Scenes From a Birthday Party

yes. i thought the same thing...and no, you're not a pervert. and if you are then so am i.

True Dat

This Has to Stop Happening

I was at the grocery store with my baby today and inevitably a stranger starts goo-goo-shmoo-shmoo-poo-poo-doo-doo-moo-moo-coo-coo-cuckoo at the baby. And then, right on cue, I start talking. Through the baby. Except my voice isn't my voice. It's really, really high. Like only dogs should be able to hear it. And I don't speak in complete sentences because, you know, I'm a baby. Except not. I'm the baby's mom. But the baby doesn't talk. So I am doing a really bad impression of the baby talking to a stranger as the baby sits there making no noise.

And then, as my voice reaches a fevered pitch -- so high I am positive the cantaloupes next to me are going to explode -- I drool. Like on myself. Like down my chin. Right in the middle of my baby talk/impression/puppeteering.

Poetic.

A Baked Ziti

Our children are what brought us together as they are the same age and often play together. But, beyond the children, we message, talk and email  about motherhood, husbands, work...life. We laugh at the sheer exhaustion of it all. We think the same things are funny. We think the same things are unfunny. We are more than just playdate pals. We are friends.

Lately, we have spent afternoons talking excitedly about the baby -- her third -- growing in her rapidly expanding belly. She asks me if she's crazy for having a third. I tell her "you get used to it." We laugh. I touch her belly and my heart dances remembering my own belly, swollen with our third...just a little over a year ago.

She is excited. It's not easy to get pregnant. The pregnancies themselves aren't easy. But there they are: beautiful, challenging, funny, joyful, inquisitive and sweet. Her children. Her blessings she calls them.

My friend called me this morning. I already knew.

The baby at almost 16 weeks...gone. No heartbeat. A routine ultrasound. No heartbeat. My friend had been sick this winter -- pneumonia. And then a UTI. "I should have taken better care of myself," she cries into the phone. Tears stream down my face. My voice catches in my throat and I cover my mouth to muffle my own crying.

"I woke up this morning thinking it was a dream. A horrible dream."

I tell her she is not to blame. But, every mother knows and feels every day with every fiber of her being that she is to blame for everything. The weight of her children rests squarely...

She was to deliver the baby tomorrow. Induced. But, instead they have moved it up. "We will meet our baby tonight," she writes me. Her poor, still baby. Filled with hope, promise, and life.

I will make her a baked ziti and bring it to her home. I will feel like a moron walking up to her house with my pitiful offering meant to ease the unthinkable. It will be the absolute stupidest thing I have ever done for someone. The most ridiculous gesture of help I have ever made. But I don't want to do nothing. Yet nothing is pretty much all I can do. So, I will show up at her house with that shitty baked ziti, which she can freeze, thaw and eat with her family.
So she doesn't have to think about making dinner.

Because her baby died.

Sexy Underwear

It's been a rough week. It's been a rough couple of weeks. Middle kid. Pneumonia. Hospital visits. Last one. Overnight. IVs. Antibiotics. Blood. Vomiting. Hospital gowns. Xrays. Like I said. It's been rough.

We got home today and he's feeling much, much better. But the house is chaos. Ok, it's not chaos. It's just chaos to me.

In a nutshell...I haven't had time to do laundry. So, I've cycled through all my favorite comfy, cute cotton panties. I've then gone through my second-tier cotton panties -- a little threadbear, but still acceptable. Then, I've cycled through my panties that should just be completely tossed. Like one has a huge hole right in the front crotch area. I am not sure a.) how that hole came to be in that particular area seeing as I have no penis and b.) why I still have them. To answer the b. question because the a. question is simply unanswerable, I am positive it has something to do with my genetic makeup. In particular, being related to my father, a man who has no problem wearing tshirts, socks, sweaters, pants and shoes that have large, gaping holes in them ("What? It's still good.")

And so, with the crotch-hole underwear not even an option, I glance for a second at my husband's boxer briefs. My husband is 6'2" and 200 pounds. I'm 5'2" and 110 pounds. I would be akin to wearing oversize athletic shorts. Grossly oversized. I'd have to roll them up three times to even attempt to keep the waist from resting at my knees.

So, I'm left with the compartment of undergarments that gets pulled out only, only, only if I need a bartering tool. Like I want someone , like the-father-of-my-children someone, to put away the laundry.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have lace. And satin. Together. In one very small garment that basically makes you feel like you are flossing your vagina.

What choice do I have? I suppose I could go commando. But I'm just not a commando kind of girl. Need something to protect her from the elements. Ya' know? So here I sit, exhausted from the week of health-related drama. In my sweats. Ready for bed. With lace up my ass.

Goodnight.

Type A?

i was out with a couple of girlfriends the other night and we got to talking about kids' scheduling and activities. out of the three of us, i am the one who has a school-age child. i was telling them how i never expected marley's schedule to be as busy as it is. we're talking swimming, ice skating, soccer...there are two days out of the week that she does not have an after-school activity.

we are totally that family. you know. the middle- to upper-middle class suburban family you read about where the kids have a ton o' shit going on and no one is happy. the mom is bitter about having to drive everyone around to these activities; the kids are on overload at the sheer number of activities; and the stress level is through the roof. yup, we're headed full-steam in that direction...or are we?

one of my friends responded with a story about an over-worked, over-activity-ed, stressed-out mother who up and canceled all her kids activities. every last one. like in no activities at all. which made me think...no activities? what would that be like? it was never a question that my kids would participate in sports, learn how to do things like swim and skate, and maybe even play an instrument.

which harkens the question...what is it all for? is it worth it? are we imposing an over-scheduled schedule on our kids?

there is no question that there is a lot going on in our family. so far, i don't feel stressed about it. truth be told, i sometimes feel like i should complain about that part of my routine, but i actually don't feel very complain-y about it at all. i may be nuts here, but i actually like it.

no lie.

from the kid side, let it be noted that there is no whining about swimming, skating or playing soccer. not yet anyway. we are still at an age where it is all exciting. the wonder of learning something new...i remember when i was teaching my daughter to ride a bike. the look on her face when she realized i wasn't holding her anymore and she was doing it all herself? i'll take a cup of that every morning, please. and thank you.

which kinda explains, i think, why i believe -- with every fiber of my being -- that extra-curricular activities are worthwhile. not everyone will agree, but this is my blog and i'll cry if i want to.

i grew up in a home where we always had stuff going on. we didn't sit around much. we played with neighborhood kids on certain days of the week, but overall, not much time hanging around the house. we were out. i always give my mother credit for spearheading all our activities because as a thai woman, she wasn't always familiar with the ins and outs of these mysterious things american kids did with their time when they weren't in school.

but she had vision.

she signed us up for swim team and when we showed up for the first meeting, we were rudely awakened when the coach threw us, head first, into the competitive sporting event of our lives -- a swim meet. talk about cold water on the face. i love the immigrant-ness of that story and my parents honestly thinking it was just a gathering of moms and dads and kids to talk about swimming and stuff.

i didn't even have a proper swim team swim suit. i wore a pink halter top swim suit with tiny flowers all over it. like i was headed to the beach. there is an old picture of me at that first meet, taking an awkward freestyle stroke with my head raised straight up to breathe (did not know how to turn my head to the side yet) and my hair matted down the sides and front of my head (hadn't discovered swim caps yet). i looked like i was drowning.

but i didn't.

as an adult, i feel like that aspect of my parents' parenting was really strong. i don't recall feeling stressed by the activities -- or volume of activities. they were fun (ok, fine, maybe some of them became a little less fun during the Sullen Period, circa '89-91). beyond the fun of a little girl learning all this cool new stuff is an adult woman who has a life that is continually enriched by the music, sports and dance opportunities her parents gave her. even the stuff i couldn't stand -- like thai summer school -- i am grateful for today.

i love that when my daughter took ballet, we practiced first, second, third position together (6). i loved watching her try her hand at thai dancing and talking about how important the curve of her hand is when performing (7,8,9). i love playing carmen (or chopsticks) on the keyboard for my kids and seeing their faces light up like i'm a superstar (8,9,10,11.12). i love that i can swim -- really well in fact -- anytime i want or need to. and when the stars are aligned, i can even be an iron girl (8,9,10,11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17). i love holding hands and skating with my daughter. those sunday afternoons going 'round and 'round the rink, both of us singing along to selena gomez blaring overhead? joy (9,10). i love playing tennis with my husband and yelling 'in your face!' when he misses a shot (10, 11, 12, 14, 13, 14).

all these moments are childhood gifts from my mother and father. they allow me, today, to enjoy the activity and adventure in life both as a mother and on my own. they also gave me a blueprint for one of the greatest gifts i hope to bestow upon my own children: the feeling -- that glorious feeling -- that they can.

Forgot This One...

this is how i party with legos...dump and throw, dump and throw, dump and...

Hello...

My name is Nate. And I'm a hurricane.

First and Last

Our last baby celebrated his first birthday a few weeks ago. We did the first birthday cake thing, he dove right in -- blue frosting and all.

Sometimes I look at my third child and see my first. They look almost identical as babies. But it's more than that. I remember my daughter's first birthday and how I felt. Yes, the love was there, but life was in flux. Motherhood was in flux. Marriage was in flux. I was in flux. Almost like my husband and I were still bit actors in this play called "Parenthood & Marriage" and fumbling aimlessly through our lines.

Then came #2 and things were less chaotic for a time, but still...finding our way. His first birthday was haphazard. I tried, but I was still fumbling, juggling, seeking, trying, falling, crumbling beneath the weight of it all...

When I saw my last baby turn one, there was nothing but pure joy. Every moment of his party, I smiled. I savored every second. The family and friends around us. My baby tasting cake for the first time. Watching his little face in wonder when we all started to sing. And most of all, seeing my first baby, now almost seven years old, helping carry the cake in for her little brother.

Now, please don't misunderstand. I forgot to buy plastic forks for the cake so we were furiously washing dirty forks that had been used for the lunch so our guests wouldn't have to eat cake like our one-year-old. But, that shit doesn't matter. It really doesn't.

Without the babies that came before, I wouldn't have learned that lesson, plus all the lessons I needed to learn (and keep learning) to enjoy motherhood and marriage the way I do today. All the frustration and uncertainty that come along with a first child and many of the difficult, painful things that were happening at the time...it all had to happen. It all was meant to be.

So "Happy First Birthday" to my third and last baby. But, to my first baby...I want to say, "This is for you too. Thank you for being with me through the hard stuff. Some day you will know fully how hard it was, but in a way that won't scare you. Your brothers didn't have to bear what you had to bear. You helped us learn and grow. Because of that, we are the parents today we always wanted to be. It wouldn't have happened without you. I love you, my sweet, strong girl... Mama."

The Final Walk

Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing

there will be a lot of these moments this year....last first walk, last first birthday cake, last first word (which was 'mama' thank you very much)....

sigh.

Moms Can Have Crushes Too

my husband and I have one particular trait in common -- obsessiveness. i'm not talking single-white-female obsessiveness (ok, i admit that depends on your vantage point), but more like when we find something we like and are interested in, we cannot. let. it. go. for like weeks and weeks and weeks on end.

that's where the similarities end, though. my husband gets obsessed with stuff like civil war history books, athlete biographies and boardwalk empire. me? lady gaga. real housewives of new jersey, and apple cheesecake bars the bakery down the street makes. oh...it hurts so good.

my current obsession, which has been steadily growing to near-frantic proportions for close to three weeks now is...ryan gosling. i know, i know. join the rest of the female population over the age of 16.

i've always liked ryan gosling. respected him as an actor. loved his weirdness in lars and the real girl and his vulnerability in half-nelson. good actor. pretty cute.

but, things got, as my husband likes to put it, a "wee bit creepy" when i decided to on-demand crazy, stupid love. then netflixed drive. then ordered ides of march. and then took it old-school and rented the notebook.

full-on ryan gosling tear. and i simply can't, will never understand why-oh-why he couldn't make it work with rachel mcadams (remember this?).

so, last week i met my husband for lunch. as i walked up to the chinese restaurant, i quickly realized how i am different from those other gos-obsessed women:


t with his new ryan gosling haircut.

i'm now officially crushing on my husband, which pays better dividends than the ryan gosling thing.

Brothers

This Too Shall Pass...

Sometimes being a mom sucks. Big time.

Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it reveals parts of you that you'd rather keep hidden. Sometimes it makes you cry. Sometimes it really fucking pisses you off. Sometimes it makes you want to curl up in a ball begging for the noise to stop.

At least that is how it is for me.

Some moms I know take things in stride. For example, a mom down the street recently faced what we all face at some point...our child getting hurt. Like really hurt. I know I have. This mom, staring at the gash in her young son's head gushing blood, calmly observed, "Hmmm. We might want to get that looked at."

First of all...the blood. I would have first had to talk myself down off ledge just from the sight of so much blood. Then I'd have to put a bag over my head to get the oxygen thing going again. Then and only then would I have been able to deal with said crisis.

I am not a calm person. I can be calm. I can feel calm. But I am preternaturally disposed to...panic. Whether that is from how I was raised or just how I'm hardwired or a combination of the two, the fact is...that's me. And I've been pretty damn good at keeping that part of me in check.

Until I had kids.

I've been a mom for almost seven years now. Yes, I've learned some stuff. Like how to treat a fever. Like the importance of packing snacks for long car trips. Like hugs really can make everything better.

And I'm not as prone to bouts of self-doubt or control-freak madness borne of that panic...the panic of not knowing what the hell I'm doing. I do take things more in stride.

The key word there is more.

Then, there are the times, like this past weekend, when I still feel like I know nothing. Like I wish I had a manual for it all. Like I'm swimming in rough,open waters with no clue where I am going.Like I'm messing up this one chance to get it right and my kids are going to be messed up forever because I am..not...perfect.

But I guess that is the one thing I have learned over the past seven years. I will not always know what to do. And that's ok.
I don't always have to have the absolute perfect, right solution. I am first and foremost, a human being. I am a human being trying to figure out this thing called life just like everyone else who has been given the gift of breath on this planet. And it's ok for my kids to see me as a human being that is trying to figure it all out...just like they are. Maybe it will even teach them not to be so hard on themselves (like their mama) because things are sometimes disappointing, confusing, messy...un-perfect.

I may have a few more years under my belt, but that really only means for certain that I can tie shoes faster, color in the lines better, and add subtract things in my head and not on my fingers, and know that things -- good and bad -- will pass.

So...today's Monday. The sun is out. I got lunches in backpacks. I brushed teeth and hair. I walked my oldest kid to the bus stop, hugged her tightly, kissed her goodbye and wished her a good day.

Now, I am going to do the same for myself.

A Moment of Clarity

there's nothing quite as humbling as when you go in for the diaper sniff test with your baby (for those unschooled in the art of using your olfactory senses to detect a dirty diaper, that's when you lean into your baby's bottom, quickly inhale through your nose, and confirm whether there is in fact a dump in his pants) only to open up his diaper and find...nothing.

for a minute you stand there confused. and then it hits you. your baby has just farted directly in your face.

brilliant.

Big Kids

it was our middle child's 4th birthday party this past weekend and we decided to go balls-to-the-wall (god i love that expression) with a supehero-themed party extravaganza. we're talking pin spidey on the web, make your own superhero cape and mask, a kryptonite beanbag toss, and more. it took me two weeks of planning, shopping, crafting, gluing, cutting, drawing, and multiple trips to ac moore, which we all know is my absolute favorite place to shop.

the icing on the cake? the entire family, including sister and baby, dressed up like superheroes to celebrate our boy. i will never forget the look of wonder as i emerged from my bedroom dressed in my superhero slut-gear (hey, i tried to find the most g-rated one to buy and, the fact of the matter is, superhero ladies just don't wear much clothing.) my son and daughter started gleefully jumping up and down and yelling, "mama's supergirl! mama's supergirl!"

awesome.

pretty soon, i was starting to feel pretty...super. i don't know if it was the stretch in the velvet top, the shine off the red and gold boots, or the sparkle off my little red skirt. whatever it was, i was feeling it. i pranced around, shaking what little momma gave me and working the pin the spidey on the web station like nobody's business.

i know my kid and all his friends had a blast at his party, but here's the dirty little secret i'll only tell you...i loved every second of it too. no bullshit, no sarcasm, no frontin' like i'm all that. i simply had a blast.

and, that's what it's all about isn't it, ladies and gents? it is so easily forgotten when you're in the business of molding, shaping, directing and disciplining young people (while getting little to no sleep) that this shit is fun.

like balls-to-the-wall fun.

happy birthday my jack. you are a one-of-a-kind, light-up-the-room, sweet, huggable, loving kid. and i had so much fun at your party. love, mama.

Must Be Able to Draw, Cut and Glue

motherhood is seriously the only profession where the job description is constantly in flux. it's any number of tasks that involve teaching, wiping, comforting, protecting, holding, remembering, listening, and multitasking to within an inch of your life. the latest addition to the list?

arting and crafting.

now, for some moms this stuff comes naturally. to me? not so much. in fact, ac moore is my own brand of personal hell. so how did i get stuck with an arts and crafts project for my 6-year-old's school holiday party you ask? i volunteered. like to make pin-the-nose-on-rudolph game for 27 6-year-olds. 'cause that's what you do when you're a mom. you find yourself raising your hand and saying "oooooh, me!" to shit that you really don't want to do at all.

that is some mutha-effin' love right there.

happy holidays everyone!

p.s. yes, those are glue smears on rudolph's face. mama's not so handy with elmer's.

Can You Laminate Toilet Paper?

for anyone who knows me...it should come as no surprise that my child chose the toilet paper roll as a place to leave something for me.

Days Long...Years Short

over the last month, i've been slowing down. and by slowing down, i don't mean i'm getting more rest or life is ay less hectic. by slowing down, i mean, i'm purposely enjoying life as the mother of three young children. instead of looking to the next thing we need to do to get through our day together or what works best for our schedule or rushing through my to-do list (that never ends, by the way), i'm letting the day take us where it wants to go.

for me that means walking home from school with my 3-year-old and letting him throw rocks in the creek for as long as he wants. who cares if the baby falls asleep in the stroller instead of his crib? (incidentally it was about 45 minutes of rock throwing, leaf-boat making, etc.). it means listening to my 6-year-old daughter complain about the scratch on her knee instead being distracted by dinner preparations. then, giving her a long hug to let her know i am there. hey, if they get hungry, i'll give them a couple slices of apple to tide them over. and, it means sitting with my baby after he wakes up at 11 p.m. for no apparent reason. and instead of putting him right back to bed, giggling with him in the dark as he makes kissing noises while grabbing the glasses away from my tired eyes.

now, before you up and think i'm going to start sitting around singing "kumbaya" while my kids running amuck wearing nothing but fig leaves...i am still me. i am still going to make sure the toy room is straight before my head hits the pillow at night no matter how tired i am. i'm still going to make sure the kids fix their beds before heading down for breakfast. and my daughter's hair? well, that is a battle i've recently let go, but man, that half-brushed stringy hair touches on every nerve in my anal-retentive body. with that being said, it's nice to relinquish a little of that control and just say, "fuck it."

recently, a close friend told me she is expecting her third child. i literally jumped up and down, screaming with excitement. "it is the best!" i squealed. and, honestly, if you let yourself ride the wave from time to time....it truly is.

Onesies are Disposable, Aren't They?

hi. underneath this costume, i'm wearing a onesie that has no crotch.

yup, after my mommy wrestled to get this humiliating, um, i mean, adorable, costume on me, i decided to go ahead and let loose in my diaper. oh, and not just any old turd, mind you. i decided to do one of those explosive things that not only fill up my diaper, but then soil my clothing. yup, soiled it all up.

little did i know that mommy was in no mood. no way in hell was she going to take me out of that god-awful, i mean adorable, baby monster costume.

so, she got a pair of scissors and just cut the poop right out. yup. the bottom of the onesie -- the part with the snaps that keep my shirt from riding up? cut it right on out. snip, snip. she then tucked my new "shirt" into the bottom part of my costume and happily declared "there!"

and off to the parade we went.

so in answer to the above question? yes, yes, yes, and yes.

The Perfect Mommy

dear m, j, and n,

i'm writing you this letter because i'm feeling...icky...and sad. i feel like i haven't set the example i want to set for you and, in fact, i've done the opposite. i want you to know when you're older, life can often be complicated. sometimes we succeed at doing the good, positive thing and other times, well...

so here goes: i'm not perfect. and i have been particularly un-perfect the last five months.

being your mother is a mish-mosh of naps, spilled drinks, trips to the park, bike-riding lessons and bedtime stories. i pack your lunches at night so we don't have to rush in the morning. i lay out socks, shoes, jackets in easy-to-reach spots so you can get yourselves ready with ease. i brush your teeth. i help you make your beds. i fix zippers and snaps you can't yet reach. i make sure homework (mar) and extra clothing for accidents (jack) are in your backpacks. i hug. i kiss. i tell you i love you.

that's the easy stuff.

but, then there's the harder stuff. and when that harder stuff comes along -- as it most definitely will -- it's up to us as your parents to show you, with our actions, to open your hearts.

we didn't do that this time. and, i'm more disappointed in myself than you will ever know.

we always tell you to be the bigger person. to be nice even if others aren't. but, we got caught up in our own crap this time. we showed you anger and judgement. all those things i want to shield you from have been present in our home. and you've seen, heard, and taken it all in, which breaks my heart.

i want you to know that life is messy. people do shitty things. friends, family, coworkers, etc. -- no one is perfect. i'm not, you're not, and they're not. what you think is the absolute right way to do things or to treat people? others may not see it the same way. and to try and change their minds will only fuel your own anger.

so sure...be angry. be hurt. be fucking pissed off if the situation warrants it. but, then -- if for no one else, but yourself -- open your heart.

focus on the good that is in your lives because the richness is there. write down the positive things -- over and over again if you have to. spend time doing stuff you love. talk with people who will love and encourage you in a positive way. keep being generous because it's in your heart to do so -- not because you expect people to do the same for you. forgive even if you don't feel it. i promise...it will come.

staying angry is not about hurting the people who wronged you although it may seem that way. by staying angry, you actually hurt yourself.

and, so, as your mother, i am going to take some of this great advice myself and try to let go of some of that anger -- for me. and you.

i love you all so much.

mama