Tomorrow, Husband and I will go to a scary little office and interview three or four ladies in the hopes of finding the person we will invite into our home to live with us during the week and help take care of our home and family.

I could be a little freaked out about this. Don’t get me wrong, the prospect of having a little extra help around the house with the laundry and cleaning is AWESOME as is the possibility that this person may actually be really great with kids and be a great addition to our family.

However.

This person is going to be LIVING HERE. TAKING CARE OF MY KIDS. (I think all caps was justified there.) Logic tells me to hide the “good jewelry” and other small valuables. Not to give over the keys to the kingdom yet. I get that. What I wrestle with right now is how to welcome this person to our family and make her feel welcome while at the same time keeping one eyebrow raised and a healthy dose of skepticism.

We’ve decided to bring this person on board in early June so that we can ALL figure out how this is going to work. And? Give us time if this one doesn’t work out for any reason to either replace her or go in a different direction before the baby’s born.

There are so many little moving parts to this arrangement that I’ve never really dealt with before. You see, I decided a long time ago that I am not a manager (of people). I can manage, but I choose not to. I like people, but not the part that entails guiding people’s careers, dealing with their life’s minutae and, most importantly, excuses. I have very few control issues and prefer to ride herd over a project or advise as opposed to deal with the details. As an example, I didn’t really plan my own wedding. It was a time for my mom and dad to have a great time and I was totally okay with that. I wanted input on 3 or 4 items and the rest? Knock your socks off, folks!

But this? Is different. This “project” is living in our home. And affecting our children. Hmmm.

So, here’s what I think about at 3:32am when my heartburn is attacking. (This person is most likely going to be an “undocumented worker” and there are cultural issues to deal with.)

Seriously. These are the things that get in the way of me being a normal person these days. (Trust me, there’s a looooong list.)

Yep. There’ll be no sleeping tonight.

I have some now. Although I keep hearing “My goodness you don’t even look pregnant!”, somehow, I think these people are either (a) lying, (b) blind, or (c) trying to be nice. Regardless, I am one uncomfortable skinny person.

I am now sleeping with no less than four pillows – including the large, decorative pillow that you are not supposed to sleep on because they are too pretty for sleeping. This highly engineered sleeping apparatus is about the only way I can get through the night without a massive heartburn issue at 3:45 in the morning. It’s kinda like a large, elevated Great Wall of China effect.

Husband thinks it’s charming. Or sending a message. Or both.

It’s swimming season down in these parts, and Husband and I decided we’d take The Swimmy over to my folks’ house to swim this afternoon. So, in deference to the nearly 2 million soldiers who have given their lives for this country throughout history, I donned a maternity bathing suit. Actually, I donned a maternity bathing suit after not being able to “groom” certain lower personal areas because I cannot see them any more… and therefore they don’t exist.

Tres patriotic, no?

This got me thinking (which really is a complete waste of any energy I have right now). At some point, Dr. HandsomeGenius ObGyn is going to start up with the lovely internal exams again and I am going to have to stop going jungle. This is going to require a bikini wax. A well-timed bikini wax that will last for a visit or two and then others closer to the actual due date.

A pregnant bikini wax. This is not the kind of experience I’m lookin’ for right now.

“Hey, Wiggly – would you mind callin’ a cease and desist on your soccer game in there for a moment so that Mommy can bite down on this towel while this nice latin woman rips her hair out of her very sensitive parts?

Thanks. You’re a peach.”

I read a letter on a favorite website the other day that has really stuck with me. It was from a mom who has a son that has hit the dreaded teenage years. She shared her frustration about how he has gone from being her sweet boy to this person she doesn’t know what to do with. He’s not involved in drugs or anything illegal or dangerous, but the hormones have kicked in (as has his mouth) and she was at a loss.

The point of her letter was not to whine or complain about her son, but to praise her husband. You see, her husband recognized she had hit her parenting breaking point and as the “mom”, her time as “primary parent” was over. I’m paraphrasing here, but basically he said to her, “You had him for the first 10 years, I get him for the next 10.”

She got to teach him how to be a little boy, he was going to teach him how to be a Man. Capital M. The first lesson came when he popped off in some mouthy teenage way to his mom and the dad got right in his face and quite sternly said to his son, “You will not talk to my wife that way.”

That is what has really stuck with me. The dad truly changed the boy’s perspective with that one phrase. I’ve written about how the thought of raising a son is slightly overwhelming to me. And I can’t tell if this letter helps that or not. On one hand, it gives me some insight to the mind of a guy. On the other, I realize that at some point, I will not have the insight to be of any help.

You see, with The Swimmy (or any girl), I can anticipate what the social issues will be and respond accordingly. I get how a girl thinks. But I cannot teach a boy to be a man.

I’ve seen how few “Men” (capital M) there are out there. And I’ve seen how that has affected their children. Every time I turn around there is another 20 year old Boy (capital B) who can’t take responsibility for anything, pretends to have a direction in life, doesn’t want to work hard, expects his mommy and daddy to fix his problems and because they do, isn’t prepared to take care of his future wife and family. (And, make no mistake, it is a man’s job to do that and it doesn’t mean women are helpless.)

Well, not my son. Not on my watch. I may not be able to teach him how to be a man, but I damn sure can teach him about the role of women in his life. Mothers, sisters, and wives. ‘Cause any of those issues mentioned above? Ain’t gonna fly with any Woman (capital W) in his life. Only Girls put up with that shit.

And there ain’t no Girls in this house, son.

People, I am being attacked. Well, my innards are. Apparently this little 3 pound creature has 953 elbows and 659 knees that are intent on jamming their little selves into my various abdominal parts all damn day.

All. Damn. Day.

And while he is having a grand ol’ time in there, it appears my diet has had to take a regressive turn back to bland, meat and potatoes, BLAH because I have the WORST case of heartburn in recorded history. TUMS and me? BFF. Either this kid or I am going to turn into a walking cheeseburger happy meal. Or a vanilla milkshake. Or both.

And now? My boobs. Which are still fabulous. You know, in case you were wondering. I’m loving the fact that I actually own a set now. But the side effect of this? Itching. Lots and lots of itching. I don’t know if it’s the hot weather, the hormones, the growth (my G-d the growth!), but I have this constant need to scratch and rub and I walk around looking like a badly directed porn starlet.

My boss thinks it’s charming.

Excuse me now. I have to go scratch and roll over.

Dear Swimmy,

You are five years old today. I know this not only because I’m your mother, but because at 6:28am you came bounding in and asked (quite loudly), “Am I five yet?!”

Yes. You are.

I hear so many people talk about “It goes so fast…you begin to forget things… Can you believe she’s FIVE already?!” Yes. Yes I can. I remember it all.

This has been a banner year for you. You’ve come out of your introverted stage into full on goof-dom. You have become one of your teacher’s favorites not only for your smile, beauty and unbelievable brains (OMG), but for your heart as well.

We went to Build-A-Bear together this week as part of a world-wide project for the Ronald McDonald Houses. You and 4 of your girlfriends from school were invited. You got to make a special bear that would be donated to a sick child. Some were concerned the participants might not want to give up the bears they made. Not you. You wanted to make the best little bear in the world so “my sick friends could feel better with her.” You kissed her and handed her over proudly. I might have cried 3 times.

The best part of all of this is that I not only laugh at you, but laugh with you as well. You, my little Swimmy, have no rhythm. And I think you are tone deaf. Sorry. Both Daddy and I contributed to that combination. But you sing and dance with all the passion of a star performer and, in this case, intent counts more than technique.

It’s amazing, but Daddy and I are continuing astounded at the fact that you walk nowhere. You bounce or flit or glide or skip…and sometimes we just shake our heads. But then Daddy says a little out-loud prayer that he hopes you are always this happy – ‘cause that’s what all that means. Amen.

Every now and then you’ll turn your head up to me when we’re snuggling in the morning, or throw me a glance while you’re playing and I catch a glimpse of the little baby face and baby cheeks I used to munch on. Thanks for still letting me nibble.

You are one special little girl. Your love, smile and spirit have healing power – just ask your Dodi and Zayde when they’re in Little Rock. You will never know how your silly little smiling face on a computer screen fills them up – but yours is a love affair no one dare tread on. The medicine helps, but you help more.

This is a big year for you, Swimmy. You go to kindergarten at a new school, you become a big sister, you get to be a flower girl in OldestDaughter’s wedding, and who knows what else awaits you. Whatever it is, I know you will approach it with curiosity, thoughtfulness, enthusiasm and giggles. And I’m just glad I’m here to watch it all unfold for you.

Happy Birthday, Boo Boo. I love you.

Love,

Mommy

Sorry for the lack of posts lately. But I promise tomorrow to have tales of princess birthday parties, Swimmy graduations, heartburn and my boobs.

Good luck sleeping tonight.

I might have mentioned I have an event for the hospital tomorrow night that is causing my heart to implode with guilt. (It’s still scheduled. The voodoo didn’t work.)

I spent today running the last few errands for it. Florist (hostess gift), Party City (napkins – a favor for the hostess), Office Depot (nametags). I also had to go to Kinko’s. They were printing a set of color slides for me because my toner was running low. As I sulked in, ready to pick up my very handy internet order, I noticed there was a couple next to me who needed help with a flyer. They needed it copied in color, as it had a photograph on it.

At first I thought it was (yet another) “Lost Dog” flyer that shows up in our neighborhood semi-regularly. Upon second glance (‘cause I’m nosey that way sometimes), I realized it was indeed a “Missing” flyer – except it was for a young girl, Brianna.

I don’t know the circumstances that caused this awful situation. Quite frankly, I don’t want to. But in that moment, I realized I was kind of an asshole. I was sulking about missing a 2 hour event for The Swimmy. These folks were wondering if this kid was safe.

And so, I’m thinking that “grass is always greener” cliché is STILL a big, fat lie. I’m thinking I’ll smile when I say goodbye to The Swimmy tomorrow night and hand her a little bouquet of flowers to say how proud I am. I’m thinking I’ll give her a great big, loved-soaked hug before she leaves and when I get home.

Because I can.

Updated to add this:

Today I decided to (finally) start painting Wiggly’s room. I hauled the paint can, drop cloth and assorted paraphernalia to his room and began to slap some paint on the wall. No big deal. Okay, I might have gotten a little high, but no big deal.

When I was done, I needed to wash out the roller and paint bucket so that I could re-use them for applying the second coat. (I’m recycle-y like that.) We had yet another glorious weather day here today, so I headed outside to grab the hose and start a-rinsin’.

And that is where shit went bad.

I wasn’t out the door two seconds before six (SIX!!) wasps came at me. I did a lovely flailing maneuver, throwing paint all over myself and my back porch and headed out the back gate and down the driveway.

My garden hose is attached to a nozzle on the side of the house where the driveway is. I figured I could at least salvage this mission by rinsing out the paint-filled tools.

I was very, very wrong.

I step over to the edge of the bed where the nozzle is and begin to lean in to grab the hose. That’s when I saw it.

A snake. A yellow and green striped, rather large garden snake.

And THAT is when I decided I could buy another roller pad and paint bucket.

If you’re paying attention in life, you don’t need a national holiday to bring to light some lessons in life. But, occasionally, those holidays provide an additional day of “ah…yes” for you.

I came to motherhood in an unorthodox way. I married into it. Once I made this choice, I began to look around and really study other mothers and their relationships to their children. I didn’t have to look far to see a wide range of situations.

I’ve seen mothers who didn’t appreciate being mothers.

I’ve seen mothers who didn’t understand their role.

I’ve seen mothers who were true matriarchs, and those who shied away from that role.

I’ve seen mothers who didn’t learn until much later in life how to fit into their childrens’ lives.

But now, I notice the children. And a lot of it saddens me.

I see children who have lost faith in their parents.

I see adults whose expectations are those of children.

I see children destined to repeat mistakes of their parent.

I see adults who have become someone their parents don’t want really want to be close to any longer.

I see adults who have conveniently forgotten about the honor and obligation a child has for good parents.

And children who don’t understand why they need not be obligated to or feel guilty about their parent’s behavior.

This May 22nd, The Swimmy and I will be five years into our relationship. And with each developmental milestone, we both have to adjust to those changes – and accept them. I have expectations of what our adult relationship will be like. I’m not ashamed to say that. But, I know, that working hard toward that end for the next 20 years is time well spent. That way, I know she’ll be a well-adjusted, emotionally stable, loving, strong, caring woman ready to take on her own marriage and family.

And THAT will be the best Mother’s Day present ever.

But she was known in the Blogosphere as CancerBaby. She lived a valiant life and battled with infertility and cancer.

On this Mother’s Day, I’d like to honor her struggle. She never had the chance to be a mom, but she shared valuable information about women’s health issues. And so, in her memory, I ask every woman reader to take a moment and read this post about ovarian cancer. It is a silent killer, and too many women don’t know the warning signs or how to be advocates for their health in this area.

I wish you peace, Jessica. And for your family. You will be missed.