Drama for Mama

I've moved!!!

2010-01-07T18:14:00.000-08:00

Attention! Attention! Late, Breaking NEWS! I've moved my site over to Wordpress so please continue to be my friend and follow me on over. If I could I'd have wine and cheese waiting for you as the nice hostess that I am but well, this is cyberspace for god sakes so have your own wine and cheese!

My new site is:
http://www.dramaformama.wordpress.com

It's all the same stuff but much easier to read and I'll actually be able to comment back to you.

So come on over! I have a new post waiting, right now. See you there!

xo

Who am I to judge?

2010-01-06T19:12:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a rough day (as you may have guessed if you read yesterday's post). It was as rough as they get with Hannah. I guess the gift I get with her turning five is a boatload of sassiness and a new sixteen year old-esque attitude. We both yelled until our throats were sore. We both shed too many tears. I promised myself that this girl is going to have some new rules to follow. This mommy is going to take charge! Because days like yesterday, cannot continue. I felt like I was run over by a Mac truck when I went to bed last night. And based on Tim's reaction when he got home from work, I looked like it as well.

This morning was a new day. My first new rule was that Hannah must get dressed on her own by 8:15. Before yesterday the routine was that I would go up to her room while she lazily played in the family room, pick out her outfit du jour and help her get dressed in the family room. It moved things along. It ensured an on time departure to get to school by 9:00. It was also a guarantee that I'd like her outfit. Yes, I'm one of those moms. One of those moms that takes pride in how their children "look" when they leave the house. I don't spend a lot of money (anymore) on her clothes but I like for her to look put-together and neat, with a little style thrown in as well. I don't care much about how she looks when she comes home from school. I actually LIKE when she's a mess at the end of the day because it shows she had a busy, live-like-you're-five type day. I've just always felt that how she looks is a reflection on me. I know, I know ( I hear you all lecturing me now), letting kids wear what they want fosters creativity and lets them think for themselves, blahdiblahdiblah. I just feel good when my children look cute. Shoot me. Or sue me. Or whatever cliche you'd like to add.

Anyway... at 8:00 I sent Hannah to her room to get dressed. After a few stomps of protest, she shuffled herself up the stairs. After a few minutes, she burst into my room, fully dressed. I thought she was joking. I actually laughed. I'm not going to bore you with the mismatched details so I'll just leave it as, I think she worked as hard putting this train wreck of an outfit together as she would have to put together a catalog worthy outfit. Part of me thought she was mocking me.

"Do you like?" she asked hopeful.
"Ummmmm..." was all I could muster.
"There's a lot going on here, isn't there mommy." she said, reading my mind (and repeating a comment I must have said before).
"Yeah, there is. But..." I was revving myself up to tell her it was ok to wear what she chose, but she cut me off.
"It's ok mommy. People don't really care what I'm wearing anyway. They only care that I'm nice and sweet."

My 5 year old was lecturing me on "it's what's on the inside that counts". My 5 year old is more mature than me. She's less superficial than me. Ugh.

I wish I could live by this mantra more often. I hesitate to write the words here that I really feel because I don't want you to think less of me. But maybe if I write them, I'll try harder to change. I DO care what I look like. I DO assume people judge me for how I look. I spend too much money (money that I don't even earn anymore) on clothes. I often put too much thought into what I put on in the morning before I leave the house. I believe that my style says a lot about my personality. And I think it's because (deep breath) I sometimes JUDGE other people too quickly by what I SEE. Don't get me wrong. I'm friendly to everyone. I will never turn away from anyone or think less of someone for how they look, but I'll often start the conversation with them with an initial opinion in my head. One that is more often than not, WRONG. I think many of us are like this. We make judgement calls on people before we give them a chance. We judge people on where they went to school, where they live, what kind of work they do, how they raise their kids. But judging someone for how they look... it's one of the first lessons we learn. It's unacceptable.

Part of me strives to be the mom who looks like she has it all together. I am so NOT that mom. I don't have it together on so many days. I am usually hanging on by a thread. But I guess I think if I LOOK like I do, maybe that's half the battle. I meet moms at Mommy and Me gym classes, school drop off, the grocery store who I wonder how they took that shower in the morning. When they had time to buy that trendy, chic outfit. How they don't look painfully exhausted. How they got makeup on their face with kids hanging on their legs and arms. I think to myself, next time I come to this gym class, I'm going to get MYself together. I can look that great too. I rarely do, but on occasion, I try.

Why Do I Care? I'm a nice person. I am interesting, fun, smart. But somehow, it's not enough. I need to reevaluate what is important in myself. What is important to others. My clothes, my hair, my shoes, are not. But now, without my yearly work review, without a boss telling me how I'm doing, without the "normal" ways of being judged... this is all I've got. Now, these days as a full time mom, the judging of myself is on me. I feel so much better about myself on the days when I shower and wear an "outfit" that's not the clothes picked up off the floor from the day before. Not the same black t-shirt that I slept in the night before. When I give myself the luxury of blow drying my hair, putting on a pair of earrings and rubbing my newly glossed lips together, I feel like I've achieved something. But really, I've achieved nothing more than impressing myself.

So here it is, another resolution. Brought to you by my 5 year old daughter. I will focus on what is important. My insides. Other people's insides. Being proud of keeping my kids alive, nourished and loved each and every day. Because it's all that really matters. (Although Tim would be thankful if I shaved my legs and brushed my hair a few days a week).

Being nice and sweet. It's all that really matters.

Sometimes

2010-01-05T18:22:00.000-08:00

I guess sometimes you have to shed huge tears
So that you appreciate the tears of joy that much more.

I guess sometimes you have to scream crazy loud
So that your nice voice rings sweeter.

I guess sometimes you have to say things you don't mean
So that the ones you do mean hold more meaning.

I guess sometimes your heart has to feel broken
So that you realize the happiness when it sings.

I guess sometimes you have to lose your patience
So that when you find it, you hold onto it tighter.

I guess sometimes you have to have an angry side
So that your pleasant side makes more of a statement.

I guess sometimes you have to feel lost
So that being found is that much more comforting.

I guess sometimes you have to feel like you have no one
So that when your someone is there, their arms wrap warmer.

I hope that there are all these "sometimes"
Or else today was really for nothing.

Yes, I had one of "those" days. One of those days that is thrown at us so that we appreciate the better days. One of those days where my kids decided they had been giving me too much of a good thing. One of those days where I had to EARN my huge salary. One of those days where I'm really thankful I have this place. This place where I can shed my tears and my words... and feel better tomorrow. Thanks for that.

The Bright Side

2010-01-04T17:55:00.000-08:00

Hannah had her first gymnastics practice in her "advanced preschool" class today. She's been looking forward to it for weeks. She had to "try out" for this class and was thrilled when she was selected. I'm not sure what the criteria was to make the class but I guess she showed some potential in her crooked little cartwheel or sideways forward roll. And today, in her new shiny, stripy, polkadotted leotard she was ecstatic. On the drive there I asked her if she was excited, wondering if there was a part of her that was nervous. New kids, new coach, newly five years old.

"Oh I'm so excited mommy! So so so excited. It's going to be the best. It is going to be the most fun ever. If I can't do something, I'll just ask and the coach will come over and help me. Because you know, I haven't done gymnastics for a long time (the summer/fall) so I might have forgotten some tricks but I'm sure I'll remember right away once the coach has showed me. I'll probably have the most fun I've ever had. Ever."

My little optimist.

I'm an optimist. I grew up in a household full of pessimists but somehow, I became an optimist. I don't know if it was a retaliation against the negativity surrounding me or if I was just born this way but I definitely view things in a positive light, for the most part. My mom used to always assume things wouldn't go well. I'd desperately ask her why she always put a negative spin on things and she'd say, "I'd rather believe the worst and then be pleasantly surprised if I'm wrong". I used to press her saying, "wouldn't it just be better to live life assuming things WILL work out and then, if they don't, be sad?" She absolutely, no doubt about it, disagreed. She hated the let down. It used to drive me crazy. Things as unimportant as the weather to things of utmost importance like whether I'd be asked to prom, she would prepare me for the worst. I guess she didn't want ME disappointed either. She was protecting me. She was loving me.

Often I'd look over at my dad when she was casting a negative light on things in my world, asking him to support my optimism and convince her to see the glass more full and he'd just shrug his shoulders. He knew it was a battle not worth fighting. Often my mom would say she was just being realistic. Not negative. If the chances were not in her favor, she wasn't willing to take a risk to think things would fall on her side. It was easier for her this way. It still is. I'm used to it. I now often do the "Wah Wah" of Debbie Downer when she makes a negative comment about something involving me. It's become a bit of a joke. One that she doesn't often laugh at but I have to.

Yesterday for Hannah's birthday I made big plans to take our family to the Big Apple Circus in NYC. I paid top dollar for close ringside seats. I decided to buy Luke his own seat even if he chose to sit on my or Tim's lap for the entire show. This way it would give us extra space and would give him the option to climb up and down off the chair if he wished. Hannah and I counted the days down to the big event. I was nervous in the back of my head. Nervous the Big Apple Circus may be a let down compared to the Ringling Brothers I saw and remembered clearly from my childhood. Nervous that Luke (and Hannah) would be petrified of the loud noises, big animals, clowns and crowds. Nervous that Hannah would want to go out into the ring with the acts, reminiscent of our trip to see the Wiggles on stage when she was two. Nervous that all of the planning would somehow not play out as Hannah and I had dreamed. But everything I said out loud, for anyone else's ears... was very positive. I told everyone how wonderful it would be, how sure I was that everything would go smoothly.

Yesterday morning I spoke to my mom.
Not surprisingly, she wasn't as full of optimism. I tried not to let it effect me. I tried to keep my steady, sturdy, upbeat attitude. It's not always easy when one of your biggest supporters isn't walking to the same beat.

She ended the conversation with, "Have fun!" And I know she meant it. She always wants the best for me. She is crushed when I'm sad. I'm sure the fact that I choose her to complain to when things DON'T go well makes her that much more interested in seeing things turn out positively. I don't blame her. I don't want her to stop communicating her thoughts to me... I guess, just as I always did when I was little, I wish I could drain some of the negativity from her head. Let her see how much shinier things could look without it. But you can't change the way someone views life. I just have to let it roll off me... and stay confident in my opposite approach.

I am not someone who looks at things through rose colored glasses. I actually get frustrated with people who do. People NEED to at least take NOTE of both sides, it's just which side they choose to let guide them that differentiates them. I am grounded. There are times when reality gets the best of me and I have a hard time snapping out of it and hoping for things to take a change for the best. I do worry. I do vent. I am not the person who says, "I'm sure everything will be fine." when I have reason to believe it won't. BUT, I choose to look at the sunny side. I choose to notice the flowers, not the dirt. The peaks of sun, not the clouds. It gets me through rough patches. It keeps me from wallowing. It keeps me sane on days when I could otherwise get pulled under.

I'm still glowing in the bask of the circus. That's right. It was AMAZING. Luke sat with his entire fist in his mouth for almost two hours, eyes as big as saucers. He applauded when anyone else clapped. He yelled, "Ta DA!" when the trapeze artist made a perfect landing. He "woof woofed" at the doggies parading around. He was asleep within 7 minutes on the car ride home. And the birthday girl? She had her picture taken with one of the head clowns. She got a birthday kiss from the ring master. She had her face painted, peed for the first time in a port-a-potty and announced to everyone and anyone who would listen that she was five. The only tears that were shed were this morning, when she realized it was over and we weren't going again today.

I'm so happy I was optimistic about yesterday. If I hadn't been, my nerves probably would have gotten the best of me. I would have left Luke at home and worried about each and every detail. Instead, I went with the flow. I planned a great day, and it was over and above what I dreamed of. I saw my daughter's eyes widen with excitement and disbelief at what was going on in front of and above her. The thrill in Luke's face will forever be etched in my memory. He won't remember one second of it... but I will.

Two months of excitement and one afternoon of perfection. Certainly better than two months of fretting and an afternoon of relief. It gave me reason to continue my optimistic way about me. And reason to encourage the same with my kids... if nothing else it will keep the Debbie Downer impersonations to a minimum.

Unexpected

2010-01-02T19:18:00.000-08:00

Five years ago on January 3, 2005 I woke up like it was any other day. I remember wandering aimlessly around my office building's cafeteria peering at the different breakfast stations and finding nothing appealing. It was the first day back after the Christmas/New Years Holidays and everyone was moving in slow motion. Not ready for reality. Not ready for the grind. I sure wasn't. I had one week left in my position before I left for a week of relaxation and then 4 months of maternity leave to care for my first child. I had a list in my office of what I needed to take my boss through so that my brand's business wouldn't completely fall apart in my absence. I was unmotivated to say the least. Bursting out of my tight maternity pants, I was ready to put my feet up and mentally prepare myself for what lay ahead.

Prepare myself. Ha.

At 10:00 that morning I went to the bathroom to pee and almost passed out from the amount of blood that gushed out of me. And kept gushing out of me. Unexpected. I stuffed paper towels into my pants and ran to my friend's office in a panic. We called my doctor together who urged us to drive immediately to the office. I thought she'd take a look at me, give me a remedy for my bleeding and send me back to work. Instead she worriedly looked at the ultrasound monitor and told me I'd be having an emergency c-section that day. Unexpected.

"I can't do it today." I told her. I have to finish my work. I have a pile of stuff on my desk." It was as if she was telling me I needed to shovel a driveway full of snow on a day that I just had too many other things to get done.

"Nope. Baby is coming out today. Immediately."

A mush of thoughts and emotions traveled through my head and my body. Tim worked in New York City - an hour away. I didn't get my week to relax. This was not the PLAN. This was UNEXPECTED.

I called Tim from the doctor's small office as she called the hospital to get me admitted quickly. He was calm. Calmer than I felt. He was on his way. He was excited. He was going to be a dad that day. I was panicked. This was not the plan. And I still felt the blood.

The next hour was a blur. Doctors, nurses, technicians all paraded in and out of my hospital room analyzing the situation, checking me out, checking the baby out. I was hearing the words, "urgent", "emergency", "blood transfusion", and "danger" all too often. Unexpected.

Tim was now by my side. I was being wheeled into the operating room. Our families were on their way. I was about to have my child removed from me. The one that had taken on the name "thumper" for all its incessant knocking on my insides. All of the planning. The dreaming. The wondering. It was all becoming reality. Today. Unexpected.

We heard the words, "It's. A. Girl." and I looked up at Tim and told him to check to be sure. I didn't believe him. A Girl. Unexpected. He confirmed it. She was in his arms. Hannah Brynn. They were leaning over me. That little girl face (why was there so much hair on it?). She was already sucking her thumb. Her eyes were open. She had all the right parts in all the right places. She was perfect. Unexpected.

My girl. My five year old girl. Five years. I did not know I was going to fall so hard. Fall in love so hard. Feel such an attachment. I didn't know it was possible for hearts to be so full. That arms could open so wide. I didn't understand what it felt like to melt. I didn't believe my world would truly be turned upside down. I didn't know I could be so patient. I didn't realize comforting someone would bring so much comfort. In the blink of an eye, I felt like I didn't "know" anything anymore. Unexpected.

I didn't know I'd feel so emotional today. The day before my baby's fifth birthday. Unexpected. I'm grasping for more time. I'm reaching for the pause button. I'm franticly trying to slow it all down. I'm hoping I've done it right so far. I'm wondering if I've said what she's needed to hear so far. Everything just keeps moving forward so quickly and I'm struggling to keep up. My baby is five. My magnetic, passionate, dramatic, nurturing, sweet, expressive, silly little girl is five. I didn't know it would come so fast. I didn't know I'd be so unprepared. This feeling is so unexpected.

Dear Hannah,

I love you. No matter what and always. I love you.

Happy Birthday.

Mommy

Actual Birth Day

Three Months Old

First Birthday

Second Birthday

Third Birthday

Fourth Birthday

Just About Five

Me and my resolutions

2010-01-01T18:51:00.000-08:00

January 1. The day that I always search deep within for what I want to do better. Do different. Do. I've always done this on this day of new beginnings. I write them down on a piece of paper and store it in a private drawer with the hope of pulling it out on December 31 and smiling with pride as I check each one off having been completed. I don't think I've EVER checked them all off. My list is always over ambitious and the items are always too general consisting of words like, "be better at..." or "work harder to...", things that are not even check-offable". Yesterday I didn't even pull out my 2009 list. I knew I didn't achieve any of my resolutions and didn't want to depress myself by confirming it. Plus, I feel like I put that list in my drawer yesterday, not 365 days ago. WHERE oh where did the year go? What DID I do?

One thing I did do was this. My blog. Drama for Mama was born and with its birth a new passion and new friendships also came to life. I have written before about the fact that my head is full of "wonder". I wonder all the time. Wonder what people are thinking. Wonder if I'm doing things right. Wonder if I'm the person I hope to be. Wonder who it is I hope to be. This blog has allowed me to wonder aloud. And I feel as if I've been given permission to wonder because I have found I'm not alone. No matter what is on my mind, someone else has it on their mind too. This blog has brought me support, empathy, sympathy and inspiration. Who knew.

This year, there's no piece of paper. There's no drawer to put it in. I'm writing my resolutions here. For all to see. This way you can keep me honest. You can keep me on track. And at the end of 2010, we can celebrate my successes together or laugh together that they were ridiculous to begin with. I am going to tie my resolutions in with the Ten Things You Don't Know About Me that I'm required to write in receipt of my Sugar Doll award to give my list reason for being.

FIRST thing you may not know about me:
I count things. I count without knowing I'm counting until it's over and I have the number in my head. For instance, I never go up a flight of steps without counting them. I rarely go from point A to point B without knowing how many steps I took. If a train is going by, I count the train cars. Weird, I know. My mom does it too. I don't count out loud so I don't get bizarre looks from people but the numbers still tick in my head.
Resolution: I will apply this OCD behavior to my house. I will THROW out. I will purge. I will organize. Things will have a PLACE. It will not be easy, but it will happen. I will be able to breathe easier and feel a sense of calm. It will be worth it.

SECOND thing you may not know about me:
I was NEVER a girly girl. When I was little I used to drag baby dolls around by their hair. Most of them ended up without heads. I didn't get a manicure until after I graduated from college. I didn't wear or have an interest in wearing makeup until I was in my 20's. I liked being outside, riding my bike, throwing balls around, playing tetherball and beating the boys in the 50 yard dash. I have a daughter who although looks just like me, is the exact opposite. She is all things GIRL. Baby dolls are her passion. She likes having her toes painted rainbow colors. She likes bows in her hair and necklaces adorning her neck.
Resolution: I will revel in her girliness. Although I will push her toward sports because I am a strong believer that team sports are extremely healthy for kids, I will also allow her to BE all girl. And I will continue to find my inner girl along with her. I will enjoy the moments of playing mommy and baby with her. I will schedule weekly dates on the couch where I paint her toe nails while she sits in her bathrobe. I will let her dream in pink if she so chooses.

THIRD thing you may not know about me: I used to get up at 4:55 every single weekday morning to go to the gym. I was addicted to the adrenaline rush I got from working out. I had muscle tone. I was energized. I may have been NUTS. I may have driven Tim crazy with the alarm buzzer. But I felt great. I am still up at this hour more mornings than I care to admit due to insomnia or a non-sleeping child but I have not seen the inside of a gym at this hour in 5 years.
Resolution: I will be reconnecting with and hopefully re-igniting the love affair I once had with the gym. I will find the time. I will MAKE the time. I cannot hope for every day (hell, I don't even WANT to try to go every day) but a few days a week the gym and I will have a hot date.

FOURTH thing you may not know about me: I have my MBA. It's hard to believe I walked up on that stage in NYC and shook hands with the dean as he handed me my hard earned diploma almost TEN years ago. It's hard to believe that after crying through economics and swearing at the world through accounting and finance, I only put it to use for 7 years until I hung up my hat in the corporate world and opened my arms to my kids and a job that has far more working hours in a day than even my LONGEST days in the real working world. I do miss my old career. I miss marketing. I miss coming up with concepts for new soaps and lipsticks and talking to consumers about why they buy what they buy and then seeing a new tube of lipstick hanging on the wall that I helped create, advertise and sell. I still walk down the cosmetic aisle and read all of the packaging for new products wondering how the idea came to life. I watch commercials and have opinions about them all.
Resolution: I will bring my marketing consulting business to life. I will find some projects that inspire me. I will hand out my business cards and find businesses that need me. It may be one project at a time, a few hours a week, but it will be something. I need something else. My kids need me to have something else.

FIFTH thing you may not know about me: I am a hypochondriac. Seriously. I worry far too often that something is terribly wrong with me. I google my symptoms. I diagnose myself with rare and terminal illnesses. I don't go to the doctor but instead worry myself into despair. It's terrible. It's a sickness in itself. I never used to be this way until I had kids. My kids have given me new reason to live and I now worry incessantly about something taking me away from them. I have brought myself to tears lying in bed thinking about it.
Resolution: Knock it the fuck off! 'Nuff said.

SIXTH thing you may not know about me: I LOVE people. I write a lot about having a hard time making friends, keeping friends, talking to friends, being honest with friends, etc. But honestly, I love to be with, get to know and spend time with friends. People fascinate me. It must be the marketer in me but I have a passion for understanding what makes people tick. It's why I ask so many questions, it's why I may get caught staring a little too often. It's why I have a daughter who won't STOP ASKING QUESTIONS!
Resolution: I will see my friends more. I will have more playdates with Hannah's friends. I will make more of an effort to connect and reconnect even when it's so much easier to stay home.

SEVENTH thing you may not know about me: Conflict scares the crap out of me. I avoid confrontation at all costs. I would rather let something stew inside my head giving me an horrendous headache and then diagnose myself with a brain tumor than confront someone with something hurtful, bothersome or disappointing they said to me. I let things roll off me very easily. I forgive almost immediately. I apologize before even realizing something wasn't my fault. I'm terrible at using my words although I get very upset if someone isn't straightforward and upfront with me. I'm afraid of losing someone close to me over conflict. I'm afraid of offending someone or being viewed as too sensitive or weak. So I stay quiet.
Resolution: I will say how I feel. More often at least. I will realize that those who love me, will still love me even if I tell them they hurt me. I will let myself feel hurt even if I AM being too sensitive. I will broach tough conversations to lighten the load in my head.

EIGHTH thing you may not know about me: I love to cook. I actually didn't even know this about myself until pretty recently! Who knew I'd find it so relaxing, so peaceful, so rewarding? And add a glass of wine and some music to the activity... I choose that over a bubble bath any day!
Resolution: My dinner table will see more home cooked meals during the week. And by home cooked I mean, from scratch. No box of dinner that requires adding some butter and milk to boiling water. No peel back celophane on a dish that is placed in the microwave. Home Cooked. By me. With raw ingredients. And I will require the family to eat it Together. At the table. At the same time. At least the kids and I since Tim doesn't usually see the dinner table until the kids are sleeping.

NINTH thing you may not know about me: I'm a shopaholic. I love all things shopping (ok, so maybe I am a girly girl). I don't even need to buy... I just love to shop. Some people have a drink to calm their nerves. Some people go for a run to clear their head. I hit the stores. I feel a buzz as I touch the fabrics on the racks. I am energized by the music, the fellow shoppers. It's my zone. Tim (or his wallet) is lucky I don't have time to do it more often. Superficial? Yes. Just speaking the truth.
Resolution: I don't have one. I just needed to get this addiction off my chest.

TENTH thing you may not know about me: I wrote a children's book. Yes. I actually did it. You may recall a story I told in a post a month or so ago about a pair of shoes? You can see it here. I now just need to push it through the "system", whatever system that might be.
Resolution: Move it along and make it happen. I have a whole series in mind so I have to get this first one off the ground.

It's a long list. It's not a complete list. But it's a start. It's a big year 2010. Hannah will turn 5. She will start Kindergarten. Luke will turn 2. He hopefully will learn to SPEAK. And I will have big changes too. Things that will better me for me and for my family. And you'll be here to see it happen!

Sugar Doll - My Messy Paradise

2009-12-31T06:44:00.000-08:00

Ever have someone that you respect and look up to and ADORE give you a fantastic compliment? One that makes you blush, look over your shoulder to be sure they're talking about you and then be left speechless? This happened to me recently. I have met some amazing blog friends over the past few months. Women who write with a style that I could only dream of. Women whose stories resonate with me and have me nodding my head in agreement with every word. I talk about them with my family as if they are my real friends because I feel like I've gotten to know them and them me as well as or better than my real life friends. One of these friends is Lindsey. Lindsey writes an incredible blog called A Design So Vast. I found her through another of my favorite blogs, Momalom. I was attracted first to the way she wrote comments on Momalom's blog. I always agreed with her comments so decided to check out her own stories on her blog. Wow. Every post I read impressed me more than the last. The words she hand picks to illustrate her feelings are breathtaking. Her stories are magnificent. So when she honored me with a the Sugar Doll blog award. I was speechless. Who, me? I skipped through that day, feeling like I had received the highest compliment I could have imagined. It made me feel like writing the words I choose to write (as silly, dark or superficial as they may be) were heard and understood and well, LIKED! Yay me! And I now have to share 10 things about myself that you don't know. It will be coming in the form of my New Years Resolutions. Stay tuned!

So thank you Lindsey! Thank you for giving me this Sugar Doll Award honor. Coming from you it truly is just that - an honor.

And now it's my turn to pass it along to another blogger who I have come to love. I haven't been at this blog writing thing for long, but in my short time I've come across a variety of types of writing and personalities. This one I feel like I would be friends with if we lived down the street from each other. She makes me laugh on most days with her anecdotes of her kids and family. I usually think I could have written the same story about my family. She is so REAL. Her words ring true. She makes me smile. When I want a break from my drama, I go read about hers because it makes me feel better that I'm not the only one who it happens to. She speaks the truth about her husband. She is not shy about her pajama choices, she admits when she (thinks) she's being a bad mom (which she never is!). She is LZ from My Messy Paradise. And I promise, if you go read what she has to say, you'll want to be her friend too. And now I'm thinking I shouldn't be telling you about her because I want to keep her for myself. I'm selfish like that. Although, it's too late because she already has a million friends. But I'm a good fighter so I think I may be able to win a seat by her at a party if I'm ever lucky enough to be at a party where she is.

So congratulations LZ on your Sugar Doll Award... go share the love! Pass it on to someone you love. And then share 10 things we don't know about you. I can't wait to read them!

Oh to be Kid Friendly

2009-12-30T18:26:00.000-08:00

Hannah started "school" at 7 months old. I was working full time when she was born and decided that daycare fit what I was looking for in our situation. She had a nanny from 4-7 months until she got into the school I chose for her and then she was thrown head first into the school setting. She was thrown headfirst and landed feet first. She never cried when I left her. She immediately found the parts of the classroom that interested her and learned to get along with others with ease. As she got older, she found it easy to interact with other kids and adults. She was friendly with people she was meeting for the first time. On the playground she'd befriend anyone and everyone. She has social graces that I envy. She's not shy, yet she's not pushy. She's just friendly and welcoming to everyone. I adore her for that trait. A trait that I truly believe is innate but was enhanced in her case in the school setting.

Then there's Luke. I stopped working before he was born and so I never had the need to send him off to be "socialized" at a very early age. He's been literally attached to me since the day he was born. I tote him around everywhere with me. He doesn't have any of his own friends. He takes a little gym class but is more interested in throwing balls around on his own or going up and down the slide himself than interacting with any of the other 15 kids in the class. The only other person he cares to notice at the gym, is me. Last week I took him to a new gym class and before we went into the actual session, he was playing in the general play area and he noticed something interesting about another little boy playing by him. He walked right up to him without hesitation, stared at him inches from his face and pulled the little boy's paci from his mouth. POP! Luke looked at the binky for a few seconds, looked back at the boy, looked at me, back at the boy and then shoved it back into the kid's mouth. The boy didn't react and his mother wasn't standing right there so if I hadn't been there to see it, it could have never happened! But I shook my head in disbelief that Luke thought this was a totally normal thing to do.

This week while we were away on vacation there was a little girl 18 months old standing in the hallway of the hotel. Luke ran up to her and said, "HI! Hi! Hi!". The girl looked at him but didn't respond. "HI!" Luke shouted a little louder and closer to her face while flapping his hand up and down in the best waving motion he could manage. Still nothing. Not even a smile. He ran a circle around her and popped over her other shoulder, "HI!". She proceeded to run behind her mom's legs and peaked out at him from her new hiding spot. He thought this was a new game and ran back over to her laughing, "HI!". She shoved her face into the back of her mom's legs to block him from view and I tried to lure Luke away but he swatted at me for trying to ruin his new game. He tried to push his face into the FRONT of the mom's legs to get through to the girl's face. No luck. I pulled at his arm saying, it was ok that she was being quiet (while the girls mom laughed and explained that she was just shy) but he pulled free from my grasp and ran back to her leaning his head against the girl's shoulder squeaking out a few more "Hi! Hi! Hi!"'s. He finally got frustrated by the lack of response and placed his hand squarely on the girl's chest and pushed her. He pushed her! "HI!" he said again, this time quite seriously. The mom stopped laughing and I decided to end the scene by picking him up into my arms saying, "No Touch, Luke!" and he looked over my shoulder at her and smiled and waved. "Bye! Bye!" he shouted as we walked away. No love match made there. And I realized he needs a small lesson on how to make new friends (and how to play hard-to-get).

All of this makes me wonder when you should start "teaching" your child the "right" way to be friendly. If your child isn't in a school setting at an early age, how and when do they learn the ins and outs of making friends? I'm not always good at the playdate thing so I don't have 20 month old kids chaperoned in and out of my house and I don't go to other houses often either. It's actually one of my New Year's resolutions... to have more playdates. To be less of a hermit in the comfort of my own home. Stay tuned for my resolution post coming up soon... How much of "being friendly" is innate and how much is learned?

It also makes me think about how much of the instinct to be friendly is taken AWAY with socialization. Wouldn't it be great if you could stay as friendly as you were at 20 months, going up to anyone and everyone saying HI and not caring what they looked like or what they'd think of you? Just to BE friendly because that's your nature? Hannah is super friendly to everyone but is starting to question why people aren't nice back. Why not everyone wants to play with her. Why someone at the park has no interest in her random story (that she tells 4 inches from their face). It's not not enough to make her stop her outgoing, wonderful attempts to make new friends but I wonder how it effects her little 5 year old makeup.

I think I actually used to be friendlier. I've become cynical in my "old" age and where I used to expect everyone to respond to my outgoing friendliness positively, I now am less trusting. To me, there's nothing worse than being friendly and getting a "chill" in response. So I now don't open up as easily or quickly. I stand back, measure people up a little more. I wait longer before I approach someone new. I wish I could be like Luke and jump right in and without waiting for a positive response, just keep it going, continue my rapport, but I can't. I get my feelings hurt and am more hesitant the next time I'm in a similar situation. Luke hasn't had "lessons" in making friends. He watches his sister. He watches me. He is seeing what works for him, what he's comfortable with on his own. He has had no training in getting his feelings hurt on the playground or in the classroom. And it's so refreshing. So innocent. So raw and real. I wish I could wrap it up - save it for him. I also wish I could borrow a lesson from him and live like this for a day (or month or year). Live the way that comes naturally to me and not the way I've been trained to live. Guarded. A little fearful. Maybe I'll give it a shot. I'll just need a few drinks to make it happen...

Missing Out

2009-12-28T19:17:00.000-08:00

I have a 20 month old son who doesn't speak (yes it's true, he does have a flaw). At least not a language that I can understand. He'll say "HI!" to anyone and anything that he sees (including potted plants, wheelchairs, and popsicles) and happily points out every "Ball!" that he sees (whether it's an actual ball or an orange, grape, Tiddlywink or anything else that happens to be round) but really, he doesn't speak. He gets his point across by pointing, making hand motions, strange mouth shapes and a variety of grunts, but for the most part, I have NO idea what he's trying to say. I'm assuming the majority of the time he's either saying, "Put me the fuck down, I'm tired of being carried, I just want to RUN!" based on the fact that he's at his happiest when he is able to just run around wildly (Anyone know where I can buy a leash?), or "Can you PLEASE get me another beverage already?" since he slurps down quarts of juice, water, milk or any other liquid in nanoseconds. But there are other times that he is standing in front of me, waving his arms, "Buh, Buh, Buh"ing and I'm pointing at everything in sight saying, "You want your truck? You want the phone? You want your toothbrush? You'd like to dance?" and we both end up just exasperated. It's like when you're playing Pictionary and your partner isn't guessing what your stick figure is supposed to be doing so you just keep making it darker and darker and drawing it again and again and pointing at it harder and harder... it's so frustrating, it's so OBVIOUS in your own head! Why can't they figure it out? I know that's how poor Luke feels. He shouts his word louder and louder. He stares more intently with each shout, "BUH!", and I Still Can't Get It. It's horrendous. To be the mom and not know what your child needs.

Mind you, he totally understands absolutely everything said to him (except colors... we're working on colors). Thank. God. Since he doesn't have any words, it always surprises me when I say something like, "Luke sit down, take off your boots and socks and go put them in your hamper." and he does just that. It's like a silly magic trick. Tonight at dinner with my whole extended family I said, "Hey everyone, watch this... Luke, see how many pieces of pasta you can balance on your spoon." and he went and stacked 4 bowtie pastas on his spoon and said "YEAH!". Ok, so I didn't get the standing ovation for my son that I hoped for - I guess I just wanted everyone to know that my nonspeaking son has TALENT dammit. Real Talent. And, although he's like a prisoner in his own head, unable to speak, he is definitely a part of the conversation. He can relate. He can respond. And his non-biased mom, thinks that's a huge relief.

On the opposite end of the spectrum and on the opposite end of the life cycle, is my 96 year old grandmother. Nana. Nana can barely hear anymore. She "assumes" what people are saying to her based on what is going on around her but really, she has no idea what's being said. It's terrible. She feels secluded. She feels left out. She sees that people are laughing but has no idea why. She sees that people are looking to her for a response, but all she can do is smile and nod for fear that she'll respond inappropriately. She's tired of saying, "What?". She's tired of asking everyone to speak up or speak slower. She feels like an outsider. She's no longer a part of the conversation.

But she can speak. She still has all of her words. She certainly gets what she wants and if she doesn't, you'll hear about it! She loves to talk. Get her going, and she won't stop. She'll tell you about every morsel that she ate for breakfast, lunch, dinner and every snack in between. She'll tell you all of the gossip going on inside her assisted living home. She'll talk about her younger years, my mom, her dogs and her love for fashion. She'll rattle off the headlines from the news and the reviews of movies in the movie theater that she'll never see. Because she can't hear. She loves to talk. It's how she can communicate. It's how she can still feel a part of life. Like Luke, she's also stuck inside her own head. The world around her is listening and responding. But she's able to only be on one side. Talking.

Two different issues. One at the beginning of life. One at the end. Unable to speak. Unable to hear. Both frustrated, but both getting by. One with so much to look forward to. One missing how it once was. I have shed tears for both predicaments. I feel helpless with both of them. Wanting to help them but not having the power to really help. I wonder which is worse. Who feels more engaged? Who can interact better? I know, one doesn't know any better. He's too young to really know what he's missing. But his little mind aches with frustration just the same. His big tears, stomping feet and pounding fists tell me so. And my Nana is too tired to make a big deal out of her deafness but I know she hates missing out. I catch her shaking her head with sadness when she's missing out on the joy surrounding her.

So I give hugs. Big hugs. Because unlike most forms of communication, hugs don't require words or ears. And that makes us all feel better.

A new kind of vacation

2009-12-26T19:19:00.000-08:00

I am on vacation. The new kind of vacation. The kind with the kids. It probably should have a different name because vacation is not what it used to be. I remember vacation. Vacation was packing MY bags one night and heading for the airport the next morning coffee in hand, flipflops on my feet and a carry-on containing my bathing suit that I knew I'd immediately put on as soon as I arrived at my beachy destination. It was 7 days away from work, and away from hassle. I'd turn off my phone knowing no one could need me THAT badly. Vacation was waking up at 10, putting on my bathing suit and heading to the outdoor cabana for breakfast in the sand. Vacation was a massage at 3, nap at 4, drinks by the ocean at 6 and dinner at 8. Vacation was going to sleep at night flushed from the sun, buzzing from the wine and relaxed that there was no agenda for the next day.

I am on vacation. But not THAT kind of vacation. I am sitting as I write in a PITCH dark room. Hannah is asleep on a blow up mattress at the foot of my bed. Luke has been asleep since 7 so here is where I've been sitting since then. We needed TWO luggage carts to bring all of our stuff to our room. We are here for FOUR days. I actually lied to the bellhop and told him I had four kids. I packed That Much Stuff. I'm pretty sure I forgot some essentials for myself, but at least I brought thirty or so Matchbox cars, two baby dolls and anything Hannah could need to care for them, a doll double stroller, a tiara making kit for all of the cousins, pickup sticks, Tiddly Winks, three board games, swim goggles, and a soccer ball.

I am on vacation. That's what it's called even though I had dinner at 6:00 with 10 of my family members but I don't recall actually speaking to any of them because Luke was grabbing the knives from our table, and throwing food at the table next to us. Preventing any major injury took precedence over conversation. I know I ordered a glass of wine but I don't quite recall drinking it. I know a toast was given at the start of the meal by my parents who took us on this vacation but I don't recall clinking glasses with anyone since Luke was grabbing the stem of my glass as I went to lift it up. On my dinner plate was a piece of chicken, some rice and three Matchbox cars. Letting Luke drive the cars through my food kept him entertained so I was fine with that. It's his vacation too.

Hannah wore her most favorite new dress and a necklace to dinner and ate a huge ice cream sundae for dessert. She went swimming in the indoor pool for an hour right before dinner and will again when she first gets up before breakfast. Two of her most favorite girls in the world, who happen to be her cousins and she rarely gets to see, are down the hall. She'll see them before she's even dressed in the morning, will be with them all day tomorrow and will have a pajama party with them tomorrow night. She went to bed an hour later than usual. During that hour I lay in her blow up bed with her watching Lady and the Tramp on the portable DVD player. I told her an extra long, extra special good night story before her eyes shut for the night.

Luke will have unlimited beverages at his disposal. He'll get to eat french fries at every meal. He gets to see more than just mommy's face for 4 days in a row. He has MILES of open, vast hallways to run up and down. He has stairways galore to climb.

No, I won't sleep late. I won't read any books as I lounge by a pool. I won't be flushed from the sun or buzzed from drinks. I won't be going to bed past 10 on any night. I won't be dancing under any stars. No, that's not really what vacation is anymore. Vacation is better now (did I really just say that?). It has more meaning now. Vacation is now creating memories for my two little kids. Vacation is the excitement and sparks I see in their eyes as they wake up somewhere new and get to eat cereal in their bed out of the little boxes. Vacation is letting THEM stay out late. Letting THEM have chocolate milk at breakfast and dessert at lunch. Vacation is watching THEM let loose on the dance floor in their fancy clothes. Vacation is their laughter, their exuberance at all that is new in a place they've never been.

It's 10:00 and Tim is sound asleep next to me, snoring away. There's no TV and even if there was, I wouldn't be able to turn it on because Hannah is only feet away. But I'm on vacation. We've only been on this vacation for 8 hours but Hannah has already told me she's having the BEST time ever. The last words she said as she fell asleep were, "I can't wait until tomorrow."

And neither can I.

Wish upon a star

2009-12-23T17:35:00.000-08:00

OK, I got my venting out of the way. I am now ready to write my "real" post. Sorry if my vent was out of left field or slightly not PC. I just had one of those afternoons... Ahem.

I put stars on Hannah's ceiling of her bedroom a couple of weeks ago. She'd been asking me for months, no, make that YEARS for stars on her ceiling and they've been sitting in my desk drawer for almost as long. I kept coming across them sitting there in the drawer but every time I took them out to put them up it just seemed like such a PROJECT. Standing on her bed, arms above my head for an hour, with little stars and bits of puddy to get them to stick... just wasn't appealing. But she has recently become very interested in the solar system and the stars and planets (sorry, that's redundant) and so I thought it would be the right time. A good time. A special time. It took me about 30 minutes to stick about 30 various size stars to her ceiling and when the blood finally came back to my finger tips, I gave myself a hug and a high five for FINALLY completing this project. And I turned out the lights in her room, looked up at her now beautifully lit night sky and became giddy with anticipation for how much I KNEW she'd love it.

That night as she was changing into her warm feety pajamas (oh how I love my kids in fuzzy feety pajamas), I turned out the light. She started to laugh thinking this was a new game to try to get dressed in the dark and then the glowy stars caught her eye. She gasped and said, ever so quietly, "mommy, it's BEAUTIFUL. My own nighttime, right here in my room." She climbed onto her bed and lay on her back staring. Silent. I could see her smile as my eyes got used to the darkness.

"See that one mommy? That big one to the left?"

"Yes, sweetie."

"That's the Bebe star."

"Aww, that's sweet Hannah to name a star for Bebe (one of her grandmas). I'm sure she'd love that."

"And you see the one right over my face. The other big one?"

"Mmm Hmmm." I said

"That's the mommy star."

You bet your ass one of them better be named after me.

"Oh, thanks Han. I love that you are giving one to me."

And she proceeded to name the other two big stars, one for her other grandma and one for daddy. And then of course, all the medium size stars and tiny stars too. Everyone in her life had a star. (And if you don't have a star named after you on her ceiling you can be sure you are VERY far down on her list and you better start sucking up to her big time!)

She fell asleep that night as I told her stories of camp outs and nights of star gazing in my younger years. I lay there with her wishing I had put those stars up when she first asked for them. Her happiness was THAT great.

The mystique of the stars wore off a bit over the past week or so. She got used to them. Started not appreciating them as much. This is so common when something so beautiful is in our view day in and day out. It's sad that we take things for granted, but we do. But tonight, after she had a VERY difficult day filled with tantrums, frustration and misery (yeah, my day was worse because of it), I decided to bring her focus back to the stars.

"Hannah, let's make a wish on a star tonight, ok?"

"Mommy, I make a wish every night. It's what I do."

"Really? Every night?"

"Yup, for real, I do."

"OK, well, I want to make a wish tonight too. You go first. Make a super wonderful wish tonight Hannah."

She closed her eyes, and I watched them flutter for a few minutes and when she opened them, she was all smiles.

"What did you wish for?"

"Well, I shouldn't tell you because then my wish won't come true, but if you PROMISE not to tell anyone then I'll tell you."

"OK. I promise." I said. And in my head I told myself I was going to do EVERYTHING in my power to make whatever her wish was tonight come true. Because that's what mommies do.

"I wished that you would take me to a state or a country or a land or something where the Unicorns live. Because Unicorns are so beautiful with their sparkly horns and rainbow colored bodies."

Alrighty then

"What a wonderful, special wish Hannah. I'm sure that would be a magnificent place to visit."

"Will you take me there one day mommy?"

"We'll keep talking about it Han. I'm not sure where that land is so I can't promise anything."

"Can't you look it up on your computer?"

Oh Jesus

"Yes, maybe I can."

I love the innocence. I love the hope, the dreams, the belief in all things wonderful at that age. How I wish I could bottle it up and remind her when she becomes cynical and pessimistic about things as she gets older that she used to believe in Unicorns. That she believed that she'd visit and befriend the Unicorns. Purple and pink and yellow horses with sparkly horns.

So tonight, I am promising myself, that although I can't exactly make this wish on a star come true for her, that I will help her to continue to believe that all beautiful magical things are WORTH believing in because they bring us to a happy place and keep us moving forward. They keep us LOOKING forward. And life is so much better when you have something to look forward to. Like visiting unicorns.

So in this holiday season, Be Happy, like you are visiting the unicorns.

Christmas Shmitsmas

2009-12-23T11:56:00.000-08:00

Ok people. My holiday is now over so it's time to move on with the winter and remove yourselves from the stores. I have a vacation to get ready for and I do not need all of you crazed shoppers in my way as I buy my few vacation necessities. You're stealing my parking spots, you're taking my shopping carts, you're causing insane lines at the grocery stores and you're making returning my less than desirable gifts that I received for MY holiday, next to impossible. Even worse, because of the upcoming, somewhat of a big deal holiday, all of the stores are closed the day before I leave for vacation. This means far too much planning on my part. I don't pack three days ahead of time so I do not KNOW that I'll need more shampoo, warm socks, razors or hair ties until the day before I leave which just happens to be CHRISTMAS. I also do not enjoy cooking dinner the night before I leave for vacation because I like being waited on at a restaurant so I can relax after my bags are packed and I look forward to hitting the road in the morning. But this year, it's Christmas so my restaurants of choice will not be open to serve me. On top of that, I like to have playdates on the days that my kids are home from school but it just so happens that it's Christmas and none of my kids friends will be choosing having a playdate at my house over opening their gifts and celebrating with their families, which means I'm stuck at home, with nothing to do except be stuck at home. You would think that my kids have plenty to do at home with all of the gifts they received over the eight days of Chanukah but you see, Chanukah was finished just about a week ago and a week is plenty of time to become totally BORED of all of the new gifts. They are now OLD gifts and are not incentive enough to keep anyone excited about staying home without anywhere to go or anyone to play with.

I just returned home from the local Hallmark store empty handed. I had planned on running in quickly to buy a card for my grandmother who is turning 96 but forgot that Christmas is in 2 days and everyone and their mother (and 96 year old grandmothers) were in line buying last minute gifts and wrapping paper. The line was wrapped around the store (how ironic!) so my poor, very old grandmother is going to have to be satisfied with a homemade card this year. I also needed a camera battery for my camera that I will be taking on vacation so I ran into the camera store and ran just as quickly out because it seems as if cameras are a hot gift for Christmas this year. I certainly was not getting any attention from the camera salespeople with my $16 request when the guy in front of me was learning about the $2000 camera.

My biggest mistake today was requesting to get a prescription called into the Target pharmacy. I thought with Luke in tow it would be easiest with the indoor, massive parking lot but the 40 minute wait for my prescription had me second guessing that idea. I guess everyone else is also getting their anti-anxiety meds refilled before heading off with their families. I thought I was all smart by doing a little Target shopping while I waited for my script but when I was told that I couldn't pay for it at the pharmacy counter but instead would have to wait in ANOTHER line in the front of the store, I left my goodies right there on the pharmacy counter (including the Matchbox car that I planned on buying for Luke and opened while waiting in line). I didn't really need the new bathing suit for the indoor swimming pool at the resort anyway. I'm not even planning on getting into the indoor swimming pool but Target was sporting a rather chic collection of resort wear and I couldn't resist.

So you see, not EVERYONE is skipping through town singing "Little Drummer Boy" joyfully in their heads this time of year. Not that I'm Scrooge (I love this time of year too) but being Jewish in the days before Christmas can be a little frustrating. Everyone is wishing me a Merry Christmas and asking my kids what they've asked Santa for whether they've been good or naughty (boy do I wish I could use the Elf on the Shelf!) and we are smiling and thanking everyone and moving along with the flow. But inside, I'm ready for the chaos to die down in the stores and I'm ready for New Years Eve when we can celebrate with everyone else and enjoy all of the stores being closed on 1/1 so we can sleep off our hangovers with the rest of the world.

No really (I hope I didn't offend anyone... I didn't right?), Merry Christmas to all of you celebrating this important, special holiday. I hope you have memorable, wonderful days with your families and friends. Thank you for visiting my little part of this amazing blog world and I hope to see you in the New Year!

xox

What did I do?

2009-12-21T18:26:00.000-08:00

I had a ridiculously long, exhausting day and am left with very little energy to write a post tonight. So I'll just write this little anecdote that may make you laugh. Or cringe. Or never come back again. Or possibly all of the above. Whatever, it's one for the books and you're the lucky ones who get to read it. No need to comment... just try not to think less of me (or Hannah), ok?

Hannah went to bed last night with a 101 fever. It was not looking hopeful for today. She woke up still warm to the touch and complaining that "her mouth hurt". I figured she had a canker sore or chapped lips or something along those lines and blew her and her sore mouth off for most of the morning. I was too concerned with figuring out whether she'd be going to her first gymnastics practice of the season with the low fever she was sporting to put much thought into her mouth. And then, early this afternoon I saw her grimacing every time she swallowed. And I asked her, "Hannah, does it hurt when you swallow?"

"YES mommy. I TOLD you, my mouth hurts! It hurts a lot!"

"Is it your throat? Like down inside your neck?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

Her first sore throat. I had no idea. She had no idea. Sore throat + fever = visit to the doctor in my book.

I packed everyone into the car and made our way to the pediatrician. Hannah chatted the entire way there about how excited she was to get a sticker for being a "perfect, brave patient". I knew in the back of my head, there was a chance that a cotton swab/stick was going to be shoved down her throat which was not going to be pretty. She didn't recall the last experience with the gag stick and I didn't want to remind her.

I was right. One look into her throat and the doctor unwrapped the swabs and before Hannah could even look at what was happening, the gag reflex was upon us. And she started to SCREAM. She put both hands over her mouth to prevent any further entry and giant tears streamed down her face. "Tell the doctor that makes my throat hurt even more! Tell her I won't allow that EVER again!" Mind you the doctor was standing right there, another swab in hand, helpless to the situation. She looked at me and said, "I'll give you a moment with her but I need to do another swab one way or another." And she left me with my sad, petrified, hysterical daughter.

"Hannah, sweetie, the doctor has to do one more stick in your throat. If you don't cry and just open really wide, it won't be so bad. I promise. And this is the only way for the doctor to know what kind of sickness you have. You really have no choice."

"No, no, no. I like that less than anything. It's badder than anything I've ever done. I don't care if she never knows what is wrong with me. No."

So I decided to take a different approach. Without giving it much thought (which you'll realize in a moment), I told her my recollection of the first time she had ever had a cotton swab stuck down her throat when she was 18 months old.

"Hannah, do you want to know what you said to the doctor when you were 1 and you had this done? It might make you laugh..."

sniffle sniffle, "ok".

"Well, after he tried to stick the stick in your mouth and you didn't like it you said very slowly, looking him straight in the eye, your face very close to his, finger wagging, 'No Dick In Mouf!'

Mind you, I knew Hannah has NO IDEA what a Dick is or even that such a word exists, I just knew she'd think the way she said it was funny.

And she did. She burst out laughing, wiped away her tears and *gasp* repeated it right then and there LOUDLY for all the office to hear, "No Dick In Mouf!!" and continued laughing as I tried to shush her and it was now MY turn to put my hands over her mouth.

And then the doctor re-entered, looked at us both laughing and said, "ok, then, I guess you're ready for the next swab?" I looked over at Hannah and pleaded with my eyes for her not to say her newly learned words to the doctor. But it was too late. Out the words came. Followed by hysterical giggles. The look on the (thankfully female) doctor's face was priceless. I explained the origin of the sentence and she (kind of ) laughed. But not really. I'm pretty sure it is now noted in Hannah's chart that she needs some sort of counseling. But she got the "dick" in Hannah's mouth with only a minor gag and fewer tears.

Mommy of the year, right here. At least the trip to the doctor's was worth it. She has strep. And I think I should look for a new pediatrician.

I'm a Super Hero

2009-12-20T17:36:00.000-08:00

I had one of those mornings. It didn't start well. Luke who is normally the late sleeper awoke at 5:30 screaming and in turn woke up Hannah who came running into our room frenzied that he was crying and no one was getting him. (In my half asleep state I guess I was hoping he would scream himself back to sleep). He screamed and screamed and she whined and whined that he needed me and I should be getting him. I looked at him through half opened eyes in the monitor and saw that he was only minutes away from hurling himself over the edge of the crib so I sleepily hoisted myself out of bed, meandered down the dark hall behind worried Hannah and opened the door to screaming Luke's room. The door wasn't even fully ajar when I heard him squealing "Hi! Hi! Hi!". Far too excited for 5:37 am. I brought him back to my bed knowing full well that my squirmy son would sit for about 13 minutes of Wow Wow Wubbzy before he would flip onto his belly and start sliding his way feet first off the bed and make a bee line for the stairs ready for breakfast. "Cuddling" is not in his vocabulary. Neither is "Sitting Still" or "Relaxing".

Needless to say, the early start put me in a super cranky, impatient mood. Everything and everyone was annoying me. Hannah was beyond exhausted by 7:30 am and was fighting me and pushing my sanity to the limit. My vision of a beautiful, snow activity filled Sunday was slipping from view. We wanted to go sledding but everything I suggested she wear was too itchy, too tight, too uncomfortable or too hot. I was losing patience. I snapped at her more than once. I was throwing out dirty looks, rolling my eyes and causing even more tears to fall. I had a 36 pound koala-girl wrapped around my leg as I tried to get dressed in my closet and a 25 pound parrot-boy repeating every yelp and scream that came out of Hannah's mouth thinking it was all a big game. All three of us were yelling in one form or another and Tim looked on, trying to calm the situation that was beyond saving. If half a foot of snow hadn't just been dumped on the street, I probably would have shook myself free of everyone, jumped into my car and driven off.

But I didn't. Instead I took a deep breath, lowered myself down to the ground in my closet where Hannah laid sprawled amid the shoes and bags, and hugged her. I told her I understood she's tired because Luke woke her up so early. I told her that she just needed to stop crying and we'd figure out how to get her dressed comfortably. I rubbed her back, stroked her hair and told her we'd make this a perfect day after all. And she looked at me, hair sticking to her face and cheeks still wet with tears and said, "Mommy, You're like a Super Hero".

"I'm like a super hero? Why?" I asked with a huge smile spreading across my face.

"Because super heros can make anyone feel better. They always save people. They do everything right. And that's what you do."

And I melted. Right then and there, in my messy closet. I melted. What a reminder of why I am able to do this job day in and day out. Why I haven't dedicated any substantial amount of time to finding any consulting work to get out of the house a few hours a week. It was the best Thank You I ever could have imagined one of my children (or anyone for that matter) saying.

You may know if you've read my blog for a while that I give in to Hannah's emotional demands "too"quickly. I don't walk away from her when she throws tantrums. I'm not always consistent and don't always follow through when I threaten a punishment if she's behaving badly. I struggle with being a strong mom instead of a good friend. I'm working on it. I'm getting better at setting stricter rules but have a ways to go. I don't pride myself on being a strict, limit setting mom but, on the other hand, I am very confident that I can always make my kids feel good. Feel better. I always know what words to say to ease their pain, what hug to give to make Hannah feel happy and calm. I know many times I should be walking away, ignoring her, not giving in, but when I know all that's needed are my arms wrapped around her, even if she doesn't deserve it, I do it.

I do it because I don't know how long it will be requested. When Hannah is 12 I don't know if she'll want, or even need, a hug from mommy to ease her pain. I do it because I want her to feel safe. To feel understood. I do it because I know it's what I would want. When tears are flowing, I want someone to do or say SOMETHING. Not to step around me and let me figure it out on my own. Not to get angry that I'm crying. Not to teach me a lesson.

And I was reminded today, on the floor of my closet, that my choice to DO something, even when others think I'm too soft, is worth it. Because I'm a Super Hero. And I'll take that over being a "strong" mom any day.

Anyone have a cape I can borrow?

By the Fire

2009-12-19T17:25:00.000-08:00

As I cooked dinner tonight in the kitchen and Luke was doing all he could to pull the pan off the stove and Hannah sat crying on the floor because the onions were burning her eyes, I called for Tim and asked him to "save me" by lighting a fire in the living room fireplace. It would be the first fire of the year and I thought it would be an entertaining activity for the kids and the perfect complement to the first big snowfall of the winter. He took me up on my request and the kids skipped after him newspaper and kindling in hand.

I've always loved a fire. In our many years together in NYC Tim and I always dreamed of living in an apartment with a fire place. I probably would have actually opted for a fire place over a dishwasher or washing machine if it became an option (as it turns out I sadly never had any of these perks in the apartments we resided in, but that's for another post). Something about the romanticism of the crackling flames, the blanket spread out in front of the hearth and the image of easy conversation with a glass of wine in hand. A fire always brought me to a dreamy place, even if just in my mind.

Now we do live in a house with a gorgeous fireplace which happens to be in my most favorite room in our house. It's the one room I decorated from scratch. There is not one piece of furniture that I received as a hand-me-down from a family member or that made the journey from New York. It was all my choice, my creation (with a little inspirational help from a certain designer MIL), my vision. There's also no TV in this room so it's so beautifully quiet. I walk into this room and I am overwhelmed with a sense of calm.

A fire also brings back crystal clear memories from my childhood. Spreading out a sleeping bag in front of the stone fireplace, newly picked sticks from outside in hand, bag of marshmallows by our side. We'd sit and roast marshmallows to the perfect crispness and enjoy our treat with sticky fingers and sticky smiles. I don't remember the conversation attached to the activity but I remember feeling Happy. Tonight after dinner was cooked I entered the living room and felt a huge smile spread across my face as I saw every cushion and pillow from the couches and chairs spread out on the floor and two little red faced heads peaking out from blankets enjoying the warmth from the new blaze. There were a stack of books sitting by Hannah that she planned on having me read to her and a few newly received Chanukah toys sitting by Luke to keep him busy. But they were untouched because all either one of them wanted to do was sit and look at the flames. Happy. It was a moment filled with Happy. And I clicked a picture of it in my head. It is one I won't easily forget.

And right now I am here in my favorite chair in front of the fire still. Both kids are sleeping, maybe dreaming of the fire they helped to build and the snow they most likely will wake up to. Tim is in the family room watching TV. And I am here. Alone in front of the fire. It's perfect. It's quiet. It's peaceful. It's almost therapeutic. The cushions are still spread out on the floor, one still with a small indent from where Hannah's head lay only 2 hours ago. I am smiling picturing her instructing Luke where exactly to lay and gently covering him with the blanket (which shockingly he allowed).

I'm sure Tim will join me momentarily. He'll sit across from me in the identical chair I sit in and we'll talk. We'll talk about how perfect this setting is. With the kids. With each other. And I probably won't admit how much I also love it alone. Because it's hard to admit loving to be by yourself. At least I find it hard to admit. But sometimes, when the company of what's inside my head makes me feel like I'm in a crowd, I find it most pleasant to sit in a quiet space like this. Without anything. Or anyone. Just me and the fire's flame that is dying down, but still snapping small sparks from the log and dancing to its own quiet beat. Soon, the flame will disappear and will be replaced with a small chill. And I'll be ready to leave my haven and head back to reality. I'll be ready for conversation and companionship. But for now, I'll just enjoy the simple, quiet company of the small, orange fading flame and not mind that there's no one at this moment enjoying it with me.

Thuperficial Thursday

2009-12-17T07:37:00.001-08:00

Thorry, but I just couldn't come up with a "Th" word to go with Thursday for my superficial post (since I missed it on Saturday) so I'm going with Thilly. I hope I don't offend any lispers out there... I don't mean anything by it. I guess a safer route could have been Superficial Sursday but I'm not going back to change it now.

First impressions. We all have them. Some are accurate, some not so much. What we judge people by varies by the person. I remember after college when all my friends and I were single and we'd go out in NYC, we'd all have our "criteria" for what we looked for in a guy. It was all about first impressions in the bar scene. It was too loud and too crowded to hold a real conversation so you had to have a way to weed out those worth leaning up against the bar with to scream short banter into each other's ears. I remember one of my friend's criteria was all about the shoes a guy was wearing. Sneakers? No chance. Boat shoes? Also not given a second glance. Cowboy boots? Not unless he had a serious southern accent to woo her by his side. The shoes had to be either loafers or other black lace up shoes. Poor guys, never even knew what they had done wrong to get the cold shoulder from her. Another friend had a thing about a guy wearing button down shirt without a tshirt under it. It was a MUST. She got totally skeeved if ANY chest hair was visible. The guy could have been a George Clooney clone and still got shoved aside if one too many buttons was undone and anything but white cotton was showing. And me? I had a thing for guys in baseball hats back in my single, low 20s days. A guy with a baseball hat made me swoon. And the turn offs? Too tight jeans, big gold chains around the neck or wrist and heavy metal rocker t's. Nah, I wasn't picky.

I'm so far away from that scene today that I couldn't even tell you what would be a thumbs up or down (I couldn't even tell you what a 24 year old wears to a bar these days!) but I do still get a little judgey with first impressions. At this time of year, with all of the dinners and parties and holiday get-togethers, I'm meeting new people a few times a week. And before I start my "curious question asking" I need to know what I'm working with, right? So my judgements are all based on what people are drinking when I meet them. I realized this at a mom's dinner I went to on Tuesday night. I found myself surprised with some of my friend's drink choices and although I don't think anyone caught my eyebrows raise at a few of the orders, I noted to myself my new impression of some of the moms. I've compiled a little list of what your drink says about you (in my little judgemental head). Feel free to judge me too... I can take it.

Beer

If you're a guy and are drinking any of the basics (Bud, Amstel, Heinekin), I'm not getting much of an impression. You are either in for a long night of drinking and it's the only thing that will keep you from falling over by the end of the night, or you aren't the creative type and it's just the easiest thing to order. You probably order vanilla icecream too.

If you're a girl and are drinking any beer, you probably are the type who likes to hang with the guys. You're laid back and chill but I'd wonder if we had a lot in common. You might be too laid back and chill for me (unless we're on the beach together and you're drinking a Corona because there's nothing better).

Any regional, seasonal, limited edition, or extremely dark beer: you're a beer snob. You treat beer like wine and turn your nose up at those who drink a Bud, Amstel, Heini or any light beer. If you're a guy, I give you credit for putting some thought into your beer choice and you've raised your possible IQ by a few points. If you're a girl - same thought as the rest of the beers.

Wine: It pretty much depends on how you order the wine and how you take your first sip. If before you order a wine you inquire about its "notes" or how it breathes or what year it is, I'm impressed but will probably think you're too smart, too well-rounded, or too well traveled for simple me. If you swish it and smell it and hold it in your mouth before swallowing it, I most likely will roll my eyes at you. But only because I wish I knew more about wine and I'm jealous. If you do what my dad told me he did on his first date with my mom and order "Manishevitz sweet red wine", I'll definitely laugh at you and then hug you.

Whiskey, Scotch or Boubon: Most likely I'll say, "Woah!" and if it doesn't come out of my mouth, it will definitely be in my head. You are hard core and I'll probably stay away from you not only because your breath will smell like Whiskey, Scotch or Bourbon but because I'll assume you won't have a coherent thought by the middle of the evening and will too touchy and close talking by the end. And if you're a girl drinking any of these drinks, I'd be very impressed with your tolerance but wonder if I should arrange an intervention.

Any drink in a Martini glass: If you're a guy, I'd definitely make a comment on your frufee drink. And I'd hope you had a good sense of humor about it. If you don't laugh at my comment, then I'll think you need to chill out. If you're a girl, I will probably ask to taste your drink because I'm always looking for a new delicious drink to try but I'm too afraid to be walking around with one of those glasses because I'm too clumsy not to spill it. I will think you're fun and experimental and way chic. You're probably wearing shoes that I want too.

Champagne: You're a little too fancy for me but you're always looking to celebrate something. I'm going to assume that you like to make a statement and that you're just too good for plain old, not bubbly wine. This is actually my drink of choice, although I go one step further and add Chambourd to it and call it a Kir Royal. I'm even too fancy for myself.

Vodka straight up: You're on a diet. You will be staying away from the cheese plate and making me feel fat with my plate stacked with phyllos and stuffed mushrooms. You're a little too serious for me and I really want to tell you to relax and add some color to your drink. If it's a flavored vodka, I'll think a little further about your personality but I still will try to force some brie cheese on you.

Gin and Tonic: I will stay away from you because the smell of gin makes me want to vomit. Because I did vomit in college from doing SHOTS of gin. It was cheaper than vodka (at least the low shelf brand) and I was that type a girl. When you've finished your drink I'll definitely come chat you up because gin and tonics remind me of summer time (something my parents used to drink in the summer) and I'll think you're mellow and laid back. I might grab you to dance later.

Anything with tequilla in it: see gin and tonic for the reason why I won't be talking to you while you're drinking. I do love tequilla drinkers though. And the more tequilla drinks a person has the more I like them. They open up and answer ALL of my questions and I've found they make me laugh. Yes, my husband loves tequilla.

Any juice with seltzer: When are you due?

Drinking nothing: you make me uncomfortable because I know at any moment you'll leave me to go get a drink.

So where do you fit? Did I leave any out? Are you no longer my friend?

Want to come over for a drink?

Just curious

2009-12-16T08:57:00.001-08:00

Yesterday on the way home from my 11th trip to the grocery store, Hannah began telling me a story about why sometimes she likes to have her jeans tucked into her boots and other times she likes her boots under her jeans. A deep conversation, yes. She was giving me all of the nitty gritty details as to what makes it a "tucked in day" or a "covered up day". Seven or so minutes into the story I decided to ask her if other types of pants also had to go through the same process as jeans when she makes the decision as to tucking them into the boots or leaving them out. I was just trying to show her I was listening and sincerely interested. I've had to remind myself lately to savor these silly little conversations and appreciate them because before long I'm afraid she may hit a stage where she keeps it all inside. I had barely had the chance to finish asking my question when she stated, "Mommy, If you could please hold all questions for the end, that would be really good."

I hadn't realized she had already taken Communications 101 and knew the ins and outs of a proper Q and A.

Sheesh. I lowered my head as she put me in my place.

Questions. I am big question asker. I'm one of those people that talks very little about myself but asks a ton of questions of other people. Especially if I'm meeting them for the first time and am feeling out whether they'd have any interest in my "story". I wonder sometimes if I overwhelm people with my questions. If it's too much too soon. I always assume they'd rather talk about themselves than hear about me. And I'm honestly, just a curious person. I like to understand what makes people tick. Why people do what they do and make the choices they make. It's the marketer in me I guess. I've been told by friends that I always have a million questions. That they know if they tell me something, they need to be prepared for the follow ups that I'll have in response. I don't like to not understand. I like to envision the whole picture. Doesn't everyone?

And the answer to that is "no". Not everyone cares so much about understanding. Many people ask questions to fill in uncomfortable silence or because it's the normal thing to do, but don't really care about the answer. And some people, don't even ask. I have been astounded by the number of people I meet who beyond knowing my name and what I "do", don't ask anything. Their world of conversation is talking about or telling stories about other people. Not talking about themselves and not curious about who they're talking to. And this makes me even MORE curious. I could spend an entire evening asking someone about their world, their family, their past, their job and have them not once ask about me. I have also spent countless hours in the company of people who sidestep questions about themselves, not giving any detail, and not giving me any window to get a picture of what is inside.

I've been thinking a lot about this as I continue to try to make new and better friends that fit into my relatively new world with kids. I'm always up for testing the waters with someone new to see if they're someone I could have a playdate with or even better, a glass of wine with once the kids have gone to bed. Maybe my frustration (or surprise) comes from the fact that most of the other women I meet, are not in that "friend seeking" place. They aren't opening up because they're not viewing our conversation as a chance to make a new friend. They aren't asking me any questions because they're feeling like they'll never see me again, so what's the point.

I grew up in a family of question askers. I remember sitting around the dinner table and my dad would ask, "Let's talk about what the first thing is that we notice in a person." Or, "Tell me what your earliest memory is." My parents were always about getting to know us better. I know they do these type of "question sessions" with their friends as well. And they've done it with Tim. I remember his surprise when my mom asked him, "So Tim, are you a butt or a boob guy?" That went over well. Much to my parent's and brother's chagrin, some people aren't comfortable being put on the spot to come up with a "good" answer. I know as a little girl, I wasn't. I would roll my eyes, get annoyed and say, "I don't know" to most questions. Too much pressure, too much curiosity. Because on top of the tough questions, if the answer wasn't something they agreed with, it often at best, received a puzzled look or a quizzical "Really??" or at worst, a debate, turned argument and someone leaving the table in tears or anger. I chose to stay quiet. I felt safer that way.

And now I'm the question asker. No, questions like, "If you could have any superpower what would it be and why?" don't come out of my mouth when I first meet someone but I do wonder whether the majority of people I meet, would rather not be asked anything. If people truly would rather just talk about what other people are wearing, what was in the latest issue of People, and how annoying that girl-over-there's laugh is. Easy. Simple. Am I in the minority in wanting to get to know more? I can't spend quality time with people who won't "Talk". I get bored. I actually feel lonely in their company. But maybe it's hindering my friend making opportunities. Maybe I need to ask less. Ask FOR less. Or maybe just not expect it to come so quickly. And not cross people off that don't "give it up" right off the bat.

I also wonder what I "should" be teaching my kids. I know I'm raising one question asker for sure. Hannah is not shy about putting her face right into someone else's and shooting questions at them. I never know whether I should tell her to back off or whether it's something she'll learn on her own. Should I tell her to not ask so much? That it might make people uncomfortable, just like whispering in front of or pointing her finger at someone. Is there etiquette in curiosity that I'm unaware of?

Just curious.

No comment

2009-12-14T17:28:00.000-08:00

I love watching Hannah in her tennis class. I get to watch from a viewing room above the courts where she can't see me unless she really strains her eyes to make me out. I love observing how she is on her own. In her own element. With her friends. I saw her run onto the court in her little pink tennis skirt, pigtails flying behind her, racquet uncomfortably dragging beside her. She ran right up to her friend and I saw her mouth moving with excitement as she told him a story. He stood there looking at her as she continued to talk, gesturing with her hands and head bopping back and forth. And then I saw her stop, looking for a response from her friend. And she spoke again. Still no response. And then, as if she could feel my emotions shooting through the glass of the window down to her, she looked up toward me, squinting to make out my figure, and when she saw me, she smiled a small smile and shrugged her shoulders. I knew that shrug. I know that if I was standing with her she would have given me that shrug and said to me, "Oh well. I guess he's not in a talkative mood today. He has nothing to say."

It's another one of those things that kids are allowed to do and adults are not as I've discussed before. Kids are allowed to have no comment, to not respond after another child has spilled their guts. It might not be "right" but they can get away with it. Imagine if I told you my deepest, darkest secret or something that made me bubble over with joy and you just stood there looking at me and didn't say ANYTHING in response. At best you'd probably feel uncomfortable. At worst, I'd call you on it and make you feel like a real bitch.

And here is where I often have a hard time blogging. Because what I just described above? Happens All The Time. But my "audience" is not right in front of me. I'm not looking into their eyes as I speak. I'm not making them feel uncomfortable when they don't respond. But when I really think about it (which I luckily infrequently do), it can make me feel pretty low.

It's something I've signed up for when I made this blog public. I silently agreed that I'd say what's on my mind, what's going on in my life, what makes me laugh and makes me cry and anyone can listen. Anyone can be a fly on my wall. Anyone can read my journal. There's no lock. No key. Except what I stop from coming out of my mouth (or head). But now that I've been doing this for a while (7 months), I'm starting to realize why I crave comments. Why my heart warms and I feel a "buzz" when I go online and see that someone responded. It's because I see that I've been "heard". That I'm not talking to myself. It makes me feel less self-conscious that people may be rolling their eyes at what I've written or perceiving me or my words as crazy or asinine or pathetic. It makes me feel less lonely to know someone is listening. Even if they don't agree or have a completely different perspective. Because that's what a friendship or relationship is about right? Bouncing ideas back AND FORTH. It involves speaking and listening and responding.

I'm starting to realize that as much as this blog is a way to connect and have a conversation on topics that interest and resonate with me. It's also NOT always a conversation. It's ME talking, and if someone is in the mood or has the time to respond, they can. That wouldn't make me very happy in "real life" (thanks for the timely term Kristen). But then again, I wouldn't say half the stuff I say here, in "real" life. So I guess, with the good- the amazing responses, comments, and thoughts, comes the bad - spilling my heart with the risk of no one letting me know they heard me.

This was not intended to be a pathetic way of getting some more "comment love". And I'm sorry if it's coming across as unappreciative for the comments I DO get! Just a ramble of thoughts on a day when I am thinking about what it means to be heard. And during a time when some of my other blog friends are talking about being daring on line, how they're perceived by their "real world" readers and how much they're willing to open up.

And on a day when little Hannah got no "comment love" from her friend on the tennis court and sweetly didn't seem to care.

Rummaging

2009-12-13T17:46:00.000-08:00

Luke has a new "thing". I would have hoped at 19 months old that his new thing would be maybe, like, TALKING, but no. He's decided to work on another skill instead, one that will give him more immediate gratification. Rummaging. Luke likes to rummage. More specifically, he likes to rummage through the food cabinets. Whenever I "lose" him in the house, I know where to go. I know for sure he'll be rummaging through the cabinets, throwing boxes, bags, and tupperware over his shoulder looking desperately for something that meets his qualifications for worthy of bringing to me. Yesterday it was a box of prunes that he carried into the family room over his head, squealing, BuhPuuuuh! BuhPuuuuh (who says he doesn't talk!)! He's never had a prune. They don't look like anything exciting or fun to eat. And chances are, if I did open it and give him one, he'd throw it right back at me, pretty pissed off that I subjected him to such a food. I don't know why after 20 minute of shoving boxes of cookies, bags of crackers and containers of cereal aside, THIS is what he chose. Watching him in the rummaging act is a sight to see. He can't seem to get his body far enough into the cupboard. I imagine that one day I'll walk in to find only his little legs dangling from the shelf, having hoisted himself entirely into the cabinet. I've tried child proofing the doors to prevent him from spending half his day begging for nonperishables that he thinks he wants to eat, but then Hannah can't get what she wants, which in turn forces me have to wait on her at snack time. The lock also makes the little guy scream as if I am refusing him food and water all day. Want to see Luke angry? Lock his "Cupboard of Fun".

He also has started rummaging through the refrigerator. This is where it gets dangerous. He's already pulled a jar of pickles off the shelf breaking it on the floor and covering his shoes in pickle juice. (Not a smell that is easy to remove) He's also tipped himself over backward trying to get a gallon of milk off the top shelf. He spent the entire 2o minutes it took me cleaning up a kitchen covered in milk repeating "Uh Ooooh. Uh Ooooh." (Ok, maybe he DOES talk).

The problem I'm finding in all of this is not so much that he's ruining the "organization" of my cupboards or breaking glass jars and jugs in my fridge. It's that I'm finding he is never satisfied by anything. He's always looking for something "else". I give him a cracker that he so desperately seems to want and 30 seconds later he's on the hunt again. It's the same thing in the bins in our basement. He digs and digs, looking for I-don't-know-what. He stops and looks at things along the way but only seconds go by before he tosses it aside. Nothing seems to engage him for any length of time. The only thing that engages him, is the search itself.

Oh how I wish I could remember Hannah at this age (why didn't I write more down??). So I'd remember if it's just the normal attention span for a 19 month old. Or maybe it's a boy thing? Or maybe he just takes after me? I feel like I'm always rummaging. The superficial stuff: rummaging through my drawers for the "right" pair of jeans (can you say obsessed with jeans?), rummaging through my closet for the right weight sweater, the right pair of shoes with the right heal, the right pair of earrings. The internal stuff: rummaging through my head for the right words, the right course of action, the right agenda. The life stuff: rummaging through my past for reasons for why things are, through friends, wondering if I'm getting what I need, through other people's words to find the intended meaning. And I so often don't feel satisfied either. I rummage some more to understand better. I get bored with what I find in my "cupboard" and try to find more, find more fulfilling.

If you could hear how often I say to those close to me, "Want to hear my new idea?" And the ideas are really good, really they are! But they remain just good ideas. And then I move on. This is me. I go full speed ahead. I change direction, I take leaps instead of careful steps, I dig and dig for what will satisfy me. It's not like I don't love my life. I love my kids. I love my husband. I wouldn't trade any of it (ok, Tim's snoring really needs to stop if I'm being honest) . So, why don't I just feel like the life I'm leading right now is ENOUGH? Why do I keep trying to figure out what ELSE I could add or change? I keep opening up that cabinet and looking for what else is inside. I need to stop taking out the "prunes" and find the cookies. Something that will keep me satisfied and not wondering if there's anything better inside.

And maybe I should replace the food with toys in the cupboard so i don't have to worry that Luke's rummaging will end in broken glass and spilled flour all over the kitchen.

Half Hung Over - and out.

2009-12-12T04:56:00.001-08:00

Here I sit. Feeling Half Hung Over after drinking a few glasses of wine last night trying to get my "game on" for the Half Drunk Challenge brought to us by my friends over at Momalom. I drank my wine and sat with my laptop in my lap, waiting to feel inspired. I reread the amazing, heartfelt, heart warming, difficult, thought provoking, poetic and hysterical posts that others had written. Some brought tears. Some shook me. I had so many words swimming around in my head but had a hard time piecing them together.

I actually wrote two posts but neither worthy of publishing. And then, after 3 hours of sitting, writing, pausing, thinking, writing and deleting, I realized something. This Is Not For Me. I was asked to be "daring". I was told to reach deep down within myself and pull something out that normally would stay tucked comfortably within me. And I did it. I wrote one post that most of you would raise your eyebrows at, that may have made you uncomfortable but as I finished it, it dawned on me the reason it was so hard to pull out. It wasn't meant to come out. Yes, I could have published it anonymously on Momalom's site so I would still be eligible for the contest but the words still would have been written and once it was written... it would have been true. And I was not ready for it to be true.

My other post I meant to be silly. With few drinks in me I thought I could be extra silly but I found that when someone says, "Be Funny!" the funny drains right out of me. I reread my "funny" post when it was done and wow, it was NOT even remotely funny. And it was not me. It was forced and ridiculous.

So here I sit. Wondering why I had such a hard time with this contest. It reminded me of other times in my life. Times when I wanted to "fit in". I recall going on a business trip and being told the first night that we all had to do karaoke. Everyone was so excited to have a few drinks and impress the higher ups with their karaoke talent or at least their "coolness" in trying without reservation. Everyone that is, except me. There were two ways to succeed at the company I worked at. One was being a brilliant marketer, having gone to a top business school and increasing market share for your brand by double digits (of course). The other was being socially savvy, being a part of the "in crowd", feeling no reservation in throwing back a few drinks and saddling up to the mic for karaoke. I always felt like an outsider there. I landed a job at a company where they normally wouldn't look twice at someone who didn't go to a top 5 business school. I got an interview through a connection and moved up through the ranks (by working my ASS off) as people looked sideways at me wondering how someone from my "not top school" could be so successful. At least that's how I felt. Every Day. And I never felt comfortable shmoozing with the executives, holding a drink and "being funny". I can be funny. I can be outgoing. But not when I'm TOLD to. Not when it's a requirement.

So here I sit. Unable to write something I'm required to write. My words will come out when I feel the urge for them to come out. When it's in my comfort zone. Apparently, writing about sex is not in my comfort zone (which you'd see if I published one of my posts!). Maybe one day I WILL publish these posts. They are still sitting in draft form. But today. When it's required that I let you read them to be eligible for a prize... there they will stay. In draft form.

I think many of my thoughts in my head are in draft form. I have a lot to say. To a lot of people. But I don't know how to say them. I've been getting by in draft form. Things come out half planned, often without editing. But the big, important things, I spend a tremendous amount of time editing in my head until they aren't even accurate anymore. And then they come out, watered down and half true. I'm working on the words I'm comfortable saying. And one day they'll come out. And you'll know they're from me... they won't be anonymous.

So, I'll take a "default" on this one. I hope you'll still allow me in the cool crowd even without participating (although, maybe, I did participate after all?). If nothing else, I have the utmost respect for all of the other entrants into the contest. Amazing, honest, daring words were expressed.

I wonder if you'd all be just as good at karaoke?

Moments of Happiness

2009-12-10T07:48:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was stopped at a red light as I waited to turn into Target. I had a hundred "to-do's" in my head in preparation for Chanukah and a party I'm hosting on Sunday night. I was feeling overwhelmed (as I normally do as I'm about to enter the land of Target) and all of a sudden I felt a pounding beat overcome my body. My car started bouncing a bit, and I turned to look towards where the beat was coming from to see the car stopped next to me jumping on its own tires. The music in this car next to me was so incredibly loud, that literally, I could feel it in my bones. My first thought was how the hell the woman driving the car could possibly STAND the decibel level of her music and then I noticed that she was seriously JAMMING to the music. I don't mean bopping her head back and forth or playing the pretend drums on her steering wheel. I mean arms over her head, punching the air above her, thrusting her hips (or so it looked from my vantage point), shaking her shoulders and most likely kicking her feet on the floor below her. Her eyes were mostly shut as she "felt" the music melt into her skin. And she had a smile plastered across her face. Happiness. I could feel her happiness from the next car over. I looked in my rear view mirror to glance at Luke and before his little face came into focus I saw his arms out in front of him moving to the beat and a wide grin spreading over his face. He was feeling the "happy" too. She must have felt me staring at her, gulping down her joy, because she looked over at me and without for a second stopping her dance moves, but instead adding this move to the choreography, she waved. I didn't wave back. I barely even smiled back but what I did spoke even louder. I gave her a thumbs up. "Good For You", is what I would have said could she have heard my words through both of our closed windows and over her insanely loud music. Good for her for allowing herself to get lost in that song, forgetting anything else that may have been on her mind that day, if even for just that one song, and feeling such obvious happiness. Who knows if when the next song came on she snapped into a snarly mood. But I doubt it. She radiated so much joy in the minute that I was in her presence to last days. And when we drove off in our separate ways, and I was left in my quiet car, without ANY music playing, just the noise in my head, I decided right there and then, that I need to find more little ways to bring little smiles to my face. I let myself get consumed by the minutia. So if I can get so many tiny things bring me down, I should be able to let the little things raise me up. I guess it goes back AGAIN to living in the moment, grasping onto the present and cherishing it.

I just got home from Luke's gym class. A class where he more or less gets to run around for 50 minutes playing with balls, climbing ladders, and crawling through tunnels (although the "coaches" like to describe these activities as learning to throw, hiking up a mountain and going on a cave adventure... blah blah). It's his only "social" activity in his week and although I like that he has this activity, I often look at my watch, wishing the minutes to pass so that I can get on with my day. But today, I decided to immerse myself in it. To live through Luke and the joy he portrays in each of the little activities. At one point the coach pulled together a dozen or so beach towels, put on reggae music and turned on a huge bubble machine. Hundreds of bubbles were pumping out from high above the kids as they held beach buckets up in the air trying to catch the bubbles. At least the OTHER kids did. Luke, however, stood in the middle of the beach blankets, head cocked up toward the ceiling with his eyes closed and hands by his sides as the bubbles floated down and popped on his face. With each bubble that landed on his nose, cheeks, eyes, and hair he squealed with surprise and delight. Every ten or so bubbles he'd look over at me and smile. Happiness. It reminded me of the days at camp where it would be pouring rain and we'd all stand outside our cabins and feel the warm rain soak our skin. Or when I was even littler and I'd go out in a blizzard and I'd stick my tongue out as far as it would go catching the soft snowflakes in the cold. The little things. The happy moments.

I have to let my kids reintroduce me to these moments. Without their innocence, I'm afraid I might miss them. I am certain I would not hear the airplane flying overhead unless I had Luke by my side jumping up and down pointing to the sky in amazement. I would take the butterfly sitting on a flower for granted unless I had Hannah chasing after it asking when it stopped being a caterpillar. Who knows if I'd hear the birds chirping without waking up to hear Luke sitting in his crib saying "cheep! cheep!" I wish I didn't have to work so hard to find these little things on my own. Hundreds of them are right in front of me every day. I just have to push aside some of the "life clutter" to see them.

But again, I am promising myself that I will.

Pieces of me

2009-12-07T17:31:00.001-08:00

Hannah spent 15 minutes in the bathroom washing her hands, scrubbing in between her fingers, and scouring her wrists to get the watermelon juice off because they were so unbelievably sticky. I kept hearing her as I stood in the kitchen, "I'm SOOOOO sticky! Mommy! I'm STILL sticky!". And I shook my head and said out loud (but quietly), Where Did She Come From?

I wish I had the picture from my parent's house to post up here for you all to see. No, make that PICTURES (dozens of them) of me, very chubby little me, sitting in the sand/dirt/gravel/woodchips eating a popsicle/lollipop/peach/watermelon with something dripping down my wrist down to my elbow. A barely visible big smile that you couldn't tell where the popsicle ended and my lips began, smeared across my face. Not only was I disgustingly sticky but I had sand/dirt stuck to the stickiness. And I Didn't Care.

I look at this little girl of mine (growing bigger by the day) and I see myself in so many ways. For one she LOOKS so much like me. We were visiting my grandmother last week and there's a picture of 6 year old me sitting in Nana's lap. Hannah was looking at it, very confused. When I asked her what she was thinking as she stared at it, she said, "Why does Nana look so young in that picture?" I told her it was because it was taken 30 years ago. And she said, "but I'm only 4 mommy, how am I in her lap 30 years ago?" Yes, even SHE thought I was her.

I'm afraid she also got my emotional sensitive side. She gets her feelings hurt easily. She wants to be liked and doesn't understand if someone doesn't seem interested. She "works" a pouty face and bring on tears as if she's on stage. But at the same time, she's the first to someone's side if they're hurt. She cares deeply. She wants to understand how someone feels and why they feel that way. There's no one you'd want by your side more than her if you're sad. She'll make you feel like you're the only one in the room. Ultra sensitive - good and bad - like her mom.

Because there's so much of me in her, it comes as a huge surprise when something shines through her that is so obviously NOT from me. (And many of these things don't come from Tim either so it really throws me). And I'm fascinated as I notice pieces from all of her relatives and see where she came from. I am a true believer that kids are born wired a certain way. There's very little we can do to change the fundamentals. We may be able to sway them one way or another or strengthen different aspects of their personality that are already there but for the most part...they are who they are. As I sat and thought about this today, and watched her, I was able to attribute almost everything to someone.

Although she looks like me at first glance because of her coloring, eye shape and nose; her hair, mouth and jaw are daddy's.

The wide smile... makes me melt just like her dad's.

The fine straight hair... I could run my hands through it all day and what I wouldn't do to have that same hair on my head. And now that he's grown out of his bowl haircut, daddy has some fine looking hair too.

The sense of direction, the crazy memory for detail - Tim... all Tim. I'm book smart. Tim, he's "real" smart.

The curiosity, the questions... I see and hear my mom. My mom has always been a question asker. Wanting to understand better, know more. I get that from her too but I see that part of my mom in Hannah.

The sweet, sweet nature. Yes, yes, many of us in our combined clan have that, but something about the delivery of it - I see my dad. The honest, pure, natural sweet, that I think was actually too much for me growing up but now I see how lucky I was to have it in my dad.

The knack for words - as much as I'd like to say it comes from me, it doesn't. Hannah is verbally amazing. Tim's mom is a word genius (and she'd agree). This woman passes on the Monday and Tuesday NYT crossword puzzle because they're too easy. She does the rest of the week in pen. Brilliant.

The silliness - definitely not my side of the family. Yeah, I can go along with the funny faces, made up dances and tush wiggles but really, that's all "the other" side. I'm giving that to Tim's dad, the one who loves to pull his pants up to his chest, put on a silly smile and earn the laughs in the room. I only wish being that silly came more naturally to me. But it was handed down nicely to my husband so my house doesn't lack the sillies. Lucky me.

So many pieces. Competitive, obstinate, fun-loving, dramatic, nurturing, strong-willed. All can be handed out as a piece from someone in our blood. All of these pieces combined make her who SHE is. (I'm still trying to hunt down the relative who gave her the throw-me-out-the-car-window tantrum gene. They owe me, big.)

Everyone is always looking at Luke and guessing who he LOOKS like. I keep saying he looks like Luke. It's too early to tell which parts of his make-up come from who, but I'm going to guess that he has as many pieces as Hannah coming from the farthest branches of our family tree. He looks NOTHING like me, but I wonder which pieces will come from me. I wonder how much he'll LOOK like Tim once his personality flourishes. Will I stare in amazement as he plays a sport because he'll look JUST like Tim? Or will he stand back and observe a crowd reminding me of myself or someone from my side of the family?

My mom said she and my dad only recently realized that I was TRULY and honestly a sensitive person and that it looked like I got that from my grandmother who also was just born "sweet". For so many years they thought they'd be able to make me less sensitive by repeatedly joking around with me to get me "used to" the sarcasm. It only made me cry harder. Since neither one of them was so sensitive, they didn't understand how I could be. If only they had figured this out when I was young. It might have saved us all some tears.

I'm glad I see early on that Hannah is not only pieces from Tim and I. I'm also glad that I know I've been handed a blueprint and that there's only so much wiggle room for her to change her nature. She's all girl. I can't change that. She loves attention, craves it actually, and I have to work with that. I may be able to encourage the way the pieces work together but really, I need to support what comes naturally to her. I need to keep this in mind if she never wants to play a team sport (but please, please let that not be the case!) and instead wants to go into drama. That's not to say I'm not going to encourage continuing to try the team sports but at some point, I may need to realize what she is drawn to, may be who she is. My job is to keep her safe. My job is to keep her passionate. Beyond that, I need to let the pieces fall into place.

Oh and the obsession with not being sticky? Thanks mom.

It's Not Fair

2009-12-06T16:34:00.000-08:00

Stop It!

I already know that!

Why? Why? Why? Why?

I Don't Want To!

Give It!

Oooowwwieeeee!!!

All things that come out of Hannah's mouth throughout the day (along with the sweet, kind, brilliant, funny things OF COURSE!). To be expected from a 4 year old. Usually these words are accompanied with a stomp of the foot, two arms crossed in front of her chest, two eyes peering scarily out from under her hair and a pout that could win her an Oscar. They come out when she's beyond frustrated, angry, tired or just wants to see how many heads she can get to turn in her direction when out in public. These are also words that I Wish I Could Say. Do you know how much better I'd feel if I could scream I Don't Want To! at the cashier at Bloomingdales when she sticks out her hand for my credit card? How I'm sure the pain would go away quicker if I could yell OOOOWWWWWIEEEE! after banging my shin into the foot of my bed for the 11th time in the day? Or when the woman at the grocery store looks at screaming Luke in the cart and innocently says, "oh, he looks tired", how satisfying it would be to scream, "I already know that!".

Yes, kids get away with yelling whatever they want. And we parents don't. But the one that gets me most? The one that at the age of 37 is not acceptable but oh how I wish it was? "It's. Not. Fair."

It's Not Fair. It's relatively new in Hannah's vernacular. And she now whips it out of her holster regularly. As soon as I think my words have resonated with her to get her to understand why she can't do/have/say something. "It's not fair" comes out, usually with a typhoon of tears. And it usually renders me stumped. Because usually, I can understand why to her little, young brain, it really isn't fair. This saying seems to enter the preschooler/mommy dialogue at the same time as many rules, limits, and changes come about. Earlier, things just "were". Hannah accepted them as how the world works. She believed "mommy says so", and even if it upset her... she moved on. She doesn't move on quite so easily anymore. She needs to understand why it is that her little brother can carry his blankie around and I limit the time she can spend with her raggedy old elephant. It's. Not. Fair. She berates me with questions as to why it is that she has a bedtime and can't stay up All Night or at least until Mommy goes to bed. It's. Not. Fair. It doesn't make sense to her that her friend at school (whose mom and dad work full time) can have playdates at dinner time and she can't. It's. Not. Fair.

The more observant Hannah gets as to people's (mostly my) behavior, the more disappointed she seems to get. She's noticing what people wear (no coat on a frigid day?), what people eat (a candy bar before lunch?), what people say (stupid or shut up) and how people act (sassy/bratty/spoiled) and if it's not on par with what she expects for herself... It's. Not. Fair. She's struggling to understand where the line is drawn between what I allow her to do and have and what I don't. And I'm realizing that this is when my Consistency is so incredibly important. And it's the consistency I have such a hard time with as a mom. Some days I break my own rules and let her do things she knows aren't normally allowed (dinner on the couch! A chocolate after lunch! A junkie toy from the grocery store 25cent vending machine!) because it makes me happy to see her excited. But the next time, when it's not allowed (again)... it's. not. fair. And she's right. It's not.

What is fair? Is "fair" having what other people have? Is "fair" having what you once had? Is "fair" having what you think you deserve? For me, at this stage of my life, "It's not fair" is not something that would ever come out of my mouth. It sounds so juvenile. But do I feel it? Yes, at times I do. But I think as you get older unfairness becomes self-pity which can turn to resentment. And I would hate to admit that I have either of those very often. So I won't. But I guess, a little of each of these can creep in on some darker days and I MAY think I deserve "different". My kids are too young to understand, "mommy had a really long day and would love to sit for one minute, undisturbed, in a quiet room, with no one pestering me or begging me for anything." So I don't say it to them, and when they continue to yell for me, yell at each other, yell for things beyond my reach... I MAY think, "how do I DESERVE this?" It's instead of yelling, "THIS is not fair.". And when Tim gets to take a nice, quiet, long shower and I am unable to because my kids want to be with me at all hours of the day... do I resent it? Yes, maybe a little and I don't even have to say anything, because when Tim sees the look on my face, he knows I'm thinking, "It's not fair."

I'm learning that the less explanation I give to Hannah, the better, when it comes to why things are fair. With most conversations I believe Hannah can grasp "reason". But when she has it in her head that something isn't fair... there's no changing her mind. How can I explain why her friend can get her ears pierced and she can't? Especially when she sees that I have mine pierced? How can a 4 year old comprehend that something makes her look "too old"? That it's just something I feel strongly about. And. That's. It. I know most of the time she's yearning for an explanation that makes sense to her (if I could tell her that 4 year olds' ears would fall off if they're pierced, that would work), but aside from lying to her... there aren't words to make it fair.

I hate the saying, "it is what it is". It's such a cop out to me. It's a conversation ender. It comes across as defensive in adult conversations. But it's what I tell myself many times when I'm feeling resentful or self-pitying. It might actually escape my lips the next time Hannah tells me "it's not fair" if I'm feeling impatient. Or, maybe I'll just scream back, "I Already Know That!". That would be fair.

Superficial Saturday 4

2009-12-05T06:18:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the Superficial Saturday Holiday Gift Guide: First Edition! (Just for Laughs if you aren't with me in my humor today...)

On this cold, blustery Saturday, only a couple of weeks before the gift giving season kicks into high gear, I've compiled for you (exclusively on Drama For Mama) my recommended gifts for your loved ones. You can thank me later.

How perfect is this? A flashlight for your head! Never again will you actually have to HOLD your flashlight with your hands! Now you can make sandwiches in the middle of the night while camping! You can knit in a dark room! You can get dressed in a pitch dark closet! And the best part, after you are finished doing whatever you need to do in the dark, you can go straight to the mines. You don't have to run home first, just head right on over. Perfect for your bright-light-averse/miner loved one.

You might not be able to tell from the picture, but this fishing pole... comes apart into many small pieces and can FIT IN YOUR POCKET! That's right, tell your friend that they will never stumble upon a lake, brook, stream, river, pond or puddle and not be prepared to catch a fish. On those days when they just can't seem to find the time to get to the grocery store, they will be set for dinner if you happen to pass by a fish catching opportunity. Also for the men in your life who like to appear to have something long and hard in their pocket...

Not sure how to tell someone that their breath is less than desirable? Think that giving them a tooth brush or mouth wash is too harsh of a clue? This halitosis detector might be just the subtle hint you're looking for. This bad breath detector measures FOUR levels of unfresh breath. I assume the levels are 1) You can kiss me but only the cheek. 2) You can be near me but not talking to me. 3) You can be in the same room as me but not within 3 feet of me 4) You should avoid all contact with any living organism if you want them to stay living. A gift like this will surely improve your holiday get-togethers. And you'll save money on breath mints.

If you know someone who lives in a household with not QUITE enough noise, this should help them along. This fun sounds of the wild animal caller makes 10 realistic animal noises, including a lion, a baboon, and an elephant. I don't know about you but I crave hearing the sounds of a baboon in my living room. It would be a good complement to the ubiquitous sounds of Yo Gabba Gabba, the kiddie drumset, and choo choo trains. Your friends with kids will surely thank you for this home enlivening gift for their kids.

I've been feeling lately that I don't think kids today have enough ways to get out their anger. This dodgeball game teaches kids (or adults) to hurl objects at one another with the sole purpose of hitting them in the chest/abdominal area. The one you see above is for beginners. It has a velcro target and hard tennis-like balls. As you get better you can advance to dart throwing, knife tossing and maybe, if they practice enough, sharp arrow slinging.

I hope this is enough to get you started on your gift purchasing. I'll have more for the next few Superficial Saturdays before Christmas. And after Chanukah is over and I've received all of MY gifts, I'll be sure to let you know the bombs that I received so you can steer clear and not disappoint any of your recipients.

Truth Be Told

2009-12-03T17:58:00.000-08:00

Hannah told me that she tried a red pepper at school today and didn't like it. This was after I placed a few slices of red pepper on her plate to try as a new vegetable of the day.

"You tried red pepper at school today?" I asked her with uncertainty.

"Mmm Hmmm".

"Hannah, please don't tell me something that isn't true. I just want you to try a small bite, I think you'll like it."

"No mommy, for really real. I did try it and didn't like it."

"So if I ask your teacher, she'll tell me that you did in fact try a red pepper today?"

"The teacher wasn't there."

"Oh, so the teachers left you alone in the classroom and there just happened to be a red pepper sitting on the table and you decided to try a piece?"

Looooooonnng Pause.

"Well, I think the teacher may have had her back turned. Or maybe it wasn't actually in school that i tried it and didn't like it. But I know I did for real try it one time somewhere and didn't like it."

Her name is Hannah. And she's a fibber (already).

This was one of the things when Hannah was born that I said to Tim we would NOT have... a liar. I have always said that I will make sure she's comfortable enough with me to always tell the truth. Why should she lie when I would never make her feel bad about telling the truth?

Apparently, it's not so simple.

I was a PRO liar when I was younger. I didn't lie about big things (like who I was going out with or where we were going) but I lied A LOT about little things. And when I look back on WHY I lied, it's very clear to me. I wanted my parents to be proud of me, so I made things up to make stories more exciting, to make ME more exciting. I also didn't want them to be disappointed in me, so I'd lie to cover up something I did that I knew they wouldn't approve of. I was smart and quick and got away with it (mostly).

But the lying really only hurt me in the end. Since I was so good at making up these stories, there was no reason for me to really try to ACTUALLY make my parents proud. And often I did things to disappoint them knowing I'd get myself out of it by lying. It was a vicious cycle and honestly, it was a very hard one to break. I got caught lying to a friend in highschool and she made me feel like such an ass that I realized it wasn't worth it. I was mortified. And I quit cold turkey. I remember stopping myself in lies and telling the truth. I remember being so proud of myself. It felt so much more"right". I felt free. And when I saw people still liked me (maybe even more), I gained confidence. And I've never looked back.

And now I have this 4 year old who is telling these little innocent lies. I don't give a shit if she tried a red pepper or not. But once she realizes that she can get away with little stories about eating peppers and brushing her teeth and someone pushing her at school, she may raise the bar. Lying can turn into far worse. Lying can become cheating, plagiarizing, stealing. (I know I'm bringing it to a silly level at this point but bare with me). She's testing me at this age, I'm well aware of it, and I'm calling her bluff. I think I'd be doing her a disservice by blowing it off as a cute stage. I recall the lies that I told when I was young, causing a huge divide between me and my parents. I hid behind these little lies so that they weren't able to see the real me. The one that I feared they wouldn't like.

People lie when they aren't confident that the truth will work to their benefit. It is so important to me that my kids know the truth will always put them on the winning side, that even if they see disappointment on my face from the truth, that it will make them stronger. That I will always support them in the truth and I will NOT in the lies.

There are the little "stories" that I let her tell and smile along with her. The stories about make believe people and the adventures she has with them. These strengthen her imagination, let her be creative, let her live in a fantasy world that all kids should be able to find. These stories aren't meant to fool anyone or pull one over on anyone.

I'm figuring out ways today when my kids are still tiny and only testing the waters to encourage truth telling. Just yesterday when Hannah told me she had brushed her teeth and I knew she had not I said, "Oh, that's too bad you already brushed, I had a new tooth brushing game I was going to teach you." She quickly changed her story and saw that my reaction would have been different than she had expected. Can I hope that this will continue to work? Can I set a healthy groundwork for truth telling today?

Maybe I'm overthinking, and my girl is much more confident than I ever was. Maybe I won't have to worry. I hope that's the case. Hopefully next time, she'll try the pepper.

She doesn't get it from me...

2009-12-03T04:44:00.001-08:00

One of the best feelings in the world is to be out with your child and have them do something in public that you've taught them to do. Something that you can smile and look knowingly at whomever is around nodding your head saying, "Yup, that's MY kid." I pride myself on having very polite kids (at least the speaking one). At the mall playground the other day she cozied up to a little girl who was struggling to pull her shoes off while her mom tended to her younger sibling and she said to her, "Here, sweetie, let me help you with those." The mom looked over at me and said, "Wow, she's so sweet!". Unable to completely accept a compliment, I said, "Yeah, right NOW she is... things can change quickly with her though!". But inside, I was glowing. My girl IS sweet.

But then there are the times that your child does something that hurl you in the OPPOSITE direction. Things that you try to defend, try to look puzzled by because you want to make it clear that you did NOT teach your child to do/say that. If you have a 4 year old, you know what I'm talking about. I've experienced, "Mommy, is that a man or a lady?" coming out of Hannah's mouth much too loudly. The salesperson looked at me after she asked the question and I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders. And I couldn't even answer Hannah because I had no idea myself. She's also shouted out, "Look at her HERMENDOUS boobies mommy!". I would have hoped that the lady with the "hermendous" boobies would have laughed since she was in no way shy about them, but she shook her head at me as if I should do a better job controlling my kid's mouth. This 4-year-old-filter problem is very common. But my 4 year old does something else that she makes very public and usually throws me leaving me digging for an explanation.

Hannah is obsessed with car brands. When we got our new car she was interested in knowing what the "L" on the front of it stood for. And when I told her she then asked what the "label" on the front of every other car stood for. She now knows pretty much every car type and shouts them out as we drive down the street or walk through a parking lot. I wouldn't call it cute. I'd call it freaky. She also makes up little riddles for cars. For instance she said recently, "Mommy, do you know what kind of car I should drive?"

"No, what kind of car?"

"A Ford! Because I'm Four!"

And then, "Mommy, what kind of car do you think would be the most FUN to drive?"

Assuming she was not thinking of a convertible BMW to feel the wind blowing her hair back, I asked, "What?"

"A TOYota! Because it's like a Toy!"

There's more, but I won't bore you with them.

I can handle this strange interest of hers inside my house or in OUR car but last week when I was picking her up from school and we were walking down the sidewalk behind a woman wearing a hoodie sweater with a big peace symbol on the back. Hannah caught up to her, looked up at her and said, "Hi!" (and I was beaming to myself watching my little friendly daughter). And then she went on to say, "I LOVE your Mercedes sweater!".

"My Mercedes sweater?" the lady asked confused.

"Yeah, you have a big Mercedes sign on your back! It's pretty!"

The mom looked back at me with a look of disbelief. Mind you, Hannah goes to a very liberal, very "green", proudly alternative preschool. Teaching our kids brand names of cars and the symbols that go with them is not a top priority in this environment.

"I don't know where she gets it from." I meekly said to the other mom. "She just, likes cars".

I don't know why I was so embarrassed. It just seemed so superficial. So unimportant. Why couldn't she have said, "Oh, I love your peace sign... I agree, we should all find more peace within ourselves." That would have made me proud.

Also recently we were at a holiday party and all of the kids were playing outside by the driveway where all the cars were parked. Hannah looked over and yelled, "HEY! Who drives the Chevy??" Not that she knows the value or expense of different cars (she judges all cars on color and how pretty the name sounds) but it sounded to the crowd that she was putting down the Chevy driver. It got a laugh (because it was our friends) but again, it did not make me proud. And I just said to the other parents sarcastically, "what can I say, she knows what is important in life. Hide your purse, because if she sees it's not Prada, she may not be your friend."

I can't tell Hannah not to talk about cars. It's innocent enough but I can't help but think it reflects on me in a negative light. I get very defensive. I laugh it off. But it's just another one of those parenting things that leaves me wondering, should I be doing something different?

Take Two

2009-12-02T15:11:00.004-08:00

My blog saw the demise of its first post today. Where this post now sits, sat another earlier today. It sat alive for most of the day and the words I wrote received such wonderful comments. But unanimously the thoughts from the friends who spent the time commenting said I "was brave". And the fact that everyone thought I was so brave, made me second guess my words, made me fear hurting people who may read them. So I deleted them all.

On the one hand I'm sad because I think my words were worth writing and it may have helped to have even more people read them and tell me their perspectives. But, I do think I made the right decision. I did what felt right to me.

It does beg the question as to where I draw the line in what I write in this blog. I'll have to do some soul searching on this. For now, those words I wrote this morning, will instead be spoken. I'll be better off saying them to the few who deserve hearing them, instead of publishing them for all to see.

My day started on a difficult note, with a raging headache and so many words swimming inside my head. My day is ending with my little girl's hand in mine. With her head on my shoulder, snuggled under a blanket. No words. Sometimes, I'm better off with no words.

Brain has left the building

2009-11-30T17:22:00.000-08:00

I thought now that my youngest is 19 months old I'd have my brain back. Apparently it's not the case. I'm smart. I know I am. Somewhere inside my head I AM still smart. I think my brain has just taken a temporary leave of absence (lucky brain).

I realized that I'm still not quite back to my normal brilliant self today when I was driving and all of a sudden the music came on and scared the bejeezus out of me. Literally the 7 or so seconds it took for my Sirius radio to find the satellite signal, was enough for me to completely forget I had turned it on, and enough time for me to be so deep in thought (or half asleep) that I jumped out of my skin when The Frey came blaring through the speakers.

It also happens far too often that I make a phone call, by the time they answer I've completely forgotten who I've called. And now with caller ID everyone answers my call with, "Hi Becca!" and I have to act just as excited to hear their voice when I have no idea who in fact it is that I've called. And then once I HAVE figured it out, I don't know why I've called in the first place. Because, if you know me, I don't normally just call to "chat". That's what email is for. Or my blog. Even worse, sometimes I make my calls with my bluetooth in my car, and again the time it takes for it to connect is enough for me to have forgotten I've even made a call, and then the "ringing" I hear through my car speakers again, scares the crap out of me. Maybe I'm on edge?

In the past week I've done a few other things that have made me a little nervous about my brain's health. I couldn't find the phone for hours yesterday and finally found it sitting on the top shelf of my refrigerator. I've been blaming this on Luke but honestly, I'm pretty sure it was me. I think I finished a call as I was wrangling Luke out of the refrigerator and I needed both hands to pry his little hands off of the fridge shelf so I put the phone down In The Fridge. Makes sense right?

I put honey in my coffee a few days ago thinking I had made tea. It was not delicious.

I put body cream in my hair thinking it was my hair relaxer. Nine shampoos later I THINK the cream was finally out. I don't even have time for ONE shampoo, let alone an entire nap time worth of shampoos.

I ALMOST put Cortizone cream on my toothbrush. I'm writing a letter to Cortizone telling them that I feel their packaging is dangerously close to that of toothpaste. And no, I do not think it was bad judgement to keep my tube of Cortizone cream right next to my tube of toothpaste. Never know when I'll have an itch close to toothbrushing time.

Hannah asked me for a Tootsie Pop for dessert tonight so I walked to the kitchen, took one out of the cabinet and handed it to Luke. Ten minutes later Hannah asked me where her lollipop was and after telling her to stop joking around, that "NO, You canNOT have another lollipop, NICE try!", I looked over at Luke who was sitting on his penguin beanbag chair grasping this stick with a ball on top in his fist, just staring at it. He hadn't even thought of putting it in his mouth or licking it. He was just enjoying its company.

I was writing an email to a friend and wrote, "I have never SAWN anything like it before in my life." I knew it looked wrong. But I couldn't quite figure out what was off. Shit, I can't believe I'm admitting this... have I lost all credibility?

I think I'll stop here.

I've been thinking I want to go back to work in some capacity. Start consulting. Find some freelance work. Put this brain to work. Put my hard earned MBA to some use. I'm now thinking it MIGHT not be such a good idea if I want to be at all successful. I mean would YOU hire me?

Thought not.

I will go back to how I once was, won't I? I'm not stuck like this forever, am I? And I'm not alone... Right?

Santa Clause is coming to town... but not my house.

2009-11-29T16:25:00.000-08:00

I love this time of year. I love the smell of the pine needles from the tree sellers as we walk down NYC streets. I love when homes in our suburban neighborhood become lit with glistening Christmas trees and twinkling outdoor lights trim the edges of the roofs. Big blow-up snowmen stand in the large front yards and colorful wreaths don the front doors. Holiday music is played round the clock on the radio, in stores and at cocktail gathering at our friends' homes. Christmas sweaters, red velvet dresses and candy cane socks are pulled from closets and worn to school. Kids talk about letters to Santa they are writing, cookies they are baking to leave beside the fire place where he will fall and stockings they are hanging for him to stuff. It's exciting. It feels special.

I love this time of year but this is also a difficult time of year for me. It's the time when Hannah begins her questions surrounding why she's "different". Why we don't have a tree. Why our house is darker than our neighbor's. Why Santa doesn't visit us. Why we don't celebrate Christmas. Of course I've explained that we're Jewish and Jewish people celebrate different holidays. One isn't better than the other, just different, I've told her.

But it brings me back. Back to when I was little and the only other Jewish person I really knew at school was my brother. And I wanted a Christmas tree and lights in each window and a wreath on our door. I wanted a family day where we sat around and pulled out old ornaments and placed them excitedly on the tree. I wanted to join the conversation with my friends about what Santa had left me under the tree. But I couldn't. Because I WAS different. It was nice that I was invited by all my friends to help decorate THEIR trees (everyone needs a token Jewish person in their life to help with these projects!) but really, I wanted my own. I didn't want people feeling sorry for me that I didn't celebrate what they did. My dad had laid down the "law" that we could not have any decorations resembling a Christmas decoration in our house. No candles in the windows, no "Chanukah Bush", no mistletoe or holly on the door. I didn't get it. I just wanted our house to look pretty. I wanted to participate in the beauty of this holiday. But he just kept saying, "We are Jewish and all of that, is for Christmas."

Now it's MY family. MY house. I can make the rules as I see fit as far as how we participate in the holiday season. And I'm conflicted. Where should I draw the line so that we aren't the "dark house" on the block but so that we uphold Jewish traditions? What symbols during the Christmas holiday are religious and which are just traditional for the "holidays"? I think I've decided that candles in each window are beautiful during the winter season, when there is snow on the ground and a fire in the fireplace, regardless of whether it's Christmas or not. I enjoy Christmas music and I will play it as we sit in the living room in front of the fire reading and playing family games. Hannah and Luke can have their pictures taken with Santa at the mall because it's cute and they can believe he "exists" but he won't come to our house. But, I will not have a tree, a wreath, or mistletoe in our entryway. The kids will not have stockings hung by the fireplace and I will not wish them a Merry Christmas on December 25 because, well, we don't celebrate it.

I have friends, even relatives, who are Jewish yet celebrate Christmas because it's the "fun" holiday and they don't want their kids to feel left out. It's another excuse for a party. Something for their kids to fall in love with and look forward to each year. Santa comes to their house, they have a Christmas tree and stockings hung on the fireplace. I think all that separates them from their actual Christian friends is attending midnight mass at church on Christmas Eve. I try not to judge them but I feel like it's a cop out and makes it difficult for the rest of us who try to keep Chanukah sacred and special for our kids. I'm proud of being Jewish, I want my kids to have the same pride and instead of feeling different, I want them to feel special. I work hard at making Chanukah special by lighting the menorah each night, singing the prayers, playing the traditional games and exchanging gifts for 8 nights.

I remember when I was little shopping in stores around Christmas and having EVERYONE wish me a Merry Christmas and saying straight back, "I don't celebrate Christmas". Because I didn't and to me it was like someone wishing me a Happy Birthday when it wasn't my birthday. I wasn't being rude or bratty, I was just stating the truth. But it makes people uncomfortable. They feel the need to apologize and back peddle. As an adult, I just say "Thank You" because it's easier. Simpler. Expected. I remember around last Christmas overhearing Hannah's gymnastics coach asking everyone what they got from Santa and hearing Hannah pipe up that he doesn't come to our house because she's Jewish. The coach went on to say, "Awwww... that's too bad, I'm sorry." I wanted to jump through the glass window of the observation room and strangle her. Because it's nothing to be sorry about. She's Jewish. She doesn't just have mean parents who refuse to let her in on the more popular holiday. Or does she? I do think that's how some people feel. Hannah's orthopedic surgeon who helped heal her broken leg last year told me, "Don't worry, you'll cave" when I told him we don't celebrate Christmas. I'll cave? It seems it's expected to be just another negotiating point. Like when she'll get her ears pierced or when I'll buy her a cell phone.

Part of the problem is that the school Hannah is in has few Jewish kids. The elementary school she'll be entering next year has a much higher ratio which should make things easier for her. And for me. I grew up in a very Catholic town. I grew used to being the minority. But I don't want that for her. I don't want her to always feel she needs to "explain". I want her to feel her home is filled with holiday warmth no matter what decorations can be seen by passers-by on the street. I want all of the smells, sounds and sights that are true for this time of year to trigger a love for Chanukah and all that comes with it.

If any of my readers are Jewish and celebrate Christmas, I'd love to hear your views. I don't mean to be judgmental, I just am confused by it. I'm also interested in hearing what other Jewish families do as far as decorations in their homes during the holidays.

Superficial Saturday Part 3

2009-11-28T15:36:00.001-08:00

Superficial Saturday is supposed to be my "easy" day. The day when I don't have to think too hard. Don't have to divulge feelings that are often uncomfortable for me to speak. The day to raise a few eyebrows but maybe garner some giggles. But this morning, when it was time for me to put "pen to paper", I came up dry. I wandered around trying to think of something meaningless but heartfelt, something ridiculous yet witty. Nothing. We left the house as a family to go the Children's Museum a few towns over and thought I'd feel inspired there. SURELY someone would be wearing something to gawk at or snicker at. Surely I'd drool over something that I just HAD to have. Nothing.

So I turned to Tim. Tentatively, I decided I'd hand the idea over to him. Tentative because Mr. Nice Guy never has anything snarky or "superficial" to say about anyone. He's the one who somehow was able to stop my staring/eavesdropping habit out in public. He's the one who thinks I'm cruel and inhumane for ever noticing anyone's mismatched, "so last year", or frumpy outfit. Mean words just don't come out of his mouth. I know, B.O.R.I.N.G. Right?

But he IS witty and creative so I thought he'd at least spark an idea.

So, as we watched our kids dressed as a bear and a skunk, running around the toddler playscape, I pulled him aside and gave him my instructions, "Go find something blog worthy. Anything for me to write about for my Superficial Saturday post. Something snarky. Something, well, superficial."

He turned and looked around for a few minutes and came back to me rather quickly. And now, as I sit here, I am weighing the risk of telling you what exactly he came up with for my topic. I fear that you'll dislike my dear husband for his thought so much that you'll stop reading my blog Forever, or that you'll lose all trust in me when I say that he really is A Nice Guy.

I'm not taking the risk. I'm sorry. It's just not worth it. What he said will forever be locked inside my brain. But his comment did "inspire" my post today because it had to do with this:

And it's the perfect Superficial Saturday fodder.

I have mixed feelings about this thong showing occurance.

Mixed only because I MAY have been here. Well not exactly "here" since I don't own a black thong with little pearls (or is that a chain?) on top but I know at some point, this MAY have happened to me in some form. It's actually the main reason I've stopped wearing a thong. The other reason is that every time I've put a pair on in Hannah's company, she's given me a pained look and told me my underwear was on backwards.

We moms of young kids spend a lot of time in the squatted position. Zipping jackets, tying shoes, wiping mouths, changing diapers on public floors, getting at eye level to say, "That. Is. Enough!" all bring us down to jean lowering, underwear raising height. So the choice is better-coverage-underwear or higher jeans. I refuse to go the mom-jean high waist route so I now opt for the edging-toward-grandma-style underwear. Although the stylish tunic length shirts have been very helpful of late. Thank you to the designers who made those fashionable. And the fashionistas who decided wearing a dress over jeans is "in" - also a big thanks.

All that being said, the thong out of the jeans look Is Not Good. And it's one of those faux pas that you can't just go over to a fellow mom and tell her. For example, if I noticed a mom with a few buttons popped open exposing her bra, I'd go over and empathetically let her know of her problem. She'd probably blush, laugh and thank me in the end. Shirt on inside out or backwards, zipper open, lipstick on the teeth, food in the teeth or toilet paper on the shoe are also examples of common problems that I'd most likely make someone aware of. But the thong out of the pants? Nope. It becomes my big secret. I'd most likely stare a little too long, nudge whoever I was with (mature of me I know), and shake my head in disgust because it just looks so WRONG. It's along the same lines as a man in a bathing suit whose "mouse is out of the house". Although that, I do not stare a little too long at... I quickly look away in disbelief and remove myself from the surrounding area.

For a while I actually think this "look" became a fashion statement in itself. It's the only reason I can think that thong designers started embellishing the top of the thong. I guess if it's going to peek out, it might as well be dazzling, right? I was hopeful this trend was on the outs and then, I actually saw this:

Yes, that's right. Thong underwear and jeans in one! One easy step. They should do this for men and their boxers. Then I wouldn't worry so much that the guy's low riding pants were going to fall right off.

So there you have it. My thong thoughts for this Saturday. And I didn't even have to sell my husband down the river.

What is Happy?

2009-11-27T05:19:00.000-08:00

Laughter. Full on, no holds barred, tears streaming down my face type laughter. To me, there's really nothing better. When this happens to me, not a sound comes out of my mouth. My body shakes, my face turns bright red and it's very contagious. Hannah loves when I laugh like this. She laughs right along with me but stares at me with probably as much confusion as happiness. I think she's not exactly sure if I'm laughing or crying. If she should be wiping my tears away or wishing for more. This laughter occurred a few weeks ago when she watched this funny video of our family and again yesterday morning when she started tickling me (at 37 I still laugh like a 4 year old when I'm tickled - as long as you know the right spots).

But then, last night, after a long Thanksgiving meal, we got home in time for her bedtime and Hannah wanted round two of the tickle attack and mommy wasn't in the mood. And I didn't laugh. I got annoyed. And she said through her pouty lips, "Mommy, I just wanted you to laugh again. Why can't you always laugh?"

"Why can't you always laugh?"

It's something that rang hard in my head. Through the entire bedtime routine, the words were repeating over and over.

Tim asks me too often, "Are you happy today? Are you going to be happy today?"

Hannah asks, "Why aren't you happy? I just want you to be happy."

And all of this, this questioning, this hassling, this PRESSURE of happiness, makes me UNHAPPY.

"Yes, I'm happy, Yes, I will be happy, I'm fine, Nothing is wrong..." are my common answers. If something is actually bothering me, I say it (usually).

But in this house, the pressure to be happy is sometimes too much. I understand that happy=easy. Happy is not complicated. Happy is everyone getting along. But being happy all the time, at least for me is not always easy. The pressures of running this household, making sure everyone ELSE is happy sadly wins out over my own happiness. Somehow I can't let go of the mess I see around me, the tantrum that was thrown over the toy not bought in the checkout line, the low balance in my checking account, the comment made about how long it's been since we last, you know.

And my quietness, my seriousness, my sleepiness is so often misinterpreted as unhappiness. Why am I not allowed to just be quiet. My day is filled with "noise". The noise of my kids, other kids, the TV, the radio... the noise in my head. It's not all "bad" noise, but it's noise nonetheless. When I'm quiet, when "it's" quiet, very often I Am Happy. I find myself forcing smiles. Just to avoid the interrogation of why I'm not smiling. Is it abnormal to not always have a smile on my face? To not want to dance on command? To not want to be picked up and swung around all the time?

I am not a downer. I LOVE to have fun. I'll be the first to make up a dance to go along with the beep that Luke finds on the phone when he leaves it off the hook for too long. I make up songs to get through long drives, to enjoy baths more, to make everyone ELSE laugh. I can shake my butt during Yo Gabba Gabba like the best of them. But I cannot pretend to always be in the mood for silly fun. And one thing that does make me unhappy, is apologizing for that. And not being "allowed" to be sad, being criticized for a tired mood, being told to "snap out of it"... will also bring an eye roll and a frown.

I have often said that Tim is my perfect complement. He shoves aside the negative to let me see the positive. He sees the sun peaking through when I sometimes see clouds. And I LOVE him for that. But sometimes the clouds bring rain and the sun just isn't warming me up. I need to feel that I have permission for that. I don't want to feel like I can only be cranky in the closet but that I'm allowed to have moods in the open.

This is something relatively new to me. I am reminded often that I used to laugh more. I used to be more relaxed. I used to seem happier. Ironically, I've never been happier than this time of my life. My family brings me more joy than sleeping until 10, going out 4 nights a week, reading 2 books a month, having a very high checking account balance or wandering aimlessly with no plan every weekend. But somehow, finding my smile to show this happiness has become harder. I'm more tired. I worry more. I'm not just "me" anymore but rather an entity of three that sometimes sucks that smile from my face. But just because the smile isn't plastered on my face, doesn't mean it's not overflowing in my heart.

I'm working through this. I am taking some tips that I've recently read to remind myself to take a break from seriousness and responsibility and "let go" and laugh more. But I'm also hoping to express better that the pressure to be happy every moment is not realistic to me. I'm trying to explain better why "quiet" is necessary for me and it does not mean I'm sad.

Happy= laughing so hard until my insides hurt. But happy is also being understood when the laughter is stuck inside.

A new appreciation for Thanksgiving

2009-11-25T11:10:00.000-08:00

Thirteen years ago I spent my favorite holiday of the year at a diner. With a friend who I only superficially knew. Thirteen years ago my parents had the stomach virus and CANCELLED Thanksgiving. They told me and my brother and new wife not to come home. To find other plans. Easy for my brother and new wife since, well, he had a new wife with a family to go to. Not so easy for single me with no where to go. I had JUST met Tim and he wasn't quite ready to bring his just one date more than a one-night-stand, home to his family.

So I called my one friend who I knew was also homeless for the holiday and asked her if she wanted to find a restaurant to go to. We spent Thanksgiving of 1996 at Sarge's Diner on the Upper East side of Manhattan. Yup, we went All Out. I ordered the "Turkey Dinner" off the enormous plastic menu with a picture of the Turkey Dinner that I'd be ordering.

Ever since that Thanksgiving, I have appreciated what I adore about Thanksgiving So. Much. More. Yeah, yeah it's about giving thanks for family, friends, love and good food but until you've spent a Thanksgiving at Sarge's Diner, you have no idea how much more there is to give thanks for.

- The food before the bird. How many of you go to wherever it is you go for Thanksgiving only to be immediately escorted to the table and served the bird? To me, it's also about the sitting around in comfy chairs, sipping Bellinis (fancy I know) and nibbling on stuffed mushroom caps or at least some cheddar cheese on crackers. Rushed is not how I choose to feel as I eat my meal on Thanksgiving.

- Warmth. The warmth of a familiar hug. The warmth of a crackling fire place. Warm food. I barely knew my dinner companion. There was no fire (except possibly the one set by accident in the kitchen) and my food was at best luke warm. Five Star I tell you.

- Familiarity. I love the traditional foods that I am accustomed to eating on Thanksgiving. I don't like to look down at my stuffing and wonder what it's stuffed with. I don't like seeing the "chef" scoop applesauce from a Mott's container onto my plate. I recall a side of coleslaw on my plate with the turkey at the diner. Coleslaw + Thanksgiving = wrong. Familiar, smiling faces is also usually a given on Thanksgiving. I was surrounded at Sarges by strange, disappointed, lost faces. People who either didn't celebrate the holiday and were eating omelets, gyros or lasagna (all wrong) or people who stared empathetically at me, knowing I too, had no where better to go.

- Comfort. No matter where you choose to spend your Thanksgiving holiday there most likely will be an element or two of comfort in your surroundings. Comfortable company, comfortable chairs, comfortable conversation, comfortable numbness from the wine maybe? I was cold from the draft that entered the diner with each new customer. The friend I was with was one of those people who fills awkward silence with rambling nonsense only making it more uncomfortable. I think the only thing numb from the dinner was my butt from the hard wooden chair I was uncomfortably sitting in. And I'm not sure if you've ever ordered wine from a diner but it's not the kind that you would choose to drink an entire glass of, let alone enough to make you feel numb.

So tomorrow, when I am in the company of my husband's family, I will be thankful. Thankful for this holiday that I don't have to spend in temple or feel guilty for not going to temple. This holiday that there is no pressure of buying the perfect gifts. This holiday that I don't have to explain to my kids why we celebrate it and others don't, or why they do and we don't. This holiday where we don't have to fast or eliminate my favorite food group. This holiday where the only symbol is a turkey which I don't have to be sad my kids will some day realize doesn't even exist.

I will "be present" in the day. I will connect with family that I don't see often enough and be disconnected from the eWorld. I will enjoy the laughter, the warmth, the comfort and the familiar (although miss my side of the family around the dinner table). I will give thanks for my immediate little family that I cherish. I will not rush the day like I so often do, but will instead relish each minute. (And now I may spend some time wondering why a word that means 'chopped up spicy pickles' and 'appreciate' are the same word)

And I will make a toast to Sarge's Diner for helping me to truly appreciate this day.

A day well spent

2009-11-24T16:14:00.000-08:00

Today I am Wiped. Out. Sunday, after hosting 25 friends and family in our home, I was tired. But today, after what I experienced... I am wiped. Today I became a grandma. Yes, that's right. Today I spent the afternoon at the American Girl store in Manhattan and became the proud grandmother to Hannah's new daughter Holly. Mind you, Holly isn't coming home as an infant. No, she's a long haired, chicly dressed little girl. (Wouldn't we all love to skip right over the colic, sleepless nights and feeding around the clock?). But she is Hannah's new daughter. Most likely, her new obsession.

Let me back up a bit. My sister-in-law had planned a girls' day out for me, Hannah, herself, her daughter and my mother-in-law. A little girl's dream day. Tea at the American Girl store. I didn't think much about it when it was planned. Hannah had NEVER mentioned American Girl. It wasn't even on her radar. I had only known American Girl as the historical dolls with detailed stories to go along with them (and the catalogs that seem to arrive monthly in my mailbox and are thrown directly in the trash). I was pretty sure I'd be able to attend the tea and skip right over the buying-the $100-doll part. The more I spoke to people, however, the more I realized I was dreaming.

Our adventure started this afternoon as Hannah and I boarded Metronorth. Actually, it started on the train platform where Hannah insisted on telling fellow train-goers that they should step away from the edge of the platform for fear they would get run into by the train. We finally got onto the train and sat in a seat. Me on the seat, her in my lap. And then the commentary began. I never realized how much there is to observe on the train... until I was with my 4 year old. Here are a few out takes:

- "Everyone on this train mommy, must be looking forward to whatever it is they want to do in NYC. Doesn't everyone look excited?"

- "Look, the cars are driving next to the train! But we're going faster because we don't have red lights, or traffic, or bikers, or animals to watch out for"

- "People sleep on the train mommy. Look that lady is asleep. She must still take naps."

- "The conductor must be so busy since he has to collect all of the tickets AND drive the train."

- "There aren't seat belts. We could topple off the seats. Police must not ride the trains because they would want to wear a seat belt."

She was most excited to hand our ticket to the conductor. Usually I'm hopeful that he'll skip over me (a free ride!) but today, it was part of the event. And he skipped over us. And she started crying. And instead of putting my hand over her mouth to silence her, I fessed up and paid.

We finally arrived at Grand Central. I did all but staple her hand to mine as we meandered through the crowded station and out onto the even busier streets. And between not stepping on cracks, avoiding focused, fast paced oncoming pedestrian traffic, looking in awe at all of the amazingly tall buildings, and commenting and tsk tsking at each and every smoker she walked passed, we finally made it to our destination.

American. Girl. Place.

We walked through the enormous glass doors and all hope of NOT buying a doll flew right back out those doors. Holy Crap. The place is un-be-lieve-able. Hannah greeted her aunt, cousin and grandma and began her journey through what I'll just refer to as Little Girl Heaven (later to become Mommy Hell I'm sure). Thank god we don't live in NYC anymore because I think I'd have to enroll her in AGA (American Girl Anonymous) if we lived any closer than we do now.

After 20 minutes of oogling over the choices, we finally chose the doll that most resembled Hannah (because you know, all children look IDENTICAL to their parents). I wonder if other girls would stare quizzically at another girl with an "unmatched" AG doll the way people look at me when I say Luke is my son with his blonde hair and all. It was actually quite freaky to see all of the girls in the store with their clones in their arms. Same hair style, same skin, same outfit... weird. We then made our way to the clothing section to choose a matching pair of pajamas for Hannah and Holly. I've drawn the line at matching pajamas. Never will I allow her to match OUTSIDE the house. I don't wear matching clothing with Hannah and she will not with the doll. Who says I don't set limits?

We then headed up to the tea. We were escorted to our table where the American Girl hoop-la continued... dolls were given booster seats of their own, along with their own tea cup and saucer. (And wouldn't you know, you can actually BUY the booster seats and tea cups!) We were also given "conversation cards" in case we had nothing to say to each other and our dolls at the table. Questions ranged from, "What do you do to keep busy on a rainy day?" to "Have you ever been told you couldn't do something because you're female?" (the latter got some blank stares from the 4 year old cousins and their dolls).

To see this large fancy party room filled with dozens of little girls ranging from 4-12ish was a spectacle to say the least. At one point Holly who was sitting quietly in her booster seat toppled over and onto the floor. The 4 (slightly older and apparently more experienced) girls at the next table snapped their heads around to see the new doll on the floor and (I swear they) shook their heads with disapproval at new mommy Hannah as they turned back to wipe the mouths of their dolls by their side. Nothing like judgey moms at 5 years old.

Talk about marketing genius. This place. This three story place with a doll hair salon, doll hospital, doll pet store, doll tea restaurant is what little girls LIVE for. Just as many women are proud and envied as they walk down the streets with a Tiffany blue bag or a Chanel black shopping bag, these girls leave the store toting their new Red American Girl shopping bag and every other girl on the street turns and looks. And tugs on their mom's sleeve and points with "want". And when you walk into that store, you are surrounded by "wanting more" and impossible choices. In the span of 3 minutes I heard at least 5 moms say, "choose ONE." It brought me back to my Cabbage Patch doll days. I always wanted another doll. Another outfit. We brought them everywhere, compared clothes with other Cabbage Patch dolls we saw on the street. My doll brought me acceptance in my (little girl) circles.

Who knows how infatuated Hannah will become with this doll. I do know she just arrived home from a big dinner in the city (that I missed to get home for Luke) and as I carried her up the stairs half asleep in her new pajamas she was able to wake up enough to give me strict instructions to put Holly in her new pajamas and make sure she was tucked into her bed immediately. And as I tugged Holly's clothes off (underwear and all) and pulled her new pajamas on... I realized I could get into this (at 37). I would have been sucked in (at 4). My mom would have been in trouble. I'm in trouble as a mom (and grandma).

P.S... we had an amazing time. Pure Joy was all I saw on Hannah's face. And I made sure to live in the moment with her. And to cherish it. So thank you R for setting it up. And B for footing the (large) bill. And Hannah, for being a girl so that I had the excuse to see what all the fuss is about.... and indulging in some damn delicious banana bread. Pictures to come...

Connected

2009-11-23T15:47:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here on the couch, warm laptop in my lap, fingers on the keys, pondering the topic for the post I'm committed to writing tonight. For the past hour I've been reading some of my favorite blogs, commenting on them, answering emails and giggling at some tweets I came across. Then Hannah (who has been sitting next to me watching her pre-bedtime-routine television) turned to me and said, "mommy, why can't we remove our nose from our face?". I looked at her with I'm sure an exasperated look and asked her if she was serious. "Yes, mommy."

"Do you really think it should be possible to remove your nose Hannah?"

"Well, no, but I'm just wondering what makes it so that we can't?"

I went on to answer her best I could (something about muscles and cartilage and skin connecting the nose to the rest of the face) but I know I had a snappy tone about me.

She looked satisfied with the answer, but not with me.

"What are you doing mommy?" she went on to ask as she crawled halfway on top of me, with her face directly in front of the computer screen.

"Writing my stories sweetie, the ones I write all the time."

"But who was that girl that was on your computer before?" she asked. She was referring to the latest post from one of my new favorite blogs A Design so Vast which has a picture of her daughter at the start of it. I hadn't realized Hannah was looking over my shoulder at it.

"Oh, I was reading a story that a friend had written."

This lead to questions regarding this friend, her daughter, where they live, why she hasn't met them if they're my friend, etc. It's hard enough explaining this "world" to my husband let alone my four year old daughter.

"Can you read it to me?"

"No, I don't think you'd really enjoy it. It's a big person story."

"I like all stories mommy, PLEASE read it to me? Or one of the ones you've written? Can you read one of those to me?"

Funny how one of the only people in my real life who WANTS to be a part of this world is too young to understand it.

It made me think about how "connected" I am all the time through my blog, other blogs, Twitter, Facebook, Email, etc. But how disconnected it often makes me from what is right in front of me. I wondered how long Hannah had been looking at my computer, imagining who the people were on the screen, trying to sound out some words to make sense of it all. She didn't ask me for my attention but I realized, she probably wanted it.

And it's not just Hannah that this world disconnects me from. It's Luke when he's sprinting around in the basement with his cars and balls and every time my iPhone buzzes, I turn to look at it. It's Tim when he gets home from work and I'm so desperate for some down time where I can turn to this world and get lost for a short time. I see how my parents look at me when I am scrolling and tapping on my phone throughout a visit to their house to see what's "going on" on Facebook and Twitter. Someone emails me... I respond. I know they wonder what could possibly be so important. It's not like I "work" or anything and have important business to tend to. It's just how I feel "connected".

I haven't read a magazine in months. I don't pick up the phone very often to chat with friends (except a key few who I'd be lost without hearing their voices). I don't watch any TV. I'd rather connect here. So much effort goes into the "reconnection" after not having spoken to a friend in a long time. But here, it's easy. It's safe. It's not confrontational. There's no BS. There's no one-upmanship. And if there is, I can skim over it.

I don't want to become disconnected though. I don't want the only warmth that Hannah feels as we lay next to each other on the couch, to be the warmth from my laptop. I've had the discussion often with friends that the way "kids" communicate these days is scary. There is so little face-to-face social interaction. Everything is through tweets and texts. Kids aren't learning how to "be" with each other. They have short attention spans. They don't know how to form complex thoughts because all that is required is 120 character tweets. They are behind closed doors and in front of dimly lit screens. What my friends and I have not discussed however, or maybe we've avoided it, is that it's not just kids. With the ease of connection so many of us have become strangely disconnected. Especially when those closest to us are so removed from this world.

My best friend, my husband, is not my friend on FB (he's no one's friend since he doesn't have an account), he does not follow me on Twitter (again, no account), he only reads my blog if I ask him to (and then only sometimes does he actually read it) and has absolutely no interest in the other blogs I read. It's a big part of my world that he's completely disconnected from. He understands it's my "thing" and doesn't feel the need to partake in it.

How often do we see parents out and about with their kids but totally not with their kids as they type away on their Blackberries? I watch kids searching for eye contact, attention and enthusiasm from their parents as they explore at the children's museum near my house only to find their full attention on the PDA in front of them. It's not what a day with the kids is supposed to be. And at the same time I see families out to dinner with their kids on their Gameboys. Disconnected. Quiet and well behaved, but not "there". I choose not to bring my kids out to dinner, which one could debate is just as disconnected, or more, but if I'm with them... I hope that they'll be "with" me. There's no right or wrong here... and you may find me in the not so distant future sitting at dinner with my two kids both on iTouches. If you do, please don't judge!

I keep telling myself I'm going to have "black" hours during the day where I do not pick up my iPhone. I do not check in on my computer. Where I'm just me. I need to do that. I need my kids to see that I can be 100% "there". I hate that I feel the need to always be connected. And I wonder if Hannah only asked me about the removal of noses to get me to pay attention to her and "be" with her. Because really, she couldn't have been serious about that question, could she?

Superficial Saturday

2009-11-21T17:30:00.000-08:00

It's here again. Superficial Saturday (well now it's Sunday but pretend I actually finished this last night). And I'm thrilled because I'm tired and cranky and need to let off a little steam. What better way than to talk about fluffy nonsense? This will be a short one (thank god after yesterday's overdone, overwritten, run on, rambling post! But hey, I was lost in the moment!).

I don't need to use many words to get across what would make me (superficially) happy today. I'll just show you this.

I'm having 25 people over to my house this afternoon. Yes, you read that correctly. Twenty-five. That would be fourteen kids and eleven adults. Where they are all going to go is beyond me. But, you see, that, that house, and that YARD, would help.

And then of course, it brings me back to last week's request which I'm still waiting anxiously for:

Because if you know me, you know I won't be cleaning a house that size.

And for the party. I'd like this:

Because I'm not really in the mood to entertain. Because as you recall, I've been sick. For 3 weeks. And I'm not quite feeling my normal "entertainer" self.

I might actually go out and try to find a pair of these:

These would help me not hear the chaos that inevitably 13 kids will create in my too small for 13 kids house.

I'm also really hoping none of my guests come wearing one of these:

Christmas sweater. They'll get a serious eye roll from me if they do. The bow tie is a little over the top too... it's a barbeque for godsakes... t-shirts will do. And if someone does feel the need to wear a Christmas sweater before Thanksgiving, I really hope it won't be this tight. Form fitted Christmas sweater with bow tie is a Really. Bad. Look. in my fashion book.

So wish me luck. Think of me this afternoon. And know that I'll be trying out my list of the best ways to say "Goodbye!" when I'm ready for everyone to leave.

Picture This

2009-11-20T15:41:00.000-08:00

Bedtime routine at our house is not for the weak. Until recently the normal routine consisted of 6 books (and we're talking substantial Dr. Seuss length books) and 2 stories. When this routine was conceived, the "stories" were the usual suspects: we rotated between Three Little Pigs, Goldilocks and the 3 bears, Hanzel and Gretel, and Little Red Riding Hood. But then, not surprisingly, after at least a year of hearing them repeated nightly, Hannah tired of them.

"Make up a new story, a really new story, from your head.", she'd request.

It was a challenge. It is a challenge. For a while, Hannah wanted to be a super hero in all of the stories. We named her "Rescue Hannah" and each story was about her rescuing a different person. It held for months. But she remembered THEM ALL and any sort of repetition she blew the whistle on. And then she (and we) got bored of all Rescue Hannah stories. Done. No more. My brain started to hurt. I started DREADING bed time for fear that I wouldn't think of an entertaining enough story, a long enough story, a new enough story.

We started giving Hannah a choice, books or stories, confident that she'd choose books, the bookworm that she is. Surprisingly, without hesitation, she chose stories. Every night. So books at night have gone by the wayside. And oh my god, the stories will be the death of me.

Last week I told her a story about a pair of sneakers who were sad because they wished they were high heels since it seems high heels get to have all the fun. High heels get to go to fun parties, dance, have clean, buffed feet inside them. Sneakers get stinky feet, get run through mud, get pounded on the cement, get dirty. So they raised riot in the closet until they convinced the high heels to step aside so the sneakers got a chance to go out for a fancy night on the town. But after the sneakers got their day in the spotlight, they realized that they missed the mud. Missed the beautiful days at the park and disliked the other high heel shoes they met at the parties. So, they decided to be happy with the life they had.

Impressed? Feel free to use it in your next story telling with your child. Could you do this EVERY NIGHT? You know you don't envy me. I've also told stories about giraffes befriending worms and having a hard time since they can't really see each other. Fish who want to see what it's like on land, tigers who want to explore the beach, and on and on.

This week, I decided enough was enough. I just couldn't do it anymore. I didn't want to dread this wonderful, peaceful, special time of day with Hannah each night. So I told her that I'd make up a story 3 nights a week but the other nights, I'd tell her a story about my childhood. Luckily, after a few minutes of pondering the idea, she gave me the green light.

I've had three nights now of telling stories about my childhood (finally the point of this post is approaching...) and it's been special for both of us. I've told her about my first swim meet when I was five, and how I loved to swim but I was incredibly slow and not only came in last place but by the time my fingertips touched the wall, everyone else was OUT of the pool and wrapped in a towel. I told her about the time when I was 6 and I was swimming at Sea World with my mom, and how we were talking to the strangely uncomfortable life guard who wouldn't make eye contact with us and then we realized it was because my mom's bathing suit was down around her waist and her "boobies" were showing. I told her about my 9 year old birthday party at Rollerland.

Unfortunately, what this new approach to story telling has NOT been is EASY. I am realizing that I sadly can't remember very many specific stories to tell her, at least of my youngest years. I am realizing that my memories are like snippets of stories, images of my past. And I'm also realizing that many of these snippets and images are only there because I have photographs of these times. And so I'm not even sure if the memories are in my head, or the images from the photographs are making me THINK I remember them. Thankfully, my parents took hundreds of pictures throughout my childhood, so even if I don't remember the specifics, the pictures bring back parts of the memories. It makes me wonder how much I'd recall without these prompts.

The strongest memories I have from my childhood are the things that happened routinely. Things that became tradition. Today certain smells and sounds evoke very strong emotions as I recall how they were a part of my childhood. When I hear opera, I am brought back to wonderfully relaxing, quiet Sundays in my home where my dad played his favorite operas on the record player while golf was on the TV in the background. I am unable to listen to opera without imagining my dad asleep on the couch, and my mom reading or knitting while I colored on the floor and my brother built a model airplane.

We used to cook Fondu growing up for special occasions. Birthdays, New Years, random Saturdays when I didn't have a babysitter put me to bed. We'd sit around the table cooking our raw meat and dipping it in the delicious sauces my mom had prepared. My dad would make virgin Pina Colatas. I still think of these nights when I have a (not-virgin) Pina Colada on the beach.

I also have unbelievable crisp memories of our family summer camping trips. A week in Cape Cod, 4 of us in a pop-up camper that we pulled for six hours behind the family Volvo. We'd arrive at our camping site, crank up our "home" for the week, pull out the beds and settle in. We rode our bikes to the bathroom and showers. We cooked over a small grill amongst the pine needles and sap (that smell, I love that smell) most mornings and some nights. We washed the dishes from a small tank of water that we had to savor for fear it would run out and force my dad down to the showers on his bike to fill it up again. We biked to the beach. We played ping pong with other random campers at the "lodge". We roasted marshmallows. We lay by a dim lantern at night and read until our eyes closed for the night. It was here that I learned to love the hammock. It was where I learned to take an efficient 2 minute shower because my quarter would only give me that much time. It was where I learned to love "roughing it". We could have afforded more I'm sure, but it was the peacefulness, the quiet, the close (very very close) family time that my parent's sought. And I remember it all. I don't have pictures of it all. I just remember it... because it was special. Because it was tradition.

These memories are the ones that are imprinted hard and fast in my brain. And I find myself today, worried. Worried that I have this responsibility on my shoulders to create and cement memories for Hannah and Luke. Am I taking the right pictures of the right occasions so that even if the memory isn't completely remembered at least the snippet will be there? What traditions do I want to start (should I already have started them?) so that i'll be sure years from now, after we've repeated them year after year, they'll fondly pull them forward as happy family memories? Should I take a picture of Hannah and Tim outside Dunkin Donuts so that in 20 years we can say, "see, you went there EVERY Saturday morning together!". Or do I just rely on the fact that the special times, they'll stick. That the ones that matter, they'll always be ingrained in their heads.

I just don't want her lying in her child's bed, 30 or so years from now, struggling to come up with stories from her childhood that can accurately portray how happy those days were. Or maybe she'll be lucky enough not to be forced to come up with these stories in the first place.

Bye Bye!

2009-11-19T09:12:00.000-08:00

Last week Luke got his flu shot at the doctor's office. He DETESTS the doctor and has ever since he was only weeks old. I'm sure he was scarred by his visits to the emergency room (two tumbles down the stairs at 8 and 10 months old) and his two night stay at only 8 weeks (high fever). But now, he starts crying as soon as we pull into the doctor's parking lot. He cries the whole time we wait in the waiting room running to the door of the office shouting "Boe Pah!! Boe Pah!!" (that's "open" for those of you who don't speak Luke). He refuses to let go of me to be weighed, forcing the inevitable of my having to stand on the scale holding him and subtracting my weight to get to his (thanks Luke). He pleads with me with those ENORMOUS eyes to Get. Him. Out.

This visit was just a shot. No getting undressed. No prodding, probing, or pushing on him. Nothing stuck in his ears or throat or lights flashing in his eyes. Just a sleeve rolled up and a quick prick. He had giant tears rolling down his cheeks and gasping sobs coming out of his mouth as they wrapped his arms around me, rolled up his sleeve and stuck him. And before he could squeel or they could say, "That's It!" he turned to the nurse, still crying, and said, "Bye Bye!". It was the only way he knew to announce that the party was over and he was outta there.

He says, "Bye Bye" a lot when it's not always the "appropriate" choice of words. When I'm finished reading him a book, "Bye Bye!" he says as he waves to it and I shut it closed. When he doesn't want any more of what's sitting on his dinner plate, "Bye Bye!" he clearly speaks to his turkey telling it he's finished. When he's sleepy and eyeing his heated up bottle of milk, "Bye Bye" he says to anyone else in the room to let them know he's off to bed.

I wish I could just utter those simple words when I've had enough. When I want to leave a party that's drawn on too long. "Bye Bye" I'd like to shout. When I want MY guests of the party I'm hosting to gather their coats and be on their way, "Bye Bye" I'd like to announce. When the exterminator who is there to well, exterminate, is chatting too long about his fiance who is strangely losing all of her hair only weeks before their wedding, "Bye Bye!" I'd like to fit into the conversation to get him to LEAVE.

It makes me think of the upcoming holiday season and all of the dinners we'll be hosting. I'm thinking about the steps I will take to try to announce that it's time for my guests to leave (to my few readers who I actually will be "partying" with this holiday season... take note):

- Step 1: Subtle glance at my watch or less subtle pull up Tim's sleeve to look at HIS watch.

- Step 2: Complete clearing of all dishes from the table

- Step 3: Complete clearing of all linens from the table

- Step 4: Leave the table to wash the dishes in the kitchen

- Step 5: Snuff out the candles on the table (which most likely will leave the room quite dark)

- Step 6: Stretch and yawn and start talking about how awful it is that the kids get up so early

- Step 7: Whisper just loudly enough to Tim, "Are you getting stomach cramps? I think I am."

- Step 8: Ask everyone to excuse themselves to the living room where I will take over the longest couch by lying down on it and covering myself in a blanket

- Step 9: Sneak upstairs to put on my pajamas and come down brushing my teeth

- Step 10: Tell everyone how AWFUL our mouse problem is and how I'm always nervous after 10pm that I'll start seeing them crawling around.

- Step 11: Cry "MOUSE!"

- Step 12: Ask everyone if they are okay to drive or if they'll need a cab (we don't do cabs in my part but it might get the point across)

- Step 13: Start romantically rubbing Tim's arm and then back and then leg while winking at him. Maybe one long French kiss could be strategically placed in there too.

- Step 14: Tell everyone the story of when Luke wants something to be finished he shouts, "Bye Bye!" and say how great that would be to be able to say it at the end of a party to get everyone to leave.

What do you think? Would you get the point if you were at my dinner party? I love hosting dinners, really I do but when I want them to be over, I want them to be over... any tips?

Time Out

2009-11-18T07:09:00.000-08:00

Last week I was chatting with one of the other moms at Hannah's school. She was venting to me about how nervous she was to be leaving her kids with a babysitter that night. I asked her if it was her first time leaving them with this sitter and she said it was the first time she had left them with ANY sitter. I paused as I comprehended what that meant. And then I asked her, "Is this the FIRST time in 4 and a half years that you've gone out without your kids?".

"Yup. Except a few times when my mom is in town."

I couldn't believe it. I asked her why and she said she doesn't trust anyone with her kids. "I just don't want to leave my kids with a random sitter."

I told her that if I didn't go out with Tim we'd never speak. He gets home just as I'm closing Hannah's bedroom door having put her to sleep, and I'm breathing my sigh of relief that now it's MY time. All I want at that time is to have my dinner (if I haven't already) and my glass of wine and enjoy quiet. Tim walks in the door and there are some nights that I give him "the hand" not wanting to talk quite yet. He wonders why the TV isn't on. How I'm just sitting on the couch with the dark screen in front of me. I crave that quiet on most nights after "dealing" all day with noise. It's the weekend nights that bring us back together. Getting outside the house, sitting across from each other with no phones, no blackberries, no computer, no TV, no interruptions... just us. Without that... I don't think we'd be very good partners right now.

She said she and her husband never really talk. They have dinner as a family (family dinner? What's that?) so the conversation is limited (beyond who the kids played with at school that day and the new song they learned). She puts her daughter to sleep and usually falls asleep in her bed with her, and sleeps there All Night. Every night. There is no time that she and her husband connect. Ever.

I am not judging at all. This seems to work for them. I asked her if she's ok with the way things are and she told me "It is, what it is. It's not what it used to be but it's what it needs to be for now." I didn't get the sense she's miserable or that her marriage is falling apart. Her life is about her family. And that's it.

So over the past week I started asking around. I had assumed every couple gets out as Tim and I do - most weekends. We also go on vacation at least once a year for a few nights without the kids. I know we're lucky to have our parents nearby to help us with babysitting but even without them we've found a few sitters who our kids love and we trust. As it turns out, we're most definitely in the minority. It seems most parents go out very infrequently and going on vacation - definitely a rarity. And they wouldn't want it any other way. Going away without their kids in many cases, just seemed wrong to them. In my head a few nights away to do the things that are IMPOSSIBLE with the kids around (sleep, read, talk, do NOTHING) is totally necessary. I know we're LUCKY we can do this (and I am unbelievably grateful for my parents and inlaws for allowing it) but in my conversations I didn't get the feeling that even if my friends COULD do it, they would. I made the mistake of saying to one of my friends, "You guys NEED to get away! It would be so good for you! I'LL watch your kids so you can do it." She disagreed and said she doesn't need to get away. She'd miss her kids and it wouldn't be worth it.

So do they put their life as a couple on hold? Are they just waiting for the day when the kids are old enough to be on their own? For when they're off to college? Is this when they'll reconnect with one another? I wonder if things would still be the same for Tim and I if we put "us" on hold. I think I might be surprised at who we'd become if we let so much time pass. Or maybe they do a better job at staying connected without the alone time. Maybe I'm doing something wrong in that I can't seem to talk about anything important or meaningful unless the kids aren't around. Maybe I should be including the kids in our dinners out and vacations away. Maybe my logic is off in that I feel they're too young to appreciate these occasions.

I'd say I'd give it a shot... including the kids in Tim and My time. But I'm not willing to do that. I'm ok with the small bit of guilt I feel driving off every Saturday night to have 2 hours over dinner and a glass (or 2 or 3) of wine alone with Tim. I'll take the awkward glances I get from people when I tell them I'm off for a few nights of vacation and leaving the kids behind. It works for me. It keeps me chugging along. And as Tim always says, "When mommy is happy, Everyone is happy."

In the brochure

2009-11-17T11:09:00.000-08:00

I love my husband. I do. Really. If you've been reading my blog you recall we met 13 years ago and have been married for 8 and I have (pretty much) nothing but good things to say about him. But, I have to admit, there are some days, some moments when he does something and I do a double take. I probably cock my head to the side and squint at him as I think, "Now, THAT, what you did right there, was NOT in the brochure."

I've had a horrendous cough for 15 days now. All day, every day, through the night, misery. I went to the doctor 12 days ago and heard the dreaded words (at least to me), "virus". Why dreaded words? Because there's NOTHING to take. I don't do well with "waiting it out". I have things to do, places to go, small children to care for! Hacking up one of my lungs just does not fit into my busy schedule. And last night, I started to worry that things had taken a turn for the worse. Now my head was hurting, my chest was burning, I was aching... and hypochondriac me, was nervous. Tim and I were brushing our teeth next to one another and he said, "don't die on me, I need you around to help with the kids. And it just wouldn't be the same around here, if you weren't with us." This type of comment? NOT IN THE BROCHURE. You might be chuckling to yourself, hee, hee, hah, hah, but listen up... I DO NOT DO WELL with jokes about death. Especially MY death. And he knows that... and his brochure said, "will be sensitive about your fear of death 'till (actual) death do you part."

Tim is also a slow driver. He drives in the slow, or maybe on a crazy day, in the middle lane on the highway. And he drives the speed limit. Maybe he didn't read MY brochure very carefully, but I HATE to be late. And driving slow (at or below speed limit) doesn't work for me. I try to stare sternly at the speedometer in hopes that he'll get the picture that he's going too slow but it doesn't often work. So then I have to ask him why he's going so slow which upsets his manhood, and then he starts getting defensive and it's all downhill from there. I know, I know, I should be thrilled to have a cautious daddy driving his family around but I am of the belief that you can be cautious and a smidgen heavy footed at the same time.

He likes old fogey disco music. Huh? Didn't I marry someone within 6 months of my age? What's with the 70's disco jive music? He'd describe his taste as "classic" I'm sure, but it makes me want to throw myself out the car window. And I won't give you examples because I'm SURE I'm in the minority for hating this type of music (Celebration? Earth Wind and Fire? Anyone with me here?) but he didn't state upfront that HE loves it, in which case, it shouldn't be allowed. I listen to the Imagination Movers, Wow Wow Wubbzy, and on a good day Kidz Tunez so in my book, I'd say I should get choice of music in the car. Just my opinion.

He likes oversized Hawaiian shirts. Like the silky, short sleeved, collared shirts with palm trees on them. I'm sorry, but did I hadn't realized that I married Tony Soprano. He keeps asking me to buy him one for his birthday. I keep asking him WHERE he plans on wearing it. "I'd wear it to barbeque in" or "Go pick up coffees and bagels on a Sunday morning". It actually leaves me speechless. It must be a certain image he'd like to live up to... I wonder if he's aspiring to have the beer gut that most guys I see in these shirts have. (I'm envisioning my followers unfollowing me about at this point... I know I'm generalizing here... just bare with me!)

He doesn't shave Friday-Sunday. He views it as a break from the routine. I view it (and feel it) as scratchy, rough, and uncomfortable on my baby soft face. And yes, it is about me. When we first met, he shaved every day. I liked it that way. I knew if we had a date, he'd shave. I assumed it would carry over into our married years. Again, he did not state upfront that he'd stop shaving on the days when we are together, so isn't it fair of me to have assumed I'd be smooching a baby soft face forever and ever? Last I checked, THAT was in the brochure.

To be fair, I guess there are MAYBE one or two things that I do that were not clarified upfront, in writing. For instance, the striped thermal long johns with a drawstring, "my pirate pants" as he calls them, and long sleeve, high necked comfy top that i sleep in. He MAY be wondering what happened to the cute nighty I used to wear to bed each night. Yeah, that was just to get him on my hook. And the expected "shaved legs"? Ummm, just to reel him in.

I guess we should have read each other's "owners manuals" a little closer than we did.

Can't Wait

2009-11-15T11:17:00.000-08:00

I just got back from lunch with Hannah. Just the two of us. A special Hannah/Mommy outing that we both cherish so much in the craziness of life + Luke. We sat on two stools. They were the spinny ones that even I have a hard time not tumbling off of, so I spend most of the meal gripping the sides of hers. She loves going to this particular diner where we sit side by side, up high on the stools. She feels like a big shot. She LOOKS like a big shot. I just kept looking at her and smiling. What a big shot. And we actually talked. It used to be that I'd spend the duration of our meal pulling the knives away from her, piling jelly packets on top of each other, helping her get the food from the plate to her mouth, coloring a picture on the napkins for her, and telling her not to point at the guy with the napkin stuffed in his shirt or the person who she can't decide whether it's a boy or girl. Now we talk. How long did I wait for this? I think it was one of the things I mentioned as something "I can't wait for" from the day she was born. And now it's here. Real conversation with my daughter.

How many things have I said either out loud or to myself that "I can't wait for..."?

I can't wait until she can play on the playground alone

I can't wait until she can fall asleep on her own

I can't wait until we can go on a bike ride together

I can't wait until she eats what I'm cooking for myself

I can't wait until she can get dressed on her own

I can't wait until she can go get her own cup of milk

I can't wait until they can play together in the basement without me

I can't wait until she's tall enough to be able to set the table

And after waiting, they happen and then we so quickly move on, waiting for the next goal to be reached. Do we even stop to realize that that "wish" has come true, that it's now reality? I did today. I recognized that I finally am able to go out to a meal with Hannah and have a conversation without worrying that she'll throw the sugar packets onto the floor or that she'll get bored and need to be walked around the restaurant. Some of my other wishes from my list have also already happened. I only see it now as I'm writing them down. And I realize now that they have come and gone, and have become routine and I never smiled to myself when I realized they had finally happened. Sadly, I'm also realizing that if I'M not recognizing them myself, then I know I'm not congratulating Hannah on these little "wins" either. Bad Mommy.

I know I'm proud of her for getting dressed on her own. It's amazing to me... how recent it seems that I was pulling her little hands through the sleeves of her shirt fearing that I might break her arm off. How recent it also seems that she would refuse to wear anything that wasn't stretchy around the waist and wide at the ankle or anything without pink, rainbows or butterflies. And now, she comes downstairs dressed. And instead of just saying, "great job Hannah, thank you for doing that all alone!" I also add, "I'm not sure you want to wear the little flower print top with the big flower print pants. It's too many flowers." And I see the pride that she wore on her little face disappear so quickly with sadness that she didn't do it "right". And I kick myself because dammit, how long did I wait for her to just do it ALONE? Why do I have to knock her down with something she did "wrong"? I think it's because I've moved on to another I can't wait... "I can't wait until she gets dressed by herself in something I like." And then what? ... gets dressed quicker, gets dressed earlier, and on and on.

Always waiting for the next thing. Wishing the time to pass. Wishing for the next step in hopes that things will be easier for ME. I need to remind myself that it isn't just about me. It's about her (and Luke as he starts to do ANYTHING on his own). It's about making sure she's proud of these things I've waited so long to see her do. So that she'll have the confidence to do the next thing. So that she'll have the desire to do things better. I never want her to feel "what's the point... no one will notice anyway".

The main conversation I had with her today on those stools was about what SHE "can't wait for". She can't wait to be 5. She can't wait for Luke to play with her instead of taking everything from her. She can't wait for her first sleepover. She can't wait to share my shoes, wear my jewelry... be a mommy. Crazy that at 4 years old, she's also wishing away the time. The 4 year old stuff isn't good enough. She's not big enough for this, old enough for that. The fun always starts later. And you can't tell a 4 year old to "live in the moment" because to her, it only gets better. She doesn't know that although things get more exciting, they also get harder. And scarier. And more important.

And then one day I think we start wishing for the past. "Remember when... oh how I miss those days." It's scary. That we'll wish away all the years that we should be cherishing, and then all of a sudden, we'll want them back.

So I think I'm going to tell her when she gets up from her nap how much I loved our lunch. How I had looked forward to a lunch like that for so long and it was wonderful. I will also thank her for being such a big girl for sitting so nicely and politely and being so talkative. I know she won't remember it in a year (or even next month) but I will. And I won't feel sad down the road that I didn't tell her how much I loved it.

Now, I just can't wait for her to pay for lunch.

Addendum, Before publishing this post I made sure to thank Hannah for the lunch. I sat with her in my lap facing me and said just what I planned above to say. Her response? "Mommy... (and I held my breath with the anticipation that she'd tell me how meaningful the lunch was for her too) do you know I think I can feel my ears wiggling without me touching them?" Yep, it apparently was JUST as memorable for her too.

Superficial Saturday

2009-11-14T07:20:00.000-08:00

Superficial Saturday. One day a week. That's all. Just one day. I'm allowing myself this one day to do two things. 1) To be judgey. Because we're all a little judgey at times right? Even if it's just inside our heads, we do look at other people and giggle at something they are wearing or doing (right? It's not just me is it?) I used to be worse. But my mister-nice-guy husband has made me less obnoxious. So I keep comments to myself - for the most part. I'm sure there are some people out there laughing at me for something I'm wearing or rolling their eyes at the MESS inside my car or shaking their heads that I drive a big SUV even though it's terrible for the environment. And also on this Superficial Saturday, 2) I will allow myself to talk about the "things" I wish I had. Even if I don't need them. Even if I should feel lucky for all I DO have. There are still things that I see that I sit and stare at, keep pulling up on the computer, keep talking about that I'd like in my possession. Most of them are not practical. Most are too expensive. But if all was right in the world, they'd be mine.

1.I saw someone wearing this shirt. I would have taken a picture of him but he probably would have thought I was taking his picture because I thought he was so good looking. People who wear shirts like this need to find new friends who will tell them NOT to wear shirts like this.

2. Yesterday I saw a 60 year old woman wearing a short jeans skirt and Ugg boots. I wanted to tell her this was last years look (or two years ago?). I also wanted to tell her that even if it was the look of the moment, it was not the look of the moment for her age group. I am a huge believer that you can continue to be very stylish as you get older but you need to be stylish for your age. Not for your child's or grandchild's age.

3. Here are 6 very important words for you: Grandmas. Should. Not. Wear. Hair. Bows. I struggled to come up with an age that should be the cut off for hair bows. I first thought 13 but then wondered if some 14 year olds might still look cute? In any case, it's safe to say anyone of grandma age (sorry mom and Barbara) are too old. And by hair bow, I mean this:

I'm also not a big fan of little babies wearing enormous bows but I remember the feeling of desperately wishing Hannah had hair to attach a bow to so I'll let something like this pass:

4. Shopping cart seat covers for kids. Ok, I'm only putting this because moms with these make me feel like a terrible mother for NOT having one. I keep meaning to buy one but always forget and every time I put hannah or Luke in the seat without one I know I'm doing them a disservice and then I see "perfect mommy" strolling her child all protected and without grimy germs surrounding them and I feel annoyed. And judgey. Especially when Luke has his mouth on the handlebar as the other moms pass me by.

5. I am very judgey about people's choice of clothing and accessories at the gym. Are sunglasses necessary while working out inside? We live in Connecticut people, there are no paparazzi to be concerned about. And I WILL roll my eyes at you (and you'll see me doing this because I am NOT wearing sunglasses) if you're wearing a cowboy hat, loafers, jeans, work boots, or flip flops. And yes, I have seen all of these at my gym and I don't get it. And I wonder if they look at me in my workout clothes and think to themselves, "how passe of her to be wearing jogging shorts and a t-shirt. Boy what I could do with a fashion make-over for her!". But I don't think so.

6. I want these. They'd make me a better person. I think all my problems in the world would be solved with them. The holidays are approaching so feel free to send them my way. Or the money for them. Either way.

7. One of these are a priority for me:

But she doesn't need to be quite so sexy. Or French. Or even in this outfit. I just need her to clean my house. Daily. Because living in a nice, neat, tidy house is one of my dreams.

8. I could really use one of these in my world:

Note the flower petals floating on top of the water. Yeah, I need those too. And the rolled up towels and spritzer bottles... those are necessary. I think I'll have "made it" when I look outside my window and see that. Priorities people. This is one of them.

That's not all. My list definitely goes on but I need to save some for next Superficial Saturday. Stay tuned and if you have some things on your list... please share. So that I know I'm not alone in my aspirations and eye-rolling. I promise, I won't tell...

Thirteen years ago

2009-11-12T08:42:00.000-08:00

Thirteen years ago I was sitting at my desk at work very anxious for tonight. I was 24. I was single. Just couldn't find the "right" guy. I felt like time was running out (yeah right) and I so badly wanted to find that guy. Tonight I was going on a blind date. It was my third blind date ever but the one I was most hopeful for. I had met this guy's brother at my brother's wedding and I thought, "how different could brothers be?". The brother was funny, nice, cute, and most importantly, normal. My other blind dates hadn't been so normal. One of them talked about his house in the Hamptons for most of the date and just couldn't understand WHY I didn't have one or why I wasn't interested in getting one. He also told me everything I was interested in or liked was trite. I left the date totally insulted and feeling, well, trite. My other blind date suggested going to a "champagne lounge" for drinks but told me when we got there that he despised champagne and wanted to get sparkling apple cider instead. That was fun. And I ended up paying for it which was less fun. Needless to say, I was very hopeful that this blind date would be different. Better.

I sat at my desk and planned out my outfit. I still actually have the outfit. I can't get rid of it (have I mentioned I'm a hoarder?) because it's one of those memorable items that will forever sit in my closet. That fuzzy light blue sweater from Ann Taylor. My date told me it was soft that night. I tried to come up with an idea for where we should go. We had agreed on just drinks (an easy out if things didn't go well). I imagined what we might talk about. I thought about what he might look like, sandy hair and blue eyes like his brother? Tall like his brother?

I rushed home from work, went for a manicure and got home to quickly change into my planned outfit. Black pants, fuzzy blue sweater, black boots. My roommate told me I looked pretty. I felt pretty. The buzzer rang to my NYC apartment and I pushed the intercom to let him know I'd be right down. (He later questioned why I didn't invite him up. Was I embarrassed? I tried to explain that no girl (in her right mind) lets a stranger into her apartment on a first date.) The seven floors down to the lobby took forever. Where would he be standing? Would there be other people in the lobby so I'd have to guess which was him? My heart pounded as the doors to the elevator opened. And there he was. Standing behind the locked doors looking in. He was doing the "cool guy" stance with one knee bent, foot up against the wall behind him. Hands in his pockets. Dark, dark hair, dark, dark eyes. Not tall (but not short). Nothing like his brother. I smiled to myself because I liked what I saw. I opened the doors and shook his hand (awkward).

"Where should we go?" he asked and I told him I was up for anything. We decided on a pub. Pete's Tavern, a cool downtown spot for drinks. We chatted the entire walk to the pub. Bumping shoulders here and there with easy conversation.

We arrived and the host asked us how many. "Just two of us" he said. And he added, "It's a special night for us, our anniversary, so if you could please give us a nice table that would be great." I laughed at his easy sense of humor. I'd later come to realize this was never an act. It would be what I would first fall in love with. We were seated at the window of the pub. A nice, quiet table amid a flurry of busy, drinking pub goers. We talked about our lives up 'till now. Our upbringing, our schools, our friends. We discovered each others basic interests and passions. Hours passed and we decided to get dinner as the beers were going down a little too easily. I remember laughing, a lot. I remember wondering if this guy was for real. He was so nice. He was that guy who inserts your name mid-sentence to emphasize that he's interested in you. I liked him. I liked him a lot.

He walked me back to my apartment and led me into the lobby. He kissed me. Just a nice not too long, not too short kiss and said he hoped we could get together again soon. Me too. I went upstairs and sat on my bed. Happy. Relieved. Hopeful.

I called him the next day to thank him for a wonderful night. I wondered if he'd be ok with that. I wasn't following the "rules" of waiting to call or waiting for HIM to call but I didn't care. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted last night to be real. I wanted another of last night.

Thirteen years. So many memories. Fantastic vacations, memorable dinners, quiet romance, hysterical laughter along with devastating sadness, confusing decisions, disagreement and some anger. Thirteen years I have loved him. He was that guy. He IS that guy. And I might know now that he isn't THAT normal but he's MY not-normal (who needs normal anyway?) guy, the perfect match for this not so normal, very tired, sometimes cranky, not-so-quick-to-give-it-up, but pretty cute (maybe?) girl.

Then (1996 - not sure why pic says 1994) and yes I'm wearing overalls

Now

Stop Dropped

2009-11-11T16:56:00.000-08:00

Stop. A simple word, with a lot of punch. Very few words have a sign, hand signal and color all dedicated to it. And it's a word that in most instances makes you do something you don't want to do. Because if you hear or see the word it means you're doing something that you need to discontinue and why would you be doing it in the first place unless you wanted to do it, right? (Of course there's always the exception such as, "You can stop taking your medication because your terrible disease is gone now". That would be a good thing.)

Hannah asked me the other day why I am always telling her to stop doing everything. "You're ALWAYS telling me to stop mommy! Always! You don't always have to tell me to stop!" It made me stop, and think. Do I? So for the past 48 hours I've been listening to myself, and (once again) she's right.

Stop picking up Luke

Stop chasing Luke

Stop taking all of Luke's toys

Stop kicking the seat

Stop whining

Stop crying

Stop teasing the dog

Stop asking me for ____

Stop right there!

Stop when you get to the curb

You Need To Stop

Stop It

And the list goes on. How terrible it must sound to always be told to stop. To never feel like what you're doing is allowed or right or appreciated. And I know she needs to learn that these things aren't allowed or aren't what's best for her but maybe I need to rethink my word choice.

I recall when I was 10 or so, at the bus stop with my brother. He's 2 years older than me and (as all big brothers do) knew JUST what to say and do to push my buttons and throw me right over the edge. Oh my god did he annoy me, tease me, push me... And I'd yell "STOP!" And he'd start singing, "In the Name Of Love, Before you break my heart!" And this would annoy me more (and embarrass me in front of my bus stop mates) and I'd scream again, "Stop!"..."in the name of Love!..." he'd continue to sing and dance around me and I'd search for other words to yell to get him to cut the shit. (are you picturing how unbelievably irritating this was???) "Knock it off!" "Cut it Out!" "Quit it!" were on my list but he'd keep pushing and pushing me to tears. And I remember my mom telling me to ignore him. If I ignored him, he'd stop because what fun is it to tease someone if they don't react, right? It's "Sibling 101" crap. It was impossible to do though at 10 years old (or any age below 20 really). But what I could have done was join him in his song. I could have sung right along with him and swung my hips to the words just as he was doing. Not only would that have stopped him from annoying me, it would have made for quite a bus stop party. If I could only do it all over again...

So I'm thinking now, I need to join Hannah in her fun. Instead of telling her to stop chasing Luke... I'll chase him with her and make sure it's safe. Instead of telling her to stop crying, I'll be sad with her and make her feel more understood. Instead of yelling Stop Right There! I'll run beside her so that when we get THERE, we're together. Instead of telling her to STOP kicking the seat, I'll suggest she bangs her hands on her lap and we'll make up a song. I know it won't always work, but maybe it will alleviate some of my angst and make her feel like I'm not always squelching her fun.

I will try to Drop Stop (for a few days at least).

I'm hoping for a promotion

2009-11-10T17:54:00.000-08:00

Note: If you have a weak stomach and can't handle stories about barfing or pooping, hold off on reading until tomorrow when hopefully, all of this will be behind us.

I earned my mommy stripes tonight. I know it's just part of being a mommy and I'm fine with that but, I think I might deserve a promotion after tonight.

I promised Hannah pancakes for dinner tonight. This morning for the first time Luke had frozen pancakes for breakfast. I didn't think Hannah would mind (she can't eat them because of her egg allergy) but she broke down telling me how unfair it was that he can eat them and she can't. "Mommy, you really shouldn't serve one child something the other can't eat. It makes the one who can't eat it feel very, very sad." were her exact words. (How old is she anyway, 25?) So I promised to make her pancakes from scratch. She scarfed down 3 huge pancakes "yum, yum yumming" the whole way down. She then grabbed a Kit Kat for dessert. Half way through the Kit Kat she started gagging and saying she was going to throw up. I ran with her into the bathroom and she threw herself in front of the toilet, heaving.

Luke thought there was some sort of party going on in the bathroom so he darted in behind us. Hannah's gagging noises interested him even more and he started laughing and imitating them. She threw up twice as I rubbed her back trying to figure out WHAT had made her sick. Not surprisingly, she didn't care much about the why's and just wanted to stop feeling so sick. She gets super paranoid about throwing up (uh, yeah, she got that from me) and refused to move her head even an inch. She was so afraid of throwing up again. So, I let her sit there. And sit there. And sit there. All the while (60 minute or so), Luke was running in and out of the bathroom. At one point he grabbed the plunger and started trying to smack Hannah on the head with it. Usually this would have set her off into a screaming fit but in her nervous, puking state she didn't say a word. Not one word as he swatted the blue rubber toilet apparatus at her head. I grabbed the plunger from him a few times but he kept grabbing it back and swatting her again with it. "Dammit, get your head out of the toilet" is I'm sure what he was thinking with each swing. Either that or, "What's down there anyway? Let ME see!".

I finally managed to wrangle the plunger out of his hands and after a few more attempts at reaching into the toilet and climbing on her back, he decided he wasn't interested in our party and went on his merry way. I heard him emptying all of the DVD's out of the cabinet and turning the TV on and off on and off... it was a free for all for him without mommy around.

I finally asked Hannah AGAIN if she wanted to get up and lie in the family room and she said she was still too nervous that she was going to get sick. "And I really have to poop too mommy".

"Ok, then get up and sit on the potty."

"No. I'm too nervous and oh, it's coming out mommy. It's out."

And it was. Out. And I asked her to stand up so that I could remove her pants and the poop and she wouldn't. She wouldn't move her head. She wanted me to pull her pants off of her while she kneeled in front of the toilet in case she puked again. So I did. Or I tried. But pulling her jeans off one leg at a time while she grasped the sides of the toilet made it a little difficult. And the poop was everywhere. Everywhere. All over both of her legs, her feet, her butt, the floor... me.

"I'm sorry mommy, what a mess I've made. I'm sorry."

And I consoled her and told her it was fine. I told her I didn't care.

"Oh but it smells so bad mommy. Yucky! But you know what mommy? I feel all better now! All better! I guess I just needed to poop! Let's go have a bath!"

And that was that. Happy Hannah back. She had a bath. She watched TV. She sang a song for daddy when he came home. I however can't get the grossed out look off my face. And Tim wouldn't let me explain to him what happened when he got home. "Why do I have to hear all about the poop? I'm just glad she's ok!" he said.

So, I'm sorry but, I'm sharing with you. Because I know you'll listen. So, thank you. And you can forward all recommendations for my promotion to my husband. Or did I just skip this part of the job description?

Bribery. It works.

2009-11-09T17:14:00.001-08:00

There is a serious amount of bribery that goes on in my house. Is it this way in everyone's house? I always swore I wouldn't be that mom to bribe her kids, that they'd be well behaved enough to do it on their own. Add that to the list of "things I swore I'd never do" that I now can't imagine NOT doing.

And I totally get why bribery works with them. I mean, it would totally work with me too! If I got a piece of chocolate every time I pooped on the potty I'd be eating extra Fiber 1 all day! Geez, maybe I'm onto something here... I should tell Tim that if he doesn't want to hear me complain about the daily goings-on in the Shaw household, he should woo me with a gold star at the end of each day that I don't whine and after 7 gold stars - VOILA! A new pair of boots!

In just one day I dished out close to 10 bribes. Mind you, I'm sick and getting Hannah to do what I want was even more necessary because I just couldn't deal with "normal appropriate" parenting. It all started at 5:53 this morning when she came into my room fully dressed, boots and all.

"Good morning mommy! Do you see how beautiful I look?" she asked.

I didn't want to upset her by telling her it was still pitch dark out and I couldn't see her face let alone her outfit so I went along and said, "Yes, Hannah, gorgeous. (which then screwed me in getting her to change her outfit when I saw after the sun rose that she was wearing brown pants with pink and purple polka dots and a black and white striped shirt with a huge hello kitty on the front. I pick my battles). Climb into bed Hannah, it's not even 6:00." I continued.

"No! I don't want to take my boots off mommy! I already have them on and I'm NOT taking them off!", she huffed.

Bribe 1: "If you take them off, you can cuddle with me (cuddling involves full body hugs which aren't often allowed at this hour) and I'll turn on the TV".

Into bed she leapt.

An hour later we were downstairs entering the first meal debate. She likes to eat her breakfast in front of the TV (she'd probably like to eat EVERY meal in front of the TV but "good mommy" tries to avoid the conversation for lunch and dinner). I'm trying to break her of this habit so I told her I wanted her to eat in the kitchen with Luke. "Come into the kitchen Hannah, your breakfast is ready."

"I want to eat in the family room!" I heard her shout from the other room.

"No, you need to come in here. We're eating in here today." (yeah, consistency is not one of my strengths).

"Wah, wah, wah, wah" couldn't quite make out the words but knew it was not looking good...

Bribe 2: "If you come in and eat breakfast with Luke, I'll give you CHOCOLATE MILK!".

TV was off within seconds.

She had an appointment at 9:30 this morning which makes for a very rushed Monday morning. When it was time to get moving, she had just started the project of bandaging up all of her hurt babies and animals. Think: wet paper towels wrapped around arms, legs, necks and heads. She had only tended to 2 out of 6 of her hurt patients and my patience was wearing thin... we HAD to go.

Bribe 3: If you get your jacket on NOW, I'll tell you a special story on the drive to your appointment. (Note: "special stories" are elaborate, made up stories involving princesses, animals, kids, whatever... they are reserved for bedtime and getting them at any other time of the day is very hard to come by). "A super duper long, giant sized story?" she asked. "YUP!"

Jacket on and zipped in no time.

She then had a bit of a meltdown (possibly from the 5:30 wake up? You think?) right before lunch over Luke trying to rip the bandage off of one of her maimed dolls and in order to snap her out of it before all hell broke loose...

Bribe 4 (a reverse bribe): If you don't stop screaming, I'm taking away your goodnight stories.

Kept screaming

No end in sight

Still screaming

Stories going, going GONE

Reverse bribes don't work.

I pulled out our paper mache project (yes, it's true, this mommy does paper mache!) and that calmed her down until her grandma arrived and I got a couple hours break from the bribing.

Until it was time for me to go to the grocery store which I planned on doing ALONE since grandma was still helping me.

"Mommy, I really want to come with you. Please mommy, don't go without me, Please?"

Huh? Hannah was choosing the grocery store over time with grandma? This could not be happening. This never happens.

Bribe #5: If you let me go alone I'll get you something special at the store.

"Maybe like a lollipop? A lollipop on a really long stick?"

"Sure, a lollipop Hannah."

Off with Grandma she skipped.

Then dinner time... I am one of those a-la-carte moms who gives choices for dinner. Her choices were Rotisserie chicken, hotdog or turkey.

"I don't want any of those things."

"Those are your choices, that's it."

"I don't like those choices."

"Tough."

Bribe #6 (upside down bribe since the bribe itself was Hannah's idea). "The only way I'll eat one of those things, is if I can have a Winnie the Pooh yogurt WITH my dinner."

Well alright then. Turkey was served.

Bedtime was approaching. The long bedtime routine was not sounding appealing, especially when the stories have been taken away and a fight is sure to ensue over the removal of the stories. And I was tired. And still sick. Email from daddy came through, "6:20 train", it said. I love the 6:20 train. It means he's home BEFORE bedtime! He can put her to bed! I started doing a little happy dance.

"Guess what Hannah, DADDY is going to put you to bed tonight!"

"I don't want daddy to put me to bed tonight. I want YOU!"

Hmmmmm.....

Bribe #7: If you let daddy put you to bed tonight, I'll let you have your stories back.

"A super duper giant size story?"

"Yup."

"Yeah!!! Daddy is putting me to bed tonight!"

My name is mommy. And I bribe my kids.

And. It. Works.

Without Words

2009-11-07T17:23:00.000-08:00

Words. There are not many times where I'm at a loss for them. I may sometimes use them too sarcastically, use them incorrectly (vocab not one of my strengths), keep them inside so as to avoid confrontation, or say them too quietly (my meep meep issue) but usually, I have something to say. You can tell from some of my run on, rambling posts that I sometimes have too much to say.

My good friend's dad died on Wednesday. Her dad. The one who she described as her rock while her mom suffered with mental illness at times in her life growing up. The one who I overheard her calling "daddy" on the phone only recently (I always think a daughter has a special relationship with her dad if at our age she calls him daddy). The one who she cared for during the past 5 months after being diagnosed with cancer. She drove two hours a day, many days a week to be with him. She became HIS rock. She stayed so positive. She ignored the nay-sayers that said he wouldn't beat this. The news of his death left ME with a loss of words.

I'm not good with death. Is anyone? Does everyone have the same deep fear of it that I have? I'm not sure because I never talk about it. I fear death on many levels. I fear dying myself. I fear it so much that I can bring myself to tears if I lay in bed at night thinking about it. The headaches that I had for months on end I was sure was a brain tumor that paralyzed me with fear. I google every symptom and end up with the worst prognosis. The worst part, I don't go to the doctor. I'm too scared. Ridiculous, I know but I guess, I just don't want to know. I also fear someone close to me dying. I fear the helpless feeling, the not having the right words, the wanting to "make all better" and not being able to, the feeling of "unfairness" and "why them?". I like when things run smoothly around me, death doesn't fit into this neat, unrealistic world that I like to imagine myself living in.

I had a good friend die a few years ago. It scarred me. She had a 10 month old baby. She was healthy one day and had throat cancer as a nonsmoker the next. She fought hard to live for her husband and baby and lost. I lay in bed wondering what went through her head those last weeks. I cry imagining what that must have been like for her, for her parents, for her husband. I cry imagining if that happened to me, to my husband, to my child.

Does everyone think about it this much?

I called my friend the morning after her dad died. I didn't plan what I wanted to say. I thought the words would just come. I pride myself on being a very empathetic, caring, loving friend. I'd know what to say. She didn't answer the phone and when the "beep" sounded on her voicemail, I froze. What words could I say? In most uncomfortable situations I turn to sarcasm or wittiness to lighten the mood. Not here. When someone is sad over a lost job or a deteriorating marriage, something along the lines of "it will be ok", "let's talk it out", or "everything happens for a reason" can ease the pain. Again, not here. The automated voice on her voicemail spoke before I did, "Your recording has stopped. If you'd like to delete press 1. Continue, press 2." I pressed 2 and said what I'm sure the first 10 voices she heard after her father's death said, "I'm so sorry (of course). I'm here if you need me (What could she possibly need me for? I can't bring her dad back). I hope you're doing ok (how on earth could she be doing ok?). I wish I was there to give you a hug (but I'm not)." I hung up. I felt useless.

I still haven't talked to my friend. I sit here with bronchitis having had to cancel my trip to her dad's wake and funeral. I received a tear filled, very short message from her asking me to call her back which I will do tomorrow. One more day to think of the right words.

Do I sound selfish? Selfish for feeling sorry for myself for not knowing what to say? I know it's not about me... I just know if it WAS me, I don't think I'd want to hear any words. I'd want quiet. I'd want a hug. And I'm not there to give it to her.

Eight is the new twenty-something

2009-11-05T17:10:00.000-08:00

Today I wanted to call in sick. It was one of those days that pre-kids, I definitely would have put my best scratchy-froggy voice on early in the morning and left my boss a voicemail saying, "I can barely swallow, I have 103 fever and just don't think it would be smart of me to come into the office today. I wouldn't want you to catch what I have, cough, cough." I would have put the phone down, rolled over, pulled the covers up to my nose and gone back.to.sleep. Oh, how I miss those days. Instead, at 1:00 this morning I couldn't stifle my coughs anymore and being the kind, sweet, wife I am, I took my coughing self downstairs to the family room and curled up on the cold couch with a small throw blanket and managed a couple hours of rest (oh woe is me). Until of course, the pitter patter of tiny Hannah feet, found their way downstairs to me at 6:12. "Mommy, daddy said you're sick. Do you have laryngitis like the Ferocious Beast in Maggie and the Ferocious Beast? You know, the 'Louder Louder' one when the beast can't talk and only can move his mouth but no words come out? You know, that one? I hope that's not what you have. I won't understand you and I don't know sign language, besides 'I love you' in sign language which is this (does the I love you signs) so you can't even just sign the words because I wouldn't know what you were saying anyway so I hope that's not what you have, do you think that's what you have?" I whispered to her that I didn't think I had laryngitis but I didn't feel well and didn't get much sleep so she needed to just sit quietly and watch TV while I rested. Luckily she couldn't have been happier to snuggle in with me on the couch at that dark hour and watch TV. What a treat.

A treat for her. Not so much for me because I couldn't call in sick. Because mommies can't. And now I still feel sick. Sicker actually. Can't. Stop. Coughing.

So, tonight will be a very short post in an effort to get myself into bed and asleep early (the cough medicine with codeine should help).

I just wanted to share what happened when I picked Hannah up from school tonight. Pictured here

is Hannah and her best friend (at least for the moment, her best friend). The two of them were walking arm in arm in the gym at school when I picked her up. Arm and arm as they often are, but tonight there was a little difference. They both had a large rubber ball stuffed inside their shirts. Like a big pregnant belly. Two four year olds walking around arm in arm, pregnant. And when I went over to them and said, "Hi guys, look at you! What are you doing here?" Hannah looked at me and said, "Oh hi mommy, we're pretending we're 8".

And so it goes.

Foot Fetish

2009-11-04T17:51:00.000-08:00

Dear Luke's feet:

Thank you. Thank you for the pure joy that you bring me every single day. So tiny, yet so much to love. Every single one of your ten little piggies, otherwise known as toes, are delicious. The way you make Luke laugh when I tickle you brings me happiness even on the most stressful of days. Thank you for allowing me to take you out of the warmth of Luke's socks every time I change his diaper and not smacking me in the face when I nibble on you just to hear his giggle.

Luke likes you too. He holds onto you when he lays in his crib. He claps you together as if you're his hands because it makes me laugh and I guess he likes my laugh as much as I love his. He watches you intently while he walks, causing him to run into walls, trees, curbs or anything else that may get in front of you. He gets a kick out of you as you crunch on the leaves beneath you. He likes to put you in every pair of shoes he sees, and clomp you around on the hard floors. Now that you are helping him run, he's even more fascinated by the way you move, so please be careful as you carry him faster and faster through the hallways of my house, the trails of the park and the sidewalks of the neighborhood.

I know you will grow and it will become harder for me to grab you for a tickle or a kiss. You may not continue to have the sweet baby smell that I cherish (I won't hold it against you if you even become a little stinky). You will move beyond walking and running and will busy yourselves with jumping, dancing, and kicking. You'll spend more time without shoes and lose your baby softness as you develop callouses. You may start stomping with Luke's frustrations or marching with his contempt. So, I will cherish the innocent, sweet time I have with you today, tomorrow and for as long as you'll let me. But always know, no matter how tired, sore, or worn you feel, mommy will always be here for a loving rub.

My sweet baby's feet. You are the object of my affection.

This post has been inspired by one of my favorite blog's, Mama's Losin It weekly Writer's Workshop. I needed a little inspiration and thought writing a love letter to the object of my affection was a great idea! It was choice #5.

One with nature

2009-11-03T17:16:00.000-08:00

If I wanted to live in a tent, I'd go camping. Or maybe I should say, if I wanted to feel like I was camping, I'd live in a tent. Whatever. The point is, my house has not been feeling very homey lately, at least not for me. Maybe if you asked the birds, bees, mice, raccoon, spiders and fuzzy caterpillars what their opinion of my house is, they'd all raise their hands (for those WITH hands) unanimously that it's the perfect place to take up residence.

It all started with the mouse. Almost two months ago he/they arrived and only a couple of weeks ago did I feel confident they had packed their bags and left. And as they left they must have stopped for a smoke with some bees and let them know that we had a hell of a crib and that they should move in for a while. Hundreds of bees swarmed the outside of my house and in an attempt to kill off the queen and her worker slaves, we managed to freak them out so much that they escaped INSIDE my house through ceiling fans and other fixtures. That's right, I had bees IN my house. Luckily in only one room (save for a few strays that made it into the hallways), but inside nonetheless. The good news was that they were high on bee poison and pretty much sat and watched as a shoe/newspaper/wooden toy slammed them out of their misery. As of last week... bees gone (much to Luke's dismay since he had just gotten the hang of saying bzzzzz, every time we saw yet another bee).

Last week I came downstairs at the ass-crack-of-dawn to let Bella outside for her routine pee and when I opened the door she took one step out and quickly u-turned into my knees. I peaked out and saw a very sickly (but oh so cute in Hannah's eyes) raccoon hanging out on my front stoop. I wouldn't have known it was sickly besides the fact that it was a raccoon and it was daytime. Daytime+Raccoon=sick/possibly rabid raccoon. I called the animal control peeps and an hour later (after 60 straight minutes of trying to explain why we could not go out and pet the raccoon or bring it inside to help it feel better or give it a bowl of water or a snack, or ask it if it was lost), raccoon carted away on a hook.

Yesterday I noticed about half a dozen dead rather LARGE spiders in my FINISHED basement. I have a "thing" about spiders. If you know me at all, you know that to me there really is nothing worse than spiders (read here). After seeing just one spider I have the creepy crawly feeling that they are in my hair, down my shirt, on my arm... I very well could look like a crazy person swatting at myself for hours after a sighting. Give me a snake any day of the week but keep the spiders AWAY. I don't know where these spiders are coming from and I saw another one on my family room couch today, walking across the couch (getting a better view of the TV perhaps?). Surprisingly, I didn't panic and well, he's gone. I googled "spiders in the house" and it seems to be a common thing in country homes but I'm not pleased. Apparently the spiders didn't get the memo from the mice, bees and raccoon that we really are not cooperative hosts to uninvited guests.

And then TODAY I saw one of those fuzzy black and brown caterpillars (I think they're called Wooly Bears although they are neither really wooly nor bears) in my basement. You know, the ones that you used to collect in a paper cup when you were little and you'd bring them into the house to show your mom and they'd be crawling up your arm? What do you mean you didn't do that? It could NOT have been just me. It wasn't so cute today. Not when Luke could have seen it first as he was doing his little art project with glue and puff balls... Mr. caterpillar could have been glued to a yellow piece of construction paper three seconds later. Luckily I knew I hadn't purchased any puff balls in the black/brown striped variety and picked him up with a sock and gently placed him in his proper environment OUTSIDE. I can't say for sure but I think he thanked me from saving him from Elmer.

And the birds! The first time the sweet robins decided to give their babies a home on our flood lights, we thought it was so sweet. We stood and watched the miracle of birds building a nest and heard the beautiful chirping as the babies were born. Five years and five nests later... FIND A NEW HOME! It's messy looking and unbelievably noisy! Chirpity, chirpity, chirpity chirp chirp chirp. (Do I sound bitter)? Maybe if they were the only creatures taking over my house, I wouldn't mind so much but dammit... I want my house back! I want to sleep in peace! I don't want to worry about what is coming next. Care to wager a guess? Frogs? Locusts? Hippos? I'm tempted to just turn off the electricity and water in the house, charge up my flashlights, pull out my sleeping bag and start roasting some marshmallows.

Ghost stories anyone?

Early Riser

2009-11-02T18:02:00.000-08:00

I used to get up at 4:55am EVERY DAY. To go to the gym. Yes, every day (much to Tim's dismay) my alarm would go off five minutes BEFORE 5:00 when it was still very much pitch dark outside and I would put on my gym clothes, throw my work clothes into a bag (half the time forgetting an essential piece like my bra or 1 sock), buy a cup of coffee from the street cart just setting up for the day, jump into a taxi headed for Grand Central Station, take the very first train for Ct (5:37) and arrive at the gym just before 7. I would then work out for an hour, shower, and be sitting in my office ready for the day by 9. So by 9, when everyone else was still rubbing their eyes, drinking their coffee, WAKING UP, I had already been awake for FOUR hours. I'm pretty sure I was unbearable to be around at that point. I mean, I was ready for LUNCH when everyone else was nibbling on their pastries. I did this for years. Even before my job where I had to commute to Ct, I'd get up at 5 to be first into the gym by 5:30. I was crazy. C-ER-AZY!

And today, I complained about how this hour time difference is killing me. I complained that Hannah was in my room ready for the day at 5:00 yesterday since in her body it was wake up time 6:00. I complain every day about how tired I am. How on earth did I do it? Why is it so much harder to get up, make coffee, stay in my pajamas and play with, entertain, mediate, cook for, console 2 kids than it was to run on a treadmill for an hour? Oh right, it's because the treadmill stopped. I was able to get off. It was a choice. This treadmill I'm on now, doesn't stop. And if I stop, I get thrown right off onto the floor, into a big messy heap.

I didn't cherish my sleep pre-kids. I was one of those despicable people who got up by 8 or so on the weekends to make the most of my days (gag). I loved my long days that started with a workout and ended with a bottle of wine (that sounds a little like I drank the bottle alone, which I didn't - not that there's anything wrong with that.). When I woke up, I was UP. I didn't curl back into the covers and try to settle back into sleep. Tim would try to keep me but I'd be bounding up before he trapped me in. I lived in NYC - sleep was a waste with all that excitement steps outside my door. There was brunch to be eaten, shopping to be done, street fairs to attack. And today, what I wouldn't do for a day to just stay in bed. All. Day. And what I wouldn't do for a daughter who was NOT like her mom and liked to stay in bed, curl back into the covers and go back. to. sleep.

This morning at 6:01 she came running into our room shouting, "Do you notice anything different about me mommy?". Trying to pry my eyes open and see in the dark at the same time I said, "uummmm, you changed your pajamas?" My first guess was that she peed in her pajamas and needed to change them but then I realized that that would have included more crying and fussing than was standing before me. "No, mommy, I'm DRESSED! And here..." she stated as she shoved a folded piece of paper into my hands. "It's a card for you with a note inside." I looked at the multicolored (as far as I could tell in the dim light from my clock), beautifully designed, piece of paper folded in half and I opened it up to read, "I love Mommy". "And Here..." she said again as she pushed another piece of paper under my nose. Another "card" with an H and an L on the front. "Luke and I really love you." she said with a smile.

"What time did you get up???" I managed as I pushed myself upright.

"I don't know, something with a 5 at the beginning, so I got dressed, went potty, made these two cards and read a few books to Ellie and THEN I saw it said 6:00 so I knew it was ok to come see you."

And now, as I lay here, struggling to keep my eyes open at 9:28 (feels like 10:28) I realize that when you're wired to be a "morning person", you just are. No clock, time change, time zone, late night can stop you. So I'm going to stop complaining and use it to my advantage. No, I'm not going to start working out again. I'm going to have Hannah start making my Chanukah cards. Nothing wrong with free labor.

Reminder to myself

2009-11-01T17:41:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I have to remember the reason that I started this blog in the first place. To have a place to jot down the things that make me laugh, cry, light up, ache, and melt each day with my family. To remember. So I will never forget, because sheesh, these kids are growing up fast. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am not a "writer". I ramble. I have poor grammar. I make up words. I sometimes try too hard to be funny. I am not going to be "impressing" anyone with my writing, so I just need to write and not think so much. Sometimes I have to forget that other people read this blog. It shouldn't matter. I am not looking for praise or critiques. I know my posts are usually too long. I know I "could've, should've..." but that's not why I'm here. I'm here so I don't forget. I'm here because I love going back and reading what happened last month/last week/yesterday. I need to remember that. Because when I start thinking about impressing anyone or stressing about being funny or having engaging, fascinating, stimulating, creative stuff to write about, or hoping to get more than 5 comments ... I come up blank. Because not every day something funny happens. Because not every day I am in the mood to share what made me cry. Because some days, I just feel like writing about the silly thing Hannah or Luke did so that I don't forget.

What an added bonus it's been to have met so many wonderful blogger peers that I can call my "friends". I didn't realize it was something I'd want to come from this. And it's a bit of an addiction and obsession for me. I'd like to continue to make friends here. I seek out new blogs constantly, reach out every day and what a thrill to have you guys reach back to me. I want you to keep coming back. I want you to continue to laugh with me and keep your advice coming. I don't want to disappoint. I don't want to bore. Which makes this all so complicated. I go back day after day to many different blogs, those that are hysterical, beautifully honest, amazingly written, totally relatable, etc. I'd like my blog to be a mush of all of these things. Hopefully the inconsistency won't turn anyone away (as a brand marketing person I know better than anyone that inconsistency could be the death of me). But hopefully it will be that inconsistency that will keep you interested. Because I love that you visit. And I love even more when you comment (really, it's weird what a boost it gives me!). So stick with me, k?

And with that, here's the I really don't want to forget this happened moment(s) of the weekend:

- Hannah had a soccer game on Saturday. It was also "picture day" (and sadly, I think Hannah enjoyed the picture part more than the soccer part) and it happened to be a very gusty day. There were tables of picture forms on the tables and at one point a big gust of wind blew a dozen or so papers up into the air and over the field toward the woods. One mom started chasing the papers into the woods and my normally careful-with-his-words husband shouted, "Oh NO! Alexis's mommy is blowing away into the woods!" Unbeknownst to Tim, Alexis was standing beside him when he shouted that her mom was being carried away with the wind and started hysterically crying "nooooo" and running after her mom. I think she was still crying 20 minutes later in her mom's arms. Classic.

- As Hannah started toward her first Halloween decorated door yesterday she turned to me and said, "mommy, why do we say, 'Trick or Treat'? Why can't I just say, "Can I have some candy now?". It was one of those, I-don't-have-an-answer-to-that-right-now moments.

- Luke said "Boo" to every pumpkin we saw trick-or-treating. And he said EEh, EEh, Oooh, Ooh, Ah, Ah to every animal costume whether it was a monkey, bear, chicken or elephant.

- Hannah learned every word to Katy Perry's "Opposites Song" as she calls it. It will make it's debut on YouTube soon.

Big Hurt

2009-10-29T17:59:00.000-07:00

Tonight I hurt. I hurt because my little girl is hurting and even if it is just little 4 year old hurt, I can see in her little eyes that it's big hurt to her. Why does the hurt start so early? Why can't we protect our little ones until they are big enough to handle the hurt? She was so sad. So sad and used such "real" words to explain her sadness. "I don't think she likes me anymore mommy. I feel like she's done with me and I feel like she thinks I'm her OLD friend and M is her NEW friend. I'm just the old news now mommy and I'm not ready to be the old news. I still love C." I choked back tears as she said all of this. I told her that tomorrow will be a new day and she'll be "in" again. I asked her if C said anything that made her feel like "old news" and she said, "she wouldn't hold my hand while we were dancing. She would only hold M's hand. She kept shaking my hand away. I told her she was making me sad and she said she just didn't want to hold my hand." And the tears were rolling down her cheeks as she relived it for me. And I held her. So close I held her. I wanted to tell her, I'M her friend, will always be her friend and all she needs is me. But I know that's not what she needs to hear. And I know that's not true.

All I want to do is run into school tomorrow and smoosh C's face into the floor. Grab her hair and tell her if she isn't nice to my daughter, she'll be sorry. But Hannah needs to handle this. Be a big girl and figure out how to make it work with these little girls. I told her I'd help her. I'd help her figure it all out. She looked so little lying in her bed. So little but so big. How'd she get so big? She rolled over and looked at me and said, "By morning mommy? By morning will you come up with something to make this all better?" "Mmm Hmmm" I quietly said as I pushed her wet-from-tears hair away from her eyes and pulled her piggy blanket up to her neck. And she rolled back over, thumb in her mouth, pulling her stuffed Ellie closer to her chest. Still so little.

So I'm sitting here. Trying to think of the right words. The words to bring her a wonderful day tomorrow. I want to choose the right words for her little ears. I've been taught to speak the truth, be realistic, don't expect too much. I was raised with those words in my head. But those are not the words I choose to speak. Those words are too big for little her. I won't tell her that girls are often mean, that it's a fact of life that feelings get hurt, that maybe these are not the right friends for her, that she needs to BE STRONG and walk away. I WILL tell her to keep smiling. Keep trying. Keep reminding C why she was her friend in the first place. I want her to know it's ok if C sees her sad. Because she is. I refuse to tell Hannah to let C think she's fine when she isn't. "Playing hard to get" doesn't make sense to a 4 year old.

I'm sitting here while my little girl sleeps, hopefully dreaming happy dreams and without an ounce of hurt. I'm sitting here still hurting. Still hurting because I know. I know that I don't have all the right answers. I will pretend to but really, all I have is experience. Experience as a girl having gone through some sad, tough, confusing years. I remember what it was like, maybe a little too well. But I choose to be the face of optimism. I choose to let her believe she can tackle all of it, that other kids would be lucky to have her as a friend (which they would). I choose to let her know I am here for whatever she needs me for. She's four. She is little. But this is a big deal to her. And it's big for me too. So for her, and for me, we will make the hurt go away.

Not so crafty

2009-10-28T18:25:00.000-07:00

I am afraid of 4 year olds. There. I've said it. And I'm not just talking about the four year old in the shape of my daughter. I'm talking about all of them. It's the only explanation that I have for the fear I'm feeling tonight as I prepare for the project I'm doing with Hannah's class tomorrow. All the "good" moms do a project with the class and I've always rolled my eyes when Hannah skips through the door holding her new foam/string/sparkly butterfly ("I learned the entire life cycle of a butterfly mommy!" blahdiblahdiblah) or a piece of paper with little colorful shapes taped to it (whoopdidoo - a TANGRAM!), or a decorated plastic jar with pretend bugs in it (that I still find scattered about my house and scare the crap out of me). I have cringed when she told me "Henry's mommy read us a book in class" or "Alexander's daddy is a fireman and he came in and told us how he can walk through fire". I just wasn't up to the challenge.

But this year, she actually asked me to come to her class to do "something". I asked her what she thinks I should do. Her response? "I don't know mommy, I'm sure we can find SOMETHING you are good at". Gee. Thanks. "Maybe you could sing a song to the class mommy, you're good at singing". She has low standards for singing apparently so I declined that offer. "Maybe you could teach a dance to the class?" I wondered if something along the lines of the Electric Slide was what she had in mind. Also a no go.

But I told myself that I had to find SOMETHING. As Halloween started approaching I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to do a craft with the class. My original idea was to have the class paint a pumpkin, no instructions, no rules, just paint. Then I realized I'd have to buy 20 pumpkins for the class and even worse, CARRY 20 pumpkins into the class. Our little red wagon wouldn't even do the trick there. I went on line and searched "Halloween kids crafts" and it was as if the clouds parted in the sky! Dozens upon dozens of crafts to choose from! People actually write blogs about these types of crafts! Who knew? (And the authors of those blogs probably similarly say, "people actually write blogs about their ridiculous lives as mommies!"). I chose the construction paper spider bracelet craft.

I even tested it out on Hannah to make sure she could do it without getting too frustrated. Success. But I'm still terrified. What if they're bored? What if they think it's lame? What if I notice some of them whispering to each other while I'm giving the instructions? I'll surely feel they're talking about me and my lame-ass spider project.

So, I'm bringing goodies too. If they're bored with the spider bracelet sugar should do the trick! I read on someone's blog (which I can't give credit too because for the life of me I can't remember whose blog it was) about these awesome halloween cupcakes. She did such an amazing job with them... and I thought, I. Can. Do. That! Mind you, I am NOT a crafty, Martha Stewart type. I always have this amazing vision in my head for what I want something to look like and when it's done. I usually have to confess that it was my 4 year old who did it. That vision never gets translated into a finished project I'm happy with. I can't draw (not even a stick figure looks right), I can't paint, I just can't go from brain to reality. (I can however put a damn good outfit together). So when I saw these cupcakes and thought, all I need to do is copy them, I thought I was in luck. I spent 2 hours on them today. Hunched over the counter, squeezing frosting out of tubes with my arthritic fingers in pain and now, I'm tempted to not post the pictures. But then I realized, people need to see that not EVERYONE posts the success stories. Not EVERYONE ends up with a perfect product. Some people suck at this type stuff and it's OK. And those of you who DO end up with a perfect product? Hold your comments... it's hard to admit I'm not perfect at EVERYTHING! So here they are.

There's a spider, a ghost and a mummy. Yes, a mummy. Those are 2 little yellow eyes poking out. Not sure what went wrong there... nothing like the adorable, perfectly wrapped mummy I copied to make it. I'm wondering if I'll have to tell the teachers that Hannah made them. Hannah at least knew what they were (except the mummy which she thought was "a mess of stars").

When I showed Tim he said they look sad. That went over well. I told him his mom even liked them (she's the "ubercreative" type) and he said, "you could fart and my mom would like it". That also went over well (and Barbara if you're reading this you can feel free to tell him he's mistaken).

I'm taking deep breaths tonight. Hoping the 4 year olds go home proudly wearing their new spider bracelets and with chocolate on their mouths. Hoping that the other moms will roll their eyes this time at me.

My Boy

2009-10-26T16:15:00.000-07:00

My boy. It's STILL crazy to say that. My boy. I have a boy. After 3.5 years of being swallowed and overwhelmed with GIRL, I have a boy. I cried quietly in the middle of the first night he was born because if I'm honest today, I don't think I was happy I had a boy. I was ecstatic I had another BABY (after all I went through) but I didn't think I'd know how to "do" boy. Would I "get" him? Would he "get" me? How would I talk Star Wars having never actually SEEN Star Wars? Would I have to memorize baseball, football and basketball stats so that he'd want to be with me? Would he let me hug him and smooch him? Would he cuddle? How soon would I be ditched for daddy?

He's now 18 months old and I'm still in shock that I have a son. For some reason it doesn't seem real to me. For one, I think he's someone else's son since there isn't one ounce of him that resembles me. I used to look at little cute blonde boys and note to myself that THAT child could never be mine. MY son would be brunette. MY son would have dark eyes and olive skin. Not. So. Fast. That blonde boy IS my son and I'm still waiting for those light eyes to become dark. I stare at him and search that face for something that's me. And I come up empty. And at first it was hard because it's fun to look at your child and see something of "you" in them and in those first days (maybe weeks) where I was having a hard time bonding... it was just hard. It's easier now, especially as I see more and more of Tim in him and even more importantly, I have bonded. I'm sold on him. I'm whipped.

I realize in the 75 posts that I've written here that very few words have been dedicated to this boy. So much of my world is consumed with the little brunette, dark eyed whirlwind of a child known as Hannah who makes me laugh and cry each and every day. What can I say, she gives me better material. BUT, this boy, he warms my heart. He chokes me up. He is my breath of fresh air in my days that seem to pull me under water. He is my son and he's growing up, and so, I'm dedicating this post to him.

Those eyes. They make EVERY single person who meets him comment on them. Most comments are somewhere along the lines of, "Why is he so scared?" to "He looks so surprised!", to "WOW, those are some huge eyes". I'm often left not knowing how to respond and wondering if they are complimenting his eyes or telling me that I should DO something to calm down my fearful, worried son. I do agree they are big, they are so big in fact, that when he was an infant his eyelids literally were not big enough to cover them, making him sleep with his eyes partially open. I'd walk over to him thinking he was awake but he was out cold. I love those eyes. Those huge, beautiful, bright, curious, quizzical, personable, warm, maybe scared looking eyes. It's his defining feature and I hope they always stand out the way they do today. As they say, "The Better to SEEEE You with, My Dear!".

His little voice. I could listen to that sweet voice all day. No, he's not TALKING per se but when he DOES, it will be like butter to the ears (no, that makes NO sense but it will do). "Mommy" has yet to escape his mouth and I am sure he's decided that because I ask him each and every day, all day to say it, he never will. And I'm now fine with that (not really). For some reason, Luke sings his "words" instead of saying them and with most words he has a dance to go along with it. (Opera in his future?). He says "open" as "Baa BAAAAA" (hands out and in). He says, "Downstairs" as "Daaah DAAAAAH" (hands up then down). He calls the dog (Bella) as "Beh Baaaah!" Spoon is "BOOOoooon". Water is "WaaaAAAAHH!"He is unable to say "Woof Woof" without doing little mini, dancing squats. But my most favorite word that comes out of his mouth is ball. "Baaaahoooowl". Music to my ears. All of it.

The determination. That boy KNOWS what he wants and will find a way to get it. I believe if his ball of choice was in an unreachable corner of a room, he would rearrange the furniture in the room to get to it. I have seen him push bins full of toys through three rooms in order to be in our company, and he's pushed a chair in front of a cabinet he wants to get in. And then he runs to get me to show off his work. He thrives on applause. If there is something in the fridge he wants he will repeat what he thinks that item is over and over without pause, until he gets it. Buh, buh buh, buh is not "yogurt" last I checked, but after showing him every item that begins with "B" in the fridge, I almost gave up until I exasperatedly showed him the yogurt, "This?" I asked and then I got an applause from the little guy.

Silly. So silly. On the one hand he'll spin around and around and around until he completely loses balance and falls on his face (while laughing) and on the other he'll sit in his high chair, complete dead pan face and drop his food, one by one, by one onto the floor without losing my eye contact. My finger in his face and strong NO, does not stop him and with each piece I pick up, the next is in my hair as I am bending down to pick the first up. All the while he's shaking his head no, knowing perfectly well that mommy doesn't approve. It isn't until I remove the tray of food that he breaks into the most ridiculous smile. A simple, "I'm done" would do my little friend.

He loves shoes. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Any shoe he finds he tries desperately to shove his foot into. Whether they are my shoes, Hannah's shoe, his own shoes, or a tupperware container that he believes is a shoe, his foot desperately tries to find cover in them. After he's in them, he LOVES clomping around in them. Up and down the hallways he goes, running into walls as he watches his feet move one in front of the other, giggling all the way.

There truly are no words to describe the adoration he has for his sister. "Ha Ahhh, Ha Ahhh" he shouts when he sees her. He's been dressed in hair-ties, necklaces, princess outfits, tiaras, and legwarmers. He's endured countless "Doctors" appointments leaving with Bandaids across his forehead, feet, knees and back. He's had EVERY (yes EVERY) toy taken from him and replaced with a smaller, older, less exciting toy. He's been tackled, squeezed, rolled, carried and smooshed by this 36 pound girl and has endured it ALL with a smile. Coming back for more, ASKING for more. He kisses her during her tantrums, hugs her when she cries, brings her her stuffed animal when she's sad and laughs harder than anyone else on earth when she does anything remotely silly. It melts me (and her too when she's in the mood). I live for the day when she appreciates it and hope to god he's still doing it when she does.

He's my son. He may not say much. But he's won my heart in a way that I never could have imagined. And I can say now, with no uncertainty, I'm so happy I have this boy.

change of plans

2009-10-25T17:44:00.000-07:00

I was planning on writing today all about the new phase that Hannah is in these days but as I logged on to work on it, I received an email from a friend of mine with a Halloween card which then turned into my evening activity. I believe Hannah will be in this new stage for quite some time, so you'll be sure to see it later this week. So, instead of my planned post, may I present to you the following:

Enjoy. And Happy Halloween.

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

Boo! I'm the most scary.

2009-10-22T07:04:00.001-07:00

There are firsts for everything. Some more life changing than others. Some pretty life altering firsts are: first A on your report card, first hickey, first time driving alone with the music blaring, windows down and singing at the top of your lungs, first day living on your own, first day of marriage, first diaper change and first writing contest. Ok, maybe first writing contest isn't such a big deal for some of you but for me, it's big. Because I never was a writer and you're not supposed to enter a contest if it's not something you do Well. And honestly, I probably wouldn't be doing this one if the topic for the contest wasn't one that I thought I'd KICK ASS in. But it is. Jill over at her amazing blog Scary Mommy is running a contest to see who along with her, is seriously a scary mommy (although I haven't quite figured out what makes her so scary, she's just hysterical, but I'll just go with it). I however, am scary. And I should win. And you'll see why below. And after you read it and totally 100% agree with me, head on over to her blog and vote for me so that I can win the coolest video camera and some of the blankets that Luke drags around with him all day every day because they are the best blankets ever invented and I need more of them. Got it? Good. Oh and to help the slower of you out there, I've highlighted in orange any derivation of "scary" that I write to help you follow along as to why and how I'm in fact scary. You're welcome.

Before I had kids, I did. not. like. kids. There really was nothing about them that I liked. Little babies were more like creatures in my book that I felt so awkward around. They couldn't make eye contact with me (which in my book is just plain rude), their limbs were always moving around uncontrollably (making me want to shout, "would you SIT STILL already?"), they made weird noises, they made offensive smells and worst of all, they cried every time I held them (which was not good for my reputation on the streets). So instead of being put in the situation where I'd be confronted with any of this, I usually just avoided the situation. I'd smile politely when introduced to "Baby Xeus" (I needed to ensure here that no one anywhere near me in my life would think I was referring to THEIR child - thus this name I've chosen) and comment on the adorability (yes that's a word) of the baby but slowly, carefully, back away before I was expected to "talk baby", touch the baby or worst of all, hold the baby. Toddlers, although less delicate, weren't much better in my book. I never understood what the hell they were trying to say and they talked far too much. I never had anything to say that I thought they'd find interesting and just felt insecure that everything I did or said around them they'd call my bluff on and they'd think, "this lady is so lame and has no idea how to talk to a 3 year old" (yes my insecurities ran deep). I was a scared "Pre-Mommy".

I did know that I wanted kids though. I knew they came after marriage (my mom always sang that little song about first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby and the baby carriage and I took all of those nursery rhymes to heart. I am actually still feeling quite sad about Humpty Dumpty and Little Jack Horner for their troubled lives). But I didn't know how I'd make it work with all of these fears, distastes and issues I had with infants and toddlers. I was scared. And January 2, 2005 was the LAST day that I felt this kind of fear. Because then January 3, 2005 happened. And Dr. D uttered the words, "It's a Girl". And that girl (who I tried on the delivery table to change her name to Olivia even though Tim and I had agreed for 9 months her name would be Hannah - see that's even scary) was placed in my arms and I did not feel an ounce of fear. I felt Mesadorovion (I like to make up words like this - it's a combination of mesmerized, adoration, love and passion). This was my girl. And I told myself that day that I would do everything in my power to make sure nothing would make her unhappy in her world (unrealistic much?). That she would only feel the good things. And not a day would go by that I wouldn't love and adore her. And this actually worked for a good long time. She was an amazing baby. Patient, sweet, cuddly, rarely sick, calm, careful, verbal and oh so chubby with folds within her folds so that in the summer when you flattened out her folds she had tan lines where her folds were (I know, that has nothing to do with being an amazing baby but the imagery is important here too). I loved that girl. I was (and still am) obsessed with that girl. Not only did I WANT to hold her but I never wanted anyone else to hold her. I didn't want anyone else to spend time with her without me around. I didn't want anyone else to enjoy a "first" with her if I couldn't enjoy it too. I would make the excuse that I had to nurse her to escape for 30 minutes alone with her. No one could get her dressed if I hadn't picked out her outfit. No one could tell me anything about her without my saying, "I already knew that". Watch out if I called whoever may have been caring for her while I was at work or out for a short time and they didn't answer their phone. I needed constant contact, constant supervision. People had to watch very carefully what they said about her because this mom would jump right to her defense. Her poop smells bad? "Not my girl!" She's pronouncing something wrong? "That's the way 18 month olds Say It!" She shouldn't be waking at 4:30 every morning at 20 months? " Oh, well, it's just the way she's wired." I shouldn't give into her every whim?"Try to stop me." No one could make any parenting suggestion because I. Knew. Best.

I was scary.

When Hannah hit 2 I decided I wanted to have another baby. I was pretty secure in the fact that babies were my thing now. And I was "broken". At least that's how I described it. I wasn't ovulating. Not getting my period. Couldn't get pregnant. I started all the fertility treatments. I took all the drugs that made me a moody, emotional, miserable and scary wife. I had a new obsession... getting pregnant. And I did 3 times and lost them. And I cried and cried for months on end. I did a round of IVF and I had to cancel it because the drugs didn't work. And I held onto Hannah every night feeling so happy and lucky to have her but so devastated that she wouldn't be able to share her world with a sibling and I wouldn't be able to share mine with another child. I made her feel like the end all be all in my world but at the same time wanted more and I'm pretty sure she could feel that. I told my fertility doctor he HAD to make it work. So we tried one last time. And a miracle happened. The doc told me not to get my hopes up but I did, and it worked. It worked so well actually that I had triplets inside of me for a time ("what the fuck am I going to do now" was what was going through my head for those 6 weeks) and then sadly 2 of them didn't make it. It was a conflict of emotions that I could never describe. Three more babies didn't seem feasible to me but losing them after all I went through, also devastating. But one did make it. And it truly was a miracle. But I was petrified. Every night I had to give myself a shot in my tush to increase the chances that the baby would survive (part of the joys of IVF) and with every stick of that (enormous) needle in my ass, I told myself it was worth it because I'd have my new baby. And I was scary obsessed with taking care of it inside me. This time around I read EVERYTHING (where with Hannah ignorance was bliss). I ate all the right things and none of the wrong ones. I did everything I "was supposed to do". And Luke was born on 4/23/08.

I read all of the sibling books, how to transition the new baby into a family of already 3. How to make the big sibling comfortable and loved while the new baby required so much. I spoiled Hannah silly when Luke arrived especially after she said to me the day Luke came home, "Who is going to love ME now?" which was like a dagger through my heart. I took Hannah to pedicures with me, took her out to ice cream, bought her new baby dolls to love along with me as I loved Luke next to her, I carried her on my right hip while Luke was on my left. I was her friend. Her best friend. But I wasn't doing such a good job as her MOM. I didn't set boundaries. I didn't set limits. I let her get away with way too much. And now, on many days, guess who is in charge? She is. And it's scary.

Only in the past 4 months or so have I really buckled down with her and have had to remind myself over and over and over that I am her mom first, her friend second. But it doesn't come naturally to me. She throws these tantrums. Indescribable tantrums. And I have always swept her from the floor, held her in my arms and rocked her until the tears dissolve on her cheeks and she can move on. My mom has shook her head with concern (and some disapproval I'm sure while I do this) but again, no one can tell ME how to parent. I then would cook her her favorite meal, buy her a new toy, paint her toenails and make it all better. Such an easy Bandaid. It's what she expects. She figured out my weaknesses at 4 years old. SHE'S scary (this would have been much easier actually if it was the "Scary Daughter" contest). But I'm calling her on it. Because little Luke looks on at these shenanigans and is soaking it up, letting it sink in and is going to Have At It when he gets the chance I'm sure. And I can't have two of these tantrumming children getting everything from their "Friend".

So mommy is Stepping Up. There's a new sheriff in town. And she's a new kind of scary. She speaks sternly. She puts kids on the naughty step. She takes away toys. She doesn't tell night night stories on a bad day. She says, "I'm not liking you right now" to her kids. She Loses It. She doesn't give choices for dinner (well sometimes she does). She might seem like the "norm" to many of you. but she is in fact scary to me and my kids. And I have a pit in my stomach most days as I set her loose on my kids.

Holy crap have I rambled. And now that I've reread this, I'm pretty sure I won't "win" because most of the other posts in this contest have gotten straight to the point of their scariness. But it's very much like me to take the long way... but I do have a point that (again for the slower folks) I'll explain. Being a mom is scary from even before day one that you're a mom. And scary lives through every day of being a mom. And I'm sure it will get even more scary (my mom can certainly attest to the fact that I may be at my scariest now!). But it's ok to be scared and scary because we would all have FAR too many kids if it was always not scary. And who needs all of those stinky, shaky, babbling, breakable little things running around?

Towel Girl

2009-10-20T09:04:00.000-07:00

A day of the stomach virus has knocked me to the ground and I'm having a hard time getting back up, but before you all think I never returned from my spa get-away, I thought I'd post a quick ditty about one small "adventure" I had at the spa.

First of all, let me just say that EVERY mom out there needs to make a weekend like that happen. Beg, Plead, Steal, Do Something to make it happen. For those who read my last post, you know I've been going through some tough days and these 2 days away have brought me a new perspective (along with your commiserating, empathetic comments that made me feel less like a sinking mom). When I left for the weekend, I never thought 2 days would be enough. I thought I'd leave the spa kicking and screaming and cry the whole way home. But I didn't. I did a lot of thinking. And I was ready to come home to the squeezing hugs, drippy noses, and hacking coughs that I received when I walked back in the door. I didn't expect the night of stomach upset upon my return (many may think it was just my way of extending my time in bed with 'round the clock help) but that's another story.

Back to my adventure. Ok, everyone think back to your wedding night. Think specifically about the moments RIGHT before you walked down the aisle. Many of you may have been in a "holding" room with your bridesmaids and family. Butterflies in your stomach. Stressed that your veil wasn't on straight, your train wasn't laid perfectly out behind you, wanting everyone to just be quiet so you could breathe and enjoy the moment. Some of you may have had tears in your eyes anticipating the moments, hours, years ahead of you. For most of us, I'm pretty sure it was a VERY special, sentimental, emotional time. Now imagine some person, wandering unknowingly into your "space" naked except for a spa robe. Yes, that would have been me. I got a little lost my first afternoon at the spa, not quite understanding the woman at the front desk's directions of how to get from my room to the spa (I recommended better room labeling as I left), so I took it upon myself to wander and around and find it. I never have been so great with directions but usually I have Tim with me who directs me from point A to point B. I did feel slightly underdressed wandering the hallways with all these dressed up, coursage/boutonniere wearing people whispering amongst themselves but I didn't think much of it. And dammit, I was running late for my facial so I got impatient and just started opening all of the doorways in front of me. Even the one labeled "conservatory" which happened to be the special place the bride waits before walking down the aisle. And there I was. Face to face with her. And what did I say? "Oh, uh, I'm sorry. Is this not the spa?". And I lingered for moments too long (while I was there I needed to check out the bridesmaids outfits and the bride's gown of course). I hated myself at that moment. I knew how much she hated me too. This was NOT what she had envisioned in her year of planning for her perfect moment. But this is what she'd remember of that special moment. I'm wondering if I now am labeled, "Towel Girl" or "Spa Girl" in her recollection of the night. Balloon Boy became famous the same day but she remembers me instead. Based on the look on her face when she saw me, I definitely hold some place in her heart. I remember the rabbi not remembering Tim was Jewish at my wedding and screwing up the entire sermon (another story not for today), Norwich Spa Bride remembers Towel Girl.

At least I enjoyed my facial.

Thanks for listening

2009-10-15T17:43:00.001-07:00

When I used to keep a diary growing up, and even in recent years, I always stopped writing during "bad" times. I guess I never wanted to admit, even if just to myself, that there was anything wrong. It was much easier to write about the happy, proud, excited times like when I had a crush on a boy who I thought liked me back, when I scored goals or placed well in a sport I was competing in or when I was achieving what I had set my mind to achieve. The times when I knew I was in a relationship going south, when I was worried about my grades, hating my job, or was having a hard time finding my "place" in life, my pen sat on my desk and months or even years would go by before I'd find the need or courage to write again. Maybe I thought if I didn't write about it, it wasn't a problem. My diary for many years was a confidant. Something I knew that wouldn't judge me. But for some reason, it seems I actually did view it as something I felt judged by. Maybe I didn't want to look back on those years and realized I had failed at anything.

When I started this blog I told myself that I'd write good and bad. Happy and sad. I'd write frivolous posts, deep meaningful posts, silly posts but always write SOMETHING. For those who have followed me here for a while you know that I confess to my bad mommy days, am self deprecating at times, laugh at myself and my kids and maybe complain a little too much. Because if I can't do it here, where can I do it? I have dubbed this a "mommy blog" because I find comfort in knowing that somewhere out there, there MUST be another mommy who can relate to some of the stuff in my pages. I wish I heard from more of those mommies because you really have NO idea how much it helps to hear that there is another 4.5 year old who throws tsunami type tantrums like Hannah does. Or who has a 17 month old who doesn't speak more than a few syllables that may or may not be words. I never get commenters that say, "Oh really? Your child does THAT? Mine has never." Or after I post about being really proud of Hannah for something she's done, I've never received a comment that one-ups me with their child being even better. I HAVE had real life friends like that but not here. Only commiserating, I-Can-Feel-Your-Pain friends or friends who congratulate me on the pride I may feel some days as a mom.

This mom job is HARD. Really hard. And some days I think I really suck at it. Some days I really wonder why on earth I left my job, a job that I loved (although one that I was so stressed doing that I KNEW I'd never be able to get pregnant again if I kept it which is really why I left... sorry, I digress) to do this all day, every day. And this job is the ONE job I really don't want to screw up at. Screwing up at my past jobs meant an ad might be late to press or there might be a typo on 3 million bottles of body wash or Walmart might run out of lipstick... small things people, small things. Screwing up at this job means my child feeling the need to wear hoochie mama short skirts and nipple rings in junior high school to impress a boy or funneling beer at a party while people cheer her on (oh, wait, that was me), or deciding finishing high school isn't really important. Today was the first day that I really wondered if I might be screwing up. Ever since the day Hannah was born almost 5 years ago I knew there were a few things I would be obsessively careful not to do or to do.

- Be careful how I talked about food/weight with her

- Make her feel good about herself every day

- Tell her and show her I love her every day

- Not put pressure on her to feel the need to be perfect

- Allow mistakes and actually encourage them

I had really thought I'd need to step up with most of these things when she was older. Like 10. Not 4. But I'm wondering now if I'm screwing them up already. Yes, I tell Hannah I love her every day - hundreds of times a day. I tell her she's beautiful, smart, funny, fast, and that she can do anything she sets her mind to. I don't make her finish her food, I allow her cookies and other treats, I don't tell her she shouldn't eat a lot. I don't yell at her when she spills something, or when she comes home covered in paint. We haven't gotten to a point where I'd put pressure on her to do well in school, be a high achiever, have a strong resume. But what I realized today is that I DO put pressure on her every second of every day. 4 year old pressure. "Get dressed faster, move along quicker, set a good example for Luke, don't run so fast, wipe yourself better, chew with your mouth shut, say thank you more sincerely, say you're sorry more often, brush your teeth better, pull your pants up, wear clothes that match, include everyone...." and my list goes on and on. Am I already making her feel like she's not doing things well? And when she Doesn't. Listen. over and over and over and I finally break and SCREAM at her... how does THAT effect her? How about when I scream, "You. Are. Driving. Me. Crazy." or "I. Don't. Want. To. Look. At. You. Right. Now.". what is that doing to little 4 year old her? Are each of these things destroying a piece of her? Making her lose some of her strength which down the road will hurt her (and me)? I'm worried about this (can you tell?).

I apologized to her tonight for yelling at her this morning and asked if she understood why I was so angry (for talking back to me with extreme sass and not listening to a word I said for an hour) and she seemed like she did but I couldn't help but notice some hurt in her eyes. And then I wonder if I shouldn't be apologizing because I'm the MOM and I have the RIGHT to get angry. And this is when I just start to cry. I've only been doing this for 5 years and I feel lost. I had one of those "how do people do this?" days. (Can you tell?)

So, there it is. I wrote it all down for all to read. Because I trust you. Because I'm hoping that someone can relate. I have a husband who (sometimes) reads this and I know doesn't want to know I have days like this and thinks I'm silly to get down on myself and thinks I overthink (which I think I might). I have a mother-in-law who reads this and I know also will think I'm overthinking and that Hannah is so wonderful and it's a phase (and she is and it might be). I have a mother who for the most part doesn't read this because I tell her what I write instead and she so badly wants to help me find an "answer" to my woes. And she hurts for me and with me which may or may not be what I need. Yes, I can talk to these people about my every day crap but it makes people uncomfortable to hear someone going through something tough. And talking to my real life friends about this is helpful but timing is always hard, they're all going through their own crap right along with me. But you guys, you will read this when you have time and find the right thing to say and even if you don't comment, I can "feel" your good vibes. I won't let a bad day like this let me stop writing. Because this way, tomorrow, when I have a better day, I'll feel more justified and honest in writing about it.

And tomorrow I'll be at a spa getting pampered (thank god) and you'll KNOW now that I deserve it!

Why? Why? Why?

2009-10-14T16:57:00.000-07:00

I had thought this stage would be over by now. The "Why?" stage that is. I thought the "Why?" stage was when the child was learning to converse and asking "why?" was a way to keep the conversation going. Apparently the "Why?" question morphs from innocent questioning to full on interrogation at 4 and a half years old. I actually believe that Hannah asks "why?" most of the time now just to drive me nuts, knowing full well that there simply is not an answer. And if I don't have an answer handy, she usually demands, "well, why do you THINK?" forcing me to come up with some half assed answer to appease her. In my more patient moments I'm able to calmly think of answers to all of her questions and am able to satisfy her curiosity. On my less patient days I either speak the words I swore I'd never speak, "because that's just the way it is" or "because I said so" or I say, "Hannah, could you PLEASE stop asking Why?!!!" (gasp!) and this is when I see her little smirk and know she was egging me on all along.

I realized today as I was taking a walk with Luke that I also have dozens of "why?'s" floating around in my head but noone who I have ever had a chance to ask because I'd most likely be given a blank stare if I asked and unlike Hannah, I don't have someone I can beat down to the ground with my impossible-to-answer why questions. But now I have all of YOU! The perfect audience to possibly put an end to my questions! So shout out the answers if you have any but realize that if I'm not satisfied, I will come back at you with more and more "why?'s"... because I can.

- Why do infant/toddler pants have pockets on them? What do the makers of the little pants think these little peeps carrying around in their pockets? If they actually were able to place and remove their binky in their pocket this would make sense but I've yet to see that. A tissue would also be a good thing for the baby to keep in their pocket but again, babies hate wiping their nose and lack the coordination to push it into the pocket or take it out, so this is not the answer. I've decided to start keeping MY hairties and a few quarters in Luke's pockets. This way I won't misplace the hairties, I can be sure to get a gumball, and I'll never be stuck at the parking meter.

- Why do people still put "Baby on Board" in their car window? Do people really think I'll be more careful if I see that they are carrying a baby? Because without that sign, I'd be more tempted to ram them from the rear if they don't get going at a red light quick enough? Or maybe it's their excuse for driving so damn slow? Maybe they think I'll be less likely to honk at them or give them the finger for driving the actual speed limit if I know they have precious cargo in their car. You can be reasonably certain I have kids in my car when you see me swerving back and forth trying to grab Hannah's elephant or Luke's blanket that's dropped on the floor or attempting to remove the too-big-piece of pretzel from Luke's mouth that he has bitten off or trying to grab the sippy cup full of milk that is being poured over Luke's head. And someone decided cell phones should be banned... ha! It's the KIDS that should be outlawed!

- Why is it that every time I go for a workout walk with Luke I have the "Bingo" song stuck in my head? I don't listen to music in case he decides to break out in conversation with me but somehow this song ALWAYS is in my head. And it drives me nuts. "There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was his name O. "Clap" i.n.g.o, "Clap" i.n.g.o, "Clap" i.n.g.o. and Bingo was his name O." There, is it in your head now too?

- Why do they sell Extra Strength Tylenol alongside Regular Strength Tylenol? Are there some people who really say to themselves, "you know, my headache isn't THAT bad. Not bad enough at least to make me want to get rid of it quickly or completely. I'll SAVE Extra Strength for when I really need it."? I'd love to see the sales stats for these two variants of Tylenol just to see if Regular Strength's SOLE purpose is to give Extra Strength a reason for being. And now there's "Rapid Release" tylenol which is making plain old Extra Strength null because it must not work as quickly. Now I have to decide do I want my headache completely gone at some point or kind of gone quickly? Like I don't have enough choices to make in my day without this "headache".

- Why do some people NOT have Easy Pass? Do they not know it's FREE? Do they LIKE waiting in long lines of traffic? Do they enjoy having a conversation with the toll booth operator? Does it ruin the aesthetic of the interior of their windshield? Do they not realize that it's because of them that there is so much traffic on bridges and tunnels because of their inability to Get Out of the Way? Back in the day, when we didn't have a choice, I remember loving the game of the passenger side person trying to toss the dime out their window, over the car and into the basket (was it just me?) but now, there are no baskets, just toll collectors. There's no fun people. Get with the program and Get Easy Pass! Sheesh.

- Why hasn't someone come up with a way to send a Tivo'd show from one Tivo to another? So if I miss an episode of the Bachelor (or some other less important show) someone could send it to me? Don't use, "no one else watches the Bachelor" as an excuse either because you KNOW you watch the Bachelor and if you don't, it's because you have your priorities mixed up.

- Why can't I leave my kids home alone for just a little, tiny bit of time? Just the amount of time it would take to run to Dunkin Donuts for coffee and a munchkin. Or a really quick run? I'm sure they'd be just fine. OK, don't answer that.

- Why are there two different versions of time? Like, why is 30 minutes so LONG when I'm on the elliptical machine but so SHORT when I'm letting Hannah watch ONE show so I can get something done? And similarly, why are mice cute in the store but not in my house?

I could go on. And I will in my head but I'll save you from my torturous questioning. Anyone have any answers for me? And don't say, "because that's just the way it is." - it doesn't fly with me.

15 hours in the car WAS worth it

2009-10-13T07:31:00.000-07:00

Aaaannnnddd.... we're back. 15 hours in the car, 4 kids sleeping in one room, 1 night of 3 hours of sleep, 73 cups of coffee and hundreds of fantastic memories later, we're back. Thank you to the Pittsburgh side of our family for adding two more kids to their bunch. Now, if I could only convince them to move 4 or 5 hours closer. Car-hater Luke would certainly thank them most.

Some of the best memories came from the interactions between Hannah and her exactly 1 year younger cousin. I got a good peek into what it would be like to have two girls. Adorable and terrifying at the same time. Below is my list of favorite moments:

- The female version of "Who's on First?"... Hannah asked S "Do you have My Little Pet Shop?" and S responsded, "No, I have my OWN My Little Pet Shop". Hannah asked, "Can I play with My Little Pet Shop" and S said, "Sure, where is it?" Confused Hannah said, "I don't know, where do you keep it?" and S also confused said, "I didn't put it anywhere, MY little Pet Shop is in my room. You can play with Your Little Pet Shop". You get the gist... this continued a little longer before both decided the discussion wasn't worth the confusion.

- Riding in the car S requested to hear the song, "Who Let the Dogs Out" and to hear the two of them singing it, buckled into their car seats but still getting down to the tunes in the backseat was priceless. Luckily the lyrics aren't too complicated. "Who let the Dogs out? Hoot Hoot! Who Let the Dogs out? Hoot! Hoot!"

- We arrived at a restaurant with maroon colored table cloths and napkins and the two girls immediately started in with each other on what color said napkins were. Hannah had her arms crossed, S had her hands on her hips and the jeering began. "PINK!" Hannah yelled pointedly. "LIGHT PURPLE!" S defiantly responded. "PINK!" "LIGHT PURPLE!" They continued for 10 minutes or so getting closer and closer to each others faces. A true catfight looked like it was going to break out. We thought they were joking until the tears started streaming. My stepping in and stating that actually it was maroon didn't help much since either since neither had really ever heard of maroon and my not siding with my daughter only made matters worse.

- Some friends of my sister-in-law's came over one night and brought their kids. Their daughter was 5 which Hannah jumped on immediately. Another companion and an excuse to gang up on the 3 year old. I overheard the three of them talking as they sat around a little table drawing (fast forward 12 years and i could imagine the same situation at Starbucks or the local wine bar, drinks in hand) and I heard Hannah say to cousin S, "There are times S when you won't know what we're talking about because you're only 3. But don't worry, as you get older, you'll understand more and more.". This would have sent Hannah in tears to my side but being the adaptable sweet girl S is, she just said, "ok" and continued her drawing.

- I also had some priceless moments with my nephews. My 7 year old nephew is famous for the comments that come out of his mouth (I heard he recently told his school bus driver, "You're going to get a ticket for driving too SLOW!") and my favorite of the weekend was when he asked me what the first day of the week is and I tentatively responded "Monday?" not knowing if he was one of those kids who asked trick questions and "Sunday" was the correct answer. Without any hesitation he said, "You are very smart. Wise like Yoda". Coming from a 7 year old boy, I took that as one of the highest compliments a person could get and walked away quite proud.

I'm still working on my 10 year old nephew to be my little buddy. I hoped that impressing him with my baseball skills would do the trick and show him Aunt Becca is cool and maybe I did get one step closer but I think until I can memorize every baseball stat, decide my favorite football team is the Steelers and know every line from Star Wars, I have a ways to go.

I'm happy to be home. I didn't have to worry about Luke waking anyone in the night, don't have to feel bad that Luke throws all his food on the floor, and that damn bag of candy corns is out of sight but my house is eerily quiet, my kids are missing their playmates and I miss someone else making my coffee every morning (and of course the company).

Mirror Mirror

2009-10-08T13:06:00.000-07:00

Usually I have an overflow of words coming out of my brain. An endless supply of stories, rants, jokes, etc. Today though, not so much. I think a combination of sheer exhaustion from 3 nights of far too little sleep, the disbelief that we now have bees escaping from their hive INTO my house and a mouse family that seems to have not only moved into the walls but now hired an interior designer to make them feel even more at home. I'm also overwhelmed with frustration in not being able to sell my expertise to a company that I KNOW would benefit from having me there and now after interviewing with them realizing that I really am ready to get back to work. And finally, I have those damn medical concerns I spoke of yesterday. All of this has led me to a complete shut-down in the creative blog-writing side of my brain (there is such a part you know). You might THINK that all I listed above would provide me with enough to write about, but it's all too depressing. I need to elicit some sort of positive emotion from you when you read what I write (or at least leave you shaking your head in disgust, disbelief or horror), not depressed. So, I wandered over to MamaKatslosinit.com knowing that her fabulous blog offers prompts to get the juices flowing each week. It's my first time borrowing a prompt, but I see lots of people do it so I've succumb to peer pressure. Hopefully it won't lead to my going out to buy "conversation cards" to use at my next party.

So the prompt I'm using is #4 on her list, "When I look into the mirror..." It's ironic that I've chosen this one being that I so rarely look in the mirror these days. I probably should look in the mirror more, honestly. Maybe if I did, I'd see the blue marker line drawn on my cheek. Maybe I'd see the sticker that Hannah stuck to my chest without my knowing. Maybe I'd see that I so desperately need an eyebrow wax. Maybe I'd see the Breathe Right that Tim so lovingly stuck on my shoulder as he got out of bed in the morning (did you know Breathe Rights work wonders for snoring?). Maybe I'd see that I'm still wearing my pajama shirt before I ran out of the house. Maybe I'd see that I have oatmeal goo on my jeans. Maybe I'd see the hickey that Tim left on my neck (Ha! Wanted to make sure you're all still with me!).

At the same time, it's probably good that I don't look in the mirror so often. It might make me sad that I look so unbelievably tired all the time. I'd probably be frustrated that my hair is such a mess most days. I'd probably want to go out and spend more money on makeup to brighten myself up! I'd probably want to kick myself for having the look of impatience when dealing with my kids. I most likely would see the mess behind me in the room and know I just don't have the time to do anything about it. This way I can at least pretend that I look half way decent and can pull off not showering for ONE more day.

But here's what I DO see when I actually slow down and take a look at myself. I see someone who might BE 37 but in my head is still 27. I see someone who feels lucky that she can be in her pajamas all day if I want to since my kids certainly aren't judging me for what I'm wearing. I see someone who finally after too many years of feeling "fat" is fine with my weight. I see my daughter next to me, pretending to put on my makeup, brushing her hair, imitating my every move and I remember doing the exact same thing 33 years ago. I see my blonde son and laugh that I gave birth to someone that looks so different from me. I see more freckles than I should have, but don't regret having because they remind me of so many fun days this summer. I see a paint splattered shirt that reminds me that I had FUN today (even if that paint project only lasted 7 minutes). I see a girl, a mom, a daughter, a friend, and a wife and I then remember why I look so tired. And then I see the clock behind me and realize I'm late picking Hannah up at school, haven't made dinner, and I notice that Luke is treacherously climbing the doggy stairs up to my bed while carrying 3 balls in his hands.

And here in lies the reason that I choose NOT to look in the mirror.

Come again?

2009-10-07T18:05:00.000-07:00

She didn't know what she was in for. My Ob/Gyn that is. Here she thought she was just walking in to another patient, was going to put the feet into the stirrups, examine the vajay jay and that would be it. On to the next vajay-jay. Not so fast. She didn't know that this was one of my only times "out" during the week without my kids in tow. Yes, I get out for tennis once a week but I'm busy actually playing tennis, not talking to other civilized adults. THIS was an escape where someone was going to ask me how I'm doing in a room with NO ONE else around. And I had a lot to say! This was the woman who removed my two kids from my uterus (after first cutting me open and moving my other organs around as Tim describes it) and assumably she should be curious about how these two kids and I are doing. Who would have thought a visit to the gynie would be the most exciting activity of the week! Plus, they have free valet parking at the office (mostly for the pregnant ladies but I take full advantage) which added to the thrill.

The doc walked into the room, asked me how I was doing (I tried to ignore the fact that she didn't sincerely seem interested) and I just let it go. I paid a $25 copay and I was going to make it Worth My While! I was in a comfy little red robe with my feet lifted above my waist, no one was going to tell me what I could or couldn't say! I rattled off a few funny little quips about Hannah, told her Luke was a blonde and that I feel they messed up the petrie dishes when they transplanted him into me since he in no way could possibly be MY child with those blonde locks. I told her about my sore joints, lack of "Flo" and my headaches. I told her this motherhood thing is HARD and I'm considering going back to work in some capacity. I just rattled on and on and on. I'm not sure I took a breath, just kept talking. And she nodded and laughed and added her own quips here and there and waited to do the uncomfortable stuff until I was done rattling.

I guess I kind of forgot why I was actually there because when she told me I should go for a bone scan to be sure I'm not showing early signs of osteoperosis, and that I needed to have blood taken to measure my hormone level to be sure I wasn't in early menopause, and that I should go for a head CAT scan to rule out anything horrendous to account for my headaches, I just stared at her. I stared at her like you stare at a great friend who just sucker punched you for no apparent reason. "Come again?", I may have said aloud. She was just supposed to LISTEN, not scare the crap out of me!

Needless to say, I'm a little shaken by all of this. I'm sure everything will be fine (because I can't bare to imagine it any other way) but I'm not the type who "checks things out". I suck it up and deal with pain (if you recall, Tim has to tell me 7 times to take tylenol for a headache). I assume bad things won't happen to me and don't want to hear otherwise. I don't have time in my world for anything otherwise. It won't be ok if I can't ski/play ball/wrestle/run with my kids in a few years because I have osteoperosis. I'm not ready to hear that I can't have any more kids (even though there's no way I'd want another and not getting my period ever again is fine with me!). It won't fit into my routine if I have something wrong with my BRAIN. So, we'll just assume my Ob/Gyn "friend" is overcautious, ok? Ok.

The Nice Guy And The Interview

2009-10-05T16:54:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, you are waiting on the edge of your seats, panting in anticipation! How Was The Reunion you're so patiently wondering! I'm sorry I didn't get to update my blog sooner but I've spent the past 48 hours trying to think of something entertaining, something edgy, something snarky, something that will captivate you like I know I usually do. And I'm coming up dry. You know why? Because my husband was far too well liked in high school. No one had ANY dirt to dish. No one came running up to him, finger wagging, berating him for how he treated them in high school. No nerdy little girls turned beauty queens that he had turned a cold shoulder on. No one-night-stands gone bad. No nothing. I'm telling you, if I heard one more person tell me what an "upstanding", "friendly", "funny", "welcoming", "sweet" guy I had, I would have thrown up in my mouth. Someone even told me that he was a "great listener" and "always remembered little details about them". Huh? MY husband, a good listener? I guess they weren't there last week when I asked him to get me a few munchkins at Dunkin Donuts and he came home empty handed.

I was pretty shocked when we got there and I found out that a "ban" had been put on bringing spouses. Seriously, I was one of 4 spouses there. And it quickly became apparent that I may have to struggle to find anyone interested in speaking with me. So I decided to wear a name tag baring the name, "Wife" to keep it simple for people who were trying to figure out who I was and how I had changed since high school. I decided on "Wife" instead of "Tim Shaw's wife" because this way I could keep it open as to whose wife I was. This was before I knew how highly everyone thought of Tim. Even so, I wasn't sure how I felt about being attached to "the nice guy" at the reunion. I kind of wished deep down that I was attached to "the rebel" or "the Theater Guy" or even better, "The nerd-turned-multimillionaire-magician". I didn't get the "Finger Tap to the forehead" that I had mentioned in my last post. I actually ejected myself from the post-party party and let Tim continue his shenanigans on his own.

All in all, it really was a great night. Honestly, I was proud to be a fly on the wall of this reunion and watch how much people really respected him and were genuinely interested in hearing about his life today. It got me that much more excited for MY reunion next fall... which the jury is still out on whether Tim will be joining me! I only hope my old friends have as many nice things to say about me (and I'm somehow doubting it!).

So with that craziness behind us... life is moving quickly forward. Tomorrow I have an interview. Yes, that's right, an interview. I will not mention for what company I am interviewing with because I've read YOUR blogs and I follow YOU on Twitter and many of you are MUCH more talented than me and the last thing I need is competition from YOU in getting this job. What I will say is that I'm interviewing for a consulting gig at a very cool company where I'd only need to go to the office a couple days and work some from home. My terms. My hours. I'll also say that it's a company that most moms of young kids knows, but my job would be to make sure that EVERY mom, grandma and friend of a mom knows about it. Needless to say, I'm a bit anxious about my day tomorrow. First of all, I have to be there by 8:00. I peeled my eyes open this morning at 7:15 which is when I'll need to be in the car tomorrow. I pulled my tush out of my pajamas this morning at 10:30. I don't think I had to formulate an intelligent sentence until at least 1:00 (or maybe not at all). It will be a big change of pace tomorrow. I have to bring my own lunch too. Yes, bring my own lunch. Wondering what kind of impression it will have if I bring it in Hannah's Cinderella lunch box since it's the only one I have here. I'm kind of curious why they can't provide me with lunch but figured that isn't a smart question to ask during the interview. Speaking of smart things to do during the interview, here are some things I'm thinking of doing just to see the reaction:

- Parking in the space at the office with the sign, "reserved for Owner of the company"

- Asking to use the restroom during the interview and ask if I they have a magazine I can borrow when I go.

- Repeatedly refer to them as their biggest competitor, "I can think of dozens of reasons why my being a part of the family here at (Biggest Competitor) would work so well..."

- Take a few pens, some paper and some packets of sugar from their kitchen.

- Ask how long the interview is going to be because, "I don't want to leave my kids home alone for TOO long."

- Keep smelling my arm pits and asking, "Is it me that smells?"

- Tell them I don't really like talking about my last positions because it brings up too many bad memories for me.

- Add "in bed" to everything they say about the company, "we're hoping for strong growth and better understanding of our consumers..." "IN BED! Hahahahahah!"

- When they ask me if I have any questions, ask how much time is ok to spend on Twitter and Facebook and whether I can download music to the computers at work.

Nah, I probably won't do any of these things because honestly, I think this would be a pretty cool gig to get. Sorry to keep you in suspense AGAIN but when I know whether it's a thumbs up or down, I'll fill you in!