Bizarrare, Yet Sublime

My New SAHM Life

I felt the comfort of being in a place with no complications; no obstacles to hurdle. But that, dear readers, does not a story make.

As my 32nd birthday approached, I thought of where I was now, what my life had become, and the fact that there was so much to look forward to: another baby was on its way, to round out our family- a boy, no less! My little toddler, Avery, was bright and self-aware, my marriage good.prenant sahm with toddler
I was a stay-at-home-mom now, a SAHM, something I never imagined I’d be, but was quite fond of the new position. Although I’d been known to don an apron to avoid the inevitable flour spill in the kitchen, I was not the type to vacuum the carpet daily, nor was I one to iron the bed sheets, and if my family was waiting forI'm not a proper sahm me to lay out their freshly laundered and pressed outfits each day, they were going to be spending an awful lot of time in the nude.

I had always had an image of the stay-at-home mom as a woman who anticipated and tended to every need of her family with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. She wore sensible shoes, oven mitts, and a perfectly coiffed bob, and she listened to Tony Bennett while frosting a chocolate cake. This could NEVER be me: uncomfortably high heels, chipped purple fingernail polish, and long hair piled in a wet knot at the back of my head. Led Zeppelin (and, at times, Tony Bennett) roared out of the ipod speaker, and there were no sweet confections displayed lovingly on the countertop. Not exactly the image of June Cleaver, yet here I was. Mom. Everyday. Every minute.

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Birth Story

A Beautiful Adoption



There was no secrecy. Nor shame. Nor scandal.

It was a Wednesday, I know, and my mom talks about a hurricane rolling through New York. Labor day weekend had just passed and The Grateful Dead were scheduled to play that evening at Madison Square Garden.

And I was born.


”Not flesh of my flesh, nor bone of my bone, but still miraculously my own; never forget for a single minute, you didn’t grow under my heart, but in it.” – Fleur Conkling Heyliger

The cross-stitch hung on my wall, but I didn’t need to see it to know its words, I had memorized them a long time ago. Mind you, I didn’t know their exact meaning, but I knew it had something to do with my parents’ love for me. There was not a moment that had gone by when I didn’t feel completely cherished, in fact. I did not feel a need to find my “real” parents. I already HAD my “real” parents.

I would ask my mom to relay the story of my birth often; I’ve always thought it was so magical and beautiful.

In her own words, then:

“Birth of an Angel”
By Maureen Anderson

We had spent just less than a year daring to dream until the day we actually got the phone call.

My niece was born on August 24th, and, though it was a happy event, the pain in my heart was unbearable. So many of my friends, and now even my younger sister, were relishing in the scary, yet miraculous and beautiful adventure through motherhood. Each month I shed silent tears when I realized I wasn’t pregnant. It was far worse, however, when I became pregnant, yet couldn’t hold on to it. I miscarried four times, then, even worse, had a still-born baby boy. We had been married for nearly 10 years at that point, but after innumerable disappointments, our family didn’t expand beyond us two. We just about gave up our dream.

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