K: Hello?

Me: Hey! Thanks for the flowers! You didn’t need to do that.

K: You’re welcome. You sent some to me, too, right?

Me: Ummmm … last year I did. Not this year …

K: Then who sent me flowers? There are some waiting for me at the neighbor’s.

Me: Mom?

K: No, she said she didn’t.

Me: Your husband?

K: Why would he do that?

****

Thrice yesterday my doorbell rang, and three times I was handed a vase of beautiful blooms. My mom, sister and husband all sent me flowers this year.

But the best gift? Waking up to the sweet face and sweeter kiss of my little girl and feeling my son kick and flutter in my belly.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of you!

Say what you like about me, I know how to throw one hell of a party.

I woke this morning to the scent of cocktail weenies and taco dip, secure in the knowledge that my baked artichoke dip garnered a spot in Huge Midwestern University lore. Even the deviled eggs went, and that can be a tricky dish.

We had 30 people here last night, and they all seemed to have a good time. They were, on the whole, excellent guests, with the exception of the master’s student who never once introduced himself to me and left without saying thank you - especially rude since it was the masters students who wanted to have the damn party in the first place.

The kitchen is an unmitigated disaster, but on the other hand, The Poo slept until 9:40 this morning, worn out from her solo and much applauded performance of the ABC song

As much as I enjoy the compliments, it’s safe to say this was the last party we’ll be throwing for quite some time. The next gathering will be for Shaggy’s Christening sometime in the fall.

Speaking of Shaggy, I have a PSA for all you slender young ladies out there.

I was checking the beanless bean dip when a well-dressed couple arrived. Young and thin, they were all black blazers and effortless confidence.

I introduced myself to the woman and thanked her for the hostess gift and veggie tray she brought with her. After several hours on my feet, my belly was sore. Supporting my aching uterus with one hand, the outline of my almost-popped navel poked through my jersey dress.

During the course of our small talk, I made some crack about being pregnant. The woman looked at me and said:

“Oh! I never would have know! How far along are you?”

HOW FAR ALONG AM I?

Lady, you are either blind, stupid or unfailingly polite. My belly is as obvious as neon sign flashing the word “fertile.”

This slender young blond thing then revealed that she, too, is expecting. Nine weeks along, she said.

I congratulated her and made my way through the crowd to The Poo, who was showing anyone who cared to look her new Strawberry Shortcake underpants.

I took her to the bathroom for a prophylactic potty trip and looked at myself sideways in the mirror.

How far along, indeed.

Note to all: telling a woman who is six-and-a-half months pregnant that you didn’t know she was knocked up does not make her feel better. It makes her feel like she could be mistaken for a big fat cow.

Not cool.

A couple of months ago I was researching a feature article about eating on the road, and I happened to talk with a nutrition professor.

Since I had her captive, I decided to ask her professional advice about how to get The Poo to eat more than four carb-based foods. Her answer surprised me.

“Occupational therapy,” she told me. Kids like The Poo - kids who get on an “eating jag” where they will only eat certain foods - need to be retrained in how to eat. Often, she said, they experience sensory issues where food is concerned.

She also asked if The Poo has allergies, which of course, she does, and she added that a severe post-nasal drip can affect the way many foods taste to small children.

It was interesting advice, to be sure. However, I balked a little at sending her to OT. After all, she’s a bright kid. Would she really qualify for a service like that?

Fast-forward a few months. About three weeks ago, The Poo started rejecting two of her staple foods: macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets. That left us with frozen waffles, French fries, bananas and Dannon LeCreme yogurt (totally creamy, no fruit pieces), which is very difficult to get here in Chambana, for some reason.

Oh, and of course, her beloved Culver’s. But it was getting to the point where she was eating fast-food grilled cheese sandwiches three times a week, just because I was desperate to get her to eat something.

Now, go ahead and tell me to let her go hungry. Because I’ve tried that, and it doesn’t work. Also, have you ever spent more than four hours with a hungry three-year-old?

Yeah. It would test Gandhi’s patience.

Dinnertime has been a struggle for weeks. She asks for mac n’ cheese, I make it, she spits it out and tells us it’s yucky. We’ve tried every strategy - planned ignoring, making her sit there anyway, making her take a certain number of bites …

Nothing works.

It isn’t like she chows down on snacks, either. She rarely finishes a whole cookie (she doesn’t really like them) and even if she gets ice cream, she only eats a few bites.

Add that to the fact that the doc said she was concerned about her high BMI in December and you have a recipe for one stressed out mama.

We went to the doctor’s office two weeks ago to have her staph infection checked out, and I took the opportunity to ask about OT.

I explained the situation to the doctor and asked about sending The Poo for services. Much to my surprise, the doc agreed right away.

On May 14th we meet with Louanne, who asked me to bring small samples of foods that The Poo will eat, and some that she won’t. Part of me worries about the stigma of the term “sensory issues,” but the other part of me is relieved that at last, someone can help me.

One thing I know for sure is that Louanne is going to have one hell of a food fight on her hands.

I feel like all I do lately is moan and groan.

So you know what? I’m goin’ with it. What the hell, I’m a sucker for a trend.

The Poo is on the mend, but her sleep cycle is allllll fucked up, thanks to our nocturnal visit to the ER Monday night. Monday night she woke up at 11:30 p.m. and went back to sleep the next day at 4 a.m. She slept another six and a half hours, rising at the unheard of time of 10:30 a.m.

She also took a nap Tuesday, after weeping quite copiously because I gently refused to take her to the mall at 5:30 p.m.

That was, like, baaaad.

She went to sleep at 6, woke at 7:30, and finally went back to bed at 10 p.m. last night. Then she woke at 4 a.m. Wednesday, demanding to go to - you guessed it! - the mall.

Gah.

Today we did go to the mall, if only to pleasefortheloveofgod shut her up. She played, refused food and … fell asleep in the car.

Now, you mothers of napping children probably think I’m nuts for complaining. To be honest, I can’t believe I’m complaining. Last year I would have given my left arm for a nap. The Poo gave them up at 27 months and let me tell you, it was a very long February that year.

Now, however, a nap means I’m dealing with her until 10 p.m. Last night at 9:30, she popped up in her bed to earnestly explain to me how her grandmother told her she could “wake up now and watch TV.”

When I simply looked at her, she wailed and said, “it takes so LONG to be MORNINGTIME!”

I am, in a word, exhausted.

I did doze briefly during her two-hour nap after the mall, but then I had to get up and make dinner and do the dishes and blah blah housewife bullshit blah.

And how’s this for the capper: we’re hosting 28 graduate students Friday evening for the end-of-the-year departmental bash.

It sounded like a fine idea three weeks ago when we were all well. Now, it sounds like sticking flaming pokers in both my eyes would be MUCH EASIER and more amusing.

When we were young, we three kids watched my mom like a hawk. When she would leave the room we’d gather around like alarmed monkeys and ask repeatedly where she was going.

She’s look at us, wall-eyed, and cackle maniacally. “Crazy,” she’d say. “Wanna come?”

Mom, I totally get it now.

The Poo, just over her strep and staph infections, was her old bouncy self Monday. She refused all food, but that isn’t terribly unusual.

What is unusual is the fact that, at 3 p.m., she voluntarily laid on the couch and watched TV while quietly playing with her Little Einsteins toys. She repeatedly told me she was cold, despite the seasonably warm day. Still, I didn’t think much of it.

Around dinnertime I asked her again if she wanted to eat and she said no. Her flushed cheeks and glassy eyes indicated a fever; It can’t be, I thought. But I took her temperature anyway, and sure enough, she had a fever.

Tylenol, bathtime, snack. She cavorted in her usual way before bed. The temperature must be a fluke, I thought.

At least, until 11:30 that night when she woke up asking to go potty (!) and proceeded to cry inconsolably and throw off an alarming dry heat. She dug her fingers in both ears and begged me to make the pain stop.

At 2 a.m. I woke Mr. Chicken - still wretchedly ill himself and in the throes of finals - and we made our way to the ER.

I just couldn’t let it go on. Of course, The Poo was hysterical and scared and the doctor acted like we were idiots for wasting her time on a three-year-old with sore ears.

“Both ears are red,” she said, giving me the hairy eyeball. “You can give her Advil for that, you know.”

I’ll cut her some slack, because I saw the drunken, shaking college girl heaving in the next room. I know she probably sees her share of un-emergency emergencies.

But my girl, she was in pain. And I had to fix it.

We headed off into the early morning clutching a prescription for a super antibiotic while a relieved little girl excitedly described the unfamiliar midnight landscape. Mr. Chicken dropped us at home and headed to the 24-hour pharmacy.

Free from the tyranny of tongue depressors and thermometers, The Poo happily climbed into the guest bed beside me, demanded to exchange her pull-up for underpants and finished her snack while watching a half-hour of “Little Bear.”

Me? I held my heavy belly and rubbed my heavier eyes. My husband opened the door quietly, and stood by the side of the bed, watching his daughter. He placed his hand on her forehead, handed me a small bottle and a syringe, and sneezed.

“Good call, Mommy,” he said, with a weary nod. “You were right. You always know when we need to go.”

I was so tired and so sick myself, and so full of worry for my baby, that tears welled up in my eyes. I looked away and nodded.

Finally, we slept.

At 10:30 a.m. The Poo still slept, sprawled on the big bed, a hint of the woman she will be in her bony kneecaps. I crept downstairs for coffee and phone calls, canceling school and rescheduling prenatal appointments.

As I sat in front of the TV like a zombie, I contemplated motherhood and natural selection. Seemingly endless months of illnesses leave me wondering if we’re being targeted by Darwin’s theory.

That’s it, I thought, hand wrapped around my favorite green mug. I’m building a bubble.

My mother made me a skirt to wear on my twelfth birthday.

My parents took me out - alone, without my sister and brother - to a very fancy grown-up dinner at a restaurant with white cloth napkins and tablecloths. I ordered baked ziti (still my favorite to this day) and afterward, we went to a touring production of Camelot at our local theater.

I remember all of it with incredible clarity, especially my skirt.

It was made of pink cotton lawn sprayed with vines of small, darker pink rosebuds, embellished with eyelet white lace that was, in turn, hand-threaded with dusky rose satin ribbon. It was a pattern from Gunne Sax, that iconic 80’s clothing brand that was out of our family’s financial reach at the time.

I longed for a Gunne Sax of my own. And so, my mother made me one.

Click Here To Read The Rest Of The Story …

While this is by no means a difficult pregnancy, it has been harder on me than the first.

When I got pregnant with The Poo I had two parents, I weighed a slender 130 pounds, and I was 32 years old. Over the course of those 40 weeks, I lost my father to cancer, gained 31 pounds and turned 33. Still, through it all, I felt deeply emotionally connected to the baby in my womb.

I also felt energetic and spry, once the nausea passed. It was a remarkably easy pregnancy, and I expected nothing different this time around.

But those extra three years and 15 pounds make a difference. So does the fact that I now have a three-year-old to wrangle, not to mention potty train.

Oy, the potty training! We made it, but by the skin of our teeth.

Some days I wake up more exhausted than when I went to sleep. Some days I throw up when I’m brushing my teeth. Some days I forget there is a boy growing inside me and I feel completely disconnected from the child who will take up his rightful place in our family come August.

Some days I think, “oh my God, this was a horrible idea!” and cross my legs in the hopes that I can keep Shaggy locked up tight in there forever.

Please don’t mistake me - I know there are women out there suffering from unimaginable loss and trauma, those who struggle to keep their babies in their wombs. I remember them daily, and sometimes my face burns from the shame of my own petty problems.

But then there are days like today, when a list of mothers and women too long to enumerate come forward and offer up their blessings and advice. Today, I feel less overwhelmed by the idea of a new child, and more overwhelmed with the sheer love that all of you feel for your own little ones.

I thank you all* for reminding me so eloquently just why I wanted to do this again in the first place.

motherbumper
Mommas Tantrum
Where there’s a Willer
Impostor Mom
ScientistMother
Table4Five
Poot and Cubby
Sarah and the Goon Squad

Mom-101
mothergoosemouse
formula fed & flexible parenting

Mayberry Mom
nomotherearth
Sassy Irish Lassie
Oscarelli
Whirlwind
Nonlinear Girl
Life On the Run
Mama Tulip
The Gav Menagerie
Perpetual Exhaustion
moosh in indy
Cynical Dad
Life of Pie
ittybits & pieces
Phoenix Says…
From Stage Dives to Station Wagons
Mo-Wo and P-Man
Lady M
Assertagirl
Don’t Gel Too Soon
Fairly Odd Mother
Oh.My.Gawd.Really.
Mamalooper
Plain Jane Mom
misc & co.
MOMMY 4-1-1
Urban Mummy
temporarily me
HONEA EXPRESS
The Dana Files
Oh, The Joys
Cheese Party
Cheaper Than Therapy
Something Baby Blue
Working Momma 247

*If I missed anyone, please let me know. This is the list as of 5 p.m. Sunday evening.

Living in a small town without any family nearby, I sometimes feel isolated - and never more so than since I’ve been pregnant.

Sure, I’ve done this once before. I know I’ll be sleep deprived. I know the boy won’t spontaneously combust if I take a shower and leave him to fuss in his bassinet. I know that I’ll probably struggle to breastfeed and will likely wind up a dreaded bottle-feeder once again.

In some ways, I’m totally prepared. And in others?

Dude, shaking in my Crocs.

And I miss my mom and my sister right now, two people who never fail to tell me when I’m acting like an idiot. Not to mention that this time, the birth will take place in the absence of mourning. So if I was still living within spitting distance of my mom and my sister, I’d have help whenever I needed it.

Yesterday I was crankily surfing the blogosphere when I stumbled on a surprise: a virtual baby shower for two of the most wonderful blog citizens I pretend to know, Her Bad Mother and Mrs. Chicky.

And me.

I know! Can you believe it?

I was surprised and honored and more than a little touched. Kristen, Julie and Liz got together and gathered some truly awesome prizes, and will also make a donation to a charity of our choice. All they are asking of you, dear friends, is to give us your best assvice for moms about to double their trouble with a second child.

I’ve already started reading your words of wisdom, and I’m taking them to heart - to a heart full of wonder and thanks.

Sometime I wonder why I put these words out into the atmosphere. I wonder why I spend my time reading stories about strangers. Sometimes I wonder why I blog.

Then I realize it is because I crave community. And you, friends, are my community.

I thank you.

Now go! Participate! Win! For your trouble, I offer you this gratuitous belly shot.

25 weeks

Hide the children, cover your eyes, it’s the belly that ate Chambana!

All my doubts about what I’m doing with my life are swept away when I look at her.

A thick, curly ponytail bounces at the back of her head, decorated with a cheerful and audacious yellow sunflower clip. Her slender ankles carry strong legs into school, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her friends and her teacher.

She wakes in the morning with my name on her lips, creeping into my room as the morning sun tilts the shadows this way and that. In the crook of my arm she snuggles, giggling softly as she teases her father.

She loves me the best, she tells me. I am her best friend, she says.

Last week I held my cool palm against her hot forehead, thinking about what the doctor told us as we left the urgent care clinic.

“No school, no daycare for at least 24 hours after she starts the antibiotic,” she instructed.

On the way home those words echoed in my head. Leaning over to kiss her flushed cheek, I laid my face against hers.

“The best thing I ever did was decide to stay home with you, my love,” I said to my daughter. “Nothing, nothing in this world, is as important as being with you every day.”

I met my husband’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“It was the right thing to do,” I said. ” I can’t believe I ever agonized over it.”

I turned back to my child.

“You are the most important thing in the world to me, you and your brother,” I told her. “You are the most important work I will ever do in this life.”

And I mean it with all my heart and soul.

I’m looking through catalogs, glossy pages filled with pretty objects and prettier people. The women are thin and shining, the men rugged and wry.

The kitchens are clean and white and laden with bright green Dutch ovens. I imagine perfectly done roasts and gourmet soups inside their smooth ceramic interiors. I can smell the aroma of excellent coffee, poured from gleaming stainless steel carafes.

Even the word: carafe. It taunts me even as it beckons.

I want, I think to myself, unbidden. I want I want I want.

What is it that drives this envy in me? I am materially blessed. I have everything a woman - a person - could ever need. I have a pantry stocked with food. I have a four-bedroom house and my very own master bathroom. I have a closet bursting with clothes and shoes and handbags, some of which cost more than some people can spend on a used car.

Yes, gifts, most of it. But a bounty - nay, and embarrassment of riches - nonetheless.

Still, I want.

I want a nicer house, one with a playroom lined with white geometric shelves, neatly housing expensive craft supplies and brain-building games.

I want a nursery with spare, geometric bedding and a dark-stained crib. I want an overstuffed glider in which to effortlessly nurse my newborn son. I want coordinating furniture and bright decals on the walls to stimulate his eye. I want a Calder mobile and soft, organic cotton onesies stacked in deep, dovetailed drawers.

I want a bedroom with oak floors and windows overlooking the sea. I want salt air on my tongue and a forest of green and gold outside my kitchen window. I want a play structure shaded by majestic trees. I want a lounge nearby where I can lay and read while my children scramble and climb.

I want words, words that fall from my fingers without faltering, grand themes and compelling fictions and I want the words to be read. On a page, not on a screen. I want to be discovered without risking rejection.

I want my brother’s income and I want my mother’s taste. I want my husband’s freedom and my daughter’s spirit. I want my sister’s fortitude and I want my father’s fine mind. I want the sound of contented children in my ears.

So often I say, “I want.”

In truth I want for nothing. Why, then, this sucking need? This driving desire for more, better, best?

I made choices.

I abandoned a corporate salary with full support from everyone who matters so I can raise our children.

I gave my consent to a new beginning, to living for dreams instead of dollars. I have richly generous families who make sure we have music lessons and preschool and a safe, comfortable place for our girl - and soon, our boy - to lay their heads.

Still, I want more. I greedily, greenly watch others who seem to get what I want without effort. My mind tells me they make their payments of the soul. My mind tells my heart it would suffer for these things, these objects.

My heart tells me, no, that isn’t want you want. It isn’t what you need.

Why then? Why do those shiny, shiny pages arouse me so? It it the idea of perfection, so appealing in my disorganized world, one where meals are burnt and laundry molders in the basket and crackers crunch under foot?

What is wrong with me?