The Perks: Obscurely Wonderful Things About Motherhood

After my jab last week at the ugly underbelly of motherhood- which by the way, is also what you call that dangling kangaroo pouch you get once post-pregnancy deflation sets in- it is only fair that I balanced things out. After all, as mothers, if we know anything, it's that life is fair, right?

Ha! Of course not. Did you miss that whole kangaroo comparison?

Anyway, throughout this journey I have discovered tiny bits of joy in the oddest places; kind of like that wonderfully warm Skittle you find wedged beneath your underwire right at 3 o'clock when you need it the most. Luckily, motherhood comes with many tiny pick me ups as well, sometimes just enough to get us through to the next day, but often times it's exactly what we need.

Here are a few examples of where I find tiny bits of joy in all the wrong places...

Sick kids are the greatest. Seriously, is there anything better than a sick, fever-y kid? Come on, contagion aside, it's wonderful. For most of us, it's the first time we've ever seen them still during waking hours. It's like having your kid, only in slow motion. Plus, the best part is they're all warm and cuddly, which is especially fabulous if it's during the winter months because you can literally use them as your own personal little bed heater (although the flip side to this joy is it's completely horrible in August, yet you're still expected to supply the same level of healing mommy cuddles, oh well). You're also allowed to do very un-parent-like things. You get to give them Sprite in bed and let 'em watch cartoons all they want, and because they know they are dependent on you for refills, you are like a Goddess in their eyes, and they treat you accordingly.

Another thing I love about being a mommy is how you can get excited over the smallest crap...like, literally, as in fecal matter. I remember the first time my daughter made a #2 on the potty you would've thought she had just pooped out the solution for world peace. My husband and I were beaming with pride and subsequently many of our family members got some very (in my opinion) underappreciated pictures in their inboxes. Ingrates. They just didn't get it. This small, stinky accomplishment was a symbol of freedom to my husband and me! Finally we were on our way back to being normal adults who didn't have to haul, for all intents and purposes, wipey-stuffed, carry-on luggage everywhere we went. Not to mention it gave us a great excuse to get out of pretty much anything for a few months. "Oh, we'd love to help out with the fundraiser, really we would, but we're potty training right now. You understand."

It gets even better, though. Another one of my most favorite joys has to be that when your kids get older you can totally make them do stuff for you. I hardly think it's a coincidence that around the same time the batteries on the remote go out, my children's dexterity kicks in. Obviously God wants it to be this way. Some people might feel like this is an abuse of authority but to those people I say, "gimme a break!" I'm hardly making them plow a field or work in a coal mine....and according to my level of comfort with said person I may or may not bust into a very detailed account of my labor and delivery of the defended child in question.
Pictured is 9-year-old Enoch "helping" mom push the stroller

Speaking of labor and delivery, probably one of the best and most immediate 'perks' to motherhood has to be the brief cameo made by breastfeeding boobs. Am I right? In my opinion this is where life, momentarily, is fair. Nobody's checking out the pouch when you've got those puppies three feet out in front of you. Sure they ache horribly and it feels like your smuggling a bucket of golf balls under your skin, but remember they vanish just as suddenly as they appeared, so if you ever wanted to get that $3 off carwash coupon mysteriously doubled, now's your chance, sister! Talk about the maternal equivalent to Flowers for Algernon.

All kidding aside, as mothers we are constantly forced to look on the bright side, even if we were never particularly 'bright side lookers' before we had kids. The humor is what keeps us sane and the unexpected joys are what remind us why we signed up for this experiment in the first place. And if all else fails and you've just survived a bright side-less day remember this, it's very important, lean into the screen for dramatic effect, PROHIBITION IS OVER, BABY AND THERE'S ALWAYS WINE! Grab yourself a glass, snag that last cheese puff out of your bra and pour your own joy, because it's 5 o'clock somewhere.

The Ugly Underbelly of Motherhood.

Ok, I'll admit, that title might be a bit dramatic.

As much as we all love being mothers though, let's be honest, there are parts of it that really stink and I'm not just talking about when your kiddo poops in her sling and it explodes half way down your shirt while you're in the midst of the human maze that is Costco. That type of stink can at least be tediously wiped off, in a public restroom, one insanely un-absorbent napkin at a time and that odor is able to be semi-blown away by the complimentary restroom hand dryer you're now getting to second base with while a complete saint of a stranger offers to hold your naked baby in what will be the one of the most humanitarian acts of her life according to you.

But I digress, let's now take a look at the aspects of motherhood that will not be as temporary and by everyone's calculation, probably last for the next 18 years.

So here we go- Things that totally stink about Mommyhood-

#1) Contagious Junk Drawerism. We all have those drawers in our house where on any given day we can locate a plethora of coupons, scissors, Scrabble tiles, tweezers, missing buttons, flashlights, rubber bands, outlet covers, Mardi Gras beads, nursing pads-because you never know when they may come in handy again even though you haven't breastfed in over a year (still, don't throw those puppies out!), baby shoes you've meant to get bronzed or hot glue into a scrap book or whatever, receipts, kool-aid packs where the powder is now more of a solid fruit punch block, and MIA stove knobs. Sometimes I honestly begin to wonder if my family has secretly adopted a highway somewhere and is dumping all of the contents of its shoulder into my kitchen drawers.

Either way, the thing no one tells you before you become a mother is that this crap collecting compulsion spreads. Before you know it you'll be out at a fancy event with your husband when you reach into your purse for a business card and instead end up pulling out a bouncy ball that through the magic of a half sucked on lollipop is now syrup-titiously bonded to a tampon. "You know what, how about I just find you on Linked-In? Yeah, nice meeting you too Senator!"

A mother's purse is a junk drawer in disguise, as well as any subsequent diaper bags she may have. That is why the darn things are always so ridiculously huge, so now you know.

#2) Cutting Bangs. This is the generational curse my family carries, which when considering we are Scotch/Irish, I suppose to some chronically crooked bang cutting is worse than crippling alcoholism, but the jury's still out on that one in my household.

My grandmother had this disease, as evidenced by this picture of my mom and aunts; those poor girls. And my mother also had this disease, but thanks to extensive hair counseling she was able to make better choices when raising me and as a child I was able to go through tedious amounts of Bang Growing Out therapy, others may know it as Barrette To The Side training. I was one of the lucky ones, though, and while it may have skipped a generation, my girls have not been able to escape the wrath no matter how hard I tried to curb my cutting urge.

They tell you in therapy that the best way to overcome this a disease is to never make that first cut, but sadly three weeks ago, after nearly 18 months of Eddie undergoing a rigorous form of Pebbles Flintstone therapy I made that first crooked cut. And, in a windstorm, she has a perfectly adorable bob/bang combo today.

#3) Baby outfits people give you at your shower with words on the butt. Let me begin by saying I do not know when this fashion became acceptable but in the DeLaRosa house it's getting shut down. I am aware that a majority of the time that which lies below my daughter's velour covered and pamper laden booty is juicy, thank you very much, but the last thing I want to do is advertise such an unlovely gift from nature to everyone at the playground. They're all smart people; they can figure that one out for themselves.

So sorry, Mimi, PawPaw and Auntie Evelyn, the best you're going to get is a quick, staged pic of her in that outfit before I re-gift it next week to that poor unsuspecting preggo from MOPS. Baby pants with words on the butt are the new proverbial fruitcake.

#4) The asinine things your children force you to holler out while you are on an important phone call. Some examples are:

"That better be chocolate!"
"No! Only mommies can feed their human babies that way! Put. The. Turtle. Down. NOW!"
"Did you pee or is that just water? Either way don't sit on anything"
"No, you're not your brother's 'boyfriend.' You're his 'girlfriend.' No wait! You're his sister, and his friend, so you're his sisterfriend! Bottom line, you're too young to be anyone's boyfriend!"
"Do you see wings? Then, no, she can't fly. Get her down now!"

Usually these outbursts are followed by snickering on the other end of the line, which is precisely what you what when to hear when filing a complaint with the phone company, scheduling an appointment with your gynecologist, or giving a live radio interview.

While all of these loathsome moments of motherhood seem relentlessly annoying now, I find respite in the fact that one day I know I will look back at the pictures of my crooked banged children who have lollipops stuck to their velour butts and laugh wildly. Then I will subsequently pay for full-page ads in their senior yearbook and submit congratulatory wishes alongside said picture. Revenge can be sticky lollipop sweet sometimes. ☺

Why Pro-Choice Advocates Should Be Celebrating The Tim Tebow Super Bowl Ad

Let us not forget that choosing life is just that, a choice. Even harder a choice is choosing to carry on with pregnancy that might not have the typical outcome. That is the plight of Pam Tebow, Heisman trophy winner Tim Tebow’s mother. I can attest to the fact that trying to celebrate the joys of pregnancy while having the black cloud of a diagnosis rumbling over your head is not an easy task.

I remember the moment that we found out we were having a daughter my heart soared with elations. Publically, I said what every good mother is supposed to say- “Oh, I don’t care whether the baby’s boy or a girl, just as long as they’re healthy!” But privately I wanted a little girl desperately. So when my husband and I found out that we were going to have a daughter I remember it was hard to remain still as the sonographer continued her exam…that is, until the smile left her face and she hurriedly called my doctor into the exam room.

There was a spot on my little girl’s heart.

Suddenly those fleeting seconds of elation disappeared as my thoughts plummeted into the depths of maternal concern. The doctor explained that while many children have an identical spot on their heart, one hundred percent of children with Down syndrome have this spot. He told us that while this is not a sure diagnosis we ought to be prepared for the possibility.

I remember my husband and I left that appointment in a daze. Our phones were already being inundated with calls from excited family member waiting to learn the gender of our child. And while we knew we would welcome this baby into the world no matter what, this was still certainly a deviation from our plans and would require a whole new set of resources.

Because I had already passed on the preliminary screening, the only way to test for Down syndrome with any accuracy would be for me to have an amniocentesis, a procedure where amniotic fluid is taken from the sac surrounding the baby. While this test is a fairly common procedure it still had its risks, and because there was nothing medically that could be gained by having a conclusive diagnosis I chose to pass.

The months that followed were full of fizzy punch, shower cake and awkward belly touching, none of which made me forget about the cloud-the spot on my daughter’s heart.

No matter how much we prepared ourselves, we were constantly reminded that we were not in control, of any of it. We were chosen to carry this child for a reason, and our strength was something to take pride in.

I have to be honest with you, after months of worry and preparation, when my daughter was finally born, and placed in my arms, I completely forgot about the diagnosis. She was perfect. And if she had Down syndrome I would’ve said the exact same thing.

So for Gloria Allred, or any other self-proclaimed feminist to try and put an end to a commercial celebrating such inspiring female strength, I find in bad taste and full of utter hypocrisy. Pam Tebow made a choice, a hard choice. If Pro-CHOICE advocates truly do believe in all of the choices available, and not simply the right to choose abortion, than they should be celebrating this woman’s courage along side me on Sunday.

How to properly feed a baby.

1.) Gently approach the baby and let her get used to your face as not to frighten her.2.) Open her mouth.
3.) Insert the bottle.4.) At this point the baby will probably try to spit out the milk so make sure she keeps it in her mouth...
5.) REALLY make sure.

My brother and I grew up watching Conan. We stayed up watching Conan. We snuck up, watching Conan.

And as much as I want to claim credit for the innate sense of humor which I have today, I must admit, I was greatly influenced by Conan O'Brien. During my most formative years I remember sneaking into the TV room and watching his show. Half the time my brother would already have it on, and I would casually stumble into the room on my way to "brush my teeth," finding a cozy spot on the couch and drifting away to his antics. I loved Conan.

One bit though in particular has resonated with me throughout the years, and all I can remember from it is a man with a long, permed wig and a guitar. During the sketch something would take place and he would screech, "Inapproooooooopriate!" (with the bass blaring in the background)

It was hilarious.

All throughout my teen years, I remember my brother and I using this catch phrase whenever we could. My mom would mention her PMS or a nervous new boyfriend would say something awkward about his childhood and Derek and I, without missing a beat, would shout out "INAPPROPRIATE!" {wheeeeeeer} <---reenacting air-guitar.

This was one of our inside jokes, one of the intrinsic elements in our own secret language. Some siblings have matching medallions and fight crime but Derek and I had Conan quotes. He was something we shared and something we were influenced greatly by.

After my brother died in a car accident {inappropriate - dead bother reference - wheeeeeer} it was really hard for me to forget all of our inside jokes...all of our sayings. Conan was so funny. My brother was so funny. I am so funny. How do you go on when all of your inside jokes are no longer inside of anything?

I'll tell you.

You have to. And not just that, you still have to be funny....double funny, as a matter of fact. You have to be funny for you and for him.

I tried. I did my best.

And a year after my brother died I came face to face with none other than THE Chuck Norris, another man made legendary by Conan O'brien. I remember thinking 'Derek is NOT going to believe this' as he and his wife began making their way around the room, knowing that soon they would be shaking my hand and wondering if when they got to me I would come down with a sudden case of verbal diarrhea and say something, you guessed it, INAPPROPRIATE, wheeeeeeeer!

I know I am totally pulling a 'soldier in Iraq' type thing by mentioning my dead brother here, but that is what Conan is to me, like it or not. He was one of the last things we shared and watching him go is hard. It's not only the end of a television show, it is the end of an inside joke.

I have two daughters.

The weight of this truth in no way escapes me. My husband and I both are utterly terrified by this basic fact. It’s not that we aren’t worried about our son; it’s just different with him. He is different. We will be facing a whole different set of issues and decisions as our daughters come of age, and being the type A individual I am, I have already started planning ahead for those delicate teen years. At what age will we allow them to wear make-up? Drive? D-d-d-d-date?

You can see how quickly the duty of raising girls turns to their virtue. If it were up to my husband, the answer to all three of those questions would be much less numerical and much more, well, ‘no.’ As their mother though, and someone who faced her own teen pregnancy, I am expected to be the voice of reason- the one who jokes about crushing up birth control pills in their oatmeal as soon as they “blossom;” the one who suggest we get them injected, protected or prescribed something before they leave the house. However, having this gift of preemptive time on my hands right now, I find myself really thinking all of these options through thoroughly.

What happens if we are “the responsible parents” who get our daughters on birth control when they become of childbearing age?

Once we’ve had them safeguarded against the possibility of pregnancy are we out of the woods? What about that virtue I mentioned earlier? Is it not supposed to concern me now?

As I look at my sweet, innocent little girls playing in the sand box I wish I could just freeze time. I know that is not possible and they will not stay this way forever, but as their mother it is my duty to protect them; to keep them from being hurt-both physically and emotionally. Am I wrong to think that by ‘safeguarding’ them I am leaving them wide open to exploitation?

Now you can tell me all day long that being on birth control is a private and personal decision and that no one in their high school will ever need to know, but unfortunately I fear you are simply out of touch. I only graduated in 2002 and can tell you that in this day and age half the school knows who’s got a pre-prom pimple before the toxic smell of Noxzema’s even hits the air. Kids talk. Girls TALK. It would only be a matter of time before word got out that my daughter, MY DAUGHTER, was protected, a.k.a. up for a good time. Even if it’s for medical reasons, try explaining that to a 15-year-old boy.

When did it become this way? If we don’t do anything and expect our children to learn self-control through these trials and temptations then we are idiots, feeding them to the wolves. While if we do prepare, make them “safe,” them we are setting them up for auction.

What is a parent to do?

I love my daughters endlessly, unconditionally, and irrevocably. I will teach them self-respect, I will teach them right from wrong, and above all I will teach them that they can talk to me about anything and everything.

However, at some point, we must acknowledge that as parents in 2010 we are up against television shows, song lyrics, and billboards that glorify commitment free sex and exploit women as nothing more than consequence-free sex objects.

We must acknowledge that no matter how physically prepared, you can neither put a wise head on young shoulders nor a prophylactic on a vulnerable heart. And while, yes, we may be able to prevent pregnancy, birth control is merely damage control, like it or not. There is nothing at the drugstore that can safeguard my daughter’s self-worth or dignity

So I ask again, what is a parent to do?

I’m. one. of. those. women. who. lives. with. raccoons….peacefully.

We had a rat. I am sobbing.

Let me give you some back-story so that you can understand how these two things are related.

A few days ago we noticed a package of oatmeal had been nipped open and strung across the kitchen floor. Now being the charismatic Christian I am, of course I assumed it was a poltergeist. My husband though, suspected a rodent. He went to the local hardware store and purchased a myriad of different harm-free devices.

On the first night we set up a thingy-ma-bob that would merely trap the rat and then we could let him go in the serene field of our choice. But we were just ignorant novices back then, even the mice knew that. They didn’t fall for our cleverly camouflaged little trap, no, instead they took a detour through the cupboard to the fresh loaf of bread which had been strategically tucked away.

At this point my husband decided to set out another device, this one containing poison. I was less a fan of such a contraption, but then again this rodent had gotten bold. It would rustle around behind our cabinetry in broad daylight, while we were in the kitchen. Something had to be done, I agreed.

But once again, this clever little rat did not take the bait.

Finally, late last night, my husband pulled out the final trap. One much more reminiscent of the stereotypical cartoon television trap, Swiss cheese bit and all. While we gave much thought to the preparation of said trap, how to set it up and whatnot, we gave little thought to the successful use of it. I suppose based on our other two failed attempts, we assumed this one would be doomed as well.

Around two thirty a.m. I heard it. Around 2:35a.m. I continued to hear it. A struggle was taking place. Finally, at 2:37a.m. I woke up dear husband. In a daze he walked with me towards the kitchen. We could clearly hear the clamoring of a rat in distress now. I turned on the light and peered in. Dear husband told me not to look, but I knew I had to. I glanced over to where the trap had been set up and it was gone. I quickly searched the floor from a safe distance and nothing. Once again dear husband warned me to stop inquiring and just let the animal meet it’s fate on its own. I could not. I slowly crept further into the kitchen until I came upon a trail, this time rather than oatmeal though, it was blood. The poor creature had gotten it’s foot caught in the trap and in a frantic effort to escape taken a detour all along our kitchen.

I knew exactly what I had to do. I didn’t want to do it though. I racked my brain for another alternative, but I knew.

I picked up the phone and called my pop. He had killed a field mouse once in our driveway to my dismay, a story which he still likes to mention from time to time when referencing my girlish disposition. I knew that he would confirm my instinct, and help me muster the courage to do it.

It’s 2:40a.m. He answers. I tell he and my mother what is going on and without hesitation he tells me that yes, there is no other option. Go to the garage, get a shovel, and end this poor creatures suffering. He recalls the field mouse instance and tells me to make dear husband do it, but for some twisted reason I felt as though I was better suited for the job, as if I would be able to do it more compassionately somehow.

I located the rat on my way to get the shovel, he was right by the door to the garage. He shrieked in terror. Yes, terror. It is not my fault that I anthropomorphize all animals. Blame Walt Disney.

I get the shovel, I scoop up Fievel, I open the garage door and I carry him out to the driveway.

I gently place him down. He squeals. I lift up the shovel and I bring it down on him.

He squeals again. Dear God, what have I done? I cannot let him suffer one second further.

I lift up the shovel once more and again bring it down on this poor little rat. Again he squeals.

I go running inside with the tearful guilt of a suffering animal welling up in my eyes. Dear husband can see this and assures me he will take care of it. I collapse in the living room, cover my ears and sob.

Not only did poor little Fievel meet his maker tonight, he was also tortured nonetheless moments before his death.

Once dear husband returned he attempted to console me with a list of reason this must be done. They are as follows:

1. Fievel (he did not use that exact pronoun) carried numerous diseases.
2. Sometimes I let the kids eat stuff off of the floor and this could cause them great illness.
3. Fievel (once again I believe he said something along the lines of ‘that filthy rodent’) did not have a soul, and was more like a cockroach than a dog. *sidenote: size wise-totally closer to a dog
4. Given the chance he would’ve jumped up in our baby’s crib and eaten her eyeballs out. (dear husband read about that happening somewhere)
5. If we go ahead and make an example out of this one, the rest will surely be terrified and leave.
6. Dear husband will call an exterminator tomorrow, but the Barium they use is much more slow and painful than this trap, even including the beating and ultimate shovel death dear husband was forced to give him. (I do not believe this, but perhaps I can find some semblance of rest tonight in hoping it is true)

Needless to say none of this has made me feel any better. I do not understand how someone (dear husband) can feel so much compassion for a dog but yet nothing for a creature equally as furry and relatively as large. Did Fievel go out and contract diseases purposefully with the intention of bringing them into my house and hurting my children? No. Did he maliciously rip through our hot dog buns with the ultimate goal of causing starvation for our family or poisoning us with his harmful bacterias? Hardly. Had he even so much as nibbled on my daughter’s eyelid, even once? Absolutely not!

The conclusion I’ve come to:
I’m. one. of. those. women. who. lives. with. raccoons….peacefully.