The Little Things

The woo'ing days of big bouquets bursting with long stemmed red roses have traded themselves for dryer doors spitting out lone socks and lint upon my arrival. Of course I enjoy flowers or extravagant dinners, but as a mommy, the small stuff in life has proven more precious than gold.

Case in Point #1: I'm smart to think ahead, but not smart enough to remember I thought ahead.

The result: I surprise myself now and then by remembering something I typically expect myself to forget.

For instance, I schlepped Pumpkin to her annual physical with a quart of caffeine in my gut and suddenly I could think only of my 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Lewellyn. Her terrible coffee breath caused any unruly wisps of hair to recoil into Shirley Temple curls when she leaned over to help me multiply fractions.

I realized how close the doctor had to get in order to give Pumpkin a good look and listen as she sat in my lap, and a hint of embarrassment overcame me. I put the car in park and tossed my keys in the side pocket of my purse -right next to a spankin' new pack of Orbit Peppermint Blitz gum, Messiah incarnate!

I only masquerade as an exceptionally prepared mother, as clever and quick-witted as the single gal of days gone by because I regularly have bouts of the flipside:

"Hey, have you seen the thing I set next to the thing?" I beg, conveying desperation during my real-life charades. I can no longer say what I want to say exactly when I want to say it. And sadly, I'll often leave an interaction and think of a smart quip about 10 minutes too late.

My forgetfulness also causes sporadic flare-ups of anger only to discover it was I, not anyone else, who left the toilet paper roll empty first thing in the bleary-eyed morning.

Case in point #2: Physical Balance Improvement.

Having the title, "Mother," allows for a few adjustments to life with baby weight that will eternally reside smack in the middle of my tummy, south of the belt. Despite my weight gain remaining significantly disproportionate since pregnancy, not all is lost. As a mom, I have achieved probably the best balance I've ever had in my life. How do I know this?

Ever stepped on a Cheerio at 5am?

Those suckers, which could save any dying fruit fly for the majority of the morning while floating in sour milk, will inevitably crunch into a thousand little crumbs if ever caught underfoot. Since becoming Mommy, I can stand like Ralph Macchio in the final fight scene of Karate Kid. With "Crane" position full-on, I brush every single crumb off the sole of my foot and into the opposite hand thus preserving the kitchen floor.

Occasionally, I'll go for the gold and swing my foot over the garbage disposal and brush it off that way instead. Either gets the job done, it just depends on my proximity to the sink during "crunch time."

Case in Point #3: Self-Regulated Plumbing.

My high interest in Pumpkin's bottom was my bottom line: flushing it down costs less than throwing it away.

When Pumpkin upgraded to a toddler bed, she decided to serve as my alarm clock on the weekends. I awoke one morning to her standing next to my bedside in her PJ top, nekkit from the waist down.

"What in the world...where did the rest of your PJ's go?!"
"I just kicked off my undies on the potty. I didn't want them any more."
"You sat on the potty all by yourself and did all your business in the potty?"
"Yeah. And I wiped all by myself too!"
::big hugs:: "What a BIG GIRL! And did you wash your hands?"
"Uh....no. I forgot."
(Don't freak, it's just pee hopefully...) "Ok, Mommy go with you to get them all clean."

I noticed her curtain was open when we passed her bedroom. Apparently, Little Miss Independent gave a bit of a show to the neighbors in the units across the driveway. I double checked the state's online sex offender registry during breakfast just to ensure I didn't have to nail her curtain to the wall in case I couldn't curb the peep show with verbal cues.

Besides achieving the critical milestone of successful potty training, I would benefit personally from this beyond the obvious.

My nose evolved into a bloodhound's detecting capabilities during my second trimester. Sniffing everything proved a blessing and a curse. As a result, I ate solely with my left hand because my right index and middle fingers perpetually smelled of Desitin and Vasaline for 3 solid years.

No matter how often I washed, those two fingers had a zinc oxide grout in between the teeny tiny grooves of my unique sequence of prints. Theoretically, I could've committed a crime, in case I turned hostile from the sleep deprivation, and potentially remained undetected in any Homeland Security criminal history record...

Fortunately, I avoided turning into a perp (by the skin of my teeth some days), and I could now begin the transition back to eating burgers two-handed like a normal human instead of "new mom" style.

If you have any little things in your life that make your day a little brighter, please share them by posting a comment below!

Mommy Blessing

After having been married to a 100% Irishman for over 4 years, I learned no greater irony existed than the phrase, "luck of the Irish."

Together we survived everything: 5 broken bones, 2 homes with one income, 6 hospital stays and 1 surgery for Pumpkin, 3 major motor vehicle accidents, 2 cross-country moves -4 total, carbon monoxide poisoning, a short sale, 1 fractured skull, 7 months without work and the token overbearing in-laws. Cumulatively, we've gained over 200 pounds and lost 170 and amongst the three of us, spent years in therapy -occupational, physical and of course psycho.

So when Molly from The Bachelor declares to Jason in her vows that the two of them "have been through more than most couples go through in a lifetime," over a menial host of public scrutiny (which one could argue they welcomed to an extent), they clearly don't know the life of the Irish! Anyone who's changed a sick baby's diaper could top that...

Irish or not, motherhood should be celebrated. We make these days special with sparkly three leafed clover stickers, green cookies and cute outfits. In honor of all the moms making a special day out of smaller holidays, I offer a poem in appreciation for the thoughtfulness and attention to detail.

Mommy Blessing

May the diaper stink leave you in public
May the yelling in back settle down
May a "please" and a "thank you" come willingly
Whilst you're schlepping all over town

May the friends that bring laughter call often
May the frig issue warnings to food
That might linger a little too long
Behind bottom bins growing no good

May sticky fingers magically clean off
Even the gunkiest, tiniest nail
May the whining and whimpering hold off
When they faux nap to no avail

May the laundry soar over to hangers
It has only seen near twice a year
May the dishwasher finally banish
Stubborn oatmeal that won't disappear

May the TP replace itself often
May the coupons clip themselves free
May they always remain where you need them,
Pre-sorted alphabetically

May the hours of sleep come upon you
In numbers to the third power
May the caffeine awake and revive you
When greeting The Early Show hour

May veggies go down without standoff
That rivals the OK Corral
May the crumbs picked up 'neath the table
Bring a child a sense of morale

May the birdies that dressed Cinderella
Fly through your window this day
May Prince Charming award your survival
Of raising a small lump of clay

Mommy Corps of Engineers

I've now reached the 5-6 week mark of the new year, the test of time to see whether or not my new year's resolution stuck (like the Splenda laced coffee I spilled inside the cup holder) or didn't stick (like the Cheerios that roll around the passenger side of the floor, sometimes gratefully hiding beneath the seat and other times a potential hazard threatening the mostly crumb-free side of the car.)

Drumroll, please ::brum brum brum brum brum...::.......................

And.....it's a partial stick, this year! I organized one out of 4 undersides of the sinks and one out of four closets -a 25% return on my commitment. Unfortunately, I fully consider this a flat out fail because of my resolution's direct correlation to my fluctuating level of motivation that surprisingly seems to spike whenever I hear Bon Jovi's "It's My Life." Don't get me wrong, I'm fully aware my life serves at the will and whimsy of Pumpkin's potty fluctuations. Yet, I'm urged by the conviction I feel from the very next line, "It's now or never..." which usually guilts me into following through on my wavering January 1st resolve: Cluttery mess, Adieu in 52.

My lack of dedication to more time consuming household tasks doesn't however diminish my candidacy for the Mommy Corps of Engineers:

• Occasionally Relevant,
• Sleeve-Instead-of-Kleenex Ready,
  
• Perceived as Responsible,
  
• Snack Time Reliable (because then I can snack too.)
  

Reflecting that motto, the Mommy Corps of Engineers are also the first on the scene at disaster areas including, but not limited to: milk all over the floor, hand held poops, food up the nose, house-wide entire toy inventory explosions and Barbie's-dream-house-pink vomit everywhere.

Although not regularly appreciated, the Mommy Corps of Engineers pursue sustainable infrastructure as their most critical goal.

Usually a sustainable child rearing infrastructure refers to anything built or used in a way that contributes to the overall sustainability of pseudo-natural resources such as Desitin, Goldfish, diapers and mostly clean clothes. My ability to conserve these resources relates directly to my level of desperation; I have been known to cut open a tube of Desitin and scrape out just enough with my finger to make it last. Afterward, I'll put the tube in a plastic zip-loc baggie so it doesn't dry out if, Heaven help me, I have to use it again before Sean comes back with more.

Said infrastructure typically relies heavily on carbohydrate consumption and caffeine use, two of the most high profile engineering resources, but will occasionally involve reliable cell phone batteries and nap times as major contributors to an overall good day. And although the Mommy Corps requires efficiency over previous generations of technology and construction, it readily submits to the Law of Genetic Predisposition -that all mothers possess eerily similar characteristics, if not full embodiment, of their own mothers incarnate.

Additionally, the Mommy Corps of Engineers dedicates itself to disciplined thought and action to deliver innovative solutions to household engineering. For example, when my vacuum choked on a tube sock, snapping the belt in two while emitting a dark, dank odor, I turned duct tape inside out and patted it around the bathroom floor to pick up the pieces of hair hiding in the corners until I found the belt replacement. The shoe molding around the bathroom floor's perimeter never looked cleaner!

And when Pumpkin began to get physical in her crib when nap time morphed into more play time, she broke one of the wooden bars. I grabbed the Elmer's wood glue, but had no tool to hold the glued halves in place. Two uber sparkly stegosaurus stickers did the trick since they had more sticky surface area as quadrupeds. Now they remain as a permanent fixture on the old, beat up crib; I honestly couldn't scratch them off when I tried.

Situations will arise that may require mental engineering to help reduce risks from disasters. For instance, when Pumpkin hadn't pooped in nearly a week and absolutely refused to eat her stool softener, I let her have two tablespoons of chocolate chips after every meal, including breakfast. A day and a half later, problem solved! Not ideal, per se, but effective and harmless.

All dedicated members of the Mommy Corps of Engineers strive to coordinate and integrate geospatial information requirements and standards across the family. Translation: when Daddy enters a house amidst chaos, Mommy keeps him fully informed of where not to step when the floor hasn't been swept but the stairs did get vacuumed, where not to sit when the apple juice spilled on the couch and which garbage to remove immediately upon arriving home (the one with the most diapers in it, except on the off-chance I cleaned out the frig only because I ran out of vacant, cheapy Tupperware wannabe containers.)

In order to maintain civility, another goal of geospatial synchronicity involves successfully managing the following 3 main chaotic areas/situations of:

1- Where toys go after play time because I've admittedly sworn aloud after stepping on Legos,
2- Where fingers remain when boogies allegedly need digging out because, try as I may, I can't refund my lifetime membership to the Eating Uckies Viewer Club nor can I avoid being touched by said uckies in public or private, and
3- Where nudey booties absolutely must stay put after bath time because I have a 4 year old showgirl on my hands who loves to dance nekkit in front of open curtains -sweet Lord, help me!!

And although repeating instructions to curb any visible pandemonium may not necessarily strengthen my family's security, it may help energize our interactions by simultaneously employing a "Good Choices" chart. Note: stickers placed on this particular chart to earn larger rewards are for especially good behavior and not a simple, "Excuse me!" after farting on me square in the face while I help Pumpkin tuck her shirt in.

The arduous task of raising decent, contributing members of society never ends, but keeping ourselves calm, collected and pulled-together at home as well as in the grocery store during a sleep-deprived temper tantrum gives us the right to claim victory and earns us the ranking of General amongst the many, the proud (so long as they're well behaved), the Mommy Corps of Engineers.

Pull-up-aholic Rehab

Pumpkin and I were playing play-doh yesterday morning until she pushed herself up off her chair and asked me if her pants felt wet. Welcome to the introduction of: Pumpkin Pees Her Pants 4.2. Instead of telling me outright that she peed them, it has since evolved into a rousing game of Clue. Nowadays I have to guess what made a surface wet: Was it Ms. Sweaty Butt in the Dining Room with the Occasionally Over Active Bladder?

I padded my hand around. Nope, it feels only a little damp from sitting on a plastic seat cover for 20 minutes straight while conjuring up alien images in the play-doh. About five minutes later, she propositioned me again asking me to determine the source of the moisture. Clearly, I didn't rise to the bait.

By the third time, I knew her guilt-laden expression meant I would spend the next 20-30 minutes cleaning up something. I asked her if she peed in her pants.
"No."
"Are you sure, Pumpkin?"
"No."
(Insert trepidation here.) "Did you pee in your pants a tiny bit and forget to tell me you had to go because you wanted to play some more with your play-doh? It's OK if you did, you can tell Mommy. Accidents happen."
Slowly, she nodded. Crap.

Honestly, I thought we moved beyond the potty training deal, but it creeps back for a few weeks at a time as though the training didn't fully take. In addition to that, Pumpkin still has yet to grasp the purpose of toilet paper. She appears fully aware that it doesn't serve as floor "woobie" material nor as ribbon for twirling practice in the dire hopes that her wild armed skill might lead her to the 2020 Olympic rhythmic gymnastics competition.

Most regrettably of all, Pumpkin doesn't understand she needs to wipe where the action takes place. Instead, it's her back or beneath her belly button that get a swipe of cotton 2-ply -headed in the right direction, just not quite there yet.

Pumpkin's effort to approximate the wiping has also landed us in another failed attempt of Western culture's take on Indian practices like a typical American, without respect or reverence for the appropriate hand for the job: lucky lefty. This tragic cultural misconception manifested itself when I found her backside painted with her own creation like a bloody Picasso only after discovering a little something beneath the fingernails of her left and right hands. Ew, ew, EW! One can only hope they didn't approach the maxillofacial region, but I will never know because it became a "Don't ask, don't tell" situation upon discovery. At that point in time, I avoided further questions regarding the goings on of her human canvas experimentation to keep from tossing my cookies.

And trust me, I fully understand a gal's need to have a moment of Zen during the busyness of the daily routine, I just didn't realize it began at the ripe old age of 4. Nowadays, Pumpkin can go upstairs, climb atop stool, inch around 180 degrees and do her business without me (except assisting the wipe). She does it by herself nearly every day as expected, except every day when I go upstairs after the, "I pooooooooooped!" holler, I find the Princess on her throne, lights off. I half expect her to have legs crossed up there one day saying ohms.

I'll ask her if she needs a moment, and sometimes she'll answer, "No, I fink I'm ready to get down now," but other times I hear, "Yeah," which I willingly oblige by giving her some alone time. When I peek back into the dark bathroom after a minute or two, I see a pondering face lost in consideration of all the trials 4 year old's face: "What color construction paper should I use? Why do I have to eat my carrots? Time outs are so boring... Why can't Mommy clean up my toys all by herself?"

Sometimes these moments of Zen evolve into complex scenes from her imagination. I've found her battling a brachiosaurus as her right arm with a T-Rex as her left for a good five minutes before I interrupt. This transition time not only gave Pumpkin some space to be herself, but also helped me identify her official abandonment of conventional toys in favor of her imagination.

That doesn't mean I won't attempt to affordably buy things from Santa's list this year, but I wonder what staying power a new toy will have when she already imagines a host of baby dinos needing to be fed while on the potty or when Pumpkin prefers flying across the house with her imaginary exotic bugs, toys still put away in her playroom.

Personally, I've begun to fully embrace the figments of my imagination these days as well -not a signal of developmental progression for the growing brain, but rather mental digression towards inevitable senility.

I imagine a sparkling kitchen with Toll House cookies in the oven, nails that stay polished to perfection even after scrubbing the tub, and a 5 o'clock margarita with a wedge of lime, salt around the rim and my name written all over it. I imagine my lower mommy tummy smooth as a frozen lake, just like my younger days of old, along with elusive firm underarms finally displaying the years of child carrying and laundry lifting I've endured.

See how it works is: every time a baby's born, a mommy gets her wings...flying squirrel "wings" of underarm flesh, that is. The upside of the downward sag -the wings can offer a marginally cool breeze from waving, "Hello," on a hot summer day. Greeting people now that I'm a mommy, however, I typically abide by the almighty Queen of England wave with only forearm/wrist movement -below the hat, above the pearls of course.

The turning point for my admission that potty training was still in effect came just a few weeks ago. I carried some toys up to the playroom while Pumpkin readied herself for potty time once again. Everything went swimmingly until I heard the classic call of the wild: "Mommy, come quick!"
"What's that, Pumpkin?"
"It rolled out like a bouncy ball. Can I play with it?"

Even at four, uncertainty still lies in contemplating a round of tossing feces around? When does the official recognition that perhaps I've failed at certain points of the maternal instinct arrive?

Desperately, I pray my days of sub-par motherhood are numbered based on my excessive history of mommy failures. For example, I have permitted Pumpkin to style her own hair (all 18 thick, curly inches of it) and allowed Sean to comb it out. I have publicly used four letter words while mopping up my laundry room flooded by an inconspicuous crack in the drip pan.

I have forgotten to suds down my child after playtime in the tub and blankly stared in her direction while she happily ate toe jam for dessert. I've even draped a towel over the accident in Mommy's bed just to get a couple more hours of sleep and awoke, undisturbed, to find the towel by my feet. And to perpetuate my desperation for sleep, instead of showering off, I simply changed my pants and socks.

These kinds of admissions have benefits, however. My obvious shortcomings create opportunities to purposefully adjust my expectations. For instance, my old mantra, "She can't start kindergarten in diapers," has switched to, "She won't graduate high school in pull-ups, Lord willing."

Maybe my precarious situation resulted from Pumpkin's realization that anything goes since Mommy has 30 different types of cleaners to remove stains from the carpet, couch, drywall, grout, whathaveyou. Maybe I expected less from Pumpkin when I first believed it easier to cram a camel through the eye of a needle than it was to allow her to roam free, sans pull-up. Maybe the bouts of random accidents will grow fewer and further between if I can finally let go and let pee if need be.

Giving Thanks

Years of scrubbing floors, dusting dressers and wiping poopy butts may appear thankless, but theoretically the child should appreciate it when they become a parent themselves. Until then, I'm giving thanks for the things I don't remember in my prayers as often as I should, but life wouldn't run as smoothly without them.

1. I'm thankful for the snooze button. I'm a snooze button junkie who married a snooze button junkie. Neither of us become infuriated when the other lets it run for half an hour because both of us have perpetually OD'd on "just 9 more minutes," until we race around like maniacs barely making our scheduled events by the skin of our teeth.

2. I'm thankful for chocolate. After avoiding it for months, I finally discovered some made peanut and tree nut free, and my first taste jettisoned me into the 5th stratosphere of the Andromeda Galaxy. I had removed myself from it long enough to realize the stronghold it had above me once I reunited with my long lost lover. I felt the same warm fuzzies I craved when I began falling in love, heart fluttering in anticipation along with the same relaxation and comfort I hadn't recognized since my last morphine drip.

3. I'm thankful for under eye concealer. I recently met up with some old college friends, same age as me, newly married, but child free. Standing side by side in public bathrooms, I noticed I looked about the same age as they did, except when I smiled. All the crows feet and under eye circles emerged and I transformed into "Gollum" from Lord of the Rings, frightening most small children (and some pets) within a 20 foot radius.

Since becoming a mommy, the under eye concealer and I have bonded like white on rice. How do I know this? When I run into people who see me working out sans makeup, and then the same people after I'm showered and have my "face" on, I hear the dreaded, "WOW. You look like a totally different person!" Truly, sometimes a compliment can insult more than it can express admiration.

4. I'm thankful for specialty bra shops. I haven't been able to shop for bras "off the rack" since high school days, and even then I wonder if my chest didn't honestly look like the disheveled workings of a Picasso. At the specialty bra shop, the women there get it. They always have the right cup size I need and can show me, lickety split, how to shimmy the girls into place so they sit upright and at attention, as man intended.

My bi-annual visit there last weekend proved fruitful and entertaining as usual. While adjusting me to see if the band and cup fit, the sales woman grabbed either side of the left cup material and began to judder. "You wanna give it a good shake -just like cake batter in a pan. They should fall right into place after that." Ah-ha!

No longer do they lay lopsided in their holster, and I am all the more grateful for it! That doesn't stop the twins from searching for refuge in my armpits the second I lie down in bed, however, another small reminder that these bras make big miracles happen every second of every day. As I push back at mother nature, I firmly believe this truth remains self-evident: the kind of custom fit I get at the specialty bra shop makes the neck and back aches from bra straps almost palatable.

On a more serious note...

5. I'm thankful for my Pumpkin. Two years ago, I suffered badly from a major car accident. The biggest scar remains on my right knee covering the repair from a quadricep laceration. Another scar lies across my knee cap as well.

Pumpkin sat on the potty trying to do her business one day, several months after the accident, and caught a glimpse of my recovering scars, still bright reddish-pink at that time. She asked what the markings were, so I explained, in very few and simple words, what had happened. I sat down beside her and pulled my capri sweat pants up higher so she could see them better. The scars showed the unmistakable and significant trauma that I hadn't yet grown accustomed to.

I still dreamed of myself as I was, before the accident, and had to remind myself how life changed significantly every time I woke up and saw my new version of me. The scars reminded me of pain, separation from my baby while I recovered for long weeks in the hospitals, fear that I might not live and more fear that I might not walk normally.

My sweet Pumpkin slowly traced the scars with her little baby hands, tilting her head a bit, trying to take it all in. "Mommy? They're beauuuuuutiful." she said gently.

Tears welled up in my eyes. Thank you, God, for sending me this angel I never knew I needed.

This kind of thanks transcends the typical "Thank you," of common courtesy. It also goes beyond simply expressing gratitude. In that moment, I could finally give thanks that translates into understanding the magnitude or intention behind something -a gratefulness that leads to an increase in value, a true appreciation for what I went through to know how much I was loved.

Waist Lines and Bottom Lines

First came love, then came marriage, then came the baby weight and granny panties.

Then came baby and away went cute clothes, regular showers and glancing at my reflection in the mirror. I knew I had thrown in the towel, I just didn't need to see how far down the bottomless well it had fallen.

Losing weight post baby was a catch-22, I just didn't know it yet. Now my giant mommy tummy sags downward like our national flag on a steamy, stagnant summer day. Any minuscule iota of movement only worsens the view exponentially, inducing a flap-flopping motion as though a gale force wind has made its uprising. Unfortunately, my jowls of a dog mid-section doesn't blow away with the tropical storm force, but rather remains hanging southward, clinging to the rightful owner by shreds of skin (stretch marks) so thin I can nearly see the meat of my flesh underneath.

The stretch marks themselves used to appear bright red, screaming, "Look! You just gained a ton of weight in your tummy, thighs, underarms and butt! Ha, ha!" Nowadays most of them have faded to my normal, pasty, un-sun kissed skin tone. Alright, so my tummy has never seen the light of day. Had I known the reconfiguration of my body's physique after carrying a child, I would have taken extraordinary advantage of it, flaunting my once youthful Belly Button of Olde.

Currently, the stretch marks make me feel like a refurbished antique. I could be young, I could be old; most days I desperately attempt to be hygienic with a shower and if I'm extra lucky, a shave. So what am I?! Everything hangs in the delicate balance of good lighting and coverage. I only look my rightful age so long as a T-shirt and shorts remain intact, but one inch upwards of any sleeve or cuff, and I could be mistaken for the little old lady who lives across the courtyard. Wrinkly and loose, the plots of stretched out skin age me a good 40-45 years which is, quite pathetically, also the age range of my paternal grandmother.

Just this week I caught Pumpkin sneaking a peek at the havoc run a muck on my midsection. I gathered my hair up into one of the two hairstyle options I have every day: ponytail or ponytail. When I started twisting the stretched out rubber band around it, my shirt lifted above the top of my jeans and, not surprisingly, my tummy pooched out. Pumpkin kept talking, but her eyes fixated on what she saw for a few seconds every time she started a new sentence. I asked her, knowing full well, what she spied. In her meager attempt to acknowledge, yet avoid her culpability in the "situation" going on beneath my shirt, she replied, "Nothing."

I persisted and asked if she saw my tummy. Then the floodgates flew open: "What is THAT?" She stared at my wrinkly belly. I explained what the stretch marks were and why I had them. Pumpkin grabbed my top and pushed it up past the underwire in my bra to survey the landscape only to seem utterly astonished at how they kept going and going and going...they were (and still are) everywhere!

She put her index finger in the air and looked at me like she does when she's about to do something she shouldn't. "Go ahead if you want," I conceded. Eagerly, her finger ran from top to bottom on all the stretch marks on my tummy. I asked Pumpkin what she thought about them. Her blunt response didn't startle me as much as the delivery. Confidently, as though confirming her hypothesis, Pumpkin declared: "They're like dead snakes." Sadly, I couldn't agree more.

Based on these findings, I'm officially banned from most nudist colonies 100 degrees North and South of the equator. Sweater vests have also permanently clawed their unattractive, fashionless selves into my year-round wardrobe staple list along with sweat pants and my aerodynamic, multi-faceted bras engineered by NASA's own command central. They employ the only qualified engineers in this continent with the capability to, against all odds, functionally levitate my droopy boobs above my waistline since their condemnation by gravity and motherhood.

Much to my own chagrin, I weighed the most I've ever personally recorded just before I found out I had a bun in the oven. In spite of this, I continued to gain the expected 30 pounds of pregnancy weight and checked in at my 38 week appointment topping out at 211 lb.s. My Ob/Gyn said my weight gain was, "perfect."

I'll never forget that. I sat dumbfounded on the crunchy exam table paper seriously considering pregnancy full time, Duggar-style.

When did weighing over two hundred pounds translate into perfection? Of course I fully realize the weight gain remained relative to the pregnancy, but I'd rather suffer through the labor of childbirth before asking what my doc honestly thought about my weight overall...and labor I did. For forty-seven hours.

My fail-safe for losing the postpartum baby pounds quickly fell through the cracks as well. Pumpkin had difficulty latching on and nursing because she had a tongue tie. We tried for a while, but it never went much of anywhere without frustration on both sides.

All of the weight I had earmarked to slide right off from breastfeeding not only stuck around in its tragically disproportionate location, but also migrated south permanently. And when I say "south," I don't mean Canadian geese style south where they head back north come Spring (after I became my un-pregnant self again.) I mean "south" as in the South Pole Antarctic. Even my boobs morphed into a version of an Antarctic local, the Chinstrap penguin: about 18-24 in. long (just like the twins) and similarly, also both 9 pounds each, possibly more.

Sometimes I wonder if all the worry and thought I give to my appearance doesn't masquerade as a diversion from what really matters in life. I have to prioritize myself so I can live as the best possible version of me because if I am not taken care of, there isn't much of me to give to Pumpkin. However, the amount of time I spend thinking about exercising and eating less nowadays almost seems equal to the hours I wasted stressing about how I looked before losing weight.

Stepping out of my running shoes after 5.5 miles became much easier than stepping off the mental treadmill of body image obsession and how it directly affects my mood. And if I'm really honest, it probably also affects my attitude and patience with Pumpkin. Regardless of the amount of weight I carried, I always preoccupied myself with concern over how I measured up with other moms, either celebrity or friends. For instance, it took me four years to reach a pre-pregnancy weight, and it only took ____ four months!

And when I didn't fixate on others, I spent even more time measuring up against myself. Do I look the same in my skinny jeans today, weighing 143 pounds as I did when I weighed 143 pounds before I got pregnant? Does that really matter? Did it matter when I weighed 243 pounds? I wish I had all the answers!

Maybe I should be less concerned about my waist line, and instead draw a waste line around the time I spend fretting over appearance because the bottom line is: I can't control what others will think when they look my way. Appearance will not matter in 100 years, but the time invested raising a little girl whose confidence comes from the knowledge in her head and her heart, will. She may gain or lose a few pounds, but she cannot earn or lose my love.

Mom-Me

Mommy: What do you say? Pl, pl, pl....
Pumpkin: Please.

Mommy: What do we do when we're done with our toys?
Pumpkin: Put them away. ::begrudging whiny sigh::

Mommy: What do we eat our food with?
Pumpkin: Our fork, not our hands.
Mommy: Good girl. Let's chew and swallow before we speak, please.

My entire life I knew what kind of mother I would like to be, but I never planned on life for the woman that I am while being Mommy too. Mostly, my self reinvention has grown stronger and more capable, all borne out of observations from the day to day hum drum of life with Pumpkin.

Nearly every day, I reach a point of total exhaustion where caffeine flowing through my veins becomes an absolute necessity. I convince myself I can handle everything because I am Mom: The Engine That Could, Does and Will Do. Instead of giving up, I trudge onward to new heights of physical and mental tolerance, fully convinced that the miracle of life has revealed itself in my ability to stay cool, calm and collected amidst chaos.

For instance, motherhood type bravery comes in different shades, like eye shadow. My shade is a sparkly pink: girlie mommy. Unfortunately, when the summer bugs come calling, I have to set aside the sparkly pink and quickly apply the cosmic charcoal gray as the live-in exterminator. The giant spiders that emerge seeking water from those dry summer days give me goose bumps just glancing their way. As Mom, I had to lay my bug-avoidant personality on the alter of sacrificial lambs to defend Pumpkin's bedroom. The thought of it crawling on her while she sleeps always motivates me to suit up for combat.

Yellow "Watch out, Germs" gloves on? Check. Kitchen apron tied? Check. Giant mess of TP in hand? Double check. I'm ready to roll. I certainly don't want Pumpkin to believe that girls fear spiders or other bugs just because I do, so I try not to make my typical this-is-totally-grossing-me-out-why-did-God-create-this face with a high pitched squeak on the side.

I take the fast and furious approach. I don't even look to see if I've killed it. So long as it doesn't fall to the floor and scurry, I run, arm outstretched to the toilet, slam the lid and flush. Phew! Crisis averted.

Five years ago, I never would have imagined I could handle that, but the constant pressure to set a good example of a strong, capable woman for Pumpkin super cedes all. A new standard of cleanliness has emerged as well. I never fully understood why my mom required everything "Clean, like Princess Diana was coming for a visit," passing the white glove test or why I began serving my years on KP at the ripe old age of 9. She had four kids, that's why. "Mess" was our middle name when it wasn't "Mud" first.

Pre-baby, I used to wear my jeans a good 2-3 times before throwing them in the washer for a spin. Now after enduring sleepless nights of Pumpkin's ear infections, sinus infections, colds, flu and croup, everything must be washed immediately after wearing. I caught Sean trying to pull dirty shorts out of the dirty laundry basket while enduring a household illness. A Blitzkrieg the likes of WWII ensued. I practically installed a bio-identification security system on the laundry room post incident.

I also discovered the careful moderation of bleach, something I rarely used until Pumpkin arrived. Three years ago, I washed a load of towels that had their own smell to them and, unsure of the sheer power of it, I thought, "Well, the more the merrier, right?" A lot clean is better than a little, of course.

Of course not! Glug, glug, glug went a good quart of bleach into the washing machine while hot water ran onto the dirty towels. I couldn't smell dinner cooking for the next 48 hours, but I also didn't need my Allegra-D and nasal spray either. A give/take relationship not worth reliving, I removed my socks whenever I did another load of whites or towels; I stood on hallowed ground.

My very first corporate job after college had me working in a few hundred feet vicinity of other cubicles, needless to say it didn't foster privacy during any type of conversation. During this time, I apparently didn't realize I spoke so loud while on the phone until I arrived at work one morning with a piece of printer paper folded and sitting on my desk chair.

Written in Courier New 20 point font, the note read that I should be cognizant of others when talking on the phone because I shouted and disrupted the concentration of people that worked around me. I had a 4x3 work space, even a whisper could distract the attention span of nearby co-workers.

Instead of taking the message to heart with the implicit grain of salt, I threw back the single-gal sass. I called my supervisor and ensured that I had the vocal resonance of the Wizard of Oz while on the phone when informing her that I had received an anonymous message from a complete "coward" about something nobody could avoid in the tight knit quarters of any workspace on my floor.

I firmly believe if I had motherhood under my belt, I would have taken the more graceful, socially sensitive response. Granted, I might also have cried like a blubbering baby all by my lonesome at some point because I am more prone to that post-child, but throwing the paper in the recycling bin and moving on with my work sounds more like my approach to bumps in my day as a mom.

I definitely wouldn't have let the comment bother me so much later for two reasons: 1) I simply don't have enough time in the day to worry why other people can't be gentle and honest simultaneously, and 2) I would have simplified and made a mental note-to-self to think of others when picking up the receiver.

I had to detach the emotional aspect of the comment because I can't keep apologizing for my personality and how it translates into social interactions with others. I am who I am, love me or leave me, but having transformed into a mother, I am open to other changes as well.

Additionally, motherhood made me realize prioritizing must exist in everything I do, and having extra time to focus on important things, like Pumpkin, became better than having Dove chocolates within arm's reach on a miserable, opinionated in-law sort of day.

I also discovered that what I used to wear on casual Friday could be considered nice enough to attend The Royal Ball in Mommy Land. Why dress up to sit on the floor and play puzzles, vacuum and wash dishes all day long? Sweats completely accommodate every stretch into the washing machine and don't cinch me in half when I bend over to load the dishwasher or empty the dryer or pick up the temperamental Pumpkin who slid off her time out stool yet again to defy me and assert her autonomy.

After some time, I began to feel like a slob because inevitably, my scraggly hair and disheveled, wrinkly clothes started to project my level of exhaustion. And although clothing had hot irons to fix the unseemly, I had no remedy for the deep, tired wrinkles around my eyes.

I had to embrace them or embrace my dermatologist for cosmetic reasons beyond acne, another falsehood of youth. They call it "adult acne" now: lifelong pimples and zits, but with a twist. At least the residual redness I had from blemishes as a youth dissipated with the inflammation, but now, it sticks around for a good couple of weeks, sometimes longer -even more reason to dab on some concealer that probably caused the unsightly spot in the first place.

I also began to feel ambivalent about looking nice when Sean came home at night. I made no attempt to entice another candlelit vigil for the remaining two square inches of abdominal flesh that survived the first round of pregnancy stretch marks. Sure, my tummy sagged. It even defiantly frowned at me when I didn't feel bloated from the sodium in too many hand fulls of goldfish.

Unfazed, I desperately held onto the dire hope that perhaps the cocoa butter rub would pull through as promised and smooth out my mommy pooch in the distant future because wearing jeans without the noticeable post-partum lower belly bulge seemed harder than squeezing a bran muffin into the ground socket of an electrical outlet.

And my hair! My beautiful, thick, wavy hair! What I once believed sat on my head as a crown of beauty began the motherhood molting process four months out from D-Day. My hair became an animal of its own and revolted against the pony tail I threw it up in day and night. It started thinning out even more after Pumpkin arrived and then again periodically as I aged in mommy years (that's like dog years with a possible added 3 years for every subsequent child less than 2 years apart from the previous one).

My hair also took on the texture of the frayed end of my old, green chenille throw blanket once my disposable income went towards shoes that kept Pumpkin's feet from pronating. It rarely holds a curl nowadays without three rounds of styling product whereas before I didn't even need a curling iron to graze my lovely locks if I wanted to style it.

Fortunately, my hairdo currently proclaims to Sean my action-readiness status. If up: I'm working out or doing arduous housework, don't bother me. If down: I'm heading out into public to decompress in the produce section, don't bother me now either. I realize now that having the time I need to "do" my hair has become a luxury.

And although I didn't purposely grow my hair out because I utilize four hours a year for professional follicular beautification, I can get it out of my face in one fell swoop, no barrettes or hair spray required. I have heard that I look a little softer and more approachable now instead of the feisty, single me with short, spiky hair.

Truth be told, sometimes compliments come across as insults, but I have never gotten more retail discounts by simply asking so long as I talk to a male sales clerk. I also carry a hip flask with me when the day comes that my batted eye lashes and freshly white stripped smile don't give mommy the discretionary 10% off any more.

I must continue to reinvent myself as a woman who has crossed the city limits into Mommy-ville, population: 5, 867, 403, 253, 849 +1 screaming in the shopping cart, 1 running with their laces untied and 1 on the hip. I'm near the end of my rope sometimes living here, but I'm hopeful the bank might approve my Toddler With the Terrible Three's behavior modification application.

Despite my lengthy preparation for Pumpkin's cognitive development, vocal diction and sleep habits, I will never feel fully prepared for her curious imagination.

Pumpkin: Mommy, do dung beetles eat my poop in the potty?
Mommy: Probably not. It goes through the sewer pipes and into the ground instead.
Pumpkin: I think I would like it if I grew up to be a dung beetle.
Mommy: OK, Sweet Pea. Let's not talk about this at the dinner table, please.
Pumpkin: Why? Dung beetles need to eat and so do I.
Mommy: You're absolutely right. How about we talk about finishing our green beans instead?