March for Babies is right around the corner

May 11, 2011 by mommyhood
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Thousands of families and business leaders will walk in Charleston on Saturday in the March of Dimes’ annual March for Babies.
The event is the nation’s oldest walk fundraiser honoring babies born healthy and those who need help to survive and thrive.
Registration begins at 10 a.m. with the 3-mile walk kicking off at 11 .a.m.
The event also includes music, mascots, face painting and free food. To register, visit www.marchforbabies.org.
Funds raised by March for Babies in West Virginia help support prenatal wellness programs, research grants, neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) family support programs and advocacy efforts for stronger, healthier babies.
The Mommyhood has a team in the March for Babies and is raising money for the cause. If you’d like to donate through our team, there’s a pretty easy way. Just click here and follow the directions: http://www.marchforbabies.org/s_team_pag…

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It’s a bird… it’s a plane… it’s SuperMommy

May 10, 2011 by Cara Bailey
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In honor of the Daily Mail’s Nerd Living blog, I’ve been thinking about some nerd aspects of my own life.

“But Cara, you’re so hip and fly, certainly you don’t have any nerdy tendencies.”

Uh, yeah, in my head “hip and fly” aren’t nerdy, therefore I must be one, right? Trust me, I have my nerd secrets. Ask me anything about “M*A*S*H” (book, TV series or movie); I watch Jeopardy every night; and I have a favorite Pantone color. NERD ALERT.

OK, so I’m not a McElhinny or a Maddy (they’re in a very loveable nerd class all on their own), but I can hold my own when it comes to some comic book characters. I’m a Batman girl, he is the best superhero of all. However, I’ve been thinking about what superhero we really need: A super mommy!

SuperMommy to the rescue!

First, I must say that all mothers are heroes. Every father is also a hero. Anyone that can give up their lives and nurture every need of a child is indeed a hero. But I’m talking cape-wearing, super power, fights-the-bad-guys hero.

The following is my own vision of SuperMommy. Feel free to add your own features. Perhaps we’ll create a new DC character. (DC > Marvel)

To be a superhero, you must have one eye-catching costume. In my mind, the SuperMommy costume would be low rise jeans or khakis. Leave the mom jeans at home, SuperMommy is super fashionable. The material would be resistant to any pudding fingers or juice box spills that happen over the day.

The top of the costume would be a simple tank/cardigan set, making it easy to change in a phone booth. Cardigan = regular mom. Tank = super mom (or Karan. She definitely has the best arms of the mommy bloggers). No spandex in this costume, only Spanx.

A cape is another must-have. This superhero’s cape just happens to be minky on one side with a soft satin on the other, to cuddle chilly babes and comfort those that are sleepy or hurt. Oh, and it would be shiny in flight.

Yes, in flight. SuperMommy can fly faster than a speeding bullet. How else would she get from work, to the store, to T-ball games in time? Or how could she leave five minutes before the first bell of a school that is 15 minutes away and still get the kids there in time?

The signature piece of the costume would be a bold necklace that would bounce mean looks back at bullies, leaving innocent little ones unscathed. It could also function as a nightlight in dark bedrooms.

SuperMommy’s utility belt would contain Band-Aids, suckers, string cheese, extra undies, a flask (for teething babies, of course), safety pins and a Sharpie.

Her hands could switch from epidermis to microfiber at the first sight of a mess. One spin around a room keeps it more spotless than a Mr. Clean commercial. Pet hair vaporizes under her steely glare.

Her eyes would have X-ray vision, to find out if her mancub really did spit out every penny he put in his mouth.

The SuperMommy-mobile would be a fuel-efficient, sexy yet practical crossover. Black, of course, with a built-in DVD player that plays only the most educational videos.

She could create gourmet meals for less than $10 and she’d be able to get everyone in her house to eat veggies.

I’m sure there are many mothers out there who do these things and more every day. I don’t come anywhere close to being a super mom, and sincerely admire those that do.

Now, get in on the fun! What feature would your SuperMommy have?

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Posted in Cara Bailey, Humor, Stuff we love, Uncategorized | 5 Comments »

Falling down on the job

May 10, 2011 by Carrie Cherry
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  A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog post patting myself on the back for manning up and getting on an airplane, despite my overwhelming fear of flying. I found the courage because I didn’t want my daughter to be afraid. I wanted her to learn to love to travel and see the world. I wrote about how strong we moms are – for the many things we are forced to overcome for our kids.

  Seems I spoke too soon.

  On a weekend trip to Florida (thanks Brad for filling in for me), my 4-year-old did a face plant into a tile floor and came up bleeding – and screaming at the top of her lungs. I scooped her up, tried to reassure her that everything would be OK and hurried her to the bathroom. I sat her on the sink to assess the damage. Blood was everywhere. It was pouring out of her mouth. It covered her teeth. I wet a washcloth and tried to clean her up.

  I couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from. Did she lose teeth? Had she bitten off her tongue? Would she need stitches? Then I saw it. The inside of her bottom lip resembled something like raw meat.

  And that’s when it happened.

  I started to faint.

  I felt light-headed. I felt the blood drain from my face. I felt my stomach flip. I felt my knees go weak. I felt the weight of my body press against the bathroom door.

  Luckily, a friend was there. He swooped in and took care of my screaming, bloody daughter while I made my way to the living room to sit with my head between my knees.

  And when it was all over, when the screaming had quieted and the bleeding had stopped and when Julia was able to successfully eat a chocolate chip cookie, I retreated to the bedroom, buried my face into a pillow and sobbed. Loud, wracking sobs.

  I had failed as a mother. When my daughter needed me most, when she was hurt and crying, I was unable to stand. Instead, a 20-something single guy with no children had to tend to her wounds and make everything all better.

  And then I thought, my God, what if he hadn’t been there? What if I was all alone when Julia fell? I envisioned her bleeding to death over my unconscious body on the bathroom floor.

  What was wrong with me? I am 35 years old and have never been squeamish over the sight of blood before. I took care of my sick husband for two years without flinching. I gave birth, which isn’t exactly for the faint of heart. So why now? When my baby was hurt? I am supposed to take care of her. It’s my sole reason for being. To care for this beautiful, sweet child. And there I was in the other room – assuming the airplane crash position.

   My epic mom fail has consumed my thoughts all week. I’m trying to convince myself that if it had just been me, I would have found a way to hold it together. But I still feel awful. My girl is only 4. There are bound to be more bloody boo-boos along the way. Will I be able to man up? Or should I just always travel with a real man to step in when the going gets tough?

  Or maybe moms out there will share their blunders here on this blog. Tell me that you too have messed up royally and that it all turned out OK.

  And while you’re at it, someone fetch me the smelling salts.

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Mum’s the Word

May 9, 2011 by Katy Brown
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At 3:00, my second grade daughter hopped in the backseat of the car, announcing she was invited to Snack Buddies, which meets once a week in the counselor’s office.  My head spun in her direction so quickly that my neck popped.

Cheese and crackers with the counselor? Who else goes to Snack Buddies? Why you…and what do you talk about?!

“Oh, our families.  How we feel about things. Stuff.”

RED FLAG.  Your family? How you feel about things?  The school counselor is one step away from Child Protective Services! Steeped in paranoia, I imagined a group of students sitting around a small table talking about their parents’  “disagreement”, or “Mom’s special grape juice” in the back of the refrigerator, or that bill in the mail that “made Daddy mad”.  I could see our life unfolding in front of the school’s leadership, things taken out of context — or described in perfect accuracy.  But why was I so worried? Didn’t I post my day’s events on Facebook every morning, noon and night? Didn’t I write a weekly blog about my marriage, children and career for The Daily Mail?  Didn’t I tell all anyway?

So if this is true, why do we always cup our hands across the mouths of babes?

Until recently, I really didn’t value my daughters’ quiet personalities.  I love it when we’re in church and when they’re in the library, or when we attend movies or that rare concert.  However, I get frustrated when they hide their faces or look at me to respond for them when a stranger asks a question.  I also get upset when I learn they aren’t participating in class because they’re afraid to speak up.  Their extreme shyness has concerned me for years – to the point that I was worried about Selective Mutism — but now I’m beginning to cherish the strong, silent type.

In a society of posting and tweeting, life is completely transparent.  We can peer into the lives of people we barely know (called “friends”), absorbing their reactions and comments, videos and pictures.  We read everything that passes through their minds as if it were a news ticker in Times Square…individual reality shows that leave little to the imagination (but much to judgment).

I’m climbing out on a limb to suggest that all of this may be coming to an end. In the past few weeks, Detailed has been replaced by Discreet, and it’s strangely more fascinating than being in the know.

President Obama’s air-tight mission to exterminate Osama bin Laden.  The debut of Kate Middleton in her royal wedding dress.  A few years ago, it was The Greenbrier bunker (Shh…it’s sleepy time down south!). Years before that, it was the Bay of Pigs invasion.  To this day, the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa’s body.

Could it be that we’re returning to a lifestyle of limitation?  Practicing the art of restraint?  Dare I say we’re becoming disciplined?  Or, is it just a way to make people wonder, thus speculate and chatter even more?

But at home, the last thing we need is for our children to zip their lips.  We need to know everything that’s going on with them (and everyone else, for that matter), and we need to know what’s weighing on their hearts and minds. In this case, believing ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt you’ is terribly dangerous.

During parent-teacher conferences, I was able to read some of my daughter’s writing assignments, which seemed to cover every element of our household.  I was particularly taken aback by the story she wrote about our home construction, which captured frustrated dialogue with the precision of a professional court reporter.  Then, I turned to a picture she drew of herself after losing one of my earrings that she was warned not to touch. The downturned mouth and teary eyes said it all. After seeing the illustration, I had a face to match it.

I felt embarrassed and even a bit ashamed because she shared things that were….between us. When I got home, Mike and I had a talk with her about the importance of thinking before we speak and protecting our family’s privacy. And then, of course, Mike and I had “a little chat” about social networking.  But that’s classified.

; )

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Posted in Behavior, Discipline, Events, Family, Home Improvement, Humor, Issues, Katy Brown, Mommies, Relationships, School, Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

A creative take on summer camp

May 8, 2011 by mommyhood
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Already thinking of how to beat the summer blahs?

Charleston Montessori has announced its lineup of summer camps, and they look like a blast with topics ranging from backyard adventures to bugs’ lives to space exploration. 

The camps are between June 13 and August 5, from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. You can sign up for all eight weeks or narrow it down to one.

There are camps meant for kids ages 3 to 6 and another set of camps meant for kids ages 6 to 12.

Camps are $150 a week, although those who sign up early for all eight weeks can get a 10 percent discount.

Charleston Montessori is located at 805 Price Street. The phone number is 304-340-9000.

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Because I Have a Forum and You’re Awesome: Happy Mother’s Day

May 6, 2011 by karanireland
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Dear Mom,

I wanted to let you know how much I love you and appreciate having you as my mother.  This is especially important today because- well- your Mother’s Day card is going to be late.  (I’m sure you’re shocked by this.)  Please know that this is not a reflection of my feelings for you, but rather a reflection of me not having any stamps.  Ever.   

I wish I had inherited your organizational skills.  I also wish I were one of those people who are grateful for what they have in the present. But it turns out that hindsight is one of my greatest strengths.  So, before I recount the many gifts you have given me, let me first give you a big,

“I’m sorry.  You were right about (almost) everything.” 

I hope this simple sentiment will make up for my teenage years, but if it doesn’t, I can delete the “almost” and take you to Joe Fazio’s when next you visit; certainly that should cover it.

All kidding aside, I hope you know how grateful I am to have grown up having you for a mom.  I’ve come to realize that parenting is one of those jobs that looks easier than it is, which is saying a lot since it actually looks pretty hard.  I can’t thank you enough for having stuck it out, not only through my childhood, but for all those years later with my talented brother and my amazing sister!  (Geez, you’ve been parenting for forever and you still look fantastic; here’s hoping I’m on the receiving end of those genes!)

I have to admit, though, the things you taught me by telling me weren’t the lessons that took hold immediately.  I remember you teaching me to balance a checkbook, for instance, and it took me years to do that successfully. You told me not to get so serious about boys, but I have yet to go very long without a capital-B Boyfriend. You told me to go to college and get my degree, which I misheard as “go to Los Angeles and get a tan”.  You get the picture: I didn’t always listen well to what you said.  But, now I’m realizing all the things I learned by watching what you did.

By watching you, I learned that friendliness is generous: that by greeting people with a smile and a friendly word, you put them at ease and make their lives a little brighter.  Your smile still lights up the room!  (Also, on the topic of smiles: thank you for my braces.)

Your friendliness is obvious, but what I find especially disarming is your wicked sense of humor.  I’m not sure if it’s genetic (your brothers seem to have it) or learned, but I definitely inherited it somehow and I’m so, so thankful.  I never realized what a gift a sense of humor is until I met people that didn’t seem to have one: you know- meter maids, tax collectors, Republicans…  (Just kidding, Republicans; I totally got your Sarah Palin joke!)  Yes, I see now, that a sense of humor is a lifesaver; I think yours is probably what got you through my adolescence.  I’m hoping I can rely on mine in a few years.

Another thing I’ve learned from you is that, if everything else fails you, Motown and Anne Murray will always be life-affirming.  It’s because of you that I can sing every Supremes song, and pretend that I am not only Diana Ross, but Florence Ballard and Mary Wilson, too.  (I’m talking gestures and everything.) And, I will never forget the way you serenaded my wonderful stepdad at your wedding with “Can I Have This Dance for the Rest of My Life?”  I know I bring that up a lot, but seriously, I thought it was awesome.  You think I’m teasing you, but I’m not.  Stuff like that is what taught me about being unafraid.  It’s why I can go and read aloud at the kids’ school; why I’m not afraid to be open on my blog; why I can converse with almost anyone; and why I am not afraid to be who I am.  I learned, by watching you sing and dance and have fun, that I can be bold and my life will be better for it. Hopefully, my kids are learning, too.  Genevieve has created a dance called the “Mom’s Most Embarrassing Moves” dance and she’s really good at it!

Lastly, Mom, I want to tell you how strong I think you are and let you know that I am strong, too.  All those years when it was just the two of us, I saw you struggle to get everything done: to be a good parent, a good employee, a good daughter, a good sister and still have something leftover for you.  Looking back, I don’t know how you did it all!  Even when things got to be overwhelming for you, you’d cry a little, and then move on with generally unflagging optimism.  From the time you were the only girl in a family of six children, you have been taking care of others, worrying about others, and thinking about yourself last- just like your own mother.  Thank you for taking care of me, my brother and sister, our home, your job, your health, your brothers when they’ve needed you, Aunt Margie, your Dad, and your beautiful, sweetheart of a mom, Virginia.  A lot of the words that I would use to describe you (soft-hearted, sensitive, warm) don’t let on that you are also an absolute rock for the rest of us!

I love you and appreciate everything you’ve done for me, especially this past year, as I became what you once were- a single mom.  You heard me whining that I needed more: “support me, comfort me, help me.”  And, you did what you always do: gave more.

Happy Mother’s Day,

Karan

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The end of the world as I know it

May 5, 2011 by Kara Moore
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Well, folks, the jig is up. The baby is mobile.

She’s not crawling, per se. She can scoot on her back on our hardwood floors and do a sort of modified army crawl on the carpet, plus she figured out that rolling over and pivoting on her back will take her just about anywhere she wants to go.

The scooting was cute at first, though I’m not proud of how she discovered she could do it. I had put her on the floor at my feet while I was on the computer. If I hold her, she tries to type (or screams when I don’t let her type), so I just plunked her down on the hardwood. Naturally, she arched her back in preparation to throw a fit and with a soft thud found herself lying on her back. But she didn’t cry, so it was probably nothing major, right? A few minutes later I looked down and she’d somehow wedged herself between the dresser and the hamper. So I pulled her back to me and took this video of her next foray.

(Here’s a link if the embedded video doesn’t work)

Yes, that’s the vacuum on my bedroom floor and my toolbox that she’s reaching for. Clearly I am not accustomed to having a rugrat (or a we-need-rugs-rat).

I sent that video to all the members of her fan club and heard back from my mom that I developed the exact same technique as a baby except I did it on carpet and rubbed myself a bald spot. Isn’t that heartwarming?

The next weekend when we visited her other grandparents, my brother-in-law suggested we outfit her with a dust cloth on the back of her onesie and a helmet. Brilliant. Especially considering that when we returned home she managed to scoot herself all the way under the coffee table in the living room and came out on the other side with some dust bunnies.

(Before you judge me, we don’t have a rug in the living room anymore because I got rid of it because it was putting down a weird white powder that turned out to be dried glue. Better dust bunnies than dried glue, am I right?)

A few days after that, she learned to pitch herself forward over her knees to go from a sitting position to, well, a faceplant. From there she can do her modified army crawl.

Suddenly, I understand baby proofing. I can no longer put her on the bed while I get dressed or else she’ll dive head-first off the side. Like she did earlier this week. I saved her with my leg just before she hit the floor. I also quickly realized I had to pick up the cat’s windpipe-sized toys in the family room since she could mosey right over to them. I had to start covering all the outlets yesterday (with outlet covers my very experienced mother-in-law gave me while I was still pregnant) after she gazed lovingly at one and then lunged at it. I should probably also pick up the ant poison in the kitchen.

It’s a whole new world for both of us, and there’s something a little heartbreaking about it for me. Until now, she hasn’t been able to crawl away from me. She saw the world from Mama’s arms. This is her first real taste of independence. I don’t think I’m going to be able to handle first days of school and, heaven forbid, graduations.

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A mommy I want to be like

May 4, 2011 by Cara Bailey
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I was recently asked if I am like my mother. There is an easy answer to that: I wish!

My mother is confident, organized, hard-working, tall…

I’m more rushed, less organized, much less put together, a lowly 5′8.

By the time she was 24, my mother was married, had me (the oldest of four) and had opened her own business. That business was our family’s mainstay over the next 20 years.

When I was 24…  *grasshoppers chirping*

My mother offers pretty big shoes to fill — literally, she has huge feet — but also figuratively. She raised three children on her own when my dad passed away. She later remarried and added another kiddo to the crew. And she did it all with perfect lipstick. Nothing frazzles her.

If times were tough, and I’m sure they were, we never knew. She somehow juggled kids in band, ball and her own business (in later years, two of them). I tried to be a working mother for one year and had to quit before I completely disintegrated.

I would like to think that since she is the mother that taught me everything I know, I’m something like her. In some ways I think I am. She’s pretty level-headed, I’m the same. There’s not a lot that shakes either of us. Family means a lot to her. Me too! Her generosity is immeasurable. I’m trying to work on that area.

But we’re also very different. Neither of us wrong, just different. I hold onto things, she gets rid of more stuff than Goodwill can hold. I am patient to a fault, she is stricter. She listens to country, but I’m working on that! There might be an Adele CD in her Mother’s Day stocking. (Mom, if you’re reading, make a Mother’s Day stocking.)

I feel bad sometimes because I really can’t come close to measuring up to her. I will never be as creative as she is. I’ll never be able to build a deck like she can do. Let me tell you, the lady knows how to operate a saw. I’ll never be able to keep my house as clean as she can keep hers. But she gives me a great pinnacle to reach.

She also has 25+ years of experience in the mommyhood. That’s a lifetime of wisdom away from where I am. I am so thankful to have her as a guide, the most amazing reference material anyone could need.

“Mom, do you think he’s too big? Too small?”

“Mom, I just found the grossest thing in his diaper, look and tell me what it is.”

“Mom, he keeps telling me no. What do I do?”

As I grow into my mommy shoes, I have faith that my mancub wont be a total mess. Afterall, my mom taught me everything I know and I turned out OK, I think…

I love you Mom!

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Ain’t life a kick in the pants?

May 3, 2011 by bradmc
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Hello, it’s me, a daddy (a.k.a. “under-evolved mommy”) filling in for Carrie this week. Usually you can find me at http://blogs.dailymail.com/nerdliving/ If you read far enough into this post, I think you’ll figure out why.

All right, so if anybody’s gonna ruin my kid’s day through the arbitrary, harsh interpretation of a rule, it’s gonna be me. So imagine my surprise to show up at a peewee soccer game to find my little goofball disqualified for her footwear.

The athlete on the left was suspended one game for improper footwear. Also, see those taped-up earrings? Illegal, too. The athlete on the right gets away with the sunglasses only by being super-cute.

This has not been the greatest year anyway to be a pint-sized outdoor soccer player, unless Noah is your coach and the animals happen to be on your team. (“OK, I need two midfielders, two fullbacks and so on and so forth. Perfect!”) So even though there are only three weeks left in the season, this past weekend featured the first, actual, not-rained-out games.

The trouble at our house was conflicts. My wife had another commitment, and my two goobers had two games on separate fields at the same time. And I don’t have Star Trek-style beaming technology. Well, I couldn’t leave my littlest knucklehead alone because, for a solid hour, I would have horrifying images of her somehow winding up in a full body cast. That meant I arranged a ride for Big Sister and went to Little Sister’s game. After watching little dudes cluster around a single ball for 60 minutes, we rushed to the car, drove a couple of miles and got to Big Sister’s game around halftime. The skies were blue, the sun was shining, the kids on the field were shouting with joy and … my kid was upset out of her mind.

As it turns out, what I had missed was a referee lining up all the 8-year-olds as if they were newly-enlisted servicemen and checking out their footwear. I’ve only seen referees for that age group a couple of times, and I’ve never seen an inspection. I have no idea why it happened. Maybe the Federal Aviation Administration took over the rulebook and insisted it be as difficult to play soccer as it is to board an airplane. Well, my kid, along with her closest pal, flunked the footwear test. This is because… prepare to gasp… their shoes had toe cleats, which is athletic cleats with a rubber bump on the front.

Technically, that means she was wearing softball shoes. Which, if you want to get even more technical, makes the guy who bought the shoes (me) a doofus but does not make the wearer of the offending shoes a cheater or a danger to anyone. OK, well, maybe I’m kind of wrong because here is the rule spelled out on Page Freakin’ 4 of the rules, which I’m sure you’ve read and memorized: “Footwear must be worn. The officials during the pre-game inspection must deem the footwear non-dangerous. Examples of dangerous shoes include baseball spikes or baseball cleats with toe cleat or any sharp metal cleats.”

I get it. The idea is you might kick someone just a little too dead-on with that toe cleat and injure their Achilles tendon or some part even more sensitive. But have you seen my kid play soccer? I have. Aggressive is not her middle name. Her middle name is Marie, if you want to get REALLY technical, which, apparently, you do. What she does when she’s playing soccer is if the ball happens to come within a couple of yards of her, she’ll drift up near it and take a casual look around to see if anybody else seems to want to kick the ball AND SHE WILL LET THEM. If not, she will give the ball a gentle tap, whereupon the opposing team will recover the ball and score. She wouldn’t be a danger to anyone, even if she had Chinese throwing stars in her socks and a flamethrower strapped to her back.

Evidence

Had I been there, I would have thrown a giant fit like Billy Martin back with the New York Yankees, kicking wet sod all over the place with my no-toe-cleat shoes. (In reality, I would have rushed us all off to the same dumb retail store where I bought the shoes in the first place and bought some new ones. Or, I would have run off to a nearby tool store to get a hacksaw to whack away at the offending referee toe cleat, thus making my goober eligible.)

But since I showed up at halftime and there was really nothing that could be done by then and because I was totally flummoxed since I’d had the entire situation explained to me by an exasperated 8-year-old, I sat down yoga-style, ready for some stupid affirmation and ignoramus reflection.

On the one hand, this was a great lesson. Life’s not fair. But I’M THE ONE WHO’S SUPPOSED TO TEACH DUMB STUFF LIKE THAT AND IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT GETTING ALONG WITH YOUR SISTER OR CLEANING THE DISHES.

So on the other hand, this sucked. True, we had unwittingly broken a rule. And you have to pay the penalty when you break a rule even if it is an arbitrary one that doesn’t take into account your good character or solid citizenship. Adults learn this all the time, like when they get stopped on the highway for exceeding the speed limit with the police officer paying no attention to the mitigating circumstance that a really good song had just come on the radio.

What I mean is, at 8 years old, she’s already learning that a faceless bureaucracy can unfeelingly grind you against its wheel of inflexible rules the first time you’ve gotten to play soccer, after a season of rain, on a beautiful day, when you are wearing the wrong stupid shoes that your doofus dad bought you, and when that same doofus dad was at your embarrassing little sister’s game and not there to defend you and, in fact, you had no intention of kicking anyone — not even the actual ball.

Life’s not fair.

But I’m the one who’s supposed to teach that. Not some dumb soccer referee.

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Motherless Day

May 2, 2011 by Katy Brown
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For me, the hardest part of parenting was not having my own mother when I became one.  I lost her to lung cancer 10 years ago, and I still think of her several times a day.  It’s a type of grief that I don’t want rid of — if that makes sense — because it forces me to take better care of myself. Heaven knows (and after months of blogs, you know, too) that I don’t want to leave my children one second sooner than necessary.

The odd thing is that I haven’t quite shifted my thoughts when it comes to Mother’s Day.  I think of her, not myself, as a mother deserving of cards, flowers and lunch at The Greenbrier. Even though I have two daughters of my own, the occasion is still reserved in my heart for her…and it’s actually sadder than the day she died.

I’ve read a lot about “orphaned adults” and the milestone moments that our loved ones miss when they pass away early in our lives. John Lennon lost his mother when he was 17.  Shelby Lynne also lost her mother at the same age. Madonna lost her mother to cancer when she was five. Paul McCartney’s mother died when he was 14. Ellen Pompeo’s mother died when she was four. In the book, “Good Grief, It’s Mother’s Day,” Peppermint Patty tells Charlie Brown that she bought a Mother’s Day card for her father, since he has to be mom as well as dad.

I don’t attend pity parties often – only for extremely good friends – and I don’t stay long.  I’m a happy person and I love to laugh, which is why I miss talking to my mother so much.  I want to pick up the phone to tell her about the crazy things that have happened, such as the time I spiked brownies with spinach to make the girls eat vegetables.  Or, the trip to Snowshoe that made both girls car sick, and we had to drive from Marlinton to the Village in 30-degree weather…with all four windows down.  I wanted to tell her about giving my first born grape Kool-Aid for the first time, and then fearing she was dying the next morning when I changed her Pull-Up. And, of course, having to bind my chest with an Ace bandage when I switched to formula for my daughter’s feedings.  Every time I tried to wrap myself, the little clips would fly off and I’d spend 20 minutes looking for them on the floor.

While I’m sure she got a kick out of all this anyway, I still needed to hear her giggle and say, “Honey, I know. I’ve been there.”   Looking down from up above, I’m sure she was there for all of those zany moments of motherhood, particularly the early days, when I had no idea what I was doing.  But, now that my children are older and I’m experiencing an entirely new set of challenges, I still call on her for a little help.  It’s during these moments, though, that I want her to hear me say, “Now I understand.”

Happy Mother’s Day to all of us…everywhere.

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