Back from the dead, so to speak

I'm back. I have no excuse for my hiatus other than being consumed with life and being under the weather.

On Monday of last week, I spent close to four hours trying to find a sitter so that Scott and I could go see Daniel Lanois at The Earl. We found out about the show very last minute and since most of our sitters are high school kids, I knew none of them would be able to come out on a Tuesday night and stay until midnight or later. The effort was worth it and at the very last minute, I found an Agnes Scott student who was free and didn't charge an arm and a leg.

It was worth it. We ate at a hole in the wall Mexican place in East Atlanta and then strolled over to The Earl. The opening act was called Telegram and we saw their last two songs, the latter of which was brilliant. I need to look them up.

Lanois was great, though he played a lot of new stuff that hasn't been recorded yet. The best of those was one he played during the encore. It was called Nomad and it rocked a little more that some of the other stuff. I was hoping to hear more off Shine, but still it was a great show. If you're not familiar with his music, check him out. Of course, if you saw Slingblade, you've heard his music. Some of the music most associated with that movie is Lanois's.

We also had a sitter previously booked for Friday so we could do dinner and a movie. Unfortunately, it turned into dinner and food poisoning. We ate at a Cuban restaurant that we have enjoyed in the past, though both of us on separate occasions have gotten sick after eating there and just wrote it off to undercooked beans or eating too much, etc. This time, there was little room for doubt that the Tito's mama's empanadas were the culprit. After deciding that there were no movies we wanted to see, we drove around Atlanta looking at all our old haunts from our single days and comparing stories. I felt sicker by the minute, but didn't have the heart to tell Scott I needed to go home. So, we ended up going to Manuel's for a drink. Manuel's was one of the first bars I went to Atlanta and remains a favorite now that I'm thirtyish and fit in there better than anywhere else. Not that we go to bars. Ever. But, it seemed like somethng to do. I drank half a bourbon and Coke and boy, was that a mistake. I felt light-headed and woozy immediately. We drove about 10 minutes toward home when I had to ask Scott to pull over so I wouldn't hurl in the car. I feel really bad for whoever parks in Reserved Parking space #2 at Emory Law School. Although, fortunately, it rained later that night, so I'm sure it was all washed away by Monday.

By the time we got home, I had a 103 degree fever and chills. I'm still feeling pretty yucky and wondering how much longer this can last. Fortunately, neither Scott nor Brendan has succumed to this, leading me to feel pretty certain it really is food posioning and not a virus.

Happy days to you all! Hope you all feel far better than I do right now!

Five Things Making Me Happy Today

In no particular order...

1. Brendan singing "Pop Goes the Weasel" as he awoke this morning. If you can wake up singing, you haven't a care in the world!

2. Duke's win a couple of nights ago against UNC. Thank you, J.J. Redick.

3. The fact that it might actually snow here on Saturday! Yay! Snow!

4. Sore muscles from working out for the first time in a week. Before last week, I hadn't worked out in three months. Before that, I used to work out five times a week. I miss it.

5. Battlestar Galactica. The inner geek is revealed.

What makes your heart rejoice today?

Achin' To Be

I'm not sure how obviously my dark mood of gloom and doom has shone through my posts lately. Maybe not much. I'm used to being a sunny, happy person and that is the demeanor I try to project. But lately, motherhood has worn me down.

Sad that the job I thought I'd be the best at has proven the hardest and the one I seem to be the least good at. I used to be a pretty good wife, and a cute one, too. Seems I'm no longer very good at that one either.

Despite my best efforts, the woman I used to be has been subsumed, eaten away in my efforts to be a really great mom. I've given too much of myself away, coddled without being cuddled myself. I've given one too many Matchbox cars and stayed up until 3 a.m. one too many mornings without giving anything to myself.

I know I sound selfish. I admire those moms who can go for days without a shower, wearing nothing but crusty sweatpants, and those who don't crave meaningful conversations with other adults. And I admire the moms who parent on auto-pilot, making snap decisions without anguishing over whether or not they're permanently damaging the little one's psyche. I marvel at the mothers who are happy to listen to nothing but Elmo or Barney.

Despite my best efforts to avoid it, I still have Laurie Berkner, some Harry Belafonte favorites, and a few of my nostalgic favorite tunes from the Muppet Show sandwiched into my iPod between The Replacements and Van Morrison. Most days it's okay. But when I realize I've heard Day-Oh or The Dinosaur Song three times in a row without a break, that's when I start to forget who I am, much less who I once was.

I have to recover at least some portion of that woman I used to be. I've realized I don't laugh as much as I used to and I don't get to enjoy music the way I once did. To that end, I've decided there are going to be some changes around here.

I'm working on saying no a little more, on encouraging independence and "big-boyness." I'm also thinking about little things I can do for myself so that I can feel human again, and less like the mommy-robot. I bought myself some flowers at the market today for the first time in over a year, something I used to do weekly. I've decided the TV can stay off while we listen to music of my choosing. I accept that I'm not a monster if I say I can't lie down and "cuddle a minute" when I put the little guy to bed.

I'm even going to try and find a sitter for the weekend so I can have a date with my husband. I miss him. And I know he misses me.

I imagine there are some who might read this and think I'm a horrible selfish bitch. But, I want my son to grow up to respect all women as individuals with their own wants, and thoughts, and needs, and desires, and means of expressing themselves. Not as his caretakers. And I want my son to realize that his parents love for one another is as important than their love for him...if it weren't for that love, he wouldn't exist. And if that love should be neglected, his life would take an entirely different path.

It's time I stop feeling guilty for being a person and start being the person I want to be. The woman I was always meant to be.

Same As It Ever Was

As I grappled with my conflicting emotions and the varying perspectives of all my parenting resources yesterday afternoon, it dawned on me that my problem is not my inability to choose a course of action and stick with it. My problem is my inability to say no.

Just Call Me Hamlet

When I became pregnant, it was a foregone conclusion that Scott and I would practice intentional parenting, as opposed to accidental parenting. I read books and telegraphed the information to Scott the best I could. I carefully weighed every decision from what to feed him, where he should sleep, and what he should eat, to less obvious choices like what he should wear.

I felt much more capable of making the right choices when he was an infant. There's not that much to it. You feed them, keep them clean and dry, help them learn how to sleep, and love them. It's pretty hard to screw that up.

With each progressive stage of childhood, however, my decision-making ability has been eroded. Despite having pretty good instincts, I choose to second-guess every move I make and end up stymied by my inability to decide. I read books, parenting web sites, talk to friends, ask my mother-in-law, ask my sisters-in-law, discuss it all with Scott, and then find myself so overloaded with contrary opinions and advice that I just don't know what to do.

Why do I do it, then? It might seem obvious to anyone else that I should just shut up and take charge. Maybe it is obvious. But I am just so dag-blasted worried about screwing up my child that I worry about every little thing.

Take potty-training, for instance. Brendan is three. I am mortified that he isn't potty-trained yet, despite having friends all around me saying that three is the right age for training. I should have done it when he was two and not as stubborn. I wanted to, but I tried a little, he didn't respond, and after listening to everyone around me, I decided to back off. Now he's freakin' three-years old! And not trained and it's all my fault.

And I'm mad at myself. And I'm mad at him. He's so stubborn (just like me, as Scott pointed out last night). I can't even get him to sit on the potty, much less use it.

So, today, I had the genius idea of showing him the new Thomas train I got for him as a reward. He immediately jumped off the bed and ran to the potty, sat down, jumped up after only one second, shouting, "I pee-peed! I pee-peed!"

When I tried to calmly and rationally explain that he did not actually pee, he FREAKED! I finally got him calm by distracting him. Gave him a lot of liquids and hoped we'd have some success. He sat on the potty for about 10 min. and nothing happened. I gave him lots of praise and affection only to have him freak out again when I said he couldn't have the train until he actually successfully used the potty.

Ultimately, he had another accident which I tried to use as a teaching opportunity. Instead, he freaked out again when I tried to get him to practice walking to the potty. He ended up crying himself to sleep, begging for the dog-gone train.

Mind you, I was calm. I didn't even raise my voice in anger or frustration this time. And still, I have failed. I wish I had not tried to bribe him. What the hell was I thinking? I wish Brendan were less stubborn and I were more patient.

And I wish for once, I could make a parenting decision and KNOW that it was the right one and not wonder if what I have done has crushed my child's soul and marked him for life.

Another cake photo

Thomas Cake close up, originally uploaded by belleoftheblogATL.

Thomas the Tank Engine Cake

Thomas the Tank Engine Cake, originally uploaded by belleoftheblogATL.

I thought I'd share some photos from the party.

I love this cake. It really turned out so cute! Brendan loved it. Of course, it was a battle keeping all the little boys at the party from grabbing Thomas off the top of the cake.

Birthday Party, Part Deux

The party was a roaring success, thank you very much for asking!

Ten kids between the ages of two and eight cavorting with delight. Running through a giant caterpillar obstacle course that sucks you into its mouth and then, uh...excretes you. Sliding, bouncing, jumping. Great fun for all.

Until the two unruly, wild, hateful little brats from another party showed up and starting taunting, teasing, and bullying all the smaller kids. These two hooligans (and I use that term loosely as I have the utmost respect for English soccer fans) made both Brendan and his best friend, Matthew, cry by stealing the ball they were playing with and then luring them closer with it so they could yank it away again. They also jumped off of one of the inflatables onto Matthew, knocking him to the ground. Both Scott and Matthew's dad yelled at them on separate occasions. Of course, their mother was a gem. She yelled back at Matthew's dad, saying, "I thought jumping was the whole point of this place."

Otherwise, the party was great. Brendan got the Thomas theme he had been talking about for months. The cake was precious. So cute and it actually tasted great, too. All in all, it was one of the best kid parties I've ever attended and I'm so glad we decided not to have it at home.

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!