Drawing the Line

When I was in Elementary School I recall doing a lot of art projects. I remember being slightly excited and more than slightly anxious when they were assigned.

You see, I loved tag board. I loved the idea of art, though my execution was terrible.

I did not love my lack of creativity and the inevitable "help" my mother would offer.

Each trip to Target meant we would buy two pieces of tag board, the first being a practice piece, you see.

Each time I thought for sure I wouldn't need the second piece. I would get it right the first time.

I should have bought stock in the stuff.

I've never been one to focus on anything artistic. Even now, I use Shutterfly as my only means of Scrapbooking and PowerPoint as any illustration I ever need. If it takes more than an hour to do any project, I'm just not that interested.

You could say I have artistic ADD.

Anyway, my mother is a perfectionist. She would immediately begin "helping" by drawing lines with a ruler and getting out stencils. While other children were out there (GASP) free-forming their text on tag board, I sat with ruled lines and small dots to indicate the spot where the stencil should butt up, thus allowing for even and clear spaces between letters for maximum legibility.

Making the lines took about an hour, so you can imagine how thrilled I was to do anything beyond that. While most kids were willy-nilly gluing on objects from magazines and catalogues, I was story-boarding my ideas by carefully placing items down on the tag board in the form I wished them to be later.

If those were deemed appropriately spaced, I would then draw a line at the top and bottom of the item so I would know where to glue when I was finally allowed the glue stick.

Back then I saw my mother as a demanding perfectionist. Now I think she just wanted us to take pride in our projects. I think she was encouraging us to think and plan before doing. Just as I would always write an outline to a paper, having a plan before execution was crucial to tag board art in her mind.

Wee 'Burb is too young for any kind of art, really. Though I do of course hang her "sticker art" from daycare (which is exactly as it sounds, she places stickers on a piece of paper). When she's old enough for art, I doubt it will involve tag board. Instead, it will involve whatever future form of illustration software is out there.

I wonder, though, if I will be standing over her, encouraging her to count cursor spaces between illustrations and double check her fonts are all sans serif.

How did your parents "help" with your homework growing up? Were you grateful for their involvement or resentful? What do you think now as you're older? How do you plan to help your children or students?

Lola's Rant: THE HORROR, THE HORROR!

Please welcome Lola again! When she told me this story, I begged her to write this up, as I think it's blog gold!

Who here remembers their first driving lesson? I know I do – I almost plowed into a parked van trying to execute a left turn. Good thing those instructor cars came with two sets of brakes. Then there was confusing the gas pedal with the brakes on a road test with my dad. Certainly an unforgettable experience – especially for my dad!


I got to appreciate his bravery a little bit more just a few weeks ago, when I gave my very first driving lesson. Did I mention that it was to my mom?

That’s right. My mom still hasn’t learned how to drive, and now that my parents may be moving to a much more car-intensive city, I finally managed to talk her into giving it a whirl.

So picture this: a deserted parking lot on a weekend. It’s almost dusk. I get into the passenger seat and it sinks in – I have absolutely no control whatsoever. All I can do is hope and pray that I can talk her through navigating around the mailbox and the street lights. And really, that’s not a comfortable place to be.

But hey, this was all my idea and I at least have to look like I’m totally okay with this (and not having a little mental freak-out).

She gets in the car, which is already running (it’s cheating, but it’s our first lesson, so whatever). I kindly ask her to adjust the mirrors. She refuses because “she doesn’t know how to use them.”

Dear Jesus, if I get home alive and without serious damage to my vehicle, I promise to build several churches in your honor. But hey, gotta stay calm! The last thing I want to do is freak her out by letting on how nervous I am!

So she puts her foot on the brake, puts the car in Drive, and we sloooowly take off. Watching her go, I begin to understand who I get my overcautious nature from – she’s not exactly a giddy 16-year-old who’s, like, totally psyched to finally get behind the wheel.

Like, omigawd!

So we start making figure eights around the parking lot at a snail’s pace. At some point, I actually relax enough to start having evil, envious thoughts – my first driving lesson didn’t go this smoothly! Somehow, the idea that my mom is a better neophyte drive than I was overrides the terror within me. The little voice inside my head that was screaming “she’ll kill us all!” five minutes ago is now saying “you got served! By your mom!”

But I look over and she’s actually kind of enjoying herself. I suggest we try the gas pedal (you can imagine the speed we were going just riding the brakes). She does. We don’t hit a chestnut tree.

Woo hoo! My mom ROCKS, people!

I guess this is that same mixed feeling of terror and pride that parents get when their teen finally starts to drive. It’s sort of overwhelming. Plus I’m getting just a tad nauseated from going in circles over and over. And yet I don’t say anything, because it really is quite an amazing feeling to watch someone take one tiny, miniscule step toward conquering a huge fear.

What the hey, I’m actually very proud of her!

The moment is ruined when some kid shows up to learn to ride his bike on that very same lot. Somehow, it doesn’t seem like a good idea to mix the two forces of destruction. We pull over without incident and I get out and walk over to the driver’s side on jelly legs.

Sitting in the car, I start thinking how something that I find so easy, so automatic – like breathing – can seem so daunting to someone else. Someone who’s even afraid of the mirrors. And about how little it takes to feel a bit more empowered.

Not that I’m itching to have a second driving lesson with mom anytime soon. Not until she learns to adjust the mirrors, anyway.

Do you remember your first driving lesson? Do you have more respect for whoever had to be in the car with you now?

Top 10 Ways I Knew I Was A Mom

I kind of want to write my own Top 10 list for why I love Rachel at Life with Baby Donut. Not only is she a prolific commenter, she's also an amazing support person on Twitter. Also? She's not afraid to ask for support when she needs it, something I respect in a woman, especially a mom. Check out this post on blogging insecurities for an example of her honest writing and reaching out to others.

I believe there comes a time when every woman who has a child looks at herself and thinks “Oh my gosh—I am such a mom!” Now you’d think going through a painful labor and birthing a child would be that defining moment. Or perhaps even breastfeeding and ending up sore and in pain. While those moments certainly point to mom-hood, there were actually a few other, subtler ways that I knew I’d arrived.

Here I present the top 10 ways I realized that I was a mama:

1. I picked a giant booger. And it wasn’t mine.

2. I can tell if a diaper is full simply by scent.

3. I let my kid lick my face. I don’t allow anyone, including my dog, to do that.

4. “Ssshhhh” has become the most often used word in our house.

5. I typed up a spreadsheet comparing the price of diapers between different stores. (I realize this also makes me a nerd.)

6. I wear zero makeup. This is a big deal!

7. I googled the words to “Pat-A-Cake.”

8. I can eat, hold a baby, do a load of laundry and unload the dishwasher at the same time! With only 2 hands!

9. I can no longer leave the house in less than 30 minutes.

10. I make sure most everything in my purse can be used as a chew toy in an emergency.

There you have it. What was your defining moment?

Lousy with Louses or Balding Gracefully

On Wee 'Burb's first day of her new daycare, I saw the dreaded note on the door. Parents of the center daycare will know what notice I am speaking of.

It's the infectious disease report, usually a one-page note letting you know one of the rhesus monkeys your toddler has been sharing spit-laden toys with has come down with some sort of plague.

Given it was her first day there, I didn't pay much attention until I caught another look at it.

LICE!

When I was growing up, lice was like herpes. Every girl dreaded getting it, and we all avoided talking about it as long as possible if we got it.

For half of my life, I had hair down to my butt. Thick, beautiful hair. Thick beautiful hair that I didn't want to lose.

For you see, my first experience with lice was when it made its way through my elementary class, somewhere around third or fourth grade. The dreaded note came out and my mother did her usual check, and all was clear.

The next day I went to school. There were two girls, sisters, who I was sort of mildly friends with. Inasmuch as I was friends with anyone at that age. I was painfully shy and withdrawn.

Anyway, we'll call them the M Sisters.

The M Sisters were on the playground, being actively avoided by the other kids. I approached and then took a step back.

The M Sisters were BALD! Their newly shorn pates shining brightly in the sun. The M Sisters were possibly the whitest kids in our school. They were borderline grey. Their naked scalps were nearly transparent.

You guys? They did NOT have lice!! Their mom just freaked out so much given this was the third or fourth outbreak of lice, she took preventive action. By shaving their heads.

From that day on, any time a letter came home about lice I would sob hysterically while my mom checked me, positive that my luscious locks would be shaved as soon as one of those egg sacks was found.

Thank God it never happened (and my mom assured me years later, she NEVER would have shaved my head).

But to this day, when I see the word "lice" I immediately grab my hair protectively, positive someone will show up with a razor and leave my scalp exposed.

Do you think shaving a head is kind of crazy? Have you had to deal with these infectious outbreaks? Has your child ever been Patient Zero on any of these? Do you admit it? Are you itchy now just thinking about it?

Why do Moms Matter? One Word: Mascara

When I was going into middle school, we moved from Minnesota to Tucson, Arizona. I wasn't all that broken up about the move. I wasn't overly popular, I was constantly teased, or sometimes worse, ignored. While I had a core group of friends I would miss, I was a little more focused on how I could be DIFFERENT. Plus this was around the time of 90210 (Lord, I'm dating myself here) and they moved from Minnesota to Beverly Hills, so it was almost the same (actually it kind of was because the area we moved to was quite well to do).

Like one of those 80s transformation movies, I cut my hair and got contacts. I had my braces off a few years before, but the picture was...well, an improvement.

I was fortunate to be taken under the wing of a sweet girl named Tracy who then introduced me to her friends and within a few months I had a GROUP of friends. A real group of girls who went to boy/girl parties and had sleepovers and went to the mall to hang out.

One such boy/girl party had me the subject of much scrutiny with this group of friends. See, they almost all wore makeup and were slightly distressed that I didn't. I honestly hadn't really brought this subject up with my mother, so I didn't know where she stood on makeup. I had a general idea it wasn't going to be a hit. Sure, I'd stolen a few red or coral lipsticks discarded from her freebies at the mall makeup counter (sorry, Mom), but I'd never actually SEEN her put on makeup, nor did I have a clue what it involved.

That night I acquiesced to my group of friends and found out it involved A LOT! Like three people and a lot of blotting and closing my eyes and fearing for my contacts and the inevitable mascara wand stabbing that would occur.

But the result when all the fuss was over? I felt beautiful. I felt AMAZING. I felt a part of things, finally in these girls' league. Like Cinderella watching the clock on the wall dreading midnight, I dreaded the next day when I had to go back to ME. The me without the glass slipper of foundation and eyeshadow.

So I was in the car the next morning with my mom and I casually broached the subject. These girls had allowed me into their group, had experimented on me, and the boys that came over were quite responsive (I'm sure I downplayed that part).

My mom shocked me and said "if you want to wear makeup, you have to do it right."

WHAT? If I want to wear makeup? As if...had I had that choice the whole time?

My mom made an executive decision and got us an appointment at Merle Norman. I don't know if those even exist anymore. It certainly wasn't your average MAC or Sephora counter. It was definitely geared toward a...more mature crowd. But to me it was like the Disney World of hotness. This.Would.Change.My.LIFE! Of this I was sure.

And you know what? It kind of did. The woman showed me how to blend makeup to make sure there were no makeup lines (something I thank her for to this day when I see chicks with a huge orange ring around their face), how to apply mascara properly, and how to care for my brushes and skin.

You guys? Going home with that little bag of makeup was one of the happiest days of my life. I still look back on it as part of that overall transformation to a place where my ethnicity wasn't scrutinized, where people could actually pronounce my Puerto Rican last name, and where I felt beautiful.

And I still think this may have been one of the most beautiful gifts my mother has ever given me. So on this her birthday, I want to thank her for the gift of confidence and belonging that had long been missing in my life. There were so many other ways that day could have gone, but she looked into my eyes and realized what this meant to me and did what only the best mothers do: whatever it took to make her daughter happy.

I will carry this with me when my daughter comes to me with a similar plea...you know, in 20 years.

Where Do We Go From Here?

The other day with nothing to watch, I found some episodes of the old show Yes Dear on my On Demand. I’ve always had a fondness for Anthony Clarke, ever since I saw him perform at a comedy club in Boston where he was (in my humble opinion) high as a freaking kite and laughing so hard at his own jokes, he could barely get through a set.

Anyway, the episode began with a joke about the main couple played by Clarke and the chick from Uncle Buck trying to shove videotapes and anecdotes of their little boy on a couple friend of theirs who had no children. The couple invited Clarke/Buck to a concert, and they confessed to already having tickets to a concert of their own: Barney and Friends.

You guys, the LOOK that passed between the childless couple…I’ve had that look. Even since I’ve had Wee ‘Burb, I confess I’ve rolled my eyes a time or two having to listen to a couple going on and on about the genius of their little booger-eater.

So imagine my shock and horror when I realized, I’m becoming one.

All joking aside, it’s been bothering me quite a bit. Recently I’ve been in several situations where there have been a few moms and then a single or childless (also, that word? Sounds stupid. It’s the most succinct word I can come up with for someone married with no children, but seems to suggest a barrenness that isn’t accurate) woman in the mix.

The moms, of which I am now a part, talk of development and share charming anecdotes, myself included. But inside, my gut is bursting to say “DO WE NOT HAVE SOMETHING ELSE TO TALK ABOUT??!!”

Again, seriously, I am just as much to blame. Because I don’t.

It’s like when you start dating someone new and you try, you really try to CONSCIOUSLY not mention his name at every turn, but the more you concentrate on it, the more you end up saying “well New Guy says this” and “the New Guy and I did this” and it’s so obnoxious and your head is screaming STOP IT, DUMBO! But you can’t, right? Because at the moment, it’s the all-consuming world you live in.

I keep wondering when did this happen? When did this become IT? When did I become the person who can only talk about her kid?

I’m noticing it with this blog, too. Having set out to eschew the “mommyblog” moniker, I avoided blogging about my pregnancy and kept going for awhile with only mentioning Wee ‘Burb in passing, as an intro or exit to an anecdote.

It’s like I want the option to not blog about being a Mom, and yet…well, I’m not sure where I’d be without that topic. Because that is my world right now.

I plan to do something about this, about it being my world. Scott and I didn't restrict talk of Wee 'Burb on our recent trip without her, but we did try to reconnect on topics outside of that I recently read our Community Ed brochure and found several tempting adventures. One was a Thriller Line Dance class, which, come on, is tempting.

And then even that is stereotypical in some way, right?

Sigh, we’re the couple who can’t do anything but talk and think about our kid, so we’ll just go sign up for wine tasting or cheese making or something as an excuse to have something to talk about. Incidentally, that’s where the episode arc took the characters: they enroll in a wine tasting class and find out they’re just fine with being the couple that only talks about and thinks about their baby.

The truth is, we’re not that couple at the core. Scott and I do have outside interests and discussions. Mostly about work, which is a relatively verboten blog topic and frankly doesn’t make for the best group topic either because it ends up turning into an unhealthy vent session when all the person asked was the equivalent of “still working?”

Cooking is something Scott and I talk a lot about. We’ve taken classes in the past, but (not to sound snotty) a bulk of them were a bit below our level, geared more toward people who needed to learn the basics like cutting veggies while your pasta cooks. And a few of my friends have this topic in common, so I am lucky there.

I feel like so much of my life and blog is centered around this one person. And I’m just not sure there’s an escape. And I am wondering if I am destined to not only never make new single or childless friends, but to lose the few I do have now. And that? Scares the crap out of me.

Okay, so weigh in! If you’re single or don’t have kids, do you get annoyed when you’re out with mommies who clique it up about their kids? Or as moms, do you gravitate toward women with kids? Do you slowly only end up with other parent friends, or is there a point at which you begin to develop other interests, too?

Ice Age: The Meltdowns

Guess what? Wee ‘Burb just got her first official diploma! Yup, my girl is wicked smart, getting diplomas before she even turns 1. It’s totally cool that she has zero interest in crawling and still tries to stick her bottle in her eye, because my little genius has passed her very first parent/child swimming class.

I confessed here that I was doing this largely to make new mommy friends. The other impetus, though, was to make sure that when we head to oceans East this summer, Wee ‘Burb isn’t terrified of the water. Because Mommy likes to get her beach on, People, and I can’t have a kid who refuses to leave the safety of their umbrella and towel.

We got to the first lesson super early, which will surprise nobody who knows me. I have a very “10 minutes early is 20 minutes late” philosophy that requires me to travel with reading material and a charged cell phone to kill time while I wait for people with normal internal clocks that allow them to show up places on time.

The lessons are at a middle school, and can I tell you, the first whiff of barely hidden B.O. and ammonia and chlorine brought me back to the torturous years of middle school so much so that I had to check my teeth for braces, and felt the snap of a bra strap like a PTSD flashback.

I see that there are two…kids? I don’t know, they’re out of high school, I guess. Teenagers? What do they call them now, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell a “tween” is. Anyway, they’re young’uns being instructed by a very pregnant older lady on how to prepare the pool for the kiddies after a middle school swim team apparently created bad baby swimming juju by putting the ropes too close together.

The “teachers” are not inspiring a lot of confidence. They’re kind of shuffling around, looking at each other, looking at the parents who are starting to file in. The pregnant pool feng shui advisor is long gone. They’re not really saying anything to us.

The dude finally hands me a piece of paper that gives the “rules” of swim class (okay, it’s really hard not to write “the first rule of baby swim class is don’t talk about baby swim class!”), which are basically common sense things like this class doesn’t promise your kid will never drown, you need to hold on to your baby, etc. And one that I thought was super common sense, but proved not to be was that your kid will pick up on your cues to determine how to act in the water.

The “teachers” finally introduce themselves and confess what is now obvious: they’ve never actually taught a parent/child swimming lesson (and, I am sure, will never engage in any activity that may result in being a parent with a child after seeing the ensuing meltdowns, which only echo in a pool that size).

So it’s time (10 minutes late, thanks) to finally get in the water. And I am psyched. Only now I am starting to realize that Wee ‘Burb is, by far, the littlest one there. All of the other kids are walking, talking little people and my drooly howler monkey is staring at them, then at me, like “what did you get me into here, Mom?”

It turns out they had combined classes and instead of the 6 months to 2 years class, Wee ‘Burb was now in the 6 months to 4 years class. And by the stares as we tried to maneuver getting in the water when Wee ‘Burb could barely sit on her own on the side, I realized most people were thinking I either had some baby with a growing disease, or I was insane.

But, we’re resilient, Wee ‘Burb and I. I jump in the water and it is COLD! Not lake cold, I’m talking polar ice caps cold. But all I can think about is if I start screeching, it’s over, Wee ‘Burb will not come in. So I smile, clap my hands and pull her in.

The look of SHOCK that came over that baby’s face! I thought for sure I was killing her, or at the very least making sure her insides wouldn’t thaw out until she was the age of our “teachers.” But after a minute or so of moving around, she was good to go and I was less blue, so we were ready.

Two other mommies follow me. One is a rather large woman with what I assume to be a large 4-year-old in an ill-fitting pink bikini, who actually turns out to be a very large two-year-old with an ill-fitting pink bikini and, let’s face it, a cruel mom. Anyway, the mom gets in and immediately starts squealing and Pink Bikini immediately grabs on to the railing and refuses to let go. Meltdown #1.

The other mom behind her is a very polished looking Suburban Working Mom. She oozes poise and I am immediately jealous of her and her very fit body and her lovely (though impractical for the pool) diamond earrings, and carries her tow-headed daughter in a perfectly cut little pink princess bathing suit, hair done in two symmetrical ponytails (here’s where I confess that our daycare ladies LOVE to play with Wee ‘Burb’s hair and I have given them free rein to do so, so that night she was sporting what we like to call her Wee Who from Whoville look, which was two very short ponytails on top of her head, closely resembling a little alien). She is there with Suburban Working Dad who has their tow-headed son in a polo shirt and trunks remarkably similar to his own.

She gets in and immediately shoots a warning look to Suburban Working Dad that he is not to allow either of their perfect children near this glacial abyss known as the middle school pool. She immediately looks at the “teachers” and declares it “far too cold for children to enter.” Aaaakward, as right then Wee ‘Burb puts her feet in her mouth and floats right on by Suburban Working Mom’s super judgmental stare.

The little boy actually WANTS to go in the water, but Suburban Working Mom refuses to let him. Meltdown #2.

Two other little kids see that Suburban Working Mom isn’t making HER kids go in the water, and refuse to go in themselves. Meltdowns #3 and #4.

This whole time, Wee ‘Burb could not care less. She’s happily frog kicking and smiling at all the parents who are now torn between their fears of hypothermia or curing their kids’ fear of water.

The bottom line was this, according to the “teachers,” the pool was at 78 degrees. It would get into the 80s when classes progressed, this was just early and they were still playing around with the temperatures, etc. And most of the class was then spent trying to coax parents, and then their kids, into the damn water.

I don’t see Suburban Working Mom at the next two classes. She shows up to the fourth class and immediately tells the “teachers” that she had phoned the Community Education office and given them a piece of her mind that 78 degrees was totally inappropriate for children and she was not about to subject her kids to that.

I swear she looked right at me and Wee ‘Burb, who was now happily following a Dora the Explorer ball around the pool and screeching her delight. That day it was supposedly 83 degrees, which Suburban Working Mom felt was okay enough to allow her darling children in, but only for 20 minutes of the 30-minute class.

She didn’t show up again to the rest of the classes, after complaining 83 was still too cold for the full class and her darling dears were not going to swim in that.

At first I felt guilty for allowing Wee ‘Burb, clearly smaller and more fragile than Suburban Working Mom’s toddlers, in the pool in those temperatures. But she never turned blue, she had a great time, and most importantly: she lives out in the world! I mean, what lake or ocean maintains a constant temperature of 83 degrees or higher?

Incidentally, I was looking something else up in one of my long-put-aside Mommy Books and I saw an entire chapter on swim lessons that might as well have been titled “Stephanie: Reason #400 you are the Worst Mom Ever” or “Call Child Services Now” for short.

Because, according to the very practical doctors and mommies and other people keeping their kids in bubbles all their lives, 83 degrees is in fact the optimal temperature for babies to swim in. But you probably shouldn’t take them swimming, anyway, because they’re liable to have their ears or bowels explode, resulting in little baby pieces that are very rough on the pool filters.

Whoops! And now we know why Stephanie didn’t make any new mommy friends at parent/child swim lessons. But we do have this nifty diploma!

An Open Letter to Suburban Working Moms

Dear Suburban Working Moms: I know you’re out there! I’ve seen you hurriedly dropping your kids off at daycare (I’m the one in the sweats and sneakers…nice heels, by the way). I see you frantically cramming groceries into your cart with your kids hanging on your nice blazer (seriously, nice heels, where’d you get them?). How you must hate me while I quietly go about my shopping with nary a care about wayward sugar cereals making their way into my purchases. How you must look down upon my own uniform of track pants and t-shirts.

But you see, in many ways, I am just like you! I’m the Work at Home Mom, and I’m not feeling the love. I’ve been trying since Wee ‘Burb was 3 months old to get into your circle somehow. I’ve signed up for Mommy and Me classes, tried fruitlessly to find later hour storytimes. I’ve scanned the paper for fun weekend things to do with babies under 1 and NOTHING! Yes, I know they’re little blobs with no attention spans, but how else does a mommy find new friends?

What I do get is constant ads for story hours that last from 10-11 a.m., calls apologizing that once again my Mommy and Me class has been dropped from 5-6 p.m., but hey, do you want to join the one from 1-2 on Wednesdays? Despite what you, and frankly some days my husband thinks, I work! I truly do. Yes, it’s in my jammies, and yes it’s a flexible lifestyle I know many moms would kill for, but I work pretty damn hard and I miss my kid as much as the next mom. In addition to the standard working mom guilt (I suck as a mom, I suck as a worker, my brain is fried, if I read one more children’s book I will hurl, if I read one more sales “messaging” piece that has the words “customer-centric” in it, I will hurl), I’m also filled with insane guilt every time I throw a load of laundry in before a conference call. And yet even worse guilt when I don’t.

Every mommyblog will tell you, it’s lonely out there! My single friends live in cooler places, my married friends with kids have married siblings with kids, or married friends with kids that live closer. So I’m looking for you, fellow working moms! Are you all gathering somewhere I don’t know about? Is that why my classes are constantly getting cancelled? Is that why my only options to bond with my kid and meet other people is going to a park? Cuz I tried that and apparently nobody else thinks it’s the greatest idea to stick a 6-month old in the swings. Plus, frankly, you all scare me! Do you think I’m a stay-at-home mom slumming it with you working folks to take a break from my playdates?

Wee ‘Burb and I are planning our swim classes starting in this week at 5:30 p.m. That’s evening time, mommies! After work, even for those of you with real jobs (seriously, wear your heels, I want the details!). Please don’t let me get another call saying it’s cancelled. And when I’m there, do your level best not to judge me for my bedhead and sneakers…the truth is, I clean up okay (I know a great place to get discount shoes, just ask me)! And I work just as hard as you even if I do go to work every day 50 feet from my bed.

Love,
Suburban Work at Home Mom with the Same Guilt as You!