Go ahead. Judge Me. I Dare You.

Several months ago, I got into a mini-shouting match with a woman while I was walking with my two daughters. Okay, I'm not proud about the fact that I eventually gave the woman the finger, but here's what happened:

At the time it was still pretty cold in New York and my youngest was not a fan of hats. I kept two wool baby skull caps in our diaper bag and would sort of rotate them as we walked. Inevitably, she would let me put it on her for a few minutes only to toss it off or on to the ground just a bit later. 

This game of cat and mouse was getting old and I knew we only had two more blocks to go before the grocery store. So, I decided to give the hat -- and myself -- a rest. 

Enter evil old witch lady. Okay, that's being harsh. But, she was old. And female. I think.

She yelled across the crosswalk, "Put a hat on that baby. She's cold." 

Here's where I pause to say that nothing rattles me more than perfect strangers trying to tell me how to care for my own children. And then here's my tiny addendum: There are certainly many, many times when I am ridiculously appreciative of the random help of strangers. Doors get held open while I try and navigate two kids, a scooter, a stroller, bags and a shoe that is "falling off my foot right now mommyyyyyyy!" and I'm thankful. I'm thankful for the woman who gave me money so I could fill a parking meter when my youngest daughter was screaming and needed a nap and I couldn't find a convenient place to make change. I'm grateful that one day when I was too sick to leave home and my spouse was traveling, my daughter's teacher offered to pick her up for school. I'm grateful for people that let us cut in line at the bathroom when they see my kid doing the pee-pee dance. Point is: I am most of all grateful that it takes a village to raise a kid and most of the time, that village shows up.

So, what was it about this particular exchange? It was her tone that really irked me. And I was tired. And yeah, it was f***ing cold. And I had one kid who didn't want to wear her mittens ("They're itchy!") and another who had just flung her hat off a block earlier. 

So, I yelled back, "Mind your own business!"

She mumbled something and started to approach us.

"What's that lady saying?" My oldest daughter asked. 

"Who knows..." 

She got closer. And here's the part that I found hilarious. She was in fact wearing one of those giant fur Ushanka hats. The kind you'd see a Russian spy or trooper wear on TV. It was like she was saying, in her very dress and manner, "You suck as a mother. And I obviously am rocking this cold weather thing like a mo-fo!"

She got close to us, leaned over the stroller and said so both my kids could hear, "You should be ashamed of yourself."

I said, "You should be ashamed of yourself!" and kept walking.

And then, she screamed back at me, "Well you should be a better mother!"

Cue The Bird. And yeah, I might have said something else that I won't repeat here.

Later, the sane and well-rested part of me figured that she probably just thought she was being helpful and that I'd be eternally grateful for her quick ability to point out my shortcomings.

But, that's where she and anyone else who intentionally or unintentionally judges a mom or dad is wrong.

I have said it before and I will say it again. This parenting schtick is super duper hard. No matter how you come to it. 

And here's the other part: You never know what kind of day has preceded whatever moment you are witnessing between child and parent. 

I should take my own advice, I know. Whenever those stories go viral about parents leaving their kids in the car while they run errands or get gas, I totally judge. But really in the end, all I can say is, "Okay, well, it's not the way I would do it. But I don't need to condemn them for it."

And I can keep airing the dirty, dark secrets of how I raise my girls. Hey, last night they ate SpaghettiOs (which is indeed written like that and defined as "an American brand of canned spaghetti featuring circular pasta shapes in a cheese and tomato sauce and marketed to parents as 'less messy' than regular spaghetti," on Wikipedia.) and watched three episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants. While the combo of these things (heck, one of them by itself) makes me feel nauseas, they loved it!

I am not super strict about bedtimes or how early my kids potty train. I let my kids sleep in my bed when my husband is out of town and they watch a lot of TV when I'm working on a piece of writing. On the other hand, I'm psycho about putting on sun block, installing a car seat and probably a little to crazed about possible choking hazards. But I will never, ever tell you to put a sunhat on your kid because he might get a sunburn. Promise.

So, go ahead. Judge me. I dare you.

"A Lesson From My Grandma In The Miracle Of Life"

Picked up by the Huffington Post...so happy Grandma's story lives on!

Article: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/meredith-franco-meyers/a-lesson-from-my-grandma-in-the-miracle-of-life_b_5113490.html

Traveling With Kids!

Stories live on Volvo.com (via TheBump.com). If you're a mom or dad to a young child or baby, please read the one on car seat safety!

http://content.thebump.com/sitelets/volvo-life-is-an-adventure/

Before Becoming a Stay-At-Home-Writer...

It was the beginning of December and I had just met my best friend's new baby. Joy filled the air as I talked with her, a first-time mother, in the hospital. I asked her all sorts of questions ("What was labor really like?" "Did you go for the epidural?"), watched her tackle a round of breastfeeding, and marveled at the bond already forming between mother and daughter. Her pregnancy had been abstract up until that day when I was finally holding the physical manifestation of all those months of planning - she and her incredible husband's precious new cargo - a small miracle.

We spoke briefly about my own baby-making project and I left feeling impressed that she had asked about me when clearly her whole sights were on the tiny package she’d just born.

Later that evening, I wasn't feeling so hot and part of me wondered if maybe I was pregnant. I mean, it was entirely possible. Weeks earlier, my legs in stirrups, the doctor on duty was telling me, "This is the month. You’ve got a lot of follicles. Just be prepared. It might be twins." He inserted a syringe full of my husband's sperm (mixed with fancy chemicals to make it last within my body for longer than is natural) and - voila - I had been artificially inseminated.

Each night, I gave myself hormone injections in the stomach, flinching only remotely from the pain. I was used to it.

Then, the waiting game began again. And, this game, win or lose, was coming to a close right around those early days in December. I had been here before and I didn't want to get my hopes up.

A day later, when I still hadn't gotten my period, I caved and picked up a pack of 3 pregnancy tests at the drugstore. I knew now to buy them in bulk. It was cheaper, I’d been down this road before, and I always felt the need to test one more time a few hours later just in case the initial negative wasn’t right.

Later that afternoon, home by myself, I took a test. One minute later, no dice. Ten minutes later, no dice. Not pregnant.

That was the beginning of December, the close of a long year. Holiday music filled the air at every coffee shop, department store, and often in my doctor's waiting room.

I called to tell the nurse that we hadn't been successful. With an indifferent tone, she said, "Well, I'm sorry. You should come in and we can get you on injectables right away again and schedule your next insemination."

Pause. Breath.

"I'll have to call you back," I said.

That night, I cried harder than I had in a long while. I felt pretty hopeless about the situation. Even though we hadn't yet explored IVF, I knew it was the logical next step, whether I opted for another round of IUI (insemination) plus injections or not. I felt stressed out to the max, high strung, and couldn't remember the last time my husband and I just hung out, free of this baby-making obsession.

"You don't have to do it," he said.

I agreed. And, we decided to give ourselves at least two months (or cycles, as they say in the fertility biz) free of doctor visits, hormones, and ovulation calendars.

We would just be, whatever that meant. We'd enjoy Christmas. We'd book a trip to Amsterdam to see my brother. Maybe we'd get a dog.

At the same time all of this was going on, my grandmother's health was beginning to wane. Diagnosed with Alzheimer's in 1997, her physical body had held on for years. During the past four seasons, she hadn't spoken or really moved very much on her own, yet each time all of her vitals and organs were checked, she was in top-notch working condition. She sometimes made moaning sounds upon hearing her and my grandfather's favorite song ("Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole) or when seeing a family member, but other than that, she sat relatively lifeless most days, a small baby doll clutched in her hands, her one comfort.

At the end of November, I went to see her. As soon as I reached her hospital room at the nursing home, I shut the door, slipped off my bulky coat and boots, and crumpled at her side. I bawled, grasping her hand, touching her face, and begging her for a baby. I knew she understood, somehow. My grandma and I were very close. She was not your typical 1950s housewife. Growing up, I idolized her sense of style. She made her own clothes, and those of her children, from patterns in Vogue magazine. She held fancy theme parties on a budget. She had a high school education, but never stopped learning. She had been reading  “Corelli’s Mandolin” when she noticed she couldn’t really remember stuff the same way she used to.

By the end of December, we were receiving calls daily that her health was slipping and that she could go "any day now." We waited, watched the phone, and prayed.

It turned out, Grandma held on for one more Christmas. Then, sometime during that first week of the new year as I thought very deeply about my grandmother's influence on my life, knowing her light was fading, I began to feel sick and very, very tired.

One day, I checked the calendar and realized that "if" I'd ever had a normal menstrual cycle (in my life!), I was indeed late. Three or four days late, to be exact. I didn't want to get my hopes up. Later that evening, I said it out loud.

"I think I might be pregnant."

My husband couldn't betray his own smile. There was a flicker of anticipation in his eyes too.

"Really? Tell me."

I told him about checking the calendar, feeling like I had the flu.

"I have two tests left over from last time. I think I'll wait one more day and then test."

We agreed this was a sound decision. Knowing how many ups and downs we'd already endured, we couldn't get too excited just yet.

The next morning (a day before I said I would), I waited until he'd left to get the paper and I dug under the bathroom sink for those other pregnancy tests. I reread the directions quickly, my heart beating faster, my hands clammy. I took the test quickly, put the cap back on the stick, flushed the toilet and then sat down on the cold, tile floor.

I said a prayer, out loud, to Grandma. And, then I checked the test. The window had changed color from white to pink and within seconds, a bright pink line had formed. Not pregnant, I thought.

I was already playing my runners-up speech in my head when I looked back at the test. There it was - another faint line next to the brighter one. Yes Virginia, there is another pink line.

The whole scene wasn't as dramatic as I had envisioned. I didn't burst into tears, mostly because I was in shock and not entirely sure this meant I was pregnant. I dug the instructions out of the trashcan and read them again. Sometimes, one line might appear lighter than the control line.

The front door opened and my husband bounded in, newspaper under one arm.

"Well hi," he said, oblivious, "What's with the Ed Grimley dance?"

I was doing the pee-pee dance, quite literally, though not because I had to go to the bathroom, but because I'd just seen a positive result on the pee-pee stick!

"I think I'm pregnant!" I couldn't contain myself. I rushed back down our hallway into the bathroom, "I took a test," I called out.

He followed me. We both stood there staring at the two pink lines.

"That's a line, right?" I kept saying.

"Yes, it's a line. It's faint, but it's definitely a line."

I made him reread the same instructions I'd read, in which the packaging claimed that false positives pretty much never occurred, but that false negatives were frequent.

It was 7:30 in the morning and I felt alive, invigorated, refreshed. We hugged and kissed.

At 8 a.m. when my regular OBGYN's office was open, I told the receptionist on duty.

"Day of last menstrual?" she said.

I told her.

"OK, you need to come in at 8 weeks, that's end of January."

"But, shouldn't I get a blood test to confirm I'm really pregnant?"

She giggled. "Oh honey, those tests are 99 percent accurate. You're pregnant. Congratulations."

I hung up.

About an hour later, my mom called with the news. Grandma had died peacefully. I like to believe that on her way up to heaven, she sent a baby girl down.