* * *
Stacey Hatton is a former musical theatre starlet and pediatric RN, who turned her love of laughter into her favorite career yet. She is a humor columnist for The Kansas City Star, published in numerous parenting and health magazines, and recognized by the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop. You can find her crazy schemes and circus acts on her award-winning blog, Nurse Mommy Laughs. Her humor essays can be found in her new books, My Funny Major Medical and Not Your Mother's Book...on Parenting (out in April 2013). Stacey is a proud member of the Circle of Moms Top 25 Book Authors Mom "club," for which she is still trying to learn the handshake.
Babies: As Easy as 1, 2, 3!
By Robyn Welling
Hollow Tree Ventures
I stared blankly out the window, counting my breaths, willing myself to relax even though every nerve in my body felt like it was being gnawed on by rabid habanero peppers.
My husband sat quietly beside me, eyes fixed intently on the road as if his retinas and the asphalt shared an actual physical connection. Or rather, his eyes were on the shoulder of the road, which is where he had to drive in order to pass every semi on the highway at 80 miles per hour.
You guessed it - the baby was coming. And not in the same way that I'd thought she was coming two days earlier, when we'd driven this same 90 minute route only to be sent back home after some hydration and a reassuring pat on the knee.
This time I was sitting on a towel, because I wasn't sure which combination of club soda, hydrogen peroxide, and lighter fluid would be required to get amniotic fluid out of the seat upholstery. Though I was an experienced mama, my water hadn't broken at home with my first two pregnancies, nor had the contractions hit me so suddenly. I felt like I'd tripped torso-first into a trash compactor filled with lava - a delightful sensation that hadn't come over me until I was safely under medical supervision the first two times. Instead of wondering with mild concern if those twinges were going to get stronger and closer together, I was already wondering if it was possible to literally go insane from the searing pain of my body attempting to turn itself inside out.
Up until this point, baby #3 had been marvelous. We were lucky enough to get pregnant as soon as we started trying. The pregnancy was a breeze. My water even broke while I was already on the toilet. Easy. Convenient. Tidy. Wishing I'd brought more towels, I couldn't help thinking we were pushing our luck to assume we'd get to the hospital on time.
But we did. Just barely.
Strangely, I don't remember changing into a gown, or answering any questions from the nurses, or hearing the words of loving encouragement from my husband. What I remember most about being in labor at the hospital with my third baby is the corner of the wall-mounted TV in my room.
See, I had an emergency C-section with my first. During labor with my second, they dropped the bombshell that I wouldn't be allowed to have pain meds. So by number three, I had pretty much come to terms with the fact that most important baby-birthing stuff was out of my control. As a result, I had completely given up on preparing for childbirth. I hadn't practiced breathing, I hadn't packed a tennis ball to press into my back during contractions, and I hadn't compiled a Birth Mix on CD of the perfect songs to soothe my soul while trying to scream a baby into the world.
This lack of preparation is how women end up with no Happy Place on which to focus, and instead end up zoning out on the edge of a Samsung flat screen when the pain of childbirth forces their consciousness to leave their bodies.
Later, I realized that the quicker onset of contractions, labor so short I almost gave birth on a freeway off ramp, and my unusual television fixation were just a few of the ways in which my third pregnancy differed from the first two. And I'm not alone - let me break it down, baby by baby.
Interaction with doctors:
Baby #1: You defer to them in almost every regard - after all, they're the experts!
Baby #2: You've gone around this block before and you've done your research. You come equipped with facts and experience, ready to discuss your medical care.
Baby #3: You inform the doctor exactly how things are gonna be, and if she doesn't like it, she can keep her damn hands off your vagina.
The baby shower:
Baby #1: Ooooh, you need everything! Diaper wipe warmer? Yes! Regular stroller, jogging stroller, umbrella stroller? Yes, yes, yes! What the hell is a layette? Better get seven or eight!
Baby #2: Just some onesies, please (to replace the hand-me-downs that had stains magically reappear all over them while they were in storage). And cake. Lots of cake.
Baby #3: You ask the hostess to save the party for after the baby comes, so you'll be able to drink.
Worst fear:
Baby #1: Medical complications
Baby #2: Pooping on the delivery table
Baby #3: The hospital will be out of that pudding you like
Your body:
Baby #1: You can't imagine how you'll ever get your waistline back, but it's all worth it to be able to experience the Miracle of Life.
Baby #2: You never did get your waist back, but it would be nice if this one didn't completely destroy your boobs, too.
Baby #3: You just hope you'll be able to bend over without peeing your pants someday, but as a realist, you haul your muffin top and saggy boobs down to the store to stock up on Poise.
Expectations for meeting the baby:
Baby# 1: It will be a magical moment of instantaneous bonding.
Baby #2: It will mark the beginning of what will grow into a beautiful relationship.
Baby #3: There will be plenty of time for bonding later, but this hospital stay is your last hope for sleep.
I can't imagine what a fourth pregnancy would bring - I can only assume that my uterus would spontaneously combust. But if it didn't, I know from experience that the little baby would be worth all the cervix poking, ruined automobile interiors, and new layers of stretch marks.
Plus, that hospital pudding is pretty damn tasty.
* * *
Robyn Welling is a freelance writer and humorist at Hollow Tree Ventures, where she isn't afraid to embarrass herself — and frequently does. She loves sarcasm, wine, beer, other bottled items, long walks on the beach, and her husband. Oh, and her kids are okay, too. Her goals include becoming independently wealthy, followed by world domination and getting her children to clean their rooms. Until then, she'll just fold laundry and write about the shortcuts she takes on her journey to becoming a somewhat passable wife, mother, and human being. If history is any guide, she'll miss the mark entirely.
A Pinterest-Perfect Mom, I am Not
By Anna Sandler
Random Handprints
For those of you lucky enough to be unfamiliar with Pinterest, it is a website that describes itself as a "content sharing service that enables members to 'pin' images, videos and other objects to their pinboard." But in reality, Pinterest is a service that allows ordinary moms to believe that they can be Martha Stewart when, alas, they cannot.
There are those Pinterest-perfect moms, and then there are those of us who are not.
I can still remember that February day when I realized that maybe I was not amongst those specimens of crafting perfection, as I had thought I was.
It was Valentine's Day, and I awoke to the sounds of children at my usual cheerful time of 5:45 am, and by "cheerful" I mean "holy-shit-for-the-love-of-God-I-beg-you not so early."
The kids at least were laughing and having a good time instead of engaging in their usual twilight bicker session. I got out of bed smug in my knowledge that their delighted outbursts were because I had given their doors a Heart Attack late last night while they were sleeping, and had then slumbered myself dreaming of the happiness my offspring would feel when they awoke and found this super-fun Valentine's Day surprise. "Look kids!" I'd say, "Your door had a Heart Attack!"
What is a Heart Attack, you ask? Nothing but a whimsical little treat I found on Pinterest to surprise my kids with on Valentine's Day.
To create a Heart Attack you just tape a few dozen hearts to your child's bedroom door, each heart boasting a different inspirational phrase. Gems like "I love your smile and you sound just like Taylor Swift when you sing!" and "You pull-off your gold sequin Uggs like a boss!"
The idea is that the kids wake-up, see all the hearts and inspirational sayings, and are filled with glee on Valentine's Day morning, and pretty much every morning ever after for the rest of time. And from the sounds of it, glee was in fact overflowing at my house. Just as I had planned.
Perfect.
I smiled, happily, realizing the hours spent cutting and re-cutting, glittering and gluing - not to mention taping the finished project in a perfect blend of playful asymmetry and more structured color coordination - were indeed worth it.
"Hi kids! Whaddya think? Happy Valentine's Day!" I said in the kind of voice only us Pinterest-perfect moms use. I smiled at them each - my darling girls, ages eight and six, and my sweet, sweet son, age three.
They answered me one by precious one.
First, the eight year old: "Mommy? O . . . M . . . G . . . like what IS THIS? Why did you write all these . . . things? And OMG, there are like HEARTS all over my door. I don't even like hearts! I like peace signs!"
"Uh, yeah sweetie I like totally do know you like peace signs, but it's Valentine's Day so that's why the uh hearts."
"But I don't like hearts. Also? I'm eight."
"Got it." I said, with a twinge of a voice that did not belong to a Pinterest-perfect Mom.
Moving on, I looked at my sweetheart of a six-year-old.
With the Pinterest-perfect Mom voice fully back on I asked her kindly, "So . . . how much do you just love your door?"
Not to be outdone by her older sister, little sweetie answers:
"I liked my old door."
"But honey? It is your old door. It's totally the same, only better because now it has a lot of really great hearts on it. Look, let's read the purple one with the embossing. This heart says, 'You always eat all your carrots! Yay for healthy eating!'"
"Can I just have my old door?"
"Got it." I said, with a voice that definitely no longer belonged to a Pinterest-perfect Mom. I watched as she started taking down the hearts, muttering something about how her old door didn't have tape residue.
Two kids down, and just one to go.
Surely my sweet, sweet three-year-old was just the child to appreciate and adore his Heart Attack.
"Hey buddy! Do you love it or what? How awesome are the hearts on your door?" I beamed down at my beloved son, ready to share this special mother-son moment, grateful for Pinterest for inspiring this clearly-to-be-treasured-forever family memory.
And speak he did.
"Uh, Mommy?"
"Yes, honey?"
"I don't really read."
"That's true, but I could read them to you! Would you like that? Here, this magenta heart with the sparkles says 'When you go 'vrooom' you sound just like a real truck!'"
"Uh, Mommy? Can I just eat breakfast now?"
"Sure," I said, as I thought to myself that there was no way I was cutting anyone's pancakes in heart-shapes now. And I reminded myself that some moms are meant to be Pinterest-perfect moms, and some - like me - are just meant to be moms.
* * *
Anna Sandler is a writer and mom living happily ever after in scenic New Jersey with her charming husband and three delightful children. Anna enjoys crafting and baking with her kids, always with less than Pinterest-perfect results. Anna blogs at Random Handprints and spends way too much time on Facebook, Twitter, and (of course) Pinterest. She is a regular contributor to New Jersey Family Magazine and The Huffington Post.
Bubble Baths and Shaved Legs
By Rebecca Gallagher
Frugalista Blog
I'm a happily married woman of two children. My husband and I have been together for 17 years. Shit. Has it been that long? Well, I guess that's a good thing that it's gone pretty quickly.
He's a saint to put up with me. But he can annoy the heck out of me. That's okay, he's pretty good in the sack, so I keep him around. Not only that, he is my children's baby daddy and divorce is pretty expensive, so I just keep putting out and figure he'll stick around too.
But sex is way different now than when we first started dating. I mean, if you're reading this, mom, then I mean when we were first married. Because we didn't conjugate this relationship until we were in the wedding tent, fo' sure.
For reals though. Sex is hot when it's new, but sex that's intimate and safe is kind of hot too. Or just hot enough. Hmm, let me explain.
When trying to impress a man, one will shave their legs and any other parts that need shaving. For me, it's just my armpits and calves. I don't even bother with my thighs or garden area. I'm pale and blond and my hair is pretty sparse. It hasn't stopped my man in the past so I'm good to leave it. And I once shaved the lady garden and the stubble about killed me. That's just wrong.
And no Brazilian for this girl. Nope.
So early in the relationship, I made such an effort. We were young, we were horny. What fun it was. We frolicked in meadows and did it on sun decks. No we didn't. But still, it was, you know, fresh.
Fast forward to present day. If I shower within 48 hours or even brush my teeth, I've made the effort for some nookie. Hubs is tapping this no matter what. He's pretty easy to please. But it's just too much work these days to do much else.
It's like taking a bubble bath.
It used to be worth it to clean the tub, get the candles out, the bath salts, put on some music, get a book or a magazine and just soak forever. Bath time could be a ritual. Heck, we even tried taking baths together. I never really got that though. Trying to reenact the scene from Pretty Woman didn't work. I guess I don't have Julia Roberts' inseam to wrap around my sweetheart.
Seventeen years later, two kids, a mortgage, a couple of pets, and a whole bunch of volunteer crap takes its toll.
Now, if I scrub the bathtub, move all the kid crap and bottles and jars of stuff away from the vicinity of the tub; not to mention the dust and hair that collects in the crevices, I'm so excited to get in the tub to be what? Interrupted by a child? No thanks. The bath water gets too hot and then I'm sweating. I hang one leg over the side of the tub to cool off. Now I'm too cold. Add more hot water. The bubbles are fading.
In walks a child to ask if they can have ice cream. "Don't you have a father?" I ask. "Yeah, he's downstairs watching football." Really? You get your mom from the tub to get you ice cream? I don't get up, of course. And yes, I know, I should lock the door. But I have this weird paranoia that if something happens to me in the bathroom, I might slip and fall, I could faint from the bleach fumes of cleaning the tub beforehand; any of these things could create an emergency situation. If that were to happen, how would anyone get to me in time? A little too paranoid maybe?
So my analogy is this, if you haven't figured it out yet. Middle aged sex is like not bothering to take a bubble bath. I barely clean the tub, the candles are covered in dust and dog hair so don't bother lighting those, and we're too tired to work in a whole lot of foreplay. It's best to just get 'er done and go to sleep. The faster the better, then we don't have to worry about any "interruptions."
This might sound sad to some of you. Especially if you are younger than 30. But let me tell you, 40 is not the new 20. I am tired, achy, I worry about urinary tract infections, cancer, and heart disease. I do breast exams monthly, I need lots of fiber. I forget things. If hubs and I get a little nookie a couple times a week- then that's great. Life is too busy. So I'm fine with the way it is. I worry about our tax return and 401k. I sure as heck don't need to worry about when to schedule a Brazilian.
Okay, I shave my legs sometimes. And yes, I take baths now and then. But I guess as time marches on, you realize what life is about, and hairless body parts and fancy aromatherapy candles, it is not. It's about a quickie in the sack, and then getting enough sleep in before some loin sp
awn wakes you up. That's what life is about now.
* * *
Rebecca Gallagher is a mother of two that lives in the 'burbs, drives a minivan and attends PTA meetings. Despite her early attempts at a career of stage and screen, she pretends she is just living her own movie now. Her writings and musings at Frugalista Blog are her confessions of a middle-aged drama queen.
Parenting is Taboo
By Bethany Meyer
I Love Them Most When They're Sleeping
What two subjects are taboo? Easy. Politics and religion.
Allow me to add a third . . . parenting.
Unless I'm complimenting someone on her parenting skills, I say nothing. Not a word about her kids. Not so much as a peep about her parenting style. Particularly if I'm involved in a conversation with someone I know is a complete jackass of a parent. I'll make every effort to talk about anything but kids with her. And you should too.
Here's why . . .
.
Hi, Claire!
Hope you are well! I know this is a busy time of year with the holidays approaching . . . I bet you're looking forward to that trip to the Caribbean over winter break!
Just a head's up . . . my Timmy told me that your Andrew kicked him in PE today. When I asked him about it, he said that Andrew often kicks him. In the shins. He went on to say that Andrew thinks it's funny.
Instead of getting the teacher involved, I figured I'd let you know about it. Maybe you could remind Andrew that friends don't kick friends?
Thanks . . . looking forward to seeing you at book club next week! Bring on the margaritas!!
XOXO, Melinda
.
Dear Melinda,
This IS a crazy time for me. So much to pack before we go away for vacation. I can barely fit my daily training sessions in! I can't wait to be on that beach with a book in my hand! Listen to me, I shouldn't rub it in . . . you've just had ANOTHER baby, and you're a decade away from sitting on the beach with a book! If only you two lovebirds had the foresight we did to stop at two kids!
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