Velveteen Mind

There is No Winky

“The scientist said it is a girl.  The doctor said it is a boy.  But I’m telling you, there is no winky.”

So said Q, our 4 year old.

And so shall it be…

The scientist was right!

It’s a girl!

Note how it says “still a girl” in the ultrasound.  That’s because we hammered the owner of the ultrasound location in New Orleans until we were absolutely positive that it is, indeed, a girl.  I have quite a few pictures like the one above. 

And no, ya’ll were no help in keeping me patient until my scheduled ultrasound in July.  But the speculation was awfully fun!

As it turned out, our baby daughter was apparently done with all of that speculation because when we peeked in on her that day?  She had her feet almost behind her head in a stunning “All Girls!  All the time!” move worthy of Bourbon street. 

Stunning, indeed.  We have a girl!

A girl with a sense of humor, as she seemed to be mocking our shocked expressions:

Oh. Mah. Gah.  It’s a girl! 

We can’t wait to meet you after all, baby girl.  Your big brothers are already picking out matching princess dresses and knights’ armor.  And yes, everyone gets a sword!

So… where is my etsy password because I have some dresses to buy!

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Celebrating the Daughter That May Never Be

When we finally decided that we were done having babies (you know, before we found out that we were pregnant with our third.  ahem.), I spent some time mourning the little baby girl that I would never have.  Mourning is the best way I can describe it because it truly did feel like a loss.

I am a girl.  That’s fairly obvious given the creation of babies in ze belly, but I’m not a girly-girl.  Perhaps the girliest thing about me is that I have always wanted to have a girl.  I’ve always had those little baby daughter fantasies.

Before we find out if this new baby is a girl or a boy, either of which I would be thrilled about (well, thrilled if it’s a boy, thrilled and terrified if it’s a girl), I feel like this is my last chance to capture these “what if it’s a girl/ what if I never have a girl” feelings.

A few months before I found out about our new baby, I was watching a movie that included a scene of a mother and small daughter taking a bubble bath together.  With no warning, I found myself crying.  The feminine tenderness of the image knocked around within an empty spot in my heart and left me breathless.  I wanted that and had decided that I would no longer pursue it.  Happily decided so, with no less than a heaping helping of relief, but it was a loss nonetheless.

We all give up on certain dreams throughout our lives, often for sound reasons, but we mourn the loss of their warm glow just the same.    These dreams that have kept us company and occupied a bit of our imagination for so many years.  For me, it was the image of my dream daughter peeking around corners of my mind any time I would see a little girl that reminded me of her.

My daughter.  The one that exists in my mind has long dark, curly hair.  Her eyes are almond shaped and deep brown.  Her skin is the olive of her father’s.  She is the one child of my three that looks more Lebanese than Irish.  Who would have ever imagined that my Irish genes would put the beat-down on my husband’s Lebanese stronghold?

She is the mysterious princess that might not fit in quite so well while growing up but that all of the boys will clamor for when she grows into her own.  She is a woman beyond her years from the moment she is born, yet full of mischief and light.

I celebrate my daughter.

I picture her in a sparkly princess dress at the age of three, yet wielding a sword and demanding that her older brothers obey her orders as their magical Queen.  She is the peacekeeper and the troublemaker.  We all bend to her will.

My daughter is the one that teaches my husband, Maguire, what true self-reliance means.  She needs no one to complete her yet she invites the world in through her limitless gaze.

She is my daughter.  And I may never meet her.

Or so I thought, until about a week ago.  Now, suddenly, meeting that daughter seems like a possibility.  For three more weeks or so, it will remain a possibility and I’m going to enjoy it.  And if it ends up being a son?  I will be beside myself with excitement because I know the joy that boys are and I am a boy-mama through and through.

Though I think I could get the hang of this girl stuff.  For my daughter.

Sweet, beautiful, hilariously intelligent little girl made of more spice than sugar, if we do not meet, know that I somehow loved you anyway and will miss you.

PS-  Since I may never be able to go shopping for a daughter, I did some virtual shopping for the photos in this post from Sweet Funky Vintage (they contacted me via twitter; it pays to @ me when I ask for recs!) and through Cool Mom Picks (I’m a fan of Kristen Chase and she pointed me toward their awesome Ultimate Baby Shower Gift Guide).  I’ve linked each photo to where you can buy one for yourself.  And no, I wasn’t paid for anything, so no disclaimers necessary.  Be sure to tell them I sent you, though…  just in case I do have that little girl!

Related posts:

About This Baby

Baby Lumps

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Learning to Let It Count on Mother's Day

Every year I entertain an internal debate as to whether or not I should remind my husband that Mother’s Day is coming up or wait and see if he remembers on his own.

I picture this conversation:

Maguire:  When is Mother’s Day this year?

Megan:  Yesterday.

It’s evil, yes, but I can’t help but be mindful of my store of “You owe me one” moments.  I’ve been cashing them in a lot lately, what with the month in front of the toilet and the periodic energy droughts that wrack my pregnant body.  I need there to be some substance behind the “Oh no you d’int” looks I throw my husband’s way when he mentions that this is his third day without clean underwear.

Maguire is an only child and came into our marriage with little to no experience in the “consideration” department.  He was the kind of guy to eat the last cookie every time.  The kind of guy to open the new bag of snacks you bought, you thinking they would last a couple of weeks, and eat them all in one sitting.  Maybe he would put the bag back in the cupboard with some crumbs.  You know, for you.

It is safe to say that the majority of our arguments begin with “What exactly did you think would happen?” or “What did you think I would say?”  All simply different versions of “Did you even think of me?”

Notice how all of those exclamations include a running theme?  The word “think.”

As an only child to a doting mother, Maguire functions as most men do, with his existence hovering single-mindedly somewhere near the bottom of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs pyramid.

This is human nature.  Base human instincts.  Men are nothing if not instinctual.

As it turns out, there is no Holiday Instinct.  No “I wonder if she needs a break instinct.”  At least not naturally, that is.  After more than eight years of marriage, the “I wonder if she needs a break” bit can certainly be a learned response.

A learned response in the face of a wife’s outstretched claw-like hands and deranged face as she whirls around to lurch at you when you ask “While you are hanging around today, do you think you could iron my shirts and take care of these dishes?”  Because, you know, I do a lot of just hanging around.

But husbands are not the only ones that could use a little work on their learned responses.  Maguire is teaching me that.

In response to the multitude of ways that I ask him “Did you even think of me?” we have finally boiled our understanding of his responses down to, “No, but I would if you asked me to.”

In reaction to my “Why can’t you be more considerate?!” Maguire tells me, “I would be if you reminded me to be.”

You can imagine how I take this.  Lots of “It doesn’t count as being considerate if you are told to be considerate!  That’s not being considerate, that’s just following orders.”

You know the logic.  Picture Jennifer Aniston’s “I want you to want to do the dishes.” to Vince Vaughn’s “Why would I want to do dishes?” in The Break-up.  Vince’s point is that, in the end, he’ll do the dishes if she asks him to.  And isn’t that what she wants?  Explaining what Jennifer actually wants is not only mind-melting but also something that most women understand and empathize with.

But yeah, there are clean dishes ultimately involved.  So what if we have to tell them the bottom line?  This is what I keep asking myself.

On Mother’s Day, what I ultimately want is a break.  And to be acknowledged.  And to be pampered.  And maybe half a dozen other things, all of which revolve around my not being asked to do any work around the house, pretty much.  What I don’t actually need is for my husband to suddenly become psychic (his frequent claim as to what I clearly must want because how else was he supposed to know it was our anniversary?!) and begin acting considerate.

Maguire, today I’m going to tell you what I want and I’m going to let it count when you do it.  Not because it was a surprise or because you thought of it all on your own.  Nah.  Because I’m the mom and moms know what really counts in the end.

Today is Mother’s Day.  Now, um, surprise me.  I’ll tell you how.

***

PS-  Hot red beans and rice!  I'm the Southern Mama Blogger of the Week for Mother's Day over at Southern Living Magazine.  Yes, that Southern Living.  The one on every southern mama's coffee table and in every well-equipped guest bath!  Now then, since a dream of mine is to write for them, ya'll please go over and tell them that they didn't drop the cheese ball when they chose me.  And Happy Mother's Day! 

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"In the Bubble" at Walt Disney World

They call it being “in the bubble.”  As a guest at Walt Disney World resorts, you are “in the bubble” from the moment you step into the line for your Magical Express ride from the airport to your resort, through the landscaping on the property, to the smell of the dungeons of the Pirates of the Caribbean, right on to the moment you step back onto your plane to make your way home.

It’s those special touches.  The “We’ve got it covered” approach that meets you at every turn.  The extra dose of magic that finds its way into everything from the towels to the soap to the carpet in the hallways. 

It’s the Mickey.

Yikes, that’s a scary still frame after a long day.  The video above was shot in my room at the Walt Disney World Beach Club Resort.  By the way, that “towel” was actually a blanket.

Thank my lucky stars, I was fortunate enough to have spent the weekend at Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida, as part of the Spring Mom Blogger Mixer.  Well, thank my lucky stars whose names happen to be Maria Bailey from BSM Media and the Social Media department of Walt Disney World. 

For my having been singled out as a mom blogger, well, some pixie dust must have been involved.

I haven’t been to Disney World since I was 12, having grown up going to either Epcot or the Magic Kingdom every year prior as part of our annual trip to St. Pete’s Beach.  Back then, Disney was a one day trip, where you chose one park or the other to tear through before heading back to your own hotel hours away.

My, how things have changed.

The resort culture that exists at Walt Disney World today is extraordinary.  As a mom of pre-school age children, it is now the only way to do Disney, in my opinion.  The benefits of spending your Disney vacation “in the bubble” (or on Disney property, from the resorts to the parks) for the duration of your stay, are immeasurable.

Our group was referred to as the “Magical Moms.”  If that means that we were magically transformed into 9 year olds, then the term is spot on.  Even the model-esque Lindsay Ferrier of Suburban Turmoil was reduced to a wide-eyed awe-struck babe.  I assure you, it is difficult to be intimidated by even the most “successful” bloggers when they become a puddle of emotion and sparkles in the face of the world that Walt built.

The video above was shot during the Reflections of Earth presentation in Epcot’s World Showcase Lagoon.  The mom bloggers you see are Lindsay from Suburban Turmoil, Beth (the one with the camera) from I Should Be Folding Laundry, Andrea from Mommy Snacks, and Emily from Mommin’ It Up.

There is so much more to tell you about the trip, not the least important of which being how I think I’m finally getting used to the idea of this new baby, but it’s time for us all to pop back out of the bubble until the next post. 

More videos, more stories about the other bloggers (some of whom I know you’ll love, if you don’t already), and much more about the Disney experience to come.

Most of all, I want to share with you what I learned.  You know full well that I don’t generally write reviews.  But this was different, and for that reason, I ask that you bear with me and trust me.  This trip to Disney changed the way I think of my family and my role as their mother. 

For all of the fun times that I miss from being in my twenties, nothing compares to the joy that family life brings.  Since this was a business trip, our families had to stay behind (understandably so, as we were completely booked).  Let me tell you, I had to hold back tears for the whole first hour I was in the Magic Kingdom because I missed them so thoroughly.  I was jealous of every mother that watched wonder spread across the face of her child as they stood in front of Cinderella’s castle.  I sort of wanted to kick every dad that propped his son on his shoulders as they headed toward the Jungle Cruise. 

Because I wanted to share the experience with my kids. 

My life is nothing without my family.  And the magic of Disney only highlighted that for me this weekend.  For that, Mickey, I thank you. 

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Perfec-she-yawn

Nothing like a slew of women in their twenties coming to peek in your life to make you feel, well, not in your twenties.

Welcome, vibrant new readers.  I am not Miss Musing.  I do not write about my beautiful piano room or my heroic boyfriend or my pink bicycle.  My life is not perfection.

Fortunately, for those of you that stick around, it appears that perfection can be wearing.

But it gets worse.

I don’t even post that often.  Period.  I own this baby, it doesn’t own me. 

So let’s just own it.  I’m a mom, at home, no longer living in a large city.  I live near the beach but no longer own a bikini.  I have stretch marks.  Because I have two toddlers.  And a new baby on the way. 

A new baby that I haven’t even written about because I am nauseous and tired.  Laissez les bon temp rouler!  No?

When I do post, it is rarely about controversy.  Instead, I’m usually pleading with women to stop worrying so much and to come out and play with us in real life, because seriously, it’s okay.  Reality bites but we don’t. 

For instance, are you going to BlogHer?  I see many of you have the BlogHer ad network on your much-updated blogs.  (Ahem, I did until they booted me for, um, poor update frequency.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)  Well, I’m co-hosting a party the night before BlogHer.  It’s called The People’s Party and this is our third year (which we’ve only teased so far, but more details to come).  The goal?  To make women feel at ease while out from under the cover of their blogs.  Imagine that.

But that’s about as glamorous as I get.  I do publish and serve as the Editor-in-Chief of a successful (aw, shucks) online magazine called Blog Nosh Magazine, but that thing is currently run without shoes on and, were I updating it this morning, without a bra on, too.  Ya deal?

I am not in my twenties.  Haven’t been for a few years.  And when I was?  I spent all but one year of it with my would-be husband, not exactly gallivanting around with a martini in hand.  Chick, I don’t even own stilettos.   The last time I wrote about shoes was to demonstrate my own dichotomous personality that seems to straddle between punk rock and Florida retiree.

We might not have a lot in common.  Other than the dichotomies that define us.

But I write to you from the heart because I don’t know any other way.  And I embrace all that is me.  And you might be surprised what bits of yourself you find in me.

I write this to you from my backyard because today is too gorgeous to not inhale deeply.   Our roses are blooming.  I’ve been so busy, I hadn’t even noticed.

When I ran inside to grab my camera just so I could show you our modest accomplishment (if by accomplishment, you will accept that we simply didn’t touch them and therefore did not kill them), my two year old decided a romp outside suited him, as well.  You haven’t lived until you’ve dated a two year old.

While chasing him around, I caught wind of a smell from my childhood in Illinois.  Wandering around old properties, gathering Queen Anne’s Lace to take home and dye with food-coloring-spiked water.  This smell, the one in my own backyard, was the smell of my mother, stopping at the side of a rural road to gather and assure us we could taste.

Honeysuckle.

I didn’t even know we had honeysuckle in this yard.  But this morning, it is blooming.  And filling our yard with the warm scent of simpler days, superseding the rich layers of the bayou, so close to our home.

I live in Mississippi.  On the Gulf Coast.  Not in New York.

Perfection here comes covered in powdered sugar and doused in sweet tea.  Our fingers hint at crawfish boils enjoyed with friends and the air wafts by with a hint of Zydeco.

Yes, there’s a hurricane party every time it blows.

My musing comes in very different flavors than you might be used to, but there is room for you here at my table, sugar.

Ya’ll come back now.

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