Guest post: my 200th post, written by Mrs. Chicken

Today's guest post is by the lovely Mrs. Chicken. Because of what this post about, my intro is below it. After you read it, you'll understand why.


I've spent the past month or so tied up in knots about my blog. Should I keep it going? Shut it down? Open it to my family?

It's so stupid, all this angst about a series of virtual pages, a life imagined in the ether. I am not Mrs. Chicken; I am a living, human being with facets more varied and strange than I could ever share by tapping out a series of words strung together. Do you know me? Yes and no. Do I know you?

No. And yes.

Issa and I crossed paths last summer, when I was startled—terrified, really—out of my ambivalence about my second pregnancy. My OB decided I needed an iron infusion, administered directly into my veins with an IV. Later, I found out that this risky procedure is attempted only in very dire situations, and only in the hospital.

Only in the hospital, because it can kill you if you have an allergic reaction.

I had a reaction; not quite full anaphlaxsis, but close. I never stopped breathing, but I did black out and wake up to two Epi pens surging through my system, body seized with painful contractions, as frantic nurses and my midwife struggled for several long, life-altering seconds to locate the heartbeat of my 37-week old baby.

The babyman. Babyman was planned, expected, wanted. But that didn't stop me from gnawing on the idea of him like a dog with a bone. It didn't stop me from endlessly questioning how I would manage to love him, with a heart already so full of adoration for the little girl who stole my soul lo these four and a half years ago.

But that day, I realized how much my heart wanted him. How important and real and deep my love for him was, even as he lay hidden inside my inhospitable womb.

Issa read my recounting of those 30 minutes, and suddenly, the two of us were bonded. I changed her life, she tells me. That experience of mine allowed the ice floes inside her own heart to break free, giving way to the warm mother-love she has for her own son.

Issa, you see, experienced loss.

Issa feared the love. She feared loving her sweet baby curled up inside her, lest he be taken from her. She's suffered heartbreak and loss and she was brittle.

But Issa was not broken. And neither was I. But sometimes it takes a shock to break you free from the fear, and we both got a shock that fateful July afternoon.

And so, Issa and I are bonded. When my son was born, I thought of Issa. It sounds impossible, disingenuous. But I did. And I knew that shortly thereafter, she would experience the overwhelming love that I felt as I pressed my lips to my son's warm, freshly minted face.

A few nights ago, Issa and I chatted online about the strange wonderfulness of this imaginary world we share, and as we signed off, I wondered if I would ever meet this young woman who has become my friend in the strangest, most unimaginable way possible.

I might not ever lay eyes on Issa. But she and I share something difficult, if not impossible to articulate.

I think of Issa, and of all the other mothers and fathers out there in this vast universe, and I think of how I am changed because of them. How I love more deeply, share more openly, weep more copiously, laugh more uproariously, because of a series of words strung together.

Because of stories.

And because of Issa, and Heather and Mike and Tanis and Kristen and Binky and all the rest too numerous to name, I will continue to share my own tales. Because you just don't know when your life will bump up against someone else's, and change everything.


I can't really remember when I found Mrs. Chickens site. I think there is a possibility I read her a bit before I quit blogging, but I'm not positive. Who knows? It doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of life. What I know is that when I first started reading her blog last summer, we became connected in a way that most people in the "real" world wouldn't understand. In a way that some of you, might not even understand. I don't think I can do it justice, so I'm going to ask you to read THIS if you'd like to know a bit more. It's a post that I wrote, the one where I realized how amazing this new friend of mine was. It's a bit of a harsh post, because it discusses the last time I lost a baby. But that day last July, where Mrs. Chicken almost lost her Babyman, was the day I realized I could and did love mine. That he'd already taken over my heart, I just didn't believe it yet. This woman, who I'd not met had changed my view on my life, my son's life. In one moment, she changed my life. Strange? Maybe. But it is true. I hadn't been blogging again for very long last summer. I was still in the, share silly stories, not reality with the blogging world. I hadn't found my voice yet. But that day, I choose to be real with all of you, or whomever of you were reading back then. I hadn't said yet, that I wasn't sure I could love Harrison. I hadn't told the story of my loss, or my breakdown after it. I hadn't yet decided that I really wanted to do this again, this crazy blogging life. That day, I knew I was in, fully in. That day, I realized that I wanted to be apart of this community again. In some ways, I wish I'd never taken a break. But my experience is different this time around, my friends are different, I am different.

This woman, this beautiful woman, who I may never meet, is someone who I am honored to call my friend. It's a strange community we have here. Having people guest post and write such brilliant heartfelt things has really shown me how important all of you are too me. I am still finding my words again, but I am getting there. I will be back, I promise. You can't get rid of me now.

Guest Post: Where real and imaginary blend together

Insta-mom is today's guest poster. Which makes me so happy. I am really loving these guest posters. I mean I loved them all before, but I'm loving this semi-break. I am feeling the urge to start writing again, so there will be more posts from me in the next few weeks, mingled with the last few guest posts.

Insta-mom managed to put into words what I have been wanting to say for awhile. Which really, makes it so much easier for me. Because hi, she's a teacher and has a way of getting to a point when she writes, which I tend to not be able to do. I tend to be in the, see if you can find the point of this post because I surely can't, camp.

A lot of you have your Internet life and your real life mingle. You do play dates, you go to every conference imaginable, your family and friends know about your blog. Maybe a few of your friends in real life, blog too. Mine don't, no one knows except for Logan and my BFF Kate and I'd like to keep it that way. They're not telling anyone. Most days, they pretend they don't know. It really has nothing to do with any of you. It's not that I feel any different about you than I do my real life friends. For me this is just the way it is. But I, like Insta-mom am seeing the lines being blurred. In some respects it scares me. In others, it seems like it's not a big deal at all. Like it's the natural thing. I care too much about all of you to worry about it anymore. I fought it so hard with my last blog and in the end I had to stop blogging because of it. This time, I'm just not willing to do that. Do my children and husband remain separate from my online friends, yes. They do, that is Logan's number one issue and I am okay with it. (To him you are all the invisible people in the computer.) But too me? No, it's just not that black and white anymore. I do this for me. To have something that is all mine. When you are friends with the same people your entire life, you each have a role to play. A role you know, a role that I am entirely comfortable with. Our lives our so intermingled that every story I tell has them in it in some way. Our kids are all the same age and it doesn't look like it will be any different for them. I love this about my life. However, blogging is just for me and I love that too. It's my thing that no one else does, that no one else is interested in. It's my deal.

Anyway, I am honored to have Insta-mom share in my space today. (See at first I had no idea what to say, then the rambling happened.)

At my mom’s house on Mother’s Day, my sister-in-law was looking through the World’s Most Influential People issue of Time Magazine. When she got to the page about the founders of Twitter, she declared, “I still don’t even understand what Twitter is.”

I didn’t offer anything by way of explanation as I sat there on the couch next to her, my Blackberry intentionally left at home so I wouldn’t sneak to the bathroom too often to read my Twitter feed.

Those of you reading this who do Twitter probably totally understood why I did that; those of you who don’t quite possibly think I’m a hopeless loser.

And that’s my point. So many people don’t “get” the relationships those of us who have Internet lives develop with one another. I’ve heard people talk about blogs and social networking sites with that air of contempt in their voice. Those things are for social outcasts, recluses, people whose skin is oddly colored because most of the light they get in a day come from the glow of their LCD screen.

I only told two people I know “in real life” about my blog. Another found out quite by accident. But that is the extent that my two worlds overlap. I like it that way. You see, in real life, I am a bit of a recluse. I tend to resist social situations that might involve large groups of people. I try to branch out, but I don’t do well overcoming my fears—the fear of rejection, ridicule, exclusion. In real life, I am self-conscious and insecure.

There is safety in the Internet. People don’t have to read your blog or follow you on Twitter. If they don’t want to know you, they won’t. They don’t laugh at the worn out pair of shoes you wore because they were the only ones you could find. They don’t judge that you haven’t washed your hair because you just can’t bring yourself to exert that much effort. And if they tell you they don’t like you, the sting can wear off more quickly because in many ways, they are not “real” to you.

So I have created for myself these neatly separated worlds: the “real” one, where I am what I know I am; and the Internet one, where I am who I wish I could be. I am open and confident and social. But these worlds stay separated. I am happy when life is neatly compartmentalized. For so long, I’ve needed them separated.

But several times recently, those two worlds collided. And they collided in ways that I can’t ignore. So the lines have to bleed and become fuzzy. I have had to come to terms with the idea that these bloggers I read, these people I tweet with, are not just ephemeral beings elsewhere in the universe who know me in a way that even people I am related to do not. They are actual flesh-and-blood friendships. Friendships grown in a different part of my self than the “real” friendships I already have. They are people who know me in a more honest way than anyone who actually “knows” me.

The power of those relationships has come crashing down on me in the last several months. You don’t realize how invested you become in someone’s story until that story includes pain—pain that you feel as acutely as anyone not experiencing it in the first person can. You are forced to accept these relationships into your life, the real one, not just the invisible one. All the strings of the two worlds become tangled, knotted, inseparable.

But offering friendship and consolation to people you have grown to know over the Internet is much more complicated. You can’t stop by with a basket of muffins and a box of tissues when you are in California and your friend is 1000 miles away. And even when geography doesn’t impede your outstretched heart, how do you offer your love and concern to someone who, in spite of being part of your every day life, you’ve never actually met?

Maybe I have trouble giving people the benefit of the doubt, but because these Internet relationships are so much different, I don’t trust that people who don’t have them will always understand the depth of the friendships. I can’t rely on them understand how you can hurt for someone you’ve never seen.

And I won’t ask them to understand how these invisible relationships can actually make you a better person, a better friend, in real life, too. Because when you can’t stop for a cup of coffee or offer a hug you are forced to find other ways to show that you care.

You begin to understand that just a simple “I’m thinking of you” can carry a well of emotion with it. You find other ways to be generous. Those acts are enough because they are all you can give. And they help you realize that the best you can give, even if it’s just a few words to ease a burden, will always be enough.

Guest Post: When two worlds colide

Today's Guest is from Stacey at AnyMommy. Stacey, for those of you who have never been to her site, is capable of making me (and most anybody) laugh and cry in the same sentence. (Read below, or read any of her posts and you will understand.) Also, she wins the best Tweet award for the month: "Most embar Seattle moment: Waiter: Ma'am, 4 u, a coke? sprite? Me: No, I'd like huge top shelf margarita. Blank look. Me: Is the bar closed?" For those of you who don't know her, she is like 32 million weeks pregnant.

She's a beautiful writer and friend. I tell her that she's a great writer, because she is, all the time. My only compliant about her is she posts really early in the morning and I NEVER wake up early enough to get any points. Because yes, her posts have points too. I keep thinking if I tell her enough times what a great writer she is, she might float me a free couple of points. But so far, it ain't workin.

But this post below is awesome and I'm blessed to be able to share it with you all. I have a post coming next week. With real words and all that jazz. I have more guests post coming too, but I am feeling the urge to write. Please be patient with me, while I find myself again. I hope you guys enjoy these guest posts, because I am loving them.


Different Worlds

She walks toward me quickly, with a huge smile, and hugs me tightly, "Oh, I knew you'd be here. I've been reading your blog. I think it's wonderful that you're walking for Maddie."

I am thrown off balance, stiff and awkward in my disorientation. The field is swept by a constant cold wind, but bright with sunshine. The purple balloons tied to my triple stroller dance crazily. My kids happily eat free doughnuts provided by the March of Dimes, their cheeks sticky and chapped red by the wind. She turns to them, her warmth and enthusiasm prick at my heart. "And here are Ess and Gee and Cue," she rattles off their names without hesitation. "They are gorgeous!"

"Thank you. It's great to see you here." I don't know her name and my brain is in a tail-spin panic. I should know it, we aren't friends exactly, but our kids went to the same co-op school in different years. We've chatted a lot at book club meetings. Also, she's lovely and I really enjoy talking to her. I should know her name in such a way that asking is not an option. It's more than just being poor at names, or being a social ditz, it's that some where deep down I feel I should know her the way she knows me, that I've failed some how.

I know she has a daughter a little older than my three-year-olds. I know her little girl was born prematurely and struggled to live for weeks. I can't remember her daughter's name either. She told the whole story at a quiet restaurant table with just three or four of us left after a book club meeting. That was maybe six months ago and I haven't seen her since.

She has seen me, though, here in my other world, where the mirror sometimes only lets people look in at me, as though I sit under a barren light at an interrogation table, gazing at my own reflection while those on the outside watch my movements for clues.

"I loved your last post, the one where you think about Cue at the pool while you're rocking him. It touched my heart."

"Thank you so much," I answer. "I love writing that blog, it means a lot to me that people read it." I want to say so much more, I want my three restless children and the windy field to melt away for a few minutes. I want to take her hands and lead her to a little table and buy her a coffee. I want to ask her, tell me, please tell me, what do you think about when you rock your little girl to sleep? But, the walk is about to start and the rest of my team is waving at me from the other side of the open space and all three of my kids are asking me something and someone is asking her a question because she wears a volunteer t-shirt. So, I give her another quick hug and surreptitiously wipe the strange, inappropriate tears from my eyes.

"See you later."

Guest Post: Toddlers Rock

Today's guest post is by the lovely PsychMamma. I am kinda thrilled that I managed to trick her into writing for me, seeing how she doesn't really blog anymore. She Tweets, thankfully, because I'd miss her if she didn't, but she doesn't really blog anymore. She also is constantly kicking my butt in Scrabble, but we don't talk about that. This is basically something she wrote for her little girl, J, and was kind enough to share it with us. I have to say, it totally made me miss my girls being so little. It's strange how different a year makes, because really Bailey is only four and a half. But it is different; they grow so freaking fast.


Tomorrows

(A journal entry for my three-year-old daughter)

Hey pumpkin!

Today was a most wonderful day with you. I have to admit that many of these days are not-so-wonderful. You seem to have saved the "Terrible Two" phase for when you turned three. Most days, you're busy testing boundaries (and my patience), shouting "NO!" and being in time out. I know that it's developmentally normal and that it's just a phase, but sometimes my sanity survives minute-by-minute.

Today was NOT one of those days. We woke up to a rainy day, and I was feeling lazy. Yesterday, I accomplished EVERYTHING from my "to-do" list for the day, so I was feeling triumphant. I decided that all the house things and work things could wait another day, and somehow managed to not even think about them. We had a great time playing together. We made a tent in the living room out of a sheet, the couch and a dining room chair and played in it for a long time. For a while, it was a tent, and then it magically transformed into a pirate ship (your idea)! Have I mentioned how much I love your imagination these days?? It amazes and amuses me without end. We prepared food for jungle animals on safari and for ponies on our pirate ship, and you made me some special tea. We read a couple stories, sang lullabies to babies and tucked them in to sleep. We took a walk to Venezuela, pushing a baby and two bottles in a stroller, and pulling a puppy pull-toy along behind us. We snuggled while watching Charlie & Lola together, which we both absolutely and completely adore, and I loved hearing you giggle whenever Lola giggled. It made me giggle to. We played with buttons for a long time - one of your favorite things to do. We talked about the colors, textures and shapes, sorted them into bowls and found the tiny ones that fit in the teapot spout, then strung them on a strand of dental floss. You love the flower shaped buttons best. After a while, we made a picture for Daddy by gluing buttons onto cardstock. Your declared that your picture was a cow with a flower (even though it looked absolutely NOTHING like either), and you were so proud of it when we were done. You were also completely amazed by glue. It was the first project we ever did with glue (Yes, I've been terrified of the possible repercussions) and when the picture dried, you couldn't believe that the buttons stuck! You declared it wonderful magic, and then asked if we could take the buttons off again.

Your phrase of the day was "C'MON! Work with me here!" and I have NO idea where you heard it. Neither your daddy or I say it, but I'm sure you picked it up from a library movie or something you overheard someone else say. Your memory constantly amazes me. I've learned not to question you unless I'm prepared to apologize, because you're very rarely wrong about things you remember. Although, weirdly, if it's something I WANT you to remember or find ("J, WHERE is your other shoe?") you mysteriously have no recollection.

You woke up from your nap on the wrong side of the crib (Yep - you're still in a crib, and will be for as long as possible), but happily snuggled with me in the rocking chair for almost twenty minutes. Because that rarely happens anymore, I treasure anytime it DOES. I can't believe how big you're getting and how the space on my lap is getting filled up. Your head easily rests on my shoulder when your knees are on my lap now, and I remember so well the days when you snuggled up against me with your head on my chest and your feet on my belly. I know that a huge part of me will be incredibly sad when these snuggling days are over. You'll be to big and too proud for that. But, I also know that new wonders will be waiting for me as I watch you bloom and grow at every new stage. This parenting thing is so bittersweet. I'm so proud of your every accomplishment, and I want you to learn new things and to become more independent. At the same time, I know that very independence means you'll need ME a little bit less, and that the snuggles will be fewer and farther apart.

Daddy and I had a date night tonight. We need those now and then. It's that sanity thing again - someday you'll understand. You love your babysitter, and are usually so excited when I tell you that she's coming. This morning, when I told you she was coming you got mopey, though. I asked you why you were sad, and you said, "Because you will go away. And I don't like it when you go away." My heart melted and I reminded you that I always come back and that I would be here when you're sleeping and when you wake up in the morning. Your little face lit up, and you said, "And we can play again? You will play with me tomorrow?"

For as many days as you let me, Pumpkin. For as many weeks as you ask me to. Until the years when you're busy with friends and I become the embarrassing mom. I'll take all the tomorrows I can until then, and I'll store them up in my heart.

I love you, Sweetie. Always.

Guest Post: The MIL version

Note from Issa: I've been blessed with lovely friends who have taken pity on me and my messy heart right now and have obliged with a few guest posts. Please be kind to them, as they are doing me a HUGE favor and I have no way of repaying them. Unless any of them takes sour Jelly Beans as payment? Ladies? Anyway, today's guest poster is going to be anonymous, because her MIL lurks on her blog.

This is an anonymous guest post, written by someone with sadness in her heart and a Mother-in-Law that chronically lurks on her own blog. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to share my thoughts...

On Mother's Day it came to hit me, my mother-in-law hasn't seen my children in over two years. TWO YEARS. My youngest is only two and a half, which means you don't need to be a genius to do the math, she's non-existent in their lives. As I grow older and wiser, I realize you can't force someone into your life even if it's a family member.

But I wonder when it's going to hit my children as well. Why doesn't Grandma come visit us?

Unfortunately my MIL likes to spend her travel time on things she likes doing, rather then visiting her grandchildren. You see my MIL isn't a knitter or crafter or bingo player, my MIL is a chronic gambler. Even though we live about 2,500 miles apart, she'll fly right over our house to a better destination Las Vegas. You know because when she travels to Vegas, she gets "free" rooms. We charge a high premium for our guest room, quality time with the grandchildren. I guess it's too much for her to handle.

We've tried to have the conversations, we've heard the promises of a visit in the winter, no a visit in the summer. But alas the years are passing and visiting us is low on the priority list. And yes, we are partially to blame because we haven't made the visit to see her or her husband that has never met our youngest child. Saying that blows my mind.

I just feel like being an adult and traveling with out little children in tow is not too much to ask of someone that loves and cares about you. Now for us, hopping on a plane or two with layovers, with our children is much more of a process. We are going to make the trip this fall, but I don't quite know how to accept that she doesn't want to be a part of our lives. I guess we don't provide the rush of a pull on a slot machine or the promise of the next big win. We just like to have quality time around the dinner table and create lasting memories.

Time to focus on the family members that do love us, love visiting us and creating memories. Although it sure is hard to let go when it's your husband's own mother that doesn't love you the same way.

Guest post #2 - Alissa

Alissa, from Life's Little Adventures, is one of the first friends I made in the blog world. She's also one of the first people I looked up when I started this blog. When she isn't chasing after her sons, Nick and Drew, she is busy cutting up dead animals (serious, it's her job...or something like that) and taking beautiful photos that make me tell her she should be a professional photographer. I’ve read her posts ever since I started checking out this lovely blogosphere, and she never fails to inspire me. I’d feel lucky to have Alissa as a friend and even more luck that she said that she'd do this guest post for me.


OK, from what I understand Issa is writing little intros about all of her guest bloggers, so I shouldn’t have to introduce myself. But, just in case, I’m Alissa, from Life’s Little Adventures. I’ve known Issa online for a few years now…we lost touch there for a bit but I am so happy to have found her again. She’s fantastic, isn’t she?

Anyway, she put out a request for guest bloggers, and without even thinking I volunteered. That was awhile back, and it suddenly occurred to me that I’d best get on the ball and write something! And then I started thinking Hey! Why in the world did I agree to be a guest blogger? I’m hard-pressed to write anything on my own blog these days that’s not whiny and annoying…what makes me think I can do better for Issa?

And then I decided…I’d let my boys write the post. I figured I’d ask them for advice for Issa on raising her new baby boy, seeing as she’s got two girls and just now has been introduced to the marvel that is baby boys. So, here we go:

Me: Boys, tell me some things that are important to know when taking care of a baby boy.

Nicky: Feed it a lot!

Drew: Boys are tougher than girls.

Nicky: He needs to keep short hair. Only girls should have long hair.

Nicky: Always poke it down when you’re changing his diaper.

Drew: Yeah! And, be sure not to dress him in pink. Pink is girly.

Drew: Boys are very cool. Remember to be nice to him.

Nicky: And don’t forget to tell him you love him lots!

Drew: How old is the baby boy?

Me: A couple of months…

Drew: Can he walk yet?

Me: Oh, no.

Nicky: Well, remember that when he can walk he’ll be wild and crazy!

So, Issa, while you’re off enjoying a wonderful vacation alone in Hawaii with your darling hubby, we’ll hold down the fort here. And it appears that, should you ever need another babysitter, my boys are more than capable of taking care of your little guy.

Speaking From Experience

I think the first time I found Christina’s site, Fairly Odd Mother, was days before I shut down my first site. I remembering thinking dam, I wish I’d found this chick earlier. She seemed funny and sweet, despite her love of really bad television shows. When I came back to blogging, I made sure to track her down. And hey, she is sweet and funny and someone who I can’t wait to meet at BlogHer this summer...but the love for bad reality TV shows remains. I am thrilled that I managed to trick her into guest posting for me.

I'm very honored to be guest-posting at Issa's blog. I realize that many of you may not be all that interested in hearing from someone you don't know so I thought I'd tell you of the few things that Issa and I have in common:

* we both got married in 1999;
* we both got pregnant super fast after deciding "let's give it a go!";
* our three children came in rapid succession; girl, girl and boy (my oldest is 8, youngest is 4);
* we are both hopelessly cool (ha! ok, maybe Issa can claim this).

The one major difference, I'd say, is that I am (ahem) a bit older than Issa. While she is still flitting about in her 20's, I'm about to dance with #42, a number that is almost impossible for me to fathom.

I was known as a "late bloomer". Wonder why?



So, needless to say, I didn't really date in high school.

I also spent the bulk of my 20's living La Vida Loca (or a much less-exciting version of that). I was a "Career Girl" as my father so kindly put it. Sure, I dated, sometimes for a decent chunk of time, but nothing clicked until I was 29. I "finally" married when I was a week away from turning 32.

You may have heard my mother's sigh of relief?

Like the cliche, I spent my 20's being the bridesmaid, not the bride. Several times over.

Oh, and what a bridesmaid I was. I wore blue, pink, taffeta and fuzzy, hot black.



(I also spent my twenties growing, cutting and then growing my hair apparently)

Missing from that photo collage is even a little coral number for a wedding that never was.

Is it any wonder that, after so many weddings, so many dresses, I opted for a casual, simple wedding and let my sister pick out whatever she wanted to wear to be my Maid of Honor?

It now seems oh so long ago.

Issa, enjoy the rest of your twenties my dear. And dress well. Because when you are 40-something, you will find yourself digging through your photos for fodder for your blog. Trust me on this one.