O Spring, Where Are You???

I have caller ID in my office, so I always know when daycare is calling.

And inevitably, they always do.

"Owen has a fever." "Jake has diarrhea." "Owen's throwing up." "Jake has pinkeye." "They both have (INSERT RANDOM ILLNESS HERE)."

I know the old saying: If you're going to send your kids to daycare, expect them to get sick. The fact is, kids get sick no matter what, but this winter it really seems like we've all had more than our share.

Jake's had about 5 ear infections and 3 bronchial issues that left him on a nebulizer indefinitely. Owen has had a string of random colds that ended in a debilitating fever that kept him home for almost a week. Dave has had 2 big ear infections and a string of colds; I had a cold so severe last week that I am just beginning to taste my food again.

With four of us in the house it's worse than ever. One of us gets something, gives it to someone else, and we pass it around and around. YOu might say we're generous with our germs.

But it usually starts with that phone call. It happened again this week. I got the call that Jake had pinkeye, and had been quarantined to a crib. I raced out of the office, leaving behind hours worth of follow up from a lengthy Board meeting. From the road I called the pediatrician to get a prescription called in, called my mother to see if she could watch him the next day since daycare rules stipulates that you can't come back until you've been on the eye goop for 24 hours, and called my husband to generally complain about the whole situation.

To make a ridiculously long story short, I brought him to the doctor (who for some reason, had pinkeye herself, which worried me a little) and he was declared perfectly healthy. Note in hand, I headed home, fuming.

So, in other words, I left my office mid-day to pick up my healthy child. Much as I love to hang with Jake, yesterday was not the day.

I'm torn about this whole thing. As a parent, I'm always annoyed when I bring in my kids and see their classrooms filled with sneezing, coughing children. As someone who works in education, I understand the need to have guidelines and policies dictating when the call has to be made (no call if the temp is 100.9, a guaranteed call and 24 hour stay at home when it hits 101). But as a working mother with a demanding job and a husband with limited sick time available, those calls drive me nuts.

Obviously, if one of my kids are truly sick, I want to know and I want them home. But yesterday Jake couldn't have been healthier, and being called to get him out of quarantine for no reason was incredibly frustrating.

Regardless, I'm certainly glad he's not sick. At least not today, that is.

Living the Alarm Clock Life

I often wish that I could expand my day to longer than 24 hours. We have so much that has to be crammed into each hour - in fact you wouldn't believe what we cram in just before 7 am., let alone the rest of the day -- it astounds me.

When we first got married, Dave and I thought we were "so busy" with our jobs. The alarm was set for 7:30 and we complained all the time about how hectic our lives were. We saw our friends on weekends, saw movies, went out to eat, saw some concerts and lived the twenty-something (yikes i think it was thirtysomething) life.

Then we had Owen. He quickly elbowed out most of our social lives. We adjusted to the change, set our alarm clocks back to 6:30 a.m. and made it work, with never more than a minute or two to spare. There were bottles to wash, toys to pick up, laundry to do, dishes to wash, clothes to buy as he grew out of wardrobe after wardrobe, games to dream up.... and of course, our day jobs to do in between.

Then we got pregnant with Jake and I panicked. How was another child - another human being - going to fit into our already overcrowded, overscheduled, overprogrammed lives? Where would we find the time to change more diapers, wash more bottles, play more games and buy more clothes, let alone feed, wash and love him?

The solution: the alarm clock is now set for 5:30. We are showered and dressed by 6, when we wake the kids, get them dressed, have breakfast together, and walk out the door by 7. I'm certain our neighbors hate us for making so much noise at the crack of dawn, but really, that's their problem.

Sure, our social lives have been converted into the occasional "date night," I haven't stayed up past 10 p.m. in a very long time, but after the kids go to bed at 7ish each night, Dave and I have a good couple of hours to curl up on the couch, ignore the toys scattered on the floor, have some dinner and relax....

... until the next morning when the marathon starts over again.

I'm Stumped

Anyone know any secrets to teaching your kid that it's time to stop wearing diapers? I don't.

This whole potty training experience has turned into a disaster. My son now shrieks every time we bring him near the commode, suggest he use the potty, or even talk about it in generalities.

In fairness we haven't been at this for long, but we've tried just about everything: bribes only lead to his affinity for M&Ms and Cadbury eggs but don't really work because we give in and give them to him anyway, soaking his hand in warm water was fun at first but now that he's figured out what we're doing he'll have none of it, and the "You're a big boy now," line falls flat on him.

And in case you're wondering, dragging him in kicking and screaming doesn't seem to work either. Believe me, I've tried.

A few people today have suggested we "hold off for while," and pick it back up in a couple of weeks. But while I'd like nothing more than to throw in the towel on this, quitting doesn't seem right either.

Doesn't that give my 3.5-year-old the upper hand? Won't the lesson from this be that if he shrieks loud enough he can his way and/or get out of anything? Won't the debate over vegetables and the disputes over sharing his toys turn into screamfests?

I'm completely stumped on this one. Anyone have any suggestions?

Please Don't Let Me Break My Kids

For as long as I've been a mother I've worried about breaking my kids.

They're born as these perfect little people, their feet uncalloused, their knees unskinned, their cheeks rosy, their chins unscarred. As parents it's up to us to keep them that way. But, as I am quickly learning, that is virtually impossible.

I'll never forget a dream I had just weeks after bringing Owen home from the hospital. In my dream I woke in the night to feed him, brought him into the kitchen and was standing at the sink when he slipped from my arms, fell on the floor and shattered into a million pieces. I sat straight up in bed that night, unable to shake the image. Today, more than 3 years later, it's still just as clear.

So far neither of my kids have shattered, but the scarring - physical only, thank goodness - has begun. Some kid threw a truck down the slide while Owen was sitting at the bottom last summer, leaving him with a half-inch scar right between his eyes. He has a mysterious scar on his knee from some injury I can't recall. Jake has a cut on his eye and another on his chin; both from incidents that happened at daycare.

As much as I always feel awful when one of my kids are injured at daycare, I always feel worse when something happens on my watch. Take today, for instance: I took Owen out for the afternoon. We got pizza and went to Chuck-E-Cheese (his favorite) to play. After about 2 hours I noticed he was was walking strangely, and it hit me that I couldn't remember the last time his diaper had been changed. Sure enough it had been long enough to leave him with the ugliest diaper rash either of us have ever seen.

I know it'll go away, and I know that these things happen. But it never fails that just when I start feeling cocky, like I've got this whole "mother of two thing" down to a science, I go and forget to change my kid's diaper and leave him walking around like he just got off a horse.

At least - thankfully - this won't leave a scar on him... just on me.

Thriller Idol

Up front, I have to be clear on one thing: I do not watch American Idol.

OK, I have been known to check it out once or twice during the corny nationwide search episodes, and I have been known to watch a few of the final episodes when they're close to announcing the winner. And yes, I have watched a few in the middle, but I am far from a fanatic.

Still, I always thought it was cool when they brought in true "superstars" to be mentors for the contestants, like Barry Manilow and Stevie Wonder and people like that. (Did I make up Stevie Wonder? It's possible. See? I told you I didn't watch it that often.)

However, I just read something I can't quite believe: Michael Jackson may be a guest judge/mentor this season.

What? So, in other words, you can be an accused child molester, admit on national television that you like to "sleep with children," nearly drop your own child over the balcony in a foreign country, have enough plastic surgery to truly look like you have no nose and no skintone, yet still be held up as a national model for young singers?

If my kids were old enough to watch Idol - which they're not - I don't know if I'd let them watch that episode. And as for my passing interest, I'm definitely changing the channel that night.

I'm all for reform, and giving people a second chance, but seriously, with the exception of his Thriller days, everything this guy has done in recent memory has given me the creeps.

Big Surprise

So now I'm sick. I've got the bursting-head-uncontrollable-cough-runny-nose-just-let-me-curl-up-in-a-ball-and-die kind of cold.

Unfortunately, it's Friday.

You see, I really don't mind if I get sick during the week. Unless I"ve got some vital meeting or critical project I have to complete, a fever or uncontrollable cough Monday through Friday means a day on the couch, alone. I line up the coffee table with my remote control, magazines, books, the phone, some tea, a box of Kleenex and some snacks. The cats curl up nearby and together we catch up on our Tivo, Oprah, Ellen, and whatever 80s movie is showing on TNT. A sick day during the week can sometimes be a welcome relief from the hectic pace of our lives.

But this time my timing is all off. Sure, I felt it coming earlier in the week, but I soldiered on, taking Nyquil at night and feeling better by day. But today - Friday - it hit me about 10 a.m. that I was, in fact, quite ill. I made it through my mid-day meeting and came home for a little couch time, but by the time I got home there wasn't much left.

I have to get the kids at 5, and then the weekend begins - and as all parents know, there's no time for being sick on the weekend.

Saturdays and Sundays are flurries of activity. We usually do some blend of trips to the grocery store, Target, the mall, and dinner at one of a handful of kid-friendly places with lots of quality time at home playing trains, reading stories, chasing the kids around and watching one of Owen's favorite movies.

There is, truly, no time to be sick.

Dave and I try to cover for each other as best we can when one of us falls ill on the weekend, but it's tough. Our house is on one floor, our bedroom is right off the playroom and our door doesnt' stay closed. So no matter how hard we try to sleep late or hide beneath the covers, Owen and Jake always find us.

So I'm off to load up on Robitussin, stuff my pockets with Kleenex and hope for the best. With a little luck, maybe I can hold the worst of this off until Monday when I can stay home and really be sick.

GUEST BLOG: Getting the Best of Both Worlds

Today's guest blog is from my good friend Jen, who is a freelance writer for the Boston Globe. She somehow manages to work out of her house, squeezing interviews in between her 15-month-old son's naps and her 3.5-year-old daughter's mornings at preschool.

First of all, thanks to Heidi to offering us moms a forum to vent. Each day, we all do the best we can to balance our work and families.

Right now, I feel pretty lucky to have the best of both worlds -- I’m still able work but I get to do it at home.

Sometimes, the biggest challenge of the day is finding the mute button on the remote fast enough when the phone rings so the town official on the other end doesn’t hear Dora the Explorer on the TV or my 15-month-old blabbering, “hi, hi, hi,‘’ in the background.

After my second child, I decided I wanted to stay at home with the kids. Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford to not make any money so I work part time, mostly for the Globe.

I try to do most of my writing in the evening when the kids are asleep but first I need to do the interviews. That’s the tough part. Sometimes, I can also do these in the evening but inevitably I need to talk to sources during the day.

This means squeezing in telephone interviews while the two kids, Abigail, 3 and Benjamin, 1, are tearing around the house, making demands for juice, lunch, books, toys, or just attention in general.

I do my best to make phone calls while the baby is napping, but I can’t control when the sources call me back. Of course, more often than not, they call back after naptime. Have you ever tried to keep a 15-month-old quiet? Doesn’t happen. At least not with this chatter box.

Abigail is old enough to have some rules -- when I’m on the phone, she needs to be patient and wait until I’m off. Sounds good in theory, right? Yeah, she’s 3. Doesn’t always work. Then the worst moment of my day is when I lose patience with the 3-year-old for not being patient while I’m working.

So, yeah, it’s pretty hard.

But I’m also very lucky. Many of the folks I talk to for my Globe stories know my situation and are very supportive when they hear one of the little ones in the background. They often ask how the kids are and whether it’s a good time for me. Many of the women in fact have been in the same boat or are envious that I’m able to be with my kids all day while still working.

And that’s really what it’s all about for me.

I know I won’t miss any of Ben’s new words, I can pick up and drop off Abby at her half-day pre-school, and take them to the lake in the middle of the day.

My husband has said he’ll swap places with me if I’d rather work outside the home full time.

Not a chance.

The Most Ignorant Thing I've Ever Heard

My friend Karen is pregnant with her first child. She's due in June and plans to arrange for childcare and return work full-time.

For most working moms, this is a typical scenario. The vast majority of us have no choice but to return to work. Others do so because they need that balance of time between being someone's Mom and someone's employee.

For those who have the financial stability to make it a choice, it's a personal one. I have incredible respect for women who stay home with their kids, and know that without question it can be as hard - if not harder - than going to work each day.

But for some reason, some women just have to make sure the world knows that what they're doing is better than what everyone else is doing. And today someone - a woman who stays home with her child - did just that to Karen.

"Women who put their kids in daycare just don't love them as much as women who stay home with their children," she said.

Wow.

This, to me, is truly the definition of an ignorant statement. How dare she generalize about every working mother in the world in such an offensive way? What does she know about my relationship with my children? And who made her the expert on parent/child relationships?

I wanted to spit. I wanted to scream. And part of me wanted to cry.

Most disturbing about that statement is that, for me, it hits the exact nerve I try to protect. As confident as I am in my decision to maintain my career while raising my children I often have moments, minutes, hours and days filled with doubt, particularly when one or both of my children are sick. It's in those moments that I wonder if it's selfish for me to try and maintain a career, and if I"m going to miss out on my children's childhood, and if it's going to be worth it in the end.

But when the self-doubt clouds dissipate, I always come back to the same conclusion. I am a better mom because I work and I think I am a better employee because I am a mom. I am in awe of moms who love staying at home each day with their children, because I don't know if I could.

My office walls are covered with their artwork, my windowsill is filled with framed photographs, and my computer desktop picture is of Jake sitting on Dave's lap. I talk about them constantly to my coworkers, call daycare at least once each day and am out the door each day by 4:15 so I can pick them up by 5.

I don't know how much other mothers love their children, and I would never try to guess. But I know at the core of my heart that my children and husband are the most important things in the world to me and I love them so much that sometimes it actually hurts.

So, well-meaning woman with the distasteful advice I have just this to say to you: shut up.

GUEST BLOG: My Husband, SuperDad

Jake's been sick with a chest cold for the past few days, and Dave stayed home with him yesterday so I could go to work. Mid-day he wrote the blog below on his own blog (http://guarino-blog.blogspot.com/), and then updated it at the end of the day. I'm posting this for a couple of reasons: It gives a pretty accurate picture of what it's like to be with Jake when he's sick, it shows the astounding amount of patience a parent needs to have to care for a sick 14-month-old, and it shows just what an absolutely outstanding father my husband really is. And to all the naysayers out there who say fathers aren't there when you need them: Take this.

Me and Jackie McGee
Sick day today. No, I'm feeling fine. Jake's sick. Coughing so hard he's throwing up - all the time. Hasn't had a real meal in something like 48 hours.

Already been to doctor, to Children's for a chest x-ray (they think there might be someting "more" going on ... words from a doctor you never, ever want to hear). And so now he's home with me.

We probably could have shuffled him off to daycare but good Lord, how much can a 14-month-old take? And they have this rule about throwing up: If he does it there, he can't come back for at least 24 hours. Makes sense if you think it through.

But boy does it make it tough on parents who work. I can't quite recall the last time I had a "sick day" that was truly just a day when I was sick, home alone. When it's just me who's sick, it's usually time for "Rub some dirt on it son and get back in the game." Life of a Dad, I suppose.

Heidi's certainly done more of these days than I have (covering all days during campaign and my first weeks in the new job). But she has a big conference today and my boss is out of town so, hopefully, the office will be quiet.

So Jake's night went something like this:
7 p.m. - bed
9:45 p.m. - up and crying (right at the end of '24' ... which we missed part of)
midnight - up and crying
4:45 a.m. - up and crying
530 a.m. - up for good.
Then his morning's been something like this:
545 am - dressed by dripping wet Mom, who cut short her shower to get the boy.
547 am - crying because he had to be put down so Owen could get dressed
6 am - first attempt at breakfast (failed)
615 am - a bottle of milk
618 am - coughing
618:30 am - coughing worse
619 am - puking all over Daddy in his nicely-pressed shirt
620 am - Daddy pulls the plug on the day, puts on a flannel
635 am - second attempt at breakfast (half a banana)
640 - 7 am - assorted play/crying/bullying with Owen
7 am - Owen and Mom leave
700:01 am - crying (see previous entry)
700:02 am - Daddy realizes he's in for a long day
704 am - third attempt at breakfast (about four bites of Daddy's oatmeal)
705 - 720 am - good, quiet playtime with blocks
720 - 745 am - The Chase-Me-Around-the-House-While-I-Get-Into-Bad-Things-Like-Garbage-Cans-Bathtubs-And-Laundry Game. A classic.
750 am - fourth attempt at breakfast (failed)
755 - 810 am - assorted play
810 am - attempt to find favored toy under Owen's train table goes horribly wrong when Jake tries to stand up (under the train table).
810 - present - attempt to put Jake down for morning nap

He's only interrupted me with tears three times while writing this item. Now, the only sound in the house is the two pairs of kids overalls with other assorted laundry (and said nice shirt) clinking in the dryer and "Me and Bobby McGee" echoing out of the "mellow" mix on the iPod.

Happy kid means happy parent and, on sick days, quiet kid means happy parent. I better go get the papers, get the papers.

UPDATE: 645 p.m. The wife has now taken Jake off to the doctor as his condition worsened throughout the day. I'm now on Owen detail - which is markedly easier. All in all, though, Jake was a champ. Sick as a dog but still managing to melt my cold, black heart about a dozen times throughout the day. And, somewhere in there, I was able to read the papers, take a couple press calls for work, listen to some chill tunes on the "mellow" mix and even read a bit of my book. Not bad for Dad duty.

GUEST BLOG: 3 Questions From a Mom-to-Be

The first guest blogger to submit t0 Working Mom's Blog is my good friend Karen, a mom-to-be due in June. Proving she's much smarter than I was before my first son was born, she sent out the email below to all of her mom friends asking for the kind of advice we all should have had: not what to expect during labor (that falls under the category of advice no one should get but everyone always wants to give); no, Karen wants practical advice.

My answers are in red, but if you have any suggestions post them to the comments section and I'll pass them on. And if you want to be my next Guest Blogger, send your submission to me at heidi.guarino@gmail.com.

Hello friends,
I hope this email finds you (and your babies) all doing well. I'm writing to you because all of you have become mothers (most for the first time) within the last year. As I think about all that needs to be done before our little one arrives June 3rd, I tend to get a little overwhelmed. OK, specifically, Babies R Us overwhelms me. I think I need a glossary of terms to navigate the store and sometimes I'm not even sure what to do with some of the products!

As I know I need to stock up on essentials, my nervous twitch begins to activate. Then I thought of all of you - very intelligent women who have all gone through this same thing rather recently. Rather than reinvent the wheel (or maybe I'm just being lazy), I'm seeking your advice. Knowing how busy you all are, I fully understand if you don't respond. But if you have a second, would you mind thinking about the following couple of questions?

1. What are the top 3-5 items that were essential to you in the first few months? Were these things that you didn't know you needed? (My answer: Good swaddling blankets, an assortment of onesies, lots of good TV on your DVR, and a stack of takeout menus, preferably from places that deliver.)

2. Were there any items that you bought that you thought you needed but in reality haven't really used? (Fancy outfits that were overpriced, hard to put on and generally unnecessary. Let friends buy your baby the expensive clothes; stick to the basics because that's what you'll really want to use. Also stuffed animals. They are awfully cute but the baby won't pay any attention to them for a while so for now they're just going to get in your way.)

3. Let me know if you have any strong feelings about various brands of items (bottles for example). I've spoken with some of you already and learned that cloth diapers make great burp cloths and that bouncy seats are a wonderful invention. These are perfect examples of things I did not know! (I am a big fan of the Avent bottles. I was wooed for a while by the cool shape of the Dr. Brown's bottles, but they have so many pieces they're a pain to wash, so stick with Avent. Also we have had good luck with anything from Graco.)

Thank you for all of your support! I'm looking forward to play dates already!

Owen's Farewell to Naptime

There are days when I would truly give anything for a nap. Tough days at work, long weekend days with cranky kids, or really, just about any day. Just imagine having a set time each day when the only thing expected of you is that you get into your comfiest clothes, climb into bed and sleep for a couple of hours.

In the last couple of months my husband and I have managed to train our two kids to nap at the same time (note that I did not say "together" as in "in the same room at the same time" - we tried that once and believe me, nobody slept...) But with O in his bed and J in the pack-and-play in our bedroom we've managed to squeeze in some quality TV time every Saturday and Sunday.

Unfortunately, that seems to be over.

Our oldest has quite simply, decided to give up his nap. Sure, he'll be 4 this June and it's probably time, but until a few weeks ago he took a good 2 hour snooze each day. But the last couple of weeks he has simply refused to go to sleep.

He's more than happy to go into his room, change into his PJs, climb into bed and have us read him a couple of stories. We go over the rules - no toys, no books, keep your head on the pillow - and he nods his head like he plans to follow them. We leave, close the door, and settle into the couch.

And then it's like rules? What rules? He talks and talks and talks and talks and talks. He makes up stories, he jumps up and down on his bed, he pulls his pillow out of the pillowcase, he wanders around his room and collects whatever toys he can find and piles them on his bed... it's unbelieveable. The kid can go on this way for almost 3 hours, with no break.

This weekend was probably the last straw for us. Dave and I went in every half hour and tried to settle him down, but it never worked. At 3 p.m. we finally gave up and brought him back out and he came bounding out of his room, ready to play up a storm.

So I give up. No more planning our days around Owen's siesta. Which, to be honest, will make our social lives a lot easier. But when are we going to catch up on Tivo?

The First Time I Got Stood Up

Before I got married I had the insecure fear that most girls have at one time or another -- that my dates would stand me up. That we'd make plans, I'd get all gussied up for a night out, and he would sneak off with his buddies and laugh about the joke he had played on me, leaving me to cry alone in my prom dress.

Luckily that never happened to me - until last night, when it sort of did.

Instead of buying each other expensive gifts for Valentine's Day this year, my husband and I decided to take ourselves out. I asked my son's new daycare teacher if she would babysit, she agreed to be here at 5 p.m. and we left it at that. Stupidly I didn't bother getting her phone number (or, in truth, her last name), and made plans for the night.

We were psyched. We don't get to go out that often because babysitters are expensive, so at best we do it every couple of months or when my mother offers to spend the night. So we planned a fun night of dinner, bowling and drinks. We cleaned up the house, got the kids ready for a night with a new babysitter, got dressed, and waited.

And waited and waited and waited.

For some reason, she never showed. At first we thought she had misunderstood the time and was going to come at 5:30 instead of 5, but then it was 6 p.m., then it was 6:30 p.m., and then we knew the night was over.

So, we made the best of it. We ate leftover pizza, watched a movie and went to bed. In the end we probably saved about $100 or more by staying in, but it was still a drag.

Maybe she had a good reason. Maybe her own kids got sick. Maybe she rang our doorbell and we didn't hear it. Maybe she thought we meant Sunday and will show up tonight. Who knows.

At least I wasn't wearing a prom dress.

OK Universe, You and Me, Outside. Now.

It probably wasn't true, but yesterday I genuinely thought the universe was working against me.

I had to go to Washington, D.C. for a conference, which is something I get to do a couple of times a year. This time I only really had to be there for one session, which was in the middle of the day on Friday, so I decided to go up and back on the same day. When I made that decision it seemed like a good idea. In reality, not so much.

Now, I had no way of knowing when I made my arrangements that just days before my trip there would be an ice storm that would literally throw the entire airline system - truly every airline you can imagine - into chaos. If I had been thinking though I probably would have realized it was the Friday before a holiday weekend and school vacation week. therefore making it a day of misery to fly.

Unfortunately I wasn't thinking, and instead booked myself on a 7 a.m. flight out and a 7 p.m. flight home.

I don't go on a lot of business trips. Truth be told I've probably only gone to about 4 or 5 in my whole career, most of them to DC, and usually for no more than a day or two. They can be rushed and chaotic, but there is something wonderful about getting the chance to travel alone with no carseats, portable DVD players or bags of toys to lug -- or, of course, children. So, when I get the chance, if my husband's schedule will allow, I usually jump at it. And if it's just a day trip, all the better -- no luggage at all.

So, ever the dutiful working mom, I set the alarm for 4 a.m., got up and reset it for my husband, and got ready to go. I was out the door by 4:45, at the airport by 5:15, checked in and at the gate with my book, iPod, 2 newspapers, tea and a donut by 6 a.m. I found myself a comfy chair and settled in for what I thought would be a short wait.

At 6:45 I wandered over to the desk to see why they hadn't called my flight yet and was told they would call it any minute. At 7:15 they told me the same thing. At 7:45 they told me the truth: that my flight was held up because there was no flight attendant. It seems two days of ice had led to 2 days of cancelled flights, which had backed everything - and everyone - up. "Any minute," they said.

I should have known. Right then, at that moment, I should have just listened to what the universe was very clearly trying to tell me, packed my things and gone home. After all, it was just one meeting, not such an important one, and they really wouldn't miss me. But I sat back down, and waited. And waited. And waited.

At 10:15 my plane finally boarded, and we landed at 11:40 a.m., giving me 20 minutes to hop a cab and make my meeting.

I made it, the meeting was fine, and my part was done by 2 p.m. And after the morning I'd had, I decided I just wanted to go home and not hang around for another 5 hours. So I called my travel agent to see if she could change the ticket, but she said everything was booked. Resigned to my fate, I went to the Air and Space Museum and the Museum of Natural History and wandered around. A few hours later I hopped a cab and set off for the airport, ready to find another comfy chair and await my flight at 7 p.m.

But again, something - or someone - was working against me yesterday. My phone rang, and it was my coworker, who was flying home with me. "Our flight's been cancelled," he said.

Anyone who knows me knows that when I have to, I can - as my husband likes to call it - "get my Heidi up." I can usually get us a table in an overbooked restaurant or get the attention of a stressed out cashier. So I gathered my strength in the cab, prepared to talk us onto whatever plane I could. I didn't care what happened - we were going home.

My husband told me I was nuts. "Get a hotel room, take yourself to dinner and come home tomorrow," he said. All day he had been hearing on the news about the airlines in chaos, and didn't want me walking into another disaster. But again, I didn't listen. All I could think of was my own house, my own family, my own bed, and taking off my damn business suit.

In the end, everything worked out. I stood in line for about two hours, argued with anyone who would listen, briefly considered renting a car to drive home and nearly wore out my cell phone with calls to any airline whose number I could recall. But finally, I landed myself a standby ticket on a direct flight to Boston, and miraculously, I got on.

I got home around 9 p.m., 17 hours after waking up. On my way home I drove through KFC, something I never do, but felt I deserved. The rest of the way I looked forward to my first bite of those creamy, buttery, really-bad-for you mashed potatoes. I got in and opened up the bag and - no surprise - they gave me macaroni and cheese instead.

The moral of my story: no more day trips to DC, no more flying Delta, and absolutely no more KFC. Ever.

An Open Invitation to Other Working Moms

Even though I promised myself I would not blog at work, I had a great idea in the middle of the day about how to make this blog even better. Sure, it's only my second day at this, but I'm already pretty certain no one is going to want to just read my ramblings. So I've decided to make this an open blog for other working moms who want to contribute.

So, before I lost my nerve, I took a few minutes to send a note out to every working mom I could think of. I invited friends from around the world, co-workers and relatives to contribute and to encourage others to do the same. Who knows? Maybe I'll get a book out of this someday. Here's what I wrote:

Being a working mom is really, really hard -- at least, for me it is. As nice as it is to put on professional clothes and make up all week, I can't help but think of potty training tricks and recipes that may tempt my toddlers during important meetings. And as nice as it is to hang out with my family at night and on the weekends, I often find my mind wandering back to that big press release I have to write or that big project I just haven't had time to finish. There's never enough time in the day, I never feel like I get enough sleep, and I can't remember the last time I stayed up past 10 p.m.

I change diapers in heels, I buy baby food on my lunch break, I come to work with a variety of fluids (no details needed here) on my suits.

I am, by definition, a working mom.

But I don't have to tell any of you what it means. You're all doing it. Some part time, some full time, some - like Karen - aren't there yet but will be soon.

I'm sending this email to all of you because I've decided to start a blog about this very topic, and I want you - and other women in your lives - to be part of it. I'm starting the Working Mom's Blog, and if you are so inclined, invite you all to submit guest entries to be posted.

Write about whatever strikes you: the weird things people say to you in the office when you're pregnant, the ups and downs of daycare, the crazy things your kids do and say, the guilt over how nice it can be to come to work on monday mornings ... (I plan to hit that one soon)... whatever strikes you. I plan to keep the blog updated and will contribute myself regularly, but I would love to include a variety of voices.

I started the blog last night so it's nothing great yet, but let me know if you'd like to contribute. With your help - and the help of others you pass this on to - I think this could turn into something really interesting.

So check it out: http://workingmomsblog.blogspot.com/ -- and if you want to contribute, send your entry to me at heidi.guarino@gmail.com

Why Sleep Eludes Me

I'm not sure why, but every few years I enter a phase where I just cannot sleep. It's happened to me ever since I was little, and for some reason I still react the same way I did then: I panic.

I can remember being about 7 or 8 and lying in bed unable to sleep. I would hear all of the nighttime routines taking place, like my sister going to bed, my mother doing the dishes and the two of them finally climbing the stairs to go to bed. I would lay there feeling like the only person in the world still awake and really freak out. What if a burglar came into the house and found me there? What if I never fell asleep again?

Eventually I would drift off after hours of frantic flopping, pillow turning and seven-year-old anxiety. Sometimes I would go into my parent's room and wake my mother, hoping she had the solution. "Go get a drink of water," she would say sleepily, turning over already asleep.

Fast forward about 30 years and you have me now. The difference, of course, is I don't have my own room anymore, and my mother is no longer down the hall. Instead I have my husband, who unfailingly can lay down, breathe in once and be asleep by the time he breathes out. I have nothing but respect for his ability to fall instantly asleep, but on my frantic "Holy shit I can't sleep" nights, it really pisses me off.

On those nights I may as well still be 7 years old. I flip. I flop. I rearrange my pillows. I huff a few times, hoping to wake him "accidentally," but he sleeps like a rock. So finally I just give him a nudge and wake him up.

"I can't sleep," I say pathetically.

"What?" he says, still 90 percent asleep.

"I just can't sleep," I say, still hoping for that magic cure.

Sometimes my husband will rub the sleep from his eyes and try to reason with me, which never works. By that time I'm just in a frenzy, convinced sleep will continue to elude me until dawn, when I'll be so exhausted I won't be able to function. Sometimes he tries to convince me that I've just been asleep and haven't been flip flopping for hours. Sometimes he'll try to rub my head, but will inevitably just fall asleep mid-rub, leaving his hand like a dead weight on my skull. Sometimes he just sighs, mumbles something and falls back to sleep.

I don't blame him. Hell, he deserves a medal for putting up with my night anxiety. Inevitably I always do fall asleep. Sometimes I count backwards from 100, write a letter in my head or do some other strange relaxation trick. I have yet (knock on wood please)to flip flop my way through an entire night, and am usually out by midnight at the latest.

What I can't understand is why this still happens to me. My marriage is great, my kids are healthy, my job is going well and my life is just generally in a good place right now.

I'm a reasonable person, I usually don't panic when I hear creaks in the floor, and am getting over my fear of the dark, but without fail I still fall for my own damn head game every time.

I don't lose sleep because my life is in a disarray, I create a self fulfilling prophesy and lead myself into my own insomniac hell. Hours before bed my head starts repeating the same sentence: "I hope I can sleep to night...what if I can't sleep... uh oh I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep... I'd better fall asleep... I have to wake up soon..." By the time I go to bed I've already lost the battle.

The next morning my husband always tries to console me, reason with me, or at least cheer me up. His most convincing argument: out of sheer exhaustion, the next night I always sleep like a rock.

My New Priority

I've been having a tough time with priorities lately. What should be my top priority? My job? My first child? My second child? My husband? My car with the squeaking brakes? My cat who was just diagnosed with diabetes and needs two insulin shots a day?

Or, heaven forbid... me?

I've always been lousy at putting myself first. Since I got married and had kids I've gotten even worse. When I'm shopping I always hesitate to buy something for myself unless its on sale, but will eagerly buy $45 shoes at Stride Rite for my 13 month old who will outgrow them in a matter of weeks. I put off getting my hair cut or going out with my friends until I"m certain my husband is taken care of, the kids have been fed, etc. etc.

My friends and I have talked about this and we all agree: something about being a mom makes you a martyr. Not to say that Dads can't do the same thing - I know my husband can be Super Martyr when he wants to be - but Moms generally seem to be overburdened with the Martyr gene.

Don't get me wrong - I have no regrets. I do miss the days when I had time for yoga class, drinks with friends after work, and was able to see a movie or go to a new restaurant whenever I wanted. But when I sit down and really think about it, it's an easy trade. A night of Lincoln Logs and Thomas the Tank Engine - interspersed with the occasional discussion about Buzz Lightyear - not only leaves me enough cash for the next trip to Stride Rite, it's much more fun.

So I guess I have changed. But like everyone I still need something for myself, and that's where this blog comes in. I'm not sure I'll be as faithful as some of the regular bloggers out there, but I'll do my best. So stay tuned...