I originally posted this story in September '09, but I wanted to share it again today for Theta Mom's blog hop today (1/28/10). I think it's a great example of how I've finally managed to find a little "me" time each week... even if I do end up spending it with a bunch of 13 year old girls.


I can distinctly remember the events that led up to my first ballet class. We had just moved into our new home (which is now the home my parents have lived in for 24 years and have just now updated the horrendous 1985 kitchen... but I digress). I was dancing along to the Pointer Sisters on the radio, spinning, twisting, and twirling on the silky smooth, brand new berber carpeting in the family room. I was three and a half years old, and my mom asked me if I'd like to take dance lessons. The rest is history. The next week, I was in the ballet/tap/tumbling combo class at DC School of Dance, where I continued my dancing "career" for the next 15 years.

During that time, I was a fairy in countless ballets, an alley cat, an actual cat from "Cats", Cleopatra's favorite "cat" (good gosh, I was more of a feline than Garfield for a while there!), and perhaps the quirkiest role of all time, a giraffe (that's for you, CAK). I have hordes of costumes in trunks and tubs, tucked safely away in my parents' basement...

...just in case G ever wants to be a hula girl or a blackbird on Halloween at some point down the road.

My passion for dance continued into high school, where I danced on my school's dance team, and then into college. That's where my eyes were opened into the realities of what dance really could be. Call it "big fish in a little pond" syndrome, but when I was growing up, I thought I was a good dancer. But as soon as I sent foot onto the rehearsal floor for my first class, I knew I was nothing. Nobody. It was a girl named Orly (who had no thighs-- seriously-- those legs were toothpick-skinny all the way from her ankles to her hips) who really brought my dancing dreams crashing down around me. She was as nice as nice could be, but man, could she dance circles around me and my small-town training.

Over time, I found my niche in the dancing world at college. I performed on stage dozens of times as a member of two performance groups on campus, and by my senior year, I was even teaching lessons and choreographing competition pieces at an off-campus dance school. When I went on to pursue my graduate degree at another school, I took my love of dance with me, and danced in a student-run group there. After graduating with my Masters, I even had the privilege to coach the university's dance team. To this day, that remains the highlight of my dancing days.

But once I got married and started my real career, it seemed there was no time for dancing. Between work, being a wife, and caring for our home and dog, the only dancing I got to do was during a round of "Dance Dance Revolution".

That is, until tonight.
About a month ago, I came up with the crazy idea that I would dance again. I'm not sure what possessed me (ok, I do-- So You Think You Can Dance; God help me, that show makes me want to get down!). It's been four years and one baby since I've put on my ballet slippers and leg warmers and hit the dance floor for a serious class, but that didn't stop me from seeking out a studio, signing up, and heading to my first class in what seemed like a lifetime.

Was I intimidated? That's putting it mildly. My instructor is a former Carolina Panthers cheerleader-- need I say more? My classmates are all teenagers. I've been dancing longer than most of these girls have even been alive. Was I the best? Heck no! I didn't expect to be. But I loved every minute of it. I loved stretching and twisting my body into positions it hasn't seen in years (hello, splits!). I loved running across the studio floor into a full leap. I loved the pirouettes (although, I hated to learn than even after a four year hiatus, I still can't spot).

I don't have any grand visions of going all Margot Fonteyn (yes, I had to Google the proper spelling of her name) or Bob Fosse on stage. I just wanted to take 45 minutes out of my jam-packed week to do something that has played such an integral role in my life. And it felt good.

Just in case you thought I was being melodramatic with my parasailing excursion a few weeks ago, this from the local news stations less than 50 miles from where DH & I went on our adventure:

Family Remembers Ocean Isle Parasailing Victim

A very sobering reminder than even those little joys in our lives can be dangerous. My heart is with these women's families.

I stole the term "interweb" from one of my favorite co-workers. He may or may not have coined the phrase, I'm not sure. But it's definitely become the word of choice at our station when referring to the internet. And it's becoming ubiquitous.

At the TV station, we Skype. We Twitter. We Facebook. We have an email account that's open to public comment, and a website that allows our viewers to debate the stories we broadcast around the clock. And debate they do. What I've noticed is, very rarely do they make positive comments. The good (like award-winning political coverage by our fantastic news team) is often drowned out by comments about what our viewers believe is the bad (like improper grammar on a graphic) or the downright ugly(pre-empting golf coverage to air a tornado warning in part of the viewing area).

Away from the station, I've found the same is true in my personal life. Admit it: most of us are guilty of this morbid fascination with the negative. Whether it's devouring the latest tabloid headlines on Jon & Kate's divorce or badmouthing a friend behind her back, we've all engaged in some type of less-than-savory behavior at some point in our pasts. Usually, the negativity comes from people we don't know. When that happens, we try to brush past it and move on. But every once in a while, a comment comes from a friend-- or someone we thought was our friend-- and it brings our world to a screeching halt.

Recently, I found myself the target of such hurtful-- hateful-- words. Really, the comments came as a shock and an affront. At first, it felt like a slap in the face. I was baffled as to what I'd done to deserve such spiteful words. Then I realized: by blogging, I choose to open myself up to the opinions and reactions of others.

I understand my words may not resonate with everyone. But I don't write for you. I write for me. I write this so that I have a healthy outlet to let go of some of the stress of a tough day. I write this so I can share the joys and ironies of motherhood with like-minded or curious people. The only reason I keep it public is because sometimes, it's nice to read comments from people who feel the same way or have been in a similar situation. It's validation for both of us.

You also have a choice. If you don't like what I'm saying or how I'm saying it, don't read. Pass on by, you won't insult me. And if your goal is to insult or wound, then you might as well pass on by anyway. Don't you remember the old child's phrase sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me?

It's been true since we both moved onto the street the same week three years ago this month.

Our home had been on the market for 10 months when we bought it, and it looked it. The box hedges had defied their shapely name. Pockets of green were sprouting up between the cracks in the front walk. And the grass.... ohhhhhh, the grass. It was the sole reason we almost didn't buy this house.

But our next door neighbor's house was completely different. While our yard was infested with weeds, vines, and huge mushrooms, their yard was full of soft, fluffy, vibrant grass. There was a clear deliniation between the two yards, between where their golf course-like lawn started and our jungle-amidst-the-suburbs began. And it was the ire of DH's eye.

Now, it has never been my intention that this blog would be a dumping ground on my DH. He is an amazing man. He puts up with a lot from my type-A, over-demanding, relentless personality. So bear with me.

The first year we moved into this house, we concentrated on improving the inside. We (ok, ok-- DH-- but I did help) tiled the fireplace, installed all new lighting fixtures, painted the downstairs, laid tile on the kitchen floor, even replaced our old formica countertops. Year two was a flourish of preparation for the baby. We (he) painted her room, put furniture together, even added on to our house so G would have a place to put her toys (that's not exactly why we got the sunroom, but it has become its main purpose).

Year two also holds the honor of "The Year DH Conquered The Lawn". He interviewed lawn-care companies, researched fertilizers and seeds on the web, even convinced his good friend from work to aerate our yard. DH spent countless hours mowing and bagging the grass, pulling weeds, and watering. By the end of last summer-- dare I say it?-- our lawn looked just as good (maybe better) as our neighbor's.

That changed as soon as G was born. At first, I didn't even notice. It was fall, and the growing season was over anyway, and besides, who had the time to mow? Then DH cancelled the lawn-care company, convinced they weren't worth the money, that he could do a better job. As soon as spring was upon us, DH took to the grass with his mower, and our lawn did look fine. For about a week.

Then, DH seemed to misplace the mower. Ok, he didn't really misplace it, but you would have thought so by looking outside. He dropped his twice-a-week mowing, weeding, watering schedule and began spending time with G instead (how dare he!). The yard became second-fiddle to our family. At first, I didn't mind. The lawn really seemed to be taking care of itself. For a while, at least.

The grass seemed to be knee-high by the Fourth of July, but already, I'd had it up to here (I'm pointing to my neck). The yard-- which just a year earlier had become a carpet of lush, green grass-- had reverted back to the state it was in when we purchased the house: a suburban-jungle. I couldn't go outside without being attacked by the swarms of mosquitoes taking cover in it. I wouldn't let G play in it, for fear it might be hiding something malevolent, like snakes or spiders. I felt trapped in our house.

That's about the time the nagging started. I tried to begin gently... but soon, my fuse was short and so were my demands. "Honey, have you thought about when you'd mow again?" "Dear, when was the last time you sprayed for weeds?" "Babe, wouldn't it be nice if the yard was in good enough shape for a picnic?" "DH, MOW THE YARD!" I admit, I might not have gone about insinuating the yard needed more attention the right way. My tongue might have been a little harsh. But we were not keeping up with the Lims (our neighbors). Despite Mr. Lim's penchant for mowing half my yard (I'm fairly certain he knows where the property line is and just disregards it) and only starting up the lawnmower at 7:05 every Saturday morning, his yard is still as pristine as a city park. I'm not ashamed to say it. I'm jealous.

DH finally mowed the yard again, and I must concede, it looks much better when it's short and you can't see how some of the weeds are significantly taller than the grass. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as I'd imagined it to be. Maybe I just need to accept the fact that the grass is always greener in Mr. Lim's yard.

When DH finished up his last semester of college, he was ebulliant. Ever since I'd met him, he'd told me how he procrastinated on every assignment, frequently dozed off during lectures, and sometimes skipped classes he didn't find interesting. This behavior led to a rather undistinguished departure from the university where we met (which we'll call "Dupont"-- Tom Wolfe fans, read into this as you like), before he rather fortunately fell on his feet at another well-known school. But despite his ultimate academic succes-- which earned him All-Conference Academic honors for football his senior year-- school was never really his thing.

This is one of the many ways in which we are completely, utterly, totally different. From my first day of montessori school at age three-- when my mom offered to escort me inside, only to hear me politely decline and walk in without glancing back-- to my last history class at "Dupont", academia has been my niche. Part of my love of learning is because I'm just plain good at it; I have a strong memory, which is at times photographic, and helps me keep track of facts, figures, dates, names, and places. But I also love the analytical, theoretical, interpretive part of the learning process. I adore taking a piece of information, mulling over it in my brain, then ultimately deciphering some more in-depth message that had been buried in the context.

Yesterday was the first day of school for students where we live now, and this time of year always finds me nostalgic. I long for the rush of anticipation that comes with the first day of class; what will I wear? who will be in my classes? will my teachers challenge me? (OK, let's level here: yes, I was that kid in school. I was not necessarily a suck up, but because I actually enjoyed learning and got good grades, my teachers genuinely liked me. Call me a dork if you want, I wear that title with honor.) I miss the days when my mom would take me to Staples or Office Depot and let me pick out all the notebooks, pens, and folders I wanted.

Even though I already own a Bachelor's degree from "Dupont", and a Master's degree from one of the top journalism schools in the country, I have promised myself that I will continue my education. Not this year... maybe not next year... but some day, some how, I am going to go back to school and earn the degree I've always wanted: my Ph.D.. I know it's a process that will most likely take me the better part of a decade, and won't ultimately pay off in terms of cold hard cash. But for a perpetual student like me, I can think of no thing that holds more value in my mind and in my heart.

So to all my teacher-friends out there-- and there are a lot of you in this endearing profession-- thank you from the bottom of my heart. It's people like you who have made me who I am, who nurtured my love of learning. And remember-- when a dorky kid in the front row with glasses raises her hand eagerly tomorrow morning to start the school year off with a know-it-all answer... that kid could be me.

Wait! I guess it should be G did NOT eat poop. You see, I'm playing along with MckMama's "Not My Child" (aka "Not Me") Monday for the first time today. MckMama is one of my favorite bloggers, and a great inspiration as well. And I figured, since my blog is all about confessing to things, what better way to get a few things off my conscience?

If you're not familiar with MckMama's blog, follow the links on mine. You can get there in one of three ways: clicking on the "Not My Child" link in this post, the "Pray For Stellan" link on the left side panel, or the direct link to her blog in the "Blogs I Follow" section.

Anyway, let me begin this post again... This week, one of my wonderful online friends did NOT find her son with a dingleberry in his hands, poised to eat. And Friday night, G did NOT totally one-up my friend's son. Not only did she NOT poop in the bathtub (wow, a double negative in that sentence... does that negate the not-me-ness of this post?), she also did NOT pick up one of the little nuggets and try to eat it! Where was I, during all this? Obviously, I am not stupid enough to leave my 11-month old in the bathroom alone; I had simply turned my back momentarily to clean the toilet (where people are SUPPOSED to poop!). If you've ever seen G's bathroom (formerly known as the spare bedroom), then you know it's teeny tiny and that it's impossible to be more than four feet away from her at any given time.

In more bathroom fun, G did NOT insist on standing in the tub this week during bathtime with DH (see, I'm not the only one whose had bad luck in the tub this week!), only to slip, fall, and get her very first black eye. DH did NOT take a picture of the bruise, despite my protests that if he posted it anywhere, we would look like child abusers. We did NOT placate G's tears with a popcicle. It was 15 minutes before bedtime, people, and stuffing the child's face with a sugary treat would NOT have been irresponsible.

G has also NOT taken to the lovely habit of eating all her board books. These were the books DH & I strategically placed in the family room, her diaper bag, the sunroom, for her reading (ok, looking) enjoyment. In the past week, G has NOT managed to eat the nose off a very cuddly puppy, has NOT pulled out all the "glitter paper" from her "First Words Sparkle" book, and has NOT tried to eat a picture of an Easter egg. I have NOT allowed her to do all this, thinking it's simply a good source of fiber and will keep her regular. No way!

And while we're on the topic of things G likes to put in her mouth (wow, in this post alone, we've covered poop and paper), I should mention that she in no way, NO HOW, likes to sample Ducky's food. Ewww, gross. That would NOT be something a sensible parent would allow her child to do. It would NOT be a constructive way of distracting my daughter while I get dinner ready. Absolutely not.

Do you have a confession you'd like to make? Feel free to share... I won't out you if you post anonymously either. We all have things we need to get off our chests now and then!

It's official. My baby girl is walking.

Actually, I've been thinking about exactly how I'd write this post for weeks, because G has been practicing her new talent for about that long.

It started right after DH's parents visited from out of town. Literaly the night after they left, DH & I were sitting about three feet away from each other on the carpeted living room floor. He was holding G between his legs, and when he let go to allow her to stand on her own, she shocked us all by toddling, tripping, walking over to me. We looked at each other in disbelief. At this point, she was barely 10 months old, far too early for someone who had just perfected crawling a few weeks earlier. So we passed it off as a fluke.

But G has continued to practice, and as we all know, practice makes perfect. OK, she hasn't perfected this skill just yet, but she is getting there. This week, she finally seemed to get it down. She walked from DH to myself without any prompting, without any help, without falling into her destination (a hallmark of her early days on two feet). We even managed to capture her on camera.

It's a funny thing about watching your child reach a new milestone. I think this is something all mothers would agree with. On one hand, you are beyond proud. Watching your baby roll over, crawl, cruise, or walk for the first time is just as jaw-dropping, as awe-inspiring as watching Michael Phelps break another world record. But at the same time, it's bittersweet. It means your child-- the one you rocked to bed each night for so long, just to see that sweet smile pass over her face as she finally drifted off to dreamland-- is getting closer and closer (gulp) to walking away from you. So while you beam at the newfound mobility, you're also terrified by the increasing level of independence.

I'm trying hard to embrace the joy of G's early steps, rather than be petrified-- paralyzed-- by them. So right now, all I have to say is walk on G, walk on.

Vacation is more than a time to just get away from it all. It's really a chance to get it all together. From time with G, DH, my parents, and my best friend, to just some much-needed time with myself, our trip to the Low Country beaches was a time to relax and recuperate from the stresses of every day life back at home.

So it may come as a shock to know that in the midst of all this rejuvenation I did something to intentionally scare the crap out of myself.

It's been an open secret among many of my friends (but I guess it's totally in the open now!) that DH & I have been going to couples counseling over the past few months. Between G's birth and a relatively massive shake-up at DH's job, we've been a high-stress household over the past year. When we learned that the counseling sessions were a free "perk" of DH's work, we decided to take advantage of the service and spend some time talking to an impartial third-party about how we can make our marriage stronger. It's been a great experience, one I will probably blog more about when we finish our sessions in a few weeks.

The reason I'm telling you all this now is because of something our counselor said to us when we first started seeing her. It probably comes as no surprise to those who know me best that I am a type-A personality. Ok, if personality types were like batteries, I'd be an AAA. A as in anal. A as in an absolute control freak. A as in aggravatingly, annoyingly, absurdly pigheaded, stubborn, and strong-willed. Sometimes, all that A-ness works in my favor. Sometimes it bites me in the butt. Often, it leaves me unwilling to compromise on just about anything-- my work, my house, my family, my security. Anyway, our counselor adeptly picked up on my in-control personality, and urged me to do something-- anything-- to break away from it, if even for a few moments. She told me that I needed to feel that momentary sense of fear-- that inability to control a situation-- in order to truly let go.

With that in mind, I conceived a plan to let go of all my inhibitions: parasailing. For some, like my daughter's godfather, this would simply be considered a weekend outing. But for me, it was combining a handful of my biggest fears-- the ocean (too vast), boats (too undependable), sharks (too much time on the Discovery Channel), heights (too unsecure). It would truly be a situation in which every single detail would be out of my control. And I was scared senseless.

The night before our trip (yes, our; my one safety net in this situation was to bring DH with me), I rolled over in bed and told him I couldn't-- wouldn't-- do it. I couldn't fall asleep, for fear of the nightmares that would plague me. Would the rope snap, plunging me 100 feet to certain death or blowing me all the way to Europe? Would our boat run out of gas, leaving us stranded in the middle of the vast abyss? Would sharks leap out of the water to bite my legs when the parachute inevitably dipped us into the surf? I was certain something-- everything-- horrible would happen.

It took all the courage I had just to get in the car so DH could drive us to the dock. Two capsules of dramamine later, I had managed to walk to the water's edge, where our "captain" and crew were waiting for us. On board, I quickly realized what a terrible mistake I'd made. At 27, I was the youngest person on the vessel. Our captain and his "mate" were only 25. The seven other parasailers were all teenagers. I'd put my life in their hands? What had I done?

But the crew of this boat knew what they were doing. The "mate" made jokes, interspersed with facts about the safety of parasailing (which, being the good journalist I am, I have since checked out... he wasn't lying). The captain, seeing the obvious trepidation in my eyes, avoided the heaviest surf and instead stayed in open, smooth waters. But even so, when it was finally our turn, I clung desperately onto the rail for dear life-- much to DH's embarassment and our teenage company's hilarity-- begging the mate to unhook me. But it was no use. In a matter of seconds, I was dangling dozens of feet above the water. And that's when something unexpected happened.

I calmed down. High above the noisy motor of our little boat, all I could hear was the breeze in my ears. I focused not on the water below me, but on the sky above me. I did my best to ignore the butterflies in my stomach, and instead enjoyed the feeling of soaring through the air. That's not to say the little, type-A voice inside of me wasn't throwing a fit. All those terrifying thoughts continued to circle through my head, telling my sensible self I was cheating death. But somehow, I managed to drown out those negative thoughts. I was actually a bit (just a bit) disappointed when the mate and captain began to reel us back in to the boat.

On the way back to the dock, I didn't talk much. I was too deep in thought, thinking about what I'd just done. It was the challenge of a lifetime for me. And while I definitely didn't get over my fears-- I doubt I'd even go parasailing again-- I did confront them head on. I learned that I can leave my comfort zone and try something new. I might not always love it, or even like it. But knowing that I am bigger than my fears is a victory in itself.

I have one of my anchors at the TV station to thank for turning me on to Pat Conroy and "The Prince Of Tides", one of my all-time favorite books. And it's fitting that over the past week, as DH, G, & I enjoyed a langourous vacation to South Carolina Low Country-- Conroy's "home turf" if you will-- our little girl truly proved that she is the princess of tides.

As we arrived at the condo where my parents and I have spent one week every summer for the past 27 years, I couldn't help but think about how this lazy place-- despite it's hazy landscape-- holds some of the most vivid memories of my childhood. It was in this condo that I had my "first kiss" (a peck on the cheek by a friend of my cousin's; I'd been convinced we were destined to be together... but I haven't heard from him in 18 years). It's where I played my first (and last) round of golf. It's where I found my true passion for the water, an all-consuming obsession which took me all across the country competing in swim meets on all levels. Now, it seems, it may be a passion I've passed down to G.

Let me begin by stating this simple fact: G has three swim suits. I have two. That, alone, is proof positive that this little girl can't be kept dry. Over the summer here at home, she's gone swimming once or twice a week, either at a friend's pool, a local water park, or our own backyard "plastic" pool. But during the past week, G set a new standard for the term "water baby". She spent so much time by the beach, at the pool, or ultimately, in the shower getting rid of all that salt, sand, and chlorine, that we went through an entire bottle of baby sunblock.

Of course, every princess has her mythical pea-- the minute details that can be even a baby's downfall. G had quite a few of these veritable "peas". Eating sand, for one. I'd known this was a distinct possibility after watching her play at her friend "I"'s first birthday party a few weeks ago. The salt in the water was also a problem, especially for a baby who seems to have a particularly vulnerable left eye. Seriously, everything gets into this eye, then she inevitably rubs it, it gets red, a little swollen... you get the picture. But her biggest Achilles' Heel were waves. Just when she seemed to have her balance in the water... WOOSH!... a wave would come and knock her down. But my girl handled it like a champ, crawling away from the water's edge in search of more sand for lunch.

There were other firsts for G over the past week, as well. Her first taste of... well, adult food. She feasted on sausage patties (big fan), chocolate milk (no problems), real spaghetti and meatballs (not the Stage 3 Gerber stuff), even a bit of Mommy & Daddy's fudge. She got a chance to "build" her first bear, play with her first puzzle, and even got her first autographed copy of a book (Thanks, Aunt "S"!). She rode on her first carnival ride-- a merry-go-round-- and got up close and personal with ducks (the kind that quack, not her similarly-named dog!).

In a way, stepping into the land of my youthful summers with my own child in tow was like stepping back into time. The lazy, hazy days of a Low Country summer gave me the opportunity to relish these precious moments with G, and reminisce back to my own childhood. I know it hasn't been all that long- but having that much time with G, a whole nine, uninterrupted days, turned this working mom into-- at least temporarily-- just a mom.

And you probably didn't even know we were gone, did you?

Thanks to Blogger's "post in advance" option, I was able to get away with DH, G, my parents, and my best friend for a week at the beach without you ever knowing! I'll be posting about our trip in the days to come, but in the meantime, I need your help plotting out our next vacation.

You've already helped us decide on California for our five-year anniversary getaway. Now, it's your last chance to tell me what we should do out on the West Coast. Again, I haven't looked at the votes yet. I'll wait until voting closes Monday morning at 9am to take a look at the final tally!

Happy voting,

Except in this story, the woman isn't so old. She's a late-20-something.

And she was living in a pair of shoes... a pair of Michael Kors shoes, to be exact.

Before I got pregnant with G, I was a bit of a shoe fanatic. Fabulously fantastic platforms, towering stilettos, and dainty ballerina flats; point-toed, rounded-toed, peep-toed; boots, sandals, and sling-backs-- I had them all. I loved them all. They were my first (and second, and third... and 40th) children.

When I got pregnant, something changed. First, I was already panicking about how on earth we'd every pay for labor & delivery, daycare costs, college (I think ahead). So the latest pair of Anne Klein pumps were no longer in the budget. But there was something else, too. Right before I conceived, my friend C's mom told me she'd gone up a shoe size during both her pregnancies. Up a shoe size? You mean, the precious Michael Kors platform slingbacks (a combination of my two most-favorite styles), the shoes I bought at a 75% off sale over tax free weekend literally three months before conceiving and wouldn't be back in style until the spring might not fit me in nine months?

Devastated wasn't a strong enough word to describe how I felt. Shoes had been the way I'd justified to DH an impromptu shopping spree. A shirt, you can only wear once a week-- maybe once every two weeks if it's particularly memorable. But shoes-- shoes you can wear two, maybe three times a week! They were like a good haircut, a stylish handbag, the right makeup: absolutely indispensible.

So I went on a diet-- a shoe-shopping diet, that is. For nine months, I didn't buy a single pair of shoes. Why bother? They wouldn't fit me in a few months anyway. So even as the humid summer of my third trimester wore on, and my feet swelled, leaving me with cankles, I refused to buy shoes. By the end, that left me with two options: my flip-flops, and a pair of driving moccasins. It was a fashion nightmare.

Once G was born, the swelling subsided, and my tennis shoes (I may or may not have five pairs of them) became a viable option once again. But the ominous foreshadowing by my friend's mother seemed to hold true-- my precious 7 1/2's no longer seemed to fit, they were too tight in the toe. For Christmas, all I asked for was a shopping spree for size 8 1/2's. I got my wish. And then-- literally-- weeks later, it happened.

By "it", I mean some how, some way, my feet shrunk. Suddenly, I was for all intensive purposes wading around in my new shoes and fitting perfectly into my old stand-bys. My go-to black dress shoes? Fit like a glove. The gorgeous pair by Carlos Santana? Slipped right now. My Michael Kors? Never looked better.

So now, a full two years after I first brought the beautiful white canvas peep-toe shoes with black piping and a spiky heel that's just to die for (did I mention I got them for 75% off?), I can finally wear them. And I do. I literally live in those Michael Kors. I am that not-too-old lady who lives in her shoes.

As in Elsie, the cow.

Because that, my faithful readers, is what I have become over the past year. A cow. A milk cow, to be exact.

At first, nursing my daughter was just something I planned to do because it seemed the healthiest for her and for me. We all know the studies that tout "breast is best" for the first six months, a year if you can make it. G has always been a good eater. She latched on pretty easily from the get-go (well, after a few NICU obstacles almost got in our way), and has never stopped. During my maternity leave, nursing was convenient, easy, practical (with the exception of two rather nasty bouts of mastitis-- aka, every nursing mother's nightmare). Breastfeeding meant never having to buy formula, never having to clean bottles, and never having to spend time getting her food ready while G screamed impatiently. It was the best "fast food" I could provide.

I'm not sure when it happened, but over the past eight months or so, I've become maniacal when it comes to breastfeeding. Somehow, I managed to accumulate nearly 200 5-oz bags of expressed breast milk, tucked snuggly into the deep freezer chest we had to buy specifically to store it all. That's 1000 ounces of milk, people; that's more than 60 gallons. A cow, indeed.

I've pumped at work, in a small, dank, roach-infested bathroom in the bowels of the station, the only place I felt sure no one would accidentally walk in on me (although that did happen, once). I pumped in my mother-in-law's house using my sister-in-law's borrowed pump. I pumped in my mother's house. I pumped in the car. (I pumped in a bar! I pumped in my house, I pumped with a mouse!-- ok, not really). I pumped at 4am every morning for three solid months. I hoarded milk, as though someone was going to take it all away from me.

I even have a group of girlfriends I cultivated solely to talk about the virtues of breastfeeding. We went to classes together to perfect our nursing skills. I became rabid for any and all information on nursing, pumping, and the right amount of milk to feed my child.

DH is counting down the days til Georgia breaks the latch for the last time. He gets antsy, concerned, neurotic whenever I mention the idea of nursing G passed a year. Why? Because once G is weaned, my breasts become his again. Ever since I started leaking colostrum prematurely at 30 weeks pregnant, he has been barred from the breast. They've become completely utilitarian, more functional than fantasmic, at least in my mind. They cannot serve a dual purpose. Which is why he can't wait until G departs, so he can sneak back in there.

As for me? I view that day with trepidation. It's tough to break that connection, one that has bonded me to my baby girl for 11 long months. And even now, I'm not sure I want to stop nursing. I might continue nursing forever-- at least, until G won't do it anymore, Elsie runs dry, or people start giving me strange looks in public.

It's sad. This milk-cow-mom just can't seem to MOOOOOOve on.

I have a 10 month old daughter, a three year old dog, and a husband who at times behaves like a toddler, too.

But I want another baby.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Before we even starting trying to have one baby, I'd already determined that was it. I grew up a spoiled-rotten only child, who is almost unnaturally close to both my parents. Being an only child allowed me to do so many things my parents wouldn't have been able to afford if I'd had siblings; dance, swim, play the flute, go to summer camp, take great vacations with my family, go to the college of my dreams, have my Cinderella fairy-tale wedding. I wanted to give my child the same opportunities. C'mon, I'm a journalist-- I don't exactly bring in the big bucks, and while DH's career in law enforcement does have great retirement benefits, his current salary isn't a windfall. So before G even entered our world, we were sure she would be our one, our only, our whole world.

But within minutes-- and yes, I do mean minutes-- of giving birth, I knew unequivocally that I would have a second child. Maybe it's because I missed that moment I'd craved-- the moment when the doctor plopped a still dirty newborn on my chest and proclaimed "It's A Girl!" as DH & I held hands, gazed into her eyes, and cried tears of joy. Maybe it's because I knew I still had more love to give. Maybe because I knew, deep down, that although my parents loved me wholly and completely, that had they been able to, they would have had more children. But for me, the question of another child had become a matter of when, not if.

DH was supposed to be the person who told me when when it was time to expand our family. After all, he comes from a big, happy family, and he grew up with three siblings. While we were still dating, he extolled the virtues of a large family: kids to play with, shared experiences, a source of support when times got tough. He'd done a good job of convincing me our family was not complete with just G.

So I was shocked to learn that I, too, had done a good job of convincing him. Here we are, with a nearly-11-month-old, and I think I am ready to start thinking, at least, about another child. But DH isn't sure he's ready. In fact, he's pretty sure G is all he needs. It's an interesting-- and unexpected-- change of heart for a man who had always wanted a big family.

So now our rolls are reversed. Interesting, indeed.

Ribs.

I have them now, just in case you didn't know.

You see, there was a whole... well, I'll give myself the benefit of the doubt... decade during which the presence of my ribs was more urban legend than reality. I'd had them at one point-- at one point, I'd been an All-American high school swimmer, a lean, muscular frame with shoulders nearly the width of an NFL linebacker. And although you'd never describe me as thin, back then, you definitely would have called me an athletic build. But college... then grad school... then marriage... put the presence of those precious bones in the realm of fantasy.

And then I got pregnant.

By 20 weeks, I had gained 25 pounds. I'd gained so much, so fast, that two of my favorite coworkers began a very open pool regarding my pregnancy. No, not when I'd give birth, but how much I'd weigh at 40 weeks. One guessed 50 pounds. Another guessed 60. I took the under at 40 pounds. My doctors never seemed concerned about my weight gain, but I definitely was. I stopped drinking anything but water after one OB told me juice and lemonade were just empty calories. I started limiting my portion size. I even lugged my massive frame to the gym 2-3 times a week for a 30-minute sweat-fest on the elliptical trainer until I was two days away from my due date. I turned what I'd always believed would be the only true "diet & exercise-free" period of my life into a highly regimented health plan.

It's immaterial exactly how much I gained during those 40 weeks. Suffice it to say, it was enough. And when G was born last September, I was just as ready to meet her as I was to lose the weight. And lose it I did.

By the time I left the hospital, I had lost exactly half the baby week. By G's two-week appointment, I had just 15 pounds to go. By the time I was six-weeks post-partum (and allowed to exercise), just eight pounds of baby weight remained. In fact, when I went to my brother-in-law's wedding seven weeks after giving birth, I bought a brand new dress-- a size 8-- and it was a little big on me. When I went back to work at 16 weeks post-partum, I was officially back to my pre-preggo weight. After another two months, I was a full 15 pounds under the weight I'd been for the majority of my adult life. In fact, I was at a weight I hadn't seen since my high school swimming days.

Remember those same coworkers who used to bet on my weight gain? Soon, they were pulling me aside and asking pointed questions regarding my health habits. Was I eating enough? Was the stress getting to me? Did I need to talk someone? One even slapped me on the back in approval when I grabbed a second bagel during a morning meeting, and frowned when I talked about fitting into a pair of size 4 jeans.

Now don't hate me. Pleeeeeease don't hate me. Just because the number on the scale was low did not mean I looked good.

First of all, I've been nursing G for the past 10+ months. That alone should explain the state of my chest. 'Nuf said. I still have that "baby mush" around my belly. Before I got pregnant, I may have been a bit heavier, but at least my abs were in shape. Not anymore. Nine months of baby-making have reeked havoc on my mid-section. Then there are the stretch marks... well, everywhere. I've given up hope that those things will ever go away. Now, they are simply my battle scars, a living memory of a job well done.

Yet, despite these dramatic changes to my body-- some good, some not-so-good-- I love it more than ever. This is the body that nurtured my baby girl as she grew inside me. It's the body that could feel her first movements, long before anyone on the outside could see my belly moving. My body has helped me nourish G with enough breast milk for a full year, maybe more. My body is strong, it is powerful, it is my greatest tool.

Sure, when I was in high school, this body might have propelled me to school records and district championships. But I've never been more proud of its accomplishments than I am now.

Every Queen Has Her Throne...


This Is Ours!
(Click on the crown for details
on how to be featured on my blog)

Past Queens:

January 31st: The Honey B Blog

January 24th: Jennifer @ Becoming Briggs

January 17th: Stephanie @ Mama Still Wears Gucci!

January 10th: Melissa @ Life As Melissa

January 3rd: Amy @ Happily Ever After

What good is a quasi-anonymous blog if you can't be utterly, completely, brutally honest?

That's the idea behind
Truthful Tuesdays.
It's my weekly "meme" (you know, I've been blogging a while now, and I still have NO idea what that means... anybody? anybody?). Each week, I ask you a question that forces you to dive in to the depths of your soul. Some of the questions are serious; some of the questions are frivolous; all of the questions (I think!) give me a chance to know you a little better, and vice verse. Of course, I play the role of guinea pig and answer first. After all, it is my blog, and it's only fair to act as the sacrificial lamb.

Then comes the fun part... at least in my opinion. You share your answers with me (and make me feel a little less crazy!). You have several ways to participate:

1) Leave a comment with your answer
2) Write your own Truthful Tuesday post
3) Share your answer on my MckLinky
4) Grab my button

Speaking of that button...

Here it is:

<a href="http://confessionsfromaworkingmom.blogspot.com/"
target="_blank" title="Confessions from a Working Mom">
<img src="http://i307.photobucket.com/albums/nn287/lifeafterbc/Elizabeth/TruthfulTuesdaysButton.jpg "
alt="Confessions from a Working Mom" /></a>

I hope to see you back here every Tuesday...

...And would someone please
tell me what "meme" means???

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

Past Posts:

2/2/10: What's Your Do-Over?

1/26/10: The Best Reason For Calling In Sick

1/19/10: Let Go, Let Unibrow

1/12/10: Channeling Jennifer Hudson

1/5/10: The Biggest Loser Winner

12/22/09: Yes, G, There Is A Santa Claus

12/15/09: Holiday Ghost Stories

12/8/09: All I Want For Christmas...

12/1/09: An Honest Discussion About Boobs

11/24/09: Your Holiday Decorations

11/17/09: Honey Don't List

11/10/09: Body Wars

11/3/09: Taking Care Of You

10/27/09: Your Celebrity Crush

My Personal Wall Of Fame
(Gosh, I hope that doesn't sound too conceited...)

I Stalk People On Facebook

All I Want For Christmas

I Want Breast Implants

A Time To Wean

To Procreate, Or Not To Procreate: That Is The Question

The Day I Became "That" Mom

Tangible, Embarrassing Proof of my OCD

We Are The Happiest Couple In Therapy

Legacy Of An Adopted Child

Losing Our First Pregnancy

Love's Labour Found (Baby G's Birth Story)

She's Walking Away

Let's Start At The Very Beginning

Question?
Comment?
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Looking to advertise on this blog?


Email me at:
My.Confessions@live.com

I'm also on twitter @IAmConfessing...

I am always looking for new products and services my readers might enjoy. If you think your company is a good fit for this blog, then please contact me at the email address listed above. Previous giveaways include:

-BabyLegs
-Great Wolf Lodge
-"Brown Bear, Brown Bear" by Henry Holt & Co. Publishing

Disclosure Policy:
I occasionally receive complimentary products or services for the purpose of reviews and giveaways only. All reviews, giveaways, and advertisements come from companies that I personally do business with. I will never endorse a company that does not meet my standards, and that I do not think delivers a quality product or service your family would enjoy. Unless otherwise stated, all giveaways are for U.S. and Canadian residents only.

Hey there! I'm so glad you found the time to stop by my blog.

For me, writing this is cathartic. You see, it's my job to write... no, I don't get paid for this blog (I wish!). I'm a TV news producer, which basically means if you hear the anchors say just about anything on air, it was written by someone... namely, me. But the writing I do there and the writing I do here couldn't be more different. At work, it's my job to be brief, serious, and to-the-point. But on my blog, I can use as many words as I want (sorry 'bout that!), use as much sarcasm as I want, and even broach topics that would never make it past the TV censors.


You've already figured out I'm a full-time employee. I'm also a full time wife & mother. My husband-- affectionately referred to throughout my blog as "DH"-- is my rock, my foundation, my solid footing in an otherwise chaotic world. We've been married since 2005, and have lived in three different states in just that short amount of time. He works as a sheriff's deputy, which is a big reason why I don't share our exact location, his name, our last name, or our daughter's name.

And that brings me to my wonderful, beautiful, amazing daughter, "G". She's my heart outside my body. G joined our family in September 2008, and there are still times to this very day that I look at her, and cannot believe that I was pregnant, gave birth, and have reared this child to this point in her life. The time has gone by faster than I could have ever imagined. Every so often, I find myself thinking, "There's no way I could enjoy an age more than insert-G's-current-age-here." But you know what? I've found that, like a fine wine, G just gets better with age.

We've also got our precocious puppy, Ducky-- who isn't really a puppy anymore. Known alternately as "Ducky", "Duck Duck", "Ducky Doo" and a slew of other diminutives, she is the epitome of the fountain of youth. She never tires of doing laps around the house, chasing her own tail, or trying to eat G's dirty diapers. She makes our family complete.

So, what do you get when you combine one full-time employee, wife, mother, dog owner, and housekeeper (well, part-time housekeeper)? One full-time frazzled woman! This blog is my brutally honest account of my mission to have it all... and my realization that sometimes, that's all but impossible.

I hope you enjoyed meeting us, and like what you see here. Always feel free to leave a comment, sign up to follow, or grab my button; and be sure to leave me the link to your blog so I can repay the visit!

And you voted overwhelmingly to send DH & I to California Wine Country for our 5th wedding anniversary next year!

I have to say, I think that is where my heart lies too. I just had another friend who took a trip to Cali for her 5th anniversary, and the pictures and links she posted were to die for.

Since ya'll managed to devine what was in my heart on the first poll question, I've put up a new one. Instead of calling you my "faithful followers", I might have to start calling you my "travel agents"!

The other day, G went to sleep at 7:15pm, about an hour earlier than usual. A few minutes later, I went to sleep-- about three hours earlier than normal. I think I was more exhausted than she she was.

Lately, when we go out to eat, we usually arrive at our restaurant of choice around 5pm. Just in time to dine with all the senior citizens (and I live in the South, so there are a lot of them).

I call it the early bird special.

There's that old cliche "the early bird catches the worm". Oh really? For a good portion of the last 11 months, I have been that proverbial "early bird". Waking up? For the first six months of my daughter's life, I was up just about every morning at 4:30am, first to feed and change the baby, later to pump. I can assure you, there were no worms to be caught at that miserable time of day. Only dark circles undereath my eyes and saggy, sallow, sleep-deprived skin. But no worms. I promise you.

Mealtimes? It's not unknown in our house to eat lunch at 11:30am, and dinner at 4:30pm. I have a friend who swears she doesn't eat dinner until long after I'm in bed. I've even arrived at restaurants for dinner before the dinner menu has officially begun! And let me assure you, I've never seen worms on the menu.

And then, there's bedtime. I must admit, there have been nights when I am so exhausted from the stresses of the day that I've started G's complicated night-time routine (bath, lotion, Desitin, nursing, white noise, favorite binky, "Go to sleep, mama loves you, see you in the morning", close the door-- every night for 10 months, three weeks and one day) eh... a little earlier... than normal. OK, sometimes a LOT earlier. In fact, for the majority of the past three months, as the sun as set later and later in the day, G has gone to sleep before dusk. There are days when I'm so tired by 4pm, I want to head upstairs for a warm bath myself. Isn't there somebody to put me in bed when I'm cranky and rubbing my eyes?

I know there will be times over the coming years when G refuses to go to sleep before the sun... when she wants to stay all night... when she insists on staying up all night. I know there will be Saturday mornings during her high school years when she sleeps in until noon, and never manages to get out of her pajamas all day. There will be a whole decade, I'm sure, when just getting her out of the house to go anywhere will be a challenge.

So for now, I am more than happy to be the early bird... worms and all.

Hello, faithful readers!

Today is the last chance for you to vote in my "vacation destination" survey. I haven't looked at the results yet-- so it will be a surprise to me to see where you think we should go. Who knows-- maybe if DH & I like your suggestions, we may ask you a follow up and truly let you choose where and how we celebrate five years next spring!

A few nights ago, DH & I planned an "in-house date". While I was at work, he went grocery shopping to pick up a few things for my favorite meal. Then he stopped by the liquor store for a bottle of wine. He finished his errands by going to Blockbuster to rent a movie. He chose "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button."

This is where the evening went wrong.

It's no secret that two spouses, each with a demanding job, and a relatively "new" baby in the house can take a toll on a marriage. It can lead to a startling disconnect. There is the collective "you" before baby-- spontanous picnics, evenings out, maybe dancing now and then, whether it be out on the town or in your own backyard. Then there is the "you" after baby-- long, sleepless nights spent worrying about the future, long hours at work and away from those most dear, days when you're together, but do nothing but talk about the child who is upstairs napping.

DH & I have suffered from this disconnect for a few months now (don't all new parents?) and lately, we've been actively trying to break through to the other side. We don't want to be those parents who lose their love affair romance when baby #1 surfaces. We want to keep our love alive, active, growing, changing, evolving, on a day to day basis. We both agree-- agreed, long before we even conceived G-- that a faithful, urgent, passionate marriage is tantamount to raising a healthy child. Both our parents showed us the power of strong marriages as we grew up, and we have always pledged to do the same for G.

So when I came home from work that day to see my favorite meal on the table, a glass of white wine in a crystal glass at my place setting, and a Brad Pitt movie in the DVD player, I was half-way to seduced.

Before DH even pressed the play button, we'd already finished off half a glass of wine. 45 minutes into this nearly three hour long saga, we'd gone through the entire bottle. After an hour, I urged DH to pour a bottle of our favorite beer (Newcastle, for the curious readers out there) into our wine glass-- classy I know. Now, you may be thinking, wine then beer? Remember the old college standard: "Wine before beer you're in the clear" (although how I felt the next morning makes that a little debatable).

I'm not sure if you've ever seen "Benjamin Button". DH & I had both wanted to see it when it was in theatres during the 2008 holiday season, but G was only three months old. Without family in town, and with our current nanny still unhired, we didn't really have a lot of childcare options to turn to. So, we found ourselves on a humid summer night watching the movie in the comfort of our own living room. It follows the story of Benjamin and Daisy, who met early in their respective lives, although Benjamin was born old and growing younger day by day. (Spoiler alert!!!) Ultimately, they met in the middle, and had a child together. That's when Benjamin made the unbelievable, incredible, selfless decision to leave Daisy and their child so that they might have a normal life. In the end, Benjamin found his way back to Daisy in his "twilight" years (although he had the body of a 4 year old, he had the mind of an 80-year-old Alzheimer's patient). She bathed him, fed him, took care of him, until one night she gently rocked this now infantile Benjamin to his final sleep.

I was sniffing, sobbing, all-out bawling. But that's normal. I am the girl who cried during "Mean Girls" (damn you, Lindsay Lohan!). But I was shocked to see DH with tears streaming down his face as well. I'm still not sure what it was about the movie that hit us both so hard-- the poignancy of lost love reunited? Us imagining ourselves in the actors' places? Perhaps envisioning the other rocking our own sweet G to sleep as an infant?

All I know is, the moment the closing credits began to roll, I was upstairs like a bolt of lightning that had been streaking through the summer sky all night long, heading straight for the nursery. I quickly swooped down into G's crib, and in a moment was cradling our now 10 1/2 month old daughter as she groggily rubbed the sleep away from her eyes. This is something I've never done. DH & I have never been supporters of co-sleeping (he's 6' 6" tall and these days a svelt 260 pounds-- co-sleeping in our world is just downright dangerous). But tonight, we both felt the tremendous need to cradle, rock, coo, kiss, cuddle our baby girl. She's grown up so fast. It seems like only hours ago that we were hovering over her ambient warmer in the NICU. Just minutes since we brought her home for the first time, took her states away to meet her extended family, had her baptized in the church we adore. Mere seconds since she popped her first tooth, started sleeping through the night, started crawling... even walking. Where has the time gone? Where has my fragile, vulnerable newborn disappeared to? I think this movie hit home. It made both of us realize that life truly is as short as the cliche. That your world can change in the blink of an eye. To live every moment as though it was your last, because you cannot recapture moments once they have passed.

For those of you who know me personally, you know that I am a methodical person. I plot every move long before I make it. So for me to spontaneously sweep my near-toddler out of her crib in the (almost) middle of the night is unusual for me. But I'm changing. I'm trying. I'm forcing myself at times to go with the flow, to feel the power of every single minute, to enjoy every single breath I take, knowing things will never be the same. It's a stretch for me. At times, I find myself laboring under the weight of this spontaneity, struggling to find a rock to grasp on to as this world of inevitable change quickly swirls about me, shaking my universe to the very core.

But on that night-- in that moment-- as DH & I enjoyed the sleepy, groggy, somewhat-confused kisses of our growing girl in our big bed at the most unusual hour, it felt right. It felt magical. It felt like we made a memory.

All thanks to Mr. Button.

What? Everybody else isn't working on the weekends? Just me? Oops. My bad.
So, here it is, a lazy Saturday in the summer, and instead of playing in the pool with DH & G, or shopping with some friends, or even simply taking a nap in our sunroom, I am getting ready to go to work. This is the life of a mid-sized market TV news producer.

I don't always work the weekends. In fact, I probably have the best hours of any producer at my station. I have co-workers who come in at 11:30pm and don't leave until 7am. Others come in the door at 2pm and are here until midnight. My hours are 9am-6pm, Monday thru Friday. It's almost a normal schedule. Almost.

I never get snow days. In fact, when it snows around here (I live in the South, so here, snow = "a little bit of spit from above"), people panic. The grocery store shelves empty, people hunker down in their homes, and those who are brave enough to hit the road will travel-- at the very most-- at 25 miles an hour, even on the highway. My job actually becomes more important the more snow we have. It's my duty to tell people to stock up at the grocery store, hunker down in their homes, and drive no more than 25 miles an hour on the highway. I am the guardian of snow safety, if you will. Calling in sick during severe weather of any kind is akin to career suicide in this industry.

Any time breaking news happens, I may be compelled to stay at work hours longer than originally planned. This can cause chaos for my family, particularly on days that DH works. It either means he has to be late to work, or, our nanny will have to stay late. There have been times when I've had to leave the newsroom in chaos because my support staff at home is unable to adjust their schedules to my needs (what? I am not the center of the universe?). No matter what, I always feel riddled with either mommy-guilt or employee-guilt.

And election season... Don't get me started on election season. There is a very good reason why I had a baby two months before the 2008 Presidential election and was out on maternity for the most stressful part of the campaign. That wasn't an accident, people. It. Was. Diabolically. Methodical. Just like everything I do.

But for the most part, my work schedule is ideal. I get to leave at 6pm every day and literally start over the next morning with a clean slate. There are no repeats in news, which is usually a good (ok, great) thing. I rarely have homework (although-- gosh, I am such a dork-- I actually liked homework when I was in school). Each day is a new beginning, which means most nights are relatively stress free.

So that brings me back to today-- and why I'm heading to work on a perfect Saturday afternoon. I am helping out a friend (two friends, actually). We are very short-staffed at our station right now (it's a given in TV news these days, for those of you inside the industry), and we don't have a lot of extra people to fill the holes. So when somebody wants off for a vacation, somebody else has to step in to fill the void. Today, I am the void-filler.

Today, I am hating the "working" part of being a working mom.