Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged

I have a really hard time with this. I want not to judge others and usually I don't. However, when my own insecurities get piqued, I often find myself pointing the finger before it can be pointed at me.

Today was one of those days.

I took Brendan to the park after school. We picked up Chick-fil-A on the way and I was looking forward to a picnic and playing in the sandbox, maybe chasing him around the meadow for a bit of exercise. Unfortunately, the idyllic afternoon I imagined was not to be.

She was there. Alpha Mom. I hate Alpha Mom. Alpha Mom talks more and louder than any other mom in the park. Alpha Mom only packs the finest organic foods for her picnic and looks at your Happy Meal with a curl of the lip.

This particular Alpha Mom droned on and on and on about the kind of beach house she wants to buy in Florida. But not in Destin. How trashy! No, somewhere less redneck. Then about how the McMansion she and her husband built is just too big, with its five bedrooms, three-and-a-half baths, finished basement, and office. About how she and hubby rent out the first house they owned to (gasp) Katrina survivors! About her wedding in Key West. About how all her friends are asking her and her husband to renew their vows next year on the 10th anniversary and have a huge party in Key West. About how friends of theirs didn't get their two-year old into the same elite Montessori school her daughter attends.

Oh! And I learned that Parker, her five year old, is "going to end up in politics, or journalism, or maybe...sales. She's just such a go-getter!" Blech! Is that my morning sickness or am I gagging on my disdain for Alpha Mom!

There was more. She didn't shut up the entire hour we were in the same park. And the whole time she was lording it over the Wannabee moms in her cohort, she was perched atop a lawn chair while everyone else relaxed on the ground on blankets.

When I see a Queen Bee and her hive, it just makes me feel like I'm in hell, uh, I mean, high school, all over again. Don't get me wrong. I'm part of a moms club. We're all friends, but we're all just a lot more relaxed. No one's judging anyone else in our group and none of us are trying to prove ourselves worthy of another's friendship or presence.

Bottom line: Alpha Moms and cliques just piss me off.

Pregnancy Brain: What a Long, Strange Week-and-a-Half It's Been

Since getting confirmation of my pregnancy, I have basically had almost no free time to write and when I have, I have either a) been too fuzzy-headed to get my thoughts together to write (they're not joking about the "cloud of pregnancy"); b) too exhausted to write; or c) too busy entertaining Brendan who was on spring break from preschool and decided to officially stop napping. Ugh!

I think the thing I hate most about pregnancy is what it does to your head. I mean, in just a few weeks I seem to have lost half my brain cells. I feel stymied mentally and physically, it feels like someone stuffed something in my head. Clearly, I have lost all power of articulation because that makes no sense. It suffices to say that I have a "cloudy" feeling and just can't get it together.

Yesterday, I forgot that I was responsible for sending the snack to Brendan's preschool. When I got there to pick him up, there was a note on his backpack asking me to send in pretzels and raisins today. I felt horrible. All those cute little two and three-year-olds sitting around waiting for their snack and getting none. Sad.

Actually, the school has back up plans for such events. Thankfully, I'm not the first mom to whom this has happened. I still feel like an idiot.

And wouldn't you know, I can't remember any of the other crazy things I've done the last few days? Pregnancy brain in action!

Yay! We're Having a Baby!

I went to my GP and he confirmed that I am pregnant. He said that the faint line was probably just because it was so early. I was convinced it was because the baby isn't growing and thusly, there isn't enough HCG present to produce a darker line. Doc thinks I conceived later than I thought and am about a week behind where I thought I might be.

He also reassured me that nothing I've done so far should have had any impact on the baby. S/he will only have just implanted a week or so ago, so not as big a deal as I thought.

I'm relieved. I know there are thousands of things that could still go wrong. We've lost a baby with a chromosomal defect, so I know the kinds of things that can happen even if you do everything right. It's still so early, I could have a miscarriage. I know I shouldn't tell a soul. But this secret is too good to keep.

For now, I don't want to worry about any of that! I want to be happy and embrace the tiny new life growing inside of me. I want to be excited. My husband, by the way, is thrilled. And that makes me very happy.

Oh! Yay! I am just giddy with joy now. I'm turning the worry button off for as long as I can. I'm going to take a power nap. Then shower. Then we're going to our monthly neighborhood dinner party with six other couples while the kids stay with sitters at one of our homes. I'm going to drink fizzy water with limes and eat fondue and laugh and celebrate this wonderful life.

And I can't wait 'til my friends ask me why I'm not drinking wine.

Two Pink Lines and More Freaking Out

I tested again this morning. Same result. A second line so faint I wonder if I'm imagining it. I'm waiting until my GP's office opens and then calling to see if they can do a blood test today.

I went online last night and read all the horrors of FAS. Ninety-nine percent of what I read said that no amount of alcohol is okay at any point during pregnancy and if you drank before you knew you were pregnant, you're just going to have to wait and see what kind of damage you did to your baby. I barely slept last night.

In addition to the daily glass of wine I have with dinner, there have been a couple of occasions in the last two or three weeks where I drank three glasses because we were laughing and talking and having a good time and I got carried away. Then there's the 1/2 dose of Nyquil I took about a week ago when I had a bad cold and the Mucinex I've been taking at night for the nasty cough I haven't been able to shake. And let's not forget the boatloads of coffee and Coke Zero I drink every day.

Everything I read last night said that even if your child escapes the low birth-weight and facial deformities associated with FAS, he or she will have behaviorial and learning difficulties and end up abusing drugs and becoming a juvenile delinquent.

I know there are countless stories of women who drank casually or socially throughout there pregnancies and had perfectly healthy normal babies and many who say that you only have to worry about FAS if you drink heavily throughout your entire pregnancy. But, I can't help but worry. How much would it suck if I did something to cause harm to my baby and I could have prevented it.

Damn, damn, damn.

Butting Heads with God

As a mother, it drives me nuts when Brendan wants to do something that I know he can't quite handle on his own. He and I are two stubbon peas in a pod. As much as I want to help him, he yearns to do it on his own. And he will pull away forcefully, shouting "NO! I DO IT MYSELF!" All the while, I'm getting angry and frustrated because I know it will go much more smoothly/cleanly/efficiently and faster if I help.

Clearly, I know I'm wrong. I know that he has to do things on his own to learn, but because I'm stubborn and impatient and want things done my way, I often find I can't help myself.

Today, I think I must know how God feels as I'm coming at him in the same stubborn, angry, and reproachful way Brendan reacts when I try to help him.

I'm not very good at being open to God's will, though I'll be darned if He doesn't just go ahead and keep asserting it anyway. I want to feel like I'm in control. I want to make the decisions that affect my life. It scares me to feel like someone else is in charge, even if I know deep down that's the case.

Right now, I'm kind of freaking out. I may be pregnant and I'm not ready. Theoretically, I'm ready. I'm ready to say, "Hey! We're trying to get pregnant with our second child" and to enjoy the process that takes us there. I'm ready to have a couple of months with negative pregnancy tests and a sense of disappointment that ultimately gets overshadowed when I actually get pregnant in the third month of trying.

I'm not ready to have gotten pregnant when we weren't trying. It scares me. It's happened to us twice before and both times ended in miscarriage.

I know that if I am pregnant, I should be thrilled and delighted, especially considering all the women who would give anything to be in my shoes. And I will be happy and excited to have another baby, a sibling for my darling boy. But, what about all the things that can go wrong with any pregnancy, even in the best of circumstances. Imagine being 36, someone who has a glass of wine to unwind every night, and who has a never-ending allergy attack and has been popping cold/sinus/cough medicine for the last two weeks to keep from hacking up a lung.

I'm not happy. I'm petrified.

And of course, along with all of this is the beating myself up over how I'll be responsible if something goes wrong. That it will be all my fault if something goes wrong.

I wish I could just let go of my fears and worries and just trust God. Why is that so hard?

Well, Hush Your Mouth!

I am bursting at the seams, I am so proud of my little fella!

As we were leaving preschool today, his friend Emily's mom stopped me. She said that her daughter has started saying "Yes, Ma'am" and "No, Ma'am" all of a sudden. When she questioned Emily as to where she had learned to say those phrases, Emily said, "Brendan."

I'm just so happy he remembers to use his manners at school. For a long time, I felt like I was constantly reminding him, but suddenly, it seems I rarely need to.

Of course, I was shocked that a parent had to ask her child where she learned to speak to an adult respectfully. I didn't say anything, but she must have felt my unease for she quickly said with a shrug, "We're not from the South, so we don't talk like that."

Well, hush your mouth, Cornbread! I bet you don't drink sweet tea, either. That's okay. We still love you, Sug!

I Can Feel It Coming in the Air Tonight

The PMDD, that is. All day today I've felt dazed, anxious, worried, tired, sad. I cried when I heard a story about Improv Everywhere on This American Life. It's comedy. It's supposed to make one laugh. But the founder of the group, Charlie Todd, said what I thought was one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard. I'm paraphrasing because I can't remember the exact quote, but basically he says his aim in life is to make people realize that we should expect magical things to happen in our lives and not merely rely on movies or TV to give us the magical, the beautiful, the wonder-ful moments that we'll never forget.

That melted me.

Somehow, though, I have managed not to lose my temper today. I've also kept my panic somewhat in control. I'm hoping it's because my self-prescribed regimen of vitamins and minerals(B-complex with C, a prenatal vitamin, Calcium with Magnesium, Flax Seed Oil, and Lysine) and exercise is helping.

Of course, it could be that I'm pregnant. I'm not late. Much. But I also don't feel the way I usually do before my period.

So, we'll see in a day or two when either I know for sure or I work up the courage to take a pregnancy test.

Guilt and Sorrow

Brendan came up with something pretty cute today. He has begun to name inanimate objects. His blue bouncy ball is Snuggly. His lamp is Shiny. And the imaginary elephant who lives in our family room is Stevie. And all the while I celebrated his creativity today, my insides ached with guilt and sorrow. Guilt for having a beautiful, healthy little boy whom I take for granted or get frustrated with because he's three and doesn't do all the things I think he should. Sorrow at learning two of my dear friends lost their baby boy at 20 weeks gestation.

Scott and I have lost a baby to miscarriage. It was in the first trimester and we reeled from it. I can't imagine how much worse it is for our friends. I am stymied by the shock and sadness of it and feel at a loss for how to help them. I pray I can find some words or kind gesture that will lessen their pain the slightest bit.

He Hate Me

Actually, Fate hates me.

I started a book club for my MOMS Club chapter five months ago. I've been to exactly one meeting.

I've read every book. I've reviewed book club questions on-line, pondering how I would answer them. I've thought about what the major themes of the book were and how I related to each character. One month, when there was a long waiting list for the book (The Sunday Wife) at my library, I checked out the book-on-tape version and loved it. Joan Allen narrated it and I loved listening to her soothing, beautiful voice.

But, in the end, even getting to hear Joan Allen reading a decent novel was disappointing when, in the end, I never got to talk about it with anyone.

Every month I tell the other women in the book club that I'll be there and every month something goes wrong to prevent me from coming. At this point, I'm sure they think I'm lying. Twice, Scott was sick and I didn't think I could leave Brendan with him. Once, I forgot to tell Scott and decided it wasn't fair to spring it on him at the last minute. And tonight, Brendan fell just as I was about to walk out the door. He scraped his back on our brick hearth and was really upset. By the time I got him calmed down enough that I could put him down, it was 30 minutes into our meeting time. I knew that if I tried to leave, he'd freak out again, so I gave up.

Why doesn't Fate want me to talk about good books with other women? Oh, well. At least I'm reading. It could be worse.

This Makes Me Sad

I heard this story on CNN this morning and it really made me feel sad and guilty. I remember when Andrea Yates killed her children. Like everyone else who has never had a child and suffered from post-partum depression, I was shocked, disgusted, and I judged her. How could a mother harm her own child? I just didn't get it.

And really, I still don't. However, having given birth and suffered from a lengthy and severe bout of the baby blues, I come a lot closer to understanding than I ever did before. There were moments after Brendan's birth when I felt like I was literally going to come out of my skin. I felt like I didn't even know myself and I felt like my son deserved a better mother than I was capable of being. Still, it never crossed my mind (thankfully) to hurt him.

I'm lucky. I happen to be very open about my emotions, though I was more guarded than usual in sharing my negative feelings after the birth of my son. I was conflicted. On the one hand, I knew I should be overjoyed at having a beautiful, healthy son. On the other, having a child was a major shock to the system! For all our planning, we had no idea how difficult it would be having a newborn and how isolated we would feel, especially me. My mother had died two years before Brendan's birth and it hit me like a ton of bricks. The one time in her life when a daughter really needs her mom and I didn't have mine.

Still, I had a loving husband who tried hard even if he couldn't fully comprehend what I was going through. I had a mother-in-law to give advice. And most importantly, I wasn't trying to deal with five children all under the age of six. My body and soul had time to recuperate without being assaulted by another pregnancy too soon. My husband didn't coerce me into leaving my career and then tell me I could have nothing to do with our neighbors or other members of society. I wasn't forced to homeschool my children because my husband was afraid of having our children influenced by modern society.

Who knows what a fragile mind is capable of when assaulted by hormones, a multitude of children, lack of sleep, and there's no one to turn to? Now, I know.... Andrea Yates could have talked to her mother, a doctor, or gone to her minister. But, as someone whose family had a history of mental illness, I'm sure she was well aware of the stigmas associated with that. Without the loving support she needed at home, I doubt she was comfortable going to strangers or friends or family members and saying, "Ya know, last night I had the strongest urge to drown my children in the bathtub." Like so many other women, I'm sure she thought, "I can handle this. I'm the mommy and I have to be strong. What will everyone think if I tell them how I really feel." I imagine, too, that her fundamentalist faith urged her to rely as much on God as on the medication she quit taking with her doctor's approval three weeks before murdering her children, as well.

Yes, Andrea Yates did a horrible thing that I can barely even think about without physically cringing. She deserves to be punished, but she deserved treatment for her mental illness as well. We should all remember that she didn't do it by herself either. Russell Yates is equally culpable for helping create the environment that led to the death of his children. He may be celebrating his honeymoon and the start of a new life today as his former wife awaits the start of a new trial, but he'll have to live the rest of his life knowing he did nothing to prevent the deaths of his children.

And the rest of us who would so quickly jump to judge? Well, I'd say, there but for the grace of God go we. We should all be aware of that and do the things we can to make sure other moms suffering from PPD or the baby blues get the help they need. Call your friends and family members who've just had babies. Make or buy a meal and drop it off. Offer to take an older child to the park so mom can focus on a new baby. Stop by and watch the new baby once a week so mom can take a nap or a bath. Wash and fold a load of laundry for her. Run some errands. Ask her how she's doing and really listen. Don't judge her or patronize her if she says she's having a hard time since the baby came. Reassure her that she's normal and help her get the help she needs. If you think she's a danger to herself or her kids, tell her husband, her doctor, or someone else better equipped to help. Just be there and let her know you care for her and her child(ren).

It's a shame no one did that for Andrea Yates or her children.

Whoo-hoo! What a Great Day!

Admittedly, I have not been super-productive today, but I am having an absolutely brilliant day! Whooooo! Hooooo! Yeehaw!

Brendan woke at 3:00 a.m. as usual, but simply came and climbed into bed with Scott and me. We all went back to sleep almost instantly. I awoke at 6:30 and dozed off and on listening to NPR and CNN simultaneously (alarm radio and TV were both on) until 7:30. Got up, showered, dressed (including make-up) and was downstairs by 8:00. Brendan woke shortly afterward and demanded breakfast. He was happy with cereal, so that was fast. I made coffee and my own breakfast while he ate cereal and watched Blue's Clues.

While I tidied up the kitchen, B. played trains and had me come rescue him from the "mountain" a.k.a., the end table, every 10 minutes. Then, he played and entertained himself while I vacuumed both the upstairs and downstairs, put on a load of laundry, folded another load of laundry, made his bed and ours, and made a picnic lunch to take to the park. I also got some reading done in there. By 11:15 we were in the park.

It's a gorgeous, sunny, warm day. We played on the playground, blew bubbles, ate a delicious lunch (Brendan ate all his bell pepper and carrots! Yay for veggies he likes!) hiked on the awesome trails in the woods of the park, saw a waterfall, looked for turtles, fed the ducks, played on the playground again, then came home. Brendan wanted to have quiet time and was asleep within 10 minutes.

I did another load of laundry, listed two items on eBay, followed up on some e-mail, and best of all, worked out! A great workout that has me totally energized and feeling like I can get back in shape relatively quickly. I used to workout daily but then this fall when Brendan stopped napping, I fell off the wagon and have felt like ish ever since. If I can just make it a priority, I think within two weeks, I could be back to my old every day habit.

I may not have gotten much done, but I feel great! Now, I'm relaxing with a glass of wine, enjoying my blabbering on, Not that anyone gives a damn. But I do!

You have to savor days like this! Be thankful and share your joy!

Yay!

Do Children Get Clumsier During Growth Spurts?

While I can't find any scientific evidence to back me up on this, my observations have led me to believe that toddlers get clumsy whenever they're having a growth spurt. It took me a while to put the pieces together, but I've noticed that whenever Brendan goes through a clumsy phase, after a couple of days I'll notice he seems taller.

In the last week, it seems like he's been tripping and bumping his head a lot. He's hit his head hard enough at school to require ice twice in the last week. :Yesterday, I nearly fainted when I saw the bump on his head when I picked him up at school. He had a ginormous bump with a long, narrow dark purple bruise in the center of it. It was one of those things that's so bad, the teacher tries to intercept you before you see it so you won't panic.

When I asked him what happened, Brendan told me that he was trying to hug his friend Nicholas and fell of his chair. He hit his head on the edge of the table. I guess that's what being sweet will get ya! Poor little guy!

He has also tripped over his own feet a few times in the last several days, which, when examined alone or in conjunction with all the head bumps might just mean he's a klutz like his mama. However, generally, Brendan is pretty athletic and coordinated for a little guy and not prone to too many accidents. Examined in conjunction with an increased appetite and the three-hour nap he took on Sunday along with sleeping better at night, and I think he's growing. Yay!

Still, I wish I could find something to back up my theory. All I have found on-line suggests that kids going through or entering puberty get clumsier.

Intuitively it makes sense. Suddenly there's more of you and you have to get a feel for your new body and that extra inch or extra pound. Figure out where it all goes. Realize you don't have to swing your leg quite as high to climb on the chair. Find your center of gravity.

Hopefully in a day or two, B. will have adapted. I just pray we don't end up in the ER before then.

Is This Possible?

Last night I think Brendan called me "Dummy." While this is shocking enough, what happened afterward is the part that really blew my mind and made both Scott and me realize we have an evil genius on our hands.

Remember, he's only three. A little young to lie and he's never shown a particular inclination in that direction before.

So, what did he do, you might ask? Well, after he called me "Dummy," I immediately put him in time out. When I went back in a few minutes, he asked me why he was in time out and I explained that he used an "ugly" word that we don't use in our house. That's when he told me he was just saying a Spanish word. He said, "I called you Dummyo, Mommy. That's Spanish."

While I had a very strong suspicion he was not being honest, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was all I could do not to crack up. Scott pointed out that he thought I was being duped. And I know I was. However, he was so earnest in telling me that he was using a Spanish word and so clever, I let it slide.

Next time, I won't be so generous or forgiving. It also helped that I don't think he knew what he was saying.

From Mommy to Mom in 60 seconds flat

I knew that eventually this day would come. I just didn't anticipate it happening so soon. Today, Brendan called me "Mom" instead of "Mommy." Ack!

I didn't expect him to do that until he was at least five, maybe even six. Unfortunately, his friend Lily, who is six months older, just started calling her mother (my friend Laura) "Mom." I should have known this was coming last week when Brendan announced, "I call you Mommy, not Mom!" He has obviously been giving it some consideration.

Still, when I called to him to hurry this morning so that we could get to preschool on time and he responded, "I'm coming, Mom!" my heart stopped. No! You can't grow up this fast. I want to be your mommy. To protect you. To cuddle you. And nurture you. And yes, baby you from time to time. You can be a boy. But I will always be your mommy.

Naturally, because I'm me, I responded, "My name is Mommy or Mama, not Mom." This, of course, cracked Brendan up. And because he has his daddy's sense of humor, he started in with a sing-song chorus of "Mom, mom, mom! You're Mom! You're my Mom!"

I had to smile in spite of myself. But inside, it's a different story.

A Sunny Day: Nature's Miracle Cure

Yesterday afternoon I spent a couple of hours outside planting the bulbs I bought to plant last fall. I never got around to it and on Sunday I noticed they had begun to sprout. So, why not plant them, I thought.

Before going outdoors, my mind roiled with fear and worry over everything from the state of my house to my weight to how much TV Brendan was watching. However, the moment Brendan and I walked out into the warm sunshine, all my cares simply melted away.

Brendan rode his trike in the driveway while I dug in the dirt, unearthing slithery worms and creating planting beds for a variety of tulips, daffodils, daylilies, and purple drumsticks. We had fun and the warm balm of sunshine, blue skies, birdsong, and friendly neighbors somehow worked out all the kinks in my mind. When I came inside two hours later, I felt like a new woman.

After a shower, I cooked a delicious dinner, tidied up a bit, and looked around my house. It's not nearly as messy as it seemed that morning. And I feel like I can manage my other concerns. All I need are a few sunny days to keep me sane.

Manifest Destiny

After a week or so of feeling great, I've had the wind knocked out of my sails. Just when Scott and I have agreed to stop trying not to get pregnant and feel like we're ready for another baby, we learn that the company he works for on a contract basis is being bought by another company.

Scott remains optimistic, thinking that his work speaks for itself and that if they re-evaluate contractors, he'll do okay. He's also much more optimistic about the idea of the possibilities that can arise if he is laid off.

I waver between optimism and abject fear. On the one hand, sometimes it takes getting laid off or some great change in life in order to propel us forward. Something really incredible could come out of this. But on the other hand, there's that fiery lump of fear in the pit of my stomach that burns through my core, constantly making me ask "What if...".

How I wish I could let go of all fear and fully embrace faith! I wish my "what ifs" were of the positive and hopeful variety: What if Scott gets laid off and then takes the time to finish his album and it becomes an overnight success and sells thousands of copies? What if he launches his own consulting firm and has more time to spend at home with Brendan and me? What if I'm propelled forward to take my freelance business to the next level? What if we move to a new city that we just adore and make tons of new friends there?

Rather, I find myself stifled by fear, though I try to put on a positive face and only say positive things aloud. Inside my mind boils and bubbles with bleak possibilities.

I think it's time to revisit my old pal Wayne Dyer. I practiced some of his techniques for powerful positive thinking and manifesting my desires in the past, but I really have a hard time maintaining focus. And, with a child, I have trouble finding the time I need to meditate, pray, and focus. I'm sure some folks manage just fine. But, right now, it's all I can manage just to keep my household afloat. Of course, maybe if I visualized things a little differently, all the things I want would just come to pass.

Any thoughts?

PMDD

Two weeks ago, I went to the doctor after being sick for five days with what I thought might be food poisoning. While there, I decided to ask the doctor about a problem I've been having for some time. For over a year, I've been experiencing extreme anxiety and severe mood swings the week prior to getting my period. The last couple of months, I've noticed it starting around the time I ovulate and continuing until I get my period. Additionally, I've also felt confused and unable to focus on anything. I wrote it off to PMS and tried to battle it the best I could. My mother-in-law witnessed one of my meltdowns last month and suggested I talk to my doctor. So I did. Turns out, I have an extreme form of PMS called PMMD. It affects between 2-9% of all women of reproductive age (no one knows for sure because they can't even agree on whether or not it's a "real" condition.).

Unfortunately, the treatments are birth control pills, progesterone therapy, or SSRIs -- Prozac or Zoloft. None of those are acceptable options to me. So, I've been researching the issue and have found that some women respond really well to calcium supplements, increased Omega-3, and B vitamins. I'm trying a combination of the three and trying to get more exercise to see if any of it helps. If not, I don't know what I'll do.

Sadly, the condition is referenced in the DSM-IV, the handbook of mental disorders put together by the American Psychiatric Association. Rather than treating it as a naturally occurring medical condition, natural (though extreme) hormone surges are being treated as a mental disorder. Another way to label women as crazy instead of legitimizing their experiences and giving them the support they need. Men experience similar hormonal surges and cycles, but no one labels them crazy.

All that said, I just want to feel better. I want to find a way to control the hormones without putting anything too harsh into my body. I definitely think diet and lifestyle are the way to go.

My Heart Melts

Brendan is napping right now, curled up in his dad's favorite chair. I can see him breathing and he looks so small and sweet. His cheeks are flushed and his lips rosy. His blond hair curls up at his temples and he looks every bit of a cherub. I want to hold him and kiss the sweet spot on top of his head. All the frustrations of the morning have melted away and I regret being so wrapped up in household chores that I didn't sit down and play with him more.

Of course, I always feel that way. It's a battle for me, finding the right balance between keeping the house in some semblance of cleanliness and order and finding time to be a fun mom. I wonder what the ideal amount of time playing with one's child is. Back when he napped it was easier. He'd nap and I'd clean. Once my chores were finished if he was still napping, I got to have some time to myself. Now that he rarely naps or takes only a brief afternoon nap, I find I have to do housework while he's awake if I want the house to remain above the level of pigsty.

Sadly, none of my friends have this problem. Or so it seems. I am the only one of my friends in our neighborhood who does not have a housekeeper or maid who comes in once or twice a month. It's crazy. Stay-at-home moms with housekeepers. I thought cleaning house was part of the job description. Not that I'd complain if I could afford to have a maid. But would I? My friends spend between $120 and $180 a month to have someone clean their homes. I can think of a lot of other ways I'd spend that kind of money. That said, would it be worth it if I had an extra 2-5 hours a week not engaged in cleaning, laundry, or other chores that I could devote to my son? I don't know. That's precisely the problem.

How much time do kids need with their parents? I don't remember my mom or grandmother ever spending time playing with me or reading to me unless I was sick. I could read at three, so I read to myself. And I played by myself constantly unless cousins were visiting.

How much time do you spend playing with your kids each day? I'd love to hear how others balance household duties with giving children the time and attention they need. Does it make a difference to you that cleaning and cooking are ways you are caring for your family? Let me know...

There's No Place Like Atlanta in the Springtime

I love Atlanta. At least I do on gorgeous days like today. The sky is a perfect, beautiful blue with just a few wispy white clouds blowing by. The Bradford Pear trees have burst into bloom and the gorgeous Redbuds and my favorite, Tulip Poplars, give my neighborhood the infusion of pink it so desperately needs. Gorgeous yellow daffodils dance in the March breeze and my heart sings. I love this time. I love this place.

If it ain't one thing, it's another...

My grandmother used to say that all the time when I was a child. It would seem things were always going wrong for us back then. I'm not sure I knew quite how bad off we were. How poor. How close we were from the "poor house," as my grandmother might have put it.

Trust me when I say I knew we were poor. The other kids at school certainly made me aware of that. And a few years ago, when we went back to my hometown for my mother's funeral, Scott made it painfully clear how poor I was. In fact, I think it was the first time I really knew exactly how poor I was. As we drove through the neighborhood where I lived from my birth until I left for college, Scott said, "Wow! You told me you were poor. You never said you lived in a slum."

I just managed to keep myself in a state of denial I think. I had to in order to maintain any shred of dignity as I walked the halls among the throngs of Izod and Polo clad yuppies-in-training. Somehow, despite burning up inside with humiliation because I felt less than human among what I thought of as rich kids, I managed to hold my own and not drown in my own anger and bitterness. I managed to pretend I was their equal and to be treated nicely by most of them. Because I was in the top 5% of my class academically (#15 out of 425), I managed to earn their respect and pleas for help with homework. I found a comfortable niche with a few other smart kids and lovable oddballs who didn't quite fit in. But in a happy way, not all dark and angsty. More John Hughes, less Columbine, than you might imagine.

Now, when I find myself repeating my grandmother's words, I'm saying it in reference to Brendan catching a cold on the heels of my own recovery from a virus. (And just when we almost have him sleeping through the night in his own bed.) Not because my mom wrecked the car and we can't afford to get it fixed. Or because our crazy white trash neighbors poisoned our dog.

I feel so lucky. How did I get from there to here? And why? Sometimes, I believe I'm the luckiest woman in the world. And I'm so thankful. I really, really am. My life, while it's not exactly what I imagined way back then, is so much nicer and more perfect than my mom's was, or my grandmother's, or anyone that I knew growing up. Well, except that really rich lady I babysat for.

And I love it. I love my life. But I wonder how I keep my son grounded. How do I keep him from turning into one of those kids I both envied and hated in high school?

We try not to spoil him, but by the standards I grew up with, it's already too late. He already has more toys than I had in my whole life and he has the fewest toys of all his friends. Seriously. He eats much better food than I did. And without a doubt lives in a nicer house than I ever imagined, and it's just an ordinary, 30-year old middle-class house in a middle-class subdivision.

I guess someday when he's old enough to understand, I'll sit him down and explain my origins and hope he understands. I'll continue to teach him about acts of charity and have him participate with me as we find ways to help others. Mostly, though, I want to instill in him a sense of respect for his fellow man, no matter how rich or how poor that other person is. In doing so, I hope, somewhere along the line, something my son does will make a difference in the life of someone who could use a hand.