicates that she is ready and willing to add a new mom friend to her network. Especially one with a similar work schedule. So I quickly scan my brain for potential conversation starters, and the options that typically pop up include: "how is your sex life after having kids?", "do you sometimes feel like you're going insane too?" and "I feed my kid lots of unhealthy crap b/c I'm desperate to get him to eat something/anything. What about you?".

For obvious reasons I usually opt to remain silent. And when on occasion the other mom works up the nerve to talk to ME, she typically displays excellent social etiquette by asking me things like "how old is your son?" or "do you guys live nearby?". I usually answer with great enthusiasm, smiling vigorously in an attempt to say "yes let's be friends!". And then I remain silent. Awkwardly, painfully, mournfully silent. Thankfully by this point Elliot's .05 second attention span has prompted him forth to other toys and locations, and I follow him with a sense of great relief, telling myself that NEXT time I'll keep the conversation flowing by asking the other mom about her child's sleep patterns, developmental milestones, etc. And at least I have the grace and hard-earned empathy to never ask THESE horrific questions.

I'm not too disturbed by my lack of social grace, because it hasn't hindered my social life in other areas. I feel blessed with an abundance of girlfriends and if anything, I wish I had more time to give to them. It's just that most of them work during the day when Elliot and I are looking for dates. [side note to my mommy friends who I DO get the chance to hang out with during the day- YOU ARE GODDESSES AND I LOVE YOU]. So I will continue to visit the water cooler and work on my SAHM etiquette. OR perhaps I'll just become a shockingly blunt SAHM who tells it like it is. Surely there must be a market for those?

Confessions of an accidental stay at home mom.

I am now entrenched in the 3rd month of the unpaid yet utterly challenging and wonderful career path known as "being a stay at home parent". Moms who are really into being stay at home moms refer to themselves as "SAHM"s. But I'm hoping this post will reach an audience who is blissfully unaware of the underworld of parenting acronyms.

I did not choose to be a full-time "SAHM". Ideally, I would be working part time. That's what I was doing before my temporary job ended, and that's what I hope to do again. But I'm trying to appreciate this gift of time with my wonderful son who is growing up far too fast. Even if it means earning an overabundance of credit card points to pay for groceries and depleting our retirement fund to pay our mortgage.

Each day of my SAHM existence I try to practice gratitude for my healthy child and the unexpected gift of time with him. I mean look at the kid. He's ludicrously lovable! I also know women who deal with the heartbreak of infertility and sick children. So it pains me even more when I come to the occasional end of my SAHM rope and find myself thinking thoughts such as "I can't do this anymore!! This is not what I signed up for! And I clearly suck at this job because, for the love of all that is holy, my kid won't stop crying!" Welcome to Lana's brain. It can be a very volatile and unforgiving place.

This inability to be kind to myself, wherever it stems from, is the primary reason I struggle with being a full time mom. I will be the first to admit that the majority of time I don't know what the F*&% I'm doing. I was a fabulous preschool music teacher. But frankly, I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what to do when my child is popping a tooth and proceeds to whine and act out ALL DAY LONG. I try to read the parenting books. But their brief and simplified anecdotes are about as relevant as Old Testament society's approach to menstruation (for more interesting and possibly fictional information on this "period" of history, refer to the wonderful novel The Red Tent). So I end up feeling demoralized each time Elliot cries. At times, my head becomes a battle of conflicting parenting theories that leave me feeling like a wishy-washy puddle of inconsistent goo.

Before I complain anymore, it is essential to say that I am incredibly lucky to have both an appreciative and helpful husband AND multiple sets of parental units in the area, all of whom provide extensive childcare breaks. These breaks allow me to maintain sanity by going for runs, doing errands, and writing cover letters and resumes (and whiny blog posts, apparently). I can't even imagine how women dealt with these struggles 50 years ago, when society inflicted even higher expectations and provided even fewer demonstrations of support.

But despite my amazing support network, I've still become a bit, erm, defensive of my current SAHM identity. Here is a list of factors that add to my defensiveness:

1) WE SAHMS don't get paid. We should. More evolved countries such as Holland and Austria (and the lesser known nation called "the Microsoft campus") pay mothers to take lengthy maternity leaves. That's the right idea.

2) We get more advice than probably ANY employee on the planet. And we can't tell ourselves "just kiss up to the boss and take his advice, it'll result in a big fat bonus!". There is no bonus. There is only annoyance and the desire to scream VERY VERY loud.

3) We don't live in community anymore. I'm not ready to move to a commune anytime soon. However, I'm fairly certain it's easier to be a "SAHM" when every single other woman in your tribe is doing it too. In imaginary tribe land, there is lots of gossiping and lots of kids for your child to play with for free, without a single lesson plan or registration fee. The best part of it all is that you don't have to email back and forth with the other moms 54 times to schedule a 30 minute playdate.

I could go on, and maybe I will in future whiny blog posts. But for now I'll leave it at this: Motherhood is miraculous. I am incredibly grateful for my child and the chance to be with him most of the day, each and every day. But when I DO return to the world of paid employees, I will never allow myself to look at a mom who stays at home with her children and think "huh, must be nice for you...". Instead I will look at her with immense respect and say, "hey superwoman, can I please have your autograph???".

Why I will never be one of those jogging stroller moms...

Yet another profound revelation. I will never be a jogging stroller mom (henceforth referred to as JSM, because my fingers are lazy, at least when it comes to some activities..insert innuendo here).

Before I had my own chid, I would shuffle around Greenlake and stare with admiration as the JSMs passed me by with their limber size -2 postpartum bodies, their children sitting like perfect dolls in the safe confines of a pricey stroller Hummer. I sort of hated them, mostly because I knew they probably lived in some adorable 5 bedroom craftsman bungalow in a prestigious Seattle neighborhood which I would never be able to afford. Have I mentioned that envy is one of my biggest defects of character? But I also sort of loved them, because their toned bodies meant that if I had a baby, I would not be forced to become a chubby, frumpy mom with a cheap haircut and pleated stone-washed jeans. They offered proof that I could be a mom AND a fitness goddess, both goals that I hoped to achieve before age 45!

I've achieved one of those goals (I'll let you guess which one) and today, I took that fussy little goal on our first jogging stroller adventure. During that 20 minutes of sheer unadulterated non-bliss, I realized a few things. And thus commences yet another blog entry list:

1) Although I am utterly and completely in love with my child, why would I bring the fussy creature WITH me when I exercise, when I can use exercise as a way to get a few precious hours to myself???

2) I don't care how well designed a jogging stroller is or how many gadgets it includes. Pushing a large object wile running is simply NOT A NATURAL HUMAN ACTIVITY! I can't tell you how many times I nearly a) ran into the stroller when it slowed down, b) ran into the people walking by me and smiling at my screaming child, or c) pushed the stroller INTO the lake I was running next to.

3) I had to stop about 40 times due to Elliot's fun new game, called "throw my binky from the stroller, say 'uh oh' in my little imp voice, whine at mommy until she returns said binky despite her assertive proclamations of "ALL DONE BINKY", suck on binky for roughly .006 seconds once I've worn my annoyed mommy down, and then commence the game again".

After Elliot's binky mysteriously propelled itself 20 feet in the air for the umpteenth time, a JSM prototype passed me by. Her perfectly colored hair bounced cheerfully as her slender legs carried her and her non-binky-catapulting child forward. Then she did something utterly unexpected. She SMILED at me! I think she thought "yay! Another JSM, she and I could be BFF!". Little did she know I was mentally exploring my entire lexicon of curse words. But I smiled back at her in a friendly JSM club greeting, secretly thinking "you seem nice lady, but this club SUCKS".

And yet again I've realized that the things that I envy are not always what they seem. So I'm starting my own club called "mildly fit moms who go to yoga and Zumba as often as they can so their wonderful husbands have to put their fussy child to bed".

Shameless 1st birthday gushathon

My baby boy is turning one in two days. I have absolutely no clue how to wrap my brain around this, let alone put words to how much I adore the little imp.

At times I can actually feel my heart stretching and filling with unfathomable amounts of love for him. Not to say that there aren't times when I feel my pulse racing with unfathomable amounts of annoyance and fatigue. You know that inhumanely tear-jerking scene in Titanic when Leo freezes in the water and Kate then lets him go and he floats down into the depths? Well, I love this kid so much that I would float to the bottom of the coldest sea for him. I also love him so much that I will never force him to watch Titanic.


So my sweet precious son, as you blossom from a tiny infant to a little a toddler, these are my birthday wishes for you:

May you find the world as goofy and silly as it really is (if you ever forget this, take a look at the obese squirrels in our backyard, or the wombat picture in your room).

May you learn to walk through trials instead of around them. And may you learn to walk in general, you know, whenever you're ready.

May you know that you are loved; imperfectly by your family, and perfectly by the Divine.

May you march to your own rhythm, even if it ends up being faster or slower than that of your peers.

May you stay out of the scary neighbor's yard.

May your young passions blossom into sustainable and fulfilling relationships.

May you be blessed with friends...and may your friends not be total brats.

May you realize that your mom and dad are probably the coolest (and humblest) people on this planet.

May you find hobbies that feed your soul. And may you find them on your own, without anyone pressuring you (speaking of which, I have you signed up for voice lessons next year).

May you fall in love with learning, and seek out knowledge because you just can't help yourself.

May you learn not to pick your boogers and eat them in public.

May you never feel alone in this world. Because guess what? You never will be!

I love you baby boy! Happy Birthday!

LATCH ONTO THIS Giselle (and other semi-cynical thoughts about modern day breastfeeding guilt).

Recently the supermodel mom Giselle was quoted as stating that mothers should be legally required to breastfeed their babies until at least 6 months of age.
Before I had Elliot, I must admit that I agreed on some level. A lithe, mildly anorexic Giselle sat on my shoulder during my first months of motherhood, encouraging me to keep breastfeeding through cracked nipples, mastitis, and thrush. I loved breastfeeding my baby, and there is nothing sweeter than looking down at a tiny human as he suckles contentedly on sustenance that you created for him.

But when Elliot stopped wanting to breastfeed at 4 months due to the pain caused by his reflux, there was no amount of Giselle-guilt that could get him to latch onto my nipples again. And there was a LOT of guilt, trust me. Part of this was my own grief that my breastfeeding relationship with Elliot seemed to be over. And part of it was the fact that every source I turned to for information poured salt on the wound. I remember taking Elliot to a lactation consultant shortly after he stopped wanting to breastfeed. We discovered that he hadn't been gaining weight, and determined that he would need to supplement with formula. As she handed me the carton of formula, she said "just so you know, studies are now showing that formula can actually CAUSE some diseases". As I searched parenting books and websites for information about how to help Elliot with his reflux, it seemed that every page I looked at said in bold "formula makes reflux worse! If you want your baby to recover, you must breastfeed".

Every time I came across these messages I added extra pumping sessions to my day and pounded fenugreek, all in an effort to increase my milk supply. Until finally Rob and I decided that it was more important for me to be present for my son than to continue agonizing over my dwindling milk rations. Elliot gradually transitioned to formula as my supply faded (despite my continued pumping efforts) and once he got on the right medicine, his reflux did get better.

I truly do believe that breast IS best. And I think any mom who has ever picked up a book or talked to a doctor believes this as well. So this leaves me to wonder who the current high-pressure breastfeeding campaign is geared towards. Because none of the moms I know need any more pressure or guilt. So to all of you doctors, authors, mompetitors, and super models who judge moms who have tried their best to make breastfeeding work but don't succeed, I say "LATCH ONTO THIS, JERKS" (insert lewd image that may or may not involve me holding my breast in a very threatening fashion).

I write this post in the hopes of offering another perspective to guilt-ridden moms (and because I'm stuck in bed with a flu). Breastfeeding is a wonderful thing. But if your child never figures out how to latch, your breastmilk supply never comes in, or you have to supplement with formula for other reasons, please know that you are still an amazing mother and that you are not alone. Your child will still thrive, and will still bond with you. At some point, when you look into your child's eyes during a bottle feeding, you will be amazed to find him or her starting up at you with complete adoration and love. And there is nothing more pure than that.

Ode to Grandmas and coconut bras.

As I prepared for the joys of motherhood, I was frequently cautioned about the dangers of the grandma who lends too much advice. So great was my trepidation that I diligently prepared a mental speech, which I would boldly deliver in the event of a grandma-advice-overdose. The speech basically stated: "I know what I'm doing, so shove off!".

I have yet to feel the need to deliver this eloquent speech, because what I didn't realize is how incredibly LUCKY I would feel to have a number of loving parental units in a 20 mile radius, all eager to help with Elliot in any way they can! How many children can say they have six grandparents who they see on a regular basis? And yes, they may offer advice from time to time. But most of the time it's good advice! In fact, sometimes I even (drumroll) seek out their input. Countless times I have called a mom-figure in tears, trying to figure out how to mend whatever was wrong with Elliot (usually gas). And during the reflux JULY FROM HELL (see earlier blog post about tubing) my wonderful mother stopped by my house almost everyday and kept me company while I sat on the couch in tears, desperately trying to get my baby to eat.

Disclaimer #1: this does not lend you Grandmas free license to unleash those bits of wisdom you've been patiently storing in your head while watching Rob and I fumble our way through our first year of parenthood.

Disclaimer #2: I may have jokingly implemented a daily advice quota for my own mom, which she frequently surpasses. But all I have to say is "quota alert!" and she usually moves on to a new topic..

I say this not to brag about how lucky I am. Because I'd have to be a complete asshole to do that (keep the jokes to yourselves, readers). My true intention is to commend all of you parents who are traversing the rough terrain of new parenthood without much family support. Whether it's due to career-related distances or family rifts, many new parents these days aren't graced with the blessing of family help. And to all of you in this situation, I offer a big fat salute!

This does lead me to question why so many parents seem to be going it alone these days (as compared to the days of yore???). The biggest factor I can identify, via the very scientific method of thinking about our circle of friends for 2 minutes, is career. People move away from family to pursue their careers, because they are passionate about what they do. And my fortunate family situation is largely due to the fact that Rob and I haven't prioritized our careers. For example, Rob would make an excellent fireman, and this has always been his dream. If career were his top priority, he would apply all over the country for positions, instead of localizing his search to the very competitive Seattle area. Sometimes we think about what could have been (especially when I imagine how hot Rob would look in a fireman uniform) or bemoan the fact that we don't have the incomes that our career-focused friends do. But when it comes down to it, we are happy with the choices we've made, because we are richer for the tremendous family support we have at our doorstep.

I do not think this is the right choice for everyone, however. Being closely knit with one's family does have its, erm, challenges. And some family situations are so dysfunctional that a 1k+ distance between grandparents and children is the best thing for everyone involved. However, I do have to say that there's something appealing about the idea of communal family child-rearing. (Parents: please take a moment to visualize yourself, your parental units, and your child/children living together in a large communal dwelling, wearing grass skirts and coconuts on your breasts for some reason. Sounds kinda nice, doesn't it?). But for those of you who have chosen your career or sanity over a communal hut in your homeland, may you find community and support in other ways, including visits from your friend Lana. I promise not to wear a coconut bra. But I can't make any promises about the grass skirt.

Bye bye Lake MOBY-gone, Hello Ergo-centric!

What is the most challenging part of parenthood, you say? That's easy...it's not the midnight cries, the various shades of poo, or the baby food flung across vast distances (usually landing upon mom's hair, where it lurks for awhile before migrating to the nether regions of mom's pants). Those challenges pale in comparison to the greatest parenting hurdle of all: BABY GEAR. Because what no one tells you when you're gleefully tearing apart gifts at your baby shower is that most baby gear requires assembly skills that can only be gained by completing a PhD in origami.

Let's take the moby wrap, for example. This trendy item consists of one very very very (infinity) long piece of cloth. The length of this cloth is on par with one of my blog entries. Yeah, it's THAT long. And the only item on this epic length fabric that provides ANY sort of direction to a new and confused parent is an indescribably small tag that says, and I quote, "Moby". If you translate the word "Moby" from motherese, what it really says is "HA! Good luck asswipe! Wish you got a bit more sleep, don't you? Bet you wish your baby wasn't crying right now either, huh???"...in so many words.

Rob and I attempted to use the Moby wrap numerous times. When it didn't end in a near death suffocation incident for everyone involved (including the cat), it led to many tears (also from the cat). Because in order to correctly wear the infamous "MOBY", one must attain the perfect balance of cloth on shoulder and cloth around waist, and then somehow live to tie the remaining cloth in a knot. Oh yes, and then as an afterthought, one must put the baby INTO the resulting "wrap". This is actually easier to do with a cat than a child, at least if your child's name rhymes with Schmelliot. But Alas, even if one DOES manage to assemble this arcane torture device and then cram their baby into it as if they are a glob of turkey stuffing, there are still challenges ahead. Because there is no warning on that nice succinct little tag to tell you that YOU AND YOUR BABY WILL BOTH SWEAT UNTIL YOU ARE SOAKED AND DANGEROUSLY DEHYDRATED.

See picture of one of our few successful MOBY attempts. Notice the rings under both of our eyes. Those are not from sleep deprivation, but from MOBY trauma.

Needless to say, we no longer use the Moby wrap. In fact, for months I used NOTHING to carry my child except for...wait for it...MY ARMS! It was incredibly liberating. But then we stumbled upon (and by stumble upon I mean we put it on our amazon wish list for Christmas) this marvelous invention called the Ergo. Like the Moby, the Ergo is also made of cloth. But the similarities end there. Because when a less-new but still confused parent looks at the directions for the ERgo and tries to mimic the 80's hair mom featured in the pictures, she actually achieves this goal within minutes. Aforementioned hypothetical mom then swells with pride and gains enough energy to insert fussy and squirmy child into ergo, much like the 80's hair child featured in the pictures. It's an amazing invention. And Ergo Inc., I will gladly become your next spokesperson. And so will the cat.

the womanly art of tubing (i.e. motherhood)

Yes, that's right, I said tubing. And I don't mean fallopian tubes (which I will someday learn to spell without spell check) or breast pump tubes (which I never did disinfect before returning my rental breast pump). I mean inner tubing, the kind you do on a river.

First, a little background. Many summers ago (OK only 2, but 2 sounds less dramatic) I learned a profound lesson about life while inner tubing down the Yakima river with my fabulous cousins, Sarah Joy and Rachel.

We began our tubing adventure somewhat spontaneously, as most adventures begin. It fell at the end of a two day girl's trip to Leavenworth, WA: a Bavarian themed tourist town surrounded by mountains and rivers, and overflowing with businesses whose names begin with "Der" or "Das". We had just checked out of "Der Ritterhoff" hotel (famous for its 50 foot plastic statue of a knight in der shining armor) and had picked up a few food items at "der Safeway" (I am not making this up) when we decided we could not conclude der weekend without one more sporty adventure. And thus we arrived at Der Inner Tubing place (I AM lying about this title, because I can't remember der actual name).

Clad in ill-fitting skorts and fresh farmer tans, we boarded a dilapidated van and traveled with our Bavarian tubes roughly .23 miles down the road to the riverside. I should have known I was in for a rough ride when the other tubers (not to be confused with flower bulb appendages) began their graceful glide down the river while I was still planted on the shore, desperately searching my inner tube for a hidden compartment in which to put my beverage (it ended up in my crotch...thank goodness for skorts).

Once I was finally IN the water, all was well...for roughly .23 centimeters. At which point I encountered some frightening rapids (OK, just 1) and began the behavior that has now come to symbolize my less impressive moments as a mother. I am not sure how to describe this behavior. If you imagine a beetle stuck on its back, flailing its numerous legs in a desperate attempt to flip over (and wearing a skort for some reason), you may get the idea. Except my flailing was part of an effort to steer away from the imminent rapids. I applied all of the skills I learned in swim team to this effort, but to no avail. Because apparently when you're in a tube, circling your arms rapidly and gyrating your torso in an upside down butterfly stroke does not give you much leverage. In fact, it just makes you swirl around in clumsy circles as the river carries you towards what you fear most.

Thankfully, at this point my cousins (who were peacefully floating about 500 feet ahead of me like water nymphs) came to my rescue by yelling this profound advice: "Just go with the flow Lana!". I said a small prayer to God to take care of my husband and family when I was gone, imagined what the reporters would say ("champion swimmer found at the bottom of the Yakima river, wearing a skort for some reason")and grudgingly ceased my frantic beetle/butterfly stroke. And you can guess what happened next, because I am here to write this very profound blog post. I passed safely over the rapid(s) and eventually joined the nymphs on the journey forward, or downward. I then spent the remainder of the journey rambling about how life is like inner tubing, and you must just let go and go with DER flow.

Although I remembered this lesson often in the following years, it appears to have been erased from my psyche by motherhood hormones. Motherhood has been amazing; all the cliches you hear, and then some. I never knew it was possible to love one little person so much, and life with a child is incredibly fulfilling. But (cue change of mood music) there have been countless moments of frantic flailing since I became a mommy six months ago. Part of it can be blamed on that good old scapegoat: hormones. Part of it is the responsibility of caring for a helpless human who is totally dependent on you. And part of it, I believe, is the monumental stack of expectations I brought to the adventure of motherhood.

When I was pregnant, I made many cocky statements such as "I think breastfeeding problems are largely psychological, so I'm just not going to worry about it" and "I'm just going to take my baby everywhere..I mean you still have to live your life right?". I envisioned myself the quintessential Seattle mom; strolling through farmer's markets, wearing my cherubic infant in a trendy wrap, gushing breast milk and a calm maternal aura. I'm not sure where I got this image- but I suspect it may have something to do with the childhood pictures of my hippie mother nursing a naked 3 year old me in various pristine natural settings.

So it came as quite a surprise when Elliot was 2 months old and I still found myself afraid to take him anywhere alone. I bravely ventured out one day to join a new mom's group in order to vent about my fear of venturing out. Five minutes into the journey, Elliot began to cry (as babies do, I'm told) and I turned my inner tube around in a tearful butterfly stroke and rushed home, singing "the Wheels on the Bus" at an increasingly frantic tempo. Thankfully I am blessed with numerous wise mother friends (including my mother and mother-in-laws) who reassured me that Elliot WOULD survive a tearful car ride, and would not be damaged for life if I took him to the grocery store.

It came as an even bigger surprise to discover that breastfeeding problems are NOT all psychological...unless you consider flat nipples, mastitis infections, and nipple blisters to be psychological challenges. I forged my tube over these rapids and continued to breastfeed, with the aid of many visits to the lactation consultant water nymph. But nothing prepared me for the biggest rapid of all. At 3 months of age, Elliot began to pull away and look at me like I'd stabbed him each time he nursed. I did everything I could think of to get him back on the breast, but most of the time we both ended up in tears. I could go on about this issue, but what it came down to was a bad case of infant acid reflux. Basically, it hurt Elliot to eat, and so he learned that nursing equaled pain. Not exactly the hippie mom nursing nirvana I had planned on.

I spent about a month (which I now refer to as "the July from HELL") flailing down the reflux river, pumping a dwindling supply of breast milk and bottle feeding a resistant baby about 14 times a day to get him to eat enough to grow. Just when it seemed that Elliot and I were going to capsize, we found a medication for his reflux that let him eat with far less discomfort. That was 3 months ago. Today, he only fights the bottle in public or when he first begins to drink, and he is grazing in the far greener pastures of solid foods. We are incredibly thankful.


I still find myself gyrating in a frantic butterfly stroke whenever Elliot's reflux flares up or he just isn't very hungry. During these times, my husband serves as the water nymph (visual of Rob in a speedo) calmly reassuring me that Elliot WILL be OK. Elliot's smiles, drooly kisses, and giggles also remind me to relax, take a breath, and go with the flow. Once I stop flailing and let go of my expectations for myself and my child, I realize that motherhood truly IS a beautiful thing- even if it's a bumpier ride than I anticipated.

Pregnancy update: mysterious fluids and gerbil behavior.

Welcome readers, all 2 of you, to my blog. You may be wondering why I decided to start a blog (or more realistically, why anyone would read this blog). Three reasons.
First, there is only so much one can type on a facebook status update without annoying all (insert obscenely high number, or in my case, 58) of one's facebook friends. Second, I used to journal, but honestly, I got tired of hearing myself whine. Because if your only audience is yourself, that's what you end up doing, at least if you're me. But if I am forced to write to the massive number of individuals who will put this blog on their bookmark bar, I may start to talk about something slightly more interesting than my current angst-provoking issues. Last, I have a feeling that once this baby arrives, I will want to share his amusing antics. And perhaps drone on and on about how many times he has pooped in one day, the quality of the poo, and other exciting topics that new parents always seem so enthralled with. And because my husband and I have a giant extended family, I know I have an instant audience for such ehthralling posts, so long as we post baby pics.

But since our baby has not exited his little indoor pool yet, I will instead talk about my own bodily functions. Last week, 33 weeks into the pregnancy, I experienced something I haven't experience since age, uhh, 3 (OK, really more like 12, who am I kidding). I peed in my pants. Having spent too much time on anxiety-inducing pregnancy websites which, notice, are NOT on my list of fave sites, I immediately assumed the worst. I assumed that this must have been what they call in serious medical circles a "ruptured bag of waters". It could not possibly be related to the five pound human learning to riverdance atop my bladder. Don't ask me where he found bagpipes in there. That's a whole other blog entry.

So, upon notifying the doctor of aforementioned pant-wetting, we were told to rush to the hospital, and pack a bag in case this was the start of pre-term labor. So I did what any responsible pregnant woman would do. I picked up my knitting bag and stuffed it full of my toothbrush, yoga pants, and a creepy Ann Rice novel. Because apparently I mistook the word "triage" for "rustic retreat center in the mountains". I didn't even think to stop by that mysterious room that harbors bins and bins of newly acquired onesies to pack something for the BABY. I would like to think that this behavior was a result of my maternal instinct telling me that baby wasn't really coming out yet. While that may be partly true, in reality, I think it hadn't quite dawned on me that the movement in my belly was due to a real human being, and not the result of a severe case of indigestion.

To make a long story slightly less long- all is fine with the baby. I went home after a few hours on the baby monitor, where it finally sunk in that there really WAS a human in there, whose little heart continues to beat like a tiny drum regardless of which kinky Ann Rice scene I am reading. He is going to cook a bit longer (I have always gagged inwardly when others compared gestation to roasting a turkey, and now here I am doing it) and this is great news, because we want his lungs to develop so we can squeeze him continuously when he arrives, without the interference of a NICU cage.

To call this event a reality check is an understatement. It was more like a reality bomb. I have been on modified rest since peeing in my pants, just to make sure all is well, and to save our floor from undue urine stains. But my lack of movement has been more than made up for by the sudden flurry of activity from my wonderful husband. Nothing like taking your wife to the hospital with her knitting needles to make a man realize he is about to become a daddy.

I had two wonderful gerbils when I was growing up (I promise, this really does relate somehow). Their names were Kara and Willy, and, in the words of Milton from Office Space (when he lost his red stapler, and his desk with a and view of the squirrels outside), they were married. The happy gerbil couple soon did what gerbils do (although rabbits always get the credit): they bred like gerbils and produced roughly 500 pink, hairless, eraser-like babies per week. In prepaparation for their first batch of erasers, they scurried around the cage anxiously, flinging bits of shavings and seed around haphhazardly.

This is where the point of this story comes in. My mother said months ago that my husband and I remind her of Kara and Willy, scurrying around anxiously in our house (and at 800 square feet, our house IS somewhat cage-like) in preparation for our son's arrival. Although I could acknowledge that my recent onset of pregnancy-induced body-hair growth did lend me some gerbil-like qualities, I didn't really understand the comparison at that point. Now I do. Sure enough, my husband has been scurrying around the baby room every night this week in a flurry of gerbil-like antics. Instead of pine shavings, there are cardboard boxes and clothing tags being flung about haphhazardly. It's a wonderful and exciting time, and I can't wait to bring our pink little son home to his nest.