This is the place where we admit it all. Where we say what we can’t say to our friends at the playground. To our neighbors at a backyard barbecue. Where we coddle the voice that sits within. The one that whines in frustration at all the chores and the failures. The deeds undone. The lives we don’t have. But we want. The people we see inside ourselves. But can’t always become.

This is the place where we try not to portray ourselves as someone in particular. We place no judgment. We find no fear. We look for resolve.

This is the place. Where I am most me.

And perhaps this is what is most scary. About being a mommy. That motherhood requires this place. For me. Right now. A secret world of blogs and tweets. Perceptions unveiled. Truths revealed. Melodies sung among a harmony of sisters online. Women. Mothers. Caretakers.

And I am just one woman.

I’m not scary smart. I don’t have a superior IQ. I’m not scary beautiful. My face bears no resemblance to an Italian Renaissance sculpture – except for maybe its pallor. I’m not scary gifted. I have no defining talent. No artistic outlet or craft, nor study nor hobby that regularly distracts me from the mundane. No natural ability that defines me in any sense. Besides parenting, that is. And everything that “parent” connotes.

I’m not scary emotional. I’m not scary stylish. I’m not scary mommish. I’m not scary conservative, or liberal, or bland. I’m not scary obstinate, nor scary lame. I’m not scary rich. But I’m wealthy. Yes I’m oh very scary wealthy.

Because,
you see,
there are these children.

These, them, those guys over there. Yup, right there. The ones that are tackling each other in the next room. I have them. They are my weakness. They breed my weakness. And I have no trouble admitting to it. Any of it. My love for them and my contempt. My anger and dismay about everything they take from me and all that I am not because of them. My ache and joy and every wish for everything they hope for and deserve.

Because of this scary, scary wealth, I am very scary honest. This, above all else, is what makes me a scary mom: my need to breathe honesty and truth about everything and all that I have become since children poured from my womb and broadened the capacity of my heart to love.

I struggle with this need for transparency. This need to explore the depths of emotion brought on by mothering three children. By raising my boys in the best way I know how. With trial and error. With great failures and even greater successes. I don’t need to list all that I do wrong. Nor tag all my flaws. They are there to be seen. I curse. I cry. I crave freedom. I expose it all for the world to see. And though sometimes I fear what the world sees in me, I fear not what I see in myself. It is my sole reason for truth. For honest emotion. For honestly writing about these emotions.

I need to be everything that I can be. This is my only shot. I am their only mother. This “gig.” This oh so overwhelming gig of motherhood. Caretaker. Mouthfeeder. Nurturer. Hugger. Kisser. Keeper of the hearts in this home of ours. It is a tall order. To fill it is daunting. I’m not sure I know how. Will ever know. Should even strive to know. What I do know is I put one toe out there and let the rest follow along. I have to trust that what I am about to do is all that I can do in any given moment, and yet remember that there is always another way to do it, and I am not stuck. And I can always just stop, and give someone a hug. And admit I am often clueless. And move on. And try again.

What I hope is that this honesty enriches my life – and the lives around me. That giving this of myself will be a model for my children. That they will see how hard I work to share my truest thoughts with them and the people that I love. And that no one will hold it against me that I’ve found a small niche of the universe to share it with.

This post was written by Sarah from Momalom and inspired by The Search for a Scary Mommy.

I don't know how to how to be a mother, really.
I don't have all the right words to tell them
I don't know how to teach them
hardly ever

words and orders
my rules
obey!
repeating and explaining

Or
even more
how I live
how I speak
they will know and do and be
because of what I'm doing, not what I'm saying.

Tall order
living out what you say is right and good so they will act like you
because they will act like you.

I'm so often saying one thing and acting quite another thing out.

That's the pressure in motherhood for me, the thing I worry over getting right.
Not when they potty train
junk food
paci
TV
co-sleep
ECFE

Maybe those things matter, but only for a time and then they don't.

When I say I want to allow myself to fall into motherhood, I'm not talking about losing myself, I'm talking about allowing myself to be changed by it in the ways that I am meant to be changed so they will see it and want to live it too.

Being kind
Less Afraid
More vulnerable
Safe place.
Secure
Confident
Choosing happiness

Motherhood is all about changing. Our children, they change overnight, growing and learning and being more all the time.

I get scared that I won't have enough time to make sure they understand what I'm saying but not living out. I hate it that my own growing up takes so much more time, that they may be gone before I've finally allowed myself to be the best version of me. Because the trickiest thing is that mothering is such sacrifice and there are so many demands in the daily grind, it leaves very little space and time for the growing up of me. There is no option other than slow to grow, when a mother is almost always buried in serving and trying to love it, distracted from herself. So, the cocooning process is terribly long, at least for me.

I make it no secret that I believe in a graceful God, one that takes our slow process and the ways we fail and redeems it, making butterflies out of sighing grumpy mother caterpillars,

up in the air.

And this is Grace, my children, already seeing me as that butterfly, even now on my slow-belly crawl through time.

And this is Motherhood, a chance to see myself through those merciful eyes of my children, and then live what they see, what I didn't see without them.

This post was written by Heather from The Extraordinary Ordinary and inspired by a prompt from Mama's Losin' It

What does motherhood mean?

It means a whole heck of a lot of things. Scraped knees, bonked heads, explaining dead goldfish, tickle fights, tooth fairies, learning to put someone else's needs before your own, and many, many other things.

Right now, one thing motherhood means to me is that my days of having a Tupperware cabinet where I can find exactly what I am looking for thanks to my six beautiful and elegant bins from Dollar Tree are gone. For several years to come.

And I'm quite okay with that.

This post is guest authored by by Sera who blogs at Laughing Through The Choas, as part of Wordful Wednesday.

Recently my old roommate from College came to visit with her 3 year old son. We had lost touch over the years and this reunion was special to me. I've changed so much from who I used to be before I had children. Let's just say that in College I was one taco short of a combination plate when it came to being a responsible person. I was also pretty flighty, fluttering around to whichever fella would pay attention to me and leaving my poor roommate in the dust.

I wanted to show her that I was all grown up and a good mommy. I cleaned the house to unrealistic proportions in her honor. Not too clean though, I left dirty dishes in the sink so as to not appear that I was trying too hard to impress her. I rotated our toys, putting the educational wooden toys on the shelf and tossing the electronic toys under the bed. The house looked spic and span and as I drove to meet her and her kiddo at a restaurant for lunch, I felt very proud of myself. I would not let her know that I was a "Scary Mommy" (a term coined by one of my favorite Bloggers that represents the anti-super mom). I would put my best face forward and present to her the closest thing to June Cleaver that I could.

It failed miserably. She may not have even noticed that my facade was cracking all around me throughout our entire visit. When we met up at the door of the restaurant her son was dressed like an indie rock kid. Donned head-to-toe in Levis and Converse tennis shoes, he was practically shining he looked so cute.

I glanced down at my 4 year old, Griffin, who had his cowboy boots on the wrong feet and paint all over his hands and clothes from an art project that he had been working on earlier. My 6 month old had dried up snot on his cheek. "So much for clean kids," I thought to myself. My son gallivanted over to hers and asked him..."Do you like pirates?" Her little boy shrugged. Griffin has known about pirates from day one. When he was just two years old he would barrel around the house with a fake hook for a hand and yell "ARGH!" as I walked by. My old roommate smiled and said "Oh, he doesn't know about Pirates yet." Griffin kinda' scrunched his face up as if to say "Huh?" and we moved on.

During the meal, her son sat very politely and ate his food while we visited and caught up on our lives. My son kept interjecting and asking questions like..." Do you like Spongebob? Do you like Lego Star Wars?" Each time the answer was no or that her son didn't watch much TV. I told her "If it's something in the media, video games, or anything inappropriate for a four year old, my kid knows about it." The facade cracked a bit. The Scary Mommy in me was fighting for air. Griffin would jump up and dance if a fun song came on as her son sat intently and ate his lunch. It quickly dawned on me that I have a Scary Kid.

It did not get much better once we arrived at our house. My son walked in and said "It looks so clean in here? What happened mom?" My old friend was gracious and pretended not to hear it. In my mind I tried to convince myself that she hadn't heard it at all. She looked around the house taking it all in. I must admit that my house is kinda' crazy. We have a 2 person trampoline in the living room. It looks like American Gladiators with a safety net and everything. An entire corner is dedicated to Griffin's toys and he has a little table where he eats snacks and plays. To someone just arriving into my life, I'm sure that my kid looks spoiled. Well, he probably is, but having all of this kid stuff easily accessible to him makes my life much easier. If he is a bit rambunctious I just throw him in the trampoline and "voila", I can clean the kitchen unbothered. The Scary Mommy in me believes that kids should have fun and that home should be a soft place to land. The Scary Mommy in me believes that television is okay in a child's world and that video games are just part of being a kid.

Well, that backfired in a big way because as the play date progressed, my son begged to play video games at least ten times. I tried to encourage him to go play with a wooden toy or use his imagination but he was persistent. "Can we at least watch TV?" he asked in desperation. In an effort to keep him occupied, we turned on the TV and let the boys watch "Harold and the Purple Crayon". I figured that was a harmless show. My old roommate was kind and didn't seem too shocked by my son's addiction to the television. He also intermittently begged to eat some cotton candy that he had won the day before at Chuck-E-Cheese. I tried to talk over his request in hopes that she would not notice that my son was having sugar withdrawal. We had a great time chatting but in the back of my mind I knew that she probably could see through my attempt to appear perfect.

By the end of our visit, I had gone limp and quit trying to hide my inner Scary Mommy anymore. As they put on their jackets to leave, Griffin and I rolled on the floor and wrestled. I had him in a head lock and he was screaming at the top of his lungs "We're a human pretzel!" over and over. My old roommate smiled down at us as if to say, "There you are Leigh. It's so nice to see you!" I smiled back and gently grinded Griffin's face into the carpet as we said our goodbyes. A true Scary Mommy never lets her kid win without a fight!

This post was written by Leigh from Leigh vs. Laundry and inspired by The Search for a Scary Mommy.

Today words came out of my mouth that I never would have imagined that I would ever hear, much less say:

“Clara! Don’t eat the raisins off the toilet seat!”

As soon as I said the words, in spite of my horror and disgust, I had to suppress a laugh. Don’t eat the raisins off the toilet seat? Did I really say that?

As I helped Clara take the raisins off the toilet seat and put them straight into the garbage, (“Mommy, I was just making a pretty design!”) I marveled at how complex parenting is, and how many things there are that we have to teach these kids. What if I miss something terribly important? Apparently, I’ve already missed the part about teaching your kids to avoid eating food found on the toilet seat as well as the lesson to not put food on the toilet seat to begin with.

I think I’m doing a decent job at teaching her the basics: Brush your teeth every day; Obey Mommy and Daddy; Hold an adult’s hand when crossing the street…..the obvious. But how am I supposed to know what her curious mind will come up with next?

Life is never boring with kids around, that’s for sure. They are always keeping me on my toes.

Believe it or not, I have days where my mind is a complete blank. After running around with Clara and Lucas all day it's difficult to come up with a meaningful post on my own. I want to write, but when I sit down at the computer I have no idea what to write about. 

Mama's Losin' It is the answer to my writer's block. Every week on Wednesday, Mama Kat posts a list of writing prompts for her readers to choose from. After posting a response to a prompt we all link up on Thursday and read each other's entries. It’s great fun and I invite you to participate this week when the themes relate to Motherhood!

As a blogger, I know the importance of a good photograph. I spend my days documenting my children’s milestones on film. They are priceless, and I love that we’ll all be able to reflect on them in coming days, weeks and years. Today, I invite you to pick a photograph that represents motherhood to you, and post it on my friend Angie’s blog, Seven Clown Circus. A picture really is worth a thousand words—lets’s see yours!

I suppose you could say that I am a product of my environment. I come from a long line of women who do not spend their free time outside. My people prefer indoor activities, like cooking, reading, and socializing with a glass of wine in our hand. Sadly, the fondness I have for life inside is not shared with my children.

Clara and Lucas are quite the opposite; their love of being outside means that we spend a lot of time at local parks. Over the course of the last two years since I became a SAHM, I have transformed into a CSI-like investigator at our local park system. I spend my days mentally profiling the different personality types that I come across.

As a public service to the blogosphere, I share the knowledge that I have gained from the playground with you today. The park isn’t quite the toddler utopia that I initially envisioned. Kids steal toys, hog the swings, and think nothing of pushing each other aside on their way through the crawl tunnels. Everyone should be prepared.

Here is a sampling of those who will likely cross your path at the playground:

THE HUNGRY LURKER: This child is not related to you, but somehow magically appears by your side when the snacks come out. Do not look this child directly in the eye. He or she may take this as an invitation to insert their grimy hands into your snack pack.

THE EQUIPMENT HOG: There is no mistaking the Equipment Hog. He or she is continually trying to crawl backwards up the slide or swinging on the swings for 30 minute intervals while others are waiting. (These children grow up to be adults who exhibit similar behavior patterns at the gym.)

THE BIG KID: This is most commonly the rambunctious 6-year-old monopolizing the toddler slide and pushing ahead of smaller children (including yours). For some reason, the Big Kid steers clear of equipment designed for his own age group. The situation is further complication by the nearby parent, who is engrossed in a conversation on their cell phone or a text message.

THE EXHIBITIONIST: Honestly, I blame the parents for the exhibitionist. This unfortunate child has confused park time with naked time. He or she can be seen peeing in the bushes or streaking across the playground because “it is hot.” I am unsure whether this youngster lives in a home without indoor plumbing, but, similar to the hungry lurker, do not engage and do not make eye contact.

It’s a jungle out there, but armed with the proper information and gear, there is nothing for you to fear. Wear protective eyewear and go forward with confidence. Not only do you need to protect yourself from the sun’s harmful UV rays, but you also need a way to openly stare at others incognito. Never a good thing to be caught rolling your eyes at the things other parents may be saying.

Take my word for it. 

Motherhood can be surprising.  Shocking even.  Everyone says this, but no one really explains.  There are just some things that no one tells you.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe there’s a secret mommy society out there that warns mothers never to reveal certain shocking secrets.  And, just so you know, I would have to refuse admission into the secret society on moral grounds, but I can’t do that because I’ve never been invited.  I’m a tad hurt.

I can think of two justifications for this secrecy: 

ONE:  If other people knew some of the more surprising aspects of motherhood, they just MIGHT re-consider being a mother.  Since the surprising aspects are certainly not worth re-thinking a decision like this, it’s best to just stay quiet. 

TWO:  Others secretly want others to find out the hard way lessons we learned because no one told us.

Now.  There are two kinds of surprises in motherhood.  The first kind is the warm and fuzzy surprise.  These are the ones you’ll never, ever, ever be able to comprehend until you are a parent.  How much you love your child……how protective you’ll be towards you child………how you’ll sacrifice just about everything for your child……how cute and sweet and beautiful you think your child is………how smart and witty and perfect your child is.  I think everyone suspects that their child will be the most beautiful and intelligent child in the world, but they don’t realize that they will really BELIEVE that when they arrive.

There’s also that other kind of surprise that’s not so warm and fuzzy and is just downright disgusting.  It deals with bodily functions and just isn’t pretty.

For example:  no one, and I mean no one told me that babies have blow outs.  That’s when poop makes a fast and sudden trajectory out of their diaper and up their back and down their legs, soiling everything in sight.  I’m quite certain NO ONE told me that that babies save that trick for when they are not home and by proper cleaning facilities. 

No one told me that on more than one occasion I’d get (and it pains me to say this out loud) poop on my hands.  Ewww.

No one told me that MOST children as babies will play with their fecal matter if given the opportunity.  No one told me this.  No one.  No one told me about the clean-up of such experiments.

Lastly, no one told me that once a child is potty trained, you still have to help them wipe.  For a LONG TIME.  Didn’t you assume that once a child was potty trained you were off the hook?

I was warned about spit up and vomit.  Why did no one warn me about the poop?

Consider yourself warned.  Just don’t tell anyone the source.  I’m not sure if this possible secret society takes measures to silence the teller of fecal secrets………….

I vividly remember the day I made the connection between the cute little animals I adored and what was being served to me on a plate. It was not a pleasant revelation, to say the least. I still suppress visions of Wilber while dining on pork chops and have never been able to get myself to devour a sweet little lamb.

A few years ago, while dining at my favorite Spanish tapas restaurant, Clara insisted on trying my roasted duck. When I told her what she was eating she was unfazed and proceeded to consume the entire dish. I was ecstatic– she’s such a picky eater and it’s always thrilling to have her try and like something new.

Later that week, we happily discovered a little family of ducks on the pond our house backs to. We’d feed them and watch them waddle and swim around. They were so cute. I dreaded the connection. Would Lily ever touch duck again once she realized they were her sweet little neighbors? What about chicken? Baby hicks are darn cute, too. Was I doomed to life with a three year old vegetarian?

Instead, my little carnivore proclaimed, “The ducks are so cute, and they’re so yummy!” And she’s been eating our flying friends ever since. Phew.

I have moments where I am a perfect mommy. Creative, caring, 100% attentive. Just perfect. Those moments are pretty short lived, however. More often than not, I'm too short tempered, too frazeled, overwhelmed and just plain exhausted. And, sometimes, I am a very scary mommy. Aren't we all?

Today, I'm participating in a writing carnival over at Scary Mommy's blog. Do you have scary moments too? It’s nice to feel like we’re not alone, so write your own posts and link up. I’d love to hear what you have to say!

Clara has been out of sorts.

She screams and cries. She wants up then down. She's hungry and then throws her food to the ground. 

She’s just impossible these days. I cannot wait for this phase to be over!

So, Avery  gets home and I tell him all about Clara’s screamfest and how her nap came just in time to save me from a mental breakdown. I told him I don’t know how much more I could take of this ridiculous behavior. I whined about how my arms hurt from picking her up and carrying her around all  day. It’s just exhausting.

I wanted sympathy. 

I wanted reassurance. 

I wanted validation. 

I wanted Avery to pull the strands of hair from my tear stained face and say, "Sweetie. I am so sorry you have to go through this without me everyday. I love you." 

And I wanted him to thump Clara over the head like the bad little puppy she's been and tell her to pull herself together.

Avery looked back and forth from me to Clara, assessing the situation before deciding who's side to take. 

Clara whined from the couch.

Avery proceeded to walk over to Clara and delicately put his hand on her head before looking at me and saying, "My God Eliza, she's burning up!!"

I quickly grabbed the thermometer and discovered Clara’s temperature was pushing 102.  I scooped my poor baby up while Avery fetched some medicine and whispered my sorries into her ear.

I spend all day everyday with my kids…how did I miss that? Avery insisted I not drown myself in mother’s guilt.  It’s just so hard to tell the difference between “not feeling good” behavior and “terrible monster child” behavior.

Sometimes, husbands come in quite handy, afterall.

There are many different types of moments that we experience as mothers; seconds of pure joy, sadness, excitement…and even panic.  That was certainly the case as I sat in a “meet and greet” session for my son’s pre-school class last week.  I arrived at the meeting in my typical fashion: late, desperate to get my two children to walk beside me, my daughter’s breakfast wiped on my pant leg, and without the forms that I was supposed to have read and signed.  I tried to sneak quietly to the back of the room and crouch down into a chair meant for someone about an 1/8 of my size.  My hope to go unnoticed was shattered when my son yelled out, “Mama, I made pee-pees.  Change my diaper nooooowwwwww!”  We were not off to a good start.

Thankfully, the formal introductions soon ended and the kids were ushered outside to play.  The head teacher instructed the remaining group of moms to gather our chairs in a circle so that we could “get to know one another better.”

What?  My stomach began to drop.  Forced social interaction?!  As I looked around the room, I was petrified.  What was I going to say when asked to describe myself and what I do for a living?  I was pretty sure that launching into a detailed talk about my blog and my determination not to be buried alive by the pile of laundry in my house were not good choices for “openers,” especially with these ladies…

The woman who most caught my eye was the Perfect Mom.  She was beautiful and flawlessly made up by 9:00 am.  How did she possibly accomplish such a miracle?  Honestly, I have a hard time remembering the last time I shaved.  Perfect Mom even had the painted finger and toe nails that coordinated with her outfit.  Looking at her was like staring into the sun.

The Me-Me-Me Mom was easily identified.  Once she was given the opportunity to talk, I was amazed at how she only seemed to breathe every ten minutes.  Eventually the instructor cut her off.  The group could not take much more of her diatribe regarding how brilliant her children are, how loving her husband is, and just how thrilled she is to be a part of the group.

Finally, we came to what I like to call the CSI-Mom.  She somehow managed to turn her introduction into a shake-down of the head teacher.  She rattled off questions non-stop to the poor woman:  What were her qualifications?  Where did she go to school?  How would she ensure that the kids in the class achieved academic excellence in the fall?

I knew that my turn would be next.  I had to laugh as I thought about how I would describe myself.  I am the Scatterbrained Mom; the woman who lost a bit of her brain when she started having kids.  I’m late to everything, my house is a disaster, and I usually look more than just a little disheveled.

Despite my shortcomings, I am also a mom who adores her children and understands the importance of making a good first impression.  What did I have to fear?  Regardless of our outwardly differences, we all shared something very powerful in common: motherhood.

I mentally reminded myself not to be nervous, took a deep breath, and dove in.  “Hi, my name is Eliza…”

My husband and I never took birthing classes. We signed up at the hospital, but found them boring as hell and dropped out after spending the first Saturday playing hangman for two hours straight. I’ve never taken a child rearing class or read an entire book dedicated to children. I’ve just never felt the need. I have, however, taken numerous classes on puppy training and read many a book on the subject. Because of this, I often find myself applying dog principles to my children. Dogs, kids– what’s the difference, right?

During our first puppy training class, I recall being instructed not to reprimand the dog for something that happened more than a few moments ago since her little puppy brain wouldn’t connect the crime and the punishment. It’s vital to catch them in the act of destruction in order to teach them right from wrong. A chewed up shoe that sits out for an hour can no longer be used as a lesson of what is and isn’t an appropriate chew toy. This tid-bit came flooding back to me yesterday as I made some unfortunate discoveries in my bedroom.

Last Friday I found a black Sharpie in Clara’s room. It was sitting on her dresser, clearly up to no good. I took it downstairs and explained that permanent makers are not meant for kids. With big eyes and a red face, she nodded her head, “forgetting” if she had ever used the marker. It’s been sitting in my desk drawer ever since, and I thought we averted what could have been a black permanent disaster.

And then last night, as I put a dab of  Vaseline on my lips, I noticed that the lid was labeled “Mommy.” Interesting. When I reached to turn out the light, something appeared to be on the shade. As I tried to rub it off, I noticed that it was a big black M. Upon further investigation, I found my name, or some variation, on 14 different items in and around my bedroom. How had I not noticed the label on our door, the drawings that had obviously been altered, or my book marred with an enormous M before last night? Clearly, she managed to “forget” a good deal of mischief.

The damage was done, though, and I saw no point in punishing her for a crime that had been committed almost a week ago. Clara and I had another talk about the permanence of permanent markers and they now all reside far out of the reach of little hands. I’m just grateful she didn’t find it necessary to label my half of the bedding. Besides, I think a mishap with a permanent marker is sort of a rite of passage, no?

At least that’s what they taught us in puppy class.

Sometimes being a mother can make for a seriously humiliating situation.  I should know.  As a mom, I am well versed in the area of humiliation. 

I've been pooped on, peed on, coughed on, bled on, and had snot wiped all over me.  I've had personal stories revealed, family secrets exposed, and inaccurate information distributed.  These are all humiliating instances I can handle.  However, I have to draw the line somewhere.

If you are going to embarrass me in public, then I have only a few small requests.  It’s not much really.  All I require is that 1) I have my clothes on, 2) I can move all of my limbs freely, and 3) there is an escape route.  My requests are well founded.  In fact, they are based my experience of being exposed to all of the department store shoppers while in my underclothing last Saturday, with no escape route and my finger wedged in a door hinge.  All compliments of Clara and Lucas.

So here is my advice.

Never, ever, under any circumstance, take your kids into a dressing room with you and park them next to the door, wedging yourself in the room.

Never, ever, grab the inside hinge of the door to try to close it when it has been flung open by your children and you are in your underclothing.  If you do, your wedding ring might get stuck in the hinge when you are futilely trying to close the door with the fitting room attendant’s help.  What’s worse, by attempting to close the door, you most likely would find yourself stuck in your underclothing right by the mirror that reflects down the whole dressing room with no way to close the door and nowhere to hide.

The bottom line is that I recommend you stick to trying on bathing suits when you are alone.  You just never know.

I thought being a mother would be magical...that my babies would look up at me with smiles that would melt my heart and bring me to my knees and fill me with gratefulness for the opportunity to be a mother to such wonderful human beings. I thought becoming a mother would be the best thing that ever happened to me.

And then I gave birth.

No one told me how to cure the crying. No one warned me about the incessant whining. I soon realized that being a Mom is  work...and hard work if you want to be a good one. I saw that my babies were looking at me to set examples and to lead and to teach, and I didn't want to disappoint them. I was forced to become a disciplinarian when my kids decided following rules was not their "thing".

I discovered that feeding children is something that needs to be planned and prepped every single day for every single meal. I found that just one child can create five entire extra loads of laundry every week. I learned that their is no such thing as "private" phonecalls or "quick" errands when a child is in tow.

I spent hours pouring over informational websites and books to learn more about how to keep my kids healthy. I spent entire days soothing screaming babies. I spent countless nights nurturing tiny tummies. I spent every. single. hour. of their lives supporting, scolding, and building their budding personalities.

I didn't know how frustrated I would get with the crying. I didn't know how tired I would be after so many sleepless nights. I didn't know how scared I would feel watching those vulnerable lives out in the great big world. I didn't know how overwhelmed I would be by the tedious tasks of the day to day.

I didn't know how much I would miss the old me. The me that thought independent thoughts. The me that didn't stick in Baby Einstein dvds, but instead listened to music in cars and knew every song.  The me that got drinks with friends and stayed out late. The me that slept in and read books and watched reality show re runs.

And I had some epiphanies. With just one look I knew my kids would be worth every sacrifice I'd ever make for them. In just one breath I knew that I would lay my life down for them. In one itty bitty cry I knew that nothing else in my life mattered like they mattered to me.

I had thought being a mother would be magical...that my babies would look up at me with smiles that would melt my heart and bring me to my knees and fill me with gratefulness for the opportunity to be a mother to such wonderful human beings. I thought becoming a mother would be the best thing that ever happened to me.

And then I gave birth. And it that's exactly what happened.

My son is an impossible eater. He happily eats macaroni, fruit and grilled cheese. That’s about it. Maybe, ravioli if the wind is blowing in the right direction. Occasionally, a carrot or pea enters his system, but it’s a very rare occurrence. Getting him to eat anything he doesn’t want to is pure torture. Because of this, I’ve resorted to some pathetic ways of nourishing him. Some days, I can get him to eat chicken or lasagna by pretending he’s a baby and spoon feeding him. Or I tell stories and make him take a bite in between words. We’ll listen to music and eat when certain words play. I’ll try anything.

Last night I was at my wits end— none of my usual tricks were working and the kid hadn’t eaten all afternoon. I’d made tortellini, and there was spinach in it. The horror. My daughter ate her 13 pieces and was on to her strawberries and banana. My son was in minute 17 of his hissy fit and I had a pounding headache. I picked up his plate and was about to chuck it in the sink and send him to bed. For some reason, my desperation led to me to ask “want to be a doggie and I’ll feed you on the floor?” His eyes lit up and he nodded yes, sliding onto the ceramic tile. I proceeded to feed him his entire plate of food. Spinach and all. It was a miracle.

I knew that it wasn’t the wisest parenting move, but he was eating spinach for crying out loud! I stifled the voice in the back of my head warning of inevitable repercussions and patted him on the head. Go me!

Sure enough, he bolted down from bed this morning barking and asking for waffles on the floor. Silly boy, that’s a deal I’m only willing to make for vegetables.

From birth, I tell my children how smart/sweet/handsome/pretty/amazing and miraculous they are. Constantly. This is the result:

You’re so pretty I said yesterday to my daughter, as I made sure she was buckled in her booster seat.

I wish we looked alike, I sighed, staring at the girl who inherited not one of my physical traits, save for the freaky double jointed thumb. Wouldn’t that be fun?

Noooooo!!!! She vehemently responded, without missing a beat. Because then I wouldn’t be pretty.

Thanks, Clara, I snorted.

You’re not ugly, she continued. You’re just not as pretty as me.

{Thud.} Aren’t all little girls supposed to think their Mommy’s are beautiful? At least until the age of six?

To make matters worse, I totally caught her checking herself out in the rear view mirror.

What have I done?

Getting my daughter to take medicine is an absolute nightmare. I’ve tried mixing it with chocolate syrup, paying the extra five bucks to get it flavored, crushing it into cookies, slipping it to her while she sleeps… nothing works, at least not easily. She literally needs to be pinned down to the ground and force fed, tears streaming and screaming all the while. Her white Shabby Chic bedding is tie-dyed with a rainbow of medicines, ranging from Pepto-Bismol pink to royal blue to deep purple, all the result of nighttime battles that she won. It’s terrible and my heart sinks at the first sign of an impending infection.

My son developed a bad cough today. When we got home, my daughter asked me if I should give him some medicine. I agreed and instantly she began taunting him; “Come get your medicine, little baby,” she sang. I could see the wheels turning in her head— here was the payback for that Lego tower he knocked over last week. Retribution for the unprovoked pinch and kick in the car. For the zebra he got at the party last week that she couldn’t go to. For the book that he got to pick out the night before… He was going to get it and she was going to love every last minute. Oh, the joys of being an older sister.

I called him over. She watched, eyes gleaming with excitement. But, my son simply opened his mouth and swallowed the red syrup, proclaiming “yummy.” Shocked silence ensued from the peanut gallery. Suddenly, my daughter let out a loud cough. “I think I need some too,” she whined. “Not fair.”