When this photo was taken I was pregnant.  I did not have a clue.  Little did I know how much my life would change in nine months.

I finally got Ben to sleep.  It is 11:03 P.M.  I have sung to him, danced with him, rocked him on my shoulder, walked around the house, swung in the porch swing, bathed him, and nursed him – all of these for hours.  Through all these verbs and nouns, there lives the pronoun of her.  Her seems to be a past tense presence of me.  I remember who her was.  I am now trying to get to know she.  She is the mother now.  Not the her I used to know.  Not the her who could hop in her car and grab her camera, journal and pen, jot down notes and numbers of contacts to call to set up interviews for articles.  Not the her in the picture above, who had no idea she was pregnant with a tiny, microscopic organism called an embryo.  She, my body knew.  She swelled with reason.  I just thought something was wrong with my right ankle.  It was swollen and I had no idea.  I could barely fit my cowboy boot over it and it didn’t hurt at all.  I had a swollen right ankle throughout my whole pregnancy.

It didn’t hurt; it just swelled.

Just swelled.  Like my heart swells now thinking of motherhood and all it encompasses.   Its raw engines.  Its softened curves.  Its unknown heights.  Its free falls of delight.  Its crashes of anger.  Its pride of depth.  Its muse of mourning.  It’s everything they said it would be.  It’s nothing I thought I could ever do.  It’s everywhere when I am nowhere near it.  It is motherhood.

After a long night of getting the baby settled, I had so many emotions throughout my two-hour mama marathon.  26 miles of why me, oh ah, maybe this will calm him, maybe this will calm me. songs I strike in, rocking chair bounces, sitting softly so silent as he nods off to sleep, whistles of whining as I cry louder than him, screaming – there are no words for the screams.  No screen to filter the air of anxiety they give.   Love – the verb, the noun, the action, the conjunction, the language.  Love encompassing me.

She is in control now or maybe she is not.  But her is gone.  Her is the person I used to be.  It will take a while to get to know the she that has the patience to be so soft to her son.  For there is a her that longs for the freedom her had so long ago, with a camera in hand, a notebook on site and rodeos to wrangle stories from.  I now carry two hearts – my son and mine.  His is wrapped so tightly in mine I sometimes feel two beats.  Then one.  Swirling and twirling between the two is my husband’s.  He sleeps soundly now.  Up through the night last night, exhaustion has set in.  He is deep in needed sleep.

I wanted to stand at the foot of the bed and scream as loud as the baby, to wake him.  To get a sub.  Sub.  Buzz the buzzer – mom needs a sub.  Dad. Sub.  No sleep.  He needs sleep.  I rocked through the anxiety.  Through the anger.  Through the tired aches and pains of a long day.

Nobody told me how hard this would be.  Or did they?

I let him sleep.  He needs it more than me and he has been such a great sub when I have no more oxygen to breath in.  And tomorrow he will wake refreshed and give me a break because I am over tired from staying up to write.

So, I am one with my muse, this time is for me. To write.  The essay which has been dancing through the crying, through the fussy leg kicks, through the voice in my head that isn’t the calmest, most Zen mom, but she is there, listening to her. For her is not gone, she is just more quiet, more distant.  But I can see her in the rearview mirror, chasing down a photo, telling stories as they are told to her, listening and watching the she mama has become.

memomuse is a cowgirl, mama, writer, and wife. She lives in Eastern North Carolina with her husband, new baby boy, two dogs, and a whole lot of journals. You can read more of her essays and poems at www.memomuse.wordpress.com. You can also view more of her cowboy and rodeo photographs at www.meganoteri.wordpress.com. She answers to Megan Elizabeth Miller-Oteri and baby coos. Even though she lives in North Carolina, Wyoming will always be her home. She believes you bloom where you are planted, especially if you have the hearty soil of love, friendship and mamahood! Her smile is wild, her eyes are blue, and everything is subject to change but muse.

The owlets photographed on the trampoline were quite famous this spring at the end of Wylie Street in Missoula. Children gathered below their snag tree to watch the baby fluff balls grow and stretch. The female watched over them all the time even though the male was not around. There are lots of stories and pictures of them.

Unfortunately, the latest news is that one of the owlets was found in an emaciated state. They had already fledged and flown around and one day, Geoff Carlson and Bill Bevis found one owlet standing on the ground, letting dogs approach, for two hours. Greg Stahl, neighbor to the dead snag and the owls, called Brooke Tanner, of Wild Skies Raptor Center, who tried to rescue it, but it died on July 20th. Brooke said she had not seen a bird that skinny in thirty years.

In June, my daughter, next door to me, had watched the female parent feeding both owlets on the roof outside her daughters’ bedroom window. Every night she heard their bark-like “reeeek” cries for food. But soon after that the female disappeared. Early in June I had seen both the mother and one of the fledglings fly into a tree branch on my driveway and kill a black critter there (crow or squirrel). The fledgling flew away with parts of it in its beak. So, maybe the fledgling that is still alive had learned to feed itself before the mother vanished.

So many people had watched the mother and the two fluffy owlets in the snag tree. When they fledged and came into our yards we were so pleased. One fledgling even walked across our skylight as my husband sat watching World Cup Soccer and peered down at him. My husband heard the scratch, scratch of the owlet’s claws on the glass before he looked up and saw its curious stare.

Amy Cilimburg, who studies owls and works for Montana Audubon said that Great Horned owls are usually tolerant of humans. They are wide ranging in what they eat, so they can live successfully around people and neighborhoods. She says they will not abandon their young without good reason because they have spent so much energy hatching and fledging them. Owls are very susceptible to pesticides and maybe that was an issue for the mama who disappeared. On the other hand, Amy says that most birds do try to fledge their young as soon as they can, so maybe the female did just that and there was something wrong with the owlet that died.

Sunday morning, August 1st, I walked around the owls’ territory and talked to seven neighbors about toxins. Maybe a mouse could have gotten into d-Con or whatever on their properties and been eaten later by an owl or owlet. None of these people had toxins around except weed sprays for their yards, which are quite diluted when used.

Mat Seidensticker, graduate student in UM’s Environmental Studies and owl researcher for ten years, says there may be three probable causes of the owlet’s death. First, the mother got discouraged having to raise two babies by herself and left earlier than usual, leaving the one owlet to out-compete the other for food. “Bad Mama.” Second, the owlet which died had some sort of lung virus that owls get. The third cause might have been toxins. Mat saw the sick owlet when it was taken in by Brooke Tanner and he said the owlet’s pupils were very dilated and he was moving its head in a strange way, besides being emaciated. But no one knows where the mother has gone, or why.

The story has not yet ended. Seidensticker recently found out that Brooke, along with a veterinarian, did a necropsy on the owlet. Everything inside looked okay. They did not do a toxin screen, but the tissues looked healthy and pink indicating an absence of poison. So, they concluded it died of starvation. Possibly the “mama just couldn’t feed both” scenario that we talked about. It cheers us though, to hear the other owlet at night. We will have to wait until next January or February to see if we hear the “ho hoo hoo hoododo hooooo hooh” of the pair, who usually mate for life, returning to their nesting site to try again.

Juliette Crump came to Missoula in 1974 to be Head of the Dance Division in the Department of Drama/Dance at UM. She taught modern dance technique, movement analysis and dance history, retiring in 2002. She and her husband, Bill Bevis, also a UM retired professor, live next door to their daughter, MC Jenni, Tom Jenni and grand daughters, Ellie and Ruby.

Recently, friends of mine were out to dinner when their youngest daughter said, “My head is itching!” and proceeded to scratch her scalp like a dog with a bad case of fleas. Immediately, everyone piled into the restroom to confirm their suspicions. Sure enough, a sesame seed-like bug was crawling behind her ear, and with that discovery, dinner was boxed up and the family hustled out the door. The car ride home was very quiet except for the muffled sobs of mom and child.

For anyone that has been through this scenario, it can be terrifying, overwhelming and shameful. It usually happens when your house is spotless and all the laundry is folded and put away.

If you happen to be one of these parents, don’t panic! You are still a great parent! The very fact you didn’t make your child ride in the back of the pickup in mid- November proves it! Head lice can run rampant anytime and anywhere. Watch some small children playing. They always have their heads close together, no sense of personal space at all. Aside from making your child wear one of those huge satellite-dish dog collars, or screaming “Remember the bubble!” when you see your little one getting cozy, here are a few tips:

1. Invest in the electronic comb. It costs about thirty dollars but the peace of mind it gives is priceless because every time your child scratches their head for the next month your blood pressure will skyrocket. Having an electronic comb eases delusions and zaps the real thing.

2. The comb-out is very important. Let your child have ice cream at nine o’clock at night if that means they will stay still for another ten minutes.

3. Wash everything; coats, towels, pillowcases and sheets in hot water and on dry clothes on high heat for 20 more minutes than usual. Whatever can’t be washed, seal in trash bags for a couple of weeks. Removing thirty stuffed animals can really open up the feng-shui of your child’s room. Sometimes those bags never come back.

4. Remember hairbrushes, clips, combs and bands. Soak them in boiling water for 10 minutes or seal them in a Ziploc bag for 72 hours. Lice die without a head to call a home after 48 hours. I give it an extra day just to be safe.

5. Let the parents of your kids best buddies know what’s going on. There is no need to shout it from the rooftops, but communication is essential so that it doesn’t get passed back and forth through a classroom or daycare. Lice are a lot more prevalent than when we were kids and people are understanding and grateful that you told them.

6. Don’t forget that if you used the pesticide, 8-10 days later you have to repeat the shampoo and comb-out and the laundry and the hairbrush sterilization. Lice have a nasty little life cycle and the pesticide doesn’t kill the eggs. That is why the second step is so important, also using stainless steel lice and egg removal combs help speed the process along.

7. Lice like clean hair. Spritz your child’s head with a little hairspray and putting hair in braids or under a hat lessens the chance of your child contracting head lice.

8. One adult louse can lay 3-6 eggs per day. Check the nape of the neck and behind the ears and comb thoroughly. This is where the electronic comb is handy. Dry hair only.

9. Vacuum your car and carpets after you have treated all the hair in the house and washed your 92 loads of laundry.

10. Treat yourself to a bubble bath or some chocolates. Getting yourself to relax and not flip out is key,(more cheers for the electronic comb!) Hopefully you will have rid the critters for good. Good Luck and Lice to never see you again!

Kim Storment is a single mom of three girls. She works full-time as a server in Missoula, plays softball as much as possible, goes to the YMCA with her kids and tries to kickbox.

“You know what’s wrong about Italy?” Maddy asked.
“What?”
“Nothing.”

I keep thinking of my conversation with Madeline, and as I try to come up with things that are “wrong” with Italy, I just can’t. I love it here. I love the food, the landscapes, the regionalities, the history, and most of all, the people. The way the people look [mostly, all like Michael's cousins, which is great for me] and are: polite, cheerful, kind. I am sure if I stayed here, things would change a little; surely, the rose colored glasses would fade. Like all first-blush love, it’s easy to look past the not-so-goods, when you are so in love with the rest. Would the crazy driving get to me? Would the inefficiencies eventually send me screaming? Do foods need to expand past fruit, some vegetables, bread, pasta, cheese, sauce, rice, ham, and chicken [for the most part]? These problems now seem like surmountable objections.

So goodbye, Italy. Or better: until again.

Read more about Daphne’s summer adventure at Brauns in Bella Italia.

Summer at my house is defined by the amount of kids hanging out on my porch. Five or less, it’s early Spring. Ten or more and it is officially Summer. I have a sliding glass door and if it revolved I could have cheap air conditioning. I’m not the only one with a porch, either. I’m not sure what the attraction is unless those are all our yogurts and Sunny Delights I see my middle daughter handing out to the neighborhood kids. I am popular though, when they have something they want to throw away or need to use the phone. Who am I kidding? I usually have one of them call my phone, so I can find it.

My youngest daughter thinks of herself as the entertainment committee for the throng of kids between 4-10 that gather on my back porch. She will start with one or two toys and by the time I have done the dishes there is a complete replica of her bedroom set in the backyard and the door is wide open.

My middle child is the banquet and facilities server for all these children that live a mere 30 feet away and cannot drag themselves to got a drink of water or use their own restroom. I can hear my phone ringing, but alas I know it is not for me plus I could not find it if there was a money prize involved.

My oldest daughter is the commentator, also on the award- winning debate team in her high school. She can text, while riding a bike with one contact in. Her listening skills do not include eye contact but lots of “uh huh, uh huh..” She says if I had an I Pod Touch she would be able to listen to me better. I say she might be able to listen to someone if she didn’t throw her phone at her sister. I might as well rung a bell. Three girls and myself make this house a hotbed of dramatic action. I have no need for soap operas, I live in one.

As it is there are nine kids on my porch right now. The neighbor’s three year-old is kindly cleaning the sliding glass door with her tongue.

“Quit licking the glass!” My oldest one yells and sends a picture of the poor kid to 20 of her nearest and dearest friends. I wander into the kitchen, I immediately get the “You’re in the wrong room look “ from three preteens. I mouth the lyrics to the latest Justin Bieber hit, and sing, “I’m gonna dance unless you get outside and enjoy this beautiful day!” They leave. I look for one of my fat-free yogurts. Gone, along with every spoon in the house. Outside, there is a wolfpack of kids in the backyard. This is one of those moments to be savored, treasured. The door opens and shuts and opens another hundred times. Ahh. Summertime.

Kim Storment is a single mom of three girls. She works full-time as a server in Missoula, plays softball as much as possible, goes to the YMCA with her kids and tries to kickbox.

This summer at mamalode.com we are following the adventures of the Daphne and her family as they spend seven weeks in Italy. We enter the online journal of their journey in the 2nd week — Brauns in Bella Italia.

My lovely sister-in-law [who married an Italian and lives here in Italy] tells me that there is an expression in Italian that goes something like, “you asked for the bicycle…now ride it.” I thought of that expression a couple of times today, as this morning Michael left to teach for a week, and I am here in Toscolano with four kids, a few Italian phrases, and no car. It was my choice to stay here alone with the kids, as I could have gone down to the coast with my sister-in-law and her family or have even suggested that my in-laws come here to help me out [they offered and we get along great]. But, really, I am 37 years old, and should be able to handle this challenge. So, for the next week, I am riding my bicycle.
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Photographs by Logan Castor Parson
“I’ve got five bucks on Lauren” I said.

“Come on Taylor!”  I heard from behind me.

There I was, 12:30 AM around a bonfire, watching my friends hand pump the liquid gold from their breasts. This was not your average bachelorette party.

Remember when the bride-to-be was escorted from bar to bar by a pack of girlfriends?  Maybe she was wearing a tiara, a veil or pageant sash?  Perhaps drinking out of a pecker straw and sucking on a DicTac? Okay, maybe I only went to one or two of those kinds of parties, but last weekend I went to a friends bachelorette party that was a bit different than the parties we went to in our twenties.

My friend, the bride-to-be, opted to forego the bars and head into the mountains. Instead of pecker straws and the phallic accessories that normally accompany bachelorette parties, there were fancy appetizers, decadent meals, copious amounts of alcohol….and yes, breast pumps!

Miraculously, thirteen ladies all snuck away for a weekend and met on a friends family ranch to celebrate our bride-to-be. This ranch is a magical place. A place where you feel like you’ve really gotten away, where you can relax in earnest. A place where you can have a few drinks and not worry about how you are going to get home, or how you are possibly going to get up with the kids in the morning. You feel welcome before you even get out of your car.

You see, ten years ago, it would have been an easy accomplishment to get a group of girlfriends to go away for a night. But the truth of the matter is, ten of us are now moms.

Half of the moms at this gathering were breastfeeding. It is no small feat, to get this many (breast feeding) moms away for a night, leaving our husbands in charge of feeding our babies in the middle of the night, some for the first time. Or to leave our husbands with multiple children for the night, some for the first time. Or maybe with grandma. Or Aunties and Uncles.  One family even stayed in a yurt up the road, so mom could nurse her young baby that night. Two friends had flown in the night before from a business trip to New York City, another drove down from Glacier National Park where she was working. Somehow or another, we all made it happen to be there to celebrate our bride-to-be.

(Photo of Central Park taken day before)

With white-capped mountains as our backdrop and our beds assigned, we began the celebration.  Luscious cocktails, cosmopolitans to be exact, were poured into fancy margarita glasses rimmed with raw sugar, so sweet and delicious. As you can imagine, the drinks went down fast, easily, and early! Through appetizers and more cocktails, we discussed the meaning of marriage and listened intently as our hostess talked about her 37 year long marriage. As I listened to her advice, her thoughts, her ups and downs, I tried to imagine what my own marriage will be like in 30 years.

(our luscious Cosmopolitans)

After all the guests had arrived we sat down at an elegantly set dinner table with a blooming center piece. It reminded me of meals at my families farm in Pennsylvania where my husband grew up. A home with a kitchen table that can easily seat a dozen people, an open kitchen with well thought out islands and bars, pots hanging from ceiling racks, an eight burner stove and multiple refrigerators. It was no strip club, but it was heaven to me.

(the beautifully set dinner table)

After a gourmet dinner, toasts were made and champagne was sipped. We moved outside to the deck to watch the alpenglow move higher up the mountains. With a green pasture and a evening of celebration before us, I felt like I had found the gold at the end of a rainbow.

(the view)

As the night waned it became apparent that our breast feeding mamas were going to miss several nursings. To relieve looming engorgement, the first round of pumping began. As we all got comfortable in our adirondack chairs, drinks were poured and the bonfire ignited. The sound of electric pumps began as motors worked to imitate the suckling of babes. There was collective laughter at how great women are at multi-tasking. Pumping with one hand, a drink in the other. We analyzed the pros and cons of electric versus hand pumping, some choices are conscious and others the good luck of a hand-me-down. Everyone gauged their own levels of milk toxicity, as we talked about the prospect of pumping and dumping, internally planning which bottles were safe for consumption, and when to have another drink before the next let down.

(sunset in the Mission Mountains)

While shaking my booty around the bonfire, I caught a glimpse of two mamas hand pumping in their camp chairs: “boots with the fur…the whole club looking at her…she hit the floor…next thing you know, she got low, low, low, low, low, low“. Both were hunched over, pumping rhythmically as the woods throbbed to club music, milk slowly filling up the bottle. As we realized both the authenticity and the irony of the situation, we began cheering wildly.  Both women pumped, grins from ear to ear, sort of laughing, but sort of trying to win.  We were laughing hysterically, clapping, hooting, hollering, and folding over ourselves in joy.  Soon enough, the breast milk was being poured over the fire like a gilded sacrifice.

I reflected through dark sunglasses and strong coffee the following morning that it was the beginning of a new journey that had brought us together, and that this small flake of gold could carry us.

Sarah Millar is a photographer, naturalist and occasional writer who loves digging for worms in the garden with her two little girls. When Sarah is not found zipping around the woods on her bike or skis, you can find her working with Team Mamalode.

Don’t forget: Our calendar is chock full of fun events around town. Check it out here.

Downtime. It’s what I have wanted. It’s what I have dreamed about for two years. A mommy vacation — no responsibilities, no obligations, no dirty diapers. Time to reconnect with me. To sleep in. To sit by the pool. To decompress.

Last Friday, I boarded a plane to Vegas for a girls getaway. A party to celebrate some 30th birthdays. Three nights with no husband, dog, or child. Seven women in a city that never sleeps. The irony. I couldn’t sleep.

I wanted to sleep. I wanted to sleep in until 10:00 am and take cat naps on by the pool. But, my mind and body wouldn’t do it. I’d lay there and will myself to relax. I would tell myself to stay in bed until at least 8:00. But, my internal clock wouldn’t let me. As soon as the alarm clock clicked to 6:30, I was wide awake.

My hotel mates for the weekend — both single women with no children — didn’t have any issues with sleeping. I’d quietly get ready for the day and try to entertain myself outside of our hotel room for a few hours so they could get rest. The pool didn’t open until 9:00 and I don’t really gamble so I would just walk aimlessly with jumbled emotions.

I was excited to be away and glad that I was taking a mommy-vacation. But, I had distinct moments of anxiety and guilt. I only had myself to take care of and it was a bit … terrifying.

I tried to acknowledge these moments. Allow myself to feel. Breathe in and release. I granted myself permission to let these emotions go. I gave myself permission to reconnect with me.

As soon as the other ladies started waking and there was more structure in our day, the anxiety would subside. The weather was a gorgeous 90 degrees and we treated ourselves to good food, dancing, shows, and shopping. I am exhausted, but I am refreshed.

Mommy, wife and work obligations are beckoning me from the comfort of my own bed this morning. Its exactly 6:30 am and I welcome them with a cup of strong coffee and open arms.

Laura Parvey-Connors manages the details of www.mamalode.com as the official mamalode webgeek. She works full-time in marketing and runs her own graphic design and marketing consulting business on the side. She is the proud mommy of two energetic kiddos — Onyx, a 4-year-old black lab and 22-month-old little boy named Everson.

“My life’s been turned upside down,” my friend laments.  “His,” she continues, speaking of her husband, “has changed about 70%–maybe not even that much.” I didn’t tell her I’d had similar thoughts.  That I’d come to the conclusion that, especially in those first few months of our daughter’s life when I was consumed by the endless cycle of nursing, napping and diaper changing, a saggy skinned shadow of my former self, my husband’s life seemed about as changed as if we’d gotten another dog—“maybe not even that much.”

Twenty-five years ago with two young children and in an attempt to up the percentage of change in my father’s life, or more accurately, to change my father, my mom composed a kind of self-improvement to-do list for my dad.  Among the 10 or 12 items on it were “quit smoking,” “go places as a family,” “nutritious food for the kids,” and “more equitable division of housework.”  Today, amongst other treasures on the top of his chest of drawers, my dad still keeps the list because, he says, he’s still working on it.  While he did “quit drinking” when I was in my early teens and has been allowed to cross off “read to Chipper,” since my little brother, now a member of the Virginia Bar Association, is presumably able to read to himself, the list has remained largely ignored.

I have considered both how much my husband’s life has been altered by our daughter and what, if anything, I would include on a list to encourage further change in his life.  In doing so it’s not because he doesn’t change Maisie’s diapers or put her socks back on 87 times a day or mix oatmeal and baby food bananas to just the right consistency and flavor or take her fishing or, as so many of those other sexy Missoula dads, wear her out in public, it’s because he generally makes it look so easy.  And in making it look easy I wonder if he’s really changed at all.  Shouldn’t there be a struggle, some challenge to overcome from which our hero emerges a changed man?

No doubt about it, my husband is a fantastic dad.  Though I fall short at times, he never seems to.  He walks repeatedly around the block with our baby when she’s fussy and bounces endlessly on the exercise ball until she falls asleep when I’ve long since written her off as unlikely to ever rest again.  He creates stories with her bath toys, makes plans to move to the Arctic Circle when she’s of dating age, and declares not that he wants a son to take hunting, but that he “can’t wait until Maisie’s old enough to go.”

Undoubtedly, my life has been turned upside down, transformed completely since the birth of our little girl.  And while I don’t know if Aaron feels like his has changed 50 or 500%, I do know that he is a grade A wonderful daddy—100%.

Ashley Kim is a native Georgian whose heart belongs as much to the ponderosa pine forests and frigid waters of Montana as to the salt marshes and tidal creeks of her youth.  She has been married to “the hot guy from biology” for eight years and has spent the 11 months since her daughter’s birth trying to find herself again (and is currently making some headway).

While in yoga today towards the end of class we tried something new. Well, at least it was new to me. We laid back on our shoulders and stuck our legs straight up into the air. I was feeling like I could do this new move with ease and then proceeded to push the envelope and bend my legs in some kind of reverse “V” pose that had some name I didn’t catch. I looked around and took stock of how I was doing compared to the more seasoned yoga types in the class…the ones that come religiously and know the poses by name. Let us just say I was at least comparable.

Everything was going great, I was feeling at peace. Not a real thought in my head…remembering to breathe…deep inhale in…deep exhale out…moving with breathe. Ahhh….yes…very nice…wait, what was that? Did I just hear? Did that just happen? It’s just a mere bubble of air leaving the checks but for some reason it’s like suffering a blow of humiliation worthy of some taunting middle school memory.

I won’t say who exactly perpetrated this unavoidable mishap. Let us just say…a “friend.” My friend must be SO embarrassed. I bet she just wants to get up and leave rather than staying the last agonizing 7 minutes of class to enjoy the most important of poses … “Shavasana” (I know the name of that one because it’s the one where you lay flat on your back not moving at all in pure comfort. I like that one.) And now my friend is going to have to miss it as she makes her swift exit.

Maybe if she sneaks out no one will know it was her…no, it’s unavoidable, the jig is up…she’s caught…now and forevermore labeled “that one that farts.” People won’t want to put their mat next to hers anymore. It’s really a pity she will never be able to show her face again in this yoga class. She’d better go now. But surprisingly she doesn’t. She stays with the determination of a majestic sequoia. Quiet and at peace with herself. After all, it’s just a bodily function.

What’s the big deal? Nothing anyone can claim they have not done. Yet, the embarrassment of publicly releasing is somehow unbearable. Imagine yourself at the grocery store letting one loose. How about at church? At a meeting with your kid’s teacher? Just sitting in a chair and slightly leaning to one cheek and letting it fly…the way your Dad did at the dinner table in the days of your youth. No. Can’t be done…it’s not okay to do it with purpose and forethought. But what about on accident…when it can’t be helped?

WHY the embarrassment then? Why are we embarrassed by things that come to us naturally? It got me thinking…is embarrassment of these accidental and only natural stumbles a part of any worthy new journey…such as my new pursuit to exercise? And, more importantly, how many more of these unforeseen blunders will I (I mean my friend) have to overcome? Will it, pardon the pun, get even more stinky before it gets less embarrassing? Gawd…I hope so…for her sake.

Kim Anderson is a new stay at home Mom of three. She recently “retired” from her desk job as the Development Director for Youth Homes Inc. Currently, Kim spends her days taking care of her three children and pursuing her passion in art. She is also currently volunteering to write a blog called, The Reluctant Runner as a member of the YHI Run 4 Kids Team that will participate in the Missoula Marathon on July 11, 2010.