By Contributing Mama Daphne Biener

Summertime finds me hankering for berries fresh from the farm. Or no, maybe I am thinking of my man Hank, fresh from the farm? My sweet (imaginary) farm boy, Hank. Shoulders bronzed from the sun and broadened from the heft of a pitchfork. A stick of hay clenched in his teeth; wavy hair glimmering beneath the setting sun. Faded overalls, bare chest… oops, sorry, where was I?

Oh yes. E I E I O. The Bieners went to the farm. Now it happens that I have a few ideas about life on the farm (see above dream sequence). So when I heard that our membership in the Monroe Organic Farm CSA (C-S-Huh? In a CSA, us ordinary folks buy a share in a farm in exchange for organically grown goodies that are delivered weekly) entitled us to pick strawberries, I was about as happy as a dusty pig in a wet mud puddle (that’s pretty happy, I think).

We drove east, and the familiar sprawl of Target and Starbucks gave way to waving wheat that would sure smell sweet if the wind came right behind the rain (Oklahoma show tune fans in the house?). Beautiful, sure, but my daughter Acadia was concerned. She was all too familiar with what happens when the winds blow decisively from the east.

“It’s going to be stinky, isn’t it?”

And two minutes later.

“Mom? It’s going to really stink, isn’t it? I don’t want it to be stinky. Mom?”

I remained noncommittal instead of confessing that minus a hazy montage, featuring Hank and a tractor, I know precisely one thing about farms: they are stinky. Nevertheless, driven by the promise of sun-ripened strawberries, we pressed on.

Armed with instructions that “the animals will eat whatever you feed them,” and “don’t touch the electric fence,” we toured the farm. Acadia, aka wild child, asked if touching the fence would make her eyes “kind of cool and glowy.” I kept a restraining hand on her shoulder.

We fed the chickens and we fed the piglets, who weren’t pink or cuddly but, as Kira put it, they were “funny and incredible,” (if perhaps a little stinky). The little porkers formed piggie-stacks two or three high in their clamor for food.

The sound of the girls’ laughter echoed across the dusty fields. In the glare of the sun, my hubby farmer-for-a-day Dave pulled weeds to fuel their fun. My heart pulled a little in the perfection of the scene and before I could say howdy-do it happened: My own suburban cowboy usurped Farmer Hank’s spot atop that shiny tractor of my dreams.

At seven pm, designated picking time, the late sun baked down on a row of berries that stretched from my ankles out past Kansas. I looked down at the masses of red fruit swirling around my feet and my back sent this memo to my brain: Damn! Those berries sure are a far way down.

We bent. We picked. We ate until the sun started sinking.

Sweet red juice stained the wide grins on the girls’ faces as we loaded them into the car along with more berries than we could possibly consume in a lifetime of happy summer evenings. I smiled at my farmer, and we headed for home.

Wondering what on earth we did with 1000 tons of berries? Oh we jammed. And we muffined. And we ice-creamed. Check out A Greener Biener for more on the farm, plus pictures, and recipes.

I’ve been pissed at Abby Cadabby for awhile.

She’s a relatively new addition to Sesame Street and the neighborhood could use a few girls in that boy muppet club, so that’s all cool. Plus I, personally, love a cute fairy dress so I don’t have an issue with her fancy schmancy, sparkly outfit.

But here’s my beef: she just seems so friggin’ dumb.

At the end of every episode, she painstakingly tries to come up with the letter and number of the day.

This is kind of how it goes (try to imagine a really high pitched, squeaky voice)…

“Oh, good you’re still here. I know it’s almost time to go but first I have something very important I’m supposed to tell you. Sesame Street was brought to you today by the letter… um. The letter… um. Do you remember? (She shakes her wand and the letter L appears over her shoulder.) There it is! That’s the letter… um, do you know what you call it again? Oh yeah, the letter L!”

I don’t want to torture you so I’ll end it there.

Not exactly a kick ass female role model, right? I know she’s only like 3 years-old but still.

So imagine my surprise when I ran into the little fairy at BlogHer. What a perfect opportunity to find out why this gal is always playing the dumb card and, perhaps, teaching other young girls to do the same.

And you know what she told me?

She says, she’s tired at the end of the day so it’s hard for her to think of things. And she wants other kids to know that it’s ok to have trouble remembering things sometimes.

And Abby Cadabby wasn’t finished with me. Oh no.

Abby went on to tell me that when she can’t remember the letter or number of the day, that gives the children at home a chance to help and chime in with the answer.

Oh.

Gosh, I feel like such a schmuck. Why did I have to go and pick on some innocent, sweet pink fairy?

So do you think Abby Cadabby held a grudge?

No, she did not.

She actually told me it was good question that she had never been asked before.

And then she gave me a hug.

For a 3 year-old, she’s pretty darn smart. Now where did that Grover go? Because I have a thing or two to talk to him about.

mama bird notes
So what costs $650 and you don’t even get to pick the color? Contributing mama Jordana Bales has the answer. Click here to read more.

I’m headed out of town and looking for some great movies to rent for my vacation. Just nothing too depressing. Any ideas on good flicks to take on my trip? Looking for adult movies, not kid movies. Love a good romantic comedy. Thanks!

By Contributing Mama Jordana Bales

Last week I spent $650 on something that can fit into the palm of my hand. No, it’s not the latest iPhone, digital camera, GPS or an iPod (although when I told my husband, Michael, the price, he asked if it played MP3s!).

I bought an IUD. Version 2.0 (or maybe 5.0) is called a Mirena and it’s completely safe and effective.

When I was younger, I never really spent a lot of time planning a family. I was not the type of girl who dreamed of being a mother. I never played with dolls or fantasized about names. In fact, I thought I could be ok not having children at all.

I always wanted to want kids, but I never really had that craving. Intellectually, I knew my life would be better, more complete and satisfying if I procreated; however, in my heart of hearts, I just didn’t yearn for babies, like so many other women seemed to. I hoped that I would marry a man who wanted children, so I would have them.

Enter my husband. He comes from a family of three and has a very loving relationship with both his older brother and younger sister. There was no doubt he wanted children. My plan had materialized – I married a man who wanted children and soon after we had Ava.

Now, if I were playing blackjack, I would have stuck. However, Michael, early on in our marriage, told me “Don’t convince me to just have one child.” Note the brilliance of that statement. If he had said he really wanted two, I would have logically argued why one was so much better; citing studies as well as anecdotal evidence to bolster my opinion until he had no choice but to agree with me. But whenever I would begin to embark on the line of thinking, his words rang in my head. I had to respect the wishes of a man who gave me so much and asked for so little in return. And soon our second daughter, Lila, was born.

And all of a sudden having a third seems like something to consider. Is it my sleep deprived brain or the relief and happiness that follows from simply no longer being pregnant? I don’t know, but the bottom line is that I may want another. And that scares me a bit, because I know that if I don’t act – we could wind up with number three. Michael and I seem to be two fertile turtles and doing nothing would require another “I don’t like any names” discussion and a third college fund.

Enter the IUD (no pun intended). I definitely don’t want another kid for a bit – but I’m not ruling it out completely. My doctor says the IUD is good for five years – and I’m planning to get my money’s worth! So, maybe when Ava is 7 and Lila is 5, I’ll be ready for baby number three. And maybe not. I’m happy I made a decision – even if that decision is simply to postpone making a decision.

I am a train wreck when I’m away from my kids.

When I’m caring for Dylan and Summer, everything (diapers, snacks, water, sunscreen, you get the idea) is way way organized.

But the moment I am on my own, I don’t just take my eye off the ball, I lose the ball all together. Usually in my hotel room. Probably never to be recovered.

In San Francisco, I lost my room key numerous times, misplaced my free drink tickets (oh, the tragedy! Seriously.) and even forgot the top of my steamer. Let me just say there is a darn good reason that clothing steamers come with two parts. You really need both. They’re tricky like that.

And despite my need for a clean and orderly home in New York, this was the state of my hotel room by the end of day three in San Francisco. Crap everywhere.

I guess my organized self was on vacation.

I was quite impressed with the BlogHer conference which was incredibly organized. There were super fun perks like swag bags and shindigs and I did meet and connect with some super cool gals like, Sticking to the Point, Mom Without a Map, Freitas Family Follies, Who’s the Boss?, Mommy Needs A Cocktail, Not Just A Working Mom, Mommy Poppins, Mayberry Mom, Magpie Musing, it’s my life, Baby Faith, Savvy Auntie and londonelicious.

And, of course, there were lots of fab mums who I wanted to meet but just never found.

I definitely felt enormously overwhelmed by all the people (like a thousand). And sometimes, surrounded by the blogging masses, I just felt lonely and homesick.

So after two days of trying to be extra perky and extra funny and extra myself (only perkier and funnier), I was greatly relieved on Saturday night to meet up with this chick.

That’s Sarah. I used to hang with her in the West Village before she got all fancy and west coast on me and moved to beautiful Marin County, just outside San Francisco (damn her!). And I found out that she is pregnant with number three which rocks. So send Sarah some positive energy for her little growing baby.

After dinner, she dropped me at the airport where I had managed to upgrade myself to a first class seat at a deeply discounted rate.

And that’s when I met Aaron. My seat mate with the gold chain.

I had barely sat down when he leaned over, all sultry and Barry Whitish and said, “Hi. I’m Aaron. How are you?”

Oh crap. This is my one chance to enjoy a little first class service and I’ve got Aaron giving me his airplane rap. Of course, if he was a young hottie, I would have been completely flattered… but he wasn’t.

A few minutes later, Aaron leaned in again (and I’m not joking even one little bit) and said, “I love that book.”

REALLY? I want to believe you Aaron. I mean, I really do. Except that I’m reading a book called, “I Feel Bad About My Neck” by Nora Ephron. It’s a humorous look at being a woman and growing older. But somehow I just really doubt Aaron, with the gold chain, is reading it.

But maybe he is concerned with his neck. I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. The guy is probably completely obsessed with neck.

Aaron thankfully nodded off quickly and I turned my focus back to my book and my neck. The neck apparently goes at the age of 43 so it’s really time to start appreciating it. I only have a few years left to show this baby off.

Yup, that’s my neck. In all its glory.