I don't think everything happens for a reason. I don't believe events take place when the time is right. I don't see -- or look for -- signs from God, or the universe, or a higher power. Which is what made this particular addition to my family all the more special. It was a random Wednesday in October. Isn't that when signs appear, when you least expect them? At almost 8 1/2 months pregnant with baby #2 , I was enjoying near constant backaches, heartburn after every meal, and the kind of fatigue that leaves you exhausted after unloading the dishwasher. You know, the fun pregnancy stuff. To add insult to discomfort, somewhere during the previous months I had lost my well-honed ability to nap. All of my adult naps up to this point were mere practice for the afternoon rests which I now really, really needed...yet suddenly I could not reach my goal of drifting off to sleep for a few precious minutes of recuperation during the long days. I was tired, I was frustrated, I w

Tiny purple bows, no bigger across than the width of my thumb. Miniature pink roses with petals almost indistinguishable from one another. Ruffles as fluffy and undulating as clouds. What could be scary about these? Nothing. Except that they frequently come attached to a baby girl. Utterly terrifying. Case in point: I painted the new baby's nursery pink. At first I hesitated, as my son's nursery was a gender-neutral shade of golden yellow. But when I found out she was a her, a pale pink room popped into my mind's eye. After some light deliberation, I decided to go with it. The color turned out what I am calling Pinker Than Planned -- what I envisioned was a pale, mature, blush pink that was more suggestion than color. What I got was closer to cotton candy pink that screamed "Look at me, I'mmmmmm piiiiiink!" in a Binky the Clown voice. Not only was this Not Perfect (and I tend to demand that Everything Be Perfect), but it made me worry. Would growing u

Three years ago today I found myself sitting in a darkened exam room, clutching an ultrasound image, crying. Crying so hard the ultrasound technician excused herself to "give me a moment." These weren't tears of happiness or relief, but of a disappointment I was unable to contain: I had just been told that I was having a boy. What kind of horrible mother are you?  you're probably thinking. I wondered that too. For three-and-a-half years I had struggled to have a child, and out of that struggle came a miracle. Yet here I was feeling like what I had graciously been given wasn't enough. I didn't just want a baby . I wished for a daughter . I had some reasons for feeling this way, flimsy though they seem now. First, I don't know (or care) much about things little boys are typically interested in -- dinosaurs and dump trucks and sports, bodily emissions and pratfalls and comic books. What would my son and I bond over? How would I ever connect with him? Se

Allow me to introduce you to The Cousins, The Girls, my boobs: Mad Dog and Priscilla. Named by my husband years ago, Mad Dog is a rebel who has a tendency to try to slip the confines of her fabric prison, while Priscilla is a bit of a princess. These wondrous globes were gifted to me by the good Lord above so I could feed a baby or two.    The Girls were super excited last week to be recognized (if anonymously) because it was World Breastfeeding Week as well as the opening of National Breastfeeding Awareness Month. This meant my social media feed was awash in posts about taking "time to kindly educate people" about how breastfeeding is "a fulfilling and magnificent accomplishment" that is "easier with support." Except when it's not. The plain truth that most doctors and support organizations don't come out and say is that sometimes, some women can't breastfeed. Or that not all babies can or want to or will. Had I known this, perhaps I wo

One of the biggest questions I've had while pregnant (besides " what the hell am I doing? ") has been how big is the baby right now ? It's incredible that a human starts out smaller than a speck of dust, then weighs almost an ounce -- about as much as a slice of bread -- by 13 weeks gestation. At 20 weeks, halfway through baking, she weighs less than a pound but at 40 weeks she'll be more than 7.5 pounds. That's some serious growth in a relatively short amount of time. For some reason, books and websites insist on offering a visual of a fetus's size by comparing her to fruits and vegetables. I assume this is to further drive home the point that I should be eating healthful foods full of vitamins and minerals, and not half that bag of mini chocolate-caramel-pecan turtles I polished off about 20 minutes ago. The first problem with the fruits and vegetables scenario (besides their lack of chocolate and caramel) is that I don't know what half of them are

There is beauty in symmetry. Two halves, equal and opposite, which compose a whole. A balance and proportion that indicates completion. Evidence that there is a deliberateness and orderliness to the world which I find both comforting and awe-inspiring. The human mind reaches for things that make sense. We have sought symmetry since the dawn of time -- it transcends cultures, eras, and trends. The architecture of Egypt's pyramids, Gothic cathedrals, the White House are all based on symmetric design. Leonardo da Vinci's pen-and-ink drawing of the Vitruvian Man is a symbol of the beautiful proportion and symmetry of the human body, and by extension, the universe. Musical compositions, especially classical, are exercises in repeating patterns of melody and form. Sonnets crafted by Shakespeare and E.E. Cummings flow in persistent rhythms and rhymes that reflect upon themselves. Even Mother Nature boasts of the symmetrical: a starfish, a snowflake, a honeycomb, the ratio from the s

You know those Lifetime Channel movies where the plucky protagonist faces a series of improbable circumstances, yet somehow prevails and manages to live (mostly) Happily Ever After? That happened to me a few months ago. In fact, I'm pretty sure the Lifetime Network is right now drawing up a contract for the rights to the story of my Jamaican vacation. Here is your exclusive sneak peek into that made-for-television event. (Please note: the following dramatic re-telling contains graphic references to Bob Marley, driving on the wrong side of the road, blood, hospitals, Pampers, believing in yourself, fully automatic machine guns, attempted kidnapping, attempted murder, and a possible sprained ankle. It's also pretty long. Reader discretion is strongly advised.) SCENE: DOCTOR'S OFFICE    Our movie opens on an attractive couple played by Kate Mara (that's me) and Hugh Jackman in a skullcap (that's the hubs) sitting in a doctor's exam room. A brunette nurse says,

I've made the difficult decision to get rid of the kid. For a few hours a week, I mean. I believe some women are cut out to be stay-at-home moms, while others are not. I am not. (see  here , here , and here ) I do the best I can, but lately we've got a case of the Terrible Twos combined with Second Trimester Hormonal Rage, plus a dash of the Terrible Thirty-Fours thrown in for good measure. I need a break, because I'm miserable and it shows in my parenting. I figured that if I can get a little time way from my sweet cherub who occasionally grows horns, life would be better for everybody. Besides, there's a strong possibility I'll need part-time help when the new baby comes and everyone we've talked to says it's better to get the older kid used to being away from mom now, instead of during the turmoil that is bringing a newborn into the house. It's not necessarily in our budget, but it's worth saving my sanity. When we interviewed a local daycare,

There are many things I do well. For example, I make the best fudge you've ever tasted. It's creamy and thick, without any of those nuts or other things that cause distraction. And I have an amazing talent for picking out greeting cards. Standing in Hallmark, the right card calls to me, expressing everything I didn't know I wanted to say. You should be so lucky to get one of my birthday cards. I also write better than the average person. When required (or when inspiration strikes), I can turn a phrase like Bobby Flay turns a steak -- with finesse and precision. Other things I'm not so good at, like staying home with a 2-year-old. The truth is I never wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. It's one of those things that just sort of happened, like online shopping after drinking too many Captain and Cokes. You probably had good plans in the beginning, but somehow you ended up with 36 banana slicers and you don't even really care for bananas all that much. I was n

Mother's Day for me is a holiday fraught with conflicting feelings. I never know whether I'm supposed to be (a) mourning the death of my own mother, (b) celebrating happy memories woven through the complex and difficult relationship my mom and I shared, (c) grieving the lack of the typical mother-daughter relationship we never enjoyed, or (d) rejoicing over my own sweet child who is helping me create a new mother-child bond. It's a day I spend flip-flopping between feelings of joy and sadness, fullness and loss. Throw in a healthy dose of sensitivity to women who are grappling with infertility or pregnancy loss -- because I've been in those shoes, too -- and my Mother's Day turns into a hot mess that looks nothing like a Hallmark greeting. *** Mother's Day is hard for me listen: motherless and childless, I am untethered in a world full of strings 5-13-12 *** For the majority of the time I knew her, my mother was fighting physical and mental illness

I have a friend who I really like. She's raising three lovely children, managing a household, and watches other peoples' kids to boot. She sews prodigiously and makes chocolate zucchini waffles. Seriously, who does that? Stop making the rest of us look bad, Julie. Although we have different parenting styles, I think she's a great mother. A few weeks ago Julie let slip that she has never spent more than eight consecutive hours away from her 2-year-old. That's the equivalent of one work day, or how long I can sit on the couch and binge-watch Arrested Development. Honestly, I wasn't sure if I should hand her a merit badge or book her a private padded room. As I pack my bags for six blessed, glorious days without my little cherub, I realize that this is where I draw the line. I need time away. Parenting a young child can be a lot like driving through the Washburn Tunnel, buried 85 feet under the muddy waters of the Houston Ship Channel. It's isolating, it

Between the ages of 7 and 12, I lived on a dead-end road two miles south of nowhere. There were only eight houses on the gravel road, and none had children except ours. We had something like three acres, but at that age I thought our yard went on for miles and miles. We picked blackberries that grew along the barbed wire fence to the west and ran from the snakes that sunned themselves in the overrun, empty lot across the street. But what I remember most fondly was the tree. There grew one climbable tree in the back yard. It was of indeterminable species; I only know it was the kind with thick bumpy bark that grew lacy, pale green lichen throughout the year. I dragged to my tree two old boards from a deconstructed picnic table, wedging one in the deep V that split its trunk into two Siamese twins. The other I balanced precariously among some larger branches about halfway up. I spent most of my hours playing there in my wildly complicated imaginary life. I had multiple imaginary si

The other day I went to the mall because I was in desperate need of a new shirt for a dinner event. And I mean desperate . Most of my wardrobe is at least three years old -- the pants I decided to wear were actually approaching first-grader status. They grow up so fast, you know? Anyway, as I was traipsing from one store to the other in an unsuccessful search for something that said both spring! and I'm still young and cool!,  I found myself standing in front of JCPenney staring at an alarmingly fake garden scene. It featured emerald green Astroturf for grass (a cruel joke -- parts of our lawn are still covered in an inch of mushy snow), a profusion of ruffly pastel flowers the size of my head, and a park bench where an otherwise sane adult would pose for pictures while wearing a freakishly larger-than-life bunny suit and clutching your children. Apparently, parents will pay money for this to happen, and commemorate the surreal experience with a photo. That's when it daw

I had high hopes for how I’d feel when I finally got pregnant. And I had plenty of time to think about it, too, because I had struggled for more than three years to get to that point. And when I say struggled, I mean pushed a boulder up a hill. Thanks to incredible modern science and the generosity of a stranger, we finally succeeded. I thought would be flooded with maternal instinct and overwhelming love for this tiny being to whom I was inexorably linked. Overnight; instantly; forever. Except once we got that boulder over the summit, we encountered many tiny boulders on the way down in the form of small pregnancy complications. I didn’t feel maternal and glow-y. I felt anxious, incredulous, and nauseous. I was first diagnosed with twins, then we lost one, then I had a complete placenta previa (which eventually resolved), then I spent the latter half of the pregnancy borderline gestationally diabetic. With my belly getting ever bigger, much of the time I felt like had an alien living

My dear, sweet child to whom I gave life, I love you more than all the stars in the sky. Even more than all the dog hair on my carpet. But if you do not lie down and take a nap , I will come up there and knock you out myself . After all, sweet precious child, sleep is very important. It's like rain is to flowers: nourishing, tranquil, refreshing. You need sleep because you are a growing, learning, busy little boy. And because without a daily nap, you morph into a whiny, demanding asshole for the remainder of the day. I simply cannot handle that today , or any day, ever. It makes me want to snuff out that spark of life I planted in you with a loving karate-chop to your vagus nerve. Let me remind you, love of my heart. Relay races from one side of your crib to the other is not napping. Taking off all of your clothes -- AND YOUR DIAPER -- not napping. Throwing your lovey up in the air just to watch it fall and cackling maniacally, also not napping. Rolling on your back maki

Have you ever listened to nursery rhymes? I mean really listened ? They're awful. Terrible! We've got cradles falling out of trees, a gourd-obsessed husband who can't afford to feed his wife, and a woman with no access to birth control who is forced to suffer the indignity of living in footwear. It probably wasn't even nice footwear -- like cheap knock-off Uggs you'd buy at PayLess that start to smell like cottage cheese. I don't know why these negative nursery rhymes are still a staple of parenthood, but I do know some of them are rooted in truth. London Bridge, for example, really did fall down. Or almost. The original bridge across the river Thames, built in 1176, was damaged by two major fires: one in 1663 and another in 1666. It survived, but needed constant repairs (thus the verse "build it up with wood and clay") until it was finally replaced a couple hundred years later. Research shows the chances of those who have seen both London and Fran

My boy needs a dog or two. I've mentioned before how much richer my life is because I share it with dogs. Likewise, it's equally important to me that my child grow up with dogs. Humans at every age have a lot to learn from canines: their unabashed joy and unconditional love, among other gifts, are traits we should strive for at every stage in life. Our pets touch our lives so deeply in innumerable ways, teaching us while we are teaching them. Here are some of the reasons every child should have a dog: Empathy and compassion. It's vital to me that my child learns at a young age there are other beings in his world, living creatures that feel pain and fear, joy and love. I want him to understand that his actions toward others have consequences, good and bad, and to work toward always being kind and loving because this is the right thing to do. So we learn early that you pet dogs with gentle hands,  don't poke them in the eyes with yardsticks, and for god's sake d