Finding Your Miracle – An Unsubstantiated Guide to Dieting and Parenting

When my dear friend Shana invited me to be a guest blogger on the peanutbutteronthekeyboard blog, a blog dedicated to motherhood and written by writers, I was flattered but a bit hesitant.  I’d tried blogging once before, and it was a dismal failure.  But let me explain…

I, too, am a writer, but of a different variety than the lovely ladies who are regular contributors here.  For the past ten years, I have written a parenting column for several San Antonio publications.  Mommy Matters started out as a newspaper column for my local neighborhood newspaper.  The column grew until I eventually moved it to the magazine circuit where it changed a bit, but was still basically me talking about my kids and trying to come up with a “moral of the story moment” so I didn’t sound like a complete loser of a mom.  Mothers related.  Who knew?  My singular blogging attempt came at the request of my editor at the magazine, who was trying to bring all her regular columnists on board for the magazine’s new blog site.

You would think after all those years of writing a parenting column, it would be easy to sit down and knock out a quick blog about what was going on in my life, but that damn blog tormented me for weeks.  Bloggers were young and hip.  I was not.  Bloggers made people laugh and think about political issues.  I would not.  Blogs were streams of consciousness or pithy comments that flowed easily from the keyboard with little effort or foresight.  Seriously?  I could not.

When I finally submitted my one and only post, about signing my kids up for swim lessons or some other nonsense no one was interested in, I prayed no one would read it.  I think I got my wish though I’m not one hundred percent certain as I promptly forgot my password and never returned to the site.  (My editor never mentioned this.  I don’t think she knew any more about blogging than I did, or she read my lame post.)

So, when Shana asked me to be a guest blogger here…well, I was uncertain.  Then I read the topic for the month—food, weight and eating issues.  Now, here was something I could talk about.  Relate to.  Here was something I specialize in discussing with my girlfriends on long walks around the neighborhood!  Or at lunch.  Or while grocery shopping.  Most importantly, here is a topic that rattles around my brain incessantly all day, every day, and has for the past sixteen years.

I’m a forty-three year old mother of three children, ages sixteen, fourteen, and three.  Battling my after-baby-weight has been an ongoing struggle since baby number one and is still going strong.  Babies one and two came in my late twenties/early thirties.  Two years after baby number two came along, I was finally fed up enough with the baby weight I had been carrying around since baby number one to actually do something about it.  I joined Weight Watchers where I did have some success, met my goals, and became a lifetime member.  (Toot-toot.  That’s my own horn.)  I started running, and between the running and occasional returns to Weight Watchers for “maintenance issues,” I was able to keep my weight pretty stable for about ten years.

Then baby number three came along.  She was born exactly two weeks after my fortieth birthday and is the brightest little ray of sunshine in our family.  But this blog isn’t about her, so forget I mentioned that.  This blog is about me.  And my weight.  And my struggles.  Don’t put on your happy face.

I don’t care what Hallie Berry looks like right now, having a baby in your forties is NOTHING like having a baby in your twenties or thirties.  It’s as if the fat around my middle has been stuck there with Gorilla Glue and refuses to budge.  Same goes for under my chin.  And the back of my arms.  Three years after giving birth to number three, I am fifteen pounds heavier than that “goal weight” I maintained for ten years, and it’s not going anywhere fast.  Yes, I returned to Weight Watchers, and it helped for a while, but it was so HARD.  Much harder, this time around.  One tiny little glass of wine was five points, and my normal glass was probably more like seven or eight.  Times two glasses…I hardly had any points left for eating.  So, I gave up on Weight Watchers and decided what I really needed was a good get-skinny-quick scheme.  If I could just lose the weight really quickly, I would go straight to the WW maintenance plan to keep it off.  I justified this by telling myself that as long as I eventually got to the healthy eating aspect of the diet, it was a good, solid plan.

So, here I am, two years later, and that is still my goal.  Find the miracle cure for these pesky pounds, then keep them off using a sensible, healthy, portion-controlled eating plan.  Sound familiar?  Well, it’s been a long, hard road.  As far as diets go, I’ve tried them all:  Southbeach, Atkins, The Zone, Paleo Eating…throw in a couple more attempts on Weight Watchers, and that about sums it up.  I’ve also tried pretty much every diet aid on the market.  Here are a few I have tried so far that have NOT been my miracle cures:  Acai berry (juice and pill form), Ally (beware the Ally-oops!), Lipozene, Hydroxy-cut, Hoodia (Thanks, Oprah), Metabolife, Slimquick, Cheaters, Raspberry Ketone (Thanks, Dr. Oz), numerous cleanses and juice concoctions, and a cream that you rub on your belly before putting on this fat-burning belt.  I have even tried an illegally obtained Mexican diet pill sworn to completely suppress the appetite. (Don’t ask.  I will not give up my mule!)  To date, I have lost and gained the same six pounds more times than I can count.  But I’m still optimistic that the miracle cure is out there.  I will not give up.  I am anxious to get rid of these extra pounds, so I can get on with some good sensible eating.  Just as soon as I lose this weight.

 

The Stash

So here is the moral of my story:  parenting is kind of like dieting.  It’s not an exact science, and there is no miracle pill to make you skinny or the perfect mom.  It’s trial and error, success and failure, baby steps in both directions, and a lot of hard, hard work.  There are lots of experts out there willing to sell us a miracle—make us skinny, fix our kids’ problems—but really, the only miracle we can count on is the one God gives us every day.  The miracle of motherhood and the children who make every one of these pesky pound worthwhile.  Occasionally, we get a toot-toot moment, and that’s what keeps us going.  But perfection is rarely on the radar, and sometimes you just have to say, I’m doing the best I can.

Wishing you lots of toot-toot moments today.

Courtney

 

 

Courtney Burkholder is a writer, mother, and professional dieter who lives in San Antonio, Texas with her husband and three children.  She is currently a biographer for Epic Bound Books, a private publishing company for families and businesses, and an aspiring author of young adult novels.  She has recently completed her fourth manuscript and is, once again, on the hunt for agent representation.

 

I Wrote a Book With Two Kids At Home by Amber Dusick (from Crappy Pictures!)

I wrote a book with two little kids at home and I survived. Barely.

This is how I did it.

Late at night, fueled by pints of ice cream. The kids were asleep so the only distraction I had was Crappy Cat stepping on my keyboard. He loves the delete key and is super skilled at pressing it.

Of course since the kids were asleep it technically meant that I was supposed to be asleep too. Which I wasn’t. Which meant I was tired. Always.

I did learn a few very important things along the way though.

1. Backing up a manuscript isn’t a good idea. It isn’t a great idea. It isn’t an idea at all. It is a requirement. It must be done. It should be #1 in “book writing 101″ classes. (Maybe it already is. I don’t know, I never took that class. Is there a class?) Anyway, I lost a handful of pages before I learned this lesson. Those pages that I lost were the best, most funniest thing I have ever written and had I backed them up I’d be rich and famous and living in a mansion with a hot tub in every room. Instead, I don’t have a mansion or even a single hot tub. See? Not backing up will ruin your life.

2. Haagen-Dazs® chocolate ice cream is too darn hard. It doesn’t ever seem to melt. You have to leave that one out for a good 20 minutes before digging in. Which is basically impossible to do so I stopped buying it. Ben & Jerry’s chocolate chip cookie dough and half baked are also way too distracting to eat while writing. You spend too much time digging for the little dough or brownie nuggets. Stick with the simple flavors like chocolate, strawberry and mint chip. Those are writing-friendly flavors. I told you these were important things. You’re welcome.

3. Did I say I learned “a few” things? I should change that to “a couple” things. Whatever. You know what I mean.

Honestly, I can’t remember much.

I do remember telling myself that “I will never, ever, ever do this again” but I can’t for the life of me remember why I would feel that way. It wasn’t so bad. Was it?

I should probably try it again just to make sure.

Or maybe this is just an excuse to eat ice cream.

Amber Dusick’s novel Parenting: Illustrated with Crappy Pictures is available for pre-order now and will be on sale March 26!
Want a copy? One person who comments today will win a copy, courtesy of the PBKMoms!

You can find Amber Dusick blogging at Parenting. Illustrated with Crappy Pictures.

Keeping Things Romantic

Romance is a hard thing to squeeze in around kids. And romance is my day job, so that’s saying quite a lot if I, who spends hours a day contemplating shirtless rakes and blistering love scenes, suffer from the same romance BLERGH that every parent feels.

Granted, my job helps with that. I have excuses to focus on love, and why the relationship between you and that one special person is something to be treasured.

But even romance writers get the THERE ARE CHILDREN EVERYWHERE blues. My husband and I haven’t been on a date since The Hobbit came out. Before that it was in July. I know Robyn was blogging about this the other day. I share her pain. Time alone is a luxury. And we have out special needs boy, which compounds the problem of us being able to find someone to watch our children so we can escape for a bit.

Of course, my husband and I are also both home during the day which means we DO see each other a lot, but in passing. And if he comes into the office TOO many times during an afternoon I start to get that cranky, resentful hunch at my keyboard, which lasts through out the day and is like a big neon DON’T TOUCH ME sign, I am sure.

But we all know what the obstacles are. Dirty diapers, shrieking kids, opposing schedules, etc. But what about how to combat them? I think I’m the ‘newlywed’ of the blog group, at a shy seven years (no itch, shockingly), but we’ve been through a lot of rapid life changes and challenges and we’ve always managed to come through it clinging tighter to each other.

Plus, I write romance. Trust me.

This is my Maisey List of Things That Have Helped My Marriage Stay Romantic:

1. I read romance. Really, that does help. I discovered romance novels while pregnant with our 2nd child. In addition to them being sexy, that didn’t hurt, they also reminded me of why romance is so great. They made me truly appreciative of what I had in my husband, and that was a very helpful thing.

2. We laugh. About stupid things. Last night we were awake at 1:30 in the morning, cracking up over my incredibly immature jokes.

3. We are honest. He knows what’s up with me, I know what’s up with him. He knows me, more than anyone else on earth knows me. And I know him.

4. Without TMIing…we don’t let intimacy slip. We don’t do the scheduling per se, though I think that’s a great idea, but we have rules. And we follow them.

5. We get mad at each other. This took a while. We both used to hold it in because we didn’t want to have any waves or admit that we’d FAILED and disagreed. Now we just let it out and I think we’re much healthier for it. And it’s sort of a part of…

6. We share things. Bless my husband he shares technical details of music engineering that I do not understand, and I bless my heart, I will summarize a romance novel for him. Or read him an excerpt. I know neither of us REALLY get it. But we share it. And the other one at least tries to pay attention.

7. My husband is awesome.

8. We do things together. *awkward segue*

Oh look, we did this together! We combined his music (he wrote the music, the lyrics, did the recording, the engineering and played all the instruments) and a little of mine (I showed up and sang into a mic) and my romance novels and made something that I’m really proud of. One way we stay in harmony (ha) and your husband writing you a song really does help keep things romantic.

I hope you enjoy the song! And I would so appreciate if you would share your tips on how you keep things romantic in the comments.

Edit to include book info: Unbuttoned is the first book in my Silver Creek series, and it’s a novella with Berkley’s new InterMix imprint! It’s out June 18th and here is the cover blurb:

Carly Denton has learned to keep her buttons and emotions firmly fastened. Her parents’ constant drama, and an unrequited crush on her brother’s best friend, taught her to keep her passion beneath the surface. But she can no longer avoid the one man with the ability to bring that passion to a boil…

Lucas remembers Carly as a freckle-faced tomboy—not a frosty woman who treats him like a burr under her saddle. But when they have to work together on a charity project, Lucas is shocked to find their bickering melt into some serious mutual attraction. He’s determined to show Carly that he’s the man for her, if only she’d learn to let loose.

Lucas is the last man on earth Carly should give in to. The freedom she finds in his arms has her feeling happier than ever, but is it enough to make her realize that the greatest risk isn’t losing your heart, but losing the chance at happiness?

 

A fun quiz with Robyn

Ever watch Inside the Actor’s Studio? It’s on A&E and I totally love it. For those of you who might be unfamiliar with it, it’s set in a film school (acting and directing) and the host has one actor on stage and they go through the actor’s work, asking questions about techniques and whatnot. And then at the end the students get to ask questions themselves. I always think it must be a scenario not unlike that RWA’s National conference where the cream of romance’s crop is often available for workshops and questions. And it’s just really fascinating to listen to actor’s talk about their craft in similar terms to how I’m used to creating characters and story. But the best part of the show is right before the host turns the actor over to the students and he ends with a famous questionnaire.

What is your favorite word? CRISP – it’s the perfect onomatopoeia

What is your least favorite word? ENVELOPE – I never know how to say it

What turns you on? MY HUSBAND’S LAUGHTER

What turns you off? ANY KIND OF HARM TO CHILDREN

What sound do you love? My DAUGHTERS’ GIGGLING

What sound do you hate? SQUEALING BRAKES

What profession other than yours would you like to attempt? WINDOW PAINTER – I’d love to do those holiday paintings on store windows

What profession would you not like to participate in? PODIATRIST – I cannot imagine wanting to work on people’s feet

What’s your favorite curse word? BUGGER

If heaven exists what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? YOUR LOVED ONES ARE WAITING OVER THERE

Answer it with me, and then this weekend I’ll draw one lucky winner to get a copy of my latest release, A LITTLE BIT WICKED.

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I’m Robyn DeHart, AKA Basket-Case Mama, but not because I’m crazy (though really, what mom isn’t?) but because I have a slight obsession with baskets, well containers really. I’m a bit of an organization nut and I love to containerize stuff. And yes, I’m authorized to use words like that because I am also a writer. But back to the kids, so I’m mom to two ridiculously beautiful little girls and I can say that without bragging because I didn’t actually make them. Last year my husband, The Professor, and I adopted said little lovelies from the foster-care system here in Texas and now we’re a big happy forever family. Busybee is three and so full of joy it just oozes from her. Babybee is a walking-talking toddler who has a heck of a temper but is so cute, it almost keeps her out of trouble. Though neither of my girls are newborns, I’m fairly new to motherhood compared to the other peanut butter moms, but we’ve settled in as a family as if we’ve always been together. When I’m not trying to keep up with my two bundles of energy, you can usually find me on my laptop on Pinterest, no, that’s not right, um…you can find me writing, yes, that’s it, writing my latest historical romance. www.robyndehart.com

Don’t try this at home…

When I was growing up and my sister and I still lived at home, the three of us (sister, me & our mom) were always trying the latest fad diet. We did them all, the cabbage soup, atkins, low-fat, the ice cream diet (that one, by the way, was my favorite). My mother would buy magazines with new techniques and recipes and we were always starting something new. No doubt we drove my poor father nuts.

In any case, one time my mom read about a trick that could get rid of cellulite. So here’s how it went.

Step 1: Rub your entire body with Ben Gay (or some other muscle rub)

Step 2: wrap entire body in Saran Wrap

Step 3: put on sweats and go for a walk

Okay so there we were, the three of us smeared with that minty-smelling stuff, wrapped up like convenience store sandwiches and we went for a walk in our neighborhood. I’m sure we cleared the sinuses of everyone in a 2 mile radius. Did I mention I started crying? Because while muscle rub can work wonders for a sore spot, when rubbed over your entire body, I won’t lie, it burns. A lot. But we walked because we were getting rid of our cellulite.

It didn’t work. And I’m pretty sure my skin burned for a week.

So I’ve shared my stupid diet trick. What’s the craziest diet/exercise thing you’ve ever tried?

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I’m Robyn DeHart, AKA Basket-Case Mama, but not because I’m crazy (though really, what mom isn’t?) but because I have a slight obsession with baskets, well containers really. I’m a bit of an organization nut and I love to containerize stuff. And yes, I’m authorized to use words like that because I am also a writer. But back to the kids, so I’m mom to two ridiculously beautiful little girls and I can say that without bragging because I didn’t actually make them. Last year my husband, The Professor, and I adopted said little lovelies from the foster-care system here in Texas and now we’re a big happy forever family. Busybee is three and so full of joy it just oozes from her. Babybee is a walking-talking toddler who has a heck of a temper but is so cute, it almost keeps her out of trouble. Though neither of my girls are newborns, I’m fairly new to motherhood compared to the other peanut butter moms, but we’ve settled in as a family as if we’ve always been together. When I’m not trying to keep up with my two bundles of energy, you can usually find me on my laptop on Pinterest, no, that’s not right, um…you can find me writing, yes, that’s it, writing my latest historical romance. www.robyndehart.com

Spank me, Baby!

It’s doubtful that any couple ever expects infertility. It comes in many forms and affects both men and women and can be medically explained and frustratingly inexplicable. It’s painful and scary and life altering and at times hilarious. Any woman whose elevated her butt and legs after sex knows what I’m talking about. I’ve done everything from checking my cervix, my mucus, and my ph level to peeing on so many sticks I could probably do it in my sleep. The quest to become pregnant is life consuming in a way nothing else every is. It’s mentally and emotionally absorbing and unless you’ve been there, you don’t get it.

I remember when we first started trying and we actually tried to plan out when I got pregnant you know to plan what time of year we’d have the baby. It worked for my sister with both of her kids so I figured that’s the way it went. HA! Once we realized that it wasn’t going to be easy for us to get pregnant, our planning went out the window. It became totally about my cycles.

So here’s how things played out for our first fertility treatment. On day 3 of my period I started taking the meds. This particular cycle was Clomid, probably the most common fertility drug. I would later take other meds, but for this cycle it was Clomid. Also known as the bitchy pill – it gave me wretched mood swings and an ax-in-the-forehead headache. Frankly it was best that for the procreation purpose we’d be doing an IUI (intra-uterine insemination) because frankly I was too cranky to be in the mood. In any case I took the drug for a few days and then went in periodically for scans so they could measure my follicles. Once we got to the magic size, then it was time for the hCG injection and on this particular cycle it timed out so that I need that shot over the weekend which meant the task fell to The Professor.

Now I’m not squeamish about needles, you can’t really afford to be when you start on fertility treatments as there are lots of needles involved. In any case I felt like this would not be a big deal. A shot in the booty and we’d be all good to go. Okay so that is not exactly how it played out. We got prepared to do this. I was even partially bent over the bed to give him a good angle and I caught sight of that needle and got so freaked out I ran from him. Actually ran from my husband so that he was chasing me around the bedroom with a syringe. Finally I calmed down enough to stand still. And in a moment of desperation I said something to my dearly beloved I never thought I’d say. “Spank me, Baby.” To which he replied, “What?!” So I repeated it, explaining that the pop on my bottom would distract me enough that he could then give me the shot. Worked like a charm.

So how about you, have you ever done something you never thought you’d do? Have you ever struggled with infertility or having a funny get-pregnant story?

 

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I’m Robyn DeHart, AKA Basket-Case Mama, but not because I’m crazy (though really, what mom isn’t?) but because I have a slight obsession with baskets, well containers really. I’m a bit of an organization nut and I love to containerize stuff. And yes, I’m authorized to use words like that because I am also a writer. But back to the kids, so I’m mom to two ridiculously beautiful little girls and I can say that without bragging because I didn’t actually make them. Last year my husband, The Professor, and I adopted said little lovelies from the foster-care system here in Texas and now we’re a big happy forever family. Busybee is three and so full of joy it just oozes from her. Babybee is a walking-talking toddler who has a heck of a temper but is so cute, it almost keeps her out of trouble. Though neither of my girls are newborns, I’m fairly new to motherhood compared to the other peanut butter moms, but we’ve settled in as a family as if we’ve always been together. When I’m not trying to keep up with my two bundles of energy, you can usually find me on my laptop on Pinterest, no, that’s not right, um…you can find me writing, yes, that’s it, writing my latest historical romance. www.robyndehart.com

Licemare on Elm Street

Three weeks ago my home was invaded by a horror few can even imagine. Monsters that are relentless and nearly impossible to kill. And they were feeding on our flesh!

Lice.

Now I don’t want to imply this is the worst parenting challenge I’ve ever faced … but it was pretty stinkin’ bad. We’ve been through stitches and trips to the emergency room. We’ve done pneumonia and crazy high fevers. We’ve done falls from the monkey bars, toddlers wandering out to the road, and lost-in-the-store. All of those parenting challenges were scarier than lice, but when it comes to the creep factor, to pure ickiness, lice wins hands down.

Besides being creepy–they live in your hair. In your hair! <shudder>–lice are insidious monsters for this one simple reason: they revealed me for the big fat liar I am.

Yes, we all lie. It’s part of parenting. I’m an old pro. Here are some of my favorites: “No, there are no more Snickers bars.”  ”Honey, Santa doesn’t allow kittens on the sleigh.” and then, perhaps my favorite, “Yes, that’s the end of Bambi. That fire in the thicket is the big climax. And, yes, it is the shortest Disney movie.”

I’ve told all those lies. I didn’t suffer any guilt, because, I knowingly told them. I knew I was lying.

So, here’s how the lying/lice thing went down at the McKay house:

For weeks, my daughter had been scratching. I kept looking for lice and not seeing them. She was worried about them, so I let her start using a lice defense shampoo. Since I was looking and not seeing anything, I wasn’t too worried. “It’s probably because of the change in the weather, honey.”  (No, that’s not the lie. Wait for it.) See, this was early October. In Texas, that means we’d dropped from 105 to about 95. That’s our “cold” front. So I really thought she just had dry scalp.

But finally, one Sunday, I dragged her outside, in the sunlight, with a magnifying glass and I finally found the little buggers. Actually, on her, I only saw the nits (the eggs), but off we trotted to the store to buy the treatment. My poor daughter was visibly upset. So I said …. (drumroll, please, ’cause here it comes) “Honey, it’s no big deal. Everyone gets lice at least once when they’re little. There’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

Flash forward four hours. Her lice treatment came with this little comb. Out of curiosity, I combed my hair into the bathroom skin. And I. Had. Lice.

Lice!

<shudder>

So picture it, okay? My daughter, in the living room at the computer, blissfully playing while she’s got her lice treatment under a shower cap, convinced that it’s “no big deal.” From the bathroom, I call out to my husband in a quavering voice, “Honey, can come here for a second?” He comes in. I’m in tears. Head buried in my hands. “I have lice!” I wail. “I’m so ashamed!”

Seriously. That’s what I said. Or rather, wailed.

I look up. My kids had followed The Geek in. My son runs over to the sink to look at the creepy crawlies. My daughter looks at me with an expression of utter betrayal. Obviously, I had lied. It was a big deal. It was a very big deal.

Okay, it’s still really not.

Lice don’t hurt you. They’re just creepy. And a pain in the butt to get rid off. I won’t bore you with the details of how to actually get rid of them. You can find that info on line if you ever need it. Suffice it to say it involved burning anything that might have come into contact with your hair in a giant bonfire in the backyard like that scene at the end of The Velveteen Rabbit. Just kidding. Sort of.

But we did have to buy all new hair care stuff. And lots of scented oils that lice don’t like.

I’m not 100% sure my daughter has forgiven me for my blatant lie. We still go back and forth about who got them first. I try to tell her it doesn’t matter. But that lice are common at schools. She’ll eye me suspiciously and ask how close I get to those other women in my yoga class. “You could have got lice from one of them,” she tells me over and over. Me, I’m convinced they didn’t move over to my head until she started using that Lice defense shampoo.

And from now, if she uses the shampoo, so will I.

I truly believe that I would do anything to protect my kids. I could be one of those crazy strong moms who could lift a car off her child. I would fight off demons. But I’m not getting lice again for her. That’s where I draw the line.

So what kind of lies do you tell your kids?

Emily McKay loves to cook, bake and play with her kids. When she’s not on deadline, she also gardens, composts, follows celebrity gossip, and practices yoga. When she is on deadline, she … well, she panics, and does all of those things with more nervous energy. She lives in central Texas with her husband, two kids, two cat, two dogs and four chickens.

Crafty Mom

If you’re reading this hoping so get some great craft ideas, then you might want to find another blog. I am definitely NOT the crafty mom.

I know a lot of moms (Robyn, Tina, and Amy, I’m looking at you!) who are crafty. They make bibs and picture frames and decorate cupcakes. They even macramé. I don’t know what macramé is. I don’t want to know!

I buy bibs and picture frames and cupcakes, but occasionally I am put in a situation whereby I must do something crafty. Often Baby Galen’s school is the culprit, as they seem to think all moms can sew and bake and make fabulous themed wreaths to be auctioned for hundreds of dollars at Christmas time. Hello! That is why someone invented craft stores.

Other times I am at a museum, where the kids are supposed to do craft activities. Ha! Baby Galen inherited my lack of craftiness. She is always excited to start a craft and then quickly loses interest. Either that or the craft is too hard for her, although the sign will say ages 2+. Then I end up helping with the craft, and we have a butterfly that looks like this.

Or a house that looks like this.

But occasionally I do something sort of right. This summer I checked out a lot of kits from the library. These kits are designed to help parents and kids interact with books. One kit had a Curious George book and all the materials necessary to make a porthole. So Baby Galen and I (okay, mostly me) made a porthole. We were both proud of it, even if she kept trying to get in the plastic “glass” and eat the goldfish.

Are you crafty? Do you ever feel like the world expects you to possess a skill just because you’re a mom?

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Shana Galen, Multitasker Mama
I’m Shana Galen, AKA Multitasker Mama (and aren’t we all?). I’m a wife, mom to a two-year-old daughter I call Baby Galen. My parenting motto is, “Keep moving. Don’t pass out. Don’t throw up.” Or maybe that’s my fitness motto? www.shanagalen.com

Guest Mom Kristan Higgins: Please. Not that.

In the field of embarrassing one’s children, I believe I am Picasso.

Let’s face it. When we’re pregnant or waiting for the adoption to come through, we imagine that beautiful, gold-hued bond that we’ll have with our little ones, our angels, those babies we so wanted and already loved beyond measure.

And we do love, and we are bonded. Everything is perfect and amazing…even when they throw up not just on you, but in your mouth. When they poop on your clean clothes 30 seconds before you have to leave for the first meeting you’ve had since their birth. Even when they scream for eight hours and thirty-seven minutes straight, your arms are shaking from holding them for so long, and tears are streaming down your own face at your inability to comfort them. Even then, they are our perfect angels.

And then, they learn to speak.

“You have a bald spot in your eyebrow,” my then three-year-old daughter announced in church one day, not using her inside voice. “Can I rub your bumpy mole?”

“My penis is fat,” a certain male toddler who shall not be identified once told a clerk in the grocery store. “Want to see?”

As they get older, the commentary changes in tenor. It’s not so innocent anymore. “I’m not sure that color looks good on you,” a certain daughter might say. “It’s meant for someone younger. Sorry.”

Or, “If you have to come to the meet, don’t cheer for me, hug me or look at me, okay?”

I think they’ve earned some embarrassment, don’t you? It’s the judgment. How dare they, after throwing up in my mouth? Right? I now gleefully and regularly embarrass my kids. It’s one of the great joys of my life.

One day, we were stopped at a light, and our radio was playing “Boom Boom Pow” by the Black-Eyed Peas. I was singing along. “How do you know these lyrics?” asked Princess Daughter. “This is one of my songs. Also, that man can hear you, so stop singing. Mommy. Stop it. I mean it! Stop!”

I turned to the man and started singing more loudly, thank you very much. “I’m so 3008, you so 2000 and late!” Not only that, I started car-bopping. That’s right. Dancin’ AND singin’, baby! In public!

Another surefire way to mortify the kids is to remind them of their origins. Our daughter came upon her father and me exchanging a fond kiss one day. “Oh, God. Senior citizen snogging,” she blurted. “Run!” She and her brother fled.

“Where do you think you two came from, anyway?” I yelled at their backs. Their screams of horror were my answer.

Each year, I go into the local school and talk to the 8th graders about being a writer. This year, my son is in 8th grade. “You won’t come in this year, will you?” he asked worriedly.

“Oh, I’m so coming in this year,” I said. “And I’m going to talk about writing love scenes unless you clean out that closet right now.” (The closet was immaculate 20 minutes later, I’ll have you know, and kudos for me. I don’t write love scenes, but my son has never read my books.)

In a way, I embarrass my kids because yes, it’s revenge. And because it’s fun. But I also want them to know that being oneself is a gift. No, I’m not a good dancer. But I love to dance, so I’m gonna. I want my daughter to know the joy of not caring what other people think, to be able to enjoy the moment. I acknowledge that 13-year-old boys don’t always relish maternal affection. But I love my son, and I want him to get that message every day. I know in my heart that hugs and kisses are good for the soul, and they mean much more than being cool.

I know the kids secretly love when I cheer for them at a meet, or whistle after their song, or cry when they do something really special. I know they’re happy that their parents love each other. They have a happy family, where it’s okay to tease each other, laugh together and kick back a little. Even if it’s embarrassing.
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Kristan Higgins is the mother of two teenagers and a New York Times bestselling author with no sense of rhythm whatsoever. She has been known to dance in the dressing room of many department stores, often makes up the lyrics to songs she doesn’t know and has been seen making out with her husband at the disgusting age of 47. Visit her website at http://www.kristanhiggins.com or swing by her Facebook page at http://www.Facebook.com/KristanHigginsBooks.

Inadequacy and Homemade Jam

At church a few weeks ago they handed out a flyer for a women’s meeting, where we would learn to make homemade freezer jam, as the first in a series of classes on how to be a more effective homemaker. Now, I like that kind of thing. In theory, because I like to cook, but hate to clean, and I rarely have the kind of time I need to do the cooking I’d like to do. But anyway, I’m sitting there staring at this flyer thinking I might want to do this.

Then I started thinking…oh yeah, but what happens when it comes up that technically…you’re not a homemaker. You work. You’re going on a business trip in a few weeks even, and you’ll have to explain your absence. Then you’ll have to tell them what you do. And if there wasn’t judgment for the working, when they find out you write books filled with naked Italian men and sex on the beach, you may just end up being shunned!

My friends, I didn’t go.

Would any of that have happened? I don’t know. I don’t know why, in my mind, when I consider getting plugged into things like that, the nice, friendly women in my church suddenly morph (in my mind’s eye) into starched collared ladies in ankle length skirts saying words like decorum and propriety. (not that there’s anything wrong with ankle length skirts!)

My fears of being judged don’t really come from things that have been directed at me. It’s more a fear of being judged in a hypothetical sense. It is, however, to an extent, based on conversations had with people pre my ‘career woman’ days, and from blog posts that show up in my Facebook feed, posted by friends.

The thing is, I know judgment comes from the working mom, and the stay at home mom. I’ve been both. I’ve felt that sting of inadequacy when I was a homemaker and nothing else. Felt that little burn when someone would say “I’m doing it all.” and I would be exhausted thinking, “and I’m not!?” It would get even worse when I saw that there were people who always had clean houses, and homemade dinners. I didn’t manage it even when my sole focus was my household. Being a homemaker is awfully depressing when you, frankly, aren’t that good at it.

Then writing came along. I personally am happier with a job. I’m good at my job. I get it done. In terms of what I do professionally, I’ve always been quite happy with how I manage my commitments. Yet again, the inadequacy creeps in with my personal life.

I have a friend who is always posting links to a blog that talks about making a home being a woman’s highest and most fulfilling purpose. And I of COURSE click on the link to read EVERY post and grind my teeth and get all defensive (as you do). And I dismiss it, because while it might be some people’s highest purpose, is clearly isn’t mine. *hmphs*

Only then I see pictures of the bread someone baked and the jam they made, probably because they WENT to that class, and I wonder: Am I doing enough? Am I blowing this because I’ve got a job and I’m not focusing 100% of my attention on my kids? No, in fact a good percentage of my brain is on that afore mentioned naked Italian. And I like going on business trips. And I like when writing gives me an excuse to blow of making dinner.

Heck, no wonder other people will judge me. *I* judge me. I was asked at my first conference how old my daughter was, and when I told the person they said “Oh, I NEVER could have left when mine was that little.” And I’m sure it wasn’t meant to seem like a jab, but all I could think was WELL WHY COULD I? What’s wrong with me?

Actually, I think I judge me more than other people do. I think I’m so afraid of judgment, and heap it on myself so darn much, because I’m afraid of someone external VALIDATING the internal thrashing I give myself on a semi-regular basis. And then I think back on the days when I was a stay at home mom (yeah, I still stay home, but I LOCK myself in my office) and think about how I judged myself then. How I felt like I didn’t *do* enough. How I wasn’t doing it all. How the answer wasn’t really there.

I’m still not doing it all. I’m doing as much as I can. And I think the judgment, whether from me or others, real or made up in my mind to give myself something to angst about, is so completely unhelpful.

I do believe every one of us has a purpose. But none of us has the exact same purpose, not really. And we can’t live someone else’s life. No one loves my kids more than I do. No one wants them to have the best more than I do, so knowing that, I guess I have to put the shame-game away and realize that even if someone DOES judge me, it doesn’t matter. My husband supports me, my children are happy. They don’t know from having me make homemade jam. (I am, for the record, not vilifying homemade jam. I like homemade jam. If you make it…send me some.)

BUT what they do have is a happy mom who is following her dream, and hopefully showing them that anything in life is possible is you persevere and work hard. I’m sure I make mistakes. I’m sure I sometimes spend too much time in my fictional world. But hey, we all make mistakes, right? (please say yes…) Life would be easier if we embraced that. If we walked with confidence in how we lived and didn’t worry about what other people thought. If we didn’t feel compelled to put ourselves down.

I’ll have to work on that and let you know how that goes. In the mean time…Jam? Please?

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Maisey Yates is a USA Today Bestselling author of sexy, angsty, funny romances and a terrible housekeeper. When she’s not writing books, you can find her reading them. If you CAN find her beneath the massive pile of unfolded laundry. Maisey has three kids (5, 4, & 2) one husband (who is a much better housekeeper than she is) and not a single dull moment. You can find her on twitter, Facebook and her website.