Life with Cordy has been fun the past few days. She’s at an interesting stage in her development. While she still can’t express herself very well, her language comprehension skills are making large strides. Combine that with her other well-developed ability to understand and predict patterns, and you have a true avoidance of things she doesn’t want to do.

This is partly the fault of “the experts”. I’ve been beat over the head with the advice that you should always tell your baby/toddler what you’re doing to help their language development. This running monologue teaches them about language. Well, now I tell her everything we’re going to do: “We’re going to put our coats on now.” “I’m gonna wipe that nose of yours.” “Let’s change your diaper.”

All three of these sentences now have the same result. She understands exactly what I’m saying and takes off running. Language comprehension, pattern memory, and increased mobility result in several laps around the downstairs. She’s a miniature Running Man, trying to escape the evil hunter-mommy who wants to change that diaper of hers.

As I’ve mentioned before, our downstairs is laid out in a circular pattern: the living room opens to the dining room, which opens to the kitchen, which opens to the living room. The carpet is starting to have a running track worn into it from the chase we reenact several times a day.

Oh sure, I could catch her if I actually put some work into it. I walk behind her while she squeals and runs away from me. We probably complete at least three laps each time. I know that once I catch her, she’s going to be upset and fight me, which means that I’d rather tire her out a bit before the actual struggle versus power walking to catch her early. Besides, I’m too lazy to make my big butt power walk.

I suppose I could end the drama just by not announcing what I’m about to do. But to be honest, I get such a kick out of seeing her eyes widen and light up when she comprehends what I’ve said to her while she turns to run. Her little legs go as fast as they can, her arms swing, she huffs and puffs after the second lap or so, and she occasionally looks back to see if I’m gaining on her. It’s pure mommy entertainment.

Speaking of which, I smell a dirty diaper. I’d better go stretch for the next race.

I realize most of you probably don’t want to hear more about my cat, but well, it’s currently on my mind.

Good news: the surgery is over with. Marlowe is recovering well. He’s groggy, and will be able to come home tomorrow afternoon.

Bad news: The vet wasn’t fully successful. The testicle that descended was removed, but she wasn’t able to find the other one. The other two vets in the practice even scrubbed in and tried to find it. It’s missing.

They also did a second abdominal incision to look for it in the area between his leg and abdomen (it can sometimes migrate there), but no luck. Which could spark the beginning of a joke – how many vets does it take to find a cat testicle?

I’d find this amusing if it wasn’t putting my kitty in more pain from incisions. Plus, testicles that remain in the body often turn cancerous. Not a good thing.

There’s a chance he never developed the second one. At this point, our plan is to let him heal, and then do a blood test in a few months to see if he has any testosterone. If he does, it’s back to more exploratory surgery.

At least we took him to the best – the clinic is for cats only, and all three vets there are board certified cat specialists. They really are the best (and sadly, the most expensive) clinic in town for cats.

Our other Siamese, Dante, misses him and has been needy all day. Hopefully Dante will let me sleep tonight.

Thanks to all for thinking about my little Marlowe. I’m crossing my fingers that his second testicle never developed and we can avoid more surgery.

My mind is all over the place this morning. No coherent post today, but here’s several bits ‘n pieces I’m thinking about:

First, I found out something last night that made me absolutely crazy happy. My cousin and his wife just found out that they were matched up with a baby from China! She’s 7 months old and simply adorable. May I present to all of you Mia Claudia:

I can’t even begin to express how excited I am for them. They’ve been trying to adopt for about two years now. They had tried adopting a child from the Ukraine before, but due to a very bad adoption program, came home from the Ukraine empty handed. Now they have been matched with Mia, and will be traveling to get her in late April or early May. They’re fabulous people and deserve all the happiness that can come to them. I know they’ll be great parents! My only sadness is that they live several states away, so I won’t get to kiss those chubby cheeks nearly often enough! Congrats Rod and Debbie!!

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Next, my thoughts are with one of my cats today. Sure, laugh all you want, but our cats are pretty much family to us. Kit Marlowe (our seal point Siamese) was dropped off at the vet’s this morning to be neutered.

While normally a simple procedure, his will be more difficult. Only one of his, uh, “boys” descended, so they will have to remove the other one from his abdominal cavity. He’ll be kept on pain meds all day, and be allowed to come home sometime tomorrow.

I’ve been nervous about kitty surgeries since my previous seal point passed away suddenly after a surgery for a urinary blockage. I know my kitten is in good hands, but I’ll still worry. I’ll be waiting by the phone all day to hear how his surgery went.

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Finally, I had my mid-year review yesterday at work, and I was less than thrilled with it. My review primarily focused on something one staff member said. A staff member said that I didn’t provide “as high a level of customer service” as they did at the other campus.

Based on this single person’s comments, about nothing specific, I was told I need to find ways to be more helpful and I need to keep a written log of what I actually do, so they don’t think I’m doing nothing all day. No other advisor has to prove that they are working. But I have to do this, despite the fact that all of my students are thrilled with the help I provide, and not one has had a single complaint. And that staff person is rarely at the campus I work at – I see her once every week or two.

Needless to say, I’m a wee bit pissed off about this. I like what I do, and I like helping students, but if we didn’t need the money, I’d certainly quit this job. My toddler boss at home may not realize or appreciate how much I work for her, but the rewards of her laugh and smile are far better than any money I could earn.

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So there you go. Today I’m crazy happy, anxious, and a wee bit pissed off, all at once. Aren’t emotions fun?

Hey everyone, in case you didn’t know, there’s a Blog Exchange going on today. Please welcome Izzy to A Mommy Story as today’s guest blogger! You can find me over on her blog today. Oh, and buy one of her t-shirts! Regular programming will resume on March 2.

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I signed up for this blog exchange thing but I never considered what the topic would be or whether it would be a hard one for me or whatever. I’ve always been good under pressure and been able to crank out something that, if nothing else, would be good for a laugh. But this has me stumped. Do I even KNOW what it means to be a woman? Does anyone? I get up in the morning and I’m a woman. I’ve never been anything else. What could I possibly compare it to? Being a girl?

The idea that I’m a “woman” freaks me out. I say the words… I. AM. A. WOMAN. And you know what I think of? I think of that Enjoli commercial from the seventies where the lady belts out that dumb song about bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan yada yada. We all know it. No need to sing the whole dang thing for you. But that is what I think of when I hear those words. My subconscious mind has sucked up an ad campaign and inserted it where something serious and thoughtful should be. I can’t decide if that is comical or just plain pathetic. How much of my idea of being a woman is generated by external factors? Most likely, all of it. We look around and sure we have role models but when we have to measure ourselves against something, what are we using as a yardstick? Never mind. I won’t even delve into the quagmire of how the media chews us up and spits us back out at ourselves as something totally unattainable. That’s a given. I still need to figure out what being woman means to me. And so the search continues…

Until recently, I never even thought of myself as a WOMAN. That was reserved for older people, like matronly, older mother-types, grandmothers etc. I was a GIRL, a hip, happening chick. Not old. Not matronly and definitely not a ma’am. Somewhere in the recent past, though, I’ve accepted that I am, in fact, a grown woman and someone’s, actually make that two someone’s, mother. It was a long hard road to get here and I’m not even sure I can articulate the identity crisis I had when my first child was born. Between the psyche-in-a-blender experiences of PPD and my daughter’s colic, and the reality of having this little being to suddenly love, care for and bond with, I had no clue who I was anymore. I suddenly felt the need to be, well… good and extra-capable and beyond reproach. I felt so…judged. And so hopelessly inept. Was I really being judged or was I putting a world of pressure on myself to be something, an ideal mother that doesn’t exist anywhere except in our minds, the by-product of decades of media conditioning? I don’t know. Maybe both. All I know is it sucked. Bad.

These days, I know that I am a good mother and I know that I am a good wife. I also know that these are not the only measures of a woman but they are the ones I most immediately identify with. While the pressure still occasionally rears it’s horned little head, I’m not perfect and I don’t try to be. Good enough doused with a buckets and buckets of love works for my family and me.

And to be honest, I enjoy the world of blogging as much as I do because I feel like I’m seeing women and mothers as they really are (well, mostly anyway) but here, in this netherworld of bits, bytes and digitized estrogen, I feel like I am finding people like myself that I’ve not been able to locate in the physical world; people with whom I “click” and who seem to like and accept me without any prerequisites other than for me to post something for them to read fairly regularly, which I do with pleasure.

As for how I “celebrate” being a woman, well…I’m not sure that I do. Or at least that’s not the word I would use. But I do honor myself, as a woman and a person, in a few ways:

I try to go easy on myself and accept who I am as much as can. That means TRYING not to listen to that little voice that tells me I’m not good enough, thin enough, pretty enough, smart enough, talented enough, funny enough or likeable enough.

It means sometimes being “that bitch” and standing up for myself when I feel trod upon or mistreated or belittled.

It means maintaining a level of self-respect that comes from always striving to be true to yourself.

It means not being overly critical of myself or comparing myself to other people all the time, which, by the way, is insanely hard for me to stop doing.

It means asking for what I need from the people around me and allowing myself the luxury of an expectation that I will get it rather than seething or suffering or resenting silently because I’m afraid I won’t.

I feel if I can live by these ideals, and they are ideals, not rules, then I’m doing good. Good enough, in fact.

(I just read this over from the top and I’m thinking, ”Do I sound neurotic? I do. I sound like someone who thinks too much.” And then I stop myself because while I DO think entirely too much, I know, intellectually, that everyone is neurotic to some degree. Some people choose to show it, some can’t help but to show it and some are just really good at hiding it.

And now I’m going to go stand in front of the mirror and channel Saturday Night Live’s Stuart Smalley of “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough and doggone it, people like me” fame.)

About the Author:

My name is Izzy. I’m a mother of two children, ages 8 months and 5 years. I’ve been married for 12 years to a great guy and a wonderful father. We live in the southeast, AKA Hurricane Alley. I work from home, part-time, as a webmaster. I’ve been “online” since 1994. I have a blog and I sell super cool t-shirts & other goodies to benefit a non-profit support organization for postpartum depression called “Depression After Delivery”

Take a look. Buy a shirt!

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Here are some of the other March Blog Exchange Participants: Julie, Kristen, Nancy, Wendy, Mel, and CM. If you would like to participate in our April Blog Exchange, please send an email with your blog url to: kmei26 at yahoo.com

Please excuse the ultra-down post today.

Sometimes, I miss my old self. By old self, I mean the person I was before adding “mom” to my title.

There are some things that haven’t changed. I still like the music I liked before, only now I get to hear it between Wiggles songs. Luckily, Cordy doesn’t mind listening to Evanescence – she always kicked and jammed along when I was pregnant. She isn’t as forgiving with showtunes.

I still have the same taste in movies. Nothing there has changed, although we don’t get the chance to go see movies nearly as often. Going out to a movie is a real treat now.

But I miss some of my old personality. I took more risks back then. I had more of a “don’t give a shit” attitude. I certainly wasn’t punk by any means, but I had attitude. I had a temper, too, and while it’s nothing to be proud of, I did use it to keep from being pushed around. I’m so mellow now I’m nearly dead. I look at the bright side – I’m now much more zen – but truthfully I think I just don’t care as much about issues that used to rile me up. I am the Queen of Blase.

I really miss my old body. I’ve battled my weight throughout my 20’s, and by my mid-20’s, I had made significant progress. By the time of my wedding, I was looking pretty hot. Still nowhere close to model status, but I was fit, I looked good, and I felt good. My hair was often dyed a dark red, I wore tiny shirts from Hot Topic, and enjoyed dressing up to go out to a goth dance club.

Pregnancy is not kind on the body. Not only does it stretch it to extremes and test the limits of joints and muscles, it also screws with body chemistry. My hair has changed from dry and prone to split ends to oily and flat. The color has darkened. While I have no qualms with my stretch marks, I’d really like to see the extra weight take a hike. I gained only 20 pounds during pregnancy, and most of that only at the end, but that 20 pounds decided to stick around afterwards and set up residence. I’m about as far from sexy as “Big Mama.”

I actually eat healthier than I used to, but thanks to metabolism changes, the damn weight won’t go away. I know I should exercise more and eat less, but it’s not as easy as it once was. I barely have any time to myself, thanks to my leg hugging toddler who won’t let me more than 5 feet from her. By the evening, I just want to collapse onto the couch in exhaustion. I’m so out of shape I don’t know how I could even start exercising again – I’d probably collapse.

I feel soft and squishy, and not in a good way. I want to find some of what I used to have. I’m not wanting to go back to who I was entirely (because I really do love being a mom), but I’d like to extract a little bit of the old me and put it to use with the new me. I don’t like being soft and squishy. I feel like I’m a step away from floral mumus, flip-flops, and t-shirts with my daughter’s picture silk screened on them. I wonder how Aaron is even attracted to me.

This isn’t the most cheery post, or the most organized, but I’m not looking for pity. I want to know how do other moms manage to find their old selves inside their new mommy bodies? What do you do to remind yourself that you’re not just a mom? What things do you do, just for yourself?

Give me some tips to help me find the old me.