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!

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, mostly with my 6 and 9 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 that some kids, despite your best intentions, just get 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 get 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 pull out 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 6 and 9 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 6 year old has probably removed and stashed several used pair under her bed. Or that my sock losing 9 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 can't take the picking of your nose, or your butt, or romping 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 can't find their way to the hamper, I'll make her clean out her bed. And when I see (or smell) that my 6 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?