19 05 2011

We all piled onto the trampoline on Sunday, the four kids and my sister and I. We played a few games, like “Crack The Egg” and “Who Can Double Bounce The Highest”.

Amidst howls of laughter, we played like a bunch of goofballs. Granted, my sister and I had shared a bottle of wine. I should know by now that this generally allows for mistakes in judgement.

Then. Well, then, you see, it happened. I felt it. The result of having a couple of fetuses hangin’ around on the top of my bladder for a combined amount of time of 18 months.

I jumped up, and said “Oh my God, I’m gonna pee my pants…” and in some sort of last-ditch effort to save my dignity, I clenched with all my might.

It was to no avail. I came down, landed on my rear end and there, in front of the children and my sister, I peed.

You guys… you guys…. I could NOT laugh hard enough. As I rolled to the side to stand up and get the hell off that evil contraption, the evidence of my bladder issues was blatantly puddled in the middle of the trampoline.

The kids screamed in horror.

I, clutching my stomach from laughing so hard, crawled off the trampoline while my sister literally had tears streaming down her cheeks from laughing too.

After I had *ahem* changed my pants, giggling all the while, planning out how I was to write this up for my blog, I realized two things.

First, I must do more kegels. Duh.

And second, it didn’t embarrass me one bit. Not at all. I guess that’s what happens when you have kids. You pee your pants and take it in stride.

Appropriate Mother’s Day Post.

5 05 2011

We’ve all been there: A newly born baby. 3 a.m. feedings. A sore hoo-ha. Breasts that feel like they would burst if pricked by a needle. Day four or five after having a baby. Milk coming in with a torrential punch in the face full of hormones and tears. And many of us have done this with a toddler or two, or had older kids, or maybe was a single parent.

Someone dear to me in my life is going through this right now. She has been gifted two girls to mother and raise. One is almost 4, one is days old.

Her birth story is one that will be told among girlfriends over wine for years to come; it is seriously that good.

It is so foreign to me what she is experiencing, though I walked a similar path nearly ten years ago. But I still remember those blurrish days, trips to the grocery store; two and a half year old in tow, newborn baby either strapped onto my chest or in her car seat right in front of me. I cannot tell you how many times I leaked breastmilk onto my shirt while buying tomatoes or eggs or toilet paper.

Those are trying times, my friends. Difficult, tear-inducing days of nothing but poop and tantrums and laundry and poop. But in a twisted sadistic way, so epically worth it: to describe the mere awesomeness of this time of life is to sound like I just smoked a massive blunt.

Seriously, when you are in the thick of it, it is nothing less than intense. But there are these moments that are in my mind. They sparkle in supended moments in my memories. A sleepy smile from your week old baby girl. A hug from your older child, soft chubby arms clinging to your neck, the love a tangible force. Accepting that your sleep will include having a baby, toddler and husband in bed with you and being okay with it. Believe me, they eventually grow out of this habit. Sweet kisses and walks to the park. Waking at 2 a.m. with a baby stretched out beside your body, no one awake except the two of you. Eyes lock to one another. Fingers gather and twine. Making a quick batch of brownies with your first born while the baby sleeps in the swing; licking the beaters together and sharing milk through a straw. Letting him blow bubbles just for the sheer joy of it.

So, this is my Mother’s Day blessing: For this new mother in my life who is already an old hat at it. Hang tight, breath deep, take lots of pictures and just be in the moment. And sometimes drink a glass of wine. And know that it is all so worth it.

Happy Mother’s Day to all Mamas out there. Happy Mother’s Day to Kendall. ♥

In between camps, as it were.

2 05 2011

So, yeah. Bin Laden was killed.

When the news broke on Sunday evening, as the kids settled in to watch The Simpsons before bed, they were befuddled as to why the show was pre-empted to go live to the White House; it offered up a chance to speak frankly with our kids about the current state of world affairs.

Dan and I are both very honest with our kids about shit in the world. Truth be told, I firmly believe in not pretending the world is a field full of daisies in which we romp and play with nothing but smiles on our faces and happy feelings in our hearts. Most of the world lives in a much harsher sense of reallity than we do, in our cushy sweet Western lives. Clean water and no war on our doorstep. Public schools for both my son and my daughter. No worries about female genital mutilation. No wondering if my son will be lured into Martyrdom by some zealot cleric. Children growing up in other parts of the world sadly and terribly have a much clearer sense of reality in a tangible way. How lucky we are. Oh, my god, how lucky we are…

So when the news broke that a special forces unit shot and killed this man who was responsible for having a say in whether or not thousands of lives would be taken for religion’s sake, I was torn. I was honestly appalled at the dancing and celebration in the streets of cities in the United States. To me, there was no difference in their reaction compared to reactions of people in the Middle East cheering when a successful terrorist killing spree happened.

But. BUT. I never lost anyone in the attacks. I have never experienced first-hand the desire for retribution. How do I know that if my husband/child/sister/father was killed on that day almost ten years ago that I would not crave blood? That I would want someone held responsible and given the same treatment as he gave my loved one? That my initial and long-standing reaction would be desire for an eye for an eye?

I cannot judge others for their reaction or emotions. I am worried about the Islamic retribution, I feel anger towards the US government for making decisions that will affect the world that my children are growing up in, I feel glad that he is gone, I feel sad that the world is what it is. I respect that choices need to be made, I am angry that those choices could mess up the world even more.

As for the man whose life is no longer. I hope that in that last moment of your bitter and hate-filled life, you glimpsed truth and compassion and perhaps in some way you felt empathy, sympathy and sorrow for what you did. You were, after all, a human being.