Forgive me while I get a bit misty here, but my 3-year-old finishes up his very first year of school shortly…and I’m in awe of the guy. AWE I tell you!

Today he informed me he does “not believe in wet grass.”

He also walked around the house saying “I wish…I wish…I wish…”

And when I finally prompted him about exactly what his little mind was wishing for he said,

“I wish I could fly, Mommy.”
“Fly? That sounds like fun. Where would you go?”
“Up to the sky. And I would touch a star. I would pull it down. And I would give it to you.”

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

He is also my favorite gardening companion, as his sister mainly eats the dirt. Today I let him loose with the camera outside in his little patch of land and something, well…Honestly something magical happened.

Judge for yourself:

The Count has a kindred spirit in Ms. Bella of Ninja Poodles…she takes some great photos too.

Anyone else have a 14-month-old daredevil? Anyone? Anyone?

Are girls just more adventurous? Do they have no fear?

Please note her scabbing nose. That was from a tumble on the front sidewalk.

Of course it does not compare to the last trip to the ER, but hey…at least this one looks worse than it really is.

I really don’t know what to do with her. Other than tie her down. And duct tape her ever yammering mouth…you know, for good measure.

Housewife. Sounds very, 1950…Doesn’t it?

But somewhere between Donna Reed, Mrs. Cunningham, Working Girl and Wisteria Lane, housewifery (yes, I made that up) is fashionable again.

Yes. I grocery shop. But my husband does the big shopping, with both kids, on the weekend.

Yes, I do the laundry. But my husband also throws a load or two in over the course of the week.

Yes, I do dishes. But I do them in kick ass gloves. AND it’s my husband who normally empties the dishwasher.

I don’t spend my day making sure my man has a hot meal as soon as he walks in and the dog brings him his pipe and slippers.

I don’t own an apron. I don’t iron.

Yes, I cook. But not all the time and for my enjoyment.

My children are seen and heard. They are in our marriage bed. And their diapers get changed just as much by Daddy as they do by Mommy.

This is not typical, traditional housewifery.

So is this what Feminism wrought? A new generation of Donna Reed?

Educated, motivated, and not totally focused on being a “good housewife,” but more focused on being a “good woman.” Second to no one. Not even the bread winner.

And a bread winner happy to be an equal-who recognizes the housewife as essential to his children’s well being and the running of every day life.

The Stay-at-Home Mom is no longer a bon-bon eating, soap opera watching joke.

Sure, there are still those holdouts that think we’re lazy, freeloaders. Or we’re wasting our talents and education on Palmolive and Tide. But they are the ones behind the times. And behind the rest of the crowd.

Sure, we go on and on about our post partum and our fear of the wrong preschool and our need to get out every once in awhile kidless. But these are not shortcomings. These are not the big “holes” in our stay-at-home feminist world.

Instead, it’s the new generation of Donna Reed. The one that can feed her body and spirit with yoga and pick up her 3-year-old in time for swim lessons. It’s the Mother who reads up on co-sleeping and Ferber and safety gadgets and then agonizes over her decisions.

It’s the new generation of Donna Reed that can express these feelings and challenges openly. Honestly. And debate breast vs. bottle via playgroups, blogging communities, and novels.

Yes, I still am annoyed and angered by the emails I get and the ideas put out there by some authors. The idea that if we go to work, we have abandoned our families, the idea that if we stay home, we’ve abandoned the woman’s movement. The idea that whatever you do, it’s just not good enough.

And as I opened the gift of hot pink gloves my brother gave me yesterday…I realized with total clarity that we are not Donna Reed. We don’t want to be Donna Reed. We’ve changed. We’ve evolved.

We’re women who wear leopard print to wash dishes, with the “Diva” tag still attached.

It’s time to let go of that old housewife idea. She does not exist anymore. The housewives I know are professionally blogging, organizing nurse-ins, homeschooling, unschooling, watching their husbands cook, clean, etc. They don’t live to serve. Or, what was it…”how serfdom saved the women’s movement…”

No. No. No. It’s just a new generation.

I live in a bubble.

A big, cushy, Laurie Berkner, Playdoh, PediaCare, Pooh Bear, Pampers, Mom Van, Peanut Butter and Jelly making bubble.

I wake when the kids wake. I eat when I have a free hand. And my tunnel vision consists of two small people, a husband, and occasionally-out of the corner of my eye-friends and “other” people.

I mean, I hear other people exist. I wait with them in line at the pharmacy. I see that they have lives and clean shirts and even a small purse that does not fit two changes of small people clothing and wipes and diapers and juice boxes and at least 5 matchbox cars and one toy cell phone.

I like my bubble.

But there are fleeting moments when I realize my bubble is temporary. Those small people will, one day (if they don’t rot in their time-out chairs) become big people.

I won’t be needed.

At least, I won’t be needed to wipe their butts after a poop. Or help them brush their teeth. Or simply put on a sock.

So in those fleeting moments, when I realize this is all very temporary, I become very scared.

As a stay-at-home Mom, my whole life is my kids. My whole day is my kids. My whole world is my kids. I sleep, breathe, and eat them. We are attached. There isn’t a coffee break. There isn’t a commute. There is an occasional haircut alone.
Or pedicure.

Or, like today…an hour in a doctor’s office lobby, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Holding my husband’s wallet. And waiting.

Waiting and realizing that this All News All the Time girl went to All Mommy All the Time on March 24, 2003.

And today, May 25, 2006…Pop.

With a quick procedure on the Kaiser’s nether regions, my bubble burst. My comfy, silly, kept, small people bubble.

I realize children become adults. I realize we all grow and change and take on different roles. But I’m just not ready to start the countdown to “grown up.” I’m not comfortable with the idea that my childbearing days are over. I’m not comfortable that this entire chapter of my life is now…well, it’s got a stop date.

I’m emotionally spent. I’m tired. And I’m typing this with a baby, sweetly and soundly sleeping on my chest. I can’t believe that once they are grown, that’s it. No more.

It forces me to come out of the temporary and remember that there is a person behind the Mommy. There is a person that would like to read more, go to movies, take an uninterrupted pee.

I want to keep typing. But I’m afraid it won’t come out right. All I know is I have two children. And decisions were made, and I will now never have more than two children. It’s a wonderful thing, but also a sad thing.

I am happy, but I am devastated. I am angry, and I am relieved.

I feel like I’m grieving.

What’s done is done. And now I have to go mop up my once comfy bubble from it’s messy burst, while I rock the baby, and get another pain pill for my husband.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

I’m not a country music fan.

Sure, I LOVE Pasty Cline and Loretta Lynn. A little Alison Krause.

But you can take your Toby Keith’s and Garth Brooks, and those Dunn and Big and Richard and Rene Zellweger’s Ex, and Nicole Kidman’s Now and whomever else and stick them up your ass.

I remember all the “uproar” over the whole “We’re ashamed Prez. W is from Texas” thing. But I didn’t really get it. Apparently the Chicks were in trouble for opening their mouths.

I mean, so what? I live in Southern California. People say stuff like that ALL THE TIME.

Then the Dixie Chicks disappeared. Disappeared like…gone. Not the -Beyonce/Destiny’s Child we’re so overexposed we’re going to pretend to be away for a few months then show up in the Super Bowl half time show- kind of disappear…but the Dixie Chicks were just, gone.

I didn’t really care. I just noticed.

I thought they were ok. The Earl song was funny. Landslide was a good cover. But I wasn’t rushing out to buy anything.

Then a few weeks ago, I ran across their new song “Not Ready to Make Nice.” And heard the stories. The death threats. The boycott. The total dis from country music fans, musicians, etc.

I made a mental note.

Then a few days later I saw a story on CNN about the new single NOT getting airplay on country stations.

They were the butt of jokes last night at the Academy of Country Music Awards.

Apparently those View ladies got their panties in a wad because they weren’t making that many public appearances.

…and something in my music listening tastes started to change.

Call me a country music fan. Because I have new and total respect for the Dixie Chicks.

And I’m going out to buy their new CD.

They are women speaking out. They are mothers speaking out.

Yeah, I can identify with that.

****Queen’s note: There is more debate going on in The GREAT CROTCH WARS of 2006 over at CUSS, if you can’t get enough of the Poon (thank you Suzanne) talk.

I’ve got Oprah on the brain (I blame YOU MOCHA) and since it’s my day on the Baby Blog Book Tour, I actually have a great shower gift if you need one:

Why Babies Do That by Jennifer Margulis.

We loved her Toddler book and when I was asked to review her new work, I couldn’t resist.

Why Babies Do That explains acne on your newborn, and all that other crap that you couldn’t figure out those first few weeks home from the hospital when you were begging your mother to stay just one more day.

This is the first time I was asked to review a book, so when I got it…and saw the pastel cover and it’s odd size, I thought…crap…I’m going to have to totally diss my first actual gig.

And then I read it. It’s quick. It’s convenient, and as I found out…you can totally use one hand to nurse a baby, and flip through it while on the toilet. WOW! The odd book size had a purpose!

So as I sat there nursing the baby and reading…and discovering answers to questions I would have loved to have had when my first kid came along. And I thought…well, HELL! This would make a great gift! I would have loved something this short and easy instead of the manuals and textbooks on babyness I had around back in the day!

There you have it. And the happy, pastel baby cover just needs a bow.

CROTCH WARS 2006!
Pick your side!
Grab your razor!
Call your waxer!
To hell with the Mommy Wars, ladies. We’ve got a much bigger issue on our hands, or, between our legs.

Bald or hairy? Shaven or trimmed? To crotch wax, or clip? OR leave totally unkempt.

Yes, it’s that topic again…because I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m obsessed with my whoo-ha.
And my last post prompted yet more posts. Which I read and laughed. And followed to more posts. And I read and laughed. Did you know there was CUSS?

I can’t fathom not shaving. Or waxing. Or at the very least…trimming.

Talk about smelly.

Sure there are those times in life (like when you are 8 months pregnant, horribly ill, have broken hands, or 7 children) where going “jungle” is allowed.

Other than those rare occasions, do everyone a favor and at least trim. Seriously. I can smell your last period.

And here is a little secret, in case you weren’t in the “know.” Bald or very close shave down there-helps you orgasm faster. Easy access, baby.

Now, don’t get the Feminists after me…again. Those of us who do keep ourselves trimmed, runwayed, bald, etc. are not just doing it for our men. Or women. Or significant other.

We like it.

No really. We LIKE IT.

I’m not saying I like it like I like chocolate or anything. I’m just saying I like it clean and neat like I like my toes pedicured during sandal season. Or I like a good exfoliant. Or I like highlights (on my head there gutter-brain).

As for the pain? Well, there isn’t any during shaving. And the wax…it’s really not that bad. It such a temporary pain. So quick. So “holy SHIT! Oh, it’s over” that it’s hard to describe. But totally worth it in my book.

Now…if any men happen to be reading this, I’d love to hear your opinions on the matter. Not that you are the REASON we torture ourselves. Don’t get all excited. You are merely the bonus. We women keep our snatch’s trimmed because we like it that way. Having you get all crazy about it is simply the icing on the cake.

Now if I could only come up with an acronym for those of us who like to be bald…

UBWH? United Bald Whoo-Ha’s? CUSC? Campaign for Unsmelly Crotches?

Anyone? Anyone??

I got a Dear John letter, in the mail, from my babysitter today.

Nice girl. Really. She waxes my crotch. She agreed to babysit a few mornings for me here and there so I could do some freelance.

Last week instead of freelance, I went to the dentist.

And Princess Peanut screamed her head off for 2 hours. Without taking a breathe.
When I got home, poor babysitter looked like she had been through a war. She nearly ran for the front door, muttering something about not knowing how I do it…

Today, I got a letter from sweet J saying she was going to be working more hours at the spa and could not sit for me for the summer. We all know it’s because Peanut has lungs the size of Texas.
And can apparently channel Satan.

Here is the thing. I’m kinda shocked she didn’t just call. She’s not a teenager. And I guess the letter is professional. But I still think it’s odd.

Maybe she was just afraid I’d talk her into another Princess Peanut scream session.

Or maybe you shouldn’t hire babysitters based on their crotch waxing experience.