My cesarean revisited

She's almost 3 years old and I still mourn my birth experience.

Every time I see or hear a friend or family member is being induced, I cringe. When an induction of a loved one fails, I weep inside because I know what that feels like. And when they're taken back for the ultimate sacrifice to meet their child, I pray ... that they heal quickly, are able to handle the pain and cope with the emotional turmoil many, like I, have encountered on the path to postpartum new mommy bliss.

Recently I linked a blog post from 2011 that a few of my friends had also linked to on Facebook. I tagged other c-section moms because I wanted them to know we all are courageous to have undergone major abdominal surgery to get our babies out. We are awesome because we risked everything to meet our children.

I didn't expect I would get so emotional after posting it and then reading their responses and what they wrote when relinking to the same blog post. Rarely do I open up in an open format to express, in part, a condensed version of my five-day hospital stay when Josephine was born. I often feel like the past should be just that; the past.

Crazy lady with a green thumb

Composter- 1, Gardener- 0

I was so excited about my new composter. Who am I kidding? I'm still excited despite having to shovel decomposing vegetable matter off the concrete slab we call a porch when the door flew open and popped off spewing the contents. I'm slightly surprised the neighbors didn't call over to ask what that smell was — because it was wretched.

So now the goal is going to be to move this mammoth tumbler from where it is to somewhere else once the weather breaks and the ground is a little less spongy.

My spring time "to do" list is slowly growing. As I write this, I can think of at least three things I want to be doing outside. First and foremost, playing with the kids. A close, very close, second is getting the garden tilled and expanded. Third, I want go crazy fixing the flower bed out front, but I'm not nearly as excited about that because I'm self conscious about people seeing my gardening tactics. They're fairly stealthy and not an exact science, and on occasion naughty words fly out of my face and I hear my older child repeating them later in the day. It's not a pretty sight.

Compost this! And that. And everything else.

Why, yes, I am sitting down with my feet up, drinking a mug of tea and kind of watching Camp Rock.

The house is a disaster and has been in a constant state of disarray for  nearly two weeks.

Tonight, I'm giving myself permission to not let it put me in a bad mood. The husband is off at some nerdy computer geek thing for the evening so it was me, my girls and the bad dog — she's been stripped of good dog status for the night because she stole food from the kids and then ate hard boiled eggs off my plate while I was away from the table during dinner.

After pissing and moaning about the dog and throwing a tantrum because the kids splashed half the bath water onto the floor, I said the hell with it. If I had any energy left, I would get off the couch and reward myself with a bottle of wine ... maybe even a glass to go with it. Maybe.

You see, I was productive for the first time in at least a week, and it feels good to sit down and really think about what I got done.

Check your jealousy at the door

"Opting to stay home when Charlotte was born was the best decision I ever made."

That's what I tell everyone who asks me about staying home with my kids.

It's a partial truth. I can't call it a lie because then I would be openly admitting I don't think it was the right choice, and that's not the truth. Simply put, some days are a lot harder than others. Before the working parents get all in an uproar, you have to understand stay-at-home parents are jealous of you because you get some much needed time apart from your babies.

The winds of change are blowing in a meltdown

Sometime in the wee hours of todayness, I turned 31.

I've been legally allowed to purchase and drink alcohol for a decade, and have known my husband just as long.

Damn, I feel kind of old.

It doesn't help much that my uterus feels lonely and the baby fever is spiking. The kids tearing the hell out of the house this morning, Charlie falling and bruising her face and Josie refusing to put real clothes on until nearly 1 p.m. isn't even swaying the want of another squish.

No worries, though. Despite wanting another, I think I need to wait a little longer before we travel that road again. Like, when I'm 31 and a half we can talk about it.

Hopefully I'm out of my funk by then.

The last week I've been in shut down mode — I haven't touched my list, I keep seeing things that need to be done and not doing them, I've lost my temper more times than I can count and I just want to curl up in a ball and watch "Sleepless in Seattle" on repeat.

CIO: No thank you. On second thought ...

I hate cry it out. You know, the forced method of getting your child to self-soothe.

Let me reiterate: I hate cry it out.

The thought of it makes me cringe. When Josie was younger, and I was running really low on sleep and, as a consequence, patience ... we tried. I couldn't do it. I made my husband do it and then I still couldn't handle it.

Like a lot of other parents, I'm of the mindset that babies cry for a reason, the most common being they're hungry, tired or have a soiled diaper. We all know babies cry for more reasons than those, though, and some kids just like to snuggle. Not getting that snuggle time is reason enough, still, for my 2-year-old to cry if I try to get her into her bed before she's ready

I have the snugglers who tend to end up in my bed night after night. I love bedsharing, but not nearly as much now as I used to. Charlotte, at 15 months, is the same size now as Josie was at her 2-year well visit. The child is a giant compared to her big sister; I'll likely be buying them the same size clothes by Christmas.