After almost 8 years of a relationship and dreams of what our wedding would be like and should be like, we’re planning to not plan our wedding. Years of thinking about how I want that day to be and what special touches i want and making sure to make notes about those things that annoy me and i don’t want to be apart of our big day, I’m throwing all that away. Well, not really throwing it away, per say, since it will be more than we’ve ever dreamed of and the end result will be the same. We will be married. 8 years down the road and 3 kids later i just don’t have it in me anymore. The planning, the stress, the over thinking, the worry, the hopes, the inspirations, the time consumption, and the financial planning is taking all the fun out of it. So we are left with one choice.

Elope.

That one word makes me giddy, makes me feel alive and makes it all fun again. We are going  to go to Hawaii and pay someone else to make our wedding everything we want it to be. Simple yet elegant. Stress free. Wedded bliss. We will have a lot of pictures and a video to show off to everyone else and plenty of memories for just the two of us.

So now we are planning to not plan.. and if it all falls thru there’s still a court house right down the street!

I am a mum to 4 little girls and I have recently realized that parenting is never going to be easy. You would have thought this would be apparent after 3 kids, but no it took the 4^th to really sink in!

The reason for this lightbulb flash? Three of them are now in school. This means I get 3 sets of instructions from at least 6 sets of teachers; 3 sets of homework; 3 sets of e-mails with sometimes harmless content and sometimes nail-biting, jaw-dropping, teeth-gnashing stories.

These e-mails are new. I never got e-mails until this year. Why am I getting e-mails now? In a word: Buffy.

She is 5- precocious, sassy, smart, funny and hell-bent on giving me a full-on anxiety attack. Last month’s sassiness morphed into outright stubbornness and rude behavior followed by punching, kicking and the oft-heard “I don’t understand what you’re saying!” We have been e-mailed at least once a week. We have been called by the assistant principal.

I have talked, begged, bribed. Each day she gets on the bus I eye my inbox with trepidation…

When we found out I was pregnant, we started looking for daycares in the area. Why wouldn’t I continue to work? On top of the tiny life brewing in my belly, we had a new mortgage, a new car payment, and lots of lovely workmates and a career that I love. But, Ollie had different ideas on how life should be and with his prematurity, we thought it best to keep him out of daycares and the germs they famously promote.

So I haven’t worked full time in almost a year.

In the months since, my family has set me up on a couple “blind dates,” if you will.

Someone in my life has met another mom and thought, “Lisa would like her; I should set them up, they will be friends.”

But I can’t get over the idea that these meetings are essentially Blind Dates. Using the same thought process that might have been used if I were single and looking for a romantic mate, my husband has thought, “This woman could help complete her life, to fulfill her need for a buddy in mommy-hood. This woman could be my wife’s pal.”

They’re odd, these dates. It’s like an interview. The same interviews I went on when I was in the process of meeting my husband. Weeding through the answers to see where our similarities lie, thinking about the things I shouldn’t have said.

The wrong answer will destroy these baby friendships; a wrong word could make me seem callous…or even (gulp) “attached,” and the decision is made right then and there that this match is “not the right fit for our needs at this time.” Or, more pointedly, “you’re not what I’m looking for.”

Like a regular date, I can tell when they go well. I tell my husband that I liked That Mom and the person responsible for the other set-up calls the next day and says, “Oh, This Mom really liked you, she wants to go out again.”

I recall the meeting. I was poised, funny, didn’t burp or fart loudly, didn’t drop the F-bomb and saved my secrets for when This Mom is ready for them. I realize I “still got it.”

The second date is being planned, I worry I won’t live up to my first impression. I’m afraid that spark won’t be there again.

Kinda like my second date with my husband.

According to the March of Dimes website, 543,000 babies are born prematurely each year. Five-hundred-forty-three thousand are born too early.

It’s something I never thought I’d experience. A cousin was born two months early a few months before Oliver. I thought “how sad, I hope she makes it.”

After 3 months’ worth of twice-daily visits to my NICU (West Allis Memorial in Wisconsin is a wonderful place with wonderful nurses), willing my baby to live, cheering on the tiny accomplishments he figured out that day, worrying, praying fervently, changing tiny diapers, and feeding him through a tube, I’d experienced it.

I’d experienced it the way that almost 550,000 parents do a year.

I’d experienced it the way the hundreds of thousands of parents of a micro-preemies do.

I’ve experienced it first-hand. And it’s horrible. Terrifying. Something I wouldn’t wish on the worst people in the world. To go through the experience changes you; reveals your strength, forces you to allow yourself to rely on someone else, makes you grateful for small feats, takes the wonder of babies to the highest levels. How a baby so tiny and fragile and so helpless can make it through is impressive and honestly, a feat of God, a miracle, and a testament that the research and medical advancements done in years’ past are needed and necessary.

The following is from the March of Dimes website…

For the second consecutive year, the United States earned only a “D” on the March of Dimes Premature Birth Report Card, demonstrating that more than half a million of our nation’s newborns didn’t get the healthy start they deserved.

The March of Dimes advocates for national and state health policies and programs that benefit women of childbearing age, infants and children.

As part of the national Prematurity Campaign, at the federal level, the Foundation is advocating to:

* Increase access to health coverage for women of childbearing age (especially those who are pregnant), infants and children
* Fund implementation of the PREEMIE Act (P.L. 109-450)
* Secure federal funding to implement the next phase of the National Children’s Study
* Secure federal funding for increased interdisciplinary research to find the causes of preterm birth and to translate those findings into clinical care strategies
* Enhance data collection by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention to improve understanding of prematurity, birth defects and infant mortality.

In years past, early babies were put in shoe boxes and kept warm by the oven. Thanks to the research and strides made by organizations like the March of Dimes, we’ve come so far. But we need to go even further.

If you can, visit the March of Dimes to donate or learn more.

I noticed something very odd today. After a month of no breast feeding, I had started to let down. Baffled that I was still lactating, I thought, “I really miss breastfeeding, maybe it’s not too late to start up again!”  I tried to get Baby J to latch but he would have none of it. At one point he managed to grab his pacifier from me and put it back in his mouth so I gave up and searched for my pump.

I managed to pump for 2 minutes before remembering why it is I don’t breastfeed anymore. Pumping is terrible. It’s uncomfortable, awkward, and annoying. Even if I could re-lactate, I wouldn’t stay with it.

I work full-time and hate pumping too much.  Bummer.

My life is in a holding pattern right now, and while I’m happy where we are, I’m really tired of waiting for things to go through.  I wish there was more I could do to move things along but really, I’m doing all I can do.

First and foremost, I’m waiting on my house hunting days to be over.  I was initially looking for a small condo or town-home to live in for a couple years till we bought a house.  But after experiencing the true “pleasure” of finding and procuring a home, I think I’ll pass on ever doing this again if I can help it.  So we’re looking at good ole’ homes to spend the rest of our lives in.  I currently have 40 houses on my radar, 13 back up offers, and 5 pending offers (waiting for the bank/seller to accept).  I’m keeping my eye out on new properties but really, all I need is a bank to approve my offer (on the house on Ellis if anyone who wants to accept that offer is reading this, PLEASE).

I remember watching movies and TV shows with people buying houses and I don’t ever recall them searching for months, with no luck, to buy a house.  I recall them looking at 4 they like and then buying one.  I guess I don’t recall them changing poopy diapers everyday either so maybe I should stop basing life off fictional entertainment anymore.

The second thing I’m waiting on is my darn engagement ring.  I don’t normally wear rings because I have such skinny fingers, I’m worried it’s going to look weird.  But at the same time, I’m extremely excited that it’s not your typical engagement ring.  Can you say Black Tahitian Pearl?  It’s going to be amazing, and nothing can compare.  Not that it’s better than any diamond, it’s just who else is going to have a engagement ring anything like it?  It would be like trying to compare art from Van Gogh and Michelangelo.  Anyway, my ring should have been here last Wednesday and I am still patiently waiting.

I’m also waiting on diapers and babylegs to be shipped to me.  But when comparing it to a home and a engagement ring, it just seems silly to be too concerned over these.  Althought I am really excited about getting more babylegs.  I hate pants on JD, they’re always too short.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if everything arrived/happened on the same day?  Can you say best day ever?  I can.

Did anyone else have the great, running with whoops of excitement down a totally lit up block, breathing hard through the nostril holes in your plastic Cinderella mask, lugging around an overflowing pilowcase, laughing at your cousin who tripped in the wet grass so he looked like he peed himself, Halloween marathons I had as a kid?

A detail neatly absent from a Stay At Home Mom’s Job Description: Exterminator. Orkin-Mom. Protect your beautiful baby from the creepy-crawlies that upset your lovely home in their wayward travels from the basement.

When it comes to creepy-crawlies and creatures, I discriminate. I don’t hate them all, per se, the cute ones I can live with….ladybugs, bumblebees, caterpillars. However, when it comes to the ugly utilitarian millipedes with 70,000 legs and the body the size of my pinky finger, then, yes, I hate.

I hate with the heat of 1,000 jilted lovers.

I hate with the passion of 10,000 teenagers in parked cars.

So when I see the creature hanging out at the intersection of wall and ceiling, living room, USA, I sigh. This is not how I want to start my morning.

I sigh because I know this will be an hour’s worth of planning. I will spend an hour strategizing this small battle, preparing the demise of this invader. Most of the hour is spent simply staring at it, wishing it away, ensuring it doesn’t move, gathering my strength for the task at hand. The Department of Public Works drives by, sucking up leaves, I consider for a moment waving them down to save me; I reject that plan because I am a Strong. Independent. Woman. No man needed for this job.

I collect my tools.

baseball cap. check.

long sleeve shirt. check.

gloves. check.

jeans. check.

socks & shoes. check.

broom & dustpan. check.

DirtDevil Handvac. check.

hairspray with aggressive & pointed spray pattern. check.

Gumption? Moxie? Backbone? Decidedly, disappointingly absent.

My plan of attack is simple. Disorient him with hairspray. Bat with broom. Collect in dustpan and throw outside. Contingency plan? Spray, bat, suck. I plug the vac into an outlet close to the door, so I can run with it still on and toss it outside.

I pull my socks up over my jeans – to prevent it from running up my pant leg, natch – and pull my gloves on to keep the openings of my sleeves closed, arrange the cap down over tucked up hair and step to 3 feet from the wall.

With knocking knees, I collect what strength I have and talk myself through it.

one…..two….three…..PSHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

F–k! S–t! Dammit! He’s on the run! PSHHHHHHHH some more. He drops to the floor and squirms. **shudder** He’s too fast, too fast. VROOOOOMMMMM. I have to suck, there’s a thud in the handvac. In a tizzy, I run to the door and throw the vac to the stoop. I unplug it, run it to the garage where it sits.

I realize I’m shaking like I had too much coffee. I’m shaking like I just got through a real emergency. This scene takes place in less than 30 seconds, yet I’m acting as though it’s a life-changing event.

For the rest of the day, I wear shoes. I glance suspiciously at the site where the demise went down. Is there evidence? Did I imagine my success? Is it back? Before I settle back into my loveseat, I inspect the area, to assure myself the rest of the bug family hasn’t set up camp on the armrest, behind the couch, in the blanket draped over the back.

I re-tell my tale to my husband when he comes home.

I don’t think he bought the level of bravado I tell it with. He’s seen me encounter spiders and knows I’m remarkably “girly” when it comes to the ugly pests.

This small victory is in my arsenal of successes when I’m questioning my mothering abilities. I protected and saved my son from the millipede.

I’m like the police. Only cuter.

My name is Jen. I am 34 years old and became a Mother for the first time on March 10, 2009. This came as a great shock since I have been informed time and time again that babies are not in my future. Because of this I allowed myself to be completely clueless when it comes to babies. I wanted nothing to do with anyone else kids and swore thruout my entire pregnancy that this will be my only one. After giving birth it took about 2 seconds to realize what true love really meant and my heart melted to the thought of being a Mom. I even played with the idea of having another one right away. I cant tell you how many times, while pregnant, I had the conversation with someone about how many kids would have. My answer was always the same. They all said the same thing.. “just wait, you’ll change your mind!” Now I understand… babies.are.awesome!

Kegels.

I hated them. I remember complaining about them this time last year. I thought they were overrated. “Who cares, they are so secondary and once this baby pops out, they won’t matter”.

After pushing for almost 3 hours, and a vacuum assist birth, I remember resting in my hospital bed thinking…”I wish I would have done my Kegels.” While, I think the kid just didn’t fit, I cant help but wonder if they could have helped my postpartum issues a bit. Come to find out, the PC muscles are often weakened by pregnancy and birth, and need to be worked out or they atrophy just like the rest of the muscles in our bodies. Yes, we want toned PC muscles just like our Gluteus Maximus. If we don’t tone them, we can find common issues like bladder control (hate sneezing?) and in serious issues, prolapse.

7 months later, everyday since March 14th-I am doing my Kegels. Moms-to-be, one word of advice: Kegels. For the love of God, Kegels. If you can count to three and hold your pee, you can do Kegels. For more information about Kegels: how to do them properly and the benefits, check out http://www.kegel-exercises.com/ and The Mayo Clinic’s article here: http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/kegel-exercises/WO00119