...but then I had kids

Desperate Dreams

2012-01-26T15:39:00.003-05:00

We were never really the corner lot type.

When Hubby and I started looking for a place together, we looked for something small and near the beach. Once we learned that even a cardboard box near the beach was out of our price range, we switched to small and "with personality." Our first home was a small townhouse with cedar beam ceilings, a loft, and tons of character. We gutted it, made it our own, and loved it. We planned out our lives together: cheap cars, small house, big life.

This worked out really well until we decided we wanted a second baby. It had already been challenging to fit the three of us and all of our stuff into the tiny spaces of the townhouse: Hubby's racing bikes (note the plural) were often stored in the dining room; his rappeling gear and our camping equipment hung in the baby closet; the baby's playpen was more often a storage container than an actual area for Ben to play; and our kayak was stored in a relative's garage. There was absolutely no way we were going to be able to add another person to this adorable little box with character.

So we started to look for our first real Grown-up House. Due to some really crazy and serendipitous circumstances, we were able to buy our dearest friend's house from her ex-husband...the same house where we had taken our first photo together as a couple, the same house where we had celebrated our graduate degrees at a dinner party hosted by our friend, the same house we had seeked refuge in when we needed advice and our friend's guidance. The house was outdated and her ex had not really kept up with it after she moved out; we could not even consider living in it until we gutted the whole place. But it was way bigger than we ever dreamed we could afford and had a pool and a two-car-garage and was on a corner lot and had such special meaning to us from our early years of dating. So we swapped our Big Life plan for the Big House version and told ourselves it was still Our Dream--just a different one.

It wasn't that we wanted a fancy home. Anyone who knows us can tell you we are not fancy people. We just wanted the most we could get in a time when South Florida real estate was at its most ridiculous peak. And we figured if we were going to give up our big trips and our big outings and get ourselves into a massive mortgage, it may as well be for a place that held some meaning for us (a pool and an extra room didn't hurt, either).

Fast forward 4 1/2 years.

The inside of our home, although not fully furnished yet (if ever), was airy and modern and inviting. The backyard was our Key West-themed tropical paradise. We had put it all into this house: money we had and money we didn't; time gutting it all and time replacing everything...it felt as if we had sold our souls in order to have The House. But despite our efforts, we still had not finished it. And as we sat at the sparkly granite bar counter of our sparkly remodeled kitchen in our sparkly spacious house, lists of bills and notes of pending projects confronted us, and we couldn't see how we could ever complete the rest. We had left the biggest and most overwhelming project for last: the front yard was a disaster and an embarrassment. Between the mortgage payments, the preschool payments, the debt we had gotten into because of the house repairs, we just didn't see how we were ever going to be able to come up for air.

For the first time, we considered the possibility of letting go of the house. We were tired of the mortgage payment. We were tired of pulling up to a house that looked like it had been abandoned. We were tired of giving up weekends away so that we could have a paved driveway. Facing the possibility of selling the house, I was overcome with emotion. I became unreasonably petulant: why couldn't I have it all? The house and the life we wanted (even if it had to be toned down a bit)? We began to wonder if maybe we had made the wrong decision.

This conversation took place in July.

A month later, Hubby applied us for "Desperate Landscapes," one of his favorite DIY network TV shows. The show does complete (and often over-the-top) facelifts to front yards that are the laughing stock of the neighborhood. And although we certainly qualified, the cynic in me didn't think we had a chance. So...I scoffed. I poked fun. I complained when I had to help with the application process. I even went so far as to declare to Hubby: "Okay, here's the plan: if we get picked for the TV show it will be a sign that we did the right thing with this house and we stay." Yeah, right.

We got the news that we had been selected the week after Thanksgiving. Hubby suggested that from now on, I just listen to him.

Hmmm. He might have a point.

Last Thursday, at 6:45 in the morning, the first of many trucks arrived at our home. By 8:00 am, we had three camera crews, a catering tent, a full production studio tent, the host of the show, 25 workers, and 10 of our nearest and dearest (who took days off from work, shuffled their children and responsibilites, and did what they had to in order to be there for us). By 4:00 pm, our front yard had had a $30,000 make-over.

Thanks to Hubby's optimistic nature, our friends and family, the DIY network, and perhaps a little of that What-are-the-chances-kind-of-luck, our house was suddenly finished. As I looked around, I wondered how the heck circumstances changed so drastically (and sort of weird-ly) in such a short period of time? It was as if the Universe had paid us back for our hard work.

In addition to all of this, right around Christmas time our mechanic (of all people!) told us about a new refinancing loophole. Hubby chased that tidbit like a maniac. We closed on that the week before the TV shoot. Somehow, we went from a mortage we could barely afford on a house that looked like a construction site to a monthly payment with breathing room and the nicest house on the block.

I'm not really sure how all of this happened. In less than 6 months, we've gone from total doubt and frustration to freedom. I am a big believer of the Universe, Karma, God, whatever, and I'd love to chalk it up to that. But really, I know that plenty of hard working, good people are stuck in houses they can't afford (or losing houses they can't afford), and are not waiting for a TV crew to show up and landscape. I understand how lucky we are right now. I am just sort of still in a daze...incredibly grateful that Hubby insisted on taking a chance, that the producer liked us enough to pick us out of 100's of applicants, that I had a boatload of friends and family members who dropped everything to dig holes and shovel dirt, that now when we make our mortgage payment we can actually truly afford it, and that somehow, suddenly, we no longer feel "desperate" about swapping a Big Life for a Big House.

P.S. I will post an update when I have the air date of the show....we are not allowed to post any before/after shots until then! So these are some of the "durings"!

Being a star is such hard work....here we are filming the moment when the show's host, Jason, reveals the suprise plan.

And this is only a sampling of the people on our front lawn!

Between camera crews, catering (!), producers, helpful friends, trucks, dumpsters, equipment, they took up half our block and then some!

The producers' tent

Jason Cameron (the show's host), ME!, Tracy (producer & overall kick-ass person), Hubby

Wave "Bye-Bye" to the Crib: Another chapter in the baby book closed

2012-01-14T23:20:00.001-05:00

The finality of it startled me.

I had been struggling to untie the knots holding the crib bumper in place.

I had not been contemplating.

I had not even given it a thought. Then, there it was: the finality. My youngest (and last) had slept in his crib for the last time, and I had not even known it.

We knew we were just about ready to get rid of the crib. Aidan Kai had been asking for "a big boy bed" ever since we had made the suggestion, weeks ago, when big brother Ben had gotten a loft bed as a hand-me-down. The only thing we had been waiting on was finding the time to paint and assemble the new bed, so we could transfer Ben's old one over to Aidan's room. When we found ourselves with an unexpected day stuck at home (due to a week-long sibling-shared virus), we figured "May as well."

So we built the new bed. We moved the old Big Boy Bed into Aidan's room. Hubby went out and bought the new mattress. I took Aidan Kai to Target to pick out his First Ever Big Boy Sheets (Lightning McQueen).

Even when Hubby texted me that he was "soooo sad" about getting rid of the rocking chair to make room for the new bed, I didn't think twice about it. In fact, I was a little surprised by this unexpected sentimentality, he being the one of us who is always, always looking forward; never, ever missing the baby stage; rarely reminiscing. I shrugged my shoulders at the text, thinking the rocking chair (the same one we've sat in night after night to rock and sing and read to at least one of our boys for the last 6 years) was kinda dingy and banged up and a mess, anyways, so really, what was the big deal?

Then I got down to the frustratingly difficult task of the knots on the crib bumper...the bumper we debated purchasing for so long with our first baby...the patchwork quilt Pottery Barn bumper with the maps of Hawaii and the little palm trees...one of our little splurges for our first nursery. And there it was, in the middle of a particularly stubborn, manicure-ruining knot: the realization that we would never again have a crib. We would never again pour a sleepy little boy, rag clutched tightly in his tiny fist, into a crib. We would never again walk into a room, sleepy and bleary-eyed and wishing we could just be left to sleep a little longer, to find a little boy, too eager to wake up, too eager to play, too eager to start his day, his little arms outstretched in the air, asking to be "out," out of his crib.

When the boys were littler, we were always half-wishing that we could fast-forward...get through Whatever Tough Stage we were in: newborn, colic, diapers, 24/7 clinginess. We are usually pretty good about moving on, getting to the next stage, starting a new chapter. When we donated the high chair, we nearly threw ourselves a party.

But we are loving this stage now, where we can really talk to our oldest, see him turning into a little person, a real contributor to this family; but still enjoy having a little one among us...no more diapers, but just enough baby fat and fumbling and cuteness to make him The Baby. So now, all of a sudden, we don't really want time to move on. We don't want them to grow up much. We don't feel trapped anymore, in this thing called Parenting. We, apparently, have grown up right alongside them.

So to know, in such a concrete way, that time is passing, that the boys are growing, that The Baby is really not a baby anymore, it's unsettling and liberating at the same time. And within the joy, there is that little sadness: there is no more crib; hence, there is no more baby.

Last night was the last night we would be the parents of a baby. Last night was the last night our littlest would sleep in his crib. Last night was the last night, except, we didn't even know it.

What are the chances?

2012-01-10T16:36:00.005-05:00

When I was 16, I had my tonsils and adenoids out. I had to spend the night in the hospital for observation because I bled too much during the surgery, according to the doctor. A week later, I sneezed in the middle of the night and burst something, which caused me to hemorrhage through the back of my nose. I spent 4 days in the hospital. That sort of shit never happens from a routine tonsillectomy.

When I had my second son, I felt something "funny," and called the nurse. It turned out to be a prolapsed chord (click here for the full story on that adventure), which is really, really serious and "never happens." In fact, during my whole recovery in the hospital and even when I went back for my follow-ups, several nurses, doctors, and interns greeted me gleefully with "ooooh, you're the prolapsed chord!"

This past Friday, I went in for an endoscopy and Bravo probe test, a procedure that should have taken 15 minutes and one my doctor has performed "hundreds of times" without any issues at all. But this is me, and at this point, you should be noticing a pattern. The first probe (a tiny device they implant in your esophagus to measure for reflux disease) was faulty. Hmmm. That never happens. They try with a second probe. It, too, is faulty and does not latch onto my esophagus. "Must be a bad batch," figures the doctor, which he says has never, ever happened, and proceeds to pull the second one out. Upon its exit, the little shit decides to fall into my throat (the capsule, not the doctor), and lodge itself behind my sinus cavity. Now, this really never happens. Afraid it will slip into my trachea and go into my lungs (something "of concern," as the doctor explained later), my gastro now has to call in an ER ENT and put me under general anesthesia (as opposed to just the lovely dose of Michael Jackson drugs they had used to lull me to sleep) and use special tools to free this damned tiny capsule that is supposed to be oh-so-easy-and-effective-and-is-really-a-nothing-sort-of-test-but-yields-such-great-results.

Bottom line? I am that 1%. You know, when doctors say "sign here because here is the fine print of what could happen, but never does"? Yep. Me. Not always. But 3 out of 4 of my surgical procedures have yielded these amazingly fluke-y results.

I came home from the hospital Friday a little pissed off. I had been waiting to have this test done for weeks now, and had been looking forward to getting it all over with. I had expected to be at work all afternoon and, other than having to carry around a little device to monitor the levels of acidity from the implanted capsule, I should have been no worse for the wear. Instead, I could barely chew, I had blood clots coming out in my tissues, and swallowing felt like I had glass embedded in the back of my throat.

And, I admit, I have a propensity for all things pessimistic. Not always. But often. I have been known to go down the path of doom and despair and throw myself quite the pity party.

And, on top of all of this, I have had a rough few months. (I always feel the need to pop in the disclaimer here that "it could be worse"....that "I am grateful it hasn't been anything serious"...that I have just had "some minor medical annoyances," lest I tempt fate because I really, really do know that what I have been going through for a few months is, really, in the grand scheme of things nothing. But all that said, I have felt, pretty much, like shit in one way or another for the last few months.)

But despite all of this, for some odd, unexplainable reason, I didn't feel that bad Friday after all of this. Mentally, I mean. I just sorta shrugged my shoulders and chuckled at it all. I figured it could have been a lot worse, and I was home and was okay. The doctor said he'd make sure I would not be billed for the procedure (which was going to be almost 2K out of pocket because of this oh-so-special-probe-capsule-thing), and that the endoscopy showed nothing serious. I had been symptom-free for a few days, and perhaps with the results of the endoscopy alone, I would be able to resolve the whole problem. And as if that attitude wasn't enough to surprise me, I was also like: "Well, being that 1% sometimes is a good thing, because all sorts of amazing things have happened to me in my life that, statistically, probably never really should have."

What?!? Who said that? Was that really, truly me looking at the silver lining, without even being reminded to do so? That never happens...

But it's true...I immediately thought of all those times I've had the same reaction ("I can't believe that happened!") to good stuff...

Like ending up living in the very house where I took my very first picture with Hubby...the same house I slept in one night when I was running away from my old life, in the very room that now, 12 years later, belongs to my son.

Like after spending 4 years and all of our money (and some we didn't have) on fixing up said dream house, and feeling like maybe we had bitten off more than we could chew...cause really, how are we ever going to get it all done?...and what are we going to do about the thousands of dollars of work that still needed to be done to the outside?...after giving everything up for this place and thinking maybe we had been nuts all along and looking for a sign that we did, in the end, do the right thing...we got selected out of "hundreds and hundreds" of applicants who tried to get their front yards made over for the DIY Network TV show "Desperate Landscapes."

Like I walked out on a terrible marriage, despite what everyone around me thought and advised, and not only lived to tell about it, but truly ended up with my happily-ever-after.

Like the second time around I married someone who truly turned out to be my Soulmate (I know how a lot of you feel about that term; if it makes you feel all uncomfortable and cynical-like, feel free to plug in any other appropriate term there instead, such as "great provider," "best friend," "Mr. Right," whatever, just as long as you get the gist).

Like that crazy, terrible 1% chance thing that happened with Aidan's delivery? Well, there is even a smaller chance that babies who are born with a prolapsed chord suffer absolutely no trauma or injury...and he never so much as missed a breath.

Really, what are the chances of any of those things happening? So sometimes, being in that crazy-minority-percentage-of-that-never-happens is a really, really good thing.

I am so damn tired of being negative, of expecting the worst, of worrying and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was as if it took more energy to be pissed, depressed, and worried about what had happened, than to just accept that it did, look for the good, and move on.

I know: obvious for some of you.

Completely earth-shattering for me.

So maybe, just maybe, I'm evolving...? Learning?

And really, what are the chances of that?

My Year in List: 2011 in Review

2012-01-08T10:11:00.009-05:00

Life has been a bit chaotic lately...so much good, a tad...well...um...inconvenient. "Busy" is the best way to describe the last few months. Hence...not a word in here since November. November! What IS that? I'm supposed to be a writer, a blogger, a person who likes to reflect and ponder and share and spend time around here (not to mention around "there"...where you all, my fellow bloggers and those of you who inspire me on a regular basis are writing). But nope, nothing...not a post on turning 39 (39!?!), my last 30-something-birthday. Not a post on the holidays, the magic of seeing my little boys enjoying Christmas more and more each year. Not a post on our first (annual now?) New Year's Eve party during which I ended up having oh-so-much-fun that I had to be tucked in by my friend a full hour before the dancing ended (and I NEVER miss some dancing, but fortunately, I did miss the clean-up). So I promised myself that, at the very least, I would post a little something about the year in general, even if it is way late. And so, to keep within the theme of "no time" and "too busy," I shall turn to my lists again, a form of cheating, I suppose, but a true reflection of how my brain has been working lately.

What 2011 was for me:

1. Lots of running for the half-marathon...then race day!...and, please, no more running for a while

2. Disney, Disney, and more Disney (I think we are all done with the annual pass concept for a bit)

3. Ailments: sinus infections, bronchitis, asthma, neck spasms, GERD (this item could also be listed as "WTF?!?" and/or "Could Be Worse")

4. Trying new (old) activities: can you say "Shimmy" and "Ommmmm"?

5. Not having enough money to continue with bellydancing and yoga (see above)

6. Not having enough money for a lot of stuff

7. Making new decisions about money

8. Discovering, much to our relief and amazement, that the cosmic theory that if you are responsible and generous with money, it will come back to you

9. 50th anniversary party (I think we worked harder to plan this event than our own wedding, although Lord knows, my parents deserved it)

10. Potty training

11. Potty training

12. Potty training (yes, I know...the topic deserved three listings, trust me)

13. Good-bye VPK, hello Kindergarten!

14. Personal makeover: good-bye long hair (and discovering that my hair really does not define me...heavy stuff about frivolous beauty decisions)

15. Home makeover: hello, DIY network (ever heard of "Desperate Landscapes"? They're commmming!!!!!!!!)

16. Soccer-Boys (but so NOT Soccer Mom)

17. How the fuck did I turn 39?!?

18. Reminding myself that Gwen Stefani is 42 and Sarah Jessica Parker is 46

19. Hubby and I rediscovering Us (and more importantly, recognizing the need for a rediscovery)

20. Our latest acquisition/project/adventure: an RV (and setting out to prove that Fashion Girl can also be RV Girl)

Here's to a new year: to always improving myself, to trying new things, to going back to old things I loved, and to taking some risks. Cheers!

My Life, In Lists: Please Pardon My Dust

2011-11-30T19:29:00.001-05:00

Currently under construction:

1. My body (again): It seems as if my body has been under some sort of renovation project so many times in its lifetime, that it's no wonder parts of me are starting to sag and complain and wither. I mean, really, how many times is one's tummy skin supposed to be expected to actually suck back in to its original smoothness and tautness, between all the preteen-chubby-years, adolescent crash diets, vacation-dieting, holiday weight gain, post-holiday weight loss, pregnancy 1 and 2, and now the official "Approaching-My-Last-Birthday-In-My-30's-And-I'm-Going-To-Paris-Soon-So-I-Wanna-Be-Ultra-Skinny-So-I-Can-Wear-Chic-Black-Cigarette-Pants" era...?

2. My backyard: My parents, who are the most amazing human beings in the world and cutest little old couple EVER, are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary this weekend, complete with a renewal of vows ceremony. Yep. After 50 years, my dad says (and I quote) "if I were to be born all over again and start my life over, I would still pick your mom and marry her and do things just as I did." And my mom, who is still known to giggle and squeal when she gets excited about something, and still matches her lipstick to her outfits, will "walk down the aisle" in what I am sure is her first-ever designer dress, bouquet and all. And so where does my backyard come in? It is the place where all of this is going to happen. After 14 months of planning, Hubby and I are hosting this event on Saturday, and Hubby has literally done minor construction in order to hold up the 1000+ twinkling white lights he strung over the pool and throughout the backyard in honor of the "bride and groom."

3. My family room: Because of #2 (see above), my family room which usually houses 8 large bins filled with toys, a Little Einstein's Art Table, two computer desks and chairs, indoor soccer goals, an art easel, and whatever else happens to end up there, is now being transformed into a party room of sorts: plants, white drapes, a collage of black and white photos of my parents' original wedding, and a cake table. Seems minor, but when you've got that much crap belonging to 2 little boys, it's not.

4. My health: I've had this little stint over the last few months with some random and minor (but highly annoying and disruptive) medical issues. Doctors, unfortunately, sometimes pose as many questions as patients do: "Is it asthma? Is it bronchitis? Is it migraines? Is it GERD?" All of this has--much to many of my friends' and family members' politely restrained amusement--led to a persistent eye twitch. Yes. An eye twitch. For over two months now. So if you see me and think I'm winking at you or doing my best Elvis snarl, just ignore me. Or, point and laugh.

5. My personality: Yes, I have come to the conclusion that for my very own benefit, I am currently desirous of a slight personality makeover. A little therapy perhaps? Some meditation? Pondering dramatically by the seashore? Cocktails with friends? High quality conversation with Hubby over average-quality wine? Yes, please. All of the above. I need to get a better handle on how I handle everyday stress, everyday life, and live more in the moment. (This item on the list, interestingly enough, is kinda like #1...When it comes to my ass or my attitude, I think there is always room for improvement.)

6. This blog: Well, I don't know if I can honestly drape this place with the "Caution: Construction Zone" tape, since I'm not here enough to actually justify wearing a hard hat. But this little blog, my little blog, is still here...and I'm still here...rebuilding, remodeling, reinventing.

Musings of a Writer: The Chicken or the Egg?

2011-11-07T19:04:00.005-05:00

Are writers prone to angst?
Or are angst-ridden people prone to writing?

I wonder, if all those years when I was a little kid, clicking away at my sister's typewriter, scribbling in my pink and purple lock-and-key diaries, filling up pages of notebook paper, it was because, even then, I was driven by the need to vent?

Even at that young age, I thought about Stuff. I worried. I pondered Life.

Much like my oldest, who recently asked if he were to touch his daddy's and my hands when we went to heaven, if maybe, just maybe, we could take him with us, and how he had decided, right then and there, that he would, in fact, touch us, "just in case." All of this...from a 5 year old. The one who Hubby says is the emotional and psychological spitting image of me.

It seems his brain never shuts down.

I can relate.

My mind is never quiet.

And it is usually when I am in A Place...some weird place I can get in...either surrounded by plans or dreams or worries or fears or all of these, that I feel the urgency to write most. Even when I don't write (as has been the case on this blog lately), I am constantly composing in my head. The sentences are formed, the words swirl around, all in an attempt to make sense of it all: whatever is in there, currently, in my head.

Perhaps it is like a defense mechanism: the words are my safety net that catch the thoughts that threaten to drown me. They give me the very false feeling that I am in control. Of something. Of anything. At the very least (or the very most?) of myself.

And so I wonder: is it the writer in me that over thinks everything? Or is the thinker in me that has to write?

To Do: My Life, in Lists

2011-10-07T19:15:00.000-04:00

I haven't been around much lately.

Maybe you've noticed.

Or, then again, maybe you haven't since...really, let's be honest...there just isn't much to see around here these days.

It's just that I have all these lists jumbling around in my head lately...all To-Do Lists of some sort: things I have To Do for work, things I have To Do at home, things I have To Do for the kids...and mixed somewhere in there, dizzy amongst all the other demands, is my list of things I want To Do.

Despite how manic I can be, I'm usually pretty good about putting that list at the top. Take right now, for instance: I'm sitting in a kitchen strewn with week-old mail (we get a lot of catalogs...trust me, it's A LOT), the Disney hotel key cards from last week's trip, a month's worth of kindergarten and preschool projects, letters, worksheets, drawings, and notices (which we have surely ignored for way longer than is proper), and countertops crusted with week-old bits and pieces (last night I scraped some honey drops off with my nail...who knew honey got that hard?). But here I am: blogging instead of doing what I "should" be doing. I could rationalize it by saying that every once in a while, you gotta throw out the to-do's and just say "Fuck it" and have a night to yourself, but if I'm gonna be really honest, then I have to admit that I've done that pretty much every night for a week. Monday, it was "Fuck it, I have a fever, I don't care if the kitchen is a mess." Tuesday it was "Fuck it, I feel like shit but at least I don't have a fever anymore, so I don't care if the kitchen is still a mess." Wednesday it was "Fuck it, I finally feel like myself, so I am going to spend time with the kids, and I don't care if the kitchen is a mess." Thursday it was "Fuck it, I meant to get to it today, but I'll deal with the kitchen tomorrow." And today, well, today it's "Fuck it, I'm drinking wine and it's Friday, so just fuck it in general."

But in spite of the fact that I usually do carve time out of life's chaos To Do the stuff I really want to, sometimes blogging falls by the wayside. And I find that, for some reason, lately I have been thinking in "list-form" a lot. So after toying with the idea for a couple of months, I've decided that every once in a while (or whenever I damn well please), I will have a List Post. 'Cause truth be told, my brain never shuts down and I very often have something I want to say, but usually I just don't have the time (or energy, mainly) to sit down and put together a cohesive, poignant, perhaps funny, usually sarcastic post on the matter. So, I present you with the first of my new series: "My Life, in Lists."

List of things I can never say NO to:

1. A rockin' stiletto on sale (even though I have more than my social life will really ever require)
2. My kids asking for "one more chapter" or "one more book" or anything reading-related
3. An offer from my mother to watch the kids overnight
4. A gorgeous day at the beach
5. A night out with The Girls (or day out, or lunch, or any gathering, really, in which I may feel like I will miss out)
6. The snooze button
7. Red velvet anything
8. A foot rub
9. Good salsa
10. A really good book
11. Date night (even if it's just at home after the kids are asleep) with Hubby
12. Trashy celebrity magazines
13. Cadbury Mini Eggs (unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on the current number on the scale, they only sell them at Easter time)
14. Watching anything with Drew Barrymore or Sarah Jessica Parker in it
15. Another glass of wine

Cheers!

Cutting off the negative energy

2011-09-10T09:07:00.007-04:00

They say that when it comes to hair, there are two kinds of women: the ones who see their hair as an accessory and change it on a whim, knowing it's "just hair," and the ones who see their hair as part of their persona, their signature, their "thing."

I am definitely the latter.

I have worn my hair pretty much the exact same way for about 10 years (well, there was that crazy experimental phase in which I threw in some longish bangs, but I was hormonal and pregnant so really, I wasn't myself). I can recite an endless list of things I would gladly change about my physical appearance, but my hair has been my ever-loyal sidekick. Other than an unhealthy obsession with Elnett Hairspray (trust me: it will change your life), my hair was pretty much wash and go. It was like if God said: "Okay, I'll make you a deal. I'll give you hips that will drive you mad your whole life, thighs that will never be slim no matter how many squats you do, and your mother's lack of skin elasticity, but I'm gonna give you This Hair." With little to no effort, I could wear it up in a sleek ponytail or knotted in a messy bun. I could wear it tame and soft with Kate Hudson-like beach waves, or big and intimidating with Shakira-like attitude.

But, like any other kind of relationship, if you don't tend to it, if you are careless and negligent, if you abuse it, even the most loyal of partners will begin to show wear and tear.

It was time.

My once golden locks had turned brassy and cheap-looking, like I'd been using Sun-in rather than a spectacular colorist who flies to New York on occasion to work Fashion Week. And the last several inches had dried out into a brittle handful of straw. My look had become more singe than signature.

Once I had committed to the idea (and printed several pics of a tousled Alexa Chung), I became completely and utterly excited by the idea. A new look. Chopping it all off. Going from an all one length mane of hair to a messy uneven short cut. I realized that I was desperately in need of a change. Over the last few months, I'd had a string of bad luck; nothing serious but enough little issues to have made me stressed and frustrated and a little depressed: sinus infections, bronchitis, adult-onset asthma, a minor neck injury, some "female" drama....the list went on, and had gotten chronic enough that some people were asking me if I'd consider seeing some kind of witch doctor or mojo-cleanser to un-jinx myself. (It's amazing how, regardless of the culture and religion, every group has some sort of voodoo/luck/energist/superstition type of thing.) And, I admit, I did start pondering....after all, what could it hurt to wear a special little black bead to ward off the evil eye, or bathe in a little milk and honey cleansing bath....?

Many of these little roadblocks had kept me from working out, and so, between the doctor's orders and summer being summer (hello, wine and beer!), I had also put on some weight. When you mix all of this stuff with a person who already has a propensity for mood swings, and throw in some hay for hair, you get a very unhappy and unpleasant Liz (and Liz's Hubby, I'm sure).

So when my friend suggested that I envision my hair cut as an exorcism of sorts, I was more than game. As I felt the cold steel of the scissors brushing against the back of my neck when she made the first snips, I envisioned all The Bad Stuff going with it. There, on her linoleum floor, mixed with the mounds of my hair, sat all my bad luck, all my days of feeling less than stellar, my chronic cough, my supposed asthma, my fourth (yes, fourth!) corneal abrasion. "Fuck you bitches...I got me a new hair cut!"

All three of my men loved it, too. Ben had initially wailed that morning when I told him I was cutting my hair: "But Maaaammmmmaaaa, whyyyyyy? I loooove your hair looonnnnngg!" But when I got home, he did a double take and smiled: "Wow, Mama, you look so pretty." Even little Aidan had something to say: "Mama, I like your hair like dat!" And Hubby, absolutely loves it. "I love that you look different, and I love how you feel with this new look."

Hair.
It's "just hair."
Funny thing, though...for some of us, it's not. It's a piece of our Selves.
I can't hide beneath my mane anymore. I feel purged. I feel lighter and excited, and the weirdest thing is that although I look totally different, I am feeling a little more like Myself than I have in a long time.

Exchange: Six Word Fridays

2011-09-02T20:06:00.007-04:00

we had always had a plan

so sure of what we wanted

to live life, together, out loud

be as free as commitment allowed

untethered to the things Everyone Else

used to measure their grand arrival

at the finish line of life

keep it small and live simply

so we could live Life large

travel, dance, laugh, sleep at night

without the stresses Everyone Else chose:

a lawn man, the corner lot

we planned life with bare feet

spontaneity, experiences, whimsy, free of cares

we were so sure back then

until something shifted, wishes got swapped

and we suddenly found ourselves dreaming

of a grown up life, settled

a home that was spacious enough

to welcome Just One More baby

(and a lawn man to cut

the grass on the corner lot)

we swapped one dream for another

found ourselves with a new life

new joys, different desires, wishes granted

but with it all sometimes comes

the subtle, quiet unease of wonder:

was this the life we intended

one we will look back on

with satisfaction of a life fulfilled

or a life exchanged for one

that is just like Everyone Else's?

Join Six Word Fridays at Melissa Camara's Wilkin's blog!

The First Day

2011-08-23T20:30:00.011-04:00

I was not prepared.

I bought all of the supplies.

Attended the meet-and-greet.

Packed their backpacks.

Reviewed shoe-tying.

Charged the camera battery.

Woke up extra early.

But I was not prepared.

On that first day

when I had done it all

checked it all off the lists

made sure we were all ready

I was not prepared.

I was not prepared for the pain

of the realization

that I was leaving my littlest one

alone

for the first time

ever

in a school

without his brother.

I was not prepared for the onslaught

of memories brought upon

by a moment captured on film:

a big brother helping a little brother

find his cubby

tuck his lunchbox

begin his day

exactly as he, himself, had done once

on his first day at the same little school.

With it came the sudden awareness

of the passing of time

the acknowledgement, for the first time,

that it is true

what they say:

they grow up too fast.

I was not prepared for the look of panic

fleeting and barely noticeable

but definitely there

in that second

just as we left.

I was not prepared for the sobs that choked me

shocked me

the whole way from one school to the next

where it started all over:

more shock, more tears

all my own.

I was not prepared for the swell of pride

unexplainable, almost.

After all, I had never been one of Those Mothers

and really, it was "just kindergarten"

and certainly, yes, a day of note, but of pride?

Pride.

Absolute.

Overwhelming.

Smothering.

I was not prepared for this feeling

that I was a mother

more than ever before

in that insignificant moment:

a nametag found and pinned

a bookbag draped over a chair

a boy

my boy

sitting

finding his seat

in kindergarten.

Summer makes me lazy...and happy

2011-07-21T22:45:00.017-04:00

Summer days have made me too lazy to think...much less write. So...here's more of our summer in pictures (notice the definite improvement over frig cleaning...).

Nothing better than...

...waking up at 8 or 9 in the morning and lazily watching Le Tour de France, coffee mug in hand.

...spending the whoooooole day on the beach, paddleboarding on the quiet clear water, and watching my kids be brave enough to ride with me for the first time.

...making childhood memories and lifelong friends.

...having the only two-year-old who can ride his bike with no training wheels but can't poop in the potty!

...watching my kids walk around the house stuffing their new backpacks and lunchboxes with "school supplies" and random items and being sooooooo excited (especially about kindergarten!).

...my little kindergartner proudly knowing 20 sight words and learning how to tie his shoes!

...at the end of day, walking into the room to find The Love Of My Life reading Max and Ruby to two little boys with sunkissed highlights who are so immersed in the story that they don't even notice I walked in.

My Summer (so far) In Pictures

2011-06-25T12:28:00.001-04:00

So it's been two full weeks of summer vacation so far, and here's what we have to show for it...

A weekend getaway to the west coast with the entire family:

Ben described it as "the most awesome vacation ever," so definitely a success.

It amazes me that with a house full of toys (most of which seem to have ended up on our living room floor), the boys are always wandering aimlessly about, trailing us like shadows, insisting they have nothing to do. I have nearly given up on cleaning up, since inevitably, everything ends up out the next day anyways.

Last summer, we spent most of our days at the beach and at the water park, but this summer we've had to deal with Potty Training Boot Camp (which has taken way longer than we had expected), so I've had to find ways to make me feel better about being trapped in the house:

I am embarrassed to admit that I almost enjoyed scrubbing and organizing my frig and freezer for the first time ever. (I'm also a little embarrassed to admit it was my first time ever). Who knew the drawers were supposed to be totally see-through?!?

And when I was done with the frig, I started to tackle The Major Summer Project: photo organizing. I finally finished Aidan Kai's first year album, so now I'm only 2 years behind...

And of course, what would a photo recap be of the last two weeks without...

When Aidan didn't quite make it to the bathroom, and the stickers didn't quite make it onto the chart, we had to turn to:

And as a result, at the end of each day, I've had to turn to...

We have managed to squeeze in some late afternoons of pool play and the occasional barbecue...

And even on the bad days, when I've wanted to go out all day long and instead have spent it scrubbing the carpets, running the washing machine, all while still trying to be uber-positive and cheerful with our pee-boy-in-training, I still remind myself that a summer day at home is still better than a good day at work!

Potty Training Boot Camp (or: And So I Turn To The Merlot...)

2011-06-16T19:02:00.000-04:00

Potty training stinks.

There is no faster way to suck the joy of summer right out of you like dirty superhero underwear.

Hubby, the boys, and I were all officially "off" for summer as of Friday morning. By Sunday afternoon, we were officially "on" for Boot Camp. We had done it with Ben when he was this age, and after only a few days, he had caught on. We figured, after months of plateauing on the potty, it was time for Aidan too. We know the boot camp method is a controversial one. We know it doesn't support the whole "the child needs to be ready" philosophy. But I sorta know my kids, and sometimes you have to push them a little (shove, really) or they might end up in college with Depends. They are both just the kinds of kids who would rather be playing with Hot Wheels or watching another episode of "Sponge Bob" rather than be receiving stickers and accolades for their bowel movements. My boys, it seems, can not always be bothered.

So, we figured we would jump in head (butt?) first, and do the intense potty training immediately. We had a window of time before the grandparents would be babysitting, and we knew it was now or never. After a visit to Target for Thomas and Marvel underoos in a 3T, we literally waved goodbye to all the diapers and Aidan proudly dumped them into the garbage (and then we promptly pulled them right back out and hid them...just in case...and mainly to be renamed as "nighttime big boy pull-ups"). Before the first 10-minute timer had beeped, in the midst of, apparently, a very intense game of Hot Wheels Monster Truck, I noticed a smell. "Aidan, do you have to go potty?" I asked, my voice pitched a bit too high already. Sure enough, I was initiated into the first hour of Boot Camp 2.0 with poop smushed right into Spiderman's face, and then, thanks to much wiggling, rolling out onto the bathroom tile, rug, and, just for good measure, smeared onto the Elmo Potty Seat.

The last 4 days have been filled with urine puddles and droplets, endless loads of laundry, cheers and stickers, timed potty runs (he's like Pavlov's dog when he hears the bell), and powdered laxative. Oh yes, our little champ decided he was not going to poop. At all.

Combine all of this with the stress of packing for a vacation and the number of children in the house doubling to 4 because of cousin sleepovers and two adults who need to get out of the house every day or else...well, summer ain't fun yet.

P.S. About an hour after posting my above entry, the following occurred:

~Aidan had a stomach ache and a fit and refused to go potty.

~While said stomach ache and fit were occurring, I tried to happily and cheerily encourage (read: force while still smiling) him to sit on the potty. This resulted in no bowel movement, but a sudden and unexpected stream of pee shooting out of him and onto me, my pink fuzzy slippers, the newly-washed bathroom rug, my newly-bathed, shaved, and moisturized leg, and the Eric Carle board book I was attempting to use as entertainment while he supposedly sat.

~Ben became The Obnoxious Version of Himself which sometimes makes an appearance and has been spending way too much time around here since school ended, and messed up any joy possible while preparing Father's Day gifts and cards (surely, a blog post to follow on this one).

~I drank waaaaaaay too much Merlot on an empty stomach, making me waaaaaay happier than when I started this post and making the title waaaaaaay more appropriate than I even thought possible when I wrote it.

To my preschool graduate

2011-06-07T22:25:00.012-04:00

Dear Ben,

Tonight you graduated from your little school. The first school you ever attended. The first place I ever "left you" to be with others, to be on your own, to start your own little life. You were 3 then, just turned, when you learned what a "cubby" was and which one would be yours. I remember being so worried, on that first day, and then you walked right over and, without hesitation, pushed your little soccer-themed lunch box into that little square, right where the teacher had shown you just a couple of days before when you had met her.

After the first couple of days you had a little setback. The teachers said it was normal. They said most kids reacted like that after the novelty of the first day wore off. But when I left you, each morning, for a handful of mornings, and you cried...no, you sobbed...and clung to me, your little fingers clenched into my shoulders, I cried too--probably more than you did.

Your first year, you took to napping on the little cot faster than I ever believed you would. The teacher said she loved watching you, because you slept like a baby: your arms and hands tucked neatly beneath your body, your knees scrunched up into your belly, your little tush in the air. When she told me, I had to laugh...that was how you always slept as a baby. And even now, on rare mornings when you are really sound asleep, I enter your room to find you still sleeping like that, in your infant position. You were "a leader," your first teacher said. She said all the kids liked you. You were bright and funny and loud.

And then your next year, you got a little too bright and too funny and too loud. It was a tough year for us, because we started to see glimpses: maybe you were not going to be the perfect student Mommy and Daddy had envisioned. Maybe, instead, you were going to be like Mommy and Daddy: questioning, opinionated, easily excited, and loving the attention. That was the year you forged your first tight friendship with another boy, your buddy who became infamous around these parts, your nearly-literal partner in crime. You will probably graduate from college, and we will still remember the name "CJ." Just in case, we took video of him tonight, at the graduation ceremony, and oddly enough, I looked at CJ with tenderness: this was the my son's first best friend.

This year, you went on to the "Big Kid Class." You had homework. You had strict teachers. You had yellow cards. Oh, yes, your VPK year nearly turned into "The Year of the Yellow Card." I am embarrassed to admit that the mood of our home became nearly completely dependent upon the color card you received in school each day. Somewhere along the line, after many conversations between your daddy and myself, great advice from your teacher, and many lost nights of sleep (mine, primarily...you know your dad never stresses), we sorta figured you out and learned how to encourage you while still disciplining you. And either it all worked, or you just matured a little, because green cards became the norm and yellow ones rarely appeared anymore. You went on to learn all of your letters and numbers and how to spell your whole name. You learned 24 of the 26 phonetic sounds. You came home talking about constellations. You taught us songs. You proudly displayed your 10 new sight words on your bedroom door.

Tonight, we watched you and all your classmates walk in wearing little red caps and gowns. Your 2011 tassel dangled in your face as you turned around to look back at us and wave one more time before going up on stage. When they called your name and you walked up to your teachers to receive your diploma (a blank rolled up piece of paper that most of you chose to use as telescopes for the remainder of the ceremony), they announced "When Ben grows up, he wants to be a pilot, but he doesn't want to work in the summers." A big, proud grin stretched across your face. You are, it appears, going to be like your mom and dad: you want to have your cake and eat it too.

I cried tonight. I couldn't believe that you were the same little boy we had welcomed into this world only five and a half years ago. I couldn't believe that I hadn't noticed how you had caught up to the rest of the kids, and you were no longer the shortest. I couldn't believe you were going to be a kindergartner. I couldn't believe it was You: the little baby we had wanted so badly, for whom we had waited so long.

Congratulations, Ben. We know it's "just preschool," but we couldn't be prouder. We love you.

Mama and Daddy

The JOYS of summer: six word friday (saturday?)

2011-06-04T18:34:00.003-04:00

Knowing there's only four days left

Until the summer is ours

to play and sleep and lounge
sip from icy cold beer bottles
linger together over fresh morning coffee

to have "babysitting nights" each week
quality time together, just us two
dreaming, conspiring, dancing, laughing, kissing, loving

and family days whenever we wish
quality time together, all of us
playing, growing, dancing, laughing, learning, loving

to wake up and spontaneously pack
a beach bag full of toys
spend a day in the sun
come home without bedtimes and routines

to spend time with my girls
and their babies at the pool
watching our kids becoming real friends

stay up with my favorite person
watching movie rentals or mindless TV
falling asleep, inevitably, on the couch

even getting things done: laundry, errands
without the rush and daily pressures

life's just easier and more joyous
when you can spend your days
doing as you wish without demands
without work hours and lunch boxes
alarm clocks, homework, and gym bags

Joy, right now, means having time
Looking forward to an entire summer

To spend with my (serene) Self
my girlfriends and my loved ones
my two wild, loud, little boys
my favorite person in the universe

Knowing every day I wake up
really, truly belongs solely to me

What does the word "JOY" mean to you? Join Six Word Fridays (although, I know, I am technically doing Six Word SATURDAY this time) at Making Things Up.

Mrs. Mama

2011-05-19T20:21:00.004-04:00

Today I drove the same exact route I've been driving every weekday for the last 8 years. I parked in the same exact parking lot. I walked into the same exact building. I entered the same exact cafeteria. But today, I wasn't a Teacher. Today, I was there as Mama.

My oldest will be starting kindergarten next year at "Mama and Daddy's school," and I needed to attend an informational meeting. It felt odd to arrive as a mom. It felt decidedly and shockingly different.

Even before we'd had kids, Hubby and I had made the absolute decision that our children would definitely not, under any circumstances, be attending the same school in which one (much less both) of us worked. We wanted our kids to have "their own lives." We wanted them to be their own people...not "Mr. and Mrs. So & So's kids." We wanted them to be independent. We wanted to keep our professional and personal lives distinctly separate. We wanted their teachers to be "just" their teachers, not their pseudo-aunts or "Mommy's friends." We wanted our kid to be "just another kid"...not one of The Teacher Kids.

Then, suddenly, as so often happens in this journey called Parenthood, we realized that maybe it was quite possible that perhaps we were not so sure about all of this after all.

"You want to be a drive-by parent?!?" my amazing-single-mother friend/hairdresser extraordinaire gasped. "Let me get this straight: you're telling me that you could put your kid in your school, you could handpick his teacher from year to year, you could monitor everything everyday, you could be right there in case of an emergency, and you are choosing to send him to his neighborhood school instead, in a school district where you know absolutely no one, where you would have to drop him off to morning daycare and pick him up from after school supervision, where you would be just another parent who, in order to be heard, would have to make an appointment just to get clarification on a homework assignment, and you're gonna choose that? You're just gonna roll the dice? What you're telling me is that you basically have won the lottery and you don't want the money. No thanks, I don't actually want to give my kid any sort of advantage or opportunity. No thanks, I don't want to be involved in the first most important years of his education."

Well.

That wasn't exactly what Hubby and I meant all those years, but when you put it that way...

Fast forward to tonight, when I drove for the first time ever to my job to be Ben's Mama.

One of my worries had always been that I wouldn't feel like a mom taking her kid to school; that, instead, I'd feel like a teacher taking her kid to work. But I didn't. When I looked up at those teachers, I didn't see co-workers. I saw Ben's Teachers. When I walked in, we weren't greeted with cordial stranger hello's. We were greeted with hugs and love and genuine warmth. I felt welcomed. I felt that I would be turning my kid over to people who knew me, who knew us, and who would eventually know him...the good and the bad.

Both Ben and Aidan behaved beautifully throughout the one-hour meeting. They colored and drew and whispered. When Ben asked if he could run around the cafeteria with a buddy after the meeting ended, and I said no and reminded him that "this is going to be your big kid school soon; you have to do the right thing." He nodded emphatically, almost immediately, and smiled: "I know." When I told Hubby how proud I was of their behavior, Ben told Daddy about "the lady who even turned around during the meeting" (another teacher disguised as a mommy for the night) to say that "Wow, they must be really good kids." He, too, seemed to notice something was a little different here...this was no longer the VPK playground where he jumped off chairs and played with grasshoppers: this would be the Real Thing. "Aidan," he explained dramatically to his little brother, "this is Mommy and Daddy's school, but this is where I'm going to be for kindergarten next year."

I don't know if, at some point, we will second-guess our decision. I don't know if, at some point, we will wonder if perhaps rolling the dice would have been a better gamble. But tonight, I know for sure that I was Mama, and not Mrs. So-and So. And I know that my little boy is going to go to Real School really soon.

The cosmetic surgeons hoard all the good magazines

2011-05-10T19:32:00.009-04:00

I used to have a very strong opinion on cosmetic surgery (which doesn't really mean anything, I suppose, since I have a very strong opinion on just about everything). This very strong opinion included lots of judgments and assumptions.

Fast forward a few years, two babies, and lots of life experiences.

Let's just say that my opinion is no longer that strong.

Okay, let me come clean: today I had an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon. A "free consultation." Yeah. One of those. Me. Ha. Ain't it funny how life has a way of slappin' you around just for kicks?

No, it wasn't the boobs (we have a very good relationship still).
It wasn't the tummy.
It wasn't for lipo.

It was...ya' ready for this?...the neck. Yep. 38 frickin' years old, always having had body and weight issues, two kids later, and I'm seeking out a free consultation about my frickin' neck. All those years I spent obsessing about all the parts of me that were messed up from the neck down, and it turned out that was the part that's really betrayed me.

The infamous thighs that were pointed out as "fat" in kindergarten by the dirty-blond-haired freckled boy who sat next to me? Nope, those are holdin' out pretty good after a decade of running and weight training. The postpartum belly pooch that was literally torn open in an emergency c-section and sewed back together lopsided? Healed, flattened, and barely noticeable. The hips that were, quite literally, my cross to bear during my teen years and the subject of much discussion in the dressing room during shopping trips with my mother? So over those. It ended up being the skin on my neck that finally broke me.

There I was: sitting in the waiting room of a cosmetic surgeon. Me. The girl who swore she'd never...(insert peals of raucous "I-told-you-so" laughter from all the friends and family who'd heard my soapbox dissertation on plastic surgery many years ago and warned me)! The discomfort was probably palpable. I pretended to be totally okay with this...I filled out the information forms like I visited plastic surgeons all the time. I noticed that every time I opened my mouth to respond to one of the incredibly wrinkle-free and expression-less receptionists, my Thank you's and Yes's all came out high pitched and overly cheerful.

In addition to the senior citizen receptionists with the non-existent crows' feet, I also noticed that the waiting room was unlike any "regular" doctor's waiting room I've ever visited. The lighting was dim. The music was sultry and slow and made me want to have a cocktail on a yacht. The furniture was plush and actually matched. And the magazines...oh the magazines! No wrinkled Parenting, tattered Cosmo, and outdated National Geographic. No, here you could sit back on the high-priced couch and peruse the high fashion pages of the latest issues of W or Elle or the recently launched local Bal Harbour. As I sat there, glad I had opted for a summery dress and heels rather than my at least-once-a-week uniform of teacher polo and jeans, I wasn't sure if the surroundings made me feel more at ease with the idea of cutting myself open for vanity or more pressured that the whole idea was vain and unnecessary.

I was called in to "consult" with the doctor almost immediately (apparently, when you are willing to shell out thousands of dollars for reconstructive anything, they are very timely with your appointments...hello?...non-cosmetic medical world?...you can stand to learn a thing or two here!). After a 10-minute conversation, I was basically told the following:
1. Flappy thing under my neck? Everyone has at least a small version of one "in order to allow your head to turn".... Well, if you refer to my last post, I am not able to turn my head these days anyways, so can we just chop that sucker right off?
2. I am "way too young" for "any kind" of surgical lift/tuck/cut in that area.
3. For a mere $2000-$3000 I can have a laser thing-a-majig that will improve the "texture" of my skin.
4. For a measly $600 I can buy lots of prescription products that will improve the "texture" of my skin.
5. Neither of these two incredibly affordable options will give me "dramatic results" of any kind.

Well, then. Thanks, doc. Really glad about the whole free-consult-thing.

I left not knowing if I was relieved that I really had no options, or discouraged. On one hand, it was pretty evident the doctor did not think my case was any sort of a big deal. He validated ("I mean, I do see what you are saying, Elizabeth. I do see the slight loose-ness."), but almost made me question whether I really had been making a bigger deal of this than I should have. I suppose feeling slightly sheepish is a good thing at a cosmetic surgeon's office? I mean, who wants to go in there and have the doctor gasp and nod with immediate understanding: "Oh yes, yes! I see that turkey neck! Unfortunately, there isn't much we can do for you. Have you considered a scarf?"

But still, maybe a little non-surgical magic cream? A laser that would've zapped some tightness in there? A little placebo pill to trick me into thinking I was doing something about it?

"I'm too perfect for surgery." That's what I jokingly told Hubby and my friend when they asked how it went. Ha.

It's just amazing how you go through life thinking you've got all the answers. You know exactly what you would do in a given situation. You sit and pass judgment on others who pull and tuck and cut. And then...well, then...you wake up one morning and realize you have no frickin' clue and you're just gonna figure it out as you go along and do the best you can and you learn that if you stand with your chin jutted out just a teeny bit, everything stretches out on its own.

The curse continues (or: WTF?!?)

2011-05-08T09:38:00.004-04:00

After my last post, I figured, surely, we were done: the string of bad luck had run its course. I mean, we had gone for Hubby's staph infection follow-up and it was all good. Aidan was no longer needing the splint on his finger. We'd had two full nights of uninterrupted sleep. I had tangerine-colored nails, for God's sake! But you know where this is going...

Saturday morning, sometime before dawn, I was in the half-awake/half-asleep stage, stretching and tossing and turning under the covers, my brain trying to figure out if it was a weekday, trying to register why the alarm hadn't gone off yet. I stretched...my head pushing up against my palm, my palm against my head, twisting and opening my body into one of those deep intense morning stretches...when I felt a searing and sudden pain on the right side of my neck and shoulder, and I became fully awake. I knew I had pulled something. After trying to shrug it off (no pun intended) and trying to fall back asleep, the pain was unbearable, and I got out of bed. The rest of my day included an emergency visit to the chiropractor (if you're keeping count from the last post, that would be the 9th emergency doctor visit for the family in 2 weeks), 9 ibuprofen pills, 2 Tylenol PMs, and lots of ice.

Hubby and I chuckled (okay, not really...Hubby, in his ever-optimistic-never-bothered-by-anything-attitude chuckled and I pouted) about it. Really, who messes up her neck that badly on the first day of no-drama in 2 weeks? And how was I going to manage a full day at the beach for Mother's Day with both sides of the family and all the kids for our annual Mother's Day celebration when I could barely move?

Ah. So that is where the irony perhaps kicks in: I didn't have to figure out how I was going to manage my Mother's Day Beach Day Extravaganza with an injured neck because....

...Ben got a stomach virus!

Yep.

It continues.

Now poor Ben, who has had his string of bad luck too, has spent the last 24 hours next to a bucket. Poor thing..for a kid who has such a strong personality, he sure is a passive patient. Yesterday while he and his little brother were eating dinner at the table (and by dinner, I mean Ben was attempting to have crackers and juice) and I was in the kitchen, I hear Aidan say: "Hey! Where's Ben? What is Ben doing under the table?" I figured he was playing around, but before I could yell at him to get back in his chair, he sputtered: "I need water!" and proceeded to heave into the bucket he'd brought with him to the table. He spent the rest of the day with ashy lips and a pale face.

Today, in an effort to make Mother's Day better for all of us, Hubby brought home a special breakfast and put down the "nice tablecloth." He has joked that my Mother's Day at home today is even better than one at the beach because he's "doing laundry, folding and putting away clothes, installing my new car radio (the Mother's Day gift I requested), and cleaning up the house." But the truth is, I'm one of the lucky ones who has a husband who does that all the time...not on special occasions. And we do go to the beach all the time. So I suppose every day can be Mother's Day for me, and I will keep a smile on my face all day (except when I turn my neck in the wrong direction and see stars).

But I have to tell you...I am seriously wondering if there is really such a thing as being "jinxed" or needing a "cleansing" (not the type the celebrities do to lose weight, although I admit I wouldn't admit dropping a few pounds). Rabbit's foot, anyone?

Wanted: Rabbit's foot, horseshoe, four leaf clover, magic crystal, and any other hocus-pocus, superstitious, good luck crap

2011-05-04T18:37:00.008-04:00

I tend to get anxious.

I'm not one of those crazy neurotic people, but I get a little tense when stuff goes awry...especially medical stuff.

Over the last 2 weeks, we've had 3 emergency visits to the pediatrician with Ben, 1 follow-up to the pediatric ENT, 2 emergency visits to the pediatrician with Aidan, one emergency visit to my eye doctor, and one trip to the emergency room for Hubby (this does not include one routine visit to the dermatologist in the mix).

Each visit was minor, as far as emergencies goes, and they all ended well (actually, I'm waiting on Hubby's return as I type this), but it's enough to put a person a little on edge.

Put this all together with two weeks of nightly interrupted sleep to check on: high fevers, chronic coughs, sore throats, fractured fingers, and general discomfort (sometimes theirs, sometimes mine)...well, I'm not in the best of places this week.

I literally feel like I've been jinxed...like maybe that slightly sociopathic student in my class who wrote an essay about how much he hated me and threatened to kill a classmate over the weekend just might have gotten himself a blond voodoo doll and found himself something to do over his 10 day suspension for throwing a punch at a teacher who was visiting in my class (that teacher happened to be Hubby).

Perhaps I should be looking at the bright side: nothing serious in any case....could be worse...just bad colds...small fracture...infected bug bites...all that stuff. But really, I just feel like I've been walking around with a black cloud of bad luck literally hanging over my family's heads and if we cross the street a grand piano or an Acme safe is gonna come crashing down on us.

My chest feels tight, I have a pit in my stomach, and every time I think: "Ok, that was it...certainly that was the last doctor's visit/middle-of-the-night scare/hammered finger/scratched cornea/possibly toxic insect bite," something else pops up. And right now, until Hubby comes home and gives me a full report on the bite on his leg that looked like something straight out of one those scary, disgusting chain emails they send around, I will not be at ease.

*Morning-after update:
~So after lots of antibiotics, minor cutting-open, and a wound that made me (literally) woozy, Hubby should be fine.
~Aidan yanked off his own splint so it wouldn't get wet in the bath, and then again before bed, proclaiming he "wouldn't sleep with it today."
~Ben is sick of his white-out-consistency antibiotic, but keeps taking it like a trooper and doesn't show anymore symptoms.
~I woke up this morning to discover that we had actually all slept straight through the night--a whopping 7 hours.
~I gave myself a pretty tangerine-colored mani/pedi late last night and woke up to find that I didn't get any those bedsheets lines and smudges on them.
So...hopefully the tide has turned (for a while anyway). But just in case, I'm gonna avoid ladders and black cats (and pianos) for a couple of days.

AGAIN: Six Word Friday

2011-03-31T21:40:00.012-04:00

Sometimes you plan life just so.

You have it all figured out:

Follow the women along the path

That was carved out for you.

So you find yourself settled in.

You have attained, accomplished, and arrived.

Then you look around and realize

You really are only settled, instead.

Not, at all, what you wanted.

Not, at all, who you are.

So you call out: Do over!

And you start all over again.

Terrified and doubtful, second guessing yourself...

Wondering every moment of every day

If you did the right thing:

This second draft of your life.

Then later, much later, you realize

The outcome was obvious all along,

Because it was the only option.

Your life: a reset was required.

What does "AGAIN" mean to you?

Join the conversation with Six Word Fridays.

Closure

2011-03-24T16:47:00.006-04:00

It is inevitable that, at some point in life, someone will disappoint you.

I understand that.
I expect that.
But what I have a really hard time with is letting it go, especially when it happens repeatedly and intentionally.

I realize, as I begin this post, that there is a strong possibility that it will not make sense. That when people read this, they will be left only with questions, and possibly wondering why I would write something in a way that doesn’t really give a clear picture. But sometimes, you just have to write stuff for yourself. You just have to get it out.

Consider this an exorcism of anger.

Everyone has issues. No one is perfect. And certainly, no one can behave perfectly every time with every one. But really, that whole little excuse people toss around: “Oh, that’s just how they are”…? That’s bullshit. People treating people poorly isn’t okay. Especially when you actually know each other. Especially when you actually shared a lifetime’s worth of secrets and stories together.

When you just become too wrapped up in your own life, your own world, your own head, that you can’t take a moment to step out of it long enough to ask someone else about her life, her kids, her stuff…that’s not just being flaky, or ditsy, or busy. That’s not “That’s just how she is.” That’s selfish. That’s inconsiderate. That’s rude. And that, in my book, is unforgivable.

When your own issues and personality “quirks” make you a burden in my life, when you can not bring yourself to reach out and return a gesture, an interest, a thought, then I’m done with you. And I don’t really care if that’s just the way you are. I don’t care if you don’t mean anything by it. Because it’s pretty damn obvious that you don’t care, either, about me or my world.

I understand that, in relationships, there’s an ebb and flow. There are times when one person will have to give more, one person will have to be more available, one person will have to be more patient. That’s what relationships are for: not just to enjoy the good times, but to carry the other one’s load when it gets a bit too heavy for a while. But when that becomes all there is…when it’s all about one of you, for a long, long time…when the other one is forgotten…when it becomes completely one-sided…then you walk away (I do, anyhow) because it’s unacceptable, and life is too short. And my life, right now, is filled with wonderful people and amazing things. And when someone becomes toxic, when your presence literally pains me instead of elevates me, then I’m done.

And what drives me the craziest…what bites at my subconscious constantly and makes me desperately want to try to understand...what makes me consider actually having yet another conversation about this behavior...is that it’s just not normal. It’s just not socially acceptable responses. It’s unexplainable.

And, I suppose, this is why so many are suggesting that there must be a reason for this person’s behavior. “It just doesn’t make sense,” is what I hear over and over again. “Maybe there’s something going on.”

Maybe.

But I doubt it. Because this is just this person’s method of operation, historically.

Maybe.

But I don’t care. Because after you’ve been figuratively beat up for a couple of years and you’ve been chronically bewildered and disappointed by behavior for even longer, you get tired of making excuses…you get tired of defending and explaining… You realize that you were the first person to shrug and say "But that’s just how she is.”

Two Years and a Second Wind

2011-03-07T17:07:00.012-05:00

So it seems that this little blogging experiment has gone on a little longer than I had expected: I am now celebrating my two year anniversary. I’ve had my highs and lows: times when I posted frequently and the blog was constantly on my mind, times I barely got on here at all and even resented the blog’s existence…but overall, I can no longer imagine my life, my Self, without this little outlet. Not only has this blog given me a place to vent, but it’s given me a place to connect with others, make friends, and chronicle my life.

I took a few minutes to look back and read some of my first entries. There was definitely a pattern then: it was almost all about The Boys and my frustrations with parenting. My friend once called my blog, during its early stages, “the greatest form of birth control.” Yep. I complained about everything: sick kids (one of my most frequent labels then was actually “vomit”!), canceled vacations, lack of sleep, spilled milk (literally), messy rooms. I did have my occasional posts of joyous celebrations in parenting, too, but mainly, I had tunnel vision: my kids demanded so much of my time and energy, and I was having so much trouble adjusting to my new role in life, that all I saw was motherhood. Every little thing seemed worthy of a post, because every little thing was so new. Every little thing was a Thing. And I was constantly trying to figure every Thing out.

Now, I’ve been at this “job” for 5 ½ years. Hubby and I have finally fallen into a flow. We’ve all sort of figured each other out and settled in to being a part of this Foursome. The kids are no longer a part of us that we try to fight against or live our lives in spite of…they’ve become a seamless part of who we are, as a couple and as individuals. Life with two little kids is now just that: Our Life.

I am not seeing the world so much through Mommy-colored glasses anymore. I am no longer in a perpetual battle to find my sense of self, to lose the baby weight, to adjust to the requirements of parenting, to figure out what the hell I had gotten myself into. Parenting, now, just is. And as a result, I, too, can just Be.

My blog title suited my life perfectly two years ago. It felt, then, that everything in my life had changed, that everything had become a struggle and a challenge within this attempt to balance life and motherhood. Now, I don’t always feel the need to write about my kids or my struggles and successes with them. I know that the person I am has been forever changed by the births of my sons. I know that the way I look at life, the way I behave, my priorities, my beliefs, and my values…they’ve all been irrevocably altered by parenthood. And I know that when I need a place to shout and scream in frustration about my kid’s behavior in school or my feeling of helplessness when one of them gets hurt or how much I hate the everyday chore of bath time, I can come here, to this place, and get it all out.

But lately, I find that my topics are less about them and more about me, more about life, more about nothing and everything…from cooking (or should I say, not cooking) to running to just random me-ness. I think, somewhere along the line, I’ve finally become a Woman Who Happens To Have Kids. And fortunately, I’ve come to love my new place, my new role, my new me…the one that can be Mama without always worrying about sacrificing the rest of her.

So now, here I am…two years later. I have carved out this little space in the world for myself to be Me, to yell and scream and cheer and ponder and wonder and celebrate and question and muse: This little blog, where the only rules are those which I choose to impose upon myself.... This little blog, which, after 172 entries and a period during which I even considered closing up shop, I’m now more excited about then ever…because it’s taken a life of its own: my life, and not just as a mom, but as Me.

Disney Princess Half Marathon-Check!

2011-03-04T17:32:00.000-05:00

When I go back to reread the post I wrote back in November about my decision to run the Disney Princess Half Marathon, I am surprised. Surprised not only by the fact that it still makes me tear up, but also by the realization that that was actually my experience: the pain of that miscarriage and our struggles to get pregnant seem like they belong to someone else's life memories, so far and faded is that pain now.

Last weekend I went back to run my third (and quite possibly last) half marathon in Disney, this one in celebration of Just Me and My Boys. As poignant and important as the event was, it did not feel at all heavy. The few times I got emotional, it was a giddy sort of joy--tears of relief mostly--that I got all I had wanted Then. I got my kids. I got to be a mom.

And it was fun. The weekend was filled with silliness (how could it not be when 90% of the runners--even men--were wearing everything from tiaras to tutus?!?) and fun and light. So rather than write another post about my emotional full circle and the meaning of this whole experience for me, I found it best to capture it with some photo ops...

We started out the Race Weekend with the kids' races. Ben ran the
200 meter and took off so fast that Daddy almost couldn't keep up alongside him. Aidan Kai earned his first-ever medal in the 100 meter dash. He was pretty darn proud of himself. (I did not miss the irony that this time around my half marathon weekend started out with me on the sidelines watching my children race...)

After the kids' races, we were off to the Expo which, in the past, had been quite an enjoyable way to spend a couple of hours among vendors and other racers, but this time...good God!...standing in line for packet pick-up or to purchase one single "I Did It! 2011" t-shirt was surely more grueling than the race itself! However, the Big Moment of the expo came when my boys made their "Go Mama" signs to hold up on race day for me:

Back at the hotel room, Hubby and the boys gave me gifts: a pink sparkly cuff picked out by the boys, a pink flask picked out by Hubby (because, after all, what better way to celebrate the culmination of 3 months worth of hard physical training than with a little girly flask?), an amazingly inspiring card, and a picture drawn by Ben during his art center time in school depicting me running throughout the race all in pink and purple crayon (does my kid know me, or what?).

After getting everything ready, we tried to get in a good night's sleep, but I, at least, only managed one solid hour.

By 3:45 a.m., I was ready to run:

And by 4:45 a.m., the boys were ready to roll:

When Cinderella's fairy godmother counted down and the fireworks went off, I was more than eager to go. I was surprised to find that my first couple of miles didn't hurt as much as they usually do, and I settled into a steady pace right away. I was so excited about the whole thing, that I barely listened to any of my music (which is kind of ironic after all the drama about whether or not my personality allowed for me to just run with a random playlist on my shuffle). Every mile or so, Disney provided entertainment of some type: characters, djs, performers, and I was glad I had decided not to carry my camera after all, because I would not have been able to resist waiting in the really long lines to take pictures with some of them (particularly the Captain Jack Sparrow scene and Ben's favorite: Lilo and Stitch). By the time the course started winding towards the Magic Kingdom, I knew my boys would be along the sidelines cheering me on, and the running felt effortless. As we entered Mainstreet, I scanned the hundreds (and I do mean hundreds) of spectators lined up cheering the racers, anxiously looking for the reason I was running. The minute I spotted them, I broke every runners' courtesy rule and weaved across the racers, practically tripping a few of them, to get to my family.

Seeing them there made every step worth it. I don't think I have ever been so elated in the middle of an event. I took several minutes to chat with my boys, give everyone kisses, and take a couple of pictures.

The next 4 miles were a piece of cake, since the route continued around and through the Magic Kingdom and I was still riding the high of seeing the kids and Hubby. It wasn't until mile 9 or so that my infamous knee issues started to kick in and I started to really look forward to finishing. Miles 10 and 11 were pretty exhausting, and my music playlist finally played a role in distracting me, but once I saw the sign for the final mile, I turned it off and just ran. This was it. I had done it all on my own and for all the right reasons, and had actually enjoyed myself. As I approached the finish line, I heard the air horn that signaled Hubby and the boys were nearby and did a little dancing-wave thing for them as I ran on, shouting "I love you guys!"

I got a tad choked up when the volunteer put the medal around my neck after crossing the finish, but didn't have time to dwell on the emotions since I had to walk for what seemed like another 13 miles just to get around the barricades separating the spectators and the racers.

As proud of myself as I am, I do have to say that the person who really deserved the medal this weekend was Hubby, who dealt with two little boys all weekend long, sprinting from viewpoint to viewpoint to ensure they'd be there for me, probably covering even more mileage than I did, and then tending to them for the next couple of days while I recovered, and the rest of the week, since I came home with a raging virus and have been in bed for almost the whole week. P...when I ran the first half, you were there, running by my side and believing in me when no one else did. When I ran the second one to try to get out of my depression, you were once again my rock, and you never let me hit bottom. And now, you were there to celebrate with me and our boys. You never doubt me. You never doubt us. Thank you (and I don't mean just for the flask).

My scariest parenting moment...finally, in print

2011-02-24T17:13:00.008-05:00

Sometimes, things happen in parenthood that are just perfect for a blog.

Sometimes, things happen in parenthood that one can not really write about in a blog.

And I'm not talking about "private" stuff. I'm talking about stuff that is just too painful to rehash. Stuff that, when it happens, you're strong and capable and do what you gotta do, but once it's over, you just don't ever want to go There again.

This past summer, something like that happened, and when it was over, my friend immediately said: "Well, there's a perfect blog post!" But it never made it on the blog, because I know Me...I know what my head does...I know the potential for Crazy Shit that can happen up in there. So when it was over, it was done.

But today, this incident was revisited, and it came back, rushing at me, forcing me to finally get it out, write it down, and (hopefully) let it go.

So...the Incident was really, no big deal. Surely, many of you reading this will have similar stories. But this happened to My Kid. And it changed me, just a little bit, forever.

*****

It had been my idea to go ice skating. Ben had shown some interest, and it was the one thing on my Summer To Do List of activities that we had not yet tried. So on the week before the end of summer, we spent the afternoon--Daddy, Mama, and 4-year-old Ben ice skating (or should I say hobbling?).

Ben was pretty good. For a kid who can barely roller blade, he took to the ice rather quickly. At first, he'd just dare a few slides from here to there. By the end of the hour, when we had about 5 minutes left, he decided to go off a little further. I had skated away from him at this point, wanting to see him from afar, wanting to take it in: this little little boy, big grin on his face, brows furrowed in concentration, slip sliding around, almost gracefully.

That's precisely when it happened. I watched the skates slip out suddenly from under him. His body flew up in the air and he landed backwards, head first. As Hubby and I skated over to him, bystanders and skaters and employees rushed over. One mom, I remember, gasped audibly and held her hand over her open, shocked mouth, and uttered a horrified "It was such a loud thump!" when I came over. I remember thinking she was probably one of those moms... But Ben was standing up. He was crying, but he seemed okay. There was no blood. No bump. No evidence.

Within a few minutes, the crying had stopped, and as he sat with his makeshift ice pack on his head, we jokingly took a picture with our cellphone to send to the grandparents. We thought it might be funny to "freak them out a little bit." We came home and Ben asked to watch TV and have some milk and cookies. He seemed fine.

Long story short: about 40 minutes after the hit, he started to cry, almost inconsolably. His tummy hurt. No, his head hurt. No, he thought he was going to throw up. He felt weird. While I called the pediatrician, he started to yawn, rub his eyes, continue to whine. By the time we arrived at the pediatrician's office, less than 10 minutes later, he was throwing up into a Ziploc bag and turning white. By the time we arrived at the ER, less than 8 minutes later, his lips were grey, his eyes were glazed over, and he couldn't tell us his name.

Over the next couple of hours, I watched as my son was strapped onto a table for a brain scan. I watched as he bravely looked away when they put in the IV. I watched as he started to "come back" and begin to question the nurse's skills. By the time the doctor came back with the results that he was okay and that it was "just a concussion," he had started to look and sound like himself again.

So.

Nothing really happened.
Lots of kids have to go to the ER.
Lots of kids bump their heads.
Lots of parents have scary moments with their kids.

But watching my son go from perfectly normal to looking like he was completely drugged and didn't know who he was...this boy who always has something to say, always has an answer to everything, this boy with the full pink pout that suddenly was not even the color of his skin...that will remain with me forever.

And that thought...the one of how it could have, very easily, gone the other way...that's the thought I simply did not want to entertain ever again.

Today, I got a call from his school. He was okay, but he had fallen backward and hit his head on the concrete. When I arrived at the school, I scanned the playground area and recognized his navy blue shirt and royal blue athletic shorts. He was hanging from the monkey bars. I could not have been more relieved. But still, in the car, on the way home, I watched him closely in the rear view mirror. At the first yawn, I panicked: Did he always seem this tired after school? When he said his tummy hurt, I wondered: Does he usually go potty at this time? The memories came rushing back. The fear, the anxiety, the incredible amount of gratitude (at Life, at God, at Luck?) that he was okay.

Again.

My son was okay.

**After I was done with this post and was proofing it, I heard Hubby (who was bathing the boys) ask Ben to let him see his eyes. Immediately, I went to the bathroom: What? What is it? Hubby said he thought Ben's eyes looked shadowy, but in the light, it seemed so did Aidan's. "You know it's when you're looking for stuff to find," Hubby explained. Meanwhile, my heart started pumping, the anxiety, the fear...that fear that Something Is Wrong. Here's the worst part of parenting: you just can't protect them.**

Welcome to the inside of my head

2011-02-19T21:09:00.004-05:00

So, after nearly two years, this blog finally looks like Me.

When I started out on this little writing/techie journey, I barely knew what a blog was, much less how to design one. And here I am, li'l ol' technologically disabled me...changing background colors, rearranging fonts, and finally using the header photo I had dreamed up so long ago (thanks Gil, photographer/friend extraordinaire!). And although, thank God, we no longer use baby bottles or pacifiers in this house, and a couple of those shoes have since been handed down,that photo really does capture what this blog started out like for me: the needs and demands of my boys scattered about my "real" life...the one I fought so hard not to lose, the one which, eventually, has adjusted itself to my "other reality"...Glamour Girl and Mama can co-exist after all.

Nothing like a bloggie make-over to perk a girl up...

Nothing to prove

2011-02-17T20:55:00.007-05:00

It’s pretty exhausting, walking around with a chip on your shoulder, trying to prove people wrong. It can even be pretty tiresome when you’re walking around, trying to prove something to yourself.

But it can also be extremely motivating…like a swift kick in the ass to get you in gear…as in “Oh yeah? Watch this.”

That’s what the last 15 years have been for me, athletically speaking.

Short version: I was the chubby sister, usually the chubby friend, and always the one begging the coach to sit out in phys ed.

Fast forward to my early 20s and a desperate need to get out of my house: I started running. (Well, I started walking and dabbling in a slow painful jog here and there).

When I first started toying with the idea of a 5k, the response was overwhelmingly “3 miles? You sure you can do that?” When I mentioned the possibility of a half-marathon, it turned into laughter and outright mockery.

Well.

Short version: I did several 5ks and went on to run two half-marathons (not to mention a couple of sprint-distance adventure races, complete with obstacle courses, mud pits, and mountain biking).

During all of those training runs, when it started to hurt…when I started to wonder if I could keep going…I thought about all of those people, the ones who thought I just couldn’t do it, the ones who said I was not athletic, the ones who--instead of supporting me from the sidelines--placed even more doubt into my already terrified heart.

And I thought about me. I, too, wondered if I could do it. I wondered every race, every mile, every step. More importantly than proving it to all those people, I needed to prove it to myself. Because the truth was that when those people doubted me and I fought back with anger and more mileage, I never admitted that I wasn’t really sure I could do it, either.

There was nothing like crossing the finish line and that feeling of: “Hell yeah.”

*****

I will be running my third half-marathon next week. I am not running this one to prove anything to anyone. This one will be a celebration of the three boys waiting for me at the finish line, and a celebration of Me.

And I gotta tell you: as I logged in my last long training run yesterday, I realized: it’s way harder to put in the work when you’ve got nothing to prove.

When I hit the pavement for mile 1, I was slammed by the pain in my ankles and calves, caused by my insistence (and stupidity) on wearing heels to work for two straight days. I didn't know how I was going to run another eleven. By the time my watch hit the first hour, I was just forcing myself to move forward, to take one step and then another, to just complete the training session. As I struggled, I reached for something to get me through, to motivate me...an inspirational song on my iPod, a vision of myself crossing the finish line next week, some inkling of that desire, that anger, that need to show the world, to show myself that I could do more than I had ever thought possible.

But it didn't come. Instead, the realization hit me: I was no longer That Girl...the one who set out at the start line of her first 5k, more terrified than she'd ever been. After over a decade, I had finally let that insecure, uncoordinated, scared little kid behind. All the people who had doubted me so long ago had either been forcefully removed from my life or had seen me succeed enough times to finally realize that maybe they'd been wrong all along and they should just shut up and cheer goddammit.

As happy as this epiphany made me (I no longer had to do anything I sorta didn't want to just to see if I actually could...I no longer had to log painful hours on the road or the bike just to see if I had the stamina--mentally and physically--to do so...I no longer had to "prove them wrong"), I also felt slightly deflated.

Damn.

Now I had to finish this damn two and half hour training run out of sheer will.

So now that I've "arrived" in this place in my life, I'm no longer exhausted from walking around with that chip on my shoulder.

Now I'm just exhausted from the damned running.

Roll Call

2011-02-12T12:49:00.010-05:00

Someone recently told me that I'm "never present" and my mind is "always on a million things."

Well, duh.

Have you not read my blog profile? I've spent most of my life trying to find a way to drown out the noise in my head. Believe me...I know.

When I'm eating breakfast, I'm either packing 3 lunches or checking my email.
When I'm driving, I'm putting on my make-up or eating.
When I stop at red lights, I check my phone for text messages, clean out my purse, or tweeze my eyebrows.
And when I can't do more than one thing at a time, I'm thinking about the things I will be doing, need to be doing, want to be doing, or should be doing.

Yep. When they take roll call in life, I'm never actually "here."

My initial gut response to this person was to throw my hands up in the air and go: "Well, then, fuck it. Cause, really, I'm kinda tired of working so hard at Me. I'm kinda tired of constantly dealing with my crap, identifying what's not working for me and those around me...and really, if it's not noticeable, if I'm still in the same place I was Then...well, then, fuck it. I give up."

But then...well then...after the initial indignation was gone, I had to face myself, and I had to admit that perhaps being aware of a personal issue does not necessarily equal riddance of said issue. And that realization left me with: "OK. So now what?"

I can't change who I am. I can't change how I'm wired. I will never be Zen. I will never be that happy-go-lucky, easy-going, nothing-bothers-me, I'm-just-chillin person. And I've realized that no matter how many times I tell myself to just relax, to live lighter, well, it seems I'm just not listening. So I have to focus on the action. The behavior.

So I've come up with a little project, a little experiment, if you will.

Rather than beating myself up emotionally, I've been practicing consciously doing whatever it is I'm doing in that exact moment. I'm going to force myself, even if it feels unnatural, even I have to fake it, to literally be thinking about what I'm doing, and stick to doing one thing at a time.

Today, for example, I went on a run. Normally, the iPod starts blaring the minute I take the first step. And I don't stop fiddling with the playlists until I'm done with the run. Recently, I told Hubby that I couldn't run my upcoming half-marathon with my shuffle (which is significantly smaller than my iPod nano but doesn't allow you to control the songs played) because I like to change the songs and playlists according to "my mood." Hubby's reaction: "Good God, so you can't even download 100 songs you like onto a shuffle, run an event, and just enjoy the music that comes on? You even have to control the order in which the songs play?" I stood there, blinking, confused. It had never occurred to me to just go for a run and settle back and listen to whatever was coming through the headphones. Now, not only have I decided I will be running my race with the shuffle and not the ultra-controllable nano, but I ran today with absolutely no music at all. In spite of the fact that I strapped on my music player and popped in my headphones, I decided to try the hour-long run in silence. I focused on my breathing, I paid attention to my posture, I noticed the change in the weather from when I started to when I finished. It was very calming, and, amazingly, I didn't miss my Black Eyed Peas even a little bit.

Yesterday, I let the boys play outside in the front yard and on the street--their absolute favorite thing to do in the world, and something I usually pass on to Daddy. On the rare occasions I have been out there with them, I read a book in between my shouts of "Car!" or do my nails (yes, seriously), or count the minutes until I feel justified in taking them back inside. Yesterday, I put my cell out of reach so the texts didn't tempt me. I laced up my sneakers, and I played with them. I even played with the neighborhood kids. I raced Aidan on scooters, I sat on the floor and drew chalk outlines of the kids, I even tried out Ben's Razor 360 thing-a-majig. And, admittedly, I did not enjoy all of it. Admittedly, I thought a few times about the laundry that was waiting. I thought about the book I could've been reading. And I thought about how, the bottom line is, as much as I love to play boardgames, draw, paint, read, or spend time with my boys, the whole-hanging-out-in-the-front-yard-free-play-thing is not my thing. But it's okay. Because I was with them. And because I was There.

I have no doubt that this is going to be tough. I am sure that on more than one occasion I will find myself multi-tasking and barely focusing on any of the four things I'm trying to accomplish. And I am absolutely positively sure that I will find myself thinking/fretting/obsessing over something else while I'm doing something completely unrelated. But, hey, don't they say it takes 21 days for a behavior to become a habit (or something like that)?

Here's my hope in all this:
The ideal turn-out would be that after a while, I actually start being That Type of Person...the kind of person who doesn't worry (so much) about something until she can actually do something about it...the kind of person who is actually paying attention to the book she's reading to her kid at bedtime instead of planning the packing of her gym bag for the next morning.
But if that doesn't happen, then maybe I'll start being at least a little better at focusing on the really important stuff and eliminating some distractions, and get rid of that nasty habit of uber-multitasking.
And if in the end, Project I Am Here is a total bust, well then, at least I can say I gave it a shot...and obsess over that failure while I text, pack lunch, and re-shape my eyebrows.

With parenting comes heartbreak

2011-02-09T17:19:00.003-05:00

Parenting is filled with joy.

Nothing swells my heart more than when my oldest boy, on his way to his room, makes a quick unsolicited pit stop to kiss me on the arm and declare “I love you, Mama.” And when my littlest tilts his head to look up at me, grins his dimply smile, and states that Mama loves him “all da way to da stars,” my heart certainly grows a few sizes.

But along with the highs, there are the lows.

And I’m realizing there are more lows than I anticipated.

***

When I was a little girl, I daydreamed about my wedding day: the dress I would wear, the song I would dance, the shade of the flowers in my bouquet (little did I know then that I’d end up having not one, but two dresses, songs, bouquets….! Oh, if only I’d known, I would’ve daydreamed double!). Then, as I got older, I started daydreaming about being a Mommy: the pink bows and skirts, the Barbie dream house, the dolls (little did I know then that the only pink items in the house would be in my own closet, the dream house would continue to be a dream, and the dolls would be army men and action figures).

The point being: I’ve always had preconceived notions of what IT would be like. The IT referring to just about anything of any importance. And the older I get, the more I realize that it is these pre-set expectations, these self-imposed constraints, which cause me great grief on a day-to-day basis, because, as most of us know, IT rarely turns out exactly as you expected it to.

Having been a teacher of small children for a full decade prior to having kids of my own, I had some very definite visions of what IT would be like: school. As my baby slowly became a boy, I started daydreaming again: my son would be the well-rounded kid, the one who the teachers loved, the one who always turned everything in on time, the one who behaved, the one who said “please” and “thank you,” the one whose parents obviously were doing their job.

Yesterday, when picking up my two boys from school, I was told that Ben had had “a really bad day” (this was accompanied with some wide-eyed brow-raising and some whew-like whistling from the teacher) and had earned himself a red card. This red card was not accompanied, luckily, with stories about bullying on the playground…we have come a long way from that. His “yellow and red days” are more about not sitting still, goofing off, insisting that he come down the slide backwards and on his tummy. Immediately after this explanation, the teacher then went on to ask “Oh, and did you hear about Aidan?” (which I had…my usually-angelic-in-school two-year-old decided to whack his classmate on the head with a toy hard enough that a report needed to be signed). I went home yesterday, two adorable and sweaty little boys in tow, feeling dejected and discouraged.

This morning, while dropping them off, I hid my face from the mother of the kid Aidan had whacked, and wondered if she was thinking: “Oh, there’s the mother of THAT kid.”

I assured Ben’s teacher that yes, he had, in fact, gone to the bathroom (TWICE) at home before coming, but for some reason he was currently fixated on going again when he arrived at school, and apologized sheepishly for her having to take him for a third day in a row while I went to work.

I got into my car and silently prayed for a “green day.”

And then I started to cry.

In my daydreams of being a parent, I never imagined feeling embarrassment or shame when dropping them off at school. I never thought I’d worry about what the teachers must think of my kids—or worse—of us.

And therein lies my issue: I worry too damn much about what other people think.

I’m frustrated and stressed because I want it to be like a problem statement: “If this, then this.” I kinda thought that’s what parenting was: IF you teach your kids right from wrong, IF you are consistent and firm, IF you balance the rewards and the consequences, IF you are a good role model, THEN they will…

Will what?

What is it that I would be filling in the blank with here?

…THEN they will not go down the slide backwards on their tummies???????

It's a good thing he didn't marry me for my cooking...

2011-01-25T18:48:00.009-05:00

I think some of us were just never meant to be housewives.

And by "housewife," right now I'm just talking about women who are pretty good at those housewife-like duties of cooking and cleaning...it doesn't matter if you're a stay-at-home or a working mom or a married woman with no kids or a single girl living it up in Manhattan (What? Carrie must've cleaned some time..!).

Oh, I know. Most of you are going: "But I don't like cooking and cleaning!" But c'mon...I know the truth.

Some of you do.

I know, because I have friends who are like that. I have one friend, in fact, who considers it a sacrifice to skip a night of cooking (on a weeknight, no less!) because she "enjoys food so much." I have another friend who would squeal inside her own head when she got a chance to peek at the top secret recipes of the restaurant where she used to work. (And I'm not even going to mention one of my blog-world idols, The Kitchen Witch, who somehow has managed to lure me in as a devout follower in spite of the fact that her blog revolves primarily around recipes, which I have, admittedly, never ever tried, even when I swore I would--and truly believed that for the length of time it took me to comment on her post). Yes, many of you out there...even those who dread the middle-of-the-week-mandatory-meal-making...actually like to cook.

That is--even for me--almost understandable. But then there are those freaks who like to clean. Or, at the very least, don't like the act of it, but love the results, and are actually competent at the process. (You know the former waitress friend? A spotless tub also has the power to inspire squeals.)

I, on the other hand, have come to terms with the fact that I. Am. Not. One. Of. These. Women.

I clean, because I have to (my former cleaning lady was mediocre, at best, and had a tendency to break things, but oh, how I miss her). And when I clean, I do so with a look of disdain and confusion all rolled into one. "Why is it, exactly, that the damned Mr. Clean eraser is really not that magical at all when I use it?" "Why is there something orange-y growing on top of my mildew-y shower tile and how the hell do I get into that corner to remove said orange-y and mildew-y matter?" And, I admit it...sometimes...no, not just sometimes...often, really often...while cleaning I also think...(ready?): "I'm just too good for this." Yes. It's true. I know. It doesn't make me sound very nice. But it's true. When the damn orange-y thing is flicking up at me while I scrub at it with the totally improperly-shaped shower brush, I think: "Certainly, I was born for better things...."

And when I'm done, do I enjoy the cleaning then? Well, mostly I enjoy that I don't have to feel guilty about not doing it for at least another 3-4 weeks (yes, I realize going 4 weeks probably explains the orange-y stuff).

So lately, I've been getting pretty sick and tired of eating the same cycle of almost-not-counting-as-cooking-because-all-we-did-was-cut-up-vegetables-and-crank-up-the-microwave-meals, so I decided to try a recipe I stumbled upon in a magazine (a fitness magazine, NOT a cooking magazine...I can assure you, I have never even peeked inside one of those). It contained a handful of ingredients, was healthy, and included lemon and capers...two flavors I've recently decided might rank right up there with chocolate and chicken wing sauce.

I came home today and pulled out all of my ingredients and proudly opened the package of thinly-sliced chicken breasts.

And that's when I had my first setback.

I forgot how completely repulsive I find raw animal product. It is always, without fail, when I am washing or cutting or seasoning a hunk of raw chicken that I decide, for the 800th time in my life, that I am going to become a vegetarian.

Once I got past that minor issue, I proceeded to bread and saute (Note: I have no idea if what I did, was in fact, saute. That's what it said to do. I put the chicken in the pan with the olive oil and cooked it.), until I had a decent looking piece of chicken, decorated lovingly with capers.

Success!

Or was it?

I stepped back, looking at the kitchen counter littered with tablespoons, teaspoons, flakes of Italian seasoning, lemon seeds, bowls, and, after wondering how I can manage to get this much stuff dirty when the recipe required a whopping 8 items total, realized I no longer had any desire to eat this meal.

The truth is, in spite of the fact that it did taste pretty damn good, I don't like any particular food enough to go through the hassle of making it. After all that, I was kinda missing my microwave meals, Kashi pizzas, and giant homemade salads made from mostly pre-washed, pre-cut veggies.

So that's who I am. In spite of coming from a mother whose main hobby/passion/badge of honor is her cooking (and spotless tubs), I just didn't inherit any of those genes. I'm just not good at it. And, to tell you the truth, I don't really care. But hey, if you ever need the number to a good take-out place, I'm your gal.

A post just for me

2011-01-07T23:24:00.007-05:00

Last year, I made a non-resolution to live lighter:

"I want the load of my anxieties, my stresses, my pessimism, my perfectionism, my temper, my essence to be lighter."

I thought, then, as I planned on trying to be less of who I was for the coming year, that I needed to change who I was, at least a little bit...be That Girl I wish I could be. But tonight, I was reminded, (by overhearing a rather innocuous dinner conversation between Hubby and my 5-year-old and watching a chic flick, mind you) of what I actually used to be like: a much sillier, goofier, less uptight version of who I have become...the Me who still paid bills on time, obsessed over details, worried about medical tests of any sort, but still had the lightness in her to do Kermit the Frog impersonations on a regular basis, laugh out loud all the time, and take herself--and the world--a tad less serious.

Where do I find that in-between? The balance between That Girl and This One...the one who became Mama and almost 40 and co-owner of a suburban home on a corner lot? Is there a balance? Can I be both? Or does one get lost within the other?

Christmas Gifts

2010-12-26T21:30:00.013-05:00

My grandfather, who had a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for martyrdom, spent the last 15 years of his life wondering out loud if "this would be the last Christmas/birthday/Easter/random Sunday" he would live to see. I have this clear memory of him, sitting in the overstuffed chair in our living room, unwrapping his Christmas gifts (almost always beige socks and Old Spice shaving cream), sighing deeply and sucking his teeth about it. The rest of us would usually roll our eyes at each other and chuckle.

It seems, however, that the older I get, the more I am understanding my late grandfather. I wonder how many more Christmases I will have surrounded by Everyone. Every One. We have had the same little family of people doing the same little family traditions since I was a baby. With a few wonderful additions (the husbands, the children, the in-laws), it's been the same dysfunctional happy bunch for all 38 years of my life. Every Christmas Eve, we've dressed up and eaten Mami's pork. Every Christmas morning, we've gathered in her living room, each one of us taking turns opening gifts as the rest of us oooooh and ahhhhh and call out "Who's that from?" or "Wow, that's nice!"

Not one year...not even once...not because of work or illnesses or death or better plans have any of Us not been there.

* * *

Now, I can admit that I like the material part of Christmas. Always have. My parents were really good about getting me what I wanted (Baby Alive!), and now Hubby is so good at shopping for me that I'm seriously considering just giving him money and sending him off to shop for me all year long. So yes, I like the presents. They're fun.

But even when I was little, I understood that there was a real joy, a true gift, in being able to sit around the tree, my dad's Elvis Christmas album playing for the millionth time, laughing and eating and opening gifts with family. Now, having children of my own, seeing my parents aging more each day, understanding that life really does sometimes hand out senseless tragedies, I appreciate the normalcy, the simplicity, the predictability of having Everyone there.

I've always been big on Christmas. I loved the magic and the frivolity and the sparkle of it all. I was lucky to have grown up in a house where it was a month-long celebration of tinsel and merriment and yes, that Elvis album. But today, as I watched My Boys all building and assembling and playing, as I ate my mom's leftover pork from Christmas Eve, as I started (already) to store away some of the decorations, I realized I have an even stronger sense of immeasurable gratitude for the Christmases past...for the Gift of having Every One there, every year.

Merry Christmas, Grandpa...sorry 'bout the eye rolling.

Running Like a Mom: Party of One

2010-12-23T13:08:00.009-05:00

I ran for two hours the other day.

It wasn't the amount of time that was the major accomplishment, however. It was the fact that I did it Alone. Up until that day, I had never run for an extended period of time by myself. And up until that day, I wasn't even sure I'd be able to do it.

I like to run. I do. But the whole doing-something-for-a-couple-of-hours-straight? Well, let's just say that my attention span isn't so great. I start counting down the minutes left. I start thinking about all the other things I could be doing. I start obsessing over how the inseam of my sock is rubbing my pinkie toe. I get bored. I get antsy. I get tired. I lose my mojo.
.

When I trained for my previous half-marathons, I always had Hubby as a running partner. We had just started dating when I started training for my first one, and back then, the idea of running for over an hour seemed, to me, like an absolutely impossible feat. So...there we were, two twenty-somethings with not much to do and lots of time on our hands...so he ran with me. Being a bit of an extreme athlete (mountain biking, off-road triathlons, 3-day-expedition races) a little half marathon training wasn't such a stretch for him, so he became my official Support Crew. He carried my water, paced my time, handed me jelly beans, cheered me along when I'd hit the wall...and on race day? He did all of that AND ran ahead every so often to take pictures of me. No joke. (A few times, he even ran off the race course and stood along the sidelines with the other spectators to literally cheer me on and make me laugh a bit.)

Fast forward one decade and 2 kids later...if I want to train for any kind of event, it's gonna have to be on my own, because we just don't have that kind of time these days. When I tackled the idea of this race, one of the motivating factors for me was that I wanted to do something scary again, and as uncomfortable and downright painful as this training and the 13.1 race day miles is going to be, I wouldn't qualify it as scary. I've done this twice. I know I can complete the event. But what does scare the hell out of me is having to do this all on my own.

Today I went out for 2 hours and 10 minutes. I had to pack my own stuff, plan my own route, carry my own water. When I got tired and thought I was going to have to lie down, right there on the Hollywood Beach Boardwalk, it was only my own voice telling me I could do this, telling me to keep going, reminding me that during long runs it's gonna hurt but I will finish.

I realize that for many people out there, doing something like running by yourself (especially if it's something you've done for a long time) is not such a major personal accomplishment. But you have to understand, I crossed my first busy street when I was 21. Yes. You read that right. 21 years old. I was on vacation in New York and my ex-boyfriend wanted to take a picture of me in front of a restaurant. I looked for traffic, ran across, and smiled "Cheeeeese!". It dawned on me immediately that I had never actually walked around amidst traffic before. (I know...WTF?!?) I've mentioned before that I was brought up extremely sheltered. Pair that with a childhood and adolescence in a city where no one walks anywhere, and you have yourself an adult who had never had to cross a street alone before.

So now you have this 38-year-old mommy of two who finds it incredibly monumental that in a couple of months she will be waking up at 3:00 a.m., lacing up her sneakers, pinning on her race number, figuring out exactly where the hell one carries a disposable camera and some jelly beans for 13 miles, and getting on a Disney bus that will take her to the start of a long distance event...all by herself. This time around, it will be Just Me. I am the only one pushing Me to train, to run, to go. I am relying only on Myself. That's a pretty cool thing.

Where, oh where, did my little blog go?

2010-12-13T18:14:00.003-05:00

I was never a daily "post-er."
But I would get in here...two, three times a week. My mind was often on my blog: What will I write next? Oooh, that will be a good one! I've got to get that one done tonight.
Lately, I have nearly abandoned it.
It's not that I don't have material. It's not that I don't want to write.
In fact, I post almost everyday...in my own head.
I "write" posts in the shower, on my runs, on my drive to work, while I'm loading the dishwasher. They are usually incredibly spot-on, full of insight, poignancy, wit, and honesty.
But...they rarely make it online anymore. They only exist in my head.
Here's the thing: when I can finally get to that post, that idea that has been born inside my head, that fleeting moment of inspiration is gone. Poof. It went down the tub with the boys' bath water, or it fell out of my head as I stretched post-run, or, more often than not, it just doesn't seem that important later on.
The truth is that most nights, there's a full-out fight: at 9:00, after I've been up since 5:00 a.m., after I've spent the day teaching 53 fourth-graders, after I've helped Ben with his Letter Of The Week Homework, after I've packed my gym bag for the next day, and searched for "just one more" thing in the latest I Spy book, it comes down to..."Do I blog or do I sleep?" And, as evidenced by my recent absence, sleep usually wins.
It's just easier to snuggle under the covers (especially on these frigid South Florida nights of 50 degree weather...what can I say?...I'm a true beach bum) with a book and dim lighting...or curl up on the sofa as Hubby watches the Heat game and rubs my feet...or literally just crash and be sound asleep by 9:01.
Perhaps this is all proof that I never really was meant to be a "real writer." I mean, a writer should have the constant need to write, right? A writer must actually write...Monday through Friday...a real job. It seems that as my blog now nears its 2nd anniversary, the drive in me is slightly lessened: "It's okay...I'll write that one tomorrow." But lately, it turns into tomorrow, and my bed or my sofa beckons yet again.
Sweet dreams.

A Routine Life: Six Word Friday

2010-12-03T06:11:00.004-05:00

Routine. For me, it brings on

Dread and Calm. Resentment and Certainty.

Routine allows for Life to be

Still. Easy. Expected. Smooth. Contained. Controlled.

But along with routine, comes the

Boredom. Restlessness. Tedium. Complacency. Stagnancy. Depression.

Routine has become almost a requirement.

Without it, the day to day

Becomes unmanageable. I lose my grip.

And so, Life becomes a series

Of rushed timelines, deadlines, and bedtimes.

Within these tight constraints of Life

I've realized the necessity, the power

Of veering away. Defying the restrictions.

A spontaneous night with wine, conversation

Becomes almost like a rebellion against

What Life has required of Us.

An occasional alarm clock ignored becomes

A snub at responsibility and reality.

The routine, I've realized, is only

Effective when I'm willing to bend.

Break away, every now and then,

And remember what my Life is

And who I am without routine.

What does the word "routine" evoke in you? Join Six Word Fridays at Making Things Up!

Disney Princess Half-Marathon: Coming Full Circle

2010-11-30T20:38:00.000-05:00

I started running to get away from an unhappy life. It was my escape--literally--out of "that house" and gave me an excuse to be by myself, to do something for me. I had never been athletic. I was one of those kids who got straight A's in every subject but begged the PE coach to "give me a D and just let me sit out." It wasn't that I couldn't do the things they wanted me to do; it was the discomfort I felt being watched while I had to do them. (I will not even get into the horror I felt whenever I'd come out to phys ed and see the Shuttle Run set up.)

But running was easy...not so much physically, since I literally couldn't go longer than 2 minutes at first without feeling like I was going to die...but emotionally. All I needed was a pair of sneakers and my headphones, and to just go: put one foot in front of the other. The results came quick and were easy to measure: At first, I just went around the block, running the corners and walking the straight-aways. Within a few days, I could run the straights and just walk the corners. Before I knew it, I was running 10 minutes straight. And then...my first 5k. Up until that moment, when I crossed my first-ever finish line, I had never ever been so proud of myself. A year or so later, I started toying with the idea of a half marathon. When I mentioned it to my nears and dears at the time, most of them scoffed, pointed, and ridiculed outright. "13 miles? You? There's no way."

Another year (and one divorce later), I crossed the finish line at the 2001 Walt Disney Half-Marathon.

Although there was no longer a need to escape my life, I kept running...although my distances rarely went over 3 miles.

Then in 2004, after nearly 2 years of trying to get pregnant and 13 weeks of a joyous pregnancy, Hubby and I had a miscarriage.

Devastation.

After a few weeks, I knew I wasn't getting "passed" it. Rock bottom was starting to feel pretty damn close, and I realized that if I didn't "do" something, I was going to drown.

So out of nowhere, I decided to go back for another Disney Half with the goal of improving my previous finishing time. Over the next 4 months I focused completely on this race, my training, and my fitness. It gave me something to do. It gave me an outlet for my stress, my thoughts, my emptiness.

At the expo held the day prior to the race, one of the vendor booths was set up for little kids to make signs to hold up during the race. I stood by and watched little girls and boys making banners with puffy paint and sticky letters and markers: "Go Mommy!" "You can do it, Daddy!" "We love you!" Surprisingly, I didn't break down then. I turned to Hubby and said, "One day, I'm gonna come back to do this race, and my kids are going to make signs for me."

The next day, I ran a good race and did beat my previous time, in spite of having a very upset stomach and a lot of nausea the whole way. When we ran through the Magic Kingdom and passed the Dumbo ride, the tears finally came. I mourned, right there on mile 9, for the loss of this little spirit, this baby that wasn't to be, this dream that had been shattered.

I came home and found out a week later that I was pregnant. Ben Kincaid was born on September 16, 2005.

A couple of years after having him, we decided to try again, hesitant and fearful that we'd have to go through another difficult time.

We got pregnant with Aidan Kai on the first try. He was born August 8, 2008.

* * *

Now, I'm going back.

I registered for the Walt Disney Princess Half Marathon, February 2011. A decade after my first big race, and 7 years after crying at mile 9, I will be running for my kids and for myself. We'll go back to the expo and watch Ben and Aidan make "Go Mama!" signs. And when I cross that finish line, this time by myself, I'll run into the arms of My 3 Men: the one who has run along beside me literally and figuratively, and the 2 little ones who came to join us, the ones who made me Mama.

There's no place like home

2010-11-19T20:19:00.004-05:00

Usually messy, toys strewn like landmines

Disorganized closets, laundry baskets, dirty dishes

Still, my soft place to land
My sofa...head in Hubby's lap

Their rooms...bedtime rituals, whispered goodnights
Our bed...snuggling undercovers, peaceful bliss

What is HOME to you? Join Six Word Fridays at Making Things Up.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop

2010-11-18T19:29:00.004-05:00

I can have anxiety.

It's not there, all the time. It used to be much worse. You might have even referred to me, once upon a time, as a bit of a hypochondriac (I hate that word). Every symptom paralyzed me with fear and every non-symptom prompted me to imagine one. After years of learning that most of the time, it was "nothing," or, in the rare cases when it was "something," I was able to deal with it and move on, the anxieties eased. Somewhere along the line, over the last few years, I stopped being so afraid.

But recently, I've noticed it lurking...the old familiar fear, seeping back into me, stalking. It's subtle, and definitely more manageable than it used to be. But I sense it.

Thankfully, I've grown enough (and spent a few good years in therapy) to recognize it now, even before it takes hold of me. And so I've spent some time contemplating: why? Why now? Why, after all this time, are some of my old ways coming back, messing with my head, my days, my life? And then, it hit me: It's all good.

Life, I mean.

It's good.

Things are calm. Happy. Easier.

I've been pretty busy the last few years...having babies, buying houses, becoming a real grown-up (albeit begrudgingly at times). Life's been frenetic: sleep-training, potty-training, weight-training...and then, trying to keep my job, my marriage, my social life, and my sense of self all in working order. But lately, things seem to have settled. Hubby and I don't have to fight for quiet time (as much). We aren't waking up in the middle of the night (as much). We're planning exciting adventures again. I find that we are no longer "in survival mode"...we have made it through the infant years, we have settled in, gotten comfortable with parenting, found our groove, and have continued on with our plans for This Grand Life. And so...

There it is.

The anxiety.

The fear: When will the other shoe drop?

It can't be this good. I can't be this lucky. It can't be this easy.

* * *

It reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from the Sex and the City movie (yes, I am going to refer to SATC in the middle of a pretty serious blog post...and to those of you who know me: Why are you surprised?) when Charlotte admits to Carrie that she's scared because she has everything she has ever wanted:

Carrie: What makes you think that something bad is gonna happen?
Charlotte: Because! Nobody gets everything they want! Look at you, look at Miranda. You're good people and you two both got shafted. I'm so happy and...something bad is going to happen.

That is exactly how I feel. I have everything I could possibly want: a husband I am so in love with I can hardly believe he's mine; two healthy, smart, sweet little boys who grin and squeal "Mama" when I walk in the door; a home I never thought I could buy; amazing family; and my list can go on and on. Nothing "bad" is happening. Every one is "good." I am blissfully happy.

And terrified it's too good to be true.

The worst part of it is that the older I get, the more I know of people and their stories...their sadnesses, their losses...and like Charlotte thought: Why not me? Why not us?

It's a terrible way to think. I hate it. I detest it. It is not even easy to write about, to put "out there," because then I almost feel like perhaps I'm making it more real, more me. And I absolutely do not want That to be a part of Me ever again. I refuse.

The crazy thing, the contradiction, is that I don't actually believe in any of this. I believe in surrendering to the universe. I believe in God. I believe in karma. Energy. Trusting. Letting go. I believe in optimism, the strength of spirit. All of it. But sometimes, it's hard for me to apply, to live. And I well know that living in fear, in worry, only has a negative power on my psyche, my day to day, and my health. I get frustrated when loved ones (who I've obviously been influenced by) expect the worst. I want to hit them over the head, yell and scream: Expect the best! Only the best! Let go! Trust! Believe! And most of all, Live! Live life and drink it in...all its joys and blessings and good. Perhaps, it is myself I am really trying to remind.

Living in the In Betweens

2010-11-09T18:51:00.004-05:00

Life

is full

if you're lucky

of celebrations

momentous occasions

they mark our lives

our days

they give us

something

to cling to

when Life

gets

the

way

when it sucks our energy

and drains our passion

but

in between

those moments

in between

the celebrations

Life

it is in

the in betweens

where we miss out

where Life really happens

the real cause

for celebrating

the nothings and the everythings

of our everydays

hiding

in the in betweens

a Monday night

with

wine

and

the good stereo

and a candle

or two

and a rekindling

You

Him

Life

There.

there it is

in the in between

Change: Six Word Friday

2010-11-05T00:01:00.003-04:00

Somewhere along the line I became

the girl I wanted to be.

What does the word "change" mean to you? Join Six Word Fridays!

Never underestimate the power of a little body glitter and some wings...

2010-10-31T21:19:00.007-04:00

Parenting can take you to extremes...heavenly joy one minute, hellish frustration the next. Your days can become a blur of lunchboxes, birthday parties, soccer games, frantic mornings, and endless bedtimes. Being a parent almost defines you. Your life revolves around these precious little beings.

Which is why it's really nice, every once in a while, to swap the holiday-themed t-shirt and hair clip for some stilettos and eye glitter...

Admittedly, it took a strong cocktail to get me to walk out of the house like that...but boy, did it do wonders for my self-esteem (and it didn't hurt my marriage much). I'm not one to quote pop stars (I swear), but maybe Usher knows what he's talking about when he sings the "DJ's got us fallin' in love again." 'Cause for a few hours, we sure didn't feel like Mama and Daddy, and in spite of the splitting headache we fought off in the morning, trick or treating tonight was even more fun because we'd felt like we'd played hookie the night before.

Taken for granted treats

2010-10-29T00:00:00.000-04:00

relaxed meals
sleeping in
living spontaneously

What treats do you miss from your pre-mommy days?

Join Six Word Fridays! Find out more at Making Things Up.

Confessions of motherhood

2010-10-27T21:05:00.006-04:00

There used to be a time, not so long ago, when you couldn't really talk about how hard it is to be a parent. Motherhood, especially, was cloaked in fantasy and illusions and assumptions and judgments. All you heard were words like "rewarding" and "wonderful" and "miraculous."

Fortunately, that is no longer the case. Women are speaking out--through blogs, books, articles, even musicals--about how hard it actually is. We know the truth: motherhood's not glamorous. And despite what some women wanna make you believe, it's not all glorious and totally fulfilling. We are finally being honest with each other about those days when you want to run away--the days when the kids are fighting and the laundry's piling and the bills are late and the baby refuses to sleep and everything is going wrong.

But what about the other days?

What about the ones when everything is relatively calm (we all know I'm using this word loosely) and we still feel like maybe, just maybe, we could run away anyway?

I've come to realize that I hate about 50% of parenting.
Even on easy days.
Cause here's the thing: there are no easy days.

Parenting is tedious. Parenting is exhausting. Parenting is stressful.

I don't enjoy giving my wiggly, whiny, tub-hating toddler a bath.
I don't enjoy convincing my strong-willed, opinionated 5-year-old to share his "special toy" with his brother.
I don't enjoy trying to figure out how to make semi-healthy school lunches night after night.
I don't enjoy emptying and cleaning said lunchboxes night after night.
I just don't like the every day monotony of parenting two little kids.

So this is where I interrupt this regularly scheduling ranting to pop in the usual cliched disclaimer: I love my kids. I love their wet kisses and their squeaky voices and the way they smell like saliva and Cheerios and boy sweat all mixed together. But I don't like parenting.

So the other night, when I was scrubbing my kid's hair in the tub and he was wailing that the tear-free shampoo that was not even in his eye was making his "eye hurt! eye hurt!" I was just like: "Man, I hate this." And then I was like: "Oh, man. That can't be good." I mean, it was a typical night. No real drama, no major parenting problems to tackle, just a regular day. And yet, there I was: little patience, exhausted, annoyed, and resentful.

And guilty.

Really, really guilty.

Because, c'mon, what kind of mom am I if I want to run away on the "normal" days?

Then, of course, I make myself feel worse by telling myself that I'll be sorry one day...that I should be enjoying them more...that one day I will miss the days of tear-free shampoo and Scooby-Doo lunchboxes.

And then I feel worse.

Cause now I'm not only beating myself up for hating this, but I'm stressing myself out because I'm hating this and then I'm wishing I could just be responsible for washing only my own hair and then I'm looking at this fat little face and he's stopped crying and I'm feeling guilty-er cause really, shouldn't a mother enjoy washing her little angel's strawberry blond curls and what the hell is wrong with me, anyway?

We are finally at a point where moms are being honest. We're admitting that no, sorry, but the stretch marks probably won't ever go away after you have the baby, and hell, yes, the labor hurts like crazy, and no, having a newborn around really wasn't what I thought it would be, and no, being a mother isn't enough for me... So I thought that maybe it'd be okay if I could just admit that, even on the pretty good days, sometimes I struggle.

Damaged Goods

2010-10-20T20:30:00.003-04:00

I get migraines.

I've had them since I was a little girl. I have this very clear memory of being in 4th grade and asking my teacher to let me call home because of one, and she kept saying, "You just need to relaaaax. You'll be fiiiiine."
"You don't understand..." I tried to explain.
I had to wait until the Spanish teacher came in to the class and my regular teacher left so I could go to the office and call home.
I hated my fourth grade teacher forever.

I've always felt like it's something I have to explain, like I have this pre-existing condition that can pop up at any time, sometimes without warning, and completely knock me out, make me totally incompetent, paralyzed, useless, helpless.

It's inevitable that if you've known me for any given period of time, you know I get these headaches with some regularity. So my husband had been "forewarned" when we started dating. My very first migraine with him was memorable: sudden, acute, and accompanied by vomiting. Sexy.

"Teach me how to help you," he had said. (It's easy to see why I fell so hard, huh?)

After 10 years, he doesn't need to ask. He knows the routine, even for the most severe ones: ice pack for the head, Tiger Balm for the temples, bucket of hot water for the feet (according to my Chinese medicine doctor), prescription medication, neck rub, dark room, and assurances that I'll be okay.

He has never complained, but I have always felt guilty. I can't help but wonder how much he dreads those words: "I'm getting a headache." My migraines can't be helped, but still, they're an imposition. They make me an imposition. They make life come to a screeching halt...like last weekend when our Friday date night plans were replaced with the aforementioned routine. He must think it: "Here we go again." I know I do.

And I so resent that in this world of tension headaches and computer neck strain and general stress, the word "migraine" has become almost like a catch phrase. People throw it around to signify a "bad headache." How often I've heard, when I'm in the throes of one, no less: "Oh yeah, I know how you feel. I get the woooorst headaches..." or "Ugh, I had such a migraine the other day, I went home and had to have a glass of wine."

No.

No, you do not have "the worst headaches," and no, you did not have a migraine if you went home and cured yourself with alcohol. Lord knows, this girl likes herself a cocktail almost more than anyone, but when I have even the slightest hint of a headache, alcohol is the last thing on my mind. And I'm certainly not saying other people around are not entitled to their aches and pains, but those of us who suffer from actual, real migraines sorta know those around us who suffer from actual, real migraines, too. It's like a twisted, sad, sympathetic, resigned private club.

I've tried it all: meds/no meds, more exercise/less exercise, identifying triggers, keeping my sugar balanced, stress-relief, meditation, chiropractors, acupuncture, neurologists.... Some of it helps. Sometimes. Other times, like the last 2 weeks, nothing seems to help. I feel like I'm walking around, waiting (which, I know, probably makes it all worse), praying, hoping, and literally being aware of the absence of pain.

I realize that along the spectrum of chronic medical "issues," I can not complain. Most of the time, I manage. But pain really has a way of seeping in to your soul, tearing up your spirit and your resolve a bit, sucking the joy out of your everyday. And, not to mention, it can really piss you off.

Stretching out of my comfort zone

2010-10-11T07:50:00.000-04:00

As I contorted myself into side-angle pose and inhaled deeply, I tried to clear my mind.

It is one of the things I struggle the most with: clearing my mind of the constant noise...the ideas, frustrations, to-dos, dreams, anxieties...the unrelenting noise in my head. No matter what, I can't shut it off.

It was one of the reasons I fell in love with yoga over 5 years ago: the poses, the balancing, the breathing...it required being in the moment...stopping, being still--literally and figuratively. But this class was different...I couldn't still my mind, even when the poses required all of my concentration.

Because all I kept thinking was: I am so fuckin' proud of myself.

Yeah, I know...probably not appropriate to be cursing in your own head during tree pose...doesn't seem very new age-y and ommm-like. But I couldn't help it. I was near giddy with simple self-pride.

Life is filled with opportunities--big ones and small ones. But grabbing even the smallest ones can have a major impact on our psyches, our sense of selves, our well being, our pride.

Last week I wrote about friendships, and I mentioned that because of what I'd learned over the past couple of years, I decided to step out of my comfort zone and invite someone I hardly knew to "hang out." A minor thing for many. A major thing for me. As if that had not been enough, I decided to throw myself a double-whammy and go do said "hanging-out" at a yoga class at a real-deal yoga studio.

I hadn't practiced yoga in a loooooong time. And attending this particular class was not exactly super convenient. And I already work out plenty. And really, I don't have much room in my budget or schedule for another passion. And so I probably could've skipped it altogether. And I certainly have lots of friends already. And my social calendar is already quite full. And I definitely did not need to make a new friend or take time out of my week to sit post-yoga and chat over sushi in order to get to know someone. Really, the yoga class...the "girl date"...it was all unnecessary.

But not really.

Because I wanted to get to know this person. Because I want to open my social circle to see who else might be out there on the playground. Because I miss yoga desperately. Because when I attend a really good yoga class, I feel safe and calm and still and in control and quiet.

So all of it? It was necessary. For me.

But isn't that what we all get caught up in? Life's busy. I'll get to it later. I don't have time. I wish I could, but there's laundry and children and groceries and husbands and relatives and oil changes and bills and appointments and...and...and...

Attending this yoga class and meeting this person required effort. And I realized, smack in the middle of one of the poses, how incredibly proud of myself I was...that I had made the effort...that I had inconvenienced myself and my family a bit in order to do something I really wanted to...something that wasn't super easy, something that required planning and rescheduling and more than a 15-minute drive.

In the middle of the yoga class, our instructor was talking about being open enough to discover and enjoy "the full potential of this life experience."

I was struck by this statement. Yes, she might have been referring to life in a grander, more spiritual way. But isn't it the little things, the everyday decisions, that make up our existence? Hadn't I, by opening myself up to the potential of this new person, to this new class, stretched myself in a way as to better enjoy my life experience?

The more the merrier

2010-09-30T17:56:00.008-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about friendships lately.

My dearest friend's 7-year-old granddaughter is having some issues on the playground. She can't quite understand how her best friend can be her best friend one day and completely ignore her the next.

"That's just rude, Gram. And it hurts my feelings."

It's tough being a girl. Women are difficult creatures. We desperately need each other but we push each other away, claw and snap and bitch, and talk behind each other's backs.

My friend assured her granddaughter that "one day" she'd find that one true best friend:

"Really, Gram? You promise?"

"I promise."

I told my friend that I thought that had been a terrible promise to make (we're honest like that). I'm not sure I really believe in the notion of a best friend anymore, although lately (and here's the truly ironic part) I feel I am in some of the healthiest relationships of my life. The notion of That One True Best Friend--the promise that little girl is holding out for--puts a whole lot of pressure on her and especially on the girls around her. No one person should be responsible for being every thing to anyone.

That little girl may be so busy looking for that One Girl that she may miss out on all the ones skipping happily around her on the playground.

* * *

In spite of the fact that most people would probably describe me as very outgoing, I've actually spent most of my life being somewhat anti-social. Growing up, I was never accepted into any of the Cliques Of The Moment, and more often than not, I'd find somebody who was "like me" (read: a little too loud or a little too dramatic or a little too awkward or a little too whatever I happened to be at the time) and I'd latch on. I'd found her: my friendship soulmate! And eventually, as is almost always inevitable with females, she'd screw me over. There was Marilyn in 3rd grade, who one day came back from lunch and abruptly and silently pulled her desk a few inches away from mine and refused to speak to me. I remember Lena, in middle school, who decided hanging out with "the other girls" was way cooler than hanging out with me (she was probably right). The list goes on and on. I realize there were probably many times that I, too, had disappointed them...I don't doubt that I said something completely inappropriate to Marilyn that day at lunch, but couldn't she have told me what that something was?

What I've come to realize over the last couple of years is that all that time I spent excluding everyone else to be with my One True Best Friend, I had missed out. A lot. On people, outings, experiences, adventures, life lessons.

I now find myself surrounded by a lot of really remarkable women...some I had pushed aside for years because I simply "didn't have the time" to spend with them. I am more open, less judgmental, and having a whole heck of a lot more fun. My "collection" of girlfriends are all incredibly different: with some I can discuss, in great details, Marc Jacobs's personal make-over...others shop "exclusively" at Walmart and Target. For some of my friends, sweating is restricted to dancing and sex...others are game for anything from a 5k to a full-out adventure race. I would not call any one of these women my Best Friend. I know who I can call in the middle of the night when my kid is running a fever of 105. I know who I can call when I'm desperate for a night of dancing and drinks. Some of these women know secrets about me that the rest of the world would be shocked to know. Others, I'm just starting to truly trust.

Today, I "asked a girl out." Well, that's what it felt like, anyway. I recently started to talk to someone at work who seems to be so amazingly interesting and intelligent and just plain "cool," that I stepped out of my old comfort zone and, after 30 minutes of chatting about designer galoshes, world-wide travel, Christian Louboutins, mamas' boys, marriage and children, I decided to make a plan to get together next week. This may seem like a totally normal thing to do. But for me, it felt foreign. This woman may become one of my girls. Or, perhaps we will get together and have absolutely nothing to talk about (although after that 30-minute-all-inclusive-chat, I doubt it!). But the point is that I have finally figured out that I don't need one Best Friend. I need lots of really fantastic friends. I am no longer disappointed, because I don't put all my eggs in one basket. I have lots of baskets, and I'm skipping happily around with them on the playground.

You made me "Mama"

2010-09-16T20:48:00.007-04:00

Dear Ben,

You were born 5 years ago today, my first baby. I have not been able to stop thinking about the fact that it was exactly 5 years ago that I became a mother. You made me a mother. Your entrance into this world changed me forever, in a way that I could not even begin to understand then.

We wanted you. Desperately. We waited for so long and went through so much. As much as your Daddy and I loved each other, as happy as we were, as blessed as we felt, we knew there was something missing. While we were going through that time, we didn't understand why.

Then you came. And we knew.

All along, all that time, we had been waiting for you.

You came along and joined our little twosome and rocked our world. We weren't even sure what to do with you. We didn't recognize our lives, our selves, or each other. Let's just say that there was an adjustment period. But you were fantastic. Maybe you (or someone greater) knew that we weren't quite able to handle too much then, and so you were The Easiest Baby On Earth. You slept. You ate. You sat happily for hours staring at the wall. By the time you were two, we thought we were surely the best parents ever, since we had obviously been fully responsible for this little being who was so perfectly behaved and easy-going and smart. (We know better now...as evidenced by many posts on this very blog referencing playground punching and general acts of absolute insubordination....at least you waited until we had recovered from the postpartum, grown up, and gotten a better handle on the challenges of parenting.)

You are growing up to be quite a kid. You're wicked smart and always trying to be one step ahead of everyone. If you apply your skills of manipulation and persuasion to good rather than evil, you will undoubtedly be incredibly successful. You seem to have inherited your father's goofy sense of humor but my fear of embarrassment. You like things a very particular way (how I wish, on those mornings when we're running late because you've had to adjust your socks 18 times so the stitching lands just so along your toes, that I could tell you that I still do that before a run). You still have not figured out that you are not, actually, the center of the universe. You finally seem to have taken a sincere liking to your baby brother, and when I see you helping him, trying to explain something to him (like last night when you were showing him how to draw a clown), it makes my heart swell up with a love, gratitude, and relief that I can not put into words. Your manners are near perfect. Your sense of humor, flawless. You are, quite simply, a really cool kid (which is a good thing, since you refuse to allow us to call you "cute", only "cool" or on occasion, "handsome").

There's something special about being the first born. You were the one who Changed Us...the one who turned us into Mama and Dada. You squeezed your way in to our little cocoon for two, and actually made us want to slide over and make room. You are amazingly special, Ben Kincaid. We love you "sooooo much" and "all the way to the back of the moon."

Happy Birthday.

Love, Mama

Then and now...

Petty and Pissy

2010-09-15T07:42:00.000-04:00

Once a month, I get crabby.
Bitchy.
Overly sensitive.

Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.

But that's sorta understandable, right? I mean, we all know there's a physiological reason why this happens to most of us. We have an excuse.

But what about when you don't have an excuse?
What about when you're walking around, generally pissed off, and you can't blame the calendar?

I have no reason to be pissy.
Except I do.

Petty things that are currently pissing me off and I have no idea why:

1. What the fuck is wrong with people who think the general laws of traffic
do not apply to them? (This is especially aggravating when said people are your
colleagues and you want to kick them when you see them in the school
hallway.)

2. I've been busting my ass for 3 1/2 weeks to lose my summer weight and I
can't close one goddamn pair of pants without getting a muffin top, yet my
lovely Hubby eats 2 salads and works out 3 times and *poof!* his abs are
back!

3. Especially chipper people...you know, the ones who squeal "Smile!"
whenever they see you.

4. The fact that every night the only conversation I seem to have energy for is the same set of required questions: "You going to the gym in the morning?" "Did you prepare the coffee?" "Are the kitchen counters already wiped?" "Whose turn is it to read to Ben?" "Is everything ready for tomorrow?"

5. The general bullshit hypocrisy of people who pretend to be something they're not: like the person who has a rosary hanging from her car mirror but doesn't remember who she slept with last night, or the one who throws out risque comments every chance she gets but is really just a jealous prude.

6. The alarm clock needing to be set to 4:45 a.m., and knowing that the latest I'll be able to sleep in on the weekend is 7:15, if I'm lucky.

There.
I think I kinda feel better now.
Maybe this helped.

And if it doesn't, that's okay, I'm sure in a few days this random senseless pissiness will pass...
...just in time for that time of the month.
At least then, I'll have an excuse.

There's no inspiration

2010-09-10T07:49:00.000-04:00

I don't necessarily mean that in a bad way.

More often than not, inspiration comes to me in the form of angst.
Drama.
Discomfort.
Heartache.

Lately, there's just been...Life.

Life without angst is a good thing. I am not complaining. I've got it good, but I'm not exactly longing for my laptop so I can pour out my musings.

Truth be told, I'm not musing much lately.

I'm too tired.
I'm just trying to keep up.

After the Summer Of Salsa, I find myself still struggling to catch up to Reality. I feel like I'm on a perpetual treadmill: always going, going, going.

None of it is "bad:"
I have a good job with good hours.
I have an amazing husband who truly sees our life as a partnership.
I have incredibly selfless parents and in-laws who constantly pitch in with babysitting.
I have time to myself almost on a daily basis.
I have two healthy, happy kids who (mostly) follow their tightly-set daily routine.

There are no crises, currently.

It's all good.

But still, I find that I struggle with day-to-day life. I find the everyday tedious and frustrating and, well, repetitive. I sometimes think that we spend so much of our life wasting away at jobs and errands and laundry and bathing children (even if I do sorta like my job and my children are pretty damn cute when they're splashing in the tub). It's just Life. Life is busy and hectic, even when it's good and boring and drama-free.

And then I feel guilty...guilty that I struggle, that I complain, that I'm always so tired. Because I am well aware of how lucky I am, how truly blissful life is when there's nothing to write about.

Words

2010-09-02T07:01:00.001-04:00

The things people say can shape us, our choices, our lives, who we become and how it all turns out...

Don’t worry about your curfew tonight.

Why are you marrying this guy?

The unemployment line is too long on Mondays.

You’re too loud.

You want too much.

You never deserved me, anyways.

Are you sure you don’t want to move back home with us?

I think you should move back home with us.

I'm worried you will always need the drama in your life to be happy.

Maybe you knew what you were doing all along.

You’re the coolest girl I’ve ever hung out with.

You guys are gonna end up together.

If you let me, I’ll take care of you forever.

Why don’t we just move in together?

Will you do be the honor of being my wife?

I’m ready.

I’m sorry, but the fetus stopped developing weeks ago.

When you feel like you're drowning, hold onto me.

Yes, you’re pregnant.

It’s a boy.

I think I'm happy with just one.

I think I want another one.

Let’s buy a bigger house.

Yes, you're pregnant.

Yes, it's definitely another boy.

This is harder than I thought.

This is getting easier.

I'm happy; are you?

This was inspired by Maria's post at Mom of Three Seeks Sanity on "Things you thought you'd never hear." She was inspired by a comment made by someone about pink eye, of all things! What started out, for her, as a funny post turned into something bigger and more important. Then when I tried her angle, my post took on a life of its own, too. As I started to type, my memory took over, and this is what came out. It was strangely stream-of-conscience-like and cathartic.

Funny or important, memorable or painful...what words have been spoken to you?

Replaced

2010-08-31T07:54:00.004-04:00

I've already forgotten her...

that girl from summer

the one who didn't take herself so seriously
the one who didn't care if her jeans were a little too tight
or if the kids were up too late

The one who smiled
and laughed

a lot

How could I have misplaced her
so quickly?

I miss her.
I think everyone else does
too.

Visiting a friend with a tribute to Ms. Bradshaw

2010-08-30T10:22:00.005-04:00

Simone, at The Bottom of the Ironing Basket, invited me over to guest post on her amazing blog, which is always a parade of beautiful images: celebrities, fashion, landscapes, quotes...

A click over to her always make me feel inspired or relaxed, or both! Check out my guest post over there (it's a recycled one but one of my personal faves and perfect, I though, for her site), and then dig around her in her laundry basket...I'm sure you'll love what you find!

What the hell am I gonna do when they go to college?

2010-08-24T21:40:00.000-04:00

I have been a teacher for 14 years.
I have been a mother for 5.
This week, my 2 selves collided in a way I couldn't possibly understand until now.
I think I'm a good teacher. For the most part, my students have always liked being in my class. I've always tried to be kind. I've always struggled to teach my students to the best of my ability. I have always been in it "for the right reasons."
I thought I really "got it"...the power of a teacher.
14 years, 4 different grade levels, 2 schools, and probably 400+ students later, I really "got it."
.
But my professional epiphany had nothing to do with my job.

On Sunday night, I lay in bed, trying to sleep, looking forward to the school year ahead, and thinking about my boys. Ben would start his first day of VPK with 2 certified real-deal degreed teachers and weekly homework (!) that Monday morning. Aidan Kai (my little rambunctious just-turned-two baby!) would be starting his first day of "school" in the "baby class" at his big brother's school that Tuesday. And as I lay there, I realized the amount of hope and trust I was placing in these teachers, these women who would be helping to mold my little boys over the next year. I was excited for my boys. They would learn and play and jump and laugh and cry and push the limits with these teachers. And in that moment, in the darkness of my room, I realized that, most likely, in many homes a few miles away, there were other moms (and probably dads) thinking the same thoughts and having the same feelings...about Me. Those parents were probably also laying in their beds, wondering what would be in store for their children when they entered my classroom the next day, hoping and trusting, too.

That was the moment when I truly realized the importance of my job.

And the incredible amount of gratitude I feel towards these teachers when they show an extra moment of patience or tenderness or understanding with my boys.

Lesson learned.

* * *

Ben's been attending his school for 2 years. He started 2 days a week when he was three. Last year he increased to 3 days a week. Monday he started "official pre-k"...5 days a week, full time. He was excited and happy.

Each afternoon, he's worked on his homework for this week.

Sometimes, it's like pulling teeth:

"C'mon, Ben, focus." "No, Ben you have to do some of the writing yourself." "Ben! You know what a letter M looks like!"

Other times, it's mommy ecstasy:

"No, Mama, I want to write that part myself." "Let me show Daddy." "I know that Aidan's name starts with a letter A."

I can't quite believe I've arrived (so soon!) at the point in my parenting career where I have to come home (after an entire day of working with 52 kids) to patiently and lovingly teach one more kid.

* * *

Last school year, whenever we went to pick Ben up from school, Aidan Kai was the one who'd pick up his brother's lunchbox from the cubby and carry it to the car. He sometimes even asked to stay. So we decided this year, a full year sooner than Ben, we'd start him out at the same school 2 days a week for half days. Although I knew it was the right thing for him at this point, I was a wreck.

The morning went so smoothly that I was sure all hell would break loose at any moment. He ate his breakfast, he helped pick out his clothing, he picked up his lunchbox, and was ready to go. When we arrived, cringing that surely at any minute he'd start his usual schtick of "Up! Up!" and cling to us, he instead insisted on walking himself down the hall to the front door.

That picture?

It's the one that made me cry when I looked at it later as I pulled into the parking lot at work.

* * *

I feel like we've started a whole new chapter in our parenting lives. I'm excited and proud of our boys, but I'm a bit melancholy and emotional about the days we're leaving behind. The feeling I've been walking around with today is one I can't even put into words, which is probably why this post has turned into more of an account of the facts than one with a point. I just feel emotionally full and emotionally spent at the same time, and I knew I had to chronicle this event, because it's yet another in which I realize there are some things you can't understand until you're a mom.

Real life ain't sexy

2010-08-21T16:27:00.004-04:00

There's a reason couples have more sex while on vacation.
Vacation is sexy.
Real life? Not so much.
On vacation, there's no laundry piles, lunchboxes, piles of unopened mail, alarm clocks.
The only To-Do's are sightseeing, eating, shopping, sleeping, and romancing.

We've only been back to our Real Life for a week (and it hasn't even been the full-blown version, since the boys haven't started school yet), and already some of the friskiness is gone.

During the summer, it was all about "What do you wanna do tomorrow?" or "Do you wanna open a bottle of wine tonight?" or "When can your mom have the kids again overnight?"

There were full days on the beach, Just Us, with picnic lunches, cheesy magazines, lots of sunblock, and even more vodka.

There were nights of getting all dressed up: over-the-top smoky eye and glittery liner, patent leather red stilettos, and way-too-short-for-a-mom-over-35-mini-skirts...and then dancing the night away.

There were early evenings conspiratorially rushing the bedtime routines so we could then sneak into our loft, with red wine and cheese and lingerie and John Mayer.

But now?

Now, the luxury is pizza standing up at the kitchen counter (only 2 small slices...I know, I know, I've gotta lose those summer pounds!), Blockbuster rentals, and 2 exhausted back-to-work teachers/parents trying to get back into the routine, snuggling into bed to actually sleep.

I've read it a million times: when you're married with children, you have to schedule sex.

Yeah. That's real hot.

So, yes, I know, my last few (and I do mean "few") posts have all been about how great my summer has been and how lazy and indulgent I've been, and now, here I am just complaining and whining about it being over. I know most of you are thinking I'm a spoiled ingrate who does not even appreciate the fact that she has the 2 months off with Hubby ever year.

But I'm not really being whiny, and I'm not an ingrate. Just the opposite. I'm incredibly grateful for the past several weeks, and am actually feeling like I'm almost back in the swing of things with work and life in general. I'm not even pouting about it (too much) anymore.

But the fact is, I miss my sexy summer life...where the freedom and sun and frivolity and extra babysitting contributed to my libido.

So back to my last post and my new (school) year resolutions...
I've got to find ways to sneak in the sexiness. Somewhere amidst the Lunchables and the lesson plans and the 5:00 a.m. alarms, I've got to make an effort to remember the heat of summer.

The Summer of Salsa and Chips

2010-08-16T23:00:00.000-04:00

If you ever watched "Seinfeld," you may remember "The Summer of George."

I, once, had a "Summer of Liz." I don't really remember what I did with it, or why I needed it, since it was back in the days of "Before I Had Kids."

Being a teacher, I have had the luxury and blessing of having the summers off. And being Type A and slightly neurotic, I have spent most of those "doing" something.

There were a couple of "The Summer of Pregnancy."
There was "The Summer of Home Buying."
There were quite a few "Summers of Slimming Down."
One way or another, summer was always about doing something.

This summer, we ate a lot of salsa and chips.

We drank a lot of beer.
And wine.
There was lots of wine.
No, wait, maybe there was more beer.
Yes, definitely The Summer of Salsa, Chips, Beer, and Wine.

I went away one weekend with my girlfriends to sit on the beach and laugh.
I went away with Hubby a few times for overnight getaways.
We slept in when we could (once, we even hit 9:30!).
I finally tried stand up paddle surfing (twice!).
I watched "Blue's Clues" and "Scooby Doo."
We went dancing.
We took the boys on mini-adventures (one ended up as an adventure all on its own at the pediatric E.R., but that's for another post...or perhaps no post at all, since I want to forget the whole thing).
We went to the beach.
We went to water parks.
We went nowhere.
I gained weight.
I got almost nothing accomplished.
But I was happy.
Really, really happy.

The school year starting (for all four of us) will definitely require routine, discipline, and scheduling. (And my barely-fitting-jeans will definitely require my old eating and exercise habits.) And I do know that routine brings a certain amount of ease and organization and calm, especially when dealing with two small children. But I don't want to go completely back to the person I was before this summer. As much as I need (and want) to go back to healthy, planned eating, to the 5:00 a.m. gym visits, to the hyper-scheduled bedtimes, I want to keep this sense of "Who cares?" and "Why the hell not?" As the summer has steadily dwindled down to its end, I've come to the realization that it is not the free time I am panicked about losing.

It's my attitude.

So I've made a few new (school) year's resolutions:
~Crack open a bottle of wine with Hubby if we feel like it, even if it's a Tuesday
~Skip a gym workout if it's a beautiful afternoon and hit the beach with the kids instead
~Not have every second of the entire week planned and written in stone
~Go on more bike rides around the neighborhood, even if it means we have dinner an hour later than we're "supposed" to
~Not care all that much and truly understand that yes, the closet that needs organizing and the photos that need arranging will all be there...tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day
~Laugh as often (or nearly as often) as I did this summer

No matter how many times we told you not to bite the candle, you just didn't listen...

2010-08-08T21:56:00.011-04:00

Dear Aidan Kai,

You were born 2 years ago today. It was dramatic, your entrance to the world. It was so silent, that moment when they took you out of me, and we couldn't see you or hear anything, and from the other side of the blanket, we heard your shrill, powerful cry. I looked up at your Daddy, and his face crumpled in a way I had never seen: fear, stress, joy, relief. "He's got red hair!" the nurse pronounced, and I wondered: 'Where the hell did you get that?!?' but I didn't care. You were okay. I was okay. We'd be okay.

Then...and here's where it can get kinda funny...not funny in that ha-ha way, but funny in that ironic kinda way...that shriek we were so excited to hear when you were yanked out of me so violently became the soundtrack of our day-to-day for the first four 1/2 months of your life. And that is only a very, very slight exaggeration.

No reason, apparently. You just cried. All the time. It makes sense to me, now, when I look back on those early weeks, and I see you now, the little boy you are turning into: you cried because you could, because it drew attention, because you have a flair for the dramatic, because it matches your personality, which is big and loud.

You are an incredibly funny kid. I don't think too many people know that about you yet. You tend to be somewhat reserved around people, and you can be pretty stubborn in your anti-social behavior when you want to be (hmmm..wonder who you get that from). But you are hilarious in a way that I didn't really know toddlers could be. It's a subtle, clever humor, with a bit of "stick-it-to-ya" mixed in there for good measure. Your Daddy and I like to think of ourselves as pretty tough parents...consistent and firm with high expectations...but you...you have managed to pull all kinds of stunts and then get yourself out of them with this sly, dimpled grin and these squinty, knowing eyes.

If the methods you and your brother use to get out of trouble are any indication, he will grow up to be a lawyer and you will be a stand-up comedian. You manage to answer our rhetorical questions with the most unexpected answers, like tonight, when you bit me playfully and I said "Hey! Are you a dog?" and you immediately responded with "Yes" and then proceeded to show me your teeth, make biting noises, and go straight for the sofa. Never in a million years did we ever think we'd find ourselves saying the sentence: "No biting the furniture!" Of course, all such behaviors are punctuated with a wide grin on your proud face.

It's been an interesting couple of years, to say the least. We're still waiting for you to "get easy." We joke that perhaps you're getting in all your punches now and in a couple of years, you'll become the Easy One. You just never stop moving. You wiggle off the chair in sushi restaurants and manage to hang off the edge of the table going "Monkey! Monkey!" before we have a chance to put down our chopsticks and lunge at you. You fall off bar stools and practically bounce right back up onto them. You make your swim class teacher carry you around the pool on her back while she works with the other kids, because when she'd put you on the step to wait your turn, you'd run out of the pool, indignantly stomping "All done!" You stand at the edge of our own pool at home and put your head straight down on the concrete, insisting you can "Flip! Flip!" like your brother. And you would, if we'd let you.

It's been an interesting couple of years, to say the least. You certainly wear us out on a regular basis. But you're special, in a way that, I think, only your Daddy and I can truly understand. You make us laugh, a lot. You are silly and goofy and we can already see that you don't take yourself very seriously. You've brought an energy and life to this house that we didn't know was missing, and you've completed our perfect little family.

Happy Birthday, our littlest boy, the last baby, our fireball...we love you. Thank you for picking us.

Love, Mama

Find your joy and you find your Self

2010-08-02T22:49:00.011-04:00

"Celebrate we will

for life is short but sweet for certain."

~Dave Matthews, "Two Step"

DMB concert 2009 photo collage courtesy of www.gilcelia.com

A year ago, Hubby and I went to a Dave Matthews Concert with friends. The skies poured down for hours before the show and turned the open-air lawn into a muddy, slippery, soggy mess.

It was the first concert I'd been to in a long, long time. I stood there, listening to my favorite band, Hubby swaying behind me, his arms wrapped around my shoulders.

Connected.

That night was a turning point for me. It was the first time I felt like Myself after having had my second child. Standing there, high on the music and the beer and the company, I was happier than I had been in a long time. It was like I remembered...

I remembered who I was.

I am not sure why, but I can tell you I felt Free.

Fast forward to this past weekend. We went back to see Dave in his Summer 2010 Tour.

As much as I had been looking forward to the concert, I was a bit worried that I'd be disappointed. I didn't think it would be possible that I could feel "that" again. I thought, surely, it had been a product of a weird time in my life, a time when I was just coming out of a year blurred by colicky cries, sleepless nights, and postpartum weight.

And maybe, just maybe, I had thought, I had even been a tad bit drunk last year.

But no.

There it was again: the feeling.

Joy.

Freedom.

Me.

Again, brought upon by the music, the lights, the night, the company.

It's easy to pass on stuff in life. When you have small kids and large bills, it's easy to say: "No, we're not going to do that right now, because babysitting is tough/we really can't afford it/it's too far/it's not necessary/we're too tired/too busy/too everything."

But then you forget. You forget who you are, what you love, what makes you feel most like You.

Summer Plans

2010-07-28T10:14:00.001-04:00

Back when my summer started, I made a long mental list of plans. After all, I thought, Hubby and I will be off for 2 whole months together, with the boys at home. We'll have plenty of time and energy to enjoy our time together and get a lot done. It would be the perfect, balanced combination of efficiency and enjoyment!

My Summer To-Do:
1. Lose the 3 pounds I gained since Spring Break
2. Completely empty and re-organize the guest room closet
3. Spring clean the entire house (we're talking move furniture, empty bookshelves...serious shit)
4. Organize over 1000 photographs into corresponding albums and photo boxes
5. Design and order 4 photo books using the professional pics dear friend took (including the maternity ones, which are now over 2 years old!)
6. Get back on my mountain bike again

You know where this is going, right?

Here's how it's turning out:
1. I've maintained the 3 pounds and gained an additional 2 due to the near-constant beer and wine drinking, also known around here as: "Aw, what the heck! It is summer, after all! Crack open a bottle!"
2. I sat and watched as Hubby emptied out some of the stuff in the guest room closet and placed most of it back in (no real organization took place but we did come across some really great old photos).
3. We've vacuumed twice, mopped once, and scrubbed the bathrooms once. No furniture movement of any kind has occurred, unless you count to find a runaway Hot Wheels car.
4. The 1000 photos have now multiplied to about 1400.
5. One photo book has been designed and ordered, and it wasn't even the maternity one.
6. I watched Lance Armstrong ride his bike in the Tour de France for the last time. Does that count?

Pretty amazing how during the school year, I can get 6 things done in one day, yet this summer even a list this short is too long. But I have become incredibly efficient at laziness and decadence...and joy. Who knew being an underachiever could be so satisfying?

Closed for Summer Vacation

2010-07-13T08:34:00.006-04:00

Photo courtesty of www.zazzle.com

I am a thinker.

A ponderer.

A muser.

I like to reflect, analyze, and then over-analyze.

I like to sit and think.

But apparently, not in the summer.

It turns out, this summer, I just like to sit.

I think about my blog all the time. I think about my online world of friends and fellow-thinkers. I think about all the drafts I've started. I think about how many days it's been since the last time I was on...

And then, well, then, I stop thinking.

I pack the beach bag and leave the house with my three favorite men.

I flip through the channels and watch the day's stage of the Tour de France yet again.

I call my friends and meet up at the local bounce house place.

I go to the gym.

I do laundry.

I eat chips and salsa.

I am very, very lazy this summer.

All the projects I had in my head in May: the two-years-worth of photos to be organized and put in boxes? The photo books to be designed and ordered back from when I was pregnant with Aidan? The closets to be purged and cleaned? The massive behind-the-sofa-spring cleaning? The steam cleaning of the boys' rooms' carpets? The every-other-day blogging?

Nope.

Not one.

I feel guilty about it when I'm in bed, mainly, at the end of the day, trying not to count how many weeks are left of this no-work, no-school, no-schedules kind of life for the four of us.

There will be so little accomplished, I think.

And then, I stop thinking.

I go to sleep.

And I wake up the next morning to more of the same lackadaisical living.

And you know what?

It's nice.

For someone whose brain is always frickin' noisy, whose mind is always on hyper-speed, whose lists of to-do's are endless, it's nice to just wander a lot instead of wonder.

And on those nights when I lay in bed and think for a bit about all the things I have not accomplished this summer, I also realize that maybe this has been one of my most successful summers ever...one in which I've actually been able to Just Be.

Popcorn and M&Ms for lunch

2010-06-30T17:24:00.006-04:00

There's something about summer that makes it feel totally appropriate to swap my usual healthy lunch with a week's worth of sodium, saturated fat, and chocolate.

I felt only joy as I alternated nibbling between the too-salty, fake-butter-tasting popcorn and candy coated chocolatey treats. It didn't even bother me that I had swapped my scheduled workout and house cleaning with a spontaneous trip to the movies. If I can't be a tad bit irresponsible and unhealthy in the summer, when I'm home with my boys and my husband, then when can I?

Summer's been in full swing for...what?...almost 3 weeks now? (I refuse to keep track of summer days; it's my defense mechanism). We've spent a week out of town with a friend and her grand kids, been to Orlando for a night of drinking and dancing, been to Key West for a 2-night romantic getaway, been to the local water park twice with our kids and practically everyone else's, played at the local bounce house gym, and had so many pool and beach days that I'm sure our fingers will be permanently prune-y and wrinkled.

Before kids, our summers used to consist of very late nights and equally late mornings. We'd stay out 'til dawn or watch movies 'til 2. We'd rarely open our eyes before noon. Summers were lazy and indulgent.

Then we had Ben, and we spent one summer pregnant, uncomfortable, and anxiously holding our breath for his arrival in September. The following summer was spent trying to figure out how we could still have our beach-filled days with a one-year-old who needed two naps a day.

Just when we were getting our bearings, another summer came filled with pregnant expectations and apprehensions for our August baby.

Then, last summer, every trek to the beach was a comedy of errors: Aidan writhing and rolling off the towel as we tried to change his diaper, Ben wailing every time the salt water hit his eyes. And still, there were those darned scheduled naps.

This summer, there are still naps (well, only one), but our beach days are more fun than trouble. Aidan's rolling on the sand with his big brother more often than rolling off the towel during diaper changes. There are attempts at skimboarding on the shore. Sandcastles. Breakfast by the pool. Spontaneous trips to the movies.

The freedom of this summer is certainly worlds apart from the summers when we were two childless teachers living in a tiny townhouse with a tiny mortgage and a cleaning lady. But there is a new freedom to this summer as well. (And, I suspect, this is just a taste of the summers to come.)

As I watched the ending of "Toy Story 3" today in that dark movie theatre, our oldest son sitting between us, I was surprised by how much crying I did. (Caution: Spoiler alert!) I had been warned that the movie makes you appreciate how quickly time goes by. I had been told most moms (especially of boys) get at least a little teary as Andy gets ready for college. But I was not prepared for the flood of emotions I felt when his mom walks in to his bare room, when the grown-up Andy finds a new home for his beloved toys...and when I recognized the look on little Bonnie's face when she meets her "new" toys...a look of innocence and awe that can only be seen on the face of a small child...I really had to control myself, because at that point, I was not only crying the silent, private tears of a good movie ending, I was nearing full-out, noise-making, only-in-your-own-house sobbing.

What got me was the realization that that look...the look on little Bonnie's face...is on display in my house practically every day. And yet, many days, I miss it (as I am sure so many of us do) because I'm too tired or too stressed or too busy wishing they'd grow up already.

So I didn't feel too guilty about my lunch of popcorn and chocolate. 'Cause I know that in a few years, the summers of learning life lessons from toys will be over, and the days of packing for college will be here. And I'm sure I'll have plenty of time for salads and workouts then...

Questions about dying

2010-06-23T23:01:00.003-04:00

"But I don't want you and Daddy to die."

This, from a sobbing four-year-old...my sobbing four-year-old...a child who screams a lot but rarely sheds a real tear.

He was clinging to me, still damp from his shower, his yellow towel wrapped around him, his hair still dripping.

Sobbing.

We have no idea where this came from.

We have had (knock on wood, thank God, insert any and all superstitious sayings here) no deaths or illnesses in the family. We have not watched anything new on TV. Nothing. We'd had, in fact, had a lovely afternoon, the four of us, at the outlet mall, shopping for, specifically, "super-hero PJs." We'd ended our shopping with a ride on the merry-go-round, and had come home for pizza and chocolate ice cream. I'd been cutting up tomatoes and listening to the Beach Boys when I heard some whimpering and something about "getting old" and "dying" coming from the bathroom, where the boys were being bathed by Hubby.

I walked in to find Ben with his towel over his head, making noises which were either muffled cries or silly giggles.

When I took the towel off his head, sat down on his step stool, and asked him what was wrong, his face crumpled.

"I don't want you and Daddy to die."

Hubby and I had done our best to be truthful without being scary, feeling completely unsure and at a loss. I wanted to be honest. I wanted to be somewhat matter-of-fact. I wanted to be calm. I did not, under any circumstances, want to scare him. But I also would not, under any circumstances, lie about something like this.

So here it was: The Heavy Stuff.

We explained to him that our Mommies and Daddies were still around, and that they were old. That being old did not mean you died. That we'd be around for his whole life (okay, that was a slightly twisted version of the truth). That people lived to be, "like a hundred," and that "a hundred was, like, forever." We told him that that was why we took such good care of ourselves, why we ate healthy foods and exercised and slept well and drank water and visited our doctors for check-ups, because we wanted to be around for a super long time. We wanted to get older because then we'd get to watch him and his brother grow up.

"And I'll grow up, and I'll have babies, too."
"Yes. You will. And we'll get to see that."

We explained to him that everyone gets older, that it's okay, that it's normal, that old doesn't mean "too old", that it's part of life. We mentioned all of his loved ones who are "old."

"But who will die first? You and Daddy or me?"

Never could I have been prepared for a question like that...a question with an easy answer (God willing, again insert every superstitious saying here, please), but a question that was too heartbreaking to hear my little boy ask me.

"We will, honey, because we are much older. Your life is just starting."

"Who will die first: Tata, Pepe, Abelo, Aba, or Tantala?" (every grandparent plus his pseudo-godmother, all in their late 60s and early 70s, and all integral parts of his daily life).
"I don't know, honey. No one knows. There is no way of knowing that."
"I think Abelo will," he responds, "because he's got really old hair and a really big belly." (The one humorous moment of this conversation.)
Then a pause.
"So I will die before Aidan." He didn't sound upset when he said this, just mathematical.

And at that moment, I can not...I simply can not...believe I am discussing with my four-year-old whether he or his little brother will die first.

"I don't know, honey. You guys are really about the same age. I know it seems like you're much older, but you and Aidan are about the same age, like your Aunt and me. And you guys are going to be really, really old too."

I assured him, yet again, that he had nothing to worry about. That Mommy and Daddy were gonna be around for a long, long time.

"We're not going anywhere, honey. We're gonna be around, for, like, ever."

We went about our business then...he putting on his brand new Spiderman PJs and jumping around like a superhero, me pressing "play" on the iPod for more summer tunes, Hubby cutting the pizza and opening the wine. There was no more talk of dying. We discussed how many toys we'd be bringing him back from our upcoming weekend away to Key West, whether or not Key West was an island and what did it look like, and the location of the Skittles purchased last week.

But after the boys were down, after everything had been cleaned up, after I'd showered, I knew I had to sit down and write this post.

I had to get it out.

I hoped that by doing that, I'd be able to let it go, not dwell, move on.

The conversation left me feeling anxious, vulnerable, scared, and helpless.

I am sure this could have been a beautifully written post, one with poignancy and poetic life lessons, but honestly, I feel spent. I have no "point," no beautiful ending, no epiphany. What I have is a heavy heart, because the conversation I just had with my little boy made me realize how little I can really do to keep him (and us) from the harsh realities of life.

Lesson #372 of Parenting: The Terrible Twos WILL Find You

2010-06-20T20:14:00.008-04:00

When Ben was a toddler, we kept waiting for the Terrible Twos. We read books about it. We asked friends how they handled them. We were ready.

But then they never came.

Well, there was one (yes, one) incident when Ben was two and a half and I took him to the bookstore and he threw a fit on the floor. I quietly picked him up, put him back in the stroller, menacingly whispered right into his face that "this was unacceptable and we were leaving" and we did.

And that was it. It never really happened again. Ben just seemed to skip right over those dreaded twos. (Before you get too envious, let me remind you that we have, however, had delightful moments of four-year-old-going-on-13-year-old-behavior, so really, you swap one developmental nightmare for another.)

But then there was Aidan...

Hubby and I have had to admit that They are here: The Terrible Twos.

We're not gonna be so lucky this time around.

Now, I do realize how incredibly fortunate we were to not have had to deal with these horror stories with our first child, and I do realize that perhaps I never should have even slightly entertained the possibility that this kid would also give us a "Get out of jail free" card, 'cause, really, who gets that lucky??? But...you might remember that I have mentioned on just a few occasions that Aidan Kai SCREAMED his WHOLE ENTIRE first FOUR and a half MONTHS of his life.

So I thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd paid my dues on this one.

Nope.

Not only has adorable-as-hell Aidan Kai turned into a foot-stomping-wailing-holy-whiny-terror, he also has turned into a not-sleeping-through-the-night-anymore-for-no-apparent-reason-wailing-holy-whiny-terror.

Last night it started at about 1:20 a.m., and it was nearly 4 in the morning when we finally started to let our guards down long enough to dare close our eyes again.

And you'd think a child who'd spent a good portion of his day whining and stomping and carrying on would be pretty pooped out, especially when he spent a good portion of the evening whining and writhing and screaming and carrying on, but good ol' energetic and adorable-as-hell Aidan Kai? Up at the crack of dawn this morning. Barely 2 hours after we'd finally been able to get back to sleep. He was UP...demanding "Blue's Clues" and "meeelk!" and trying to force feed me cereal and pushing me "up! up! off! off!" the couch while I tried to sneak in just 5 more minutes.

The clincher?

He is, apparently, a serene and easy-going little fella when he is with others. Oh, and sleeps through the night, too. Yep. We spent this past week visiting our out-of-town friend, and when we left for one night and day of bar-hopping, shopping, and general alone time, our friend reported a very easy day with our little ball of personality...and the little shit slept from 7:15 p.m. to 8:10 a.m. in one shot.

Now I realize that parenting is all about stages. Everything is temporary. Just when you think you can't possibly go on like this any longer, the behavior suddenly disappears. OR, just when you think you've finally figured this one out, a new challenge pops up. I get it. Hang in there. This too shall pass. Be patient. Yada yada yada. But the sleep? I can't do it. Can't.

The main reason Hubby and I counted every second of the newborn stage was because of the sleepless nights. We can be pretty laid back parents in many areas, but we take our sleep training very, very seriously. It was the one area where we've always said "We got this." Our methods and preferences may not have been for everyone (yes, we let them cry, and no, we never, ever co-slept), but they worked for us, big time. Now, here we are, more tired than usual from dealing with the daytime tantrums, only to be robbed (yes, I said "robbed" and yes, I'm being melodramatic) of our much needed sleep to be awakened every 5 minutes throughout the night.

I mean, really, I know we lucked out and got the Terrible Twos with only one of our children. That is a 50% success rate, right? And perhaps we should be happy enough and just stop complaining... But is it too much to ask that the Random Sleeping Disruption Cycle have waited for the Infamous Twos to have been through with us?

(It's a good thing he's cute...)

Frivolously Unapologetic

2010-06-13T22:19:00.006-04:00

The scene in my bathroom an hour ago: Tattooed, shirtless, long-haired, hot guy holding a Crayola-brand paintbrush dipped in fuchsia hair color, meticulously applying it to a one-inch section of my blond hair and then carefully wrapping it in foil.

Now that's love.

I've got my streak back. After debating it for months, I decided I missed that peek-a-boo pink so much that I had to go for it again. After all, it is summer. And that means I'm off...glory and hallelujah!!...all summer to roam the beach, barbecue by the pool, and use those Crayola paintbrushes (for what they were really intended for) with my 2 little boys.

So after consulting with my stylist extraordinaire, she told me what I could do at home to replicate what she had done for me repeatedly last year (she's pretty awesome that way). And Hubby? He's always game (he's pretty awesome that way, too).

I debated for a while. I mean, really, I know.

I know.

I'm a 37-year-old mother of two.

Hanna Montana (and every other teenager in the mall) has sported the look.

I kept worrying: What if I look like I'm trying too hard?

But here's the thing...

I love my flash of color. Literally and figuratively.

It makes me happy.

And so, if I know I'm not actually trying at all, who the hell cares if everyone else thinks I am?

Welcome, summer.

Greasy cheeseburgers + salty fries + ice cream = Unexpected joy

2010-06-04T22:21:00.004-04:00

Image courtesy of photobucket

I am a girl who loves pomp and circumstance: when I make plans, I like them to be big.

I am a girl who loves routine: my weekdays follow a very set, disciplined pattern.

But earlier this week, I threw routine and discipline out the door, and I learned that the simplest of plans can make you feel pretty damned happy.

Hubby and I cancelled our workouts and plans for a healthy, home-cooked meal. Instead, we put the boys down a little bit earlier, got take-out from the local burger joint and ice cream shop, and watched half of the first season of "Sex and the City."

As we sat there in our pajamas, munching on extra salty, extra crispy fries, the grease from the double cheeseburgers dripping down our hands, laughing over Big and Carrie's first meeting, we realized we were quite happy.

We are lucky to have babysitting regularly enough that we have quality time together often, but...our nights usually consist of at least semi-luxurious outings, involving overpriced cocktails and fabulous shoes (SATC on the mind, perhaps?). If we have an opportunity to do something, we often feel the pressure to do something major.

And our regular weeknights are very carefully planned: we watch what we eat and rarely skip a work-out because then it throws off our week (and my weight), and we have most afternoons scheduled down to the minute because, well, because when you have two small children chaos occurs naturally so a routine tends to keep things at least slightly semi-organized and pseudo-controlled.

But that night's spontaneous and silly plan felt luxurious and decadent. We giggled (literally) as we snuggled under my childhood Mickey Mouse comforter and felt like we were breaking all the rules. From the calories to the viewing selection, the entire evening felt irresponsibly and deliciously undisciplined.

That night has carried me through the rest of the week. I felt like we were co-conspirators, beating the system, somehow. The frivolity and simplicity of the evening made me realize that sometimes you can find joy in the most unexpected and simplest of things...and a couple of cheeseburgers.

What I Learned from Carrie Bradshaw

2010-05-31T15:06:00.006-04:00

.
When it came to "Sex and the City," I was a late bloomer.
.
At the time, I didn't have HBO...
.
...or a life.
.
I was married to an incredibly repressive and dull man. I wore beige a lot. I didn't go out and I owned a couple of "proper" heels.
.
My friends at the time were rabid SATC fans (as were most women). I finally got tired of sitting with them at lunch and trying to figure out who this "Big" was and why he was, depending on the week, either an incredible asshole or the man of their dreams.
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So, eventually, when the show was probably on Season 3 or 4 in "real time," I borrowed Season 1. And here is where the old cliche comes in: and the rest, as they say, is history.
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Carrie Bradshaw instantly became My Favorite TV Character Ever. I loved her quirkiness, her honesty, her flaws. I loved the way she'd muss up her already unapologetically frizzy hair when she was getting ready to walk into a place. I loved that she was a writer...that she sat down every day to write something that was honest, funny, poignant, and completely irreverant within its significance. I loved the way she strutted down the street in her stilettos, fur coat hanging open over a perfectly mismatched over-the-top outfit, a seeming powerhouse of self-confidence, yet floundered every day as she tried to figure out who she loved and what she wanted.
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Shortly after meeting Ms. Bradshaw, I found myself standing in a dressing room with my mother, trying on dresses for a very close friend's upcoming wedding. Everyone I knew socially and professionally would be there. I was trying to choose between two dresses: a lovely and safe little black number and a red, sparkly show-stopper.
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They both looked good, but the red one..? It was like no dress I'd ever seen before. It was delicate, unfinished layers of tulle and sequins and hand-beaded flowers. When I put it on, I felt like a cross between a ballerina and a princess.
.
"I love this dress," I sighed longingly, trying it on for the third time.
"Why don't you get that one, then?" my mother asked.
"Because people will notice me when I walk in."
.
People will notice me when I walk in.
.
I didn't even think about it before I said it. It just came out.
.
My truth.
.
I didn't even know I felt that way.
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And I knew, instantly, that I had to have the dress. I had to wear the dress. I knew it was something Carrie would wear.
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That dress, that moment, was a turning point for me. And although I can happily say it is now 3 sizes too big, it still hangs in my closet. It still sparkles. It still makes me smile. It still makes me feel strong and pretty and confident. It still makes me want to be noticed.
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But Carrie Bradshaw didn't just teach me how to rediscover my old self, the one who liked colorful clothes, big hair, and stand-out outfits. Fashion was definitely an important cast member of "Sex and the City," but the show was really about friendship. Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha were four very different women. Whenever they sat down for breakfast at the diner or cocktails at the bar, they disagreed about a lot of things: Miranda's cynical practicality was a stark contrast to Charlotte's idealistic optimism, which went totally against Samantha's independent promiscuity. Yet, through every situation, they supported, understood, accepted, and embraced. Each woman was who she was, unapologetically and elegantly. And that, in turn, is how their friendships were: unapologetic and elegant.
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"Sex and the City" never celebrated the too-often seen and accepted bitchiness among women. The four of them respected each other...even when they were disagreeing or fighting (remember when Miranda found out Carrie was leaving NY to move to Paris with Aleksandr?! or when Charlotte initially refused to offer Carrie money to help her with her apartment?!?). They were honest, though. It was not simply acceptance with silence. It was acceptance with attempts to understand (or sometimes persuade in a different direction).
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Women everywhere have watched this show and wanted to be like these four women. But it's easy to charge in the three digits for a pair of designer shoes, or to make plans to go out for Cosmos with three fabulously dressed friends. It is not so easy to truly be those women: strong, independent, supportive, loyal, honest, and respectful towards each other.
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And, of course, in addition to the fashion and the friendship, there were the men. Every one of us who watched the show had a favorite. Personally, I was always more of an Aidan-kinda-girl. I have never been into men with Armani suits and perfectly coiffed hair. But in the end, even I had to admit that Big was the man for Carrie. No matter how nice (Aidan) or wordly (that hateful Aleksandr) the men were, she needed to be--as all of us should--with the one who understood her, who let her be Carrie, and who loved her for it.
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"...the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you you love, well, that's just fabulous."
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That man I used to be married to went out with the beige wardrobe. I am happy to say that I found my Big...although he owns one suit he'd rather not wear and his hair is more Aidan 1.0 than ever coiffed or cut, he loves the Me I love. And I know I could never have settled for less.
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So yes, Carrie Bradshaw has been a fashion icon and a source of enormous entertainment for many of us. But for me, and I am sure for so many others, she (and the other characters on the show) taught us a lot about life, love, friendships, and ourselves. As I get ready to slip on my Jimmy Choos (still haven't managed to get a pair of Manolos...) and go have a Cosmopolitan before watching the SATC sequel, I think of all I have learned from this fictional character, and tonight, I will raise a toast to Carrie and her friends for having taught me about so much more than just great shoes.

#271 on the list of "Things I Said I'd Never Do When I Was A Mother"

2010-05-25T20:58:00.006-04:00

Photo courtesy of istockphoto.com

I swore I'd never give my kids Lunchables. I mean, really, I scoffed, those things are chemicals in a box! Any half-decent parent would simply buy some quality turkey slices and good cheese, roll those suckers up, and place in a tupperware with some cut up fruit, right? I mean, really, how long could that take? 5 minutes? (Insert condescending eye-rolling here.)

We are salad eaters around here! We demand variety and quality! Lean protein! Whole wheat! Legumes! My kids will eat as we eat! We will be the role models!

Tonight: My kids had hot dogs and Cookie Crisp cereal for dinner.

And last week, when Ben begged for a Lunchable for school, I not only said "yes," I joyfully squealed: "Ben! Look! They are on sale! 4 for $5! You can have four Lunchables!"

Oh, yes...and Mickey Mouse chicken nuggets, Kraft mac and cheese, and pancakes are a regular dinner staple around here.

I've learned you're only a know-it-all until you actually become a parent.

Yes

2010-05-19T07:24:00.000-04:00

This post, on the topic of YES, is the last in a series for "Five for Ten Again."

I should've said yes to...

...pursuing a degree in journalism
...trapeze lessons on the beach
...the free tickets to the concert where my friend went backstage and met Jimmy Buffett
...every high school adventure that arose
...the colleges that wanted me but were "too far away" for my parents' comfort
...more outings with girlfriends (then and now)
...more outings with boys (only then, Hubs, only then)
...the full marathon distance when I still had good knees
...organized sports when I was a teenager
...karaoke (in the safety of my friend's house does NOT count)
...every piece of clothing that I wanted but thought was too "weird"

I thought of making a list of the times I should NOT have said "yes," but then I realized they all served their purpose: every "mistake" I made led me to grow, change, be braver, learn, come to the point where I am in my life.

Very often, when faced with an opportunity--to meet new people, go somewhere new, try something different--I instinctly think "No, because..." The "reasons" tend to be excuses. Truth is, I'm not so great at change, quite shy socially when I don't know too many people, and deathly afraid of embarrassing myself. I married someone whose approach to life is more along the lines of: "Why not?" I have to push myself every day to live my life that way, which is why I have a magnet on my fridge that says: "Do one thing that scares you every day." It has been those times I was scared but made myself do it anyway that have given me the most joy (Hey, guys, check it out: I am subconsciously combining 3 of the "Five for Ten" topics: courage, happy, and yes!). I've realized that there is a much greater risk of regret, for me, when saying "no" than when saying "yes."

Lust, uninvited

2010-05-16T20:45:00.001-04:00

He had a way
of walking into a room

that made her want to leave
everything she knew
behind

his presence
made her ache

Literally

it hurt
to be around
him

a brushing of hands

the ache intensified

she wanted
nothing more

than
this man

The One
she could not have

The One
who wanted her

his scent
already familiar

his breath
on her

his fingers
long and lean on calloused hands

intertwined

with her fingers
her hair

his words
naked
uncensored

his essence
already known
by her

to be herself
with him
to press herself
against him

longing
needing

this man

he was all she wanted

This post on LUST is part of the "Five for Ten Again" series. Click on the link or button to join in the discussion.

Afraid of the memories that are to be

2010-05-14T20:03:00.001-04:00

I live in fear that I will look back on these memories--the ones I am building right now--and have regrets.
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I worry that I will look back on my children as they are now...little, growing, almost babies...and love them more in my memory than I am, right now, in the present tense.
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I worry that I will look back and have missed out on laughter and ease with my parents because I spend so much of the present tense annoyed by the idiosyncrasies of 2 old people who have never really understood me, but adore me and do more for me than probably anyone in the world ever could.
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I try, so often, to check myself, give myself a psychological wake-up call, when I am in the midst of the chaos or annoyances of life.
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When the kids are fighting, when the kitchen still needs cleaning, when I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, and yet little boys still need to be fed and bathed and dressed and tucked in at least 4 times...while my child-less friends go out every Friday to the local happy hour in their eclectic neighborhoods...when I see couples sitting at Starbucks, sipping and lounging and chatting because they have no pressing demands, to-dos, errands, grown-up stuff...
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When I am with my parents and they say something silly, something typical and expected and frustrating, an exaggerated version of what I grew up with: sentences and questions and lectures that serve as evidence that I was never really understood, that I was always the odd one out, that in spite of their unconditional love and support, they still silently, subconsciously pass judgment, question, wonder...
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When I find myself in these moments, I try to envision what it will be like when the years pass...when the boys no longer beg for my time, when my parents are no longer around, when the Memories Of Now will be actual memories.
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And then I am able to realize and understand that it will be then that I will remember my parents' annoying behaviors as endearing...
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...and I will wish I could swap a moment of parental independence for a sniff of Cheerios-baby-breath and a constant chorus of "Mama, Mama!"
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But I can not always snap myself into gratitude with this little psychological game of mine.
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More often than not, I silently long for the time to pass so that there will be no more diapers or baths.
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More often than not, I snap inappropriately at a comment made at a family gathering or make an excuse to hang up the phone.
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And so I live in fear that the Memories Of Now will make me sad one day...sad that I did not live more in the present, that I did not love enough, that I did not appreciate enough, that I missed out simply because I took for granted.

This post on MEMORY was part of "Five for Ten Again." Click on the link or button to join in the discussion.

Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

2010-05-12T08:12:00.001-04:00

When I think of the word "happy" (today's topic for "Five for Ten Again"), there are a few things that come to mind. Yes, one's happiness can depend on The Big Stuff: your relationships, your job, your health. One's happiness, however, can also depend on The Little Things: the perfect cup of coffee, an afternoon nap, an outing with a friend. I thought long and hard about what I would write on this topic, but in the end, I decided to "cheat" a bit and recycle an old post.

There are many things that bring me joy. Some of that joy is deep and life-long and dependent upon The Big Stuff. Some of that joy is light and immediate and makes me want to skip a bit...The Little Things. Here are a few of the things--both Big and Little--that make me feel pure joy:

Cupcakes: I'm not sure what's up with my obsession with cupcakes, but they make me smile. They're just cute and girlie and yummy. And if they happen to be the red velvet cake kind, all the better.

Disney World: Yes, it's overpriced. Yes, it's exhausting. Yes, it's over the top. But I love it. Every bit of it. I'm a sucker for the magic.

Getting my hair colored: I know, I'm shallow, but nothing puts a spring in my step like a fresh set of golden highlights. And if there happens to be a pink streak in there, all the better.

Words: I'm a word nerd. I love words. Words are tangible, alive, powerful. Finding just the right one makes me happy.

Make-up: I'm not one of those women who refuses to leave her house without make up. I wear my naked face often and with pride. But make-up makes me happy. There's something fun and creative and whimsical about palettes of eye shadow and tubes of lipstick. And if there happens to be a hint of glitter in it, all the better.

Vacations: Planning them, going on them, remembering them...nothing better on which to spend my money.

The beach: There is no place on earth I'd rather be. There's something about the sand and the ocean...it soothes my soul. And yes, even at 90+ degrees and the infamous South Florida humidity, I'm happy. Give me an umbrella, a cooler, and plenty of SPF...and I am a happy, happy girl.

Shoes: It doesn't matter if they hurt. If they are fabulous, they make me happy.

My kids: The irony of this one? If the "Five for Ten Again" topic was Stress, they'd be in that post, too!

And then of course, there's Hubby...the one who gives me the icing off his cupcakes, makes vacations and beach days all the more fun, understands my fascination with the Dumbo ride at Disney, and helps me get through the most stressful days with those 2 cute kids.

What things...big or little...make you happy?

The simplest things can sometimes require the most courage

2010-05-11T05:47:00.001-04:00

Courage.

It means a lot of different things to different people. What might be courageous for one person could be relatively painless to another. What one person might deem as terrifying, another might see as thrilling. Depending on the moment in your life, the challenge to be met, the obstacle to be overcome, courage could come easily or could require everything you've got.

Courage is the first topic of the Five for Ten Again, so I've been thinking a lot about courage and reading everyone else's thoughts. Many of the posts are incredibly deep and scary and courageous, about real life scary stuff. But for me, right now, courage is more personal, abstract, and internal. It's about living my life unapologetically. Being who I am, thinking what I think, saying what I need to say, and feeling how I do without apologizing for it.

No apologies to anyone, including myself.

I am usually very open, honest, loud: Here I am. Take me or leave me. But inside, often, I worry, I fret, I ponder. What did they think? Did I get my point across? Did I offend? Do they "get" me?

Who cares what people think?

I tell myself this all the time, but often, I care.

So no excuses, no explanations. This is Me. No apologies.

This is what requires the most courage from me right now...embracing my life, my choices, my thoughts, my words, my self bravely and unapologetically. It is a small thing in the grand scheme of life, but a big thing in my little world.

Join in the conversation...click on the link or button to find out more about Five for Ten Again.

For Mother's Day...I got my kid back

2010-05-09T20:02:00.005-04:00

For this Mother's Day, all I wanted was to like my kid again.

I have no idea how, but we've gone from "I'm selling my kid...no wait, I'll pay you to take him" to "I've got the cutest, sweetest kid ever" from one day to the next. It's like if the kid that's been hanging around here, disrespecting and defying and making me question my every parenting move, was replaced overnight with the one who is usually here...the one who says "Please" and "Thank you" without being prompted...the one who helps his little brother stop crying...the one who brushes his teeth immediately and happily when told...the one who makes me happy to be his Mama.

Just in time for Mother's Day.

Friday at his school's Mother's Day breakfast:

Today at the beach:

8 1/2 hours on the beach with the whooooole family:

I am a lucky, lucky girl.

Okay, maybe this Mommy business ain't so bad after all...

Sometimes I don't like my kid

2010-05-05T07:35:00.003-04:00

It is very disconcerting when you look at your child and think: "I don't really like you right now."

It is even more disconcerting when you look at your child and think: "I'd like to slap you right now."

Yes.

Slap.

Right across the face.

No, I am not abusive. I am not even big on spanking. I've been a teacher for 13 years, love my children and my students, and consider myself a pretty kind individual.

But some days, I want to hit Ben.

Some days, I think what he needs is a good smack across the face...a wake up call. (Although, if I have to be completely honest--and why the heck not, at this point?--I often think the smack would be much more for my own benefit than his, which is probably the only thing that prevents me from doing it.)

I know.

I know what you're thinking.

Some of you who are reading this right now, aghast, shocked, indignant, are thinking: "I would never..."

Some of you who are reading this right now, shocked but relieved, are thinking: "I have so felt that way..."

A small few of you who are reading this might even be smirking knowingly and thinking: "Oh, I have done that..."

There are so many things you can't possibly understand until you are a parent. There are so many shocking realizations. The one that's killing me is the realization that I can only control my child's behavior to a certain point. I can mold, I can teach, I can explain, I can love, I can show through example, but I can not make this child be a particular way.

My four-year-old is, truly, a product of his parents. He is verbal, tenacious, silly, passionate, energetic, and bright. He is not afraid to stand up for himself when he feels he is being wronged. He is not afraid to ask why things have to be a certain way when he does not agree with them. He is a leader. He is outspoken and social. All wonderful qualities to inherit, I think.

But...also like his parents, he is obstinate, stubborn, strong-willed. He knows what he wants when he wants it, constantly questions authority, and thinks he's pretty damn smart. (The fact that he is, in fact, pretty damn smart is part of the problem.)

90% of the time his good qualities outshine his bad. Everyone who knows him, loves him.

The other 10% of the time?

I want to hit him.

Hard.

I hate not liking my kid. I hate that his behavior and defiance make me short-tempered, snappy, and ugly. I hate that because I don't like him, I find that I don't like myself, either.

I am an "If-then" kinda person. As in: "If I do this, then this should happen." When something goes wrong, I need to know why. Then I need to correct it. I would preach this kind of thinking as a solution to the parents of my misbehaving students: "If Little Johnny does not do his home learning, then you should provide a consequence at home." "If Little Johnny has a good day, then he should be rewarded." If-then. You have a parenting issue? Here's the solution....all wrapped up nice and pretty with a bow. Be consistent. Be firm. Let your expectations be known. And always, always lead by example.

If Ben hits a kid during recess, then he will not attend his friend's birthday party.
If Ben does not listen to the teacher the first time, then he will not be allowed to play outside.
If Ben is nice to his little brother, then we oooh and aaaah and celebrate.
If Ben gets a happy face on his daily report, then we let him ride his bike outside.

Consistent. Firm. Expectations known. Good example.

But...
If Ben continues to misbehave, then Mommy is going to have a breakdown.

It's no secret that I have control issues. I like to be able to control everything. I know. It's impossible. I'm starting to understand that. I'm learning to accept that I can not control the weather and I can not put my kids in a germ-free bubble just before a vacation, but I always thought I would be able to control my own kid.

Not most of the time...all of the time.

I know my kid is going to screw up. We all do. But there are certain behaviors I did not expect. Not listening to the teacher??? Hitting another kid??? Not acceptable.

Except...apparently, unacceptable is not enough because it keeps happening.

If I am this kind of parent...If my husband and I work as a team...If I provide consistent rewards and consequences...If we lead by example...If we make it clear that certain behaviors will absolutely not be tolerated...

...then your kid still screws up.
...then your kid still gets an "x" on his daily report.
...then your kid still bites his buddy on the shoulder.

So if you don't like your kid, then are you a bad mother?
Or worse, if your kid is misbehaving, then is it your own fault?

Girl Power

2010-04-29T07:56:00.000-04:00

Last night I had cocktails with 3 of my girl friends. As we sat at the table, sipping our martinis, we jokingly compared ourselves (as countless other women have, I am sure) to the most famous four girlfriends ever: Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte.

"Oh, well, Liz is definitely Carrie, and I'm Charlotte, and..."

"No, no! You are so not Charlotte. You are more Miranda."

"Miranda? Me? Well, maybe in some ways, but you're a little Carrie too."

This is how it went.

And we came to the conclusion: Each one of us is all of them.

That was the whole point, I think, of the show....that although we probably related to one character more than another, we're all a complicated mish mash of these 4 women.

Depending on the day, the time in our lives, who we are with, and perhaps the kind of shoes we are wearing, we're all a little Carrie/Samantha/Charlotte/Miranda. That's what makes us, as women, interesting, complicated, and probably incredibly infuriating to our signifcant others (and ourselves).

I've known these girls for a long time, 2 of them for over 10 years. We are all teachers. We all have children. Three of us have gone through divorces. We have a million things in common. We all like each other. We all complain about not spending enough time with friends, doing what we like to do, relaxing away from the husbands and the kids and life's laundry list of to-dos. And yet I don't remember the last time we did something together. We've gone months (or maybe it's been over a year?) without going out together, but last night they practically had to kick us out of the restaurant at closing time. And then, we stood outside of the restaurant and talked and laughed and cried for another hour and a half.

I write on this blog all the time about how hard life as a mom can be, especially when you don't want to give up "the rest." I write about how amazing it is that I've found these women out there in the blogosphere who are "like me," who understand, who help me realize that I am not crazy or abnormal or a bad mother. And I always wish I could meet these women on the playground, at the coffee shop, at the bar, instead of just online. (And I still do wish you all lived nearby.)

But last night, as I sat there, with these 3 women I've known for so long, who I see almost daily at work, I realized that sometimes if you make the effort, if you open yourself up enough to let others in, what you've been looking for could be found right under your nose.

Last night, there was no judgment, no drama, no complications, no stress. What there was, however, was laughter, confessions, honesty, respect, and an incredible amount of understanding. There was also a lot of: "Me too!" and "I thought that was just me!" and "Oh, so that's normal?" and my personal favorite: "Oh my God, I always thought that made me suuuuch a bad mother..."

At one point in the evening, I admitted that I always feel guilty about not being joyful first thing in the morning when I see my kids. We laughed, because most of us are not full of joy over anything in the morning, much less when our children are wailing for breakfast or Barney or a diaper change at 6 in the morning on a weekend. But here's the amazing thing: this morning, when I saw the boys, in spite of the cocktail-induced-cotton-mouth and 3-hours-sleep-headache, I had to smile. I was happy to see them. Perhaps not happy that it had to occur before 7 in the morning, but I was happy to look at their little faces. And I realized that it was because of last night...because I was able to talk about this, to vent, to laugh, to compare notes, to feel understood and to provide validation, to be away from it all...that I was able to face the morning and the requirements of Life with some amount of happiness.

Last night, I felt free to be myself.

I felt genuinely understood and supported amidst the laughter and the squeals and the silliness. We were our interesting, complicated selves.

Unapologetic.

So there we were: this complicated, interesting mish mash of 4 women, all so alike and all so different.

And there they've been...all along.

I don't think this is what Mattel had in mind...

2010-04-26T07:55:00.006-04:00

Somewhere out there in the blogosphere, some people have come up with some pretty creative blog awards. I've been flattered to receive a few such bloggies over the past year, but a couple of weeks ago I received one that was, well, um, even more quirky than the Zombie Chicken Award. ThatGirl39 of Forty Not Out has honored me with...ready?

You sure?

Positive?

Okay...here it is...

The Plastic Joy Award!

Yep. It's naked dolls doin' it. (Check out brunette Barbie on top...you go, girl!).

Now, we all know that I can get as serious and dark as the next person. I'm all about blogging bluntly...putting it all out there...therapy online, if you will. This blog is mainly about my kids, about how motherhood challenges me every day, about how I struggle to keep myself authentic and happy and interesting while still being a Good Mom.

However...I am all about frivolity. Fashion? Celebrities? Shoes? I'm in. And that's what I love about ThatGirl39...I mean, she has regular Wardrobe Watch posts, for glory's sake. So when she bestowed upon me this raunchy little award, I was like "Oh, hell yeah."
.

And wait...it gets better. It's more than just a pornographic picture of Ken and Barbie (minus the highlights, apparently). The award's rules state that I must select 5 characters with whom I'd like to, well, you know...I mean, look at the picture...'nuff said. So let me take a moment to point out that the rules state that I must select characters, not celebrities. I know...semantics...but it does make a difference, believe me. It's one thing to say "Oh, the 5 hottest celebrities are..." That's easy. That's all about eye candy. With this one, I had to think about the characters' personalities. (Maybe I think too much?)

So now, without further adieu (and with the hopes that I can forget that Hubby reads this blog regularly), I present you with the 5 Characters I'd Like To Ride Like Brunette Barbie:

1. Lost's James Sawyer:

I'm all about the dirty, long-haired look, but what makes me want to forget that this guy hasn't bathed in days is that underneath that bad-ass-I-don't-give-a-damn-exterior is a guy who just wants to be understood (and knows how to treat a woman in a cage).

2. Dirty Dancing's Johnny Castle:

Forget porn. Give me the dancing/sex scene from "Dirty Dancing." Johnny's a little misunderstood and a little "bad boy" (see a pattern?), and loving him pissed off a whole lotta people. Plus, every woman should have a man who pulls her out of the corner her Daddy put her in (What? I've been in therapy. It's okay.).

3. The Hangover's Phil:

Okay, here is my token pretty boy. Bradley Cooper has never particularly done anything for me. In fact, when I saw this movie, I thought it was the first time I'd ever seen this guy. I didn't realize until later that this was the same guy from "Wedding Crashers" and a few other movies. I am soooooo not into pretty boys. I am sooooo not into clean cut. But the character he plays...well, who wouldn't want to get drunk in Vegas and steal a police car with this guy? He was the ultimate party boy: funny, laid back, and ready for anything. Oh, and at the end of the movie, when he's got his kid slung over his shoulder, sound asleep? Perfection.

4. The Bridges of Madison County's Robert Kincaid:

Allow me to stress, yet again, that the bloggie assignment was to pick characters, not actors with whom I'd like to romp around, so this is not Clint Eastwood I am talking about. In fact, I debated just putting a picture of the book's cover, rather than the movie version. Robert Kincaid was an artsy, rugged, nonconformist who knew what love and passion was when he found it. That's the kind of intensity a woman needs in her life.

And for my last and final choice...the one and only...

5. Pirates of the Caribbean's Captain Jack Sparrow: Yes, I realize he smells. Yes, I realize he looks a tad effeminate when he runs. Yes, I know he might be completely mad. And yes, I realize the fact that Johnny Depp plays him probably skews my perception a bit. But no matter how many times I see this movie, I can not, for the life of me, figure out why Elizabeth Bennett would pick Will. I mean, to be on a deserted beach, drinking rum with Captain Jack, with his smudgy eye liner and chiseled cheek bones? Argh, Cap'n.

And so now I pass this task (and award) to a few other of my bloggie friends:
~Maria at Mom of Three Seeks Sanity

~Jane & Lucy (this is soooo up your alley) at Four Jugs

~TKW at The Kitchen Witch

~Kristen at Motherese

~Jen & Sarah at Momalom

~Simone at The Bottom of the Ironing Basket

I figure everyone loves a little bloggie award...and this one does wonders for your libido.

*And for everyone else...c'mon, join in...which character/s would you like to pull a Brunette Barbie on?

Hand-me-down Mama

2010-04-21T08:07:00.000-04:00

When I was pregnant with my second child, I worried that I would resent him.

I worried that he'd interfere with the little life we had built with our first son. It almost felt as if we were betraying Ben. I felt actual guilt about wanting another baby.

As a result, I was incredibly overprotective of Ben at first. In fact, when I went in to the hospital for Aidan Kai's birth, my biggest worry was Ben. Would he be okay without us? Would he be confused by this new person in the house? How would he react to seeing me in the hospital? How would he feel about his new baby brother? How could we make sure he still felt really, truly loved while we were tending to the endless needs of a newborn?

I never thought that what would actually happen was that I would sometimes resent Ben for not allowing me to be the kind of mother to Aidan Kai that I was to him.

When it was "just Ben," I would come home from work, plop myself down on the floor, and spend time with him, one-on-one, uninterrupted. We'd play ball, we'd read books, we'd laugh and tickle and sing and play.
When it was "just Ben," bath time was unhurried, fun, and even educational. I would play float and sink games with him, pop bubbles, and narrate everything that I was doing (just as the parenting books told me I should).
When it was "just Ben," meal times were calm and simple and organized. I'd prepare healthy meals for him, with lots of variety, and I'd take the time to feed him (or help him feed himself).
When it was "just Ben," time in the car was quality time. I'd play Baby Mozart (just as the parenting books told me I should), I would talk to him, responding to his coos and gurgles at first, then his words, and eventually his frighteningly well-developed sentences.

Now when I get home from work, I am bombarded by the squeals of two very happy boys. They both want to play with Mama. They both want attention. And inevitably, Ben wins. He is bigger. He is louder. He is demanding. So when I plop down on the floor to play, it is usually Ben that commandeers the whole thing. He is the one who dictates what game we play. Aidan Kai just ends up following along.
Bath time now usually consists of trying to keep Aidan off of "Ben's side" of the bathtub, and trying to get the baby done and out of there as quickly as possible so a war does not break out over the toys floating around.
Meals now are whatever we can scrounge together, and Aidan is often on his own, which means more of the spaghetti ends up in his lap than in his mouth.
And car rides are now spent listening to one of Ben's dissertations on superheroes and classmates and dragons and dinosaurs, during which I inevitably have to try to come up with some really good answers to some really good questions ("Mama, is it dark inside our bodies, or light?")...all this while Aidan Kai either sits quietly listening or shrieks "Mama!" repeatedly, trying to get his share of the attention.

When it was "just Ben," he didn't have to share me. He had me all to himself.

All the time.

Aidan Kai has to share me.

All the time.

Granted, Aidan doesn't seem to mind. He seems happy just to be with us, hanging out, being included. He's so damned easy-going, so easily pleased, that it makes me feel even worse.

There is almost never undivided attention for "just him." Sometimes, in fact, I feel like there is nothing that is Just His.

This week, he got his First Official blood-pouring-from-his-mouth-busted-lip...a gift from big brother Ben. Just like all his other firsts: Aidan Kai's first shoes, first rocking horse, first bike...all his important firsts have been hand-me-downs from Ben. There has been nothing of great importance that I can say has been all his own, just for Aidan.

I realize there are pros and cons to everything. I realize that, sometimes, by giving your first child your undivided attention, he can grow up to be...well, let's just say "difficult." I know that second (or third or fourth!) babies can grow up to be more resilient, more easy-going, tougher...I see that already in Aidan. And I wonder often if this is all actually good for him...

But it still frustrates--and saddens--me that by being the second child, Aidan often gets a harried, exhausted, multi-tasking mother, another hand-me-down.

Sorting it all out (but perhaps still not making sense)

2010-04-14T15:25:00.002-04:00

I admit it: I hesitated before hitting "publish" on my last post.

What if they all think I'm nuts?
What if they read it and are like: Awww, poor thing.
Or worse, what if they read it and think: "Oh shit. She's fucked up." (Or, for those of you who don't even think with the f-word: "Oh my, she needs help.")

I even texted Hubby: "Just posted. Hope I don't scare you into leaving me for someone simpler."

It's a good thing I posted.
The responses were completely the opposite.

Hubby? He laughed. Laughed. When I asked him what he thought, he shrugged: "Nothing. I know all that about you. And, most of the time, I love that about you."

And you all? Your comments were therapy. Anti-depressants. Magic. I don't think I have ever fully understood the power of a comment until this post. Those of you who "know" me, those of you who I consider my Blog Peeps...you all came out in full force. And then there were those of you who have never commented before, who I don't even know, and you wrote heart-felt, honest, revealing comments. Nuggets...little nuggets of wisdom is what you all threw at me...most of you empathizing, commiserating, admitting that you, too, feel that way sometimes. (So I guess it must be pretty normal to be abnormal?)

Your comments made me realize something that perhaps was incredibly obvious: I needed to just allow myself to be out of sorts. I needed to stop trying to figure out why it was happening, when it was going to end, and what I was doing "wrong." I needed to Just Be. Surrender. Surrendering: such a recurring theme in my life, my head, my posts (I went back to check...I've got 12 posts labeled "Surrender"!). When you mix "control freak" with "intense," you get a pretty potent cocktail. And often, I end up a little hung-over.

Your comments were like the morning-after aspirin and coffee:
HG: "Girl, if I were you, I would marinate in the funk you're in and ride it out."
Stacia: "I think funks are "normal,"(probably because I'm a funk-haver, too). I just have to let it run its course, like the flu. And maybe that's OK?"
Lindsey: "I try to remember, in the low points, that the highs will come back..."
LouBoo: "...the point being that I needed to not panic about my out of sortness as it would pass..."
Kelly: "Believe in yourself, ride out this funk, and know you are not alone."
Maria: "...sometimes, you got to simmer in it a little, so that it propels you out of it..."

Let it go. Ride it out. Surrender. Just Be.

It was so relieving to know that I was not alone in this. It was so relieving to know, especially, that I was understood...that there were others out there who feel "this"...whatever "this" is...and that it is, in fact, not a bad thing, not something to fight or hide, but something to embrace, something that makes us who we are, something magical:

KiKi: "Madness, envy, funk...the marks of a true artist. There is no medium, no mediocrity, because you feel so deeply--and that is a gift."
Inannasstar: "I too have really high highs and really low lows and don't do medium. My response? It's part of my charm."
Gilcelia: "I'd rather be chaotic and intense than simple and boring. I'll take complicated over comforming anyday."
Kristen: "But I have to believe that those high highs that come with the low lows make it all worthwhile in the long run - and that maybe we get light and not just heat by trying so hard to get to the sun."

All of this made me wonder:
What happens if you can't get this stuff out? What happens if you don't have a blog or a friend or a spouse to turn to? What happens if you are walking around, as I was, with all of this inside, festering, ricocheting around in your head? The craziness that is, in reality, normal, and possibly almost always healthy...doesn't it inevitably turn into something bad? The wondering turns into worry. And then don't you shut it all off? Don't you just try to shove it all down, close it up, snap it all shut...those things you feel that make you very high or very low? Those intense, chaotic moments of insanity that make you, in the big picture, sane? Don't you end up telling yourself to just stop? Stop being the way you are, stop thinking the way you think, stop feeling the way you feel, because surely, definitely, it must not be normal, and most certainly can not be healthy...
And then, when you manage to find a way to make yourself go slightly numb to your own Self, don't you stop being You?

"...the only people for me are the mad ones..."

Making no sense at all...

2010-04-07T08:01:00.000-04:00

I am out of sorts.

So much so, in fact, that I have been unable to write. I have no coherent thoughts. Lately, my brain has been a jumble of mashed randomness. Or, completely blank.

This emptiness can sometimes be a welcome reprieve for me, but it's been going on too long. So I thought I would write about just that: my out-of-sorts-ness.

It seems this may not have been such a good idea, however, because it has taken me 11 minutes just to write this little bit. And that's not even counting the several minutes during which the cursor blinked on my screen, urgently, expectantly, right after I wrote that first sentence:

I am out of sorts.

And then, I had nothing.

Hubby once told me: "Your highs are really high, and your lows are really low." It's true.

I don't really do "medium."

This is both a blessing and a curse, 'cause when I'm happy...woo-hoo! But when I'm not, well...it's not good.

I struggle with this, because I'm never really sure what's "normal."
Is it "normal" to have as many mood swings as I do?
Is it "normal" to be giddy one minute and overwhelmed the next?
Is it "normal" to feel lost for no reason at all?

Am I normal?

There are days when I think it's just physical: I need to get back in the gym. I need to take my vitamins. I need to eat right. I need to be on my routine. I do well on routines.

Then there are days I think it's more than that: Maybe I'm just an overly sensitive person. I over-think everything. I get wrapped up inside my own head. I dream. I plan. I stress. I worry.

It's normal to be in a "funk", no?

I am intense, and usually, I have little tolerance for those who walk around unmoved, blase.

But sometimes I am jealous of those people.

It must be so much easier...walking around with quiet simplicity in their heads. They must not struggle, as I so often do, with the everythings and nothings of Life. Do they ever feel indefinably out of sorts?

I have a Jack Kerouac quote on my refrigerator:

"...the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop..."

I am sure I am mad, and certainly desirous of everything at the same time. I'd rather have a mad, loud existence than a quiet, simple one.

But sometimes I think perhaps sanity and nonchalance are a much easier way to live.

Partying over at the neighbor's again... (Woo-hoo!)

2010-04-06T06:01:00.003-04:00

Since I started this blogging thing, I've "met" some pretty cool people along the way...people I wish truly lived in my neighborhood...women I wish I really could meet for cocktails. Kristen is one of those. She and I would chat about the best formats for a query letter, Lost's Sawyer, whether or not it's possible for Lance Armstrong to ever win another Tour de France, and...oh yeah...that little topic called "motherhood." So please go over to Kristen's house...that's where I am today, guest posting on the topic of...well, let's call it...Competitive Parenting. After you read my post, be sure to take a minute or two to rummage around her place. The coolest thing about Kristen is that she always leaves you with something to ponder.

Thanks for the invite, Kristen, and for serving as the inspiration for my last post!

Hyperconnected: Somedays I just want to be unplugged

2010-03-29T09:40:00.000-04:00

I love this blog. It's become a part of my life and who I am. It has given me an outlet for the words swirling around in my head all the time. And through it, I've "met" other women who also dare to put themselves out there...sharing their thoughts, their fears, their triumphs, and sometimes (oh frivolity!) their latest shopping loot. These blogs have helped me realize I'm not the only one in this whole "Motherhood-can-sometimes-suck" situation, and have made me a better writer. Being exposed to a lot of different voices has helped me refine my own.

But somedays, I just want to quit. I want to turn off the computer, delete my website address, and never read another post again.

I don't like the self-inflicted pressure to constantly be connected.

A couple of weeks ago, Kristen decided she was going on a Digital Diet. She realized that although her blog and its readers were not "empty calories," but part of her "nutrition" and "sustenance," she still needed to set up some ground rules and find some balance. Here's my problem: I think I'm already pretty balanced. I don't post more than a couple of times a week, I limit my reading to a handful of really fantastic blogs, and I try to keep my comments coming but controlled. Yet I still feel overwhelmed sometimes.

I just can't keep up.

I started blogging simply because I wanted to write again. I didn't realize that blogging is not just writing. It's reading. It's following. It's commenting. It's connecting. And I love all of that. But it takes up a lot of time, time I don't have, and quite honestly, time I'd sometimes rather spend doing something else. I am not too happy sitting behind a computer. If it were up to me, I'd write all my posts with a pen and a paper and mail 'em out to you all. I know. I'm archaic. And the Twitter thing? Not for me. I just don't want to be that connected. Because every second I am connected, every second I'm typing or reading or commenting or (God forbid) tweeting, is a second I'm disconnected from the real stuff: my kids, my husband, my friends, my job, my home, my books, my Life. I'm always scared that if I get too caught up writing about life, I might actually miss out on some of it.

I do think part of my problem simply comes from the fact that technology is not my pastime of choice. I'd rather be reading a book, flipping through a magazine, or watching E News than surfing the web. I've never been into chat rooms or instant messaging or Facebook. It's just turned out that in today's world, the online version is the best way to get yourself, your words, out there. So here I am. I went from having absolutely no idea how to even start a blog to using the term "Mr. Linky" around the house. I've resisted most of it. I've tried to learn "just enough."

But it's a struggle I'm finding myself battling more and more as time goes on. I have days when I think: Maybe I'll stop. I'll just stop writing.

But I can't. I can't because this is the most I've felt like my old self again...the self who grew up believing she was going to be a writer.

So I suppose I'll continue to struggle...struggle to keep up with everyone else...struggle to find the time to read and comment and reach out and write my own posts...struggle to find the balance where I can continue to enjoy it and not always feel that pressure to keep up. Because really, who has made up those rules? The ones that say I have to keep up at all? Keep up with who, exactly? The only person measuring and counting is me. The only person beating me up is, as usual, myself.

Happy

2010-03-23T08:08:00.002-04:00

Today is our wedding anniversary.

We don't have any big plans. We don't have babysitting. We didn't buy each other any expensive gifts.

Instead, we woke up together, hugged sleepily in the kitchen, and got ready for work. We dressed our boys. We fed them Cheerios. In the afternoon, we will take the boys to swimming class, then to McDonald's, and come home to watch a little "Snow White." Then we will put them to bed. We will open a bottle (or three) of red wine. We will huddle in our love nest of a room. We will exchange traditional anniversary gifts (bronze or pottery for the 8th year), and we will just be.

Usually, I like a lot of pomp and circumstance. I like big. I like loud. I like a fuss.

This year, a fuss was not possible or practical. And I was okay with that. Because when we embraced this morning, Hubby mumbled a sleepy "I love you," followed with "I'm happy."

"I'm happy."
.

So simple. So major. And I realized, at that moment, that I am, too.
.

Blissfully happy.

Content.

Our lives are hectic and busy and exhausting and stressful. We do not run away to New York or Paris like we used to. We do not have money to blow every weekend at expensive restaurants. We do not go to Happy Hour on a weeknight and get a couple of hours of sleep before going in to work the next day. Sometimes, we don't even have the energy to speak to each other at the end of the day.

But we are Happy.
.

We've made these little boys...these two little rascals who drive us nuts almost every day.

We've made a family.

And even on the worst days, on the days when we wonder why we even wanted any of the grown up stuff, why we didn't just keep traveling the world and living our carefree lives, we're in it together. We're a team, the 2 of us.

Solid. Lucky. Grateful. In love.

Happy.

Photography by www.gilcelia.com