The Woman Formerly Known As

When I was born, I was named Jessica. My dad says he lobbied for Angela or Angelina, but I don't think I've ever had what it takes to be an Angie Rapisarda. And there are only so many times I can explain how someone with a warm Sicilian last name has skin that suggests long hours spent in dark, wood-panelled rooms eating schnitzel. Mediterranean I am not.

So "Jessica" fits. Its anonymity deflects from the conspicuousness of my surname. "Jess" to my husband and my friends. "Jessie" to my immediate family. I don't love my name, but then again, I don't love a glass of water or a gulp of air. It does its job. Its job is important.

Jess, circa May 2012

Then I became pregnant, and with each passing month, as my stomach expanded, my name seemed to contract, shrinking away from me little by little. For everyone who called me "Jess," there was an equal number of folks calling me "mom-to-be."

"How are you feeling, mom-to-be?"

"Hey there, mama-to-be. How many more months to go?"

It was exciting. I felt like a fresh-faced sorority pledge. Granted, it was the least exclusive sorority in the history of womankind, but for 36 years, I'd been watching its secret rites from a quiet, well-rested distance. "Mom-to-be" reminded me that other folks appreciated the importance of my initiation.

And, honestly, when a hugely pregnant woman forgets her keys at the cash register, why bother with a "Miss!" or "Ma'am!" when "Yo there, mom-to-be!" is sure to narrow the field?

Yet a memory, a small and unadorned piece of history, wormed its way out of the dark to nag me. Years before I had even met my husband, let alone married or thought of having kids, I drove from Maryland to Southwest Virginia to visit my dear friend who was several months pregnant with her second child. We hadn't seen each other in months, not since just before she found out that her strange change in appetite was more than just a passing bug.

We stood on her wrap-around porch, in the bracing light of winter, looking out at the dips and curves of the valley surrounding her home. I marveled at her belly, her rosy skin, but mostly we talked about our latest writing ventures, our families, and news of mutual acquaintances.

"It's good to talk to a friend," she said, "someone who remembers your name, ya know?"

I felt my brow crinkle, my look clearly indicating that I did not know.

She rested her forearm across her stomach. "People forget who you are when you become a mom. It's like they forget you're a woman, an individual even. You're suddenly just 'mom.'"

And though I understood her words, I still didn't really know. But by my own second trimester, I was at least getting the gist.

Jess-ish, September 2012

When my son was born in early 2013, "Jessica" was abruptly and thoroughly shunted aside. But it was to be expected for a while. In the first week after his birth, I needed to hear other people say "mother" and know that they were referring to me, to be reminded that, yes, this child was mine. I referred to myself as "mama" while rocking my newborn to sleep. Everyone was trying out the new name, like a freshly minted "husband" and "wife" on their honeymoon.

The Woman Formerly Known as Jess, February 2013

My dad had gently told me, when I was newly pregnant, that life would never be the same. A pretty obvious statement, if I'd ever heard one. Of course life wouldn't be the same, I thought: kids require love, food, money, space. But within a few short weeks of my son's birth, nothing seemed obvious anymore.

Once I was a woman who didn't give a second thought to driving across the state just to eat lunch at my favorite fried chicken joint. Once I was a woman who spent half of an hour each morning applying moisturizer, penciling in her brows, selecting just the right lipstick. Once I was a woman who wrote stories, who read stories, who had time on her hands. Once I was not a mother.

Between the psychological whiplash, the sleep deprivation, and the claustrophobic cold of February, I felt, as my grandmother would have said, a bit touched. Insane. Everyone who called or stopped by or sent a card called me "mom" or "mama" or "mommy" -- as though my one child had multiplied twenty times over.

It took months, frankly, for me to reestablish old routines (like showering and eating breakfast) and to break free of the postpartum haze. I grieved the life I'd had before my son, but I realized that I was no less myself just because my schedule didn't permit a lengthy beauty regimen.

Months rolled by, a year even, and my new world order felt a little more broken in. But coworkers, distant relatives, even the grocery store cashier still echoed the same refrain: "How ya doin', mom?" I thought better of being honest, of saying, "Well, I used to go by Jessica, so I'm experiencing a pretty intense identity crisis right now."

There is no malice in "mom." Honestly, I've dropped the m-word many times myself. "Mom" is shorthand for "I acknowledge that you have a child, congratulations, welcome, try to breathe, this is going to last for at least 18 years."

But "Jessica," my dime-a-dozen first name, is shorthand for something much more complex.  It contains  the little girl playing with Barbies on the front porch and the angsty teenager playing The Cure in her bedroom. It holds my college years, my grad school years, and the years in between when I folded khakis at the mall for a living. There's a career in that name and a marriage and ten different addresses across two different states. "Jessica" wrote poems in her diary when she was 13, and "Jessica" wakes at 5 a.m., a few quiet hours before her son stirs in his crib, to write an essay on her laptop. "Jessica" contains "mother," too.

I love being a mom. I love all the names that come with it: mother, mama, mommy.  Even now, as I watch my son on the baby monitor, curled in a tidy "c" around his trusty stuffed elephant, I am awed that he is of me. And I am not even bothered that my very best piece of work has already been made, that nothing I type will ever top him.

There are times though, when I am out with old friends, when I'm alone with my husband, and I hear my name, and it's as though a door swings open. And inside is a room packed with neatly labeled boxes and bins: "First ballet recital, 1981," "Trip to Madrid, 1999," "Christmas with Shelby, 2012," "Early mornings at the kitchen table, 2014." And I think to myself, "Oh, thank god, it's all still here."

FBW: The One Word You Can't Yell in a Crowded Park

Flogger Blogger Wednesday has been on ice for a while, my friends. Spending time each week writing stories about why I feel guilty had an odd effect on me: it made me feel worse. And this blog isn't about making me feel worse; it's about taking time away from my family so that I can become marginally Internet famous. However, the little ditty that follows had to be shared. Let's make a triumphant return to self-flagellation, shall we?

My son is a talker. At 18 months old, he can already string together a few sentences -- helpful turns of phrase like "It goes roar!" or "That's a star!" Apparently, "I'm hungry!" or "I'm so tired I'm about speak in tongues!" are just too pedestrian for my kid.

He's also quite the parrot, repeating whatever word catches his fancy. As any mom or dad with a potty mouth knows, the threat of toddler repetition puts a real kink in your swearing style. About a week ago, while stuck in a traffic jam with my kid in the backseat, I caught myself shouting, "I dare you to get one inch closer to my bumper, hineyhole! I M.F.-ing dare you!" Ah yes. Nothing strikes fear into the heart of aggressive motorists like a woman shaking her fist in the rear view mirror while yelling "hineyhole."

Notably, Pork Chop's pronunciation skills leave a lot to be desired. "Shirt" sounds surprisingly adult when uttered by my son. But "clock"? "Clock" sounds downright X-rated. Coincidentally, Pork Chop's daycare provider has a large clock hung just inside the entrance to her home. Three days per week, my son enthusiastically greets kindly Ms. F. with what sounds like a filthy proposition. I'm one proud mama.

Toddler swear words are a rite of passage for almost all parents. Sometimes it's just that your kid can't handle the "tr" sound in "truck." Sometimes it's just that you are a horrible person and swear in front of your sweet, innocent children. Of course it's embarrassing when your 3-year-old tells the cashier to "eat a bag of dicks," but what are ya gonna do? Beating yourself up about it won't make your kid un-say "eat a bag of dicks." And, frankly, some people deserve to eat a bag of dicks. If the situation merits it, you put on your horrified face, mumble an apology, and haul butt out the door before anyone notices that you're trying not to laugh.

If karma is real, then I have precious little time before Pork Chop says something that gets me investigated by Child Protective Services. Neither of my parents was particularly foul-mouthed. They might let slip with an occasional "shit" or "damn" in the heat of the moment, but to this day, I've never heard my dad drop an F-bomb. In fact, the word "fart" was nearly verboten in our home -- deemed too "unladylike."

But as a little kid, I loved learning new words. My grandmother bought me a dictionary, and I would spend time each day poring over the pages, jotting down unfamiliar vocabulary with my favorite magenta crayon. Suffice it to say that, at 6 years old, I was already a pretty big loser. By the time I was 8, I was walking myself the mile or so to the library, where I would sign myself up for various reading programs. Judy Blume's Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing really spoke to my terminally dorky heart.

1984 was a tough year. I had a bowl haircut, I read dictionaries for fun, and I lost my mom to cancer. I wanted so badly to feel normal. After school let out for the day, I'd hang back from the mass of kids swarming the parking lot of St. Dominic's Catholic school. I studied the crowd like I studied the dictionary, eager to learn something new, something that might make me just a little bit cool. And, to me, the 8th graders were a bottomless font of cool. I rolled the skirt of my uniform like they did. I let my socks slouch like they did. I doused myself in Love's Baby Soft cologne like they did. I tried to talk like they did, even though most of what they said was a complete mystery: Why were they always discussing the time of the month? And what made a kiss French, as opposed to American or, say, Mexican?

And that's where we come to the part of the story where I nearly get my dad arrested.

If 1984 was a tough year for me, it had to be downright unbearable for my dad. He was suddenly the single father of three little girls, ages 8, 6, and 2. But even through the grief and the fear and the exhaustion, my dad made time to play -- to toss a softball in the backyard, to hold impromptu Michael Jackson dance parties in our living room, to go to the park. Our favorite destination was Baltimore's Burdick Park, just a block from my grandparent's row home. It was a few bucolic acres of oak trees and wide grassy fields. There was a much beloved twisty sliding board, rows of swings, and enough 80s-era metal playground equipment to simultaneously break the bones of a hundred different kids. Paradise.

So on a warm, sun-drenched Saturday afternoon, my dad packed us into the Chevy Chevette and headed to Burdick Park. There was a line to get on the twisty sliding board and the swings were occupied, but we were unfazed. My dad challenged us to a game of tag. (At 2 years old, I can't imagine my youngest sister, Sarah, joining us in this game, but I don't recall what she was doing exactly. Now that I'm the mom of a toddler, my best guess is that she was calmly eating mulch.) Anyway, my middle sister and I rose to the challenge immediately. We rocketed around the see-saw, through the middle of a basketball game, and toward the small park maintenance building.

I'm about to make this super awkward, Dad.

"I'm gonna get you guys!" my dad shouted, sprinting after us.

"No way!" my sister Kim shouted back. Always the superior athlete, Kim shot between a group of kids and toward a stand of trees.

I was left out in the open, with my dad gaining on me.

My energy was flagging a bit, but I still had a lot of fight left. I reached the corner of the maintenance building, turned toward my dad, and called to mind a term I'd heard the 8th-grade girls casually lob at the boys from time to time.

"Get away from me, you pervert!" I yelled. Then I sprinted around the side of the building.

I remember a mom with a stroller stopping dead in her tracks to stare at me.

"Haha! You'll never catch me, you pervert!" I screamed as I rounded the back of the building.

"Pervert, pervert, pervert!" I chanted as I took off toward the merry-go-round, drunk on speed and my own coolness.

A group of kids near the monkey bars had gone strangely quiet.

My dad finally caught up with me as I reached the merry-go-round. His face was red. His mouth looked stiff. "Geez, he's taking this game pretty seriously," I thought, just as he grabbed me by the arm.

"Let go of me, you pervert," I laughed.

My dad looked like he had just been brutally goosed. With his eyes still wide, he leaned down and hissed, "Jeeeeesus Christ, Jessie. Shut the hell up!"

Suffice it to say that our day at the park ended right then and there. On the ride home, my dad wanted to know where exactly I'd picked up my fun new word, but I guess he was just too tapped out to explain what the word actually meant. I had to sleuth out the definition on my own during recess later that week. It was a gut-churning revelation.

Thirty years later, I still remember how my dad hustled us out of the park that day, his hand held gently at my back, urging me to walk a bit more quickly. I remember hearing him sigh and thinking to myself, "Boy, I really wore Dad out!" I remember feeling briefly and cluelessly cool.

So do I like that my son shouts "cock" at his daycare provider? No. Do I like using "hineyhole" when the situation merits something much stronger? No. But karmically speaking, I have bigger perverts to fry.

Better with (R)Age

A few words of advice: If you wake one day to discover that you are a published author, that your finely wrought prose is being heralded throughout cyberspace, just gloat about it on Facebook and leave it at that. You waxed poetic about mucus plugs and someone out there actually liked it enough to foist it on the rest of humanity. Super. You're the William Faulkner of gyno lit.

Just don't read the comments.

A few weeks ago, one of my posts (a slightly altered version of "Pumps, Dumps, and Baby Bumps") was picked up by a news outlet and shared on their website dedicated to family topics (check it out here). Hot damn! I felt like a million bucks -- minus any actual bucks because no one paid me.

In the introduction to my post, I explain that I was an older first-time mom; Pork Chop was born just shy of my 37th birthday. From there, I went on to do what I do best: complain about stuff while also describing the output of our various body holes. It was a pretty light-hearted piece, peppered with equally light-hearted vagina references. Typical stuff.

In the post, I grumbled about alcohol-adulterated breast milk and "push presents," but steered clear of the big no-no topics: politics, religion, and TV spoilers. "Everyone's gonna love me! I'll finally be cool and popular," I thought to myself. So I gobbled up the comments on the post, soaking in every effusive "LOL!"

Yeah, there was that one dude who referred to me as a "typical American broad" bent on divorcing my husband and taking his "house, boat, train, [and] plane" for myself, but he was, obviously, way off base. I have no interest in the train; it takes up too many parking spaces.

Then, way down at the bottom of the comment thread, I spotted it. A comment that actually made my breath catch in my throat. To paraphrase: "We had all 3 of our kids by the time I was 32. How dare you endanger the life of your baby by waiting until you were middle aged to become a mom?"

I don't remember the hour or so after I read that comment, but when I came to, an empty bag of Tostitos lay on the bed, my face was slimy with wrinkle cream, and I'd composed a lengthy list of synonyms for both "heartless" and "super twat" in my dream journal.

Every middle-aged, baby-endangering fiber of my being wanted to respond to this woman, this mom, to explain to her that I hadn't married until I was 35; to tell her that my son was and is healthy; to point out that, by her logic, my child would have been better off never having been born than to have been born to a 37-year-old biddy like me. But that emotionally constipated crab bag didn't want to have a conversation about my choices. She just wanted to land the Internet equivalent of a sucker punch and then slink away. Furthermore, I don't owe some anonymous crotch snot an explanation for my procreational choices. I thought about responding. I really, violently thought about it. But the words, like my breath, seemed caught in my throat. And by the time I began processing how deeply hurt I felt, the comment was gone -- either deleted by the commenter or removed by the admin.

But, like it or not, Mrs. Mommier Than Thou got me thinking about what it means to have a child later in life. When my son reaches school age, I could end up in the PTA along with parents I used to babysit. Just when Pork Chop is hitting his teens, I'll be hitting the bottle, I mean my 50s. If my kid decides to marry one day, I might be enjoying our mother-son dance from the comfort of my Hoveround mobility scooter. And what if I have another kid? I'll need a daily Geritol infusion just to survive the sleepless nights, the demands of breastfeeding, and the toxically stupid judgment of self-righteous Internet thunder dumps.

Haha! Where did this baby come from and where did my walker go?

Yet, given the chance to go back 10 years, to have my son while I was still in my 20s, I wouldn't. Simply put, I am more equipped to be a parent now than I was back then. And here, for the benefit of that anonymous oozy wound of a human, is why:

1. I'm healthier now than I was 10 years ago. In 2004, I was smack dab in the middle of graduate school and, as luck would have it, also smack dab in the middle of a health crisis. The migraines I'd suffered off and on since early childhood had finally decided to make a full-time commitment. What had been an every-few-months inconvenience became an almost daily descent into excruciating pain. Doctors took my blood, shot me full of Botox, scanned my brain, sent me to physical therapy, suggested I have heart surgery, put me on a chicken and rice diet, prescribed a junkie's worth of medication, and then sent me the $10,000 bill. And yet the pain persisted. I didn't so much have a "come to Jesus" moment as I had a "bring it on, Jesus" moment -- I begged God either to heal me or to just give me a stroke and get it over with. Long story short: While I am not healed, per se, I am in a significantly better place, but getting to that place has taken years. I can't imagine trying to mother a houseplant, let alone a newborn, while I was in my old, sickly state. My breast milk would have been equal parts nutrient and narcotic. I would have had to slur my way through "The Itsy Bitsy Spider." By comparison, nowadays, I feel like a damn Amazon. Put some coffee in me and I can change a loaded diaper while doing the Hokey Pokey (true story). 
2. I'm more financially secure than I was 10 years ago. Quaint though it sounds to pop out a baby while one is in graduate school and/or employed at a soon-to-be dot-com bust company, I prefer my present circumstances. In my 20s, I paid my dues -- taking classes, working at low-paying jobs, sometimes putting in 50- or 60-hour work weeks. Had my son arrived back then, I would have been forced to choose between finding daycare on my measly budget or quitting my job outright. But because Pork Chop didn't explode onto the scene (a birth metaphor I promise never to use again) until I was in my 30s, I had more money and more experience under my belt. Not that I keep money under my belt. I'm an editor, not a stripper. But some of the experience may be under my belt. Wink wink. My point being, of course, that I had the means to choose a really fabulous daycare for my son when I decided to go back to work full time. And when our family moved from Maryland to Virginia, my employer valued me enough to agree to a new, more family- and distance-friendly work arrangement: I telecommute part time. For my family, this is the best of all worlds: I have enough money to pay for part-time daycare, I can continue to work and keep my skills and resumé up to date, and I get to spend more time watching my son just be my son (i.e., throw metal kitchen utensils on our new hardwood floor and then cry when he trips over the garlic press).
3. I like myself more than I did 10 years ago. In my mid and late 20s, my bod was a rock. A ROCK, I tell you. Washboard abs, sweet guns, a butt so fine my friends dubbed it "the glory." Now I have a frowny face where my belly button used to be, and "the glory" is looking pretty faded. But it's all good. No matter how many hours I spent on the treadmill, I always felt miles away from perfect. At some point in the last decade, I gave up on my dream of becoming the world's first short, pale, pear-shaped Victoria's Secret model and instead focused on what I love: my family, my writing, my career. And wouldn't ya know it? My ass got a lot squishier but my self-esteem grew some impressive muscles. In my 20s, I wouldn't have been prepared for the horrors that pregnancy and motherhood visit upon the body. And in the long, hard newborn nights, self-loathing is a miserable bedfellow. Yes, I'm softer. Yes, I wish my boobs would reanimate. But what I want more than a nice rack is to show my son that there is worth in pursuing what you love and in loving yourself for having the courage to pursue it.
4. I still had a lot of dumb in me 10 years ago. Nowadays, I relish a date night with my husband or a night out with some friends. Give me a babysitter and a designated driver, and I'll show you a woman who knows how to throw down at a moderately fancy neighborhood restaurant. "Another glass of sangria with your tapas, ma'am?" Hell-to-the-yes (on the third Wednesday of every month)! But a decade ago, I'd be more apt to wile away an evening or seven in a bar called The Community Inn, where Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup was proudly featured on the menu and where I could sidle up to a drunken moonshiner named Dead Eye who carefully explained, while poking a finger into my boobs, that I  was a "squirrel with a small brain" who should "run far, far away!" Hypothetically speaking. What I'm saying is that I didn't always make sound choices in my 20s. I sometimes (often) put adventure before personal safety. And though I occasionally pine for the days of, hypothetically speaking, chatting up colorful would-be murderers, I know that I need to be there for my son. This means skipping a lot of late-night booze-a-thons, putting money into a college savings plan rather than into a pair of knee-high sexy frontier girl boots, and not eating cookies for breakfast (within view of my kid).
5. I hadn't met my husband 10 years ago. I couldn't have given birth to my son without Shelby. Literally. I'm pretty boss, but I haven't quite mastered the art of spontaneously generating another human. When Shelby and I finally locked eyes across a crowded online dating site, I just knew. If it weren't for a dearth of available flights, we would have eloped to Vegas on our second date. But because the airlines conspired against us, we went a more traditional rout: engaged within 9 months, married 9 months after that, and pregnant 9 months into our newlywed bliss. It's not just that Shelby is an amazing dad -- the kind of dad who hogged time wearing Pork Chop in the Bjorn, who made pint after pint of baby food from scratch, who was more distraught than our son during vaccinations -- it's also that Pork Chop just wouldn't be Pork Chop without that 50% dose of Shelby genes. Our son loves to take things apart, to carefully inspect the pieces, and to make surprisingly good attempts at putting it all back together. That's pure engineer DNA. The boy is wildly independent, a bit easily frustrated, but always ready to tackle a new adventure, be it scaling a baby gate or fitting a golf ball into his mouth. That, albeit terrifying, spirit of adventure is pure Shelby. And, just like his dad, my kid makes me laugh every single day. Was waiting a decade for this family, the one I have right now, worth it? You bet your big, stupid ass-face it was, lady.

FBW: Getting Ripped at the Baby Gym

Flogger Blogger Wednesday returns! You can stop your damn crying about it. I feel bad enough already about my baby's lack of six-pack abs.

So, baby gyms are for real.

Having spent 37 years of my life without a baby, I never gave much thought to baby gyms.

But I get it.

After a long day at your baby job, spent hunched in your windowless baby cubicle, filling out pointless baby reports, it must feel good to blow off some steam at the baby gym. Maybe put in an hour on the baby elliptical. Maybe try out baby strip aerobics.

Okay, I don't get it.

When I moved to the 'burbs, Pork Chop was 8 months old. I didn't know a soul. I was still up to my droopy bellybutton in new mom anxiety. I mistook every diaper rash for a jungle disease. I ran out of baby wipes and didn't know my way to the grocery store. Or to the liquor store. I felt like the dumbest dummy who'd ever dumbed.

Then the neighborhood moms took me in. They calmed my fears, showed me around town, and became my friends. They lulled me into a sense of security. And then they told me about the baby gym.

"It's a gym just for the kids," they exclaimed. "You have to sign up!"

"But Pork Chop's a baby. He can't even crawl, let alone use the StairMaster."

<crickets>

"It's for kids and babies, Jess. There are classes!"

"Classes. Okay. So they, what? They're gonna teach my 8-month-old how to tighten his glutes?"

<impatient crickets>

"Jess, c'mon. They teach socialization, music appreciation, confidence. All that stuff. Just sign up already."

"Do I have to be there while he lies on the floor like a pink slug and appreciates music?"

"Well, yeah."

"And it will cost me how much to have someone play music at my slug while I sit nearby probably not appreciating music?"

"It's like 60 bucks for each 4-week class."

"So 60 bucks per month?"

"Yeah. Plus, ya know, the membership fee, which is like 75 bucks."

"Are you serious? Do you know how much baby Ambien I can buy with that kind of money?"

<very, very judge-y crickets>

"It was I joke," I explained helpfully. Then adding, "But for realsies, why has no one invented baby Ambien, right?"

<the sound of crickets unfriending me on Facebook>

Truth is, I trust these women. I like these women a lot even. But I still can't bring myself to drink the baby gym Kool Aid.

I do a lot of things with my son, I've rationalized; it's just that taking him to a baby gym is not one of those things. We read books. We go for walks. We eat things. We read books. We go for walks. We, uh, drink water. We point at trucks while we go for walks. Lots of things. Oh, and Patty Cake! We do Patty Cake. We sing the "EIEIO" part of "Old MacDonald." So, yeah, so much stuff.

And I teach him things too. I totally teach him things. I taught him that saying "uh oh" will never un-fling the spaghetti, rice, or oatmeal. I taught him that forcefully grabbing mommy's boob is hurtful. (But that gently caressing her boob isn't quite right either.) I taught him that, yes, there is such a thing as biting one's own toe too hard. I taught him that eating Oreos for breakfast is only for grown ups. See there? Education!

Yet, despite all the stuff-doing and the educationing, I've felt a little guilty for holding out on my kid. What if Pork Chop turns into an uncoordinated non-sharer because I didn't pony up for a Waddlers Independent Movement Class? What if he never develops self-control or strategic decision making skills because I barred him from the Jazzy Beasts Dance Group? How the hell will he ever reach developmental milestones like kicking, clapping, or enjoying age-appropriate puppet shows without the loving guidance of trained baby gym professionals?

I bet the baby gym would have helped my son (and his grandma)
feel more confident in his vertical descent achievement skills.

So I decided to allay my concerns by doing some research, which involved never going to any baby gym and instead making wild inferences from shit I dug up on the Internet. And, like any good investigative journalist, my research came to an end as soon as I found something that validated my opinion. I present to you people's exhibit number 1, which I found on the Little Gym website:

Early participation in structured group activities that allow children to cultivate skills such as initiative, teamwork, and emotional regulation, can help children more effectively take on leadership roles . . . [Murphy, S.E., & Johnson, S.K. (2011). The benefits of a long-lens approach to leader development: Understanding the seeds of leadership. The Leadership Quarterly, 22:459-470]

Did you catch that? LEADERSHIP ROLES! My kid already dictates when I wake up, when I sleep, when I eat, when I bathe, and when I drink. Why the hell would I want him to become a more effective leader? I'll pass on Supreme Leader Toddler Jong Un.

There is no people's exhibit number 2.

Baby gyms: communist. I rest my case.

Look, mom friends, you want your kids to have every advantage, to be happy and smart, to have a head start on a sweet ripped bod. I want that for my son too. But, honestly, I kind of like our boring old walks around the block. Pork Chop points at airplanes, at trees, at passersby. I name what he sees. He repeats what I say. He picks up a rock or a pine cone. He gets covered in dirt or in pine tar. We squint and sweat under the June sun. We wander. Frankly, half the time I don't know where we're going. But my kid? I think he's right on track.

Mom Comes Last

When my son loves something, he loves it immediately and abundantly. One of my greatest pleasures is watching other people react to my son's greeting: He beams. He sometimes belts out a spirited "Ayyyy!" like a tiny Fonz. He waves -- not just a hand, but his whole arm. And if the object of his affection doesn't wave back, he waves both arms, just in case there is a failure to understand how waving works.

Often, mid-wave, he'll crane his neck around to look at me, as if to say, "Do you see what I'm seeing? Isn't it amazing? This, right here, is my absolute favorite thing." Pork Chop is 16 months old, and everything is a discovery. Everything is a wonder. What must it be like to experience each moment, each person or thing as some kind of happy magic? More importantly, what must it be like to be that person or thing, to be fantastic, to be adored?

I wouldn't know. I'm his mother. Each morning, when I scoop my son from his crib, I'm greeted with "Dada!" then a confused stare and then, "Dada?" On really special mornings, he smiles, points to my boobs, and says, "Milk!" It doesn't matter that breastfeeding ended a month ago; Pork Chop never forgets old friends.

If I had to rank my son's great loves, judging only by his enthusiastic greeting (and I did have to rank them because I needed a new blog post), this is how it might go:

1. Stuffed Elephant. An inanimate object covered in my son's snot and spit.

I think the saying goes, "If you love something, eat its face."

2. The Dog. Couldn't care less about my son.

3. His Dad. Okay, this choice is possibly legit.

4. His Own Reflection. Good luck with that, anyone who ever dates my kid.

5. The Trash Truck. Yeah, I get it. It can eat trash. But so can I.

6. A Banana. Any banana.

7. Airplanes. Kind of cute, except for the staring directly into the sun part.

8. Strange Adult Men. We'll figure this one out in therapy some day.

9. His Pediatrician. The same one who jabs him with a needle.

10. Whatever I'm Eating. Tostitos and hot coffee are pretty good.

11. A Cell Phone. Because of buttons.

12. A Rock. To bite. 

13. Fire. Obviously.

14. That Weird Grocery Store Cashier Who Coos at Him for an Uncomfortably Long Time. Because I'm in a hurry.

15. Sock Monkey. A known floozie.

I don't think that's even legal.

16. His Babysitter. To be honest, I'm pretty damned excited to see her too.

17. A Bottle of Saline Nasal Spray. Um?

18. The Dark Corner at the Back of His Closet. Choosing not to delve too deeply into this one.

19. My Boobs. Not creepy. Yet.

20. Mom. Hey, kid, just as long as I'm somewhere on your list, it's alright with me.

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EXTRA! EXTRA! I'm on Scary Mommy this evening. Check out "5 Ways Orange Is the New Black Prepared Me for Motherhood." 

Eating My Heart Out

I responded to every, "Hey" or "Hello" with my own startled, "Oh! Oh hi!" I knew only a small handful of folks attending last week's BlogU conference, but on opening night, even relative strangers kept asking, "Is everything alright?" and "Are you okay?" Someone suggested I lay off of the free coffee. (As if.)

I was smiling, yes, but it was a rigor mortis smile. My jaw ached. The space between my eyebrows pinched.

"It's just overwhelming, all these people," I told them, sometimes adding, "And it's strange to be back at my college." And it was -- overwhelming and strange. In the way that revisiting the past and exhuming regret can be overwhelming and strange.

Twenty years ago, I was a freshman at Notre Dame of Maryland, a tiny women's college tucked into a tidy, tree-lined Baltimore neighborhood. When I first heard about BlogU, I hesitated. My blog is still an itty-bitty 4-month-old baby. And I, to be honest, get nervous in crowds, making me a much older, much larger baby. But when I found out that the conference would be held at my alma mater, I took it as a sign that the gods of cyberspace wanted me to attend. So, last weekend, I plucked my panties from whence they were bunched and overpacked a bag for Charm City.

My room for the weekend was a spartan dorm in the oldest building on campus. I praised Jesus and, appropriately, Mary, that my roommate and I had scored a private bathroom. It was bad enough being surrounded by knowledgeable, talented bloggers; crapping next to knowledgeable, talented bloggers would be totally out of the question. And besides, I'd already spent hundreds of hours of my college career becoming intimate with the public restrooms on campus. I had, in fact, cultivated an ugly, abusive relationship with all of the darkest, most unused stalls -- places where I could secretly pour out my anxiety along with my breakfast and lunch and dinner.

Within hours of my arrival at BlogU, it was obvious that the atmosphere was supportive, even celebratory. Introductions were made. The faculty mingled with the hoi-polloi. There was hugging. There were bags of candy. (If memory serves, I hugged a bag of candy.)

I was reliving Freshman Orientation, 1994. But beyond the introductions, the bonding, the junk food, and the bonding with junk food, the similarities ended.

I was nervous at BlogU. I was anxious. But it wasn't freshman year all over again.

Twenty years ago, my stomach cramped at the thought of juggling classes and an off-campus job and new friends and a meaningful (?) love life: What jean shorts would convey that I was smart and friendly, but also edgy and cool? Where could I strategically recline in the grass while drinking coffee and writing in my journal to best indicate that my soul was full of art? Who could get me into a Johns Hopkins frat party and would a spaghetti-strap camisole look hot or just slutty?

Ridiculous. When I write it all down, or type it all up, it sounds ridiculous. But when you're 18 and unsure, wearing the wrong jean shorts can feel like having social cancer.

So I gave myself a little makeover, because if you hate everything about yourself, why not become someone else? I lopped off my waist-length hair, opting for a scalp-hugging pixie cut. I traded in my crop tops for baggy overalls and combat boots. I went on a diet.

The pixie cut looked fantastic. The overalls and boots did not.

The diet, however, was utterly transformative.

What began as a "light lunch" of tuna salad, Coke, and potato chips, transformed into no lunch. What began as 30 minutes on the treadmill transformed into all-nighters secretly spent in my parents' garage, compulsively doing jumping jacks. What began as diet pills transformed into diuretics, laxatives, purging. What began as my freshman year in college transformed into a summer spent in a locked unit of the hospital.

While my classmates had been cramming for exams or staying up until the wee hours to dish over new loves and old hurts, I was skipping class to go for a run, binge on frozen yogurt, and puke in the cafeteria bathroom.

Ah, memories.

I could not be convinced that I had a real problem. Until I tore my esophagus.

So, what I remember most about my freshman year of college is my father's face. Not projects or parties, not the typical misadventures of the young, dumb, and newly free.

I remember his face that was the tortured mix of confusion and desperation people refer to as "anguished." As the doctors explained that I needed long-term, in-patient treatment, my dad's hands lay on his knees, empty, palms up, like he was waiting for me to take them in my own, to lead him out of the office and tell him, "No, they're wrong. Everything is alright. I'm okay." But I was not okay. And it would not be alright for years.

For the next few months, he couldn't stop asking, "Is it because of me?"

In the fall of my sophomore year, I returned to school, despite my doctor's concerns, and started a slow march toward recovery. By my senior year, I stopped filling every class notebook with calorie counts. I worked on reestablishing a normal relationship with the bathroom, one built on, um, digestion.

Twenty years and one kid later, I eat whatever I want (mostly Tostitos). I don't make it to the gym as often as I'd like (I don't go to the gym). And I don't take laxatives (I drink coffee). But, just the same, spending the weekend at Notre Dame dredged up the regret, which was surprisingly robust for a pile of bones.

There I was again: Among new people -- nervous, afraid, hopeful. I was walking the same halls, eating in the same cafeteria, hanging out in the same gym. I could barely breathe with the weight of those bones on my chest.

I wanted to tell everyone at the conference, "I went to school here! Let me show you around." But the words sometimes caught in my throat. What would I show them? My favorite elliptical machine? The most private bathroom on campus? The classroom where my professor confronted me, insisting I eat a granola bar he'd stashed in his briefcase? Because those are my memories. And that is my regret.

But I didn't want to make the same mistake twice. I have a son now. And I want him to know that it's okay to be scared, but that you can't shrink away -- literally or figuratively -- from everything that makes you fearful. I don't want to ever watch my child destroy himself. I don't want to wonder, "Is it because of me?"

As classes kicked off on the second day of the conference, I lamented that my roots were noticeably gray, yet my skin looked to be in its second puberty; that my post-nursing boobs were barely boobs at all; that I was the only person at the conference (perhaps in the United States) with a 6-year-old flip phone. I wanted to run laps around campus, to hide under a desk, to be someone else, but instead, I grabbed a to-go cup of coffee, clutching it in my hand like a talisman, and began . . . talking to strangers.

Through coffee, all things are possible.

Hellos in the hallway turned into long conversations over lunch. An exchange of business cards led to tipsy late-night confessionals. It was bittersweet -- realizing how college could have been.

So when the folks at BlogU dreamed up a retro prom for Saturday night's festivities, I decided to indulge myself, because when you're 38, frat parties are hard to come by. And I haven't entirely lost that desire to be someone else. And I look like shit in a tube dress.

You think I look hot and you're feeling
kind of weird about it, right?

I was hesitant at first. I wondered if everyone would point and laugh because I had donned a tuxedo t-shirt and an eyeliner 'stache. It had been 20 years since I'd worked as hard at looking aggressively ugly.

And, in fact, they did point and laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh me right up to the front of the dance floor, where they crowned me king of retro prom.

It was ridiculous. It was what could have been. It was okay. And everything was alright.

FBW: Pumps and Dumps and Baby Bumps

Fifteen minutes ago, my child crawled over to where I was sitting cross-legged on the basement carpet, sucking down lukewarm coffee, and working on a blog post. He smiled up at me. He clapped his hands to signal, "Time for Patty Cake!" He tilted his head and sweetly said, "Mama?" Then he shut my laptop. So he's in his crib right now, taking a nap and/or thinking about what he did. Naturally, I feel bad that my 15-month-old has to compete for attention with you, lovely reader(s), but Pork Chop can't hit the Like button on Facebook yet. So you win!

I'm a little late to the whole mothering gig. Not that I'm pushing retirement, but I had my son a few week's shy of my 37th birthday. During my first ultrasound, the obstetrician, whilst checking my lady credentials, if you will, mentioned my "advanced maternal age." Actually, the term he first used was "elderly primigravida." I didn't know what the hell "primigravida" meant, but it's not like I heard anything past "elderly."

"What the hell is going on down there?" I wondered. Was my uterus sprouting chin hairs? Had the doc found an AARP card in my fallopian tubes? Did my vagine mail him a five-dollar bill for Christmas?

Sensing my concern, the OB explained that "elderly primigravida" simply referred to a pregnant woman over the age of 34.

Okay then. So the fetus wasn't wearing compression hose. Good news.

The bad news? My crotchal region is one chip short of BINGO! One low-pressure system shy of "Oww, my knees."

"Elderly primigravida." "Advanced maternal age." Those were the terms that welcomed me into the world of motherhood. And ever since, I've had particularly strong feelings about, what I'll call, "mom lingo."

Many of my friends and family members use mom lingo. So I feel terrible about silently judging them. Frankly, I prefer that my judgements be loud and public. If you're wondering whether I've been judging you, wonder no more. Here is a short list of terms and phrases that I find objectionable:

Baby Bump

A "baby bump" is the term folks have imposed on the bellies of pregnant ladies. I'm not really sure what was wrong with "belly" or "stomach," but someone somewhere decided that pregnancy didn't sound close enough to a jungle disease. 

"Aww, look at your baby bump! You should probably treat that with a little benzoyl peroxide or something."

"Her baby bump is totes the cutest. But I'd stand back before it hatches. [whispers] Tiny spiders, y'all!"

Please. Just. Stop it.

Baby bump? You'd better wash your hands.

Pump and Dump

I am actually guilty of using this phrase, but I was strongly influenced by a fishbowl-sized mojito. Look, I get that this term isn't just cutesy; it's also accurate. Had a few drinks? Pump your breast milk and then toss that White Russian down the drain. The problem is that every time I hear "pump and dump"I imagine some poor mom hooked up to a breast pump as she squats on a toilet. And now you do too. Let's come up with some other phrase, shall we? Maybe "saving the baby's liver" or "absolving myself of guilt about drinking a fishbowl-sized mojito"?

I drank all of this. And then I ate Mexican food. You do the math.

Push Present

Okay, first, when did this become a thing? A gift for having a baby? I agree that labor and delivery are, well, laborious, but it's not like moms are doing dads a favor. Once pregnant, that baby's gotta come out. True fact, ladies.

But beyond my beef with the very idea of giving a woman a necklace or a fancy handbag to say, "Thanks for birthing," I take issue with the the term. Like "pump and dump," a very particular image comes to mind when I hear "push present."

Picture it: A woman in stirrups, seized by contractions. She howls. She grunts. She bears down. "I can see it!" shouts the doctor. A cheery burst of confetti shoots from the woman's hooha. And then, joy of joys, out pops a neatly wrapped box containing a blouse from Ann Taylor LOFT and a comfy pair of linen capris. Congratulations! It's a new outfit. Sorry, no returns.

This is so stupid that I can't even . . .

DD, DS, and DH

Are you kidding me with this? Dear son, dear daughter, and dear husband? How about "son," "daughter," and "husband"? Too many letters? How about "kids" and "spouse"? How about "family"? How about we not make our loved ones sound like government agencies? How about you don't force me to refer to my family members as "dear"? I always love my family. However, I do not always like my family. In all fairness, my family does not always like me. Sure, sometimes I'm Shelby's DW, but a lot of the time I'm his "OMGJR?" (Oh my god, Jess, really?) or even just his long, defeated sigh, which kind of defies an acronym.

No more. This is dumb.

Mucus Plug

Not slang, I know. But this is just way, way, way too accurate. I'm actually lobbying to come up with some euphemism to replace this one. "Baby stopper" has a certain appeal. "Stork cork" maybe? I'm open to suggestions.

Effaced

Again, this is not really slang, but this term is misleading. Effacement is when your cervix thins or, eww, "ripens" before delivery. Until I took an actual birthing class, I thought being effaced meant that the baby was, well, see the picture below? Then you get the idea.

Where's mommmmy?

I'm not sure why we can't just say "thinning" instead of "effacement." When you're 9 months pregnant, it would be really nice to hear that something is getting thinner, even if that something is a delicate little pad of skin that's about to be massacred by your precious miracle.

Fur Baby

Look, folks, I know you love your pets. I love my pet too. She's a member of our family. We feed her better than we feed ourselves; we let her musk up all the couches and beds; we make peace with the tumbleweed-sized fur balls blowing through our home. But a "fur baby" she is not. 

Yes, the dog is in the shower.
Because there wasn't enough hair in the drain.

First of all, unlike my actual baby, Sarah the dog has the decency to crap outside in the grass. And unlike my actual baby, Sarah the dog is content to sleep most of the day and night. And unlike my actual baby, Sarah the dog did not suckle from my bosom and thus turn that bosom into a deflated heap of chest flesh. However, both my Pork Chop and Sarah enjoy chewing on a good stick. But really, the similarities end there.

Unless you're nursing an Ewok, no more "fur baby," okay?

And that's it. That's my list. If you've used one of the above terms, I've thought less of you. But, for what it's worth, I just ate a slice of American cheese and a handful of Tostitos for breakfast.

FBW: Dear Boobs

The sun has set on Mother's Day, dear reader(s), and I can now resume my normal schedule of thinking it's high time I come up with some sort of schedule. Seriously, I get nothing done. Most days of the week, it's all a panicked blur of diaper paste and toothpaste, sippy cups and coffee cups, Old MacDonald and Old Grand Dad. Ugh. The guilt! The guilt! Let's just talk about boobs instead.

Dear Boobs,

Where did we go wrong?

Twenty-five years together is a lot of years, and I'm not ready to throw it all away. But maybe it's too late to fight for us. Maybe you're gone, and gone for good. That satin, leopard print push-up - the really slutty one we love so much - I tucked it into a bin along with my winter sweaters and those wide-leg raver jeans from college. I put it in storage, boobs. Because it doesn't fit us any more. And, boobs, I'm afraid of what that means.

For so long, everything felt perfect between us. It felt full and feminine, sexy even. But in the last few months, I can tell you're . . . how do I put this? I can tell you're depressed. The long face gave you away.

It used to be that when I looked in the mirror, you were looking right back, like you were proud of us. Not anymore. Now when I look in the mirror, you just stare at my feet or, worse, slump into my armpits. In desperation, I pulled that low-cut blouse from the back of my closet. The clingy black one we haven't worn since we were single. It seemed like a good idea at the time - to remind us of how we used to be. But it was a disaster. You weren't up for it, and that made me angry and confused. I guess it's true what they say - you can never go home again. Yet I miss home, even if home was sometimes pretty trampy.

Remember when we dressed up as Babe-raham Lincoln for Halloween? Sure, it took a Miracle bra, some bra cutlets, and a total lack of self-respect, but DA-DAMN. We looked presidential as hell!

 34 score and C cups ago. 

We haven't dressed up on Halloween for a few years now. Certainly not since the baby.

Can we talk about the baby? We need to talk about the baby.

When Pork Chop came along 15 months ago, we put you to work. And it was hard work. Really hard. Like sometimes, I'd wake up after my two hours of nightly sleep, and you'd feel like cinder blocks. You'd kind of look like cinder blocks. I had no idea, boobs, that you were capable of becoming rectangular. 

And let's just admit that the kid wasn't exactly a benevolent overlord. He gnawed. He swatted and scratched. He used you as a pacifier for hours on end. He made you bleed. But you stayed at it. You fed my son. You comforted him when he was tired or sick. You knew his cry, and you sprang to action when you heard it, even while we were at the grocery store. Even when I was wearing a thin white tee shirt.

Then there was the pump. When I went back to work, I had to use the breast pump three, sometimes four times per day. How did I ever bring myself to strap you into that nightmare spawn of a taffy puller and a meat grinder? After each 20-minute session, I half-expected to look down and find you hanging in a neat row of links from my chest. But again, you stayed at it. You fed my son.

As the months rolled on, Pork Chop's lust for milk mellowed. Pumping became less frequent. Nursing sessions were no longer painful; rather, they were welcome quiet time. Quiet time for me, anyway. Between long pulls, Pork Chop would sometimes look at you inquisitively. Sometimes he'd talk into you like a microphone. "Mimi?" he'd ask. And I'd say, "Yup. Milk." Then he'd flash a terrifyingly toothy grin and get back to it.

As of a few weeks ago, Pork Chop only nursed in the morning and just before bed. We had a little more time to ourselves, you and I. Yet when we were left alone together again, despite all of our history, it was awkward. There I was, finally feeling like the old me. But you? You just looked old. 

Shelby picked up on the tension. For Mother's Day, he took us to Nordstrom so that we could be fitted for a proper bra. It was a revelation. A 32? Really? A 32! I was wearing a 36. Sometimes a 38. No wonder you've been hanging out in my armpits. My god, boobs, did I ever really know you?

That same evening, I prepared for a dinner out with Shelby - another Mother's Day treat. I slipped into one of our new underthings; it felt just right. I pulled on a silky pink shirt. We looked pretty good. Not Babe-raham Lincoln good, but not bad for a woman with both a toddler and snack chip codependency issues. 

Before handing the reins over to the babysitter, I settled into the glider in Pork Chop's nursery. He was wearing footy pajamas and holding his trusty stuffed elephant to his cheek. I curled his warm little body around my own. I brought his head to my chest, preparing to nurse. And . . . nothing. Not a drop.

My son howled. 

Nothing.

He howled and howled.

Still nothing. Fifteen minutes of nothing but the sound of my son crying himself to sleep in my arms.

Needless to say, I drank most of my dinner that night. By the time I was a few glasses deep, I figured it was a fluke, that the morning would be different. And it was different, because by morning Pork Chop didn't even want to nurse. He wouldn't even look at you. He was done too.

Had I even paid attention that last time? Had I noticed how soft his head felt, propped in the crook of my arm? Or had I been flipping through my tablet, reading "The 100 Most Important Cat Photos in History" when it all came to an end?

As a kid, I loved Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree. I understood, even when I was young, that the story wasn't really about a tree, but about something much bigger. Now I know. It was about boobs. 

When you were magnificent and full of life, I treated you like some silly object. And when I became a mom, I made you my baby's bitch. And now that you've been reduced to stumps? I want to know why you don't fill out my shirts like you used to. 

I wasn't prepared for you to be so sad. I wasn't prepared for you to give up. Maybe, though, you have nothing left to give. 

I don't know what the road ahead looks like for us. I can't promise there won't be another kid, more time spent strapped to the brutal hot dog machine. So I guess I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I didn't know the good thing I had when I had it. And I guess I just wanted to say thank you. Without you, Pork Chop just wouldn't have been porky. And Babe-raham Lincoln would have looked ridiculous

Yours,
Jess

Ground Control to Major Mom

So maybe you didn't make it to the Listen to Your Mother DC show, because, I don't know, you don't value mothers? Or you hate fun things? Whatever the case may be, I'm doing you a solid and sharing my LTYM story below.

But first, imagine me in a dazzling blue dress and tan wedges. Imagine my hair is lustrous and dark. Imagine my bosom looks soft and full, like I'm wearing a really nice padded bra or like how my boobs used to look before breastfeeding. See me at a podium, my lipgloss glinting beneath the hot stage lights. Notice my pedicure; it matches the color of my necklace. Notice the manicure, which matches the pedicure. Think to yourself, "My god, she looks so . . . so beautiful. Someone that beautiful can't possibly tell a good story. This beautiful woman's story will surely suck very hard."

Then prepare yourself to be SO WRONG! Because I rocked it! And you weren't there. Wah wah.

Sexpot on the far left. 

This might be a good time to mention that I spent an inordinate amount of mental and physical energy trying to look nice. Also, I'm still on a pretty high dose of steroids.

Oh, and if you were there, thank you; you're excused

Ground Control to Major Mom

What they don’t tell you about becoming a mother is that it can take a while before you realize that you’ve become a mother.

Sure, some women say they felt like moms the first time the baby kicked, and that’s sweet and probably not total bullshit, but that just isn’t how it happened for me.

My big moment of becoming a mom happened in a restaurant parking lot while I chased a runaway baby turd.

Sam was 8 months old. For 8 months I’d been pumping milk, hooked up to a machine bent on turning once-glorious boobs into a pair of miserable hot dogs. I felt like a dairy cow, but still not a mom.

For 8 months I’d become intimate with the lonely hours between 2 and 6 a.m. I’d floated away from sanity and into the void of sleep deprivation with a screaming baby under one arm and a copy of The Happiest Baby on the Block under the other. I felt kinda like Major Tom. But like a mom? Not so much.

So when a friend invited Sam and me to lunch at an upscale gastro pub, I leapt at the chance to bury my sorrows in a tall microbrew.

No kiddie menu? No problem. Babies love charcuterie!

Sam happily noshed on artisanal cheese while the grownups dug into plates of something locally sourced. But as I hoisted my beer, I realized that my son had gone chillingly still. His eyes were fixed in the distance. A vein pulsed in his forehead.

We may have a situation.

Diaper loading in 3, 2 . . .

When the bomb dropped, all the mixed greens within its blast radius wilted. Diners clutched each other. Those who weren’t passing out were passing judgment.

The thing about upscale gastro pubs is that the bathrooms aren’t typically family friendly. No changing station. No paper towels. Just a wall of Dyson air blade dryers, which, lemme just save you the trouble, do more damage than good when it comes to getting crap off of a baby.

The backseat of my car was the only option.

The October weather was unseasonably hot. High 80s. My sweat-dampened rump hung out the passenger side door. Sam lay on the back seat, furiously pedaling his slick thighs – a move that made it nearly impossible to de-pants him.

If I’d felt like a mom, I would’ve bribed my kid with his favorite: something breakable and expensive.

Instead, between the heat stroke and the panic attack, my brain just rocketed away, toward the cool, distant glow of memory.

Suddenly, I was standing in my bedroom, singing Donna Summer songs and twirling a blanket around my neck like a boa. I was 4 years old. My mom, carrying a laundry basket, stopped in the doorway and held out my pair of Batgirl Underoos.

“Jessica,” she said, "what exactly happened here?”

I glanced at the undies, clearly the scene of an accident.

I turned back to the mirror and replied, “I didn’t make it.”

“Uh, I think we both know you made it.”

“Mom! I didn’t make it to the bathroom.”

“Wait. You just didn’t make it to the bathroom? And you didn’t say anything? And you just threw these in the hamper, what, a few days ago?”

“Mom! What did I just say? I didn’t make it! I am practicing my singing, mom, ooookay?”

And my mom looked at the underwear and then at me and then she looked over her shoulder, like she was expecting someone to let her in on the joke. But no one was there, and it wasn’t a joke, and she laughed anyway.

Just 4 years after that, my mom was gone, lost to cancer.

When Sam was born, I felt lost too. What had made my mom laugh in the face of those savaged Underoos? Who would show me how to tap into that deep, calming well of crazy?

A tearing sound snapped me back to Earth. Sam’s diaper tabs had begun to give way. Before I could pin him, he flung his ham hocks skyward. The diaper popped open. The contents were set free.

A perfectly spherical poop rolled onto the leather seat just as a convertible tried to pull into the parking spot beside me. But my car door and butt blocked the spot. As I groped for the runaway with a bare hand, I smiled back psychotically at the driver, a bemused and good-looking guy in his 20s. Of course.

Oh god. Dude is looking at my sweaty post-baby butt. Oh god. My car is gonna smell like a hippo house. Oh god. This piece of shit is gonna roll into the no man’s land behind the seat belt. 

A rolling runaway poop. They didn’t warn me about that in prenatal yoga. But the alarm bells were already being drowned out by “On Top of Spaghetti,” playing like a victory march.

“You will not turn into mush!” I vowed. To the poop.

Stifling my gag reflex, I nabbed the wayward poo as it rolled off the seat but before it could plop into my purse. I hopped back from the car, holding my fist aloft, and yelled, “Suck it, turd!”

Sam stopped crying and instead gnawed a sock. Dude stopped looking bemused and instead looked horrified. Me, I stopped panting and instead laughed.

I couldn’t stop laughing. “Now Jessica,” my mom might have said, “take your protein pills and put your big girl panties on. You made it.”

Then, then, I felt like a mom.

You're Doing It Wrong

There's been a lot of kumbaya mommy business hitting the Internet of late. Mothers are raising their collective voices to say, "Hey, we may approach motherhood differently, but we're all in this together. Watch us film this touching viral video while hugging. As of today, motherhood is a Judgement-Free Zone."

Mmm-hmm. Just like how school is a "drug-free zone."

There are co-sleeping parents, homeschooling parents, cry-it-out parents, attachment parenting parents, free-range parents, non-GMO and hormone-free parents. And, frankly, you all sound batshit crazy to me. Because, yes, I'm judging you.

Before the Sisterhood of the Elasticized Pants comes for me in the night though, let me ask this: Why do you care if I or any other mom is judging you? I think lots of things are crazy, like decaf coffee and people who touch bugs. Check it out: I may be the only person in the English-speaking world who doesn't understand the appeal of The Princess Bride. Frankly, I prefer Robin Wright's character in House of Cards. That alone could merit a visit from Child Protective Services. Do you enjoy The Princess Bride and fondling spiders? Well, there, there. Rest assured that you are the better person.

I think we do ourselves (and even our kids) a diservice to suggest that judging is inherently wrong. We use judgement to make sound decisions. For example, I think most professional body builders look like a hot dog the minute before it explodes in the microwave. Thanks to judgement, I will never take up body building, and have thus avoided a life of steroid injections, spray tans, and exercise.

It's when we start believing that our judgements are the gospel truth that we get into trouble. It's when we prop up our self-worth by foisting our judgements on others that we pave the road to crazy town. Do you get what I'm saying? My bulging hotdog may be your powerful beefy treat, and that's okay. Just, ya know, shut the hell up about it.

Because you may not be able to fathom why anyone would use cloth diapers or opt for formula or feed her son so much birthday cake that he goes on a vision quest . . .

. . . but I bet you can remember the days when you would do anything for an hour of sleep, when you felt so clueless and afraid that you binged on shoddily written parenting blogs, when everyone in your house was sick and the dog needed to be walked and it had snowed and you were out of toilet paper. You did what you had to do in whatever way you had to do it. 

So, when I hear you telling your shy little girl that she's a "pretty, pretty princess," I'll stifle my urge to add, "or a pretty awesome political scientist!" And when you see me slipping my 1-year-old a few spoonfuls of ice cream to ease the teething blues, I'd rather you not suggest I reexamine my relationship with refined sugar (which, by the way, is the most enduring relationship of my life). We are doing what we have to do, even if we're doing it all wrong.