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Yesterday my daughter turned four months old. To celebrate, I let a doctor dig around in my c-section scar to see what was causing that mysterious, persistent bulge. To my surprise, the bulge was not a mass of lingering, asymmetrical baby belly fat, but a stubborn, undissolved suture that had rallied the tissue around him to make my life as annoying and uncomfortable as possible. I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. I was sort of hoping to find something really exciting in there...like an alien implant or maybe buried treasure.

Well, I've now had major abdominal surgery and minor abdominal surgery, and I'm telling you, it doesn't really matter which one you get, you're still treated to that gay ole hospital experience. You might as well go ahead and have open-heart surgery...you have to go through the same process, and at least you'll have a great story and the sympathy of your friends!

It starts with being admitted to the hospital. Call me paranoid, but it's almost as if the admission staff was doing everything in their power to prevent me from being admitted. I assume that one's admission into the hospital is determined by an excruciating arm wrestling match between the doctor and the admission staff. Luckily for me, Dr. Branham isn't as afraid of crabby, overtanned women as I am.

Next came the gorgeous moon-and-stars print hospital gown, the elegant blue "shower cap" style hat, and the matching slippers. They even outfitted me in some sort of Velcro knee-highs. I didn't have my contacts in, so I couldn't tell what they were doing, exactly. And at some point, they affixed some six dozen sticker electrode-thingies to my body. I kept finding them the rest of the day in the strangest places.

There's lots more hospital fun to be had during the prep time, wherein every medical professional who will be present at the surgery, present after the surgery, or just passing through during the surgery approaches you individually and interviews you about your entire medical history. Why don't they just huddle around you at once and hear the whole story? Is this part of the Hippocratic Oath? Are they being initiated into some sort of secret society? Or do they do it for fun? Who can say?

Imagine my delight when the nurse walked in with none other than an IV! It was soon apparent that she intended to place aforementioned IV into my arm. At least, she would as soon as she found a vein. It seems that all of my veins had retreated in terror and were not to be soothed by her gentle, calm manner. I could imagine my veins gazing at each other in a panic. Which one of them would become her victim? Finally, one of my veins "took one for the team." The lydocane did nothing to ease that horrible feeling of a needle making its way into your vein for a nice, long visit.

As I was lying around waiting for the doctor to retrieve me, I looked around (as best I could without contacts) to see who my companions were in the prep room. Next to me, a doctor listened as his ancient patient tried to explain his long history of high blood pressure, diabetes, and various heart attacks. Another pair of doctors were gesturing and muttering meaningfully as they stood over the (hopefully) hard-of-hearing patient on my other side. Were these people going to survive their surgery? More importantly, were they going to survive the journey to the operating room? I was beginning to feel like a young whipper-snapper again.

At some point, they must have wheeled me into the O.R., applied all those sticky electrodes, given me the relaxing drug, had me breathe deeply, and then administered the anesthesia. But I don't remember any of that. The next thing I knew, I was groggily mumbling nonsense and wondering where the last two hours had gone. I was allowed to leave the hospital only after I drank my Sprite like a good girl and proved to the nurses that I could still tinkle. Before I left, I was presented with a long list of activities I wasn't allowed to participate in. No driving, steak dinners, marital hugging, and worst of all, no showering for 24 hours! Most folks have a bedtime routine. For some people, this means blowing out all their candles. Or making sure their keys (and attached wallet) aren't still stuck in the front door for the whole world to see. Well, la-di-da! Not me! My bedtime routine includes taking a shower and shaving my legs. Everyone has their weird little personal hygiene idiosyncrasies. Mine is shaving my legs. Every dang day. As though my soul depended on it. It is absolutely essential. And I don't just apply this to myself...you better not tell me you're negligent in your shaving habits. In my mind, going unshaven is utterly savage. If you don't shave regularly, you might as well go and live with the monkeys. I know...it's terribly harsh and judgmental! I can't help it!

Why is it that doctors never forbid you to do anything you hate? I imagined the doctor looking at me sternly from behind his no-nonsense spectacles. "No ironing for you, young lady!" Or "You're going to have to get someone else to clean out your turtle's aquarium for the next six weeks." The least they could do is to make you do something fun, "If you want to make a full recovery, you need to eat one large bowl of ice cream every single night without fail." Or "For your physical therapy, I've arranged for you and your family to go to Six Flags."

I get my stitches out in a week (yes, honest-to-goodness, old-fashioned, non-dissolving stitches) and hopefully that will be the final chapter in Alice's birthing story. And hopefully our next little one will arrive in a much more boring, ordinary fashion! It would be great if I never heard another doctor say, "I've never seen anything like it in my entire career!"

On Sunday, I will celebrate my very first Mother's Day. I'm still trying to come up for the perfect title for my newfound role. When people ask me what I do, I usually say I am a "stay-at-home mom," although I dislike the term. It sounds like a made-up word used to replace a less politically correct word. To me, it sounds like the poor woman isn't allowed to leave the house. Or maybe she sits in front of the telly all day eating bon bons. I actually really love the term "housewife" because it sounds like I'm married to the house, which I find highly amusing. "Full Time Mom and Wife" sounds ridiculous, because what mom and wife isn't full-time? It's not like you take a leave of absence from your family just because you're working.

But my least favorite term of all is "Homemaker." As opposed to what, a "Homewrecker"? The word is wholesome to the point of being nauseating. It's utterly self-righteous and goody-goody. The word paints a detailed portrait in my mind that makes me want to run away, shrieking. The Homemaker. She is proof that the rhythm method doesn't work. You can usually see her in the shapeless maternity mumus that she fashioned herself out of fabric with enormous geraniums all over it. She makes bran muffins for the homeschool association bake-off. She wears sensible shoes. She frequently catches the Holy Spirit at church, thus gaining the admiration and wholehearted support of the congregation. Her house smells of Pine Sol and Tidy Bowl. But there is a darker side to The Homemaker. She keeps a chart of her husband and children's restroom habits. She scours the house for evidence of misbehavior, disrespect, or creative writing. Behind closed doors, she beats her children with her grandfather's prized leather strap. When the kids make a "B" on their report card, she makes them spend the night in the basement with the rats. And (worst of all) she forces them to eat nothing but unsalted, unbuttered popcorn for a snack. Are you screaming in terror yet? It's okay, don't cry. She's probably safely locked up in a doomsday cult by now.

You know, in my young career as a mom, I sure have noticed a lot of contention between stay-at-home-moms and working moms. I don't understand this. I mean, working moms are my heroes. I can't hold a candle to them, and I know it. I have no idea how they do it all. My mom was a working mom of four, and though she was very devoted to her work, she took plenty of time for us, and she didn't neglect or ignore us in favor of her career. When I was at HCA, I worked with a lot of working moms. They are amazing. They glide into the office at 8:00 freshly showered, made up, coiffed, and dressed in clean, matching clothes. They smile cheerfully, work hard all day long, take few breaks, and then when they get home, they make dinner, bathe the kids, soothe the crying baby, put everyone to bed, and collapse somewhere, utterly exhausted. The next day, they do it all again. On the weekends, they have a mere two days to get the laundry done, the house cleaned, the pantry stocked, not to mention tending the busy schedule of soccer games, ballet recitals, and school plays. These women are strong without knowing it. I think it's good for women to work outside of the home when they feel that's where their calling is. It's good for children to see their moms pursing goals, working hard, and enjoying challenges. If I had developed a meaningful career, I would be working outside of the home, too. But I feel that raising Alice is my personal calling at this time in our lives.

I hope all you moms out there have a fantastic Mother's Day. I wish you flowers and drawings and breakfast in bed. I wish you gifts lovingly handcrafted by your children. I wish you a great lunch at your favorite restaurant and an afternoon nap. Mothering isn't easy, and we need a day to celebrate.

During my four years in Williamson County, I often found myself out of place. Being a middle-of-the-middle class girl in the 16th wealthiest county in the nation is a little aggravating. I drove to work in my dented 1999 Altima (or worse, my 1992 Nissan Stanza) and parked next to a Hummer that cost as much as my house. Zowie! We rode through Franklin or Brentwood and positively gawked at Wayne Manor/Xanadu/Versailles. Someone would brag about how they had found a camisole on sale for $20.00 at the local mall, and I'd think, "Gosh, that's what I paid for this entire outfit!" I remember someone asking me where I got my cute jacket, and I lied and said I didn't remember, all the while hoping they never found out it came from the Wal-Mart clearance rack! Because, boy, do rich people hate Wal-Mart!

And now I'm home in Dickson. Dickson loves Wal-Mart. This is where my heart is, and I love living here. I was raised in Dickson, and being brought up in this town by my clever and thrifty parents taught me resourcefulness and the joy of living within my means and without credit card debt. Dickson has so many of the values I want to instill in Alice. It's all about God, freedom and the good ole USA. It's so country and Southern. Today we went to Old Timer's Day and took in the Quilt Show at the fairgrounds and watched the hillbilly parade wander past us at its own pace. Not a speck of snobbiness to be found. But there are some aspects of being country and Southern that aren't so attractive.

A small but noticable percentage of Dicksonians are either racist or clueless. For instance, at our Old Timer's Day Craft fair you could buy a drawing of Nathan Bedford Forrest to display at your next Klan rally. In today's parade, there were two floats that made me a little uncomfortable. One was a "Have a Dixie Day" float displaying the rebel flag. Another was a float for the police department featuring the "Cops" theme song and two large black men in a jail cell looking somewhat fierce, presumably just for fun. Come on, people, white people commit heinous crimes, too!

Dicksonians also aren't all that keen on culture. They insist on calling the Renaissance Center "The Renaissant." Anyone who is a little out of the ordinary is either a freak or a god to them. I loved to try all sorts of elaborate hairstyles as a young teenager. This was definitely an unwise move in a world where self-expression and creativity were mortal sins. But nowadays, people seem intrigued. For example, they can't get over how adorable my baby sling is. Okay, so it might help that there is a gorgeous little girl lounging inside it. But they really do act like it's the most revolutionary invention since the inclined plane. Perhaps this is the natural result of Dickson lacking both a Starbucks and a Target.

Can I raise my little girl to embrace her country roots and cultivate in her a love of art, spiffy fashions, and good chocolate? Well, my parents managed it somehow, and I intend to give it my utmost.