I had gone to Disney on a mom blogging press trip a few years ago, though, and I was convinced that we needed to stay inside the resort at least once, while the kids were small. “Once you’re inside the bubble,” I told Dennis, “the Disney magic really is non-stop. I want them to experience that.”

I knew from my own informational trip that Disney had special savings weeks, so we planned six months ahead and signed up for one of those weeks. We decided on a six-night stay at the Caribbean Beach Resort and because we bought two park-hopper tickets, our entire meal plan was free. This ended up being a GREAT deal for us, because as I’m about to tell you, the meals themselves were often a fabulous part of our vacation experience, and we never would have eaten at so many wonderful restaurants if we’d had to foot the bill ourselves.

First- The Caribbean Beach Resort.

The grounds are gorgeous. The rooms? Well, we were a bit disappointed when we arrived. They are fairly expensive, yet I’ve stayed in Holiday Inn Expresses that were nicer. These rooms, though clean and recently remodeled, had the feel of a bargain motel, right down to windows with views of the walkway outside. That was probably my least favorite thing about the room. Letting in sunlight meant also letting in the stares of strangers as they walked by. Also (and I believe this is true for all Disney resorts), bring plenty of DVDs- Disney only has two children’s TV channels in its lineup and there wasn’t much on TV for the kids to watch in the mornings and during rest times (which your children will need because it is HOT in Florida!). Fortunately, I had brought every Disney movie we owned for the long car trip- I ended up playing those on my computer in our room and the kids were thrilled.

Despite the room’s shortcomings, we decided at the end of the trip that we would TOTALLY consider staying at the Caribbean again. Why? Well, the amenities for children at the Caribbean are about as good as it gets, even compared to the other Disney hotels.

For one thing, we paid a little extra to stay in one of the resort rooms that had beds shaped like pirate ships (and bedspreads silk-screened with gold coins and jewelry– Nice touch!), dressers that looked like treasure chests, and a privacy curtain with the Jolly Roger insignia on it. Consequently, my children spent much of our room time joyously pretending to be pirates. They loved the room.

The real reason I would stay there again, though, was the grounds. We visited many Disney hotels, some of which were far more expensive than our own, and I think it’s safe to say that the Caribbean has the absolute best swimming pool area for kids.

Not only does it have a fabulous main pool with several water slides resembling a Caribbean grotto, but it also has a water play area for smaller children with a huge pirate play house, complete with an enormous bucket at the top that dumps water every minute or so.

Awesome.

The resort also has a jacuzzi, a kiddie pool, and several smaller pools throughout the resort. We spent a LOT of time here at the main pool. The days were quite hot, and this pool became an integral part of our trip. We had scheduled a no-park day and spent most of it here, and the parks were so crowded during the day that we often went to a park for a few hours in the morning, came back and went to the pool for a few hours in the middle of the afternoon, and then returned to the park in the evening, when the crowds had abated and it had cooled off outside.

Children’s activities take place here at the pool every hour of the afternoon, from dance competitions to arts and crafts. At 6pm each evening, there was a marshmallow roast down on the beach. And each night at eight, there was a Disney movie playing on a veranda overlooking the bay. We went one night and watched Tangled in comfortable lounge chairs. The night was cool, the kids were overjoyed, and it was one of my favorite moments of the trip.

The main building off the pool holds an enormous dining hall, which met our needs for snacks, breakfasts and some lunches. As part of our deal, we also received four thermal cups that we could use for unlimited beverages at the resort during our stay. These were also a lifesaver, holding coffee and hot chocolate in the mornings, soft drinks for the pool during the day, and Powerade for nights in our room.

One of the things we most looked forward to about staying inside Walt Disney World was being able to take shuttle buses to and from the parks. As it turned out though, the bus situation was NIGHTMARISH. Buses ran to and from the Caribbean Beach Resort every 20 minutes or so- and they were often so full that we had to stand like sardines throughout the duration of what was sometimes a 15 minute ride. At the end of a long day at a park, with two exhausted children, this was SO NOT FUN. However, we happened upon a perfect solution.

We took the bus in the morning at around ten, after the crowds of people leaving early for the parks had left. We stayed at the park 2 or 3 hours, then returned by bus to our room. When we went back to the park that evening at around six, WE DROVE. What most people don’t know is that parking is FREE if you’re staying within the resort. By 6pm, so many people had left the park that we easily found a spot in the very first aisle of parking, right beside the park entrance. At night, we were able to quickly return to our car and drive to our room, getting back a full 45 minutes sooner than we would have if we had taken the bus.

In the future if we stay at the Caribbean Beach Resort again, we’ll request to stay as close to the main building and pool as possible. Our room was at the edge of the resort, and we had to either drive to the main pool or take a 12-minute walk to get there- something my little ones often weren’t up for.  I can’t imagine what an inconvenience this must have been for people staying there who didn’t have a car. It would have definitely put a damper on the experience.

So that’s my take on the Caribbean Beach Resort. While I was on the mom blog trip to Disney a few years ago, we visited the All-Star Movie Resort and I have to say, I wasn’t impressed. I wouldn’t recommend staying at their “Value” hotels unless you REALLY want to stay inside the resort and you’re on a strict budget. I stayed the last time at Disney’s Beach Club Resort, which was nice and very comfortable, and I have friends who stayed at the BoardWalk Inn and said the same. While on our most recent trip, we visited the Polynesian Resort, the Grand Floridian Resort, the Wilderness Lodge, and the Animal Kingdom Lodge– All were very nice, but the Animal Kingdom Lodge was our favorite by far- with an amazing restaurant and views of the wildlife park from certain guest rooms. We’re talking about staying there next.

I’ll be covering meal options and the parks themselves over the next few days, but in the meantime, I’d love to know where you’ve stayed at Walt Disney World, what you thought of it, and whether you learned any tips or tricks while you were there!

Images via Disney

It can be tough, though, to find apps that are suitable for small children and worth the price that you’re asked to pay for them. Let me say unequivocally that the new Press Here app is one of those apps.

Based on the amazing book of the same name by Herve Tullet (which if you don’t have in your own children’s library, you need to get, pronto- This one’s a keeper and has been on the New York Times bestseller list for 40+ weeks), the Press Here app contains 15 different activities, which allow children to draw, create fireworks displays, build roads, and play air hockey, all using brightly colored dots drawn in the same style as those in the Press Here book.

Older children will enjoy the Press Here app, but I like it in particular for the preschool/kindergarten set, simply because it encourages creativity, small motor skills, and critical thinking, but doesn’t require any reading. And this is no five-minute-max app — I introduced my five-year-old son to the app thirty minutes ago and he is still engrossed in the games. I have a feeling he’s going to be asking me for my iPhone all the time now…

Best of all, the Press Here app is just $2 for the iPad and $1 for iPhone — well worth the money, in my opinion!

And if you’d like more information on the app, read the New York Times’ glowing review of the Press Here app here, or see it for yourself in the YouTube video below…

This post was sponsored, but my opinions are my own.

Farting.

Before I had children, I had no idea that kid farts would insidiously weave themselves into the tapestry of our family history right along with birthdays, family vacations, and the many milestones of childhood. To this day, I can recall the progression of sounds and smells associated with my children’s farts from their infancy all the way to the present. And I’m not the only one– Just as a mother can pick out her own child’s voice in a crowd of children, so can she identify her kid based solely on the smell of his fart.

Yes, it’s disgusting. BUT IT’S ALSO TRUE.

Not only that, a mom can also tell by that smell whether her child needs to go to the bathroom and whether he’s sick or constipated. And this is no useless party trick– Thanks to my “seventh sense,” I generally know that it’s time for a potty break even before my kids do.

“Start looking for an exit with a clean restroom,” I’ve said to my husband on countless car trips, shortly after looking up from my magazine and sniffing the air suspiciously.

“Do you need to go?” he’ll ask.

“No,” I’ll say. “But Bruiser will in about five minutes.” Hubs wrinkles his nose as the smell hits him.

“And we might as well get some drinks while we’re stopped, too,” I continue, putting my magazine away. “It’s gonna be a big one.”

As my children have gotten older, they’ve gotten better about heading to the bathroom at the first or second gaseous emission- When they were younger, they typically waited an inordinate amount of time before pooping, thus filling the room with fumes so noxious that our pet goldfish once inhaled a fart-filled air bubble and floated belly up in the water for two hours before reviving.

But at the ages of five and eight, they still haven’t yet learned the fine art of fart coverage. Instead, when air wants to make its way out of their intestines, they help it leave their little bodies with gusto– and the resulting noise can sometimes be heard two houses away.

It’s safe to say that kid farts are the drum section in the soundtrack of my life.

I am starting to see some progression in the fart-hiding department, though — Recently, Bruiser has created an imaginary friend, who apparently has no role in my son’s fantasy world other than “designated farter.”

“ZACK did that!!” my son announces each time he lets one rip. “That were ZACK!”

Occasionally, Zack is unavailable, forcing Bruiser to place the blame elsewhere.

“That were Daddy!” he’ll shout. “Daddy pooted!”

“Daddy is at work,” I’ll say drily. Bruiser will pause for a moment, thinking hard about how to get around this unexpected complication.

“Daddy is SO LOUD!” he’ll crow triumphantly. “You can hear his poots all the way FROM WORK!”

Punky has an altogether different approach. She passes gas without shame, then pretends as if nothing happened.

“What is everyone laughing about?” she’ll say after a particularly ear-shattering poot. She’ll frown at each of us. “I didn’t hear anything,” she concludes, returning to her book.

I’ve opted not to say anything to my kids just yet about whether the noises resulting from their bodily functions are impolite. As far as gas is concerned, better out than in, right? I don’t like to think of them trying not to pass gas and suffering stomach pains as a result.

But at Starbucks a few nights ago, I wondered about the wisdom of my logic. Punky and I visit our Starbucks one night a week for a little reading time together. On that particular evening, we sat in our favorite leather armchairs side by side and read our books in companionable silence. The tables around us were filled with adults quietly working on their computers and students studying for finals.

Suddenly, I heard what could have been a Guinness World Record contender for the loudest, longest fart on earth. My eyes widened and I surreptitiously glanced over at Punky. She continued reading, unperturbed. As I was watching her, it happened again, magnified by the leather cushion on which she was seated. People looked up and around at each other, startled. Punky casually turned a page in her book. I could hear giggling around me, and that that point, my mother’s instinct kicked in. I did what I had to do in order to protect my child.

I looked over at a man seated a few feet away with his back to us, wrinkled my nose and fanned my face with my book.

Once I was satisfied that blame had been assigned, I sat back in my chair and sneaked another glance at Punky. She was still staring down at her book, but now there was a small smile on her face.

I like to think that in that moment, she knew without a doubt that a mother’s love truly knows no bounds…

…even when it comes to farting.

Image via iamtheo/Flickr

The soccer season progressed and like other families, the mom and dad took turns bringing their son to practices and games. Each time Owen showed up, he made a beeline for Bruiser. The two giggled together and pretended to be dinosaurs, or superheroes, or soldiers as they kicked the soccer ball back and forth.

“My daddy is a magician!” I overheard Owen tell Bruiser one afternoon.

“My daddy is a fighter!” Bruiser said, trying to sound tough. I laughed to myself and told Owen’s mom about the exchange the next time I saw her.

“I guess your husband knows a few magic tricks,” I said, grinning. “Owen told Bruiser his daddy is a magician.”

Her smile faded. “A magician?” she said sardonically. “No. Jim isn’t a magician. Unless you count the disappearing act he pulled on me last week.”

It was an awkward moment. I didn’t know her well enough to ask what she meant. I quickly changed the subject.

“You won’t believe this, but I think Jim and Amanda from soccer have split up,” I told my husband that night.

“Are you sure?” my husband asked. “They seemed pretty happy together.” I told him what Amanda had said at practice that day, and of the awkwardness that had followed.

“That is really weird,” he agreed. “You may be right.”

Over the next few weeks, it became painfully obvious that the split was real. Amanda’s easy smile was replaced by a tight, hard line, and when Jim was there, the two barely spoke. Amanda struggled to keep her feelings to herself, but they would often spill out in our limited conversations. Her whole world, it seemed, had turned upside down. In addition to her husband leaving, a move that clearly had taken her by surprise, she was also now searching for a full-time job, which meant that she had to put aside the home-based business she’d been working to launch over the last few years.

“I’m thinking of moving the kids to Maine at the end of the school year,” she told me abruptly one afternoon.

“Really?” I said, surprised. “Wow. That’s far away.”

“It’s where I’m from,” she explained. “I was sitting in my house over the weekend while the kids were with their dad and I just thought, ‘What am I doing here?’ It’s full of memories that really aren’t happy for me anymore. I think I need to start over somewhere else.”

“Then you should,” I said simply. “But we’ll miss you.”

Jim also seemed eager to open up on the days when Amanda wasn’t around. “I’ve moved into my own place,” he told me one day as we stood watching the kids play. “I’ve been really worried about how the kids would take it, but they seem okay with it.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said. It felt weird, being caught in the middle of what was obviously a painful separation. But, I reasoned, I might as well get used to it. As my kids got older, divorces among the parents of their friends and teammates were only going to increase. And so I tried that year to be friendly with both Amanda and Jim…

…at least until the soccer team’s end-of-the-year picnic came along. It was Jim’s weekend with the kids, but this time, he also brought along another woman. A girl, really. She looked like she was in her early twenties, and dressed in short shorts and a clingy off-the-shoulder top, she definitely stood out amid the more conservatively dressed moms and dads. Watching Jim and the girl canoodle and laugh together, I was dumbfounded. How could he bring her here? How could he force all of these families to watch this display, when only a few months earlier, he’d been on this same field with his arm around his wife? How was Amanda going to feel when she saw this girl, or when she heard about her from friends? She would be humiliated! My heart ached for her.

And then suddenly, it occurred to me that this, at last, was my full-circle moment.

Eleven years ago, I was that girl on the soccer field, hand-in-hand with a boyfriend who was 15 years older. Eleven years ago, I endured the malevolent gazes,  the coldness, and the barbs from other mothers. Back then, I thought the unkindness  was unfair– I hadn’t even met my boyfriend until after his divorce was finalized. There was nothing wrong or inappropriate about the two of us falling in love. But throughout our courtship, our engagement and eventual marriage, and occasionally even today, I’ve borne the brunt of hurtful comments from first wives– and because of that, I’ve always resolved that when I encountered another girlfriend or second wife at the soccer field or a child’s birthday party, I was going to go out of my way to be nice to her. Because I knew exactly how she felt.

And yet…

I struggled, watching Jim gaze adoringly at his giggling girlfriend. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind of that happy, golden family I’d seen on the soccer field at the beginning of the season, and how very wrong this all seemed, just a few months later. I thought of all the milestones that Jim and Amanda had experienced together, as a couple-  the pregnancies, births, first steps, first words, birthdays, vacations, date nights and family nights. I saw Amanda’s strained face in my mind, and thought of the pain she was fighting so hard to keep under wraps. I saw their children, struggling to make sense of this confusing new reality. And I saw Jim’s new girlfriend, not for who she was, but what she represented: a younger, newer version of what Jim had given up, free both of emotional baggage and stretch marks. Jim’s fresh start. Jim’s new beginning. Jim’s escape.

And honestly? I wanted nothing to do with her.

That sounds horrible, doesn’t it? But it’s the truth.

As I get older, I realize there are no easy solutions when marriages fail and husbands and wives find love and fulfillment elsewhere. No pat answers. No clear heroes or villains, much as we’d like to label them one way or another in our minds. No right or wrong way of feeling. It’s hard and it’s unfair and both sides are generally at fault and everyone, everyone gets hurt.

Eleven years ago, I pledged to reach out one day to the girlfriends and stepmothers that are now beginning to multiply along the soccer field sidelines. I will live up to that pledge. They really do mean well, and they have generally have no idea of what they’re getting themselves into.

But I’m no longer under the illusion that it’s going to be easy.

Image via CharlieTPhotographic/Flickr

This is completely ridiculous, because I haven’t gotten so much as a speeding ticket since I was in my early 20s. But you know how my imagination is — If I happen to see a patrol car in my rearview mirror, my mind immediately begins flashing through a slideshow of possible (albeit highly unlikely) outcomes:

LINDSAY’S MIND: He’s going to pull me over because I didn’t signal before turning right a mile back. He’s going to get very angry because I’ll be so nervous that I won’t be able to find my registration amid the old receipts and fast food napkins stuffed in my glove box. He’s going to ARREST ME IN FRONT OF MY KIDS, OMG. AND THEY WILL BE TAKEN INTO TEMPORARY FOSTER CARE, WHERE GOD KNOWS WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO THEM!! AND I WILL SPEND THE NIGHT IN THE CLINK UNTIL MY HUSBAND MANAGES TO GET ME OUT AT 3AM!! HHHNNNNHHH. HNNNNNHHHHH. HNNNNNHHHH. (That’s the sound of hyperventilation. Duh.)

By this time, I’ve slowed to 25 mph and am clutching my steering wheel, barely holding back a cascade of tears that I hope will win the cop’s sympathy once he pulls me over. Suddenly, the road widens to four lanes and the patrol car roars around me, leaving me in its dust. I breathe a sigh of relief… I managed to evade the po-po. YET AGAIN.

Of course, all this is silly, not to mention completely immature. Cops aren’t bad guys! Not if you’re following the law! Cops are here to protect us, not strip search us in full sight of everyone driving down Old Hickory Boulevard during rush hour! And so, in the spirit of facing my cop-o-phobia head on, I’ve made it a point lately to smile at police officers when I see them, and say hello. These men and women are keeping me safe! THANK GOD FOR COPS!

Or at least, thank God for most cops. I had an experience two days ago that set me back a good ten years in the cop-o-phobia department.

THE TIME: after school.

THE PLACE: Toys R Us.

My kids both have managed to save around 20 dollars each in their piggy banks over the last six months, and they’d gotten it in their heads that they needed to spend some of that cash at the toy store, ASAP. As we crossed the parking lot Wednesday afternoon, a cop car pulled into a spot directly in front of us. I didn’t think much of it, except to wonder if someone had shoplifted inside.

By the time we entered through the electric doors, the officer had caught up with us and was right behind us. My children turned right and ran down the half-aisle of toys that guides shoppers into the store. The cop went down the other side of the aisle. We came face to face at the end and made eye contact. I smiled, as one does who is not afraid of policemen, and said “Hello.”

He didn’t smile back. Instead, he raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.

What the hell?

At that point, I didn’t have much time to think about this strange turn of events, because my children had taken off in a gallop all the way to the other side of the store. I run-walked after them. The cop, I could see out of the corner of my eye, was following close behind me.

This was getting weird.

I raced past two employees setting up a new display and caught up with my children, the officer hot on my trail. “Can I help you, sir?” one of the employees asked as he passed them.

“I’m not sure yet,” he replied in a hardened tone. He stopped right beside us at the Skylander display and gave the toys a cursory glance. Skylander, if you’re not familiar with it, is a Wii game my kids are crazy about right now. Once you buy a Skylander action figure (and there are dozens) you can put it on your “portal of power” and actually play in the Wii game as that character.  The game is designed with children in mind, and I had trouble believing that this stone-faced policeman was a fan.

He paused there beside us for a second or two and then abruptly turned and walked away. Obviously, he hadn’t come to Toys R Us looking for Skylanders. He had followed us in and rushed to keep up with us as my kids ran the length of the store. And that left me to ponder one question as my kids, oblivious to the mortal danger we were in, pattered away about Drobot and Trigger Happy.

What in the name of Thundercat was going on?

Covertly, I looked around the store, half expecting to see the cop peering out at me from behind a Strawberry Shortcake display, gun drawn… but the man was nowhere in sight.

“I’m getting this one and this one!” my son said, holding out two Skylander figures.

“Great,” I said shakily. “On to the Barbies!”

We walked over to the Barbie  aisle and my daughter began the drawn-out process of trying to choose one out of the dozens up for sale. Meanwhile, I had started to sweat, and my stomach had begun churning. Why had a cop FOLLOWED US INTO THE STORE?! Why was he SO MAD?! What on earth could I possibly have done wrong? The most likely scenario was that he’d seen me unknowingly break some sort of traffic rule and was going to tell me off about it– but that seemed highly unlikely since I’d driven through a chain of three different strip malls to get to the toy store. Did cops even care about rolling stops in parking lots? I didn’t think so.

No, this had to be something far more serious. I racked my brain trying to think of any laws I had broken recently. Had he found out that I sometimes park my car outside my house facing in the wrong direction? That was all I could come up with. “It’s a cul-de-sac, for heaven’s sake!” I imagined pleading as the cop handcuffed me. And speaking of handcuffs, WHERE HAD HE GONE?! I walked to the end of the aisle and peeped around the corner. Nothing. By now, he was probably out in the parking lot, calling for backup.

“Have you chosen a Barbie yet, Punky?” I asked impatiently, a single bead of sweat running down the side of my face.

“I’ve narrowed it down to six,” she told me.

I shifted from one foot to the other. Part of me wanted to hide in the Barbie aisle forever, but a bigger part wanted to go out to the parking lot and confront the dozen police officers who were surely waiting for me in SWAT gear.

“Whatever it is you think I did, I’m pretty sure I didn’t do it!” I’d shout bravely, before becoming tangled in a net dropped from a police helicopter. Suddenly, I was interrupted from my dark reverie by a voice.

“Hi Lindsay!”

Startled, I looked up to find a mom friend gazing at me.

“Oh hi, Jane,” I said nervously. “How are you?”

“Good,” she said, giving me a questioning look. “Just shopping for birthday presents.”

“Oh,” I said, very, very calmly. “Well, it’s so nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too,” she said. She ambled off, casting back a worried look before she was out of sight.

Could this day GET any worse?  Jane was a prolific Facebooker, and I could only imagine what her status update would look like an hour from now.

Ran into @LindsayFerrier at Toys R Us. Wonder why she was Tasered in the parking lot?

OMGOMGOMG. My stomach lurched.

“Are you ready yet?!” I hissed at my daughter, and then immediately felt bad. This might be the last time I saw my kids for a long, long time. Fortunately, both were oblivious to my terror. Punky triumphantly held up a Ballerina Barbie and we made our way to the cash register. As I handed the cashier the kids’ allowance money, I stole a few glances at the parking lot outside. No sign of the cop. But that didn’t mean anything. He was likely standing just around the corner of the store along with a pack of officers in riot gear, all waiting for the signal to TAKE ME DOWN.

“Come on, kids!” I said with false brightness. If this was it, I could at least go out with a reassuring smile on my face, thus shaving a few months off the ensuing years of therapy they’d face as a result of whatever-it-was-that-was-about-to-happen. We all headed out to the parking lot, hand in hand in hand. It was silent outside, except for the sound of my beating heart. I braced myself, preparing to be wrestled to the ground and beaten with a nightstick, but shockingly, nothing happened. The space where the cop had parked was empty. He’d left. All was clear.

For now, anyway.

I’ve thought a lot since then about what’s become known in my mind as THE INCIDENT. The realist in me wants to believe that this officer was simply having a bad day, and to hope that I’ll never see him again. But come on. This is Suburban Turmoil. Chances are excellent that he’ll turn up again from time to time, nosing around at my children’s birthday parties with a K-9 dog, popping out from behind planters at the mall, glaring at me menacingly over menus in restaurants, and generally making my life a living hell until I slip up and give him an actual reason to arrest me.

In the meantime, rest assured that I’m never making eye contact with a police officer again! Oh, and one more thing:

If I happen to end up in the slammer soon, rally behind me, loyal readers. Whatever it is I’m in there for, I didn’t do it!

Yet.

Image via Jo Naylor/Flickr

Yep. We were photo bombed in Louisville over the weekend.

I looked at this guy after I took the picture and said, “Really?” And we both cracked up. I still laugh every time I look at it.

Top image via Martinak15/Flickr

As I walked up our neighborhood’s biggest hill, I had the unmistakable feeling that I’d… well… wet my pants a little. It hadn’t happened before, but I knew it was common in the last trimester and since my super-sized fetus (who would weigh in the next day at ten pounds) had been exerting some serious pressure on my bladder, I figured it was simply another indignity in the life of an extremely pregnant woman. I said nothing to my husband (oh, the teasing I’d have had to endure!) and changed when I got home.

As it turned out, I hadn’t wet my pants. My water had broken, but I didn’t realize it until I sat up in bed with a start at one in the morning. I stumbled to the bathroom, blearily aware that something was different, and there I had the classic “OH MY GAAHHHHH MY WATER HAS BROKEN!!!” moment. We hightailed it to the hospital at one in the morning, where I was promptly checked into Labor and Delivery- no triage for me! Once your water has broken, you’re in like Flynn.

When my obstetrician arrived, she immediately wanted details on the exact moment that it had happened.

“Well, technically it was at one in the morning,” I told her.

“Oh good,” she said. “So it hasn’t been long.”

“But,” I continued, “I think it may have actually happened at around seven. But I was out walking and just thought at the time that I had wet my pants a little.”

“Oh don’t tell me that,” she said nervously. “I don’t even want to know that. The longer it’s been since your water has broken, the greater the risk of infection. So we’ll just go with one a-m.”

This is how I learned that once your water breaks, the sooner you have your baby, the better. So I was surprised as I watched TLC’s A Baby Story while on the elliptical yesterday to see a woman laboring unsuccessfully in her apartment, ten hours after her water had broken… and then 15 hours… and then 20…. and then 24. At that point, the midwife told her she needed to go to the hospital, but still, the woman was resistant.

“I didn’t want to go,” the woman tells the camera in a soulful, after-the-fact interview (and her words are a paraphrase, since I couldn’t find the episode online.) “I had planned on a home birth. Having to go to the hospital was one of the worst moments of my life,” she finished, with tears in her eyes.

At that point, I fell off the elliptical.

Well, not really, but I might as well have.

Because… Really, lady? Choosing your baby’s safety (not to mention your own) over a home birth fantasy that clearly wasn’t working for you was one of the worst moments of your life?

Let’s get something straight before we continue. I’m all for home births, hospital births, water births, hypnobirths, natural births, and anything else you can dream up that’s been deemed safe. Every woman who’s having a child, who’s had a child or even who’s dreamed of having a child has an idea of how she wants labor and delivery to go.

But somehow over the years, drawing up a birth plan has become equivalent in women’s minds to planning a wedding. It’s alllllll about the mom, which is fine and dandy… until the mother’s demands potentially endanger the child. I’m seeing more and more women throw absolute fits after their birth plan goes awry, or devote numerous blog posts to their grief over their botched birth plan– despite the fact that they still came out of it with a brand new child who’s healthy and whole.

Forgive me if I’m way out of line, but I just don’t get it.

With Punky, I waited to get an epidural until the last possible moment — I wanted to feel like I had experienced labor (and ohhh, did I ever experience labor!), but I had absolutely no desire to feel the legendary “ring of fire” at the very end. I planned to wait for my epidural with Bruiser as well, but shortly after I checked into the hospital, his heart rate dropped briefly.  Suddenly, doctors and nurses flooded the room and an anesthesiologist was in my face, asking to put in the epidural immediately. If it was in, she said, I’d be able to stay awake if I had to have an emergency c-section and even more importantly, they’d be able to get him out ten minutes sooner.

That was all I needed to know.

“Put it in,” I said. Yes, I was disappointed- and having an epidural for that long of a period was totally not fun. But I didn’t grieve. I didn’t mourn. I didn’t throw a fit.

I hadn’t checked into the hospital for “MY BIG FAT METICULOUSLY PLANNED BIRTH EXPERIENCE.” My main goal was to hold a healthy child in my arms at the end of the process.

I’m not here to criticize anyone. (Except for that woman on TLC. Seriously, woman. I hope that the moment you were told you’d have to have your baby in a hospital instead of your apartment really is the worst experience of your life, because then your life will be very good indeed.)

I’m merely suggesting that perhaps in the future, we counsel the pregnant women in our lives to consider their birth plans as less a set of rules and more a general idea of how they’d like things to go. Here’s the advice I’d offer, based on my experience having kids:

• First off, you can make this entire process more pleasant by taking time at the very beginning to find an obstetrician who really listens to you. My OB/GYN is one of my favorite people in the world- She treats me like I’m intelligent, she took time to get to know me as a person and not just another pregnant lady, and I feel like I can talk to her about anything.
• Once you have an OB you trust, make your birth plan a collaborative work. Talk to your OB about what you want. Ask him/her for suggestions. Listen to those suggestions. Remember that you are not the expert and take that into consideration.
• When you’ve written your birth plan, realize that it’s simply a general idea of how you’d like things to go, that it’s subject to change once you’re in labor, and that much of it will go out the window. I think I had “mood lighting,” “scented candles,” and “soft music” on my first birth plan. Once I was was in labor, though, I didn’t give a flying fudge round about any of those things. I just wanted that baby OUT… and everything else became irrelevant.
• While you’re in labor, don’t think of yourself as a queen, surrounded by minions. Instead, consider yourself the quarterback- You need all of your teammates’ help and expertise to get that baby delivered. Take the advice of nurses, doctors, and midwives seriously- They may not be suggesting what you had originally planned, but they’ve delivered thousands of babies and know what they’re doing… I’m pretty sure they’re not making recommendations just to mess with you. Having a baby really is a collaborative effort, and the more you think of it that way, the better it is for everyone involved.
• Know that the end of it all, there’s a good chance that your fantasy will have played out in a completely different manner than you’d planned. Your home birth turned into an emergency c-section. Your natural birth was marred by an epidural and pitocin. Your nurse wasn’t very nice. LET. IT. GO. You have a beautiful, healthy baby. Nothing else matters.

Those are my thoughts. What are yours?

Image via BradleyGee/Flickr

“Shhhh,” I said quickly, nodding at our 5-year-old Bruiser and 8-year-old Punky in the backseat.

I was too late.

“Mommy?” my 8-year-old asked. “What’s a serial killer?”

“Uh… It’s someone who eats so much cereal, there’s none left for anyone else,” I said quickly.

“Oh.” Punky paused, thinking.

“I think Bruiser is a cereal killer,” she said darkly.

Image via musicfanatic29/Flickr

During a conversation about Ann Romney, who’s been dispatched to help her husband bridge the gender gap on the campaign trail, Rosen said that Mrs. Romney, a stay-at-home mom of five now-grown boys, wasn’t qualified to talk about women and the economy, since she had “never worked a day in her life.”

*Cue explosion of millions of heads across the country.*

Of course, after outrage was expressed from everyone from Republicans and Democrats to moms to the Obamas themselves, Rosen apologized… but what stood out to me was the wording of her apology.

“I apologize to Ann Romney and anyone else who was offended,” she said in a statement. “Let’s declare peace in this phony war and go back to focus on the substance.”

I’ve been a stepmom and mom for ten years now, and during that time I’ve worked outside the home, stayed at home, and worked from home. I can tell you unequivocally that the “Mommy Wars,” though hyped by the media to the point where we’re all sick of hearing the term, are far from phony. But they’re certainly not limited to working moms calling out stay-at-home moms, as in the very public case of Hillary Rosen.

The truth is that there’s a deeply ingrained negative view of SAHMs and WAHMs in particular that permeates our entire society.

The amount of ignorance and disrespect I’ve faced over the years simply because I decided to have kids and quit working in an actual office has been, frankly, unbelievable. In fact, this very blog was started in part because I was struggling to come to terms with the difference in the way people seemed to view me after I took time off in order to raise my infant daughter and 12 and 14-year-old stepkids. Here’s a line from my very first post:

After a year of staying home, I’m starting to see myself the way others see those in my position. Boring. Marginal. Gray.

I read back over that post today and the memory of that time came rushing back. Going from a job where I was traveling the country interviewing celebrities and writing and producing a national television show to one where even supermarket bag boys were condescending, merely because I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and had a baby on my hip, was a tough transition for me. It was degrading. Infuriating. I mean c’mon, I pushed out a baby, not brain cells.

I’m pretty proud of what I’ve managed to accomplish in my seven years as a “stay-at-home mom.” Read my bio and it’s clear that I’ve done a lot more since leaving my job than clean the house and watch soap operas. But I realized as I thought about the Hillary Rosen controversy that even though I feel like I’m now doing the most important work of my life both with my children and in my career, I’ve become so used to being treated as “less-than” by those in my community who see only a SAHM when they look at me that I don’t even flinch when it happens.

And it happens a lot.

Home repairmen practically get dollar signs in their eyes when I open the door surrounded by kids, and the rate for what should be a simple repair often doubles or triples. Acquaintances at cocktail parties innocently ask if I’ll ever go back to work, or if I “miss working.” My neighbors inquire from time to time whether I’m still writing my “little mommy blog.” PR e-mails arrive in my inbox each day with condescending pitches inviting me to tell all my “mommy friends” about a new diaper ointment in exchange for a $.50 off coupon! And just the other day, a colleague e-mailed to say it must be “fun” to be “dabbling in journalism” again. I read that one and laughed out loud. Yes, I enjoy it, but I’m also putting in hours and hours of hard work on the number one moms’ site on the Internet. What she calls “dabbling,” I call “trying to empower millions of moms to vote knowledgeably in November.” Also, “putting my stepdaughters through college.”

But what do I know? I’m just a mommy! Dabble, dabble! Hee hee!

I’m writing about my own experience here, but I’m sure that every mom reading right now has a variation on this theme. SAHMs endure offhand remarks about how easy they’ve got it and how much time they must have on their hands. WAHMs’ very real careers aren’t taken seriously by the people around them because they do it from home, often while simultaneously taking care of their kids. Even moms who work outside the home have to put up with comments from child-free coworkers who question their commitment or their abilities, as well as comments from well-meaning SAHM and WAHM friends who gasp that they could NEVER leave their child all day long and go off to work!

These wars sure don’t feel phony to me.

I marvel that I’ve grown so accustomed to condescending mommy treatment, and I sometimes laugh privately or roll my eyes at the things that are said, but I try not to let myself get upset about it. Generally, people mean well and would be horrified to know how their words sound from my perspective. I do think it’s interesting, though, that the simple act of being a mother turns us in society’s eyes from productive, intelligent individuals into simpering simpletons, capable only of discussing the latest episode of Real Housewives. When Hillary Rosen puts down Ann Romney, she’s only using labels that others have unfairly been ascribing to moms for decades. And before we can even begin to change others’ thinking about moms and their intelligence, their capabilities, and their importance to society no matter what work choices they make…

We have to change our own.

“A spring birthday,” she mused. “Are you going to send him to kindergarten in August or hold him out another year?”

This was a completely run-of-the-mill question for her to ask. Parents around here routinely hold their kids- particularly the boys- out of school for an extra year so that they will be emotionally, academically, and physically more mature when they enter the classroom. The practice is so common that I wrote a newspaper column about it a few years ago when Punky started kindergarten. Here’s an excerpt from the intro to the column on my blog:

Kindergarten classrooms at many of the private schools here in town are filled with kids from five all the way up to seven. Think of what this means down the road- Fourth grade classrooms include both children who are nine and adolescents who are twelve. Eighth grade classrooms now contain both 13-year-olds and kids who can drive. Come senior year, 20-year-olds will be accepting their high school diplomas!

But I’ll be honest- I hadn’t really thought about the subject too much since then, certainly not for Bruiser. Sure, I’m anticipating a few issues next year as he learns to adjust to seven hours a day, five days a week in a classroom (not to mention homework every night), but in my mind’s eye I saw him facing those challenges alongside other boys his age. They’d all go through it together.

Now, though, I’m starting to picture my poor five-year-old son in a classroom surrounded by pimply faced, peach-fuzzed boy-men, all crammed into kindergarten-sized desks. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little (you guys know how my mind works!), but after I posed the question on Facebook, I realized that a LOT of you out there are holding your kids back- or at least considering it.

And… no offense, but…. AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH.

Don’t get me wrong — I sympathize with your concerns that your child is still too fidgety for the classroom or that his or her birthday is right before the cutoff date or, or, or– well, there are lots of reasons why I’m sure you’re nervous about your kid starting kindergarten and I get it. I do.

But whatever happened to the idea of putting all of our five-year-olds together and letting the natural differences between them sort themselves out? Or the idea of letting your kids try kindergarten and then repeat it if at the end of the year there are still some major issues that need to be addressed? I know plenty of kids who’ve done kindergarten twice. There’s no shame in it.

Plus? Nearly every teacher I’ve talked to about redshirting is completely opposed to it. Here’s why, again from my column:

“If you gear the class toward the older children, the younger guys get left behind,” says Catherine McTamaney, a professor in the Department of Teaching and Learning at Vanderbilt. “If you gear it toward the younger children, you spend a lot of your time dealing with behavioral issues with the older guys. We’ve created a monster in these structures, and these kinds of parent games just feed it.”

I think the phrase that hit me the hardest during the Facebook discussion yesterday went something like this: “I’m holding my son out for an extra year because I want to give him an advantage…”

Well, we all want to give our kids an advantage, right? But in this case, the unspoken end of that sentence is “…OVER YOUR SON.” The obvious “advantage” is that these kids are a year older than the ones who started when they were supposed to. And that makes me… a little bit ill.

Perhaps the most contentious reason parents are holding their boys back is in the hope that the extra year will help them perform better in sports once they reach high school. Not many parents will freely admit that this is the case, but it’s pretty obvious who’s done it here when you look around at your friends and acquaintances– and it’s happening A LOT.

I don’t really care if one day, my 17-year-old son loses out on a college scholarship or a state record because some 19-year-old classmate bested him. (Although, if that actually ever happens, check back with me.) Right now, I’m more concerned about the possibility of my child getting injured because he’s playing teams of boys that are one or two or even three years older than he is. The thought of my son breaking a bone or getting a concussion because some other parent wanted to give their son a sports “advantage” makes me SEE RED.

Those are my thoughts on the matter… and this is your opportunity to make your thoughts on the matter known, too. Let me say right now that I hold no grudges against anyone who’s held out their child for an extra year- I know TONS of people who’ve done it, I realize that it’s commonplace, and your individual reasons when you’ve given them to me have all made sense. The problem is that when a large group of people are doing it, I start to worry that my son is suddenly being set up for failure simply by starting school on time.

What do you think?