{Originally published on Sleep Deprivation Ninja}

Life is hard. I’m not going to lie to you, baby girl. Someday things are going to be really difficult. I can’t stop that. All I can do is give you the ninja skills necessary to take on some of the challenges you will face. But you will face challenges that even the greatest ninja skills cannot overcome.

I think about these things when you reach up and wrap your little arms around my neck, squeezing me out the biggest baby-bear hug you can muster. I know you are really trying to eat my neck but I like to think of it as a big hug. I could hug you all day. And I think of this also when I hear of bad things happening–things that someday soon, you will have to face.

Bad things are happening as I write this. People are dying. People are killing other people. It’s crazy. It’s just madness. I can’t explain it to you; All I can say is that it is. These things happen.

{Originally published on Whoorl}

1. Enter Mother’s Market. Spend upwards of twenty minutes aimlessly walking around the store, feigning interest in various items while, in reality, you are too shy to ask the cute dude with dreads about the Neti Pot.

2. Locate a very tall Swedish man with a skinny plumber’s butt and ask for assistance locating the Neti Pots. Loudly knock over an organic tissue box display with your stroller.

3. Find and purchase Neti Pot.

4. Return home. Sit on couch. Take Neti Pot box out of the shopping bag.

5. Stare at Neti Pot box.

6. Repeat #5 several times.

7. Make dinner.

8. Finish dinner. Sit on couch.

9. Repeat #5.

10. Place Neti Pot box on the couch next to you, barely touching your leg. Pray that the physical contact alone will unleash the magical healing powers of the Neti Pot.

11. Realize magical Neti Pot diffusion isn’t happening. Decide to open the box.

12. While opening the box, notice the term “nasal douching” written on the side. Gag forcefully. Repeat #5.

{Originally Published on The Playpen}

You know, there are a lot of articles, resources and links these days for expectant mothers, new mothers, old mothers, you name it. One of the things I realized when my daughter, Frankie, was born eight weeks prematurely was that there weren’t many resources available to dads. Even the books for new dads are all about how to keep your wife happy. What’s the deal with that?

I’ll be the first to admit that I didn’t know (still don’t know, come to think of it) the first thing about parenting. This is not a “how to” article by any stretch of the imagination. Its simply me, a young dad, looking to get some thoughts out there and maybe provide a little comic relief to other dads at the same time.

As I mentioned, my daughter was (is) a preemie. And she was little….real little. My wife had an emergency C-section after some difficulties with her pregnancy. Lets start there. Going through that process was no picnic. Getting your thoughts in order is virtually impossible. “What if my kid isn’t okay?” “What if something happens to my wife?” “How come that doctor over there looks unsure of himself?” “I didn’t paint the nursery yet!” “There’s a LOT of equipment in here…this is going to cost a TON.”

So you’re dealing with that side of things while at the same time trying to provide reassurance to Mom who, yes its true, is freaking out worse than you. Not an easy situation. As I was sorting all that out, and as I was sitting in the operating room, I made the biggest mistake of my life.

“Do you want to see your new daughter?”, my wife’s doctor asked me, apparently completely unaware that I was about two seconds shy of a heart attack.

“YEAH,” I said, and stood up from my stool, eagerly peering over the sheet that was placed over my wife’s mid-section.

{Originally published on The Sister Project.}

Winter 2008—five years after we donned our white caps and gowns at Tanglewood—four out of my six best friends from high school are finding themselves in the same sleepy Berkshire town where we grew up.

In honor of this momentous homecoming, I’d like to share an essay I wrote shortly after we graduated. I haven’t touched it since then (except to change some names), and it is a strong representation of the kinds of reflections I was having about my high school experience at that time. Meet me after Bio to get high in the parking lot…

‘Picking at Scabs’

WHEN WE HEARD Brooke throwing up on Katelyn’s 18th birthday, the seven of us skipped a beat. Our spoons, heaped with chocolate sauce and ice cream, paused in midair before reluctantly arriving at our lips. Gator’s hand ticked for a split second as she sliced through creamy frosting and into birthday cake. No one said anything. We just listened. My mind wandered up the air vent to the cool blue tiled floor where I know Brooke knelt with watering eyes and a runny nose—her bony fingers brushing the back of her throat, coaxing and begging for release.

These girls are the closest things that I have to sisters. We are not fused with blood but with bruises and Band-Aids—our mutual growing pains. Our insecurities have bonded us together with can’t-live-without-you love. I watched the girls shift uncomfortably eyeing the caloric catastrophe that lay before us, sprawled across the kitchen counter. Our throats began to close around the clumps of cake and ice cream. We ate fast. We ate to get rid of it. Behind us, Justin sang Senorita through the kitchen speakers. Above us, Brooke coughed and spat. It was an eternity cruelly crammed into a split second.

Blog Nosh Magazine is a virtual buffet of blog content. However, we are more the kind of buffet you might find at a casino: neither Italian, nor Mexican, nor Creole, nor American. We are better for you than a dessert bar but more sinful than a salad bar.

And like most buffets, the majority of our fare has been festering in the back of the kitchen for a while (harhar, a joke meaning our content comes from your blog archives, sans mold). We just happen to have a knack for freshening it up before offering it to the early-bird crowd.

Perhaps a metaphor involving wine would have been more appropriate? After all, we are highly selective. Noted.

The most important thing to remember when sampling what we place on your table is that we don’t ask that you always like what we are serving, just that you try it.

This week has been a fascinating week at Blog Nosh. Here we are, noshing left and right with posts about homosexual marriage, body image, lost and found love, finding our place in the right church, making the most of the day we are given, adoption and abortion, homeschooling with flavor, and poking a bit of fun at men and their egos… when all of the sudden we slip in a (gasp!) favorable post about George W. Bush.

You’d think a rat ran through the kitchen.

After a succession of glowing posts about President Barack Obama and not a peep of dissension slipping into the comments, one post bidding farewell to Bush brings on the mad cow disease. Not necessarily only in the comments, though. Bleeding onto twitter and kirtsy and beyond: Blog Nosh Magazine has gone mad. We posted something conservative.

Simultaneously and seemingly independent of that backlash, I am asked on twitter if Blog Nosh is just another liberal magazine.

And then I was pretty sure I was the one with mad cow.

We are neither liberal nor conservative. We are neither… ah. Why bother?

But I should know better. The Internet has a desperate need to label label label. If you can’t be fit neatly into a box, then you are too confusing and generally better off ignored.

Certainly you are a momblogger? A tech blogger? A gossip blogger? Okay then, a liberal blogger? Ah, no, you are a conservative Christian blogger? Um, entertainment blogger? Foodie? Help?!

The blogosphere is large enough for a larger community. It sorely deserves one. One far less compartmentalized.

Speaking of mixed veggies with full-fat Thousand Island dressing, Blog Nosh Magazine is a finalist for the 2009 Bloggies in both Best Designed Blog and Best New Blog!

Thank you for your generous nominations and for your continued support, Noshers! (Hey, we almost won the Weblog Awards. Well, -ish.) Not to mention a huge thanks to our ever-patient designer, Sam from Temptation Designs (and also of the Best Art/ Craft Blog finalist Craftastrophe!), who surely must have felt as though she was going to lose her cookies during our demanding (who me?) design process. We can’t recommend her enough, as she delivered exactly what we ordered. With a cherry on top.

Voting is open until February 2nd and you may vote once per email address. So go vote!

By the way, we are proud to announce that one of our own Politics Channel editors, Mr Lady, is up for Best Canadian Blog, as well. Sweet karma, as she is the very much liberal editor that chose to publish that very much conservative post about Bush this week.

Our editors don’t necessarily always agree with the posts they select to publish. Their highest measure of worth is “Will it inspire discussion? Is it intriguing? Will it engage?”

Like I said, that’s how we roll at Blog Nosh Magazine. Maybe we all have mad cow.

Mooooooo. Now shoo! Go vote!

Nosh Notes from the Editor is a weekly feature (there aren’t usually two, by the way, but we had to celebrate with you!) by Publisher and Editor-in-Chief Megan Jordan from Velveteen Mind

{Originally published by ConverseMomma on Ordinary Art.}

When I was having the first of three miscarriages, sitting on the couch stuffing ice cream in my mouth, and sobbing at all the EPT commercials on television, a bloody maxi pad tucked between my legs, I got a phone call from someone close to me. She was pregnant, young, scared, and about to have an abortion. She wanted me to console her. She wanted me to wrap my arms around her and rock away the regret. I remember wanting to slap her. Instead, I spoke calmly through clenched teeth. I told her it was going to be okay, assured her that I loved her, even as I felt the soft spots of my heart, that once she had claimed, hardening against the impact. It was not fair of her, of me, of circumstance. But, this is how it was.

Two miscarriages, an oncologist office, and a handful of “experts” later, they told me I would never be a mother, not in the traditional sense that I had always imagined when I was young and reckless with the way I used my body. Instead, I pinned my hopes to adoption, on an 18 year-old girl. She wore a tiny bikini the weekend that we met, and swam beside me in the hotel pool. She just knew she could never have an abortion, not with all those couples eager and waiting. She wanted, instead, to give a gift. I thought about her capacity for bravery, and all I could do was hug her, go back to my hotel room, and cry.

When my son was born, and the nurses called me Mommy, the woman who carried him for nine months and pushed him out into this world, lay weary in her bed beside us. The beginnings of her loss were already creeping across the hospital room. I just could not see it. I did not think her choice was anything but noble, me being on the receiving end of it. We celebrated with popsicles sticks that left our fingers sticky and blue, and I tried not to see the way her mother had to hold her up, her unsure legs too shaky for the long walk to the parking lot, unassisted. In the months that went by, her grief only grew. It became something large and imposing, threatening the fragile bonds that we had established all those months that she had been convinced the choice would be an easy one, but turned out never to be. My son is a gift she gave me, but at what cost to herself? That is the question left unanswered between us.

I did not want to acknowledge the loss. I just wanted the simple celebration that I thought should be my right as a new mother. For a long time, I was so thankful for my son’s birthmother’s decision that every time I heard the word abortion I considered it a slight against the blonde-haired child that I held in my arms, and sang lullabies to against the backdrop of silence, in the nursery with the walls I had painted in blue. I felt abortion was a kick straight to the empty damaged uterus that I carried inside my body. How could a woman be selfish enough to have an abortion when adoption was an alternative, when couples waited years to fill their homes with the pitter patter of little feet, when my son was alive and growing strong because of his birthmother’s choice?

Muffin Tin Monday = Lunch served in a Muffin Tin

The concept is not new, I’m sure many of you have seen this out in the mommy world of play dates and preschool. It’s a great way to break the monotony of daily lunch preparation. I also hope it will encourage me
to keep offering new foods to my kids – maybe they’ll even like one of them!

So, I officially declare Monday as Muffin Tin Monday. Join me!