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Betsy Shaw
Betsy Shaw

Betsy has been blogging for a seeming century-- ever since she retired from her career as a professional snowboarder and found herself stranded in a remote living room in Vermont with a baby on her breast. She still doesn't get the point of blogging. When she got tired of writing about her experiences of motherhood in Vermont, she and her Brit husband and two daughters moved to Burgundy and she blogged about motherhood in France. Now that she's back, she finds she's a more relaxed mother in redneck English than she was in broken French. She's a crap housewife in both languages. Her latest challenge involves getting her husband back into the country after a bitchy immigration official stole his green card at the U.S. embassy in Paris. Betsy writes for BabyCenter's Momformation blog and occasionally musters up random, angst-driven posts on her personal blog, Numbmum. She prefers that her friends don't read her blog because otherwise she has nothing to talk to them about.

More From Betsy Shaw


Pregnancy Isn’t Pretty

Pregnant with my second child and determined to take control of something, I popped into Jiffy Lube for an oil change. My serviceman was a woman named Ali. She looked fabulous in a blue jump suit with a smudge of grease on her cheek. Read More


Mother’s Little Helper: My Performance Enhancing Drug

I am a far better mother, certain times a year, when on Prozac.

(Excuse me, I’ve just got to go get another handful of Cadbury Mini eggs.)

I’m not a regular, long-time anti-depressant user. No. I’m a dabbler, a denier, a struggler, a stubborn, stoic, masochistic believer in facing human weakness head on, taking what I’ve been handed by life, or my ancestors, and dealing with it. Read More

Betsy Shaw

Open Door Confession

My kids are six and ten and I still can’t stand to close their bedroom doors at night. Just like when they were babies, I often wake in the night sure that one or both of them might be in distress. If I leave the doors open between us, I feel like a better mom. With doors open, the slightest noise – a sneeze, or cough, the sound of breathing, or not breathing, or swallowing, or rolling over, or sleep talking, sends my head sproinging off the pillow, and my ears stretching out the door, into the hall and around the corner – the better to hear them with.

“Who’s dying?” I think, Read More


Confessions Of Recovering Kid Coddler

As a child, I wandered like a Zen master from place to place, meal to meal, carelessly leaving crumbs, dirty dishes and peeled-off socks or mittens trailing behind me. My mom, apparently, quietly followed me around picking it all up.

She was still making dentist appointments for me when I was in high school, thank God. I hated talking to grownups on the phone. And, if I threw my bag of dirty clothes down the stairs into the laundry room when I came home from college on a Friday, it invariably ended up washed, dried and Read More