The Birthday Party

In a couple of hours we'll be heading over to BounceNBob's for Brendan's third birthday party. For some reason, I am way too nervous about this.

As I mentioned in a previous post, birthdays are a really big deal to me. My family rarely celebrated my birthday because it was very close to Christmas. Birthday gifts, when I got them, were often necessities -- a bathrobe or tennis shoes or a scientific calculator. In other words, birthdays were not much fun. So, it has become my aim to ensure that the people I love have really great birthdays and get doted on during their special day.

Last year, Scott and I decided that we would do a party for Brendan every other year. Having had a huge first birthday party, last year was an off-year. I invited a few kids from the neighborhood over to play that day and baked cupcakes. That, in turn, means that 2006 was the year of the party.

After spending an inordinate amount of time debating with myself and Scott over whether we should have the party at home or somewhere else, we decided to do it somewhere else. Brendan, too, insisted that he did not want his party at his house. That's when the insanity really set in.

I must have researched every child-friendly birthday party venue in Atlanta. Seriously. My first choice was Hobbit Hall, an adorable children's bookstore in Roswell. Their parties included a storyteller reading the child's favorite book or books on his favorite subject. Then, the children dress in party hats and parade through the store and the outdoor garden area. Unfortunately, Hobbit Hall closed recently, breaking the hearts of children and mothers throughout Atlanta.

Freak that I am, I created a spreadsheet listing all the features (good and bad) of the five birthday party sites I wanted to compare and pored over it for a week. Ultimately, we settled on BounceNBob's. Brendan has a great affinity for anything that involves jumping, tackling, diving, and running around like a lunatic, so it seemed like the ideal place. Unlike the countless other indoor playgrounds that have sprung up throughout the ATL like mushrooms in a cow pasture, Bob's caters to toddlers and preschoolers with all of their inflatables on the smaller side.

Of course, on Thursday, Brendan tells us -- in tears, no less -- that he doesn't want his party at BounceNBob's. He wants his friends to come to his house. "Too late," we declared with quavering hearts, wondering what on earth we'll do if he freaks out at his party.

So, here we are, ready to go very soon, and it looks as if he's very excited about the whole thing! We'll see how it goes.

Happy Third Birthday, Little Guy!

Three years ago at this time, I paced the floors of DeKalb Medical Center's Labor and Delivery ward, trying to will my labor along with each step. We had been at the hospital for about three-and-a-half hours and despite the fact that my water had broken six hours before, I still was not dilated more than 1 cm. After months of one-on-one birthing classes with our doula/birth educator and countless hours of meditating, doing yoga, and practicing pain tolerance techniques, I suddenly felt very fearful about my body's ability to cooperate with my mind and my will to accomplish my goal of a drug-and-intervention-free birth.

Adding to my fears was the OB on call. My worst nightmare, Dr. Sourpuss, was the worst kind of doctor. The one who distrusts her patients and doesn't listen to them. Despite having a birthplan on hand and in the hands of the nursing staff, I feared that if she had the chance, I'd be under the knife faster than you could say lawsuit.

Thankfully, I had an incredible doula who advocated for me. Who guided both me and Scott when my contractions were coming every two minutes and lasting for two minutes but getting me no closer to holding a child in my arms. Devon, our doula, performed Reikii and massage, kept me company while I was in the tub trying to relax, and made the nurses listen when I said I needed to sleep, having only had three hours of sleep before going into labor.

Finally, one of the nurses offered me a sedative that she said was safe for my child. She promised no pain relief, but said it might let me rest for a while. I took it, though I felt it was in part a failure. I dozed off quickly. After what seemed hours, but was really only an hour-and-a-half, I woke. The first thing I was aware of was Gillian Welch singing "Time the Revelator" coming from Scott's computer. The next thing I sensed was the most incredible urge to push. Exactly as all the books described it.

Scott, Devon, and Scott's mom were all talking somewhere to my side. Before I opened my eyes, I said, "I'm ready to push." I think it took them a moment to realize what I said, so I repeated myself. Suddenly, all three of them descended upon me. Devon told me to relax and she'd get the nurse. When the nurse came in, I told her, "I'm ready to push." Her response was to give me a strange look and then to say, "Well, I can check you, but the last time I checked you were still only around 1.5 cm. I doubt you've progressed that far so quickly."

I felt elated when she checked me and came up with a look of total surprise on her face. She turned to the other nurse and said, "We need to find her doctor." Turning back to me, she said, "Hold on, Honey! You're at 8 cm. It's about time. We need to get your doctor in here."

After two hours of pushing, my perfect little angel came into the world. It didn't all work out quite as blissfully as I had envisioned it, but here he was. Finally!

Now, in the blink of an eye, three years have passed. Where did they go? He's so grown-up and funny and smart. I miss the sweet, tiny, infant who would smile sweetly up at his mama as I held him and nursed him or just stared at his pretty little face. But despite the most challenging moments with this headstrong, persistent, and oh-so-active boy, I feel so blessed.

Mothering this guy has been, and continues to be, the wildest ride I've ever been on. A roller-coaster of emotion that takes me to ever-greater heights and sinks my heart with despair. All on a daily basis.

So, to Brendan, on his third birthday, I say, "Thank you for choosing me and your dad to be the ones who guide your soul through this world." We are, I hope, better people for it. More so, I hope you will be better for it, as well.

Happy Birthday, Buddy!

Sorry for the Whining

I know my last two posts saw me wallowing in the self-pity pool. Sorry!

So, what am I looking forward to today to take my mind off my selfish needs and desires? Let me tell ya...

First, Brendan and I are going to bake cupcakes to take to his school tomorrow. Tomorrow is his birthday. He will be three and I am very excited about his birthday. More so, it seems, than he.

After we get the cupcakes in the oven, we're going to make train cut-outs to use as nametags on the goodie bags I am making for his party. In accordance with the Thomas the Tank Engine theme for his party, I'm using bandanas to hold the items I bought to fill the goodie bags. We'll tie them up with some ribbon and then I'll add the train-shaped name tags. I hope they're as cute in reality as they are in my mind. We'll see I guess.

Okay. I feel better already!

Another Opportunity, Perhaps?

Here's one of those quandaries I hate: the non-paying gig that might, possibly, somewhere down the line turn into the chance of a paying job.

I met last night with the founder of a local organization called Foundation for Community Arts. The organization has a very ambitious aim, which I can totally get behind. They need some help with their marketing efforts, a name change, help obtaining grants. All things I would love to work on and have experience with.

The problem? They can't afford to pay me now. It would be done on a volunteer basis. Of course, if I pursue grants for them, I can charge a percentage of whatever money I obtain for them and I'm okay with that. The question is, do I have time to do the volume of work required to win a grant with only the hope of getting paid? It's hard to make yourself commit to something like that when you're spread thin anyway.

I'll have to pray about this. Something I'm struggling with right now anyway. I'm really wondering where God wants me right now. I need to work, but it seems as if I keep having the carrot of the perfect job dangled in front of me only to have it snatched away just when it's within my grasp.

Maybe this is where I'm meant to be. Using my mad skills to help my community. Wouldn't that be nice?

Que Sera, Sera

Just a wee bit bummed. Last November I answered an ad for a writer to write about parenting issues for a new web site. I was, apparently, one of over 1,000 applicants for the job (it was a nationwide search). It was the perfect job: part-time, telecommuting, writing about a topic close to my heart.

I made it through three rounds of the application process. They cut it down to 70 applicants for 15 positions. The next stage of the interview process, the final stage, was to be a phone interview.

I really thought I had this job. I used visualization techniques to see myself getting the job, doing the job, etc. I found out today that I wasn't even going to get a phone interview. They've made their decisions, hired their 15.

I'm totally bummed. I was perfect for this job.

I just hope that the people hired to fill those positions need it more than I do.

Hazy Days

As we all know being sick sucks. (On a tangent, every time I use the word "sucks" I hear my mother's voice lecturing to me about how I shouldn't say it. It's the only "swear" word, she ever lectured me about.).

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Being sick does suck. And it's only made worse by not getting any sleep. Worse than getting no sleep is getting fractured, restless sleep filled with vivid, unsettling dreams that stay with you long after you wake.

That would be today's experience for me. Brendan woke up and came to our bed around 2:00 a.m. I could still hear Scott downstairs playing some of the latest songs he's written, but don't think that's what woke B. He usually wakes between 1:00 and 3:00 lately and comes into our bed anyway. Usually he goes right back to sleep. Last night, however, he was awake until after 5:00 a.m. Wild. Cuddly. Funny. And wide awake.

Because I had taken a dose of Thera-Flu right before going to bed, I kept dozing back to sleep every few minutes. I awoke once when Brendan was tapping on my forehead to wake me. When I opened my eyes, he was staring into them, smiling. I asked what he was doing and he said,"Waking you up." Thanks, guy!

Like a fool, I let him watch the episodes of Caillou and Thomas the Tank Engine we have recorded on the DVR in our room, thinking he'd relax and go back to sleep. I think they just wound him up. Ultimately, Scott came upstairs and at around 5:00 suggested we put on some music. Thank you, Dish Network, for having Sirius channels as part of your programming! I put on the Acoustic Café and two songs later (Gillian Welch and Dave Alvin), Brendan was sound asleep. I drifted away a few minutes later, but woke up from a dream in which I slept until two in the afternoon and forgot to pick up Brendan from preschool.

In the dream, I had to walk to the school and got lost because I was in a different city and didn't know my way around. I ran into a friend and was embarrassed to admit I was lost. She helped me find my way, but gave me strange looks as if I were crazy for sleeping so long and being lost.

In another, even more bizarre dream, Scott very enthusiastically told me he's ready for another baby. This is an on-going discussion for us, so no real shock it would emerge in a dream. Just strange that in the dream, he was really excited about it and I was okay with it and agreed it was time. The dream had a sweet, pleasant, reassuring quality to it. But, on waking, it seems a distant goal. I don't think either of us is truly ready. At least, I don't think we are. But then, I guess no one is ever truly ready for having a child.

And today, with so little sleep and a cold to boot, I cringe at the thought of having to care for a newborn and a three-year old. Fortunately, for today, I don't have to.

I get to go rest until it's time to pick up my little guy. Hopefully, I won't fall asleep and wake up in a strange city two hours after I'm supposed to pick him up.

A Good Old-fashioned Rant: Screw Barnes & Noble!

Okay...I have never been a Barnes & Noble fan. Their employees are pretentious writer-wannabes; their stores have an air of stuffiness and they have some sort of policy to prevent customers from accessing the cash registers to pay for things because the registers are always surrounded by rack after rack of tacky tiny books and journals and crap that nobody really wants.

Oh! And then there's the fact that Barnes and Noble giftcards always have Shakespeare on them. Who gave them the right to co-opt the Bard's image for their tacky crap?

Then, of course, is the fact that Barnes and Noble (and the other giant chain bookstores) seem intent on putting small, independents out of business, just like they did to my beloved Oxford Books, with its tiny upstairs coffeeshop, the Cup and Chaucer.

But do you know what's making my blood boil right now, what really chaps my hide?

It's the same blasted inane policy that caused me to lose my ish in the middle of a freakin' Sprint PCS store when I was seven months pregnant. Then, I screamed and yelled at the store manager, causing my saner half to try pulling me from the store while I was still yelling at the mickeyfickey!

It's the concept some retail outlets and employees have that an item sold at one of their chains cannot be returned at another. Now, I'm not talking franchises. I'm talking about corporately-owned retail outlets. The idiot at the Sprint store refused to take back a defective phone my husband had received for Christmas. My poor husband who didn't even want a cell phone, but was getting one so I could call him if I went into labor. After trying for two days to get the thing activated, someone from Sprint customer service told us to return to a store. The store manager then refused to take the return because it wasn't sold at his store and would come off his store's totals.

Okay. I get it. I was a retail sales manager for Rich's Department Stores. I tracked my department's numbers daily. I know that every return counts against you, especially if it came from another store. But guess what? You don't get to tell the customer no! And do your freakin' job right and you'll be selling me a more expensive phone anyway, you idiot!

So...how does this relate to Barnes and Noble? Well, if you return an item to a store and get a store credit as I just did today, they want you to use that store credit at the store where you returned the item so that their totals all come out even. This is what I was told today after trying to use my store credit to purchase something on-line and then being told that it wouldn't work.

I called Barnes and Noble customer no-service. After throwing out a few too many words a mommy like me should be ashamed of using, having a supervisor threaten to hang up on me because of said language, I ended up being told that I could only use the store credit at the store where I returned the item.

Nevermind the fact that the thing I want to buy costs $39 on-line, but $69.99 in the store.

Screw the customer. That's what I always say.

AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGG! I am so very, very angry about this screw-the-customer-with-our-stupid-policies nonsense that so many of these mega-stores have. I mean, when I got off the phone I really wanted to throw something or hit a Barnes and Noble employee! Really. And I'm not a violent person.

But now I feel better. Tell the world! Don't shop at Barnes and Noble! Use Amazon if you can't get to a small store. Keep a programmer in business.

Truly, Madly, Deeply

Ten years ago this week (Jan. 17, 1996), I met my husband Scott. I truly can't explain what happened. Nothing like it had ever happened to me before.

I answered an ad in Creative Loafing, a local weekly that includes classifieds for jobs, roommates, etc. And no, it wasn't a personal ad. Scott and his roommates were looking for a fourth person to share their house and I was looking for an escape from my psycho roommate, Kim. So, after responding to nine other ads and getting nowhere, I called the first ad that had caught my eye. It read something like this:

Three liberal males seek male or female to share four bedroom, three bath home with pool. Pets welcome.

It was the pool that won me over.

I called the number listed and when the hurried-sounding guy on the other end of the line said I could see the place if I was there in 15 minutes, I jumped in my car and rushed over, speeding through a school zone and getting yelled at by an angry mom in the process.

When I arrived, the guy who opened the door very nearly made me sink to my knees he was so cute. A wild mop of curly red hair, something mischievous in his eyes, and a sexy smile. Three hours later and I left with a promise that I'd hear about the room the next day.

At that point, I didn't care about the room. All I cared about was getting to know this incredible guy. But not like that. As cute as he was, all I could think about was being friends with this guy. So smart and funny and a music lover. More than that, a musician.

He called the next day and I didn't get the room. Thankfully. But I did get his heart. We went out the next night, and as they say, the rest is history. Ten years and more than a few adventures later, I'm married to my best friend. We have a beautiful son and a pretty great life.

To celebrate the anniversary of the day we met, Scott got me out of the house so that he could record a song for me. It's one of my favorites, a song my mom used to sing for me when I was a little girl. The title is my middle name.

He sent it to me in an e-mail with little fanfare, just a note that read, "You didn't think I'd forget, did you?"

It made me cry.

I feel like the luckiest woman alive.

Why Do Women Blog?

Recently, I stumbled across excerpts from a New York Times piece that was critical of mommy blogs.

Originally published in January '05, the article offers up criticism of what the reporter, David Hochman, refers to as "baby blogs." Hochman talks about the self-absorption of the parents who chronicle the daily trials and tribulations of parenthood, saying that the blog is really a means for the parent to bitch about her own life.

Today's parents - older, more established and socialized to voicing their emotions - may be uniquely equipped to document their children's' lives, but what they seem most likely to complain and marvel about is their own. The baby blog in many cases is an online shrine to parental self-absorption.

Well, duh! With the exception of a very few political blogs, are there any on-line journals that aren't devoted to the self-absorption of the blogger? Don't we all just write about the things we feel most passionately about? If we're professional writers (as many bloggers are), aren't we just using the medium as either a means of expression or a tool to sharpen our skills or both?

I'm not all that critical of what Hochman actually wrote. I, personally, don't want to read a blog that chronicles every diaper change and bottle of someone else's child. That said, I do like the sense of knowing there are others out there like myself who love their children dearly, but hold on to the hope they can maintain some sense of their unique spirit, and not be swallowed up entirely by parenthood. I like knowing there are other people out there like myself, who aren't perfect, but who continue to strive. People who are willing to share their experiences in the hope of helping another mom or dad, just doing the best they can.

Of course, I have been thinking about why I write this blog since I created it. Why I wanted to do it in the first place. It actually took me a long time to commit to writing here even after I set up the account.

Oddly enough, today I came across this article that discusses how female bloggers are changing the face of the medium and affecting other types of media, as well. No real insights there, but the writer discusses some of the reasons women blog. Again, nothing really earth-shattering, but it did help me to admit to myself why I blog or to at least clarify the idea for me.

I am a writer. It's who I am, as much as it is what I do. I've wanted to write for a living since I was 14 years old. And I've been pursuing that aim for the entirety of my adult life. From college newspaper editor to PR flunkie to ad copywriter and Director of Marketing, I have pursued jobs that allowed me to use the one real talent I have.

Now that I stay at home with my son, I miss that. Part of who I am was made redundant, as the British like to say, when I became a mother. Oh, I have the occasional freelance job, but there's nothing like writing every day in the hope that someone will hear what you have to say and quite possibly be helped by something you've said.

In the Name of the Father...

When he was a newborn, I used to hold my son and marvel at the tiny miracle he was. It was hard to believe I had played a role in bringing something so...so innocent and perfect and beautiful into the world. Whether it was hormonally-induced or not I don't know, but I would sometimes find myself so overcome with love for him and joy at his being that I could do nothing but hold him, stare at his beautiful blue eyes, and cry.

In those moments, I found myself praying, "Thank you, Lord, for this gift. Thank you for trusting me with this tiny, perfect soul. I pray that you will give me the strength, the wisdom, and the grace to be worthy of this child's love." Holding Brendan, I truly felt God's presence. Back then, in addition to these spontaneous prayers, I found I could indulge my spirit easily, writing when my son napped. Praying and practicing a few meditations before he woke in the mornings. Reading this or that book on parenting, or motherhood, or just a simple, good work of fiction when I got the chance. All of those contributed to my spiritual well-being.

Now that Brendan is older, it is, of course, harder. Daily life leads little time to express my thanksgiving, though, I do find myself constantly asking for help. Not something to be dismissed, but not an entirely joyful experience. In addition to my own spiritual longings, I find that I feel increasingly responsible for teaching him about God and I have a growing longing to see my son have a meaningful connection to God, be it through Nature, Art/Creation, or the Church, or as I have experienced God through all those things.

Thankfully, I do believe that God knows us and the longings of our hearts. Even though I may feel spiritually disconnected and sense the lack in my life, I know that when things do settle down as Brendan gets older, I will be able to once again indulge my spirit with the things that truly matter to my soul. Until then, I will go through the motions of mealtime blessings, holiday rituals, going to Church, praying in a truly, deeply meaningful way whenever I can, weeping at a perfect sunset, and freezing to death so I can glimpse the silvery moon on a crystal clear January night. Hopefully, Brendan will pick up on the fact that these things, as ordinary as they seem, do matter and are a way to bridge the gap between the seen and unseen, the mundane and the Divine.

And I will continue to seek God's divine presence in my son and in myself every time I look at his beautiful face.

Goals for the New Year

Perhaps because it falls so close to the beginning of the year, I have found in recent years, that my birthday has become the time that I ponder what lies ahead and try to set some goals for myself. Last year, I was fairly successful getting in better shape and losing some weight. Of course, I stalled out after a while.

So, what are this year's goals?

Well, I'd like to lose even more weight and have a more defined and toned body. I think I'll start with the Stripilates workout. All the reviews I've read of it are really positive. I just want to feel sexy again and I think this might help.

Next, I'd like to adopt a more positive outlook and just generally allow myself to be happier. I'll have to figure out how exactly to accomplish that. I'll get back to you with more concrete ideas when I have them.

Of course, getting Brendan potty trained is a major goal and I do think it might decrease my tension level once it's done. Right now, I'm following some of the ideas found on Dr. Greene's site.

And finally, one of my major goals is for Scott and I to spend more time together alone. It can be a weekly date night. It can (please, oh, please!) be a weekend trip. Whatever it is, we need it. The couple of hours we get each night after Brendan is in bed and before I crash, just aren't enough. I miss the way things used to be with my husband. I know having children changes that dynamic, but I am determined not to fall into the "mommy trap." wherein I sacrifice everything, including my marriage and my sanity, for the sake of my children.

Truly, a believe that a happy, thriving marriage makes mommy a better mommy, daddy a better daddy, and the kids will benefit as much as anyone else.

Happy Birthday to Me!

For me, birthdays have always been a mixed blessing. Part celebration, part time to mourn.

As a child, I mourned the fact that I didn't have parties and get fabulous gifts the way so many other kids did. I hated my mom for that, thinking her inept and insensitive. Now, as an adult planning my son's birthday parties, I realize the effort and expense that goes into them and I know that it would have been terribly difficult for a single mom working two jobs to make ends meet to pull it off.

She tried a couple of times. When I was in kindergarten she made a cake and brought it to school for my class. My poor clueless, selfish mom. She made some kind of banana nut cake from a mix that happened to be her favorite. None of the other kids liked it and I'm sure they teased me about it. Another year, she actually made cupcakes. That year, my birthday fell on Friday the 13th and it snowed so heavily school was closed. I cried so hard. My one chance to feel normal and fate snatches it away from me.

In the years since, I have vowed not to let triskaidekaphobia rob me of my fun and have made many a concerted effort to have the Friday birthdays be the best!

So, here we are today...Friday, January 13, 2006. I'm 36 today and waffling between mourning the 30s that have flown by so quickly and celebrating this wonderful life I have!

Thankfully, my amazing husband doesn't let me feel mopey for long. He and our sweet boy gave me my gifts last night (Dior's Pure Poison perfume set with bath gel and lotion and an amazing Henri Bindel Quince scented candle!) and they sang "Happy Birthday" to me. In fact, Brendan has been singing it to me all week. He keeps asking about my party. It's darling really.

The best gift, really, has been all the love and tender support Scott has shown me this week. I had an amazing job interview for a sales job at the site where he and I got married, Primrose Cottage. The sales manager loved me and offered me the job on the spot. Scott indulged me while I fantasized about nannies and housekeepers and a life outside this house before turning the job down because it didn't pay enough.

Last night, when I had a moment of sadness accepting the fact that I'm closer to 40 than 30 now and thinking of all I don't have and haven't done, he reminded me that at that moment I was younger and older than at any other point in my life. And as a simple as that sounds, that means a lot to me.

Then, of course, I also have the words of Pierce Brosnan, which Scott shared with me in my birthday card last year: "To my eye, women get sexier around 35. They know a thing or two, and knowledge is always alluring."

When I think about all I do have, the gifts and blessings that have come to me, I know what a lucky woman I am and I am so grateful! A sweet, thoughtful husband, a precious son, my beautiful dog and crazy cat, a warm, safe, beautiful house, friends, family, the life that lies ahead of me.

So, here's to 36! It's better than the alternatives!

The Art of Feeling Guilty

I think there's a real reason moms are known for dishing out the guilt. It's because they do. However, there's also a reason they're so good at it.

I've only been a mom for three years (and nine months, if you're counting gestation) and I've already managed to create enough guilt for myself to last a lifetime. I might as well spread the wealth.

Hell, I came home from the hospital feeling guilty because I couldn't breastfeed my son. I spent two sleepless nights in the hospital with him screaming bloody murder because he was hungry and I had no idea. I tried nursing him, but he would pull away, leading me to believe he was full. Poor guy was trying to tell me he wasn't getting anything. I wasn't producing enough colostrum or milk to sate his hungry little belly. And the nurses were no help. Not one of them ever suggested it might be hunger. They told me he was upset because I was upset. Welcome to the Wide, Wide World of Guilt.

After Brendan spent several hours under the bililights and our pediatrician convinced me that I had no choice but to supplement our breastfeeding with formula, we came home where I tried to discern what had gone wrong and how I could increase my milk production. And that was my first mistake.

Everywhere I turned for support, advice, or comfort, I found nothing but guilt, guilt, and more guilt. On one breastfeeding support board, I actually had another mother tell me that I was poisoning my son by giving him formula. She (and several others) suggested that I stop giving him formula immediately and only offer him the breast. She said that within five days my milk should come in. But when I tried this, he would try to nurse, staying on the breast for up to 30 or 45 minutes, only to start screaming his little head off within a few minutes because he was still hungry. I simply could not bear to see my son starving in this manner. I would pump fruitlessly and desperately, never getting more than 1/2 an ounce of breastmilk even after pumping for an hour with a good electric pump. I ended up going back to supplementing with formula after only two days, questioning the decision and counting myself as a failure and a quitter because I couldn't deal with a little crying from a starving newborn.

I was doing the very best I could. Yet, because a select group of women deemed themselves the arbiters of good mothering, I found myself so consumed with guilt and shame that I spent the first month of my son's life in misery because my body wouldn't do it's job. Never mind the fact that he was thriving.

I still feel sad that I wasn't able to exclusively nurse my son. In hindsight, I realize that I did absolutely everything within my power to nurture my son. If I hadn't supplemented with formula, who knows what complications might have resulted from a lack of proper nutrition in those first few weeks? Instead he thrived! He grew into a happy and contented little fellow who began sleeping through the night when he was eight weeks old.

He's three now and has never had an ear infection. I'm convinced this is a direct result of being on soy formula and not having any dairy until he was 12 months old. He has been incredibly healthy despite my only nursing him for 12 weeks.

Sadly, it has taken me this long to come to terms with this issue. And how many other issues have been wrapped expertly in the layer of guilt I apply to everything that isn't perfect?

Fortunately, I've discovered I'm not alone in this. Every mom I speak with on this topic finds herself conflicted when it comes to issues of parenting. One neighbor went back to work because she didn't feel fulfilled as a stay-at-home mother and would often find herself screaming at her kids out of frustration and anger. But then, when she returned to work she felt guilty for putting her own sanity ahead of what she had been told was best for her kids. Despite every ounce of evidence to the contrary -- she was a far better mother when she was working because she was a happier person -- she left her job after only a few months. She couldn't accept the fact that it's okay for a parent to put herself first sometimes and that having a stay-at-home parent is not necessarily the best option for every family, even if finances allow it.

Another mother I know, eats herself up with guilt whenever she yells at her kids. I'll admit I do the same thing. No sane parent enjoys yelling at her kids. But we're human and we make mistakes. The best we can do is admit when we're wrong and apologize for the way we might have mishandled a situation. Guilt, however, is simply not helpful. In fact, I'd venture to say it's quite harmful to us and our relationships with our children.

First, if end up yelling at our kids because they're not listening or following directions, and then we let ourselves become consumed with guilt, the next time we need to correct a child, we may find ourselves hesitating and not taking appropriate action. The kid will sense your fickleness and frailty and you'd better believe they'll take advantage of it.

I don't really have answers. Just hope. Hope that I can win the battle with guilt. Hope that I can encourage friends and loved ones who might be fighting the same battle.

Psychotherapist and social worker Debra Rosenberg extends the hand of hope in her book Motherhood Without Guilt. She explores the underlying causes of "mommy guilt" and offers practical, constructive approaches for escaping the cycles of guilt. Key to her approach, I believe, is reinforcing the notion that women need to take care of themselves in order to take proper care of their families.

Now, if only we can all indulge ourselves in a little "me time" without feeling bad, we'll be well on our way toward ridding ourselves of the plague of guilt.

And You Thought Bumpershoot Was a Cool Word

Like all kids, Brendan has come up with quite a few words of his own creation. Some were mere mispronunciations, like "mutmo," which eventually evolved into oatmeal. For months, Cooper, our dog, was called "Cooptu," and car is still often, "tar."

My favorites, though, are the words that combine two other words or thoughts, into one new, unusual word. Try as we may, we can't convince Brendan that the device that protects you from the rain is not actually a "rainbrella." Nor does he believe us when we tell him that it's actually a telescope and not a "piratescope."

Truth be told, I don't try all that hard to correct him. I work on the mispronunciations. But the quirky words and phrases, I know, will fade away on their own. He's showing signs of pre-reading. He constantly asks what letter everything starts with and his favorite letter is "B." "I start with B," he shouts gleefully. And I know my days of laughing at his oddball words are to be short-lived.

So, for now, I'll enjoy every one of his adorable expressions and pray I can keep the days at bay when he'll roll his eyes in embarrassment when I remind him to take his "rainbrella."

Christmas Baking: How Many Desserts Can One Mom Make in a Week?

While I've always been the kind of girl who knows her way around a kitchen and loves to cook for family and friends, I've suddenly found myself in a kind of culinary hyper-drive.

In November, my sisters-in-law and I threw a 60th birthday party for my mother-in-law and sadly, I don't even remember what I made for that. Oh! That's right...I cheated and bought all the wine and beer for the party. That was a first for me.

December began with a potluck dinner with neighbors. We chose an Italian theme and I brought a fried ravioli appetizer that was a huge hit. And the recipe really couldn't be simpler:

• One package small refrigerator cheese ravioli
• One egg, beaten
• One cup bread crumbs seasoned with garlic powder, dried basil, dried thyme, salt, black pepper

Cook the ravioli by the package directions. Beat the egg. Drain the ravioli and dip it into the egg, then the bread crumbs. Then you fry them in olive oil, about 2 min. per side or until golden brown. Drain on paper towels and serve with marinara sauce.

This week, though, has been the craziest in terms of baking or cooking holiday goodies. I baked six Triple Chocolate Coffee Cakes to give to Brendan's preschool teachers and the school director. This is the most delicious chocolate cake I have ever tasted and I use it as a dessert, not a breakfast item.

• One package Devil's Food cake mix
• One 3 oz. package chocolate instant pudding
• Two cups sour cream
• One cup butter or margarine, softened
• Five large eggs
• Five large eggs
One teaspoon vanilla extract
• Three cups semisweet chocolate morsels, divided
• One cup white chocolate morsels
• One cup toasted chopped pecans

BEAT first 6 ingredients at low speed with an electric mixer 30 seconds or just until moistened; beat at medium speed 2 minutes. Stir in 2 cups semisweet chocolate morsels; pour batter evenly into 2 greased and floured 9inch square cake pans.

BAKE at 350° for 25 to 30 minutes or until a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool completely in pans on wire racks.

*MICROWAVE white chocolate morsels in a glass bowl at HIGH 30 to 60 seconds or until morsels melt; stirring at 30-second intervals until smooth. Drizzle evenly over cakes; repeat procedure with remaining cup of semisweet morsels. Sprinkle cakes evenly with pecans.

*I never use the microwave, but instead melt my chips on top of the stove, adding a touch of milk to keep them from sticking or scalding. I also sprinkle more chocolate and white chocolate chips on top of the finished cake along with the pecans because I think it looks pretty.

Also, if you use an 8x8 in. pan instead of the 9 inch, you end up with the three cakes instead of two. I use the disposable cake pans with lids to deliver these in, wrapping a pretty Christmas dish towel around the outside and tying it with raffia ribbon for added appeal.

Who's Crying Now: The No-Cry Sleep Solution

Shakespeare called sleep the "Chief nourisher in life's feast." If that's true, and I believe it is, then this is no feast of which I partake. Indeed, I'm about as malnourished as one woman can be.

From around the age of seven months, Brendan has battled sleeping. Initially, he would fall asleep just fine, but would wake up around 1:00 a.m. and want to play. Inexperienced and with no clue what to do, I indulged his whim and would sit on the floor of his room while he played. When he started to get sleepy again, I'd put him back to bed and try to get back to sleep myself. Some nights, he'd be back in his crib in 15 minutes; other nights, he'd play and laugh and have a grand old time until 4:00 in the morning. My mother-in-law assured me that this would pass, pointing out that Brendan's dad was the same way.

By the time he was a year old he was still doing it, though, there would be weeks at a time where he slept like an angel. And of course, he napped like a champ. Twice a day until he was around 18-months old. But, the nighttime was when he came alive.

Now, nearly three, he's still battling sleep. Only it has become far more extreme, especially in the last few days. He doesn't want to go to bed and if he does, he pleads for me to stay with him. His cries of "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy," tear at my heartstrings and infuriate me! Doesn't he understand that I need some "Me Time?" That I have a sinkful of dirty dishes that aren't going to wash themselves? That I'd like to have a meaningful conversation with his dad that doesn't involve the phrase, "What do you think we should do?"

Of course, he doesn't. But that doesn't make it any easier for me. I feel like everything in my life is out of control when my son isn't sleeping. I'm exhausted and that shades everything. I can't believe he's going to be three in a month-and-a-half and we're still dealing with this nonsense.

We've tried it all. Crying it out or "Ferberizing;" coddling him with attachment parenting style techniques like inviting him to sleep with us. The only thing he wants is for me to sleep in his bed and I just don't think that's healthy. Not for him. Not for me. And certainly not for my marriage.

I'm at my wit's end after five nights in a row averaging three or four hours of sleep. On Wednesday, I was telling my friend Susan about the situation and she recommended a book called "The No-Cry Sleep Solution." Sadly, I briefly thought the title was alleging to keep tired mommies from bursting into tears. If the book really could do that and help me find a way to get my little one to sleep without compromising my own needs, it might prove to be just what my hungering soul ordered.

Connecting in the Real World: MOMS Club International

Becoming a mother was nothing like I'd imagined. In my vivid pre-natal daydreams, I saw myself pram-pushing through a shady park, stylishly dressed and chatting it up with other young moms like myself. I imagined forging connections that would turn into lifelong friendships like those I'd made in college. Never once did I foresee myself, trapped inside my house surrounded by piles of housework, feeling lonely and isolated, my brain turning to mush for lack of any adult conversation all day long.

By the time Scott returned home at night, I would feel as if I had nothing useful to contribute while at the same time I was desperate for the company of another adult.

How do you meet and connect with others outside the constructs of school or work, the places where people typically connect and bond with each other? I met a couple of other stay-at-home moms in my neighborhood and liked them. Their children were close to Brendan's age and thought we'd be fast friends.

Well, the friendships did not form quickly, but they have formed. They've also led to other friendships.

And in May of this year, I joined the newly formed Tucker chapter of the MOMS Club International. It has proven a wonderful outlet for both me and Brendan. We have both made friends. We get out of the house a lot more than we ever did before. And I am thrilled to have found such a great group of women -- and kids -- to connect with.

I'd recommend the MOMS Club as a resource for any stay-at-home mom who feels disconnected from the real world and who is looking for a source of support and friendship. Each chapter is different, but they generally offer outings several times a week, moms nights out, volunteer opportunities and much more.

Happy Birthday, Freakshow!

Today, my best friend, Courtney Alison, is turning 35! For one month, we get to be the same age. Then, she gets to start lording it over me that she's a whole 11 months younger than me.

Not that she does that. Anymore.

Of course, she owes me a little for the 11 months I was able to legally drink during our junior year of college. While I was publically sipping beer at Agnes Scott band parties, Courtney and many of our cohorts were sneaking back to the dorm for sneaky cocktails. Kind of a pain, I guess. Especially since getting caught would mean a trip before the Honor Court and possibly expulsion.

However, I was thinking the package of Depends she gave me on my twenty-first birthday was payment enough! Maybe not.

Maybe there's no way to ever pay your friends back for all they bring to your life. I know that Courtney has given me so much over the course of the years we've known each other that nothing -- not words, gold, flowers-- nothing -- could ever really capture the depth of feeling and affection I have for my best friend. Nothing other than a continued friendship with her that lasts as long as we live.

I've always had this vision of Courtney and myself as little old ladies dishing on all the things crochety old ladies dish on and cracking ourselves up. That would be the greatest gift either of us could give the other, I think.

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Freak O' the Week! I hope your day is fabulous!

A House is Made with Walls and Beams

but a home is made with love and dreams.

I thought of this corny quote today as I drove by the house my husband and I shared before we bought our current house. To my shock, the house had been torn down. Not even rubble remained on the site.

I was shocked to discover I had such sentimental feelings for the place, though I always look at the house when I drive by to see what's going on with it.

It was a rental property, but a really charming little house. Built in 1943, it was stone with a screened porch, original hardwood floors, and it was surrounded by seven acres of woods.

In 1997, my boyfriend and I moved into the house together. We rented it from the son of the original owners. We lived in that house for four years and only today did I realize how many memories -- good and bad -- were formed in that house.

Moving in together was a huge decision for us, but in that house, I really felt like we were forming a partnership. And we were. We had an amazing time living in that house.

My first night there someone tried to break in. Our one-year old German Shepherd puppy barked and scared the would-be burglars away.

We had crazy redneck neighbors who shot arrows into our backyard. The same redneck neighbors, on at least one occasion, set their backyard on fire and it spread into the woods behind our house. We called the fire department, but the neighbors never apologized or even acknowledged there was a fire.

We were adopted by the sweetest orange tabby cat who just showed up one winter night. He's still with us, though I know he misses his old hunting ground.

There were other assorted weird incidents like when we learned the county police department had been set up in the woods a few hundred feet from our bedroom window every night for a month. Apparently, a neighbor's teenage son was the head of a burglary ring and they were hiding in the woods using their night vision gear to conduct surveillance on him.

There was the girl who showed up banging on our front door in the middle of the night saying someone tried to rape her at the bus stop. She wanted me to let her in, but ran away when I told her I would call the police to help her.

Then, of course, there was the time we were burglarized. The creeps stole everything including my husband's month old Mac and all of our CDs. Not such a good memory.

Despite all of that, there were so many wonderful things that happened while we lived there. Our first trip to San Francisco. Getting engaged. Going to Merlefest. Getting married. Our first anniversary. Birthdays. Surprise parties. The host of friends who came through that house.

And those are just our memories. I can't imagine the ghosts that linger there from the original owners and their children and the succession of tenants who must have lived there over the years.

I am a little sad at seeing the vacant lot where such a fine old house once stood. But, I'm actually a little thrilled by the reason it was torn down.

DeKalb County bought the land and some adjacent properties in order to create a wildlife preserve. And for that, I am very thankful. I look forward to traipsing around in those woods again with my son and our dog, revisiting old memories and making new ones.

The Greatest of these is Love: An Adoption Story

After years of trying to conceive on their own, and nearly three years waiting for an adoptive child, my friend Heather and her husband have finally welcomed their new son. N.A..

Naturally, I am overjoyed. And amazed. The faith and patience my friend exhibited while she waited is truly remarkable. Each time she faced a challenge, like meeting another birth mom who then chose someone else to adopt her child or a birthmom who wanted to be more involved with the child after its birth than Heather was comfortable with, she simply turned to her faith and put her trust in God. She never gave up. And while she waited, she focused on becoming the best mother she could be.

And wow! What an amazing mom she is already.

Before her son came, Heather devoted herself to a rigorous, grueling regimen of hormone treatments that would allow her to breastfeed her new son. When I think of all the biological moms who don't make the effort to breastfeed when it comes naturally, I am simply in awe of this amazing woman who would put herself through so much to be able to care for her child in the healthiest way possible!

Little N. was born on December 3 and came home with his parents on December 5. I really feel like I witnessed a miracle of faith and got a peek at God at work in my friend's life. And that simply has made my faith grow in turn.

Thanks, Heather, for sharing this journey with me. I am so proud of you and so blessed to have you as a friend.

Godspeed on this amazing journey!