Max has thrown up exactly three times and twice was outside of Cheesecake Factory. I don’t want to slander Cheesecake Factory. On the contrary, David and I are rather big fans of the Cheesecake Factory and it is a favorite destination for date nights (we split the Chinese chicken salad, and if we’re feeling saucy we get the pot stickers). And Max has eaten at some Cheesecake Factories with no such reaction, but the Cheesecake Factory at the Stonebriar Mall in Frisco, Texas – well, bad luck.

The first time was when he was two and he was misbehaving at the table. By the time we left he was throwing a full blown temper tantrum. We walked out of the restaurant, into the mall, David carrying him. Max was screaming the whole way and then he promptly threw up all over David. It was actually funny and I laughed out loud. David holding Max with puke all down the back of his t-shirt was a sight to behold. I don’t know, something about years of wearing shirts with baby spit-up seemed to all balance out in that one instance.

Tonight, we waited for close to an hour to get food and by the time the pizza arrived for the kids Max was past the point of reason. He was starving, tired and cranky. He refused to eat, complained that he was cold and whined non-stop. It was a Friday night, so the place was packed and I was trying desperately to keep Max’s behavior exempt from scorn by the fellow patrons. I inhaled two fish tacos and told David to have the rest packed up I was taking the kids out into the mall before any serious temper tantrums began.

I walked outside of the restaurant with Lucy and Max and before I could clear the waiting area Max coughed and vomited brown pumpernickel bread all over the mall floor. Women gasped, teenagers gagged, and I was left with only one option; “Lucy, you and Max stand right here against the wall. DON’T MOVE!! I’m going to go get a towel”. I made a dash back into the restaurant hopeful that he neither vomited again nor a stranger abducted them. I grabbed the first waiter I could find who was holding two freshly starched napkins and I said firmly (but not rudely) “Do you have a towel?” and I boldly eyed the napkins he was holding. “Well” he said slowly “what do you want to clean up? Because these don’t really hold a lot of liquid”. I could not believe that he was going to question the type of spill I was trying to rectify at this moment. I stared right at him and said “I just want a napkin.” I didn’t even wait for a reply, I grabbed the napkin and ran outside where Max was standing horrified and with vomit all down his jacket. Lucy standing next to him shaking. However, they hadn’t moved, as instructed, and for that I was proud. I cleaned up the vomit off the ground and threw away the napkin. (Yes, Cheesecake Factory, I took a cloth napkin, cleaned vomit and threw it away. If you want me to pay you back then bill me). Lucy was shaking with panic and had a thousand question; “Should we tell Daddy? Is Max going to throw up? Should I go get Daddy?” I could see she needed a job and so I told her to go back into the restaurant and tell Daddy. She perked right up and didn’t hesitate to run back into the restaurant.

I walked Max to the mall door so he could get some fresh air and watched the restaurant door for Lucy to return. She bolted out of the door minutes later her eyes brimmed with tears. I flagged her down and she came running up to me tears spilling over and a quiver in her voice; “I couldn’t find Daddy, and I got scared, and is Max going to be okay?” Poor Lucy, so desperate to help with the situation and not able to complete her mission. Max, in the meantime was not crying but was shaking from head to toe – past the point of exhaustion.

I don’t know if it is the Cheesecake Factory at the Stonebriar Mall in Frisco Texas or the fact that both times Max was tired or the Strawberry Lemonade, but something at that Cheesecake Factory does not mesh well with Max. David came out, we gathered everybody up into our arms and walked out to the car. Honestly, I’m just glad I didn’t also throw up. I’m not a mother who handles puke well and I’m amazed that I didn’t make the situation worst but was actually helpful. And for now, I don’t think we’ll be returning to the Cheesecake Factory in the mall.

I hate the fact that I am once again piggy-backing onto the latest momversation, but this one hit close to home. Fertility medicine. While the whole world is abuzz about some random, inept doctor who purposefully got some crazy woman pregnant with 8 babies, millions of other women are desperate for just one. I was one of those women.

Fertility is a strange thing. From the time I entered puberty my cycle was so predictable you could have set a clock to it. My mother was the same way, as was my sister, both of whom got pregnant without planning or problems. The idea that I would have any difficulty conceiving was the furthest thing from my mind. I was married later in life at 30. Not my fault – I couldn’t really control when I met my soul mate. Please take that issue up with God. Within the first year of marriage we decided to have a baby. At the time I thought it would be easy. Stop using birth control, have sex, here comes baby.

Soon months went by without any success. We started being more “purposeful” with our attempts at baby-making. Still no success. Before I knew it the monthly home pregnancy test started feeling like a pee-stick of failure. We went to the doctor and the testing began. We found ourselves at eighteen months of temperature taking, chart making, timing, tests, and nothing. All we wanted was one child of our own. Fertility problems are heart-wrenching. Every month you start hopeful with a new game plan. THIS is going to be the month. You just KNOW it. As the end of your cycle approaches every symptom can either be a signal for hope or despair. You find yourself developing a hyper-sensitivity to your body, “my boobs hurt I MUST be pregnant” or “I feel a little nauseous I’m pregnant”. And then when you pee on that stick and it once again turns up negative all of that hope goes down the toilet. You’re left empty, hollow, desperate, sad.

I don’t know I would have survived that process, that gut-wrenching, emotional roller-coaster without David and my doctor. My sweet, wonderful doctor who never once lost hope. After eighteen months she regretfully told me that she could do no more for us and recommended that we see a fertility clinic for IVF treatments. I knew that at that point our chances for having a baby had just dramatically dropped. David and I would only be able to afford one round of IVF and with only a 50% success rate it might not work at all. I made the appointment and tried to remain optimistic. A week before our appointment at the fertility clinic my first home pregnancy test came back positive. We were going to have a baby.

My story ends there, but there are millions of people whose stories continue. Millions of wonderful, loving, sweet families who want a child of their own and cannot conceive. In most cases it is nobody’s fault. They did not wait until they were too old. They do not live outrageous lifestyles. On the contrary, most have basic biological issues that can easily be resolved with modern medicine and treatments. Of those that cannot be resolved with simple biology, IVF and other fertility treatments are miracles. You can ask any family who has weathered the storm of fertility problems and they will tell you that they would have swapped places with anybody who was able to get pregnant without such assistance. It is an awful, painful experience that I would not want any couple to face.

Most couples would not wish for nor seek multiple births. Every parent wants the same thing; a healthy pregnancy and birth. Purposefully trying for multiple births puts everybody at risk and if we are finger pointing it should be at the doctors that irresponsibly agree to implant multiple eggs. Banning, or over regulating, fertility treatments is going to cause additional stress to families that are already suffering an extremely stressful situation.

I’ve mentioned before that breakfast cereal is a banished product in my household. David has a severe addiction to the crunchy, sugary goodness that can be found in every box and has been known to eat a whole box in a day. When General Mills offered to send me a free box of cereal I knew it would be met with glee and delight. Indeed, when the box arrived it was greeted by screaming, hoots and hollers. The kids tore open the box exploding with the excitement that is usually only reserved for packages from Grandma and me baking cookies. Lucy instantly wanted me to pour her a bowl “with milk” and Max could barely contain his delight at the Madagascar penguin that was found inside. Indeed, he has slept with that little penguin EVERY night since excavating it from the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. To say that my children enjoyed the cereal would be an understatement in the line of “hey Disney World might be fun”. The box didn’t last 4 hours in my house. It was a new record for the Morley household and when the last tidbit of cinnamon yumminess was gone it was as if the iron curtain of communism had fallen down upon us. The grey cloud of disappointment rolled in and the realization that once again we were a household with no cereal left the children bereft of glee.

I’m beginning to re-think my no cereal policy. Especially since Lucy is close to being the age that she could, theoretically, make herself breakfast in the morning. Maybe I’ll just introduce Cheerios and see how we handle that first.

The minute I knew I was giving birth to a girl I instantly knew what books I would introduce her to and when. However, when Max came along I realized I had no idea. Boy books? What do boys read? I didn’t think Max would really be interested in “Anne of Green Gables” or “Jane Erye” and so I started asking men, “What was your favorite book as a kid?” The list that I’ve gathered is fascinating and the first one on the list was “Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

This book was AMAZING. For those of you who have read it, I know you are shaking your head and laughing at me right now. This book is the ultimate pirate story and the origin of every pirate cliche that we know. If you currently have a ten year old boy living in your house I recommend you run to your nearest book store and buy this book. Young Jim Hawkins and his escapades fighting off pirates and the two-faced, one-legged, Captain Silver is picturesque. The nautical language, the blatant swash-buckling make this book a page-turner. I can’t imagine any young boy not falling in love with this book. I would also recommend that you read it together as a family since the nautical terms can be challenging at times. This is a book that I cannot wait to share with Max. Next up is “The Three Musketeers”.
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This is a “Kid’s Pick” for 5 Minutes For Books

1.) Am I the only mother who has realized that since having kids going to the dentist has seemed like an optional doctor’s visit? I haven’t been to the dentist in six years which I find disgusting and horrifying.

2.) Jane, at What About Mom (whom I talk about so much here people probably think I’m stalking her, which I am, just don’t tell her) has been talking about how hard it is to make girl-friends. You know, friends that are girls, when you become a Mom. The last time I made a new friend I was 21 and alcohol was involved. Okay, not exactly, but you get the idea – it’s hard. All my friends are either from college or high school. I have very few “grown-up” friends. Why is that?

3.) I was talking to Lucy about how God gives us special talents and I said “Mommy’s special talent is that she cooks so well” and Lucy said “You have another talent Mommy; cleaning the house”. I died a little when she said that.

4.) I don’t understand lawn ornaments. I never have. Why do people put statues of things in their yards? Do they really think I believe that a small family of gnomes are living in their yard? I have enough clutter in my house, why would I voluntarily choose to let it spill out onto my yard?

5.) You know what I’m tired of? Awards shows. I’m glad that the entertainment industry can no longer pawn off their self-congratulatory, gala extravaganzas as entertainment. Where is the televised ceremony recognizing doctor’s who save lives? Or scientists busy curing cancer? In other words, why isn’t the Nobel Peace Prize ceremonies televised? Or are they?

Sometime around my senior year in college I realized I wasn’t a very good writer. I was preparing to graduate with a degree in creative writing and I wasn’t truly all that good at it. Perhaps it was the old axiom “I knew what I didn’t know” and that was that I didn’t know how to be a good writer. I never actually pursued a career in creative writing. I went into radio. I’ve spent my entire life fairly comfortable in the fact that I’m an “okay” writer — better than the average Joe.

Earlier this evening during a heated debate about some Kindergarten school applications David and I had the following exchange;

David: This reads like you wrote this in a hurry and didn’t go back to re-read it.
Me: I spent several days writing it and I’ve probably read it a dozen times
David: Well, it definitely doesn’t sound like an English teacher wrote it
Me: Why? because the style is different from yours?
David: This is a losing battle with you because you have two English degrees. I’ll never win this
Me: Are you criticizing the technical aspects of the writing or the style? Because I think our styles of writing are fundamentally different
David: True, but even then your writing is rushed and isn’t well thought out
Me: (rather defensive at this point) Really? It’s not well thought out?
David: (rather angry now) See, this is why I don’t read your blog. You say you want feedback but you don’t. The truth is your writing is fundamentally, stylistically flawed. It is rushed, it is filled with basic errors and it is as if you don’t consider your audience.

And there it is. He said it. He’s right of course, I can’t take criticism, which is probably why I never pursued that career in creative writing. However, that is the nice thing about blogging, right? Those who hate your writing don’t read. I have no editor, no sponsors to please, and I barely have an audience to worry about. And yet his words hit the softest part of my ego. He struck the “King of all truths” that lies at the heart of every writer – I’m not any good.

I suspect I have just launched the Titanic of writer’s block. The very essence of writing is being honest and vulnerable. When somebody, whom you respect, says that your honest and vulnerable writing is actually “rushed and flawed” than you don’t trust yourself. You no longer trust your ability to say or write anything. You question everything; “Am I being authentic? Will my audience relate to this? Does this only make sense to me?” Sigh. This might very well be my last post for a very long time. Well, at least until I remember that I don’t really listen to David half the time.

Dear Lucy,

You are five years old today. Per your request we are having a “princess” party although you have made it very clear that not only are you NOT dressing up, you would prefer if your guests also did not dress up. Unlike most five year old little girls you do NOT like to play dress up. You do NOT like baby dolls and you do NOT like Barbie dolls. As a matter of fact I was kind of surprised that you even suggested a princess party. Admittedly, this was your third choice behind a gymnastics party (which we couldn’t afford) or a butterfly party.

This is your last year to be home with me. This fall you will start Kindergarten. I have very mixed emotions about this transition. Although I know you are more than ready for school I am sad to see you take this first step towards independence. We went to visit a school last week and immediately upon arrival you buried your head into my leg and muttered “can we leave now?” You made it very clear that you had no interest whatsoever in discovering if the school was nice. I realized I was looking at a glimpse of you as a teenager. You pouted, moped, whined, and complained about everything that was shown to you.

The school visit was followed by a gymnastics lesson with a teacher you have never had, in a gym filled with a 100 kids you have never seen before. For an hour you stood almost completely still, sucking your fingers and studying the floor. The uncomfortable angst that was spread out on your face was excruciating to watch and it took every ounce of will power I had to not run down and swoop you up into my arms. Indeed, when class was over you ran past Daddy, ran past Max, jumped into my lap, buried your face into my arms and cried. I wanted to cry too.

Sweetheart, I know how it feels to be someplace new. I know the stress and anxiety you feel as it washes over you. I know how you long to run out of that situation and to keep running until you are home and safe. I know how it feels because that was me at five years old. I also know, like my mother did, that you HAVE to face that fear. It is imperative for your success in life to sit in that awkward anxiety and learn to push yourself past it. And as scared of school as you are, I also know how much you will love it if you can just find your way out of the anxiety. I know you are scared. I know with every ounce of my being how scared you are but as a mother, I must prepare you for life without me and that means you learning to overcome that fear.

It also means that as much as I want to scoop you up into my arms and hold you forever I cannot. We must both face our fears. I want to see you fly Lucy. I want to see you spread your wings and show the world the beauty and amazing person that I have the privilege of seeing every day. You will blow them away. So baby, here we go. Let us take our first steps together.

I never liked playing with baby dolls as a child. As many of my friends embraced pretending to be a mommy, or even playing dress-up I was disinterested. My mother stayed home, as did most of my friend’s mothers, and she was wonderful and I respected her (and still do). But, these games seemed two-dimensional and lacked interest for me. I enjoyed playing library or pretend cooking, or even playing safari, but babies – never. There was only one doll I ever wanted to play with and that was Barbie.

I remember my mother begrudgingly supporting my interest in Barbie. Most of my Barbie’s clothes were hand me downs from when my sister had played with her. That meant that my Barbie had a lot of bell-bottomed jeans and go-go boots. When I was ten I yearned for the Barbie Styling Head. Remember that one? The giant Barbie head that let you curl and style her hair. I begged my mother, I pleaded with my mother and eventually she caved. Shortly after receiving this prized possession I out grew playing with Barbies. At the time my mother’s dislike of the Barbie puzzled me but now I get it.

Barbie is a stunning symbol of a misogynistic society that continually is reinforcing that the ideal woman should be skinny, have big boobs, blond hair and walk in high heels. I’m horrified by her sheer existence. How could I possibly provide my daughter with such a toy? Why would I willingly reinforce this negative societal message? And yet, I let Max play with guns. Does that mean he’s going to grow up to be a thug? And even though I frolicked lovingly with my Barbie I am the farthest thing from female milk-toast.

While many of Lucy’s peers drag their Barbie dolls from house to house Lucy has yet to find the pleasure in a Barbie doll. She loves the Barbie movies and I must begrudgingly admit that I do too. Yes, I said it- I like the Barbie movies. The music is very well done, the stories are classics, and well, at least Barbie isn’t running around with half her body exposed throwing herself at Ken.

Parenthood is filled with so many choices that sometimes it is hard to identify the really important ones from the insignificant ones. I’ll let Lucy play with Barbie because I know Barbie can’t overshadow my desire to raise an empowered, strong, confident, independent woman. I know this because Barbie never once overshadowed my mother.