I love Fridays (yeah, I know, duh).  When I worked in publishing – okay, let me rephrase, when I had a “real job” – the kind that involved going to an actual office, I got to experience the joy that is the “summer Friday.”  This meant the office theoretically shut down around 1pm.  Alas, I never really did anything really fabulous like go to the Hamptons, but it was exciting nevertheless to start the weekend early.  Summer Fridays still make me smile, so I thought I’d spread some love by giving a shout out to some fellow mom bloggers who had some extra awesome posts this week.  I hope you agree, and will be sure to visit their sites and drop them a comment.

“The Art of Stopping” by Laura Munson

http://bit.ly/avanJ5

“Peter” From Mrs. Chicken

http://bit.ly/9XurLu

“Parent Run Summer Camp” from A Child Grows

 http://bit.ly/aLbdY4

Have a good weekend!

Check it out:

How I Survived Hell, My Story of PPD

Apparently, being a freelance writer is NOT where the money is. Sure I’ve got the glory: I won a Harvey Milk DVD from one of my favorite blogs: alonewithcats;  people I haven’t seen since junior high now know my most intimate thoughts; and I’ve met some awesome folks. But I kinda want to be able to contribute something to our checking account. (When I say “kinda” I mean “have to”) This leaves me in a mess of a quandary. What can I do? I left art history to have a child, since my focus was contemporary art I’m screwed. Apparently, keeping up with my son’s scribbles on the walls of our apartment does not in any way constitute as keeping current in my field (it should though, I really believe he’s the next Damien Hirst, he brilliantly goes for that shock value) I would have a better chance of getting a job as a brain surgeon than I would securing a gig in my former field.

What to do? I like being able to be there for my son, I like having a few days with him, taking classes with him, and really seeing him blossom BUT this will not be so great if we have no place to live and we eat ramen for dinner every night and then he gets scurvy and fleas or lice and then we have to spend all our ramen money on that lice ointment and little comb and shave all our hair so that we look like some crazy ass post-apocalyptic family. See, this is not a good path. It’s dire really.

Sure, I’m also writing a series of murder mystery/genetic engineering novels but they’re taking a lot longer than expected and also, I have just been informed that once they are done there is no guarantee I will be the next James Patterson.

A majority of the time I feel like folks just think that this writing thing is a hobby, their response is usually: “Oh, isn’t that cute, you’re a writer. A goochee goochee gooo.” Ok, so I’m adlibbing but this is what they really mean, I see it in their eyes, and also, they always try to tickle me under the chin.

So, I’m contemplating going back to school; to get my Masters in Social Work. I think Obama is handing out scholarships to moms to go back to school. I’m just not sure how they will know I’m a mom? Do I need a pic of me giving birth? I wouldn’t let my husband take any of those; it was 3 am, I had already vomited and peed on myself there was no way in hell we were going to save that image for posterity.

Now, I realize this isn’t exactly going to bring in millions but it will be a career and one that could possibly help put my kid through college (he’s going whether he wants to or not, he’s our retirement plan damn it). But here’s the rub: for the next few years while I get the degree we will be even worse off then we currently are because I’ll have to be paying school fees on top of more daycare!

This seems to be the situation a lot of us ad hoc MOMs find ourselves in. We want to be there for our children but we also want to contribute to their future and the careers we had before-child do not translate well into post-child options. Not to mention, we have to contend with the majority of society thinking that being a stay-at-home mom is akin to laying on the couch, eating bons bons, and watching Oprah all day. If this were the case I wouldn’t have spent an inordinate amount of time this morning trying to remember where the hell I left my house keys (they were in the bathroom, of course, duh!).

In birthing class they gave us a fake baby. We had to bathe her, diaper her, and swaddle her. Even for a plastic kid she seemed a bit fussy but hey I’d never really held a baby at that point so what the hell did I know. I’m sure I needed to know those things but I forgot all of it once the kid was real.

They also showed us some disturbing birthing videos. One had a large couple having a natural birth. Both of wife and husband were completely naked. And when she pushed she made a groaning sound that resembled something from a porno. I still feel dirty. I, on the other hand, yelled expletives at everyone within hearing range when I was in labor.

When they went around the class and asked about each couple’s birth plan, most planned on having an all-natural experience. My spouse and I said we wanted the kind we had seen on the I Love Lucy Show, where Lucy gets completely knocked out and then comes to looking perfect with a baby in her arms, all the while, Ricky is pacing with Fred, smoking cigars in the waiting room. We were told we could NOT have that. What a rip off!

I think they went over some other stuff too but I was 8 months pregnant and tired of sitting there so I’m pretty sure I nodded off every now and then. I left it to my husband to take notes but I think he was sleeping too. Really?? Had he been carrying around 50 extra pounds of bowling ball and getting massive heartburn???

I do know that they didn’t cover a few VERY important things I needed to know as a new parent:

First of all, if my son sees any kind of animal he wants to know what it is and what sound it makes. Jeez, there are A LOT of freaking animals out there. And the kid seems to know when I’m making crap up because he’ll shake his head and keep asking. He’s like a human lie detector, people! It’s creepy! Anyway, this made me realize I have no idea what an anteater looks like, or a wombat, or a yak. And I sure as hell don’t know what sound they make! My husband was at a loss when P asked what a giraffe says so he told them they go around bumping into things since they’re so tall, so they say: “Ow, my head. Ow, my head.” Apparently, my hubby really believes this because that one got by the judges with an ok.

Also, no one told me I would have to know how to draw stuff. I went to art school, folks! And this is how shitty art school is: I can’t draw a freaking giraffe! Not unless I see one. And lately, he’s been into dinosaurs so he’ll ask for a Parasaurolophus. Crap, crap and triple crap! If he can say it and not fall asleep while doing so I should be able to draw the damn dinosaur! So, art schools, if you’re reading this, teach your students how to draw animals. It will become very important later on.

Another thing I missed was how to get a squirmy, picky, quick-with-the-gag-reflex being to eat nutritious food. If it’s not part of the bread, dairy, or fruit group P wants nothing to do with it. I’ve tried hiding blended veggies in pretty much everything but he always susses them out and then refuses to eat it. I think they should teach you some hypnosis tricks at birthing class, now that would come in handy! Then, not only could I have P do fun party tricks, such as clucking like a chicken, I could also get him to eat properly. Seriously, he eats like a frat boy on a spring break bender! Ok, minus the booze…that’s for me.

Lastly, I wasn’t prepared for the physical stamina it takes to keep up with a crazy toddler on a sugar high. When you leave the hospital with your newborn they should really insert a script for Adderall or give you the names of a few dealers nearby. Caffeine just doesn’t cut it. And I’m really tired of my kid asking: “can you fit, mommy?” when we go on a jungle gym, it’s like I’m on The Biggest Loser and I’m losing, but not in a good way.

My father has told me many times that he’s “proud of me.”  Since I’m not a New York Times bestselling author, a Senator or a Dr. who cured cancer – and I didn’t even graduate from an ivy league school, I was never really sure what it was I did to elicit any sort of pride.  But now that I’m a mother, I think I’m starting to understand what parental pride is all about.

I remember feeling that way when strangers would come up to me in the grocery store, take a look at June’s blue eyes and winning smile (oh, I should add that this was back when she was really little and would occasionally tolerate a ten minute trip to the store without having a massive fit) and tell me how cute she was.  I would beam with what I now realize was pride.  “Hey!  Someone thinks my daughter is super cute!  Wow!”  I also feel this way when she plays happily with her friends or jumps into the pool, which is something I’m still too scared to do to this very day.  But this past weekend, I was so proud of my daughter that I thought I would absolutely burst.  My stepsister Brittani got married, and June was one of her flower girls.  Luckily Brittani is the exact opposite of a bridezilla, so whatever June did or didn’t do in regards to her flower girl duties, I knew my stepsister wouldn’t hold it against me.  June could have basically lit Brittani’s bridal gown on fire and my stepsister would have been like “oh whatever, she didn’t mean it” and proceeded to have a rocking good time charred dress and all.  But I must admit that I secretly hoped that June would put on her dress, hold her flowers, and make it down the aisle to the ooh’s and aahh’s of all of the guests.  Um, no pressure from me or anything I swear!  Seriously, I’m well aware of the fact that my daughter is two, and getting her from point A to point B is nothing short of a miracle.  I was fully prepared for the fact that the flower girl thing just might not happen, and at best I’d have a really cute picture or two of her in the dress.

The rehearsal was a complete disaster.  Not only did she refuse to practice but she acted like The devil’s spawn.  She threw crayons all over the church and laid on the floor pounding her fists and every other word out of her mouth was “NO”.  Not promising. . . she wouldn’t even get near the shiny red wagon Brittani’s 15 month old son Jack was going to be pulled down the aisle in.  If a wagon wasn’t going to entice her.  What would?  Doritos cool ranch chips apparently.  Just moments before her big debut, which coincided directly with her naptime, my husband wisely gave in to her demands for Frito Lay products. The ushers pulled out the white runner, June grabbed the wagon and her flowers, I inserted baby Jack, and she went waltzing down the aisle hand in hand with the two other flower girls.  She wasn’t scared – she didn’t come running back to me.  She wasn’t phased by the couple of hundred people in the church – nor did she totally freak when a complete stranger met her at the other end and took her off to the nursery to play during the ceremony.  My friend Carrie always says June is “tough as nails,” and I’m starting to think maybe that’s true.  That she’s much more courageous than I was at her age – or who am I kidding, at 27 or 38 even.  I realize I’m bragging here, but I’m just so proud that she did it – because I was scared for her, but obviously I had no reason to be.