Aiming Low for Anissa

When I heard about what happened to Anissa, I was shocked. As details unfolded, the mood on Twitter, and around the blogosphere became somber. Bloggers, writers, both those who knew Anissa well, and those who had never even met her, began pouring out love and support for Anissa and her family. Once again showing that the bonds that we've created in our online community are, despite the beliefs of some naysayers, very, very real. In a mere matter of hours, a fund was created to assist her family, blog posts, tributes, and stories about Anissa, were popping up on websites all over the net. Thousands and thousands of people were visiting Anissa's Caring Bridge profile, to check in on the updates that were being sporadically posted by her husband, Peter. It was, nothing short of amazing. But, that is what this community has come to represent. The amazing power of loyalty, compassion, and yes, friendship, that can not be hindered by distance, hectic lives, or a computer screen.

I wanted so desperately to be able to write something amazing, articulate, and profound about Anissa. To talk here about what has happened to her, like so many amazing bloggers have done. To take her into my heart, my head, and channel her. To let the words flow on to the page. The words of how Anissa has, even in this horrific turn of events, found away to inspire, to unite, to humble.
But, there really are no words. Nothing that I can write that will make time go any quicker, make Anissa heal any faster, or ease the pain and fears of her husband and children. So today, for Anissa, I am basking in the simple things. I am hugging my children, petting my dogs, calling my friends. Today I am going to laugh, even in the wake of sadness that surrounds us. Because Anissa is one damn funny chick. And laughter sometimes truly is the best medicine. Today I am staying in my pajamas all day, feeding the kids PB&J for dinner, and watching some bad reality t.v., because for Anissa, today I am 'Aiming Low.'

Love Stinks!

Confession: I've got smelly kids.

Okay, they aren't actually smelly. And I love them no matter what. But, I do find myself having to have the talk, with my 5 and 8 years olds, about how they don't want to be that kid in school. The one that no one wants to play with because he's, well, a little less than fragrant. All the while, having to have the other talk, about how if they should come across that kid in school, they had better be nice to him, and treat him just like any other kid. But, the long and short of it is, some kids are just lazy about good hygiene. Mine included.

Take a sniff. Go ahead. I dare you. While I was reluctant to be one of those parents who demanded that their children's outfits be perfectly matched, or they look like they're doing a Parents magazine cover shoot at all times, I never thought we'd fall so far in the opposite direction. You see, my kids are stinky. It's not my fault really. Okay, maybe a little. I like to let them play in the dirt, have fun, you know, be kids. But my kids, they fight taking a shower. They hate brushing their teeth. They even try to wear the dirty clothes from their hamper, rather than clean clothes from the drawer. And these? These are my girls! Perhaps my kids are not unusual. Perhaps it's a phase that all kids go through? Though I had hoped that having a bedroom that smelled like a sweaty gym locker was something I would deal with someday with my then teenage son. I wasn't expecting that odor to emanate from the shared bedroom of my 5 and 8 year old daughters!

And the worst part of it is, I don't really do much to alleviate the problem. I'm not saying I'm lazy, because, my Lord if you could count all the things I do for these kids in a day, the mind boggles. But, let's just say I'm a 'let the dogs eat that spilled food off the carpet rather than vacuum' kind of gal. And so, I have been known to go in to the girls room, sniff around, and walk right back out. Knowing full well that my underwear hating 5 year old has probably removed and stashed several used pair under her bed. Or that my sock losing 8 year old has probably taken off and tossed her dirty little socks in various spots, every day this week. And, eventually it will all get dealt with. When I cant take the hands-in-your-butt, or up your nose, or in the dirt, smell of kids anymore, they will be forced to shower. When I see that there's no room in my daughters bed for her to sleep amid the removed clothes that cant find their way to the hamper, I'll make her clean out her bed. And when I see (or smell) that my 5 year old has been again storing her undergarments under her pillow, I will actually change her sheets and pillow cases.
It's pretty bad when the boy has the best hygiene in the house. Of course, he's teetering on the brink now too, having developed a fondness for blowing his nose in his sleeve. What? They teach that shit in school, people!

The Six Week Rule

Though I have to admit, I am no longer lounging on my death-bed, I am still feeling less than articulate right now. And so, I give you a guest post that I could not possibly pass up. Please welcome local author, Kelly Perotti, to Mommy Confessions. You can check out Kelly's book, Crib Notes, here.

Confession: I was in no hurry to get back into the business of baby making.

Everyone knows—it’s recommended that you don’t have sex for six weeks after you have a baby, or at least until you go back for your postpartum checkup and get the all clear. Supposedly that’s so that you have time to heal and recover from the recent trauma to the key areas, but I think it’s about more than that. First of all, unless you’re the parent of the one in a million babies who are born knowing how to sleep and eat on schedule, you will not have time. It’s more likely that you’ll need to be reintroduced to your partner by time you’re ready to have sex.
I admit that I was not real upset with this time frame. But, amazingly, even after witnessing the beautiful mess called childbirth, my husband still found me sexy. It would seem natural that after the memory of the Delivery Room scene, along with a whiff of my New Mom Smell, he wouldn’t want to be in sniffing range, much less close enough for any type of intimacy. New Mom Smell? That’s the lovely scent combination of breast milk and unwashed hair. It’s similar in concept to New Car Smell, only it’s not as desirable and it doesn’t fade as fast. But by some miracle of nature, he was not disgusted by me but rather had a really difficult time lasting through those seemingly-endless six weeks. (We think we’re a superior species, but we really are animals.)
So how did I feel? Maybe I enjoyed my legitimate excuse, sing-songing, “Sorry, we can’t—Doctor’s Orders” each time he came within three feet of me. No, that’s harsh. Let’s just say I was just indifferent about it. While I was looking forward to, one day, having sex again, I didn’t want that day to be today...or tomorrow. During the days when it was hard to find time to brush my teeth, I’m not sure I even had time to think about it at all.
When I added in the potential for pain, I was left wanting to extend my stay at Hotel Celibacy for another few weeks. It’s one of life’s nasty jokes that during your breasts’ peak they’re most untouchable. Between the pain and the risk of leakage, I was tempted to have ‘Hands Off’ printed on the cups—God knows there was plenty of room on that full coverage nursing bra.
My OB warned that a weakened pelvic floor (I did my kegels, I swear, but still!), stitches, and residual increased sensitivity could make that first time feel, well, like your first time. “Unless it’s truly unbearable,” she said, “try, try again.” Really? What’s next, practice makes perfect? Gotta climb back on the horse? Right. Let’s leave it at that.
My less-clinical, more-raucous friend gave me the real advice: “Just do it. You’ll be fine. Just don’t let your body be a buzzkill.” While I was horrified at the idea of getting into any position that risked letting my new excess belly skin hang down, she assured me that was not what my husband was focusing on.
To make a long story short (too late for that, I know), I was fine. In fact, I managed to have enough sex that I got pregnant again…and thus started the cycle all over again.

Adapted from Crib Notes available at Xlibris, Amazon, Kindle, and most online book retailers.

Health Care Reform?

At this point, I've pretty much just vanished amidst a pool of snotty tissues, Halloween candy wrappers, and my tear stained Phillies jersey. So, I'm just letting all hell break loose around here. Got something you want to post? Just shoot me an email. I'll put it up. What the hell? I knew the blog would have to go to shit someday, right? I could only keep it up for so long with all these crazies around me. But meanwhile, a real, live, actual guest post from Laura aka Hoola from The Toddler Review.
For the record, I have no idea what "Calpol" is.

Confession: Sometimes I dream of a nice, long hospital stay

Ok, first things first, dear American readers. As you may or may not recall from my previous post I am British. And in case you weren’t already aware, our healthcare is funded by the government through something called the National Health Service. Which means that unless we’re uber-rich we end up in hospital rooms which look not unlike this:


Please believe me, there was blood – real, human blood – on the walls in the room I gave birth to my daughter in. Before I gave birth to her I mean.

Anyway, sometimes there are days when hiding in a closet/retreating in to an imaginary world in which I can afford a nanny/pretending to be working when I’m actually posting pictures of owls on Twitter just doesn’t cut it. These are the days when my three and a half year old daughter has the volume stuck on eleven and my two year old son makes it through five nappies in one morning. The days when all I want to do is sit in a totally empty, silent room and not speak to anyone except the voices in my head. On these days I would give absolutely anything for a teensy little trip to the hospital.

This is not to say that I’m suicidal – I’m not about to take a long slug of the kids’ Calpol or walk out in front of a bus. In fact in an ideal world my dream hospital stay would definitely not include having my stomach pumped or any bones set (although a broken leg would give me a fair few weeks off of responsibility wouldn’t it? That’s certainly worth thinking about). I’m talking instead about an illness minor enough to be fairly painless and still allow me to, you know, sit up in bed and read back issues of Elle Decoration, watch a bit of banal daytime television (Jeremy Kyle, Richard and Judy – these are the things which make Britain great, truly). I’d merrily scoff down the appalling hozzie food with a smile on my face in exchange for this luxury.

Again for those not au fait with the wonderful world of the NHS hospital, the food is so bafflingly bad that one patient who is in traction at one of our hospitals (ie: long term stay. Lucky bugger!) has started something called ‘Food Bingo’ in which he posts pictures of his dinner on the internet and we, the public, guess what it’s supposed to be.
If only the internet had smell-o-taste-o-vision, because pictures do not even begin to describe the slop they serve up in these places.

I’ve considered all angles carefully and have decided that this illness would need to warrant, ooh, at least a week’s stay. The ideal would be a minor symptom which suggests something fairly serious, not deadly (I shouldn’t like to worry anyone too much in case they feel the need to visit), but something which requires that I be confined to a room for tests or ‘observation’. Of course once I was adequately rested the docs would find out that there was nothing in the least wrong, letting me out again on the basis that I come back for a week once a month for the next eighteen years to double check.

Now do let me know if I’m the only one who thinks like this – my mother always said I had a vivid imagination – but if all of us mums are in agreement I don’t see how our governments can deny us the right to a hospital room just for a little rest once in a while, all it’ll take is a little public pressure. Placard anyone?

Chick Fight?

In light of my World Serie hiatus, and my newly acquired illness, please welcome my first of a few guest posters, Jen (AKA frelle on Twitter) from Pursuing Harmony. Make her feel welcome!

Confession: I almost bitchslapped another mom

Have you ever had the cops called on you?

What was it for? Drunken and disorderly conduct? Streaking through campus during rush week? A loud fight with your cheating boyfriend?

See, that sounds perfectly understandable to me. I got the cops called on me at a community wide women's Bible Study

Truth is stranger than fiction, isn't it?

We had finished Bible Study for the day, and I had brought my 3 younger kids outside. There is an enclosed play area, and it has a play structure and wood chips underneath. I was not paying attention to if there were any other moms in the play area, or how many kids were in there, but coming in and out of the fenced in play area is something I have done after bible study for the last 3 years. I was comfortable with leaving them in there with me nearby, talking to another mom and making lunch plans.

My youngest, Teddy decides he is going to make a move to walk off the curved rock wall, which is at an opening about 3 1/2 feet off the ground. A mom I did not know was in there (on her cell phone), and was telling Teddy to stop. I looked over, and the mom starts yelling Whose child is this? Why aren't you in here with your baby? etc. She continues to harp, and I walk toward the fence, saying I'm his mother You know, you could have said that a nicer way because she was being a harpy about it. Maybe I needed the reminder to not be so far away, but she was not very nice about how she said it. I got nearer to her, and she continued to berate me. I thanked her for saving my child from certain death (I admit I was sarcastic), and she continued to blather on about my negligence.

I said thank you. I replied, trying to get across to her that I was done with this conversation. Then I left the play area.

She decided to announce to me and anyone else within hearing distance that she was going to go in and talk to the Children's Program director, because I clearly wasn't getting the point about my responsibility to my children. She brought the children's director outside and talked to both of us about my negligence. The director didn't have much to say about it. At this point, I was concerned that she might think I had just left my toddler in there, and I told her I had 3 kids in there. At that point, she became ugly.

Well maybe you have too many children to keep track of. Or maybe you think that if one gets brain damaged or killed you can just have another one.

Whoa. Hold up. Did she actually just say that??
I was surprised that all that came out of my mouth was I think your righteousness is just a bit too righteous for me today . In my head, I closed the area between us in about a stride and a half, and backhanded her while shouting obscenities.
But that would have been a poor choice in the Bible Study parking lot. Ah restraint. At least I had some, can't say the same for her. Since the children's director was not doing or saying anything to satisfy this lady, she announced that she was going to call the cops. And she did. Loudly.

It is one thing to be nasty because you don't like the way someone is parenting their kid. He was under verbal control, he was not in peril, he was in familiar territory with other familiar children.... I think going in and talking to the bible study kids director was taking it further than necessary.

But the cops? Really?

Several other moms were outside and in the playground area at this point, and had heard firsthand what was going on. They were shocked, and angry on my behalf. None of them were familiar with the crazy lady either. These moms all do the same things I do, come in and out of the area, by default watch each others kids, our kids all know each other and play there weekly. I reminded them to watch their kids closely lest this happen to them, and not without sarcasm and a look of utter outrage. As I walked my kids over to our van to wait for the cops, my older two were very concerned about the lady calling the cops. My older one was very defensive of my actions, and my middle one cried because she was afraid I was going to get taken to jail.
I waited for the cops. And fumed. And shot daggers at the crazy lady. And fumed some more. And tried to reassure my children that I had done nothing wrong, and that the lady who called the cops was not a nice lady. In a matter of about 15 minutes, the police showed up.

Two female officer approached and spoke to the crazy lady.

And then... she lied to them. AUGH!

Again, in my head, I'm striding toward her, this time with the handle to the jack in my trunk, or an umbrella or some other object that will hush the nasty vitriole emanating from her.

Oh, I'm so glad you're here. She just kept yelling at me, I was concerned that she might hurt me. She told them that Teddy almost fell to his death off the 3 ft tall play structure (since she alone saved him. All hail the supermom).

And then, then she claimed that after she asked whose child Teddy was that I just started screaming at her. She was concerned that I might threaten her physically, she was worried about my children, and felt like she needed to call the cops for her own protection.

I seethed. I shot more daggers. In my head, I am pinning her neck with my knee against the brick retaining wall and shouting in her ear about how she is a lying, meddling whack job. In reality, I am calmly leaning back against my van, shaking my head listening to the amazing and untrue tale she is spinning.
They took her name and information. Which I memorized.

The officers approached me and asked my side of the story. I told what I remembered: that her tone of voice sucked when she called out to me, and that I spoke two sentences to her. They asked me if I came at her in anger, touched her, or verbally assaulted her with yelling or cursing. I said no. I asked if she was going to file a report and asked if I needed to prepare for a home visit. The officers told me that as far as they knew, this was it, but would call me if the lady went further with it. One of the officers said In this state, you are free to parent your child in any way you see fit. If you were satisfied with the level of supervision your child was getting from a distance, that is totally your business. I'm sure this is humiliating for the both of you to be involved in this. And I responded well, I seriously doubt that this woman has any idea that it is humiliating right now, but yeah.

The officer told me I was free to go.

The crazy lady clearly did not get the justice that she thought the situation deserved, so I was concerned that she would call Child Protective Services, since she knew my name. I was also concerned that that if she actually came back to Bible Study that she would continue to berate me or start spreading gossip. I was not sure of my ability to continue being gracious. Turns out she never came back. But I know who she is, and I know to look out for her.

I've never been so publicly accused and embarrassed in my life. Just goes to show you that no matter where you go, there are people who think the way you parent your kids is incorrect. Man, how about you screw up your kids your way, and I'll screw up my kids my way.

Is There Anybody Out There?

Confession: I'm a sports fan.

Okay, okay, that is an understatement. Now, I know sports are not for everyone. Hey, not all chicks dig sports. I get it. It's cool. And not to alienate my sports shunning sister-moms, but it's true. I love to watch and cheer my favorite teams to victory. Or defeat. I am the one who gets totally pissed when my husband or kids stand in front of the t.v. during a big game. I am the one who shirks off potential discussion on football Sundays. And I am the one who, during the 2009 World Series, is unable to put together any blog posts.

That is why I have friends. Awesome friends. Twitter friends. Blogging friends. And so, for the rest of this amazing World Series (which I hope will end in 3 more games with a Phillie's sweep), I will be having guest bloggers. I'm turning over the reigns; letting the inmates run the asylum. And if they are not funny, not convincing, not heartfelt enough for you, well- don't blame me, I'm off watching the game somewhere!

See you soon!

Race for Hope

Confession: I'm not half the mother, the person, that my grandmother was.

.... And if you knew her, even if you met her once, you know its true. She was THE best. And she loved me. And she died. On January 24th, 2004. Of a stage 4 Glioblastoma that none of us knew about until there was no hope. And I STILL can't even write about it. So, I'm not gonna. And I'll take the emails and the criticism about using my "mommyblog" to solicit money and participants for the Race For Hope. I'll put on my big girl panties and deal with it. Relevance? How about without her, I wouldn't be half the mother I am today! And probably wouldn't be the author of this blog, or anything else. So please, consider running, walking, or just sponsoring me, as I honor the woman who allowed this blog to be. Support 'Eleanors Angels' in the Philadelphia 5k Run/Walk on Sunday, November 1st. Follow the link below:
Race for Hope - Philadelphia:

You are all, the most wonderful and supportive readers. Thank you!

Preperation H(uh)?

Confession:
I have used hemorrhoid cream on my face!

Yes, I am back to posting the real true confessions that you love to hear. None of that sissy la-la stuff this week. Today, I confess to slathering hemorrhoid cream on my face, because, um, somebody told me it was a good idea. The things that we crazy, tired, overworked, moms won't do.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned to a friend that my eyes were really tired and puffy looking and that I hadn't been sleeping well (with 3 kids, who does?). I told her that I had so much luggage under my eyes that it looks as though I might be planning a trip to Spain. Then, that friend said to me, in a perfectly serious tone, "you should try putting hemorrhoid cream on them." Oooookkkkaaay. Excuse me? "Yes", she declared! Hemorrhoid cream works great on dark circles and under-eye puffiness. She told me that she uses it all the time. Declaring her a freak, I ignored her idea. Then within hours, not 1 but 2 other women confirmed her claim.

Naturally I was skeptical. So, I went to the most reliable source available when dealing with putting butt cream near your eyes, I Googled it. Boy was I surprised to see that this is a fairly well-known and common practice. Yes, it would seem, we've become so appearance obsessed in our society, that we will even resort to slathering our faces with ass cream in order to look "better" to others. And wouldn't you know, I was on my way to the store within the hour to pick me up a tube of the precious potion. I'm not too sure that it was the miracle lift that I was looking for. That, I fear, will take a whole team of plastic surgeons. But, I have to admit, my eyes felt a little firmer and tighter. And as soon as the blinding burning sensation stopped and I could see again, things were looking up. Needless to say, the cream has been put in the "rear" of the medicine cabinet, where it will likely remain, until someone actually has a doctor recommended use for it. But hey, I am nothing if not adventurous. And that is why you keep coming back, right? To read these true pearls of wisdom that I am here to share. When there's hard-hitting news to be blogged, I'm your woman.

Meanwhile with the new FTC guidelines for blogger disclosure and accountability coming out, now would probably be a good time to assure you that I do not endorse, nor do I recommend, any one particular ass cream. No ass cream paid me to write this. I have no vested interest in ass cream at all actually. No ass cream companies, to my knowledge, recommend using their products anywhere near your face. Neither do I. Unless you know, a trusted friend tells you it's a good idea. Then suuuuure, by all means, smear away. Just don't say I didn't warn ya!

80 Gazillion Days. And a Wedding.

Confession: I'm old.

So, it's been like 80 gazillion days since I blogged. What's that? Silence? Crickets? I hear no disputing it, because it is true. 80 gazillion days. I counted. And while September is always a hellishly, and I mean, kick-yourself-in-the head-want-to-jump-off-the-roof- hellishly busy kind of month, it's not looking like you're getting any quality content out of me for a little while longer. So, that being said, I intend to dazzle you with photos. Because, really, who doesn't love photos?

I am old. My baby sister got married over the weekend. The whole thing required a year of meticulous planning, tireless efforts on her part to pull off a flawless and gorgeous wedding, and the whole damn thing was over in just a few hours. It just doesn't seem right! Fortunately, through the miracles of invention, we can save these moments FOREVER. FOR.EV.ER. And so, while the wedding made me feel like I was about 80 gazillion days old, I would still like to share it with you. Mostly because that means that I can stop typing now.

I warn you, I have never put any pictures of me, my family, or my sister on here before. I am delving into new territory. I still won't put up pictures of my kids, but trust me, they were frickin' adorable! Stunning. Gorgeous. Incredible.

Oh, and if the pictures suddenly disappear, it means my sister revoked my right to plaster her newly married face all over the Internet, so get 'em while they're hot.

Stalkers beware. If you use any of my pictures in any way other than for your purely non-sexual viewing pleasure, I will sue you, bite you, slash your tires, and microwave your kittens. That is all.

Ooooooh


Aaaaaah


Ohhhhhhh


Weeeeeee


Aren't they pretty pictures? Almost made you forget about my sparse blogging skills lately. And for sticking with me for so long... a shot of your 'Mommy Confessions' host...Moi...