green birth mama

smug pregnant mamas. hahaha!

2011-04-02T11:30:00.000-04:00

giggle-giggle.

metal baby.

2011-03-28T15:25:00.000-04:00

rock on, daddy!

laughing babies. no. 2

2011-03-18T07:25:00.001-04:00

my addiction to laughing babies continues......

start your day with this: laughing babies. no. 1

2011-03-05T09:00:00.001-05:00

this baby makes me happy. he makes our whole family happy.

so wake up.

hug each other.

say your prayers.

take your vitamins.

eat breakfast.

watch laughing baby.

recipe for a great day!!

for your escape artist.

2011-01-10T06:19:00.000-05:00

true womb

wish they had this when my boys were babies!!

oh no mama, did you lose your winkie?

2010-12-16T15:43:00.000-05:00

There is a lot of nakedness in our house. Perhaps it is because there are three young boys running around in all manners of undress on a consistent basis. Boys seem to like naked. Maybe it is because I just don’t like to do the laundry. No clean clothes = naked. I’d like to think it is because we are just so hip and free and need not be caught up in the trappings of fashion and clothing and such petty nonsense. HAHA. Ok, that can’t be true considering how excited I get at the prospect of a good sale at the J.Crew Outlet. My excitement could easily be misinterpreted for an orgasm.

i have a question

So when there is a lot of nakedness, there are a lot of questions. I am cool with questions. Kids are inquisitive and it is our job as parents to guide them. To hold their hand on the pathway to enlightenment. To fasten their seat belts on the roller coaster of the psychotic Q&A that they fire at you when you least expect it....”Why is the sky blue, mama? Where does my poopy go when we flush the toilet, mama?? Why can’t you just tell daddy to put another baby in your belly, I want a sister now, mama???” Oh dear Lord, make the roller coaster stop!

There are some questions, though, that stick with you. Perhaps it is due to the innocent and vulnerable look in their eyes as they ask it that makes them so edible. It makes you treasure that sweetness and want to wrap it up and protect it. Or sometimes the question really sticks with you because it left a bruise where it slammed into you like a Mack truck. Where in the world did he here that word? And how did he know that it could be used like an adverb like that?? But on this day (as I stumbled into the bathroom at 6am, bleary-eyed and yawning) the question that I got handed to me from my youngest son left me in such hysterics that it will go down as one of my most wonderful and endearing mothering moments.

As I found myself trying to find the toilet and dropping my pajama bottoms to do my business, my little cherub wandered into the bathroom. He got really close to me and looked me in the face, sweetly. Innocently. Then he went to the back of the toilet and crouched down. He got way down. And way too close. It seemed he wanted to get a view of what my business looked like. He spent a few seconds there, then came back to the front of the potty and said, “Mama, are you going stinkies? It doesn’t sound like you are going stinkies.”

So I said, “No, honey. Mama is going pee pee.”

Figuring that there was more to investigate, he moved back to his previous position, perhaps got even closer and said with a tone of shock, “Mama, is the pee coming out of your butt?”

I answered him, “No honey, it is not coming out of my butt.”

So he paused for some time, did a little more study. And more study. And more. Then with a bit of apprehension, he slowly and carefully moved his way back up to the front of the toilet. He knelt down at my knees and placed his little angel hands on my legs. He looked up at me with such sadness and concern; it broke my heart. And with a slight tremble in his voice he asked, “Then, Mama.....where is your winkie?”

I looked at him, smiled tenderly and said, “Honey, Mama doesn’t have a winkie.”

And with that, his eyes became a huge as dinner plates. His hands went to his cheeks. His chin dropped. There was a look of desperate fear in his eyes.

With all the courage a brave three-year-old could muster, my son whispered his final question.

“Oh No, Mama! Did you lose your winkie???”

That is when I fell off the toilet.

nope, no winkie. but thanks for asking.

camping.

2010-08-30T09:42:00.001-04:00

Nothing says family like camping does.  You sleep in mummy-like fashion enclosed in an air-tight tent after an evening of franks-n-beans.  Mmmm.  How is that for fresh mountain air? You gotta really love each other to make that warm and fuzzy.  

But you do.  Honestly, there is so much fun to be had while exploring a new river or a new trail.  Attempting to make flank steak and potatoes over an unpredictable fire.  Getting the kids to settle down and fall asleep after an encounter with a daddy long leg overhead in the tent.  The screams.  The giggles.  The love.

I have a lump in my throat.

2010-08-25T12:44:00.002-04:00

Nothing gets you quite like the potential for sickness or pain in your child. You start caring for them and their well-being well before they are even conceived....sowing the field with vitamins and healthy foods and limiting the toxins to which you are exposed. Then you hear that they have taken up residence in your belly and you watch everything you eat and drink...you exercise...you educate yourselves...you plan...you dream. Then you meet your angel and you feed them from your own body, continuing to focus on their every need. You realize you love them more than yourself. You realize that your heart is walking around outside of your body.

You pray that they never feel pain or sickness and you do everything in your power to keep them whole. But sometimes, just sometimes, life gets out of your control. It really isn't yours to control anyway....but you have tricked yourself thus far that it is...when it comes to your children.

My little angel has to get some blood work and a CAT scan this afternoon. It may just be nothing.

Make it nothing, God. Make it nothing.

I have a lump in my throat.

thank you, sista!

2010-08-24T17:30:00.000-04:00

bridget (and gracie helped too)

oh, I am so thankful. thankful for a sister who will take the time to show me how little I know about how to make my blog visually appealing. she cleaned it up for me today. I may actually begin to use this blog.

Weepy Mama

2009-06-18T10:55:00.006-04:00

I wrote this for the Newburyport Mothers Club right before my oldest son's first day of kindergarten. His last day is next week. My, how time flies.....

I clearly remember the day. The weather was perfect – bright, sunny and warm with a crisp, fall breeze that blew through my little New Jersey town. The flowers seemed to smell a bit sweeter and the birds seemed to sing a little louder. I woke up and dressed in my new red and blue frock with gingham detailing at the ruffle on the bottom. My mom used a barrette to sweep my hair and neatly fix it to one side. I finished my breakfast of raw almonds and fresh orange slices (yeah, I see you rolling your eyes; I was rolling my eyes too, trust me…..where was my Poptart??) and grabbed my new Snoopy lunchbox and headed for the door. “Mom…..Mom……
M O M! C’mon, it is time to go!!” I had been waiting my entire 4-year, 11-month life for this big day - my day of freedom! It was my first day of kindergarten.

This September 5th will mark the first day of kindergarten for my oldest child. I can’t say that I am nearly as excited this time around. I have such mixed emotions. While I craved independence from my mom back then in 1976, I don’t feel the same way about the emancipation that my son will be getting from me. In fact, I want to cry and clap for him simultaneously. I want to pat his little bottom and push him toward his teacher although I fear I will be keeping myself from holding onto his tiny foot and having him drag me into his classroom with him. Would it be all that strange if I just dressed myself up in a gingham frock, placed a barrette in my hair and tried to blend into his classroom so that I wouldn’t have to “let him go”?

I wouldn’t characterize myself as an overbearing mom who follows after her kids barely giving them any space to learn, succeed or make mistakes. Some of my friends might disagree. I have yet to allow a babysitter to put any of my kids to bed. So I suppose I do have some issues. But seriously, I do give my kids room to breathe.

This feels different though - different from preschool or camps or a play date without Mommy in attendance. This feels like the beginning of something that will never end. First it is kindergarten. But then it is first grade. Then it is 2nd and 3rd……before I have time to catch my breath, it’ll be college and he’ll be gone. I kid you not, my eyes are tearing as I write this! It is 12:56pm. Is it too early for a glass of wine? I feel like I need to drown my sorrow.

I have kept this fear of mine to myself until now. I haven’t even mentioned it to my husband. I know I need to come to grips with it soon or I will transfer my feelings onto my little cherub. I want him to have a love of school and of learning. I want him to take chances and reach for goals that may seem too lofty for his little grasp. I want to see the most amazing things come to fruition for him and for his life. I want him to fly.

So this is where I have to will myself to take a deep breath and say a prayer - a prayer that Christian will be safe without me by his side. I will say a prayer that will ask that he remain on a straight path, that he will be a leader and that he will come alongside those who need help. I will pray that from his education he will learn that good can come from his time on earth and that he can bring that good to others. And lastly, I will ask that time does not go by too quickly and that I will savor every moment of this short time that I am blessed to be such a big part of his life. Good luck, my sweet man. I pray for only the best for you as you begin your first day of kindergarten and for your beginning.

Thong Squad Mama

2009-05-04T17:38:00.004-04:00

we heart it

Something I wrote for Motherwords Magazine last year....

As a child, my mother was less than amused by the filth available for her little angels to view on television and movies and to read in books. Well, to be honest, she was out-right disgusted. (She finally just gave me her blessing to pick up Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret by Judy Blume; need I say more?) From her point of view, the world was an unforgiving place for little eyes and ears. And she would let her opinions be known to all unsuspecting purveyors of the naughty stuff.

If she was less than amused by the smut that was out there, then I was equally less than amused by the fact that she was keeping me from it. I had an appetite for all things mature. I wanted to be in on all the adult conversations, to know the plot lines in the latest John Hughes’ movie, and to have knowledge of which of the older cousins had graduated from Stayfree to Tampax. From my point of view, my mother was overreacting and needed to “get with the times”.

Now that I am a parent, I am keenly aware that there is plenty of scary stuff from which to keep our young children – violent video games, predators on the web, Britney Spears. There are a decent number of parents who are already hunting down the peddlers of the aforementioned wickedness. I’ll surely help out with their cause if they would just give me a call. But my time is limited as I have a busy schedule, so I thought I’d put my energies elsewhere. I intend to spearhead the much-needed “Thong Squad”.

My desire to head-up the “Thong Squad” was confirmed the other morning as I peddled fast and furiously at spinning class. I was having trouble focusing on Lance Armstrong on the big screen in front. Instead, all I could see was the thong of the woman riding in front of me. When God created leopards on the sixth day, I do not think it was his intention that the beautiful markings of his creation be used for the fabric of the thong of the woman in front of me that morning. It wasn’t like I was looking at a little bit of the string on her left hip - I am talking about the whole darn thing. I was looking at 2/3 of this girl’s underwear.

This was not the first time that I was witness to a spectacle such as this one. During a recent shopping trip, my husband, boys, and I walked behind a thong-exposing teenager all the way from J. Crew to the food court. Once again it was a lot more than a show of the allowable ¼ inch of string at the tippy top of the pants. My older son was entranced by the display of her underwear and kept asking questions about it in a loud manner that only a 3 ½ year old can do. I had the gnawing feeling that I should tap the girl on the shoulder to let her know of her exposed state. It was like those poor guys with their flies down or when someone has lunch stuck in their front teeth. It is our responsibility as fellow human beings to help ‘em out, right?

Unless, of course, it was her intention to show the thong.

Oh my gosh, could it be??

The room began to spin as the realization hit; the exposed thong was part of their plan! I knew then that I had to protect my little ones from the onslaught of these thong-exposing hussies. It was mandatory that I make known my distaste for their exhibitionism. It was essential that I take a stand. I needed to be the protector of all things pure! So I dashed over to the jezebel and stood square in front of her, stopping her dead in her tracks. With a look of disgust similar to that of person that has just gotten a whiff of malodorous lunch meat that is far past expiration, I declared war on her and her thong. I suggested that she look into the eyes of the two boys I had at my side so that she would see the children to whose demise she was contributing. I demanded she take responsibility and apologize.

She just glared at me with a look of pity. “Easy there,” she said. “Get a hold of yourself.”

I replied, “How dare you.”

I continued by saying, “Do you think your mother is proud of you for wearing such tawdry attire?”

She said, “No. But I am sure your mother is proud of you for telling me that I should not.”

I began to cry.

With the realization that my transformation into my mother had begun, I quickly drove home. I went inside and ran to my dresser. I sifted through my underwear drawer – panties whose sizes ranged from my normal state through sizes that housed a nine months plus two days pregnant frame. In the way back, under the large purple ones from Mimi Maternity, I found what I was looking for. I grabbed that little pink thong, booked into the bathroom, put it on, and ran outside. Ensuring that I was showing far more thong than was tastefully allowable, I strutted downtown.

I endured the stares that I got as I passed the post office and The Grand Trunk. I heard the gasps as I put a little wiggle in my step while taking the turn at The Book Rack. I even smiled at onlookers on State Street before stopping at Fowle’s for a coffee. It felt good. I felt free. No one would ever need to tell me to “get with the times”.

And it was at that moment, in all my glory, that I saw a young girl of about thirteen walk in and stand next to me at the counter. She was wearing a shirt that bared far more of her midriff than was either appropriate or in good taste. As I was about to open my mouth and scold her for dressing like a hussy, I paused and took a step back. I looked down at myself in pity for what I had become. I saw my flaming hot pink thong proudly towering over my jeans and thought, “Who am I kidding?”

It was then that I took a big step forward, gave her and her muffin-top a stern stare and told her to march right home and put on a real shirt. Then I hiked up my Levis and went home.

Squishy Mama

2009-04-23T05:47:00.006-04:00

My high school history teacher used to tell us that history repeats itself. It was one of the reasons that we study it, to learn from our mistakes, to make better choices the next time. I didn't buy it back then. But considering that my life is becoming more like a scene from Groundhogs Day I am starting to think there may be something to my teacher's theory.

I go through waves. I miss my "I think I am still 21 and am aiming to be a hardbody" wave. At least it got me out the door. But life with three boys and a husband who insists on coaching three sports simulaneously after a full workday in Cambridge is busy. Add to that the start of my life as a new childbirth educator and as much of a social life that I can muster for fear of losing my sarcastic wit and charm that tend to come out over a cocktail, a killer iPod playlist and a kitchen dance floor....well you get the picture, BUSY.

So now I am riding the "o crap, it is almost summer and I am getting squishier and squisher as bathing suit season gets closer and closer" wave. And how do I know this? My husband just pointed it out. AHA!!! History repeating itself.

After the birth of our second son, I wrote the article below. Some things never change I see. But what have I learned from the repetition of this grand historical event? Well, if my husband still lives, then obviously nothing.

It is 5:15am. Mr. I-Never-Miss-A-Workout mumbles to me, “Meghan, get up. It is 5:15am”. (I know, I know, you evil, evil man.)

It is 5:21am. Mr. Abs-Of-Steel-At-38-Years-Old states more firmly, “Meghan, get up. It is 5:21am.” (I want to hurt you. Slowly and painfully.)

It is 5:25am. I am in the mirror contending with a shock of hair that is standing at attention as if Viagra was the newest ingredient in my shampoo from last night’s shower. This is enough to convince me to blow-off the gym. I can’t go looking like this. I would have given my right arm for this problem back in the 80s – no amount of Dippity-Do and White Rain could have achieved this Flock of Seagulls hairdo that I’ve got going on right now.

It is 5:30am. I am blindly walking downstairs right now. My 24-hour contacts feel like fly paper. Blink – blink – blink. They still feel like fly paper. I can’t see. I shouldn’t drive if I can’t see. I don’t want to be a danger to society. Maybe I should just skip the gym.

It is 5:32am. I am waiting for the coffee to be ready. There is no way that I can convince my biceps of lifting a pound if I have not given them the benefit of at least a small dose of caffeine. Ugh…..there is no half-n-half in the fridge. Coffee without half-n-half is like pizza without the cheese, it is like fries without salt, it is like ice cream without fudge. I am ferociously hungry now. Maybe I can hit Dunkin Donuts on the way over there – a #5 sounds good right now. Or better yet, skip the gym and go to Angie’s. Mr. Fabulous upstairs would never even know the difference. How fast do you have to eat blueberry pancakes in order to break a sweat? I need some kind of proof.

It is 5:38am. I am sitting in my kitchen with my unfulfilling coffee. I am paging through the enormous stack of catalogs that have been gracing my doorstep in recent weeks – at least Ray, my mailman, is getting a workout these days. Maybe this time would be better spent by starting my Christmas shopping – these catalogs are making me tense.

It is 5:44am. I am dangerously close to missing the spin class now. I am in no mood to see a room full of spandex anyway.

It is 5:48am. I turn on the computer. I should check my email. I am sure I have a friend out there who is emailing me at this hour because she would rather waste time on the computer instead of going to the gym. No luck. I am the only slacker here. I am too depressed to workout.

It is 5:55am. I don’t even know what the weather is going to be out there yet. What, am I crazy?! I need to check the news to be sure that I am properly outfitted before I walk out that door. I turn on the TV to check see what Barry Burbank has for us. Hmmm….mid-50s and no precipitation. Should I brave it? Maybe I should stay home and play it safe.

It is 6:05am. I should just go back upstairs and cuddle up to Fabio. It is warmer up there – and would require at lot less effort. I may be able to get another 15 minutes of sleep before the kids wake up?? This indecisiveness is making me crazy.

It is 6:06am. Decided against going back upstairs. I am sure that the moment I put my head to the pillow the kids would wake up. That would be the stiff kick-in-the-butt that I would deserve for being so lazy.

It is 6:10am. I have a full-fledged tug-of-war going on in my head right now. Go to the gym – skip the gym – you need to workout – exercise is overrated – you are not getting any younger – you’ve got plenty of time, don’t be so dramatic. THAT’S IT!!! Do I need the gym or a prescription?

It is 6:12am. To keep from going insane, I am walking out to the car. How did I get this bad? I used to take pleasure in athletic pursuits. I used to be a competitor. I think the kids have sucked the life out of me – I have nothing left. This madness needs to stop. GOAL: I will be at the gym no less than four mornings a week. This time I mean it!

It is 6:25am. I am at the gym and in front of the mirror working on my shoulders. I am going to get jacked. Just look at me go. I am going heavy for three sets of twelve of each exercise – three exercises per body part. Shoulders, biceps, triceps, back, chest, legs, abs. I will be a gym goddess! I am so glad I came here today!! I feel so energized!!! No more conflicted feelings about working out. No more Mrs. Squishy Pants. I grew a backbone this morning. This is the start of something big – watch out world, here I come!!

Next day – It is 5:15am. Mr. I Am So Proud of You, Honey whispers, “Hey, Sweetie, time to get up, it is 5:15am.” I get up and walk to the bathroom. My hair is standing at attention right now and my contacts feel like fly paper. I turn around and go back to bed.
Think I’ll being blowing-off the gym today.

Desperate Mama

2009-03-30T18:47:00.001-04:00

When you are out there making new friends, how much different is it than when you were (are) out there doing the dating thing? I suggest that it is more similar than you think.

Back when I was new to Newburyport, I’d go for long walks with my adorable little newborn all snuggled up in his Bjorn. The days were all about my son and me. They were sweet and innocent (when he was completely agreeable and limited his diaper blowouts to two for the day) and sometimes long and lonely (when I would find myself describing to him each item of clothing - the color, size, and fiber content - as I folded the laundry). I decided I needed a change.

So one day I found myself “working” the playground at Cashman. I was watching a woman pushing one kid on the swing while diving in the nick of time to catch the other one as he attempted a reverse 1½ somersault off the top of the ridiculously high climbing structure (I bet the folks at Leary’s sponsored that monstrosity – keeps them in business - the moms leave the playground and pick up a little something to calm the nerves). Anyway, in between watching the spectacle that is the mothering of multiple children and reading the pages of my new book, “Girlfriends’ Guide to Getting Your Groove Back”, I focused on what I was really there for, to make a new friend.

See, I was, at that moment, feeling lonely. It is not that I didn’t have a fulfilling life. Just one that used to be filled with a lot more hanging out with girlfriends - with whom there would be the commiserating about the men (or lack thereof) in our life, with whom there would be the drinking of margaritas and devouring of nachos on a Saturday afternoon, and with whom there would be the regular viewing of chic flicks with massive amounts of discussion over coffee afterwards.

It was then that I noticed a taller woman* by the water with one of those trendy new strollers; you know, those $800 jobbies that look like they are made for strolling your kid on the moon. The woman was well-dressed and had a calm about her like she had this mothering-thing all figured out. So I decided to give my book a break and go “check out the ducks”.

I pretended to be interested in our fine feathered friends as I listened to this mysterious woman talk on her cell phone – conversation about a wine tasting peppered with discussion of a book she was reading for her book club. There was a lot of laughter and a good sarcastic sense of humor at use – I was hooked. She needed to be my friend!

So I won’t go into the sappy details of how we are best buds now. But to get back to my point, going out and intentionally trying to find new friends is very much like dating; it is simultaneously necessary and desperate. When you meet someone that looks like a potential friend, you get all psyched at the prospect of having a new chic flick buddy. This in turn makes you very anxious to make it happen. Here are some suggestions on scoring that friend:

· Get close enough so that your kids interact with each other. Comment on how cute they are together. Suggest a playdate. Who cares if the kids are only one month old and can’t see more than a few feet in front of them?

· Take notice of the name by which that mom is calling her child. Say, “Wow, I really like that name. Where did you find it?” She may say, “Well, I guess we just always liked the name Bob.” Now suggest getting coffee together to discuss other original names like Mike, Tom, and Jennifer.

· Ask her where she got her fabulous diaper bag (women love to talk about their trendy diaper bags). Suggest doing a “diaper bag swap” so that you each have the chance to add a new accessory to the mix for a while. Ignore her facial expression as she turns up her nose to your Winnie the Pooh Seersucker bag and ask when you can get together to do trades-ies.

I hope my suggestions help. There are so many fabulous women in this fabulous town just waiting to be your new fabulous friend. Good luck finding that special someone!!

*To protect the innocent, details of this event have been changed. The woman was actually extremely short, very poorly dressed, had a rusted-out stroller with a busted wheel, and obviously had no clue how to handle an infant.

Birth Mama: Getting Into The Red Tent

2009-03-02T11:18:00.003-05:00

I have always been a product girl – as opposed to a process girl. It isn’t that I don’t have the constitution or necessary follow-through—it’s just that it bores me. Take painting, for instance. I love picking out the colors and thinking about how the colors will move from one room into the next. But when it comes to hauling out the ladder, the drop cloth, and the myriad of paint brushes and rollers, I definitely switch to procrastination mode. I despise the process of painting a room but so desire the final product with its warm color on the walls.

I have numerous examples in my life where I have had to push through the process in order to get to the product while hating it all the way through. Competitive running is another example. When I used to race, I wanted to win. That’s hard to do if you just show up on Saturday without putting the time and effort into training for many weeks prior to race day. I wasn’t fond of doing interval training or experiencing dry heaves while summiting a ridiculously big hill at a pace that made my teeth hurt. But I knew it had to be done in order for me to meet my goal of being competitive on Saturday.

Then there was the research in the stacks at the library for that lengthy term paper (ah, yes, there was life before the internet). Even the smell of that reference room made my skin crawl. Just give me a finished paper!! Make the madness stop!!!

But all of this avoidance of the process changed for me the day I found out I was pregnant with our first child. It was at the moment that I found out about the little resident in my belly that I realized I was as excited about the pregnancy and birth as I was about being a mother. This reaction was new for me.

I had the rare and glorious fortune to be born of a mother that had a confidence about her body and its ability to heal itself. She believed that a body could function to its fullest potential if given the right food and rest and care. This manifested itself in our eating natural and healthful foods (that were hard to come by in those days), utilizing chiropractic and other holistic approaches to health, rarely using pharmaceuticals, prescription or OTC, participating in athletics and generally trusting the body. When it came to motherhood, it meant my mother bucking the trend of saddle blocks and twilight sleep and choosing to have four births the old fashioned way. It also meant that I was present for two of my three sisters’ births.

In ancient days, women spent much time together and apart from the men. This was especially so when they were menstruating or giving birth. It was a time for a family of women to give each other support, love, and encouragement. They shared their rites of passage together complete with all the knowledge, understanding and practice that came with watching the experiences of their “foremothers”. This cultural norm passed a certain confidence from grandmother to mother, mother to daughter for generations.

That same story continued for centuries and generations all over the world. In America, as immigrant populations came to this country into the early 1900s, families often shared living space and grouped themselves in defined areas within cities. Once again, as women in the community came around a laboring woman, young childless women often had the opportunity to witness the process of birth in its natural, unmedicated state. It became something normal.

I did not grow up with a red tent in the backyard or living in a multi-generational setting. As the oldest of four girls, I did, however, grow up in a home where there was little fear of the process of birth. My mother taught me that the process of birthing a child was a rite of passage to be revered. It was an experience where you witnessed the female body’s amazing strength and resolve. In Janet Schwegel’s Adventures in Natural Childbirth, Ms. Schwegel describes natural childbirth as something that “empowers women”. She continues by calling natural childbirth a “life-changing event, not just because it produces a baby. It changes a woman’s view of her abilities, reinforcing her belief in her capabilities. After a natural childbirth, many women feel that they can do anything.”

Our culture tells us that birth can be scary. It can be traumatic. Just watch an episode of ER or Baby Story or any number of movies where there is a birth scene and you see a crazy, screaming, panting, wild-eyed woman who has lost all control. Without the calm and peaceful stories of birth to counteract those images, women today can be indoctrinated to believe that birth is one of the scariest things a woman can encounter.

Additionally, as birth left the home in the early to mid-1900s and moved into the hospital it became more medically managed. Women began utilizing pain management that in the early years left her unconscious often without even the memory of giving birth. Communities of women no longer surrounded the event; they were unable to pass the tradition down to future generations. The tradition of birth as it had been for centuries prior began to be lost.

Back to the moment we realized that we were going to have a baby--we were filled with excitement and anticipation and of course some fear. This was all new to us and was very mysterious. We became very interested in the process of birth. We knew that we could replace the fear with education and practice and that is what we did. In an effort to continue my “red tent experience” (or for most, to initiate a “red tent experience”) of growing up with a healthy relationship with birth, we chose to take a comprehensive childbirth education course. The 12-week course gave us the knowledge and practice that we needed to have the kind of birth experience we wanted.

To this day I feel stronger for having birthed my three sons. It was hard work. It wasn’t perfect. I have quietly congratulated myself for all that went well and have forgiven myself for what I felt didn’t. The experience of birth is transformative and I was never the same again. In this results-driven day and age of which I am surely a part, I am thankful for having taken a step back to enjoy the process of preparing and welcoming each of my children into the world. It was an experience I will never forget.

Faced with doctor gap, more hospitals turning to laborists to deliver babies - The Boston Globe

2009-02-23T16:55:00.001-05:00

Faced with doctor gap, more hospitals turning to laborists to deliver babies - The Boston Globe

Posted using ShareThis

Liar, Liar, Mama's Pants On Fire!

2009-02-13T14:54:00.006-05:00

Latest post on the "Make One Change" blog of Anna Jaques Hospital's site www.ajh2.org.

I am a liar. I am a scam artist. I am a con woman,
a fraud, a chiseler. And I am darn proud.I have slowly and methodically convinced my three sons that they will, in fact, become the superheroes that they so desire to be by merely drinking from the bottle of secret potion that I pass by their lips each morning. The potion is their anti-kryptonite. It is their venom from the super spider. Alright, it is cod liver oil, but they do not need to know.

Each morning after breakfast, we have our ritual of vitamins. Most of these dietary supplements for kids are so fun and fruity that the kids have no idea that their may be something beneficial in there. But cod liver (as well as fish and krill) oil is a different matter. Sure, the kind we use is lemon-infused and therefore has no fishiness about it - on the way in or the way out via a burp - but it is still oily and greasy and can make you shiver when you put a tablespoon of it in your mouth. They know this too, but are willing to bear it in order to become Superman, Spiderman and Batman (they each have their favorites)!

Cod liver oil is really God's gift to those of us who have not mastered the art of cooking fish and/or can't bear to have their home reek of that low tide smell after doing so. According to leading researchers, the benefits for kids and their parents are many. To name a few:

A healthy heart

Support for concentration, memory & learning

Blood sugar health

Healthy joints, with an increase in joint comfort

Fighting your signs of aging

Healthy brain and nervous system function and development

Protection for cell membranes

Cholesterol and other blood lipid health

Healthy liver function

Relief of normal PMS symptoms for women

Bolstering your immune system

Healthy mood support

Optimal skin health

So perhaps it is time for you to learn (or fine tune....you know who you are) the slick art of lying and bamboozle your family into enjoying all the health benefits of krill, fish or cod liver oil. If you feel guilty about, don't worry, next blog I'll discuss how to develop the coping skill of denial and all the wonderful applications for it in your life!!

Funny Farm Mama

2009-01-30T05:42:00.003-05:00

The definition of bipolar per the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary is having or marked by two mutually repellent forces or diametrically opposed natures or views. The definition of mother per an unknown source......alright, according to me, is maternal tenderness or affection that creates a daily rollercoaster of emotions that is marked by two mutually repellant forces or diametrically opposed natures or views – the first is one of amazing love and awe of the her children while the second is one of bizarre outbursts characterized by her running from the house in a crazy, wild-eyed manner while yelling something about going insane. Hmm…..insane. The definition of insane per the same dictionary is extreme folly or unreasonableness and a deranged state of the mind; see mother.

Holy *&@#!!! That explains everything! No wonder I have developed this odd twitch above my left eye and a sudden stuttering problem whenever my kids are around. I knew I was going to have to give up a lot to become a mother – my career (temporarily), my sleep, my perky breasts, but I did not expect that my sanity was going to have to be sacrificed too.

The trading of our sanity for this delirious state in which we exist happens slowly and perhaps goes unnoticed until it is a bit too late. It begins before the birth of the child as we joyfully sing the praises of the state of pregnancy that we are in; we are all aglow with the life that is inside of us while conveniently forgetting that the little occupant has caused excruciating sciatica and golf ball-sized hemorrhoids. Only an insane person glows while trying to determine if it is more painful to sit or stand.

This trade-off for good sense continues after having given birth. It becomes more acute as we are awakened for the fifth time in the middle of the night to the sound of a baby whose “inner clock” needs a major adjustment. We are so in love with the little tyke that we don’t mind dragging ourselves out of bed to softly sing him a lullaby -- a song that we have sung 1.2 million times in the four months that he has been alive. Chronic repetition is a symptom of insanity.

And you know that the padded walls are beckoning your name when you and the other mommies compare number of days having gone without a shower due to being so busy with motherhood. If you are proud for winning the competition with the grand total of four days and eight hours, then perhaps a straight jacket is what you need because only an insane person can’t smell her own filth.

Thankfully I am not alone. There are gaggles of you out there right here in Newburyport. I see that far away look in your eyes when I pass you in the street. You didn’t think I was listening while I was standing behind you in the line at Starbucks, but I could hear the nonsensical mumbling coming from under your breath. You and your tired, droopy-breasted selves all belong in the same funny farm right along with me.

Here I am thinking that I was the only one whose range of emotions can go from ecstatic and elated to exasperated and exhausted within a matter of the few seconds it should take to put a pair of shoes on your child and exit the house. I feel so much better for having come to this realization that I can expect to see your smiling faces in line at the psych ward with me. Seems like there is going to be an awfully long line; I’ll bring the wine for the wait.

Health Food Mama

2009-01-28T06:05:00.004-05:00

my current post on my Diaper Diaries blog for Anna Jaques Hosptial "Make One Change" site on http://www.ajh2.org/.....

Friends of mine think I am a healthier eater than the average gal. I am not sure if that is true. I do enjoy a pint of ice cream from time to time. I wouldn't say no to the occassional french fry from the local fast food joint. But I do suppose, when considering our food intake for an entire week, my family does eat pretty well. I have no choice in the matter, you see. I have this little voice inside my head that scolds me when I head down the soft, chewy, corn-syrupy aisle of Market Basket. She scoffs at me when I consider a box of Fruity Pebbles as I stroll down cereal lane. It is the voice of my mother (see picture to above). She made me this way. It is her fault and this is the story of how it happened.....

Skippy Peanut Butter and Fluff oozing out the sides of pure, white Wonder Bread, a snack bag of Doritos, a Devil Dog, and a Wonder Woman thermos full of Kool-Aid -- lunch for the lucky few in my elementary school cafeteria. That was the meal of champions when I was a kid. My classmates proudly bellied up to the lunch table to eat their prize. They all looked so smug and satisfied. Their mothers’ love was made evident by the delectable goodies packed each day in their Smurf or Superman lunch boxes. Life was good – for them!

I sat green with envy as I opened my brownbag and pulled out my lunch – a pair of celery stalks filled with almond butter (the natural kind that floats the oil on top waiting for you to mix it up and make it palatable), a baggie full of raw walnuts and carrots, and, wow, jackpot, homemade oatmeal, flax seed, and raisin cookies sans any of that evil, refined white flour and sugar of course. Sugar was considered Satan’s nectar in my house. And no drink could be present in my lunch because drinking while consuming food was known by my mother to wash away the good enzymes from your stomach and inhibit God’s good design for your digestive system. Yup, that was my life. It was the cross I bore each day. I had nightmares clear through graduate school.

As I began packing my older son’s lunch bag for the very first time upon his entrance into pre-school, I was reminded of the days when I was on the receiving end of the lunch bag. It brought back mixed feelings -- and some cold sweats.I now admit that my mom was ahead of her time. It pains me to say that. Like all mothers, she already knows that she is always right. She likes me to thank her now and again for my good start (like at this moment as she edits this piece and inserts that statement herself).

She was 30 years ahead of a trend that included organic foods, holistic approaches to healthcare, and a “meatloaf” made of kidney beans and bread crumbs. The only meat that was available at our supermarkets was the kind that was chockful of nasty antibiotics and hormones -- nothing organic -- and she couldn’t tolerate that!! I blame my meatless diet and lack of hormone-intake on my status as a late bloomer -- the second way that this health food diet put a wrench in my social/emotional development -- but we can go into that another time.

Now, due to the fact that we have little inventions like The Natural Grocer, Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods (the front office has a restraining order on me – tired of getting my calls regarding putting a store in Newburyport) we mothers and fathers have a much easier time securing the food that we want for our families.

I am nostalgic, though, for the days of old when my mom, three sisters and I had to drive 20 miles to a garage smelling of patchouli oil to do our weekly shopping at the closest food co-op. That is where we secured all of our oddly-labeled food that gave my mother the reputation of The Sugar Nazi in our quaint, historic town. We looked forward each trip to our treat of carob bars that we would win if we were good. The carob bars didn’t even taste good, yet we fell for it each time as if it were going to taste just a little more like chocolate that day. I suppose we were suckers. But we were healthy suckers with a mom that taught us that no effort was too great for her family.

So there it is. Now don't be too freaked out if you find me talking to myself at the supermarket as I try to rationalize the purchase of a bag of gummy bears to the voice in my head. Happy Eating!

Cheating Mama

2009-01-26T16:13:00.006-05:00

we cheated on our first son, Christian, with this one, our second son, Gabriel....they are best friends now!!

from President's Letter of Newburyport Mothers Club newsletter...

My husband and I were conflicted when we first discovered we were pregnant (I always love saying that, “we were pregnant”, makes me chuckle, as if he pushed out any of my three boys with head circumferences that were off the charts……but that has nothing to do with what I am writing, so I apologize, just enjoyed the chuckle). When we found out about Gabriel, our older son, Christian, was just ten months old. He was a little baby. He needed us for everything and we were there to respond to those needs, immediately. He was our center and the love of our life…….and we were about to cheat on him!!

That is what it amounted to; I felt like we were cheating on him. I got that same pit in my stomach that I did way back in the day when, as a faithful girlfriend to my Drakkar-smelling, Camaro-driving, acid washed jeans-wearing boyfriend, I spotted a Polo-smelling, VW bug-driving, madras plaid short-wearing boy across the room at a party. I felt guilty that I could even consider having feelings for someone else. I felt like a monster. Now what kind of mother does that to her little one?

Thankfully I have a wonderful sister-in-law who talked me off the ledge. She is the mother of two boys and had a few years more of experience from which I could garner advice. When I told her just how much I struggled with the knowledge of this new little person we were adding to our family and to my first son’s world, she gave me some sage advice. It is something that I will never forget and something I gladly pass on when I encounter friends or acquaintances with that same dazed expression when discussing the coming of their second child. She said, “You are giving your first child a gift, you are giving him the longest relationship he will ever have in this world.”

Gabriel came into the world nine months later….four years ago on this very day that I write this, February 3rd. When I took my first look at him, or, rather, he took his first look at me and literally squirmed himself right on up to begin nursing for the first full hour of his life, I knew that I had fallen in love again. I wasn’t sure how it was possible that I had room in one heart for all the love I had for two little boys. It scared me that I had the potential to love that much. I felt vulnerable. And then we had to introduce Gabriel to Christian.

As Christian came into the hospital room, just a few hours into Gabriel’s life, he looked confused. There was my first son, my baby, looking at his little brother. We introduced them to each other as my sister lifted Christian up to Gabriel for his first face-to-face meeting. We told Christian that his brother, Gabriel, was finally here to play with him. Christian looked at him and said, “Bubba.” I cried. They have been best friends ever since.

We cheated again in 2006 by bringing our third son, Asher, into the mix. We no longer felt conflicted or guilty about it though. We felt sassy by then. We knew we could juggle it. We knew that our hearts had limitless potential for the love that we felt for our sons. It didn’t have to be acid washed OR madras plaid. It is acid washed, madras plaid, AND parachute pants. Life is good!

Dancing Mama

2009-01-25T13:31:00.001-05:00

It is 6:11 pm. Dinner is cooking. My two elder boys, Christian and Gabriel, are in various states of undress and going psycho on each other on the kitchen floor – Sumo Wrestler style. My littlest man, Asher, who just turned one is happily freaking out on the floor too in the middle of the chaos – newspapers strung around him, potato chip bag pulled out of the cabinet, pots and pans strewn about like an obstacle course that I will need to get around while navigating a hot pot of spaghetti to the sink for drainage. He is oblivious to the fact that his big brothers are very close to flattening him with one of their fancy superhero moves. My husband can not come home quickly enough, but it is raining and we know how the commuters leaving Cambridge and heading north cannot drive in the rain. I am sure I have at least another hour more of this insanity.

What is a girl to do besides consider running out of the house all crazy-eyed and pulling her hair out??

Out of desperation, she dims the lights and makes it a dance party.

The lights are now lowered to a soft glow akin to that of one of those amazing dance clubs that I frequented many moons ago. My three little men want nothing more than to get grooving on the dance floor, I mean kitchen floor, with me. They are each competing for my attention. I become The Dancing Queen and they are my subjects.

We are getting down to “Rock Your Body” by Justin Timberlake while I attempt to throw a salad together. Even little Asher has the beat figured out. I turn up the iPod to a volume that is going to make the neighbors consider calling DSS for fear that I am blowing out the kids’ ear drums. But it is working. The chaos begins to take on rhythm.

Now “Crazy” by Seal is on….appropriate, I think. As I get jiggy with it on my way over to the stove, I sneak some butternut squash puree into the sauce. I am sweating now. No need for a workout tomorrow……multi-tasking at its best!

It is 6:48pm now. Still no husband. “She’s Crafty” by The Beastie Boys is next. Feeling a little 80s nostalgia coming on……might need to consider a wine cooler for a dinner beverage. My kids are chanting, “She’s crafty, she’s just my type,” to the music. We are cranking now. Rivaling any dance party from my single days now.

Asher has just interrupted our party with an offensive odor. Christian and Gabriel decide to change the lyrics to our song…….”He’s stinky, he’s all pooped out.” I am elbow deep in spaghetti, butternut squash, salad, dancing, and now stinkies. How far do we need to go into this Party Playlist until I get a break?

And it is at that moment that my husband, my Rescue Hero, walks through the door. Just in time. Perhaps I can grab my leg warmers and sneak away to the liquor store – I am sure they stock wine coolers??

Moms' Club Mama

2009-01-24T07:04:00.006-05:00

from my last President's Letter

for the NBPT Mothers Club.....

I heard the sound of laughter coming from the bathroom one recent morning. The giggles were that of my two elder sons’ and the laughter seemed suspect. The sound prompted me to investigate. Upon entering the bathroom, I was faced with a trio of bare bottoms. The derrieres were cheek to cheek to cheek and facing the toilet. While my sons should have been looking down in order to pay strict attention to where they were aiming, instead their heads were tilted back as they were in complete hysterics at the fun they were having at the toilet. They had accomplished the ultimate – the perfect crossing of streams. I walked away, shaking my head in a combination of awe and disgust, and felt a wave of melancholy come over me. It was just over six years that this all began. It began with the thrill of realizing we were becoming parents for the first time. And now there were three of them and that chapter of pregnancy and babies was closing.

My first official outing as a member was the inaugural meeting of my newly formed playgroup. We had just been organized by the Newburyport Mothers Club as a group for babies born in the Spring of 2002. Since my baby was not due until late spring/early summer, I showed up still pregnant. I was just a tad anxious to get started on my new venture into mommy-hood. I may have even prematurely put away the cute Kate Spade bag in exchange for the trendy diaper bag of the moment. It was of no concern to me that babies who were in utero did not require diapers; I preferred to be prepared. So my pregnant belly and my adorable diaper bag marched into the local coffee shop in which we were meeting and I began my addiction to connecting with other mommies.

Six and half years, two homes and three sons later, my need for being with other moms has not changed. I still feel lost if I don’t have an adult conversation at some point throughout the day…even if just on the phone. I still feel out-of-sorts if I don’t have a weekly get-together with a few of my mom friends and eat munchkins and drink coffee while the kids play. And I still feel like I may go a little insane if I don’t have a night out that involves friends and wine. Thanks to the Newburyport Mothers Club and the phenomenal women I have met through this club, I have yet to feel too lost, out-of-sorts or insane as I go through this thing called being a mom.

Things have change since I began with this club. Time has passed ridiculously quickly; all of my sons, but one, are potty trained and even the youngest enjoys the occasional try at the potty if it involves a trifecta-pee. I am now faced with a mini-van full of soccer balls that bang around the back as I drive off to the monthly PTO meeting. My days of Itsy Bitsy Music and Mother Goose hour at the library are waning. And with the transition comes the time that I must give up my post on the NMC board.

I have enjoyed five years on the NMC board in roles including Playgroup Coordinator, Adult Socials Coordinator, Newcomer Coordinator, Newsletter Managing Editor, Consultant and two terms as President. It has been so rewarding to put some of my long lost job skills to work for this club while enjoying my role as a stay-at-home mom. But again, it has been even better to have met and spent time with so many amazing women.

I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that I am torn. I will always be a mom and so there is a part of me that wants to always remain on the steering committee of the NMC. But one can work for free for only so long (according to my husband). So I will be redirecting my “free time” for new pursuits. I will finish my training to become a Bradley Method of Natural Childbirth Instructor (just because we are done having children doesn’t mean that I can’t still surround myself with pregnancy and babies). I will also become an instructor at the A to Z Method in town. I’ll continue to write and freelance. I will finally take up my singing hobby and become a member of the worship team at my church. And most importantly, I’ll keep up on the friendships and wine with my nearest and dearest girlfriends without whom, I would just wither away.

I will miss being so involved in the NMC. And as I sit here and finish my last president’s letter while listening to the giggles of three growing boys in the background, I feel blessed and a little sad. I am blessed to have had the good fortune of living in this great town and to have had the NMC network to make this time of my life so much sweeter. I am sad for the closing of this chapter. I will miss the monthly board meetings and the throwing around of ideas for activities, outreach, and website color schemes. I will really miss “talking” with the 640-plus members each month via the newsletter. As parents, ours is one of the most important and rewarding jobs that a person can have in this life. I consider it an honor to have been even a small part of the lives of the NMC members during their journey through of motherhood. I know I am better for having had the Newburyport Mothers Club in my life.

Minivan Mama

2009-01-23T07:29:00.001-05:00

from an article I wrote in Motherwords Magazine in 2008

I love my minivan. There I said it……………I L O V E MY M I N I V A N!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wow, I feel freed by that exclamation! I no longer have to pretend that I am just grinning and bearing it while driving my looser-cruiser all over town. No more dark glasses and slouching behind the wheel. I drive a minivan and I am proud!!!

I am unsure where my problem with the minivan began. I a suppose it was some self-imposed idea that a cool mom was one that fought the minivan transition like she fights the inclination to trade in the Victoria Secret Ultra-Low Cheeky Hipster Panties for the Wal-Mart Ultra High Covers Everything From Armpit to Knee Granny Pants. “Damn it. I still got it. I will not buy a minivan,” was my mantra.

Perhaps my problem with the minivan is that I break into a cold sweat when I think back to my mom and dad’s dull brown Caravan on which my three sisters and I were forced to learn to drive. No amount of Dippity Do, White Rain, and electric blue eyeliner ever distracted potential cute-boys-at-red-lights rendezvous from the crappy vehicle I was driving around in.

Maybe, just maybe, the minivan-fear I have held onto for so long is due to the fact that it is a sign of my age. My responsibilities. My lack of freedom to come and go as I wish. I didn’t need my marriage, my mortgage, the birth of my first son (or second and third son) to make me feel like I had others to think about before myself. Nope…..it was the purchase of the minivan. If I could fit all of the aforementioned in a Mini-Cooper, surely I would still have felt like a twenty-something girl off to the Jersey Shore for the day with nothing more than a towel, some Sea-n-Ski, and a pack of gum.

So how did I come to terms with my death sentence, I mean my minivan? It happened one crazy morning while we were running late for preschool drop-off.
I had my one year old in one arm, two gifts for the Secret Santa exchange in the other arm, and a large tote that held lunch bags and miscellaneous papers strung over my shoulder. While getting my older boys out of their respective seatbelts and out the door of the car, I deeply sighed and thought just how thankful I was for only having to press a button and watch as my two boys calmly removed themselves from their seats and jump out of the vehicle. In our previous very cool and very black and very sporty SUV, this simple task would have required the acrobatic agility of an Easter European cast member of Cirque du Soleil; I surely would have popped a capillary from the exertion that would have been required of me to get all four of us (and our paraphernalia) out of that car.

So, perhaps I have given up on the coolness factor as I embrace my minivan. I am sure I overcompensate in other areas of my life – that sequin tube top, for instance, that I just bought to wear to my next night out at Friendly’s – to make up for my love of the minivan. That’s ok. We all have our issues. Mine will just be comfortably riding in my minivan.

BooB Mama

2009-01-22T13:23:00.003-05:00

my boob man - he's been cut off

from an article I wrote in the Newburyport Mothers Club newsletter in 2008

It is the middle of the night and I am awake. I think I may be going insane.

My husband and I have been considering ways that I could add to the family budget and I think we now have the answer. I may record my 16-month-old’s incessant crying that has been going on for the past few hours and sell it to the government to be used as means of torture against information-harboring prisoners.

The night had started so well. The kids were off to bed at a reasonable hour. My husband and I were getting some quality couple-time. We even kicked off and went to bed before 9pm – fantastic. But the hell began a little before midnight. My husband blames me for this situation in which we find ourselves.

Asher, our youngest, is a boob-man. Who knew? No man that has ever been into me has been a boob-man. I am not sure what to do about this boob-fascination that he has. I have no experience in this department. But, nonetheless, Asher is a boob-man and his obsession is keeping us up a night.

I am all about nursing. It is cheap. It is easy. It is always the right temperature. It is wonderfully portable. It is good for you and for the baby. But when it requires me to get up multiple times during the night, I am no longer feeling all motherly and earthy and La Leche Leaguey. Don’t get me wrong. I know that I don’t have to be feeding this little gremlin in the middle of the night. I am fully aware that he does not need it – physically or emotionally – at this point. It is just that I am an easy target when I am half-asleep. Come to think of it, that is probably how I got pregnant with all three of my boys in the first place.

When I am awaken, I will do anything to go back to sleep. What do you want? You want some water? You got it. You want a snack? Sure, no problem? You want me to put together an intricate train track design for your Thomas set? Got it! Now just go back to sleep and let me be!!! So when it came to Boob-Boy, it was such a simple solution to just give him what he wanted so that I could get back to bed.

You see, this wasn’t the plan. Once Asher was sleeping through the night which occurred at a reasonable age, we congratulated ourselves for being such fabulous parents. My husband and I even resumed spooning at night since we were not so darn exhausted anymore. Life was looking good. We were done having kids and the three that we had were sleeping like champs. We even had thoughts about taking up a new hobby with all of this new-found energy we had. Salsa lessons were on the table!! But then the house of cards came tumbling down.

A few months ago, Asher decided he was hungry at about 4am-ish every morning. Ok then. In normal “get me the hell back to bed in a hurry” fashion to which I am accustomed, I quickly nursed him and sprinted back to dreamland. No big deal. It was a just a blip on the screen. HA!! The next day at 4am, he started beckoning again. Fine. One more time. Whipped it out – nurse, nurse, nurse – hurry it up. You’re done? Great. Back to bed. Oh ya, you know where this story is going. Third night…..whamo! The next week, he got even smarter. Well if she’ll give it to me at 4am, I am sure she’ll be up for it at midnight too? It has been like this for weeks!

So now I find myself sitting here at the computer at 1:44am. I have had it. I am cutting him off. I told you that my husband blames me for this predicament in which we find ourselves. He is probably right. I am an easy target in the middle of the night. But I have turned a new leaf. My skin has grown thick. I have toughened up; sleep deprivation will do that to you. I will no longer be the taken advantage of for my fabulous ta-tas. It is over. Asher, Mr. Boob-Man, keep crying. I hear you. But this mommy ain’t backin’ down. I got my Chastity Bra on and it is locked tight!

OCD Mama

2009-01-21T07:00:00.003-05:00

from two columns I had in the past.....the Fussy Filanthropist (Newburyport Mothers Club) and Naptime Musings (The Newburyport Current)

I’ll admit it, I was a freak. At the tender age of ten I longed for the naughty scent of the stationary aisle at our local CVS. I can still smell it now….the loose-leaf, the report covers, the notebooks – wire bound or marble, one subject or multiple subjects – decisions, decisions. I had a penchant for the thrill that only came with a new pencil case. Give me the Trapper Keeper with all the bells and whistles of a pocket folder per subject and…oh joy….sheer, unadulterated pleasure abounded!!! I can feel the rush now! The craziness of it all – I lived on the edge!! Sure, it may have been only late July and I was well aware that school didn’t begin until September, but I was an early bird and I was going to get my worm! I needed at least the month of August to strategize how I was going to organize my course load for the coming academic year; fifth grade would not catch me off guard. Alright, time to get to business….would I choose to file all my papers safely within the folders that separated the subject areas of the notebook or would an independent folder system be best? Whatever I chose, once the system was designed then implemented successfully, a sense of calm would come over me. I would be ready to face whatever life (or my teachers) had in store for me. I was at peace….and thus began my love affair with the art of organization.

The backdrop may be different today, but the story is the same. I am no longer a student of the fifth grade but a wife, mom, and CEO/CFO of the Kinsey household. I no longer dabble in the small potatoes of a Trapper Keeper. Rather, I look to the many file boxes and binders in my home for that same high that “drugged” me back in my pre-teen days. Instead of the happiness that came with an orderly desk, I now get excited when my home runs like a well-oiled machine.

I like to call organization an “art” although some may scold me and tell me that organizing is anything but artistic. They may tell me that organizing may very well drain every viable cell from the right side of my brain leaving nothing left to creative pursuits. They may go on to instruct me that I need to get busy living rather than wasting my precious time amid my “stuff,” advising me that my priorities are out-of-whack. But I beg to differ. Creating and implementing systems with attractive and functional tools is a challenge. It calls on my skills of observation as I take stock of how my family and I move within our space. It also calls for my skills of interior design and decoration as I try to make all of the organizational solutions attractive ones that bring not only a sense of order, but beauty as well. It can also be fun delving into the junk and after a few moments or many hours, seeing your grand accomplishment which is a finished product that makes you able to breathe that much more easily.

So, it is a new year and many people like to begin that new season with some goals. If one of your goals is to become the god or goddess of organization that you were meant to be, I may be able to give you some ideas on how to start with the stereotypical “problem areas” of your home. These ideas are ones that I have either read about, heard about, or just dreamed up one evening as one of my three boys decided that he didn’t want mom or dad to sleep anymore either. You too just might benefit from the obsessive compulsiveness that plagues our home.

AREA #1 – The Mail Pile-Up

If you are like most people, you are inundated with mail each day. First, I feel so sorry for the mailperson on my route. Perhaps she is the real victim of the fact that telemarketers can no longer phone me all day long. I get a ridiculous amount of marketing material, credit card offers, magazines, and plain junk delivered to me each day. Hence, why I designed my Mail Zone the way I did. As I grab my mail, I put each piece in a prescribed area as immediately as I can (if it is not right away, I am sure to leave it on the desk in a nice, neat pile rather than let it enter any other zone in my house – like the kitchen table or counter). Upon sorting through the mail, I put each piece in its place. A basket with labeled clothes pins (you can use a nice wicker or chrome one or use something more office-y that you may find at a Staples or the like) on our desk houses all of the important stuff. I have three clothes pins or sections to the basket – To File, To Pay, and To Act. The To File section is for all the items that need no action but just need to be filed away for your records, e.g. IRA statements, insurance policies, etc. The To Pay section is self-explanatory. Place all bills in this section. The To Act section is for all the items that require you to do something, e.g. an invitation to which you need to RSVP, a birth announcement for which you might need to go get a card or gift, a doctor’s appointment reminder card that needs to be scheduled, etc. The beauty of the clothes pins is that you are forced to act on the stuff in the clothes pins before they burst. As for whatever does not make it into the basket, you have three options – trash/recycle it, shred it (credit card offers), or for the magazines and newspapers, move it to where you keep your reading material. Just make sure you move each piece to its place – make it a habit. Hope this helps clean up your kitchen table so that you can actually eat off of it.

AREA #2 – The Errand Pile-Up

This is an easy area and takes minimal planning and implementation. If your life is like that of most wives and moms, you tend to accumulate the things of errands throughout the week until you must finally contend with the pile. This may include the stained skirt from your wild wine party that needs dry cleaning, the heinous Christmas sweater from Grandma Jo that must be returned, the overdue bills that need to be mailed, and the Tupperware that needs returning that was from the soup that your dear friend provided so that you and your family wouldn’t starve while you spent all of your time learning how to breastfeed your new infant (never mind that this infant, now a toddler, started to walk last week). A simple, non-cluttering solution is to leave a large tote by the door. Place all of the aforementioned into the bag until you finally get around to running the errands. When you are ready, simply grab the Errand Bag and go.

AREA #3 – The Magazine Pile-Up

I get a lot of magazines; yet another reason for my mailperson to dislike me. When I get the average 3 to 4 magazines that I do in a day, I immediately move them out of the Mail Zone (see AREA #1) and put them where we most often have a chance to read them – one of the beloved bathrooms – there is a basket in each just for this reason. When the baskets become full, I have one of two choices – use it or recycle it. You know what recycling is, but using a magazine may be new to you. I, as well as many people I know, hold on to magazines because they contain ideas and articles that they would like to use later – but later never comes. So we contend with huge piles of magazines that our toddlers like to use as climbing apparatus. A binder system is an easy and efficient way of organizing the articles that may be of use to you. First, purchase a binder (a width of 1 ½” should suffice) as well as some dividers (at least 8 sections) and a big box of clear plastic sleeves to house the articles. Next, begin going through and cutting out the articles that are of interest to you and your family. Recycle the magazine once you are done. Third, organize the articles into piles according to their topics. Everyone will have different topics of interest. Currently my binder is divided into 12 sections – travel, gardening, decorating, home hints (like stain removal, how to get a scratch out of a CD, etc.), hobbies, entertaining, websites, health/fitness, kid stuff, big ideas (lofty ideas that I’ll never accomplish), holiday/gifts, and organization. I’ll admit though that my organization section is a binder unto itself as I section it according to room – but I am the freak, not you, so you can ignore that part. Finally label your dividers according to your emerging topics and put the articles into plastic sleeves and then into their respective section. Now you can reference those ideas and add to them as needed. Just be sure to keep enough plastic sleeves on hand so that you always have a place for new articles you encounter.

So now you know my deep, dark secret. If you find me walking the streets of Newburyport with a smile on my face, it might be because my son just learned to say, “I love you, Mama” or perhaps because my husband just got a raise, but maybe, just maybe it is only because I just invented an ingenious way to reorganize my spice drawer so that it takes 1.5 seconds rather than 2.0 seconds to find the coriander. Ah, it is the little things.

Wine Mama

2009-01-20T17:48:00.002-05:00

I used to serve as president of a local moms’ club - 640-plus moms in it…big group. I loved the opportunity that is was for getting to know fellow moms and helping them along this journey called motherhood.

Well, yesterday a fellow mom anonymously posted a question regarding her wine intake…how much is too much? She had one to three glasses each day. Tough question. Self-reflective question. And in cold, dark, going- crazy-at-4pm-with-the-kids-and-hubby-is-not-home-yet New England, a very relevant question.

Here was my answer to her…..

First, for the fact that you are reaching out there with your question tells me that you are a very self-reflective and conscientious person and that says a lot about you! And I would say the answer depends on who you ask…….

My answer is this………….

On one hand, a glass of wine per day is supposed to have fantastic health benefits. Some say a second is ok….

On another hand, if you had to (for emergency sake) get in the car and drive your kids, would you be legally under the limit if you had your second or third glass? I know that for me it is contingent on how much food I have eaten.

A vast number of women I know enjoy their wine at night, me included. It is akin to the coffee I drink in the morning….the coffee is a ritualistic way for me to open my day. I enjoy the smell of it brewing and the feel of the mug in my hands. The same is for the wine. When I know that the day is closing and I am cooking dinner and waiting for Prince Charming to arrive home, I get happy at the thought of a glass of red wine. I will even enjoy two on some days. I do know that at three, I am not at my best, so I stick to two at the most - that is me.

The question I would have for you is the one that I use for anything in my life that I think is taking up too much residence and therefore may not have the balance it needs…..could I say no to it and stop immediately? If the answer is no…that you would just haaave to have that glass (or 2 or 3) then there is your answer. Listen to yourself. If you are putting the question out there than perhaps the Big Guy (whomever he/she is to you) may be convicting you to take a look into yourself and your habit. Don’t ignore him/her. Whenever I screw over the voice/my intuition I screw myself everytime!

Hope this helps…….and the irony of this is that I am having my glass of wine while I write you.