Diary of a Modern Matriarch

There was a Ball Cake

2010-02-08T12:40:00.006-05:00

As you all know, I went to Chicago this weekend to meet up with a few women I had befriended over blogs and Twitter. One of my best friends in real life, Cass, started out as a comment on my blog over two years ago and on Friday we got on a plane to go meet eight other women who had become part of our lives. In no particular order:

In no particular order:
Belle Plaine Living
Cass. Just Curious.
Harmzie
Annabelle Speaks
Chez Rougie (and her friend IRL lilsaej who has no blog but is on Twitter)
McMama's Musings
Back To Me
Pseudostoops

The thing with meeting people you already know is that the air is easy and the conversation flows like the drinks you're sipping.

And now, because I like my lists and pictures (all courtesy of Cass and Harmzie since I didn't have enough room in my carry-on for my camera), I give you the Things I Learned About TwitHER 2010.

-We are fabulous while shopping.

-Gino's Pizza is in fact DELICIOUS BEYOND ALL REASON. And, yes, I find that dirty martinis go excellent with it. There's very little I can't pair with a good dirty martini.

-Canadians really do say "eh" a lot.

-I somehow got the nickname The Situation like the guy from the Jersey Shore, because apparently I a) do have a pretty strong Jersey accent, at least from ChiCAHgo's point of view, and b) NJians DO say "this is the situation" a LOT.

-The wind, cold, and water in Chicago made my skin turn to sandpaper in two days. I will need a vat of oil in which to dip myself when I move out to Iowa.

-Starting your day with goat cheese and chive egg white omelet, magic bacon made from magic pigs, and homemade English muffins topped with homemade jam, can only be made better by the hour-long massage you get at a fancy spa afterward.

-No ONE should ever challenge me to a chugging contest. Ever.

And I'm not even sure how this happened but somehow this kid said he could beat me, so he bought me a beer. And then he lost, miserably, in front of his friends and the whole bar erupted into cheers. My mom is so proud.

-In our hotel, you could see right into the rooms of the hotel across the street. This is us being the high-class women we are hoping for a little bit juicer action than we were getting from a "happy couple."

Also, if you can see THEM, they can see YOU. Which would have behooved me to remember when I was changing with my back to the window. The open window.

- Dinner with Bloggers will often have these moments:

But more of these:

- I started blogging because I felt isolated being a young, married, working mother. But in this community, I've found a place I will always belong. A place where no matter how many kids you have or if you have any at all, whether you work or not, whether you're married, single, or divorced, you belong.

-More important than all the mushy gushy stuff, is the fact that there was a Ball Cake. A red velvet cake made in the shape of testicles. Oh yes, there was.

Flying Solo

2010-02-04T23:33:00.001-05:00

For the last 17 days, I've done this whole thing solo: parenting, working, taking care the house, cooking, cleaning, pets, snow, garbage, laundry, dishes - everything. Mike has been away for the last almost-three weeks. For safety reasons, I didn't talk about it (even though we have an alarm system and I'm very BAD-ASS and I carry a cleaver and my husband sleeps with a sword under his bed, I shit you not.) But he's home now and he's VERY VERY BIG and TOTALLY SCARY.

Anyway, I knew it was going to be hard and while I did find a rhythm after a few days, IT WAS HARD. Mostly, I can handle the chores and the kids and my deadlines and commute and the bills. It's definitely harder without a partner, but the thing about doing it alone is that it's relentless. There is NO END. By the time I was done with my stuff for the day, it was 11 pm and I had to do it all over again in 7 hours.

Throw in a puppy situation, two kids with snotty noses and phleghmy coughs, a three-year old WHO WONT STAY IN HER BED and my inability to drink myself silly (because I swore the day I drank would be the day my kid broke her arm and I'd have to call the ambulance and they'd smell the vodka and think I was one of Those Bad Drunk Moms and call CPS on me and take away my kids) and I am more exhausted than I may have ever been in my entire life.

I did have a lot of help from my in-laws who came over to watch ~~the seed of Chucky~~ Sawyer so I could take Charlotte to karate and so I could get to the gym and take Luna to puppy class. My cousin also came over a few times and took Charlotte for an entire afternoon, for which was so grateful. A few girlfriends came over here knowing I couldn't go out and brought wine and Friends DVDs. My mother would have been here more but my sister had surgery last week so she needed her more. So, thanks everyone!

Any other time of the year, I could have taken a week off from work to give myself a break in one aspect of my life but this month I have a Very Big Important Issue that's closing and some papers were late, author corrections are missing, PDFs are failing, and OMG, STOP LICKING THE OUTLETS, CHILD!

Here are some very important lessons I've learned these past couple of weeks:
1) If I ever become a single parent (Gods rest yer soul, Mike), I'm moving to a condo. MOMMA DON'T SHOVEL.
2) Bailey's in your afternoon coffee is NOT DRINKING. It is merely a late-afternoon snack.
3) Fourteen. Fourteen is the limit of times your child can say "MOMMAMOMMAMOMMAMOMMA" before you snap and say "WHAT IN THE NAME OF CHRIST ON A CRACKER DO YOU WANT?"
4) Using the above line about Christ on a cracker will stick in the tiny recesses of your three-year old's brain and when she stubs her toe a week later she will yell, "JESUS CHRIST ON A CRACKER WITH PEANUT BUTTER AND CRAP!"
5) There is WAY less man hair all over EVERY SURFACE in the bathroom.
6) He's the blanket hog because when I wake up, my blankets are nice and neat SO THERE!
7) Walking a puppy and pushing a jogging stroller while your three-year old rides her bike is not the relaxing morning walk you thought it would be.
8) One Xanax doesn't do shit. Two Xanax means MOMMA NEEDS A NAP.
9) You will only be able to read one chapter of a book once a week. I expect to be done with The Help for my Booklushes Club sometime in 2011.
10) Babysitters are like crack. Once you get a good one, you just want hit after hit. "Hey, can you come over? I wanna....BLOW DRY MY HAIR!!"
11) When you order Japanese delivery three times a week, you will have a LOT of extra tupperware! Related: sushi delivery may possibly be the best thing ever invented. Also related: Ken-ichi the delivery guy and I are now BFFs.

So, he's home today and tomorrow morning I leave for Chicago for a much-needed girl's weekend. I probably won't post over the weekend but if you follow me on Twitter, I'm sure you'll be part of the debauchery. Three words: Irish Car Bombs.

UPDATE: There's an interview with me over at Tales From Dad Side in which SciFi Dad tries to be snarkier than me (no ONE can BEAT ME!)

iPhone Camera Gets Some Play

2010-02-03T10:58:00.006-05:00

A lot of times while I'm out and my camera isn't nearby, I'm forced to use the crappy-ass camera on my iPhone (seriously for $400, you'd think they could put in a better camera). So today I give you the first installment of the iPhone Camera Gets Play

Yet another snarky shirt:

Charlotte's classic What-The-Fuck-Are-You-Talking-About face:

My other best little girl, Lexi.

Her Momma Cass and her first Irish Car Bomb:

And what happens when you grow balls after drinking said car bombs:

And where there's one car bomb, there's usually more. Here's Rougie:

Live-tweeting the action was a necessity:

What happens when you leave the house to take out the trash:

Two head bumps in one week:

The world's cutest puppy -- on Mike's side of the bed - ha!. (And no, we don't let the dogs sleep in our bed. She had just come up for a second.)

Heartbroken over my broken Wang:

The only time he ever passes out on me is when he's sick. This is also the only time he isn't getting into trouble:

My pretty girl dressing herself:

Synchronized sleeping*

*Note: I'm happy to report that the food aggression is MUCH better, almost gone. After a few people mentioned it, I realized the aggression started when I cut down her food, so I followed my gut and started feeding her more frequently (small amounts) as well as adding cooked egg whites, cheese, and peanut butter to her food for added protein. We've also been hand-feeding and dropping the kibble slowly into her bowl while leaving our hand in there and she hasn't growled once. We're also working on the treat-aggression and made HUGE strides. No snapping and only a small growl once. Every time we take the treat out of her mouth without aggression, she gets a peanut butter yogurt drop - her favorite treat. We've committed to giving this our all.

---

What's on your iPhone?

More Dog Drama

2010-02-02T11:27:00.002-05:00

Ok, the food issues I wrote about yesterday have now morphed into full-blown aggression. I gave both dogs a chewy treat last night and when it got too small, I went to take it away from her so she wouldn't choke. She went after me. As in TRIED TO REMOVE my arm. She bit me a few times and have a small mark, but she's only a puppy and it's small teeth so it's not that big of a deal.

But what if I were one of my kids? THEN it WOULD be a big deal.

She's also growled a few times when I put my hand near her food bowl but today has not done that so I'm feeling better bout that.

She also seems to have some other serious dominance issues where she growls and barks at the kids. Last night, Charlotte went to hug her goodnight and Luna growled at her. And yesterday, the baby accidentally tripped over her and she went after him, like growing and barking and snapping.

Now I know that sleeping dogs are to be left alone but to go AFTER my kids? to go AFTER me?

Last night I spoke to another woman who got a puppy from the same litter who is also having growling/barking/snapping issues with her kids. And this morning, when I e-mailed the breeder, she was so upset and was honest and said another family had returned their puppy for biting their 10-year old son. Both parents of this litter are very sweet and she has no idea what could have happened and is very concerned.

Is it just poor training? Can you train this dominance/food-treat aggression out? Or will I always be worried for the safety of my kids and my friend's kids? Will I always been on egde? Will she be better in a home without kids?

I'm so sad today.

I know all dogs are different, but I thought getting a puppy from the same mother as Phoebe - one of the best dogs in the UNIVERSE - was a sure-fire bet to be a good dog.

In her defense, we haven't given her much training other than normal stuff and puppy classes are supposed to start tomorrow night. But here I sit, crying at my desk, wondering if I'll ever get over this dog going after my arm and my son.

She's a GOLDEN RETRIEVER FOR CHRISSAKES. What is going ON? Part of me says she's only three months old and I can work with her and train her. I owe that to her. She is my responsibility. The other part says I'll be doing her a disservice to make her share her living space with the kids she truly doesn't want to and she'd be better in a house without children.

I have no idea what the right answer is here. My heart hurts.

Dog Days

2010-02-01T18:17:00.005-05:00

(Note: If you're not a dog person or don't have dogs, you may want to skip this post. Also: you may want to re-evaluate because only people with NO SOUL cannot love this wittle bwitty fwace.)

So when I took Luna to the vet last week for vaccinations, two weeks after her initial check-up, she had gained 8 pounds. In TWO weeks.

The vet asked how I was feeding her and what. We feed all of our animals holistic human-grade food (We also have 20K pet insurance on each animal - WHAT?!) but I told him I was filling a bowl of puppy kibble in the morning and again at night.

I think if hippie veterinarian corporal punishment was legal, he would have hit me with his patchouli-scented hackey sack. Apparently, this is a No Good Very Bad thing.

I was to separate the dogs, feed Luna 3/4 -1 cup of food three times a day (the maximum for her weight as listed on the food bag), and feed Phoebe 1 cup of adult large breed food twice a day. I was feeding them both puppy food, figuring it was easier and healthier. Again, I was wrong. I am a SUCKY doggy mom.

Puppy food is too high in calories for Phoebe and Luna was overeating. The rapid gain in weight was bad for a myriad of reasons, one being that due to her breed (part Golden) she's predisposed to hip dysplasia. Too fast of a growth can put strain and pressure on her joints and make this an issue later in life.

This is not easy. First of all, this puppy is INSANE about food. IN-MOTHERBUMPING-SANE. I counted this morning and it took her 8 seconds - EIGHT - to eat, nay INHALE, her food. She doesn't chew. She just swallows food whole. She was actually gagging after. The whole time I'm standing there picturing how the hell to do a doggie Hiemlich manuever.

She stalks the baby and the table for food. She damn near takes your hand off for a treat (we're working on this) and swallows it whole. By 6 am, she's whining in her crate, even if I've gotten up to let her out to pee in the middle of the night. She doesn't have to go out, she wants to eat. She runs downstairs straight to her bowl and paws at it until I fill it.

My kids who used to sleep till 7 are now being woken up by a loud-ass hungry Goldendoodle and it SUCKS MY ASS. By that really obnoxious puppy yelping/barking that simultaneously makes me want to ram dull forks in my ear-holes and imagine myself in a very soft cream-colored shrug.

She was tested for worms and other parasites and she's 100% healthy, so it's not that. She's just really effing hungry all the time. If I leave water out when she's getting hungry, she'll drink an entire bowl. Imagine how much that helps the pottytraining. Phoebe - from the same mother, only a different litter and different father - was never like this. I could leave one bowl of food out - her recommended amount - and she'd graze all day.

She's growing and she's going to be a big dog. Her father was a 90-pound Golden Retriever. And I know I shouldn't overfeed her, but the Momma in me says she needs more food. Alas, I am not a vet and they do know best in this case and I will listen. And I have a feeling that even if I did give her more food, she'd still be one of Those Dogs That Inhales Food.

I guess I have to learn how to be a Dog Momma to two dogs just like I did with two kids. Although in this case, at least I can shove the annoying furry one in the crate for a few hours. I hear they frown on that with actual children.

Bullets and Boogers

2010-02-01T05:15:00.001-05:00

It's been fairly cold here in NJ the past few days. Like, REALLY cold. My nipples are somewhere in the driveway where they fell off when I took the trash out in case anyone needs a spare set. Because of this cold, we haven't gone outside to play at all. Which means it's been me, two kids, and two dogs in the house for days. We run errands and such but there's no real energy run off. Therefore, the entire house is a bat-shit crazy cave full of beasts eying each other up to see who will make the tastiest cut of meat.
As cold as it is here, it's about 10-20 degrees colder out in Iowa in the area we're intending to move to. This has re-prioritized my house-hunting list in the following order: 1) attached garage; 2) near Target; 3) near MMA gym suitable for the whole family. Target used to be first - a woman has to have priorities, but I am running out of nipples and need to be outside as little as possible in the winter months.
I don't hate winter. I just don't like extremes. I love the changes of seasons. I'd ideally like to live somewhere that a crisp fall makes way to two-day winter and then a long green spring with like 2-4 weeks of summer. Reality? I'm moving somewhere fucking colder. Super.
Charlotte's Aunt Michele took her to see Disney on Ice yesterday leaving me with just the baby for the afternoon. During his nap, I thought I might lay down on the couch for a few minutes and instead, woke up an hour later in a pile of my own drool to the sound of the baby over the monitor yelling "I Up! MOMMA! I UP!". Guess I was tired.
I went to the neurologist last week to check on the syrinx in my spine and all is well. In two years, there's been no expansion of the mass and no new masses, so everyone's fairly confident it will stay that way. Very, very good news.
We have a little triangle trampoline that counts bounces in a really obnoxious British voice that's in the playroom. Today, due to above-mentioned cold weather and being stuck inside, I brought it in the living room thinking it would rekindle some interest. Well, it rekindled enough interest for both kids to get in a bar brawl over, complete with Jersey-style hair pulling and biting. Over a toy that's been in the room they play in FOR MONTHS. What is this magic phenomena of a toy becoming new when moved to a new room?
As soon as I feel like I'm running out of blog fodder, my three-year old comes up with a song that she's been singing that goes a little something like this:

Momma, Momma, you're my momma!
I love you so much! You play dollies with me!
You're the best momma!
But sometimes you're so silly!
Sometimes, your breath is stinky!
In the moooorning!
YOU'RE A VAGINA BOOGER!
I love youuuuuuuuuuuuu!!

Yes, my daughter called me a vagina booger, which may officially be the best insult ever and I'm totally stealing it.

Travels

2010-01-30T13:23:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I have to remember where I came from:

(Yes, that's me on the right in 2000.)

To be proud of where I am.

Sometimes I have to remember her as a tiny newborn:

To truly revel in the person she is becoming.

Sometimes I have to remember the little boy snuggled in the crook of my arm, nursing at the wee hours of the morning.

To not take one second of my last baby for granted.

Sometimes I have to remember the first kiss, the first dance, the first time he held our children

To know how truly lucky we are.

Signs I'm no longer a spring chicken

2010-01-27T20:09:00.004-05:00

Swistle wrote on this topic awhile back and this afternoon as I was thinking that it would be MUCH better for my colon to have the oatmeal instead of the Pop-Tart, I remember her post. And then I realized that even at 29, I. Am. Old.

1) Loud music annoys me. Unless it's cranked in the car or on my headphones while running, I hate being at a bar or lounge where the music is so loud, you can't hear the other people talk.
2) Related: I actually CARE about the other people talking. Ten years ago, I didn't give a shit what you wanted to say and all I wanted to do was shake my moneymaker. Now, I actually AM interested in your view on Healthcare reform.
3) Cereal other than Rice Krispies, Cherrios, Wheat 'N Bran, all taste too sweet to me. Yesterday I poured myself a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats - which used to be my FAVORITE - and I tossed it because ZOMG, was it PURE SUGAR AND METHAMPHETAMINE?
4) I carry around a heating pad at home. Somethings always sore.
5) I have one of those Days Of The Week pill container thingies.
6) When the phone rings past 8 pm, I turn to Mike and say, "Who the hell is calling at THIS hour?"
7) When I stay awake past midnight, it takes me days to recuperate.
8) I'd rather watch a science or history channel than a reality show. Actually, I'd rather squeeze hot glue and pipe cleaners in my eyes than watch a reality show.
9) I wear a big fluffy robe and slippers when I get out of the shower.
10) I carry around gum in my purse just in case someone else wants it.

Have you noticed any signs that may be you're not the zesty young thing you used to be?

Worth it

2010-01-27T19:09:00.008-05:00

Some days, the struggle makes me want to throw up. Or cry. Or both. However, unless I've had four pints of beer, three Irish car bombs, and two dirty martinis (Yes, NYC last weekend with Cass and Rougie, I'm looking at YOU) I don't do either.

Today was: commute, webinars (a word I hate so much there isn't a word in the English language to completely explain how much hate there is), staff meetings, unhappy authors.

The baby threw my iPhone and shattered the glass. The dogs are covered in mud. My weave fell out. Okay, I totally don't have a weave, but if I did and it fell out it would upset me greatly.

Impossible deadlines loom. Food does not cook itself, laundry does not fold itself, floors do not mop themselves.

Although if someone wants to buy me a Roomba that goes in stealth mode when the animals are all sleeping so they don't attack it, that would be AWESOME.

The kids scream, the cat pukes, the boss piles on more work.

I feel like I'm at the bottom of a very large steaming pile of Woolly Mammoth poop - and yes, I know they don't exist anymore but I can IMAGINE that their crap would be large AND steaming - and as soon as I get my straw out for air, another mammoth craps in my airhole.

That's my days lately: a poop-filed airhole-straw of extinct animal dung.

But I do it. We ALL do it.

Because for every shitty moment in a day, there's one of these that make it all worth it. Even losing my imaginary weave.

Start em young, raise em tough

2010-01-26T20:35:00.002-05:00

(I know most of you won't be interested in watching a video or two of someone else's kid in a karate class, but a lot of my family reads this so it's a good way to reach out to everyone.)

(If this bores you - and quite frankly I could see that although I think this is one of the cutest things in the entire universe - stay tuned tomorrow where I'll talk about um, er, beer and boobs?)

(If you watch any of it, watch the second video. It's her reaction after class when she comes to talk to me and MY GOD. The cute.)

Her pants: They are on fire

2010-01-25T19:41:00.003-05:00

First, it started with my new mascara.

I went into the bathroom and my mascara was unscrewed and there were black smudges on the toilet paper roll and on the wall behind it. I opened the mascara and the brushes were bent (it's a two-sided one). I called Charlotte in, assuming it was her.

"No, Sawyer did it," was her reply.

"Are you sure? Because I'm not so sure he knows how to unscrew mascara and I'm going to be very upset with him if he did this. Are you sure it wasn't you?"

"Nope. It was Sawyer."

Later, when I told Mike about it, he confirmed that the baby can indeed unscrew things and it was possible that he had done it. I was skeptical, assuming there'd be WAY more mascara everywhere and I doubted his ability to put the wand back into the container.

Then the other day, I walked into the bathroom again. The unmistakable smell of nail polish hit me. There was a few drops on the counter and the top was not screwed back on.

Again, I called her in.

"Charlotte. Did you do this?"

"No. Sawyer did it."

"I don't like lying Charlotte. It's a very very bad thing to do. Do you understand that?"

"Yes. Sawyer did it."

I know there was NO way that he unscrewed the nail polish and was able to put the brush back in. I checked his hands. They were clean. I checked her hands and she had Pink Lady 902 smudged on her palms and one of her own chip-painted fingernails.

Later that day when Sawyer went down for a nap and she was painting quietly at the table, I had a big talk with her.

And of course a "big talk" with a three-year old is pretty useless. I told her how terrible lying and cheating was and that it was not tolerated in this family. That the trouble she'd get into for doing something wrong was not nearly the trouble she'd get into if caught lying. I made her look in my eyes. I made her reply, "yes ma'am" after I asked her if she understood me.

And then yesterday, there was an entire tube of my $16 face lotion splurted all over the sink. It has a teeny tiny unscrew cap, which was screwed back on.

"Charlotte, did you do this?"

"No. Sawyer did it."

He was napping.

There way she could even logically blame him.

I don't know what else to do. Part of me assumes it's a phase and the other part is so broken that a child of mine would blatantly lie when we are a family HUGE on honesty and integrity. Hell, we find 4 million dollars on the street, we turn it in. I find $5, I turn it in. It's the way we are.

We live by karma.

Karma does not like liars.

She's such a sweet, kind-hearted soul who sees people with money jars and digs deep in her pockets for all the "monies" she saves. She hugs and kisses everyone in the nursing home. She sings her brother the goodnight song every night and kisses his forehead, repeating "lovey, lovey, Sawyer." She's not a bad, spiteful kid.

Am I doing something wrong?

Here is where you tell me this is a phase, your kids went through it, and my three-year old is not a pathological liar and will grow out of it. Aaaannnd, go!

Source of Power is in my Sole

2010-01-25T08:29:00.003-05:00

Every morning, I put on the same thing. Assuming it's not a day where I'm dressed for the office, my uniform remains the same: yoga pants, a choice of my snarky T-shirts, hair pulled back, and sneakers.

The sneakers are my power.

When they're on, I go go go go. I have the bounce and pep to run for coffee, take the dogs for a walk, go to the gym, run errands, take the kids food shopping, bounce down the stairs to do another load of laundry, unload the dishwasher, to the fridge for juice, no milk! no juice! no milk!

I get the kids in and our of the house, the car, their cribs, their beds. I fold laundry, I mop floors, I check email. I edit papers, I make phone calls while scrubbing a toilet.

All with my sneakers on. They are my energy juju.

I cannot get going or find the energy I need for the day in slippers or socks or even my favorite: my bare feet. As soon as the sneakers come on, I'm ready for the day.

And as soon as they come off, I am done.

When the kids are down and dinner cleaned, I turn to Mike and ask, "Is there anything else before I take off my sneakers?" because once the Adidas are retired to the shoe bucket, Momma is done.

I'm not even exaggerating a little. I can barely find the motivation to get off the couch with slippers on, even though there's nothing better than slippers and a slanket and a good book. But just don't expect me to wash dishes or cook dinner. Ain't gonna happen.

I mean, I know I'm a little insane in a lot of ways, but does anyone else have this? Maybe it's not sneakers. Maybe it's music or a certain shirt. Do you find energy in one thing? Something that keeps you moving?

Or maybe I'm just plain certifiable these days.

Sounds of Sunday

2010-01-24T08:09:00.004-05:00

The coffee maker burbles, hahissssssssssssssss, and sighs in the background.

Lotus notes ding-a-lings with a new unknown work email.

My iPhone bloo-doo-doos with a new text.

The dishwasher churtles, cachisss, cachissss, swasss, swasss, cachun.

Toddler yells, "Ishie fo GO! Splurten fronk MOMMA!"

Dogs growl playfully, yelping when one takes it too far.

Caterwauling from the Maine Coon who wants fresh food.

Charlotte is on repeat, "Why Momma, Why? WHY?"

Curious George is often in the background, ackowledging he understands the humans with his monkey "Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh"

My ears are filled with the language of my home - and even though I catch myself wishing for just one. damn. second of peace and quiet - the thought of a world without one of these sounds catches my breath in my throat.

So today my goal is to enjoy the soundtrack of my life.

Hell, maybe even roll down the windows and crank it up.

Who knew Jesus did chores?

2010-01-22T17:30:00.004-05:00

"Charlotte, go get socks and underwear from your drawer and meet me downstairs. I already have a clean outfit for you."

My three-AND-A-HALF-year old comes downstairs, still bleary eyed from just waking up.

"Momma! Momma!"

"What? I put your clothes on the couch. Go get dressed while I get your brother dressed for Ms. Susan's."

I get into the kitchen and start packing up juice and diapers for their dayhome.

"But MOMMA!?!"

"What, Charlotte? We have to go. Please get dressed!"

"I didn't have any socks or panties in my drawer yesterday and this morning, it was...." and she turns to me and lowers her voice to a whisper "...full."

"Well, who do you think washed, folded, and put all your clothes away?" I say snarkily.

"Jesus Christ!"

I then died.

Then I came back to life and regained my composure.

"Ok, honey. Do you even know who Jesus Christ is? And why would he put away your laundry?"

"Because the other day you said 'Jesus Christ, why can't you put away the laundry'?"

And then I died again.

"Well, you're probably right. I bet I did say that."

"I love Jesus! He put my socks away!"

Only in a house of agnostics will you find a Jesus-loving three-year old and a son of God who does laundry.

Little boys

2010-01-21T10:24:00.002-05:00

Last night was bath night (as an aside, do you guys bathe your kids every day? Unless it's summer or there was dirt involved, we're on an every-other-day routine.), and I try and give the baby "nakkey time" for a bit before his bath.

I figure at some point soon in his life, it will be inappropriate to run around naked so why not do it now when it's okay?

As you would imagine, sometimes this leads to accidents, but nothing ever worth eliminating the few minutes of naked time that brings him such joy.

I was running the tub, sitting on the edge, feeling the water, when I hear "OH NO!" from the kitchen. Now, normally an "oh no" would not send me running but I knew the dogs were in there and I was afraid Luna had peed on the floor again and didn't want Sawyer to run and fall in it. Because that would really only complete my day.

Instead, I walk into the kitchen to find Sawyer standing over the sleeping puppy.

Peeing on her.

Oh, toddler boys. The endless amusement is worth the hell you cause.

Oh, Nick Jr., You Slay Me

2010-01-20T17:38:00.002-05:00

Really? Like, REALLY?!

The elephant in the room.

2010-01-20T08:48:00.004-05:00

My skin feels too taught on my body.

I imagine my hands - my well-manicured nails - tearing at my neck, my arms, my legs.

Making room for whatever that's inside me to escape.

My legs are bouncing. Up and down they pop. Pop, pop, pop, under the table. The silverware rattles.

They want to run. But I don't.

Boom, boom boom, says my heart. But then the elephant on my chest sits on it until it quiets. It stops. It booms. It stops.

My heart is happy. I am happy.

Please don't squash it, Mr. Elephant.

It took me this long to figure it out. To say it out loud. To not be ashamed.

The behemoth has a name.

Anxiety.

Watch out, Mr. Elephant. Now that I know who you are and where you live, I fully intend on finding you and kicking your ass.

My kids will make his dream come true

2010-01-18T19:33:00.007-05:00

"Hi, my name is Charlotte! What's your name?" my three-year old exclaims to every stranger she passes. I guess she inherited her momma's propensity for friendliness and gab.

Mostly, people are kind to her. Many engage her in conversation which I have to pry her away from in order to finish my errand. I smile politely and say "C'mon Charlotte," while mouthing "thank you" to the kind soul who took the time out of their day to talk to my loquacious offspring.

Today, I had to take both kids with me to the allergist for my bi-weekly injection. I was not looking forward to this as I know I could placate Charlotte with a lollipop but that nothing short of a nuclear holocaust would stop my son from climbing the walls. I packed an arsenal - cookies, juice, his music player toy he loves - hoping I could keep him semi-occupied while I waited the obligatory 15 minutes post-shot to make sure I wasn't going into anaphylaxis.

There was only a few other people in the waiting room and thankfully, two people had kids with them, either for their own appointments or in tow like mine.

Charlotte walked up to a small blonde boy playing quietly on the floor with some trucks.

"Hi! I'm Charlotte! What's your name? I'm FWEE! Can I play with your trucks?!" the little boy looked up at her and I could tell he had Down's Syndrome.

His mother piped up for him jovially, "His name is Seth. He's five. He doesn't talk very well but he's a very good sharer, aren't you Seth? It's nice to meet you, Charlotte."

I shot her a quick smile.

"Mmmmhmmmm I GOOD sharer!" and he held out his little pudgy hand and offered Charlotte a truck with a huge smile, his glasses sliding down his nose.

"Thanks, Seth. Can my brother have one too?" Charlotte pointed at Sawyer and the little boy handed him a blue truck with a yellow racing stripe.

Maybe Sawyer picked up on the gentle soul of this boy. Maybe he was just enthralled by the trucks. But for the next ten minutes, the three of them played trucks in the middle of the floor, while I chatted with his mother.

"VROOM! CRASH! BOOM!" the little boy yelled and Sawyer squealed back in delight. Charlotte pretended the cars were driving to Malibu. I imagined that too.

I had my injection site checked and we packed up and left, saying goodbye to Seth and his mother. I handed her my card and said if she ever wanted to get the kids together to give me a call; I was local and always looking to make new friends, both for me and for my kids.

As I buckled Charlotte into the car she looked at me and said "I made a new friend today, Momma! His name was Seth!"

"Yes, honey. You played so nicely with Seth. Hopefully we'll see him again one day."

"He was different than me."

'Yes, he was. He has a genetic disorder called Down's Syndrome."

"That's okay. I have brown hair."

And to her, that was the only difference she saw.

---

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."
-Martin Luther King, Jr.

A dose of Vitamin Cute

2010-01-17T18:13:00.003-05:00

Now I know where the expression, "puppy dog eyes" came from.

Because it was above freezing out

2010-01-14T22:14:00.002-05:00

We went outside for a bit this afternoon.

Dude, how we gonna get up that slide?

And by "a bit" I mean approximately 15 minutes. Why so short you ask? Because homeboy had to go and do this.

Thankfully, it was more of a giant bump and scrape than a gash and stitches weren't necessary. It's all bruised now and as per his norm, looks like a cage fighter.

--

The first time I was in the ER with Charlotte was right after her third birthday when she broke her leg.

Have you seen anything so pathetic in your life?

Nothing stopped her from wearing her tutu though, damnit.

And we were there again a couple weeks later when she fell off the chair onto the tile and had to call 911.

With this kid - who, by the way, got that injury by diving off the end of the deck into a pile of rocks and then smacking his head on the edge of the decking - I'm gonna wager we may not make it till age 3, although I sure can hope, right?

Show me yours

2010-01-14T06:49:00.007-05:00

Yesterday, I flipped back and forth to CNN.com and MSNBC.com getting updated on the earthquake on Haiti. I followed @BreakingNews and @CNNbrk. Heavy, hot tears rolled down my cheeks at my desk over pictures of people covered in rubble, babies bleeding, people trapped.

These poor people who already had so much pain, poverty and strife were now left with this - a capital city in ruins, hospitals reduced to useless rubble, prisons collapsed, the inmates roaming free.

I know bad things happen in all parts of the world - tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes - and while I can't fly down there and try and search for people, or hold a bleeding baby in my arms, or rebuild their houses - I can do something.

You can do something.

Today is Delurker Day.

I'm asking you readers - all of you - to take the time to click through today and comment. Even if you don't have an account, comment anonymously and sign your name. For every comment I get, I'll donate $1 to Haitian relief efforts, specifically Doctors Without Borders.

If you write a blog post today, maybe you link back to me, sending your readers over to comment. Maybe you'll do the same thing like my friend over at ChezRougie and match dollar for comment on your post today.

Maybe you'll go to RedCross.org to see what you can do or text "Haiti" to 90999 which charges $10 to your cell phone bill from the RedCross and yes, it is legitimate.

Maybe you send an email and ask your company if they match donations. Yesterday, as I watched the news in disbelief, I tweeted this:

Later that night, I came home to a reply:

My small tweet inspired my friend Linda from All & Sundry to find more in her own pocket and in turn ask her company for a matching donation effort for the employees. By the end of the day, they raised over $45,000. I do feel pretty damn good about that.

So click through and comment. If you need something to write, let's lift the mood a bit. Tell me what's your favorite music indulgence. You know - that album on your iPod, that CD in your car - the one you really don't think people need to know you secretly love.

And now, knowing full well this lowers my Bad-Ass Factor to almost zero, I hereby admit I love Clay Aiken.

There, I said it. Now show me yours.
--

UPDATE: As of 3 pm, EST I have hit my personal donation goal of $100 with A HUNDRED COMMENTS. You all are awesome. I wish I could do more. I know we all wish that.

Handwriting on the wall

2010-01-12T22:22:00.005-05:00

Mornings

2010-01-12T08:04:00.003-05:00

There are some mornings that run smoothly.

They start after 7 am, the whole house enjoying a little extra sleep.

The baby is happy to see me when I walk in his room. He sits in his chair patiently waiting to get his juice, vitamins, and toast with cream cheese. Charlotte has already gotten her choice of cereal out and sits and plays with her dollies at the table while I get her bowl and milk, juice, and vitamins.

They both eat while I unload the dishwasher, put a pot of coffee on, wash my face and put in my contacts. They jabber to each other in some language only they understand and I emerge from the bathroom, dressed, hair pulled back, with a basket of laundry on my hip.

I run downstairs to put in the day's first load of laundry while I know Sawyer is strapped in somewhere and can't get into trouble while I'm out of his sight. I feed the cat. I pick up the stray lint ball.

After breakfast, we clean up and I put on Curious George from 8-9. During this time, the children sit and play quietly, watching their beloved monkey while I have my much-needed morning time, sipping my coffee and checking work e-mail, blogs, plan out my game plan of the day.

I'm refreshed after this short spurt to myself, shut the TV off, put my iPhone in the dock, set it to some music to suit the mornings plans. I'll put on Adele if we're cooking or baking, maybe some Ting Tings or Yeah Yeah Yeahs if we're cleaning. Folding laundry definitely requires Otis Redding or B.B. King or Sam Cooke.

Some days, we'll pack up and head to the supermarket. The kids will snack on goldfish while I make my rounds, loading the cart up with the dinner for the night. Charlotte will walk nicely next to the cart and Sawyer sits happily up front, playing Evil Eye with me or laughing at his sister.

We'll come home where I'll fix them a nice lunch, sometimes put the raisins in a smiley face, cut up fresh fruit and remove the crust from their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

After lunch, we'll sit together on the couch and watch Wow Wow Wubzy to wind down. Sawyer will go down for his nap happily and Charlotte goes upstairs for quiet time. Sometimes, she'll fall asleep as she lays in her bed watching Hello Kitty on the portable DVD player Santa brought. Other days, she'll color or play with her dollhouse for at least an hour while I enjoy the hour to myself.

Those mornings are the good ones. The ones I feel like after four years, I've finally got this Mom thing down. The ones where I'm sure I was put on this earth to be a mother and damnit, I'm good at it.

Then there are the Other Mornings.

The ones that start before 6 am because the baby peed through his overnight diaper again, the puppy is yelping to be let out, the preschooler is scared and doesn't want to stay in her bed.

When I go in to get the baby from his crib, there's no joy. "Daddy? Daddy? he asks, dejected that I'm not the 6'4 man he was expecting. "Where Daddy?" He kicks and flails as I'm changing him, making an already difficult task damn near impossible.

I'm not getting the food fast enough. The baby is screaming at me. "More? MORE?!?!" and I have no idea what he wants "more" of. I offer juice, toast, waffles. He throws his juice on the floor when I hand it to him. "NO! NO JUICE!" and then cries and asks, "Juice?"

Charlotte wants cereal no! waffles like Sawyer! No! toast and eggs! She talks from the minute she wakes up, "Momma Hi!Momma I like your shirt. Your breath smells like butt! Why is Sawyer crying? Where's the puppy? I need new pants. Where are we going today? Where's my dolly? Where's Mema? Are we going to Michele's? Are you going to work? Look what I can do!! Can we go to the store? Sometimes I like to SPINSPINSPIN! Hi Momma!"

And in the murky morning brain, all I can think inside is SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. But instead I say, "That's great honey. Please eat your cereal."

I forget to put the coffee pot on. I trip down the basement stairs because the baby has shoved more toys through the cat hole. I can't put a load of laundry in because I never switched the last load and it sits, moldy in the washer, and needs to be rerun on Sanitize with baking soda to make sure the smell gets out.

I step in cat puke and come upstairs to find the baby has thrown all of his food on the floor. "Ogur?" he asks and I get him his YoBaby yogurt from the fridge and sit down to feed him. He refuses to open his mouth and screams.

I get the kids down and put on Curious George, hoping to get a few minutes to get dressed and wash my face. "Up? UP UP UP?" the baby claws at my legs. I pick him up and he wrenches out, "Down DOWN DOWN?" I put him down. "UP UP?"

I'm not dressed, there's no coffee, the dishes are unloaded because I spent all of breakfast trying to please a baby who wouldn't be pleased and field the endless stream of questions from a three-year old. We'll never make it to the store in time to be back for lunch.

I sit at the table, trying to check my work e-mail and Charlotte is screaming because Sawyer bit her and Sawyer his screaming because Charlotte pushed him back. There's so much screaming, dishes in the sink, no laundry done, no coffee made, and I'm still in my pajamas.

It's mornings like this I'm not sure I'm cut out for this.

That maybe I'll never be.

Climbing the walls, literally

2010-01-11T07:28:00.006-05:00

Yesterday, Sawyer turned 18 months old. I'll let you process that for a second.

I know, right?! I think back to when Charlotte was this age and I was almost out of my first trimester with him. I was pregnant when my baby was only 16 months old. And now I look at Sawyer, a hellion on wheels, and am glad I had Charlotte first. As much as I wanted my children close in age, there's no way on the motherloving planet I would have been able handle him, a pregnancy, and another baby.

Boys and girls are more different than I ever imagined. I'm a tough woman. I played sports, I love football and video games. I guess a lot of those qualities are considered masculine. And even though I also love my nails and pedicures and pretty shoes, I'd rather eat wings and drink beer at a sports bar than foie gras at a French bistro (although I ain't gonna lie, I love me some fancy food.)

And I'm raising my daughter that way. She wears her princess t-shirt underneath her karate gi. She plays with her dollhouse and has the daddy in the kitchen and the mommy in the office. She takes her Barbies for rides on her "motorcycle." Even though she is by far my more dramatic child (no idea where she could have possibly got that from), she's an easy kid. Other than an infancy of colic and reflux, she was an easy baby and toddler.

I could put her down with some blocks and she'd pay while I cooked dinner. I could put her at the table with crayons and paper and unload the dishwasher. I could put on Nemo and take a shower.

But Sawyer?

I put him down with blocks and he builds an tower and climbs on it, trying to reach the remote he knows he can't have. I put him at the table with crayons and he eats them or then draws all over my wall. I put him on the couch with Curious George on so I can take a shower and find out the hard way that he knows how to unlock the backdoor as I wrestle him back in from the deck, very naked and very cold.

We hate tattling so we're teaching Charlotte that unless Sawyer is doing something harmful to him or her or one of the animals, that they need to learn to work it out. Unless what he's doing is dangerous or she needs my help resolving a situation, I don't wanna hear about it.

But maybe I wasn't clear enough because escaping the house while Momma's in the shower is something worth tattling on.

In the past week I've found him: at the top of the stairs despite the baby gate, playing with his "Doda" (Yoda figurine) in the potty; eating dog food; with a live phone wire in his mouth; using the dog as a step stool to get on the couch then base-jumping onto a pile of pillows; trying to climb out of his crib; using the shower curtain to try and climb onto the window sill; eating food from the garbage; inside -- yes actually inside -- the dishwasher; and my personal favorite: inside the dog crate.

I love my children for their differences and for their similarities.

I love Sawyer because of who HE is, not because of the sister he isn't. But I will tell you this: if we had him first, I seriously doubt the second baby would have followed so soon.

I remember people telling me boys were different and I'd look at my daughter who was trying to scale the kitchen countertops and think that they didn't know MY daugther. That she was crazy.

And then I had Sawyer. And I ate my words. They taste like insanity.

Beautiful insanity.

(This is what happens when you run around like a crazy person all morning. You just drop when you stop.)

You

2010-01-08T13:48:00.003-05:00

You breastfeed. You love breastfeeding. I can see your Twibbon, and oh yeah, your 400 retweets of every breastfeeding story to cross the newslines.

You don't eat meat. It's the debbil, Bobby Boucher. It has pesticides and hormones and antibiotics and probably Satan sperm and cut up skulls of tiny woodland creatures.

You cloth diaper your baby. Disposables? PSSHAW. Those are for people who hate babies AND the environment. Also, they club seals and piss on homeless people.

You believe in God and go to church. Everyone else will perish in the fiery pits of Hell, next to Hitler and the man that invented pantyhose.

You are an athiest. There is no God. Only sad, pathetic people believe in a masterful omnipotent creator as a crutch to deal with the sad reality that is their lives.

You don't drink. People who enjoy cocktails are escaping reality, setting bad examples for their kids, are bad mothers. Hell, we may as well shoot heroin or snort crack using the silver spoon our babies got when they were born.

You don't work. You didn't have your children so someone else could raise them! Daycares are gross and it's your job as wife and mother to stay home and take care of the family.

You work. You think your career is what will define you long after you're no longer tending to small children. You think women who stay home do nothing and could never handle your life.

You have no debt. You can't possibly understand why people would live beyond their means in this society - in this ECONOMY!! You have one car and ride your bike 5 miles to the supermarket in the snow and use 89 coupons and carry your reusable bags on your back.

I agree with You in many ways. I do think breastfeeding is great. I think all antibiotics and pesticides should be removed from the food we consume. I can see the merit behind cloth diapering. And I understand when people don't drink for whatever their reason may be and I don't think people should live beyond their means.

That doesn't mean that people who formula feed don't want the best for their babies, or people who use their credit cards to buy their kid's diapers when they have no money left that week are being irresponsible, or all atheists disrespect others' God.

Not everyone is You. Some people have the above opinions (minus the seal-clubbing and homeless-people-peeing on) and they're just that - opinions, ingredients to their self. They are not the defining factor in who they are.

What I don't get about You nowadays is why You need a cause. Why can't You just have an opinion, share it in an intellectual manner, respectful of other's choices and decisions.

Why Your Cause has become You.

Because me? I don't like You.