Let me start with my not so Roger Ebert mini-review of the movie… I loved it. It was very funny and I would definitely go see it again. If you were a fan of the series, then you will not be disappointed with the movie. However, if you never connected with the series, then I doubt you will neither understand nor like any of the raunchy humor in the movie. Case in point, Mr. Ebert, a 66 year-old-man will never understand the importance of a bikini wax or what it’s really like to be a single woman. The only character he liked was the only one I didn’t, Carrie’s assistant Louise played by Jennifer Hudson. I hate to say this, because I really respect what Jennifer Hudson has accomplished in her career, but that girl cannot act. Grant it, I didn’t see her in Dreamgirls, so I can only judge her performance in this movie. Enough of my review, moving on to more important things, namely, what I took away from this movie.

What I took away from the movie is that I’m missing three things: my style, independence, and relationships with my girlfriends.

1. When I was single, I could see bits and pieces of myself in each one of the four characters. Now, one husband and three kids later, I can see the pieces of myself that I have lost. Being a mom and going through three pregnancies in four years, I’ve lost my sense of style. I have traded fitted clothing, heels, and a seamless backside for track pants, tennis shoes, and comfortable underwear. This never became so apparent to me until I saw Carrie running in the snow in stilettos. Obviously, this is an extreme example. My feet are way too wide for stilettos, not to mention I would look like a thirteen-year-old girl trying to walk in them. And when it comes to snow, all bets are off. I’ll wear whatever it takes not to fall on my ass. My point is that I hate my current style. I want to feel good in what I put on my body. Instead, I’ve become accustomed to hiding it until I burn off the last few inches the last kid left behind. Time to add some more flavor.

2. In the movie, Samantha realizes that she has given up her sense of self and independence. In a sense, she lost herself and forgot who she was. Something that is so easy to do when you become a mom. Although, Samantha isn’t a mom in the movie, the idea is still the same. Very often, women tend to give up a part of themselves for everyone else. By the end of the movie, Samantha remembers who she is and acts on it. The storyline reminds me of a scene in The Incredibles between Edna and Helen Parr (Incredible), a.k.a. Elastigirl. Helen is upset because she’s full of doubt about her husband and Edna slaps her in the face and says, “Pull-yourself-together! What will you do?” Is this a question? You will show him that you remember that he is Mr. Incredible, and you will remind him who *you* are.” I can’t believe that I just quoted a line from The Incredibles as a source of inspiration, but I swear that line invigorates me every time I hear it. And trust me I hear it a lot.

3. That brings me to my last lightbulb moment of the movie. (Hopefully, someone is still reading this after the ‘Incredible’ thing.) No matter which direction life has taken these four women, they remain close friends and get together to just hang out. Now, I still have close relationships with many of my girlfriends, but it’s more though the phone, email, or occasional kid birthday party. I don’t remember the last time I just hung out with one or two of my friends that didn’t involve a kid. Okay, I do, it was when I saw this movie with a new friend of mine, but it was only a couple of hours and no Cosmo’s were involved. Therefore, I’m asking myself, “Is it really that difficult to schedule at least one night a month to just hang out?” There are always the excuses of not enough money, time, babysitters, etc… C’mon! Wouldn’t we be better mothers, wives, and women if we started to do a little something for ourselves? Like fostering the relationships, we have or had with our friends. If the desire and intent is there, anything can happen, no excuses.

Whew, all of this from a movie a critic at the New York Times dubbed as “…vulgar, shrill, deeply shallow…” Oh well, it’s all subjective anyway.

Side note: I hope that it is understood that all of the examples I used in this blog are just that examples and generalities. I live in the Midwest not Manhattan, so I’m not saying that I should be wearing Manolo Blahniks. I’m also being general about Samantha and her situation and not comparing her personality to mine. Matter of fact, I took a Sex in the City quiz and it turns out that I’m most like Miranda. I don’t know what to think about that. Maybe someone who knows me could comment and tell me what they think.

If you haven’t seen the movie yet, catch this quick clip. Or if you have seen the movie, relive it and want to go see it again.

Everyone has one or two things that just freak them out. I mean really freak them out. Ok, maybe not everyone, but I’m guessing I’m not the only neurotic person out there. My two things may seem like nothing to someone else, but to me they can put me in a state of crazy. I’m talking about mice and bugs.

Most of my friends already know about my dislike for bugs and my abnormal fear of mice, but probably not to the extent that my husband does. Every winter he dutifully evicts the latest unwanted rodents from the garage. Because he knows that if I see one of them, he might come home and find me in a catatonic state brought on by fear. Seriously. No, really, I’m serious and not even trying to be funny. (Well, maybe a little funny.) I am embarrassed to say that I’m a prime candidate for the Maury Povich show. (To clarify, not the “Who’s Your Baby’s Daddy” show, but the “I’m Terrified of…” show.)

My other nemesis, bugs, doesn’t put fear in my veins, but gross me out. Especially when the little buggers invade my home. In particular, I can’t stand the creepy cockroach looking Earwig. It probably stems from when I lived in Texas and went through cockroach hell. It’s not very common to have them in Midwest suburbia, so I wasn’t prepared for the constant battle I faced in the south. It took years after moving back to the Midwest to dissipate the anxiety I felt every time I opened up a box of cereal or turned on the light.

Anyway, enough about my neurosis and on to the love part of this blog. Since it’s been monsoon season in the Midwest, the bugs have come out in full force. Apparently, there’s not enough room for them outside, so they’ve decided to start setting up shop in my house. My husband is on it. Without me even asking or threatening to move, he called Bob the bug guy. Bob graciously rid our house of bugs and saved our marriage two years ago for a small fee. I would pay almost any fee to be bug free.

For me, my husband calling the bug guy without me asking = love. Validate my fears and rid my life of things that freak me out and I’m in it for the long haul. And that’s what I call love.

When I was pregnant with each of our kids, my husband referred to me as a “name bully”. Towards the end of my pregnancies, I knew what their names were supposed to be. I can’t explain how I knew, I just knew. Some would say that was insightful (me) and others would say that was stubborn (my husband), but in the end there is no denying that each of my children look like the name they were given. We did end up giving them the names I chose, even though my husband fought a good fight all the way to the operating room. I think seeing me cut open helped him throw in the towel.

I will say that I am a firm believer that the mother should make the final call on the name, for many reasons: mothers carry the baby for 10 months, go through the birth process (pleasant or not), have to recover, and are then the primary caregivers (at least in the beginning). Okay, maybe that makes me a slightly stubborn name bully, but my husband wanted to name my boys “Lou” and my girl “LuLu”. Seriously. No really, seriously. No offense to all the Lou’s and LuLu’s out there in the world, but those weren’t supposed to be the names of my kids. At least give me a name that I can work with. All right, whom am I kidding? I’m a complete name bully and I own up to it. It doesn’t make it right, but I will own up to it.

So, what is in a name?

• Meaning
• Purpose
• History and
• Sometimes a little of just because you like it

For instance, my daughter has my grandmother’s first name as her middle name and my second son’s middle name helps keep our Polish heritage alive. I came up with my oldest son’s name by watching ER. I loved how a certain character evolved on the show and I imagined that my son would also grow to be a compassionate man. Yes, I realize that it is only show, but I also just liked the name.

My point is… name your kids what you want to name them. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of the name, whether it be friends, family, or your stepdaughter’s impolite mother. (Oops, did I just write that?) On the other end, if you don’t like someone’s name choice, sometimes it’s just better to keep it to yourself. What is in a name is between the child and the people who named him or her.

Check out this comprehensive list of baby names, rankings, and meanings on JustBreatheMom.com.

I was and still am lucky enough to have several friends and family members help me out during the last part of my pregnancy and after the birth. I carried Lilah very low and was physically unable to do much towards the end, including chase around my two-year-old. My mom was great about driving me around and helping me with the house and my mini zoo of four cats and three dogs. A fellow preschool mom has gone above and beyond in helping me by driving my older son to and from preschool for over a month now. Not to mention staying in my home with my two sons, so my husband could be in the hospital with me. Another friend stayed the second night in the hospital with me and helped me care for my daughter. She graciously catered to us, because I could barely get out of bed. My mother-in-law put herself in the line of fire between my two dueling boys the week after I got out of the hospital. I couldn’t have taken care of them without her. I also do not want to forget my great babysitter who was on call whenever I needed her.

I have the greatest OB who doesn’t miss a beat. She has seen me safely through three deliveries and I couldn’t have asked for a better doctor. I had a pretty good round of nurses this time at the hospital. There were two in particular who made things so much easier for me. The first nurse that I was lucky enough to have for two days was the nicest and most attentive nurse that I’ve ever had. She was the first nurse that I ever told how good they were. The end of my four-day stay gave me another personable nurse that was on top of her game.

I cannot forget my husband for giving me best gift of all, three beautiful children.

I know that all of these people would just say that they were doing their job or it was no big deal to help. However, I think it is a huge deal and I wish that I could find the right words to express my gratitude. Thank you doesn’t seem strong enough. Then again, maybe thank you are the two strongest words in our language. We just don’t say them enough.

When I was pregnant with my first child, old carrots did me in. My husband made me a grilled cheese sandwich with baby carrots on the side. His big mistake was that he gave me old carrots. You know the ones that are starting to crack and have white stuff on the side. Let this be a lesson to all men making dinner for the women carrying their child… Don’t give a pregnant woman carrots with white stuff! To say the least, my pregnant self was lost in tears. In my pre-baby days, I would have had no problem telling my husband what he could do with those decrepit carrots. However, those days are over, as you will soon read.

My second child brought on even stronger uncontrollable emotions. I’ve seen every episode of ER, minus the last two seasons, at least twice. They play two episodes a day on TNT and sometimes on Saturday afternoons. I always watched the show, but it became my addiction when I couldn’t work very much during my first pregnancy. One Saturday afternoon, my husband and I are watching TV and before the intro plays, I knew just by the title which episode was coming up. Once again, I lost it. I really lost it. My husband didn’t know what to do. I tried to explain that it was the episode where Dr. Greene dies and he’s trying to connect with his daughter, but he just didn’t get it. Men just don’t get it.

If you’re are still reading and connecting to what I’m saying, then get ready because this one tops them all. Recently, my husband and I were over at my sister and brother-in-laws house. My other sister-in-law was also there and she was reminiscing about a funny story that had to do with her sister. It wasn’t as amusing to me, because it was one of those stories where you had to be there. My sister-in-law who the story was about was crying so hard she couldn’t talk. This made my other sister-in-law cry as well. That’s all it took, because before I knew it I was smack dab in the middle of an ugly cry. And not just any ugly cry, the kind where I could barely breathe and I could feel it coming up my throat. This just made them laugh and cry harder, including the husbands. I literally had to go to the bathroom, cry it out and try to compose myself.

The saying, “A baby changes everything.” is true. Thanks to all three of mine, I now have an open channel of emotion. Granted after this, my last pregnancy is over, I’ll be able to not freak out on carrots, realize ER is just a show, and control the dreaded ugly cry. That is unless I watch Terms of Endearment… that gets me every time.

With tears in his eyes, he said…

“Joey, I’m so sorry.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think Daisy is dead.”

“What do you mean, she’s dead”

I looked over at my oldest, most loyal dog lying on her pillow lifeless. I can’t help but start to cry, she’s my first animal as an adult to move on. Not to mention I’m pregnant and if the mailman stubbed his toe, I would cry. So, I bent down to gently touch her face and all of a sudden, she jumps up and looks around like a perky 4-year-old not an aging 14-year-old dog that is supposed to be dead.

Meanwhile, my husband jumps back and starts stammering something about how he tried to wake her for 30 minutes. How he checked her for a heartbeat and some sign of breathing. I’m looking at him with the biggest WTF expression on my face wondering what just happened. Did he really just tell me, his pregnant wife, that my dog was dead? I was so confused that I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both. While both of us are stunned for different reasons, Daisy is hopping around as if she just found the answer that she had been searching for the whole time she’s known my husband. It was as if she was quoting Sally Field’s Oscar acceptance speech for Places in the Heart in her head, “…and I can’t deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!”

You see, I don’t think my husband necessarily hates my animals. However, I really don’t think that he likes them very much. All right, I know that he doesn’t like them very much, because they are a lot of work (which I do by the way) and have done a lot of damage to our home. Never would I have expected to see any kind of tear duct action when it came to the demise of one of my animals. I am sure that Daisy didn’t expect it either. But, now she knows, we all know that he really likes her.

Ok, so I did buy him the Dove box of chocolates for Father’s Day. However, he knew that I was enjoying one, two, or five pieces from the box. So, why would anyone in their right mind leave one piece in the box where a mother working 10-hour shifts taking care of two very young active boys can get to it? Uh-huh. That’s right; no one would dangle one’s drug of choice in their face. Except for my husband, that is until I explained why it was a chocolate kind of day and I had every right to devour that last piece, not to mention that I would do it again. Nevertheless, do not feel sorry for him, I did let him have my last piece of stashed chocolate. (It really wasn’t that good.)

So, now I have to replenish my stash. Since my pregnancies, my taste in chocolate has become very refined. I prefer mostly dark and gourmet chocolates, because you don’t have to eat as much to become satisfied. And let’s not forget about all the supposed antioxidants that dark chocolate is supposed to be providing your body. Seems a little too good to be true, but I will go with it. If you need to replenish your stash, visit the chocolate page and treat yourself to fine chocolates. Let’s face it, every mom and working woman out there deserves a little piece of chocolate bliss to get them through the day.

Enjoy 10% off your purchase at Nirvana Chocolate until 7/31/07.
10% off on any purchase over $10.00

His latest apparel concoction for my 5-year-old son had me positively dizzy. A red and white checkered button down shirt will NEVER go with maroon sweatpants. EVER! In fact, the only place red and maroon belong together is in a box of Crayola’s. My 2-year-old son’s outfit wasn’t much better. I’m not a big fan of camouflage pants with orange and black striped shirts. When my husband is in charge of outfits, there are so many different color combinations going on that our children look as if a bag of skittles has exploded on them.

I did let him get away with his latest dressing disaster since I was ill and would not be joining them on their outing. I would be in the safety of my home, away from all of the anguished faces of the other mothers and metrosexual fathers who happened to glance in their direction.

So, if you are out at the store or the park one day, and you happen to see one carefree looking fellow with two young boys who look like the offspring of Bozo the Clown and Rainbow Brite, chances are, you are looking at my family. And, chances are, I was sick that day.