In anticipation of The Main Event: Blogher09, I am posting a little, “Getting to Know You, Getting to Know Allllll About You” post because, pretty much, I don’t know you {and vice versa} if you are coming here.  I’m willing to scoot out on this limb because I know *very* few mom-bloggers.  Some of you have put up with me on twitter.  Some of you have blocked me.  One of you has overcome any fear you may have had to meet me at an equidistant point between our homes.  But then, that one is extraordinary.

This post is generic enough to cover the introductions but also the good times ahead, because I’ve gotta work this week y’all.  Then I am driving swag to the party for the room704.  So, yeah, I don’t have time to post.  This is an anticipatory post, and in no way should be used against me for my naivete.

I’m the Mommentator.  Nice to know you.  {My grandma used to say that, and while I agree it’s assuming that meeting is knowing, I still like it.}

Here is a quick, bullet point list for you to peruse in case you are sitting in the same room as I am at the *actual* conference, with but 30 seconds to evaluate me.  Maybe you heard someone call my name.  Maybe I just rambled up in front of you, smelling of last night’s gin, and shoved my hand straight out to force my calling card upon you.  Whatever.  I’m just the kind of girl that wants to make things simple for you.

Mommentator for Dummies, or if that offends, Mommentator At-A-Glance:

1. I live in the Midwest.  Close enough to drive to Blogher09.  OK, Missouri, geez.
2. I am a Mom.
3. I have three kids.  8,6,3 and they are all full of drama.
4. My husband is an attorney is a small town.  I work for him.  That’s all I have to say about that.
5. I have very little advice for fellow mothers.  I find that just as I believe I have it figured out, I find myself once again befuddled.
6. I don’t have a philosophy on parenting; I merely love and let loose.
7. I think saving money is a great concept so I can buy Joe’s Jeans.
8. I cook.  It’s my only artistic talent.  Everyone has one, I hope you’ve found yours.
9. I love Costco.
10. I like cats and dogs, but not *my* dog.
11. Beautiful stationary is a friend.
12. If I could recommend some luxuries; Anthropolgie clothing, Cambria Cove and intense shoe shopping.
13. I do not enjoy Coach products with insignia blasted upon me.  You should be a billboard of style but not an electric light blinking display of Vegas-style advertising.
14. And here is the bomb: I’m a republican.  I know… maybe some of you are too.  Maybe you loathe them.  I have a political site, which is something I’d like you to take the time to evaluate.  http://www.politicalmommentary.com. It exists to provoke debate, thought, Mom-empowerment through knowledge.  I know you have a lot to do every day.  But your politics are important too.  Get a tidbit and mull it over.  My hope is to provide differing opinions, so if you have one, please comment.  And be looking for some democrats and independents who are willingly coming on board to show that divisions between are not cause for loathing.
15. Here on this site, you can expect the random.  I am currently exploring a dusty old book I found at the Library book sale, written to perpetuate some 1950s women stereotypes.  I attach my own modern spin to it, and off we go.  If you’d like to read me, start by reviewing this.  I look forward to getting back to it after I explore this thing that is Blogher.

Hey, I’m looking forward to connecting with you.  Add me on twitter.  Become a fan, or an interested bystander on my facebook page.  Also, check out my even MORE random, “other” spew-spot: www.wickedgood.wordpress.com.  {My girlfriends and I have problems. Welcome}

Every human being wants sympathetic understanding from others.

After our last post, we talked about being popular.  In a bloggy blog world, this is a process, one of being yourself, being a part of your community and establishing your presence there.  This isn’t much different than real life popularity, though we often don’t give it much thought as we attempt to create a “base” of friends.  Perhaps we should attend more directly to this process.  But, more important, perhaps, than making friends is the exercise in keeping them. 

I am combining two chapters in proposing my modern day case study: Keeping Friends and Courtesies That Help to Strengthen Friendships. 

As you all have come to know, I’ve been busy trying to hone the skills of blogging for the purpose of outlet and gaining skill.  I have largely figured out the blogging community by the grace of one KaiserMommy.  Then came the day I was called upon to return the favor.  Innocently, she asked; “Are you still planning to drive to Blogher?”  To which I reply; “yes.”

“Would you mind if I send some swag your way, for you to bring along?”

I give you… the swag that came:

Wall O' Swag

Deep and Wide

Last Tuesday, I needed some physical exercise and decided to take the more than 700 lbs. worth of swag off of the palettes it came on and stack it up so I can fit my car into the garage again.  I had a little help.  But, as you can see, it wasn’t a pretty sight…

It is unfortunate that this is your first impression

Somehow, I will be fitting the @Room704 Party Swag, in this:

Chicago-bound Swag Wagon

Everyday from my husband; “you are quite aware that that there is NO WAY that stuff is going to fit.  Aren’t you aware of that?  I hope you know that it isn’t going to fit….really.”

I have a back-up plan.  I just threw it together.  Last year our family bought an obsolete Ford truck for the purposes of dragging things around.  All families need a truck of some kind.  It’s nearly impossible to live without one.  I like to buy flowers, trees and landscaping stuff and drag it home.  There was an unfortunate ride with the kids with a 10 foot Hawthorne Tree stuffed into the back of my wagon.  I really don’t want to relive it but let’s just say I couldn’t see the baby sitting in the back in her carseat. 

So… a desperate fool wanted to unload this beauty and we, the suckers, gave him a spot of cash to become the new owners of this fine vehicle:

The Black Pearl

Embrace your theme

It is possible that I will have to load up in the Old Pearl, tarp flapping all the way North.  It may very well become know Blogher wide: ‘The Infamous Mommentator” simply because of my wheels.  I suppose it goes to show that it’s very important to be able to laugh at one’s own self.  If the Pearl makes it to Chicago, I will need a one-way home.  Guaranteed.

The moral to the story is that being a friend to others is actually fulfilling.  I am really, ultimately, completely happy to lend a hand to @mrsflinger, @vdog and @kaisermommy at the Room 704.  I belly laugh as I look at the possibility of rolling up to the Sherton stuffed to the gills with the people’s swag.  I suppose if I were living in the 50s, I’d bring everyone a fresh baked cookie basket.  Or I’d bring on the entertainment and hula hoop my way through the afterparty.

I am so looking forward to seeing these girls in a couple short weeks.  I predict any effort I will put into getting there, is waiting for me on the other side 10-fold.

See you at the party girls.  Watch for the girl with the hoop.

LATE BREAKING NEWS:

The Twitterverse being the place that it is, this afternoon tweet of this story led to one EXTRAORDINARY Mommy reaching out.  Next Monday, I’m meeting ExtraordinaryMommy in Columbia to share the duties of the @Room704 party.  She’s takin half and we’re gonna get everybody all hooked up for Blogher.  Which saves me and leaves room for @eCelebrating. 

Which totally rocks the house.  And is exactly what “being a friend” is all about.  Which has made all that many more friends.

Celebrated heads of state or
Specially great communicators
Did they have brains or knowledge?
Don’t make me laugh!

They were popular! Please -
It’s all about popular!
It’s not about aptitude
It’s the way you’re viewed
So it’s very shrewd to be
Very very popular
Like me!   – Galinda WICKED

Welcome to my first installment of the view Mommentator in the theme of my “new” 1950s book.  Look here if you’d like brief review of where we are.  But, really, we just started out, so don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything riveting.  Experiences in Homemaking is turning into a bit of a joke as far as a read.  I’m definitely perfecting my easy-over egg and counting to be sure the food pyramid is accurately adhered to throughout the day.  However, on the side of its defense, although the information contained therein may be dated it becomes an interesting thought irritant.  Chapter One begins with such questions as “What are you really like? How can you be popular?”

I wonder just now what your particular response would be.  I know what my initial reaction was, “who cares?” You know, because that is cool.  Not to care about others opinion.  But it’s a lie.  Quietly, silently,  as I prune my crepe myrtle it wells forth: “I do care.”  Let us take a current, topical look at why we all really do care, and perhaps how we can surrender to it.  I’ll go first.

Let me introduce myself.  I’m Mommentator. OK, Molly Teichman.  I’m a “Mom” Commentator.  Get it?  I started a blog two years ago and I’m a complete freak about how things should “look.” I spent two weeks trying to make it look as if a second grader wasn’t in charge and then pushed delete because I didn’t have anything interesting on the pages.  Like Megan, at The Velveteen Mind, I wish to write.  I am not certain that this stream of thought will ever make it to the mouth of the river.  Somewhere, I think there is a place for me.  I have lamented to my friend, Trisha, I need to write, this or that, or the other.  But, when I sit down to the chore of honing my skills, I look back and think, “What was the point of that?”  Blogging is the temporary answer to my wish and a long term exercise  in something that really does have a point.  Interacting with readers and observing the here and now of life helps to illustrate not only what is currently “me” but provides the perspective to create a more valuable tomorrow. {I am not running for office, though I am aware that sounded suspiciously political}

-time passes-

Knowing that I was completely illiterate to the blog”dom,” I did a google search of Mombloggers.  Wow.  Then I was completely overwhelmed.  Somehow,  I decided I might like to have someone create a look for me so I could relieve myself to focus on the writing.  I know that’s the most important thing, but with an ailment like mine, you just have to get some things out of the way.  I somehow found Catapult Web Design and off the page jumped “Leslie.”  You probably know her.  She’s @Mrsflinger.  Her blog: Mrs. Flinger.  She had a “button” that read: I’m Speaking!  Blissdom ’09.  I stalked her.  But, let’s not talk about that because it is even more embarrassing than this story.

I navigated.  I pondered.  My best friend lives in Nashville. {free room and board}  She wants me to visit.  {I’ll go}  I whipped out the debit card and was thereby obligated.

I tried to get “cover.”  I shamelessly promoted a sister-approach to my friend Cyndi, and wished for her to join me in the pursuit.  She’s quite funny.  A good writer.  And a total cynic.  So, if the Blissdom turned out to be completely unbearable, we could sit in the corner and point and laugh.  She, is also a procrastinator and missed out on her opportunity.  Thus, I was left alone, to attend a blog conference, with nothing but a blogger blog with two posts.  Without laptop.  Without twitter ID.  Without cute shoes.

I wasn’t worried at all.  I flew in and spent the night before enjoying cocktails, lamenting how I was going to learn so much and have a great time.  I was unaware that the next morning, as we approached the roundabout at The Preston Hotel; which we were late in finding because again, CYNDI IS A PROCRASTINATOR and poor driver… we screech to a halt and I felt as if my head had slammed into the windshield.  There were ladies swarming the place.  It was quite possible that I was going to be, “The biggest loser of all time.” 

And so I was.

Cyndi came in long enough to point and laugh.  At me.  She stood like James Dean in the corner looking carefully out of the corners of her eyes at the spectacle.  Children in swaddling, women, laughing, computer techs geeking, the booming mic asking us to: “please come in, it’s time to get staaaaaaarted.”  I looked back at her and she was already gone by the time I had picked  out the color of my Ligit ID necklace holder.

In a cloud I made my way to the ballroom.  I spotted a seat close to the door.  I could always outrun these chicks in their cute shoes. As I looked up  to eek out my request to sit at this table, a wall of illuminated compys with fingers flailing greeted me.  Still typing, one arm from each lady jutted out with their “card.”  They were KIND.  I want to stress that.  They each made small talk and asked me who I was.  When I stated that I was really no one at all, they smiled and patted me on the back.  Commotion up front was beginning to catch their attention and adoration as I took in the scene.  These people KNEW each other.  There were longtime acquaintances, twitter mates and trackback shout-out buds all about… and orbiting one another.  I had my legal pad and a free pen.

A girl, I’d say was Southern, with fun curly hair called out.  I’d later learn that she is Mrs. Fussypants.  She quite literally, “brings the awesome,” and I am a believer.  She gave a riveting speech about remembering that there were folks like me who were there alone.  And that they were terrified.  She couldn’t have known how absolutely right she was.  I felt the great need to call out an, “Amen.”   

I shuffled into the “B-side” institute and learned SO MUCH!  There was pressure from outside (Cyndi) to skip and go to the Opry Mills to shop, downtown Nashville.  It was no match.  I sat through every minute and soaked up knowledge from herbadmother, rocksinmydryer, Jenny from mommin’ it up.  I talked with other “B” side attendees.  We ate lunch.  We talked about a few sporadic efforts to sneak into “A” institute and shared the kicked-up knowledge next door. 

What I never knew was that there there was an underground.  Room parties, cocktail hours, fabulous swag.  All of this was hidden in the hallways of the hotel and the meet and greet of unfortunate elevator accidents which I am still very unclear about. 

And so I have signed on for a second go-round.  I am going to Blogher in a few short weeks.  I have a room and a new list of friends which have taken me in.  Thanks to @kaiseralex and her savvy.  Read her account of her kindness in reaching out to me after Blissdom: here.  I would tell you about it, but it wouldn’t be as good, so go over there.

I tell myself that Blogher won’t be as nerve wracking as Blissdom was.  A.  I’m prepared  B.  I have some buds there.  But really, I’m not so sure.  A.  I have some stuff out there and it isn’t all stuff that other Mom-bloggers agree with.  B.  There are going to be a lot of awesome ladies on the block. 

I’ve read around on the merry-go-round that us newbies need to go out there and spark the conversations that will make new friends.  I can appreciate that.  But, I call for the same sort of reciprocation.  It is incredibly hard to go up to a wall of very put-together women who are perfectly comfortable and happy where they are.  It is easier to reach out a hand and bring someone in. 

Here’s the truth: We want you to like us.  We would never assume to be popular, but we sure wouldn’t mind it.  We need to own the difficult road to getting there.  But your grace in allowing us your attention, is so appreciated. 

The answer to the questions posed:

What am I really like?  I’m a funny, cynical woman.  I have my ways.  But I am open to you.  I am devoted to conservativism (Hush now)  I have been loved gently by many a liberal in social media and to me they are the essence of grace.  Disagree gently and send my sailboat out into the water with an encouraging shove.  I will reciprocate.  Also, I drink Sapphire and tonic.  And expensive wine. 

In knowing this answer, I’ve won half of the race.  Because I know who I am.

How can I be popular?  To live it.

How can you be popular? 

See you there girls.

If you stopped by last week, you know I’m going to do some posts on the expectations of wives from the 50s and what we have gained, and perhaps lost, since that time.  Good, Bad and Hilarious. 

However, two days ago, a big milestone in my life, happened.  And I kinda need some family support on it.  So, what better way to talk/commiserate about issues, than my personal blog with my virtual family? 

For a great many months, my husband has been pleading with me to take our youngest daughter to get her hair cut.  I remember Jackson’s first cut, my oldest.  He squirmed in my arms, covering me with hair.  We spiked it up with some gel.  Clearly, this was the wrong way to go as he now scoffs at any coiffing and likes to comb it straight forward with his comb after I’ve left the bathroom from making him look like a gentleman. 

Emma, the middle child, received her first haircut only after I was forced.  Two years ago, she was hanging out very quietly and I took a quick shower.  When I emerged, sans corrective vision, she looked…different.  I peered closely and noticed that she was *missing* an important part of her hair.  Specifically, the entire right section and a tuft from the bangs.  She stared back in utter shock that I was beginning to dance around and frantically paw for my glasses to inspect further.  What exactly was the big deal? 

After a frantic call to my hairdresser, she “fixed” it as best she could until it grew out.  For the purpose of wrapping that story up with a bow: I only found the hair a day later, under the dining room table with the scissors neatly set on top.

And so, my baby, my litle girl.  She has grown  long, glorious hair and loves to play with it.  Bows, headbands, ponies.  She loves it all.  But, it’s difficult after the bath, in the morning, when she wants it off of her neck.  As we begin to get closer to high temperatures, the pressure from Dad was starting to drain me.

I saw my hairdresser last week and blurted out; “Wanna do my baby’s hair?”  I figured if I did a drive-by acknowledgement, I could fain stupidity later if I backed out.  We made an appointment for all three but I secretly reserved the right to tuck Lilli into my backpack and refuse services.  I’d run, if need be.

I, immediately, went to my husband with a puffed up sense of self.  “I made an appointment for haircuts – for all three.”  He allowed one eyeball to drift from his paperwork to acknowledge me.  He does this on purpose, for fear that a full reaction will cause me to rebel.

That night his sing-song voice cries out: “Lilli, are you ready to get your hair cut?”  If I could grab words from the hair and stuff them back into his mouth and require him to swallow them back up, eliminating them from ever being said, I would have done it.  You can’t tell her.  Then we will be required to do it!  I can’t break her heart!

And so she declared: “I want to look like Emma.”

And so she does:

 I didn’t cry until we were in the car and driving away from that place.  Every milestone of them growing is evidence of the fact that we will not always be here, safe in eachother’s arms.  They will grow up and be responsible for themselves, and that is why we must work so hard today.

I had a little ache in my throat when I uploaded the pictures, and as I sit here with the little curl twirled around my finger, I know that I don’t really have any babies left. 

I suppose it would seem that some simply dismiss outright the idea that there are “responsibilities” which women have.  Some may simply dismiss that any woman should feel that they are tied to any expectations in the home.  I admit, I sometimes question whether I must do something just because it is expected.  I find it hard to place my peg neatly in the hole that is “Mothering.”  I’d suggest that many feel the same way.  I would say blogging itself is evidence to this fact.  Moms need to feel real and normal no matter their daily grind.  Therefore, I thought it would be fun for this site to explore the topic in a deeper fashion.  Call it a social experiment. 

A few of you may know that I have a political site as well.  I hope that doesn’t freighten you.  I’ll admit it: I’m a Republican.  And I write about it.  But, if you’re not, I certainly hope we can be friends.  This experiment won’t be to define us as party hacks or to reinforce a philosophy.  I may, however, take a brief look at feminism and whether we have moved forward as a people by shirking our 1950s models.  I’m not quite sure.  My hypothesis is not clearly formed.

I do, however, have a plan.  I am going to experiment with some of my favorite “Mom blogger” posts, themes and agonies and apply them systematically to the logic that was prevailing in the 1950s.  I’ll be the first to admit that there was a certain propaganda at the time.  However, there is wisdom there – models of hospitality and grace.  Is there a certain balance that can be struck?

As an introduction, I think this YouTube video melds the world of today’s satire with yesterday’s words.  Enjoy!  And come back here to the experiment.  You might find encouragement, a place to vent or a little laugh.  I’d certainly love your comments.

I suppose some of it isn’t exactly because I have a choice, it’s innate.  He is his father’s son, after all.  My husband, though quick to poke fun and point out error, is oft left befuddled by my womanly hot, then cold.  He is deeply committed and loving.  He probably cries as much as I do.    His mother once caught me in the kitchen to remind me of his tenderness, not in a mom-ogre sort of way, but one which wanted her son to be able to express his heart as he had since being a little person growing up in her arms.  I smiled and knew just what she was saying.

So it is that my first-born, my only son, looking as if ditto-copied of his daddy, has been since his birth.  After his brief stay in the toasty-warm baby baker, he came to me swaddled and content.  Most of the night he stayed, relaxed, in my arms.  After about three o’clock and nearly falling asleep holding him, I decided it was time to send him to the baby nursery for a little sleep.  Brent couldn’t be counted on as he had bribed a nice nurse to roll in a full sized bed for him and was snoring loudly in the corner. (Hey, ladies, you can’t have it all.) Exactly two and a half hours later, I could hear his little voice leave the nursery, far down the hall from my room, growing  steadily louder as the rolling cart fell in line for delivery back to the Mother ship.  The nurse sheepishly said, “I’m sorry, but he just never could be sated.  I couldn’t listen to him cry any longer.”  Instantly, upon seeing him and whispering his name, he quieted.  And since that time, he usually stays calm as long as I do.

Jackson walks his sister to and from Kindergarten because he's just that kinda guy.

This isn’t to say that we don’t have trials.  He brings a different batch of concerns and joys from year to year.  But, his constant is always his caring and concern for others.  And thank goodness for that.  He has two little sisters, which poke and prod at his time, friends, games.  Rarely does he loose his temper, more often than not he tells his friends to defer to his sisters.  They’re little, after all.

Before he went to school I sat down and talked with him about what kinds of kids he might encounter.  Interesting and not-so.  Clean and not-so.  Friendly and not-so.  I told him that he wouldn’t like everyone but he would respect them and their ways.  “You can always walk away but you can never take back something you say.”  I told him to sit quietly, listen more than he talks and to remember that he isn’t the most important person in the room.  The group and their daily task was the most important thing he could contribute to.

And he is a wonderful friend and cohort to others. 

This year, his second grade year, things are beginning to change.  Friends are becoming enemies.  Grade cards are shared and snorted upon.  The smart, the bad hair, the cool shoes, the gel, the party invites.  They are all becoming a factor in the determination of  how my son feels at the end of the day. 

Now, I can look at this and say, I sound scorned, angry, left-out.  It isn’t the case.  My son has many friends.  I am aware that the nature of young relationships is once again on, and then off.  I know that kids are going to experiment with cliques and trends.  What I find more disturbing is that it is now encouraged by parents.

There is a growing trend of parents, I call them the Five-Carat Diamond Club, and have spoken of them at my other site, Wicked Good.  The reference isn’t to envoke the idea of wealth or influence.  It is simply that they, in whatever way, put on airs which are altogether ridiculous and destructive.  The clothing of children has become fashion-plate.  The endless hours scouring for the bestest eva hairbow is paraded around and catching on.  The most fabulous car, on the verge of repo or upside-down lease, envied.  It doesn’t matter what “it” is, there will be any kind of substitution for “real” to acquire it. 

Outside of their 401k that never got started, the college education which never was funded, they are passing down a culture of “look at me. I can be better than you.”  And in doing so, they are mortgaging their own children’s happiness on the basis that they believe they are providing it.  How can life live up to the determination that the red carpet must be rolled out for my prince and princess each morning?  When life doesn’t prove perfect, will we give up, medicate our way out of it?

Remember that Mommy loves you.  I  personally walk through the school doors each day, creating hassle and mayhem for the rest of everyone, teaching you to buck the safety of all and the request of your authority, because “YOU” are the most important person in the w.o.r.l.d.

Remember that Mommy loves you.  I will buy you a laptop, cell phone, new toy so that you will mind me, cherish me, feel good about yourself.

It seems clear it all boils down to an inadequacy factor in the parent.  And it’s starting to really piss me off.  Because while I am busy trying to teach my children to allow others to share, to feel good by encouraging them to do their best, my son is getting no cooperation.  Some parents are playing at, “Winner Take All: The Wonder Years.” 

I give to my children on a parental level.  I teach them that they are important  because they have a home.  At home, they have a place to come to talk, to ask for someone to put them first.  Even if it means they pick tonights meal, today’s prayer, tomorrow’s snack.  I tell them that these are the ways to know that you have “somebody.”  Forget the heckler who made them feel inadequate about your shoe choice or made sure to mention that they weren’t invited to KID STELLAR SUPER SLIDE BIRTHDAYPARTY!

And I think it works.  But, still, I wonder, why does this Mom try so hard for a community of moms and their children, most of whom I do not even know, when they are giving little to nothing back?  I CAN provide all things for my child – love, moral guidance, financial support – but then I have a lonely, solitary child.  I want them to have a group of friends that believe in them.  Who share in triumph.  One doesn’t have to one up to be good in their own right. 

Anyway, to anyone who will take the time to read my new blogthought diary, please do not take this the wrong way: 

                                                                                                                     I love to leave my kids. 

Not a whole lot but I do like to pack up my bag, with my books and my iPod.  I enjoy a lovely jaunt to places which I think not fit OR friendly for children and eat, drink, read, watch, say, oh… did I say drink?  I will mix it up, sip… just anything I want.  I am not left dragging the insisted-upon Disney Princess bag with blankies thrown over the shoulder and a Baby Bjorn bowing from the weight of a two-year-old.  What?  I would stuff her in there to keep her motionless if I could stuff her thighs through it.  Stop judging.

So, since you are in a forgiving mood due to my above-referenced ailment, let me share with you my recent Girls Trip.  My mother, my sisters and I took the train to Chicago from Warrensburg, Missouri.  (12 hours of fun.)  And returned three days later on the same train line.  (11 hours of hell.)  I wish to take you along with me, for a brief recap, which through story will hopefully encourage you to escape.

My mother and I boarded the train in Warrensburg, my hometown and where my mother  lives even still.  I am familiar with the station as a child traded between parents. I rode the train between Warrensburg and Jeff City regularly.  We had a great talk until…Jeff City.  (insert: dah, dah, dun in foreboding crescendo.)  This is where my two sisters boarded the train.  I will be censoring much of the sister talk, because they are both lovely women, but because of the youth, they exhibit symptoms of extreme self-righteous self-centered pain.  Well, just one, really.

Anyway, all aboard *the sisters.*  Delightfully 24 and 22, ONE sister had drank the night before *so* heavily that she could hardly bring herself to open her eyelids.  She barked out orders for food and drink and went into a long tirade of how the younger sister was to blame due to the tardiness of sister’s sober pick-up service.  I mean, clearly, if the car isn’t there, one must order another drink and isn’t it therefore the fault of the driver?

Off we go to St. Louis.  We make it through a painfully unpleasant disembark and reembark for Chicago with the sister, which is hung.  And after a long trip, curled up on the train watching the beautiful landscape, taking in an uninterrupted movie and reading WHATEVER I wanted, we arrived in Chicago.  Now, room service and bed.  No one poked my eyes and asked to board the parental bed.  No one peed their pants, got a nose bleed or had an imaginary bee buzz in their ear. 

For the next two days, we enjoyed the city.  I have been to some big cities.  I lived in New York for a summer.  Chicago is world-class.  I will share through the use of picture:

View from our room at Hotel 71

Minnies Restaurant - See me?

Better?

The Girlies

Moma and Liane

Not certain what possesses Jenna to butter her broccoli

Carleigh and Jennifer

Our server, Mr. Major, states that he went to school with Michelle Obama. He went on to say she chased him at recess.

Beautiful Twins -- I changed these girls' diapers.

Goodbye Snowstorm

Hil the text alert champion

Fly-over Country

Being away from my children is never something I look forward to – until, of course, I look forward to it.  But, being away from my children is good for me.  I hear the thoughts in my head because frankly, they take a backseat the needs of my little people.  When I am alone, or with big people, my mind is left to search through the thoughts which occur without regard to last feeding, is there a bathroom near, what if…  I get to put myself first.  And although selfish, it leaves me on Monday morning, while my three-year-old is plundering the closet in search of a “beautiful shirt” and matching hair bow, with the ability to take a deep breath and enjoy just how cute it is that she wears Dora underwear with her hind cheeks peeking out.  I smile at her cheeks rather than stomping out.

I have a blog I love called Political Mommentary.  I am passionate about politics and the role it plays in our lives.  I am also passionate about the topics covered there.  But, for some reason, it isn’t enough for me.  It is something I will not abandon.  I am just branching out. 

One might think my other adventure, Wicked Good, might fill the void.  While it is an excellent place to rant, it doesn’t provide the softer side of issues and questions.  It seems, there, that I am already heated up and do not want to discuss or absorb others thoughts. 

But, in mothering, there is always that inward fear that maybe we just aren’t living up to standards.  Standards which may be placed from outside or that crevasse inside.  But, whatever is presents as, it always feels good to share those thoughts.  To hear, “I feel that way too.” 

Recently, I talked with a friend about her new blog, and a conference dedicated to improving it.  She said, “It looks like a mommy blogging conference to me.”  Well, it bothered me.  I’m a Mom.  I blog.  And whether I have been blogging about my children or not, I am a mommy blogger.  But, now, I am a mommy blogger who is talking exclusively about my life from the inside.

Thanks for having me.