If you want to feel like a failure...

I got on LinkedIn and that was a bad idea.

There was no better way to make me feel like a failure than that social media/networking site. I saw all these people I graduated with who had jobs (like real ones) in the field that we all worked so hard in.

And I just wanted to change my occupation to "Professional..." what even am I?

A stay at home mom? What kind of respectable job title is that?

LET ME TELL YOU.

I spent five wonderful, stressful, amazing years in college and I wouldn't take them back for the world. For three of those years I studied what I loved, which is writing and writing the news. I have always known that was what I wanted to do and I never thought that anything, or anyone, could overpower my desire to succeed.

Then Little C came along.

Suddenly all of it just went away. I still wanted to be a reporter, I still loved the news and I still loved to write.

But I loved him more.

I applied for jobs, went on interviews, but in the end...here I am. At home. Every day. With him.

I complain about it.

Sometimes I even think that I hate it.

I think that quitting my job was the worst thing I could have done, but then he goes from calling me "Nene" to "Mama," and I just can't stop the butterflies in my tummy.

Learning has always been fun to me and it's something I can never get enough of. I love to learn. I love to find out new things and new ways. I just love knowledge. Quitting the workforce or not pursuing my Master's degree seemed like intellectual suicide, but that's not true.

Connor has taught me that what I love more than learning is watching him learn. I love to see him grow and thrive. He just wakes up one day and DOES SOMETHING that he couldn't do the previous day.

Do you know how amazing that is? Until you've watched those eyes light up as he surprises himself by standing up for a second on his own, you have no idea.

There is no degree in the world, no job in the country, no salary in existence that can give you that pride, that satisfaction, or make your heart melt.

So no. I don't have a job title that someone should or could be envious of. I'm a mother and I am a wife. That's it.

All I do every day is watch my son grow and learn while I clean house and (occasionally) cook a meal.

That's not much to most people and it's nothing to those connections I have on LinkedIn.

But it's my world.

More importantly, it's Connor's world.

And in Connor's world,

my job title is

Mommy.

When my daddy called me ugly

When I was in my early teen years, I was eating a steak house with my daddy. Our server was a lady who wasn't completely with it.

I don't remember exactly what she had done wrong, but I will never forget what my daddy told me.

"She ain't never got through life on anything but her looks," my daddy said.

"Do you think I could get through life on my looks?" I asked him, half jokingly.

My daddy looked at me with complete seriousness, and in a low voice said, "You better study real hard."

I guess my feelings should have been hurt, and maybe they were. I don't remember. But that statement stuck with me from then on and I'm so glad it did.

From that second, I knew I had to devote myself to my work. I knew that if I wanted something, I wasn't going to be able to simply bat my eyelashes and get it--I just didn't have the face for that.

So I worked and I worked hard. Don't get me wrong, I screwed around in high school (literally and figuratively if we're being honest), but I managed to graduate with decent grades. When I got into college my Freshman year, I put effort into my work and it paid off. My sophomore year went even better and I landed a spot on the Dean's List. When I transferred to a university, that strong work ethic transferred with me. I pushed through an easy year, I managed through a difficult year, achieving again a spot on the Dean's List, and in one of the most challenging parts of my life, I persevered and graduated with a BS degree in Communications.

It was the statement above, probably meant as a joke, that stayed in the back of my mind. Whenever I heard someone say, "It doesn't matter how I do on my finals, it matters how my future husband is doing on his," I laughed but could never relate.

Who cares how he's doing on his finals? Because when it comes down to it, I have to be the one who can take care of me. 

And I did.

I don't think my daddy meant for me to take his statement so seriously, or maybe he did. Maybe he knew that's what I needed to hear in order to push myself to be the best that I could. Maybe that was his way of encouraging me, if only because it pissed me off enough to try harder.

Maybe he knew that's what it would take. 

Maybe he was a little bit drunk.

I don't know. I don't really care at this point either.

Those words are words that I want to send to my son, maybe just in a different way. I want Connor to know that if he wants something in life, it's up to him to get it. I want Connor to go into this harsh world with the knowledge and the strength to put down what's not important and pick up what is. 

Do I get a little jealous whenever I see a stunning girl out in public, while average me is at the side of my husband? 

Well yeah.

But as looks fade, hard work doesn't. As hair becomes thin and hips become thick, people forget how pretty someone once was. 

People don't forget about how smart she was. 

And people will never forget how smart she could have been. 

Acrobats, motor boaters, all on a typical Wednesday morning

It's 6:00 a.m. and my child is an acrobat.

A heat butting acrobat.

I'm in that state where I'm not quite asleep, but not even remotely awake. I don't feel my hair being pulled as usual, but I do feel a soft-skinned, sweet-smelling, entirely too happy 20 pound mass on my face. This tiny little person I've created is laying on my face, only after he tried to flip over my body.

Is that how base jumping occurred? One night or early morning a child had the wild idea to flip off a queen-sized bed for the thrill of living.

I don't even speak.

I just hang on to his body, on my face, so that he does not injure himself the next time he attempts to imitate Tom Petty by free falling.

Just before, or maybe after, I'm not quite sure since I wasn't quite awake, I felt his soft hair against mine. I felt his hair against mine with each BANG as he hits his head to mine at least three times in a row.

Like who does that? As if ravaging my bosom at all hours of the night isn't enough.

He takes a break from hitting his head against mine and his entire body on my face to raise up and fall back down, face first, on my boobs. This kid puts even the professional motor-boaters to shame.

I close my eyes. Maybe if he's sucking, he'll decide to go to sleep.

No suck luck.

There's the scratching on the wall. That's totally cool though, because it means he's at the head of the bed, beside me and hopefully out of harm's way.

I would be furious that this incredibly small THING is interrupting my sleep, except that I keep hearing little sounds come out of him.

"Ba ba ba."

"EE-hEE."

These sweet little laughs and mumbles wake me up the rest of the way.

I decide to get out of bed and head straight for the coffee maker. After a bowl of oatmeal, a cup of coffee, letting the dog out, saving pieces of a wipe from being devoured, finding the dog who is still outside and sitting down on the couch to binge on Scandal, my sweet little baby boy is asleep on my lap.

Until next time, my friends. Until next time.

Is it guilty in here or is it just me?

I read a blog post today on "mommy guilt" and it rang so true to me. As I type this, C is laying in his crib screaming because he's pissed off. We do this every night, and every night he sleeps about an hour before I cave and just stick him in the bed with us.

The thing is, I know there's nothing wrong with him even though he's screaming bloody murder, but I still have this gnawing feeling that I'm a horrible mother.

This isn't the first time I've felt that way...today.

For instance, our day started off like normal. I went outside to take Apollo out and raised the blinds on the door so I could see in. Connor was sitting by the door looking out at me and laughing, playing with his toys, etc.

Then he was gone.

But I still saw him.

Over by the dog bowl.

The kid knows not to eat dog food, but he still does. So I got in the house just in time to see a piece laying on the floor beside him while he chewed vigorously on a chicken-based pellet meant for my canine. I shoved my finger in his mouth and felt the about-to-be-soggy morsel, and I tried to dig it out. The thing is, he kept moving his tongue around and chewing on my finger.

So then I was like, "Well this is great. I don't want him to choke on it."

Thank goodness I was on the phone with my mother through this whole ordeal, otherwise I would have been freaking out. Because just as I thought, he started choking.

It was pretty standard. He first made a gagging sound, then he coughed, then gagged, coughed and stuck his thumb in his mouth until everything was right with the world again.

Here was my reaction. Gag (me pushing on the part between his rib cage, trying to remember anything about the baby Heimlich Remover). Cough (OK I know if he's coughing, he's breathing. Don't pat his back, that might lodge it further). Gag (Oh shit, the kid is choking. *Mother in the background- "Hold his arm up!"*). Cough (He's breathing. Still pushing on his stomach with one hand, holding an arm up with the other). Thumb in mouth (Put my ear as close to his face as possible until I hear a steady breath).

I feel like I handled it well.

Then at my mother's later on, he wanted to play. But I didn't. I wanted to take a nap.

Guilty moment #2.

Annnd here we are, it's bed time and he's stopped screaming temporarily. It's because I sent my husband in to rock him. I know that when he gets back in his bed, the screaming will continue. I know that I will end up putting him in bed with me.

What is this vicious cycle?

For now though, this minute, it's quiet time and I plan on enjoying it to the fullest.

Spread the word, stop the hurt

It was Spring of 2012.

I had just gotten out of school for the summer. I was 21, living at home, with little to no responsibilities other than going to work and paying for gas to get there. My boyfriend had decided that he wanted to move closer to me and I had caught him looking at rings.

My life was great.

I had my wisdom teeth out on a Friday. My boyfriend, Josh, had said that he would take care of me. He had just moved into a small apartment in my home town. He and I had decorated it together. He had just gotten a new job.

Everything was perfect.

Then it happened.

The day after my wisdom teeth came out, I was still numb and Josh called the doctor. The doc sent in some steroids and antibiotics. I was weak, but after 48 hours of being in bed, I was ready to get out of the house.

We went to the Renaissance Fair and had a great time.

A week or so later, one night, I took a pregnancy test.

It was positive.

What?! There was no way. I mean, of course there was a way, but no...no this couldn't be happening. We weren't ready to be parents. We were just having fun.

I went to the doctor and got a blood test and the doctor sent me to the hospital because I was cramping so bad. The physician's assistant at the ER told me that I was most likely going to miscarry. A flood of emotions came over me, along with the rising hormones in my body, and I couldn't think. I didn't know what I was going to do. Josh was beside me, he told me that no matter what happened, he was going to stand with me. He loved me.

The blood test came back, and I was indeed pregnant, but my hormones weren't rising like they were supposed to. They were too high for how far along I was, but they were also not high enough. They were just there, stuck, in the middle. Kind of like my mind was.

Then one day, my now-husband told me, "You're not going to do this by yourself. I'm going to be there. I want to marry you and I want to support you. I'm not going to leave you."

And in that exact moment, we decided that no matter how hard it was going to be, we were going to keep this baby and we were going to be the best parents we could be.

We were so excited the day we went for our first ultrasound. I had been at work all day and I had been counting the hours until I got to see my baby on that black and white screen. Josh met me at work and we went together with hopeful hearts to see our future.

I was seven weeks, so we knew we might not see much, but it was what we didn't see that hurt us. My gestational sac was on time, but the embryo wasn't and there was no heartbeat. The technicians prayed for us and asked God to send us comfort.

I went home and called my OB.

Two weeks later, I was laying on another table, praying that the tech would see something different.

She didn't.

She told me that the embryo had never developed past six and a half weeks, and that the heartbeat probably stopped within the last couple of days, if it had ever even started.

I didn't want to believe it. I had chose to have this baby. I had chose to turn my life in a whole new direction in order to suit this baby. For two months, I had been planning a new life. I had been planning a new future.

Two days later, I was in the hospital waiting for my D&C.

The morning of the surgery, I woke up, took a shower and cried. I cried while I got dressed. I cried the whole way to the hospital.

When I woke up from surgery, I cried. I wanted my baby. I wanted the baby that had been taken from and out of me. Every time I would feel blood gush from me, I cried.

I went back to Josh's apartment and cried. I just kept crying.

I never got to hold my baby. But it had a name. Josh and I decided that we were going to name that baby, boy or girl, Harper.

Harper Tobin.

I never got to hold my baby.

But I can use my experience to help someone else.

No mother should have her child taken away unnecessarily

In under-developed countries, mothers are watching their children die due to diseases such as Malaria or even something as simple as diarrhea. Mothers are giving birth to beautiful babies that they only get to hold for a short period of time before having to bury them, due to lack of resources for newborn care.

Mothers are miscarrying their babies because they don't have proper prenatal treatment.

I can tell you from experience, that July 13, 2012 was the worst day of my life. My heart has never hurt so bad. I have never ached from the inside out. I have never hurt so bad. When I miscarried Harper, I felt my heart break.

No woman ever deserves to feel that.

No woman ever deserves to lose her child, especially when it doesn't have to happen.

There was nothing I could do to stop my miscarriage. There was nothing I could do to save my Harper, but I can do something to help save someone else's Harper.

And so can you.

Visit http://www.savethechildren.net/mdg500/ and see what the "500 days to MDG" campaign is about.

"The campaign breakthrough is that no child under the age of five dies from preventable causes, and public attitudes will not tolerate high levels of child deaths."

If nothing else, spread the word. 

Help these mothers.

Help these children.

I've got cellulite in my cellulite

"When did I get so damn old?" I thought to myself just now when I looked in the mirror.

I think this a lot, actually. At least whenever I have the guts to look in the mirror. It's depressing, really. What used to be a small, flat stomach where the skin was mildly firm, now is a wider, rounder stomach where skin sort of "hangs" from when I was pregnant. Where I once had an adorable belly button ring is now just a small hole above some stretch marks that, as much lotion as I used during those 10 months, I couldn't prevent.

I look at my hair, hanging in no particular style on my shoulders and think about how I need SOMETHING done to it. I think about how it used to look good, or at least decent, and now it's just there, usually pulled up in a pony tail.

Then there's my face.

Ugh.

My pores have expanded to the size of potholes in Elgin Crossroads on that street between Subway and Big D's Burger House. I have acne on my forehead and chin that I can't resist the urge from picking at. I have splotches. I have red marks. I have those delightfully dark circles and bags under my eyes that would put Coach to shame. 

When and how and WHY did I let this happen to myself? Was it during those nights that Connor didn't want to sleep? Was it the days after when I was so tired that all I wanted to do was lay around? Was it during those last semesters of college when I was trying to work and be a mother and a student? Was it just last week when I looked at our bank account and automatically got a headache?

I look at my pictures on social media and try to figure out just when this devastation occurred. 

Listen to me whine. How terrible do I sound?

There is an Ebola epidemic in Africa, wars in the Middle East, the U.S. with it's own share of problems, and here I am complaining about the drab mess that has become my exterior. 

As terrible as that is, I can't help myself. 

Oh please. Don't give me that look of disappointment as you stare at your computer screen while the 10:00 news is on. 

Because, let's face it. When the news goes off and you go into your bathroom and look in the mirror, you will sigh too, whether it's voluntary or involuntary.

It's not like people don't tell me I'm pretty. My husband does (and he's really all that counts, right?). He tells me I'm beautiful and he loves me. But I wouldn't blame him at all if sometimes he wished I was still a size two, with semi-great boobs (as great as they can be naturally) and nice skin. 

Once upon a time, I had thought, "I won't want aging cream when I'm old. I will embrace my aging and be thankful that I have been able to live a long life. The wrinkles and laugh lines will just be part of my story, a part that people can see." 

I'm not even old yet. 

I am blessed that I carried a child for 10 months and that I have stretch marks to show where my son grew and developed inside me. I am blessed that my hair is messy because I don't have time to do anything to it since I'm running after this amazing little person who entered my life.

I know that.

No, there is no way that I would take back any of the wrinkles, breakouts, bad hair or big belly for him. He's totally worth it. 

But I'm selfish. 

...and maybe a little self absorbed.

Whatever.

One thing I promised myself and my husband before C was born, and I am trying to keep that promise, is that I would not criticize myself in front of my son. I don't want him to grow up with ideas that women aren't beautiful as themselves. I don't want him to grow up with the notion that a girl has to wear make-up to be pretty. I don't want him to grow up with the thought that a girl has to be a size two in order to be attractive. 

I want him to see women for who they are, for their personalities and sense of humor. I want him to see a girl and his breath be taken away by her kindness and morality. I want him to realize that what he's looking at is only a plus.

I could blame the media and society and a ton of other people for my poor self image. But what's the point in that? 

The only person I have to blame is myself. I am the one who looks in the mirror and can't see what my son sees when he looks at me. I can't see the Mommy, I can only see the "Mommy." I can't see what my husband sees when he looks at me, I can only see what he once saw. 

I can ask you to start trying to think of something positive about yourself when you look in the mirror, and tell you I'll do the same, but come on, neither of us is really going to do that. 

So what is the bright side to this post?

We can all be completely ugly and tired and stressed out and completely normal together. 

After all, that's how norms come about anyway, right?

What was I thinking?

Throughout my life I have made more than my share of questionable decisions.

And I really think becoming a parent was one of them.

Before you jump me, I'm not saying I regret my child. That's not it at all. If you read further, you'll understand.

Yesterday, C was playing with my full length mirror. I was in the bathroom putting makeup on and I heard the crash. I knew instantly what happened and all I could picture was my child in a "Carrie"-like scene with blood all over him and shattered glass everywhere. 

Thankfully there was no blood. But there was a lot of glass. A lot. 

And not for the first time, I thought, "Why did I do this?" 

I grabbed him out of his walker and checked him for blood. I didn't see him bleeding and I didn't see any glass protruding from his body, so I tried to calm him (and me) down. But the whole time, I thought, "Why did I do this? Why did I have a baby? I can't deal with this."

He didn't even get hurt!

When he fell off the couch a couple months ago and scared both my husband and I, I had the same thought. 

When I first began breastfeeding, I had the same thought.

Breastfeeding was demanding. I didn't get to sleep as much as I could have if we used formula (so I thought). If we used formula, he might stay full longer. If we used formula, he might sleep all night. What was I thinking trying to breastfeed?

To this day, those things above are all true. But as I've mentioned before, breastfeeding went beyond just how I chose to give my child nutrition. I needed it too. I needed the closeness.

I saw this quote on Pinterest (I think) that said something like, The first six weeks, you'll envy those who chose formula, but after six months, you'll be thankful you breastfeed.

That was totally paraphrased, but it basically just meant that if you keep on breastfeeding, if you keep trying, then it's worth it in the end.

Well that's true. 

So that makes me wonder if when I die, when I take my last breath, I'll think, "This was all worth it."

I say when I die, because I don't think I'll ever not worry about C. I don't think I'll ever not think, "Why did I do this to myself?" I'll never stop wondering what he's doing or why he's doing it. I just hope that no matter how old he gets, he'll still give me those sweet kisses and the warmest hug I've ever gotten in my life. I just hope that he'll still look at me with bright eyes full of love. I hope that he'll still smile whenever he sees me walk into a room. I hope that he will still love me just as much as he does in this very moment in time. 

And in that second, right before I close my eyes for good, I'll know why I did it.