The Magpie has an appointment with an ophthalmologist in September, at which time she will be roughly 15 months old. There are no symptoms: no crossed eyes, no wandering orbs, no failed or flimsy attempts to grab her favourite items of the day. What we do have is me. And I didn’t have any of those symptoms either, yet my left eye is as good as useless. Better still, I have family members similarly afflicted.

So, it really didn’t take much for our pediatrician to suggest that a specialist have a look at our daughter’s eyes. We’re not really sure what he’ll be able to look for at 15 months, without there being communication between the doctor and the patient, but he can presumably tell something. And, at the very least, we can tell him what she does see.

She sees her puppy and her kitty. And all the neighbourhood puppies and kitties. There is nothing like a cat to cause a knee-high streak tearing down the lane. She sees her books and can find her favourite page in each. She sees the dog hair I haven’t vacuumed and picks it up to give to me. She sees her Dada and sees him well enough to pat his head, poke his nose and pick any decals off his shirts. She sees me. She sees what kind of shirt I’m wearing and whether it is more efficient to try and pull it up or pull it down. She sees her grandparents on the video calls and the playground from across the street. She sees the only drum worth having among a pile of drums and shakers at music class.

She does see her world. She sees who her friends are, who she wants to be her friends and who she’d rather would leave her the hell alone. She knows where to place her kisses and her punches. And I’d say that means she sees quite well enough.

We’re just hoping the ophthalmologist thinks so, too.

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Jenn is a recently back-to-work mom of a one year old girl. She writes about her daughter, her daughter’s temporary stay-at-home dad and life’s other sundries at Quarter Rest. This post is part of the July Blog Exchange – be sure to head over to Quarter Rest to see Jennifer’s post today!

Having a child has definitely changed my life. I love my daughter Allison more than I could have ever imagined I would. In fact, when I first got pregnant, it occurred to me exactly how selfish I was. I knew I loved my husband Eric, but did my cold, black heart have enough room to love the cells of the child growing inside of me? I did not think so. I was frightened, horrified, depressed, scared, and most of all, ANGRY. I had no misconceptions about the difficulties that lie ahead with a child. I could not understand why I was chosen to have a child, knowing I would fail miserably at parenting and I would have difficulty carrying a child to term (I had cancer when I was young). I underestimated the joy a child can bring, however, and miscalculated the size my heart would grow to accommodate the love I have for my child. I love her and more than I knew anyone could love another person.

I was not surprised about how difficult things were to be though; how taxing giving your heart away everyday and all that caring for a helpless child entails. There are a lot of split decisions a mother must make each day. It has changed my life in some ways I do not love so much. I do miss my slower-paced, childless life sometimes. I miss my Cheerio-free carpet and car seats that do not have Goldfish crackers smashed into them. I miss my flat stomach and my boobs being where they are supposed to be. I miss sleeping in past 7:30 a.m. and sleeping through the night. I am so exhausted some days; I just do not think I can make it. I would give anything for five minutes of peace. I do make it and realize I would not have it any other way.

There are so many things I was astonished by, however. I never expected to laugh so hard. I never expected to feel so warm and fuzzy about the simplest of events. I never expected to worry so much about the little things: Breast or bottle? Co-sleeping or crying it out? Organic foods? When do we start solids? Some times my heart fills up with so much love and concern, it feels as though my heart may actually explode and spill over with love.

I never expected to appreciate my own mother as much as I have grown to. I never expected to really enjoy being a mother. Being a mom is the most fulfilling and most challenging job I have ever had. I had no way of knowing just how blessed I would be. I had no ability to predict this little person would touch my life in the most incredible ways.

It is painful to look back sometimes and think that I thought my life was over because I was having a child. I now realize my life would have been so much less enriched. I would be missing out on so much.

Being a mother has been God’s most beautiful, amazing, and greatest gift.

Stay-at-home mom, runner, disgruntled…

Laura blogs at My Beautiful Life and lives in San Diego, California with her husband, 18 month old baby girl, two dogs, and a cat. She blogs about anything that comes to mind, which is often running, her adorable daughter or random bitching.

*You can find more info about the Blog Exchange and how to participate, as well as the May participants and entries, by clicking here. Jennifer is at Laura’s place today!*

This post was written by Lara David, of Life: The Ongoing Education.

Over Thanksgiving, Mom and I sat together and watched some old home movies. I took the opportunity to mock Mom for any number of… interesting decisions made. Putting my sister in an Easter bonnet twice the size of her head, for example. Or giving us both “books” for Christmas that strongly resembled free medical pamphlets (”Your ovaries and you” – thanks, Mom!). And, of course, the classic moment where she sent me trekking out to brave the ski slopes all alone and a wayward snowboarder almost took me out. There was a LOT of mocking going on here, folks. And Mom, good sport that she is, laughed along with me and said, “What can I say? I’m the original Her Bad Mother.”

Now, in a way, this is both true and false. It’s clearly false because my mother was not (is not), in fact, a bad mother. Okay, so our Christmas presents looked like they came from the bargain bin at the dollar store, and our clothes were often blindingly poor fashion choices. But you know what? We had no idea. We got a plastic kazoo under the tree – we were thrilled. Hand-me-downs were new to us. We were happy, because Mom stretched an impossibly thin budget well enough that we were oblivious to what we were missing. That is not a bad mother.

But of course, there is some element of truth in Mom’s statement as well, because Her Bad Mother is also not at all a bad mother. Oh, she worries that she is, as I’m sure my mother did at times. But there is no truth at all to her nom de blog.

I’ve often felt, over the past few months, like a bit of a poser in my area of the blogosphere. A wannabe. An interloper. An outsider, unwelcome, yet forcing my way in. The fact is that I read mommy blogs. I read them, I comment on them, I link to them. But the fact is that I am not a mommy blogger. I’m not a mommy. So what could I possibly have to contribute to the mommy blogging community?

But I do have thoughts and perspectives to share. For one thing, I’ve been a nanny, so I can share childcare stories just as well as others. I can talk about poopy diapers, and picky eating, and tantrums, and beautiful baby laughter. But I think I often forget an important point, which is that these mommy bloggers are mommies to someone – sons and daughters. And maybe I’m not a mommy yet, but I am a daughter.

While spending much needed time with Mom that weekend, I began to look at her more closely, to appreciate her more fully. And as I began to really understand how wonderful a woman she is, I began to realize how impossible it would be to keep that wonder to myself.

These are my mother’s eyes. They are hazel – like mine, but she has more gold flecks than I do. They are bright and expressive; they are quiet and wise. They have watched me grow for over 24 years, peering closely to anticipate my needs, to observe me, to know me. When she cries, they turn red and her mascara clumps together and it just about breaks my heart. When she laughs, they crinkle in the corners and they sparkle like the sun on the ocean and it just about breaks my heart.

This is my mother’s ear. This ear (and the other one, too!) has listened to so many stories – my trials, my triumphs, my pride, my fear. It has heard all of me, in all my forms. It has endured my sobbing, from infant wails to 20-something breakdowns. It has enjoyed my laughter – the giggles, the cackles, the outbursts of guffaws in horribly inappropriate moments. It has warmed at the sound of my singing, of sending her a blessing from a concert stage, of belting out showtunes in the car with Seeser. This ear has listened to me for years, but more importantly, this ear has heard me. These are my mother’s feet (and her ankles, which she despises, but I love them).

These are the feet that paced with me up and down the hall, in and out of the living room, in circles round the bedroom, when I was hurt, or scared, or sick with croup. These are the feet that searched for me every evening after I had crawled to a new hiding place to fall asleep. These are the feet that danced in the kitchen using the counter as a West Coast partner, teaching me to love to dance. These are the feet that walked ahead of me, to show me the way; that walked beside me in a show of support; that walked behind me, in case I should stumble and need a salvation. These are the feet that left those footprints on my heart.

This is my mother’s smile. Her teeth are slightly crooked, despite braces, and she has lines around her mouth from many years of laughter, but this smile is perfect. My mother’s smile is real, sincere, genuine, and it makes me want to smile back. I have seen this smile look upon me with pride, with excitement, with warmth, and always with love. It’s a beautiful smile.

HBM once talked about the deep and inextricable tie between mothers and their children – the inescapable physical bond that connects them forever. I have no doubts that I cannot yet fully comprehend that bond as it feels for a mother, but I feel it as a daughter. I know when I am hurting, my mother hurts too, even from hundreds of miles away. I know when I hear her voice, I worry less, even if nothing has actually changed and she has said nothing but, “Oh, my poor baby…” And I know when she holds my hand and strokes my hair, I feel stronger, like she is giving me some of her own energy to sustain me. I don’t understand these things, but I know them. I know her. She is my beautiful, wonderful, amazing, and precious mother. She is mine, and I am hers – for always.

I love you, Mom.

———————————– Thanks for joining us for this month’s Blog Exchange. This post was written by Lara David, of Life: The Ongoing Education. She chose this as one of her all-time favorite posts because she feels it’s the closest she ever came to successfully showing her mother how awesome she is. “Ever a student, ever a teacher,” Lara is working towards a degree in education and a career as a high school teacher, constantly discovering that the more she learns, the less she really knows. She loves new friends, so follow along with the ups and downs of her life lessons over at her place. Plus, Jennifer is writing over there today, so go visit and leave a friendly word or two.

The girl’s first childhood project was a latch-hook rug with a panda printed on it. And even though she finished it, she knew her mother thought latch-hook was tacky, so it was never made into a pillow like the ones that adorned her paternal grandmother’s living room sofa. It was merely folded and stored in its original box until her mother disposed of it when the family moved.

Then she moved on to a bigger project - a needlepoint rainbow, cloud and sun, using a plastic canvas. Her mother now worked in a needlework shop, and the shop owner wanted to display the girl’s work - with the caveat that the girl would get to keep her finished project. She worked diligently for several weeks and was quite proud of the result which hung from the ceiling of the shop and was never returned to her. The girl was older now and ready to try more difficult projects. Despite her mother’s passion for knitting, she did not share it.

She turned instead to cross-stitch, choosing bright colors of embroidery floss and stitching her monogram everywhere she could. She cross-stitched Christmas tree ornaments and stitched a mallard duck onto loosely woven fabric and made it into a pillow. The ornaments grace her aunt’s tree each year, and the duck pillow still remains on her aunt’s sofa. The girl chooses to believe that her aunt keeps these treasures because she does consider them treasures, not just because her aunt keeps EVERYTHING.

For several years, the girl created nothing but chaos - and sadly, no embroidery floss was involved. She dismissed herself as having no creativity, and considering that she wore a blue shirt and blue pants (or blue skirt, for a little variety) five days a week, it’s safe to say that her creativity did wane somewhat. But then she and her husband created a little girl. And then another one. And the girl - who was now undeniably a woman - began to sense a change in herself. She found that she cared whether there were crumbs on the floor. She emptied the trash cans before they overflowed. She oohed and aahed over little girl clothes and took great pains to dress her children beautifully.

She had been domesticated.

And with that domestication came a resurgence of her creativity. She began to write. And people actually enjoyed reading what she wrote. So she wrote more.

But she also began to create again. She pulled out her knitting needles - the long-forgotten tools and her dusty reference book (Vogue Knitting) - and made a scarf. Then a hat. Then more scarves and more hats.

She met another local mother who made barrettes. And because the woman couldn’t stand for someone else to know how to do something that she herself didn’t know how to do, she started making barrettes too.

The woman’s house is now filled with unfinished projects. She’ll finish them. Someday.

In the meantime, she’s satisfied that once again - she’s crafty.

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Welcome to this month’s Blog Exchange! Thanks to Jennifer for allowing me to put a whole new spin on the classic Beastie Boys song “She’s Crafty”. Please go see what she’s written today over at my place - mothergoosemouse. I’ve got an almost-kindergartener who’s destined for a career as a lawyer, a toddler who speaks only in high-pitched shrieks, a husband who can drink his weight in Natty Light, and all I really want in life is a clean kitchen floor.