DotMoms

The 10 best things about pregnancy

By Amy M.

I'm one of the (lucky?) few who actually like being pregnant. So as I work my way through my third trimester, here it is -- my list of the top 10 reasons I don't mind looking like I have a basketball in my belly (the "final product" is a given).

10. I HAVE to shop for new clothes. I was pregnant with my son during the summer, so I don't have any weather-appropriate maternity wear.

9. I HAVE to shop for baby clothes, because I'm having a girl this time.

8. I have an excuse for not sucking in my stomach or tucking in my shirt.

7. Fuller, longer hair on my head, but shorter, thinner hair on my legs.

6. I can use pregnancy hormones as an excuse for my irreverent comments, general grumpiness, circles under the eyes, etc.

5. I must eat 300 extra calories a day for the health of the baby. As someone who usually counts calories, it feels like I won the jackpot!

4. I always get to choose where we go out to eat, because no one wants to upset the stomach (or delicate hormonal balance) of a pregnant woman.

3. I finally have an excuse for falling asleep at 8 p.m. every night (unfortunately, that often happens when I'm not pregnant).

2. People tend to be nicer when they notice you are pregnant. I definitely do not like people to fawn over me, but it's nice to know they care.

And the number 1 reason I like being pregnant...

1. Going from an A-cup to an almost-C. Nice to meet you, Cleavage!

Amy M. lives in Pennsylvania with her son and her husband. She works full time as a writer/editor for a large university.

How an unexpected after-effect gave me new respect for my fellow women

By Alicia

When I was young, my mother would periodically make comments about how she had been a different person before having kids. We would tease her about her untameable curly hair and she would say forebodingly, "Just wait until you get pregnant; mine used to be wavy like yours." When her allergies would act up, she'd say, "I never had a problem with this until I had you kids." I remember looking at her blankly for a moment, befuddled by the idea of her existing before we did and then, unable to compute such a concept, I would drop that whole existential chasm and go off and play with my fellow body-snatchers.

When I was pregnant, I remember having my own out-of-body moments, feeling like an anthropologist observing this bizarre terrain formerly known as My Body. Although I had a healthy, easy pregnancy in general, there were dozens of little changes -- you know, your feet swell so much that they look like they belong on a Muppet or Sesame Street character, at odd moments throughout the day your body gets furiously pummeled from the inside, everything takes twice as much energy as it used to. Individually, these changes were too insignificant to discuss with my ob/gyn and too standard to elicit much more than an eyeroll and a 15-minute history of their pregnancy horrors if I mentioned them to someone at work or a friend. So I quickly learned to not share them and just experience these little shifts in how my body functioned on my own.

I was left with a huge feeling of disconnect, though, pretending to everyone else that everything was normal for me while feeling that my body really had been taken over by something unknown. (Which, of course, it had.) This was when I first had the thought: How have so many women put up with this so quietly for so long?

For, despite the extra public courtesy (doors opened, shopping bags carried to the car, you need never stand on public transportation again), while one is pregnant there is precious little concession to the fact that you are walking around with another BEING inside of you. Things are, in fact, very DIFFERENT. Not continually, not all the time, but nonetheless, most non-pregnant people do not scan every new environment they enter to determine the best place to puke should the urge arise. Call me a whiner, but as the weeks and months wore on and the changes became greater and greater (for goodness sake, you can't even breathe easily in the last trimester!) the thought that this is what women have done for all these years filled me with a sense of dazed awe. How have pregnant women managed to function business as usual?

I am reminded of all this because since my son was born, my menstrual cycles have become regular. This may seem like no big deal to the average woman, but let me put it this way: For 37 years I enjoyed menstrual cycles that were very short, somewhat infrequent, and at their worst involved a little extra desire for chocolate, a slightly greater tendency to cry, and a desire to get a full eight hours sleep instead of the usual six or seven. Now, my cycles are like clockwork every 28 days and for the first time, I believe that I am experiencing PMS as women across the world have experienced PMS from time immemorial. Bloating to the point of nausea, fatigue, rage, breasts swelling to the weight of sandbags, for 7-10 days out of every 28. This is the "usual," right?

Again, my only thought is: THIS is what women have done all these years? I have that slightly dazed feeling all over again. Surely not, I think, surely this is not what it could be like for women everywhere throughout the dawn of time because something so insidious, so debilitating -- wouldn't there be national campaigns about it? Wouldn't celebrities be wearing little pins to raise awareness of our plight? Wouldn't there be millions of medical dollars dedicated to fighting this adversity? Instead of late-night jokes about it, wouldn't someone be handing the makers of Midol a Nobel prize?

I thought that pregnancy was a temporary condition; I was an anthropologist visiting a foreign land, but I would be going home in just nine short months. I hadn't really believed my mother when she blamed her body's failures on having kids. Some of the changes get plenty of press, of course -- weight gain, Kegel exercises. But curly hair? Allergies? PMS? Once again, the cliché Your life will never be the same after you have kids takes on new meaning for me. My days of virtually hormonal-free PMS are over. Once again, my admittance into the Mommy Club gives me unexpected insight into what it takes to be a woman. And, I have to say, I'm very impressed with us.

Alicia and her family live in Vermont.

Post-pregnancy re-entry

By Sarah Rachel Engelman

You have probably seen me: hobbling down the street with a newborn tied to my chest, a ratty ponytail holding the unwashed hair from my face, spit-up on both shoulders and a frustrated, needy toddler at the end of one arm. I am a newly postpartum woman just venturing into the outside world.

When my first daughter was born, although the labor and delivery were easy enough, the physical and emotional recovery turned me into a shut-in for almost two months. Then, when I did leave the house I brought along my trusty donut to sit on (stitches, ouch!). I leaked milk, had mastitis and was generally freaking out all the time (but, oddly enough, people remarked what a calm, serene mom I was already; I think I was catatonic). This time around has been very different.

The labor and delivery were even easier and though I had breastfeeding issues again, they resolved themselves quickly. My baby daughter is either much mellower or my husband and I are. Either way, the baby aspect is going quite well. BUT. Now there is an almost 3-year-old to contend with.

Of course, my oldest daughter, Lilith, is even needier and more sensitive now that her little sister, Adina, is on the scene. She has begun climbing into bed with me in the middle of the night. Sometimes she says she is having nightmares and sometimes she just says she needs me. Whenever I nurse the baby she tells me she needs to be held, too. All of this is to be expected, and I did expect it. Still, living it is difficult. It adds to my exhaustion and many days are spent in frustration.

A colder than usual winter has kept us inside lately. It has been hard for Lilith to expend her seemingly boundless physical energy. That plus the fact that, I will be honest, taking the two of them out together, just the three of us, makes me nervous. So, my first couple of trips to the grocery store have been either alone or with just one of them. We three girls have managed many nice walks around the block and a couple trips to the park without incident. There, at the park, Lilith is occupied with swings and slides and sand and is content. I can hover nearby with the baby safely tied to my chest, sitting on a bench to nurse as needed. But, the grocery store, or any such place, fills me with a teeny bit of dread.

What if Lilith takes off? She has been less obedient in public lately, testing her limits, seeing how responsive we are to her. Will I be able to be on top of her and the baby and the groceries and get us home in one piece? I know it is inevitable that I will have to make this trip but I am not ready yet for the final stages of re-entry!

Adina's turning two months old (by the time I finish writing this, she will probably be graduating from high school, you know how it goes) and she has a pediatrician appointment. I will be taking Lilith. It will be just the three of us. I have images of Lilith running away from me, heading down the hospital corridors as I helplessly watch and am stuck holding a squirming naked infant on the paper-covered surface of the examining table.

Maybe I am not giving either of us enough credit. After all, she is a good kid, and I think I am a good mom. I am sure the doctor's appointment will go well, with Lilith quietly coloring in a chair while we tend to Adina. Who knows, maybe it will go so well we'll hit the grocery store on the way home.

And, if you see me there (you'll recognize me; blurry eyed, nervous, yet blissfully happy), please say hello or smile my way. It is not easy for a postpartum mom upon re-entry.

Sarah Rachel Egelman is a community college instructor and freelance book reviewer who lives in New Mexico with her family. 

DotMoms Daily: Your son's sperm and more

Photo: Reuters

In the news this week
> Eat a lot of beef? It may affect your son's sperm (Reuters)
> Report: More than one-third of lesbians have children (365Gay)
> Kids awards celebrated with burps, slime (AP/Yahoo)
> Microsoft to release Xbox 360 Elite (AP/ABC)
> Teenager casts light on a shadowy game (NY Times)
> Disarming the dangerous world students live in (NY Times)
> An ocean of promotion (The Washington Post)

Just give me a hammock and call it a day

By Lana

Oh, I moan about life here in Thailand. A lot. The heat, the critters, the traffic. The military coup, the lack of democracy. My mother-in-law. The occasional tsunami. My blog is a glut of gripes, and these are the ones I select for public consumption. My private writings -- ooh, shudder the thought if anyone digs these up -- read like a Woody Allen movie without the humour, without an end (it's all about me, and woe is me).

But at the risk of making myself seem unsympathetic to the reader, I have to admit that overall life here is good. Too good to be true sometimes. Very, very cushy.

I have a maid who comes twice a week and scrubs the house from top to bottom. When the yard starts to look unruly, as it often does with the tropical growth, my husband makes a call and a day later we have a team of guys here attacking the palm leaves and cutting down the coconuts. Once, we even hired someone to come and change our light bulbs. I'm not kidding.

When something needs to be done, I don't think about how I'll do it. Instead the question that arises is, "Who can I get to do this for me?"

Thus, over the years, living in the not-so-real world, I've become lazy, especially about cooking. I'm not an avid cook in the best of times, but combined with the sticky heat (yes, I'm moaning again), the lack of an oven, and the fact that I can scoot down the road and pick up a fresh, healthy, fully cooked Thai meal for a buck, cooking becomes an even less attractive option. 

Then I had kids.

Toddlers, it turns out, don't really dig Thai cuisine (Ever seen a 1-year-old's reaction after eating a stray chili? Not pretty). And loading a baby and a toddler into a car, then unloading them at a restaurant while you wait for the take-away to arrive, then loading them up again, only to re-unload back home, seems more work than just whipping up a dish or two. And the goal here, of course, is to minimize the workload. Because that's the goal of everyone in the tropics.

I've been given some great cookbooks by well-meaning friends and relatives. They're great reads. I love looking them over, mouth watering, imagining the tastes of these wonderful dishes. Then I close them, put them on the shelves, and make one of the three standby meals I regularly prepare: fried rice, pasta with mushroom sauce, chicken nuggets.

By sheer coincidence these are the exact same meals –- the only meals –- that my 2-year-old son will eat. My tepid desire to cook withers even further with every morsel that is spat out, referred to as "poop," or met with a clenched and unyielding mouth.

It's one of the great ironies I've discovered in motherhood: Something you once held in total indifference is now the cornerstone of your feeling of worth as a human. Feeding the family. Vitamins, minerals, leafy greens, hold the salt. Providing nourishment to another. Blah.

Who can I get to do this for me?

No, I'm not quite ready to turn over the feeding of my children to another. That would be beyond lazy, wouldn't it? That would be so ... unmotherly. But as I face yet another turned-up nose, I just might reconsider.

Because here in the tropics it's all about doing nothing -- and feeling good about it.

Lana is a freelance writer and mother of two, living in a state of perpetual confusion peppered with moments of joy, in Phuket, Thailand.

Involvement is the Fountain of Youth

By Donna

"I never thought they'd get old so fast," my sister lamented. She was speaking about our parents, now in their early 70s. However, her comments were not about their chronological age, but their mental state.

"They don't DO anything," she continued. "They don't seem to have any interests outside of what they watch on TV."

My parents have not only accepted senior citizenship –- they've embraced it, she says. While in fairly good health, they seem to relish all the aches and pains and other ailments that accompany an aging body. A great portion of conversations with our mother is spent cataloging them all. It's almost as if she is looking forward to the drama of incipient illness.

We contrast our parents' behavior and attitudes to those of my sister's in-laws. A decade older than my parents, these folks have never lost their zest for life. Retirement for them has meant becoming involved with local charities and museums, where they both volunteer. They read, they play tennis and they travel, taking advantage of educational tours offered by groups like Elderhostel.

Unfortunately, my mother and father have never been "joiners." The word "sport" was never in their vocabulary, and I can't imagine them putting up with the regimentation of a guided tour. The only thing they seem to want to do with their days is cruise Costco for free food samples and bargains.

When my sister started having babies years before I did, my folks moved 400 miles north to be near their grandchildren. We have always had a difficult relationship. We're careful with each other on the phone. I rely on Linda to alert me to things that go unsaid. I wondered if I needed to worry about them.

Then, a couple of months after my sister and I spoke, my mom and dad decided to give up the suburban house they’d owned for 18 years and buy a condo in burgeoning downtown Sacramento. A few weeks later, there was new energy in my father's voice. He had attended his first homeowners' association meeting and, by the end of the night, had been elected an officer. It makes sense, as most of the other residents are young working professionals. They don't have a lot of time to deal with the HOA. Why wouldn't they jump to enlist a retired insurance executive?

"Your mother is on the social committee," he informed me. "She's busy planning parties right now."

"How's her back?" I ask, dreading the inevitable list of problems, doctors and medications that were bound to follow.

"You know, it's stopped bothering her," my dad replied. He sounded surprised, as if it was a question he forgot to expect.

He put my mother on the phone and she sounded like her old self -- energetic and lively. And they didn't once mention "American Idol."

I ended the call satisfied that all is going to be OK, and I made a mental note to myself: "Stay involved, no matter how hard it gets." Because involvement –- with your family, your community, serving others -–is the thing that keeps people young.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

DotMoms Daily: Day Care dilemma and more

In the news today
> Study: Good Child Care Pays Dividends (AP/CBS)
> Panel: Motherhood Primary Cause of Poverty (UConn Advance)
> Failing Schools See a Solution in Longer Day (The New York Times)
> It's All Fun and Games (Salon)

Rhymes with "soup"

By Kris

Most kids go through a "bathroom talk" phase, and my boys are in it. At ages 5 and 6, it's no longer just run-of-the-mill body parts and secretions. Now, they add sophisticated adjectives such as "hairy," "stinky," "baby" and the show-stopping combo "hairy-stinky-baby."

Sick of giving warning and time-outs, I found myself pretending not to hear them in the other room:

"I can't believe your stinky head!"

Beavis and Butthead laughter.

"You big hairy baby butt!"

Beavis and Butthead laughter.

So enamored did they become with the rebellious rush of uttering forbidden words that it spilled over from the playroom to the dinner table.

"Do you want some peas?"

"No, I don't want any butts, poopy head."

My husband and I handled this development with the utmost diplomacy and maturity. We yelled, lectured, sent them to their corners, issued empty threats of bed without dinner. I may or may not have banged the table with my fist. The neighbors may or may not have been concerned.

After three days of dinnertime skirmishes, I blurted, "That's it! No video games until you both START USING YOUR MANNERS!"

A few days later, when nothing improved, I also took away TV. This will hit them where they live, Brian and I agreed.

Two weeks into the ban on all "screen time," the boys were unfazed. Even more surprisingly, so was I.

Now and then, I have let them watch a "baby video" with their sister, and one day I let them use their Leapsters for an hour so I could meet a deadline. We still have our weekly movie night. Overall, though, I have learned that without the specter of a video game or TV show on the horizon, the boys don't whine incessantly for them. Instead, they chase each other playing cops and robbers, shoot hockey in the basement, or do laps through my dining room on their plasma cars.

One day, Ben asked for a video. I chuckled, but he shot back, "An exercise video?"

"You're on," I said, and pulled our dust-covered Chicken Fat videotape from the cabinet. I did have to say, "Join in or leave the room," a few times, but in the end, we all got a work out and had fun doing it.

Even though the video ban has had benefits beyond what I imagined, I remain, once again, humbled. I look back fondly to the early days, when I believed I could teach my kids not to jump on my couches every time I turn my back, when I thought consequences for bathroom talk would make them stop using it.

"So, John, how was beach day at school today?"

"It was so goobledy poop, Mom!"

Beavis and Butthead laughter.

While manners have vastly improved at the dinner table, I still hear a lot of bathroom talk though the day and have gone back to time-outs when necessary. The battle wages on.

Even my 20-month-old has joined enemy ranks. She recently pointed to a picture of a baby and said, "Poop."

"What?" I said the first time she did it. "Are you saying ... she has a poop?"

"Yes," she answered primly, then proceeded to point to all the babies saying, "Poop, poop, poop ..." as I rested my head in my hands.

The other night, Brian began reading "Tom and Pippo's Day" to Ava, and he mispronounced "Pippo" as "Peepoo."

"It's 'Pippo,' " I corrected him from the couch, where I sat with the boys.

"You mean, it's not 'Peepoo'?" he asked, grinning. After 10 minutes of tear-streaming laughter, we headed upstairs for bed, where the boys let fly all the bathroom talk they could muster while Brian and I pretended to be deaf.

I guess in parenting, it's not always whether we win or lose, but how much we can laugh -- and ignore -- in the process.

Kris Clouthier is a freelance writer who lives north of Boston and has not conceded defeat in the war against bathroom talk.

DotMoms Daily: Marriage, mental illness and more

Photo: Associated Press

In the news today
> Welcome to my world, don't bring your stuff
> 10 rules for babyproofing your marriage
> On hit lists, teen anger finds an outlet

In the news this week
> Hysterectomy rates have declined
> Kids with mental illness often rejected socially
> ADHD drug use for youth obesity raises ethical questions
> Smoking may impair teens' attention

Looking through the rear view mirror

By Tina

Everyone needs someone in her life that she can count on to level with her, to tell her when she has spinach in her teeth. The only reliable source of truth in my life right now is not my mother, not my best friend and because he has learned better over the course of nearly 10 years, certainly not my husband -- it is the rearview mirror in my car.

Even on those days when I leave the house thinking I look not that bad for a 47-year-old woman with a three-year-old and too little sleep, my rear view mirror is only too happy to set me straight.

Me: Hi, Rear View Mirror (RVM)! I'm looking hot today, doncha' think? I got me a new tube of Tropical Pink lipstick at the grocery store for my new summer look. It looked great on Cindy Crawford on the display. I'm going to look like Cindy Crawford!

RVM: Um, Cindy is an exotic 6-foot tall brunette. You're a non-descript, pasty, white, 5-foot 4-inch blonde with gray highlights.

Me: Tropical Pink too bright?

RVM: Just a tad. You could be trying too hard. Didn't you used to have lips?

Me: Oh. Well, OK. But I've got a great attitude. It's great to be alive! (big smile)

Me: Speaking of... have you heard of this new tooth whitening toothpaste stuff? I'm just saying... And while we're on the topic, do you even own a pair of tweezers?

Me: That was a topic? Tweezers?

RVM: Check the chin, sister. It happens.

Me: OK. Sure. I see what you're saying.

RVM: And Buff Puff. Buff Puff is your friend. Exfoliate and say goodbye to dull lifeless skin!

Me: OK. Tweezers and Buff Puff and whitening toothpaste and lipstick. Anything else?

RVM: And is that tissue paper under your eyes or did a gift bag just explode in your face?

The bright lights of that much truth makes me want to pull the car back into the garage, close the door and leave the engine running. But then I look in that same mirror and catch the gaze of a little boy in the backseat. He is watching me indulge myself in this bizarre ritual of self-inspection. He is giving me a big, toothy grin and waving his hand at me like he is washing a window. He's calling “Hi, Mommy! I see you!" to the mirror.

He does see me. He sees me. And he could care less whether his mommy is 27 or 47 or needs to exfoliate. I resolve to spend more time looking beyond the mirror and less time looking into it.

Then I put the car in drive and head to grocery store for tweezers, toothpaste, Buff Puff, lipstick and a toy for my good boy, because he has taught me the difference between reality and truth. And he makes me feel like I'm 27 again.

Tina is mom to three-year-old Sean who can outwit, outsmart and outplay her on any given day.