Day 19: Goofin'

Sometimes the most fun you have is when you're doing absolutely nothing. You go out to dinner with the kids to a low-rent, fast-food-type restaurant and simply fuck around.

Bliss...

Day 18: Give Me a Home-Cooked Meal

Last week we did take-out or frozen meals every day except Monday. Shameful. I'm lighting a fire under my ass this week and getting in the kitchen. I'm not a cook by nature. Not something I truly love doing, but I do enjoy a good homecooked meal -- as does my family. (Although frozen pizza does come in a close second.)

So, here I go...

Monday: Tortellini/pancetta soup with bread and grilled asparagus on the side.

Tuesday: Chicken/pineapple stir fry

Wednesday: Portobello mushroom lasagna

Thursday: Leftovers

Friday: Grill out burgers

I'm exhausted just thinking about all this cooking.

I'll let you know what did and did not come to fruition in the kitchen...

Day 17: Just Another Sunday Morning...

In case you guys don't know what a Rody is, they are rubber, inflatable, bouncy dog-like creatures you sit on. Usually they're for kids. But fuck it. This morning, the Rody Race was on. My 5-year-old was going down. Mutha-fuckin' down to Chinatown. You think you can bounce faster on that Rody than me? I birthed you! Bring it!

Waiting for the start gun to go off.



Drum roll please...



And they're off! (Note the hair on M. That is some serious bouncing. I told her to bring it and she did.)


Wait! An obstruction in the course! Sabotage!



Obstruction removed. Victory is mine. I can taste it!



Foiled!



Rody Rematch scheduled for 9 a.m. Monday morning. I'm not going down that easily. All I have to say is, better bring your A game...

Day 16: What I Love About My Kid

My daughter's been driving me bonkers. Questions McGee. Whining, complaining, asking, screaming. I actually tried to have a real thought yesterday and failed miserably.

So, instead of continuing to bitch and moan about how annoying my five-year-old is, because, let's face it, five-year-olds are by nature annoying...I decided to do this:

The 11 Best Things About M

1. She is always willing to pitch in when it comes to kitchen duties. Need an egg cracked? At your service! Need some mix stirred? Don't need to ask me twice. Or even at all. Need some liquid poured? Wait, wait! Don't move! I got it! I got it!

2. She loves potty humor. Ok, this may not seem like a plus to most people, but in this house it's aces.

3. She loves to take care of her brother. Nevermind that he doesn't want to be taken care of, we're talking about her right now.

4. She knows what she wants. Now, oftentimes this can sometimes come off as bossy and controlling, but really it's just a person knowing exactly what's what, voicing it and following through -- loudly.

5. She's got the best smile on the planet.

6. She is so sweet with her stuffed animals. The way she puts them to bed, feeds them, etc. Her heart is exactly in the right place.

7. She has great style. She will put striped tube socks on with a pink princess dress. That mix of masculine and feminine is so an example of true, individual style.

8. She loves to sing. And, even more, she loves it when I sing. She'll defend me to the end to her father when he accuses me of warbling off key. "No Daddy! Mommy is a good singer!"

9. She's always game to make friends with other little kids. Not a mean bone in her body. You could be green, have three heads and eat worms. She'll find a way to get into it.

10. She's really good on her scooter. Like she can go really fast. Steers. Crouches. Makes her serious scooter face. It's pretty rad.

11. When she holds my hand, smiles at me and says, "I love you, Mama," I know I couldn't ask for a better kid.

Day 11, 12, 13, 14 and 15

So, this exercise in blogging for 30 days straight is not easy. But, it's supposed to be enjoyable, not work, so eff it. I'm going to just do five days in one entry. There.

Day 11: Remember those candy cigarettes that kids could blow into and then some powdered sugar stuff mimicking smoke would come out the other side? Thinking that would be an awesome treat for my kids is...weird. Times they do change.

Day 12: Mother's Day! Remember as a kid giving your mom crap like lavender-scented bath beads? She'd smile, gaze at her bath beads like she'd just been given the answer to the meaning of life, and then...lie. "Just what I wanted!" Little did I know then that my mother barely had time to shower, much less soak in a tub filled with melting bath beads that contained a floral scent so powerful, I imagine she'd be unapproachable for days, maybe weeks, after her bath.

My kids made me an awesome card, we went to a fancy brunch during which I didn't have to chase, glare, scold, threaten, or exit the premises altogether. Then they fell asleep on the way home. Now that's what every mom wants for Mother's Day.

Day 13: I am a horse. As in, I'm on all fours, neighing. As in my toddler is on my back, bouncing up and down yelling "Haaaaaawsie! Haaaaaawsie!" That is all.

Day 14: Husband out of town for work. Tired and miss the adult interaction after the kids have konked out, but not having him here does make some aspects of parenting easier. My dirty, dark little secret? I'm a control freak and like being in charge...like of everything.

Day 15: She's quiet now for the first time in three days. Can't believe how much she talks. As in, I don't think she's zipped her lip (unless she's unconscious) for three days straight. I'm astounded by how many questions, arguments, tears and general yammer, yammer, yammering she does. Will someone rip my ears off, please? No seriously. Remove them. Now.

Off to enjoy a little silence now.

See you tomorrow...maybe.

Day 10: Inspiration

Sometimes you see, hear, feel things that just nail it. Makes you want you to approach parenting in a true, honest way. My friend, Melanie, shared this video today and I just had to post it here because it embodies so much of what I strive to be with my children. Neither of my kids have Asperger's, but still...they are their own unique individuals with unique challenges and frustrations.

The video reminds me that even though family life can often be far from perfect...it is the greatest thing I have done and will ever do in my life.

Q&A from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

Day 9: Don't Ask Me About It, Please...

I had a great day today. Wonderful client in the morning followed by successful shopping trip in the afternoon followed by an impromptu lunch with two friends downtown.

And, right in the midst of it, I found myself crying -- make that sobbing -- in my car. Sun shining. Cars whizzing by on a busy city street. People chattering all around. And me. Sitting in my parked car, bawling.

My mother. Lately, I can't shake the feeling that the clock is ticking. That my time with my her is finite. And not in some abstract way where death is this blurry thing waiting for all of us in the future. But as in "I see the end. I see it coming."

She lives in Thailand, and if you follow this blog, you probably have seen a few posts about her and her illness. At any rate, I don't like to talk about her. In fact, for the most part, I don't like to think about her. To say that what is happening to her is sad and tragic doesn't even begin to scratch the surface. It is horrifying.

To lose your ability to walk, speak, go the bathroom or pretty much do anything on your own is a prison of misery I can't even begin to imagine. To know your mother -- the one who held your hand when you had nightmares until you fell asleep -- is now a shell of the woman you knew? It seems unreal. Too unreal to even consider.

And so, it's easier to pretend. Pretend it's not really happening. Easy enough. She lives across the world. Put some pictures up around the house. Talk to your daughter about her "Khun Yai" as if she's a totally normal grandmother. And, presto, magic! Problem solved!

Except not. I call her each week these days. We talk for about 15 minutes. I usually update her about the kids, husband, work and anything else going on in my life. She tries to talk sometimes, but most of it I can no longer understand. I always end our conversations with, "I love you mom" and she will respond, "I love you, Rosana." Out of the entire conversation, they are really the only words I can make out.

Today in the car, I had gotten off the phone with my brother who has been updating me regularly on my mother's declining health and state of mind. He was not in a good way. I wouldn't be either if I was caring for -- on my own -- a severely handicapped mother who now was exhibiting signs of dementia. He had just spent the past afternoon with my mother. He works nights and had gotten a frantic call from her around noon (as he gets everyday because my mother has anxiety.) She is on anxiety medication, but her delusional behavior still manages to push through. It's hard to know if it is her illness, depression or something else. At any rate, he went to her condo, tried to calm her and ended up sitting with her, holding her hand for most of the afternoon.

"I want, I want....I want..."

"What do you want mom. Tell me. What do you want?"

With her disease progressing to the point where her speech is nearly incomprehensible, my brother finds himself regularly coaxing information out of her, hoping she'll be able to eek out a word or two that he can understand. She usually becomes emotional and frantic, because shit, if you couldn't verbalize to your loved ones how you were feeling wouldn't you go mad?

That afternoon with my mother was no different. Except she got it out. She got out those words:

"I want to walk."

And isn't that the bitch of life? She won't walk. She won't ever walk again. And all my brother and I can do is ask ourselves "Why the fuck does she have to go this way? Why?"

So from my vantage point -- far away, over the phone, in pictures -- my days are spent laughing with my family and friends because life truly is joyous. But more lately, that joy is interrupted by a tightness in my throat. That clenching, squeezing knot in my stomach. Tears that are right at the surface, but get swallowed, pushed, pressed down as far down as I can get them.

Knowing I just won't ever have that mother I knew takes my breath away. As in, I literally have a physical reaction to my grief where I feel a shortness of breath. And knowing she will continue to drift further and further away...I can't even begin, right now, to really wrap my brain around how to face it.

So, I'll do what I can do for now. Call her. Talk to her. Tell her I love her...and hope that she'll be able to say it back.

Day 8: Mommy, You Look SO Different

Spent half the day removing about 50 pounds of hair from my head. Freeing...and terrifying. My only request to my hairdresser was please, please, please do not give me the short I've-given-up-and-I-just-want-what's-easiest mom 'do. You know. Sort of like a helmet. Made of hair. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I think he hooked me and I'm enjoying my first day with my new badass, kickass, take-no-prisoners hair.







I will miss being a princess, though, which M says is no longer in my future now that I have short hair. Ah well. I guess I'll have to settle for being the knight in shining armour.

Day 7: When Harry Met Sally -- The Preschool Years?

"Mommy, when I bring plums into school for lunch, Timmy goes crazy."

"Oh, really? How?"

"Well, he jumps up and down and just starts yelling, 'Plum! Plum! Plum!"

"Wow, he really likes plums, huh?"

"So much. Now, when I get into school and I see him, he asks me, 'Do you have a plum today?' I say, 'Yes!' He starts going crazy again and then I say, 'Just kidding!' and then he gets really sad like this."

Makes a sad face with bottom lip jutting out. The kind of face that my husband says he used to make and get the whole I-could-park-a-cadillac-on-that-lip remark from his grandfather.

Wait a second here. Just wait a gosh darned minute. What the heck is going on with the friggin' plums? Is this some sort of preschool precursor to flirting? Oh hell no.

"You tell that boy that your plums are yours and yours only and he should just go find a plum somewhere else!"

Strange look from preschooler.

A week later, Timmy's mom approached me before class the other day. "So, I hear Tim really likes Marley's plums."

"Um. Yeah. I heard."

"I asked him if he wanted me to start packing plums in his lunch and he said, 'Naaaah.'"

"Hahaha. Kids are so funny."

Note to self: Pack an apple.

Day 6: You Jigglin' Baby, Go 'Head Baby...

Ok, I missed a couple of days of blogging...I'm just going to keep going like they never happened...

Went for a run today. Not sure what inspired me. I did go running a couple months back, but didn't manage to start making it a part of my routine again. Hard to imagine this was the same girl, this time last year.

Husband was off this a.m. doing a little pre-triathlon training and, yes, it did make me feel...mushy. So, I packed up the kids in the jogger and decided to do a little training myself.

First thought: "Holy shit it's hot out here." (I wasn't making excuses, I swear. It was legitimately hot with temperatures fast-approaching 90.)

Second thought as I was a quarter way through the run: "Man this is hard. Dub tee eff?" I know I'm out of shape, but basically I was walking enthusiastically with a bounce. How sad have I become? I'm a friggin' speed walker.

Oh, wait, one tire is nearly flat. Thank God. At least now I have an excuse.

Third thought: "What's that jiggling sensation around my legs?" Hold up. Those are my thighs. Clapping. Applauding my efforts. Thanks guys.

Now getting on the exercise wagon...not hard. It's staying on it that gets me every time. Stay tuned.

Day 5: Second Base

My son likes to cop a feel. As in the kid digs boobies. As in, you may be holding him thinking, "Aaaaaw. What a sweet boy," when all of the sudden, "Aaaah! Wha! Hey!" as you get first-hand how a toddler can take the term "fun bags" to new heights.

Groped the babysitter. Fondled his aunt. Tickled Grandma. You name it, he's felt it.

I guess the whole fascination with breastesses starts at birth?

At any rate, for a mommy who has no boobies (or very small ones if you're being kind and, please, be kind), this poses some real frustration for said toddler.

The other day, we were in the kitchen. I was making his PBJ sandwich before an excursion outside when...I felt it. Those little, boob-crazy hands. But, not on my boobs (because as I mentioned before, it's hard to locate them these days), but on the part of my body that feels most like boobs -- my midsection.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my mammary-obsessed toddler felt up my spare tire. Giggling away. As if the whole squeezing of the excess skin in that area wasn't humiliating enough, I had to have him laughing in my face.

Going to do some sit-ups now. That is all.

Day 4: Mary Kay, I Ain't Mad Atcha

I was out walking with my kid today (the smaller one). We strolled down to the creek near our house to engage in some serious pebble skipping. After our outing, we headed back to the house, ready for some lunch.

We stopped to cross the two-way street just as an older lady walked up with her dog. Walking toward her, we caught eyes. I smiled, she smiled. At that moment, a pink cadillac drove past us.

"There goes that Mary Kay bitch," she muttered.

Huh? Did she just call someone a "Mary Kay bitch?" Before I even had a chance to digest and recover from the profanities lobbed at some poor, innocent cosmetic-selling haus frau who'd sold her heart out enough to win a pink cadillac...

"Don't expect me to buy any of your makeup shit either!"

Whoa. Seriously. What just happened? What was this woman's major malfunction? What beef could she possibly have with the Mary Kay lady? She's driving around in a pink car for Christ's sake. Had she been sold defective moisturizer? Or was she morally against pyramid schemes? Does she hate pink? Pink cadillacs? Maybe she's just jealous and wishes she had a pink cadillac?

Or was there something even more sinister behind the "Mary Kay bitch" comment? Had there been in-fighting within the neighborhood's Mary Kay contingent? Maybe a power struggle that ended in bloodshed? Territorial wars? Makeup parties fractured by corruption?

My 3-foot tall sidekick and I could only wonder and speculate as we headed back to the house for a bowl of mac 'n cheese.

Serious suburban angst. You can't make this shit up.

Day 3: You Know You're in an Ethnic House When...

When I was a kid, my mom would attempt every trick in the book to get me in the kitchen. Asked nicely. No thanks. Offered tastes. Nah. Bribed with promises of handsome rewards afterwards. Eh. Finally, after all else failed, there was, "Get your ass in the kitchen because I said so." Ok, my mom would never say that, but you get the picture.

And so, I spent many a Saturday afternoon learning the tricks of the Thai cooking trade. Now I'd like to say once I got in the kitchen it was this harmonious passing of knowledge from one generation to the next: "Fry the garlic only until crispy. Be careful not to turn the heat too high because it will burn." What really happened was more like this, though:

"Use the side of the mortar when smashing the garlic."

"I know mom."

Dirty side glance from mom.

Harumph.

Little did I know that those afternoons spent in the kitchen would pay off. It would be a while before I saw the benefits, though. Aside from once cooking a grilled cheese in a wok during my grad school years, I steered pretty clear of the kitchen.

Today is a much different story. Not to say I am this culinary wizard or even love the process of cooking all that much. But, there is something about when I make a Thai dish -- particularly if it's Thai comfort food -- that feels like she's sitting right next to me. With my mother so far away and so different from the woman that raised me, memories can fade pretty quickly. It's hard sometimes to conjure up all those moments that made my mother such a good...mom.

But, then I get in the kitchen, chop up some garlic, fry it for Thai chicken-rice soup and it all comes back.

I made this before going out to the library with the kids yesterday. As we re-entered the house, that oh-so-familiar, pungent, not-for-white-people garlic/fish sauce smell greeted us at the door. And I smiled.

Aaaaah, home...

Day 2: Rain, Rain, Go Away...

Today was one of those overcast, rainy spring days that make you feel gypped because you sat through months and months of what seemed like an endless winter (and trust me, this winter in the D.C. area was endless) only to get thrust back inside. I know it's not rational to expect every spring day to be perfect, but I still do.

So, in an effort to shake off the rainy day blues, I'm posting some pics from last week, which was, in fact, perfect.

At least some of the pollen will get washed away...

Day 1: Girls Gone Not So Wild

I remember thinking that getting older and having kids meant it was time to hang up your dancing shoes. Like the fun ones you wear when you want to go out and get really crazy. And, oh the horror of that thought. Getting old.

Last weekend, I left my kids and husband for the first time in about four years. I packed up my hottest heels, brushed the crumbs out of my purse and set off for a weekend of debauchery. Or at least something in the neighborhood of debauchery.

Met two of my BFFs in NOLA for the weekend. These are two girls I lived with during my stint in Colorado (grad school, work, etc.) and have remained friends with over the last 10 years. (Wow. Ok, I just bugged myself out with that last 10-year sentence.) We all live in different parts of the country, but have been in each other's weddings and continue to have this bond based in large part on...farts. As in 11-year-old-boy-humor farts. And poop. I'm not kidding. Thirty-something-year-old women who e-mail, call, text, etc. each other about farts.

At any rate, I was ready. Ready for some serious eating, serious farting, serious partying and serious female bonding.

Sometimes in my day-to-day life as Rosana, The Wife and Mom, it's easy to forget. I'm busy caring for other smaller (and sometimes larger) creatures in my life and without meaning to, I forget that fun-seeking, hard-partying, fart-loving girl from days of yore.

And so I set off in search of her. We shopped, we laughed, we ate, we talked, we analyzed, we joked, we reminisced...I know what you're thinking now. "She rediscovered that long-lost young woman that has been pushed aside by family and motherhood."

Wrong-o.

Bitch is gone. Ok. correction. She is still there, but not in the same way. Didn't even make it past midnight on either night. There was lots of eating and then back to hotel to sleep. Then up early to walk around the city. Then more eating. Then more sleeping. That hard-partying girl who used to run around mooning people after leaving the bar at 3 a.m.? She done packed up her shit and left the premises. Not that I really expected to moon anyone in New Orleans, but I did think I'd possibly get a little more raucous without niblets around.

But, I surprised myself. Even without the kids right there in my face...I'm still a mom. And older. It's a funny thing when you get older. It's quieter. Not like in a boring way either. Just in a more peaceful way.

I had one of the best times of the past year on this trip, and there were no crazy stories to bring home (beyond a naughty trip to a lingerie store and, hello, we were buying stuff to wear for the guys we married. Ooooooh, soooooo crazy).

I didn't come home hungover with some insane confession to make to my husband about showing my tits in the streets of New Orleans. Instead, I came home well-rested, reinvigorated and...happy. I had a couple mornings of sleeping in, ate meals without getting up to cut someone's meat or refill milk, and engaged in adult conversation minus that oh-so-familiar tugging, poking, pulling sensation, which, if ignored, can devolve into full-on screeching.

Moral of the story? Getting older, having a family, etc. does mean changes. The surprise for me is that not only am I ok with those changes, but I'm pretty amped about them. So, am I Mother Theresa now? Not quite.

Would Mother Theresa wear these shoes?




Shebanga.

I Have a Ton to Say...

But no time to say it! Or rather, I making it too much work to say it. Bottom line, I miss my blog family. Plus, blog family aside, this was all supposed to be an exercise in memorializing motherhood...for me. And them.

So, inspired by my good friend Sarah who also blogs about her two gorgeous girls, Grace and Maddie, I am going to do a post a day for a month. I'm not going to put pressure on myself to always have to write something funny or meaningful or clever or sad or happy or whatever. I'm just going to see what comes. It may be a picture. It may be a sentence. It may be 15 paragraphs. Who knows. We'll see what happens. Stay tuned...

A New Day

Life is funny. One minute you're a boutique owner. The next minute you're a mom of two. The next minute you're an intern. And the next minute you're a personal stylist.

The last week has been busy and exciting with my side business suddenly becoming my main business. I decided it was all getting to be a little too much. Like working until 1 a.m. too much. Like frazzled and short-tempered too much, particularly when I rise with my son who just doesn't seem to get it when I say "No light. No wake" to him at 5 a.m.

So, I quit. I quit the geriatric paper. And believe it or not, it made me a little sad. I used to be able to cut jobs, places and people rather quickly and without much thought or consideration. I'd reach a boiling point where I was not happy anymore, couldn't take it anymore and then...drum roll... finito santiago. My husband used to say that was the scariest part of my personality -- the ability to be so black and white. Like, "Hi, I'm done with you. Goodbye."

Things done changed, though.

My thinking and feeling go hand-in-hand more now. I make decisions before I become hyper fed-up and blindly emotional.

It's due to many changes in my life, not the least of which is having children. And I'm not talking about a baby that wakes you up for the seventh time in the middle of the night. I mean parenting kids that are growing up with their own words and opinions and stories and feelings. That takes more than a wellspring of emotion. It takes thought and consideration and decisions that go beyond "'cause I just want to."

The craziest part of it all is they make you look back on the most man-my-head-hurts-because-i've-been-banging-it-on-this-wall-for-the-past-hour moments of being a parent with...affection. Yes I said it. I may take it back tomorrow, but I'm saying it now. It's not because you love them because it goes without saying that the sort of love you feel for your child is off-the-charts scary, but also because it's this feeling of "Man, that was fucking hard. And I survived. And I think I might have learned something. Rad."

So, you change. Or at least I have. Not anything that anyone would notice if they were having dinner with me, but just in that I sit just a little more comfortably in this sometimes wobbly, sometimes stone hard, sometimes pillow soft chair that is my life.

At least that's how I feel right now. J waking up in the middle of the night tonight saying, "No seep. No seep. No seep" could change all that.

Marley has a chart in our kitchen that tracks her behavior. Smiley faces for setting the table. Smiley faces for "pleases" and "thanks yous." Smiley faces for brushing her teeth. I asked her the other day if I should get a smiley face for things I'm working on as her mama -- like not yelling so much. She ran over to her toy room table, grabbed one of the heart-shaped post-its I gave her the other day, and scrawled a broad, smiling face on it.

"Here's your smiley face mommy. You're doing pretty good."

Whoa, Who Let the Mom In?

There's this mom at M's preschool that I am fairly obsessed with. She has a son in M's class, twin daughters that are about two, and she's monstrously pregnant with her fourth. She also assists with classes at the preschool. She never looks stressed, harried, or strung out. I see her waddling around with what looks like a basketball under her shirt, herding her kids through the school hallways.

"This way girls," she sings. They follow. "Put on your hats," she songs. They put on their hats. "Come now. Time to go home." No meltdowns. No protests. No nothing. She's not remarkable in any other way except for her miraculous way of mothering.

We sat behind her during M's Christmas pageant during the holidays. Her two daughters, no more than two, sat watching the preschool performances, enraptured. Meanwhile, I had just finished running up and down the hall outside the chapel with my two-year-old in an effort to wear him out so maybe, just maybe, he would sit and watch his sister walk down the aisle before making a break for the hills. I just stared. In awe. I almost forgot to catch M coming down the aisle I was so dumbfounded by Mother Mary and her two angels.

I've been a mom now for five years. Still, I'm often reminded that I'm not one of those women hard-wired to instinctively know what the hell I'm doing in this crazy mixed-up world where, among other things, you're responsible for showing someone how to properly take a dump. Like not in his pants, but in a toilet.

Let's get to the ugly truth here. I'm fairly selfish, vain and impatient. When I had my first child, it wasn't just like the culture shock you experience when you move to another country. It was like, "Holy shit. Do they have oxygen on this planet?" I knew this tiny person needed me, and I was going to do my part to make sure I was there. But, other than that. Yup. No clue.

And here I am, several years later. Older and wiser? More of a mommy? Proof is in the pudding, bitches.

On dentist's orders, M has drastically cut back on sweets. So, for her Valentine's Day party at school, I made what you see above -- apples and peanut butter cut into the shape of hearts. Did M love them? Hells yeah. DId that make me feel like Mother of the Year? You better believe it.

Take that Mother Theresa.

Buried Alive

So, we've just emerged from a week of snow. Correction, a week of snow that culminated in drifts of nearly four feet. Stuck in the house for days, I was forced to do the only thing i knew how to do to survive...eat cookies. Lots and lots of cookies. There were Hershey Kiss peanut butter cookies, butterscotch chip oatmeal , black and white, frosted cut-out ...I could go on.

I spent three solid days ingesting only food that was made of butter and sugar and required a baking temperature of 375 degrees.

"Honey. Aren't you going to get sick eating all those cookies?" my worried husband (who, by the way ingested his fair share of sweets over the snow week -- hypocrite) would say.

"Mine yo own bifnuss. Are you gonnaf eaf fat coofee?" I'd say, mouth full and paw out ready to snatch his.

When I wasn't baking cookies, I was either a.) eating them directly from the cookie plate or b.) roaming around the house snatching up discarded unwanted cookies and jamming them directly into my face in a flurry of crumbs. Nope, no pie hole over here. Cookie hole.

"Hey! Where did my cookie go?" M would whine.

"Oh not sho honey. Maybe ova day?" I'd mutter and point aimlessly over her head, hoping to distract her from the crime scene. Not only was I guilty, but due to the fact that I was unable to enunciate words with an entire chocolate chip cookie jammed in my mouth, not that slick either.

I hit an all-time low when I went to use the bathroom, peed, stood up to pull my pants up and caught a glimps of myself in the mirror. My chin was covered in cookie crumbs and there was a shmear of chocolate on the right corner of my mouth.
Yes, I stood there for a moment, sweat pants around my ankles and cookie all over my face and felt something more powerful than ingesting 22 cookies in one sitting. Shame.

"Oh God..."

Oh God is right. The snow needed to stop. It needed to stop or others would continue to suffer. I had taken to shuffling around in long johns all day -- changing in the evening into, yes, another pair of long johns. ("Mommy, you're the only one who hasn't changed her clothes aaaaaaall day.") I'd bark random orders about softening butter and sifting flour. I'd panic if the cookies weren't removed from the oven the second the timer went off. (Nothing like a batch of overbaked hockey puck cookies to ruin a true cookie binge.) Before one batch of cookies had even been eaten, with my mouth watering and eyes bulging, I'd yell (to no one in particular), "Who wants to make more cookies! I'm going to make more cookies! Yum. More cookies!"

I'd lost it.

But before the white coat dudes could cart me off, before vegetables became a mythical memory,before my husband had to pry an M&M cookie from my cold, lifeless hand...it stopped. Snowing, that is.

And, sad as it was, I had to leave my cookies behind.

Oh, and just so there is photographic evidence of the reason for my slothlike behavior (because, you know, I'd never behave like that otherwise)...snow pics...

What All the Hard Work is For

When I started this blog, I wanted a place to put down my real thoughts about many of the ridiculous and painful aspects of motherhood. I was perplexed by the parade of gag-me-with-a-spoon, saccharine sweet, isn't-it-great takes on motherhood. I wanted to have somewhere to write down my silly, crazy daily thoughts on the entire experience of mothering two small children. I wanted to laugh.

Sometimes I go back and read my posts, though, and I think, "Damn, I was borderline nuts when I wrote that."

It's good to have a little sweetness from time to time, right? What did that batty lady that flew around with her umbrella, showing up to solve all the problems of misguided children used to say? Ah yes. A spoonful of sugar...

Tonight, I had my spoonful, and I thought I would share it here. Because as nails-on-a-chalkboard painful as it can be at times, you have moments like this that break your heart into pieces and remind you why you did it all in the first place. And that, given the chance, you'd do it all over again. And again. And again.

And again.

reading from rosana v on Vimeo.