When I used to think about shit in a bag, I would envision some evil teen schoolmate running away from a hated neighbor’s door, with the bag engulfed in flames on the door mat.  Obvious signs of boredom in the sleepy desert town that I grew up in. 

Now I have a different vision.

My husband and I were driving home from a day of trying to get our five- and six-year old boys proficient in skiing and most of the trip had been shockingly uneventful.

Then as we neared Sacramento, the traffic slowed, expectedly during rush hour and we were sandwiched among the many people trying to get home. Then, arousing me from a daydream about a hot shower and sleep in my own bed, I heard an angelic voice from the second row in the van:

                  “I have to go potty.”

                  “Pee or poo,” I said.

                  “Poo.  I have to go potty.  I have to go potty.”

The increasing urgency of pitch in his voice was not a good sign.  It had been just one hour prior that we had to make a specific stop in the middle of nowhere to do just that.  I had given quick wave to the pizza parlor owner as I hurriedly trounced my pajama-clad boys to the bathroom.

                  “You are standing. Didn’t you say you had to poo?”

                  “No.  I’m all done.”

                  “Are you sure?  Why don’t you try again?”

                  “No,” he said.”

I was catapulted back to the present traffic jam by his clearly less angelic tone.  Like a contractor who had just counted zero from ten on the biggest demolition project of his life:

                  “It’s gonna blow!”

My husband is behind the wheel, howling and saying through choked laughter:

                  “I’m sorry.  I know he’s in pain…”

The considerably more panicked voice from the second row:

“Hurry, hurry. It’s gonna blow.”

Looking around, I see a GPS screen, an umbrella, three empty single-serve chocolate milk containers, a pen and a package of saltines.  Oh Lord, not even a cup from a fast-food break.

My husband says in a MacGyver tone:

“Dump the bag of food and use it.”

Mind you, this is my re-usable eco-friendly near-canvas bag.  I picture removing my shoe as a receptacle and decide all other choices are grim.  The bag it is.

                  “Stand up, unbuckle, get your pants down.”

I am breaking laws that I hadn’t even realized existed and have no idea how I am going to make up for the dichotomy of imploring to my children that they are NEVER to unbuckle their seatbelt in a moving vehicle.

                  “Get over here, bend over and go.”

My husband is trying to move to the side of the road, but nobody is letting our car in.  I am trying to position the bag to not get any waste on me while contorting from the front passenger seat.  I look up at my other son in the seat next to his squatting brother, and see both fingers shoved up his nose.  He says:

“I’d gonna vomid.”

“Don’t you dare!”  from the driver’s seat, still striving for the highway exit, so close in distance but so far away in time.

Wiped and strapped safely back in his seat, the smell permeated the van.  I had to try as hard as I could to not think about the shit in the bag next to my foot.  Someone should have told me years ago that these were job requirements of a mom.  And as for Dad, I made him throw the bag away at the next pizza place when we were finally yet untimely able to exit.

                  “Windows down.  I don’t care if it’s raining.”

 By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: bathroom, eco-friendly bag, go potty, GPS, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, MacGyver, poop, re-usable, Sacramento, shit, sons, traffic, vomit

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My son Jack may be a savant. Don’t immediately think “Rain Man”; think more Madden. Jack is 4 1/2 and has an extreme fascination with football.

I can’t figure out the connection. Both of his parents are well versed in the sport and are fans to a certain level (somewhere less than face painting) but we certainly haven’t had any time or energy to devote to building our own knowledge of the sport, let alone creating a prodigy.

He can recite scores -- both as they happen, as well as some that happened months ago. He knows the names and purposes of all positions both offense and defense. He has favorite players, jerseys of favorite players, names of favorite players, great plays of favorite players, all colors of teams, all names of teams, all mascots.

Perhaps my personal favorite is his desire to go to Tom Brady’s house and get tips on how to play football. Who am I to squash this dream? I would like to go to Tom Brady’s house and get tips on… stuff, too. My job is to see his dreams happen, even if they seem impossible.

Jack really does have a unique talent. He knows the difference between college and pro teams and games on television. He can count to any score and knows the value of every point scored. He has three team’s regalia complete with jersey, pants and helmet, and wears the helmet when catching a touchdown pass at the end of the living room.

It would be one thing if he couldn’t catch or throw a ball, but he seems talented in doing that as well.

My younger son has realized that opposition is hopeless. His “No hootball game” has turned to “watch ponies” or “watch Patwiots.” He gets bored in the first minute or two, but Jack will watch for hours if we let him. He reenacts plays in the living room complete with straight arm, jukes and tackles. I know that some people see the violence, but I see the passion, with proper protective gear.

He asked me six months ago when he could play football. I didn’t know, so I went to the Internet to look up how old he would have to be to play. I told him he could play when he turned 7. So, every day he asks me how long until he turns 7? Every day I answer. Yesterday he asked if I would watch him play when he turns 7. I said that I would be there every game. He said, “No, on T.V.?” In his world, he was already playing in the N.F.L.

Childhood is a blessing in dreaming big. Parenting is hoping that they can achieve every one of those dreams.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: College, fans, football, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, Madden, N.F.L., pro sports teams, Rain Man, sports, Tom Brady

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My son Jack may be a savant. Don’t immediately think “Rain Man”; think more Madden. Jack is four and a half and has an extreme fascination with football.

I can’t figure out the connection. Both of his parents are well versed in the sport and are fans to a certain level (somewhere less than face painting) but we certainly haven’t had any time or energy to devote to building our own knowledge of the sport, let alone creating a prodigy.

He can recite scores -- both as they happen, as well as some that happened months ago. He knows the names and purposes of all positions, both offense and defense. He has favorite players, jerseys of favorite players, names of favorite players, great plays of favorite players, all colors of teams, all names of teams, all mascots.

Perhaps my personal favorite is his desire to go to Tom Brady’s house and get tips on how to play football. Who am I to squash this dream? I would like to go to Tom Brady’s house and get tips on. . . . 

Labels: football, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, Madden, N.F.L, Rain Main, sports, Tom Brady

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It is flu season, again. My son, Jack, is as sick as he has ever been in all of his four and a half years. Not as intense as when he had RSV as a baby, but in his older age, he fooled me into expecting that every sickness lasts only one day and that none of them confine him to the couch. This is day five of the fever that is burning up his energy and still has him prone.

Sometimes a retired-by-motherhood scientist has more information about disease than the average mom should know. I naively entered the science profession with the hope of minimizing suffering and ultimately reaching the holy grail of defeating a disease; eradicating it from the population. When my kids are sick, I keep going to bad places in my mind discovered in my ex-profession, like pneumonia, drug resistant bacteria, cancer, cancer, cancer. . . 

At my first job in the Bay Area, I signed up to volunteer at the hospital, reading books to children in the ICU. They were the helpless ones from birth to seventeen who had very serious diseases and were forced to stay in a sterilized environment every day. I thought that I would be able to go to their room and smile and read and talk and help them feel not so alone.

I would go to the cupboard where the books were stored and select the ones I wanted to read that day. Then, I would scrub my hands until they were raw, put on a mask over my mouth, and go to their room and give them the choice of selections and read the story.

The first day, in all of my peppy optimism, I went to Darlene’s room. I was warned before I started the program not to ask the names of the patients, not to get too attached, but I asked her name because that is what you do when you meet someone with whom you exchange names. Darlene was a chatty eight-year old and I entered the room with her talking excitedly to the nurse about ghosts. I was a bit surprised that she was speaking about ghosts while fighting to live, but when I later left the room the nurse explained that Darlene was talking about her “phantom” leg; the fact that she still felt her leg even though it was lost to cancer.

I was taken aback that someone so young could speak so candidly about such a topic, without remorse. I figured that she didn’t understand, but was quickly corrected when she explained the whole process how her brain is tricked and that she would get used to it. This was my first insight into the resilience of children. Their viewpoint on life is not mired by all the what-ifs; this is what it is what it is and they deal with it -- often with a smile on their face.

It broke my heart. I felt sad for her, even though she didn’t seem sad herself. I was so mixed up seeing all of those smiling kids who were so sick. It forced me to see life differently. Darlene picked a story that I had never read about -- Humphrey the lost whale. It is a story about beating the odds, surviving when all odds are against you, accepting help when you can, and fighting like crazy to live.

Labels: children with cancer, drug-resistant bacteria, ghosts, hospital volunteer, Humphrey the lost wale, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, phantom leg syndrome, pneumonia, scientists, sick son

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It wasn’t like birthing a child when your life changes in an instant.

It was more gradual. I couldn’t read street signs at night. I needed to move closer to the front in dance class to learn the steps. I couldn’t make out facial expressions on the television from the couch.

I was relatively young in my twenties, when I thought that personal image still mattered, so I tried to push away the image of Sally Jessy Raphael and scheduled an appointment for an eye exam.

Two weeks after all of the optometry tests with the weird conflicted pirate machinery (“Is this one or that one better?”) I came home and looked at the new me in the mirror.

Yikes -- there was no way I had that many wrinkles. I just looked at myself before picking up my glasses and I did not have that many wrinkles. What did I do, walk through a time warp?

It must be the fluorescent light in this bathroom, and the living room, and even the kitchen where I tried looking into a terrible compact mirror. This was a terrible investment. The only way to not see all of those wrinkles was to take my glasses off.

And so I did.

The lack of precise facial crevices and cracks made me happier.

I wish that it was as easy to remove the drive to perfection that comes with mothering -- like a pair of glasses.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: age, glasses, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, wrinkles

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Taking young children on an airplane compares to somewhere between having your fingernails ripped out one by one and having them ripped out all at once.

You should probably get exponential bonus miles for flying anywhere in the two rows surrounding young children. Or, at least free drinks. It is only just.

Before I had kids, I will refer to this henceforth as the “Age of Innocence,” I would scowl at the surrounding kids, harrumph at the parents and sometimes, like in the case of the seat-kicking kid all the way to Washington D.C., suggest that the parent do something.

I thought that they could.

Now, after two lovely strong-willed, very “active” young boys, I realize the parents can’t do a damn thing. Most parents are trying for the life of them to figure out what to do amidst a brow of sweat and the mutterings of prayer.

Like myself; sticking suckers in their mouth, packing, snacks, milk, juice, toys, books, singing, and praying that my personal DVD player batteries somehow last six hours. My carry-on is breaking my back and my singing voice is more torture than the kicking kid. Trust me.

Yet, I must try.

There is no place that I feel more of a failure as a parent than thirty-thousand feet above sea level. I cannot make them quiet. They scream because their ears pop. They scream because we have strapped them to a seat and told them they cannot move. Imagine doing that at home --“Hey kids, today we are playing airplane. I will bring in your car seat, strap you to the couch and you can sit there for six hours.”

See the absurdity of it all?

And yet, those with no mercy, like me in the Age of Innocence, think that the parent has no control of the child. They should be focusing on the fact that at least the captain has control of the plane while this wild thing is strapped into the chair behind them.

I hope that the frustrated travelers realize that their discomfort allows many grandparents moments of happiness. And besides, with all of the wars, depression and struggles of their generation -- and ours -- they have put in their due.

Now that the Age of Innocence is gone, when a baby screams near me on a plane, I offer one of the many tricks in my really heavy carry-on.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: family vacations, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, kids, planes

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I have gained a scant bit of time by using recorded television to my advantage.  Call it TIVO, DVR, whatever – I call it a time machine.

Granted, I don’t watch much television to begin with -- two minutes of weather and news in the morning, and nothing for the rest of the day.  But, roughly half of the nights of the week, after the kids are tucked in bed, I settle down in front of the tube to give my brain what it needs -- a well-deserved break from thinking, organizing and avoiding content inappropriate for children: bring on the murder, scary monsters and scantily clad adults, all so long as they are NOT animated.

Sure, I am a day or more behind knowing who got booted from Project Runway or what character got offed on CSI but this doesn’t affect a mother of two who rarely speaks to adults, especially those who may reveal some sort of cliffhanger. 

Even if the plot is unintentionally revealed to me through a glance on my Yahoo home page, or by a mom outside kindergarten class, I still revel in viewing those forty-eight minutes of mind-numbing joy.  All of you doubters of my ability of physics in college -- I have done the impossible and created time.  By fast-forwarding through commercials I have gained at least twelve minutes for every “hour” program that I watch. 

Twelve minutes per hour.  

I wish that I could gain extra time all day this way, but, alas, I only have these two hours from eight-thirty to ten-thirty at night.  That only totals a gain of twenty-four minutes, and only half of the days of the week.  

However, I have set aside these moments as a mother’s cherished “me” time.  I have to confess that there are days I use this valuable time to do laundry and other mundane household chores, but most days I take for myself. 

I daringly stand over my light-colored couch and sip my plum-colored wine.  I lay on the floor knowing that there is no chance that I will be dived on, or have a Thomas-the-Tank engine hit my head.  I multi-task and read an entire magazine article while watching Mad Men and comprehend both without having to re-read any lines.  I exhale, twice.  I have time for an intelligent thought, yet not quite enough time to get it collected and written down. 

If only the kid’s school started one hour later, I could stretch my bedtime to eleven-thirty, gain another twelve minutes; enough time to write down that intelligent thought, wake up an hour later, and not feel like I have to main-line my coffee in order to get the kids to school on time.

Ultimately, by wasting time I am gaining time and all of these do-gooder educational types that say television rots your brain aren’t smart enough to figure out how to use it for personal gain. 

Yet another lesson to teach my kids --“Go to college.  Pay attention.  Get good grades.  If physics sounds like a bunch of people got together and made it up over too many Vodka & Tonics, still pay attention.  You never know when you might use the knowledge you have gained.”

 I have.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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When I was in tenth grade, hanging out with a friend, she made a statement to a fellow classmate that I cannot remember and then she made one that I have incorporated into life.

“It’s nothing toward you, I just feel like being bitchy today.”

This was a novel thought to me.

I was always the native Californian trying to bring sunshine to everyone’s life. I had never visited New York at that age, so I clearly embraced this new “empowerment” to be bitchy when I felt like it.

Now, you can see the danger here. Too many days of bitchy and people stop being your friend and start figuring out ways to make crank calls and throw things at your house. Ok, so that was then. This is now.

I live with three boys; my husband and two sons. They don’t have the same hormonal fluctuations, so even though they can pinpoint certain calendar days based on my mood, they still don’t get it. There are days where I don’t have the hormonal tolerance to deal with anything.

My husband says, “Why not just take yourself out to dinner?” all smiley and self-righteous. I see through his avoidance of my cycle and say, “Because after I finish crying over this Coca-Cola commercial, I was planning to change into sweats and decide what order to polish off that pint of ice cream and whole bag of chips. Why don’t you leave and take the kids with you? And don’t forget to take the cat, too.”

I know that these statements are irrational, yet, at times it feels good to be bitchy.

Perhaps it is a hormonal artifact left over from cavewomen days. An ancient repopulation device to be sure that the men could find as many women as needed but the women would barely hold on to one long enough to make these fluctuations worthwhile -- and have kids.

So, every so often when my kids are being irrational, I let it slide.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: hormones, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy

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It might be the mind-numbing aspects that often have me despising my 24/7 job. The pleasant and unpleasant things you have to do over and over every day.

It is not like in the corporate world where those brain freeze tasks were not life threatening, and there was always some poor underling who would adopt them when you got promoted and earned the right not to do them anymore.

It is more the lack of choice.

Sometimes I feel like waking up and deciding, “I am not going to touch excrement in any form today.” Which sounds great in principle but when I wander out to the living room, my two-year old has already made my decision for me by removing his pull-up.

Now it is all over his legs; on the toilet where he remembered to dump it after we showed him where poo goes; on his hand from his attempted wipe; and on me where I grabbed his hand in an effort to reduce the ooze.

I can’t hold onto my promise. In fact, if I can’t wash my hand in the next 15 seconds -- I will have an out-of-body experience.

I’ll have to compensate. Though my usual mind-numbing task of bathing the kids takes place at night, I will instead do it before my morning coffee.

Something to look forward to. The coffee, that is.

Yet, it is also the sounds of laughter when the water comes out of the faucet and the look of glee in their faces when something as simple as bubbles form.

It is about noticing the small moments and trying not to lose it too much over the more trying ones.

This allows me to get through the daily blahs.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: children, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, work

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As I knocked over the salt shaker for the second time today it occurred to me that maybe I haven’t manipulated my luck possibilities. Maybe the reason I had a colicky baby is because I chose not to forward that e-mail five years ago to all of the people that I know. Or the reason that I had a second colicky baby was because I couldn’t remember which shoulder I was supposed to throw the spilt salt over.

Maybe the reason my second son only slept for a string of thirty minutes at a time twice a day until he was two-years old when he stopped napping altogether was because I chased his older brother under that ladder when daddy was painting the house.

Now that I think about it I saw a broken mirror in front of my house once. Is this seven years by way of association?

All in all I feel pretty lucky with my beautifully energetic and thriving children. But…like anything…there are days that I wonder. I tried to do everything that I could to shape them. I read all of the books about raising kids, I changed my diet while nursing, I held them when they cried, I read to them at night (even in utero), I skipped coffee while pregnant, I laid in bed for two weeks under doctor’s orders, I wore an oxygen mask during birth, I fed them from my body every two hours for the first six months of both of their lives. And yet, some of the behavior is unexplainable.

It must be luck.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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I can remember being four, attending dress rehearsal for my first major recital. I was lying on the floor with my chin in my hand, pink tights sagging at the knees, hair in pigtails on top of my head, and dialing a telephone that was a prop in a dance number. I kept looking in the mirror and I loved what I saw, and even more how I felt.

From a young age I loved to dance.

I danced as a teenager with hopes of getting the hell out of the small town that I grew up in just like my dance teacher had. The biggest problem was that I wasn’t good enough.

I got a biology degree instead and continued to dance as a hobby, even “starring” in a ballet recital in college. When I moved to San Francisco, I rode the Hip-Hop dance craze because it didn’t require the same kind of skill or dedication as ballet. I danced on weeknights and weekends when I wasn’t busy being a scientist.

As life progressed and I got married, pregnant and moved to Marin, my Hip-Hop class availability evaporated. Additionally, I wasn’t one of those pregnant ladies who continued to dance with a baby in my belly, flashing a smile and striking a pose.

I was more the exhausted pregnant lady spread out on the couch with a bowl of ice cream. Honestly, I did not enjoy being pregnant because I let it stop me from doing the things that I loved.

In fact, with both pregnancies (one due to high blood pressure, the other to early and constant contractions) it was recommended that I just sit on my ass at some point or other for multiple weeks that I was with child.

After the first baby arrived, I was transformed into a full-on mom and I didn’t have the time, or the energy to keep dancing. In fact, after my little one was six months old, I had just begun to contemplate getting back into dance and, wham -- I was pregnant again. Then, like the movie “Groundhog Day,” I was doing the constant mom thing again, but with an additional toddler in tow.

Another couple of years passed painfully, slowly and I still wasn’t dancing.

I was losing a part of myself that I had loved. The freedom, the movement, the music, the skill, the smile…all missing from my life…all missing from me. I finally realized that it was time to rescue my sanity and I would start with something I loved.

I would return to dance.

But you cannot just be absent from Hip-Hop for five years and expect to look even mildly coordinated when you jump back in.

Trying to dissuade my extreme nervousness, I dug out my old clothes and tried to make my un-hip Marin Mom look a little more “street” and tied a bandanna around my head. I was ready, psyched, looking good, and I trotted out to the living room.

“You look like a pirate.”

My heart sank.

Although this was a great thing to my four-year old, it was not really the kind of feedback involving terms like “fly” or “cool” or “hip” that I sought. I looked in the mirror and saw that my son was right. I could no longer carry this look off and I removed the inappropriate headwear.

Actually, he saved me from mortification. All those teens would have been staring at the old lady wearing the Halloween costume. In fact, what used to be “fly” isn't even called fly anymore.

I'm not giving up. I've decided to incorporate the old and current me. I have my “Gap” girl Hip-Hop look going strong.

When I spontaneously dance now -- I feel free and I feel me.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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Birth Plan

When I gave birth to my first son six years ago there was a push to create a birthing environment that the mother had control over.

I had no experience giving birth so I read voraciously on the topic to stay educated. In each book I read, the author suggested I have a “birth plan” that detailed what I wanted to take place during the birthing process.

So, being the overly-analytical and organized person that I was prior to having kids --- I literally wrote the plan:

1) Play relaxing music,
2) Arrange pillows brought from home around back, belly, etc.,
3) Walk around the hospital in early labor to minimize the pressure and pain; possibly get in the bath,
4) Assume “natural” birthing position,
5) Get epidural when pain becomes too much, breathe, relax, have my husband hold my hand and rub my feet.

I brought the paper to the hospital to share with the nurses and doctors the night before giving birth when I was checked in to be induced due to high blood pressure. I re-read it just before I packed it into my hospital bag and thought it looked great.

However, early the following morning, after the induction process began, I quickly started to mentally cross things off the plan:
1) Forgot to bring relaxing music that I wouldn’t be able to hear anyway because of all the people running around and machines making noise in the room,
2) Pillows from home were now useless even at home because of weird smelly hospital substance that made me feel like vomiting when they were near,
3) Walking would be tough with this IV attached to me for testing positive for Strep.

So far I was zero for three. The odds were not in favor of the plan. I had two more key plan expectancies and these were the ones that really mattered.

Then the pain started.

By early afternoon I finally rated the pain a “three” on a scale of one to ten which enabled me to get the epidural. Bring on plan item four. I absorbed the pain by moving into the natural birthing position. With the nurse’s help, I scooted down the bed for awhile which was slightly helpful for the pain (or it could have been the epidural finally kicking in). No telling how long I was in that position, but it was suddenly having the opposite effect of relief. Oh shit, now plan item four was looking to be a bust, too. I needed to be “topped off” with epidural as the staff termed it. I was thinking, 'Screw the fact that you left any room of drug liquid gold to top off in the first place.'

Go to plan item five, go to plan item five! It wasn’t working. Nobody was helping me relax. I must have been immune to this stupid drug and my husband was chewing somebody out because I was screaming in a LOT of pain.

Where was the foot rub?

The nurse kept telling me that there was no way the epidural wasn’t working and kept testing my feeling with a piece of ice on my leg. Raised to be polite, I humored her. “Can you feel this?” as she touched my leg gingerly with the ice. “Yes.” Touched my belly, “Can you feel this?” Less patiently, I responded, “Yes.” By now I wanted to rip the ice out of her hand and shove it in her eye.

Where was that stupid plan?

I should have written more rules like if the staff doesn’t believe you, let every measure be taken to make them believe. Again, “Can you feel this?” Okay, now it was just annoying. I had to make her stop in some way that didn’t get me sent to jail immediately after my baby was born. I lifted one supposedly numbed leg and then the other. Finally, she stopped with the ice.

Did she not read the plan? I put it on the bedside for everyone to refer to. Holy shit this was hurting.

Finally, the anesthesiologist showed up and tipped me forward noticing that the “natural” birthing position carefully listed as plan item four ripped the epidural out of my back.

Just in time to push.

I hate the plan which I now hope is stuck to gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe or maybe my husband found it and burned it in the smoking room when he went to yell at the staff and begged the anesthesiologist to put me out of my misery caveman style by hitting me over the head with his medical encyclopedia.

As he and the doc discussed my condition in front of me while I was trying to get this huge baby out, the possibilities of a C-section due to 1. depleting oxygen to my baby, 2. size of said baby, 3. size of mother who had been in labor so very long 4. and who knew what else? -- I wrote my own number six.

I looked the doctor in the eye and said, “Get it the fuck out!”

A big needle was administered, not over my head, but right where you never want to think of a big needle going into or a bowling ball coming out.

For my second birth I wrote the following plan:

1) Please get it the fuck out -- however you can.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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He arrived with great joy fifteen years ago this March. He has absorbed all of my tears, shared my playful joy and loved me unconditionally.

I have, in turn, woke up at night to quiet his screams, cleaned up after his messes, gave him medicine when he was sick, made sure somebody responsible looked after him when I was away, and loved him unconditionally.

Thankfully, he approved of my husband when I got married and my husband willingly accepted the fact that he was part of the package that came with me. My husband gladly adopted him and embraced loving him, holding him and waking up to feed him.

He has even put thought into his gifts at Christmas and embraced the fact that he gives me so much joy.

My first “kid,” Siren, is my Siamese Blue Point cat. Unlike my children, ever since day one Siren has pooped in his “toilet” and ate every last drop of whatever food is put in front of him. However, like my children, he wakes up several times at night, screams as loud as he can for no apparent reason, and wants my attention at his every convenience.

Siren prepared me for experiencing the level of annoyance, joy and unconditional love that children bring to my life.

Unexpectedly, the magnitude of these feelings grew exponentially with the birth of my own boys.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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Who knew drool could say so much?

I was born with a clean face and a reasonably shaped head. However, my “Baby’s First Photo” shows a child with one beautiful cheek and one severely blemished by self-toxic drool.

It was my initiation into a society that praises outward appearance. The visitor arrives at the hospital and is barely able to get out the “What a cute baby!” before the corners of her mouth drop, then move back upward, but the eyes show it all.

I was lucky that neither scarred me for life.

When I was ten years old, nature’s glue was exemplified by the substance of icky happiness. It meant a tennis ball saturated with slobber, dropped at my feet by my dog, Misty, who kept her eyes transfixed on it until I would pick up that ball and throw it until my arm was too tired to do it again.

That drool spoke of the ease of happiness and the desire to exhaustively recreate that feeling for both of us.

When I was in my twenties, drool meant some drunken guy unsuccessfully trying to pick up on me at a dance club, spit flying in places it had no right to travel. Since I had so much independence, free will, and choice -- this time of life was about weeding out whose drool I wanted on me.

I finally found him and was rewarded with a wonderful husband.

In my thirties, I had two kids and this was my first jump full-on into the pool of drool. The quantity itself was overwhelming, and I was like a salivation magnet. Smelly drool, sticky drool, colored drool.

Since it was unavoidable, this drool was used more as an evaluation of the development of my babies, both physically and mentally. Are they teething? Does that amount of drool indicate a mental problem? Eventually they grew out of the drool and became beautiful boys.

Now, as I age and bear witness to my grandmother in her fog of Alzheimer’s, I cannot help but let my thoughts wander to the possibilities of old drool.

Staring out the window, drool hanging out of my own mouth, my grown men by my side, a hand brushed across a face blemished with life, yet hopeful that I have enough of my faculty to picture that dog, ears flapping in the wind, pink tongue wagging, hell-bent on getting that ball again.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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He arrived with great joy fifteen years ago this March.

He has absorbed all of my tears, shared my playful joy and loved me unconditionally. I have, in turn, woke up at night to quiet his screams, cleaned up after his messes, gave him medicine when he was sick, made sure somebody responsible looked after him when I was away, and loved him unconditionally.

Thankfully, he approved of my husband when I got married and my husband willingly accepted the fact that he was part of the package that came with me. My husband gladly adopted him and embraced loving him, holding him and waking up to feed him.

He has even put thought into his gifts at Christmas and embraced the fact that he gives me so much joy. My first “kid,” Siren is my Siamese Blue Point cat.

Unlike my children, ever since day one Siren has pooped in his “toilet” and ate every last drop of whatever food is put in front of him. However, like my children, he wakes up several times at night, screams as loud as he can for no apparent reason, and wants my attention at his every convenience.

Siren prepared me for experiencing the level of annoyance, joy and unconditional love that children bring to my life. Unexpectedly, the magnitude of these feelings grew exponentially with the birth of my own boys.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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I was in the shower trying to wash out the sleep that has been caked in the corner of my eye every morning for six years now having a mildly coherent conversation with my husband when he says, “Well, you always bring up the fact that you had colicky babies.”

It’s a grand thing that I was only half awake or I would have had some snippy remark that would have eliminated constructive marital conversation for days. Instead, he left the room and I thought about what he said.

By golly, he was right. I do that. I can justify it a multitude of ways, but I, in short, I am constantly searching for someone who can relate to raising two colicky babies eighteen months apart; clawing for some human that can justify the insanity that I felt.

I decided that I should stop that -- it might scare people away. So, I promised myself that from this point forward, I would not mention that unless formally asked (does blogging break this rule already?).

There are many benefits to raising colicky babies, first and foremost is if you are speaking in the past tense about raising the children, than you already completed what seemed to be an insurmountable task -- surviving the constant, inconsolable crying. Another perk is that I graduated from being someone who didn’t know which side was the front of the diaper to a mother who can console any baby.

Eight years ago, my friend of thirty-three years was enjoying her kid-free life. As my roommate in San Francisco, a constructive day for her was waking up at three p.m., talking on the phone for three hours, going to work, and then attending the latest triple-bill concert. She felt that her life was her own and she was fine with not having kids -- ever.

And then, she got married to someone who was ten years older than her -- who had no kids yet. He eased into the subject during the time they were newly married while she was a fun-loving and caring “aunt” to my kids. She gained confidence and even survived the few days she spent helping me while immersed in the mayhem of my second colicky baby. She was able to handle it all, even perfecting the soothing rock/bounce. She gained skills she didn’t know she had and gained the confidence it took to give mothering a shot.

Yesterday, I spent a good part of my day rocking and sshing her one-month old. I was calm, caring, and knew exactly what to do when the normal newborn challenges came up. Rock, feed, change, mellow conversation-repeat.

I was the mom that I desired to be during all of those stressful times raising my own babies. Of course, it helped tremendously that I was now the one who got to leave her house to enjoy a meal and a drink.

Since my husband and I agreed to never try for number three, my “nephew” will help to reassure my feelings that a baby is a beautiful and enjoyable gift and will possibly help me release my former feelings of inadequacy and stop me from searching elsewhere for the comfort of my fellow, formerly insane mothers.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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My son is only three-years old, and yet he has mastered the complex emotional satisfaction of a hug.

Jacob has a language delay that basically means his words lack articulation, so when he says anything clearly -- I am thrilled.

One week ago he began to say, “Give hug” as he walked towards me, arms open, and squeezed with emphasis upon contact. I equated this to modeling and that he was just hugging because he sees others do it, including me to him about twenty times a day.

Yesterday, he approached me, head down, arms at his sides and clearly said, “Need hug.” Who knows how long this adorable being has been in touch with his emotions? He was actually aware of his needs; he knew the difference between giving and needing a hug.

Predicting his need has been my job so far, as well as following through with the appropriate fix. I appreciate the clarification of his emotional independence that comes with the ability to express his needs with words. I definitely underestimated him. I am amazed at how self-aware he is at three.

A hug is a clear, physical form of communication, but distinguishing between giving and needing is emotionally complex. He goes that much further sharing his hugs with his four-year old brother, Jack, and Daddy.

That makes me a proud mama. I don’t mind him gaining independence: I just hope the hugs last forever.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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Rule number. 1: No Whining - at all.
Rule number 2: No Wine alone.

In a nutshell, these are the rules that I give most weight in my life.

Rule number 1 is carried over from my own childhood. I don’t know how I failed in asserting its importance in the first four years of motherhood, but it has recently been bumped up to number 1 priority. I cannot tolerate the pitch that my 4-year old achieves in his voice, and it seems to always be about things that I could never dream to have as a kid. Games, television, even food. As a child, I knew this rule and unquestioningly abided by it. There was no argument about it: No whining.

Rule number 2 is an afterthought, something that I have developed since joining Motherhood Nation. Something about red wine makes me happy and less aggravated by whining. Maybe it is my legacy coming from a long line of alcoholics; maybe it is that one sip can immediately readjust reality. Somehow it doesn’t seem to matter if they watch an extra 10 minutes of television -- or if they suck on a lollipop while doing it. Once, my husband worked late and, I had a glass of wine with dinner. It was too much of a rewarding feeling to not judge my motherhood so intensely -- to give myself a break.

It was too addictive: Rule number 2 was born: No Wine Alone.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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Smooth Satisfaction

Yesterday, my day was occupied by the extremely rare all-day date with my husband. We made romantic eyes at one another over the roar of the outside world. We flirted with each other using strength and varying body positions. We were happy to have the other’s sweat land on our bodies.

Yes, romance after seven years of marriage is not dead. Due to a last-minute cancellation by his parents, who were coming to stay with us, my husband was left with the extremely rare pre-scheduled day off of work.

I pictured him saying, “Let’s rent a convertible and cruise up to the wine country, tasting wine and eating delicious food during the cherished four hours that the kids will be in school.” I waited excitedly in anticipation while he took two days to decide what he would do.

Finally, he approached me and said, “I think that I will take Monday off…,” my heart is beating faster with romantic anticipation, “…to sand the deck.”

What the hell?

Aaah, romance daddy-style: he continues, “We could drop the kids off together,” (all of which fit the picture in my head), “then we could stop off at Hertz to rent some belt sanders,” (now we are veering quite a bit from my vision), “and we could sand the deck together,” (obviously not even in the realm of my brain).

I had two choices. I could do what I usually do and complain about how I never get time off, especially time alone with him and wouldn’t it be romantic to do some old school fooling around? Or, I could do what I decided to do and let him get what he desired without a fight.

Once I had the proper mindset, I was determined to be a deck-sander Bob Villa would want to hire, which would definitely be possible because our deck is bigger than most backyards in Marin.

I got dolled up in my ratty work clothes, being consoled by knowing that my husband would find this sexy. I headed outside to what I was told was perfect deck-sanding weather, partly cloudy, but not raining. I had to admit, the weather Gods were on his side as well, so I hunkered down for some work.

After about ten minutes of brain noise arguing the countless other things that I would rather be doing with my “free” time, I was able to let myself clear my head (the extremely loud noise helped in this department) and be completely absorbed by this activity. I got lost in the beauty of the loud screams of the sander that sounded nothing like my children. I focused on the power of smoothing out that one especially stubborn splinter-causing square inch. Take that, and that, and that, and finally -- smooth satisfaction.

When I hugged my husband today, I had to verbally yelp due to using dormant muscles for four hours yesterday, but my husband has one less thing on his To-Do list and he considers our time together sanding the deck as bonding.

Romance is still alive, if you allow yourself the freedom to find it.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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It might be the mind-numbing aspects that often have me despising my 24/7 job.

The pleasant and unpleasant things you have to do over and over every day. It is not like in the corporate world where those brain freeze tasks were not life threatening, and there was always some poor underling who would adopt them when you got promoted and earned the right not to do them anymore.

It is more the lack of choice.

Sometimes I feel like waking up and deciding, “I am not going to touch excrement in any form today.” Which sounds great in principle but when I wander out to the living room, my 2-year old has already made my decision for me by removing his pull-up.

Now it is all over his legs; on the toilet where he remembered to dump it after we showed him where poo goes; on his hand from his attempted wipe; and on me where I grabbed his hand in an effort to reduce the ooze.

I can’t hold onto my promise. In fact, if I can’t wash my hand in the next 15 seconds -- I will have an out-of-body experience.

I’ll have to compensate.

Though my usual mind-numbing task of bathing the kids takes place at night, I will instead do it before my morning coffee. Something to look forward to. The coffee, that is.

Yet, it is also the sounds of laughter when the water comes out of the faucet and the look of glee in their faces when something as simple as bubbles form. It is about noticing the small moments and trying not to lose it too much over the more trying ones. This allows me to get through the daily blahs.

By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

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