I’m not sure who was more excited about the Summer Reading Program Pajama Party at our local library, me or my three year old. (Ok, probably me.) After all, this was the stuff of working mom fantasies, spending quality time with your child in a fun, educational environment, watching them soak up knowledge and life experience for the first time, instead of hearing about it secondhand. I was pumped, I mean pumped! about going, and had built it up in her crazily-creative little mind as the best day ever!
She wore boots with her Jessie the Cowgirl jammies (that’s my girl), perfect for photo ops for momma’s blog (because I totally wanted to write a feel-good post about the merits of being present and accounted for at moments like this). She was a bit intimidated by …
Around here, we don’t have many neighborhood disturbances. Things are calm. No domestic disputes (except ours), unsupervised children run amok (except ours) or overgrown lawns in desperate need of a weed-whacking (except ours). Then again, we don’t have any neighbors. Oh sure, we consider each other “neighbors,” but we never have to worry about whether or not anyone can see us sitting at the kitchen table in our underwear eating Apple Jacks (my daughter, not me).
If we had actual next-door neighbors, they would have been in for a treat last night. Right at dusk, a stark raving lunatic ran through our yard. And across our yard. And around our yard. Her face seemed eerily void of all emotion, almost as if she was trying to block out some trauma that had just occurred. She zigged, she …
Once we have children, they are forever on our hearts and on our minds. (Image courtesy FreeDigitalPhotos.net)
As I venture further down the road of motherhood, I’ve encountered some moms whose stories of triumph, stamina and determination leave me awestruck. Here I am, with (only) two healthy, happy children, a safe home, a supportive husband, and enough food on the table (and floor) to feed many more mouths. I have it easy. So easy.
Some think I’m a better-than-average mom (because they’ve stopped me in the grocery store and told me so), but it’s not true. I just happen to have the ability to tell my own stories in a meaningful and engaging way. Does that make me a better communicator? Definitely. A better mother? Not necessarily.
So, I’ve decided to put my creative skills to use and tell …
In honor of my rough-and-ready husband, who showed this girl a good time on our weekend getaway, I wrote the “man poem” below to commemorate our trip.
There was a cabin
and there was a lake
there was fishing
and there was steak.
Yes, there was steak.
It was good
for goodness’ sake
we had a grill
and there was steak.
Yes, there was steak.
The view was nice
the company, great
there was beer
and there was steak.
Yes, there was steak.
If my husband remembers nothing else about our getaway, he’ll remember this. Black angus over charcoal is hard to forget. Yes, there was steak.
Coffee cup given to me by my amazing coworkers, who gave me a “surprise support” party. It was perfect. Still my favorite cup.
Be warned, there’s some harsh emotion/language in this post. If you’ve been through it, you understand. If you haven’t been through it, try to understand.
I still remember the look on the bakery lady’s face as she handed me the small cake with the words “We’re Having a Baby” scrolled on it over the counter. “Good luck,” she said, as she winked and smiled at me. Little did she know how much I was going to need it. Not that it would have helped any.
I knew. I already knew something was wrong. I knew the moment I could barely discern a second pink line on the stick that something was wrong. Shouldn’t I …