On Parenting Without Bloggers

I will be completely up-front and tell you that my blog's No. 1 reader?

My father.

The poor guy reads every word I write. And apparently likes it.

In fact, when I'm visiting my parents, he gets a bit miffed that I don't regularly post.

And that's when he's living with me.

The man is nothing short of devoted.

My mom, however?

She's a busy woman, who I talk to a lot, anyway, so she's a frequent, albeit not totally regular, visitor here on the old blog, no matter what she says.

Which is fine and dandy and totally understandable.

Until the woman finally sparks an interest.

Turns out, last week? She was reading. Every comment. Every criticism. Everything. She noticed the controversy I'd stirred up here and here before I did.

She even called me to see what the private, cruel e-mailers had said.

Turns out, when your kid grows up, your mama-bear instinct doesn't go away.

Regardless, we shared a few laughs about the whole thing. Mostly because it's "her fault" that I am the way I am. I'm raising Ella just like I was raised.

So, imagine my surprise when, at the end of last week, she sent me an e-mail. An e-mail entitled "Mom Speaks Out."

Ooh, boy. That's when I knew we all were in trouble.

My mama had written a blog post, people. Her first, and very own, blog post.

So, I'm publishing it. Right below. Read away. I've changed a few commas and periods but not a word otherwise.

I think it's that good.

And I also think it's an amazing reminder to all of us moms, who are gifted with much more open communities and Internet resources than our mothers were, to see what we have as a blessing and not a means to stir up controversy and pick apart someone just because they do it differently than we do.

***

You don’t know me but I, too, follow this blog religiously, and I really wanted to post today to give a different - probably older, but not necessarily wiser - take on the discussions over the last several [weeks.]

I must tell you that I don’t come at this from a totally unbiased place. Because I am Brittany’s mom.

I write this post not because I want to defend her - although I must confess when I read some of the anonymous [commenters] I did go into “mommy” mode and that protective instinct kicked in.

I particularly wanted to shoot off a quick retort to the anonymous poster who called Brittany’s motives as a mother into question. (“But it seems like you need to get your ego about these sorts of things in check. It is not about you being right all the time.”) I wanted to go on notice right than and there that one could find many areas to find fault with Brittany or her blog posts, but I really don’t think anyone who really reads this blog could question her motives as a mom.

Although I have a more personal view of her love and passion for being Ella’s mom, I think all those reading can see that her desire to provide the best possible care for her daughter is most definitely not founded in ego or to prove anyone else wrong! But Brittany is more than capable of standing up for her opinions and the choices she makes for her daughter. And those attempts and methods are probably what is at the root of the discussion.

Yes, I wholeheartedly support her methods at finding holistic ways to nurture her child. After all, I am the crazy person who started her down that path 27 years ago. But really, the methods she has researched and chosen for her child are not taken lightly by Brittany. I know because I have listened to many hours of discussion and anguish over them.

I have tried to listen and give my opinions, but I have also always told her that ultimately it is her decision (along with Ella’s dad’s) to do what they think is right for their beautiful baby. And that, I guess, as many of you have discussed in your comments, is the bottom line.

As mothers we have been entrusted with our children, entrusted with all the decisions that will impact their lives forever. And lets face it, none of us will go through this process without mistakes and insecurities about our decisions.

But with the exception of those people who have not been equipped to handle the job due to mental issues and/or lack of education, most of us take that responsibility seriously and will do the very best we can to make sure our children are secure, healthy and loved.

So I find it hard to believe that as women who are in this difficult job together, we always feel we must take sides.

When I was in this stage of parenting and making decisions about my children’s health, it was more difficult to connect with others who viewed things as I did. There was a community out there, which chose as I did, the more holistic way of nurturing and healing our children, but I did not run into them in the circles I lived in.

So with that in mind, along with the fact that I have a much different personality than my daughter, I approached things differently than Brittany.

I did as I believed quietly. Or under the radar.

I did not share much of what I did with those around me. Because just the little that I put out there was met with much resistance and a lot of animosity.

People did notice how I fed my children and for the most part found ways to mock it and undermine it. They tried to sneak sugar into my children’s diet at every turn, and often times I heard remarks like “Who do you think you are, Mother of the Year?”

So I never shared too much of my philosophies because I did not think I was “Mother of the Year.” I was just trying to do what in my heart I felt was best for them. And never once did I feel like my methods were the only way to love and raise children.

Just the only way that I could do it.

I struggled then with the prevailing feeling from others that, if my way wasn’t like yours ,that somehow that meant that I thought my way was better than yours.

I had great respect for the many mothers I came in contact with and drew upon the knowledge they shared with me. What a shame that I did not feel comfortable sharing mine.

As Brittany entered her life as a mom, I was so overjoyed at the experience she had with the birth of my first grand-daughter and even more overjoyed to see the support system she had found to have her baby in the natural way she had chosen.

That mothers could openly choose between several different methods and have control over their birth process was such a step forward from where we had been when I gave birth years ago. (I might add, should someone misconstrue: I do not believe what Brittany choose as her birth story is the one and only right way to give birth. I am not even sure that I would have what it takes to have done it in the same way.) Because I saw such progress in this area, I so hoped that the world of motherhood my daughter was entering would be a place where all earnest mothers would be accepted.

Where with the advent of the Internet and access to all kinds of information and all kinds of forums for discussions among us, we could get past that place where we draw lines in the sand and try to label one type of parenting as good and the other as bad.

We are all individuals, so unique as women and mothers, and we are nurturers of beautiful, unique human beings that are entrusted to us for a short time.

The same things will not work for all of us.

I have many wonderful friends who parented very differently than I did. Even if they agreed with me on some areas of this tough job, they most certainly did not agree with everything. They, too, studied their options and made their choices and guess what? They had much success at this parenting job, too.

They managed to raise wonderful human beings who are loving and responsible members of society. Because, at the end of the day, what really matters to our children is that they feel safe, respected and loved.

So, I guess I had hoped that with all the advances in technology we would be open to sharing ideas and making our decisions and showing each other some of that same respect and love.

We need to keep working towards that goal because we have so much to share.

***

The funny thing is? I had a similar post saved in my drafts for weeks, way before I even stirred up some unexpected controversy on my blog.

But, putting my apparently huge ego aside, I figured I'd let Mama do the talking this time.

She says it better than I ever could.

Amen, Mama. Amen.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone.

How I Wonder What You Are

I'm in my third trimester.

The final countdown. The last hurrah of this pregnancy.

I honestly can't believe it.

Here I sit on the cusp of April - the month that holds my baby showers, the month I start seeing my midwives every other week, the month I told myself would never come - and I'm starting to realize how short our time is together.

Me and Baby Girl, together as one unit; we've got less than three months left.

I remember how I felt initially, right after I got a positive pregnancy test. How I couldn't believe it. How I didn't think this day would ever come.

And now, weeks and months and seasons later, here I sit, shocked it came so soon.

Part of me is freaked, honestly.

I mean, we don't have anything close to what we'll need yet. We're still ridiculously woebegone when it comes to all manner of baby paraphernalia. The nursery isn't finished, and the house hasn't been baby-ified yet. I haven't even stocked my freezer with all manner of solid, healthy, frozen dinners for the weeks following Baby Girl's arrival.

I haven't slept enough, eaten out enough, gone to late-night movies enough.

We're running out of pre-baby time and freedoms.

But, in all reality, my amateur fears and concerns aren't that concerning. Most of the time, anyway.

Because now Baby Girl is moving all the time. My stomach looks she's jumping on a trampoline. She rolls around and shakes her groove thing and is starting to exhibit all kinds of little-person movements and pressures and emotive jabs that I'm, as weird as it sounds, starting to realize she's real.

I mean, seven months ago, I knew she was real. In theory.

But now, her real-ness is really in my face. All the time. Crashing around in my stomach, making me semi-queasy from all her twists and turns.

She's coming out of me, sooner rather than later. And she's already willing to show off her own blossoming personality, it seems.

These days, as I sit here and watch my belly convulse, all I can think is, Holy cow!

She's her own little being. She's as real as real can be.

And soon and very soon, I'm gonna get to meet her.

I'm gonna get to hold that sweet little being in my arms and look into her eyes and introduce myself as her mother, the woman who lugged her around in my womb for nine-plus months and who waited each and every day for that very moment.

I can't even think about it without crying.

For, you see, I know in that moment, I'm gonna reach some new kind of beginning.

My life as I know it will officially be over. It will start down a whole new path, irrevocably changed in shape from what it was before.

Sure, I'm still me. I'm still the girl born to my own mother 26+ years ago. The very baby whom my own parents looked in the eyes and met and loved and studied with an intensity that you only save for someone new to you who instantly becomes your whole Earthly world.

But it's strange, really.

Did they look at me and know I'd be me? You know, the person I am, sitting here today?

A military wife. A blogger. A trainer. A friend. A former teacher. A lover of literature. An avid popcorn enthusiast. A mother, soon.

I wonder all this, simply because now, these days, that's all I think about, too.

I can now tell you almost to the minute when the little one inside me is going to start her rocking and rolling, but I can't even fathom what she's going to become once she's outside me, once she starts her long journey we commonly call "growing up."

Will she be stubborn, like me? Will she be laid-back, like my husband? Will she enjoy sports? Will she pursue literary-or science-minded studies when she's given the chance? Will she be a loyal friend? Will she be faithful? Will she struggle with black-and-white answers? Or will she simply revel in a world of bright, vibrant, ever-changing colors?

Oh, how I wonder.

Sometimes, my thoughts stray to the superficial.

Will she have curly, late-growing hair like both her parents? Will she be olive-skinned like me or fair and Irish like my husband? Will her eyes be blue like both her grandmothers? Or will she look like some past relative we've never known, someone we'll have to look up in old family albums and show Baby Girl when's older?

Oh, how I wonder.

Still, I don't worry about that long. She's my baby. I'm going to think she's beautiful even if she comes out bearing every one of my husband's and my worst features.

So my brain instead returns to wondering about her essence, the stuff that characterizes us from the time we're born.

Will she be cuddly and attached, or will she boldly face the world brave and unabashed? Will she sleep soundly or stay alert and awake most of the time, like I did? Will she enjoy the outdoors or prefer AC-controlled room temperatures? Will she be a mama's girl or daddy's princess?

Who will she be?

Oh, how I wonder.

My friend Harmony, an extremely talented artist, sent me a piece of hers when she found out I was pregnant. Wracked with morning sickness at the time, I was more distracted than I am now, but even then, I wondered.

But now? Now, I'm almost relentless in my wondering. In my thinking about how true her piece really is. About how much it reflects exactly how I feel.

You can read Harmony's reflections on her piece and motherhood on her blog here. You can also see more of her beautiful pieces at her Etsy shop, creative therapy by harmony.

Every day, multiple times a day, I meditate on that.

I reach my hands down to my swollen belly and think about her. My baby girl. And I wonder what she is. Who she is. How she is.

How she'll be.

Oh, how I wonder.

I know her, intimately. And yet I can't picture it.

It escapes me - what she'll look like, how she'll act, what her little voice will say into my ear - once she's out of me so very soon.

It's mind-boggling. And fascinating. And unnervingly real.

And yet, I can't wait.

I know we're not ready. I know I still need more cloth diapers, and a crib mattress, and a car seat.

But all of that seems pedestrian when I think about the fact that I'm going to be able to look into my baby's eyes and learn who she is and what she looks like.

I'm going to start the journey with her of who she's going to be.

I'm going to be able to see what I can't even imagine very, very soon.

So, for now, I wait. I ponder. I ask my husband over and over again, "Do you think she'll have your eyes? My skin? Do you think she'll talk early? Or walk late? Do you think she'll laugh or sing or dance in some super special way? Do you think she's going to know us?"

It's close, that time when my questions will be answered.

Which is why, now, I just content myself to sit here and think about it. To wonder.

How I wonder what you are, Baby Girl. How I wonder what you are.

***
Here's my little wonder at 28 weeks. (Taken on my trip last week to Arizona.)

Happy Monday, everyone!

A Consignment Groupie

I've never been much of a fan.

I haven't camped out for concert tickets for my favorite band.

I've never slept outside a movie theater to be the first in line on opening night.

In fact, I'll admit that I've even laughed at "Trekkies" or "Star-War-ies" or those people who dress up in character to attend a midnight showing of some cult classic. (Here's looking at you, Twilight Fans.)

It's just not my style. I've never been intense enough; I've never been into it enough to give up my precious money and time to do all that it takes to really go out of my way to make something like that happen, to be present at a moment that is semi-historical and/or momentous to any true fan worth their salt.

Until Wednesday.

On Wednesday, I ate my humble pie.

Because after getting word last month that our city was having a huge baby and children's consignment sale, I know this was something that I was interested in.

After hearing that pregnant mommies got special bonus shopping hours, my curiosity was peaked.

And after learning that several of my pregnant and new mommy friends were interested in going with me, I realized this sale was right up my alley.

Then I learned how truly awesome the sale was. How amazing the mark-downs were. How gently used all the gently used items were.

And I was sold.

Already a girl who enjoys her fair share of second-hand bargain-hunting, I now had a glean in my eye the likes of which I'd never a seen.

A glean in my eye that said, "Watch out world! I need baby gear at bargain basement prices, and I've finally found a way to get it! I am on a mission!"

Which is why, on Wednesday afternoon, I grabbed several good pregnant girlfriends of mine.

We packed coolers full of food.

We grabbed camping chairs.

And we caravan-ed over to the consignment sale site.

Four hours early.

Oh yes indeed, by 3:30 p.m., we had popped out camping chairs, broken out our snacks, and were chatting it up tail-gating-style right outside the baby sale.

By the time we went to wait in line, we were the first one's there.

Because of course, if I'm committed to something, I'm truly committed. I am plowing forward 100 percent. I don't halfway do anything, don't you know.

Which is why me and my three amigas were the first women in line, wearing matching T-shirts, mind you, and readily mapping out the best ways to get our top three needs - baby carriers, high chairs, and bouncy seats.

One woman tried to cut me, and I glared at her.

Another woman rolled her eyes at us, and my friend stared right back.

There we stood, armed with laundry baskets for stuffing and comfortable footwear for running. As one of my girlfriends said, "This isn't a battle; it's a war."

We were not messing around.

A beast I didn't know I had inside me had been unleashed.

I was like a new woman, ready to arm-wrestle another pregnant lady who dared to stand between me and that gently used bouncy seat I'd spotted from my vantage point at the door.

Those Twilight fans had nothing on me.

***

The good news is, it totally paid off.

I scored a high-end bouncy seat, a baby carrier, several outfits, and some beautiful wooden toys for all under $50.

And I didn't even make it through half of the room.

It was every bit of crazy as you can imagine.

Women were literally grabbing baby dresses by the fist fulls. Women were jockeying for the breast-feeding covers.

I even watched one very pregnant girl trying to wheel away three separate strollers.

It was crazy. And hysterical.

And if it hadn't been so financially worth it, I'd have been embarrassed to be a part of it.

But obviously I wasn't.

Because tonight? I'm going back. Me and my mommy posse in tow. We get to shop through whatever's left for 50 percent off before everything gets hauled off to Goodwill come Saturday morning.

This time, we'll likely leave the matching T-shirts at home. There won't be any pre-consignment tail-gating, either.

But I will be wearing my game face: My consignment-shopping, cheap-mom game face.

Now step away from that Boppy pillow, and no one gets hurt.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

Apparently, I Am a Mom

Over the weekend, I ran into Target.

Which is basically like saying "Today, I opened my eyes."

Because let's just be honest here and admit that on any given weekend, at some point, you can find me at Target.

I'm all "I have an errand to run, so I'm gonna head out for an hour and run by Target, etc. I'll be right back, honey."

When in reality, what I actually mean is, "It's the weekend, and I like Target. So I may pick up one, two, or 10 things we don't need while I'm there, but just know that I'm really going to pace around my favorite store and relax and think about things that are not that serious or stiff or hard to talk about."

So, yeah, I went to Target this weekend. Like I always do.

I grabbed a pack of underwear - pregnancy has given my body the ability to single-handedly wreck a pair of panties after one use - and then set off for the baby section.

I paced back and forth amid the aisles of bottles and nipples and onesies and bibs. I grabbed a little sun hat and put it back. I picked up a pair of sweet little sandals I thought Baby Girl needed then put them back. I sorted through the clearance racks for something we couldn't live without and put it all back.

So, then, I moved on.

I walked all the way past the laundry detergent, art supplies, and gardening pots, and found myself in decor.

Home decor.

It had been my favorite section of Target. About six months ago.

But now, it seems, I rarely find myself there anymore.

At least that's what I've surmised, because as I walked the aisles of kitchen, bath, and bedding, I saw many a thing I'd never seen before.

And that's saying something. Because I normally know Target merchandise like the back of my hand.

Anyways, in kitchen-wares, I found an end-cap filled with a new line of dishes and serving-ware in royal blue and white.

They had a handmade, vintage-y quality about them. They were appropriate for spring time, but had a timelessness about them.

I loved them.

The pitcher. The platters. The stackable cake dishes. Even the little cow-shaped gravy boat.

I loved it all.

Furthermore, I wanted it all.

It was reasonably priced. Easily insert-able into my already-present home and kitchen decor. And just flexible enough that I could use it for a ton things.

Gah. I wanted them so bad.

I picked up every piece; I examined every price tag. I even began to budget out how I could justify buying not one, not two, not three, but four pieces of the serving-ware.

Which is what makes what happened in the next instant so surprising.

After holding up the cow-shaped, flowered gravy boat one more time, I grabbed my cart and walked away.

Empty-handed.

I didn't buy the gravy boat, a bowl, a platter, or even the four adorable little miniature dishes meant to serve grated salad toppings, etc.

I loved it all, and I didn't buy a thing.

All because, while staring at each adorable item, I just kept thinking, "But we still need a stroller. And a car seat. And a diaper bag. And a few more cloth diapers. And baby clothes. And..."

Seriously, it was like I had the constant run-down of our baby registry running through my mind, all while subliminally repeating to myself, "Babiesareexpensivebabiesareexpensivebabiesareexpensive."

I'm apparently very masochistic.

It's a new trait, one I didn't even know I had. Especially when shopping at my favorite store.

But the fact of the matter is, a year ago, that never would have happened.

A year ago, I'd probably have bought not one, not two, not three, but four pieces of that fun, royal-blue-and-white serving-ware.

A year ago, I'd have left the store with the things I wanted with barely a thought or twist of a guilty conscience.

But now, not so much.

Now, all I can think of is our baby.

Now, all I can wrap my mind around is, "Babies are expensive."

Now, it just seems selfish to buy something for myself. Something I don't really need. Something that serves no real purpose in helping further our growing little family.

So, now, I walked away.

A little haunted, but a little bit more aware that - holy cow! - I'm officially becoming a mom.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

A Bad Egg

I was a home-schooled kid.

For elementary and middle school, my mother was my teacher. She was also my brothers' teacher.

So it should come as no surprise to you that our education, well, it was an adventure sometimes.

Home-schooling mothers are notorious for their hands-on methods of pedagogy. In fact, their modus operandi is much like Nike's ever-inspiring "Just Do It."

If I had a nickel for every time my mother said, "Why read about electricity when we can build our own circuit board?"

Or "Why learn about colonial times when you can visit Colonial Williamsburg?"

Or "Why study agriculture when you can grow vegetables yourself?"

Come to think of it, this is precisely why, in all of my childhood photos, I'm sporting either a small electrical burn, a mob cap, or a plentiful supply of dirt.

Anyways, our (school) house was all hands-on, all the time.

Which is why it came as no surprise when my mother announced excitedly at dinner one night that we were going to hatch and raise our own chickens.

There we were, stuck smack dab in the middle of suburbia, and my mother was renting out an incubator and buying a dozen chick and duckling eggs. And, being all of 11 years old, I wasn't in a position to argue.

Plus, I thought chickens and ducks were cute. In an abstract, pre-teen kind of way.

Which is how three kids, a mother, and a semi-reluctant father ended up incubating poultry one Florida winter.

First, my mother led us on an exploratory study of chick care, teaching us all sorts of useless facts about creating and growing chick and duck fetuses.

For instance, did you know that, sometimes, chickens incubated outside of hen's nests often struggle to hatch because they stick to their shells?

Well, we knew. We knew that all too well.

Which is why my brothers and I would traipse out to the family garage every day, lift the lid off the rickety incubator, and dribble water over the brown shells - a technique my mother taught us to help the eggs when it came time to hatch.

We followed this process painlessly, wondering and waiting, would we ever get our own bevy of chickens and ducklings? Worried that, once again, this would be a project much like the one we tried the year prior, where I tried to make a to-scale model of the solar system, which ended up being so long that it didn't fit in our house.

In other words, would this poultry project turn out to be another epic fail?

Still, we held on, waiting, watching, dripping water over those seemingly fragile shells.

Until, finally, we reached the half-way point - a moment we'd all been waiting for.

You see, when chickens are half-way through their gestational phase, they are ready to be "candled."

Kind of like the 20-week ultrasound, "candling" basically involves holding the egg in front of a lit candle, lighting the shell to see if the little fetus is growing.

It's an out-dated technique used by farmers to see what eggs still needed to be inside the incubators. If they didn't see the developing fetus, they used to discard the eggs.

So there were we were, huddle around the incubator, my mother a candle in hand. She lifted the first egg, it's pretty brown shell radiant, and held it in front of the candle, and....

Nothing.

Zip.

Zilch.

We didn't see a fetus. In fact, we didn't see anything.

We had a dead chick on our hands.

As children, we'd been warned that the home-owner's average incubation survival rate was only 50-50 at best. So we weren't terribly shocked that we'd found a bad egg. We'd already resigned ourselves that half our flock would never live to be, well, a flock.

So one bad egg didn't scare us off.

Until my mother went a step too far.

Being the hands-on homeschool-er that she was, she decided that this dead egg was yet another prime learning opportunity.

So she took that egg, my brothers, and me, straight into the kitchen and got a bowl.

"This is another fabulous chance to learn, guys," she chirped. "You see, this poor baby chick just stopped developing, so it's dead. In nature, that happens sometimes. But now, we have a chance to see what a real fertilized egg looks like on the inside. We'll get to see, at what point, the chicken stopped growing."

With her justification in place, she hit the egg on the counter-top.

But the shell didn't so much as crack.

So she tried again.

Nothin'.

Turns out, real live egg shells are strong.

Which is why my mother added even more force the third time around, slamming the chicken egg down on the edge of the bowl and opening up the broken shell as if she was baking a cake.

Which, last I checked, she wasn't.

And thank God. Because no recipe I know calls for real, live chicken fetuses.

Which is what came out of the egg when she finally broke it.

Oh, yeah. That poor baby chick wasn't dead. Not in the slightest. It was very alive. Though not for long.

My mother yelled out, "Oh no!" My brothers peered in, murmuring, "Oh, cool!"

And I ran out of the room screaming, "WE KILLED A BABY CHICK! WE'RE THE WORST PEOPLE EVER! GOD WILL NEVER FORGIVE US FOR THIS! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU JUST DID THAT, MOM!"

I then proceeded to wail on for two straight hours.

Poor Mom. Her science experiment had gone awry, and her daughter was crying "Murder!" It's a wonder she didn't ship us off to the nearest public school right then and there.

All the more so when she later learned that you can't always successfully "candle" brown eggs. Turns out that, when you can't see through a brown egg's shell, it doesn't mean the chick is necessarily dead.

Hindsight is 20-20. Not that it did her any good.

Being a melodramatic pre-teen, I wasn't quick to forgive, either, yelling instead, "Why didn't you teach us that before, Mom? Gosh! You're the worst science teacher ever!"

Then, our chicken depression only got worse when not a one of the rest of our fowl eggs hatched at all later that year. We sadly watched their due date come and go without a chick or duck in sight.

It was all for the best, though. Frankly, we all wanted to forget this science experiment ever happened.

So all proclaimed this the "stupidest project ever" and wrote off poultry science as a future career choice.

***

Until you flash-forward 15+ years later.

I'm a grown woman. Married. In my own home. And fall is in the air.

It's yesterday - a Wednesday.

And I'm feeling inspired, so I decide to bake up as many cinnamon-y and pumpkin-y things as I can.

Luckily, I have two dozen, ready-for-use, free-range, organic eggs in my fridge, rarin' to go. Sure, these eggs are a lot more pricey than the regular kind, but seeing as they are hormone-and everything-else-free, I spend the money.

It's for my peace of mind.

Or, rather, it was.

Because, two recipes into my afternoon, I'm baking pumpkin bread.

It calls for two eggs.

I grab one and crack into a small bowl.

And then I go for the second, banging the egg against the side of the bowl, and with the splitting sound, open the egg up.

And, then, I see it.

A vision straight out of my pre-adolescence.

A little, floating egg fetus.

I screamed so loud, I got the sweats. Marvin the Dog ran to hide. I instinctively turned around to yell for my mother.

Except she wasn't there.

Oh, the horror.

I hung my head, realizing that this is what I get for buying my cage-free, fancy-schmancy, organic eggs.

Two dead baby chicks. Their blood on my hands.

Oh, the shame.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mixing bowl to burn. And an apology letter to write to PETA.

Forgive me, chickens, for I have sinned...

***

I was in total shock when this happened to me. Again. Unlike my childhood experience, this one wasn't alive anymore, but it was developed enough to seriously make me reconsider never eating scrambled eggs again. Cage-free or not, I didn't know there was a possibility that I could get a fertilized egg in my weekly dozen. Seriously, has anyone else had this experience with free-range eggs? Or am I the only one destined to go through life as a poultry axe-murderer?

Anybody? Anybody?...

***

Happy, Chicken-Free Thursday, everyone!

Mom-Speak 2.0

I've started a new, extensive vitamin regimen this month.

This has me constantly calling my mother up and asking her advice.

You see, my mother used to own a health-food and vitamin store, so she's well-versed in most alternative health supplements.

She also owns her own small library of natural remedy and homeopathic books, so when in doubt of her own personal knowledge, she can look up a cure for approximately anything that ails you.

If it wasn't so useful, it would be kind of creepy.

Anyways, on Wednesday night, I talked to my mom about one particular supplement I'd never heard of. I was considering taking it, but I wanted to make sure I had the dosage and mixture correct. The problem was, I couldn't pronounce the darn herb's name I needed her to find.

So, I texted her.

And a few hours later, she texted me back.

She gave me instructions and recommendations on the herb and gave me the go-ahead to start it the following day. Other than a few minor mis-spellings and a capitalization issue, the texts themselves were easy to read and completely understandable.

Mom may be slow to the table with technology, but she does her best to keep as up-to-date as she can, even if that means tirelessly wearing her reading glasses and squinting at her old-school cell-phone screen so she can read the messages her three children send her.

So there I sat, in the year 2010, exchanging a few texts back and forth with my mother. I was so proud of her. She was being so modern and hip.

Which is why I decided to bring up another supplement I'm currently taking, complaining that it tasted like dirt. My mom sympathized.

Again, her texts were pretty comprehensible. Give or take an error here or there, she was holding her own.

Then, she must have realized how late it was. Or, at least I think she did.

Because she then sent me the following message, which I'm still trying to comprehend:

I love you he its too hard to get down foot sweat it god joys you are taking enough already good night

I lay there in bed, pondering the message. Wondering, worrying, what could it all mean?

Obviously, she loves me. I got that. But then there's the whole, if "it's - [or he?] - too hard to get down" bit.

And let's not even talk about the "foot sweat."

Which doesn't explain how she then leads into a rather religious message of two words: God and joys.

Either way, though, apparently, "I'm taking enough already."

Oh, and "good night."

Seriously, I was flummoxed. I lay in bed, trying to wrangle it into something coherent.

Perhaps it meant, "I love you. As does He. [I'm guessing God here, but perhaps she means my Dad? Or my husband?] If it's too hard to get down, don't foot sweat it. God takes joy in you. [Aww! Thanks, Mom!] You are taking enough already. Good night"?

Yeah, because that makes as much sense as Lady Gaga.

I was really, truly stumped. I couldn't figure out what she meant by it all.

Was this just a case of T9word gone bad? And when, exactly, did my mother learn to use T9word?

Perhaps her glasses were just failing her? She wasn't exactly known for having the sharpest vision.

Though her grammar had never been that bad before...

At this point, I began to worry that perhaps she had suffered a stroke and that my father, probably snoozing away watching The Military Channel in HD in his recliner, hadn't noticed her inability to form coherent sentences.

I began to debate texting my father, to ask him what was going on around there. But then I realized that I didn't have three hours to wait while my father figured out how to text the words "Nothing...haha!"

So I calmed myself down and realized I was probably panicking unnecessarily about the state of my mother's cerebral cortex.

I shut off my phone and went to bed.

But not before thinking about God and all his joys.

And my tremendous amount of foot sweat.

***

So, what do you think she meant by it? Am I crazy? Or does that message make zero sense? Perhaps there's a hidden meaning?

You tell me what you think my mom was trying to convey. Even if it makes no sense, I bet you all can come up with something funny! (In case you need a little extra incentive, let's just say I may be sending a little something to the person who comes up with the funniest interpretation of Mom's message.)

So play along! And have a good weekend, everyone!

And just in time for Mother's Day...

I got to spend Saturday with my best friend, Sherri, and her newborn son, Samuel.

Samuel - the most precious little baby boy I've ever met, who stole my heart when I raced to his birth almost six weeks ago.

I am Auntie Brittany, and I am proud.

So, as his devoted auntie, when I'm with him, I spend every minute I can holding him and talking to him and whispering to him how much I love him.

Because I do.

Because he's the firstborn of my best friend, and it goes without saying that anything that comes out of her is basically half mine.

Or, at least, that's what others seem to think.

Because this Saturday - in some sort of horrible shout-out to Mother's Day - while Sherri's husband, Jesse, went to a weekend class, Samuel and I took the new momma bathing-suit shopping.

Because who wouldn't want to squeeze themselves into exposing neon Lyrca in an effort to celebrate motherhood?

Cruel as that is, though, that's not the point of today's story...

So, there we were, strolling the section of Target for the scantily clad.

While Sherri grabbed every tankini they make, I consoled a cranky Samuel.

I'm doing the whole jostle-swish-rub-pat-bounce-singsong routine that all grown women revert to when desperately trying to get an awake baby asleep, when a lovely young couple with a baby of their own walks up to inspect the 6-week-old I'm holding.

They cooed; they admired.

They were very complimentary.

They asked questions about his birth date, his weight, his length, etc.

And like any good friend, I answered the questions for Sherri while she nodded and smiled and tried to surreptitiously grab a polka-dotted one-piece while giving them her full attention.

Then, there was an awkward pause.

The husband looked at us and smiled; the wife grinned from ear to ear.

Obviously, they had something to say.

And then, the man finally got it out:

'Well, you two make a beautiful baby together."

Uh-oh.

Either the couple was trying very hard to figure out exactly what our "situation" was, or something had gone terribly wrong when they took Sex Ed 101 back in sixth grade.

Insert awkward pause here.

What to do? What to do? I thought.

So I did what I always do when the right words escape me: I laughed.

I also managed to throw out something along the lines of, "Oh no, my friends' made a beautiful baby together. Not me and her. Now I just get to enjoy him," in between giggles.

Which, come to think of it, probably made it worse.

Still, I was trying to salvage the situation.

And Sherri totally wasn't helping, as she'd ducked behind a rack of bikinis to guffaw.

So I did what I had to do.

I took one for the team.

I sucked it up and explained that he wasn't actually our baby, though technically I do claim him, just not in that way.

And then I sent the couple awkwardly shuffling away from us.

Sigh.

I should have just said "Thank You."

After all, he's half mine, anyways.

***

I hope everyone had a wonderful Mother's Day weekend! Even if you were just mistaken for a mother, like me;) Happy Monday everyone!

P.S. Some of you expressed concern about the legal issues surrounding the student of mine I blogged about on Friday. Rest assured, all proper channels were followed years ago; her situation has been reported to child-welfare authorities more than once, as well as to the school counselors, etc. I want to thank you all - who left named comments and e-mails - for caring.

P.P.S To the anonymous commenter on Friday's post: You have no right to berate me for something you just assumed I did or didn't do. Fact is, I had reported this situation with the student. I just didn't think that fact was pertinent to include in the post. (Not that reporting the problem fixes a lick of the pain that the girl has already gone through. For someone who claims to know the system, you should know how corrupt and lacking it truly is, as well.) So you can back off and stop getting all righteous and angry about me not doing my duties. Next time you feel like telling me what a lousy teacher and mandatory reporter I am, please leave an e-mail address so I can respond to you in kind. Cowardice is not attractive, my dear anonymous friend.

On Mothers

I have a student who has issues with her mom.

And I'm not talking about your typical "I'm super ticked at my mother because she grounded me for breaking my 11-p.m. curfew" issues.

I'm talking about serious, scarring issues.

Abusive issues.

Issues I've never actually witnessed between a mother and a daughter in my entire life, and, therefore, don't really know how to handle.

The mother tells her daughter she hates her; she steals her daughter's things.

When the little girl does something her mother doesn't support - like enroll in an elective art course that the family doesn't approve of - she cancels her cell phone plan and stops paying for/making her school lunches.

She makes the girl's father sleep on the couch when he defends her.

She pits her little sister against her, so much so that both girls hate each other and refuse to speak unless they're screaming cuss words across a joint classroom they have to share (e.g., my classroom.)

The mother leaves her - but not her sister - without rides to and from school, soccer practice, poetry club, and night-time college classes.

She calls her names.

Her mere presence at her daughter's awards ceremonies, school speeches, and big class presentations sets her own child off into such tearful, anxiety-ridden breakdowns that oftentimes, her daughter can't even perform up to her own potential.

The mother tells her daughter that no one likes being around her and that no one in their right mind would ever choose to love her.

She's her mother, and she tells her that no one loves her.

That no one will ever love her.

I ask you, who says that to their child? Who says that to any child? Who says that to another member of the human race, for heaven's sake?

Granted, I am this child's teacher; I only know one side of the story. This mother is by no means reaching out to me for help. According to her daughter, she doesn't really like me all that much, anyways, for some reason that has eluded me for the past two years. And one, for which, I could really care less.

Still, regardless, she's this child's mother.

Even if her daughter has issues - which I'd wager she does - and even if she's difficult to live with or bear sometimes - which I'd imagine she is - she's her daughter.

Her first-born.

Her own flesh and blood.

And the spitting image of her to boot.

Who talks like that to the little girl they birthed and raised for 18 years?

I'll admit, it's painful to watch a kid I care about run away from home multiple times; it hurts to watch her cry at school the next day.

It stings to watch her scrimp and save for college because her parents threatened to cut her off if she picked the "wrong" major.

It burns to witness a child have her own self-worth taken away.

Because whether or not this 18-year-old girl is in the wrong - which, again, I'm sure she is sometimes - it hurts to watch a child hurt.

It also hurts to sit by, unable to do almost anything to stop it.

Fact is, I've never known a mother to treat a child like this.

Sure, I've seen mother-daughter fights. Had a few of those myself as a teenager.

I've even seen mother's make bad decisions - decisions I didn't agree with, sometimes from the get-go.

But most of the time, regardless of the fits thrown or the parenting decisions made, most mothers I know are acting out of love.

Love for their children.

Love for their families.

Love.

Sometimes, yes, I've seen physical abuse. I've known kids who were dragged away from mothers who beat them or molested them.

But this is different. This is a different sort of confused and twisted and wrong.

And I don't know what to do about it.

Because I have no proof of anything.

To the rest of the world, who haven't seen this child cry, this family seems normal - superior, even.

But I just see a child who has been bruised - in some capacity - by her mother.

As a woman, it goes against every maternal instinct I've ever had.

And yes, my maternal instincts may be untested as of yet. But I am a woman, and they are there.

As a woman, it also goes against every familial relationship I've ever seen modeled.

My mother never told me she hated me. I never once, not once, truly feared her. The love in our home was not conditional.

And as a woman, it goes against every natural reaction to children I've ever been taught.

Mothers are to love and care and discipline and teach.

We were not gifted to our mothers to be manipulated and lied to and beaten down and disrespected.

Ask any mother - heck, any woman that wants to be a mother - and she'll give you a long, drawn-out explanation of her job description.

But the one word almost every mom's job description will have in common?

Love.

Mothers love their children.

Still, what about the one's that don't?

What do you say to a mother who has, most likely, scarred her child for life?

What do you say to a mother who digs a figurative knife in her daughter's back and twists it?

What do you give a mother on Mother's Day, when, literally hours before, she told you she hates you?

I am not this child's mother. I'm not even close.

But that woman isn't, either.

***

I know that Mother's Day weekend is upon us. It's an important one, and one that deserves celebrating. Mother's are gifts and the single most influential people in our lives, in my opinion.

I was given to a wonderful mother, who I sometimes don't give enough credit to.

And then I run into women like the one I talked about here.

In light of women like her, I was blessed beyond measure, as were the majority of my friends, my husband, and my co-workers, to have mothers who, no matter what else they struggled with along the way, loved us.

Unconditionally. Whole-ly. Supportively.

So Happy Mother's Day to my wonderful mother. To my beautiful mother-in-law. To the mothers of all my wonderful friends who loved me because I was their child's best friend, because I was on their child's sports team, because I was in their child's college dorm, because I was part of their their child's wedding.

Also, Happy Mother's Day to all my friends who are mothers. And to all of us who want to be mothers some day.

We are blessed to know these women, to be raised by these women, to be loved by these women.

Because we had mothers.

Some kids don't.

Have a wonderful Mother's Day weekend, everyone.

Workout Wednesday: The Real War

Very often in my life, I've been in chase of The Skinny.

The Thin.

The Svelte.

The Waifish-ness we've all seen splashed over the pages of magazines at the check-out stand.

And in that, I've been running, sprinting even, away from The Fat.

The Bulge.

The Pudge.

The Flab.

I've spent years - more than I care to count because they'd take me spiraling back into my childhood - doing it.

There were months spent fighting my natural build - my infinite musculature, my larger thighs, my lack of a chest, my everything that made me look like who I was but didn't really want to be.

And, in that fight, I was joined by thousands - millions, even - of women who were battling the exact same thing: The urge to whittle away at their waist or their rear ends or their apple-shaped torsos.

It's common, for all of us, to be dissatisfied by our bodies. To see them, even, as the enemy.

We insult them, ridicule them, and torture them.

And, in most cases, they didn't do anything wrong.

Because even exercise and healthy eating can go too far. Obsession takes many forms. Perfection comes at a huge cost.

And, still, some women fight on.

But others - yes, others - know different. Know better.

They are in the minority. And they are sad.

Some of them, even, are reformed. They, too, fought the Battle of the Bulge before stark reality made them a convert. An unwilling one, in most cases, but a convert nonetheless.

Their fight is real; their reality is much more painful than saddlebags.

Their body has betrayed them not on the scale but in the obstetrician's office.

And, all too suddenly, these women could care less about being at their fighting weight; they'd gain 100+ pounds if they could have what they want.

If their Benedict-Arnold body could finally succumb to what it had promised to do for them all along.

If their body would finally allow them to do what others around them seem to be doing ad nauseum.

They are infertile, and they, my friends, are fighting an actual war with their bodies.

While I know only a small snippet of their pain firsthand, I know it can be crippling.

It's not a game; it's not a chase. It's not a personal challenge between them and the scale, or the treadmill, or the models on the cover of a woman's magazine.

It's real.

It's war.

It's death and dying and emotional scarring and wounds so deep that basic triage won't work anymore.

Every day, they have to walk around in the body they feel betrayed them and dodge bullet after baby-sized bullet.

It's gruesome.

It's depressing.

It's constant.

It's costly.

The streets are lined with heroic success story after success story - and failure after failure.

And unlike the rest of us - who are congratulated for losing two pounds or admired for our persistent gym attendance - they receive no blessings, no pats on the back for getting up every day and facing the needles and prods and wands and prayers and herbal remedies and supposed-to-be-helpful jabs that are thrown at them.

We don't cheer them on as they fight against their own bodies to pursue one of the most blessed things a woman can be: A mother.

Where are their medals? Where are their Purple Hearts?

When do we thank them for their service? For their pursuit to raise up a child right?

Fact is, we don't.

Most of us simply plod along - counting calories, pinching our waistlines, memorizing our body-fat percentage points to the one one-thousandth decimal place.

We play at war with our own bodies; we are our own toy soldiers.

All while some of our sisters head out into real emotional mind fields hour after hour.

So the next time you feel the urge to complain about your pear-shape, remember there are those out there fighting a real war for, against, and with their bodies.

They are the ones who deserve our love, our prayers, our militant support. They deserve for us to recognize their service, their battle.

They deserve our respect.

So here's to Infertility Awareness Week. I hope, as women, we can all join together in making this battle easier for those who struggle in this fight daily. That we can step back - away from play-fighting with the scale and the mirror - and realize how much we've all been richly blessed with our own bodies.

And then I dream that all of us can really fight together - in research, in fellowship, in support systems - so that our fellow sisters can one day have those very same blessings.

I pray that one day all of us can look down at our bodies thankfully. Because it was those bodies that allowed us - all of us - to become mothers.

Happy Wednesday, everyone.

Parents Gone Wild

I was minding my own business - living it up and grading papers on a Saturday night - when I got a text message.

From my mother.

Because she's high-tech like that.

Showing technology I didn't know her phone possessed, she sent me the following picture of my father and a message, carefully crafted, I'm sure, to warn me about my future.

And, of course, scar me for life.

"Be very afraid. This is your gene pool, and this is our idea of a big Saturday night. A Disney movie [Up] and a blow-up bed. At least it's not a blow-up doll."

I'm not sure what's worse; the fact that my parents just finally heard of a little film called Up, or the fact that they purposefully blew up their queen-size air mattress in their living room so they could recline oh-so-luxuriously while watching a Disney movie.

And then there's the matter of my mother's blatant reference to a blow-up doll.

Which I'm not even going to consider, as it makes me want to run at full-speed and cliff dive off some huge Himalayan mountain, just so I can think about something else.

Then again, I suppose I shouldn't judge.

I was the one home alone on a Saturday night. Grading papers. Drinking tea. Wrapped in a Snuggie. Making my gene pool proud.

But at least there wasn't a blow-up device - mattress and/or doll - in sight.

***

Happy Monday everyone! Hope you all had a wonderful weekend!

I want my mommy!

I'm sick.

Like really, really sick.

Like I came home yesterday before the school day even started because the school nurse took one look at me and told me to get the heck out of dodge.

I started blacking out around 10:30 a.m.

My whole body - and my head! oh, my head! - started roaring in pain at around 10:45 a.m.

My husband found me crying and crawling on the floor toward him at about 11:30 a.m.

The man then was forced to bathe me; he was forced to dress me; he was forced to hold my hair back while I upchucked all the Airborne, Theraflu, and Emergenc-C I'd taken that day.

Although, to be fair, he totally deserved it, as he was the one who got me sick. He came home from his trip with this nasty disease and insisted on kissing me and sharing a bed with me. The nerve!

I'm not graceful and elegant when sick, people. I'm just not. And I haven't been this sick in a long time.

I spent most of the afternoon crying and holding my head. I kept apologizing to my husband, who wasn't feeling all that great yet himself.

And I kept trying to call my mother.

Because darn it all, I didn't feel good; I didn't know what to do, and I wanted my mommy! (Luckily, I never worked up the strength to get to my phone, as I'd probably just have unnecessarily panicked the woman.)

So, needless to say, I'm home sick for the day again. The pain has subsided; my vision has returned. And I've actually sat up long enough to write this post! Huzzah!

But now, with that small victory in mind, I'm going back to bed. Because I cannot miss another day of work.

And honestly, it still hurts to hold my head up.

Can somebody call my mommy for me?

***

Happy Thursday!

Workout Wednesday: Spot training, ab fat, and Jillian Michaels

Hello, all you exercise enthusiasts!

A couple weeks back, my dear friend Whimzie left a couple of questions that I think all of us would be interested in learning about.

So I dedicate this post to you Whimz (are we OK with that nickname?) because you literally asked three questions that women exercisers everywhere struggle with daily.

Whimzie: Is it true that unless you have sufficient aerobic exercise, you will actually do more harm than good "spot training" and will build muscle on fat?

There are several components of this question that we need to address.

First of all, spot training, or the concept that by exercising one particular muscle, let's say, your abs, you can make them smaller. This, in fact, is a complete myth. You cannot make one particular part of your body smaller while the rest of you remains the same. So crunch all you want. You can't just lose weight around your waist. (This is the annoying reason why women often lose weight in their breasts when they start working out, while they were actually hoping to lose inches around their waist and thighs.)

Now, by exercising one particular muscle, again, let's say your abs, with target exercises, like crunches, you can strengthen one particular area. However, this won't let you lose inches from the target area, at least not directly. Exercises, like crunches, build muscle. They don't burn a high amount of calories.

And to lose inches (and weight), you must burn calories, which is accomplished by raising your heart rate. Cardio training (running, cycling, circuit training) is the easiest way to accomplish this.

However, that doesn't mean we don't want to lift weights. Targeted strengthening can indirectly help you lose inches by raising your metabolism, allowing you to burn more fat(calories) continuously throughout the day.

So, if you want to lose inches, you have to combine cardio and strength training. You have to burn away calories, which will allow you to lose fat everywhere. And then, if you lose inches and fat, you'll be able to see all that muscle definition, brought about by your targeted, strength-training exercises.

To get a lean look, you've got to have both. Alrighty, next question. Whimz?

Whimzie: As for ab exercises, which ones are the best to target that lower ab roll of fat?

Ah, yes, that darn roll right around your lower waist. Don't you just wish you could chop it right off?

Now, I have two solutions for you, depending on your station in life and whether or not you've had a child yet.

For those of you that have not had children, eating a low-calorie, unprocessed diet, and doing a healthy combo of cardio exercise and ab exercises that strengthen your core on the surface, along with your deep abdominals (transverse abdominals, or TvA,) should work. I've talked about deep core work before. Most of you know how to do crunches, but it's harder to work that deep ab muscle, and you definitely can't hit it with crunches. Find my TvA exercise recommendations here.

Now, for those of you that have had children, the situation is a bit more complicated. (As are most things once little ones are involved, I'd wager.) The following was explained to me by a friend of my mine who is a woman's health practitioner and midwife, who hears this complaint a lot from her patients.

You see, when you're pregnant, you abdominals literally split in half to allow your growing baby to expand forward.

Once the baby is out, the abdominals slowly, slowly close. Meanwhile, you're up every two hours feeding baby, changing baby, loving baby. You're not thinking about the gym. At all. Can I get an "Amen" from all the mommies in the house?

And while you're feeding and changing and loving baby, belly fat is coming through your still-split abdominals. Eventually, they will re-close, but in a lot of cases, not before fat deposits have grown through the previous split, giving a lot of mommies, even very skinny mommies, a little pooch right below their belly button.

Now, what I'm about to say is a deep, dark secret in the fitness world, because no one wants you to cancel your memberships and personal trainers.

It's virtually impossible to get rid of that belly, once it's there.

You can minimize it, following the prescription and the exercises I listed above for the non-mommies. But for most women, it never completely goes away.

But it can be prevented. Once you've had the baby, and as soon as you're allowed to start exercising again, you want to start strengthening your core and closing your abdominals quickly. Again, sit-ups, crunches and TvA exercises are the key. This allow you to close your abdominals before any unnecessary belly fat sneaks in.

Edited to add: Make sure y'all read Lauren's comment below. She's proof positive that a) pre-approved exercise while pregnant helps you recover your pre-baby body faster (you are dead-on about the squats, Lauren! Go, girl!) and b)that hitting the gym religiously once you've had your baby will help you get rid of the mommy pooch by not allowing those abdominals to close too slowly. She's got a six-pack after two kids, people! Thanks, Lauren!

OK, Whimz, what's next?

Whimzie: One more, why does Jillian hate me?

Oh, yes, Jillian Michaels. The country's meanest trainer and the creator of the exercise cult classic The 30-Day Shred.

Many of us real-world trainers often ponder this one ourselves.

I've heard many an excuse:

She's a woman in a man's world, so she had to be tough. (Although I, personally, don't buy this one. There are women trainers a plenty in every gym I've ever worked in.)

She's counter-acting Bob's (on The Biggest Loser) niceness. (Maybe, but I've seen Bob get tough, too.)

She makes a lot of money off of her attitude. (Bingo!)

Seriously, her rap is that she's hard-core and intense. She's commanding; she yells. She pushes you until you throw up and then pushes you some more.

She doesn't let up for anyone. She doesn't take excuses. She doesn't care about anything but. getting. you. in. shape.

People do respond to this surprisingly well. I mean, she's got tons of followers and fans, despite the fact that's she mean as a snake. She's business-savvy. She's found the persona that works for her, and baby, she is sticking with it.

I'm a pretty intense personality, but I'm no Jillian. But I've had the occasional bad day, and I've been known to work my clients or my classes a little bit meaner and harder than normal. And you know what? The feedback was overwhelming. (I'll admit that I'm the cycling instructor at the gym where people warn members, "If you can't hang, that's really your problem. She won't ease up for you." Still, people come back every week, because they know they'll get results.) People really do like to be pushed around and commanded. That way, they don't have to do it to themselves.

And in the world of celebrity trainers, giving the people what they want will make you a lot of money. Which Jillian has. She's built an image, and it's working well for her. She's famous because of it. (I mean, really, would you all have bought 30-Day Shred if she was all Zen-like and calm? I'm betting not.)

Side note: Stay tuned for more Jillian news! I'm hoping to have Kristen over at Ladybug Blessings review her new book for us!
__
Alrighty, so there you have it folks. Our first Q&A for Workout Wednesday. If you have any questions you'd like me to answer, please feel free comment below. So until then, Happy Exercising!

Oh, mama!

Today's my mom's birthday! Happy Birthday, Mom! I love you tons!

Now, I could get all sappy on you all about my Mom, because I do love her so much. But she is currently in Colorado, dropping off her youngest child (that curly-haired brother of mine in the picture above) at the Air Force Academy. She and my father will be returning to an empty nest tomorrow. So I think enough tears will be shed. No need to make her cry anymore.

Plus, my mother has an amazing laugh and a great sense of humor. We tease her a lot, because she is truly a woman who believes that you can't take yourself too seriously.

So, instead, let's get to know my Mom, a woman with many sides, none of which are at all, well, normal. (Don't worry, though. She's proud of that.)

My mother is a woman who used to beat the pants off us in board games. It didn't matter that we were barely 5 years old. She showed no mercy. She'd win, then prance around the room singing Queen's "We are the Champions." She told us she was trying to teach us to be gracious losers. I just think she liked winning too much.

My mother is a woman who never had film in her camera. When I was 2, she bought me a toy camera, and I used to play with it by walking around, holding it up to my face as if to take a picture, then yell the words, "Oopps! I'm out of film!"

My mother is a woman who, when she hit the "E" on her gas tank, used to tell us to lean forward in our car seats so we'd get there faster.

My mother is a woman who would take us on field trips, get lost, and then maintain that she'd planned it the whole time, as an "adventure."

My mother is a woman who home-schooled her children through algebra lessons, but would get so frustrated when she couldn't figure out the correct answers that we'd move on to history, spelling, or lunch, while she sat at the table, using 80 sheets of scrap paper and two hours on one math problem and muttering at the answer book, "I just don't know how they got that answer."

My mother is a woman who had to institute which bed sheets were "appropriate" for fashioning into tree-top hammocks, but only after she lost several good sets of bedding to my brothers and I, plus our oak tree and one particularly cruel rainstorm.

My mother is a woman who used to wake us up by throwing open the blinds and singing, "Rise and shine, and give God you're glory, glory..." I found myself doing this to my friend's litle boy last week. Scary! I'm becoming her!

My mother is a woman who insisted her kids kept a whole foods diet, but then stashed chocolate in her purse.

My mother is a woman who cries in church every Sunday.

My mother is a woman who also cries at every baptism, wedding, funeral, graduation, and baby shower. Even if she doesn't know the person who is being baptized, married, dead, honored, or birthed.

My mother is a woman who finds a baby with an 1,000-foot radius, then proceeds to gently offer to hold it, only to walk away with it and never return it. Seriously. She steals babies, people.

My mother is a woman who swore up, down and around that when we got our first dog, it was going to be an OUTSIDE DOG, AND I MEAN IT! Yeah, we'd had the dog a total of 1.2 hours, and we found her with the 8-week-old puppy inside the house in my dad's recliner, rocking it in her arms like a baby.

My mother is a woman who calls everyone "Sweet boy," because that's what she calls her favorite child: her current dog, Ned, who like his predecessor is clearly an INDOOR dog.

My mother is a woman who watched all three of her children play water polo for 10 years, but still doesn't understand the game. Yet, she has decided that if she just instinctively yells, loudly, anytime the ball flies anywhere near one of her children that this will somehow help them score or block the ball.

My mother is a woman who taught her children to eat lean protein, but has been known to talk about "chicken breasts" and do a shimmy dance.

My mother is a woman who never tells you she doesn't like something but always says, "Yes, that's nice," and gives you a look, and you. know. what. that. means.

My mother is a woman who walks into the kitchen in the morning when all her children are at home and smacks everyone on the butt, regardless of whether or not you're her actual child or husband. (My poor husband.)

My mother is a woman who, when any situation arose, recommended praying, "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference."

My mother is a woman who cooks three times too much food for any gathering or holiday party, but the entire time she's doing so, she keeps worrying that she won't have enough.

My mother is the only other woman I know, besides myself, that celebrates any achievement - a good grade, a job offer, clear skin, folding laundry - with a huge bowl of homemade popcorn.

My mother is a woman who tries to cajole her three grown kids into sitting on her lap, so she can rock us, when we come home. Like I said, the woman likes her babies.

My mother is a woman who has given of herself for her husband and three children (and two dogs) for as long as I can remember. We are blessed beyond measure to have her.

Happy Birthday, Mom! We love you!

Happy Mother's Day!

I know I'm not much of a weekend blogger, but I wanted to hop on and wish my beautiful, giving momma a happy Mother's Day!

Mom, I love you so much. You are my closest confidante and the person who inspires me me daily to one day raise children with my whole heart and mind, just like you raised us. I know I could not be where I am today without your love and life gifts. I hope you have an awesome day with the boys, and I can't wait to see you next month for your birthday. Please know I am thinking of you today (and all days). Happy Mother's Day!

And to all the rest of you wonderful mommies out there, Happy Mother's Day! I hope you have a wonderful day that truly celebrates all you do for your families. You deserve it!