Ecdysis

Every now and then I come across blog posts or articles written by mothers who miss who they used to be. They long for their old freedoms and careers. They talk about what they used to look like and the trips they used to take. How they used to be someone else.

I have to admit, I never really related.

I was never so happy than to have my husband suggest that I leave my job when I got pregnant. It's not that I didn't enjoy working. I loved my job, but I was tired and ready to shed that skin.

I was ready to be needed by my family, not 100 different families. I didn't have the ability to distance myself while working in the non-profit sector and ended up self-extending my job description far beyond just providing music lessons for children from low-income families.

That part of my life was rewarding, and while Kevin admits he misses seeing me in a business suit and heels (he says with a "rawr)", we are both happy with me staying at home.

There is another part of my life, however, that didn't end with such a definitive line. It simply has faded away and before I realized what was happening, it was completely gone.

I will never be a rock star.

When I moved to the Triangle 11 years ago, the first thing I did after finding a job was to look for a band. Within six months, I had joined up with three amazing guys who actually wanted to play my songs. I was in heaven. Add that to the weekly open mics at the Berkeley Cafe, and I was honing my chops like never possible in Mississippi.

Over the next several years, I was in and out of different groups, hauling my Fender Rhodes mostly by myself, using a handtruck and a rather ingenious system my ex-husband designed for getting it in and out of our hatchback.

I liked walking into a club or a music store and being treated like a musician and not a groupie girl. I liked the spotlight. I even liked being behind the spotlight, trading my lead singer days for back up vocals and keys in the last group.

Last week, Kevin, Little Bird, and I went into Sam Ash just to see what they still had in stock during this dismal economy. As we walked through, it felt completely foreign to me. Even though I had worked there a decade ago when it was still Mars Music, nothing felt familiar. I realized as we were leaving that it was me who had changed, not the store.

I presented as a pregnant woman with her toddler in tow, following her musician husband through the racks of guitars. There was no reason for them to perceive me as anything but a mother.

I have a confession. Sometimes when I meet new people, either in real life or online, I wish they knew me when I was "cooler." You know, you might have caught me at The Pour House or The Cave, do you remember? Maybe we met at The Berkley? I'm sure we know some of the same people . . .

But that's not who I am. Not anymore. Granted, I still get to perform and record with a musician who holds my utmost respect. We get gigs in theaters where someone else lugs my gear, or better yet, I have a beautiful grand piano to use. We get to play with the North Carolina Symphony. We are home before 3:00 AM and don't smell like stale cigarette smoke. Oh, and we get paid well. There is that very distinctive difference.

Of course the whole rock star thing is tongue in cheek, but the realization that even though I love my new skin, I'm not entirely comfortable in it? That's pretty on the mark, and I guess I relate a little more than I originally thought.

Photo by Gail Anne Photography.

Marty blogs about mothering and music at Don't Take the Repeats and sings only phrases on Twitter.

You mean I'm supposed to chew food?

I don't know how many times I've spent a morning dreaming of a day when Starbucks will add a train table if not an entire play area to their coffee shops. I mean, it could just be open for the mid-morning and late afternoon hours when caffeine-addicted moms need a place to get a hit while still entertaining and socializing their kids. Wouldn't it be great?

I know, I know, McDonald's now has McCafe's and Barnes & Noble even has Starbucks and train tables, but I hate McDonald's and Barnes & Nobles has shelves and shelves of books just taunting my toddler to destroy. I'm talking a gated play area where a coffee bar is within sight distance. Wouldn't it be loverly?

What I don't understand is why more places don't follow the lead of one of my favorite local restaurants, Blue Corn Cafe. This place has a separate rooms for patrons with kids and patrons without. It's so nice to not have to worry about your toddler throwing a tantrum because he wants his own bowl of guacamole to dip in because there's another one loudly demanding his quesadilla at the next table.

As if separate but equal dining spaces weren't enough, the with-kids dining room has a play area stocked with toys, a chalkboard covered wall, a play mat, and a full library of VHS kids tapes. While you are getting sat down and offered a menu, your preschooler is digging out a fire truck from the toy basket. I can't even remember another restaurant where I've been able to actually read the menu rather than just randomly selecting an entree.

Now I understand the importance of teaching your child to sit politely at the table, but there are just some nights I would like to sit and sip a really yummy Mojito without slurping it down between reiterations of "Sit down. Be patient." We work on manners at home and at other restaurants, but at Blue Corn, I prefer to sit back, munch on tasty fried plantain chips, and watch as my son lies on someone else's floor rolling cars back and forth.

If you're like me and could sometimes use the "dining out" option that really is a bit of a break, or if you just like really good Latin-American food, then Blue Corn Cafe on Durham's Ninth Street is the place for you.

Who knows? We might just see you there.

Crossposted at Abby's personal blog My Sweet Babboo where she doesn't just write about food. Although come to think of it, she does write about food a lot there too.

pick yourself up, dust yourself off

It�s been one of those days with my future DRAMA MAJOR that leads me to question not only my sanity, but whether or not I should have ever become a mother.

And it�s barely noon.

Any of you have mental illness in your extended family medical history? I do. Some very bad seeds? Me, too. Unhealthy patterns in parenting? How about anger management issues, depression, and passive-aggressiveness?

That�s just my adoptive family. My biological family was one big Korean soap opera. And it�s harder to detach myself from the crazy in their family, since I am actually genetically related to them. At times, when I feel particularly shitty as a mother, I imagine that all the bad parenting qualities in both my families have coalesced into one perfect storm of nature and nurture and settled in me, with my daughter as the unsuspecting victim.

I remember when I first learned the truth about my birth family � specifically, about the abuse and misery my birthmother had inflicted on my sisters, and the fact that she was a truly disturbed woman who hadn�t wanted me because I was �another girl.� Also, I was born so prematurely, the doctors were sure I�d never lead a �normal life.� As it turns out, I was the luckiest of my birthparents� daughters, because I was the one they gave up.

The night I learned all of this, I couldn�t sleep. Of course, it might have had something to do with being eight a half months pregnant with Abigail at the time. I just lay there in bed, hour after hour, asking myself, �Am I going to be like them? Am I going to be a bad parent?�

I think that most people have the potential to be good, even great parents. The truth I had never really confronted � until that night, facing down the skeletons in my family closet for the first time � was that most people also have the potential to be extremely bad parents. I decided I had probably not inherited some �bad parenting gene� that would doom me and my children to a life of unhappiness. But I would still have to be aware of my limitations, my weaknesses, and yes, my sins. I would have to be humble.

Sometimes, when everything is going well with Abigail and we�re clipping along for weeks on end with no major disasters or meltdowns, I forget to feel thankful for the relative peace. I may even get a little cocky, and start to think that I have something to do with how smoothly things are running. But days like today keep me humble and well-acquainted with my own faults, lack of patience topping the list.

I hate feeling so aware of my own powerlessness, when I can do nothing to make my daughter feel any better; when I put her down early for a nap and then punch a pillow in sheer frustration; when I sit numbly on the couch with a cup of tea in my hands and seriously � seriously � question whether someone like me (lazy! impatient! selfish! only child! needs alone time! has latent CRAZY GENES!) should have ever had a child in the first place. Too late to spare Abigail, but maybe she doesn�t need a sibling. Maybe, I think to myself, maybe there�s somewhere I could get a tubal over my lunch break.

Here�s where I should stop feeling sorry for myself and say something uplifting, something positive about motherhood. If I wanted to, I could say what a lot of parents say � that I�m aware of my faults, but that having a child has given me the perfect opportunity to work hard to correct those faults for the sake of another person. And that�s true, except you don�t have a child as a means to self-improvement. Abby deserves a good mom now, not a good mom-in-training.

If I were grading myself as a mother today, it would be pretty grim. Not even a gentleman�s C. But she�s napping, praise God and all the saints, and I have another few minutes to repair my tattered nerves. A deep breath, a sip of tea, and some lunch are in order.

Soon she�ll wake up, and I will still be here. I�m leaning towards still being here, anyway. And then we�ll start all over again.

Nikki has officially made it to bedtime and is about to start drinking heavily. This entry was written earlier today and cross-posted at A Small Song.

Le Sigh

I am convinced that the Triangle region of North Carolina is home to some of the worst drivers in the country. I mean, I'm totally cool with people who drive the speed limit, but people who drive 10 under on a road where most people drive 10 over? That's just annoying. Or worse yet, people who come to a stop, A STOP, at an on-ramp to wait  for a large enough clearing in freeway traffic to merge. Could they have not thought ahead and started looking at the traffic patterns before they got to the very end of the merge lane?

I guess my driving frustrations are starting to show. Today while riding in the car, once again frustrated at my fellow drivers, I heard Linus let out a big sigh. Unsure if I heard right, I questioned him, "What?" He again gave a very dramatic sigh. Thinking back, I realized that he was mimicking what I had just done when some irresponsible driver cut over 3 lanes of traffic while driving 20 under to catch an exit.

Lucky for me, a sigh was all I had for that driver. It used to be worse. I mean, my mom did teach me the superior communication ability of my middle finger in those situations.

Crossposted at My Sweet Babboo. When she's not journeying from playgroup to Target to Local Yogurt, Abby can be griping about it on Twitter or her personal blog, My Sweet Babboo.

Maybe She's Just Having A Bad Day

My typical method for coping with being home with children
all summer is to simply not be home. 
Don�t get me wrong, I am a homebody at heart but I find that keeping us
all out of the house as much as possible is best for everyone�s mood.  Out in the world, either at the museum,
pool or the river, I find that I am more present with my kids.  I can interact with them without being
distracted by other things that I think I should be doing.  No work, no household chores, no
Facebook or blogs � just my children and me.

It sounds so perfectly serene, doesn�t it?  Except lately, each outing seems to end
with my turning into that mom that is pitied, judged or held up as an
example.  Take for instance, our
last trip to the Museum of Life and Science.  Dean was bitten by what he described as a �small black
spider� and his hand instantly began to swell.  He was in pain and we were the furthest point from the car
that we could be so I rounded up my crew and we began to walk back to a place
where we could get ice.  Not
knowing if he had a Black Widow bite or something worse, I was worried and
getting frustrated with Logan who was not cooperating.  Dean walked ahead and then was quickly
out of my sight.  When we reached
the spot I had assumed he would go, there was no Dean.  We had to go find him.  Jess, however, had the idea that we
would stop and eat at the caf�nd would not be consoled.  I was trying to stay calm but patient I
was not.  We were all hot, hungry
and tired.  I had to keep walking
with a six year old having a tantrum and a two year old having a sit-in on the
middle of the sidewalk. 

So I was shouting because I had one child not moving and too
big and wet from water play to be carried, one child sobbing and walking away
from me in his anger, and my oldest nowhere to be seen.  And people were looking.  I had one mom ask Logan where his mommy
was and a staff person ask me if the crying boy belonged to me.  When Dean caught up with me, I yelled,
�Where were you?!�   I think
part of me wanted to be loud about it because I wanted everyone to know that I
was scared - that I had good reason to be crabby with my kids.  So, yeah, I�m that mom.

Last week while Dean was at camp, I needed just a few things
from the grocery store.  I took the
youngest two into Whole Foods since we were in that neighborhood.  We started off so well.  Jess wanted to push the carriage and
was navigating the tiny aisles full of obstacles carefully.  Logan chose some peaches that he
literally chucked into the cart.  I
winced at that bruising fruit and suggested we put the peaches in a bag since
throwing them hurts them and makes them yucky.  Logan chose a few more and carefully placed them in the
bag.  We moved on.  By the time we found the milk, I was
less patient and just wanted our errand to be finished.  The quick stop was turning into a long,
drawn-out affair and I was no longer interested in quietly using my �nice
words.�  As I was trying to choose
the coffee, firmly hold Logan in place in the carriage so he wouldn�t jump
(again) and field Jess� relentless stream of questions, I became increasingly
snappish.  It was time to leave
whether or not we had everything we needed.  In the checkout lane, a cashier suggested that I take the
kids shopping at Super Wal-Mart instead. 
�Excuse me?� I said. 
Perhaps I didn�t hear him correctly.  He repeated himself adding, �If that is how they are going
to behave�� I paid for my items and left the store � but not before
accidentally ramming the cart into Logan�s face.  I do so like to make an exit scene.  Yeah, I�m that mom.

I�m the mom who goes somewhere with her kids and then when
they leave, everyone else knows her children�s names.  I�m the mom who is constantly trying to choose between
disciplining a child and letting him run amok.  I�m the mom who has to physically pull her child out of the
pool because he doesn�t want to leave. 
I�m the mom you hear hissing through clenched teeth, �You have until I
count to three�� Luckily, no one has questioned what happens on three.  We�ve never had to find out.  I�m the mom who handles her children�s
behaviors, no matter what scene ensues.

I�m the mom who has many tools in her toolbox to manage her
children.  I�m the mom who
sometimes runs out of tools.  I�m
the mom who sometimes gets exhausted using the rights words all the time and
making a game out of basic tasks. 
I�m the mom who sometimes just needs her kids to get into the damn car
seat already for the luvaGod.

I�m the mom who is sleep deprived and looks it.  And I�m the mom who might need her anti-depressant
dose increased and her caffeine dose decreased.  I�m the mom who needs your compassion and
understanding.  I might welcome a
sympathetic smile rather than your judgmental and snide remarks.  I�m that mom and I�m every other mom.

I�m the mom who calls the store manager when she gets home
to complain about the cashier�s rude comments and threatens a boycott on behalf
of all moms.  (You with me?)  I�m the mom who can say her children
are difficult but will take offense if someone else says it because I am their
mom.  I live with them.  I am the mom raising them.  And I�m the mom who loves them.  I am well aware of their faults � and I
love them anyway.

I�m not the mom that I thought I�d be.  Sometimes I have it all together and
lots of times, I just don�t.  But
my kids aren�t the kids I thought they would be either. I�m trying.  And I know they are too.  And 99% of the time, I wouldn�t change
a thing.  But you�ll understand if
you don�t see me shopping at Whole Foods for a while, won�t you?

This is a Triangle Mamas original post posted by Susie.  Susie occasionally blogs about the joys and mishaps of being a mom to three boys at At Home With Me when she is not busy being humiliated by pretentious store clerks.

Rules of Engagement

As a Rule...

I don't get my haircut at places where all the stylists are wearing Crocs.

I don't let anyone who looks like she's wearing make up give me a makeover at the Bobbi Brown counter.

I never dated a guy whose butt was smaller than mine.

I eat dessert every night (after the boys go to bed!).

I don't wear holiday themed sweaters, jewelry, or shoes.

I refuse to carry a diaper bag that looks like one.

I stick to stylish ensembles that work on playdates with the boys' friends or mine.

I make my kids eat food at the table. Water or milk in a lidded cup is the exception.

I consider myself a MILF...if I don't, no one else will.

I drink red or white depending on my mood or what's available, not based on what the wine snoots say.

I
stay far, far away from the Hudson jean wearing, blinged out cell phone
chatting, Burberry diaper bag toting, Prada loafer clad moms at the
park. Ditto for their uber-smocked children who are still wearing Keds
bumpers at age 5.

I read books. Real books. Like the kind without pictures, cardboard pages, or cellophane protective covers.

I serve two servings from the fruit and vegetable food group at dinner every night.

I make sure our family eats dinner together every single day. At the table. With no TV. No toys. No phone. No Crackberry.

I never vote Republican. EVER.

I embrace progressives, but really wish the earthy types would shave their legs and pits and bathe once in a while.

I take unposed photos of my children to document their myriad expressions of pure joy, utter defeat, and brotherly love.

I don't drive a minivan. No MILF does.

I buy myself fresh flowers for no reason. If I don't, only my dad will...twice a year anyway.

I surround myself with people who are smarter, funnier, handier, and kinder than I am.

I don't camp.

I don't like to touch nature. I just like to admire it from a porch with a Mojito in hand.

I don't stay in hotels that don't have internal hallways.

I don't let my boys go to school, or anywhere for that matter, in dirty clothes.

I carry Purell with me everywhere and use it incessantly.

I stash Chapstick in every purse, tote bag, glove compartment, drawer, and pocket I have.

I take Bird and Deal on an adventure of some kind or another every day.

I don't tolerate stupidity. Dumb people ruin everything.

I don't download music unless my friend Tony has endorsed it. Here's where you'll find him: http://www.croutonboy.typepad.com/

I
play regular music in the car. I would crash if I had to endure some
singalong children's chorus singing Barney faves. I am getting ill just
thinking about it. There's no reason the kids can't enjoy Jimmy Buffett
(minus "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" of course), the B-52s, and
the Beatles.

I don't kiss Mac Daddy if he isn't clean shaven. If I do, I break into massive hives. Trust me on this. Odd but true.

I don't buy shoes or jeans that hurt. Looks above comfort is a crappy way to live.

I
slather on sunscreen. On myself. On my kids. Mac Daddy is more
resistant to it than a 2-year old, and he's the one who's so white he's
clear.

I leave painfully long, blabbering voicemail messages because the machine is a captive audience.

I don't take sleeping aids, though I haven't slept a straight seven hours in about 18 months now.

I have hardwood floors in my house.

I'm
going to see my friends Shan and Chris at least once a year. Our boys
became fast friends on our last visit to Minneapolis so I can't deny
them that. Plus, Chris and Deal share a birthday, and Mac Daddy and
Shan share a birthday. Our fates and friendship are inextricably
intertwined.

Cross posted at Dirt & Noise.

Pharmacy Field Trips

(Four infected ears + four infected eyes) / two children = three pediatrician visits x one tired mommy.

Given that we've been making lots of trips to the pharmacy lately, I'm grateful that the people at the Hayes-Barton Pharmacy are so sweet and lovely. They help my children feel better by getting the medicine ready quickly, and they help me feel better by making it easy to patronize a local business. Plus Pippi likes the personal attention and Junius likes sitting near the counter to munch a bag of chips while we wait -- a small treat that goes a long way.

My father-in-law was a retail pharmacist for more than 40 years, and he sets a high standard for me in how I expect to be treated at the pharmacy. These days it's easy to drive through whatever Walgreens/Rite-Aid/CVS/Kerr drug store is on the nearest corner and never actually see your pharmacist.

But at Hayes-Barton Pharmacy, it's worth the walk inside to meet the pharmacists and assistants, to wander the small aisles and have someone know us by name. I figure they are as important to my children's health as their pediatricians -- and goodness knows we spend plenty of time in that office, too.

When she's not busy administering amoxicillin and augmentin, Cyndi can be found writing at Junius & Pippi Take the Cake.

Linger on the Sidewalk

Last Friday, I had coffee with a lady who became a friend through motherhood. You know, someone who is an acquaintance becomes a first time mom, and all of the sudden you have loads more in common. Motherhood, the great equalizer.

We met at The Morning Times in downtown Raleigh. I circled around Moore Square (twice) trying to find some street parking. There was some, but I was on the opposite side of the street from it. Both times. Parking in downtown Raleigh isn't impossible, but it also isn't easy.

After giving in and entering the parking deck off Wilmington Street, I found a spot on the seventh level and loaded Little Bird up in the Babyhawk. I called out for the woman in the elevator to please hold it, and jogged over to jump in with her. She was on her way to the courthouse, but didn't know where it was. I showed her how level three was actually street level and walked her down to where she could see how to get to Fayetteville Street Mall.

I am at home downtown. Having worked next door to the courthouse for six years, I know my way around well, and actually miss being there. I miss lunch at The Mecca, takeout from The Square Rabbit. I miss the man who lived at Sir Walter Raleigh and would walk his tiny terrier up and down the mall. I miss sitting outside on a day like today to have lunch in the sunshine and watch the people go by.

It's different now, and yet totally the same. The RBC tower is huge and intimidating, but just a block down is Stitch where you can hand pick a Holly Aiken bag of your very own. She left the lettering on the windows that says "Ladies Shop" from when it used to be a clothing boutique full of your Sunday best with hats included. A true Deep South downtown, the juxtoposition of the local art on one square and the huge commerce on the next square is still there.

It is what makes me feel at home.

As I weaved my way through the streets to the coffeeshop, with my baby strapped to me, it was all so close to me. I could have just as easily have been wearing a suit and heels as I could be wearing that toddler. It wasn't that long ago, and yet it was another lifetime. Or more honestly, it was another phase.

Downtown for me right now is a place to eat, to play, to shop, and to dream. A stay at home mom's point of view of the big city that I still love, even if I don't work there anymore.

An original Triangle Mamas post. Marty can also be found at Don't Take the Repeats, and for those of you with shorter attention spans, follow her on Twitter.

Say Cheese

Let me tell you about the first time we took our daughter in to have portraits taken.  Perhaps the story will sound familiar to you.  I called JC Penney and made the appointment, and on the day of the session we bathed Abigail, picked out two of her cutest outfits, and packed her off to the mall across town for her first professional portraits.  Of course I figured it would be a bit challenging, trying to take a picture of a tiny squirmy six-week-old baby, but after all, we only needed one good shot.  A single picture for posterity.  How hard could it be, I asked my husband.  

Oh, how naive I was.

Abigail had her own ideas about how the session should go. Well, to be exact, what she had were two poopy diapers in quick succession, followed by a full-scale freakout thanks to the pushy photographer, the bright lights, and the camera that was approximately the size of a compact car.  The photographer kept trying to "position" her, and really, what strong-willed baby likes being handled?  Abby made her displeasure known, of course.  There was no consoling her, and the pictures were all terrible, generic and impersonal, utterly lacking in spark or creativity.  So much for my grand portrait scheme.

One day not long after that, I came across a flyer for Nan Friedman with PS Studio.  I didn't know if Abigail would do better with another photographer, outside the dark, overheated, slightly claustrophobic JC Penney studio setting, but I figured it was worth a shot.  

Nan, who has been photographing children for over fifteen years, was great with Abby, warm and friendly and patient.  She just let her be herself, and as a result, the pictures actually looked like our three-month-old daughter, not some vague expressionless cyborg baby.  After just half an hour or so, we ended up with literally dozens of wonderful shots to choose from, Abby's personality shining through in every picture.  

We've been back to see Nan for Abby's six-month, nine-month, and one-year portraits, and have been absolutely thrilled every time.  As your typical photo-happy mom, it's so nice to know that when I make an appointment with Nan, dress Abigail up, and drive all the way there for the appointment, it's pretty much a sure thing.  I can't recommend her highly enough - and it's safe to say that we will never go back to JC Penney again.  

Nan's prices are very reasonable, and she works out of a brand-new, beautiful studio in Chapel Hill (on Stancell Drive, parallel to Highway 54 - also very convenient for Durham dwellers).  Next time portrait time rolls around, give her a call and tell her Abigail sent you.

P.S.  Expecting mamas, her maternity portraits are stunning, too!

Nikki is a crappy photographer and slightly better writer who also blogs at A Small Song.

one year.

Written on the evening of Feb. 22, 2009.

Dear Abigail,

Tomorrow is your first birthday. 

Your birthday may be Feb. 23, but it's the entirety of the 22nd I spent in labor. This is the day and night we spent trying to bring you into the world, before you were finally born, an hour and four minutes into the new day. 

A year ago yesterday, I was 38 weeks pregnant, still two weeks from my due date but technically full term. Our new glider rocker had just been delivered, and your dad announced, �Okay, NOW the baby can come.� He brought home Chinese food for dinner that night. The little scrap of paper in my fortune cookie promised All your hard work is about to pay off. When I read those words, of course I had to laugh and joke, �I guess that means I�m going into labor soon.� 

Around one in the morning, I woke with my first tiny labor pain.

Exactly a day later, a few minutes after one on the morning of February 23 - I held you for the first time. 

Your birth was hard on both of us. But while you slept peacefully, I just couldn�t. All I wanted to do was look at you, so tiny and real and finally in my arms, in your cute little hat with the pink ribbon.

You are the first real, true blood relation I have ever had. I remember thinking how strange that was when I was pregnant with you - my whole entire biological family was self-contained within my own body. You kept me company in a way no one else ever had before, and because of you, I knew that I would never be alone again. I felt as if a torn thread that had been left hanging inside of me was finally, finally picked up and tied to something else, the first stitch in a new tapestry.

Just as I expected, you changed my heart forever; you moved in, you knocked down walls, added extra rooms, made yourself so at home I don�t remember the place without you. I may be the one raising you, but you have raised me up every single day of your life. Sometimes it�s hard for me to recall exactly how I felt the first time I held you - those moments are often hazy, impossible to recapture. But I�m flooded with feelings of wonder and joy every time you laugh, and so my days are filled with hints and small reminders of that first meeting, the first moment we shared a year ago tonight.

Looking at you now, it�s almost impossible to connect you with the tiny being who did jumping jacks on my bladder, who was born so small and helpless, who relied on us for everything in those exhausting early days. Now, a year later, you can walk, and sign, and chatter, and feed yourself, and dance, and say a few words, and climb the stairs, and chase the kitty, and sometimes catch her. You may not be my tiny baby anymore, but my love for you feels new every day. Your smile is right there waiting, all the time, and every time I see it, it still tugs at my heartstrings, makes me smile back. 

For years I tried to picture myself as a mother, to imagine what it would be like, in a laughable attempt to prepare myself, I suppose. But nothing I ever envisioned came close to the strange, difficult, beautiful adventure of this first year with you. You have taught me so much. You taught me how to be a mother, your mother, and I will always be grateful to you for that. 

I love you so much. I thank God for you every day, and I wish for you a blessed and happy life, a life as beautiful as you are. 

love always,
Mama

Nikki, who is working on believing that she actually has a toddler now, also gets her sap on at A Small Song.

Breastfeeding Cafe

Although something about the name makes me giggle, there's a cool new thing going on in Wake County. La Leche League will be hosting a breastfeeding cafe every Friday at the Itsy Bitsy Baby Spa in Cary. Here are the details:

"Announcing the brand new LLL Breastfeeding Caf�Drop in any Friday at

lunch to have all your breastfeeding questions answered at no cost by

La Leche League breastfeeding counselors. All women are welcome, with

or without your babies and pregnant women are especially encouraged to

attend. Please feel free to bring your lunch.



What: an informal drop-in meeting where breastfeeding questions can be

answered and women can meet other breastfeeding moms. Feel free to

bring your lunch, or purchase something at Panera Bread next door.



When: every Friday 12:00 noon to 1:30 p.m.



Where: Itsy Bitsy Baby Spa, 1055 Darrington Dr., Cary (at the

intersection of James Jackson and Cary Parkway, next to Panera Bread)



Who: Pregnant women, breastfeeding women, any women with breastfeeding

questions, and babies.



Cost: Free!"

My experience with La Leche League has been mostly positive once I found the Raleigh Downtown group. The first group I attended, I went for five months, missed a meeting and then returned to be asked if I had ever been there before. Of course that was better than when I went last week for what would have been my 10th or 11th meeting - I've lost count - and no one was there. They dissolved the group, but apparently I didn't make the cut to be notified. Nice.

Still though, I think the informal setting of lunch and the possibility of one on one help is a great idea. It was too overwhelming for me to ask questions and get help in the group setting the first time I attended.

There is also a new toddler group in Wake County. If you are a breastfeeding mama of a toddler who is one year old or older, you are welcome to join a cool group of moms who promise not to ask, "So how long are you going to do that?" The group meets every fourth Monday at 10:30 AM at the Unitarian Church on Wade Avenue in Raleigh.

All meeting details can be found on the La Leche League website.

Motherhood Crazies

This wasn't at all what I was going to write about today, but I really wanted to share something, or I should say someone, I stumbled upon today while listening to NPR.

On Wednesday's broadcast of The State of Things on our local affiliate WUNC, the discussion was about Postpartum Depression (PPD) and it's effects on both mother and child's health as well as how it is treated and responded to in our current society. According to the show at least 15% of new mothers experience PPD, but most experts believe that number is low as many mothers simply do not seek help.

It was a very interesting discussion and wonderful to learn that some of the greatest advances in helping PPD moms are being made right here in the Triangle. (Click here to listen.)

However, the most exciting thing to me was one of the panelists they had participating. Faulkner Fox is a local author and mother who has written a book about her experiences with new motherhood called, Dispatches from a Not-So-Perfect Life: or How I Learned to Love the House, the Man, the Child. I was very intrigued simply by the title but also her contributions to the discussion. She was speaking about the pressures to be the 'perfect' mother that society places on mothers. To say I was doing my best bobble-head impression would be underestimating my reaction. I found myself identifying with so much of what she was saying.



After listening to the discussion on my drive home from playgroup, I quickly logged on to the library site to see if her book was available. I intend to check it out as soon as possible and devour as time allows. Want to join me?



In the meantime, I also found myself nodding in agreement while reading an article she has written about mommies judging other mommies and the harmful effects of this kind of behavior. In all honesty, I've found the constant judgments from other parents to be one of the greatest challenges of being a new parent. And, I'm guilty of it myself. I've found my network of mommy bloggers to be one of mostly support but occasionally there are lurkers out there waiting to spew their ugliness (see anonymous commenter on this post of Steph's or Razzle on Kristen's fabulous post).


For my part, I try to be honest in my writing about the challenges, emotional ups and downs, and stresses of motherhood. I try not to hide it. I prefer not to just write about the happiness that my son and family bring me but also my struggles. I want other mothers to know that being a mother is not easy... not for me anyway.



So, I guess what I want to know from you is how can we change it? How do we stop with the ridiculous judgments and move forward to form a community of mommies? How will you yourself make an effort to change?


Crossposted at My Sweet Babboo. An avid listener of WUNC, Abby usually hears less than half of the each article because her toddler is loudly demanding more food. Read more about her life with Linus at My Sweet Babboo.

Rookie Parenting

Little Bird, my Christopher, is almost one. At the end of this month, we will stop counting months and start counting years. It has gone by quickly.

He has learned so much over the past year. When I think back on that helpless lump baby that had terrible gas and a difficult time nursing, I am in awe of how he will now just cruise on over and latch himself on without a care in the world. I am in awe of his motor skills and his communication skills. I am in awe of his reasoning ability. He has learned so much.

Me, on the other hand? I still feel like a complete novice.

My friend Boo is pregnant, due in February. I find myself wanting to preface anything I tell her with, "This is what worked for us sometimes," or "You probably want to get some other opinions on this," or "Watch out because my child is lucky I haven't completely ruined him by now."

Little Bird is confident. He stands up and looks around for the very next challenge to tackle. He doesn't look back, and when he falls, he gets right back up again.

I'm thinking he gets that from his dad, because it seems as though I'm never going to quit feeling like a rookie.

An original Triangle Mamas post. Marty also shares her ignorance on the matter at Don't Take the Repeats and Deep South Moms.

Social Anxiety

It�s coming. The one thing I have absolutely been dreading about being a parent: playdates.

I�m not talking playgroup.  I�ve been part of a fantastic playgroup since Linus was 6 weeks old, a group of fabulous mommas that I met through post-natal exercise classes at the Teer House.  It�s not playdates with them that I�m dreading. No, it�s playdates with others, and I know the time is coming because I was solicited at the park today.

If you don�t know me in person, you won�t know that I kind of suffer from social anxiety. I will often make myself ill with worry before a party and my husband will have to literally force me out of the house (something not easy for a wallflower like him).  I�m great at social networking as long as it is online. Real life? Not so much.

That�s why when a really friendly mommy at the park started chatting me up today, my heart started racing, my inner voice practically begging Linus to run off so I could chase him.  I managed to stay relatively calm (at least I hope so) as we covered ages, poop habits, breastfeeding, and other general niceties. Heck, I was even the first one to introduce myself. (Score one for me.) But when the topic of eventual playdates was broached, I found myself bumbling for words, not quite sure of what was coming out of my mouth. It just seemed too soon. We had only just met and now we�re talking playdates?!?

I know that eventually I am going to have to start arranging get togethers for Linus. I can�t keep him locked inside the house with his hermit-like parents. I mean, this is the kid that waves at everybody. I�m just not sure I�m quite ready for it.  Ask me again when he�s 15.  Maybe then I�ll be ready.

An original Triangle Mamas post.  When not actively avoiding people, Abby can be found frequenting the parks of Durham as well as blogging at My Sweet Babboo.

Why Moms Wear Sweatpants

Crossposted at My Sweet Babboo.  Abby can be found sweatpants and all blogging at My Sweet Babboo.  That is, unless she's out buying new sweats at Old Navy.

Stay tuned for Triangle Mamas' first giveaway this week!

What Do You Want to Change Next?

Christopher and I have been sick. Since early last week, we have been battling stomach viruses and flu viruses. Of course, if I hadn't taken him into the doctor for the stomach virus, we would likely not be battling a flu virus, but that's another story.

Saturday morning, Kevin, Christopher and I stopped by Target on the way home from the pediatrician. We bought some generic Motrin for babies. Little one had a fever that wasn't budging, and we fully intended on medicating our baby according to the doctor's suggestion. I bought the generic. I usually do.

Later that day, when I checked into Twitter, there was a new #thing. Not that I really understand the whole # in front of words, but I think it has to do with groups. Anyhow, the new one was #motrinmoms.

If this story is new to you, I suggest you go to Advertising Age and read this synopsis. They sum it all up nicely with the appropriate links. That will give you the basics.

There are also the opinions of bloggers who think people have over reacted, and of course the blogger who just has a great sense of humor about it. I'm finding the difference of opinions fascinating.

And because I'm sure you were wondering, the ad annoyed me. I found it completely miss the mark. I didn't feel the need to rant over it, but then again, I'm already not a fan of Motrin's parent company.

My point, however, is that did you know they have removed the ad? Did you know that they apologized?

Did you know that someone is listening to mothers online? I mean someone beside the crazy stalkers?

Our voices have always mattered. We are telling the stories of our lives, our families, our children, and everything else we hold dear. Our voices are important and deserve to be heard. There just seems to be more and more proof that the world is starting to listen.

I think this year has been a year of discovering how we can be part of the change in the world.

What do we want to change next?

In a hurry to grow up?

I�ve said before that I don�t think of Abigail as a �difficult� or �high need� baby. First of all, it is absolutely not helpful for me to think of her that way; but secondly, it�s also not exactly accurate. She is a sweet, fun girl who sleeps well and eats great and has always been very alert and chubby and healthy and fit. It�s just that, well, sometimes things upset her. And she is extremely particular.

From the very early weeks with her, I noticed how strong her preferences seemed to be - she liked to be held but was rarely an awake-cuddler; very early on she made it clear that she preferred to sleep by herself, in her own bassinet or crib. Even though her strong preference for one-on-one time with me meant that we essentially did attachment parenting her first few months of life, it was attachment parenting without my hands free, because she never wanted to be in the sling unless she was fast asleep. Awake, she wanted to be able to push away to arm�s length and stare up at me, or whip her body around and gaze outward; she never stayed in one position, looking at one thing, for very long.

Yesterday our friend Millie said that Abby seems to be "a baby who doesn�t want to be a baby." Much as it pains me to admit it, I think she�s right. Abigail does seem to be in some unholy hurry to grow up - at least, there does not seem to be much she thinks she cannot do for herself. Earlier today I had been holding her up at my shoulder level so she could look at herself in the mirror, and when I put her on the floor again with her toys she started to cry and pushed herself up as far as she could, staring up at the high mirror that she couldn�t see into anymore. I tried to distract her with toys, books, a song, but she just kept making �ah, ah� sounds and reaching for the mirror. She spent several minutes pushing herself up, losing her strength, and pushing up again, gazing at the mirror several feet above her, even though it was a hopeless cause and she�d never be able to reach it.

Some of my friends who have multiple children say their oldest daughters are a lot like Abigail. Maybe that does have something to do with it; I suspect it�s just the way some kids are. My friends with Abby-like kids empathize with me about having a baby who is not such a cuddler anymore, and predict that she may not ever be clingy physically, but will probably always love and crave one-on-one time with me - to read, sing, and especially talk. I remember that�s what I always wanted from my mother, right up until I left for college - to ask her questions and tell her what I was thinking and just know that she was listening and she cared. It was how I felt close to both my parents.

But it�s too soon, of course, to know whether Abby will end up being more of a snuggler once she�s gotten over the thrill of being mobile and, now, upright. It is strange to me that she can seem so independent at times, and yet never want me to leave the room and her sight. She still likes to know that I am close by; she looks up often to make sure I am there, and watching, especially when she is about to do something impressive.

I am constantly amazed by her these days, particularly when I think that just a few months ago she was just learning to sit up without wobbling. Now she crawls and pulls up and cruises and kneels and sits by herself and (sometimes) catches herself before she falls. Every day there is something new to see. I am so proud of her.

I do wish she would stop unfastening her diaper just because she can, however.

This post originally appeared at Nikki's personal blog, A Small Song, where she chronicles her life as mama to a picky little princess.

Pinpricks and Profanity

Two weeks ago, I made the kids commit to their Halloween costume plans and then went shopping. Apparently, however, two weeks before Halloween is a better time to buy Christmas decorations than anything orange and black. The aisles were bare or picked over with the only costumes remaining being ones made for dogs. My sons had two choices: dress like a slutty pirate girl or like a Golden Retriever dressed as a slutty pirate girl. I should have known back in August when I couldn�t find the back-to-school supplies because they had been cleared out to make room for the Halloween stuff. Next year, I�ll know better. This year, I needed a plan B.

Dean was easy. He was wooed by the chance to accrue accessories of the macabre � a Styrofoam skull and a plastic dagger. Logan, being two, doesn�t really care. A few days later, I stumbled upon a penguin costume in the correct size and on sale for under $10. Done. Jess is adamant that he will be a green dragon. A fire-breathing dragon, by the way. I thought that a dragon would be simple to create and that I was getting off cheap and easy. I would simply buy a green hoodie and some felt � done. Except about a dozen stores later, I still could not find a green hoodie, green felt, or a ready-made dragon costume (not made for a dog). And I did consider the dog costume wondering how dog poundage related to kid size but I felt $30 was a little steep for something made for a dog. So back to the fabric store I went and over $40 worth of materials later, I am sitting at my long-lost sewing machine making the whole damn thing.

Five years ago when I left my paying job for the adventures of staying home with the kids, I initially put a lot of pressure on myself to be the perfect Alpha-mom. My sister was my roll-model and she is a firm believer in the essence of mommy-hood being in the making versus the buying of things - including the sewing of the Halloween costumes. So in my first stint home full-time, I made my sons� costumes. It was an easy choice to make since an Obi-Wan Kanobi costume in size 4T was impossible to find at the time. However, I firmly believe that if you can find something ready-made that is just as good as what you can make, it is more efficient and probably less expensive to just go ahead and buy. Because while it is nice to be able to say, �I made it myself,� it can be a little stressful. We often joked that if we ever hosted our own sewing show, we�d call it �Pinpricks and Profanity.� Sometimes the frustration of trying to make the sewing machine cooperate is just not worth the effort.

So while I don�t think sewing costumes is a �Mommy Must-Do� activity, I admit that I don�t have a problem with actually doing it. Except for the time wasted searching for the easy shortcut, I am quite happy to make a costume for my child. In fact, I have been known to make costumes for other people�s children and if I had just started the �from scratch� approach several weeks ago, we wouldn�t have been in crunch time this week. And my husband thinks I am crazy for making life harder for myself when a Halloween costume should not be a life�s priority right now. He wants to know why I didn�t just tell my son to choose some other costume so we can be done. Well, because two weeks ago, this did seem like the cheaper easier choice.

But here is where I pull the selfish card � yesterday as I gazed upon my kitchen table made-over into a sewing studio, I sighed with contentment. I realized that I like a project. Rather than feeling overwhelmed, I was eager to begin. Halloween is the one time a year that I can haul out the sewing machine and create something from start to finish, without feeling like it�s just my own little hobby. Like making cookies rather than buying the perfectly fine bakery brand, the satisfaction of having made it myself has been worth the trouble. And the mommy and son moments in making the costume together have been simply priceless.

"Pinpricks and Profanity" is cross-posted on Susie's personal blog At Home With Me where she chronicles her sewing escapades and other adventrues of being a mom to three boys.

New mama on board

When people ask me where I�m from, I usually tell them that my husband Dan and I moved here from D.C. about three years ago.  Before that, we lived in Baltimore, where we went to college, met, and married.  But I grew up in Oregon, in a town nestled between three mountain ranges, Pacific saltwater in my veins.  It�s been almost ten years since I left the northwest, and a part of me will always think of it as home.

As for the Triangle - let�s just say we�re a work in progress.

Before our move to Durham, we were living in a sprawling apartment complex in one of the suburbs of D.C.  Dan had an hour-long commute to work; mine - on transportation ranging from the commuter rail to the subway, from metro bus to foot - was an hour and a half.  Days were long and stressful; we felt as though we never had time to relax or pursue other interests.  We spent many sleepless nights trying to ignore the shouts and yells coming from the Motel 6 parking lot behind our building.  I guess by comparison, the life of a graduate student and spouse in Durham, North Carolina sounded kind of nice.  Peaceful (if impoverished).  So when Dan was accepted to a PhD program at Duke, and the nonprofit organization for which I worked told me I could keep my job and telecommute from North Carolina, I said, Okay, sure, let�s go.

But alas, Durham and I never enjoyed a blissful honeymoon period.  I hesitate to point fingers, but it was really all my husband�s fault for insisting that we keep our second vehicle, a sketchy old Ford Tempo given to me by a friend for a dollar in 2003 (that�s about $500 now, for those of you who used to have investments).  I thought the Tempo probably wasn�t up for the drive to North Carolina in the high heat of summer, so we rented a trailer to tow it behind our Budget moving truck.  The trailer blew a tire on the Beltway, barely an hour into our journey, and we waited for five hours in hundred-degree heat for someone to come fix the tire, only to find that he�d brought the wrong size tire.  So much pain and suffering, for a car I hadn�t even wanted to keep.  As it was, we did finally manage to get all our vehicles and possessions to North Carolina, but the trailer never made it, Budget refused to refund us any money, and the moving caravan took an astonishing twelve hours from start to finish. 

We pulled into Durham sometime after midnight on Moving Day (properly, the day after Moving Day), and I thought, ugh, welcome �home.� A mere day later, during a late summer storm - it wasn�t even a big storm - a tree in our front yard fell on the Tempo, smashing in the roof. 

As any sane person would, I took this as an omen.  A sign from God that we never, ever should have moved here.

Things have improved a bit since then, thankfully.  Earlier this year Dan and I welcomed our beautiful daughter Abigail - our first and only child so far - who was born at the birth center in Chapel Hill.  She just turned eight months old, and is a busy, happy, extremely particular little drama queen who terrorizes our cats and makes life far more interesting than it used to be.

But the truth is, while I love my new life as Abby�s mama, I am still getting used to life in the Triangle.  I still find myself brought up short by things I ought to be used to by now - the heat and humidity, the nonexistent winter, the coffee shops that close too early, the sheer size of the towns here and how far apart they are, Durham�s bizarre freeway system.  I still feel as though I don�t know enough people, I�m not plugged in to all the cool local things to do, I�m missing some magical key that could unlock all the hidden mysteries in the Triangle and fill me with that feeling, that sense of homecoming.  I want to learn more about the area, and introduce my daughter - now eight months old - to its many opportunities.  I�m just not quite sure where to look first.

That�s why I�m so thrilled that Marty asked me to be a contributor here at Triangle Mamas.  Since we can�t hire a baby-sitter every night, I need to trade in some of my favorite late-night activities - shows, concerts, late movies - for family-friendly daytime ones. I�m highly motivated to seek out new friends and new experiences in this community, to make it more real, to make it my home.

Sure, I�ve been here for three years already.  But having a baby really does change everything; it gives you a new lease on life, a new excuse to explore your community, new eyes with which to view your world.  My eyes, like my daughter Abigail�s, are wide open.  I�m looking forward to getting to know all of you, benefiting from your wisdom, sharing my own mama stories, and making new memories in this, my new home.

An original Triangle Mamas post. Nikki is mother to the amazing Abigail and a free-lance writer who also blogs at A Small Song.

Fair for Him, Great for Me

I'm friends with the North Carolina State Fair on Facebook. I love the fair that much, and I am that much of a dork.

Last year, I was pregnant and going to physical therapy when the fair was in town. Something about my lower back and my SI joint. Funny how debilitating it was a year ago and now I can't even fully remember what was wrong. However, I do remember how I couldn't get out of bed the day after the fair.

All in the name of those little mini donuts.

Kevin and I took Christopher to the fair on Tuesday. It was the last warm day of the week, and I really wanted to take Christopher to the fair. Kevin surprised me and managed to get off work early to join us. I'm really glad he did because honestly? The fair wasn't that great to a nine month old.

I packed up the jogging stroller and my Babyhawk and a diaper bag full of emergency items. We headed in Gate 8 past the folks singing revival music and the Village of Yesteryear.

The first order of business was food.

A turkey leg, fried pork chop on a stick, a biscuit, some banana pudding, and a bottle of water held us over for awhile.

Christopher just sat in his stroller with an expression that said, "Are you done eating yet? Can we get moving?"

So we did. We wandered through the fairgrounds looking at the rides that Christopher is too little to ride. We wandered through the buildings where the chickens scared him and the cows smelled badly. We wandered around looking in vain for the ostrich burger we had saved room for, only to find that they weren't there this year.

Another big void? Chef Rameaux, may he rest his Cajun soul in peace. He died this past September, and the absence of his booth at the fair stung just as much as it does when I drive down Person Street past his empty shop. He once scolded me for not wanting to buy crawfish from him that had come from China.

"Girrrrrrrrrrl! Don't choo know those crawfish don't care where they grew up???"

I digress. Mightily.

As excited as I was to take our son to the North Carolina State Fair for the first time, I can honestly say, meh. It was. Just was. There really isn't that much to do with a nine month old at the fair except be tempted to feed him a bunch of stuff that he shouldn't eat.

Still though, we have the pictures and the memories. So many things, I think, we do for ourselves as parents. Things that mean something to us, we want to share with our children. So while Christopher passed out in the Babyhawk, I happily posed by the salt water taffy to give him his first fair experience the total package.

An original Triangle Mamas post. Marty doesn't blog anymore. Ever. Maybe occasionally. Okay, sometimes, but who knows where anymore?