Bloggy Love In

I have to do a little bloggity bidness today. Tomorrow I'm going to make up for my lame, single-minded focus on my potty training adventures lately by posting an actual, serious post on an adoption topic that matters to me.

So first, did you hear that the planet has a new computer genius? Uh huh. That's right. It's me. Check out the url for my site. Up there in the 'what site you're visiting' bar thing at the top. Yes, that is the technical term. Do you see it? I've got my very own, one and only, super special domain name. No .blogspot.com for me. I AM http://www.anymommyoutthere.com/.

It was hardy harderson too, because I had already bought my domain name from Go Daddy. Blogging tip of the day: Do not do that. I thought you had to buy websites from them. I thought they were the only domain registrar. Untrue. There are many, many, including blogger. The blogger people will register your domain for you. Buying my domain from Go Daddy made my life infinitely harder. I had to follow blogger's instructions for rerouting my DNS or reDNSing my router or some crap like that. Are your eyes glazing over? Because mine did, as soon as I read, reroute and DNS and other hideously boring computer related words. Usually, when I read things like that, I whine to HSSH about how boring it is and how I don't understand and please, please will he do it for me. But, he was all no, blogging is your thang, figure it out yourself.

He didn't think I could do it, but I totally did. Mr. Gates, I'd like a nice, part-time, work from home position please with a decent salary and full benefits. Bill? Please?

**************

This little blog of mine (I'm gonna let it shine) has also been the recipient of some really nice links, comments and general, all around love lately.

A few weeks ago, Awake at While the baby sleeps gave me this blogging present. I was honored because I love her blog. She's insightful and a hell of a writer. Go and read, you won't be disappointed. The way blogging bling works, I've learned, is that you get to double the fun by passing it on, which is hard because I have discovered so many excellent blogs. I give this to Katy at Funny Girl. We've been bloggy friends for a while now. She's a fellow adoptive mom with a sweet take on life, even when it's at its most challenging. She also tells some funny nursing stories. I think she's excellent.


Megan at Penny Carnival devoted a whole post to my potty training misadventures and the Messter Map. I am so tickled because she's another incredible writer (she actually does it for a living). She is also, hands down, the most amazingly creative mom I have ever met. Megan, where do you find the time? Check out her daughter's rainbow birthday cake. A M A Z I N G!

Jane and I share park days and coop toddler school in real life. In blogworld, we share an addictive love for dots on the map! She also inspired my quest for my own domain. Trendsetter. See Jane Blog is her fun account of life with two boys.

Shannon has been another friend since my blogging beginnings. Her blog Overflowing is just that - overflowing with life, love and fabulous pictures.

There's much more to share. The blogosphere is huge and it has been really kind to me. I'll end with a meme. What the huckleberry is that, you ask? Funny enough, I had to look it up as well. Meme, n. an idea, behavior, style, or usage that spreads from person to person within a culture. Thank you, Mr. Webster. Adopted in blogspeak to mean a game or idea that spreads from blog to blog. Makes sense. Wfbdoglover tagged me with my first meme. Here I go, I'm a real blogger now.

A is for: Attached or Single? Attached for nineteen years, married ten. Whew! Do that math. HSSH and I met at the tender age of sixteen.
B is for: Best Friend? Kris. For nineteen years. Love you!
C is for Cake or pie? No, C is for chocolate.
D is for: Day of choice? Saturday.
E is for: Essential item? Diaper bag, sad, but true.
F is for: Favorite color? Blue (like my boys’ eyes) and chocolate brown (like my girl’s skin).
G is for: Gummy bears or worms? Yuck. Nonchocolate candy is not real candy.
H is for: Home town? None. I’m a military brat.
I is for: Favorite indulgence? Chai tea latte from the huge coffee conglomerate that is taking over the world and shall not be named. Hint, rhymes with Tartucks.
K is for: Kids? Three under three.
L is for: Life isn’t complete without? Love. And chocolate. And chai tea lattes. Wine. Friends. I’m done. Wait. Rum.
M is for: Marriage date? May 8, 1999.
N is for: Number of brothers and sisters? Two sisters in my family, many more sisters of my heart.
O is for: Oranges or Apples? Apples (with chocolate, or at least peanut butter).
P is for: Phobias? Numerous. Spiders. Dark. Mirrors. Closets. Unlocked doors at night. Tight spaces. Choking. I’m a mess.
Q is for: Quotes? Not all who wander are lost – JRR Tolkien.
S is for: Season of choice? Summer!
T is for: Tag, you’re it! If you do this meme, leave me a comment. Also, T is for travel. Love it. LOVE IT. Miss it because with three kids, hate it. Hhhhhaaattteeee it.
U is for an Unknown fact about me: I’ve ridden a horse across Mongolia.
V is for: Vegetable? Baked sweet potato.
W is for: Worst Habit? Picking scabs. Gross. TMI.
X is for: X-ray or Ultrasound? Ultrasound. I can’t think of a fun reason for an x-ray. There’s another phobia – one of my kids breaking a bone.
Y is for: Your favorite food? Bagels and lox. You can take the Jew and marry her to a Christian, but you can’t take the bagels away from her or she’ll chew your arm off.
Z is for: Zodiac sign? Pisces. The fish. Cold. Slimy. Lovely.
Z is for: Which zoo animal is your favorite? Toddlers. They look cute and cuddly, but they'll chew your arm off.

Game Over

A great big virtual hug to all of my commenters this week - by email and here. Seriously, I had to laugh or cry and you all reminded me to laugh. Thank you.

It's official - Ess is potty trained! Woo hoo! She was potty trained pretty much the moment I put panties on her through absolutely no skill of mine whatsoever. The girl just gets it. And, she loves her some m&ms. She asks when she has to go, she stays dry in between, she's excited and not stressed about the whole thing. Rock on, baby girl.



And Gee, oh Gee, my beautiful, stubborn, little red-headed boy child. GAME OVER. He's been basically back in diapers since Friday afternoon and we (and by we I totally mean I) are all happier for it. I'll try again when he's ten. I know that is pretty pathetic. I didn't even make it the full week, but the madness had to stop. Friday morning started okay, he went before breakfast and kept everything pointed in the right direction. Then at about nine-thirty, I put him back on the Elmo potty for a little PBS action. He sat on that freaking Elmo potty for three hours. He absolutely refused to go and absolutely refused to get off the potty without getting his m&ms. I felt like I was giving him some kind of horrible Elmo-potty related complex. He had a crazy look in his eyes.

They had their first horseback riding lesson on Friday afternoon and I didn't want any accidents or potty control games to spoil it. I just left him in his diaper after his nap. We had such a delightful time. They were completely charmed by the horse - a big, sturdy, steady giant named Hank - and Demi, the girl who owns him and gives lessons on her parents' land. She had them holding the reins after about 15 minutes of riding with her. Their smiles were parenting gold.

I remembered what it was like to just enjoy my children, back a week ago, before we began the great poop and pee extravaganza. I remembered my love affair with diapers, how they catch the junk and hold it, how they let me decide when to clean things up at my leisure rather than RIGHT NOW OMIGOD BEFORE SOMEONE STEPS IN IT AND THE BABY SLITHERS THROUGH IT AND NO ONE MOVE A MUSCLE BECAUSE PSYCHO MOMMY HAS TO CLEAN UP THE UNSANITARY MESS!! I remembered having fairly normal conversations that don't involve asking a small, uncooperative child if he has to go potty every 30 milliseconds. It felt great.

Saturday, Gee did do his marathon PBS sit-in in the morning, but he held it the whole time. We went outside to play in the wading pool. I kept asking him if he needed to use the potty and he kept saying no. Then, he climbed up the steps onto the porch, hid behind a plant and took an enormous dump in his pants. "UNCLE," they heard me cry in the next county.

I will be saving all of your tips and suggestions, and the Messter map, for my next attempt to civilize Gee six months from now. I really do hold out hope that at some point it will be just as easy for him as it was for Ess. Naive, perhaps, but optimistic. Here's the Messter map one last time because I had to add the great porch dump of 2008. It was a classic.


There's a little guilt about giving up so easily, but I am fairly confident that I am making the right decision for Gee and for me, because yesterday? Yesterday, I felt like this.



And today, I'm all...

Hairku Friday: Exhaustion

Potty training has
Wiped me out and I have no
Energy for hair

This is Ess a few days after homecoming day in 2006. Her last hairstyle done in Haiti. Those are microbraids. I was clueless and it took me days to get them out! As soon as I get the professional photos, I'll post some of her wedding style. I am still so proud of how that one turned out. But, I am still a struggling beginner - check out this amazing mom and her daughter's new patriotic hairdo.

Sorry, I have been slacking on Hairku Friday. I hope some of you will share your beautiful hairstyles today! If you have a hairstyle and a 'hairku' to share, leave me a comment and I'll add your link to this post. You can also play along with the original Haiku Friday creators, Christina at A Mommy Story and Jennifer at Playgroups Are No Place For Children (and add your link to their lists).

As far as the potty training goes. Shhhhhh - whispering so as not to jinx anything - so far so good this morning. There's plenty of day left for flashing teenagers and torrential floods. I updated the Messter Map for you on the sidebar. It even has a new symbol for embarrassing incidents involving bras.

Here's the other Hairkuers: Pam at You're Gonna Miss This and Dia at Team Sawyer.

It Just Keeps Getting Better and Better

Are you starting to think that I'm making stuff up for blog posts? I swear to you this is an accurate account of the events that occurred in my living room two hours ago.

The phone rang and I had to search for the receiver. Gee sat enthroned on the Elmo potty for his post-lunch sit-in in front of PBS. Ess and the baby played. The caller was the pediatrician's office wanting to reschedule appointments. It took a few minutes and I was distracted from the living room. Periodically, I covered the mouthpiece and said sweetly, "Keep pushing your penis down, baby, so the pee-pee goes in the potty."

The smell in the living room, when I entered, hit me like a brick wall. The baby's back was covered in yellow, smeary excrement. Massive baby diaper blowout. I picked him up and he immediately twisted and covered my shirt in his shit. Due to unbelievably poor planning on my part, the diaper bag remained in the stroller out front after our morning walk. I had to retrieve it while keeping hold of my poop-greased pig, ah, I mean baby. I got him onto the plastic mat, naked, and was working on wiping him down when Ess started to cry. She'd peed on the floor. Not her fault. Marathon potty-sitting boy had been monopolizing the Elmo potty for an hour. I hissed at her in my sternest I mean it voice, "Don't move I'll be right there."

Looking back down at the baby, I realized that my hair, which I left down this morning, was dangling in the shit all over the front of my shirt. I managed to take my shirt off while holding down the baby and repeatedly admonishing my crying daughter to just stay where she was. Please, I beg you, child. Just don't move. And, also, my son to please, please keep his penis pointed down, if he wouldn't mind.

The baby was basically clean and into a new diaper.

The doorbell rang for the first time. The couch sat between me and the door and I couldn't see who it was. Go away, I mentally projected. I put the baby to the side and started working on Ess.

The doorbell rang a second time. I got that panicky, crazy feeling of immediacy that the phone or door bell can sometimes create, even though you know that nothing bad will happen if you don't answer the phone or door. You're not obligated. The person can come back later.

Keeping the baby out of the mess with one hand, I finished cleaning up Ess.

The doorbell rang a third time.

I rose from the floor with all the wet, poop-covered clothes and wipes in one hand. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, selling something, stood outside the door. I stomped to the door, which is made primarily of glass windows, and threw it open with sparks shooting out of my eyes. I held up one finger in their shocked faces and turned to the side to address my son. KEEP YOUR PENIS POINTED DOWN, PLEASE!

I turned back to the adolescent boy on my porch and said, fairly nicely, "Whatever it is, I don't have time for it right now." He nodded, mouth open, backing away from the door.

I closed the door. Gee smiled brightly at me. "My penis is down, Momma." Excellent son. After disposing of the disgusting mess of clothes and wipes, I went into the bathroom to wash my hands. I took several deep breaths. I looked up into the mirror and beheld my frazzled face, my hair with poop on the ends, my bare shoulders and my lacy black bra. Oh. Right. No shirt.

And that, officer, is how I became a high school legend. The legend of the crazy lady on the corner who answers the door in her bra, holding poop, with her naked daughter and baby boy at her feet, while shouting at her other son to keep his penis down.

I Am a Better Parent than a Duck

Morning. Day three. The small waste-producing life forms are watching Clifford.

The girl child is frighteningly intelligent. She mastered the use of the Elmo potty instantly and hasn't looked back. She has had ZERO accidents. I think in Brazelton, Sears, [insert parenting guru of choice] jargon, that's called 'ready.' Her attitude, however, is to be feared. She is going to be a terrifying teenager. Yesterday, she sauntered over to the Elmo potty, put her business in there, walked over to me, put her hand on her hip and said, "Fork over the M&M, bee-atch. It's like taking candy from babies around here." Actually, she said, "Want my neminnem. Green one." But, if you could have seen the look on her face, you would excuse the liberal translation.

The boy child, I begin to fear, is the poster tot for 'boys mature slower than girls.' I have to say that because his grandmother told me that I can no longer refer to him as dumb. (Sheesh, I don't do it to his face.) For the love of all that is holy. He has had nothing but accidents. He holds his pee so that he can put it on my floor. We've had one really successful pee-pee in the potty and that is only because I let him watch TV for an hour while he sat on the potty and eventually in his zombified TV-watching coma, he just went.

I have so many questions about him. HELP ME!?

He's usually dry in the morning, but he'll only dribble into the potty. He waits for me to leave the room and then rains torrents of pee-pee on my floor. He throws massive tantrums when he doesn't get an M&M for his tiny dribbles into the potty, but then he promptly puts his forty days and forty nights of ACTUAL pee on my FLOOR. The only way to get him to go so far is to let him watch massive amounts of TV, because he'll sit on the pot ad nauseam as long as he's plugged into PBS.

Arrrrggghh. Should I bail? Is he 'not ready?' Or is he just incredibly stubborn, frighteningly engaged by television and obtusely unaware of his bodily functions. In other words, a man-child. How much TV can I let them watch? Usually, I'm a ninety minute a day girl, split between morning and dinner-prep time, but extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures, don't you think?

To top it all off, my mad parenting skillz have been a little stretched thus far. And, come on, it's the third day. The accidents, I can handle. I'm gentle, patient, zen momma for those. It's the tantrums, the fights over the Elmo potty, the rejection of underwear based on color and, my least favorite, the constant touching of parts to which we had no access previously, that has driven me to some awesome Mommy Tantrums involving unfortunate yelling. Sigh. I am definitely not momma of the week this week. It's only Thursday morning.

But, my always-supportive, ever-helpful, dad pointed out that I am a better parent than this.



Thanks, Dad. You are correct. I have not let any of my children fall down a deep hole in the ground in the last week. Way to remind me to look for my positive attributes.

I strive for greatness here in Stacey's World. I am a better parent than a duck,*^ but not by much.

*I have no idea if any ducks were harmed in the making of this photo. I suspect not? In any case, I have harmed no duck in the composition of this post.
^ I know this is an awkward** construction, but I can't fix it. I mean, of course, that I am a better parent than the duck is a parent, not that I am a better parent than I am a duck. Although, I am. I am a better parent than I am a duck. Obviously, I am not a very good duck, lacking feathers, beak, webbed feet and other necessary duck accouterments.
**I just had to look up awkward. It looked weird.***
***Don't you think it's weird that weird is spelled "ei" and not "ie." That totally busts wide open the myth of this rhyme: I before E, except after C and when it sound like A like in sleigh. Where does WEIRD fit into that equation? Nowhere.

Postscript. After over an hour of TV watching, Gee peed his torrential pee-pee while sitting on the potty (YAY!), straight up into the air and all over my floor (BOO!). Damn you, potty gods!(Shakes fist at sky. Then, thinks better of her insolence, hunches and kowtows.) Just kidding. I surrender, oh great gods of the potty. I am your humble servant. Tell me how to please you. I am yours to command.

The Lonely Blogosphere; A Guidebook for Serious Bloggers

Love the blogosphere? Every wonder how you could enhance your blog visiting experience? The Lonely Blogosphere is for you. Here's an excerpt from the introduction of the latest edition.

History of The Lonely Blogosphere series: I love to travel. Before I decided to drown myself in babies, I backpacked the globe, bold, confident, able to find a hostel in the most extenuating circumstances. Where ever I went, I carried the independent traveler's bible with me - The Lonely Planet guidebook. It's a series of budget travel books aimed at the backpacker set. If you have the Lonely Planet edition about a country, you can always find the best bar, the cheapest hostel and the most outrageously adventurous things to do.

Now that most of my traveling is done in front of my computer , it occurred to me that the Blogosphere could use a guidebook. It's darn confusing out there. It can be hard to find a good lager and a place to rest your feet. I'm happy to oblige. A blog series is born. The Lonely Blogosphere will appear every Wednesday at All Mediocre. Each week, we'll journey to another amazing blog. You'll experience the blog like a local, learn all the tricks, get tips for speaking in the native language and navigating the sometimes tricky cultural nuances. It's a big bloggy world out there. Let The Lonely Blogosphere be your guide.

Before you go: Before we embark on our journey of discovery, a few words about traveling etiquette. The culture of every blog is different. Be respectful. Remember that you are a guest in a foreign blog. You'll enjoy your travels more, and be a better citizen of the blogosphere, if you are open to new experiences and viewpoints. Have an open mind. It's a beautiful world out there, try to leave it slightly better than you found it.

Health and safety: Traveling the blogosphere involves serious risks that should not be taken lightly. Spammers and identify thieves are out there. Don't be foolish. Keep your passwords and login IDs in a safe place at all times. Never give out unnecessary information to someone you've just met. Eye strain is a common ailment. Wear your glasses and take breaks. With a little common sense, you can travel in safety and in comfort.

Culture and Language: There is huge variation in culture and language throughout the blogosphere. Different regions have different dialects and societal norms. Try to learn a little bit about the culture of a given blog, or blog region, before you go. It's important to learn a few key phrases in the local language to avoid misunderstandings. For example, in the mommyblogger region, 'lol' is considered a lighthearted compliment, while in other areas, it is considered condescending and insulting. When in doubt, remember that comments are the currency of the blogosphere. Comment respectfully, the locals almost always love that.

Disclaimer and Warning: No guidebook can be fully comprehensive. In the blogosphere, changes happen fast. If you find that something is out of date, a blog has upped security precautions, or a reviewed location no longer exists, please write to us. We welcome your input.

You're ready. Fasten your seat belt. Put your passwords and IDs in a safe place. Click here to begin: The Lonely Blogosphere Guidepost Series.

My baby is covered in urine, but I'm not a Freaker-Outer

It's 8:37 a.m. I am two hours into the first day of potty training. Potty training sucks. I am not sure that many people have to potty train their two two-year-olds (almost three, I know) with a ten-month-old crawling around. I mean, I'm not all woe is me or my life is the hardest hardy harderson life of them all or anything. I know where babies come from. I have no one to blame but myself. But really, it's hardy harderson.

Gee has been sobbing for 90 minutes now that he doesn't want to wear his la-la panties. (AKA Elmo, as in la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la, ELMO'S WORLD). He peed on the floor first thing this morning. I didn't count on the tracking. I had to add a new symbol to the Messter Map for tracking of pee-pee. I also didn't really think about the baby problem. If I can't stay on top of him, I will also need a need a symbol for baby snail trail of pee-pee when he slithers through the mess and then slimes his urine trailings across my floor. Oh, because he doesn't crawl, he does a modified foot-propelled slither.

LALALALA, LALALALA STACEY'S WORLD.

On the brighter side, a huge picture of Cue graces the cover of the Today section of our local paper this morning. I was interviewed about my switch to BPA free bottles. HSSH brought the picture up to show me at 6:00 a.m. this morning and I straggled downstairs to grab some coffee while he read the article.

"Do I sound dumb?" I ask, peering over his shoulder. "Do I? Sound dumb?"

HSSH peruses the article and cracks up. "No, not really. But, did you say this?" he asks me, pointing. The article quotes me: "I'm not a freaker-outer," she says. "I also don't often make a change. But once Canada (announced its pending ban), I noticed."

"Um, I don't know. Yeah, I mean, probably, that sounds like me."
"I'm not a freaker-outer?"
"Well, I'm not. I think it makes me sound cute and human. Not stuck up and obnoxious like I do everything perfectly for my kids."
"I think she's making fun of you."
"No, she's not! Megan wouldn't do that. She's lovely. She's just portraying me as real. I like it. What should I have said, Mr. correct grammar at all times?"
"I don't freak out easily? I'm not easily freaked out?"
"Same meaning," I sneer. "Less pizzazz. That's why I get interviewed for the paper and you push pills for a living."
"Low. At least I make a living."
"Really low."
"The kids are about to fall through the ceiling, maybe you should get them up."
"I'm dreading the first day of potty training. I'm procrastinating. Plus, maybe if I leave them up there long enough, they'll pee their morning pee in their diapers. It's going to be a long day."
"Good thing you're not a freaker-outer."
"Good thing."

As I type this, Ess and Cue are fighting over the Elmo potty. Ess would like to sit on it constantly. She is supremely motivated by the M&Ms. My girl. Cue would like to play with it. There is nothing in the entire house, no toy, no sharp object, not even the TV remote, that he would rather play with than the #(%&$ Elmo potty. Garrett has resigned himself to the la-la panties, but he insists on sitting on my leather couch. Poo poo imminent, I'm sure.

I just had to take a break from my up-to-the-minute crack reporting. Gee peed on the baby's head. I kid you not. I could not make this shit up. I have created the baby slime trail symbol. It appears I shall need it. But, when I carried Gee to the Elmo potty, a single drop of urine landed inside of it and I was able to give him an M&M. Progress, no?

It's now 9:35 a.m. Is it too early for a rum and coke? What about a glass of wine?

I am not a freaker-outer, I am not a freaker-outer, I am not a freaker-outer.

LALALALA, LALALALA, THAT'S STACEY'S WORLD!

The Messter Map - Toilet Training Revisited

[Cue ominous music.] Dah, dah, dah dahhhhmmmm. Dah, dah, dah, dahhhhmmmm. Beethoven's Fifth is this week's theme song at my house. I am facing my fears, overcoming my natural inclination towards procrastination, attempting to potty train my two oldest children. I can do it. I've done this before with a sweet, but obtuse, Golden Retriever and an evil, half fruit bat boonie dog. Here's my list of supplies (based on past experience).

Newspaper (rolled up) - check
Spray bottle (for squirting offenders) - check
Crate (for time outs) - check
Collar (for dragging to time out crate) - check

What? They aren't dogs, you protest. They must be treated like small human beings. Seriously? I am going to try it as if they are higher life forms but I have a sneaking suspicion that the above method would be faster.

My real list of supplies (based on much advice from experts, friends, and family).

Elmo potty (for waste placement) - check
M & Ms (for bribery) - check
Pottybook (for proper instruction of toddlers in use of potty) - check
Patience - hmmmm, more supplies needed
Wine (for patience building) - check
Rum (see above) - check
Patience - possibly
Rubber gloves (because, gross, my friends) - check
Disinfectant wipes (see above) - check
Bleach (ditto) - check

The hatches are battened. The rugs on the main floor are up. My plan is to start on Tuesday morning (the nanny comes Monday, so I'll spend that day in ritual relaxation exercises) and go in swinging, no messing around. Cold turkey on the diapers. Panties only. I can not think of anything in the last two years that I have wanted to do less, but I'm going to try to go against my germophobic, anal retentive, control freak nature and be positive.

In an attempt to make this disgusting process more palatable for me, I've decided to incorporate something that I love (besides alcohol). A MAP. I have previously mentioned how much I love maps. For example, the one down there on the right? The Cluster Map? The one that magically shows where readers of this blog are when they visit. I might marry it. I would gladly and lovingly potty train it. (My addiction to the Cluster Map is spreading by the way - sorry Jane at See Jane Blog!)

Below is a map of Stacey World, created in order to plot potty training incidents in my house. It's modeled on the brilliant people at Cluster Maps. It's a Messter Map. It shows the floor plan of my house and I will put a dot anywhere that I have to clean up a mess involving bodily functions in the rash hope that collecting red dots on my Messter Map will make cleaning up poop and pee from my floor more exciting. Dare to dream. I already think I need more incentive. I think if I get more than two new dots in one day I also get a guilt-free Starbucks chai tea. And, a glass of wine. And, a rum and coke. I'm feeling better.

And, now, the first, the one, the only, the debut MESSTER MAP. It enlarges if you click on it. Not because I know what I'm doing, but because blogger just does that. Fabulous.


After Tuesday, I am going to move it to the side bar over there on the right and update it daily. I know how excited you probably are about that, so I'll be sure to stay on top of it.

Invisible Bonds

This post has been on mind a lot since I wrote it months ago. Worry that I would be judged and found lacking in some proper measure of maternal warmth kept me from publishing it sooner. PC discussions of adoption often involve trite platitudes about how it is the same, a mother's love is the same, regardless of how a child comes into our lives. The intensity of the love I have for each of my children is the same. The bonds, now that they have formed, are as strong. But, the process of attaching to a toddler as that child attached to me took my breath away with its difficulties and its setbacks and its sheer stubborn slowness.

I often felt ashamed of my emotions in the first year with my daughter (her second year). I felt compassion, tenderness and love. I felt sad and angry and hurt for her and all she had been through in her first year of life. I also felt tired of her. Tired of her tantrums and her anger and her indiscriminate affection. I felt angry too. Angry at her inability to ever accept what was offered as enough. I could never hold her enough, never play a game long enough, never push the swing long enough. It seemed for the longest time that I was not enough. Looking back on it now from a place of love and trust, I know that I did my very best and I did really well. We did really well. But, at the time I felt inadequate in my inability to love her instantly and without reservations, they way I did my newborn sons.

Hearing about birth and the first weeks postpartum from other women has given me a new perspective on the rough start with my daughter. I have listened to women describe their difficulties bonding to high needs infants. Months sometimes are required to get the positive feedback that allows a new mom to feel anything but tired and inadequate when a birth is traumatic or breastfeeding goes poorly or a newborn is collicky or refuses to sleep or be comforted. I realized that the shock of the bonding time with Ess hit me so hard in part because I was spoiled. My pregnancy with Gee was an enjoyable one, his birth exactly what I had planned. He breastfed eagerly and easily. I never experienced much doubt or fear. I bonded to him with unbreakable cords the moment he nuzzled to my chest at a few hours old and never even stopped to ponder when the meld occurred. He looked to me for food, comfort, warmth and security and I had the joy of being able to provide them all with little effort.

When I understood how different each birth mother and child's bonding story can be, it gave my heart permission to understand how different each and every mother and child's bonding story can be. I wonder - what about you? If you've adopted, did bonding happen instantly, slowly, somewhere in between? Was it a moment in time or a slow growth in trust? What if you birthed your children? Was it instant and almost invisible or did circumstances slow things down?

Here is my daughter's and my story.

Screaming - A Bonding Story

The overwhelming thing that I remember about the first year with my daughter is the screaming. Not a grief-stricken sob. Not a wail or a moan. For these things, for pain and grief, I was prepared. A full-on pissed off that I spent the first year of my life in an orphanage and it sucked SCREAM.

Every time I put her down. Every time a meal ended. Every bed time. Every time a toy frustrated her or I took a desired object away from her. Every time we left the playground. Every time we left any thing. She screamed like the ghosts of sixty other toddlers still surrounded her on the orphanage nursery floor and she had to howl with the most volume, the most need, the most fury, just to be heard.

She screamed until I wanted to scream, for sleep, for peace, for a moment to collect myself, for time with my one year old son. Until, I guiltily admit, I sometimes didn’t want to pick her up. Her screams felt so manipulative and unpleasant. Not a cry for help, but an angry, entitled demand. And, not a plea for me, her mother, to comfort her. She would let anyone hold her. Adults were interchangeable.

Often, when she screamed and thrashed at my feet in public over some offense taken, women approached her to comfort her. I felt invisible, removed. Oh no, I’m not her mother. I’m just standing here. I had to fight that lethargy constantly. Anger is not endearing. It is hard to love. (Wise words that had to be applied inward, to myself, if I sought a bond of love.) I had to fight the feeling that I was not entitled to be her mother. That she not only didn’t prefer me, she didn’t like me. That the woman sitting next to me would do it better, would be worthy enough to earn her exclusive love.

Time passed. She learned slowly to trust me. To trust that I would be there when she woke up, that we would eat treats again, that we would return to the swing another day. We joined a cooperative toddler school that met twice a week. The parents met without the children in groups once a week, to give the kids practice separating.

My son in his infinite, attached, normalcy screamed on cue when I left the room, just like all the other two-year-olds. Perfectly age appropriate separation anxiety. Not Ess. She happily played, climbing into anyone’s lap. For once, Ess wasn’t the screamer. Just when I most wanted her to scream. Any adult in a storm.

The year went by. The parent group was discussing aggression when the first sobbing screams drifted in. “Momma. Momma. Mooommmaaaa!” I didn’t move. It wasn’t my son. No one else jumped up. The sound continued, long, drawn out, heartbroken.

She entered the room with her fists stuffed into her open mouth, tears flowing down her face.

“She just got sad,” the mom with her said.

“Momma,” she sobbed, “I sit with you.”

I picked her up and sat quietly with her on my lap while the conversation continued as if the earth hadn’t just moved. In my head, I screamed from the rooftops.

It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, baby. My baby. My daughter. My child. Finally, all mine.

Fantasy and Reality - A Wedding Story

My beautiful, graceful, adorable, loved-by-everyone-who-meets-her baby sister got married last Saturday in North Carolina. I cried like it was my daughter. I have no idea what I'll do when it actually is my daughter. The wedding and all the surrounding parties were amazing and I wouldn't have missed the weekend for the world.

Now, I shall gripe because we had two (count them, two) cross-country travel days within five days with our three lil' darlings. Wait. First, pre-gripe, a moment of silent appreciation for my sister, the most beautiful bride in the history of the world. No bias whatsoever.

Okay, the griping. Four airplanes. One small hotel room. Three babies. Two adults (most of the time, I occasionally reverted to about five and sulked in a corner). We were sooooo outnumbered.

My Fantasy:

HSSH and I board the plane and make our way to our upgraded first class seats carrying only a small bag with a book and a notebook and pen. We sip champagne as we jet across the country. We breeze through the Raleigh airport, grab our one rolling bag from the luggage carousel and board the rental car bus with ease.

My reality:

I have boarding a plane with three small children down to an art form, but we are a scene where ever we go. It's the gaggle of children. We boarded with a minimum of fuss, for us, and still attract the attention of every other person on the flight. The pilot disrupted the boarding process by inviting Ess and Gee into the cockpit where they gleefully lunged for every available button, managing to press at least three when the clueless pilot was not looking. (They are wicked fast. He had no idea the level of evil he had allowed into the cockpit. And, also, why is it called a cockpit? Is that as obnoxiously testosterone filled and chauvinist as I am suspecting?) Leaving me to wonder at what point in the cross-country flight there would be some kind of veiled, we have a button-pressed-by-toddlers induced emergency announcement.

The two-year-olds were fairly good and I still desperately needed a vodka tonic in hour two. Cue hit nap time half way through the first flight and decided that screaming at the top of his pissed off baby lungs was a far more desirable option than just, oh I don't know, sleeping perhaps. I had sworn that I would not nurse because he is basically weaned and I had intentionally worn a very un-nursing-friendly bra in order to keep myself on the straight and narrow. It is the anti-nursing bra. It actively prevents nursing with pads and spikes. But, after fifteen minutes of shrill screaming and over-tired eye rubbing, I crumbled like a poorly constructed block tower, hiked up my shirt, stuffed the offending padding down as far as I could and stuck my nipple in his furious little mouth.

Cue immediately forgot his fury and exhaustion and began his well-rehearsed impersonation of a meerkat. Ever watched Meerkat Manor on Animal Planet? They are those incredibly alert, active little prairie-dog-like creatures that stand up and survey their surroundings with intense interest while turning their heads constantly from side to side. That was Cue. He was perfectly content to survey his territory, casually scanning from side to side for possible danger, predators, someone to play patty-cake or water bottles that he must hold so long as he had constant unobstructed access to my nipple. In case he needed a little sip of milk. All fabric (in particular the anti-nursing bra from hell) needed to be out of his way at all times. Which meant that an entire large jet airplane full of people had an unobstructed view of my nipple except for those rare moments when Cue actually put his big head in front of it for a mouthful of milk. I couldn't decide what was preferable, screaming baby or exposed nipple, so I went with the nipple. It's not that exciting.

My fantasy:

At the rental car center, I smile delightedly as the clerk hands us our keys to my dream car. A small convertible with leather seats and a really good sound system. We drive into the night with the top down and the balmy Carolina breeze cooling our faces.

My reality:

We drug our tired, sorry, dirty children into the rental car place at 10:00 p.m. As we approached the minivan, a chorus of angels sang and a beam of light shot down from heaven to illuminate the wonder. It had built in car seats. BUILT IN CAR SEATS. I was so happy I almost peed my pants. I didn't even care that we'd dragged our three car seats across the country because we only had to install one of them. The joy. Truly. The van of legend also had a built in DVD player. It's true. I know. I teared up typing that sentence. Convertibles are overrated when you can have built in five point harnesses, baby.

My fantasy:

At the rehearsal dinner, my children are beyond cute in their little wedding outfits. They stay clean for more than five seconds. They talk sweetly to the guests. They play and wander around looking adorable without breaking anything. I am also beyond cute in the dress that I bought months ago just for this event and my matching sandals. I give the toast I have been working on for weeks and stand around watching people coo at my perfect little angels and ask me how I can possibly pull everything together like that.

My reality:

The children did look beyond cute in their little wedding outfits. They might have stayed clean for five seconds. Nothing broke and I gave my toast. Unfortunately, I underestimated the amount of time required for the process of getting them dressed and ready to go to the dinner. That took just about all available time. Which left me with no time. Which is why I attended the rehearsal dinner without having showered for two days and with my hair pulled back into a sad, greasy, mommy ponytail. I did wear the fabulous dress, but it lost a little something with the whole failure to maintain basic hygiene problem.

To the left, fabulous dress, terrible hair. Ess' hair, however, looked professional. I really pulled this style off for the dinner. I was so proud!


My fantasy:

I attend my sister's wedding without distraction. I am the best bridesmaid ever. I am available for her every whim and I enjoy every moment. I take pictures and dance with my husband. I go to the after party without a care in the world and stay until the next morning drinking and laughing with my sister and her beautiful, carefree friends.

My reality:

Pretty close due to the excellent idea of hiring a nanny for the children. I spent the day with my sister, the nanny spent the day with my kids. She put them to bed. Fabulous. Then, when we got back to the hotel late and drunk, HSSH offered to stay with the sleeping kiddos and I met the wedding party at a bar and partied like I was one of the young, irresponsible, pretty people until three thirty in the morning. Except that I think that the young, irresponsible, pretty people all got to sleep until nine or so whereas, in my hotel room, not so much. The sun came up at six and so did Cue.

I am a rockstar with a very early rising meerkat baby. This is why I can't play with the party girls any more. Oh, but I have to say that my hair totally redeemed itself on the wedding day. Mainly because I didn't do it myself. So, if I could just have a nanny and a live-in hair stylist, I could keep my kids dressed and look fabulous all the time.

Although I am unbelievably tired, the entire weekend was picture perfect. I wouldn't change a thing. I know that my realities, as trying as they can be, are many, many people's fantasies. My family was fun. My kids were great. I am really, really, really lucky. And, did I mention tired.

Hairku Friday: Secret Wish

My secret wish is
that black women see my girl
and think 'great salon'

My sister is getting married in North Carolina this weekend and this is my test run of Ess' hair style. I tried to do the micro twists without rubber bands and it turned out a little loose, but I LOVE the flower sparkle snaps (thanks Steph at snapaholics!). I think I can improve for the big day. I will admit that I'm nervous about travelling to the southeast. So many more knowledgeable mothers to judge my handiwork. Wish me luck.

If you have a hairstyle and a 'hairku' to share, leave me a comment and I'll add your link to this post. Also, take a few minutes to visit the original Haiku Friday creators, Christina at A Mommy Story and Jennifer at Playgroups Are No Place For Children (and add your link to their lists). Every Friday their blogs link to all the haikus for the day. The theme is hair for everyone today!

I'm such a slacker this week. I've been traveling. Here, at last, (on Tuesday) are the other Hairkuers. (Or, at least, the other Hairkuers who are doing African hair.)

Dia at Team Sawyer
Steph at Adopting Gyrlande

Triathlon, A Beginner's Primer

Saturday was the triathlon. Remember the triathlon? The one in which I was supposed to avoid humiliating my team by running three miles without crying or needing medical attention or otherwise embarrassing myself. Saturday. A June day which dawned wet and freezing cold (high in the fifties). A fact that normally would annoy the living crap out of me (Because HSSH, why do we live in this frozen Arctic wasteland, huh? Why? For your job? That you hate?) and cause me to spend most of the morning whining at my husband about why we ever left the tropics, except that I had to compete in a triathlon and I figured that in my pursuit of avoiding the need for medical attention, cool temperatures were probably a good thing.

By triathlon, I mean mini-sprint distance triathlon. Just in case you had pictured those Olympic distance triathloners, who are insane and who can swim like 10 miles, bike 4000 miles and then run a marathon all by themselves in less time than it took the three of us to finish our mini-version. We had registered for the family division - a quarter mile swim, 12 mile bike and 3.1 mile run. I was well aware that I was the wimpiest member of the team. The runner. Of three miles. Anyone can run three miles. A fact that became very clear to me by the end of the day. Swimmers and bikers are brave and hard to find. Runners are completely interchangeable. But, I don't care because my team rocked and we did it!!

I already loved my teammates - Annie and Elana (names changed to protect the guilty) - but I knew they were my people on triathlon day. Venti Starbucks - check. All teammates in the minivan - check. Running ridiculously late so that we would have no time to stress about Annie drowning in the lake - check. We rolled into the park about ten minutes before our start time with a minimum of panic, having already decided that if we were too late to triathlon, we could eat a lovely breakfast, grab another coffee and head home. At the registration desk, we found that we were registered in the sprint category instead of the family category.

The difference? Only the small matter of the swim distance. It's double. Half a mile instead of a quarter of a mile. But, no problem, nice triathlon organizer lady could fix it for us. The first moment in which I realized that Annie was out of my triathloning league occurred then.

Me: Scraping jaw off of floor, "Double?" Gulp. "Yes, please. Fix it. We want family please."
Annie: "No, that's okay, it doesn't matter."
Me: Unintelligible noises of disbelief. "Gasp. Choke. It's double?!"
Annie: "The distance doesn't bother me, I'm worried about the cold. What's the lake temperature?"

Processing. Processing. Squinty-eyed sideways glare at Annie who claimed to be an 'okay' swimmer. Processing. The distance (n. length one has to swim) you have to swim (v. stay above water so as not to drown) in a lake (n. body of questionably clean water (n. liquid which cannot be breathed if one's head drops below it)) without becoming so tired as to sink (v. syn. DROWN) below the surface and DIE (v. syn. DROWN) doesn't bother (v. syn. FRIGHTEN, TERRIFY, INTIMIDATE) you. Hmmmmm.

I simply could not comprehend this kind of competence because I am one of those women. The one's that give the rest of you a bad name. The kind that shies away and covers her head when a ball is lobbed at me. The kind that has absolutely no athletic talent whatsoever. None. Tennis? No. Skiing? No. Do you run? No. Pick up soccer? No. Toss a football at the beach? No. Natch. Zip. Nada. Nothing. I walk with a ginormous triple-wide stroller. That's it.

My sad lack of athletic hobbies or talents is exacerbated by my thin, possibly athletic if you didn't know me, build. That build is the result of two factors over which I have no control and take no credit. First, genetics. I metabolize like a champ. If there was a metabolizing triathlon, I could win it. My blood sugar is perpetually low. Second, an overactive brain that focuses with syndrome-like exclusiveness on my anxiety of the moment. I always have an anxiety of the moment. I'm anxious. I stress. When I stress, I don't eat. If I have nothing particularly glaring to stress about, I can easily make something up, or do something stupid to create stress, like for instance, sign up for a triathlon.

What I'm trying to say is that Annie's nonchalance over swimming twice the distance I told her she would swim in a cold lake impressed me. Then, she blew through the water dusting the competition and blew me away. She beat some of the men that started ten minutes before the women in our division. That's what I'm talking about.

We learned some things about triathlons. There is an intense PEN OF TRANSITION. Inside of which, everyone is very serious and you must know where you are supposed to be at all times. There are also rules to be followed that are not clearly posted at the entrance. Everyone shares the PEN OF TRANSITION. So, when our incredibly late, giggly little team was trying to set up our transition space in the PEN OF TRANSITION, Olympic distance triathloners who had just completed a 4562 mile bike after swimming 45 miles in 10 minutes were trying to transition to the run. And, no matter where we stood or how small we made ourselves, our puny little sprint distance first time triathloner asses were IN THEIR WAY. Yikes. Seriously.

Elana kicked major triathlon butt on the bike leg, leaving me with plenty of time to walk three miles clutching the stitch in my side and still finish without having to ride the cart that picks up stragglers. As we stood waiting for Elana to finish the bike leg so that I could attempt to run my puny three miles, I had the second moment when I realized Annie was out of my triathloning league. She turned to me casually and asked if I minded if she ran with me. Squinty-eyed sideways glare number two. I am on to you, sporty girl.

"Um, Annie, I have to run it slowly."
"I don't mind, I just want to see how my legs do."
"Really slowly."
"It's okay."
"I can't hurry at all. I get this stitch."
"I don't want to make you nervous."
"No, I don't mind, I just don't know if you are properly comprehending the non-speed of my race pace."
"It's fine."
"Okay."

She did run with me. Cheerfully talking the entire time while I gasped for air and nodded occasionally. There is no way I would have run the whole three miles without her. A combination of mortal shame and distraction via conversation (and amazement that there are people in this world with the ability to talk and run at the same time with no wheezing) kept me moving forward.

End of the story? I finished. No humiliation whatsoever. We did it! We had a blast! We are even talking about doing another one. Annie wants to do the whole thing. Go figure. Know what though, it was really, really fun. Being on a team that finishes something is a cool feeling - even if you are the interchangeable non-athletic runner girl.

To My Sister's Gorgeous, Clueless Friends

A snippet of conversation between a group of childless, twenty-something girls at my sister's bachelorette party.

Gorgeous Girl 1: I saw a birth on Lifetime Health. So gross. The baby is covered in nasty slime when it comes out.
GG2: I know. I can't believe people take pictures of babies right out of the box like that. Hello? No one wants to see your baby until it's cuted up and washed.
GGs1-5: [Laughter.]
GG1: When I have a baby, I don't even want to hold it until they've cleaned it up.
GG3: Yeah, I'm with you. Why do they put it right onto the mom's stomach like that?
GG1: That's exactly what they did on this show. Put it right on her all smeary and gross.
GGs1-5: [Noises indicating general nastiness of newborns.]


Dear Gorgeous, Clueless Friends of My Sister:

I kept quiet at the party when you talked about how gross newborns are, but I had a good laugh inside. I was just like you ten years ago. Before HSSH and I had children, if birth came up, I would wax eloquent with the same beautiful, brazen, blind ignorance. No one would flop a slimy newborn baby up on my stomach. Gross. I didn't want to hold it until it was clean and wrapped neatly in a soft snuggly blanket of appropriate color. (That was when I wasn't claiming that I never wanted children at all because they were loud and annoying and because they could not be put in a kennel when I wanted to travel.)

I know this won't mean anything to you now, but you're wrong. No, really, you are. When you give birth (and oh, beautiful girls, I wish that for you, effortless conception, easy pregnancies and births without trouble, without loss, so that you will never know how lucky you really are), you won't care. You will scream and cry and struggle and fear. You will labor and come out the other side a changed woman. They call it childbirth, but it is also motherbirth. When that slimy baby finally emerges, covered in blood and mucus and ooze, you won't hesitate. Your only thoughts as you reach for it (him or her now, but we won't know for years), like Bilbo stretching for the ring, will be "Give him to me. He's mine. MY PRECIOUS. I want to hold him close. I want to feel his heartbeat and touch his face and keep him warm and safe with me forever."

You will wrap your arms around him and kiss his slippery head and snap your teeth like a cornered badger at the nurses trying to wipe him down because you will never, ever have loved anything the way you love that tiny child. You will love him covered in ooze at birth and covered in poop at one and covered in mud at five. You will love him when he spits venom at you at ten and when he refuses to speak to you at sixteen. With a love that transcends gross and that is blind to ooze, no matter how nasty.

You call me in ten years. I'll sell my children if it's not true.

Love, Any Mommy

Hairku Friday: The Learning Curve

On Fridays, Jennifer at Playgroups Are No Place for Children and Christina at A Mommy Story organize a group of bloggers that post haikus. Along with a few others moms who are on the learning curve of styling African-heritage hair, I thought that doing a Friday "Hairku" each week and sharing hairstyles would be a great way to celebrate our children's gorgeous hair and might inspire us to tackle more intimidating techniques on 'hair day.' (Or, maybe embarrass us into tackling more complicated styles?)

Here I go, the inaugural "Hairku" Friday.

My unschooled fingers
Work to learn tasks some mothers
Learned in their childhood

Visiting Haiti, I got a glimpse of how important 'doing hair' is. It's not only a cultural skill, it's also a family event and a time to bond with all of the female members of an extended family. I know my daughter will never sit in a row with her sisters and cousins while they all do each other's hair and listen to family stories and gossip, but I still want her to know how it feels to sit in her mother's lap while I lovingly style her hair for the next week. I'm learning!

We just took this style out a few days ago, but it's one of my favorites yet. It is simple box twists with dragonfly snaps.

If you have a hairstyle and a 'hairku' to share, leave me a comment and I'll add your link to this post. Also, take a few minutes to click on the links to the original Haiku Friday creators (and add your link to their lists). Every Friday their blogs link to all the haikus for the day. Fun!

Hurray! Here are the other Hairkuers out there this morning. Sorry I've been so slow, I'm on the west coast.

Pam at You're Gonna Miss This

Lenka at The Steiger Clan

Dia at DiaSawyer

Parenting 101, Chapter One, Bribery

A Saturday or two ago, I caused much eyerolling and whining (from my husband) when I announced our annual MANDATORY family photography excursion to the stunning flower wall in our local park. I refused to take no for an answer. I dressed the small fry and we wheeled the triple-wide down to the wall. We cajoled them into place in front of the flowers. I took one picture with my beautiful, great big, fancy Nikon D50 (that I adore with a passion that ought to be reserved for human beings rather than material things and that I have absolutely no idea how to use) and then the uncharged battery promptly died.

Home. Charged battery during naps. Back. Three kids and husband significantly grumpier than first attempt at flower wall, if possible.

We arranged them artfully a second time. They whined. I pleaded. They refused to smile. I begged. They ran in the other direction. I took many, many shots of stunning flowers with blurry parts of moving toddlers in the corner. Also, many unintentional flower shots with missing children. Because, target children had departed the vicinity of the flowers.

They picked flowers. I threatened. Cue ate flowers. I screeched in horror and scared him to tears. Everyone cried at least once. I growled at HSSH and his terrifically unhelpful poor attitude numerous times. I snapped hundreds of pictures with two perfectly posed children and one child picking his or her nose, or leaning backwards, or rolling, or slumping over (Cue! Sheesh, he's such a baby!).

Finally, in despair, I bribed them with promises of chocolate and ice cream. The children I mean. For Grumpy the over-six-foot-tall dwarf, the mere allusion to a shower that may or may not involve him at some undisclosed point in the future generally works miracles. I will never again get them (any of them) to do anything without a reward. I violated one of the basic tenets of my parenting philosophy: Thou shalt not be rewarded for acting like a human being is expected to act. It was completely worth it.

Three Hour Chinese Sugar Torture Test

I keep all my old calendar planners. Does anyone else do that or is this yet another frightening manifestation of my control freak personality? I buy big, beautiful leather bound calendars. The kind that show the entire month on one double page spread with plenty of room for notes and scratch-outs. I have every one since college wasting space in a manila envelope in my filing cabinet. During occasional cleaning fits, I consider throwing them away, but the only journals I've ever kept are contained in the reminders scribbled on each day's two inch square.

My current calendar (in lilac purple leather) spans March 2007 to August 2008. I don't know how I will let this one go into the file because of the way my heart breaks and swells when I flip through it. For months last summer, as their language exploded, I recorded Ess and Gee's new words each day. I recorded the weeks of Cue's pregnancy. Alongside the baby trivia, I also documented the roller coaster of life with our older son in laughably terse prose. Therapy appointments and phone calls. Innocuous on the surface, but hiding major decisions and agony behind their dry notation.

This morning, I happened to glance at this week, June 2-9, 2007. A week of my life contained in neat print entries fit into two inch squares. On Saturday: "seven months pregnant." Cue's arrival was just seven weeks away. On Thursday: "7 p.m. Call with Smiths." The first actual conversation we would have with the couple that would become our oldest son's second adoptive family. On Friday at the top of the square: "8:30 a.m. 3 hour sugar test." Also, at the bottom of that same day, "bless you - Ess and Gee."

That last entry cracks me up. Friday, June 8, 2007 was not one of the better days I've ever lived, but then again, it's not in the worst twenty either. That dubious distinction is reserved for days like a Tuesday later that same month. That entry reads "our son leaves with B and S, 5 p.m." Such a simple note for the last day I would probably ever see the little boy who had been a part of our lives for over two years.

I had failed my one hour glucose test a few weeks prior and had an 8:30 a.m. appointment to take the three hour test. If you haven't experienced the three hour sugar torture test, it's really fun. Ask for one if you ever get a chance. The lab instructed me to fast for 12 hours before the appointment. For a pregnant woman, at least for me as a pregnant woman, not eating equals unpredictable nausea.

HSSH hadn't been able to get that Friday off and I couldn't get a sitter. I didn't really know anyone in town. At more than 12 hours since my last meal, I arrived at my midwife's office with my 22 month old daughter and 20 month old son in tow. The nurse took my fasting blood sugar level and then handed me a huge bottle of orange liquid derived from whatever mix of chemicals they put into Fanta to make it that alien-life-form orange color. Mixed with sugar, tons of sugar. I'm guessing maybe two huge grocery store bags of sugar? Minimum. Minus the pleasing fizz.

The nurse advised me to drink it fast so that it didn't get warm. Plus, there's a time limit in the sport of pregnant alien orange goop chugging, apparently. If you can't beat the clock, you have to do it again a different day. I chugged like a champion. They should put this stuff on ESPN II or, at the very least, a Japanese game show.

Post chug, they take your blood every hour for three hours (hence the name of the test) to see if you are processing the sugar correctly. If not, you're diagnosed with gestational diabetes. I survived the first hour in the waiting room looking at the fish tank and reading ripped, fraying books to my toddlers. I gave blood again at hour one. I survived the second hour prostrate on three chairs in the play area, blocking my toddlers' access to the rest of the room and trying not to move for fear I would puke right there on the floor in front of the fish tank.

When they called my name at hour two, I managed to get Ess and Gee strapped into the double stroller and wheeled back into the lab. I somehow remained upright through the blood draw. I stood up from the stool in the small lab and I knew it was over. I'd fought the good fight, but it wasn't my day. Fear and alien orange sugar were a factor for me.

As I lowered myself to the floor, just inches from my babies' dangling legs, I remember the nurse saying "you look pale" and barely answering "I'm going to be sick" before I was, repeatedly, into the proffered trash can. My children watched with studious fascination. After considering my retching carefully for a minute, Gee said, "Bless you, Momma." Without thinking, I croaked, "Thank you, baby." This delighted them. All sports are more fun with audience participation. Thereafter, each time I gagged up another mouthful of orange syrup, my little cherubs chirped "Bless you, momma, bless you" from their ringside seats. Their new words for that day.

I wonder if I would remember all of this, if I hadn't written "bless you - Ess and Gee" in my calendar that night at the end of a long day. Writing this story after seeing those little notes convinces me to hang onto all my calendars. Even life's littlest notes are worth something looking back.