We Feed With Love

In honor of World Breastfeeding Week, I'm putting myself out there with this picture of me feeding my third-born shortly after his birth.

I experienced difficulty breastfeeding my twins, with frustration of not producing enough for both, difficulty and pain getting one of them to latch properly, and lack of time and help with completing other tasks. I was breastfeeding one, bottle feeding the other, and pumping between feedings in an attempt to increase my supply. But after four weeks, my mother and mother-in-law had to leave and I gave up ... buried in frustration and household chores. I made it five weeks with them until I gave into formula and a better life for my family. I knew it was the right decision for us, but couldn't help feel guilty when I would see a mother of 9-month-old twins breastfeeding with the ease of chewing gum. My twins are healthy kids, rarely sick, and intelligent. I had many opportunities to snuggle them and find intimacy and closeness. I don't regret what I had to do--nor should anyone else who chooses formula.

With my third, it was much easier. I produced enough--even for the little piggy that he was. I enjoyed the intimacy with him. And, I had peace of mind that I was doing the best thing for him that I possibly could. I was also very fortunate to never feel judged for breastfeeding in public. It's quite possible I just never paid attention to it. Or, maybe it's possible people are beginning to accept this act as exactly what it is ... nourishing a child ... period.

There are many reasons why a mother would choose formula over breastfeeding, or have no choice in the matter at all. No matter what mothers choose for themselves and their babies, I think all mothers would agree that everyone should support a breastfeeding mother just as breastfeeding mothers should support a formula-feeding mother. Happy World Feeding Week ... breast milk or formula, we feed with love.

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Blisters for Sisters

By the end of the day Sunday, I will have walked 235 miles for breast cancer and raised about $12,000. This weekend marks my 6^th time participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in Washington, DC. This is a 2-day, 39.3 mile walk where participants are required to raise a minimum of $1,800. The first time I did the walk, I signed up to fill a philanthropic void I had since moving to DC. I had a friend who did the walk in Charlotte, NC, the year before, and she made it seem like a great experience.

My #1 Fans

Since that first walk, this effort has become so much more to me. I formed some of my closest friendships with women I met on that first walk. I’ve walked next to survivors, women in the middle of their battle, and husbands who have lost their wives. I’ve heard their stories and that was enough to keep me going. I’ve also had kids since then, and the thought of my daughter ever facing breast cancer, or the thought of me facing it while my children are still young and need me is all I need to keep going.

My first five years, I was glad to say that no one in my family or circle of friends ever battled breast cancer, and I knocked on wood every time I thought or said that. Part of me thought if I kept doing this then my inner circle will be exempt from ever getting breast cancer at all … until now. Just 24 hours after I signed up for this year’s walk, I found out a cousin in her early 40s with two children began her battle. Around the same time, a close friend’s mother, whom I absolutely adore, began her battle. Cancer does not discriminate.

Because we see so many survivors, we forget that people are still dying from this disease. Many times it is not detected early enough. I know most of my readers are moms with young children. It is hard to make time to get a mammogram. Moms with young kids don’t go to the doctor. I get it. But, if you are 35—or younger if you have a family history—getting your baseline should be a priority. I did mine practically the day after I turned 35. I had 1-year-old twins at the time, and my only help was my working husband. You make time when it is something this important.

Raising money for the cause is important, and $12,000 can do quite a bit on a local level. But, what I hope to contribute—more than the donations—is awareness. If 2,000 women and men sporting pink t-shirts, boas, hats, and other garb, march around a city to remind a handful of women to get their mammogram, then count me in. And, if writing a blog about breast cancer awareness for a few hundred followers leads just one of you to get the mammogram you have been putting off, then it was definitely worth the last 6 years.

I don’t know most of you, but I’m guessing some of you know someone right now who is battling breast cancer. If you do, please provide that person’s name in the comments on this page or leave me a message on my Facebook page and I will add him/her to my prayer list, which I will wear pinned to the back of my shirt throughout the two days. I believe in mass prayer and mass positive thoughts, and I will be walking with 2,000 people and past supporters all over the DC area. It’s worth a shot, anyway.

Pink Power!

Click here to donate.

Moms Get Tattoos, Too

I waited 38 years to get my first tattoo. In general, I’m kind of an all-or-nothing girl. If I don’t think I can do something big, I don’t want to do it at all. Like my blog, for example. I really only have time to make one post per week, but I said I wasn’t going to do it unless I could post at least 4-5 times/week. It was like that with the decision to get a tattoo. Most have been shocked by the size of my tattoo, considering it is my first. But, if I was going to do it, I wanted to really do it! A two-inch butterfly on my left butt cheek wasn’t going to cut it. So, why now, you ask?

1. I never had something I was passionate enough about to take this step.
2. I never before had the confidence to say, “I truly do not care what anyone else thinks, except my husband and my kids.”

My passion is my family. My family is also what has made me stronger and more confident than I have ever been my entire life. I am not afraid to say or do anything if it means defending, caring, or honoring my family. And, honestly, I couldn’t think of a better way to scream this to the world.

Hubby's Tattoo

So, my husband and I decided we would do it together—his first time, too. Both of our tattoos represent our family. My husband’s is a compilation of the zodiac signs of each of the kids and me (Saggitarius, two Leos, and a Virgo) on the inside of his forearm.

My inspiration—besides my kids—came from The Little Golden Books from the 1940s. My dad and aunt had a collection from when they were children, and recently passed them onto me and my brothers. I fell in love with the illustrations and knew that style, applied to my children’s animal representations, would make a beautiful storybook scene for my left shoulder blade.

My Storybook Tattoo

From very early in each child’s life, we labeled them as a type of animal. My 4-year-old is our monkey—at first because of his hairy shoulders and ear shape, but since then by his silly behavior and his ability to wrap his body around you so tight you don’t even feel like you are holding anything. My 4-year-old daughter is our turtle—at first because of this certain way she would lift her head and look at us when she was about 2-3 months old, but since then by her laid-back demeanor. My 14-month-old son is our bear, which was clear from day one with his growly sounds—sounds he still makes as he is falling asleep or grabbing onto his loved ones for deep snuggles and kisses. His huge bear paws for hands and his meaty and strong body type do not at all take away from this likeness. The “22” was snuck in to represent my husband. That is his “number” for all you sports fans out there.

So that’s the story of my first tattoo. I am still not cool to society. I still drive a minivan and live in suburbia. But, my kids think I’m cool, and I’m going to hold onto that as long as I possibly can.

Special thanks to The Reluctant Missy, another kick-ass mom of three--who blogs about music, ink, and sass--for the referral, advice, and friendship. And, to Adam Marton at River City Tattoo in Richmond, VA, for his professionalism and for creating this masterpiece that, thankfully, only took two hours.

Crap Kids Say ... Growing Old

Daughter: Why can’t I have coffee?

Me: It will stunt your growth.

Daughter: Why can you drink coffee?

Me: Because I am done growing.

Daughter: No you’re not. You’re growing old.

Me: Touché. 

My kids are funny, for sure. I hope you think they got it from me. If so, please vote today and tomorrow in a Funny Mommy Blog Contest. Click this link and click on the heart on that page to vote. Thank you!

The Struggle of a Midwest Farmer’s Daughter All Grown Up

Seeing the Ram Trucks Super Bowl commercial with Paul Harvey talking about farmers, made me pretty sentimental. I heard that voice—that deep, soothing, slow-talking voice—and it took me back 25 years to a 13-year-old Nebraska farm girl sitting down to lunch with her family (or “dinner” as they call the middle-of-the-day meal in the Midwest). My family was not a church-going family, though I believe we lived the highest values. And, I guess Paul Harvey was kind of our minister, delivering his sermons every day at lunch. And, somehow, remembering this brought up a lot of questions—questions to myself about where I came from and where I have chosen to raise my children.

And, now … the rest of the story.

Some call it the closest thing to Heaven.

My family’s farm was 14 miles from the nearest town, and that town was population 900. Ten of those miles were driven on gravel roads, where sliding into the ditch after a good rain or snow was not uncommon, and where I found myself changing many flat tires. It was another 30 miles beyond that to the nearest movie theatre, which I believe runs only two movies simultaneously. Our nearest neighbor was a mile away. The only trees were planted by the farmers to shield their homes from the treacherous winter winds. There were more cattle in the county than people, and some of them were my best friends. And, everybody waves. Yep, the one-finger wave from the steering wheel. My city slicker husband still can’t get over that one.


While to some, that sounds like the closest thing to Heaven; I could not wait to get out. I knew I was city-bound, though I did not know where. Since then, I have bounced around the country and landed in a mid-sized city in Virginia, with pretty much all the amenities a person could need or want. It is the city my husband and I chose five years ago to raise a family. Now, I question whether we made the right choice. Coming from a small town seems like such a sheltered life, but now it seems that’s just what parents want—to shelter their children from what seems to have become a scary world, at times.

Where I grew up, the kids worked. I mean, really worked. Cleaning your room, taking out the garbage, doing dishes, mowing the lawn, shoveling snow, feeding the cattle during a blizzard after school and before you started homework … that was not work. Those were chores. We were the hired hands on our farm. I turned baby bulls into steers. I climbed to the top of grains bin when it was 100 degrees as the auger emptied dusty wheat into them. I tromped down hay in a metal cage to build 20’ haystacks. I tilled the fields in the tractor. One summer, the only way my dad would let me go to volleyball camp is if I agreed to milk the cow once a day for the summer. Damn, I hated it! But, sometimes I think about what little work ethic I will be able to instill into my kids where we live now.

We rarely went to a restaurant of any kind. It’s likely that once every six months is a generous estimate. Now, we have family date night at a restaurant once a week. But, it occurred to me that maybe noisy restaurants aren’t the right place for family date night. It’s hard to hear. We’re always worried about the baby getting restless. I stress over how much food has hit the floor and over tip because of it. How much “quality” family time is that? It gets me out of cooking and doing dishes, but sometimes it’s just more calming to be home. Maybe it would be better for my family if I didn’t have the option.

The only time we would have fast food was on a once a year trip to see my relatives in Wichita, KS, or when our high school bus would stop at the nearest McDonald’s after an away game. I will admit my kids eat fast food an average of once a week. Though, when doing so, I do my best to choose the healthy options—white milk and fruit, no fries. But, that’s never going to be better than what I could cook for them at home. The many chain restaurants stare me down as I drive the kids home after school, knowing my options at home are slim. It’s just too easy. It would probably be better for my family if I didn’t have those choices.

Organized sports during the school year didn’t exist until 5^th grade, and that was a few weeks of basketball on Saturdays during the winter. Where I live now, you could overlap activities for 3-year-olds all year long if you wanted. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to make the choice to enroll them or not to.

The only stores I went to with my mom were in our small little town, and the toy selection was … well, it wasn’t. I take my kids to Target on a weekly basis, and all I feel like I do is say “No.” While these conveniences just five minutes from my house are wonderful, sometimes I wish I never had to take my kids anywhere where they would see something they want. The battle is tiring.

When I was a kid, we didn’t have soccer nets, fancy baseball equipment, children’s museums, or parks down the street. We created our own fun with anything we could find around the farm. Old window weights, the gas tank, and a light pole were bases for baseball. Our bat was an old wooden bat I think my dad used as a kid. We got roller skates one year for Christmas, but the only smooth surface was a sidewalk/patio at the front of our house that took about 6.5 seconds to round—and that was if there was no collisions or you didn’t trip over the crack in the sidewalk. We created our own track meet with some hoed up dirt and an old board for a long-jump pit, and some homemade stands to hold a bamboo stick and a pile of hay for the high jump. Sometimes I wonder if my kids will ever want something so much they will invent it themselves.

I despised every one of those things as a child, but look so fondly on them now. I guess it says a lot about my parents that they were able to send five kids out on our own with an appreciation of where we came from—and wondering if it isn’t the best place to raise our own children. But, even if I came to the conclusion that raising my children on a farm in Western Nebraska was the best for them, I couldn’t do it. The life of the small American farmer is a tough one—and getting tougher every day. I’ve become too soft and too selfish for that life. Paul Harvey’s story was a lump-in-the-throat reminder of what this country was built on, and how far we have gotten away from it. My only hope is that those values will carry through to my children, regardless of where they are raised. God bless the American farmer.

Good Day.

Click here to see the Ram Trucks and Paul Harvey commercial.

What Happened to Barbie?

When did the way girls play with Barbie_TM dolls change? I got my first Barbie around 1^st or 2^nd grade. The fun then was changing their outfits and playing with their hair. I was probably in 5^th or 6^th grade by the time I stopped. Now, girls get Barbie_TM dolls when they are 3-years-old and have stopped playing with them by 2^nd grade. The play is less about outfits and hair and more about pretend play--but, not the kind where Barbie and Ken kiss. When did this shift happen? I remember rows and rows of different outfits for Barbie_TM in the stores. Now, it’s difficult to find any. I think it’s cute how my 4-year-old plays with hers, but it’s a little sad to think she will not find the same enjoyment out of them as I did. And, if Mattel is no longer offering clothing changes, you would think they could at least dress them in clothes that are a little less hoochie.


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Sippy Cup Training Gone Awry

Soooo, this is how sippy cup training is going. And, before you tell me about the amazing spill-proof sippy cups, let me tell you there is no such thing where this kid is concerned. I challenged my 4-year-olds to get the awesome Thermos Foogo cups to spill, and they had no luck. "Future" has no problem.

And, he refuses to drink milk out of a sippy cup. Water he will drink (and also suck it into his mouth then let it run out down the front of him). Milk, he refuses. All he will do is what you see in this picture. I've tried warming it. I've tried snuggling him and feeding him like it was a bottle. I've tried every different spout in the sippy cup world. What am I missing? And, why do doctors make you feel like a loser if your kid isn't drinking from a sippy cup at 12 months and 1 day old?

So, for now, I will lay him back in my arms, let my hair fall down so he can stroke it while I bottle feed him his perfectly warmed milk. Ohhhh, now I get it. Tee hee!

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Apology to Future Me

How do I know my third child will be less well-behaved than my first two? I find myself telling him constantly, “Even when you do naughty things, I still want to eat you up.”

What is it about the babies of the family that makes parents “baby” them? Is it because the parents are more laid back? Are they just too damn tired to discipline? Is it because they’ve seen the result of their first-born children and wonder what the point was of getting on their case for every naughty behavior … didn’t seem to do any good? Is it parents’ last chance to raise a child who will like them when they are teenagers? Is it simply grasping desperately to those baby moments because we know they are the last baby moments we will have? In my opinion, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to his future teachers, babysitters, classmates, wife … and, of course to the future me.

 

 

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Curse of the Mommy Nap

What happens when Mommy takes a 1-hour-nap the day before? Mommy pays for it the next day by unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher, and having enough dirty dishes to completely fill it again ... and then some. I don't understand how just one hour can set me so far behind. Does this happen to anyone else?

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Too Much Unwanted Advice

Here's some Crap No One Tells You about being pregnant when you already have two or three kids of the same gender. This is from a friend of a friend who has 3 boys and is currently pregnant. Totally appreciate where she is coming from here. Good luck, girl!

"Hormonal pregnant rant:

Don't approach me and tell me for my sake that you hope this baby is a girl. Would it be fun to have? Sure it would.... But, A: if you ever met my first 3 you would know that I would be a very lucky woman to have another. B: I know it's sounds cliche, the only thing that has been on my mind is that it's healthy. And C: if I have another boy do you honestly think I'll be disappointed?

Shut up. Just shut up. It's getting old. And I'm way to edgy to continue to be polite about it."

 

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A Snitch ... To Be or Not To Be

This came from a friend. Any advice?

"okay, so I just caught three kids from next door peeing on the backdoor of the house on the other side of us...three middle school boys, the lady in that house passed away and her husband already moved out, they are trying to sell the house and have been having a really hard time selling it because it needs some updating inside...I'm guessing smelling pee on the backdoor isn't going to help...so here's the question - Do you tell the parents of the boys? I let a lot of their antics go because kids are kids but this one seems like more of a correctable behavior situation...for the record I already ratted them out (to the nicer and saner of the two parental units involved, but still ratted them out)...right or wrong call?"

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Where's My Hazmat Suit?

I’ve disinfected every doorknob, light switch, toilet handle, and sink faucet; washed all towels and sheets; steam mopped the floors; and sprayed disinfectant throughout the house. Aside from dunking each of the kids in a bucket of Lysol and quarantining them to their rooms, I’ve done about all I can to keep the third kid from getting pink eye. Maybe I can tether each of them to a section of the house so they can see each other, but not touch. And, what did I do with my hazmat suit? Oh Crap!


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For Moms of Sons and Mommy's Boys

How Did She Know My Daughter is a Princess?

We went to a restaurant where the waitress addressed my 4-year-old daughter as "Princess." When we left, she asked me with the utmost seriousness,"How did she know I was a princess?" What have we done???

Hubby is not Perfect, Neiter is BFF

So, I’m on the treadmill this morning, watching Kathie Lee and Hoda, and had an “Oh Crap! Realization of the Day.” Kathie Lee—maybe because she was wine-free today—made a most excellent point about living with your spouse. The topic was how women rely on their girlfriends, and the fact that sometimes the BFF is the first person a woman calls when something happens. The conversation then led to my Oh Crap! moment when Kathie Lee said that as much as we know about our BFFs and love them, we would still have complaints about them if we lived with them. Isn’t that the truth? We complain about our husbands and their bad habits around the house. But let’s face it, no matter who we live with, our roommates will not be perfect. That is useful perspective. Maybe I’ve been a little hard on my hubby. But Babe, don’t think this gets you out of picking up your socks or putting the toilet lid down.


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Kids Are Positive

Kids are so positive, and I just finally realized that. Besides, “I don’t like okra” and “I don’t want to go to bed,” they really have no negative thoughts. My son said to me today, “You know Tick-Tock-Croc bit off Captain Hook’s hand?” I said, yes. Then, he said, “But, that is mean. Maybe Captain Hook’s hand is just hidden in his sleeve and he wears the hook over it.”

When do we become cynical and negative? Do we just get burned enough times or see enough horrible reality to make us realize the world isn’t gumdrops and lollipops, and it’s all downhill from there?

The Crap No One Tells You is how much of a schmuck you feel like the day you realize that everything out of your child’s mouth is positive and that you could take a lesson from that.

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Picky Eaters

At breakfast, "Ew, Mom, what smells like eggs? A-sgusting!" If you have picky eaters, how do you handle it? I follow the practice of I make what I make and they have to try it. Then, if they don't eat, they don't eat. I won't make them a different meal even when it's something I know they probably won't eat. Sometimes they surprise me, like with the chicken sausage and shrimp jambalaya last night. They loved it!


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To One Condescending Career Mom

Let me preface by saying this is directed at one particular person (or anyone who thinks like her) who happens to work with my husband and belittled the fact that I do not have a career outside of taking care of my children. This in absolutely no way represents how I feel about children whose mothers have a career. Most of my closest friends are successful working women and their kids are amazing.

Twas the Night Before Break's End

Twas the night before break’s end, when all through our pad
not a preschooler was stirring … it was 8:05 … not bad!
The school bags were hung by the back door with care
in hopes that mom won’t forget snacks to prepare.

The children were half hanging off of their beds
While visions of the playground danced in their heads
And daddy with his beer, and I with my nightcap
had just settled down after a long day of crap.

When from the second floor there arose such a clatter,
I said, “What the hell? What IS the matter?”
Up the flight of stairs I flew like a flash,
tore open the bathroom door and … crash.

The moon from my son with his pants pulled down low
stared at me when I caught him having to go.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But my daughter with her lovie covered in tears.

Seeing my daughter was about to get sick,
I said, “Daddy, you better get up here and quick.”
More rapid than eagles her dinner it came,
and she hurled and coughed and I cried, “Who’s to blame?”

This holiday break has broken me bad
Why couldn’t this have happened last week like her dad?
To top it all off, it’s all over the wall,
all over the floor, all over the hall.

We’ve spent every second of every day
Three weeks together and we liked it that way.
But as school is ready to start once again
I counted on our schedule resuming as planned.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard by my side
my husband with towels and spray and Tide.
As I wiped off her face and was turning around,
up comes my son’s dinner with a horrible sound.

He was covered in puke, from his head to his feet,
and his clothes were stained from food we forced him to eat.
A moment at dinner we wish we could have back,
Why didn’t we, for once, just cut him some slack?

His eyes – filled with tears, how sickly, how wary,
Her cheeks were like roses, her fever was scary!
His poor little hands were shaking below,
Her knees were too weak; she was moving so slow.

We leaned them over the sink to brush their teeth
And the stench encircled our heads like a wreath;
We looked at the floor, we looked at their bellies
Then we thought, “We shouldn’t have given them jelly.”

They were naked in the tub, those two kids of mine
And I laughed when I realized they were going to be fine.
The fight in their eyes and the cooling of their heads,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,
And cleaned up the kids; then turned with a jerk.
And pinching his fingers aside of his nose,
My husband scrubbed and deodorized with rose.

We sprang to our beds, this time with pails on the floor
Who had a crappy day? Well, we’re not keeping score.
But I sure know one thing as I turn out the lights
This break ain’t close to over … not after this night!

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Gift Repercussion

26 = The number of batteries required to run the Christmas gifts for 3 children. I’m sure it won’t surprise you to know that 85% of these toys were given by people who don’t live in this house. I’m sure it also won’t surprise you that 100% of these toys are noisy.


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