Playing with our Kids... Or, How long can *YOU* play tag?

I am writing this post for my 5-year-old son, who is a believer in science and research.   You know, except when he's determined that he wants Pluto to be a planet, so it is.  It just is, so there.The other day I picked him up from school and we had some time before I needed to make dinner.

Me: "What would you like to do, babe?"

Him: "I want to play TAG!"

Me: "Playing with you is one of my favorite things...but I do not enjoy tag.  Children love to play tag - so the next time you are playing with children, you can do that.  But, what shall WE do?"

Unexpected Grace

This Easter was our first Holiday post-diagnosis, and I was really nervous that it would put a focus on the fact that Kiddo is different. At the risk of repeating myself, it did occur to me that being the Easter Bunny, while allergic to eggs, to a kid who can't eat sugar or starch, was pretty hard! I probably should not have dyed the eggs (but I did, while breast feeding), and I really should not have made meringue cookies (but I did, between breastfeeding and bed time) and that didn't go too well.

Guest Post: Running for My Life!

I'm not sure if I've conveyed the fact that I'm a slacker...but I am.  I exercise, sometimes, a little.  Liesa (read previously here) puts me to shame, but she actually makes me curious.  Is it possible that my lazy self could enjoy something this crazy?  - Daisy

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I’m a runner.  I wasn’t always a runner.  In fact, I wasn’t truly a runner until I was a mother.  I ran casually in college, simply to “not get fat”.  For a decade, I ran a few miles a few times a week, and hated nearly every minute of it.  It was hard, I was alone, and it always meant I needed a shower.  It didn’t even really keep me from gaining weight.

Scenes from a C-Section

"Please, just make it happy" I hear myself say, "Not scary, not like last time." I didn't want to be deciding to have a second C-Section. My doctor was pro VBAC, much safer and healthier for everyone she said. But once again, I am not dialating and baby is not dropping, and he is measuring large. It doesn't look good. We decide a repeat section is the safest course given my history and the current circumstances. My doctor is clearly disappointed for me. I cry a little.

I am Mom.

I want to let you all in on a little secret: I do not, DO NOT have my shit together.

Not even a little bit.

The Christmas tree is still up and quickly becoming a probable fire hazard. The mantles are still decked out in festive greens, and increasingly, spiderwebs. The bills are in a pile on the corner of the dining room table, unpaid, un-filed, untouched. My 6 week grocery plan has expired, I was supposed to go grocery shopping last weekend, and I have not one clue what I will be feeding my family tomorrow. Not one. There are no clean towels. (And I own many, many towels.) I am tired. I am exhausted. I need to shave my legs but I can't reach them over my ever larger, ever harder, baby bump.

I have no intentions of making a New Years Resolution, or improving myself, or organizing my house. I could not possibly care less about any of it.