We are headed to Naples and Marco Island, FL for Labor Day weekend. I fear I am packing too much, worrying too much, etc etc. We don’t get out much. At least not for long periods of time. It’s SO much easier to stay home with a little one. Things you take for granted, (like, um, a crib, highchair, infant Motrin, animal crackers, nursery water, liquid vitamins, and on and on the list goes), must be figured out ahead of time in order to make the entire thing enjoyable. Chris and I usually don’t even get this far before we throw our hands up and say, FORGET IT!

But my good ol’ friend “Bean” is FINALLY (as she would put it) getting married, and her bridal shower is on Saturday, so come hell or high water, we are getting our act together and leaving the confines of our shell, er, home, for 4 days.

So today is about doing ten loads of laundry, leaving the house the way we want to come back to it, and packing. Also, we are supposed to “share” our “mini-stories” at Community Group tonight.

At the moment, “Wonder Pets” is on in the living room and I gotta say, I LOVE THEM! I love them because Ethan loves them. And because, unlike other ridiculous cartoons Iwon’tmentionSpongebob, hahmm, it teaches kids about teamwork, sharing, patience, and most importantly, helping those in trouble. Also, it keeps my son on the floor with his juice and animal crackers for a good half hour before he goes to let the dog out of her crate before she is done eating.

And sometimes he eats her food for her.

Tomorrow is Friday, and Friday’s around “Mama Need Java” mean FICTION! I will be writing you guys a very short fiction story every Friday. Sounds fun, heh?

 For those of you who don’t know, either because you were abducted by aliens prior to September 2004 or you are completely oblivious to the coolest things happening in the world, LOST aired on ABC two years ago and is approaching it’s third season. Since I will be blogging on Wednesday evenings about the show, I thought I’d catch every one up in the next few weeks.

Season 3 will begin on Wednesday, Oct. 4^th. Season 2 DVD’s will be available to purchase in stores on Tuesday, September 5, and you can pre-order yours today on Amazon too.

In the coming weeks I will fill you in on the main characters, major plots, and best theories floating around in Lostland. Then, on the 27^th, I will tell you everything I can find out about Season 3, and then the countdown begins.

The series began with a pilot script written and created by J.J. Abrams (creator of the TV series Alias and Felicity, as well director and co-writer of Mission Impossible III and writer of Armeggedon.) and Damon Lindelof. The pilot episode was the most expensive in the network’s history, costing between $10 and $14 million dollars.

The show follows the survivors of the crash of fictional Oceanic Flight 815 from Sydney to  Los Angeles. As the pilot, whose life on the island is short-lived, tells the others, “We were six hours out of Sydney when we lost communication. We turned to head towards Fiji. We were two hours off course when we crashed. They won’t know where to look.” (Paraphrase).

To make matters worse for the survivors, it turns out this is no ordinary island. It’s an island with a mysterious “smoke monster,” kid-napping “Others” who appear to be scientists dressed as savages, and a variety of back-stories that link each character’s sordid past to another’s.

That’s the basics, for now. I’ll introduce you to the main characters next week. In the meantime, there are character, season, and episode synopses on Wikipedia, Lost-Media, and ABC Lost, among others.

It turns out my dad was right. Darn. I might consider selling my soul to the person who invents the dollar producing tree, though. Naaaa, that doesn’t sound very fun.

Financial woes are getting at us lately. My husband, the bread-winner, has lost the bread. Maybe he just lost the yeast, but without yeast, there is no bread. Ok there’s flat bread or something, but man needs BREAD.

 We are typical American consumers, with more than the average consumer debt, renting our duplex and finding that just when we get a mile ahead, there is a huge accident that sends us on a detour across town. We end up back at the same place a few months later, out of gas.

As I’m blogging, he is applying for a part-time UPS job. We have been thinking we can get by with him working part-time, while I get semi-regular work from freelancing and my job doing extended clerical jobs for a publishing company. I love that he wants to spend time with his son and wife more, so I’m choosing to trust that with our priorities in order, the financial stuff will get taken care of. There is truly nothing more precious to me than the time I get to spend with my son, and I seriously would pass a six figure job up before I would spend 8 hours away from him every day. Besides, artists are supposed to be poverty stricken eccentrics, right?  

Luckily, doors continue to open wide for me as I begin my freelance writing career, so even though it requires research and technical writing into things that totally don’t interest me, I can do it while Ethan sleeps, building myself a nice little nocturnal career!  

Speaking of which, it is nearly 1 A.M. so I should probably get ready for bed now.

  Yesterday I ran into the grocery store for a Sunday paper and the cashier, an older woman with a crotchety edge about her, made the comment to me, “I thought this was a place of employment, not a fun-house.”

    Apparently there were two other cashiers over at the service counter who were laughing too loudly for her approval. The store was very empty; only two registers were open. The adjacent register was cashiered by a younger girl who clearly had a too-eager-to-please complex. Were she nearer to the laughing girls, she would have rolled her eyes at this woman. Instead, she encouraged it. “Phsssh. For some people I guess this is just a fun-house. A fun-house with a paycheck,” she agreed, but her tone wasn’t very persuading. The crotchety woman kept eyeing me, waiting for me to chime in about work-ethic or the good ol’ days or something. I was thinking, “Um, hello, rub your lenses, I’m like 22. Not a dinosaur.” I didn’t say anything. I gave a very curt smile and reached for my receipt prematurely. The young cashier rambled on in agreement, not coming up with anything new, simply repeating the same thing in different ways. “It should be a place of employment, but some people think it’s a fun house.”

    (God, make it stop.)

It didn’t. The crotchety woman held my check out of my reach, holding me prisoner to her snide remarks. “I’m sure glad my mother raised me better than that.”

    At that, I left my receipt, grabbed my bag, and bolted, giving the two laughing cashiers a sympathetic glace. I worked in retail for roughly 7 years, and one thing I did learn was that laughing at work, especially when the store is slow, is a heck of a lot less distracting than giving your two cents about your fellow co-workers to a customer. Ugh. On my way out, I thought of things I should’ve said, like, “Yeah, your mom did a great job, you turned out nice and judgmental.” But it occurred to me that I was judging her, so I was glad I held my tongue.

    It is amazing the generational differences between people, particularly women. My grandma’s generation was very concerned with what is proper and what is not, where as the girl’s a decade under me might ask what proper even means. There’s this store called “Justice for Girls” here with all tweeny bopper clothes fit for a Barbie size J-Lo. Saturday night, Chris and I were walking around the plaza and when I saw these two girls, probably about 8 and 10 years old, finger drawing hearts on the foggy store windows. When we passed, I made a comment to Chris, “Uhhhh uh,” I said, “I felt like walking up and pinching those little butt cheeks visible under those underwear-posing-as-jean-skirts. Man, when we have a little girl!”

   And there I was the very next morning, looking bug eyed at the dinosaur cashier for her point of view. I think I just have to give up thinking I know anything about anything.

My son, aka CEO of “Organize my Stuff, Inc.”, looooooves to put things away. We find the oddest items in the most peculiar places.

Last night I was folding clothes when I stopped to see what was so entertaining to him located in the wardrobe. I grabbed the camera and observed.

 Here is what I found in my wardrobe:

 Purell Hand Sanitizer, Hand-held massage thingy, and one of his link-ados.

After taking the picture, I, of course, left them on the floor. So he came behind me and put them away on the side of my lap desk:

In all of Ethan’s genetic make-up, there is only ONE person who shares his anal organizing fetish, (uh, yes, Bmom, that’s you!)

 ”Mommy! How many TIMES have I told you to put things away when you get them out!”

So far I haven’t had to think much about instilling biblical values in my son. I mean, I sing hymns to him at night, and when I tuck him in I whisper, “mama loves you, dada loves you, and Jesus loves you most of all.” That’s our little ritual. Were I to try to tell him exactly who this Jesus is, his 13 month old brain would turn to mush and he would reply with raised eyebrows something that resembles Korean.

The problem is, the time will come that he will understand, and if I’m not in the practice of talking about my faith it may be a little harder to begin. I think my biggest concern is to not come off too preachy or forceful in the area of religion. I want to give him truth, but I also want to equip him with the tools to discern truth for himself. And for that matter, it seems every time I turn around I realize how much truth I have yet to grasp. I pray that Chris and I will model Christ-like behavior foremost; that we will be generous, kind, loving to people –quick to forgive, even quicker to repent. I really hope that I can be open about my struggles and mistakes, that I can apologize and not always have to be right (something I didn’t get too see often from my parents … and I think most people who know me would say I also don’t do very well either). 

 As far as I am concerned, these are the real biblical values. I believe it is Brian McLaren who refers to the Bible as a beautiful story book, a story of the conversation between humanity and its Maker, rather than as some “scientific fact book.” I would like my son to read the Bible this way, to treasure the story rather than paper pages.

Today could have very well been left off the calendar. I could have simply skipped it. Ethan woke us up at 5 am with his molar woes. I had a few questionably productive hours before we fell asleep together on the couch and I did not awake until almost noon. After making lunch, my friend “Red” came by. I watched “She’s the Man” (Amanda Bines- yeeeah.) with her. Towards the end of the movie my legs began to twitch with muscle atrophy. I started pacing the room like a caged animal. “This is not the way to spend a Thursday. Hard-working people are out there some where, hunched over a desk or a hammer or something, while I am in this dark house watching this godforsaken movie!,” I scolded myself. I got dressed. I took Ethan for a bike ride, a very short one because it is so friggin hot and humid outside. Seriously, I had made it to my driveway, a distance of about 20 feet, when I wiped beads of oil off my forehead. Gross. So then I made brownies for Community Group, drove it to them, but did not stay because every one in my house is a hypochondriac, er I mean not feeling good, including me. I checked my e-mail about a finity times. I ate popcorn for dinner. It was like the twilight zone.

But before putting Ethan to bed at the late hour of 10 PM, finally FINALLY there was a moment which made this day on the calendar worth it. He was playing with a plastic water bottle (he has this thing about screwing caps on and off) and stashing the top in my mouth. I took that cap in my lips and blew it out, and with a “Phoooh” not unlike a spitball, it smacked him right in the head. Chris, Ethan, and I started to crack up. Ethan placed the cap back in my mouth as if to say, “AGAIN, AGAIN!” It was like being in a batting cage, one after another, flying caps in the gut. We actually held out like this for about ten minutes before I brought him to his crib. I suppose it’s a gift when such a mindless, futile day has left its mark, even if it is on your kid’s forehead.

Motherhood can be incredibly self-revealing.

Nearly two years ago I found out I was pregnant, and the idea that I was going to be a mother both thrilled and terrified me. What began as two pink lines on a plastic stick became a delicate, sometimes heart-wrenching journey into the mysterious world of motherhood. Still relatively new to the experience, I have not figured it all out yet –some how I think I never will.

For me, the last two years have been about shedding layer upon layer of myths I believed about myself and the world. It has been about sacrifice and love I did not know I was capable of. I resist the process every mother must undertake of letting go of their former self –or the façade their former self clung to. When children come along, they seem to bring with them a large selection of hotel-type incandescent light bulbs. I do not have to describe how these forsaken bulbs reveal the imperfections of an eyebrow wax or darken under eye circles with their sickly yellow light. Being a mother has been like sitting under these lights in the hotel bathroom and giving my reflection a good, hard stare just when I was sure I was ready to go out. It seems that the moment I am pleased with myself for, say, being on time to a gathering, my son will inevitably have a bout of diarrhea that requires more than wipes but rather a hosing down in the bathtub. The instant I allow the prideful notion to creep into my head that I just might be the best mother I know, he will be sure to throw a screaming fit that goes about ten minutes beyond my threshold of tolerance. At this point I become a three-headed monster, snapping in anger and impatience. Then I do what all moms do: shrink back in guilt and realize that I have so very far to go.

Yes, motherhood can feel a bit undignified, but I am no martyr; I am blessed to be so humbled by the ride. Children serve as an incredible catalyst for growth and change. In her book Traveling Mercies, writer Anne Lamott describes it as, “one of the gifts kids give you, because after you have a child, things come out much less orderly and rational than they did before.”

I love that motherhood has taken a bucket of white paint and splashed it over my life’s canvas. With the deconstruction underway, I can slowly learn to live authentically –with the vulnerability required to have deeper relationships and greater life meaning.

I should begin this entire entry with the disclaimer that I am only on the verge of the weaning process and feel in no hurry at the moment. I read in LLL (that’s La Leche League, for those who don’t know) that a great way to wean is “don’t offer, don’t refuse.” I like that a lot, but am beginning to think that if I want to stop nursing my son THIS DECADE, before my nipples look like the ones in the picture –(and YES YA’LL, that baby is seriously nursing from the adjacent side, the corresponding nipple dangling unused above its tortured sister)-, I may have to get more aggressive about it. My one year old and I are not catching on very fast to the concept of weaning, or more accurately, to the application of the concept. The concept I believe we both understand, exemplified by his recent aggressive, demanding displays of nearly tearing the buttons off my shirt and yanking lower and lower on my neckline until that wonderful coveted darker flesh of an areola appears. It’s about this time that his hungry grunting and frustrated shrieking cease while he frantically brushes his lips back and forth only to find, HORROR OF ALL HORRORS, that he’s bitten into a mouth full of fabric. Did I describe the scene in the background yet? How about the room full of people or the grocery store or just about anywhere that I happened to be holding him?

One of the factors contributing to our inability to adhere to a successful weaning schedule is the random midnight feedings. (Yes: MY ONE YEAR OLD). I know, I know; some of you are saying, “so?” while others disapprovingly shake their heads that I don’t have that the hard-nosed mom gene which would stiffen rather than soften at the sound of his waking cry. Let me say four words to you head-shakers: I could care less. Ok, back to my story. The other night I awoke to his cry at about 2:30 AM, an unusually early time, so I slept-walked into his room, banged my toe on his fisher-price lawn mower, and crept up to his crib. I always fish around for him, as he lays there, eyes still closed, whining louder and louder. He must be as awake as I am. So we finally find each others’ hands, flailing out in the air above him, and not unlike movies where the fearless leader heroically lifts his dangling weaker partner from off of the cliff edge, I find the strength in me to boost him onto my shoulder. The trek back to my room is often a perilous journey: me, stumbling like an idiot through a maze of toys and doorways, my main concern to not drop or smash my son into the frames, while he deliriously rides my hip, bouncing a bit with a loud “BUH!” or two to keep tune with his bounce. In the dream-state I was in, I lay this “buh”-ing creature on the bed and crawl up next to him. As my fingers fumble for the buttons of my danged flannel pajamas, (which I could curse at times like this for being so darn prolonging), my son is literally rolling back and forth on his back, mouthing the air, calling out loudly, “bah! duh! buh!”. I must say, I actually laughed out loud at him, because my minds eye was playing this all out for me like some Animal Planet scene. Ok, stay with me: The large majestic eagle lands at the edge of its nest, ready to regurgitate its food for the incessantly chirping downy chick to feed. This chick is helpless, “ACK! ACK!” it demands as it nearly falls out of the nest jumping in enthusiasm. And so was my child, my little baby bird, chirping next to me as I struggled with that top.

More recently, as in this week, he has been doing much better. Despite his teething and his cold, he is nursing an average of 2-3 times a day, which, if you ask me (and who else would you ask?), is right on schedule.

     At the time that I conceived my first child, I was a twenty year old girl/woman with a petite frame, size 2 pants, weighing in around 105 lbs. I often thought I had a little too much pudge around my belly button, criticizing my body for not being as in shape as it was six years prior when I had a short stint as a high school athlete. As my body grew to hold a baby inside, I focused hard on gaining enough weight with the right foods. I took me until my fourth month of pregnancy to gain 5 pounds, and most people couldn’t really tell I was expecting until 6 months. I remarked at times how my legs were filling out, as well as my cheeks and upper arms. I usually found my fullness utterly delicious, sporting it in cute maternity clothes- and a bathing suit when ever possible. In all I managed to put on 43 pounds by my two week post due date labor, which was a number I was happy with because it was only slightly above the recommended weight gain but a big enough number to prove that I was a healthy mama who was eating for a growing boy inside. I only cringed when I noticed the deep, purple tears that ran down both hips and the back of my upper legs. I remarked that I looked like an old stuffed animal that was just literally ripping at the seams. I lovingly, and hatefully, coined them “my war wounds.” I had simply not realized how important the constant cocoa and Shea butter was for my hips and legs. My tummy came away from the entire process with only the tiniest, nearly invisible, white line of a stretch mark. When I got home from the hospital three days after labor, I had lost 25 lbs already. The constant nursing did not work like a charm for me, I kept around that weight for a good three months. I felt great, though. I remember being a little bit preoccupied with this strangely shaped figure. I had never once in my life really been so full looking. My engorged boobs probably helped balance things out a bit, and let’s face it, my stomach had been blocking the view on my own toes for several months, so anything less and I felt like the Abs of Steel workout coach! I wore my nursing gowns a lot and my husband told me how beautiful I was, how sexy I was as a mother, and I soaked it all up. I was feminine, with a deep, matriarchal complex that kept my normal bustling, insecure personality at bay. I was too tired to argue like I used to, too tired to be overly sensitive or emotional, and with the perspective that I had just survived the “trauma” of giving birth with no pain meds, there were only a few things in life worth thinking much about: do not forget to change my infant’s diaper (as all new mothers know, in those first few weeks this is NOT second nature yet), try to get out of the house, if even to check the mail, and try to stay showered so I don’t repulse my husband with the smell of sour milk. That’s about it. I avoided the phone, the tv, books, etc. In fact, I can hardly remember what I did do in those weeks. Loving, wonderful people stopped by to bring us warm soup and meals, to keep us company, to pray with us. I’ve never known such support. The whole time I was not very concerned that I carried such a heavy figure for my frame, or that my war wounds were still very purple. I simply placed my palms lovingly on my belly, admired it for all its work, for bouncing back into something that almost resembled flat again, (at least compared to the playboy bunny chest hovering above it.) After a while, my extra 5, then 10, then 15 pounds did find a way to keep some one else’s butt company, but with their departure my insecurities returned. I began to complain again, to grumble about my fat, my sag, and woah-is-me that I am only 21 years old and have the body of a mother. I didn’t have the money to join a gym, though I did do my best to stay active, walk the lake on a schedule every few weeks. I had a hard time with portion control because the nursing kept me very hungry, but eventually things began to even out. A year later, I weigh about 110, and wear a size 5 comfortably. Sometimes I roll my eyes at that lovely fold of slightly stretched skin and fat that sleepily dangles over my jeans when I bend over or sit. The good news is that a child keeps you pretty busy, so you don’t have much time to stand backwards in a mirror and count the spider veins, cottage cheese dimples, a couple bruises from life with a toddler, and chastise yourself for giving your bum unspoken permission to creep down the back of your legs. Instead, I have tried to remember that quiet, inner grace and beauty which enveloped me after the birth of my son. I try to take bubble baths when I can, to enjoy the way my silk night gown feels after a long cup of wine, without idling before a mirror to critique the reflection. I am grateful that, with clothes on, I have come together well enough to pass as a normal 22 year old. Even my war wounds have become white and in time I hope the scarring will look less menacing when I at last tone up and get some tan on my booty.

No one else has to see what motherhood has worn into my fabrics, except for my husband and me, in the dim lighting of romantic nights. I am blessed to have some one desire the comfort of my body; I am blessed that I have been able to produce and give of it, even though the giving creates fatigue, or back pain, or flabby nursing boobs. I know that my body will fill out again in the future, with each new pregnancy, with middle age, and so on, and I might as well get used to it. To strive for outward beauty only seems to make me a little shallower, a little less creative, because I simply don’t want to be vulnerable. To put on several imperfections, that is what beauty is about: humbling, rewarding, graceful. It takes you one more step away from yourself, into this place where poetry and art begin to speak to you, where you aren’t afraid to get up and dance to the nearby music, with a one year old on your hip gazing and smiling at you as though you are the very definition of lovely.