Like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever

The 26-pound baby took four steps today!

You don't understand...It seems like a lifetime that I've been waiting for Mr. I'm-15-Months-Old-But-I'll-Be-Damned-If-I'm-Going-To-Walk to start strutting his stuff. I was starting to have visions of visiting college campuses, basking in the glow of a young man's promising future, looking at my son as a man for the first time...all with him resting comfortably on my hip.

My daughter took a while to walk too so it really wasn't a big deal when he hit the one-year mark and showed no signs of wanting to join us in the upright world. Then one month, two months and three months went by. He just kept gaining weight and showed no signs of even wanting to stand. I started to worry.

Now, when I say, "I started to worry," it's not what you think. I knew the boy was and is fine. I started to worry about ME. How am I supposed to make it through all this (by this, I mean those early years of motherhood when it's about physical labor as much as mental and emotional know-how), if my back is in shambles from lugging around a toddler that refuses to toddle?

There were days I literally wheeled him from the house to the car because I couldn't take the exhaustion of carrying his long, heavy, squirmy body. It's about 15 paces from my front door to his car seat. Then, there were days I just let him crawl on...whatever...sidewalk, dirt, grass, wood chips on the playground (no splinters, thank God). It was like playing Pong on Atari. Crawl up. Block. Crawl down and across. Block. Crawl straight. Block. Crawl backwards. Block.

So, today, the gods have smiled down upon me and things are looking up. I think I'll even have Marley walk on my back before bed...

Run, Forrest, Run!

We survived. Everyone is healthy, at least for the time being, and I get to focus on stuff other than puke and poop.

So, months ago I received an e-mail from my neighbor who is the type of mom (of three kids, no less) that makes me scratch my head because she has the time, energy, and will to go running regularly. Not only does she go for morning runs, but (mind blown here) she also participates in marathons, triathalons, and such.

Anyhow, she sent out this e-mail blast to some friends, myself included, urging us to join her in this local mini-triathlon thingy. (The fact that I've just referred to it as a "triathalon thingy" should clue you in to my familiarity and comfort-level with such tests of physical strength.) Maybe I wanted to try something new? Maybe I was thinking I could prove to myself, "Hey, I'm a mom, but I still got it!" Maybe the sleep deprivation had moved beyond everyday forgetfulness and now was starting to impair my good sense and judgment? Or, maybe, just maybe, for a split second there...I thought it might be fun?

At any rate, the portion of the event that was worrying me the most was the running. A little background...I don't run. Not only do I not run, but I can't fathom why anyone would do such a thing on purpose. The one time I went running with my husband -- who does run regularly and finished the Marine Corps Marathon in three hours and 48 minutes...woot, woot! -- my stomach cramped up the first half-mile, I started hyperventilating (people wonder where my daughter gets her dramatics and I'll be the first to admit, I may be partially responsible), and I actually started crying out, "I'm dying! I'm dying!"

Fast-forward several months, and I'm starting to get a little worried about my half-baked attempts to train for the event. Swimming for me is not as big of a deal; years upon years of summer and winter swim team have made, for me, doing the freestyle sort of like riding a bike -- it all comes back pretty quickly.

So, I had been swimming, but really avoiding the running part. I'd gone maybe twice and, both times, I wasn't sure if I'd live to see Marley graduate preschool. I started to wallow. Why, why, why, oh why did I do this? I'll never make it. What was I thinking? I'll have to be helicoptered to the nearest emergency room from the sheer exhaustion of it all. Then I thought to myself, "Wait, Dub-T-F. I can do this. I am no limp biscuit. I am no delicate, shrinking violet. I birthed two babies. I am woman!" (Usually when I do something out of my comfort zone, the first phase is the whining and despair and then the second phase is the one-on-one with my ego.)

I immediately contacted my trainer (my husband) and told him we needed a game plan. We'll start slow, he said. "Let's all go on a short run tomorrow." And we did.

That first run was horrendous. It was every bit as horrible as I'd remembered. Nevermind the humiliation of my husband lapping me while pushing our two kids in the Doodlebug. As I lay on the grass outside my house, I thought to myself, "Never. Never again."

But, then something magical happened. I went running again. And, I got a little farther this time without whining, cramping, or experiencing the go-toward-the-light-near-death thing. And, then I went again and, it got a little better. Now, it's been three times and, dare I say it...I am actually enjoying myself.

My husband said to me after our last run, "You looked really good out there."
He might as well have said, "Honey, we're leaving tomorrow for a Paris shopping spree!" That's how good it felt.

I'm not saying that I'm going to become runner/triathalon girl. Or that running will ever truly be a regular part of my life. Or that I'm going to start investing in a decent sports bra. Or, that I'm going to start pushing my kids around in our jogger. Then again...stranger things have happened.

Shameless Self-Promotion

Got a cute plug from Parentise' Best of Mommy Bloggers Carnival.

Check it out!

We are battling a horrific stomach bug over here (it has actually elicited horror movie-worthy screams) so will be back with a post soon...

xoxo

A World Record

I think my children just set a world record for number of dumps taken in one day (yes, I am going there). That means I spent a good portion of yesterday as a human ping pong between one small ass and another even smaller ass.

They weren't Big D dumps, thank God. And, they weren't particularly hair-raising in smell or texture. It was the number and sheer volume that had me crying out on more than one occasion, "HOLY Shit!" (pun absolutely intended).

When oh when did my life go to poop...literally? Any parent knows that it all starts in infancy. You are told to keep track of your baby's, um, stool -- color, texture, consistency, quantity. Hospitals actually send you home with a chart like it's a homework assignment that will be graded. I never knew my triumphs and downfalls as a new mom would rely so heavily on how often my baby's ass exploded.

On a side note, I'd like to request these charts be reconfigured to become multiple-choice. Leaving answers open-ended just invites more poop paranoia and particularly for first-time mommies, this obsession with defecating can quickly spiral out of control. (Is that green or brown or greenish-brown or brownish-green or beige?)

Anyhow, back to yesterday...So, I'm on Dump #65 for the day. I'm changing Smaller Ass in the playroom. He hates to have his diaper changed, which now that he is bigger and stronger, has become not just a chore, but a physical feat akin to running a marathon. So, there I am wrestling, um, I mean, changing him. I've tried giving him all manner of objects to play with while I perform the task at hand. Ball -- thrown across the room; play phone -- tossed over head; miniature horse figure -- in mouth for a second and then tossed to the side. F' this. "Part of my job as your mother is to make sure you don't marinate in your own feces," I say to him as I pin him down.

He wrenches so violently away from my grip that his open diaper, which I have not even had a chance to completely remove from his bottom, goes airborne. When I say turds went a-flying, I mean, turds caught wind and actually FLEW across the room. My mouth open, I watch as Smaller Ass starts to crawl away. My mind races. I crawl after him with a wipey and roll my eyes as he squeals with glee. I grab one of Smaller Ass's legs and reach out to wipe. He's still on all fours for the wipe. Got it. Now the turds. There's only three of them and despite their surprise flight and landing, they have remained intact. I quickly scoop them up and roll them in the diaper. I go to get the rug cleaner to disinfect the poop landing strips -- not visible to the naked eye, but gross nonetheless.

As I'm wiping the carpet, a high-pitched, extremely loud sound comes from the hall bathroom. Oh no. It's Small Ass. "I need a double wipe!"

For those of you not familiar with the Vollmerhausen Double Wipe, it's an 'ism that we invented for our older child who can be trusted to get on the toilet, do her business, and even clean herself when it's #1. But, doing #2 is a little trickier. So we back up her efforts with the anti-skid Double Wipe, which can be performed by a parent, grandparent or babysitter. If Travis is home, he is THE double wiper, but alas, when I am home alone with the kids such responsibilities fall squarely on my shoulders.

"Coming!" I yell. I somehow, some way get a diaper on Smaller Ass and make sure he is ensconced in the play room. I go to attend to the other one. She is standing next to her creation in the toilet when I enter the bathroom. Pants around her ankles, she glances over at the toilet as if it say, "Go ahead, take a peek." So, of course, I do.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY!

"Looks like a snake, doesn't it," she says matter-of-factly. And, it does.

After the shock and alarm of seeing what my daughter's bowels are capable of, I go to work.

We wash our hands and get ready for lunch. I open up the freezer to get the frozen edamame out and see another box next to them. "I want one of the chocolate bananas after lunch, Mommy!" Marley cries.

I start laughing hysterically and don't stop for a good 10 minutes.

This post is dedicated with love to R & KB, who are the only other women I know who get into poop humor as much as I do.

You Gotta Give a Little...

Take a little. Let your poor heart break a little...

Ok, sorry, had a Bette Midler Beaches lapse of judgement there. Hey, happens to the best of us.

So, anyhow, back to business. I recently re-learned a really important lesson when it comes to keeping the peace with a 4-year-old.

We've been listening to nonstop Moldy Peaches lately a la Juno (yes, the movie about the pregnant teenager who finds parents for her unborn child in the local Penny Saver.) If you happen to wander into our house these days, you'd have a 99.9 percent chance of hearing Marley singing, "Scrunched up your face and did a dance. Shook a little turtle out the bottom of your pants." (The line actually goes, "Shook a little turd out the bottom of your pants." We had to switch up the lyrics for fear that by singing "turd" over and over again at her Christian preschool, she'd expose us for the parenting sham we know ourselves to be.)

So, we've been enjoying Marley's foray into quirky indie "anti-folk" music. Fun for mommy, daddy, and kiddie. With each listen, she requests that we bring down the ipod, which has a picture of the soundtrack cover with Pauly Bleeker touching Juno's hugely pregnant belly. Just imagine the questions...Who's that? Is the baby coming soon? Why is he touching her tummy? Who's he? Why does he wear a headband? Is she the mommy? Is he the daddy? I could go on, but I'm already feeling uncomfortable again remembering the questions and my lame, "Um, um, um..." responses.

Then, my husband -- always game to jump right in with Marley's obsession-du-jour -- decides to show her an innocent clip from the movie...that ends with Juno flipping the bird. "Why is she pointing at her like that?" Ugh. GREAT idea.

Mommy -- the voice of adult reason (or the closest you're going to get to it in this house) -- nixes anymore viewings on You Tube of the Juno trailer. Tears, protests, and why, why, whys ensue. I roll my eyes and get ready to strap on my "I'm the boss around here" hat on when I have a moment of...understanding.

God, it's so disappointing to have something you are SO into, so passionate about snatched away from you. Not only do you not understand, but the person who did the snatching? Well, I might as well have a mugshot with "Public Enemy #1" stamped across my forehead.

So, I relax my arms and my neck (they always get a little tense when the whining starts), breathe deeply, and squat. I look at my daughter's tears, her quivering lip, and I open my arms to hug her. Not sure if she's going to go for it, but I just want her to know that I get it. Not getting your way does suck, and I've been there.

She runs into my arms and we have about 10 seconds of quiet sweetness where I actually feel on the same page with my 4-year-old. Aaaaaah...Crash, boom, bam! Back to reality. "Why mommy? Why mommy? Why? Why?!?!" I tell her I know it doesn't feel fair and my mommy used to have to be in charge of what music I could listen to and what T.V. I could watch and that it used to also make me mad, mad, mad. No dice. Oh well, it was worth a shot. How about we compromise, I say. I will print pictures of Juno from the computer and we can color them together.

She pauses. Thinks. Looks at me. "Can I come with you when you print them out?" Yes! We have a deal.

Print out something like 15 pictures of Juno and get to work on coloring. We now have orange, pink, and blue pictures of Juno hung around Marley's room and she is happy.

My lesson in all this can, yet again, be summed up by the Divine Ms. M...That's the story of, that's the glory of love.

P.S. When I just read that last line, it made my husband gag. I'm leaving it in anyways. And, the picture above -- that is how we found Marley one night after she'd fallen asleep. She'd stuffed Mr. Cow under her shirt in what we believe to be an attempt to Juno-fy herself.

Is That My A*& or My Elbow?

Professional organizers give some quick, easy tips to streamline meals, handle grocery shopping, and more. One is the mother of one-year-old twins, and believe me, girlfriend is hella' organized so you KNOW she knows what she's talkin' about.

http://parentingresources.suite101.com/article.cfm/get_organized_and_save_time

The Hardest Lesson

So, here I am on a Sunday. The kids are napping and I should be relaxing, having lunch, and enjoying some quiet time. But instead, I am seething. I have jumped head-first into a pool of vengeful spite and, truth be told, I am having the most difficult time climbing out. In fact, I am rather enjoying the warm (hot) temperature of the spite pool, and I'm swimming around rather gleefully. But, I know eventually I have to get out.

What has gotten me so in a tizzy you ask? Well, I'll tell you...parking. Neighborhood parking, to be specific. Yes, now that I've written it down I can't escape how stupid the whole thing is and even worse, how stupid I have been.

I could give you history that would be 100 percent slanted in my favor, thereby painting my neighbor as the ultimate biscuit head. I'll give you the short version, though, and do my best to stick to the facts, m'aam. In a nutshell, we are warring over a parking spot right in front of our driveway. She doesn't want us (or anyone) to park in front of our driveway because it makes it difficult for her to back out of her driveway (she's across the street from us and it's a very tiny street). We get it and avoid that spot maybe 90 percent of the time. The other 10 percent? Small street, shit happens.

Fast forward several years. After an altercation involving myself and neighbor, she decides she will no longer use her driveway and will park on the street. Fine. Free country. If you're not going to park in your driveway, though, don't block ours 'cause we want to use it now. (We don't really. It's the spite talking.) Told her this no less than five times. No dice. Despite many open parking areas, she opts to park in front of our driveway. We left her a note (that looked like a ticket; we think we're funny) thanking her for being such an awesome neighbor (cue oozing sarcasm here).

She then leaves a semi-rude voicemail calling me "sweetie" and talking about "having too much time on my hands because I'm home with the kids all day." (Note: She is a stay-at-home mom.) Right here...here is where I'm having trouble being a grown up. I want to strap on my Dynasty power suit (complete with shoulder pads), get the red painted claws out, march over there and engage in some serious hair pulling. Picture it: I'd stealthily fly across the floor and take her down at the ankles. We'd brawl Alexis-Crystal style. I'd of course emerge victorious holding a clump of blond hair. But before leaving, I'd look at her, gasping for mercy, and say, "There's a new bitch in town."

I want to take a moment here to recognize that I did just get carried away AND that I've watched Heathers one too many times. But, in my defense, that is what happens when you drink from (and swim in) the pool of malcontent.

The one glitch in my little fantasy? I'm a mom, I'm a mom, I'm a mom. Moms don't brawl. Moms don't engage in silly, petty needling games. Moms set good examples. Moms rise above it all. Moms don't go THERE.

At this point, I'm not sure if I'm going to completely let the situation go, take a different tactic, or keep up the existing tension and awkwardness. What I do know is I can't just go on in anger. I can't expect those two little people, who look to me to teach them things (still haven't wrapped my brain completely around that one), to do the right thing if I'm so easily sucked into the wrong thing.

I'm not the first person (nor will I be the last) to get her panties twisted up their ass about parking. We got too many people, too many cars, and too little patience. But, I am trying...trying to do the right thing. That's the best I can do right now. Hey, I might be a mom, but I am still human...and the woman is crazy.

Bon bons would be nice...

Recently, a childless friend of mine said to me (with no hint of irony) that she could never be a stay-at-home mom and just "sit around eating bon-bons all day."

I guess since I work part-time she figured that I didn't qualify for membership into this extremely lazy group of women.

I sat on the other end of the phone speechless. Oh, how I wish I came back with some sarcastic and witty retort. Something like, "Today, I cleaned up five shit diapers; read 543 books; made sure They were clean and fed; practiced walking with one; practiced writing letters with the other; made sure both get enough sleep during the day so as not to avoid dinnertime meltdowns; stopped 3-year-old from strangling one-year-old; did dishes 62 times; cleaned up various and sundry juice, milk, cheerios, yogurt, etc. messes; wiped noses; gave hugs; answered 662 questions that all began with 'why'; cooked dinner for everyone; did laundry for a small army (spills equals more dirty clothes)...Wait, there's something else...Oh, I know...I always forget to add 'Eat bon bons' to the list! Thank you so much for reminding me, seriously."

But, I didn't. And, it still haunts me.

Then, on my blogosphere travels, I came across this article in the Washington Post Carolyn Hax column that just ...nailed it.

So, I know I'm a little late here, but this is my own personal valentine to all you mommies out there whether you stay at home, work part time, work full time, or whatever.

Much love and enjoy,
r.

Tell Me About It by Carolyn Hax : Friend really doesn't get the kid thing

Carolyn:
My best friend has a child. Her: Exhausted, busy, no time for self, no time for me, etc. Me (no kids): Wow. Sorry. What'd you do today? Her: Park, play group . . .
OK. I've done Internet searches; I've talked to parents. I don't get it. What do stay-at-home moms do all day? Please, no lists of library, grocery store, dry cleaners. . . . I do all those things, too, and I don't do them every day. I guess what I'm asking is: What is a typical day, and why don't moms have time for a call or e-mail?

I work and am away from home nine hours a day (plus a few late work events), and I manage to get it all done. I'm feeling like the kid is an excuse to relax and enjoy — not a bad thing at all — but if so, why won't my friend tell me the truth?
Is this a contest ("My life is so much harder than yours")? What's the deal? I've got friends with and without kids, and all us child-free folks get the same story and have the same questions.
— Tacoma, Wash.

Relax and enjoy. You're funny.
Or you're lying about having friends with kids.
Or you're taking them at their word that they actually have kids, because you haven't personally been in the same room with them.
Internet searches?

I keep wavering between giving you a straight answer and giving my forehead some keyboard. To claim you want to understand — while in the same breath implying that the only logical conclusions are that your mom friends are either lying or competing with you — is disingenuous indeed.

So, since it's validation you seem to want, the real answer is what you get. In list form. When you have young kids, your typical day is: constant attention, from getting them out of bed, fed, clean, dressed; to keeping them out of harm's way; to answering their coos, cries and questions; to having two arms and carrying one kid, one set of car keys and supplies for even the quickest trips, including the latest-to-be-declared-essential piece of molded plastic gear; to keeping them from unshelving books at the library; to enforcing rest times; to staying one step ahead of them lest they get too hungry, tired or bored, any one of which produces the kind of checkout-line screaming that gets the checkout line shaking its head.

It's needing 45 minutes to do what takes others 15.

It's constant vigilance, constant touch, constant use of your voice, constant relegation of your needs to the second tier.

It's constant scrutiny and second-guessing from family members and friends, well-meaning and otherwise. It's resisting the constant temptation to seek short-term relief at everyone's long-term expense.

It's doing all this while concurrently teaching virtually everything — language, manners, safety, resourcefulness, discipline, curiosity, creativity, empathy. Everything.

It's also a choice, yes. And a joy. But if you spent all day, every day, with this brand of joy — and then when you got your first 10 minutes to yourself, you wanted to be alone with your thoughts instead of calling a good friend — a good friend wouldn't judge you, complain about you to mutual friends or marvel at how much more productively she uses her time.

Either make a sincere effort to understand, or keep your snit to yourself.

● E-mail "Tell Me About It": tellme@washpost.com; fax: 1-202-334-5669; or write: "Tell Me About It," c/o The Washington Post, Style Plus, 1150 15th St. NW, Washington, DC 20071.

Full Circle

We are back.

As I sit here reflecting on our month-long sojourn to Thailand, I am thankful for so many parts of our trip: Having my mother and brother meet my year-old son for the first time; seeing my 3 1/2-year-old embrace Thai food, culture and life; spending time with my extended family; and our mountain and island adventures.

We have Kodak-style memories that will last us a lifetime. What all the pictures didn't capture, though, but will be forever etched in my mind is the vomit. Yes, I said vomit. I'm talking nonstop bucketfuls of baby and preschooler vomit.

I knew there would be some illness and discomfort when we embarked on this trip, but the level of stomach ailments my children exposed us to was unparalleled. I think my brother summed it up best when he said, "I've never seen so much puke come out of two such little bodies."

It all started before we even left the country. We were on our hour-long flight from D.C. to New York City when Vomit Episode #1 hit us (me) unexpectedly. I was giving Jack a bottle as we were taking off (ears) and he dozed off. Aaaaah, things were getting off to a great start. Marley had also dozed off next to her father. About half-an-hour into the flight, Jack woke up (was hoping for sleep the whole way, but I can deal). As I held him, he looked out the window into the darkness. Little did I know this peaceful moment with my boy would soon come to a crashing halt.

A little history...Jack has never just spit up. When the boy upchucks he really gets after it. Let me spray myself, my mom, the floor, and maybe a wall for good measure. No half-assed vomiting here.

The plane incident was no exception.

Now, when you are on a plane and your kid vomits all over himself and you, there is a moment when your mind goes completely blank. Immediately after that initial shock passes is what I like to refer to as the "FUUUUUUUCK!" Moment. That is what is going on at 110 decibels inside your head, but hopefully is not coming out of your mouth. Then, when that passes, you realize you better figure out something...and quick. Do I have enough wipes? What if he does it again? Is he OK? Oh God, oh God, oh God.

I quickly got my husband's attention, but all he could do was sit there wide-eyed and speechless. I couldn't completely blame him. The sight of his wife and child covered in vomit was probably more than his mind could process at 6 a.m.

I was on my own. I quickly got the wipies out and cleaned up the boy's face and shirt. Then I got to work on my jeans. (Have I mentioned that I don't know how I would function on a daily basis without baby wipes?) After about 159 wipes, we were presentable again. With the wipes disposed of handily in the puke bag (fitting), the plane began to descend.

Little did I know as I sat there, basking in my victory over vomit, that this was only the beginning:

Vomit Incident #2 -- Jack in the Van on the way to the island
Vomit Incident #3 -- Jack again on the way to the islands
Vomit Incident #4 -- Marley in our Bangkok condo
Vomit Incident #5 -- Marley at the shopping mall in Bangkok
Vomit Incident #6 -- Marley in the cab on the way to the airport for Chiang Mai
Vomit Incident #7 -- Marley after lunch in the hotel in Chiang Mai
Vomit Incident #8 -- Marley in the car on the way down From Doi Suthep (tallest mountain in Chiang Mai)
Vomit Incident #9 -- Marley in the middle of the night, sleeping between Travis and me in our Chiang Mai hotel. That was a super duper fun.
Vomit Incident #10 -- Marley on the way back to Bangkok from Chiang Mai

There was so much pukery, I took to scoping out vomit bags as the first order of business after boarding any plane. We actually had a "vomit bucket" for a while as well (see picture). Don't judge the vomit bucket. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And I also took to carrying around plastic bags in taxis, out shopping, etc. There were a couple of weeks there when, before leaving the house, I'd go down my list of must-haves...diapers - check; snack - check, wipes - check, milk - check, vomit-catching receptacle - check.

I should note at this point that neither child ever ran a temperature. Any and all vomiting was purely the result of motion sickness, fatigue (possibly), and maybe some ill-advised food.

I'm not the type of person that gets sick to my stomach easily, either. My husband is. So, I lay our children's performance during the trip squarely on his genetics.

The last two weeks of our stay, any and all vomiting ceased. We settled into a nice quiet routine. The vomit receptacles made it off my list and every time a child coughed or gagged, I didn't spring to my feet, do backflips like a ninja over to to said child, and shove a bucket or bag under his/her face.

You could say I got soft on vomiting. But how could I know?

And...drum roll please....

Vomit Incident #11 and #12 -- Jack on the plane during the 11 -hour Tokyo-Dallas leg of our trip home.

Booooyah!

As I sat there on my hands and knees in the aisle of the plane, cleaning up two pools of puke (#12), I started laughing. The passengers around me must have thought, "Well, she's just gone and lost it." Maybe I had, but I didn't care. I couldn't have dreamed of a more perfect way to end our trip.

Some Advice for Parents...

Traveling 24 hours to another country (Thailand in this case) with two children under five is not recommended unless you are:

a. Not morally opposed to tranquilizing small children.
b. Insane
c. Self-loathing

I would say that traveling internationally with a one-year-old and a 3 1/2-year-old is akin to repeatedly hitting yourself over the head with a sledgehammer.

Our trip to Thailand this time around included two stops (usually one) -- the first in New York City and the second in Tokyo. The tickets were courtesy of one extremely generous father-in-law. But, I will be the first to say...never again. Never again will I stop twice with two small children on the way to a country on the other side of the world. The trip was more like 36 hours instead of 24.

Hell on earth.

I would compare hour 21 in Tokyo to a really, really, really bad acid trip. Small Japanese women running around with overly-friendly smiles and really red lips...haze of sleeplessness...feet swollen from being stationary for hours... two zombie children first whining in fast-forward and then in slow motion..three carry-on bags that seemed to be growing heavier with each stop until I was convinced my name was Sysyphus and I would never be freed from pushing that goddamn boulder up that hill over and over and over again...the feeling that I wanted to punch that guy (also known as my husband) sitting next to me for no reason at all...

On top of it, we had a two-hour delay in Tokyo that put us in Bangkok at sometime around 2 a.m.

We made it though. And, I am still relatively sane.

But wait...it's not over yet. We still have jetlag.

Stay tuned...

One is the Loneliest Number...

I can't believe I forgot the candles.

Our baby had his first birthday today and was forced to pretend-blow out (not that he can blow out anything at this point) a Christmas candle. Yes, years from now, Jack will look back at pictures from his first birthday and see his mom standing with his cake on one side and his dad with a short, fat, candy cane-striped candle (with sparkles, no less) on the other.

He'll be laying on his therapist's couch recounting that moment as the moment he knew he was...The Second Kid.

We had lots of pretty legit excuses. We're preparing for a month-long trip to Thailand, holidays winding down, dog passing away, et cetera, et cetera.

But, as I wallow in this pool of mommy guilt, I remember tirelessly and meticulously planning all three of Marley's birthdays. We're talking catered food, drink, homemade food, traveling circus acts (live animals), life-size drawings of her favorite Dragon Tales characters, a homemade beanbag toss made out a huge drawing of, again, her favorite Dragon Tales characters, arts-and-crafts stations...I could go on. I did all of this while running my own business. So, it's not like we haven't been busy all along.

That magical second kid, though...it's not like you get doubly busy. It's like you get quadruply busy. Yes, quadruply. And, your cute little Mommy Brain forgetfulness turns into full-blown I'm-a-moron-and-I-would-forget-to-wipe-my-ass-if-it-wasn't-for-the-toilet-paper-roll-next-to-the-seat idiocy.

Still, that is no excuse for the low-rent Christmas candle for your baby's first birthday.

And, as I sit here beating myself up for the Great Birthday Candle Debacle of '09, I am reminded of a story about a friend-of-a-friend. This guy, who shall remain nameless, was on a group vacation one summer in Connecticut. One night the friends ended up in a rather intense and heated game of Scattergories. The guy was on a team with his girlfriend who was,allegedly, giving sub-par clues. In his increasing frustration with her going-nowhere-fast Scattergories skills, his eyes began to bulge, his face turned beet red, and what started off as slight perspiration on his forehead became angry beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face.

Before he, or anyone else, knew what was happening, he had screamed out at the top of his lungs(we're talking like a strong gust of wind blowing her hair back) in his girlfriend's face: "TRYYYYY HAAAAARDER!!!!!"

I can't remember how the story ends. Does she dump him right there? Does she try harder? Do they go on to win? The real point is this: I am here to say to you, Jack, that I too will try harder.

Let this first birthday not be indicative of birthdays to come. You will not only have candles, but you will have my birthday blood, sweat and tears...just like your sister.

Happy birthday, my boy.

What? You Don't Wake Up on Christmas Morning Looking Like This?

People think Christmas is about the birth of Jesus or the spirit of giving or spending time with your loved ones. Think again.

I propose that it's about wearing matching pajamas not just with your spouse, but your small children. If you don't have small children, a dog will suffice.

We did it this year for our Christmas card, and let me tell you...it changed our lives forever.

There we were, frolicking about in our living room -- laughing, joking, hugging each other in our matching red and green stripes. Not a shred of self-respect as far as the eye could see.

Not a chance in hell would I have been caught dead in such pajamas pre-children, much less have them MATCH someone else. But, that is what children has done for me. It has freed me of all those oh-so-pesky constraints of good taste.

So, that is Christmas for us this year...two children, matching pajamas, and liberation (at least temporarily) from that silly thing called dignity.

Happy Holidays everyone!!!!! xoxo

And Then There Were Four...

It's been blue around our house the past week. We had to put down our 14-year-old dog who had cancer and a whole host of other maladies.

So, I've been reflecting...

Cheeba had been with my husband and me for about five years. He was my brother's dog since he was a puppy and when Denis moved overseas, he became our dog.

He was an adorable mix of lab and beagle (I know what you're thinking and I'm guessing it was an extremely ambitious beagle and a very docile lab). When he first came to live with us, life was good for ol' Cheeba. He was the apple of our eye and there was no want for doggie treats, cuddles, walks, etc. He was our baby.

A year later, Marley came along. And, as is a common story for canine pets when a baby enters the picture, Cheeba quickly became...a dog. I'm not talking Lady and the Tramp-style neglect, but things did change.

Although I don't think he ever got over being displaced by that loud, wrinkly little thing wrapped in a blanket (or being further displaced when the second wrinkly thing in a blanket came along), he did find a happy little spot in our family.

Most of the time, Cheeba would find places in the house AWAY from the kids. This is usually how the scenario would play out: Cheeba in playroom, kids enter playroom, Cheeba exits playroom and runs downstairs. I don't know how many times I would watch him scurry off to sleep in some dark, quiet nook and wistfully think, "Lucky fucker."

Then, there would be those sweet moments that are forever etched in my mind. Cheebs was half hound dog and you would be reminded of this every time you walked him. He would pull and sniff as if nothing else in the world mattered except that neighbor's dog's piss on the ground from two days ago. When I say he pulled on that leash, I'm talking about being dragged behind him like a rag doll anytime we went outside.

As Marley got older, she would ask to walk him. Knowing his penchant for forcibly hauling us around the neighborhood, we were reluctant to let our preschooler take the reigns. We eventually caved, though, and were shocked by the results. Anytime Marley would hold Cheeba's leash, he instinctively knew not to pull. The two of them would walk along looking like something out of one of those kid-and-animal-are-best-friends Disney movies. Travis and I would walk behind them half melting at the cuteness of the scene before us and half bitter that Marley didn't even have to break a sweat to walk the dog.

Then, there was the time that we discovered Marley feeding Cheeba doggie treats -- about 30 high-calorie peanut-butter flavored doggie treats. It was no wonder our friends were always making snide comments about our dog's rapidly expanding waistline. I'm not above blaming my 3-year-old for his not-so-svelte appearance.

Jack and Cheeba didn't have as deep of a relationship, but it was blossoming. Mostly it would be Jack making rudimentary barking noises at Cheeba that sounded less like a dog and more like him cat-calling some hot woman on the street ("Wooo wooo. Wooo wooo.")


The last day Cheeba was with us, we found Marley sitting with him in our bedroom. She was holding onto his neck and had one of her toy spoons held up to his mouth. She looked up and told us very matter-of-factly, "I'm giving Cheeba medicine because he's sick."

I know, I know....cue the "Aaaaaw." But it is one of those moments that I know I will never forget.

Now, Marley informs everyone that Cheeba is "dead" (don't you love how blunt preschoolers are?) and in "doggie heaven." Sometimes she likes to add a little color to doggie heaven by saying, "He's eating lots of food and playing, playing, playing."

I'm always surprised by how happy it makes me to hear her say that.

Rest in peace old boy...

WTF????

Went to take my shower last night and found not one, but two Cheerios...in my bra. One for each cup.

I'll let you know if I ever figure out exactly how they got there.

Small Victories

I'm awesome. I rock. I'm money. I love me.

Why so self-congratulatory, you ask? Well, lately I've discovered that how good I'm feeling is wholly dependent on the little successes throughout the course of my day. It used to be reaching a challenging sales goal at the shop, writing a story I was really proud of (still is to a certain extent), earning a fat paycheck,...

These days, it's my ability to navigate through (or circumvent) daily minutiae that sends me into high-fiving, chest-bumping, and chest-pounding territory.

For example, today I hauled the dog and two kids to the vet. The appointment was at 11:10. We got there at 11:08! I'm not always on time, but I have a pretty decent record. Early,though? Unheard of. And, without breaking a sweat? Never. But, there I was, pushing the baby in his stroller with one hand, directing Marley (calmly) to walk alongside the stroller, and holding Cheeba's leash with the other hand. And, miracle of miracles...I managed to get through the door of the office without accidentally smacking a child or animal in the head. Bravo, Rosana! (Yes, I do little cheers for myself too.)

We all sat down to wait our turn. I had packed some snacks so as to avoid any pre-lunch hunger meltdowns. I have forgotten snacks before and have suffered the brutal consequences. So, the two sat munching on their crackers while we waited...

Ding! Our turn. As the doc checked out Cheebs, Marley sat in the examining room chair looking at the diagrams of cats' innards on the wall while Jack continued munching on his cracker. Not a peep, not a whine, not a sound. Hallelujah!

Even the vet commented on how well-behaved MY two children were. Did you hear that? I'll say it again. Even the vet commented on how well-behaved MY two children were.

We leave Cheebs there for some tests and head home for lunch and a nap.

I hummed on the way to the car...and all the way home.

I Can Cut Glass With Them

So, I'm reading one of my favorite blogs, The Cut, and I stumbled upon an older article about a fashion trend that was ubiquitous on London runways this past fall -- nipples.

According to the article, the New York sheer-clothing trend was taken to new levels during London's fashion week extravaganza in September. Apparently, every designer was serving up see-through sundaes topped off with cherry nipples.

I couldn't help but imagine what it would look like if I was to sport a sheer top.

First of all, after breastfeeding two children, my nipples just don't take it easy anymore. They are super high-strung and prone to acute anxiety. They also look like they're on some sort of warpath -- ready to attack any and all strange intruders. I'm always a little surprised when my husband makes it to second base that he doesn't scream out, "Ow! Damn! I've been cut!"

A friend once told me she had seen her mother topless and was alarmed by the sheer length of her nipples. She said they "looked like they could cut glass." At the time, I remember thinking. Holy shit, what mutant form of human teat was this woman born with? Not until years later did I realize she was not BORN with those glass-cutting nipples. Some baby sucked the bejesus out of them and she'd been left with the wreckage.

Second of all, it just wouldn't be cute. All the girls in the runway pics had small, but supple breasts, and perky nipples. If my boobs actually had any breast tissue left in them, the nipple issue probably wouldn't be so...dramatic. But, the deflated-balloon boobs actually HIGHLIGHT the nipple issue. Hot.

So, I digress. But, my point is, no sheer tops sans bra for this mommy, unless the "slashed" look suddenly becomes in vogue again. If they can cut glass, they'll certainly slice through chiffon.

Holiday Quote of the Day

"Mommy, can you be quiet? I'm on the phone."

(Marley holding up the phone to her ear.)

"Who are you on the phone with?"

"It's Jesus' grandmother."

Catfights

Marley's preschool teacher informed me today that my daughter and another little girl in her class had engaged in spit-fire combat. When the girls were pressed about who started the playground war by way of saliva, both pointed to the other.

Now, the other little girl -- we'll call her Cecilia -- has gotten significant airtime at the dinner table over the last couple of months. Marley, no stranger to drama, has this little girl rapidly rising from take-it-or-leave-it status to full-blown nemesis.

It all started with the playground tunnel. As Marley recounts, she was in a tunnel with a bunch of other kids when Cecilia approached.

"We were playing in the tunnel and there wasn't any room. So, I said, 'Sorry. There's no room in here, Cecilia. Go away.'"

At this point, I've started racking my brain for poor examples I may have set that have caused my daughter, at 3 1/2, to be on the road to being a Heather.

"Then Cecilia said to me, 'I'm going to tell Mrs. Mitchell.' And, I didn't think that was very nice of her to say to me at all."

I point out to Marley that it wasn't exactly nice of her to tell Cecilia to beat it from the tunnel. How would she feel if someone had told her to leave? How about next time taking turns?

No dice.

Ms. Thang was not budging from her "Cecilia's mean" stance.

So, from that point on, she has regaled us with stories each week about Mean Cecilia and, honestly, we haven't been very parent-like in our response. I think part of it is Mean Cecilia is kind of entertaining. Marley, when telling her stories, lights up like a Christmas tree, gesticulating, laughing, playing off our response like a seasoned comedienne.

Now that spitting has entered the picture, though, it's time for US to grow up. Sometimes I wonder about growing up and learning lessons. Harder for a 3-year-old or for her 30-something parents?

Baby Boy

I can't believe my baby boy is about to be one. It seems like yesterday that you were born, following two weeks of bedrest. You were the second baby of 2008 in our county (even got in the paper) but your dad always tells people you were first.

I'll get straight to the point...mommy is a pushover. I never believed in the whole "Mama's boy" thing, but I do now. You make the slightest peep and I'm there. At your service, sir. What can I get you sir? A bottle? A cuddle? Rock you to sleep? A lullaby? An intricately choreographed tap dance routine for your viewing pleasure? Right away sir.

You have an easy smile, a laugh that won't quit, and this happy, joyful squeal that would make anyone want to join the party you're at (usually with a phone, remote control or some other electronic contraption).

These days, you like balls. You can play a form of rudimentary catch where we sort of toss (ok, roll) the ball back-and-forth. Your dad has already deemed you a superior athlete. So much for not living vicariously through your children...

You also like toilets -- no surprise since farts, poops, burps, and the like still send your parents into Beavis and Butthead territory. If you could, I know you'd jump right in...just like it's your own miniature pool. For now, when my back is turned, you settle for splashing your little hand around in that lovely, clean toilet water. Yay! Great news for a mommy who thought the Anal Retentive Chef actually had some pretty decent ideas.

You and your sister have sown the seed for a loving (physical assault can sometimes be sort of loving right?) relationship. These days, a lot of times either you're in her business without her approval or she's in yours without your approval. But, then there are those sweet moments...wait, I just lost my train of thought...

Oh well, trust me, you guys have sweet moments.

My favorite, though, is when you're so happy to see me that you bury your head into my shoulder and then try to bite my nose. I know what you mean. If you could, that would be a smooch. I squeeze you, cover your face with kisses, and then bend over so you're upside down. I blow on your neck. You laugh and laugh and laugh. Every part of you is laughing -- even those two lonely bottom teeth, your curled-up toes, your fingers grasping my face.

I know you have to grow up, but please don't do it so fast. Please?

Got Milk?

There I am. In my bathroom. Expressing. Milk. From. My. Boobs. Funnel-like cones attached to said boobs, pump pistons workin' on the chain gang, and milk flowing like the salmon of Capistrano.

I'm not sure my nipples have and will ever forgive me.

Travis is downstairs giving Marley* a bottle. She is not taking to the bottle at all. But good Asian and German stock breeds determination. Practice, practice, practice.

I'm upstairs in a zone. The rhythmic sound of the pump reminds me a little of this really cool house track that I used to love to dance to in college...

"Oh no. She finished it," I hear Travis say from downstairs.

The milk receptacles (plastic bags) are just about full. Why defrost another bag?

"WAIT! I'M COMING!"

I run downstairs, tits a-blazin', and fists wrapped around the bags of magic elixir that are going to render my baby immune to...everything.

"Got milk!"

Without missing a beat, Travis grabs one of the bags. Ok, maybe the sight of me topless, running full-speed down the stairs with two bags of milk, and cone imprints around my boobs gives him slight pause.

But he knows his mission. He dumps the milk in the bottle, screws the top back on, and...aaaaah...Marley continues her tentative love affair with The Rubber Nipple.

I walked back upstairs, victorious, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Not bad for a cow.

*Marley was about four months old when the topless/bags of milk/running down the stairs incident occurred.