You mean it gets worse?!?

It was one of those moments...I had the 25-pounder on my hip, a full blown wrestling match necessary to keep him from sliding down my side again and onto the floor, where he desperately wanted to reach the elevator alarm button.

Errands with a 15-month-old are not easy. No, let me correct that: errands with this 15-month-old are not easy. My first kid? I could go to the mall on Black Friday for 10 hours and he'd sit happily in the stroller the whole time.

Today was the second day in a row when I'd had to spend hours on my own with Aidan Kai while trying to accomplish something. Simple tasks such as buying a loaf of bread or dropping off a pair of glasses for repair become full blown tests of physical endurance and mental strength with this kid.

Yes, he's cute. Reeeeeeal cute. And funny. Reeeeeeal funny. But that baby who wailed the entire first four and a half months of his life? Still there.

So as I was standing there in the elevator, wondering how in the world women who don't work out can physically handle their toddlers when I thought surely I'd end the afternoon with either a broken back or a broken baby, a woman steps into the elevator with her teenage son. She looked serene. Her hair was brushed. She smiled at me. She made cooing sounds at Aidan Kai. That's when she points to her son and says wistfully: "Awwww, it's hard to believe he used to be that little." Another woman who had been standing behind me immediately piped in: "Yeah, they really do grow up so fast."

My response?

"Yeah, I hope so!"

It was my attempt at a bit of humor and a bit of honesty.

These two women with grown children did not think it was so funny. Or true, apparently.

"Oh, no, no, noooooo. Enjoy it. Trust us." They both nodded emphatically, nearly in unison.

At this point, the elevator door opens and as we all step out, the woman with the teenage son slows down enough to let him walk ahead. She turns back to me and conspiratorially whispers (complete with the hand over the mouth for dramatic emphasis): "You know how they say this is the best time?" She pauses and motions to Aidan. "It really is true." With that, she shuffles along to catch up with her son.

And I am left standing there, blinking. Discouraged.

You mean this is IT? This is where it peaks? Then I'm screwed, because most days, I'm not digging this part so much.

Look, I get it. I know I will look back and ooooh and ahhhh and nostalgically remember the days when my boys were babies. I already do that sometimes with Ben. I get that these days really will fly by in the grand scheme of things. I understand that they are only little for a very short time. I do know that. You realize it all the more when you've had one already grow up into a small boy, all scruffy and rough-and-tumble and occasionally stinky. So I do take time to inhale all that baby/Cheerios/milk/drool smell Aidan Kai manages to harbor in his neck and, amazingly, the very tippy top of his head. I do still make sure to take tons of pictures, so I never miss out on any lasting memories with the second child. I do try to keep in mind that this will be The Last Time In My Whole Life that I will see my child learn how to walk and say a new word and discover Mickey Mouse.

But I also think: it's gotta get easier. It's got to. Because, quite frankly, I can't do this much longer.

I often find myself fantasizing--we're talking full out theatrical production complete with narration going on in my head here--about when the boys will be old enough to be self-sufficient. No, I don't mean get jobs and move out. I don't want to fast forward that much. But an independent bath and butt wipe would be lovely. To be able to go to the beach, come home, and call out "Okay, everybody to the shower and then we're getting a pizza and a movie!" To be able to run an errand without lugging a wriggling, borderline-tantrumy sack of potatoes back and forth. To be able to unload a dishwasher without having to use one foot as a mid-air gate to keep the baby from climbing into it.

So, really, how bad do things get after this? Did that woman in the elevator know something I don't? Is this like when parents don't tell people who are thinking about having kids how tough it really is because a) they don't want to frighten them and b) misery loves company?

I've spoken to many women who tell me that they absolutely loooooved the baby stage. Sometimes I wonder if they really did, in fact, love it while they were in it, or, if maybe after the years have passed, they love the memories of it. Maybe once it's all over and you have grown kids running around, with their own set of issues and challenges, you just remember that fat wriggly cooing baby and wish for that simplicity. You block out the sleepless nights, the ear-splitting tantrums in the grocery store, the mashed peas thrown across the room. I read somewhere once that scientists have discovered that the brain tends to forget unpleasant memories. It's like a defense mechanism. I suppose if you couple that scientific logic with the everyday aches and pains of babyhood, it makes sense that we'd remember only the good.

The next time Aidan Kai is screeching, stiff-legged, refusing to sit down in the shopping cart, I will try and remember that woman with the teenager. I will try. And maybe, just maybe, one day I will walk into an elevator and see a struggling mom with her struggling baby and smile knowingly, maybe even long for the smell of Cheerios and drool. But I don't think I will tell her to "enjoy it." Because really, that's kind of unnecessary.

Just Me

I had a mini girls' getaway this weekend. A friend and I drove a few hours out of town to stay over at another friend's house. This is the first time I've done this in...well, I don't know if I've ever done this.

It was startlingly relaxing.

The moment I got in my car on Friday after work and started the drive, I felt liberated. I hadn't expected to. In fact, I thought I would be stressed...both kids were still kinda sick and it had been a busy, hectic week. I was struck immediately with the realization: I had no responsibilities. None. The only thing required of me for the next 24 hours was to sit and chat and drink wine with two of the most amazing women I know.

A few hours into the trip, I felt incredibly disconnected, but in a good way. Disconnected from the roles I play every single day, by choice. Disconnected from what defines me...from who defines me. I realized I was standing there, just Me. Not Mama. Not Wife. Just Me.

Don't get me wrong: I spend a lot of time away from the kids, but it's usually with Hubby for my Babysitting Nights or, if I'm completely alone, it's for short periods of time with a very specific purpose: running, gym time, errands. This was different. This was more of a hyper-awareness of the lack of their presence. Almost like that panicked feeling you get sometimes when you realize you're missing something: "Where's my purse? My keys? What did I forget?"

I love being alone with Hubby. It is my Most Favorite. It's when I feel most complete, content. I know that's not politically correct in today's Independent Woman World, but it's true. I am comfortable enough within our relationship to be able to say that I am better with him. We are better together. It's not about co-dependence. It's simpler. It's about happiness. I am happiest when we are together, alone, uninterrupted--like the olden' days. But being away this weekend made me realize I almost have never been. It's not that I don't like being alone. It's just that over the last several years, my life has just worked out that way. Time is scarce, so it has to be rationed: Family Time, Hubby Time, Everything Else.

I've been restless lately...going through a new phase, revisiting old dreams, attempting to reinvent myself yet again. All the while, looking for new connections, trying to relate to the people around me, searching for others who might be able to relate to my journey, my wanderings. And I realized this weekend that maybe the Universe has set up my life right now so that I am wandering a bit on my own. Maybe I'm finally supposed to ration out some time Just For Me...not just to go shopping for a while or go on a long run, but to simply exist. To be. Separate from those three men who are most important in my life, the ones who define me. Just Me. Alone. Quiet. Noisy. In my own head.

The Cutest One-Year-Old on the Block

Remember recently when I said I often obsessed over ways to "cheat" and get in more posts that did not require too much thought? Well...I couldn't help this one.

I happen to be friends with one of the coolest girls around, and she happens to be a professional photographer. Oh, and she happened to bring her camera to my Aidan Kai's 1st birthday. Considering how many of you guys I now consider "friends," I had to share. Check out my little one. The last shot is my fave.

Hangovers and Parenting Don't Mix

Being hungover is bad.

Being hungover while tending to two small children is really, really bad. But as my friend (who is a bit of a smart-ass) likes to say: "You play, you pay."

And oh, did we play...

We played so much, in fact, that this morning while everyone was enjoying a greasy diner breakfast on South Beach, I was lying down in the booth, asleep.

.

Classy.

Now, I know it sounds like I overdid it last night. But I didn't. Really. It's true. Ask around. Even my friends and husband (who are always brutally honest) said they were surprised by how bad I felt today. In fact, my drink of choice (white wine as opposed to the oh-so-much-more-appropriate-at-a-club Grey Goose) was selected simply based on its non-hangover effects.

But after I had to run to the bathroom to puke my life away the moment I got home today instead of greeting my children (who, by the way, did not seem in the least bit slighted as they continued to run around with their visiting cousins), I had to admit I was hungover...bad.

After much pondering, I came to the realization: it is not just hangovers and parenting that don't mix. It's partying and parenting.

You go into the party situation with a low immune system. You're tired. You're sleep-deprived. You're chronically stressed. The sad, sad truth is I just can't hang like I used to.

It is rare that I am able to stay up past 9:30 most nights. Last night? We left the house at 9:30, and then we still had to check into a hotel, get dressed up, and go to the club. (I admit, when we walked into the hotel room, a part of me wished we were just sleeping all night.) This was all after a day of activities: soccer game at 8:30 sharp, breakfast out with the whole family, jack-o-lantern carving, and a round of trick-or-treating...

Not to mention that this was also after a week of 2 more pediatrician visits and 2 sleepless nights filled with fever checks, coughing fits, and nebulizer treatments. (Yes people, my recent laundry list of household ailments has grown longer.) Add to this one nearly empty stomach, and it explains how a few glasses of wine and a few hours of dancing did me in.

So you see, it wasn't the alcohol that gave me the hangover.

It was the parenting.

The World of Blogging: Happy Hobby or Part-time Job?

I love my blog. A lot. What started out as a mere "Let-me-dip-my-toe-in-the-waters-and-see-what-happens" idea has turned into a third child (and that is the closest I will ever get to another kid so I guess it worked out). I love that I feel like a writer again for the first time in years. I love that I think about words and phrases and constantly search for blog fodder. I love the fellow bloggers who have actually become friends/cheerleaders/therapists.

But some days, I just don't want to post.

Sometimes I'm too tired.

Sometimes I don't have enough time.

Sometimes I don't have anything good to say.

Sometimes I'd rather watch Cougar Town.

But those who know me know that I have great potential for obsessive compulsive behaviors.

I start to think about the blog. I start keeping count of how many days it's been since I've posted. I start checking other blogs to see how often they are posting. I think of all the "Blogging Tips" I've read that stress the importance of posting regularly. I start to strategically plan clever cheating strategies that will count as posts but not require me to put down anything requiring thought (Guest posts? Picture posts? Contests in which I give away my shoe collection?). In other words, I stress.

So imagine my surprise, delight, and opportunistic relief when I saw that Jane Lively over at Four Jugs thought me "kreativ" enough to grant me this dainty and feminine meme-like award for my blog:

Now, as I mentioned previously, I was never really very popular growing up, so general shout-outs of fabulousness are always appreciated around here (not to mention the joy of watching my sidebar turn into a little charm bracelet of sorts, with all of my little awards dangling...!). Add to that the fact that this has now given me a day off of my self-imposed blog posting pressure, I am extremely grateful to Jane!

The rules state that I am to pass this forward to 7 other "kreativ" bloggers and share 7 things about me you all don't know, but seeing as I just recently linked up to a bunch of you with the world-renowned and highly coveted Zombie Chicken Award and I once shared not 7, but 101 amazing factoids about myself, I will simply refer you here and here.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a couple of taped episodes of Cougar Town to watch...

Those Last 5 Pounds

When you go through adolescence on the chubby side with a sister who was genetically destined to be a size 2 and family members who regularly pointed out "you have a pretty face," it can do a number on your psyche.

It didn't matter that in reality I was never actually "fat." At my heaviest, I was what I now refer to as "thick"...and I was still well below the national average. Yet at times I felt like an anomaly. I didn't see all the beautiful women around me of different sizes. I only compared myself to those who were smaller, smoother, sexier: my sister, my thinnest friends, the women in magazines, the trainer at the gym. I sought out perfection and then when I found it, I pointed it out to myself: "See? Why can't you look like her? That is what a good body looks like."

Then I hit my 30's. You know that stupid cliche you always hear about how there's just something about the 30's...how women "find" themselves, settle in to and appreciate their bodies more, forgive their flaws, leave the lights on...? Well, there's a reason it's cliche. That's because for a lot of us, it's true. Most days, I wouldn't trade a wrinkle, a dimple, or an age spot for my 20's. Most days.

But, let me just say I am not one of those who says it was all because of motherhood. You know...the women who say the reason they love their bodies so much more now is because they carried babies? They realized the miracle of pregnancy and childbirth? Uh, no. The miracle of childbirth might have given me two beautiful amazing boys, but it also gave me looser skin, a jagged scar, and a whole new set of body issues. It was, however, the pregnancies and time thereafter that motivated me more than ever to finally make amends with my body, to get it in the best shape possible, to bring that number on the scale to a permanent, healthy home and finally end the discord between my head and my dress size. I was determined to have active (and somewhat fashionable) pregnancies, and then was even more determined to lose all the weight afterwards.

"You know, you really should give away those skinny jeans you had before you got pregnant, because there's no way you're ever gonna fit in those again."

Yes, someone told me that. To my face. Don'tcha love family?

And that was the day I swore to myself that not only would I fit into those jeans by the time Ben was one, but I'd need a smaller pair.

And I did fit into them. And they were too big by the time Ben was one. And then I did it again after Aidan, except this time I wanted to lose "just a little more."

The magic number was 125. It was a number I had not seen since my teen years. It was a number that I thought "the chubby sister" probably couldn't hit. It was the number I thought of when I was floating around at 130 as the "If Only Weight"...as in: "If only I weighed 125 pounds, I could wear that dress." "If only I weighed 125 pounds, I could stop worrying about my weight." "If only I weighed 125 pounds, I'd be just perfect."

And then I did. This week. There it was. 125 pounds. I stepped on and off the scale 3 times just to make sure. 125. The eating right, the waking up twice a week at 5:00 to go to the gym, the miles of running after work...it had all paid off.

And yet, when I looked in the mirror, it was still me. Just smaller. But the parts of my body I never particularly cared for? They were still there, too. Don't get me wrong, I loved what I saw. I love that I'm stronger now than I've ever been, that I can run faster than I've ever run (and in shorts, no less!), that I'm lighter, smaller, healthier. But it's just like that young girl I used to be, seeking out the perfection, finding it, pointing it out, unforgiving, always demanding.

I am sure I'm not alone in this: we spend so much time working towards "those last 5 pounds"...postponing the buying of a great pair of jeans, worrying at the beach about what might be jiggling, stressing, wishing, waiting...waiting for what? At what point do we "get there"? At what point do we make amends with who we are and what we see and what we love and what we don't about ourselves? I thought that point was a number. And then I reached that number and realized This is It. As Good As It Gets. I have arrived. And that magical, cure-all number? Those last 5 pounds? For me, they were realizing that pushing that number down was just an excuse to postpone the real work...the work of accepting myself, of being good enough, of looking around and seeking the perfection in myself, of pointing that out to myself and saying: "See? Look at you. This is what a good body looks like, too."

I think tonight I'll leave the lights on.

Blog Awards Rock (and so do I, apparently)

I was not very popular in high school.

I know, I know. That's shocking, because really, I'm so damn cool now, right? But no, not then. I peaked late in life, you see.

So it's pretty fun when One Of The Cool Girls thinks I'm kinda cool, too.

That Girl39 of Forty Not Out (who is really fabulous) has awarded me with:
Now I know that my non-blogging friends right now are like: "Huh? The Zombie Chicken Award?!? And how, exactly, is this a good thing?" But trust me on this one...only the cool girls get 'em. I know. I've looked around.

“The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all.”

So because I would not want That Girl39 to brave a raving pack of zombie chickens in vain, I shall continue blogging so she is able to read my "inspiring words." And in order to avoid the wrath of said chickens myself, I shall accept the task and pass the award on to 5 other worthy bloggers:

~Jen and Sarah at Momalom because they were one of the first I discovered in this blogging world who really inspired me...and continue to do so on a regular basis with their blunt, insightful honesty...so much so that I have a quote from one of their posts taped to my wall...and because I am sure Sarah and I would be partners in crime if only we knew each other in Real Life.

~JennyMac at Let's Have a Cocktail..., and I don't care if she's already gotten one of these before and just about every other award out there. She's too damn cool not to get one from me. I mean, she has 658 followers, has been published, writes hilarious posts about everything and nothing, and still manages to find the time to check out other little blogs (such as this one) AND comment on them!

~Simone at The Bottom of the Ironing Basket, who I just discovered but whose images inspire me. I am already addicted.

~Becca at Drama for Mama because her mommy stories make me laugh, and I am pretty sure her daughter will end up marrying my son...simply because they both have the same exact annoying (endearing) qualities and quirks.

~Lucy and Jane at Four Jugs because somehow they manage to constantly write about random topics in a way that makes me desperately want to read them (not to mention their nifty occasional 80's and movie-themed quizzes).

So ladies...thanks for writing, inspiring, and making me laugh. Enjoy your chickens. You deserve 'em. Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall have a martini to celebrate my own zombie chicken fabulousness.

The Perfect Woman

It seems that creating your "best self" is a recurring theme throughout many of the blogs I follow. So many of us are trying to find/create/recreate/improve/figure out who we are. In my constant quest towards self-improvement, I am occasionally inspired by those unreal women in the fantasy world of Hollywood.

I once played a game with a friend: "If you could be any celebrity, who would it be?" This incredibly shallow and unimportant question became surprisingly difficult to answer and the cause of much back-and-forth:

"Well, I'd like to be Fergie, but with smaller boobs."

"No, I'd like to be Catherine Zeta Jones, but with more sass."

"How about Sarah Jessica Parker with 5 more pounds and a better nose?"

Bottom line? We came to the conclusion that there are many facets to a woman that make her who she is, and the Perfect Woman is more a combination of ingredients than just one simply perfect person.

So...here's my combination of celebrity ingredients to make the perfect woman. Yes, I realize these are just celebrities...they are not heroes or our mothers or our closest friends. And yes, of course, I have fabulous women in my life--real women whom I admire and respect and emulate. But this is for FUN, people, just fun. So without further adieu, here is my version of

The Perfect Woman...

1. Scarlett Johansson's Body: That girl manages to be petite and voluptuous at the same time. Everything about her screams "Sex." Even in a t-shirt and jeans, she's the picture of Woman. No, she's not runway thin. No, she's not 5'10". But I don't really care to be either of those things anyway.

2. Drew Barrymore's Overall Quirkiness: She has this adorable lightness about her...this effervescent personality...and I admit I love that side-of-the-mouth thing she does when she talks.

3. Pink's Badass-ness: I know, she's kinda scary, but I sorta wish I were too, sometimes. I mean, you definitely get the impression there is no messing with this girl. She's the reason I often find myself singing "So what? I'm still a rock star..." really loudly inside my own head when someone pisses me off. For real.

4. Jewel's and Alanis Morissette's Writing Talent: Have you ever really paid attention to these women's lyrics? Brilliant for very different reasons. Jewel is soft and sensitive. Alanis is ironic and insightful. Some of their lines have gotten me through the toughest times in my life.

5. Shakira's Hips: Watch the video. 'Nuff said.

6. Sarah Jessica Parker's and Gwen Stefani's Style: If I can not have any of the qualities listed above, this one alone would make me a better person, I am sure of it. The frills and elegance of SJP's red carpet style and the everyday glamorous rocker-chic look of Gwen? Fashion Perfection.

That's it. All I ever wanted to be...with a dash of ME mixed in.

What about you guys? If you could be any celebrity, who would it be?

Lysol, anyone?

Goings-on at our house...

1. One ear infection, left ear--Ben
2. One cold--Mama
3. Second ear infection, right ear--Ben
4. One cold--Dada
5. One all-over body rash diagnosed as hand, foot, mouth disease (yes, it exists for those of you who don't have kids)--Ben
6. One lost voice--Mama
7. Three cough-filled nights--Mama & Dada
8. Three rounds of antibiotics--Mama & Ben
9. Three vomit clean-ups--Ben & Aidan
10. One stomach virus--Ben

Fun & frivolity abound here! Anyone wanna come over?

Further evidence that mommyhood sucks the COOL right out of you...

So this weekend, Hubby and I had babysitting. Babysitting always means cocktails. A lot of them. So 5 1/2 hours and 3 wine bottles later (What? We were on the beach. It was hot. We were thirsty. Really thirsty.), we ended up on South Beach. We head over to THE pizza place...this place is synonymous with South Beach, clubbing, and the IT scene. Now you have to understand, this is not a chic place, really...more like a greasy, noisy, crowded hole in the wall with a gazillion delicious pizzas you order from behind a glass case and then stand around and try not to tip over in your drunken exhaustion as you thank the heavens that this place exists and wonder how in the world a place this greasy can mass produce pizza this good.

So we're standing in line and I am not even caring that we are finishing our night up at 8:30 while the South Beach-ites around us are just starting to ponder which uber-chic club they will go to before ending up right back at the same pizza spot. I am feeling pretty happy...the kind of happy you can only get with a bottle (or three) of wine, a day on the beach, and uninterrupted time with Hubby. This is when I get the uncontrollable urge to pee.

I saunter on down the long dark passageway of patrons and pizzas towards the bathroom. I yank on the handle, but nothing happens. I read the blurry sign on the door. Yep. Ladies Restroom. I pull again. Nothing. Within my drunken near-stupor, I notice an intimidating-looking brass contraption at the top of the door. I can not for the life of me figure out what in the world that is or how it functions, but I know, with every passing second that I must get into that bathroom. Turning over to the end of the pizza counter, I spot an employee...picture: toothless trucker/homeless guy who happens to run a ridiculously lucrative pizza joint in South Beach. Yeah. I can't figure it out either. But there he was, raspy voiced and greasier than the linoleum.

"Hi!" I bubble over to him. "How do I get into the bathroom?"

Without even looking over at me, he grumbles, "Ya' gotta put a coin in."

I blink.

"A coin? What do you mean? Do you have a key or something?"

Unable to be bothered by the likes of perky, confused, sloshed li'l ol' me, he shoves a gold circle into my hand. "Here," he grunts.

"What's this?"

"A token." Still grumbling. Still not looking at me.

"A token?"

"Yeah, a token."

I look down into my palm. I blink rapidly. Confused. I stand there, frozen, my alcohol-saturated brain trying to make some sense. Then, suddenly, it dawns on me. My face lights up.

"Ooooooh!" I squeal, smiling. "You mean like at Chuck E. Cheese?!?"

Raspy-greasy-can't-be-bothered-pizza-guy finally looks at me. Now it's his turn to blink rapidly and look confused. After a long pause, he responds: "Sorta."

I skip merrily to the bathroom, token in hand.