Have There Been Any Documented Cases of Adults That Still Drink Milk From a Bottle?

Because I'm getting a little nervous. J is 18 months old and loves his bottle. When I say "love," I mean I'm sitting here looking at him right now standing next to me, with his bottle hanging halfway out of his mouth like it's a huge rubber cigarette. Oh, wait, here he goes...straight to the head. (That's when he cocks his head backwards and chugs from the nipple like he's just finished biking 10 miles and is electrolyte-loading with a refreshing bottle of Gatorade.)

Pre-J, I clearly remember seeing toddlers cruising around town drinking from a (gasp!) bottle. I remember thinking, "Christ. That poor kid. Just look at him. What respectable 2-year-old does THAT." Then, I'd look up and see the kid's mom and think, "How could you let him just run around like that? Just look at him. And his teeth are probably rotting as we speak."

Glass houses. Yes, I know. Glass houses.

There really wasn't any weaning to be done with my oldest. M just up and decided her bottle was yesterday's news when she was about 11 months old. One day it was "in" and the next it was just SO Spring 2005. Still, I took most, if not all, of the credit for her smooth and easy transition. There I was all high and mighty wondering why in the heck any parent would CHOOSE to keep his/her kid on the bottle. Now I know.

If your kid gets stuck on the bottle, I have one piece of advice -- Watch. Your. Back. You might find yourself dodging flying sippy cups, flung from the tyrannical hands of a 1 1/2-year-old. I have faced such attacks.

"How dare you? What kind of fool do you take me for? You think you can hand me that spout-shaped piece of shit and I'm actually going to drink from it?"

Then the screaming starts. The sound shatters my steadfast No-Bottle stance, and I am left desperate and fumbling. I tear through the cabinet looking for a bottle. Shit! Where is our one bottle? (We only have one because I keep telling myself he's going to be weaned soon. Idiot.) I find a nipple. "Here! here!" I stick the rubber nipple in his mouth to tide him over. He holds it in his mouth for a moment and then furrows his brow. Oh no. The nipple comes flying at me like a torpedo. I duck. My life flashes before my eyes.

Oh thank GOD. Here's the bottle. He lets out another shriek and I spill milk on the counter. I screw the top on and rush over to his seat.

"Here ma' lord! Your bottle master! Forgive my transgressions!" I bow. He drinks.

I sit down next to him, defeated. Another battle with the bottle lost. Well, at least I was able to subdue and defeat the Pukeness Monster... That's got to count for something.

A Wheelchair, a Mortar and Pestle, and a Hug

The other day I was at the park with the kids and ran into a neighbor and her 2-year-old. We struck up a pleasant swing-set conversation. About mid-way through our talk of neighborhood events and happenings, M, who had gone down the slides a few times, came running up to us. She stopped, faced our neighbor, and randomly (loudly) declares, "My Khun Yai is in a wheelchair!"

My neighbor looked at M in a moment of awkward silence, but quickly recovered, pulling from her bag of talking-to-preschoolers tricks the Repeat What They Say card.

"Oh, your grandma? And, she's in a wheelchair?"

"Yes!" M answered proudly. And, with a little fairy-dance twirl, she was off. There I sat, wondering if I should explain further or leave the word “wheelchair” -- always accompanied by its best friends “sad” and “tragic” -- alone. And, so I did. No need to go into a lengthy explanation about my mother's 30-year struggle with a neurodegenerative disease that has methodically and heartlessly stripped her of her ability to speak, walk, and feed and bathe herself. No. No need to ruin a perfectly beautiful spring day and pleasant small talk with such…heaviness.

But, when you have a curious 4-year-old, full of questions, ideas, and innocence, it becomes increasingly difficult to push difficult THINGS in life to the back of your mind where they can hide in a safe little cocoon of pillowy cobwebs.

So, there she is. My mother. Not the mother of my childhood, but a different person altogether. A woman overtaken by spasms, shakes, nonsensical talk, and even delusional ramblings. It doesn’t help (or does it) that she lives across the globe in another country – far away from me, my children, my husband…my life. Every two years we visit her in Thailand. She wraps her fragile arms around me and squeezes a little too hard. I squeeze back and shut my eyes, willing myself to be nine years old again.

Aside from these visits, she is the sweet smiling face in pictures that adorn our shelves, dressers, and walls. Easy. And not. She lives in my daughter’s mind not as a real living, breathing person, but a curious, shadowy figure. And, as the busy days pass, she lives less and less in my mind…and more and more on those shelves.

But, she always asks. And, so I tell M stories about Khun Yai “when she could walk.” I tell her that when I used to get scared at night, she would sing Thai lullabies to help me sleep. She loves to hear stories about her mommy as a little girl with a mommy of her own. But, I can only tell her so much. And then that heavy, sinking weight in my chest cuts me off.

I have clear memories of my father. His strict, no-nonsense and often cold approach to parenting had, and still has, a profound effect on me. But memories of my mother – healthy, vibrant, active and devoted – become blurrier with each passing year. I know she was the loving presence in our home. The hugs, I love yous, and fortune cookie-worthy life lessons (“Stay away from the man who doesn’t love his mother.”) – all came from her.

She started to decline in my teens. The strange name for the diagnosis, olivopontocerebellar ataxia, had little to no meaning for our family – even though it is a family disease. We promptly put on our cute, happy denial hats, made some jokes about her “drunken” walk, and went on our merry way. Over the years, I have continued to push her and her illness into the hard-to-reach corners of my mind, to be occasionally awakened for holiday phone calls and visits. Until now.

The beauty of children – especially young children – is their boldness and honesty. M's relentless need to learn, know and feel doesn’t let me forget my mother even though it is often painful to think of her. She forces me to dig deep into the recesses of my childhood mind and draw up pictures of “Maa.” Not the woman in the wheelchair today, but the pretty, young mother with the wide smile and guffawing laugh.

And so, I think of her. The guilt of not being near her, the fear that somewhere in my own genetic makeup is the same twisted, gnarled gene, and the tedium of trying to communicate with her over the phone can be too much to bear. But M doesn’t let me off the hook. And so I go there…to that uncomfortable place. The sadness grabs me, wraps me tight and won’t let go. I miss my mother. I grieve knowing that I’ll never get her back the way I want. I hear her voice -- soft, steady, sweet – and I am angry. Even when you’re a mommy, sometimes you still want your mommy. There’s no avoiding M’s questions, though. How can I tell her life slaps you with a shit hand sometimes?

What do I tell my daughter about my mother? I close my eyes again. We are in the kitchen and I am pounding garlic with the mortar and pestle. My mother is sprinkling chilies in and directing me to angle the pestle so as the crush the garlic more effectively.

I am in the pool. There is cheering all around me. I am not going to make it, I think to myself. My limbs slap against the water and I’m imagining I must look like a windmill churning through the pool as my competitors glide effortlessly by. I breathe to the side and hear right above me, “Go Rosana!” It is my mother. I hear the cheer over and over and over again. I win the race and my mother has lost her voice.

I am 15 and angry. I want to leave home. My father doesn’t understand, will never understand. My mother comes to my room and cups my tear-drenched face. “You’re not ready to fly yet, sweetheart. When you are, don’t worry. I will help you pack.” She hugs me and I cry.

I am 10 years old and ugly. I have glasses, braces and crooked legs. I look in the mirror and hate what I see. “No,” my mother says. “You are beautiful.” And I am.

M will know all these stories because she will live them. I mother the best way I know how because I had a mother who did it the best way she knew how. It’s not always pretty and it’s far from perfect. But it is my mother and it is me.

You Can't Die From Lack of Sleep, but You Can Scare the Bejesus Out of the Hair-Washing Lady at the Salon

I finally got my hair done. I needed it. The gray strands of hair were starting to take over and outnumber the black strands. And, the lovely deep red highlights Leo had originally given me had grown out about two inches and turned a brassy copper.

I plopped down in my hairdresser's chair, ready to talk about the dandelions growing from my scalp. I looked in the mirror and saw the last three weeks written all over my face.

I'd spent them nursing various and sundry illnesses that my kids seemed to keep passing back-and-forth to each other. Running to the doctor, picking up medicine, holding the 1-year-old until I thought my arm was going to completely dislocate at the shoulder. Taking the 4-year-old to the emergency room on a Sunday after she started screaming bloody murder (ear infection). Up at all hours with a congested 1-year-old who couldn't fall asleep and then holding him over my shoulder for hours so he could breathe more easily.

On top of it, not enough work accomplished during the day means more work into the night. In other words, I haven't slept for three weeks. Now, when I usually complain about not sleeping, I usually mean that I haven't slept ENOUGH. The last three weeks, I'm talking about not sleeping AT ALL.

So, with the kids finally on the mend (at least for now), I go to get my hair done (although, my mommy martyr instincts nearly won, which would have resulted in a canceled appointment and three more months of buns and ponytails).

Highlights first. Every time I blinked, my eyes would threaten to shut for good. I kept imagining propping them open with toothpicks. The thing is, I'm fine if I'm sleep deprived...as long as I don't stop moving. The minute I sit, relax, take it down a notch, it's over. Lights out.I'm cooked. Finished. Sayanora, sucka.

Made it through the highlights. Next, under the heat. I got a magazine out and started reading a Cosmopolitan article about how to lose five pounds in one week (drink water whenever you're hungry, thirsty or bored). I found the page getting blurry if I stared at it too long, which makes things complicated because reading involves staring at pages too long. My head started bobbing forward. I think I might have fallen asleep for a minute, but woke up with my head strangely cool and Leo standing in front of me asking if I was ready to get my hair washed.

I shuffle over to the hair washing station and sit down. The woman starts working the warm water through my hair...and that's all I remember. I fell into a deep coma-like sleep probably within 15 seconds of getting my hair washed. Now, only a select few people know what I do before I fall into a super deep sleep. Right before I hit the point of no return, I twitch -- violently. Sort of like a bolt of lightening has just hit me or some supernatural demon has just gained entry into my body. At least that's the way it's been described to me.

So, there I am sleeping, sleeping, sleeping and all of the sudden...I twitch. My body convulses so abruptly that my neck snaps in that little dip in the hair-wash sink. "Aaaah!" I yell. "Oh, sorry. Uh. Who did? Where went? Do that...What?" I mumble all disoriented. And, as if twitching in front of the hair-wash lady, who probably thought I was having some sort of seizure, wasn't bad enough I then sit up and notice I've drooled all over my chin. Cute.

I go to get up and she says, "We're not done yet. We need to still condition." At that point, I see that my hair is still sopping wet. Christ. I'm a mess. Falling on my face, drooling all over myself, not knowing where the hell I am or what I'm doing...What's next? Am I accidentally going to shit my pants?

I'm going to bed now before I cause any more damage to myself.

Good night...pray for me.

The Ultimate Humiliation

I was at the pharmacy this morning filling two amoxicillin prescriptions for four infected ears. The three of us strolled up to the drop-off window. Correction, I strolled, J wobbled and M sprinted.

I looked down and immediately got nervous. I could see J's eyes flashing and his lips curling as he glanced around at all the destroy options within his reach -- pregnancy test boxes (wouldn't that be poetic for him to knock a whole row of those over), antacid bottles, vitamin containers, band-aid boxes. A couple of swift moves and they'd all be gonners. He made a couple of pre-emptive grunts, and I headed him off by scooping him up.

There are times I wish I was in better shape or just plain bigger and stronger. This was one of those times. Upon being thwarted from his seek-and-destroy mission, J immediately threw his head back, catapulting both of us backwards and nearly hitting the shelf behind us.

"Fuck!" I screamed (in my head).

I quickly regained my composure and put J down, holding onto the back of his shirt and, in essence, turning his tee into a choke collar. Meanwhile, M was perusing the crap toy wall nearby and I could hear her periodically whining, "Mama, I reeeeeeallly like this jump rope. Can I pleeeeeeease have it? Just this oooooone? Paaaaaaalease?" I pretended I didn't know who she was.

Please note, at this point, I have not even been able to GIVE the prescriptions to the pharmacist who was standing and waiting for me to give her even the slightest hint that I'd be able to pull my shit together. I finally make eye contact.

"I have a couple of prescriptions to drop off," I say. It's just to let her know that I am getting THERE. I'm not there yet, but I'm working on it.

I start digging in my purse with one hand (other hand maneuvering the choke collar), which could actually be a carry-on suitcase, it's so gd huge. I'm rifling through diapers, two wipey containers, crumbs, a sippy cup, loose change, a few loose wipes (nothing more disconcerting than reaching in your purse and finding a wet wipe hangin' out and wondering if you just stuck your hand in some toxic combo of saliva, snot and sanitizer), a Matchbox car, a Goldfish, an unopened juice box (thank GOD), three cottonballs (no idea), and a bottle of water. Finally, I pull them out.

"Here they are," I gasp. She takes them from me. I look down. The choke collar seems to not be having any sort of effect on J as he's pulling from my slowly weakening grip. M walks up right as he pulls away.

"Mooooo-ooooomy. I think this jump rope is ADORABLE. Don't you?"

You've got to me kidding me. "Yes, it's very cute, honey, but we are not buying any toys today. We are just here to get medicine." I hope she hears the edge in my voice and throws me a bone. No such luck.

"But, maaaamaaaa. It's just so adorable. Just look. I only want this one thing and I won't ask for anything else..."

Wait, where's J? I scan the perimeter of the pharmacy counter just in time to see him rounding the corner of the vitamin aisle. I take off after him. "It will be 15 minutes, Miss!" the pharmacist yells after me. "Thanks!" I holler back. "Come on M!"

"BAAAAAGAAA! MAMAMAMAMAMAMA! LADAAAAAFAAAAAMAMAMAMA!" he screams just as I start seeing bottles go flying.

"Fuck me!" I yell (inside my head).

It's amazing how much damage can be done in less than 30 seconds. I drop to my hands and knees, holding Jack with one hand, and start putting the bottles back. "Jacky! NO! No, Jacky!" M starts scolding. He starts crying.

Great. Did she say 15 MINUTES???

We walk back up to the front of the pharmacy. I'm hoping that by seeing the chaos, the pharmacist will have mercy (or want us out of there, stat) and get us our medicine in maybe five instead of 15?

I'm holding J on my hip and he's just nonstop wiggling and I'm nonstop sweating. M picks up a tube of Chapstick. "Mama. I want my own Chapstick. This is sooooooo adorable. Please can I, please, please, please have it?" Again, who are you?

I put J down because...well, because I have to if I want my arm to remain attached. He takes off. Again. I sigh and run after him, hearing M in the background crying, "But Maaaaamaaaa! Look at this adorable Chapstick!"

We hit the butt and stomach aisle and he goes straight for the bottles of antacid, which is perfect because I'm starting to need one. Did I mention the kid has gotten fast? I mean, he's still stumbling around but somehow he's able to stumble forward at lightening speed.

So, I run toward him and then it happens: I TRIP OVER MY OWN FEET. I've never fallen face-first into the ground, but this time I actually ate carpet.

"Oh MY GOSH, Mama! Oh my gosh!" I look up and even J has paused to survey what has just taken place. The two of them look at me with a strange curiosity as if they just can't believe their eyes. Both of them have fallen, but to have Mommy fall? No way. But, there I was, on the ground and I think I may have actually scraped my knees too. (Do they make drugstore carpet by weaving together brillo pads?)

"Mommy's ok. It's fine," I say as I glance around to see if there were any other witnesses. None. Sigh.

"Vollmeerhoooosen is ready," I hear over the intercom. I pick myself up. I take a deep breath, brush the hair out of my face, hoist J onto my hip, and take the Chapstick from M.

"Thank fucking GOD," I say (to myself).

A Superhero in Our Midst

I'd heard about such kids. Tall tales of children that, when agitated, used their mutant powers of regurgitated food to silence their enemies. Toddlers with unflinching focus, determination, and sour milk resources. Little ones that leave you in such a state of shock, you are left questioning everything you thought you knew about parenting. I never thought I'd have such a child.

And, then there was J. Ladies and gentlemen, we've got a puker.

Jack has never been a great sleeper. I take that back. He was a GREAT sleeper for the first six months of his life. I remember dropping to my knees and praising the heavens above for giving me a baby that slept through the night after two months. Little did I know that it was the cruelest of all cruel jokes the powers-that-be could play on a sleep-deprived mother who had just gotten a taste of nocturnal bliss.

Just about the time he hit six months, the night wakings began. Instead of taking the bull by the horns and teaching him to put himself back to sleep (a la Ferber), we caved. Not sure what it is about that second kid, but you're just not as...regimented. Oh yeah, I remember why now...it's that you're TIRED AS SHIT.

Our mode to get little J to count sheep and get friendly with the man in the moon? The Bottle. Initially, I didn't see that bottle as a crutch. I saw it as a mechanism for survival. My survival. Worked like a charm every time. Sucked down that bottle in the middle of the night and slept the rest of the way through.

I knew one day it would have to stop, but I pushed those unpleasant thoughts to the back of my mind. Then the day came. Exhausted from waking up every night for over a year, I declared to T one evening, "No more! Tonight, is the beginning of a new day. The boy WILL SLEEP!" (My husband has heard enough of these types of I'm-mad-as-hell-and-I'm-not-going-to-take-it-anymore declarations that he simply humors me with a nod and a thumbs up like we're about to partake in some sporting event.)

We'd done it once before with M so it's not like what we were to embark upon was reinventing the wheel. We knew what we had to do. We just had to strap on our balls and...do it. And, I had a plan. You'd think I was mapping out tactics for crossing enemy lines during World War II. I set the plan in motion.

That night, we put him to sleep as usual. And as usual, around midnight, he woke up. Instead of popping that bottle in his mouth, though, I went in and rubbed him, kissed him and bid him adieu.

Kid. Went. Ballistic.

I lay down in bed and looked at the clock -- 12:16 a.m. I'd give him five minutes and then go back in to give him a follow-up rub and kiss. The plan was to keep this up until he passed out, extending the re-entry time 5, 10, 20, 30 minutes. Torture for a few nights, but it's a proven method in this house -- worked wonders with our first.

Well, I think we got three minutes into it when I started to hear some gagging. I jolted out of bed and sprinted into his room. In slow motion, I opened the door. "Noooooo!" I yelled in that creepy, deep slow-motion voice. Too late. The vomit came at me like acid. I half expected his head to start spinning around. With my jaw on the floor, I watched as the projectile puke liquid shot out and then down, landing on the floor with a loud "splat." My mouth still open, I shook my head, ran over to the baby and scooped him up.

He immediately stopped crying and starts talking to me. "Ah goo da doo na mee fa foo," he gurgled sweetly. And then, he did the unspeakable. He smiled. I can't effing believe it. The kid is GOOD.

I'm shaken to the core and it takes me another three months to even consider letting him cry again. When I finally do, my fears are reinforced by Vomit Boy who does exactly the same thing he did that first night. I don't have the stomach (no pun intended) for THIS.

I have read some online discussions on how to handle trial by vomiting. Some folks just suggest walking in, with no reaction, cleaning up the mess, kissing the kid goodnight and quickly exiting. I don't know if I'm capable of staring straight into the eyes of vomit without any sort of reaction. But, I'm ready to give it a whirl.

My kid is 18 months old now. I am strong. I am ready. I am sleepy. Bring the puke on.

Stay tuned for upcoming battles between the powerful and noxious Puke Boy and the sleepy, but determined, Mommy.

Moi

1. I am a Valentine baby.

2.I used to chauffeur my little brother and his best friend,Travis (also known as my future husband) to highschool swim team practices. Little did I know then that more than 10 years later, I would fall for and marry...a freshman!!!

3. Without my glasses or contacts, I can't see my hand in front of my face.

4. I wish I was more of a saver.

5. On that note, I am a compulsive shopper and rarely buy anything on sale.

6. Although I am the mother of two, I still feel incredibly awkward and uncomfortable holding a newborn.

7. I am easily annoyed, but have been trying patience on for size.

8. My husband and my brother are my two favorite people on the planet.

9. I enjoy cursing, but have curbed such outbursts since I noticed Them listening.

10. I could not live without coffee, bacon, and fish sauce.

11.I have an exceptionally horrible singing voice.

12. I owned a clothing boutique for five years and left a year ago. Because it was such a huge part of my life, I sometimes feel as if I should miss it more...

13. I hated Sunday Thai school growing up, but am forever indebted to my parents for forcing me to go because I still can read, write and speak Thai.

14. Besides the DC area, I have lived in Bangkok, Thailand and Boulder and Denver, Colorado.

15. My husband still regularly makes me laugh to the point of peeing myself.

16. I was a journalist in a previous life.

17. Motherhood hit me like a ton of bricks. The idea that I am affecting the lives of these two little people still freaks me out.

18. I am the only member of my family (besides hubby and kids,of course) that still lives stateside full-time.

19. I find awkward and uncomfortable situations to be hilarious.

20. I never had a sweet tooth until I got pregnant. Now, I don't feel a meal is complete without dessert.

21. I love going out and dancing...like the sweaty booty-shakin' kind...and wish I had a chance to do it more.

22. I got my first gray hair at 26.

23. Because I have a horrible memory, I am obsessive about taking pictures and writing down memories. I have documented just about every minute of my life.

24. Key West with my then-boyfriend/future husband Travis will be one for the ages...how my head got stuck there...hearing the the inside of a seashell..Travis laughing harder than I've ever seen anyone laugh.

25. I'm one lucky f'in girl and I'm reminded of it everyday.

Wordless Wednesday

Never thought in a million years I'd birth a child with CURLS. I guess those genes that control my super stick-straight Asian hair aren't as all-powerful as I'd thought...

And, in the spirit of Wordless Wednesday, I created a photo blog on Tumblr of old-school and new-school pics, chronicling life before kids to one kid to two kids. Feel free to stop by anytime.

Helicopters Everywhere

We went to some friends' house for a cookout yesterday and found ourselves in enemy territory. Now, when I say "enemy territory," I don't mean we didn't enjoy every moment with our hosts and friends that were there. I mean that we were on high-alert, child-injury watch the entire time. Booby traps. Land mines. Even weapons of mass destruction.

First there were the horse shoes. How was our host (by the way, no kids) to know that those metal stakes he stabbed into the ground were potential toddler impalers? Or, that the flying horse shoes were actually metal boomerangs of death? Our one-year-old, who has just started to walk, is a heat-seeking missile for injury and destruction. If he can find a way to hurt himself, preferably by hitting his head against something, he will.

I would let J run around the yard while the guys gathered the horse shoes. But, the minute I saw that they were getting ready to fling some Head Smashers across the lawn, all of the sudden I became John Q. Safety. I'd hitch up my high-water safety pants, push up my glasses held together with electrical tape, and bust out in my best mom-nerd voice: "Wait guys. Just wait a gosh-darned second here." I'd then corral J away from any potential metal-meet-head, head-meet-metal introduction and yell, "Safety first, guys! Safety first!"

The single, childless guys thought that was WAY cool.

After about an hour, I was exhausted from physically restraining Jack from the horse shoes, running to protect him from tripping and smashing into the concrete rivets coming out the ground around the perimeter of the yard, and keeping him from falling into the Pit of Death concrete stairs leading to the basement entry.

And, then it hit me. What once would have been a relaxing evening outside with friends is no more. Your perspective changes when you have small children, particularly ones that walk around like they've just had one too many. The world suddenly does seem more dangerous, filled with a myriad of potential injuries. Some parents let their kids fall and get back up. Some parents shield them from any and all injury. I'd like to say I fall in the former category, but I don't. It's a battle I wage with myself on a daily basis while chanting the mantra, "They're fine. They're fine. They're fine."

I'll believe that one day.

Although I am a product of a society of scaredy cats, I will say, in my defense, I'm not as bad as SOME parents. A friend of mine won't even let her 3-year-old ride a see-saw for fear that falling one whole foot to the ground will cause...gasp...a scrape! (By the way, critiquing others is what I do to make myself feel better about my own neuroses...Not nice, but strangely effective.)

I do let my kids fall, but it sends shock waves through my body, which I try not to show on my face as I tell them (probably a little too enthusiastically), "You're ok. You're fine. LET'S KEEP PLAYING!"

I don't want my fears to become my kids' fears. I do have to eventually allow my children to fall, make mistakes, and find their way. I will still try to protect them while they're little, but I recognize the need to ease up a bit. Because, in the end, I can't control everything. Man, that's a hard pill to swallow because I have always firmly believed, without any inkling of doubt, that I am Master of the Universe.

And, wouldn't you know it, at the end of our evening -- after hours of defending, blocking, tackling -- someone got hurt anyway. M opened the gate to the deck and her hand decided to get really friendly with a tiny piece of wood. We ended the night hustling away with our our belongings, a squirming over-tired toddler, and a screaming preschooler with a splinter in her palm.

So much for being Master of the Universe.

Eyes on the Prize

Rocky IV - Eye Of the Tiger - The most popular videos are a click away

I rock. Finished three miles yesterday -- without stopping, whining, or dying. May be peanuts for you crazy people who actually enjoy running, but for me, it is a feat akin to fighting a 7-foot Russian. It was raining yesterday too, which just added to the ambiance of my yo-Adrienne training session. Just imagine it: I'm running down the parkway, sweat and rain careening down my face, which is twisted into a grimace of pain...and determination. Hells yeah!

The end point was this sign at the intersection of the parkway and the main road near our house. About 100 feet away from the sign, I felt a burst of energy. With my arms pumping and legs picking up speed, I neared the sign. As I got closer, I jumped up and banged it with all my might. I let out a roar, shook my head in fury like a wild animal and ripped my shirt off in a moment of pure physical adrenaline.

Eye of the tiger, bitch! Eye of the MUTHAFUCKING tiger! (Sorry, Rocky-mode means liberal use of the f-bomb.)

Afterwards, I drove to an inner-city warehouse did 500 sit-ups hanging from the ceiling, jumped rope at lightning speed, and did body twists with a 100-pound cement block on my shoulders.

Well, I WOULD have done that if it wasn't for those pesky dinner reservations.

Fuck yeah.

The Nth Disease

When I had kids, I knew there would be a high probability of lice, pink eye, ear infections and other commonly named maladies in my future. What I didn't have a clue about were all the other strangely named illnesses waiting to pounce on me and my family in the disease-ridden place I affectionately refer to as "Gross," but most people call "preschool."

Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease. Fifth Disease. Sixth Disease. Impetigo. Dub. T. Eff. I'd get all these notices about disease floating around the hallways and classrooms of the sweet Christian day school M attends. "Little Johnny Gross was diagnosed with Fifth Disease last Tuesday. We don't believe he was contagious during the day he was in school, but we still wanted to notify parents."

Ew.

Just makes me look at all people under four feet as tiny, deadly little incubators for grossness.

I remember the first time I encountered Hand, Foot and Mouth. My daughter was two years old. She developed these little blister-like bumps on her hands and feet. She also had a couple really painful-looking sores on her tongue. Poor little M. I wanted to take the illness away with a snap of my motherly fingers. Still, when the doctor informed me that my daughter had this Hand, Foot, Mouth thing, I nearly slipped and yelled out, "Gross!" Luckily, I was able to bite my non-blistered tongue and refrain from wrinkling my nose into a nonverbal "gross" face.

M recovered after about a week.

Now, once again, the dreaded Hand, Foot, Mouth has struck the Vollmerhausen compound. It's toddling J. I thought the rash was a reaction to the sand, but I had a sneaking suspicion...I thought the fever could be attributed to two molars coming, but I had feeling...Sure enough, took him to the doctor this morning and he's got Hand, Foot and Gross Disease. All we can do is keep his temperature down and wait for the vile virus to have its fun, get bored, and leave.

Still, there is no true end. Next it could be Fifth Disease, which apparently is like a slap in the face -- literally. Or, some other mystery illness that will leave me scratching my head and thinking, "Ok. For real. Who's the douchebag that did a family vacation in an Amazon jungle and picked up some yellow fever nonsense that I've never heard of?"

Sigh. I'm going to rub antibacterial wipes all over my body now, thank you.

Does Someone Smell Something?

Despite my incessant pants-shitting about traversing mountainous sand dunes while single-handedly hauling toys, children, towels, snacks, and drinks...our vacation ROCKED. It rocked so hard that not only did M whine when it was time to go, so did I.

My biggest discovery during the midst of all this beach fun? No, it wasn't that getting a tan will erase about seven years from your face. Or, that if I lay on my back and have one of the children placed strategically in front of my midsection, I can still work a bikini like it's 1999.

Exhibit A


Exhibit B

(Exhibit B is technically from our trip to the Outer Banks. I am sitting up in this picture and have since learned that laying down produces even better results.)

It's that if I scoop the giant doody out of my drawers every now and again and just let shit fly, vacations -- and life -- are really, seriously fun.

P.S. My husband looks smokin' hot in his board shorts. He made me say that.

Vacation Shmacation

So, on my last day at the beach for the holiday weekend and it occurred to me...I'm exhausted. I just went to put my one-year-old down for his afternoon nap and fell into a deep sleep for several minutes while holding him. I was rudely smacked back into consciousness by The Wordless Wonder. "What? Huh? Who?" I sputtered until I realized what had happened. I looked down to see his smiling face and the weapon that shocked me back awake (his hand) still resting firmly on my cheek.

"You thought you were going to get to sleep, sweetie?" he seemed to say to me, with a look in his eye that was... could it be? Yes. Condescension.

"We may be on vacation, honey. But, get your ass back to work."

There's no question...Since becoming a mother to two small children, I come back from vacations wondering where the "vacation" part of the whole thing went.

Between lugging toys, blankets, towels, snacks, and a toddler... hiking over and across what feels like miles upon miles of sand... doing laundry, getting the toddler to sleep in his Pack 'n Play, which he hates...I've been pushed to my physical limits. Oh yeah, top it off with two days of intense paddle ball on the beach with my husband. I need a massage. And a foot rub. And a nap. That lasts for three days.

I have to admit that the sand is what got me this time. Walking across the sand while hauling J did me in. My 1 1/2-year-old -- who has just started walking -- has this innate ability to become dead weight the minute you pick him up. My mother-in-law says my husband was the same way when he was a kid. Sack o' potatoes. Great.

Today, I was carrying him across the sand back to our place, giving myself a pep talk. "Dig in. Come on Rosana. Dig deep. You can do it." I was breathing like I was in labor or running, "Whhh. Whhh. Shhh. Shhh." Got back to the house and literally collapsed and let J down in a pile on the front stoop.

"My calves better be so rockin' after this trip," I mutter to myself.

With sweat beads still glistening on my brow, I hereby would like to rename vacations with small children. I mean, let's face it. When you go away with kids under five, you get to see new things, do different things, and spend QT together. But, relax? Pshaw. So, let's simply call these family getaways, "changes of scenery." That's right. That way no parents get fooled into thinking they actually are going to get a VACATION.

Give me a break. No seriously. I need one.

The Next Annie Leibovitz?

As many of you who have preschoolers may have already experienced, we have a budding photographer on our hands. I meant to post this for Wordless Wednesday, but I've been inundated with deadlines, packing for the beach, and breaking up preschooler/toddler brawls, which, incidentally, seem to be taking on a life of their own. More on that later...

It is eye-opening to look at my daughter's pictures and realize, man, the kid doesn't know what the eff is going on. Now that M can express her opinions (argue), verbalize her needs (demand), and tell us when she's not happy (whine), it's easy to forget that she is only four. The simple fact is this, though: She's little. You'd think this wouldn't be a difficult concept to grasp seeing as I still wipe her ass every morning. But, it is easy to lose track in the midst of the often-frustrating daily life with a preschooler.

Pictures tell the truth, though. M sees the world and life from an upwards angle, partially cut off, really big, really close up...and often extremely fuzzy. Or, as in the case of the unfortunate picture of her mother above...completely horrifying. Someday those pictures will be focused, centered, and (adult) level, but for now, every time I get annoyed with how "big" everything seems to M, I'm going to try and remember these pictures.

Good Housekeeping

The Black Widow. The Torch. Mistress of Death. These are all names I have come to be known by during my quest toward ultimate domesticity over the last five years.

There are some motherly/wifely duties I have mastered -- keeping a fairly clean and organized house, groceries, picking up dry cleaning (oooh. Good one. I ROCK at that), laundry, making sure the children live through the day...But, there are some chores that day after day, week after week, year after year, continue to elude my housewifely prowess. In fact, not only do they continue to somehow escape my radar, but I manage to do them over and over again, really, really badly.

First on the list is toast. I cannot seem to get toast right on the first go-around no matter how determined I am at the onset. It always takes me two times to get it right. This used to perplex and irritate my husband to no end. He would say, "Rosana. Seriously. What is up with you and toast? What is going on?" as if Toast and I had this long, tortured past that always ended in an ugly confrontation with me throwing Toast head-first into the toaster oven, turning the oven on, and then tossing my head back and cackling with evil glee as it turned a charred, black mess.

The toast incidents continue to this day and my husband has taken to keeping his disappointment to himself, simply shaking his head each time I dispose of the morning hockey puck.

More worrisome than the toast is how these massacres seem to be going beyond slices of bread. Last night for instance, I baked two trays of french fries for an impromptu dinner with the in-laws. The timer was set and there was NO chance these puppies were not going to make it into a pool of ketchup. The timer beeps, I turn it off, but do I remove the fries? No. I say to myself, "I'll take them out in a sec once I finish blah, blah, blah."

Some time later, right before we sit down to our turkey burgers, I yell out in horror, "THE FRIES!" The in-laws have no idea what the hysteria is about until I open the oven.



As I sheepishly sit down to a dinner with burgers, no fries, my 4-year-old daughter decides to go ahead and address the issue head-on as only a preschooler can.

"Mommy kills fries...and plants."

Mean Girls

I thought cliques were done and gone once you left highschool. Wrong-o. Apparently when your kids start going to school, that curious "in" crowd and "out" crowd phenomena that dominated your pubescent life rears its ugly head. Except this time, you're in your mid-30s, it's the moms, and the "in" criteria includes seniority, number of kids, and the ever-elusive (to me at least) "craftiness" factor.

Last year was M's first year in preschool and we loved it. When I mean "we," I mean M AND me. M loved her class, her teacher and her new little gaggle of pint-size pals. Most of the parents were new to the school with this as their first time doing anything close to organized with their kids. We all walked around in a clueless daze, giddy over the little art projects our kids would trot out to us each day after class.

I bonded with four of the other moms. We all had two kids a piece and shared a fun, silly outlook on mothering. We relived horror stories about child-rearing, laughed at the ridiculousness of pregnancy, marveled in our little miracles, and compared notes on the minutiae of it all.

This year has been a little different. M hasn't had the strong bonding with any of the kids in her class that she had last year, and I have been equally noncommittal.

It all started with the first week of school, which scared the bejesus out of both of us. M’s class was twice the size of last year's. She was immediately intimidated. I'd see her at the start of class meandering about the sea of kids, not quite knowing who to approach, talk to or play with.

By the same token, at drop-off instead of hanging around for a minute to chat with some of the moms -- as I'd done last year -- I found myself rushing off. At first I thought it was the chaos of drop-off. The blur of screaming babies, frantic moms, coats everywhere, kids scrambling to wash hands before class, and hollering preschoolers facing separation anxiety for the first time would put anyone in oh-my-God-get-me-the-hell-out-of-here mode.

But, really, it was that the moms this year seemed...different. They appeared to already know each other and were always engaged in what looked like hush-hush mom conversations with no room for newcomers or interlopers. As the weeks passed, with each drop-off I started to notice the inner-workings of the clique and found that there were indeed requirements to make it into the inner sanctum.

1. Must have three kids. Yup. Two doesn’t cut it. You must have put in at least three-kids' worth of blood, sweat, and tears. Sort of like a hazing ritual. The youngest one still has to be an infant too -- preferably attached to your chest at all times like a badge of honor. Not sure if I’m ready, willing, and able to go through another stomach-stretching, nipple-pulling, sleep-deprivation torture episode to be part of the “in” crowd.

2. Must have been through this preschool once before with an older child. Seems trivial, but it sets up the whole seniority thing. I remember switching from private Catholic school to a local public school in junior high and wondering how in the heck all these kids already knew each other. Elementary school. They all had gone to elementary school together. Same story more than two decades later. Sorry...SOL on this one as well.

3. Must possess intricate knowledge of The Crafts. Now, I’m only guessing on this one because the times I have overheard conversations, I seriously have no clue what anyone is talking about. The only word that sounds familiar is “homemade” so I am guessing it’s about cooking and making things...from scratch. Shudder. In my defense, I have tried to do arts and crafts with M, but it typically ends up as an exercise in how quickly I can lose my patience. Ultimately, I’m annoyed, she’s annoyed and we’d both rather play dress-up. So, no crafts for me or my kid. I suppose I could try harder...


Marley has adjusted over the course of the school year and has a few pals in her class that she likes well enough. As for me? There are a few other moms that look just as on-the-outside as I do. I think I’ll start my own clique of mom nerds. We’ll be like in Revenge of the Nerds and take over the school. Our mantra will be, Fuck Arts and Crafts!

Lest you think this is all in my head, the husband took M to school the other day and called me on the way to work.

“Hey, what’s up with the moms at school?” he said. “I said ‘Hi’ to a group of them and they looked at me like I was a leper.”

I guess there is one thing that is even more loathed by The Clique than outsider moms. Dads.

Wordless Wednesday

Being fairly new to the blogging world, I've never done this Wordless Wednesday thing. So, here's my first shot at it...I like to call this piece, The Last Emperor.

When Did This Become My Holiday?

I sometimes feel like I'm the nanny. I know the picture above is evidence that I am not the nanny. But, I honestly don't walk around on a daily basis feeling like a capital M-O-M. A lot of times, I think I'm just the slightly older person in the house that is there to make sure everyone eats, sleeps, avoids serious injury, and doesn't sit in soiled diapers all day. I am also the social coordinator, playing games, providing entertainment, and even matchmaking. Sounds pretty mom-like, right? Sure. But, what I'm saying is that at 1 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon, I just feel like the gal who's hangin' out with two little kids.

For the first couple of years as a mother, I would just forget that Mother's Day was something I could benefit from. I remember sitting at a Mother's Day brunch with my in-laws when Marley was about two and just thinking the whole time, "Wow. This is so nice. Travis and his sister do such a great job honoring their mom." Then, someone handed me a gift and I actually sat there confused for about 15 seconds.





Part of it was insecurities about being a mom. Feeling like I had to live up to some imaginary standard of capital M-O-M perfection. Part of it was being scared that if I just dove right into this pool of mommy-ness, I'd lose forever the girl I'd come to like pretty well over the past 30 years. And, part of it was a strong aversion to the kitchen (which, I am happy to report, has waned).



This is the first year that I feel like this could actually be my holiday. Not a sea change, but a change nonetheless. Here's what I've discovered. Becoming a mom is not some overnight transformation -- at least it wasn't for me. I had a baby, not a lobotomy. I became a mother over time. It was and continues to be a culmination of the struggles and joys that have created my motherhood experience -- a patchwork of love, hope and fear.

I am a mom when I'm up all night with a bucket holding Marley's hair back as she vomits every hour from the wicked, evil stomach bug we had this past winter. I squeeze her tight and tell her I'm here and I know it hurts. I am a mom when I yell to Jack, "Come here, boy!" and he toddles into my arms as fast as his little, unsure legs can carry him, gleefully throwing his body against mine. I am a mom when I watch Marley on her scooter, proudly pushing along and hollering for me to "Watch me, Mama! Watch me!" I am a mom laying in the pullout hospital chair next to the metal crib with bars so high you'd think lions lived in it. Looking at my baby boy, hot with fever, pumping breast milk every two hours to feed him, and praying, praying, praying he is going to be OK.



And, today, I am most a mom when, in the middle of the night, I sneak out of my warm bed just to be near them. Marley, although it is now 80 degrees out, still insists on wearing her fuzzy, winter footsy pajamas. At some point during the night, she inevitably unzips her jammies and kicks her way out of the heat. Last night was no exception. I kiss her on the forehead, she snorts, and I sit next to her for I don't know how long, just staring. I finally pull myself away and move on.

Next door, Jack is asleep on his stomach. His long body is scrunched up with his knees tucked up hear his chest and his tush sticking straight up in the air. This is the way I find him most nights. He stirs when I walk in. His eyes -- lined with the most enviably long eyelashes -- flutter open. Uh-oh. He looks up at me with sleepy eyes and smiles. He softly cries out, "Mama," before drifting back to sleep. Safe.I leave his room.

I am so overwhelmed that I can't stop smiling even though I am alone and nothing is particularly funny or entertaining. My stomach and chest feel full. My chest even aches a bit. My arms tingle, right down to my fingers. I never knew life and love could feel this way. I sneak back into bed with Travis sleeping soundly. I am so tired. And...

I am a mom.

Quote of the Day

Crazy puked today all over himself. (I am no longer fazed by such occurrences.)Stripped him down to his diaper and let him run around. He made a beeline for the playroom and upon entering, where Crazier was already looking at a book, I hear the following:

Crazy: Aaaaaa...PSFFFFOOOO.

Crazier: OH.EM.GEEEE. You are buck butterball. Come here and let me smell your tush.

I could sit here and try to explain in detail the obvious issues with Crazier's statement. Instead, I'll keep it short and sweet.

My fault. My husband's fault. Both of our faults.

Who Did It Better? You Decide.

So, in case you're wondering, the Juno obsession has not waned. We (Travis, Jack and myself) are growing a little tired of our pretend roles as Pauly Bleeker, Brenda, and Liberty Bell, respectively. By the way, we haven't let her actually watch the movie, but she's bullied us into give us information on its contents, which we've attempted to do in a G-rated fashion.

Anyhow, the music is at the core of this obsession and Marley has not only learned many of the songs off the soundtrack, but also has mastered the air guitar for each song.

And, so, I present to you two versions of "Tire Swing" off the Juno soundtrack. The first is Kimya Dawson -- the original songwriter/performer. And, the second is our 4-year-old, who I think gives Ms. Dawson a run for her money.

P.S. That funny voice Marley does mid-song isn't some strange alien inhabiting her little body. It's just a character from Bob the Builder that occasionally (and randomly) takes over. She's a girl of many talents, as you can see.



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Can You Die From Lack of Sleep?

Last week was the worst week of my life with Thursday taking top billing as Worst Day of My Life. I'm talking nervous breakdown, bust-out-the-straight-jacket bad.

Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating...sort of. Let me clarify. It was worst week/day of my nocturnal life. The Evil No-Sleep Baby (technically a toddler now) struck again Monday-Saturday. Thursday we felt the worst of his wrath when he literally did not sleep for more than a half-hour stretch at a time.

Teething. Allergies. Congestion. Gas. All of the above? Whatever the culprit was, he was not a happy camper. By Thursday, I had lost my mind.

It was 3 a.m. that fateful night and No-Sleep hadn't slept since 10:30 p.m. He went down as usual at 8 p.m., but awoke two hours later. That was it. After getting up for the fifth time that night(and the umpteenth time that week), I found myself in the family bathroom screaming to the heavens, "Why? Why? Why?" My husband rubbed my back as I rubbed my poor puffy allergy-ridden and sleep-deprived eyes. "I can't do it anymore! I just can't," I sobbed. I had lost all perspective and had turned into an exhausted, angry, frustrated mess.

"I haven't slept in four fucking years!!!" I screamed maniacally.

On a related note, if there is any advice I can give to people contemplating having kids, it's this: Enjoy. Your. Sleep. I had no idea about the alarming degree of sleep deprivation that parents of young children go through while still having to maintain the guise of being good, productive mommies and daddies. I mean, I knew there was going to be no sleep early on, but I had no idea about the amount and duration of said sleep deprivation. Or, that it would unglue, unhinge and destroy me in such a methodical and dramatic fashion.

"Go lie down, honey," my husband said calmly. "I'll deal with him for the night."

"I'm just not cut out for THIS," I yelled.

"I'm not strong enough for THIS," I sobbed.

"I'm not going to make it through THIS," I howled.

He shuffled me off to our bedroom/makeshift psych ward where I went back to bed in a zombie-like state. I lay there for several minutes and listened to my husband whispering to our 16-month-old in a calm, hushed tone. Finally, my eyes shut.

They stayed sealed shut for several hours. I woke up groggy, but sane. The temper-tantrum I threw the night before seemed like a hazy dream. I found my husband in my son's room, asleep in the rocking chair. Jack, passed out in his arms, was creating a pool of drool on my husband's forearm.

I smiled and went back to bed. I'd made it. I. Was. Alive. Lack of sleep hadn't killed me after all. Well, at least not yet...

PS -- That's how I found No Sleep the next day in the playroom at 8:30 a.m. It was nowhere near his nap time.