Do you have a minute? Because I have someone I want you to meet.

So I got this email from my friend Lynn the other day announcing that she has officially joined the land of the mommy-bloggers. Which, I have to tell you, is really good news. To be frank, I can't believe she didn't do it sooner. I mean, Lynn is actually a writer. She went to journalism school and everything. Studied the stuff. Unlike yours truly here, who majored in ...ummmmmmm...recreation. (No. Really. I did. Want to go whitewater rafting? I can take you. Set up a top-rope climb? Check. Plan meals for a backpacking expedition? No sweat. Understand the nuances of writing like a professional? Not so much.)

I write about butts and poop and how my life revolves around the bodily functions and potty humor of two squirrely little boys. I re-tell obnoxious stories about their antics around the dinner table. (Like how my 5 year-old stabbed half a cherry tomato onto the end of his fork and announced, in a self-satisfied voice, that he had a little pecker.) I roll over and show you our dirty underbelly -- how it's all covered in dog-hair and piled with dirty laundry, and just crying out for a good scrubbing.

Lynn? She writes beautiful prose about Aztec super-grains like quinoa, and how motherhood is the work of the heart. She conjures up spectacular images with her words, and her descriptions are almost tangible as they come to life in my imagination. My favorite line so far is her depiction of how motherhood and writing go together. "The two feed one another" she writes. "snakes swallowing each other's tails, a writhing circle of struggle and consumption."

Oh yeah? Well... Fart, Fart, Butt, Poop.

What else should I tell you about Lynn? She has 4 kids. Four kids that she gave birth to naturally. That's right. All 4 of 'em. I, in stark contrast to my labor-embracing friend, was that woman who grabbed the anesthesiologist by the ears, pulled his face within millimeters of my own so that there would be no misunderstanding, and in between my deep, panting breaths every 2 minutes, barked something along the lines of "LISTEN UP CHUMP! The last time I was in here my epidural didn't work because - unbelievably - the guy who put it in didn't get it in the right place! AND LET ME BE PERFECTLY CLEAR THAT I'M NOT DOING THAT CRAP AGAIN!!! You'll put this epidural in, you'll put it in RIGHT NOW, and you'll damn well get it in the RIGHT PLACE! Kapeesh?!?"

My girl Lynn? She knew she was in labor, so she took a nap. She figured she'd need her rest if the baby was coming that day.

While I wrestled around with feelings of inferiority and inadequacy as a full-time stay-at-home-mom, Lynn relishes it. Finds purpose in it. Is fulfilled by it. Me? If I ain't bringing home at least a little bacon, I can't freakin' stand it. No matter how often Mike referred to it as "our" money, or acknowledged how much work goes into raising the boys and making the household run smoothly, I simply couldn't stand it. I don't care if I'm only bringing in ten dollars a week -- it's MY ten dollars. MY contribution. One I can see immediately. One I can deposit. One I don't have to wait 18 years for in order to determine the success of my work. Don't get me wrong -- I loved the time I got to spend with my boys. That part was wonderful. And I'm not by any means saying that I felt inadequate as a mom. Just as a partner. As a "contributing" member of the household. (And before you come through my computer screen screeching at me about how much stay-at-home-parents work and how much they contribute and how their sacrifices are invaluable I want you to know that I don't need the lecture. I know it. I've been there. I've done it. The issue is with my own ego and nothing more. I feel better about myself when I work -- for a paycheck.) My point here, is that Lynn is able to embrace it fully in a way I never could.

And regardless of our differences, I laugh at all of our commonalities.... We both really enjoy being moms. I know she totally gets how the times I want to pull my hair out by the roots are far outweighed by the times I have to hold onto my heart with both hands. I'm encouraged by the fact that she has piles of laundry so unattended that her husband's shirt molded. (I don't think we've actually hit mold yet, but we sure can work up a good wet stink.) And I love that she feels like she spends her life in the kitchen, feeding her hungry brood. Stuffing them full of love and encouragement, serving up support and clearing away the mess. Because I do too.

The difference is, she writes it down all pretty-like. So I think you should click on over and catch up with Lynn. You'll find her in her kitchen, feeding her hungry, and I'm sure she's serving something satisfying. Tell her Rachel sent ya.