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.



Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing

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.

Where's the Beef?

In an effort to eat healthier (read: get back to my pre-baby weight), I made a meatless chili last night.

I used protein crumbles instead of ground beef. The crumbles actually looked like meat in that they were brown and sort of meat-like in texture. Plus, I was going to be covering all that pesky fake-meat flavor with crushed canned tomatoes and an assortment of spices. So, I started cooking and was feeling pretty confident that what the recipe called a "hearty chili" could indeed be hearty -- sans any bovine influence.

About three-quarters of the way into the process, I decided to sneak a little taste. Hmmmm. Tomato-y. Slurp. Green-pepper-y. Liick. Hmmmmm. Not bad. Searching for a word to describe what I was tasting. It's not overly spicy. Not overly salty. Not overly onion-y. Oh, wait...yes, the word I'm looking for is...bland.

Despite the seasonings (and I did add more to try and pep up my sad, bland chili), my protein-crumble pot was missing a crucial element that I hadn't considered until the very moment I tasted it. Fat. The crock-o-healthiness I had created was all the things you want in a dinner -- veggies, protein, etc. -- without that thing that makes us actually want to eat food...flavor.

So, in the end we threw in some sour cream (fat-full), cheddar cheese (fatter-full), and some corn chips to boot. The family gave the dinner an enthusiastic thumbs up ("Yummmy Mommy, Yummmmmy! Can I have some more corn chips?)

The moral of the story here? When a recipe calls for protein crumbles...substitute with ground beef.

You Win Some, You Lose Some

So, I didn't get into the top 10 in the Mom Logic Mother of All Bloggers Contest (sniff, sniff). Thank you to anyone who nominated me even though it's likely that I begged, bribed, or harassed you to do it.

There were some pretty amazing posts out there from some mad wicked mom bloggers. I'm fairly new to the whole blogging world and entering this contest was an eye-opening experience. I had no idea there was this world of mothers out there just blogging their hearts out. I know, I know, how could I not know...For God's sake, they were on Oprah.

The point is, I was, and am, in really good company. How's that for being a gracious loser?

So, here I am...losing graciously. And, as I sit down to check my e-mail -- my face still frozen in an expression like I'd just smelled something really, really bad -- I noticed a comment on one of my posts from Furious Mom over at The Furious Five . She's given me an award. The Zombie Chicken Award. So in case you've been living under a rock and don't know what this award is all about, I'll tell you...



"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all…"

I am tickled pink. Seriously. And, now that Furious Mom has bestowed this honor upon me, it is now up to me to turn around and award this honor to five other blogs. So...drum roll please...my Zombie Chicken blogs are:

1. Whiskey in My Sippy Cup She has enough attention, but I love her so. I've actually laughed out loud at her posts. No, I don't mean "lol." I mean I laughed out LOUD. Hysterical.
2. Scary Mommy. She's also been bloggin' for a while, but again, I love her so. Hysterical. And, it doesn't hurt that her kids are adorable.
3. Hide the Cheese . Amazing recipes from a mom of three. Who thought you could make chips out of kale? And, they are yummy!
4. A Stepmom's Playground. Brand-spankin' new blog that debunks all those wicked stepmother stereotypes with clever, funny, honest stories about raising someone else's child. Can't wait to read more...
5. Motherhood Uncensored. Blogging since 2005, I feel like Kristen is my kindred spirit in the mommy blogosphere. She manages to be funny and vulnerable in all her posts. Love, love.

Hope you enjoy all my moms as much as I do.

xoxo

Kicking and Screaming

No, it's not the kids this time. It's me. I haven't gone running in over a week. And, at this point, it's beginning to feel like it might take a mini army to strap on the sports bra, running shoes, and motivation to get out there again. What happened? Oh yeah, I forgot...I hate running. Make that, I hate exercising. Make that, I love being a sloth.

I was feeling better about it several weeks ago, but then something happened. A lot of "somethings" happened, actually. Here's the latest and greatest in my Oh-I-Just-Can't-Today Excuse List (arms crossed, lower lip protruding).

1. The toddler is teething.
2. I just ate.
3. I'm on a work deadline.
4. My stomach hurts.
5. It's too hot out.
6. It's too cold out.
7. Travis' achilles hurts.
8. I can't find my sports bra.
9. My sports bra is in the laundry.
10. My legs are too short.

Today is the day, though. I will file my stories by early afternoon, my sports bra is clean, pressed and waiting for me on my bed, it is neither too hot nor too cold, and miracle of miracles -- I'll go for a run on my own.

We'll see how short my legs are by 3 p.m.

In the meantime, check out Juice Box Jungle's latest on The Real Soccer Mom: Exercise or Shmexercise. Austria's comment about heading to the gym to check out people with worse bodies than her own is priceless.

More parenting videos on JuiceBoxJungle

I'd Like to Buy the World a Coke...

We bought Marley these little jelly ballerinas last week, which she promptly stuck on our patio door, arranged exactly like they were in the package. There was one blond, caucasian ballerina, an African-American ballerina, and one that I'm guessing was Asian because of the black hair and yellow tint of her skin.

On a side note, why do Asian cartoon characters, dolls, etc. have to look either horrifically jaundiced or like they should have rays of light beaming off their heads? I'd like to hereby declare that when I look in the mirror I don't see this staring back at me.

Black hair and almond-shaped eyes will suffice, thank you.

I digress...A few minutes later, Marley called me in to look at her new jelly creation.

Marley: Look, mommy!

There are the three ballerinas right there on the window, except now their different color arms, legs, hair, etc. have all been rearranged.

Mommy: Did you mix-and-match the different ballerinas?

Marley: Yes. This one is brown and white, this one is white and brown, and this one is just plain white. And, they're all best friends.

Mommy tearing up.

Mommy: Wow. They are all so beautiful!

Marley: They are the most beautifulest.

Sometimes, I think kids should run the world. Yes, it would be filled with crumbs, spilled drinks, and strewn toys...but, man, what a trade-off.

My Mommy by Marley V.

Ok, I know this is borderline nauseatingly cutesy, but I'm going to post it anyhow. For any of you out there that have succumbed to the Facebook madness, there are a plethora of questionnaires/quizzes that you can take and then post on your profile page. It's a super-productive and really creative way to spend those precious few moments you may have to yourself during the day.

A little while back I did this one quiz that actually involved my older child. I would ask her a question about me and she would answer. Easy, peasy, Japanesey. I found the answers to be...fun and funny. Enjoy and feel free to subject your own preschooler to the questionnaire. I'd love to hear some other answers!

1. What is something mom always says to you?
It's not going to be scary.

2. What makes mom happy?
When I don't say that mean thing.

3. What makes mom sad?
When I say that mean thing

4. How does your mom make you laugh?
Being silly

5. What was your mom like as a child?
Toys

6. How old is your mom?
20 feet tall

7. How tall is your mom?
Long (while spreading her arms out to show just how long)

8. What is her favorite thing to do?
Laugh

9. What does your mom do when you're not around?
Play with Jack

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
A lot of work

11. What is your mom really good at?
Taking care of us

12. What is your mom not very good at?
Tattoos

13. What does your mom do for her job?
Work, business, take care of us

14. What is your mom's favorite food?
Thai food

15. What makes you proud of your mom?
When she does good things

16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
Cinderella

17. What do you and your mom do together?
Make pizza

18. How are you and your mom the same?
We're both brown and Daddy and Jack are white.*

19. How are you and your mom different?
Little and big

20. How do you know your mom loves you?
She hugs me

21. Where is your mom's favorite place to go?
The grocery store

*My personal favorite. I think I laughed out loud for that one.

My Mom Logic

About a year ago, I'd heard through the grapevine that my mother-in-law was impressed by the type of mother I'd become. She said something along the lines of, "Knowing Rosana before kids, she just wasn't very...mommy-like."

Despite my lack of natural, inborn mom logic, less than a year into my marriage,I was knocked up. My daughter -- Marley, aka, The Colic Baby -- was born at 36 weeks, promptly announcing her presence with authority: No one will sleep! Put me in the bouncy chair and bounce me dammit! Harder! Don't even think of putting me down either! Get up, lazy woman, get up!!! Breastfeeding painful? Well, get used to it because I...am...hungrrrry! I learned the true meaning of pain and suffering. But, still... no mom logic.

Went to ride the merry-go-round at the park for the first time with my then 2-year-old. Let her ride it three times in row before my nausea took over. Mother of all temper tantrums ensued. Carried squirming, screaming child to the car while simultaneously getting kicked in the gut. Mortifed? Yes. Shocked? Absolutely. Shaken to the core? Most definitely. For God's sakes, mom logic, where the hell are you?

Sitting in a cab in traffic. One-year-old son suddenly and inexplicably vomits everywhere. I start pulling out wipes, diapers, tissues, anything to mop up the mess. I contemplate taking off my shirt and using it to accelerate the cleanup. If I carry Jack, maybe people won't notice I'm not wearing a top? F' you mom logic, F' you!

Life with children is filled with various stresses and catastrophes that vary in size, duration and urgency. I'd strived to be able to logically handle and control each situation. I wanted to always be prepared for anything and everything. I wanted to be, like my mother-in-law said, "mommy-like."

It took me a while to come to my senses. I would never be June Cleaver 'cause, hello people, June Cleaver wasn't actually a real person.

My daughter and I regularly create couture gowns out of scarves and feather boas. She has very specific and particular ideas about color, length and detailing. She leads, I follow. She prances around in her princess regalia while her brother and I applaud. Hello, mom logic!

My son is learning to walk and whenever he gets up and takes several Frankenstein-like steps without falling, his sister and I cheer, clap and whistle. Group hug. He is our champion. Looky here, mom logic comin' around the corner.

I've been a guinea pig for my 4-year-old daughter, allowing her to slather lip gloss on my stomach and perform a mock-sonogram with a play phone (I'm not kidding). "Look up there," she says, pointing to some invisible fake monitor. "You can see your baby!" "Oh my goodness!" I say. "The baby is beautiful! Thank you, doctor!" Mom logic, you are f'ing hilarious.

I'll drop whatever I'm doing to read a book, play a game, or just talk. I want to cuddle on the couch, give a million kisses, and hold hands. I want to go down the slide with both kids on my lap. I want to play ring-around-the-rosey and eat jelly beans. I want to hear, in the middle of the night, "Mommy. I had a bad dream," and know I can fix it. I want to share ice cream and dissect all the different reasons why Bob the Builder is "the best."

It goes by way too fast and pretty soon we'll be dealing with broken hearts, SATs, and becoming men and women. I want to bathe in the simple joys of mothering young children -- they only need you for so long.

And, that, my friends is my mom logic.

Keep Hope Alive

Beautiful day. Perfect day to go on run with my trainer/husband and the kids. So, we saddled up and off we went.

(For those of you not familiar with my tenuous relationship with running, check out my last post about my attempts to ascend to Iron Girl status. )

The sun was shining, there was a light breeze, kids were fed and happy with their water bottles, I'd gotten a decent night's sleep...All signs pointed to a good run. Plus, not only did I survive the last couple of outings, but was able to keep up the pace and go further each time. I was lookin' good and feelin' fine. Little did I know that I would soon be betrayed.

As I started a light jog, I suddenly realized that even though I was into this run, my legs most definitely were not. I felt like I was lifting dead weight from my kneecaps down. When my foot would hit the pavement, it's as if my legs were mocking me: "Sucker bitch. You thought you could run? Ha! Guess again!"

The husband breezed past me with the kids as he always does. Buh-bye. Ol' Cinderblock Legs left to her own devices. As I ran down the parkway along the creek I tried to distract myself with thoughts of the babbling water ("F'ing water. I hate that stupid creek.); some music in my head ("F'ing forgot the i-pod. How could I forget the stinking i-pod?); and the beautiful weather (That stupid sun is just beating down on me. Idiot.). I also tried to shorten my scope and not think of the entire three miles, but just running to the stop sign up ahead (where is that friggin' stop sign???) then running to the park up a little farther (OMG. That park better be coming up soon. I'm going to die.) then running just a little more to the bridge (F' that bridge and the horse it rode in on).

Finally, I did what I haven't done in weeks. I stopped. I can't believe I stopped. I was on such a roll. Darn, darn, darn!

According to our kids' babysitter, there is a saying in Trinidad that when someone is in a noticeable funk or bad mood, he has a figurative poop in his pants. Well, it's pretty safe to say I had a HUGE poop in my pants. And, as I walked along, wallowing in my doody drawers, I saw a little blue jogging stroller in the distance. It was headed toward me. My blood pressure started to rise.

Wait just a gosh darn second here! They can't lap me at the Ship Park, that's too early! They usually don't lap me until way past the Forest Glen stop sign! All of the sudden, ego and pride took over and I..was..runnnin'! (Sorry for all the Forrest Gump references, but I just can't resist.)

I'm not sure exactly how I must have looked to a casual observer. But, I felt like limbs were flailing about maniacally. Not a controlled, cool-as-a-cucumber jog, but a panicked windmill sprint. I ran my ass off. I was feeling the heat and the sound of Jack's nonsensical toddler blathering was getting closer and closer...There's the stop sign! I'm almost there! If I can just make it a little bit past, this run won't be a complete failure! Come...on! Run, you wimp! Ruuuuun!

As I neared the stop sign, I could hear the wheels of the Doodlebug right on my heels. Then, next to me. Then, that voice. That mocking voice: "Hi honey. You look great! Keep movin'!" Ugh. Did he have to be so damn...encouraging??? Jerk.

And so, they passed me. They passed me before I could reach the stop sign. I slowed down. Defeated.

"That is life, my friend," a wise Mexican cab driver once said to me during a vacation in Alcapulco. Yes, that is life. Two steps forward, one step back?

I may have lost this battle, but the war is still undecided...Stay tuned...

Mommy Porn

So, I'm sitting here waiting for something like 10 of my sources for three different news articles to call back/reply to an e-mail. Might as well blog, right?

I love women writers. Love, love, love. Whenever I read one that is really good (able to put smart, original ideas on paper in a way that makes you feel, not just hear, what they're saying OR, even better, able to spit-shine a trite idea and make it shiny new again), I actually get goosebumps.

The key to being a good writer, any good writer will tell you, is honesty. Don't be embarrassed or ashamed of what people might think. Censoring yourself not only makes what you've produced contrived, but it also usually makes it...boring.

Which leads me to one of my favorite blogs -- of course written by a woman and a mom -- Penelope Trunk's the Brazen Careerist. Business Week has called her writing "poetic" and I have to agree.

Plus, she played volleyball professionally...hells yeah!

Her blog has 30,000 readers who consume her daily diet of career advice. But, it's so much more than that. She blogs honestly and, yes, poetically about the demise of her marriage, her work-a-holic nature, a past eating disorder, and so much more. Her blog titles include gems like
- Twentysomething: Why it's smart to quit a job after just two weeks of work,
- 5 things to do when you're unemployed. Hint: It's not job hunting,
- 4 weight-loss tips from my month in the mental ward, and
- My First Day of Marriage Counseling.

I laugh, I cry, I learn.

So, while I wait for these phone calls and e-mails, I wanted to share one of my personal favorites -- and of course it's mom-related: The Hardest Part of My Job is That Everyone Lies About Parenting. In this post, Penelope dissects the media's fascination and perpetration of "mommy porn." Not the paaw-chika-paaw-paaw kind of porn (gotcha with the Harlequin Romance picture). Think Jennifer Lopez's spread in People Magazine -- feeding twins wearing a couture gown AND designer heels. Or, Angelina Jolie and her 50 kids looking like THAT.

It's funny, honest, and real. All the things I look for in other writers and strive for in myself.

Enjoy. Oh, and since this is a blog...comment too!

Quote of the Day

Babysitter looking at family picture when there were only three of us. Marley is nearly one in the photo.

Babysitter: Wow, you look different.

Me: Yeah...two children will age you.

Babysitter noticeably uncomfortable and searching...

Babysitter: I mean, you don't look older. You just look different.

So, there you go. I'm not older-looking, I'm "different."

The area under my eyes that has gotten strangely darker since Kid #2? Different. The laugh lines that seem to be deepening with each passing year? Just a little odd. The dimpled pooch that used to be a flat stomach? A tad not the same. The rib cage that (I kid you not) is wider than it used to be pre-children thereby giving me the hot, sexy shape of a prepubescent boy? I'd say -- divergent.

That's fine. Only a few more years, and I can officially start living vicariously through my daughter.

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.