I’ve been in the garden. Her brother has been at karate. So it only stands to reason the 4-year-old found something to do:

In anticipation of the holiday, this is crossposted at BlogHer.com

Patriot: A patriot is someone who thinks, feels or voices expressions of patriotism, support for their country. – Wikipedia

Depending on how you slice it, this definition of patriot either makes me the worst American ever, or one of it’s greatest patriots. It’s a toss up.

Which is probably why this 4th of July, we political types will spend too much time on our soapboxes trying to out-patriot the other.

My dissent is the height of patriotism for our country!

You don’t support our troops, you can’t be a patriot!

You don’t support our President! That’s unpatriotic!

You ignore the health care crisis, that’s unpatriotic!

But teaparties are the most patriotic thing you can do!

And so on. And so forth until we’re all donning our red, white, and blue clothing, painting our faces with stars and stripes and seeing who’s flag outside of who’s house is the biggest. Even making sure others know that we consider ourselves patriots.

As someone who’s patriotism has been called “fake” and “impossible” I know from where I speak. Just the other day on Twitter I was asked to prove  my support of the troops and asked to prove who in my family has served. Apparently to the person questioning me, my patriotism revolved around the military.

I rolled my eyes.

To others, it revolves around voting. And to others it revolves around flying your flag on a holiday and a BBQ. To some of us, it’s showing support for troops.

Let’s face it, none of us own the monopoly on patriotism. As Americans, we support our country in different ways.

I feel I support my country by being vigilant on holding our leaders accountable. ALL our leaders. I also feel I support my country by using the rights given to me- freedom of speech, for one.

I also feel it’s patriotic to help our fellow countrymen and women. This is a point of contention with myself and the other side. I call it help, they call it a hand out. I call it common decency, they call it unnecessary taxes.

Which is why I get confused over these ridiculous fights over “patriotism.”

Just Heather pointed me to one of her posts from 2006 that sums up a lot of my patriotic feelings.

“I definitely don’t need to see those planes fly into the towers yet again to see it clearly in my head. I remember it all vividly. But what I choose to remember most is how everyone came together. I remember the initial shock that it was anything other than a terribly tragic accident.

I remember the feeling of helplessness, wishing there were something—anything—I could do. I remember dashing around the house, emptying pantries, filling boxes, and stuffing bags once I found out a location nearby was collecting items for affected families.

I remember the tears in my little one’s eyes when we were done unloading the car—because she wasn’t done helping. I remember the elation she felt when I told her she could gather up any money in the car and donate it too.

I remember the normally intense homecoming float competition at my high school being abandoned. I remember the United We Stand float the classes created together, donating the remaining funds to the 9/11 families.”

BOTH sides of the aisle point to America post 9-11, those days just after, as the height of our Patriotism. Not because we were dissenting, not because we were sending care packages to troops, not because we were flying flags…but because we were HELPING EACHOTHER.

So if the true feeling and definition of patriotism is helping your fellow countryman or woman- what are you doing this 4th of July to be patriotic?

What is patriotism to you? And how are you celebrating the day? Leave me a comment or link to your thoughts on what has become a political football.

And don’t forget to wear your flagpin.

Erin Kotecki Vest also blogs at Queen of Spain blog and is frequently called a traitor to her country.

I just drove 5 hours with the kids and nothing went wrong.

Everyone was great. No one complained. No one had to pee 59 times. In fact only once did I hear “Are We There Yet?”

I’m not really sure what to make of all this, and am rather confounded. So just look at this cute photo of my daughter while I shake my head.

Oh, she’s saying “Daddy, Oh…hi Daddy. Yes, we’re here. Yes, Mommy drove fast. Yes, it was silly. Ok, bye.”

I think my husband and I should divorce.

He’s against the idea.*

As a heterosexual couple we have been given the right to marry and divorce at will. As a heterosexual couple we have been given rights and privileges that have come along with our marriages that are not given to my LGBT friends.

I find this unacceptable. And feel dirty being married.

Why should I be allowed to do something an entire population can not do? Why should we have all these rights- like being able to take care of the other’s estate and make medical decisions?

But even more than that, why do I get to call my union “marriage” and my gay friends do not? I did not get married in a church, so clearly it’s not a religious term. It’s a legal term. My marriage was not sanctified by God or riddled with a promise that I would procreate or be a “wife” to my “husband.”

As a legal contract, marriage should be available to all, not just to me.

What makes me so special? Why should I get to do something others can not? And how do I explain that to my children? That I am somehow better than others? That I am straight, so I should be given more privilege than others?

No. I can’t. It’s unacceptable. And until everyone can marry, I can honestly say I would rather not be married. It feels like I’m taking advantage while others suffer.

And before you give me all that crap about how civil unions can be separate but equal, save your breath. They are not.

So instead of asking how you can support your LGBT friends and family, ask yourself why you are so special. Why you are so much better than they and why you think you deserve something they don’t?

*my husband supports the gay marriage effort, and his reasons for not wanting a divorce are because I’m a free spirit and he’s afraid I won’t come back

There is a tremendous amount of talk about how women balance work, children…life.

I tend to give the same answer every time I am asked “How do you balance everything?”

I don’t.

But I am learning. Part of that learning has been the revelation that I need to take control. I need to take control of my emotions as I travel for business and miss my children. I need to take control of my household when I plan for summer camps, babysitters, and appointments, and I need to take control of how it all goes down.

That means thinking outside the box, saying NO more than usual, and finding ways to make it work.

Trust me, sometimes it feels really good to say no, and it feels really good to find solutions.

Next week I’m packing up my minivan and taking the kids to work WITH ME in Northern California. I’ve hired a sitter remotely (thanks VDog), I’ve mapped out nearby parks, and I’ll be using my hands-free headset to take conference calls on the road.

Sometimes we Moms just do what we gotta. And I’m tired of feeling guilty, feeling like it’s nothing but chaos around here, and just getting by while the laundry piles up, the permissions slips forgotten, or the kids sigh or even cry as they get the short end of the stick while Mom and Dad work their asses off.

Time to take control, and take charge of this chaos. I’m done compromising. First a business trip with kids in tow, and then we’re headed to Michigan where family will help for the summer.

And the next time you ask me how I balance it all…I’m going to give a different answer.

I said look at me. And whistle. Yes, I said whistle. I SAID TO LOOK AT ME AND WHISTLE because LOOK how pretty I am.

That’s exactly what my daughter was saying as this photo was taken.

Hand on her hip and angry, she wanted a boy’s attention and she wanted it with a cat call.

I was horrified.

Of course we then had a discussion about wanting attention because we’re smart, not pretty, and that whistling was actually quite rude.

My daughter’s reaction? To sigh heavily like a 16-year old, throw her Hello Kitty purse over her shoulder, and then roll her eyes at me.

Uh huh.

My son, on the other hand, refused to participate and then repeated to her what I had said when she, again, asked him to give her a cat call.

Who’s child is this? Because she can’t possibly be mine.

Ok, Ok, maybe in the ‘wanting attention’ department she might be mine.

Ok, Ok, maybe she thinks gaining the attention of boys is..um…good. And maybe she learned that from….

ahhhh. Fuck.

I love to read.*

When I am able, I will devour a book whole in a night or two, ignoring everything around me and losing myself inside the pages.

My son is now reading, and I want him to love every word. I want him to realize how amazing it can be to escape into a book and enjoy a story so much you read it again and again and again.

I worry though, because at this point, reading seems to be a chore for him. It’s starting to become enjoyable as his comprehension grows and the struggle of ’sounding it out’ doesn’t cloud the magic of the words.

He’s mostly clouded now. The mechanics of reading pain him more than the words entertain him.

I realize he will grow in the process, and maybe I am just overly-anxious because I understand what is just around the bend.

But there is no guarantee he will love to read. He might, he might not. His sister might, she might not. My visions of sharing with them my first copy of Catcher in the Rye or Little Women may fall on deaf ears.

Or maybe, if we continue to practice, he’ll get over that hump and find that section somewhere in the library or bookstore where he begs me to bring home everything on the shelf.

A Mom can hope.

*this post was inspired after reading 13-year old RJ’s blog this morning. I hope my kids read and write with the passion shown by this young woman.

My daughter drew a picture of me today.

I’m the fat one.

I asked her why I was so much bigger than “Daddy” next to me…she said “Mommy you are bigger than Daddy…and squishier.”

Sigh.

It’s true. I haven’t been very careful about what I eat lately. I also haven’t been very active. Like most women, I get on kicks and the weight goes up and down. It used to not matter. I used to be able to handle these “phases” without much as a pant size change.

Not anymore.

I will admit it’s frustrating. But I refuse to obsess over it.

Right now I’m up. And you know what…I’m ok with it.

My daughter can find me squishy and 10 minutes later tell me how beautiful I am.

I am going to change some bad habits I’ve gotten into lately, but not because of the jean size…but for my health. I’m not going to watch the scale, but I will watch how long I sit and do nothing.

If that comes with another pant size change, then so be it.

I should be dead.

If this were any other time in history, I should not and would not have survived both my pregnancies or deliveries.

Because of that, I have agreed to participate in Discovery Health’s Baby Week, which you can watch June 14-19^th at 8 pm E/P on Discover Health.

Why share my labor and delivery stories? Easy…because I know I am not alone. My two children would not be here if it were not for an amazing team of doctors and nurses and the advancement of medical science.

You see, I suck at being pregnant. No really, I’m terrible at it.

I don’t mean terrible in that I whine a lot and crave pickles…I mean terrible in that my body absolutely hates being pregnant. So much so, that it revolts and tries to kill me and the baby.

I would be one of those women who died in childbirth way back when. The covered wagons would have moved on after burying me along the trail.

From the moment I found out I was having a baby, I began to vomit. Both pregnancies. Both times around. And not in that cute “oh she has morning sickness, must be a boy (or girl, depending on your favorite aunt’s superstition)” kind of way…but in the “I lost 22 lbs and had to be put on heavy drugs” sort of way.

I threw up in my purse. I threw up in my car. I threw up in elevators. I threw up at stores. I even threw up at a hockey game. And once I almost threw up on the Governor of California as I was conducting an interview.

Once I got past the puking, somewhere around the end of the 2nd trimester, I went into labor.

Way too early. With both pregnancies. Yes, both times.

I had contractions. I began to dilate. And just for an added bonus, my amniotic fluid was low.

With both pregnancies. Yes, both times.

So it was deemed necessary once we STOPPED labor, that I lay flat on my back for the remainder of each pregnancy with a monitor strapped across my very, very large belly.

Something I am guessing was not possible in those covered wagon days.

And I then continued to labor, under the guidance of a dial up modem and remote nurse, for several months.

That’s right- contractions and labor for SEVERAL MONTHS.

When it finally came time to let the labor take it’s course, we had another problem (did I mention how bad I SUCK at this whole pregnancy thing?) – my first child was breech, and with low fluid he could not be turned. He also thought it would be fun, you know for added drama, to get the cord wrapped around himself a few times.

So on a gray March morning my husband and I headed to the hospital, knowing this child would not be a natural delivery and expecting just about anything, considering the way things had gone thus far.

But here is where that “amazing thing about life” part comes in…on March 24th, 2003 at 7:52 in the morning, doctors performed a c-section and pulled out a perfect baby boy.

I think we were stunned that not only had the operation gone smoothly, with zero complications, but that mom and baby were healthy.

There I was, laying cut open on a table, after laying for months upon months in my bed, and it worked. It actually worked. I had a healthy, full-term child.

As for my daughter, born nearly exactly two years later? She came with more drama. Same puking pregnancy. Same bedrest tale. Preterm labor. Low fluid.

But my sassy girl? She decided to NOT wait or let the drugs to stop the contractions work. No, she decided it was her time on March 30th, 2005 at 6:39pm.

Now, that 6:39pm is important. Note that time.

We live in a suburb of Los Angeles. And my contractions began that day around 3pm. I was in a hospital bed at 3:15pm, and by 445pm – PEAK RUSH HOUR- my doctor ordered an emergency c-section as my little peanut’s heart rate dipped and dove.

When the c-section was ordered, I made the call to my husband. 30 miles away in Los Angeles, PEAK RUSH HOUR, traffic. For those who don’t know, that is easily a one hour long commute. One and a half during peak rush hour.

Scared for my daughter’s life, I was resigned to the fact he would miss her birth.

I was wheeled into the OR, prepped for surgery, and placed on the operating table. More scared than upset, I tried not to think about it. After all, he’d have a lifetime with her. I hoped.

At 6:38 my husband entered the OR. The doctor said “cut now” at 6:39pm.

Another healthy child and mom. And a big brother at home anxious to meet his new sister.

I encourage you to go take a look at Discovery Health’s Baby Week – and share your birth story. We’ve come together as parents to discuss what we did during pregnancy and after our children arrived…but it’s rare we talk about how they got here.