A Private Love Letter for the World to Read (Again)

March 23, 2002  Key West, Florida

Fifteen years of marriage.

It simultaneously feels like it was "just yesterday" and a lifetime. I can't remember what my life was like or who I was before I married him. And yet, it still feels so fun and exciting and worthwhile, that on date nights, I still get slightly giddy. I still fluff my hair out a bit when I see him walk in the room.

So in spite of the fact that I rarely visit this little corner of my world lately, I could not let such an important date go by without feeling the need for a little declaration, an "ode to" of sorts...

I wrote this letter a little over seven years ago as a response to a blog challenge in which I participated. Every word still rings true, and, I suspect (and hope), it still will in another seven...or fifteen...or fifty....



Dear "Hubby,"

When Momalom put out a challenge to write a love letter, you immediately came to mind. I hesitated, though, because really...what would people think...that I am choosing to profess my love to my husband? And on the Internet?? Seriously, how corny and codependent is that? I thought of so many other clever "loves": my stilettos, my cocktails, my pillow. Even writing a love letter to my children, although very predictable, would have been more acceptable, I suspect.

But I chose you. I think I owed it to you and to Us to be honest. To put it out there. You have never been afraid to shout it from the rooftops. And as loud as I usually am, I think you deserve a little more noise from my side.

Plus, our love affair started on paper...post-its stapled shut, letters on notebook paper...the lines impossibly and frantically filled with confessions, promises, and fears.

So let me just say it...the cliche...the thing so often found inside greeting cards this time of year: I don't know how I got so lucky.

I don't.

I look around and find it impossibly delicious that you are mine.

There was something about you, from the beginning, that made me stop breathing. Literally. I would stop breathing when you walked into a room. What is that? Really. What is that? And although I can say I think you're hot as hell, and although I am sure you'd love to hear that it was your amazingly rugged good looks that did it to me, it wasn't. It was something else entirely. Although, even now, ten years later, I still can not name it.

The absolutely most amazing thing about it is this: when you walk unexpectedly into a room, and I look up and am surprised to see you, in that moment when the realization hits that it is You, I still get a flutter...there is still a very slight, very shallow, very sudden intake of breath. Oh. It's you.

Some of my love is shallow and silly. Sometimes, when we're out on a date night, I scan the room. I look at all the men there and I pretend I don't know you and I am always amazed that you are the only guy I would want to buy me a drink. And probably take me home.

Some of my love is the kind that can only grow from the everyday: raising children, paying mortgages, real life. When the children are sick, you wake up right alongside me (sometimes without me), you take the temperatures, you clean the vomit, you hold them close until they fall asleep. You make them feel safe. When the house needs cleaning, when the dinner needs cooking, when the laundry needs doing, you just do it. You don't point it out. You don't ask for props. You never call it "helping."

But even more than my partner at home, you're my partner in crime. There is no one I have more fun with...no one I'd rather get slammed drunk with....no one makes me laugh as much as you do. How is it that I have married a man who can be at a club with me til 4:00 in the morning, partying like a frat boy, and then be Daddy the next day, so often better than I can be Mommy?

You love like no one I know, yet you don't offer it easily. It's hard to get to you. It's hard to matter in your life. As sensitive and passionate as you are, you reserve that for a very select few. You simply don't have time, you say. And, as you so honestly put it, just don't care. You don't care about being politically correct. You don't care about what others want or expect. You answer to nearly no one. Yet for those of us who have been lucky enough, your loyalty is frighteningly intense. You will go to the ends of the earth for someone you love, but always expect the same in return.

From the beginning, you put me first. That was our deal. Above everything and everyone, we would make Us our priority. And even after the kids came, even after life became more and more difficult to juggle, you've held me to that. You've held Us to that. When I get caught up in Life: the bills, the responsibility, the kids, the general noise inside my head, you call me on it. You want to talk. To drink wine. To listen. To love.

I love you as much for this constant desire to make time for us as for your absolute refusal to put up with my shit. I can be tough. I can be clingy. I can be whiny. I can be bitchy. You call me on that, too.

Yet despite your total and complete commitment to me, you have your own life. You have your passions outside of Us. You need your time away, your time alone, to be your own self, separate from being mine, or ours, or theirs. Your love for the outdoors, for your bikes, for testing your limits, makes me love you even more. You are, without question, your own person, apart from your family. And so you understand why I need to have my own things, too. It is what makes you understand all of me...my blog, my friends, my interests, my latest crazy idea.

That is the best thing about you, I think, if I had to pick one (other than those forearms of yours): you understand me. Really, and truly, you understand me. You've seen my absolute best and, embarrassingly, my absolute worst, and everything in between. You not only accept who I am, but you want me to be more of it: you are the one who constantly reminds me to stop being afraid of myself.

So, no. I don't know how I got so lucky. I don't know what happened or how it happened or why it happened. Sometimes I look around, at you, at our kids, at us, and I still can't believe this has worked. I can't believe we are this happy...this in sync. So, yes. My love letter had to be to you. Because there is nothing and no one I love the way I love you.

Love,
Me

*This blog was originally posted here on February 8, 2010.
Happy Anniversary, P. 
You were the best decision I ever made.

Why They Should Sell Booze at The Magic Kingdom - Throwback Thursday

If you live in Florida, there exists a sort of Golden Ticket, if you will, known as The Disney Annual Pass. We get little perks and privileges for living so close and The Powers That Be over at Disney know that if they promise a little discount here and a little payment plan there, we will be suckers enough to think it's such a bargain that we must repeatedly count our lucky stars, load up the car, and drive a few hours over to this magical place as often as humanly possible. Really, we get ourselves to the point where it almost feels like we are "just running over to Disney for a few incredibly discounted hours of fun!"

And over at our house, I fully admit, we are suckers. Big time.

And it's not just for the kids, either. My husband and I love it just as much. It's quite amusing, in fact, to hear my testosterone-laden, scruffy and tattooed-up, long-haired man talk about how excited he is when counting down the days to the next long weekend.

So after a few years off, we are finally, once again, the proud Golden Ticket Holders of an Annual Pass. Which means we will be going to Disney. A lot. Which reminded me of...

Why They Should Sell Booze at the Magic Kingdom

originally posted here on October 29, 2013 

I was startled (we all were, really) by a woman's shrill reprimand: "You put your mouth on it! Don't tell me you didn't put your mouth on it! You did!" I turned (as did everyone else, really) to see a mother disdainfully holding a red frozen fruit bar and looking accusingly at a pre-teen-ish age girl. I didn't really understand why she was so mad, so I kept watching in hopes I'd figure it out: was the kid sick and therefore banned from sharing any of the rest of the family's popsicle snacks? Was this mother one of those germaphobes who did not like sharing food with her own children? I must not have been the only bystander trying to figure out what had caused the woman's reaction, because she looked up suddenly and noticed that everyone (and I do mean everyone) around her was staring, and she apologized (almost as loudly) a half-ass apology: "Sorry. Sorry, everyone. Sorry." As she and her apparently sneaky, popsicle-licking daughter resumed walking passed us, another woman who I assumed was the aunt came over and put her arm around the kid. The mother (now no longer shrilly shrieking, at least) silently lifted the arm off her daughter's shoulders, and spat out: "Why don't you go up there and walk with your Uncle Timmy?" To this, a man one could only assume was Uncle Timmy, turned around and came over to his niece, throwing an arm around the kid's neck and loudly proclaiming: "C'mon, kid, this is the happiest place on earth! Let's go be happy!" and he skipped away with her, chuckling.

The next morning, I was ripping sugar packets open and dumping way too many into my coffee, when I noticed (how could I not?) a toddler wearing "Jake and the Neverland Pirates" pajamas having a complete and total meltdown while his mother was trying to pull him up to standing. The kid was doing that thing toddlers do: letting his bones go all Jell-O, his face scrunched up, his eyes shut tight, wailing (even louder than the mom in paragraph one, above) incoherently. I stirred my coffee and watched as the mom attempted to shut him up and pull him up to standing. When neither of these two were accomplished, she let him go (I suspect if she could have bounced him painfully onto the ground like a basketball, she would have), tossed her arms up in the air, and stepped back over to the register a couple feet away where she had been trying to pay for her $10 Mickey-shaped waffle. The kid remained writhing and wriggling and wailing on the food court's shiny tile floor, while other guests walked around him with their coffee cups and breakfast trays. I didn't stick around long enough to see how the mother managed to drag him and her breakfast tray back over to wherever, but I did silently hope that she was washing that cute little pajama in hot water before putting it back on the kid for bed.

Then there was the dad who, in the middle of a crowded area, grabbed his son's face as if his fingers were tweezers and the kid's face was a nasty embedded splinter. He nearly put his forehead right up to his kid's, and shouted in one of those gruff, manly, camo-wearing type voices: "Get. Outta. My. Face. I've. Had. E. Nuff."

Those are some of the scenes I witnessed this weekend at Walt Disney World.

And, as a parent, I totally get it. 

I'm not saying that I approve of any of these parental reactions.
I'm not saying that I would have done or said the same things with the same level of ferocity and impatience.
All I'm saying is that I might have.

There really, truly is something magical about Disney. I've said it before. As someone who has grown up four hours away, I'm one of those people who has been so many times, she's lost count. I realize that to some, this is cause for great envy, while for others, this is cause for great, wrinkly-nosed disdain. But I love Disney. I love everything about it (except the summertime and the long lines). I love the way they pay attention to every detail, how even the soaps in the hotel and the signs in the public restrooms have Mickey shapes. I love how they are constantly trying to outdo themselves. I love how everyone who works there is required to smile and be cheerful and somehow, they never seem to be faking it. I love the looks on my kids' faces when the fireworks display begins and Tinkerbell "flies" along the night sky out of Cinderella's castle window and off into wherever that nearly invisible zipline ends. I love the Caribbean pirates chanting their "Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate's life for me." I love the giggles a photo op with Winnie the Pooh and Goofy elicit from my little boys. And I love, love, love the fully-grown adults who happily and casually walk around wearing Mouse ears and coordinated t-shirts. Disney, you see, is full of whimsy.

And I love me some whimsy.

But those of us who have been there with small (and even not-so-small) children know that just like Disney World can bring out the best in parents, it can inevitably bring out the worst.

We were lucky on this trip: the boys behaved--for the most part--beautifully. But there was no way we were going to walk around passing any kind of judgment on the parents described above. Cause God knows (or, in this case, should I say 'Walt knows'?) that we are always just one tantrum away from being the crazy parents screaming shrilly about a popsicle while crushing our kid's face for dramatic emphasis.

Why your soulmate has got to be yourself - Throwback Thursday

When I got divorced at the ripe old age of 25 and moved into my first-ever apartment of my own, I put up a poem on the back of my bedroom door. That door eventually morphed into a sort of inspiration board. I taped torn out quotes and pictures and images that were meant to inspire me. What they did at the time, actually, was help me get through a really rough, disorienting stage of my life. Sixteen years and 3 different homes later, my messy back-of-a-door pseudo board is now a real bulletin board with completely different clippings and quotes and even purpose. Luckily, my board now just makes me happy and reminds me of moments and thoughts and a little bit of who I am. The only thing that remains is still that poem.

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

~Derek Walcott


Now, it's more of a reminder of the stranger I was to myself, and the "elation" and gratitude I feel still today at being able to "feast on" on my own life. But back then, here's the story behind the poem:


Why Your Soulmate Has Got To Be Yourself
*Originally posted here on April 12, 2013

I tore that poem out of the back of an Oprah magazine so many years ago, that I can barely remember. I laminated it and taped it up to my bedroom door, right next to my full length mirror. I didn't particularly reread it often; it just kinda stuck there. Every once in a while, I would read the lines: "The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door...". 

When I moved out of that little apartment, the only place I ever lived in by myself, during the most difficult time in my life, I carefully peeled back the tape's edges, packed it up along with some race numbers and quotes that had joined it on what had become my Inspiration Door (if you will), and took it with me.

The poem, once again, was carefully taped back up in my new home: the starter home I was now sharing with The Love of My Life. I was happy. I was fulfilled. Yet, the poem went back up. I didn't read those lines so often anymore, but I couldn't part with them. They needed to be there.

After a few years, one child, more joy, I untaped the laminated page once again, and packed it up to my Corner Lot Home in Suburbia (how the hell did that happen?!?) with my  Still Love of My Life, and up the poem went.

Those words, with me, for so long.

I barely remember the girl who needed the reminder...the girl who I used to be.

So very long ago, I would not have greeted myself at the door. I certainly would not have invited myself to sit and eat and drink.  I'm not really sure why. I just know that I couldn't own up to who I was. I couldn't really be proud of myself because I was too busy worrying about who other people thought I should be.

At some point, when the shit started hitting the fan inside my head, when I could stand the self-imposed repression no longer, I started to break out, little by little. Eventually, my little acts of rebellion turned into full-fledged metaphorical kicking and screaming and clawing. I needed out of that cage. I needed to fly.

I'd love to say that when that moment came, I simply went. But I didn't. I was hesitant and unsure and unsteady. In general, I was a fucking mess. The few people who I was blessed enough to have at my side suffered right along with me. They stood by me. They listened. They advised. They nodded their heads. And, when necessary, they'd shove me out of the cage I would occasionally fly back into to cower.

As rough and tenuous and unstable as that time was, I remember I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Those were the days when I'd read those lines: "The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door" and I actually believed it. I  knew the time would come. I just wasn't there yet. So I'd hang onto that when I felt frustrated or low or dark or worthless.

What happens in our lives that we start to feel that way about ourselves? What combination of events have to happen that some of us get to the point where we do not smile at our reflection in the mirror...that we would rather sit and have wine and bread with anyone else but ourselves...that we look to someone else--a spouse, a boyfriend, a child--to fulfill us, to make us feel whole and worthwhile? We depend on someone else's acceptance because we can't find it for ourselves.

The poem is still there, but I almost never even notice it anymore. It's just one more slip of paper on my closet wall. And certainly, there are days that I don't like myself so much. That I question whether I did the right thing or said the right thing or looked the right way. I second-guess myself. For a moment, I wish I could be more like (fill-in-the-blank-here) or a little less like myself. But on most days, I am able to invite myself in, open a bottle of wine, and feast on my own life. 

A Routine Life: A (Poetic) Throwback

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.

This poem was originally posted here on December 3, 2010

Even the sweet ones will flip you the bird, apparently - Throwback Thursday

The boys are pretty good lately. They are (almost) easy. They are doing their homework (almost) without reminders. They don't fight (too much). They are even getting up for school (most days) without even one sleepy grumble. But going back and reading an old post like this one keeps me from feeling too smug... It's hard to believe that this deliciousness once shot me the bird, huh?

When Your Kid Flips You the Bird

This post was originally posted here on September 24, 2013

(I didn't even realize I wrote this EXACTLY 2 years today until I went back just now!)

Isn't it ironic?

That's what Alanis said, right? Yeah, life's like that sometimes.

It was just last night, for example, that I reread an old blog post entitled "Sometimes I Don't Like My Kid." It's my most popular post, stats-wise. I was chuckling (out loud) about how much easier Ben has gotten since that post...about how I could barely remember that feeling of really disliking my own kid and thinking that perhaps his behavior was out of my control...that feeling of wondering to myself: Who the F is this kid and why is he pulling this kind of shit?!? (Chuckle, chuckle.) It was sooooo long ago. (Snicker.) I was such a new, inexperienced mother. (Tee-hee-hee.)  My kid has since gotten himself under control (most days). I barely remember that feeling!

Yes, that was me, last night, chuckling away. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Ha.

And I suppose it was just that sort of cocky guffawing that got the Universe a little amused with me and decided: Oh yeah?

And so today, upon picking up my younger son at school, the son who is (supposedly) the more angelic one of the two (as if!), the one who tends to hide behind my legs in new settings, the one who is always described by others as "sweet," "marshmallow-like," "quiet," and "such a good boy," I was told he punched not one, but two, of his friends. Punched! One lucky friend got it in the stomach. The other, right on the cheek.

Apparently, it pays to be known as the sweet, marshmallow-like, quiet, good boy, because neither the teacher nor the bus driver did much more than admonish.

Mommy, on the other hand, made up for both of those suckers who have been fooled by his cherub face, dimpled cheeks, and Sponge Bob eyeglasses.

Once The Talk had been had and The Consequences had been determined, we went about our afternoon of homework, homework, and more homework, with a little bit of dinner sprinkled in.

It happened somewhere in between the dinosaur chicken nuggets and the homework completion: my baby flipped me the bird.

Knowingly.

Like, for real.

Before you jump to the conclusion that Hubby and I are typical Miami drivers and flip the bird on a regular basis as part of our commute, I can honestly say that not only have I never shot a bird in front of my kids, the bird is not even my expletive of choice. For one thing, it's not an expletive at all: it's silent. And if you know me, you know I'm anything but. I'm more of a loud F-bomb kinda girl. (And before you get all excited and eager waiting for the blog post to come in which one of  my kids loudly drops an F-bomb, I'll have you know that being a teacher instills in you an almost superhuman-like ability to not curse in front of children.)

So where, then, did my five-year-old learn how to appropriately and accurately use Mr. Tall Man?

Of course...his (not much) older brother.

And where, then, did my eight-year-old learn it?

Duh. School, of course!'

So there I was again: wondering who the F is this punching, bird-flipping, bully of a kid and why is he pulling this kind of shit?!?

Of course, when I filled in my husband on the afternoon's events, he chuckled quite audibly, and immediately asked: "So there's a blog post in there somewhere, right?"

I was already typing as he asked.

*Note to self: If you happen to reread this blog post in a few years, do NOT chuckle, especially if the boys are behaving themselves.

*****************************************************

Lesson learned...No chuckling here!!

The Exchanging of Dreams - Throwback Thursday

It is no secret that we have made a major life change recently. (In fact, I suspect my loved ones and my blog readers are quite sick of hearing me complain about closings, boxes, and remodeling.) Most people think this was "very sudden" and spontaneous. But this general unease about the house we were living in (and the mortgage we were paying) had been gnawing at me for a few years now. In fact, here's evidence.

Exchange

This poem was originally posted here on September 2, 2011

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?

"Let me tell you the story about the time you..." - Throwback Thursday

I have been asked why one of my labels on this blog is "vomit." Those who have asked were not around when my youngest was younger. Those who have known my Aidan Kai for just a couple of years find it hard to believe that he was a Demon Baby who shrieked for hours every single day no matter what and then entered the gagging/puking phase of his baby-hood. It was awesome. 

Rule #472 of Parenting:
Never Let Your Guard Down

Originally posted here on September 24, 2009

So...I was going through The Bedtime Routine with Aidan Kai this evening and trying to rush through it (as usual) when the thought occurred to me that the days of him snuggling like a baby in my arms are numbered. I looked down at this big fat baby, his pudgy fingers clutching his bottle...his cheeks dimpling with each slurp...his sleepy eyes looking up at me from underneath his damp mop of curls...and I decided, right then and there, to enjoy the moment.

To really take it in.

To savor it.

To savor him.

So...as he finished his bottle, I snuggled him up onto my shoulder and rocked him, humming and patting his back, inhaling his Cheerios-Johnson's-Baby-Shampoo-Yummy-Still-New-Person-Smell, and I admit...I was loving this moment. I was incredibly aware of the fact that this is the beginning of my favorite baby stage (just turned one) and this is really It. No more babies after this. So I decided, right then and there, to start enjoying The Bedtime Routine with The Last Baby.

And just as I made that decision...just as I felt the warmth of his little breath on my ear, his tummy inhaling deeply against my chest...he puked. No warning. No gagging sound. No coughing. Just puke. Thick, stinky, curdled puke. All over my neck, my shoulder, down my back and all the way to my thighs...to settle nicely into the crevices between the rocking chair's seat cushion and its base...

Well then, I suppose it's a good thing I had decided to start enjoying the bedtime routine, because it was back to the bathtub all over again....

Ben is smiling in this picture, but by week 3 of the phase known as The Crying Days,
he would cover his ears and glare resentfully at his little brother.

Hard to believe someone this cute could puke up something so gross on such a consistent basis...

We get along remarkably well these days...
All has been forgiven.

Perpetual Motion - Throwback Thursday

The only time I sat still today was in an MRI machine. Okay, I was lying down. But that was really the only time I was motionless. Even in the waiting room, while I "sat still," I was wiggling my foot, biting my lip, tapping my phone screen. I woke up at 4:40 in the morning, rushed to the gym (where all I can do, for now, is sit on a recumbent bike...hence, the MRI...and pedal and try not to be so bored I want to kill myself), rushed home, helped Hubby with the boys' breakfasts, rushed to get dressed myself, drove to work, stopped for gas, dropped off my son, made it to work in time for an early meeting, taught all day, rushed to an afterschool meeting, rushed my oldest to a dentist appointment while talking to my mother and then hanging up with her mid-call to answer a call from Ben's teacher about his recent not-so-impressive behavior, waited for Hubby to "relieve" me at the dentist so I could rush to my MRI appointment. (I'm out of breath just from writing all that.) I have not included, mind you, the post-MRI tasks of dinner, dishwasher emptying and refilling, washer-to-dryer transferring, and bad self-bikini-wax-job. You would think I was looking forward to lying there, completely still, with nothing to do (and no guilt), music playing through the headphones. But I wasn't. I was ready to get out before I even went in. What a waste of 40 minutes! I scoffed. And I remembered the following post...only the 9th post on this blog, back in 2009. I guess I haven't changed all that much. Neither have my knees, apparently.

I can only do Nothing if I schedule it in

Posted originally HERE on March 9, 2009

I love to run. As luck would have it (my luck anyways), however, my knees don't. So yesterday I had to get yet another MRI done on each knee. For those of you who have never had an MRI, let's just say that it's not exactly fun. If you are even a teeny, itty bitty, tiny bit claustrophobic, you're screwed. There's no other way around that. If you don't actually mind being pushed into a startlingly noisy, sterile coffin-like machine for anywhere from 15 minutes to over an hour and being told to "keep very still" although you are absolutely shivering because they keep that room set to like, oh, maybe 52 degrees, then it's, at best, just a pain in the ass.

My husband's suggestion: "Why don't you sleep?"

"Sleep?!?"

Apparently, that's what he did when he went in for an MRI a few weeks ago.

"It was nice," he said.

And so, as I was lying there "very still," I thought "Okay, maybe I can nap. Maybe I will nap! Sure, I will take a nap!"

Uh. No.
I forgot.
I don't do that.
I can't do that.

My husband is in an almost constant state of relaxation. He can nap in the MRI machine. He can nap (and snore) during the final relaxation pose of yoga class (which is why he was no longer allowed to go with me). I, on the other hand, am always doing something--even when I'm doing nothing.

While in the MRI machine, for example, I accomplished a great deal:

1. I planned this blog post.
2. I planned what I'd wear to work the next day.
3. I planned what I was going to make for dinner.
4. I learned many of the lyrics of today's top 20 hits. (They give you headphones in an attempt to drown out that crazy noise. It doesn't work.)
5. I calculated how much spending money I had left for the week out of my new budget.
6. I counted all the things I might need to spend my spending money on before the end of the week.

Of course...
The blog post took on a life of its own.
I totally did NOT wear that cute outfit.
I got take out.
I forgot all the lyrics.
I'm broke anyways.

When will I learn?

There is always noise in my head. I can't shut it off, unless...I plan for it. How screwed up is that?!? I can actually relax, do nothing, just sit...if it's scheduled. As in..."We have babysitting so let's go to the beach and do nothing." That's the only way. Don't get me wrong. I do things everyday that I find relaxing. I read. I write. I work out. I watch "Lost" and "What Not To Wear".

But these things are all part of My Plan. My Routine. And really, still, they are all activities, things I am doing, and therefore are deemed worthy of my extremely limited time.

In fact, I was recently telling a friend about my summer cruise, and she was saying "Oh, I could never enjoy that kind of vacation. I'm not good at just sitting." And my response was: "That's because you don't have kids! When you have kids, all you want to do is sit." That may be true, but apparently wanting it is not enough for me to break out of my screwed up, noisy little head to actually do it on a regular basis. Not even in the MRI machine.

You mean it gets worse?!? - Throwback Thursday

Hard to believe THIS face belonged to a tough baby, huh?
Aidan Kai at 1 year old

I was extremely vocal about my struggles with The Baby Years. Hubby and I wanted children desperately, but had a rough time when they actually showed up. For us, the baby smell, coos and giggles, and holding a teeny tiny little human in our arms were not enough to balance out the sleepless nights and 24/7 on-call parenting. We loved our babies from day one, but always looked forward to them not being babies. Now, of course, we are sucking every little ounce of baby-likeness Aidan Kai might throw our way, because we know those days are officially over. As everyone predicted, we do miss the baby smell, coos and giggles, and holding a teeny tiny little human in our arms, but we still do not miss baby--or toddler--hood. Going back to this blog's first year and rereading the following post makes me laugh. I remember this day, this moment, clearly. I remember the feelings I had when it all happened. I remember the exact errand I was running while this all went down. And I remember that high-maintenance little boy I was schlepping around with me. 

You Mean It Gets Worse?

Posted originally HERE on November 10, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

My response?

"Yeah, I hope so!"

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

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

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

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

And I am left standing there, blinking. Discouraged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hangovers and Parenting Don't Mix: Throwback Thursday

I love Halloween. Every year, I try to party like a rock star in an outfit that is usually just my own sassy interpretation of a costume (an excuse to wear something I could never get away with in real life and probably have no business wearing at my age anyway). Perhaps this love for Halloween comes from my childhood: I was rarely allowed to go trick or treating, because, according to my parents, my neighborhood was just not kid-friendly. The one year I do remember going (I was a chubby, kindergarten-age Superwoman, complete with one of those plastic face masks with the elastic on the back of the head), my parents said it was too dangerous to go after dark, so they made my sister take me like at four in the afternoon, and every time someone opened a door, they remarked "Already?" or "Wow, you're early!" So I guess one could overanalyze that it's one of those childhood-repression-rebellion-psychology situations. But the simple truth is that for someone who can be pretty Type A, Halloween allows me the freedom to throw caution (and oftentimes, good taste) to the wind and go all out. Body glitter? Check. 50-Shades-themed handcuffs? Check. Black lipstick? Check. Halloween is just frickin' Fun. So since this is the first year in a while that Hubby and I are not doing anything sassy and scary on Halloween weekend, I thought it'd be a perfect repost for my second Throwback Thursday.
*(I'm not surprised to see how different the boys look in these pics--so tiny and adorable!--but seriously, how is it possible that a mere four years can make such a damned difference in the adults' faces?!?)

Hangovers and Parenting Don't Mix
Posted originally here on November 1, 2009 

Being hungover is bad.

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

 

And oh, did we play...

 

 

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

 

Classy.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

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

It was the parenting.

When you don't want your kid to be just like you: Throwback Thursday

So I feel like I've been at this blogging thing now long enough that I've earned the right to re-post every once in a while. Recently, I was surprised when I went back through my old posts and reread some of my old stuff. Some of it is good. Good enough that it surprised me (as in: I wrote that sentence?!?). Some of it is barely okay (as in: Wow, I was really reaching with that post!). But all of it was a cool skip down memory lane...

I started this blog, initially, to talk about being a new mother. Writing has been my passion since forever. And I've always been an over-thinker. So when I was struggling (and I do mean: struggling) with new motherhood, I felt stifled in more ways than one. This blog became my outlet. It was a way to get out the words and phrases that were dancing around in my head. And it was a way to get out the frustrations and the fears that were banging up against my brain. So it's incredibly amusing (sometimes in that bittersweet way that only parents can fully appreciate) to go back and revisit some of my old crazy (and even the semi-normal) posts.

So I've decided that for a little bit, I will have my own Throwback Thursdays. (Disclaimer necessary here: I would love to say that I came up with that on my own, but Hubby has told me that I am required to give him the credit that is due. So here it is: He came up with the term and the day of the week I should use for my reposts. It was not my idea. It's not super original, I know, since I've already seen it all over the place out there in the internet world, but really, what is original these days? And in his defense, his internet time is limited to this blog, travel stuff, and probably porn so it was super original and clever for him. And honestly, I am super grateful because I probably would have wasted so many days trying to come up with The-Perfect-Catchy-But-Not-Too-Forced-Label for my reposts, that this post would still just be an idea in my head, with notations on my phone's notes app, for at least several more weeks.)

I picked today's repost as a shout-out to one of my blogging idols (she's probably gonna think I'm really weird for calling her that), Kitch Witch. I admire her so much that even Hubby knows her just by "Kitch," which is the pet name I have for her that she doesn't know about and is going to make me seem even weirder to her. Last night, I read one of her posts, and it haunted me all night long and into today. Because it was so well-written, it was so her writing style, and I could so relate to the pain she expressed as a mom about something that may seem like a minor thing to others. Her whole focus was on how she didn't want her daughter to be like her, in a very specific, particular way, and so I sorta dedicate this post to her and her Hummingbird, cause although my post is nowhere nearly as well written or as poignant as hers, it is a similar, shared fear.

"You take after your Mommy." Is this a good thing?
posted originally here on September 21, 2009

It can be heartbreaking when you realize your child takes after you...has inherited your worst traits, the ones you have to work every damn day to repress.

I think for the most part, people would describe me as bold, adventurous, a bit in-your-face. All of that is, in fact, true. But I've said it before: I'm really just a big chicken. I'm scared. A lot. Often. I get anxious about things. I worry. I fret. I over-analyze. When I want to try something new, I think about all the things that could go wrong.

And then I do it anyway.

See? There is the repression. It can be exhausting, spending so much of your time trying to go against your nature (or, possibly, nurture, since my parents spent most of my childhood trying to protect me from the world and most of my adult life trying to protect me from myself).

I don't want my child to grow up like this. I don't want him to have to live life, often, afraid or worried or anxious. I want him to be like his Dad: balls to the wall (as he'd say...sorry), no worries, just get out there and do it. All of it. Any of it.

But as Ben is growing up, I am realizing more and more that he is more and more like me. And I hate that. I hate that he thinks before he leaps (literally). I hate that he worries about being the slowest on his soccer team. I hate that he absolutely refused--the fear evident on his little face--to go down the slides at his own birthday party.

Over the last few days he has developed a new anxiety: peeing in his underwear. Mind you, this kid has been potty trained for a year or so. He has been sleeping through the night with no issues for months. Now, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, he is obsessing over going to the bathroom...constantly. (Yes, we took him to the doctor.) We have tried both ends of the spectrum: from paying close attention and discussing it to all-out nonchalance and ignoring. But last night, after almost an hour of constant trips to the bathroom, we had to step in. We tried to explain he was "empty." We tried to be soothing. We tried to be intimidating. In the end, we had to give him an ultimatum ("choice" as we, parents, call it): either you go to bed now as is, or you go to bed with pull-ups on. He went to bed...after several minutes of a full-blown panic attack. To see his little face so out of control, so frightened by his own anxieties...it was heartbreaking...and remarkably familiar.

"He takes after you, Liz."

I hear it often.

He is stubborn, strong-willed, verbal, and a thinker. He loves the spotlight, likes to make people laugh, and can negotiate you into thinking it was your idea. He likes order, routine, and rules. And when he has an idea he likes, good luck trying to change it.

It can be hard to see yourself in your child. It's like yet another reminder, everyday, of how important it is to be brave. Bold. Free. Because now that I'm a mom, I don't just want that for myself. I want it for him, too.