The True Cost of Motherhood -- according to Yahoo! and Financially Fit

I just read an interesting article on the True Cost of Motherhood.

Basically, it was about how much having a child affects a woman's finances.

Here are their findings:

• Low-skilled women don’t get very big raises, and having kids does little to change that.The so-called wage trajectories (think of a line graph showing a worker’s wages growing over time) of low-skilled women are much flatter than those of high-skilled women. Having children didn’t change those trajectories very much.
• For high-skilled women, kids spell the end of raises. High-skilled women have steep wage trajectories. Those trajectories flatten out almost precisely at the moment they have children.
• Low-skilled women don’t seem to make their lost wages back. Ten years after having children, low-skilled women have wages that are six percent lower than their counterparts.
• High-skilled women don’t make that money back, either. Ten years after having children, high-skilled women have wages that are 24 percent lower than their counterparts.
• Becoming a parent seems to have no effect on men’s wages.
  

And my response?

DUH.

Really? We needed to do a study on something that has been common knowledge for 30 years, at least?

But that wasn't the part that made me really mad... it was the comments.

Chaos, your synonym is children

Allow me to introduce you to the chaos that is my house...

My husband and I normally start to lose our minds at dinner time. Sometimes earlier. Sometimes later. But dinner time is typical.

It starts when Boyo refuses to eat. So I bribe him with dessert. Just three bites...

Girlie then chimes in with, "Well, I'm going to have four."

That's great.

The kids finish, I'm speed eating to be ready to jump up and fend off disaster, and my husband, who after 4 years of having kids still hasn't learned how to eat fast, is taking his time. The kids ask to be excused. I say yes.

They begin to run around in circles - through the kitchen, down the hall, through each of their rooms, and through the living room. This lasts for about five peaceful laps.

Then I hear the dreaded, "Lets race!"

As I'm shouting, "No racing!" I hear the crash. And Boyo (for some reason, it's always him) say, "Uh-oh, I broke it Mommy, I broke it, whoopsie."

Girlie starts yelling at him, "I told you not to run! I told you not to race. You crashed into the lamp/table/pantry/wall/picture/couch/me! You are in the penalty box!" Way to throw him under the bus, honey. I'm sure you had nothing to do with it.

I stay quiet, hoping they will either a) figure it out on their own or b) call for their daddy.

Tonight, they figured it out on their own.

Next, my son runs into the kitchen. Only this time, he's naked. I don't know why he's naked, and it's easier if I don't ask. He drapes a dish towel around his shoulders and declares, "I hewo Mommy," before running into the bathroom.

Girlie chases him, screaming, "That's my shawl!"

I know I should speak up but again, it's easier to stay quiet. Keep in mind that during this, my husband is trying to have an adult conversation with me. Good luck with that, honey. We'll catch up in about 10 years.

My son runs by again, dish towel still around his shoulders. Girlie's wailing in the background. I take the time to shove two bites of food in my son's mouth as he goes by.

Boyo runs over to the dog dish and proceeds to dump the dog's food from the dish into the water bowl.

"Stop it," I order him. "Stop it right now! Stop it, Boyo! I mean it, you had better, stop it!" I know I should get up and remove him from disaster, but I figure if I keep saying stop it, he will listen to me in about 7 years.

Eventually my husband gets the hint, gets up and puts the kids in the playroom, locking the gate behind him.

Boyo begins to vigorously shake the gate, screaming, "Open de gate Mommy! Open de gate!" at the top of his lungs. Girlie chimes in, screaming, "Don't yell at Mommy! She's taking a break!"

My right eye starts to twitch.

The kids eventually settle themselves down and begin barking and howling at each other in the other room. I'm beginning to wonder if they have been replaced by a wolf pack -- which I'm willing to bet would be easier to handle -- when I hear my daughter say, "Brother, lets not be monsters anymore."

If only.

Peace reigns for a minute and 46 seconds (I'm timing it), before Girlie yells, "Brother has my scissors."

I get up, remove the scissors, pretend I don't see how they have pulled all of the cushions off of my couch, and lock them back into the playroom.

Five seconds later, I hear Girlie let out an ear splitting scream. I run into the living room to find Boyo in the penalty box (where he has put himself) and Girlie sobbing "Brother bit me!"

I soothe, my husband scolds, and we decide it's time for bath.

Thus, the bathtime battle begins...

First, they fight over whether or not they need to have bubbles. The both agree yes, but the fight is over whether or not they will have Princess bubbles or Toy Story bubbles. I decree there will be no bubbles.

Girlie goes and brushes her teeth, goes potty, and strips before climbing into the tub.

Boyo runs and hides in his room. He picks a pretty good hiding spot this time - behind the box of diapers that he is twice the size of. My husband carries him kicking and screaming back to the bathroom, where he holds Boyo and I pry his mouth open to brush his teeth. Then we dump him in the bath, where he screams, "No, no, no, I no want to!" for the three minutes it takes us to scrub him down. Girlie is, of course, helping by screaming, "You have to have a bath! You are dirty!"

My right eye is now twitching to the beat of the throbbing of my head.

After bath, I chase Boyo down to fight him into his pjs.

Girlie demands her yellow nightgown. Not her pink one. Or her white one. The yellow one. That is in the wash. An epic temper tantrum results. She demands I leave her room and slams the door behind me. My husband opens the door and scolds her for slamming the door and being rude to me. Tears abruptly end when he threatens no dessert.

We tell them they can watch one TV show before bed. Boyo wants Spiderman. Girlie wants Batman. Before another argument can start, my husband decrees that they are watching Star Wars.

I leave the three of them, snuggled on the couch watching The Clone Wars, to blog about it.

I wish I could have a glass of wine.

RIP Marlon

Remember how I mentioned here that my daughter won a goldfish?

It made it 32 hours... give or take 15 minutes.

Yup, Marlon is swimming in the big fish bowl in the sky.

And Girlie? She hasn't noticed yet.

But she did just ask where Irish the Cat was.... who hasn't been living with us for 3 months now.

Wordless Wednesday

Things Said Around My House....

~
Boyo: (finishing his ABCs) "No no no my abc's... sing with me next time"

~
Girlie: (after playing Horsie with brother and her daddy). "Don't play on Daddy! He's not a jungle gym, he's a horsie!"

~
Girlie: (Saying her prayers with Daddy). "And God Bless Mommy. And God Bless Daddy. And God Bless Me. And God Bless Baby Sister."

Daddy: "And God Bless Brother."

Girlie: "No thanks."

~
Boyo: (at Disneyland) "I go find Nemo."

Girlie: "It's not hard. He's in Tomorrowland."

~
Girlie, after she found a clover: "Lookit Momma! It's a mushrock!"

~
Boyo: "No noodles. Cookies."

Me: "If you eat five bites of noodles, you can have a cookie."

Boyo: "Fife cookies, one noodle."

God, they learn negotiation young.

~
Girlie: "I like that Princess coloring book. Maybe I can have it for my birthday."

Me: "Honey Girl, there is no way you are getting everything you see for your birthday."

Girlie: "Well, maybe Santa will bring it my party."

The Cost of Kids

A friend sent me this for Mother's Day... I had to share.

The Cost of Kids

The government recently calculated the cost of raising a child from birth to 18 and came up $160,140! That doesn't even touch college tuition. For those with kids, that figure leads to wild fantasies about all the money we could have banked if not for (insert a child's name here). For others, that number might confirm the decision to remain childless.

But $160,140 isn't so bad if you break it down. It translates into $8,896.66 a year, $741.38 a month, or 171.08 a week. That's a mere $24.44 a day! Just over a dollar an hour. Still, you might think the best financial advice says don't have children if you want to be "rich". It is just the opposite.

What do you get for your $160,140??

Naming rights - first, middle, and last! Glimpses of God every day. Giggles under the covers every night. More love than your heart can hold. Butterfly kisses and Velcro hugs. Endless wonder over rocks, ants, clouds, and warm cookies. A hand to hold. A partner for blowing bubbles, flying kites, building sandcastles, and skipping down the sidewalk in the pouring rain. Someone to laugh yourself silly with no matter what the boss said or how your stocks performed that day.

For $160,140, you never have to grow up. You get to finger-paint, carve pumpkins, play hide-and-seek, catch lightning bugs, and never stop believing in Santa Claus. You have an excuse to keep reading the Adventures of Piglet and Pooh, watching Saturday morning cartoons, going to Disney movies and wishing on stars. You get to frame rainbows, hearts, and flowers under refrigerator magnets and collect spray painted noodle wreaths for Christmas, hand prints set in clay for Mother's Day, and cards with backward letters for Father's Day.

For $160,140, there is no greater bang for your buck. You get to be a hero just for retrieving a Frisbee off the garage roof, taking the training wheels off the bike, removing a splinter, filling the wading pool, coaxing a wad of gum out of bangs, and coaching a baseball team that never wins but always gets treated to ice cream regardless. You get a front row seat to history to witness the first step, first word, first bra, first date, and first time behind the wheel. You get to be immortal. You get another branch added to your family tree, and if you're lucky, a long list of limbs in your obituary called grandchildren. You get an education in psychology, nursing, criminal justice, communications, and human sexuality that no college can match.

In the eyes of a child, you rank right up there with God. You have all the power to heal a boo-boo, scare away the monsters under the bed, patch a broken heart, police a slumber party, ground them forever, and love them without limits, so one day they will, like you, love without counting the cost.

Author Unknown

HURRAH!

~

Baby Girl's brain is GOOD!

As I mentioned last Friday, my OB had some concerns about Baby Girl's brain -- there was a "gap" between her brain and her skull. So I went in for a fetal diagnostic today.... and after about half an hour and all sorts of measurements, the perinatal doctor said that Baby's brain looks good!

The good news is that her brain looks good and there are no other "brain-al" abnormalities. The bad news is that they still don't know what the gap is. The okay news is that babies typically have a space between their brain and skull, but that space is normally 1 cm. Baby Girl's measures 1.06 cm. (So that is the medical definition of a "smidge"...)

.06 doesn't seem like that big a difference to me, but to a teeny tiny baby, who knows? So they are going to monitor it... I have another fetal diagnostic in 4 weeks, and then they will do a head ultrasound when the baby is born. But the perinatal doctor seemed to think this would clear up on its own.

On another note, Baby Girl's tummy is measuring at 34 weeks (not the 31 weeks gestational age it should be measuring at) because we are having problems keeping my blood sugars under control. But before I could even flip out over that measurement, let alone process it, the doctor said that all that meant was that I would have a "Buddah-esque baby."

And I got a new due date -- one week earlier than what they had said originally.

All in all, a fabulous day!

Marlon the Fish

~

We have a fish tank at our house. In it swim about a thousand little black and white mollies, a frog, and a sucker fish. We started with the frog, a sucker fish, and 5 black and white mollies.

The mollies are procreating.

There are probably about 4 generations of mollies in that tank.

And now... there is Marlon the Goldfish.

Why? Because we went to our church's festival last night.

Girlie was very excited --she knew their would be a goldfish toss booth and she told me, quite determinedly, that she was going to get a goldfish. (Not win. She seemed to think I was going to just go buy one for her.)

I was hoping that she wouldn't.

Still, I bought the tickets, traded a ticket in for 8 ping pong balls, and hoisted her up so that she could see over the counter to throw the ping pong balls towards the cups of colored water.

I figured I was safe... after all, she has aim like me. So when the first seven balls went no where near the cups of colored water, I relaxed.

The eighth ball made it in through the grace of God and the wind.

Girlie was shrieking with delight as the game attendant handed her a sandwich bag filled with water and a gold feeder fish.

She promptly named it Marlon.



I named it that damn fish.

What am I going to tell her when that damn fish dies?

Because I know that is going to happen... the stupid feeder fish will die in 24 hours before Girlie has time to forget about it. And I will have to either explain death to a three year old or run to the store and buy another feeder fish that will probably die in 24 hours...

Or we could play Finding Nemo: The Home Game, as my husband suggested.

Scary Doctor's Visit, Calm Doctor...

I had my 30 week check up yesterday.

Everything looked good. It was as he was leaving that my doctor dropped THE BOMB.

"Oh, by the way," he said, very matter of factly, "In your last ultrasound, I noticed that the gap between the baby's brain and skull was a smidge too big. I'm sure it's nothing, but I want you to meet with a perinatal doctor and have a fetal diagnostic test done."

As everything around me came to a crashing standstill, all I could do was sputter: "Wh-wh-what?"

Seeming to realize that he both stunned and scared the sh#$ out of me, my OB said, "Shannon, truly, it's nothing to be afraid of. I'm not worried. We just want to get a better look. Tanya will call you to set up the appointment."

Several questions flew through my mind, but only one came out. It wasn't, what do you mean, gap? Nor was it, Can I have the medical definition of "smidge"? I didn't ask, what is a perinatal doctor? Nor did I ask, what is a fetal diagnostic? And I certainly didn't give voice to my biggest fear, what is wrong with my baby? Will she have a mental handicap? What does this mean?

Nope, the only question I could ask was, "When will I have the results?"

My doc patted my arm, "That day. Not a big deal. I'm not worried. See you in two weeks."

I somehow made it to my car and wished I could go home and Google perinatal doctor, fetal diagnostic, gap, and smidge. I couldn't. I had to drive to Hacienda Heights to administer the state tests. Great.

So I did the next best thing - I called my mom, who is a nurse. No answer. I called my sister, who is almost a nurse practitioner. No answer. I called my other sister, who is also a nurse. No answer. I called my other sister, who is in nursing school. No answer. (And I'm a teacher - there is one in every family, I guess.)

When I couldn't get a hold of them, I called my husband. No answer.

Finally, I called my dad. He answered.

I wish I could say that he was an OB or a perinatal doctor and was able to set my fears to rest. He isn't. He's an operations manager for a shipping company. It was when I was talking to him that the tears started.

However, having raised 4 daughters, my father speaks fluent, tear-coated emotion.

He listened to everything I said and knew I was done when I finally wailed, "And I did my eyes today!" (Having raised 4 daughters, he knew that meant my make up was a now a mess.)

He told me to pull over, calm down, fix my make up, and he would find my mom.

In the meantime, my husband called back. My panicked text: "Something's wrong with the baby's brain" really freaked him out. When I told him everything, he let out a giant sigh of relief. "They thought something was wrong with my nephew too," he told me. "And he's fine." He offered to drive out and proctor the tests for me (which I couldn't let him do). And he told me that he knew I was scared, but if the doctor wasn't worried, then I should not worry either.

After that, my sister the almost NP called. She managed to calm me down quite a bit by pointing out several things:

1. OBs have the highest malpractice rates -- my doctor is probably just covering his a@#.
2. If my OB was worried about retardation, he would have sent me for an amnio, not a fetal diagnostic.
3. If my OB was really worried about anything, I would be at the hospital, not crying my eyes out in a McDonald's parking lot.

So I felt a bit better - enough to continue driving to work. And then my other sister, the nurse, called. And she pointed out several things:

1. Ultrasound technology basically sucks.
2. The gap could have been a shadow, the baby could have been lying wrong, or the baby could be going through a growth spurt.
3. The ultrasound technician could have been bad.

So I felt a lot better.

Then my mom called. She explained what a fetal diagnostic test was and what a perinatal specialist did. She told me that as scary as it was, I needed to calm down, because all I was doing was stressing out the baby.

And then she pointed out the one thing that I had overlooked: I have all ready had six ultrasounds. (As a high risk patient, I have to have one every 2 weeks until 32 weeks, when I have one every week.) And, as my mom put it, if there was really a problem, they would have seen it before now. "One ultrasound, in the grand scheme of things, is a fluke, Shannon," she told me.

And I know that my sisters and mom are right. I know that my husband is right in his "We can't worry about a chance - everything has a chance" attitude. I know that I have to trust God in this.

But I'm still scared.

Wordless Wednesday

WTF?!?

That would be a toddler chair, people.

Happy Mother's Day to me!

Here is what I have learned this Mother's Day....

1. My daughter cannot keep a secret. Not even a little bit.

2. My son thinks that 8 am is "sleeping in."

3. A $10 bubble machine from Target = Mommy getting to watch The Mentalist uninterrupted.

4. When you go to Burke Williams for a pregnancy massage, they will feel bad that you cannot use the jacuzzi/sauna/steam room. So they will give you a milk bath for free.

5. When the jets to the milk bath break, they will give you another one. Still f0r free.

6. Milk baths are awesome.

7. Burke Williams will give you a cookie on Mother's Day when you leave.

8. I miss getting to read the Sunday paper and drink coffee uninterrupted.

9. This recipe for oven baked bbq chicken is awesome.

10. My husband is awesome. I love you, honey! Thanks for a great day!

Happy Mother's Day

This is for all the mothers who DIDN'T win Mother of the Year. All the runners-up and all the wannabes. The mothers too tired to enter or too busy to care.

This is for all the mothers who froze their buns off on metal bleachers at soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see my goal?" they could say, "Of course, wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it.

This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up barf laced with Oscar Mayer wieners and cherry Kool-Aid saying, "It's OK honey, Mommy's here."

This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and made them homes.

For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. And all the mothers who DON'T.

What makes a good mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time? Or is it heart? Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time? The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby? The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby dying?

I think so. So this is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about making babies. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.

This is for reading "Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year. And then reading it again. "Just one more time."

This is for all the mothers who mess up. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and stomp their feet like a tired 2 year old who wants ice cream before dinner. And for all the other mothers who watch sympathetically and understand without judging.

This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.

For all the mothers who bite their lips-sometimes until they bleed-when their 14 year olds dye their hair green.

Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and won't stop.

This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.

This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.

This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even though they know their own offspring are at home.

This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children's graves.

This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, who can't find the words to reach them.

This is for all the mothers who sent their sons to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up. Right away.

This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go.

For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without.

Happy Mother's Day.

©1999 Cindy Lange-Kubick
Columnist, Lincoln Journal Star
Lincoln, Nebraska, USA

Nap Time

~
My life is going to be crazy for the next two weeks (well, crazier).

I'm back in the classroom 3-4 days a week for about 4 hours a day - but I'm not really sure which days/hours. Which makes finding childcare difficult, since my schedule changes day to day.

Yesterday, I had it all figured out. My good friend took Boyo for the morning. Girlie got to spend the whole day at PreK.

Here was what my day looked like:

7:45 - Drop Girlie off at PreK
8: Drop Boyo off at friend's house
9: Make it to my classroom
1:30: Finish up my classroom, pick up Boyo at friend's.
2: Doctor's
3: Pick Up Girlie at school
4:30 Swim Lesson's for Girlie
5:30: Boyo's friend comes over for dinner.

I was stressing over yesterday. Everything depended on my being on time (which I never am), not hitting any traffic (I live in SoCal, come on), and my children behaving. The last one was the one that kept me up late worrying. I knew Boyo wasn't going to get a nap. And I knew Girlie wasn't going to get her quiet, snuggle with Mommy time. So I thought that 4 o'clock on was going to be difficult (to put it mildly).

And then I got this picture texted to me by my friend at 1:


Yeah, my son slept until 3. My friend (who totally rocks) told me to go to the doctor by myself.

I don't think my doctor recognized me without two kids in tow.

And after I went to the doctor, I went to pick up Girlie.

Who was asleep on her mat at school.

So my children will nap for anyone but me.

I'm beginning to think I'm the problem.

Medieval Times

Last week, a bit nervous, my husband and I decided to take the kids to Medieval Times.

They LOVED it!

Girlie cheered so loudly for our knight, that when he won flowers to give to the ladies in his section, she won his favor.


I taught Boyo how to shout "Blue, Blue, Blue," which he has been doing for the past week.

And Daddy bought Boyo a sword when I wasn't looking.... Boyo's new favorite question is "I fight Sissy?"

Prenatal Potpourri

~
Driving to a prenatal appointment, I pointed out the hospital to the kids. "That is where Mommy is going to go when she has the baby," I explained. "You guys will get to come visit me with Gam Gam and Poppa."

Girlie piped up: "Sometimes, when I have little babies, I have to go to the hospital too so the doctor can help the baby pop out of my foot."

~
I took Girlie's hand and put it on my belly. "Feel that, sweetie?" I asked. "That is the baby doing jumping jacks."

She felt carefully for a minute and then took my hand and put it on her stomach. "Do you feel that Mommy?" she asked me seriously. "That is the pillows in my tummy jumping on my spine."

~
My daughter informed me that her tummy hurt because the pillows were jumping around. I told her that sometimes rubbing the baby made my tummy feel better, and maybe if she rubbed her tummy, the pillows would stop.

After thinking it over, she said, "No, only cupcakes will make the pillows stop jumping around."

~
Girlie informed me that Baby must have a pump in my belly, since my tummy is getting so big.

~
My daughter told me that she is sharing the bed she slept in when she was in my tummy with her baby sister. She then told me it was a good bed because it was only 12 steps away from the kitchen. Um, how big am I getting?

~
Girlie informed me that she needed a snuggle today. When I opened my arms, she said, "Not with you! With Baby!" She then gently laid her head on my belly and said, "I love my sister."