Finding My Hips

One sore spot with women is weight. You don't talk about it unless you are bitching about it. Kind of like scar comparison, you often hear women one-upping on the jiggles:

Ugh! Look at all this cellulite on my ass!

You think your ass is fat? Oh my god, I haven't seen my ankles since Little Johnny was born.

Your ankles are fine! Look at my fingers! I haven't been able to wear my wedding ring in ten years!

And on. And on. And on. I would think a little venting about perceived flaws would be good, except we never celebrate the other side of it.

I cannot tell you how many times in my life I have been called a bitch because I was thin. Even as recently as a month or so ago, a girlfriend I have known since high school and her mom told a group of people at a party what a skinny bitch I have always been. Have I been skinny? Yes. Have a been a bitch? On multiple occasions. I do not think they necessarily go hand in hand.

After my first pregnancy, I got in the habit of weighing myself at my parents' house. I did not have a scale at my own apartment, so on weekends we happened to have dinner at their house I would do a quick check. I had had terrible edema at the end of my pregnancy, and pissing out twenty-five pounds of water in a week was a pretty incredible experience. I wasn't making an overt effort to lose weight, but as the months passed I wanted to keep an eye on my weight to make sure I was staying healthy.

My sister happened to catch me at one of my weigh-ins. It had been a long time since I'd weighed myself, and she walked in right as the scale beeped. I remember feeling so shocked, and I asked her if the scale was accurate. Her whole demeanor changed. She looked almost gleeful. Oh yes, she assured me, that scale is very accurate. I weigh myself on it all the time, and it's the same as the one I have at home. She paused a moment, I suppose for effect, and then asked me what the scale read.

Over the years I have learned to hide my weight from other women, but I am also a big proponent of don't ask me if you don't want the answer. That smug, shit-eating grin she didn't bother to hide was so mean, and I was in such a daze I decided it was worth the risk.

What does it say? she asked. And so I told her: 127 pounds.

To say her face darkened would be an understatement. She hemmed and hawed some kind of congratulatory kudo and left the room, and barely spoke to me for the remainder of the visit.

I have had another baby since then. Bodies change. Physiques change. The awful truth I have come to realize is that no one is happy for you when you lose pregnancy weight. It takes a rare friend to share that you have rediscovered your ankles. That finding your hip bone is like greeting a long lost friend. I want to be able to shout from the rooftops when a week of walking my kids to school gives me the tiniest suggestion of a calf muscle.

I am tired of those shouts being empty echoes in my head. Accomplishments are meant to be shared, not used as fodder for ridicule. I suppose I am still searching for those gal pals who feel the same way. Those who are ready to celebrate the other side.

She's A Keeper

Making and keeping friends gets harder and harder as our lives change because of jobs, kids and our own personal development. I've cultivated a few friendships since my move last year, and last week was a good indicator that I've been forging in the right direction.

Standing Wednesday playdate. Large house. Four children. Two moms. Happy chatting in all directions. Until my daughter comes down the stairs to the landing. Proudly splaying her hands I hear Look Mamma! And I do. At her green, freshly-painted fingernails.

Girlfriend and I jump up out of our kitchen chairs and book our asses up the stairs. Thinly disguised tension expressed in Where did you get that honey? Who is painting their nails? Where were you guys sitting?

I am having flashbacks of my mothers permanently lacquered carpet as we race into the master bedroom. There is her two year old son, with green toe nails. And green nail polish on their white carpet.

Thankfully, miraculously, there were only three spots. Three very light spots. My girlfriend? To say easy peasy doesn't even cover it. I apologized profusely for my daughter's behaviour, and she wouldn't hear of it. She said it was obviously her fault for leaving the bottle where the kids could find it and not to worry about it one bit. We broke out the nail polish remover and a stash of Q-tips and amiably worked on erasing our children's transgressions.

Our clean-up efforts ended when the two other children found us. Her four-year old daughter hauled open the bathroom cabinet, pulled out her mom's basket of colors, plopped down on the floor and looked at us expectantly. My girlfriend never batted an eye. We made our way from the carpeted bedroom to the tiled floor of the bathroom and gave colorful pedicures to our four-year old daughters and our three year-old sons.

There is so much that could have gone wrong with this scenario, but so much that went right. I feel damned lucky to have found a friend in her. She is definitely a keeper.

Playground GPS

I observed my children playing on the school playground the other day. It was their first day of school, and the first time that my son was part of the big kid crowd. My eyes scanned the the seemingly vast expanse of this preschool microcosm. If I could spot them, somehow I would feel grounded knowing that they were existing apart from me. That they were functioning, tiny little representations of adults cutting their own path with self-reliance. It took some time, but I finally spotted both my son and daughter. They had found each other. Somehow, within the seething mass of children, siblings laid eyes on each other and shouted cheerful greetings.

All might have been well, save for the fact that my son spotted me as well. I was keeping a low profile while cooping in another part of the school yard, yet that same internal GPS that helped him locate his sister brought him to me.

He tried to climb the fence, and when he realized I was not there to spend time with him sad, fat tears rolled down his ruddy cheeks. I held his hand and walked him back to his teacher, explaining that I was helping the tiny ones. He said he understood, but the tears continued to stream down his face. He didn't scream. He didn't make any noise. He just nodded his agreement, a saline river betraying his acquiescence.

By the time I made it back to my station, his teacher had him turned facing the other direction. In that critical moment, his sister found him. Somehow, her playground activities had brought her full circle to where he was standing. She stopped in front of him. Touched his face. Hugged him. Kissed his cheek.

Backdrops change as we get older. Playgrounds become hallways. Cocktail parties. Cubicles. We wrap ourselves up in our work and our errands. We forget that we are part of something greater than our own personal space. Sometimes it feels a miracle for anyone to seek us out, homing in on our location. To check on us. To pat our cheek and let us know that we are seen. That things really are going to be okay.

The Dawn of a New World Order

At the NATUI-household, it is the dawn of a new world order. Take a close look because things are very different, my friends.

As we move towards autumn and begin the school year, there are major changes afoot. Our house may look like the same disaster zone, but there are two fundamental shifts in our lives that have occurred.

One of these shifts has been in the bedtime routine. We have had years of fighting to keep the kids in bed. I have detailed our difficulties to some extent, but I may have finally found the solution. Preying on their fear of the dark.

It has been an awful but steep learning curve. One night after being harassed and hounded by my children until three o'clock in the morning, I hit probably one of my lowest points since I became a mother. I had completely reached the end of my rope. Thus began Operation Don't Fuck With Mom.

I told my kids there was a new bedtime rule. Stories, prayers and kisses. Then? We're done. No more water, toys, books, hugs. Nothing. Keep your head on your pillow. If you get out of bed, I turn off your nightlight and shut you in your room. Alone. In your dark, dark room.

They didn't believe me.

LittleMan got up out of bed. I unplugged the lamp, walked out of the room and shut the door.

He absolutely flipped his shit.

Now, I did not lock him in his room and let him scream on the floor until he passed out. I did hold the door shut a good fifteen seconds or so (I know, I'm such a hard ass) before I opened it, put him back in his bed and told him that if he kept his head down, the door would stay open.

After several tests, both kids realized that I meant business.

As soon as we got back to DC, the kids thought they could fuck around at bedtime again. Apparently, they didn't realize that Operation Don't Fuck With Mom crosses state lines. Friday night was a big test the waters night. My son kept getting out of bed, so I took his lamp and shut the door. Same routine.* It took one or two incidents of 15-20 second screaming bloody murder behind a closed door, but he now believes that I am serious.

The upshot of all this is that both of my kids have been asleep by 8.30pm the past two nights. No flipping around in bed or running amok as they are wont to do, but actually unconscious. Dreaming sweet dreams of finger paints and playgrounds. Anyone who knows me in real life finds this to be absolutely incredible as my daughter has been known to keep herself awake until midnight. I don't know how long this will work, but I am hoping if I can finally create good sleep habits I will never have to go through this again. I hate it. It makes me sad. It hurts me. But it will hurt them more in the long run if I do not get a handle on their behaviour now.

Now, to be consistent. I've finally won a battle, and I am damned and determined to win the sleep war.

*Except come to find out a neighbor stopped by at precisly that moment, heard the screaming and decided to come back later. At least I got the opportunity to explain to him what was going on. And thank god he didn't call DFACS.

Sometimes the World Is Too Small

Many of you have heard of the California wildfires from the past two weeks. It has been through various email, blogs and social-networking functions that I have learned that I knew one of the firefighters that died. I didn't know him well. We went to school together in another lifetime, and even then our paths passed so briefly that while I may have thought of him in passing over the years we were never good friends.

Tonight, a mutual classmate sent me a few links that haven broken my heart. His wife was pregnant. Eight and a half months pregnant with their first child. I am sick with grief. For her. For him. For the baby that will never feel the touch of her father on this earth.

In one sense it feels ridiculous to hurt over someone I barely knew. But I look at my children, think of my husband. And I ache. In every fragment of my being.

Apparently Arnie was a tattoo fanatic, and was featured on LA Ink. If nothing else, please take just a minute to look at the two links I've posted here. Do whatever it is you do when you send good thoughts to someone, whether it is to pray, light a candle, close your eyes and take a breath. Hell, go out and get a tattoo. There is a hole out there in the fabric of the universe that is parenthood. Let's try and fill it up. If but for a moment.

This Means War

Things have been on the skids a bit here in the NATUI-household. Intermittent internet over the past few days has left me incommunicado with half the world. Hubbie left this morning for a week of "training". Training my ass. Five days with no kids or marital responsibility is called a vacation.

The past two weeks have also been fiction-turned-to-life hell. The sun goes down and our children turn into some kind of monster mutations of their daytime selves.

In the past, I have referred to them as boomerang children. You throw them in bed, they come right back out at you. Because of this, the baby gates have made a reappearance. Here are some of the scenarios that have occurred over the past two weeks:

• both kids, gated in room
• both kids, gated--LittleBird throws all her "things" over the gate, including her pillow and twin-sized duvet, climbs the gate and gets herself "set-up" to "relax" on our bed
• LittleMan double-gated because he climbed over the gate to get out of his room
  
• LittleBird is discovered pushing toys and books through the slit between the two gates to "help" her little brother. It's not like all he's got is a tin cup, for crying out loud.
  

It is maddening. Hubbie and I have not had a moment to ourselves in ages. Now he's on vacation, ahem, training, and so my father generously came into town to help out with the kids. Here is a photo as to what I found when I checked on them. LittleBird? Carried her duvet and pillow and book into my room. LittleMan? Climbed the gate, found a nasty pair of my dirty socks and snuggled in for his sister to read him a story. Why do they have to be so god-damned cute?




So please accept my sincerest apologies for being behind in blog reading and posting. After dealing with my two escape artists until 11.30 every night, I am exhausted. We are waging a war in this household. Something's gotta give, and it ain't gonna be me.

The Healing Properties of a Tea Party

The NATUI household has been struck by the dreaded summer cold this week. The kids had it for a day each. Me? Three full days. I have been curled up in the fetal position on my couch or my bed with an aching head and stuffy nose. I am usually the unaffected one in the household. Apparently, my immune system was too cocky for its own good.

Yesterday afternoon, my daughter wanted me to have a tea party and could not wrap her head around the concept that I needed to be prone. Laid out. Head and feet at the same elevation. From the couch I told her she could set her tea set on the coffee table so that I could watch her from my nest of blankets and wadded up tissues. She grumped around for a while, until she decided she would make me a bed. On the floor. Why that was somehow better than the couch I will never understand, but her eyes lit up as she dragged pillows and duvets out of the bedrooms and created a giant queen-sized pallet in the middle of our living room. She tucked me into it with toys and teddy bears, patted my head so I would feel better and then served tea.

It was totally awesome.

I have been having little niggling doubts lately if being home with my kids has been a good thing. It has been an exhausting summer with very few breaks. Hubbie's job is keeping me in nearly single parent status, and I've not had any personal outlets to recharge my energy. My tea party yesterday went a long way in making me feel better. Emotionally and physically. My daughter and I were able to to find a solution to a mismatch of expectations, and it turned out brilliantly.

Now, she's setting up another tea party and has been patiently waiting for me to finish this post. I wonder what she is serving?

Just A Bad Ass In Disguise

My son has decided he wants to have a shark party. Despite the debacle with Jaws and my daughter a few nights ago, I am gearing up into full on design mode for his party.

In between bouts of hide-and-go-seek, practicing our ABCs, cooking taquitos and less-than-successful attempts at potty training, I started the first of many stages of internet searching for party ideas.

Which leads you, my dear readers, into a deep recess of my psyche. The Bad Ass In Disguise.

Here is a photo of my bedroom wall.



I purchased these movie posters quite some time ago, and they have traveled in their protective laminate shields to many a state. I love the in-your-face vibe of the prints. The phrase on the motorcycle girl poster says Here Come's the Siren. It is the embodiment of all I want to be. Yes, I am a mom, a college graduate, a goody two-shoes who wears crocs and a scrunchie. But somewhere deep down is the siren with her man-catchers on waiting for the opportunity to do a little ass-kicking.

I should probably feel a bit badly for my husband, having these oldies but goodies on the wall. In actuality, I don't feel all that sorry for him. I mean, the chicks are kind of hot. And LittleMan told me how much he loved Bat Woman's boots. So do I, baby. So do I.

I needed to show you this superhero-in-disguise aspect of myself and my decor to explain how today's preschooler party hunt went awry. In searching for all things shark, I accidentally came upon the mother lode of all bad ass chicks in their B-rated glory.


You're damned right I bought it. I would never forgive myself if I hadn't. I don't know where I'm going to hang it, but I'm trying to figure out if it would be in bad taste to make it the centerpiece of my three year old's birthday party. I think the dads would go for it.

It's Just Like Riding A Bike

We attempted to teach our children to ride their bicycles today. We've got a long road ahead of us, my friends. LittleBird actually did fairly well, but I was damned glad to be behind the camera. Hubbie nearly broke his back bending over and running back and forth along the sidewalk next to the children. He was hot, sweaty and exhausted. The kids were ebullient. I? Sat on the grass snapping photographs in the cool comfort of our neighbors oak tree.

I suppose once they get it down, this will probably be a skill they never forget. However, just because you don't forget the skill does not mean you are good at it any longer. I know that when I ride my bike, it sure as shit is not as easy as when I was a child. It's hard work. And I know I do not have that sparkly grin on my face. More like a grimace. My hair does not flow in the breeze but is plastered to my forehead and neck as rivulets of sweat pour down my back. When the looks you see out of passing cars do not read Ah...look at that family riding their bikes, but instead Dear God! Is that woman about to have a stroke? make a day out on the bikes no place for hubris.

Luckily, today was merely bicycle boot camp for the kids. As I never have the opportunity to be in any of the photos, I made Hubbie snap a few at the end. Don't I look well-rested? Sitting in the shade definitely suits me.

Burnt the Fire Of Mine Eyes

This afternoon I lost my shit. As in screaming into my mobile phone, stomping my feet on the kitchen floor, hang up on her ass lost. my. fucking. shit.

All in front of my kids (hangs head in shame).

Over what? That is the key issue. What was I really yelling about?

I am heading down to the ATL for a month of trying to keep from reverting into a bitchy sixteen year old fun and frolic with my parents. At which the end of this visit comes my yearly exam with Dr. Miracle as we so brilliantly chronicled last year. In some calendar clusterfuck, my mom has booked us into their condo for the same week I have my appointment.

This does not on first glance lend itself to behavior that leaves children trembling in fear behind sofas. It was the accusations. You never told me when your appointment was. Nyah nyah nyah I've stopped listening because my heart is beating so loudly my head is going to explode nyah nyah.

She never knew? My neighbors know. My kids' teachers know. Ever since I called my doctor to specifically verify the date to my mother, she has known.

She will not own up to it. And as my voice and anger grew by the decibel, my mother tried to turn it around and play the reason card. The let's fix it card.

But I was that teenager again. I was chugging down the track of misunderstood child, and ain't no one stopping that train once she's left the station.

Because that was the root of my anger: I felt she hadn't listened to me. That has become my number one hotlist button. My kids don't listen to me. My worthless four-legged feline freaks don't listen to me. I have allowed myself to be caught up in the circle of stay-at-home-mom hell that is needing to feel I have been listened to. That if I make a point of finding out information, it is retained. When someone who sucks as much as I do at organization has written a date in triplicate on calendars, I want some fucking credit. Not fingerpointing. Not getting digs in for the next few weeks/months how I didn't relay information. I am all about giving credit where credit is do, and if I did something by God, give me the fucking t-shirt.

I am not proud of my behavior this afternoon. But I own it. Have I apologized? Fuck no. I will, eventually. I am having a hard time reconciling the mother-daughter relationship I have with my mom now versus the mother-daughter relationship I had with her then. I had forgotten how much anger there has been. The frustration. The feelings of inadequacy. The need to feel appreciated. To know that I haven't been a disappointment. That my actions haven't failed her. Typical oldest daughter stuff, I suppose. Our relationship has been, for the most part, so good for so many years that when she pulls that old shit I am caught off guard.

Damn it. If I am going to act like a spoiled, bitchy 16-year old, can I at least have my 16 year old body back? Sans braces and zits, of course, but what I wouldn't give to get my ass back.

Of Grief and Gratitude

Today I spent the afternoon at the memorial service for Get Thee To A Poet's daughter. It has been a sorrowful day.

I am grateful to Doris for allowing me to share in the celebration of her daughter's life.
One mother to another, my heart is grieving for their loss.

I am deeply indebted to my good friend for watching my kids even though she and her two little ones had arrived on a red eye at 6am this morning.

There really isn't much more to say. We all move forward, even if we don't want to, and pick up the pieces we'd rather let lie.

Who's Your Mamma?

Coming off the birthday high of this weekend, Hubbie kept the kids occupied this evening so I could finally get the next step finished in the kids' room. If you remember from my crazy design ideas here*, they share a room we did in a Medieval theme. It was a great way to blend the boy/girl thing without having to go with a commercial character.

We got their dresser on Freecycle, and the blue and yellow colors actually matched what we already had.


Here is the finished project.


I think this earned me some bragging rights this week.

*I now realize that I did not post photos of my other painting projects. Once I find track down the photos, I will post those, too.

Second to All But Just As Loved

Hubbie's return from Sweden brought home a powerful reminder. Being an adult can suck sometimes, and being an adult means you suck it up.

The kids missed their father. Terribly. It was a hard week on all of us, and the relief in their eyes was palpable. They wanted to occupy the phycial space in which he stood. To breathe in the very essence of him.

I was pushed to the wayside. By both parties. Not out of anything negative, but the sheer power of love those kids have for their father left room for nothing else in the house. He attended to everything they said. Every toy they showed, every shaky picture they had drawn while he was gone.

I sat on the sidelines and watched. I wanted to hug my husband. To hear about his trip. Learn more about his father's health and hug him until all I could breathe was the smell of him. I have read about spouses feeling jealousy but never felt it before. Until that moment. I felt the tiniest of twinges. Pangs of jealousy over the squeals of delight my daughter made as she opened the packages he had brought. My stomach and heart hurt just a bit that I wasn't the one to snuggle up on the sofa and get the hugs.

Being an adult sucks sometimes, but I firmly believe everything went as it should. It wasn't my time. My kids can't rationalize the time their father was gone. They are young and emotional. Part of their world crumbled when he left and was miraculously restored upon his return.

I had Hubbie all to myself in college. We were each other's center in the years before kids. To everything there is a season, to quote that lovely cliche. The current season is the kids. My hugs can hold off until the kids are satisfied. They have to. It's my job as a mom. Sometimes I hate it, sometimes it makes me sad. No one likes to come in second all the time. But as long as we all have our moments, it all balances out. There will come a time when they do not need me or their father with the raw intensity that they do at this moment. I am all at once the center of their universe and the background noise to their daily routine. Parenthood is a strange dichotomy.

Anger Trumps Carpet

FIL is home and doing well. I think the healing process has tripled just by having Hubbie there to give him comfort.

Life here? Hanging by a thread. My son is hitting the terrible twos, and it takes my breath away. He threw a tantrum today that scared the ever-loving shit out of me. The lesson he still has not learned? That cheap rental carpet does not do a thing to protect your head when you bang it repeatedly in anger and frustration. Anger trumps carpet. Every time.

If God Will Send His Angels

My morning cuddle ritual with the children turned into the first circle of hell when I heard the shattering of glass.

LittleMan, in some freak accident, fell backwards off the side of my bed. Remember the present I framed for Hubbie? The massive shattering of glass I heard was LittleMan's back slamming into the glass sheet covering the document.

I whipped around and out of bed, and all I could repeat was Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

LittleMan was actually bent in half. He had managed to fall butt first, and he was tightly wedged in a V-shape between the broken sheets of glass and the side of my bed. Jagged pieces the size of a hand saw started directly behind his neck and disappeared down past his pyjamas.

I couldn't control my hands or my limbs. My legs had tremors as I tried to position myself to keep him from moving. I supported his head with my left hand and tried to keep him talking. He said he was okay and instead of freaking out focused on a little puffball he called a muffin in his hand.

We sang over and over to Dvořák's New World Symphony No. 9 Thank you god, thank you god. LittleMan's okay. Thank you god, thank you god. LittleMan's okay.

All the while, I kept looking at the floor expecting to see blood pooling on the carpet. He had shattered glass all over his stomach and trapped along the neckline of his shirt.

I kept his head tilted forward to keep him from slicing his neck on the huge pieces trapped behind his back. I don't know how long it took. Time absolutely stood still. LittleBird watched over my shoulder. LittleMan never fussed. He never cried. He listened to his sister asking lots of scary questions about glass. Asking why I was being so careful. Why she couldn't pick up the chunks I was placing on the nightstand. Why I was holding LittleMan's head. Why I said he was so lucky.

I told her that LittleMan's guardian angel had done a great job. That God sends his angels to watch over us. That LittleMan's angel had taken his wings and wrapped them around his body so tight so that none of the glass would harm him.

If you can stand it, here are the photos.

LittleMan? He is fine.

LittleBird? Nonplussed as far as I can tell.

Me? I am still numb.

I haven't cried. Not yet. I can't. After working so hard to maintain my control this morning, it isn't in me to let go. I am still trapped somewhere between the horror and the gratitude.

The Place Where Fairytales Go To Die

About a month ago, LittleBird decided that she no longer wanted a pirate party for her birthday. She could have a pirate party when she was five. This time, she wanted a princess party.

Fuck.

Now I have no problem with the princess aspect of it. It is the commercial princess aspect of it that pisses me off. Trying to find party supplies without characters has been challenging. I am a stubborn fuck about it, though. I will not cave.

Yesterday, LittleBird turned four. She knew that her party was going to be on a different day.

She also knew that despite the lack of a party, this was her day.

After breakfast, LittleBird announced she needed a cake. A princess cake. For her princess birthday. She didn't quite say Get your bitch ass in the kitchen and bake me a cake! but it was close enough.

Thank god I have a princess cake pan I picked up at a thrift shop stashed in the cabinet.

So I did. We sat on the floor. She helped me pour the mix. We added the ingredients. We put it in the oven. We watched it rise.

In my stupidity and rushing around, I attempted to skip a few steps.

I flipped the cake out of the princess pan.

And it broke.

Like the Evil Queen zapped the Little Princess with her wand.

Fuck.

I called LittleBird to the kitchen to tell her the bad news. Her face clouded over, and heavy rain was on the horizon. Her princess cake was ruined, and she valiantly struggled to bend her four-year old psyche around that fact.

Then she took a breath, and asked if she could eat a piece of it.

Of course she could.

Fairytales are what you make of them. Some may suffer a sad and painful death in our household, but in their place we create our own. And that makes all the difference.

This Sort of Thing Ain't My Bag, Baby

I feel like I am a pretty simplistic girl when it comes to my clothes. I like solid colors, boot cut jeans, and clunky shoes to keep me grounded.

In the past, I have been known to cut the labels off of the back of my jeans because the companies aren't paying me to advertise their clothes. I wouldn't know a pair of Jimmy Choos or Manolo Blahniks if they kicked me in the ass. And yes, I Googled both brands of shoes to make sure I'd spelled them correctly.

When one of the Christmas presents from my mom turned out to be a Coach purse, I was a bit shocked. Speechless, in fact. Now, it is a genuine knock-off from her trip to Greece, but that does not change the fact that it is Coach purse. The pattern screams Coach. Screams it.

I tried to find something to say. Anything. I am rarely without words, but I was stumped. I did not want my mom to think I was ungrateful. I appreciate that she picked something that she thought I would like. Well, in truth, she bought it because I ought to like it. I mean, who doesn't want a Coach purse, right?

My stammering on Christmas Eve was obviously unconvincing because my mom asked me on the phone this morning about the purse. I know her feelings are hurt, and I don't want them to be. I want to gush over the purse and exude enthusiasm from my pores, but it isn't in me.

I told her the truth.

I told her I thought it was a thoughtful gift, but that I never pictured myself wearing a Coach purse. That she knew I liked a more simplistic style. I could hear the sigh and eye-rolling as she agreed before she tried to convince me how I could use it on a night out with girlfriends.

I let it go at that. I did not have the energy to discuss the fact that going out with girlfriends requires one to actually have girlfriends. To have schedules that match. To have husbands home from work on time and children who behave.

I will keep the purse, and I will use it when Hubbie and I go out to dinner some time. I will do it because I love my mother. I know it will make her happy, and it will make me happy to know I made her happy.

When I entered the world of motherhood four years ago, I had no idea what a mindfuck it would be. All of the parameters by which I defined myself have changed or disappeared. I struggle to redefine myself every day. It's hard to feel cool when your sweatshirt has snail trails of dried snot, there is ketchup smeared on your jeans, and you can't remember the last time you showered in peace.

I may not know always know who I am, but this has been a powerful reminder as to what I am not. This sort of thing just ain't my bag, baby.

That Heartbeat

For many reasons too complicated and menial to discuss, I picked up the kids from school today in the rain. In the stroller, in the rain.

Because of that rain, I left the stroller under the awning and not in its usual place next to the door. I left the kids at the top of the stairs in front of the school to get their gear into the double jog stroller before getting them strapped in.

I turned around because in the instant it occurred to me that LittleMan might not wait for me, he started down the steps. The concrete steps.

I took a step matching the one he took. Except his foot never solidly hit the next stair.

He tripped. Head first, he started that slow tumble forward.

In the heartbeat between what could have been and what happened, I reached him. I cupped the side of his head with my right hand.

My hand hit the concrete. His face did not.

I aged twenty years in that heartbeat. That heartbeat between trauma and miracle.

I don't know how I made it to him in time. I have theories, but that is a discussion for a more personal space.

Tonight, I am weary. I kiss my son's soft cheek and inhale the smell of him. Somewhere mixed in the tangy scent that is boy and baby, I close my eyes and am grateful.

All of the Excitement, Minus the Erection

My dedicated followers will remember this gem of a post regarding warm water, potty training, and toddler erections.

I am still recovering.

Last night, however, we had a break through. Painfully aware that I have been completely remiss in my potty training duties, I decided to soldier past those horrifying images seared into my cerebral cortex and try again.

I got LittleMan to sit on the pot. I knew he had to pee. I knew it. I read books, I coaxed and cajoled. No dice.

Until I asked if he wanted the water bottle.

Oh yes!

I don't know if it was the running of the water or just the idea of the bottle, but that was the trick. He started to pee in his potty. More importantly, he started, stopped, then yelled I did it! And when I asked him if he could do it again, he did.

Ah, the joy of a man who realizes he can control his penis.

I am going to have him pissing his name in the snow come Christmas.

The Significance of a Dog On A Shirt

I dabble in CafePress to get my creative energy out. I have a lot of fun doing it, and this month prior to the election has been fodder for many a political t-shirt.

I also do fun and cutesy stuff. After I got all the snark out, I created this:

I am very proud of it. I did it because I thought it was cute, and as a bonus after-thought my cousin is about to have a baby boy so I will send one to them.

While speaking to my mother on the phone yesterday, I had a frustratingly failed attempt to share this with her.

I gave her the web address, she looked it up.

I see a dog on a shirt.

And?

I see a dog on a shirt. I don't get it. What's the significance of a dog on a shirt?

Ouch.

I explained to her for the then literal third time that I had created the shirt, I was proud of it, I was just trying to share, blah blah falling on deaf ears blah.

It has always gotten under my skin that my family very rarely can appreciate anything that they themselves cannot do. Just because you can't or won't do something doesn't mean it wasn't a lot of work. Say great job, dammit, it is part of your job as my mother.