There’s nothing worse…

…than that phone call from daycare when you’re going about your day.

Yesterday, I got the call while I was on my way to drop my brother’s lunch off, the lunch he’d forgotten on the counter on his way out the door.

“I’m calling about Liam’s fever.”

Of course, I was thinking to myself, what fever, but I played it cool and didn’t let on that I was really confused and really panicked.

“Yeah, it’s 101.2, that’s without the degree added.  He’s been fussing all day.”

Again, I was confused.  My child was laughing when I dropped him off.  Had things gone left so quickly?  Did he have (another) ear infection?  Would this be the one where they recommended tubes?  Am I a bad mom?  (All roads lead to that, by the way.)

I dropped my brother’s lunch off, raced down the beltline, and called the ped on the way to daycare.  I arranged a sick visit within a half-hour, pulled up to where Liam was, and hopped out, with the car still running.

When I burst into the infant room, Liam, dressed in his finest shark onesie, turned and smiled at me.

Play it cool, Cheri.  He has a fever. “Hiiii sweetie!”

The women taking care of him all looked really confused.

“They called you?!”

So, in the midst of baby snuggles, I gleaned that it was another little boy in Liam’s class, not Liam, with the fever.  Apparently that was lost in translation when they’d asked for the front desk to call a mom.  I scooted out, and headed back to work.  I’m sorry for the little one with the fever.  But glad Liam was okay.


Like a mom.

Tonight is one of the first times I’ve truly felt like a mom.

It’s weird to say, because now I know, that even though in the past I doubted my maternal instinct, that it was always in there.  Very soon after Baby Liam made his debut, I felt right.  Sore and swollen, but right.

Tonight, I took a nap with Liam.  Austin was working from home in the afternoon, and went on dad duty while I snuck in a quick workout at the Y.  The run felt good, but I was a preoccupied with making sure everyone got out the door in the morning.  I ran by the grocery, and picked up some bread, some oatmeal, and some beer.  When I walked in, Liam turned his head to see me.  He was getting hungry, and he wasn’t particularly happy about it.  I dropped everything, wrestled myself out of my sports bra, and sat to nurse him while Austin reheated some dinner I’d made the night before, while simulataneous throwing more veggies on for my dinner.  I ate the veggies with one hand while I snuggled Liam in the crook of the other.  Austin started a bath while I started tummy time on my yoga mat.  Liam spit up all over the yoga mat.  Tummy time was not our favorite portion this evening.  Or really any evening for that matter.  Liam ate again, and promptly fell asleep. We ditched the idea of the evening bath, prayed for forgiveness from the water gods, and drained the now-cold water from the tub.  I fished the last few wipes from the bottom of the plastic container, and instead of a bath, it was a bird bath kind of night.  Austin cooed at Liam while we did a little baby massage, and wrangled him into a contraption that seems to have helped him sleep a little more soundly throughout the night.  He ate again (little man is growing), and fell asleep.  This time, it was actually bedtime, and the night felt like it was just beginning.  I collected diapers that were too-small to ship to a friend.  I put diapers, clean clothes, and wipes in the baby bag.  I washed bottles and parts to the pump, only to sit down a short time later and milk them up again.  I washed some clothes that had been spit-up on.  I charged my iPad, since I will camp in the pump room at work a few times tomorrow. Today was a big spit-up day.  I packed my breakfast, some higher-fiber oatmeal.  Because fiber is the jam. I balanced my lunch.  Lots of green things to a bit of pasta.  I brewed some tea while stuffing my manual pump into a ziplock with some paper towels.  And I tossed the tea back before jumping into the shower and falling into bed.

I feel like I’ve lived 89 lives.  I feel like a mom?

I’m trying to convince my mother to open an Etsy store.

Not cause she’s like hard up or poor or anything, but when I was at home for the past few days, I was tooling around on my mom’s iPad, and I found the cutest picture ever.



So for years, Nadege has been a wonderful knitter, but this time, she’s truly outdone herself!  Not only has she knitted some incredibly friendly-looking monkeys, they’re playing the piano too?! This is really too much.

So while I work on her about this Etsy store, help me to convince her.

On a scale of 1-10, 10 being like “ABSOLUTELY YESSSSSS,” how much should my mom open a store of her cute handmade toys? If the answer is anything less than a 10, seriously, don’t bother answering.  

Was this Obnoxious? What do you think?

I heard about her on the radio, and I was intrigued. A mother of three, a fitness enthusiast had posted the following photo on her Facebook page. I think at the time, the youngest was 8 months, and she’s raising a total of 3 boys.


And with the photo, came the uproar.

Some of the comments were supportive.  Some of them were nasty.  She was called everything from obnoxious to inspiring.

Here’s my thought.  I don’t know if it’s obnoxious.  I’m not a mom, and I’m not sure if I’ll be one.  But I know, even in my current place in life, that something like this makes me maybe a little, teeny bit envious, but mostly inspired.  I work hard on what I have, which makes me feel pretty confident.  Could it be better?  Probably not, I’m sexy as hell.  But I digress.

I’m trying to put myself in the shoes of some of the women who called her obnoxious.  Was it the tagline at the top?  The fact that she’s perceived as being genetically gifted?

Here’s what I think.  Maybe the tagline at the top was a little much.  But, but, big ol but, I can tell she works hard, and she’s proud off what she’s got.  And that’s okay, I think.  From what she’s said, she struggled at a time with bulimia, and now has eliminated television and gets up super early (heck, I’m not a mom and I could use some help in that department) to get her workouts in, for an hour at a time.   It sounds reasonable.

You guys know, usually I have a ton of opinions on things, but I’m really just not sure here.  What do you think? 

I saw the coolest thing yesterday.

When I first started teaching Zumba, one particular semester, (I’d started at State when I was in grad school) there was a pregnant woman who would always, always, come to my class.  She would wear this purple shirt, and hold her belly when the moves got a little too nuts for her.  It was almost her way of saying, “Chill out, not everyone in this class is 19, please respect that.”  It was a good reminder for me.  She would take it easy when she had to, she wouldn’t jump or anything crazy like that.  She always wore this purple shirt, and I believe she Zumba-ed til like 8 weeks before her due date.  She was safe, she seemed to know her limitations, and she stayed in awesome shape throughout her pregnancy.

“Isn’t that thing gonna fall out,” a few friends asked, astonished, when I’d mentioned it.

Cause that’s exactly what pregs wants to hear, while she’s afraid of eating fish, taking a sip of wine, and carrying a Birken that’s too big, that her baby is going to fall out of her vagina when she’s on the elliptical.  How else can we make women feel incompetent as mothers, folks, please, let me hear it!

But I digress.  I was driving home, I think from my own workout on Sunday evening, and was cruising down ridge road when I saw her.

The first thing I actually noticed was that she was wearing a cute top, I’m pretty sure from Lululemon, and it was in a cool color.  A kind of lime, and she shared my taste, as she was rocking the 3/4 running tights with it.  And then I realized, this woman who was cruising at a pretty decent pace?  Was a mom-to-be, probably well into her second trimester, and she was tearing up the sidewalk.  I’m inspired.

I now have no excuse to skip out on any of my workouts or any of my runs, if this mom to be can harness her inner goddess, well hell?! When is my excuse ever good enough?

I pray my mother doesn’t murder me for posting a photo of her on my blog.

Sorry Mother!


If she is really ticked about it, she will let me know, at approximately 8:43 am tomorrow, after she sees this post.

Anyhoo, so me and Mom don’t always see eye-to-eye.  And by always, I mean we never see eye-to-eye.  My mom thinks I’m insane, and I find her views on things interesting to say the least.  However, no matter how much we disagree, my mom is still my mom, and she still knows how to say momish things.  I broke a bone in my leg my freshman year in college.  Exactly 10 hours after I relayed this message to her, she rolled up to my dorm in her giant blue van, with my siblings in tow, with food and painkillers for me.  A few years later, I called her sobbing when my throat was so sore, that I literally considered drinking liquid nitrogen.  She drove up (once again in the van), to where I was living 2 hours away, scooped me up, took me to the doctor, bought me a milkshake, and picked up all of my prescriptions in the middle of the night.

So as annoying as moms can be, they’re still moms.  And I know this about my mom.

    • She loves peanut M&Ms.
    • My evil sweet tooth comes from her, she likes sweets.
    • Her height is ridiculous.  All four of us are really tall, and it comes from her side.
    • She loves to dance.  (As do I).
    • She’s driven the same heinous blue van since I was in high school.

So, when you’re laughing your butt off, reading my blog, and nodding along to my stellar advice, you now know that I came from a brood of some pretty incredible women. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom, and Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there!