When Dawson was born I was a nervous new mom.  I never felt confident that I was “doing things right.”  I questioned every decision I made and worried about ridiculous things.  The funny thing is that everyone told me to just relax and trust my instincts, and this advice infuriated me, because I truly didn’t know if I had maternal instincts.

Sure, I have younger siblings and I spent many of my teen years babysitting, but it’s completely different when you have your own kids.  A baby’s needs and his survival are completely dependent upon you, at least until they learn how to walk, feed themselves, and wipe their own butts.

As soon as Dawson learned to roll over and eventually crawl, I became obsessed with childproofing and making sure nothing harmful would come in contact with him.  I sanitized toys.  If he dropped a spoon or fork I’d immediately wash it off or get him a new one.  I went through baby wipes faster than anyone I know.

It’s different with Owen.  I’m not saying I’m an expert, but I feel more confident in my parenting this time around.  I know it’s okay for him to fuss for a few minutes while I use the restroom (he LOVES to be held).  If his favorite toy falls on the living room floor I hand it back to him (unless it’s truly dirty of course).

My mom came over yesterday and commented on how good-natured Owen is.  She was amazed at how calm and happy he is.  ”He’s such a good baby,” she said.  ”He doesn’t cry about anything.”

I wanted to tell her to come over just before bedtime when he’s super fussy as he tries to fall asleep.  But I realized she’s right.  He is a much calmer baby.  I don’t want to compare my children because I know they are two amazing individuals.  I do want to point out that Dawson was a little more high strung and I think it’s because he could sense my anxiety.  Maybe Owen is content because I’m more relaxed and confident.

It seems as though firstborn children are the guinea pigs.  It’s almost unfair, yet truly, we learn to become parents with them.  They train us. Dawson made me a mother.  The lessons he has taught me have made me the caring and attentive parent that I am today.  Sometimes I feel like I’ve made mistakes with him that I won’t make with Owen.  My experiences with Dawson are like a check list.  Okay, I did this and that happened, and I won’t be handling things like that again.  I often wonder if Owen has an advantage in being second-born.  I have a better grasp on childrearing this go-round, and he reaps the benefits.

I know that’s crazy, because all that matters is I have two wonderful boys, each with their own awesome personalities.  Dawson is well-rounded and kind.  He has a fantastic sense of humor.  His smile lights up a room.  Owen is my little ham.  He giggles at his big brother’s antics.  He is fascinated with Murphy, our dog, and watches him with such intense concentration.

Yes, there truly are differences in raising one child versus two children, but one thing is the same:  both my babies love to cuddle with their mama.  Maybe I’m doing this parenting thing right after all.

I haven’t yet read any books in the Twilight series. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried. I just cannot get into them. I read a few sentences of the first book (my sister owns all the books currently released) and I was bored. People think I’m crazy, and promptly tell me how awesome these novels are, and I’m sure they are amazing. Just not my thing right now. I’ve got other books piling up on my “to-be-read” list.

This morning Dawson dragged a chair from the dining room into the kitchen and was scavenging the cabinets looking for something to eat. Something he probably shouldn’t have, like fruit snacks or Froot Loops straight out of the box. When I went into the kitchen to bust him, he turned around and said, “This happens every time. Daddy brings home the treats, and BOOM! They’re gone!” I fought the urge to laugh and replied, “Who do you think you are? Madden?” To which my son rolled his eyes and said, “I have no idea what that means.” I promptly peed my pants from the incessant laughter that followed.

Even funnier morning tale:  Dawson was standing in the living room, playing with his new Transformers Bumblebee toy (that he conned me into buying when we went to K-Mart to pick up my prescriptions).  He was explaining how it worked and said something like, “So you move his arms and then his legs and BAM! He’s a robot!”   Continuing the witty reparte I said, “Dawson, you sound like Emeril.”  Again, my child looked at me funny and replied, “Mom, you gotta stop saying such crazy things.  I don’t know what a ‘Mer-ill is!”  That child cracks me up.

I’m sick of being pregnant.  I know that sounds horrible.  I’m just anxious.  I want to meet the little guy who kicks me incessantly.  I want the bloating, the horrible ligament pain and the bat-shit crazy mood swings to be over.  Nine weeks to go.  NINE. Will I make it?

The nesting phase has begun.  Yesterday morning, post work, post doctor appointments, I had this insane urge to organize the playroom slash exercise room.  I began moving boxes and realized I needed help, so my awesome sister came over and helped me make sense of all the crap in the basement.  All the holiday decorations were moved into the closet in our family room.  Toys and books were sorted, and two boxes were set aside for Goodwill.  Next, I cleaned out my closet and finally parted with some too small clothes I was clinging to.  My sister took the ones she liked, the rest were given to GW.  It was hard to get rid of some of those things, but I closed my eyes and the box before I changed my mind.  In total, seven boxes were loaded into the Jimmy, and Goodwill was very happy to receive them.

Today, I have a nagging urge to start organizing the room that Dawson and Baby O will share.  I’m starting to look at the things in my house as entirely too much crap.  Where did all this stuff come from?  And how do I decide what to save, what to toss and what to donate?

Both UPS and FedEx dropped packages at the front door yesterday.  I received the really awesome thing I won from bTrendie (in a BlogHer giveaway) and then we also got Hooked on Phonics (Parent Bloggers Network campaign) and Dawson and I are excited to try HoP.  Stay tuned for more details on that.

My wonderful husband has decided to finally get down to business and remove the old, ugly, yellow shag carpet from the other spare bedroom downstairs. (I have only asked four hundred times.)  I’ve decided I need an office, with a door, to work in peace. Currently, I do my work from the kitchen table or the sofa.  I’m thinking a desk is needed, too.  I just don’t want to spend too much money with a new baby on the way.  I’m sure we’ll figure something out.

I’ve got a confession to make.  I’m addicted to watching Roseanne re-runs on TV Land.  I can’t help it.  I love the early years of this show because it reminds me so much of my family (circa the 80s) when I was growing up.  We were the typical middle class family, two hard working parents trying to make ends meet, two daughters and one son… And then it became even more real when Roseanne had a son later in life, just like my mother had my youngest brother at 39.  Then the Conners won the lottery (JUMPED THE SHARK) and I couldn’t stand it anymore.  So, I suppose I’m reliving some old memories by watching those pre-lottery winning episodes.

I’m in love with the DVR.  We’ve had it for a month now, and I don’t know how we ever got along with out it.  I record Phineas & Ferb for Dawson, and that Transformers cartoon that airs at 5:00 a.m., and movies I’d like to see but don’t have the time right now.  It’s entertainment magic.  Love, love, love.  It will come in handy when Dancing With the Stars airs in three weeks.  Yay!  Miss that show terribly, but I’m sure a certain baby arriving will make it hard to watch the show live.

I think I’m suffering from ADD.  I want to read seven different books all at once, good books, from the library.  Due in 12 days.  I’m starting to mix up the story lines and information (some are non-ficiton).  Perhaps I should just stick to one book at a time.

Back to pregnancy… I’m feeling a wee bit claustrophobic.  Antsy.  And my arms and legs and stomach itch every so often.  I’m starting to think the baby is trying to bust out.  October, please hurry.

I was feeling especially vulnerable when he caught my attention.  My life had been turned upside down, full of chaos.  Things weren’t going my way.  I remember feeling as though I wasn’t loved.  That I didn’t deserve to be loved.  My reaction to these feelings was to build walls around my emotions and let no one tear them down. I was certain that my heart could be stone and that I would feel nothing, not happiness nor sadness — for if I let one feeling escape the castle I had built, the others would follow.

And then I met him.  Our conversations were friendly at first.  We talked about our lives and where we lived and worked.  We spoke of our families and our favorite things.  Our relationship was flirtatious and silly and I loved the attention he gave to me.  His kind and loving words were like millions of tiny chisels chipping away the rock over my heart.

I felt worthy.  I felt loved.  I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.  After weeks of getting to know one another, I went on a five-day vacation without telling him.  When I returned he missed me.  He said he was so happy to see me and asked me never to leave without telling him.  That was the first time I let my guard down.  That was the first time I let him in.

Things that seem too good to be true, often are, and gradually our relationship fell apart.  His attention waned.  He lost interest in me and met someone else.  He gave all his attention to her.  It was a flash of light, as quickly as we met, our relationship was over.

Words were exchanged.  Hurtful words.  I lost control of my feelings.  I was confused because I never really knew what I did to drive him away.  Those old insecurities came flooding back.  I was drowning in my emotions.  I no longer felt loved.  I no longer felt beautiful.

I couldn’t let go of what happened.  I confronted him and somehow he convinced me it was my fault, that I was somehow delusional about our relationship, that I misunderstood what was really going on between us.  He made me think I was feeling things that weren’t really there.  He didn’t love me.

I remember feeling so stupid for ever loving him, that I tried to tell myself this never really happened.  In a rage I took back all the things I said to him.  I told him I didn’t really love him.  Instead of admitting how hurt I was, I told him I was just using him.  It was an attempt to gain control over the situation and it backfired.  He told me he never wanted to speak to me again.  I couldn’t deal with it.  I shut myself off from everyone around me.

I started seeing a therapist.  I wanted so badly to make sense of what had happened.  I felt depressed.  I didn’t want to eat.  I tried to starve myself, thinking that if I were thinner or prettier he would want me again.

Never in my life had I let a man have any power over me.  Why was he any different?  What was it about him that made me lose control?  I couldn’t figure it out.

Dr. G asked me to talk about it, to sort through all the anger and sadness.  I didn’t know if I could do it.

“Who are you?” he asked.  “Who are you? What do you believe to be true about yourself?”

It was a question I didn’t think I could answer.  Who am I?

I’m a woman who loves to be loved.  I want everyone to like me, to see how special I am, to appreciate me for who I am.  I’m a woman who likes to laugh and smile.  I’m a woman who needs more love and affection than most people.  I’m a woman who hates to be rejected.  I’m a woman who is afraid of abandonment.

I thought my reasons for seeing a therapist were to get over the one who hurt me, but as I poured my heart out I realized my feelings had nothing to do with a man loving me and everything to do with me loving myself.

After several long months of getting to know who I was and just being myself, I discovered how great I am.  I learned to be good to myself and to respect who I am.  Gradually, I got over the heartbreak and pain, and I realized the man I thought I loved was simply a lesson to be learned.

We wouldn’t have worked out anyway.  Thinking back on the times we shared together, I realize now he wasn’t as happy as he wanted everyone to believe.  His relationships were complicated.  He depended too much on others to make him happy, to validate who he was.  He was always brooding, and somewhat withdrawn.  He had his own abandonment issues because of his parents’ divorce.

In many ways he reminded me of Dylan McKay, the bad boy character from 90s television show Beverly Hills, 90210.  He even had the great hair to match.  Like Dylan, he was a loner.  While he had friends, he never let them into his life.  He never let them see who he really was.

I can’t say that he was all bad.  He could be kind and sensitive like no other.  He could make a woman feel like the most important person in his world.  He could make you see the same old things in a new light.  He was full of passion, but with that passion was intense heartbreak.  No one could break a heart the way he did.  Everything he says and does, everything he feels is full of intense emotion.

I never thought I could write about that time in my life before now.  I think in so many ways I was embarrassed.  I felt foolish for giving my heart to someone who so easily walked all over it. I realize now that everything happens for reasons we may not know until years later.  He was a lesson to be learned.  He was my Dylan McKay.

When I attended last year’s BlogHer Conference, I was a newbie; a virgin so-to-speak.  I didn’t quite know what to expect and I was rather overwhelmed with all the sessions and blogger meet-ups and overall conference what-to-do.

This year, I considered myself a veteran and I found it easier to meet new bloggers as well as re-connect with my pals, and when it came down to choosing which sessions to attend, I chose the Mommyblogging track.  And it was the Infertility panel that struck a chord that still resonates within me,  weeks later.

I’m in a point in my life where motherhood consumes me.  I’ve been at this Mommy thing for almost four years now; longer if you count pregnancy and all the worrying I did about my son’s impending birth.  The fear of breaking my vagina as Dawson’s head pushed through was always teetering at the back of mind.  Perhaps because it took so long for me to conceive, I was nervous and worrisome for the entire nine months.

Looking back on those years before I became a mother, I remember quite vividly the feelings of frustration, sadness and anger I felt over my conception woes.  It was an emotional roller coaster, and I felt like I was held captive on this ride and never let off. To completely understand what I went through, I’ll have to give you a little back story.

I was raised in a Polish, Catholic family where it was commonplace for women to get married, have lots of babies and constantly feed everybody.  My parents were born into large families; my mother the oldest of seven and my father the youngest of nine children.

Family gatherings were big as well as blithe, laughter was never hard to find, and our extended family grew every year.  I remember Christmas holidays when year after year at least one of my aunts was pregnant.  I never had a shortage of cousins to play with when I was a kid.

I can still remember how easy, and somewhat glamorous, the women in my family made motherhood appear.  No one ever complained about the lack of sleep or trouble with breastfeeding they experienced.  There was never any talk about the hundreds of diapers that needed changing.  No one ever discussed the fact that their husbands became useless and clueless after the birth of a baby. Instead, it was all happy babies and loving mamas sharing peek-a-boo moments.  Boy, what a delusion.

Naturally, I grew up believing that motherhood was the grand poobah of aspirations.  This was what little girls dreamed of becoming.  At the age of 13, wifedom and motherhood was the end all, be all in my book.  In all honesty, if the fear of God and my father weren’t as strong as they were when I was 17, I’m pretty positive I would have gotten pregnant in high school.  I know that’s an almost insane thing to admit, but I couldn’t wait to be a mother.

I remember when a schoolmate told me she was expecting during our senior year.  I was shocked at first and then later I was somewhat jealous.  Of course those feelings dissipated when I watched her struggle with pregnancy and later childbirth and the day the baby’s father abandoned her.  That was my first glimpse of the reality that is motherhood.  That was the day I realized that there is no glitz and glamor to becoming a mother.  And yet, I desperately yearned for the day I would have my own child. I didn’t realize the difficult journey to motherhood that was ahead of me.

My first brush with the infertile world (although I didn’t know it at the time) happened a year after I graduated high school.  It was May of 1998, and my period was late.  I remember the fear that something was wrong with my body.  I was still a virgin, so pregnancy was not possible, unless of course I was chosen by God to give birth to the next Savior of the world.

It turns out my periods would cease for 19 months.  After a year and a half of this craziness, I decided it was time to see a doctor.  I didn’t have health insurance, so I didn’t go to the clinic, but instead I scheduled an appointment with the local Ruth Gilfry office.  They referred me to a physician who prescribed progesterone/progestin to start my periods again, but no explanation was given as to why they stopped to begin with.

There were speculations, such as my rapid weight loss (at age 20, when I got down to 130 pounds, my lowest weight ever.  I graduated high school at 150.) or the fact that I was exercising too much and eating too little, as well as my family history of ovarian cysts and fibroids (I had a cyst burst during math class once, causing me to double over in pain), and the possibility I had endometriosis (an ultrasound and laproscopy ruled that out, thank God).

At age 21, I got a job that offered health insurance and I decided to finally have a full physical examination to see what was happening with my ovaries and uterus.  My periods had finally started again a few months before, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right, reproductively.  I had gained back all of the weight I lost and then some, causing my menstrual cycles to last 40 days or longer and I wanted an explanation.  My doctor told me I had polycystic ovarian syndrome.  WTF is that, I thought.

I honestly thought it was some made up “disease”, a diagnosis created to group a whole bunch of symptoms and unexplained conditions together.  I was told I was overweight and suffering from a metabolic disorder, yet my thyroid checks came back normal every time.  My doctor prescribed Glucophage (metformin) to keep my insulin levels in check.  Several months later, I was told I was a “borderline diabetic”.  My world felt like it was crumbling, especially when the doctor explained, “this condition will make it difficult for you to have children.” I was crushed.  I felt as though my dream of motherhood was being pulled away from me.  Stolen.  I felt robbed.

I was advised to lose weight, but not too much and told not to continue the excessive exercise regime.  It was thought that if I lost twenty pounds, having a baby may not be so difficult.

After my husband and I were married, we decided to begin trying to conceive immediately.  After 12 months of no luck, I went back to my doctor who referred me to a specialist.  The doctor ordered me to continue taking the Glucophage as well as Clomid, a fertility drug.

I began charting my cycles, and taking my temperature every morning and still, I wasn’t pregnant.  Every time my period was late, I’d pee on a stick and become angry and frustrated when a big, fat negative result turned up in the test window.  After another year of this, I lost hope.  I told Doug that I didn’t want children anymore.  Not if it meant going through that, month after horrible month.

I confided in my mother about my frustration and she was supportive, yet she told me she didn’t believe anything was wrong with me — that maybe Doug and i weren’t having sex at the right time of the month.  Other friends told me to relax, that it would happen when I least expected it.  I know they meant well, but these words pissed me off.  I wanted so badly to tell them all to shut up.  I wanted to say, “You don’t know what I’m going through…you don’t understand how difficult this is!”

Every time I saw a pregnant woman, I wanted to run away.  I wanted to cry and yell and throw things.  I wasn’t mad at the person, I was mad at my situation.  And maybe I was jealous.  I didn’t understand why that couldn’t be me.

When these feelings surfaced, I stopped taking the drugs and decided to concentrate on other things.  It was November of 2003 and my co-worker Melissa and I decided to try the Atkins diet.  It was all the rage back then and we both thought we could stand to lose a few pounds.  It was the dumbest thing I did, I realize that now, but the rigidity of that “diet” gave me something else to focus on.  Counting carbs and peeing on Keto sticks took my mind of taking Clomid and peeing on ovulation sticks. I lost 37 pounds in 3 months.

In January of 2004, Doug and I decided to get a dog.  Murphy became our baby.  And then one day I stepped on the scale and discovered I had gained 9 pounds in a week.  My fear consumed me, because I was following the Atkins diet religiously.  Later, I noticed my period was five days late.  I took a pregnancy test.  Negative.  The old feelings of anger began to rise in my throat like bile.  It was devastating.  I felt like the universe was jerking my chain and taking great pleasure in it.

Ten more days go by and still no period.  My breasts were sore.  I was tired all the time.  Something didn’t feel right.  Never did I think I was pregnant, and I pushed the thought out of my mind.  The fear of that negative stick haunted me.

On January 26th, I threw up at work.  What the hell is wrong with me?  Do I have the flu? It didn’t feel like the flu.  On my lunch break I walked to Shopko and bought an E.P.T., but when I returned to work, I couldn’t take the test.  I was scared.  I confided in Melissa (we both worked the 2nd shift so she was my sound board for many things) and she and another friend, Shannon, urged me to take the test.  I went to the bathroom and bit the bullet.  And then suddenly, through my tears, I saw two pink lines appear.  Then I dropped the stick in the toilet.

The utter disbelief paralyzed me.  I fished the stick from the bowl and hurried to the sink.  As I was rinsing it off, I noticed the line getting somewhat darker.  I wrapped the test in paper towel and ran to my desk.

“Is this a line?” I shrieked at my friends.

“Is what alive?” asked Shannon.

“Oh my gosh! You’re pregnant!” Melissa said.

My boss, Angela, who was also pregnant at the time, rushed over to confirm the results.

“Congratulations!” she said, as she hugged me.

I took another 15 minute break to regain my composure, and then called my husband, my mother and my friend Kelly.  I couldn’t hold back the news.  It finally happened.  I was pregnant.  Those two pink lines were so exciting and thrilling.

Little did I know they would spring me into a state of panic and fear that consumed me for the duration of my pregnancy…

(This is also a very detailed recap of my experience at Day Two of BlogHer 2007) .

BlogHer 2007 was my first blogging conference and I must admit I learned more about politics than I bargained for.

My education began with the first Breakout Session for politics,  Earn Our Votes: What Questions Do Women Bloggers Want Candidates to Answer In Election 2008.

Sarah Simmons, a Republican party pollster shared statistics about the diversity and trends of female voters both young and old, as well as spoke about how women voters drove the margin for change in the House and Senate in the 2006 elections.

She stated that women have a broad agenda when it comes to politics.  Some of our main concerns include health care, withdrawal from Iraq, education, costs of living, how to successfully own and operate small businesses, and how to care for our aging parents. 

Ms. Simmons mentioned that women are more likely to personalize politics to fit their main concerns and beliefs. When women discuss immigration we don’t really discuss immigration.  We worry about emergency room back-ups due to the “non-taxpaying” patients and the rising costs of health care as a result.  When women discuss the environment we don’t talk about the environment.  Instead we talk about clean drinking water for our families and children, and well-kept parks and green spaces for recreational activities. 

Another interesting piece of information is that 45% of female voters are favorable to Senator Hillary Clinton as a presidential candidate, but 67% of Republicans or conservative women are not.

This is largely because they feel Hillary hasn’t struggled, suffered, or sacrificed to get where she is today.  Because Hillary Clinton is a woman, wife, mother and successful career woman, some women feel she hasn’t been in their shoes and that she doesn’t understand their less privileged positions.

While it’s sad to hear that women can judge other women based solely on her achievements, whether they are jealous of her success or not, I can’t fault them for feeling that Hillary Clinton is disconnected from women who don’t share the same success.

During this panel, the audience also broke into multi-partisan groups to discuss four critical issues raised by a survey.  The four areas of the biggest concern were Economy, Health Care, Environment and Iraq.  BlogHer’s Morra Aarons is working to bring the results of these focus groups to BlogHer very soon.

Some of the questions that were asked in the Economy breakout included:  The corrupt student loan system, rising child care costs for working mothers and families, national minimum wage is still low, small businesses are suffering because the cost of health insurance is skyrocketing, bankruptcy laws are disorganized and complicated, and the very frustrating mortgage crisis.

Women want answers to these questions and more.  We’re tired of politicians spewing the same pat answers when we talk about important issues. 

After this breakout I stayed for the next session, How to Write Great Political Coverage:  From Breaking News to Op-Ed.  Professor Kim Pearson was an excellent moderator and encouraged the audience to interact during the session. 

She asked, “Are political bloggers the same as bloggers who write about politics?”

We got into small groups and the one I was in decided that while political bloggers tend to push a certain agenda, a person who blogs about politics may be discussing the issues.  On the other hand, bloggers can write a post that isn’t about politics at all and still be political. 

An example was given by a group member in regards to jazz music and the effects of Hurricane Katrina almost destroying the birthplace of jazz.  Americans didn’t seem to be as concerned about this, perhaps because of the predominant race of the jazz culture and this definitely comes across as political.   

Panelists Faye Anderson and Katharine Daniels also offered great advice for writing about politics.

Glennia from The Silent “I” has a comprehensive list at her blog.  Here are just a few:

• Be clear about who you think you are and what you are covering.  Let audience know what you are trying to accomplish.  Have to have clarity on what you are doing and develop your own sense of mission. 
• Be transparent with your audience.  If someone comes to your blog, and reads something on a particular candidate, they may assume that you support that candidate.  If you say something negative about a candidate, they may assume that you support the other side.
   
  Do your homework and consider the opposing argument and respond to it specifically. 
• Make policy interesting by using YouTube and other multi-media sources to jazz it up.  Make stories accessible by providing interesting links and other related content.

There was a wealth of information shared, but the piece of advice that really hit home to the audience came from Professor Kim:  Stay human. 

It’s very easy to forget we are most often talking about people and we all have different opinions.  It’s very important to be courteous and respectful, especially when writing about an opposing view point.

The third and final breakout session discussed How to Turn Your blog Into a GotV (Get out the Vote) Machine. 

Women are the majority of the voting population, and women are very diverse.  Sara Simmons stated it’s important to remember there isn’t a monolith when talking about female voters.

Panelists Kim Gandy, Liza Sabater and Zephyr Teachout discussed ways to inform women, such as encouraging them to register, to vote, putting buttons on our blogs, starting mailing lists, using tools like Yahoo and Google groups, and urging women to attend local government meetings.  Laurie liveblogged the session here.

I asked the panel whether they’ve noticed that many conservative women are afraid to speak up because of a stigma that we’re all right-wing, religious crazies, who bow to Ann Coulter and Michelle Malkin. 

The answer I received was that many campaign workers do not feel Republican and conservative groups of women are a targetable audience.  Why?  They do not know how to approach us.

Well, I can tell you one way is to send your campaign workers to the BlogHer Conference.
It seems Hillary Clinton and John Edwards managed to send a representative on their behalves. 

Excuse me, Mr. Giuliani, Mr. Romney, and the rest?  Where were you?  You missed a big opportunity to show us, your voters, that you do in fact care about us. 

I’m not the only conservative who felt alienated.

During the keynote by Elizabeth Edwards, Daring Young Mom spoke up about her beliefs.  She writes:

When Elizabeth Edwards is Speaking at BlogHer, I’m a Conservative.  At church I’m a liberal.

I am repeatedly amazed at the complex nuances of personal political identity and the bizarre need we feel to categorize each other along party lines. This becomes confusing because the way I’m categorized changes dramatically depending on whom I happen to be sitting next to. In an LDS Sunday School class, I’m fairly liberal. In the BlogHer organization, I feel like some sort of right wing extremist.

I can’t stress enough about conservatives are stereotyped.  When we voice our opinions we are often met with attack and ridicule, or we  are not taken seriously because we might be religious and some opponents think that’s dumb. 

Did it ever occur to them that we do actually think about the issues at hand?  We’re not just blindly going to follow the leader without rationally thinking about the facts.  Some of us do get emotional because we’re passionate about what matters most to us.   

I met a few conservatives at the BlogHer Conference who surprised me when they said they didn’t even know BlogHer had a contributing editor for the right.  Imagine my shock?  And then later my fear that I’m not doing my job properly if my conservative audience didn’t know I was here for them.

Shannon from Rocks In My Dryer mentioned how offended conservatives at the conference were upon hearing Mrs. Edwards say “I’m sorry” to a blogger from Texas, because of the insinuation that Texas is “Bush Country”.

She writes:  

Edwards is a good speaker with a gracious ease, and even though I don’t agree with her on policy, I enjoyed hearing the line of reasoning that comes from someone the other end of the political spectrum.  There was a bit of a strange moment when she took questions from the audience, and a speaker stood up to say, “I’m from Texas…” and Edwards responded, “I’m sorry!”

The people at our table looked at each other with puzzlement.  “Did she really just say that?” I asked.  It was a bit Dixie Chicks-ish.  But that’s okay, because Tina (ever gracious in a don’t-mess-with-Texas sort of way) gently approached Edwards at the cocktail party afterwards to assure her that most Texans are not, in fact, “sorry” that they’re from Texas.  It was a great moment.  I have a picture to prove it, and it is, sadly, stuck for in the bowels of my cell phone for all eternity.

And so I wonder where are the conservatives here at BlogHer.org?  After processing all I’ve learned and experienced during this BlogHer Conference, I want to encourage every one of you to come forward and tell me what issues are important to you.  I would be more than honored to hear your thoughts, ideas, suggestions and concerns.

I’m don’t normally write exceedingly long blog entries, but I felt it was important to share my experience (all of it) and to let you know that I am here; the conservative, Republican, right-leaning CE for Politics at BlogHer. 

BlogHer strives to be multi-partisan.  We want every single member to feel comfortable when letting their voices be heard.

(And If you feel more comfortable e-mailing me, please do!)

I received excellent feedback and began to really think about where this idea that I have to be perfect derived from.

I started to reflect on my school years.  I was never a brilliant student.  I had classes I disliked and struggled with (Biology, Physics) and classes I always aced (English, History, Creative Writing, French, Business, Geometry and Psychology).

As the daughter of a former teacher, I got an early start to learning.  My mother spent countless hours teaching me to read and write before kindergarten, and she loved her flashcards.  I was a mini-mathematician and novelist by second grade.

There was always this silent expectation to do better than my peers, and to make my parents (read: mother) proud.  My mother comes from a family of teachers.  My grandmother was a teacher, and three of her daughters became teachers.  It was expected that I’d become a teacher and for many years I contemplated the idea.

As the school years went by, I began to resent my mother’s expectations of me.  I always felt this constant push-pull feeling.  I’d strive to succeed, but at the same time purposely tried to slack a bit; just to prove to myself that I was in control and not my parents.  It’s a crazy mentality and I realize this now, years later.

I never got terrible grades, but I didn’t always bring home straight A’s.  There were several B’s and a few C’s on that report card and I even got my first F in Biology because I refused to dissect worms and frogs.  The disappointment on my parents’ faces was enough to make me feel terrible about myself.  I never wanted to feel that way again.

So when I started college, I chose a major that made my parents happy, even though that choice didn’t necessarily suit me.  It’s no surprise that I switched emphasis 4 times and eventually dropped out after 3 years.  Again, my parents were angry and disappointed.

My wedding was the one thing I had control over, and the one thing my parents approved of.  I chose a Polish-style wedding reception because I loved the tradition I grew up with.  They were so happy and for once, I felt like earned their approval.

Fast forward to my pregnancy and all the expectations I “thought” I had to meet.  Whether it was regarding my pregnancy diet, weight gain, etc.; I always thought my mother was pressuring me to do things the same way she did.

After Dawson was born, I felt like her attempts to give advice were instead little bouts of constant nagging.

My mother would say things like:  Is he eating enough?  Is he warm enough? When I had you, I did this… You should try this…. Why don’t you try that?

I always felt those “silent” expectations.  I always felt the need to please and yet wanted to fight that urge.  I wanted to do things my way and at the same time do things perfectly; to please my mother, to shut her up and to show her up.

And then I realized there is no A+ when it comes to motherhood.  There is no amount of studying one can do to ace that test.  There is no such thing as a perfect parent.  I don’t have to please my mother.  I have to please myself.  “Good enough” is good enough.

All the underlying pressure dissipates when I do things my own way.

I’ve learned, and I’m still learning, how to tune out all the outside advice.  It still irritates me, but smiling, nodding and ignoring work wonders.  In one ear and out the other, my grandmother once told me.  Practice makes near-perfect. 

It may have taken me 4 years to figure this out, but it’s better late than never.  I’ll just consider it a new age college education.  In the school of motherhood, passing satisfactorily is so much better than failing miserably.

But also, I can’t be afraid of failure if I want to be successful.  I will never know what is right for me when it comes to parenting if I never make mistakes.  Mistakes are the lessons we learn.  I’ve learned many lessons and I’m still discoverig the methods that work best. 

I’m learning the ropes to parenthood as I go.  With each day that passes, I realize the kind of mother I am and the kind of mother I want to be.  I know I’m doing a good job as Dawson’s mom and that’s all that really counts.

I awoke not surprised to find out we’re out of milk.

Since the Doodlebug had no intentions of eating a “waffo” instead, I got dressed in my sweats and a stained t-shirt and then took Dawson, still in his pajamas, to the store.

When I pulled into the parking lot of Copps Food Center, the very store that my husband works at, I saw a car pulling out of the third stall from the store’s entrance.

I pulled in closer and put on my signal to indicate I was going to take that spot once the car was out of the way.

To my surprise and dismay, a man in his late 50s pulled forward from his stall into the one I was waiting for. He decided he wanted to be able to pull forward instead of backing out of his original stall. His wife got out of the car and headed into the store, while he sat in his truck and waited for her.

I was pissed. There was absolutely no reason for his behavior.

I rolled down my window and called to the driver, “Sir, I was waiting for that spot. I had my signal on and you saw me.”

“Screw you, lady. There are other parking places,” he said.

“Did you just say ‘screw you’ to me? That was completely uncalled for.”

“Lady, I’m much older than you. You need to learn to respect your elders.”

“You may be an old fart, but that doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole. Get a clue.”

I thought about just driving around the aisle into the spot he vacated to steal mine. That would be the easy thing to do, right?

I don’t know if it was the fact that I didn’t get enough sleep or if I was forced awake by a demanding two-year-old, but I was not in the mood to take this guy’s crap.

I inched my car right in front of his truck and turned off the engine.

“What the fuck are you doing, woman? Get your piece of junk out of the way.”

I just smiled politely and waited. The man threatened to smash into my car and I just kept smiling. I smiled for 15 minutes until his wife came out of the store. The look on her face showed annoyance and embarrassment. I didn’t care.

When she was in the truck, he demanded once more that I move my car or he’d crash into me. I just smiled and waited, almost daring him with my eyes to do it.

“Move your g*ddamned car!” he yelled once more.

“Screw you, dickhead.” I responded. I was tired of smiling at that point.

Luckily for me, no one parked in the stall behind him and he finally backed out and drove away.

It was the most empowering feeling. I proceeded to park my car in my place and Dawson and I went inside to get the milk.

A woman in the foyer of the store smiled at me and said, “I wish I had your balls, girl. That was awesome.”

I smiled and nodded. You’re damned right it was, I thought to myself.

What the hell is wrong with these people?

And the left turns?  I get so angry with left turns.  I’d drive in the right lane, but all the cautious (read: slow) drivers are in that one.

And so, when the speed demon in the red Mustang passed me, moved into my lane and then proceeded to turn left? 

I blew my freakin’ stack. 

I had Dawson in the car, so I made the conscious effort not to swear.

“Stupid jerk!” I yelled.

“Fuck dem cars!” I heard from the back seat.

My mouth dropped open.  

Apparently I have said the F-word in the car with Dawson with me.

I’m a bad influence.

But I laughed.  I was shocked, and yet I laughed.

What else was I going to do?  Scold the little boy for something he heard from his Mama (I can’t even remember when I said that)?

“That’s right, honey!  What you said!”  I replied.

(Photo Credit, David Pierce.)

I barely get any rest these days.  I have no energy.  It’s a miracle I managed to organize some areas of my house last weekend.

I feel like I’m expected to go, go, go, nonstop; and I have to be perfect, because people look up to perfection.

• Do this, do that, be here, be there. 
• Clean the house, weed the flower beds, do laundry, argue with my husband about not doing the laundry.
• Get frustrated with Dawson when he leaves his toys all over the place, then feel guilty for feeling frustrated with Dawson.
• Resent my husband because he can take off on a whim, no guilt, and I’m jealous.
• Go grocery shopping, stick to the budget, pay the bills, argue with cable company about unnecessary charges.
• Go to church, volunteer my time to charity organizations even though I’m swamped at home.  Feel guilty for missing church because I am so damn tired and stressed.  Realize that church is the only quiet place I can go to reflect and pray and think.
• Always keep a smile on my face, even when difficult, because it’s not good to show people your weaknesses, they’ll hold them against you.
• Worry about my son; is he eating enough, is he well-rounded, is he smart, is he too skinny, but then feel stupid for worrying and try to stop.  Then feel worse for not worrying enough.
• Don’t tell my husband how I’m feeling because he may think I’m nuts or he won’t understand.  He doesn’t get that I’m overburdened and I’m not supposed to tell him because I’m Super Mom and I wanted this life, so now I have to be the alpha parent and deal with it.
• Cry about things that I can’t explain.  Cry about people having babies.  Cry about the dog and whether he’s loved enough.  Cry about the future and what it will bring.  Cry about my friends, and worry about whether or not they’re happy.  Cry about things that are so stupid it makes you cry even more.

Sometimes I have these moments of depression and I can’t explain them.  I always manage to climb my way out of the chaos, but I worry about the next episode. 

The funny thing is, I’ve tried the anti-depressants.  It just made me more out of synch.  My doctor doesn’t think I need the drugs because the things I worry about are normal.  Most mothers experience these feelings.  Normal.  Hah.

“It’s how you choose to handle what’s thrown your way,” he said.

I’m feeling like a crazy person, but I know I’m not crazy.  Crazy people don’t sit around and wonder if they are crazy, they just are.

My stomach is churning.  I might be hungry, but the thought of food is nauseating.

I’m….

I don’t know.

And, Erin.  Dear sweet Erin is experiencing some of this.   I want to reach out and hug her.  I want to tell her that she’ll get past this.  And she will.  But she doesn’t need me to tell her that.  She knows.  It’s just a bit cloudy when you stop the medication.  It’s a hurdle.  I’ve tripped on the hurdle so many times.  One day I will jump it.  Just not today. Maybe not tomorrow. Or next week.  But when the day comes, I’ll know.  I will know.