Chapter One "Welcome to Motherhood"

From Totally Desperate Mom: Keepin' it Real in the Motherhood

I was just starting to relax when I felt it. The urge. I knew there had to be a reason they were pumping me full of stool softeners. The time had come to for me to come to grips with that reason. I made my way to the bathroom as the feeling of discomfort increased. I squatted cautiously over the deceptively white toilet (where are the seat covers in the postpartum rooms?) so I would not be germified by OPP (other people’s placentas). Squatting on my tiptoes (a true challenge and workout for my 5’1’’ self), I proceeded with the inevitable. At least, I tried. The pain got worse. Tears welled up in my tired eyes. This hurt. Were the stool softeners expired or something? They certainly did not seem to have done their job. There I was—tired, alone, hormonal, and fat. And now I was stuck in the bathroom.

I looked over at the wall, where an enticing contraption hung ever so sweetly. The words jumped out at me: “Pull cord in case of emergency.” This was an emergency. I pulled. Two nurses came rushing in within seconds, panting in anticipation of what they would find. I will never forget the look of disappointment on their faces when they saw me squatting over the toilet in tears. “Um, I think I have poop stuck halfway in and halfway out. And, uh, it hurts really bad. And I don’t know what to do.”

They had hit the jackpot with this cord pull. You know they wanted to ro-sham-bo for the follow up on this call. One of the nurses politely said, “Okay. I’ll check you.” Fabulous. She checked me and then broke the news. “Sweetheart,” she said in an I–feel-sorry–for-you kind of way. “That’s not poop. That’s a hemorrhoid.”
Welcome to motherhood.

Needless to say, my cord-pulling debacle was not the welcoming party I had anticipated after the arrival of our long-awaited baby. I was looking for some material for my scrapbook and there were no stickers for this embarrassing event. Clearly, this was not a “Kodak moment.” The next time I got together with my girlfriends to scrapbook, I told them my harrowing story. Hugs and tears of empathy did not ensue. Instead, my girlfriends cracked up and squealed in amusement as my story unfolded. Although none of them were members of my exclusive cord-pulling club, many of them were no strangers to the “grapes of wrath.”

Maybe this was a Kodak moment. Just of a different kind. Here’s the problem I have with traditional Kodak moments. They're moments. Glimpses in time. And we choose which glimpses to unveil to the public. Now with digital cameras, we can take a million pictures and display only those that reflect our very best. I mean, who wants to scrapbook their postpartum calamities and reveal to people what their lives are really like? Who wants to admit that their lives aren’t even close to perfect, they often feel like they are fumbling through motherhood, and they wish there were an emergency cord installed in their homes? If you answered “I do! I do!” to any of the aforementioned questions then read on sister, read on.

The Transition to Motherhood
In natural childbirth, the “transition stage” of labor (right before you start pushing) is said to be the shortest part of labor and yet the most intense. The major emotional marker for this stage is giving up and asking for drugs. Or screaming for drugs. But I say the period in which the kid is now out of your womb and rocking your world (in so many ways) is the true “transition stage.” You go from some puking, minor sleep deprivation, back discomfort, and extra padding to hemmies, stitches, major sleep deprivation … and indescribable love. You go from carrying around this babe in your stomach to cradling this little creature, who looks kind of like a cross between an old man and an alien.

And then there’s breastbleeding. I mean, breastfeeding. It’s a beautiful, natural activity that is not supposed to hurt. Tell that to my cracked and bleeding nipples. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for breastfeeding. I have a bumper sticker on my car that reads, “Breast is best.” Okay, that’s a joke. I hope those don’t exist. I will not Google that. I don’t want to know. Anyway, just about when you don’t get the hang of using that green nose snuffer thing and breastfeeding, they send you home from the hospital (unless you are a hippie who did a homebirth) and everyone starts referring to you as Mom. “WHERE ARE MY DRUGS?!” Kidding. Totally kidding.

So after a short stay in the hospital, five hours sleep, and nipple confusion, you are sent home to take care of your sweet little sleeping angel. Oh, wait a minute. Babies only sleep peacefully in the hospital and maybe for the first few days at home. And then they wake up. In the middle of the night. A lot. And you are supposed to feed them from your blistered bosom over and over again. You are sleep deprived, you have junk flowing out from downstairs, you have no idea what you are doing (although you have the information from about fifty books on parenting colliding in your head, further stressing you out), you’re getting peed on, your hormones have taken over your body and your mind—and your husband wants to know when you can have sex. Now I’d call that a transition.

The Longevity of Motherhood
One of the things that hits pretty quickly as your baby makes his or her way out of the womb and into the room is that this little child is yours for life. No give backs. No do-overs. You are forever this child’s caregiver and mom. Motherhood is permanent. Kind of like a tattoo. The difference is that at least with a tattoo you can have it removed if you get sick of it or change your style. Sure, there might be some remnants of the tat, but for the most part it’s gone. I guess that is kind of like being a grandparent. I’ve heard that’s fun. Ironically, the permanency of parenting is actually part of what makes it so incredible. You get the tat (now referring to the child, clarifying just in case you are currently sleep deprived and your brain is mush) and he’s yours for life. Fortunately, our tattoo artist is God (is that blasphemous?). And He knows what He’s doing. He has created that tat especially for you! He has chosen you to be the mom for your child.

I remember when my girlfriend finally got to adopt the twins she and her husband had been caring for since the kids were six weeks old. After many court dates, visitations where one of the biological parents would sometimes show up, sleepless nights, a roller coaster of emotions and four years, Alissa and Jeff were finally able to legally adopt Luke and Aubrey. As I wrote them a card for this monumental and long-awaited occasion, I remember being incredibly moved. Biologically they came from someone else. But it didn’t matter. Before they came into this world, God chose Alissa and Jeff to be Mom and Dad to Luke and Aubrey. Whether or not our children share our DNA, God is the ultimate tattoo artist and has designed our children to be a part of our lives. Forever. That is comforting because for the days when you blow it and you feel like the worst mom ever, there are more days to come. More days to love on your kids, to apologize to them if you’ve wronged them, to wipe their tears (instead of causing them), to encourage them, to teach them about God’s love for them. More days to look back and laugh at yesterday. Because yesterday you had an MBD (mental breakdown day) and it wasn’t funny at all. More days to enjoy your kids. You would think that would come naturally. Many days it does. But in preparation for the days my kids are seriously buggin’, I pray this prayer a lot: “Lord, help me to enjoy my kids.” And I think it actually helps.

The Dichotomy of Motherhood
Sometimes the days go by slowly as you trek through the seemingly mundane responsibilities of parenting. The brushing of teeth, the two-hour ordeal of getting your kids into the car, the limitless diaper changes, the bazillion loads of laundry, etc. But have you ever heard anyone say, “Take a seat, because these days with your little kids go by really slowly. Don’t relish every moment with your little rug rats because those preschool years are a drag. Seems like just a million years ago that my kids were that age.” Let me answer that for you. No! You have never heard anyone say that. (Unless you were playing make believe and talking to yourself, which is possible.) Former MOPS (mothers of preschoolers) always say just the opposite: “Enjoy this time with your kids because it goes by so fast.” Easier said than done, Grandma!

Last week I visited my husband, Shiloh, at his office. The kids were galloping up and down the halls and entertaining people left and right. One of my husband’s co-workers called out as he watched the Hagen procession prance by his office, “Enjoy it now. It doesn’t get any better than this.” He was witnessing an original Kodak moment. I was enjoying my cute little kids. It really doesn’t get much better than watching your kids giggle and frolic around making other people smile, right? Until the next day rolls around. When your child is using her own poop to finger paint her entire room (not that this actually happened to me … okay, it did.). And I think, “Really? It doesn’t get any better than this?” But just as I am contemplating that I might have the worst job ever and that preschoolers were created by God to torture unsuspecting moms, my son says, “Mom, you're my girl." I then tell him I love the sweet little things that come out of his heart. He replies, "Like one time when I prayed and I used the word justice?" Okay, I’m back in the game. This motherhood thing rocks! Best job ever. Oh, the constant dichotomy of motherhood. Are you with me?

The Gravity of Motherhood
As you are welcomed into motherhood, in addition to the sense of “Oh my goodness, this child is mine forever” you might start to feel “Oh crud, I have such a huge role in shaping this child.” If I don’t feed him, he’ll go hungry. If I don’t change her diaper she’ll be living in Poopsville. If I don’t pick him up when he is crying, he’ll think I have abandoned him. If I don’t bathe her, she’ll smell like her dad. Did I just write that? My husband does not smell. No, wait, he does. Elijah was enjoying his cereal until Daddy ripped one that smelled so bad that Elijah (who normally participates in the gas factory) literally cried. "It just smells too bad," he said, sobbing. (That was a total tangent, but I had to get it off my chest.)

Molding our children is not just about meeting physical needs or protecting them from the hideous odors of their fathers. As they get a little older, you see what sponges they are. I certainly believe children have their own personalities, innate abilities, and gifts, but the environment we create for them and how much it shapes them is indisputable. Our little guys and girls are blank slates. A large part of who they are to become has yet to be written … and we play a huge role in writing their biographies.
The preschool years are particularly weighted on mom’s shoulders simply because of the amount of time we spend with them. Even though they often act like you are invisible and say “What?” so much that you take them to have their ears tested (and they pass with flying colors), they are listening. And they are watching you. Apparently, I have talked with Elijah quite a bit about homeless people and God’s heart for them. A while back, we took the kids to feed some homeless people at a park in Berkeley. My son was clearly impacted. He now prays every night for homeless people. He prays that they would have food and homes and have their needs met. One time after we stayed at someone’s vacation home he prayed for the homeless people to have vacation homes. Sky’s the limit, little buddy.

Elijah has even influenced his little sister, Lydia, in this regard. She has her own version of the prayer: “Dear God, please help the homeless people to have their names.” I’m sure God is happy to take what He can get from a two-year-old. She even sings about homeless people in her spare time. The other day she was in the bath singing at the top of her lungs, “THE HOMELESS ARE PEEEE-PULLL!” That was the extent of the song. She just kept repeating that catchy phrase over and over. All that to say, what starts with Mom keeps on going. For better or for worse.
I was in line waiting to check Elijah into his preschool class when Lydia flashed her magic wand to the Mom in front of us. “This is my magic wand!” she exclaimed. “It’s for killing people.” Fantastic. I don’t think that was nature’s influence. I’m not going to take full credit for that lovely display of grace, but we (okay, mostly my husband) have allowed Star Wars to infiltrate our home. Still, I’m glad I was there for this shining Hagen moment. I was able to talk to Lydia about the proper use of magic wands. Magic wands are for blessing people. Not that she even understands what killing people or blessing people is, but I feel so privileged (and FREAKED OUT!) that I can be the one to influence my children. To plant seeds in them, to encourage them, to show them and teach them what God cares about, to redirect them when they misuse their magic wands and the list goes on and on.

Whether in line at preschool or in the backyard or at the grocery store, I am daily reminded how we are making permanent imprints on our children’s hearts, on their souls, on their minds, on their worldviews, on their morals. We must consider who they play with (beware of older siblings), what they watch (AKA what television shows we allow to babysit them), what we read to them. We radically affect the way they view themselves, the way they treat others, the way they handle various emotions, the way they cope with stressful situations. How do we live? Who or what is influencing us? Hopefully, you’re looking to the Tattoo Artist, because He is the only one who is worthy. No pressure. No big deal. Just a life or two at stake … and all the lives our children touch throughout their lives. Time to get on your knees, ladies.

P.S. If you like this please tweet it, facebook it and/or post a link to it on your blog and then wait for your million dollar check in the mail. If you don't receive the money please email Bill Gates. Thanks.
Here is a link to my Tales From the Motherhood blog that I update regularly.

Dedicated to all the Nursing Moms and Pigs

I think breastfeeding is really important. There is no substitute. So healthy for baby. Jordis turned one yesterday and my term of nursing is up. Forever. Some women would cry tears. I cry tears of joy. I am a breastfeeding advocate, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

With Elijah and Lydia I had all the infections and issues you could name. Jordis and I got off to a rough start, but fortunately I didn't get any infections or diseases. But it's still not my favorite. 

We went to the fair a few weeks ago. This is what we saw. This is what Shiloh said,

"Wow, talk about mastitis. And you think you have it bad." I dedicate this blog to this Pig Mama.

The Epidural

I have a chapter planned (that I have not written yet) that will cover labor and delivery. You can be sure I will write about the epidural. I had one with the first 3 deliveries and it worked well for me. I became a big fan. But as time passes I have become more of a dirty hippy - just without the dirtiness, free sex and drugs. With Jordis, I decided to give it a whirl without my sweet, sweet epi.
I survived and it hurt. Unfortunately I don't have any videos of when I was in labor with Jordis... because I was a little more on the ... how do I say ... on the "sensitive" side. For example, when Shiloh started chewing Hot Tamales right next to my ear while I was having a contraction I was ready to kick him to the curb. I don't know if the camera would have gone over real well during that time. In contrast, here is a video of me in active labor with Lydia... he could stuck a hot tamale in my ear and I wouldn't have cared.

Desperate Mom at Trader Joe's

I was at Trader's the other day with my crew. I ran into a Mom I know. I immediately noticed the blue crocs she was wearing as they didn't seem to fit her. And her son was bare foot. Classic desperate Mom...

They had just gotten back from a week's vacation in Hawaii (poor desperate mom, right?) the night before. Her other son was sick and had been to the doctor already that morning. She had already made 3 (or was it 5) trips to and from the house when she arrived at TJ's to restock their post vacation empty fridge and pantry... only to find she had forgotten her shoes. She was not going back home and she needed groceries. But TDM's are resourceful in their desperation. She just wore her son's crocs and he cruised the store barefoot. Diana, way to represent! Loved it!

Just a Crazy Day in the Life

This is the email I sent to Shiloh this afternoon. I thought it would be a good, raw, sharing email... I did some updates in italics.

My day seemed be going pretty well. Go the kids to marissas at 9:52 (target was 9:45am). Got to go jogging for 30 minutes. Came back to Marissa's to get the kids packed up to go. Getting them to clean up a few toys was painful. had to discipline Lydia. Asked her 14 times if she needed to go potty. no, no, no. So I get jordis in the carseat and out the door we go. of course within seconds elijah is bent over digging in the dirt. Lydia comes running up the walkway, "I peed." Fabulous. Back in the house. Put her on the potty (nothing). Get her changed and in the car.

And as I type this (and feed jordis lunch) they both just came down stairs. Have to go potty (again).

Get home. Trying to talk to kati and tim on the phone to check in with them. Get out of the car. Elijah goes right for his loud 4 wheeler. So much for trying to have a conversation. Get them in the house.They work together nicely to make a fort (yea!). I nurse jords and put her down for a nap. Then shower. Elijah comes up while I am shower and asks for apples. Lydia walks in bow legged. Clearly has peed her pants again. So she hops in the shower with me. I get them their apples (but not first without Elijah not saying, "MOoooom, where are my apples?!!!") And let them eat them in their fort.

I finally get dressed, get lyds dressed and get the paperwork (for preschool) for Dr. W in the mail with a note and return envelope.

Get turkey sandwiches made for all of us and let them eat their in their fort. Although lydia barely ate hers and said she was done. I warned her she would be hungry later and would not get food. She didn't care. (She was hungry and asking for food an hour later. Sorry Charlie.)

Then they went outside to play (after having wrote on themselves with marker at some point during all of this - after the shower of course). Rode bikes. Lyds needed help so I went out there and pushed her and assisted her on her dora bike. Down the alley through the back yard to the other side and back. over and over. Talked with you on the phone about your break (Shiloh's breaks are all messed up on his car even though they were replaced 3 weeks ago) drama. At this point, I was actually thinking it was a pretty good day. I got to exercise (when kids were at marissa's). The kids played well with the fort even if only for 30 minutes or so. I got to spend time with them outside.

So I decide to go get the trash cans and put them in the sideyard. (interruption while typing this. They are supposed to be in their beds napping. I hear noise upstairs. Lydia has clearly been out of bed. "I need to go pee!" She exclaims as I open the door. Fine. Go ahead. And then I disciplined her for getting out of bed. "No. No. I don't have to go pee." I still hear noise up there) While I am in the front getting one I hear screaming. First I thought it was the baby, but it was Lyds. She had some sort of altercation with Elijah. You caught this drama as you called in the midst of it. Lyds goes inside. Now Jordis is screaming from her crib. I have Elijah go inside. It is nap time for both of them. Elijah has to lay there for at least 30 minutes. But of course, within 30 seconds they both have to go potty even though I asked them right before hand. Fine. I was in the middle of changing a pooper from Jordis at this point. They are in the upstairs bathroom. They both pee and Elijah decides to "clean out" the baby potty unbeknownst to me. So she picks up her potty (that he has emptied, right) to take it to the counter as a stool and water comes out everywhere. "Oh,when I rinsed it out. i forgot. I forgot to dump the water out." Great, now he is lying. I have put jordis down at this point to deal with it. She is crying hysterically. I am scolding Elijah when Lydia slips on the pee water that is everywhere and lands hard on the tile on her butt. Now she is crying, baby is crying. Elijah is washing his hands carelessly and soap dumps on the floor. This is when I squeal. Not a yell, but an little internal frustrated squeal that I can demonstrate later. I send the kids to their rooms. Mop up what I can with a towel. Have a talk with elijah about it all. Twice because when I asked him if he understood how I felt or where I was coming from he said no. So i reexplained it. (just had to go upstairs AGAIN!!!! No one fessed to anything but it sure sounded like out of bed to me). How he was being inconsiderate. Not really cleaning her toilet. Purposely filling it up knowing it would be spilled and then lying about it. Then I have a big mess to clean, etc. So he is crying about it again. I told them I need a timeout from them. "After our timeout can we get out of bed?" Asks lydia. "No, you are taking a nap." Stay in bed, etc. etc.

Why is being a stay at home mom so freakin' hard? And I wouldn't even say i am having an mbd. Just frustrated. Really frustrtated that it is often so unenjoyable. At least jordis is cute. She is crawling around, playing, putting everything in her mouth.

Just needed to share.

Very glad you are safe and you didn't drive to fremont.

W

P.S. Elijah does not usually nap. But I thought he needed to rest today. Lydia naps a couple of times a week. Because they have been behaving so poorly and whining + attitudes I instituted no sugar and no shows this week. The no shows is painful for me because that is when I get stuff done. But I think they needed a little cleanse from it all until we go to disneyland and poison them with non stop sugar. They never ended up napping. I just threw them in the car and took them on a "drive." At least they are all strapped down that way. And I didn't include any pics in the email. They are from yesterday. I threw them in there just for fun. And so I could look at them and think, "They are so sweet and fun and cute. And today wasn't such a bad day right?"

Fruit (in purse) anyone?

Today me and my Bible study gals met up for brunch at church. I brought fruit. It was in tupperware in my bag. Until the lid came off the tupperware. And there was no coordination on the outfits. We are just spiritually in sync like that.

And I requested this silly photo. They were all hatin' on me for it. But someday I know they will thank me.

All the while, our kids were just cruisin' around in the Bye-Bye buggy enjoying life.

total mental breakdown in progress

Just wanted to let you know (so you know you are not alone) I am having an official MBD (mental breakdown day). Don't have to fill you in on the details right now but suffice it to say ... tired mom, tired kids (after a late night at IKEA with the whole fam last night), just moved into a new house, stuff everywhere, shiloh working a lot, etc. I don't know when I will have a chance to give full disclosure either here or on my Tales from the Motherhood blog. Going to a women's conference this weekend (starts tonight) at my church. Don't even feel like going so that means I really need to go.
But just be sure that there was a phone call to Shiloh that went like this, "I need you to come home right now."
He was at our old house, which we closed escrow on today. He was walking through the house video taping it for us to look back on. I think I pretty much screwed up that footage as he rushed through it to get home to his totally desperate wife.
"I am about to have a total nervous breakdown." Picture me crying with baby crying in background. The other two kids were at a friend's house (thanks Marissa).

Mother's Day Card Mishap

You know you are a desperate mom when...

You pick out this great Mother's Day card for your mom. When you show it to your husband he says, "You know it says 'From your son.' on the inside, right?"


"Ummm.... no. I missed that. And I missed the picture of the little boy on the front too."

Not that I wouldn't pick out a card like that and just cross out the son part and put daughter (which I did). I would totally do something like that on purpose. But I didn't do this one on purpose. Need. More. Sleep. Too much on my plate (and not just the food) right now. Brain is... missing. Please help.

Excerpt from "The Black Hole"

I have almost finished this chapter. Let me know what you think. Is this a realistic portrayal of life with a newborn? For those of you that have not had kids... sorry to scare you like this. Go find a happy place. 

A Black Hole Sampler
You’ve just fallen asleep. It’s midnight. Forty-five minutes later you hear your husband’s baby screaming as if someone has burnt her with a cigarette. But you know there aren’t any smokers in the house. That can’t be it. She’s not hungry because you just fed her an hour ago. That can’t be it. Did I eat too much chocolate? Who cares! I will NEVER give up chocolate. That is definitely not it. Maybe she’s dying. Better get in there right way. She doesn’t appear to by dying, but when you pick her up she doesn’t stop screaming. Why is her tummy all bloated? You burped her for a solid 38 minutes after the last feeding so how could she be gassy? But she’s pulling her legs up to her chest in discomfort as if she is withholding some serious tootage.
You try all the methods the books offer up for a gassy baby (including having her ride a pretend bicycle?) further ticking off the little insomniac. So you try rocking her, singing to her, swaddling her, shushing her and swing dancing. You hold her sideways, over your shoulder, facing outwards and upside down. It’s a no go. You’re a rookie – you can’t really tell if the diaper’s wet or not. So you change it. Six times. You try giving her seven different pacifiers (again), but she spits them out as if they taste like raw sewage (because we all know what that tastes like). Then Mt. Saint Helens erupts out the back door. And up the back. Time for another diaper change, 180 wipes and a new outfit. She is still crying. Perhaps she’s teething, because that’s what perfect Moms with perfect babies say every time their angels cry. Time to pull out the hard liquor and wipe it on her gums. Your inconsolable baby is now drunk and screaming even louder. (A shout out to those old wise women who told you about that no-longer-acceptable treatment for a teething baby.) Exhausted and desperate, you decide to whip out the abused udders again because everyday is a possible “growth spurt,” right? She is drinking as if she is famished… for about 15 seconds. Then she falls asleep… until you put her back in crib. Back to hysteria.

So you do this shenanigan five times until you finally figure out something that works. Until two hours later when you hear that crying once again. And it’s not your husband. He is fast asleep. You hit him over the head with a hammer and dump cold water on him. It’s no use. He is unwakable. You can feel the tension in your neck and your anxiety level is off the charts. You just need a little more sleep. You had just gotten to the drool stage of your sleep cycle and now this AGAIN! The desperate thoughts begin to leak out of your subconscious. “What have I gotten myself into? I thought I wanted to be a Mom, but WHAT IS THIS? Can I just drop her off at the fire station for a few nights? Did my Mom really go through this with me? If so, I love her and she is awesome and I wonder if she wants to come over and help me RIGHT NOW!? Why does Cindy look so happy and alert when she comes to MOPS with her two-week old? Why am I not enjoying this? Those books are dumb. I will never have another child. My husband has it so easy. He is a total jerk for not helping me right now.” At some point the desperate prayers come into play. “Lord, please help me. Lord, please just give me a few more hours of sleep. Jesus, can you babysit?”

Desperate Moms Forget Things

Like picking up their neighbor's kid at preschool. Yeah, did that on Wednesday. So sorry Cindy for leaving your boy at school. Feeling pretty good about that.

The Black Hole

Working on a chapter called "The Black Hole." It's about the newborn stage where sleep deprivation and "what the heck am I doing?" reign. Hope to have something posted for you in the next week or so. In the meantime, I am a posting mad women on my other blog and some of that stuff will go in the book. I am going to try and post there at least every other day. Yikes! We'll see how long desperate mama can keep it up.
This picture has nothing to do with anything. Just thought it was a cool pic. Oh, and those are my kids and my cat.

A sneak peek at the book I am writing...

Chapter One: Welcome to Motherhood
The room was quiet and sterile. White walls, white floors, bad lighting and a small window overlooking the parking lot. I had just birthed my son, Elijah, the day before. And now I was enjoying a moment without phone calls, visitors, nurses and the like. My husband had snuck away for a shower back at home and the pediatrician had taken Elijah away for some tests. I was just starting to relax when all of the sudden I felt it. The urge. I knew there had to be a reason they were pumping me full of stool softeners. The time had come to for me to come to grips with that reason. I made my way to the bathroom as the feeling of discomfort increased. I squatted cautiously over the lovely white toilet (where are the seat covers in the postpartum rooms?) so that I would not be germified by OPP (other peoples placentas). This in and of itself is a sight to see, a true challenge and workout for my 5’1’’ self. Squatting on my tiptoes, I proceeded with the inevitable. At least, I tried. The pain got worse. Tears welled up in my tired eyes. This hurt. Were the stool softeners expired or something because they certainly did not seem to have done their job? There I was – tired, alone, hormonal and fat. And now I was stuck in the bathroom.

I looked over at the wall where an enticing contraption hung ever so sweetly. The words jumped out at me, “Pull cord in case of emergency.” This was an emergency. I pulled. Two nurses came rushing in within seconds, panting in anticipation of what they would find. I will never forget the look of disappointment on their faces when they saw me squatting over the toilet in tears. “Um, I think I have poop stuck halfway in and halfway out. And uhhh, it hurts really bad. And I don’t know what to do.” They had hit the jackpot with this cord pull. You know they wanted to ro-sham-bo for the follow up on this call. One of the nurses politely said, “Okay. I will check you.” Fabulous. She checked me and then broke the news. “Sweetheart,” she said in an I feel sorry for you kind of way. “That’s not poop. That’s a hemorrhoid.” Welcome to motherhood.



Please leave comments! (And not about how AWESOME I look in this picture!)

Writing a Book

If you found this spot, stay tuned. I am in the process of writing a book entitled "Totally Desperate Mom." As it stands now, I have finished chapter one. I am working on the book proposal and a few more chapters before I submit it to publishers. Thought I would reserve this blogspot.