Maybe I do worry a tad too much.

Moments of motherhood. The grand. The minute. The scary. The heart-bursting joyful. The frustrating. The rewarding. The familiar. The alien. The lunacy. The tender. And the list goes on and on.  Here at MWOB, it's a week of reflection surrounding the infinite moments of being a mommy. And here's Em, a woman and mother and writer whom I totally and utterly respect.  

Written by Em

While pregnant with my first son, I read everything I could find concerning babies. I wanted to be über prepared.

Let's all take a break for a good chuckle.

There was, however, one question for which I could never locate the answer. A topic that was so dark and scary that no book would broach the subject. Childbirth is supposed to be transformational, right? Moonbeams and rainbows? Unicorns and Care Bears? No matter what hell your body goes through, once that child is here, you lock eyes, connect on a level you never knew existed, and forget the world because you will fall. in. love.

Right?!

But what if I didn't? What if he didn't? I don't just hand my heart to anyone, and I'm one difficult chick to get to know, this could be disastrous.

The test came with my waters breaking 10 days early, a petocin-induced labor, two hours of pushing, and then a late-night emergency c-section. I was so doped up that I chose the middle name without even remembering - seriously. "Bonding" was the last thing on anyone's mind, until the next morning when the nurse wheeled our son into the room.

And then left.

Hubs and I just looked at each other.

What are we supposed to do with him now?!

We managed, but I didn't feel like a "Mother." He was cute and wrinkly and serious and looked like his father - all good things for sure - but where was the thunderbolt?

Three days later we were home. The house was eerily quiet. Hubs gathered Oldest out of his carrier, and we wandered into our bedroom to enjoy the moment. I sat down on the edge of the bed and took in the view of the love of my life holding our newest love of our lives.

I then proceeded to bawl, completely overcome with emotions - I mean like the Grinch-whose-heart-grew-three-sizes kind of painful realization that this tiny creature, this defenseless angel, would die if we chose not to take care of him.

At that split second I wanted to feed every hungry child on the planet, kiss every single boo boo and tear away, really hurt the parents who did not to take care of their own children, and kill anyone who would harm one hair on any child's head.

I knew with 100% certainty I would step in front of a train, would lift a two-ton automobile, would simply lay down and die, if it meant the well-being of my child.

I was relieved.

And terrified.

And finally, a "Mom" - an honor I strive to deserve, every single day.

Not Like Mama Used to Make.

Written by Em

When announcing our first pregnancy, we were given the usual reality checks - a baby changes everything, blah, blah, blah. Less sleep and personal hygiene versus more love and joy.

Got it.

We received the same reminders during our wait for Baby #2, just jacked up a notch - "whoa, you guys think one is a handful, ha, ha?! You ain't seen nothin' yet!"

Gee.

Thanks.

But boy were they right.

Turns out, Youngest has this pesky liver disorder called PKU. If you're a regular viewer of my homebase, you might be a little familiar with this three-letter combo. If not, here's a crash course - think vegetarian diabetic. Youngest is missing the necessary enzyme to metabolize the amino acid phenylalanine to the amino acid tyrosine. It just means he has to be on a special low protein diet, for life. (Here's more information, if you're interested.) We do a blood test every other week to check his "levels." If they stay within range, he's right as rain. If we wander too far into the dark side, permanent side effects, such as brain damage, set in.

Quite the balancing act, but after three years, it's pretty routine and fully (mostly) embraced.

Until we hit a holiday.

I then loathe PKU.

I mean, bang-my-fists, stomp-my-feet and curse-the-gods kind of hatred.

What's Thanksgiving without a succulent, golden turkey (can you smell it)? Christmas without a rare roastbeast and Yorkshire pudding (yes, English family roots)? Easter without a Honeybaked ham or hollow chocolate bunnies, for Pete's sake?!

I can tell you, because I've experienced them all. And yes, I will confess, only to you guys, that it totally sucks. I will never, ever say that to Youngest (I imagine some kid in preschool will probably point it out for me), but yes, it totally sucks.

But so does decreased mental capabilities.

Perspective is key.

There are two schools of thought when it comes to holiday management of the diet: One - incorporate low protein recipes into the day (we lean this way when extended family is involved), or Two - completely change the tradition.

We love to completely change the tradition.

Not that we don't fully appreciate the fact that one day Youngest will have to "mainstream" when it comes to food, but we feel like offering him full acceptance at home builds confidence to stick to the diet later in life. At least I pray that it does.

Lord only knows how bad I'm screwing this up.

So instead of the usual chocolate selection at Halloween, it's now Skittles, Dum Dums or pencils. For Easter this year, we held a jelly bean hunt, and for dinner we grilled veggies and turkey hotdogs (and a lo pro version for Youngest - yes they make them) and had a picnic outside watching the sunset.

Not a pork product or deviled egg in site.

I cannot truthfully say that I don't miss the traditional fare. Those meals were my childhood memories. Believe me, my mother reminds me all the time. I actually lied to her this year and told her that yes, I bought a ham for the rest of us since that's how it's done.

Enough! (that's for my mom)

This is Youngest's childhood now, so he gets to help pick the menu.

When we went for our initial genetics counseling right after his diagnosis, the wonderful dietitian let me in on a little secret that has sustained me during my many closet tantrums.

"It's not the food on the table that matters, it's the people surrounding it."

And there's always girls' night out for wallowing around in chicken fried steak.

What can I say? I'm hardly a saint.

Just Call Me Mary Kay Letourneau

Today these pages are being graced by one graceful writer, Em of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit.  Em was a chick I admired from afar but when we hooked up to work together on the Virtual Wagie Ride for Tuesday Project, I got to admire her even more from afar. Because that's the truth - we live afar from each other. Em's an intelligent, entertaining writer, a genuine person with a heart of gold, and she was kind enough to guest post while I'm off playing in the snow.  Read her, love her and then go follow her blog if you don't already.  She's nothing less than stellar.

Here's Em:

It might be a little twisted, but I find great pleasure in screwing with teenage drivers.

(Where did you think I was going with this?)

From driving school nervous nellies to newbies with Mama in the passenger seat - I'm an equal opportunity agitator, because really, these kiddos need to get used to aggressive drivers here in the Lone Star State - a place where TXDOT actually posts "Drive Friendly" signs on the interstates. And please don't get all uppity, I don't swap paint or anything, my insurance rates are high enough, thank you. Maybe it's a little slower in front of them, or somewhat faster behind them - just something to keep them on their toes.

The other day, Youngest pulled his usual Mussolini impersonation once we dropped Oldest at school - "Drive!!" So with his finger pointing the way, I willingly surrounded myself with high school students rushing to embrace learning.

This particular morning, I encountered my favorite type of teenage driver - the obnoxious texter. I know, they're not a rare breed; however, I seldom get the chance to actually make a point with one of these obliviots.

The prey: a raven-haired beauty driving a two-seater Mercedes (wait), with two friends in the passenger seat (yeah - you do the math). She's too busy letting mean girl #4 know they're running late to notice that she just blew through a flashing school zone sign. It's actually quite a miracle that I was able to witness this, since she was actually in perfect formation to load her sports car into the back of my transport SUV.

Fed up with me following the rules, she zips, one-handed mind you, to the other lane, only to be confronted by another law abiding citizen. I box her in for a minute, let her rev her frustration, then I hit the brakes and allow her to cut me off and zoom ahead, knowing full well that a cop ALWAYS sits at the top of the hill.

Feeling smug, I pass the end-school-zone sign and catch up to speed. I want to ensure a good view of just desserts. But what do I see as I crest...nothing!! No cop, and definitely no Mercedes.

ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

My mind reels at what the cost of that deterrent ticket would have been - double ARG!

My true frustration? What's going to be the cost should that young thang have to learn her lesson the hard way?

Some ugly stats for you:

- The risk for a car accident increases by 50 percent for those who text while driving.

- The American Automobile Association found that out of 1,000 16 and 17-year-olds polled, 46 percent of them admitted to text messaging while driving.

- AAA found that a driver doubles their risk for a car accident when he/she takes their eyes of the road for more than two seconds, and that 80 percent of collisions involve some sort of inattention.

Sorry, I didn't Google the stats on SUV-driving Mama taking the law into her own hands. I know, I'm sure it ain't pretty either.