Find A Penny, Pick It Up, All Day Long, A Baby Will Try to Choke on It.

As we oh so graciously navigate the wobbly legs of toddlerhood the baby is trying on for size, the post traumatic stress disorder memories of toddlers who have come before are now flooding my brain. Jarring me awake at night and creating mild anxiety panic attacks in the grocery store aisles, salad dressing in one hand and penny I just found in her mouth in the other.

I am an old pro at failure so I seize each new opportunity to learn nothing from past mistakes.  After the second child was found chewing on doll stilettos, we initiated the "chokeable bucket". It is simply a vase where any and all items are thrown when stepped on, removed from a child's mouth or removed from the death grip of an almost three-year-old who knows that whatever precious object travels to the chokeable bucket is never. heard. from. again. This kind of trauma is the kind that shows up, unannounced, on you doorstep like a mother-in-law or that foundation you donated to that one time in college. Out of nowhere, like a 'Nam flashback, we will hear: "HEY, what happened to the Diver's scuba tank, world's smallest tea cup or that Lego you found in so-and-so's diaper?"

It's all fun and games until you find a Lego wheel in someone's diaper.

Aside from the crazed attention to detail you must have in order to safely defeat the perpetual Baby-To-Toddler-Hand-To-Mouth-Disease, you must also begin taking an active role in sweeping and vacuuming daily. Daily. If your house is anything like mine, the vacuum also doubles as a spaceship or track horse. Our horse, Death By Playmobil, is moving one step closer to the glue factory in the sky with every sweep over the house. A veritable toy graveyard lives inside its belly. "Sorry, Pa. She had a case of the belly-busters real bad. Me and Timmy had no choice but to end her sufferin' down by the waterin'-hole."

Just like participating in a conga line is not really dancing, the vacuum is no real substitute for getting on your hands and knees while canvassing the ground and under furniture like a blind wildcat waiting for another smaller, blind animal to kill.

But, like I said, it's all fun and games until you find a Lego wheel in someone's diaper.

So, here I am, canvassing the floors. Crawling along, stealth like, like that Victoria's Secret model who rolled her ankle on the runway and then lay trapped under the pressure of her gigantic angel wings. Think of me fondly as I turn a back brace into a saddle and burn Barbie's stripper shoes under the light of the full moon.

Until then, may your children's diapers be Lego free and may my next vacuum come with a lifetime membership to the Wine of the Month Club.

Dearest Friends, you are gone, but, never forgotten. Rest in pieces.

Dreams Look Different Now.

When I was young, I had grand dreams of living in Los Angeles. I would have a pool and everyone would love me.

Laying in bed at night, under a blanket of stars and faded yelling, I would imagine my own life with children. I would never scream. There would never kidney beans and rice for dinner. They would never try to hide their shoes behind the legs of their chairs. I would not keep bottles in my flight boots or take my children's babysitting money. Someone would always have a job. There would be a a town we called home and trees to climb.

My family would smile constantly like the beautiful people in the frames. I would be a grown-up wearing wisdom around me like a robe. There would be summer birthday parties and every weekend, we'd picnic and find ducks to feed.

As an adolescent, I longed for the soothing, breezy summers with Dad. Listening to the ivories downstairs while playing in a closet as big as a room. Begging Dad to jump in the condo complex pool in between games of Marco Polo with my sister.  Hiding secrets and one worn, Virginia Slim in the back of my box of letters from boys I loved and then moved away from. With every new home, two trash bags of memories shed to lighten the load.

I dreamed of a life, easy and carefree. Dreams looked different then.

As an adult, I have finally accepted that great understanding is not scheduled to rain down. I will continue to think and rethink my words and decisions. In times of horror, where no logic can be found, we will put one foot in front of the other, half-blind and hoping for the best. With our loved ones and children, we are not meant to live the life pictured inside of a frame.

Throughout all of my pregnancies, I would go through moment upon moment of terror. Then, they were born and love bigger than a thousand oceans occupied every atom. Every thought. Cautiously directed my every movement. My babies were the dream.

Now, my dreams are very simple.

Let them live.

There will be burdens, worry and mistakes. I will fail them. There will be sadness and longing and want, but, please, let them live.

Of all the dreams I ever dreamed, every pore of my being screams this. Let them live to be heartbroken. Let them live to be disappointed. Let them live to long to leave us and embrace their independence. Let them live to reach their goals or to fall short. Let them live to fail and pick themselves back up. Let them live with choices they may regret. Let them live to fall in and out of love. Let them live to have children of their own. Let them live. Wrap my love around them to protect them and breathe in let them breathe out live.

Dreams look different now.

Long Live the Terrible Twos

If you ask a toddler who they are, they will say, "I am ME!" Simple and true. There can only be one you and, never are we more aware of this than during the big, self-pimptastic-realization of age 2. When the world is your oyster and that bitch better produce a pearl. This is the prime of our take. When you are 2, there is very little control over your world. You control only your reaction to the decisions being made for you and around you. In order to swallow that pill, you become one.

If you ask an adult who they are, they wax philosophical. Answering with who they want to be more often than who they currently are. At times, we may not even know. We project our desires with less toddler-like stomping and biting, but, with only a quarter of the badass that toddlerhood organically, and abundantly, produces.

There are times I desire that toddler, Foghorn Leghorn puffed chest pride. Every time I see my daughter strut around new terrain, secure in her right to be there, claiming the space as her own, I am awe-struck. So much sense of self trapped in one, tiny body. I imagine that the internal soundtrack in her head is Danger Zone. 24/7 Danger Zone and so much fantastic, she doesn't need Goose to co-pilot.

There are times when the brazenness of her age embarrasses me. Everything is theirs. That wallet in your hand? THEIRS. The grapes in the produce section. THEIRS. The chalk in your toddler's hands? Sorry, THEIRS. The cat's flea collar, your bowl of cereal, the sack of plastic bags in the basement. Right. THEIRS.

Alternatively, in all the well documented take of the toddler age, I see saintly giving. The affection they give to everyone they meet. The trust they extend and their unlimited well of forgiveness. I see those traits more acutely developed in these pint-sized Mother Theresas than in the majority of adult society. So much love to give and everyone is deserving. You only need be in their extended orbit to be a recipient of their time, words, love and attention.

Sure, they could use some polish. The crapping directly in their pants and failure to understand how to use a tissue require finesse, but, when it comes to give and take, good and bad, the light and dark, I have to say, toddlers may have us beat.

Toddler 101: Enter a room and be brazenly YOU.  Make friends with everyone. If anyone steps on your toes, tell them and then, hug it out. Friends may not always agree, but, if we have Goldfish and a few minutes, we'll remember that having relationships is far better than being right and, we'll move on. Everyone can play and if we all pool our snacks, there is plenty to go around. If I get hurt, it's alright to cry. If I need love, I'll ask for a hug. The world is great. People are kind. If you love the music, dance...no matter where you are. If you hurt someone, say sorry. Share.

Long live the Terrible Twos.

"How To Control Your Children."

I recently received an e-mail from a reputable, online mom network with the title: "How To Control Your Children." and I thought, GREAT, they are finally working on those Hello Kitty handcuffs I've been asking about. I know better than to take the well articulated bait, but, I just had to read what were sure to be magical techniques.  Who are these parents and how did they discover the key to control?  The intangible, mystical control that has so successfully eluded me since I first became a parent. Control, a skill which, even now, with years of parenting under my belt, I have still miserably failed at mastering. Scratch that, I have not even skimmed the surface. When I opened the e-mail, doves did not fly out of my computer screen and a man with a cape and black top-hat did not ask me to pick a card. ANY card. It was then that I realized that this whole e-mail and idea were a sham. As ridiculous as the Prince who needed access to my accounts in order to transfer his father's millions to America. I thought what we had was special, sir! The e-mail was filled with tips from experts and parents about how to avoid meltdowns in grocery stores, at restaurants, at parties, movies, public restrooms, etc. Basically, how to avoid any child-like behavior in any setting. Ever. Helpful tips like: Consider packing an entire suitcase full of fantastic diversions! It may be easier if the suitcase has wheels or a separate case attendant. It's especially helpful if the case can be a complete surprise! Consider having hired case attendant wheel the bag through the grocery store at safe, unnoticeable distance and then, jump out of case holding a puppy at the moment precisely before meltdown. Consider learning a few, new jokes to share during your shopping trip. Incorporate props, juggling and a tightrope! Bears are always a plus.

Who are these people and how can I be sure I never run into them as my 2 and 4 year old push each other into the yogurt case?  How can I put this tactfully. Let's see...this idea of control through constant entertainment is as ridiculous a concept as that of total, stable control.

As soon as you become a parent, you lose control of your life, your body, your wallet, your bowels. You lose control of your emotions as equal parts love and fear take over every firing synapse in your being. You lose your ability to exist in the same way you walked the earth just moments before your child was born, and you lose control of time - your understanding of time, your ability to fill space and time the same way and, with the same productivity. Subsequently, you spend your days trying to cram the chaos, fear, joy, pain, love and sheer clustery-fuckery of parenthood into the 24 hours you are given. Oh, and maybe to sleep. Maybe. To dream the impossible dream.

Control amidst the perfect chaos of parenthood is a myth. The unicorn flying over the double rainbow with a four-leaf clover in its teeth.

I'm tired of receiving e-mails that say, "How to Avoid Meltdowns.", "How To Control Your Children.", "Do Your Children Love You? 10 Signs You Are Not Connecting Enough." and, the ever vigilant "How to Drop Those Last 15 Pregnancy Pounds!". The e-mails that are really saying, "You're failing! Let us illustrate how much and how deeply!" *DING* (AOL VOICE) "You've Got FAIL!"

When I am at the store, I guess I could entertain my children by dressing as a clown, hitting myself in the face with a "Bakery FRESH!" pie followed by wildly shaking and then spraying flavored seltzer in my face, OR, I could grab my items as quickly as possible knowing that even with the free cookie from the Bakery (P.S. I love you, Bakery!), I have a firm 15 minutes before it gets real up in here. I could constantly entertain them with high kicks, origami, funny faces and political satire, OR, I could just talk with them as we run through the aisles. I acknowledge and let them know I understand that this is something that they don't want to do, but, I am firm that it is something we need to do for our family.

It's not about control. It's about balance. Sometimes life is exciting. It's parks, beaches, friends and s'mores. Sometimes life is real. It's bathroom breaks, grocery stores and trips to the dentist. You will not always be entertained. Sometimes, you have to buy bread with a mom who is tired and doesn't know any jokes. Such is life, kids. Sometimes, kids throw a fit because they are tired of you, the grocery store, the fake steering wheel on the cart that doesn't honk or the laces on their shoes. Such is life, adults.

The only thing we can control is our reaction to a situation. Good, bad or indifferent. Control? Unless you are referring to the 1986 song by Janet Jackson, I'm sticking with chaos. Noisy, messy, lovely chaos.

Knock, Knock!
Who's There?
Control.
Control Who?
Exactly.

Playground Politics

School is back in session, the lines at the local, drive-thru caffeine hut are longer than ever and just in time for scarves, hats and other fashion accessories to hide behind, my social anxiety is back. I can always count on my best frenemy to knock on my brain door just as the back to school elated cartwheels, celebratory drinking and sheer joy rush wear off.  Hi, you old bastard. Back so soon?

Summer's insanity of having all of the children at home and our rough to non-existent scheduling dulls the white noise of this issue. I was simply too busy to really listen. Like a buzzing bee, easy to shoo away over the Popsicles, late bedtimes and sunny, backyard play. But, just like apples on the tree, it is there, growing and waiting for September when cooler weather makes it, and me, ripe for the picking.

I could conclude through thorough self diagnosis with entirely no expertise, that this is a product of being a child with a military upbringing. Move, new school, make new friends, pack, repeat. Up until our final move East, I continued to move every year of my adult life. Growing anxious and unsettled as books on shelves, patterns and I settled in. But, as parents do, the drive to provide a new and clean experience for our children insisted that we settle. In theory, this was an all consuming, background white-lit goal. In reality, I had no practice and, practice makes perfect.

We moved to my husband's hometown. A small town with all the makings of the ideal childhood. A pedestrian friendly downtown, a strong art community, an amazing parks and recreation program, a beautiful, well loved and often used library, great schools and a focus on living life in concert with Nature. Sign me up, right? So, I did. I signed right the hell up.

At the post office, the staff blow bubbles from behind the counter, Mr. Hand comes through the mail door to eat the envelopes out of my children's giggling hands and we've perfected the Teddy Bear turn around at the Children's Room story-time, but, after four full years in this idyllic setting, I have made very few friends. I don't mean, wave to each other in passing and make small talk friends. I mean, I had a shit day, I'm un-showered and hanging by a thread, please bring wine and pizza friends.

In a small town, friendships are developed over lifetimes. The amount of people who have known each other since birth is staggering to me, a gypsy. As a woman with only one lifelong friend, I'm unsure even how to forge this type of connection. Four years in, I am still the new kid. I struggle to make small talk at school pick-up. The words get jumbled from brain to mouth. Insecure in my ability to communicate like a boy fumbling with his first bra. It is often awkward, painful and unsuccessful.

If I meet a person I feel could be a good fit, I worry that I try to oversell. Do I come off as desperate? Did I mess up that play-date? Do I call? Do I wait for them to call? Are we dating? I forgot to get her a corsage!

Then there is the inevitable unfavorable interaction that will send me into a tailspin. Just like that, I am the 7th grader with the "wrong" shoes. I want to find a corner where I can regroup. Do I fake a trip to the bathroom? I repeat in my head: Stand tall. Walk away. Always smile.

Do the relationships I have feel forced, one sided or unsatisfying? Are you calling for a glass of wine or for childcare? I get anxious. I lose sight of what a friendship feels like.

Am I making enough of an effort? Is the anxiety viewed as "difficult to get to know"? Does my inability to form a coherent thought during conversation make me appear crazy? Disclaimer: I obviously am.

As all of this rages inside me, my desire to find a group and create fulfilling friendships is stronger than ever. Part of the successful child rearing experience is to remain connected. To remain open, engaged and to participate in community. I know that in order to be the best mother I can be, I need to find my peer group. I need to nourish new relationships with the care I tell my daughter to give her classmates every day. We are all building something new. Forging ahead in new waters. We are practicing and, practice makes perfect.

I imagine a day in the future surrounded by a handful of down to earth mamas that I click with, that get me and I get them; who maybe couldn't afford that last ballet class so we are pot-lucking on a Tuesday. Feeding our families, drinking wine and yelling at our kids to stop climbing up the slide, in unison, with no judgment. I'm looking for you.   I am ready to do the work to make our friendship authentic. Now, to find you. Meet me at the monkey bars after 3rd period. I'll be the one looking anxiously to the side and hiding behind an adorable baby.

I'm ready to try. Trying is practice and, practice makes perfect.

"People who say they sleep like a baby usually don't have one." -Leo J. Burke

Photo Credit - The New Yorker

There comes a point in parenting when you look around and think, "What the HELL have I done?" Generally, this is around 3:30 a.m. when the world is asleep. The entire world except the small world you have created in your home. And, at this point, you think about choices you've made and consider when you last cleaned the fridge or really looked in a mirror. All the while, a bundle of your genes taunts you from your hip. And, you just know. You can tell. This is it. You are never going to sleep again. Ever. Because, that's the deal. You didn't really know this at the time you decided to become a parent. You thought it was a joke. It was just something people said like, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush!" or "A stitch in time saves nine." and, you thought, "What do these even mean? Relevance?"  I'll tell you what it means. It means you are never sleeping again. Professional, long-time parents always laugh about it. Tears of a clown? Good samaritanship? An attempt at a moral boost for the next generation of parents? Why make it worse than it is?  Here's a thought - Why make it better because seriously and please, hear me - You are never going to sleep again.

It starts out normal enough. You're at the hospital, you're in love and you don't even care that you're not sleeping, but, sleep always wins or at least tries to. Just when your goo-goo for you eyes start to close, the baby will inevitably cry because it is hungry or wet or cold or wants to know the meaning of life or has a stray diaper fiber stuck to its inner thigh or is curious about how snakes molt. Who knows? I don't, but, I know one thing. You are never going to sleep again.

Then, they are 2 and you are still not sleeping because, by this point, they have you pegged. They know that if a monster suddenly shows up, and they always do, you will be there with some canned air freshener, I mean, "monster spray". You are not union so the hours are undesirable. Monsters show up on weekends, holidays and always between 11:00 p.m. and 5:00 a.m. NO, you do not get sick time. Yes, you have to kill them all. Closet. Bed. Windows. Every damn monster in the house. Yes, that's right...you are never going to sleep again.

Then, that baby is 6 and you are still not sleeping because, by this point, you've probably been a genius and had one or a few more. "You weren't sleeping anyway!", the laughing people say. You  are so tired that you forget your childrens' names and your address and why you are holding a package of stamps in one hand and an empty ice cube tray in the other. And, you think, I've hit rock bottom. We can only go up from here. So, you start doing research on the NASA mattress partially because the people in the commercial look so fantastically well rested and partially because you always wanted to jump on a bed and use the other half of the mattress as a giant coaster for your nightly bottle of wine. Yes!, you think. This is it! Only up from here. You are wrong. Please remember, you are never going to sleep again.

Then, there is the inevitable curfews they are sure to break and the worry and the still checking to see if they are breathing, even when they are 14 and the friends and phone calls and music and your general inability to sleep because the damn flyer is due for the school committee you signed up for.  It's always someone's snack day and cupcakes don't make themselves and you're out of milk...again and you are now buying face lotion made out of Preparation H and stardust found in one of the moon's darkest craters to cover the dark craters that used to be eyes. You look at old pictures, before kids, and the only thing everyone says is: "Look at how young you look!" which you know is code for , "You were a hot number back when you were sleeping!"

Years pass and still, you do not sleep because of costumes, hemlines and broken hearts that need mending and financial aid packets and college trips and shopping for their first apartment and, like that, they are gone to start their own noisy, sleepless lives filled with children and the sounds of home. You have all the quiet in the world, but they are gone and the quiet is deafening. It is too quiet to sleep. And, you remember...that was the bittersweet deal. You are never going to sleep again. The laughing people were right. It was worth it.

Summer's Last Stand

Who doesn't love summer with its endlessness and perpetual abyss of all of your offspring under one roof? I enjoy my weekly shower and cold cup of coffee because life is revitalizing when freezing cold  and roughly scheduled. I also enjoy our 2 1/2 month inch toward poverty as the locusts children eat us out of house and home. Of course you can have all 15 of the Hot Pockets. I was saving them for the apocalypse, but, frankly that seems closer now than ever so, enjoy!

After several months home, the gifts of summer's delight keep on giving, and giving, and giving and...come play with us Danny (elevator doors open in Overlook Hotel).




We're going back to school shopping...forever and ever and ever and ever...


As we drag our weary, bedraggled bodies toward the home stretch, I can think of only two things: How many more days until school starts? and, How did I manage to only get a tan on my feet?

This week has brought more of the same. The zest of the initial June kiddie pool filling has been replaced with August 13ths, "Can't you just go play NEAR the hose. I might turn it on later. I don't know, maybe if you're really thirsty." and our bounding out of the gates trips to the park have turned into, "Hey kids, look out the window! There's the park!" as we speed home from the grocery store. I've caved and they can smell my desperation. Desperation for Moms - the new scent by mothers, for mothers. A scent for the simple, complicated woman who just can't wait for effing school to start. *whisper* DESSSSPERATION.

As swift as sand through the hourglass, so are the the days of our lives...except for the days of summer.

Now what, you ask? Exactly. I am out of ideas. I am out of pipe cleaners, glue and stickers. And, to quote the great philosopher, Prince, "Party over, oops out of time." But, summer still had one sucker punch for me: Several days of torrential downpour. Game on, summer. One more chance to give it my "A game" or, to establish an A game since I've been riding the bench between C - and D, but, with the curve I'm hoping to pull it up to a solid B -.  Here's hoping the kids accept my extra credit sprinkling of dirt on their note to the fairies that I passed off as fairy dust! Fingers crossed!

Now, I give you our rainy day summer projects you will NEVER see on Pinterest:

Weather Hats - They are fashionable and informative. If they are wet, it's raining. If your forehead starts to smoke, the sun is shining. If the forecast calls for thunder and lightning, it's time to ask yourself, Are you a bettin' man? Well, are you?

You are seriously impressed right now. Who wouldn't be? Now taking orders for my shop featured on Regretsy.

Telephone - Ring, Ring? Hello? Hello? HELLOOOOO? Just like when the phone rings during the day in my house, I'm going to ignore these calls too. The kids love that they can scream at each other from different rooms and I love that they are screaming things like, "HI! I CAN'T WAIT TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL SO WE CAN GET AWAY FROM She'sLostIt McOutOfHerMind!" instead of screaming directly into each other's faces about who gets to eat the fruit snack they just found under the radiator vent.




"What is the legal age you can emancipate yourself from your parents?"



They sure don't make them like this anymore. Or, ever.

Sticks - This game is really neat. You go out in the rain and collect as many sticks as possible. Then, you put the sticks in a giant pile. Then, you pick up large debris, add it to the stick pile and, this is where it gets REALLY interesting, then rake smaller debris into the BIG pile until the yard is 100% absent of debris. After this, you apply for a burn permit through your local fire department and burn any debris that is not usable as mulch. Kids LOVE this game. You can thank me later.

If this doesn't make you want to immediately run out and play "sticks", well, then I guess FUN means something different to you.

I have to say, I think it's clear I nailed it. Speaking of nails....well, we can get to that game next summer. I don't want to give all of  my secrets away in one post.

"My Kids Are My Best Friends!"

I have heard tales of parent - child relationships so strong that they refer to each other as best friends. I can only surmise that this works the same way 18th century courting worked. After being told you were betrothed and had no choice but to be together for life, you figured you'd make the best of it, find out each other's similarities and give it a good old fashioned try. You would drink a lot and fan yourself. In fits of anger, they would throw things at you....mostly breakable things you love. You'd make tea sandwiches. They would eat them, except for the crust.  Back then, divorce was unheard of. And since parenthood is also a life sentence, I think it's a good idea to take a deep breath and settle in. Fortunately, unlike marriage, you do all the diapering in the beginning and get to the dating and drinking together in the later years. This seems like a fair deal. The sweet after the constantly urinated on in public sour.

In some ways, my kids are my best friends. Mostly because baby and toddler hood are a battlefield that we have all fought on together. This makes us soldiers in the same platoon. We're bros. No one knows you like your platoon during war-time. We haven't shared cigarettes or pin-up pictures, but, I have carried them over my shoulder while running from an angry bee and when we have explosions of the diaper variety, I am the medic.  SO yeah, we're tight.

Best friends have secret languages. I speak all four of my children's garbled languages fluently. I know that EOGHRTOUERFSOHGT SOTHEOUHTTT!!!! means, "Hey Mom. I want a sandwich." and I know that ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR means, "Head's up. I'm tired. You'd better postpone that grocery store trip until after nap time." Our secret handshakes change daily, but, we have those too. Their current favorite is pull mom's pants down and laugh which I know means, "The four of us will be ganging up on you for the rest of your life. Get used to it!" I then respond with my secret handshake of tripping over my pants and clenching my teeth in half pain/half anger which means, "I know. I'm ready for you. Next time I'm wearing pants 3 sizes too small! SUCKERS!"

Best friends are often well matched. They may love to read, write or go to theatre. My children and I are well matched as well. We are generally cranky, covered in mud and none of us know how to spell. Similarities. Check.

Best friends fight and then make up. Does this even require an example? No, it doesn't.

Best friends borrow each other's clothes.  They wear my underwear on their heads. Close enough.

Best friends tell each other secrets. I know ALL of their secrets. I plan on never telling them...until the truly perfect moment of horrifying embarrassment. That's what best friends do.

Best friends know that no matter what, they have each other's backs. Mean chick at Day Camp who refused to do Twin Day with my daughter, Aggressive Troll on the slide that pushed my toddler into a cardboard box and ANYone who breaks their hearts, this (best) Bud's for you. And, by Bud, I mean my evil, death stare while menacingly peeling an orange.

Ok, I admit it  - we are besties. Now to find a BFF necklace that splits into 5 pieces.

Tripping the Hazmat Fantastic.

Parenthood is a ticking, germ-laden time bomb. A sea of vile, phobia creating quarantine shed scenarios that make even the bravest of the brave fall to their knees (get up, sanitize their knees with a travel sized Wet One, return to their knees, hand sanitize their hands after touching said knees) in horror. I have taken a deep breath and, for the betterment of kindred parenting spirits everywhere, have gone to a dark, dark place in order to tell you about the worst of the worst. Public arenas turned Outbreak. Places soap can not touch. Places soap doesn't bother touching. Places where hand sanitizer is futile. Places of danger. Places I always end up.

Kids, is everyone suited up? Great. Let's get out there and have some FUN.

Remember that scene in E.T.? - The scientists arrive at Elliott's home to study E.T. and his connection to Elliott. They are all wearing hazmat suits with full astronaut helmet. The entire house is connected to the research site by an elaborate series of above ground tunnels? These places are exactly like that except remove ALL attempts of sterilization and order.




I must insist you keep your body completely covered while in the milk crate. Gertie found it in a KFC dumpster.

 1) The Indoor Play Place
The sites! The sounds! The smells! No, it's not Clorox. Take 15 - 40 partially potty trained toddlers, several babies and a smattering of 1/2 tuned in parents and you have the perfect storm that is the indoor play place. Urine. Unrecongnizable assaulted food products. Dirty diapers. Soiled underwear. That is just the coat rack near the entrance. There is, inevitably, a climbing structure that is just big enough for a child to become stuck and terrified and just small enough for you to lay on the floor, stick one leg under the structure for support and flail most useful arm up into the abyss, motioning for your child to grab your limb. During this cirque du soleil feat, you try not to think about the wet spot grazing your hand and are hopeful that your foot is digging in to what could be so many things, but, is probably not the nutrigrain bar you're hoping for. After hours with other parents, exchanging horror stories and on-call pediatric physician numbers for the closest three counties, you leave, shower your children and burn their clothes in the backyard.

2) The Children's Museum
At the children's museum, you can explore your local city. You can learn how to anchor a news desk, work the local market register and learn about transportation. There is one exhibit missing - how to fight off the resurgence of 14th century "black death". Come with questions, leave with the Bubonic Plague. Not on museum t-shirts yet. I'm working on it. The children's museum is a maze of sticky plastic produce and rare childhood viruses. Learn how to make change, ride the subway and survive hand, foot and mouth disease. Be the foreman at a construction site, try on a fireman's helmet and pass on Fifths Disease to your family and friends. Excuse me, your former friends. The children's museum. Discover. Learn. Vomit.

3) The Public Pool
All you need at our local pool is $1 per child, a swim diaper and the intestinal fortitude of a world champion butter eater. From the kiddie area, the regular pool gleams with sparkling chlorine filled water. Water filled with adults. Water filled with the expert level potty trained of America. Over in the kiddie pool? Well, imagine a sewer line. That's it. Just imagine a sewer line. Turned inside out. With lots of crying. And, unusually warm water. Our toddler water area is very festive. Rainbow sprayers, turtles to climb on, and giant shower head sprayers. I see the appeal. So does every 2 year old in New England. The turtle, and its fun shell sprayers, act as a seat AND an unintentional water fountain. Mmmm...can you taste that? That's chlorine and anxiety. Delicious. Between the tears, swim diaper blow-outs and smashed snack shack fries, I make a weekly vow to never return, but, the fanciful rainbow sucks me back in every time. "This time it will be different.", it whispers. "This time, it will be magic. I'm a rainbow...trust me!" The rainbow connection. The lovers, the dreamers and pee.

4) The "Family Restroom"

I appreciate the idea behind the Family Restroom. Logistically, where else could I take a cart filled with a gaggle of children that all inevitably require some sort of restroom attention as soon as the magical, bowel clearing automatic store doors open? I appreciate the consideration. I appreciate the size. I appreciate the intention. But, as we all know, the path to Hell is paved with good intentions. And, the path to the family restroom is paved with e-coli. The real BUMmer about the family restroom is its lies. Its sweet, vile lies. "Oh, come on in! You can ALL fit in here. Yep, the cart too!" You wander in and just like that, you are the fly and this room is the Venus Fly Trap. Upon entry, you have already realized that it is too late. You are right. You can fit 3 - 4 regular sized bathroom stalls in the family restroom. You will find an adult toilet, a toddler toilet, a changing table, a toddler seat, a stool and the sink. 250 square feet of chaos. Think it's hard to keep children from touching the singular toilet in a small stall? Try 3 toilets, 3 trash cans, a painter's step stool placed directly undereath a dangling light fixture and, just for giggles, add enough running room on slippery tile to make this interesting. Imagine the game of Life. Every car is a shopping cart. Every home, a Family Restroom. Every road leads to a hospital and every crank of the wheel, another dose of IV antibiotics. The only improvement I can offer - single use straight jackets. Problem solved. Long story even longer (brace yourself for endlessness), I guess what I'm saying is, I am not down with O.P.P. (Other People's Pottys, Outdoor Port o' Pottys, Ominous Public Pottys, Opulent Porcelain Pottys, Offensive Putrid Pottys....I could go all day). Yeah, you know me. The BOTTOM line? As often as the family restroom horrifies me, it gives me flowers and promises that next time the initials indicating the last cleaning will be in this decade. It will be better. Clean. I believe it because I like flowers and second chances. And scouring my hands with Soft Scrub.

"You JUST went to the bathroom before we left the house!"

The undeniable fact is, I still go to all of these places. Frequently. Willingly. Like when a horse is willingly hitched to a plow in a field in the dead of August or, when parents willingly attend Recorder concerts. Willingly means something different when you become a parent. Willingly now means; My kids enjoy or need this so, hook that rope around my waist and send me in to the demon portal closet full of poltergeists. I'm coming through the other side covered in pink slime and clutching my babies. Willingly. Like a thankful for up to to date immunization boosters BOSS.









Hello? Is it Keys You're Looking For?

I used to have brains. Big brains. Like, off to see the Wizard to discover you already had brains, brains. Ideas that didn't involve car seat buckling strategies. Ideas about life. Theories. I had things to say. Now, I just forget what I was going to say. What was I going to say?




The square root of...hey....did I ever switch that load over to the dryer?


With every pregnancy, 2 zillionths of my brain has been lost. A shit-ton (actual measurement) of lost brain matter, if you will. Most days, I can not spell words I've known my whole life. Octopus. No, octopuss? I call all of my children by the wrong name. Every day. I compensate for the guilt by concluding that it only endears me to them as you always most want to please the person who easily forgets you.

I have a key hook which may as well be a magic portal to Narnia. Keys go there, but they never ARE there. Sometimes, I will find my key ring (AHA! BRAINS!) only to find that the car key isn't on it, but, 3 sets of house keys are. WHAT? I don't know. I have NO idea. How, you ask? This is your brain on kids.

My husband has come home to find I've left both sliding van doors open. In the rain. And has walked up the deck to discover the keys. In the door. On the same day. What's missing...besides my brain? The sign that says: "Free Van and Family!"

I will be in the shower with shampoo on my head and I will think, "Where the hell am I in this shower process? Did I put conditioner on my hair first? How did I even get in here? What's that sound? Where are the kids? Where's what'shername? Did I wash my face? SHIT! It's what'shisname's snack day today! SHIT! Did I put conditioner on top of my shampoo? Why am I wearing underwear?"

I have a calendar full of reminders written in my handwriting with a pen I wielded and I generally forget to check said calendar. I walk past it, at least 100 times a day, but, it's invisible to my brain. Then there is the flip side - I look at the calendar with no knowledge of writing items down. I look at the calendar. I look at my hands. I look to the heavens. Divine calendar writing? I check to make sure ink isn't pouring from my hands a la stigmata. How in the? Who in the? Brains.

With baby # 3, I devised a clever system of placing a rubber band on the wrist of the side I last nursed on. BOOOOYAH! BRAINS! Only to go to feed and wonder if I ever remembered to switch the rubber band to the alternate side? Sleep deprived, raccoon eyed and caffeine thirsty, I'd stare at my wrist as if high. Stare. Stares. Staring. *Shrugs* Nevermind. What's the matter, grey matter?

At each pediatrician appointment, I take notice that my childrens' head circumference is growing. Growing with knowledge, growing into new hat sizes. Growing with my stolen brain. As they covertly and adorably activate the brain sucking transfer sequence, I marvel at how willing I was to let my brain go. How willing I was to do it all again. To become more Forrest Gump with each passing child. I may not know where my keys are, but, I know what love IS.

Load up, kids! The doctor says you are healthy and smarter than your mom. Everyone in? Everyone is buckled? Where are the keys? *Sees lovely, kind and sympathetic receptionist running out to van holding key ring* Sigh. Brains.



This is your brain on kids. Any questions?



Hello Mudder, Hello Fadder, Here I am at Camp Granada.

Summer is underway. Or, underfoot - like gophers, snakes and sewer lines. Summer conjures visions of swimming pools, s'mores and two of the most beautiful words to fall on this mother's ears: Summer Camp.

Two of my plucky ducks are enrolled in one (glorious) week of summer camp. Coordinated drop-offs at 8:30 a.m. and 9:00 a.m.. Pick-ups at 3:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m. - Oh, pardon me, I was just doing the shopping cart and the sprinkler at the same time because, guess what? Two kids. Gone. ALL day. Summer camp isn't just a fun-filled romp for the kids, it's a silky smooth slice of sanity saver sprayed with sunscreen and wrapped in maccaroni art.

I was hell bent on sending the two older children to camp this year; even if I had to sell a kidney or my soul. All year, summer camp shone like a guiding beacon of hope and truth with the back lit faces of other mothers insisting on its necessity; guiding me as I pinched my pennies for the "Save Mom's Sanity Summer Fund". I pinched. I tucked away. I made some hard cuts. Like balancing a federal budget, I knew some of the luxuries had to go if I was going to make CampForce One fly. Months of drinking crappy store brand burnt beans. A little here. A little there. I turned wine into water and then took the money I normally use to buy wine and put it towards camp. Voila, a summer miracle.

Last night, the anticipation was palpable. One more day until summer camp. ONE MORE DAY! On my top secret countdown chart, I could finally make that last strike-through and pop open the bottle of cheap-ass bubbly. A week of 50% less children. A week of 50% less fighting over apple cores, mismatched socks and who flushed who's waste down the toilet. A week of running errands without an unload and load procedure mimicking the evacuation of the Titanic. Summer Camp, they are your problem now.

As I settled in for my camp coma, I noticed the giant stacks of paperwork provided by camp administration:

"HI! Welcome to Summer Camp!" Ok, good start. I'm totally hooked. Where is this letter going? Somewhere exciting, I bet.

"We are so looking forward to playing with your children!" I'm glad someone is.

"Here's a helpful list of what you should bring!" Whatever it is you need, camp...I'm gonna give it to you. I'm gonna give it to you good.

And, that is all it took. A little packing. A little penny pinching. A little hopin' and wishin' and dreamin' and forced sobriety. Today, at 9:00 a.m., I became 50% less likely to be heard screaming, "STOP PUSHING YOUR SISTER'S FACE INTO HER YOGURT!" and 50% less likely to go produce postal in the local supermarket. "Glen, clean up in produce. The corn....the sweet, sweet corn. It's. It's everywhere. The horror!"

When I picked them up, they were pink cheeked; eyes half mast. The smell of sunscreen, chlorine, glue, bliss and exhaustion meltdown was in the air. I have made a good decision. But...OHHHHHH....those su-uhhhh-meeerrrrrr CAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAHHHHMPS (tell me more, tell me more-ohhh-ohhh-ore).

Long live Summer Camp. A grateful Mom Nation salutes you.

Camp Crystal Lake made me sign all sorts of crazy waivers. Weird.

Is You Is Or Is You Ain't My Baby

Get it? GET IT? It's my belly button!

Since late 2011, right around the time I became grotesquely  pregnant with our 4th (see above), I have been telling, well, spit riddled screaming to the world that we are done popping out babies like a Pez dispenser. "Nope, 4 is great! We are done. D-O-N-E. DONE!" I tell random strangers, people I see out and about, grocery store cashiers, our trash collectors and my ovaries. I particularly pour on the panicked, high pitched insistence of our brownchickenbrowncow festivities being purely non-child creation focused to the eyebrow raised inquirers (insisters), "So, you're done...right?" Those people, in particular, cause my inner people pleaser to jump triumphantly forth and ensure them that, "Yes, we are done!" When really, I want to say, "It's none of your damn business! Why don't you lower your brow before your face freezes that way!" Then I imagine kicking dirt on their freshly pressed white linen pants, giving them the full cross armed F U and speeding off in my minivan leaving them speechless, covered in peel out dirt and with a trail of Dodge fumes all up in their grill.

Word.

Instead, I match their smiling, eyebrow raised, not even hidden judgment with a saccharine, knowing look and judgment swallowing statement that confirms what they want to hear so that I can walk away and feel less like a giant, tower climbing, city destroying uterus. All I have to say to myself is, What the freakin' WHAT? As my two year old so eloquently once said, "Why I do that?" .

Why, Indeed.

I have no explanation for smiling and laughing at the SEA HAG kindly, older woman who saw me out with my children, held the door open for me as I struggled with the pack, stroller  and the older two holding my pockets and then said, "1, 2, 3, 4...that's enough!". Wahhhh Wahhh Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. As my husband would say in a sing-song voice, "Dick punch!"

I have no explanation for my quiet, meek acceptance of the douche-baggery that occurs every time I deign to walk outdoors with my ducklings in tow other than the cold, hard fact that I would not do well in prison. I'm not Martha Stewart. I can't just go to prison and bounce back with several multi-million dollar deals. Also, I don't know the first thing about shivs!  My favorite comments on the brain to mouth vomit spectrum are:

1) "Are those all yours?"

What I say: (with a smile) "Yes!"

What I want to say: "Can you show me some I.D. before I answer this question?" (After I.D. is shown) "Oh, thank God you're not law enforcement. Wait, are you undercover? SHIT!" Then, I'd ditch my shopping cart full of groceries and run as quickly as possible in the opposite direction.

2) "You should think about investing in cable!"

What I say: (forced giggling) "You're probably right!"

What I want to say: "Do you have statistics handy to show that people without cable have more children? No? Well, I'm willing to wait here with my screaming kids while you pull up that data on your iPhone. Sir? SIR...WHERE ARE YOU GOING? I WANT FACTS!"

3) "Are you running a daycare?"

What I say: (still smiling) "Some days it sure feels like it!"

What I want to say: "Yes, this is a daycare. Today is field trip day and, I think, and you will agree random stranger, that nothing is more exhilarating than taking small children to Walmart. In fact, you caught us just in time. As you can see, we are in the toilet paper section and we are just about to learn the difference the number of plys make. Good thing you caught us at this pivotal point of the learning experience."

Once, while in the library, pregnant with our fourth, a woman came up to me (who knew my husband's family) and said, "What does your husband do for work? Is he a (description of a job that makes a lot of money)?"

Me: "No, he's a (description of a job that makes far less money)."

Her: "Oooooohhhhhhh." And suddenly, my pregnancy was her business and open for judgement.

What I said: (with a smile) "We make it work!"

What I wanted to say:"We make it work. We have everything we need. We love them. They love us. That might not be good enough for you, but, it's everything to us."

And, here are my personal feelings on the subject of children. Will you love them? Will you care for them? Will you feed them? Teach them? Nurture their independence? Teach them about kindness? Will you do the hard work to release excellent humans into the world? If the answer is yes, you can have 1, 2, 5 or 25. I. Don't. Care. It's not my business and kudos to you for doing the work to make this world a better place filled with quality humans.

And, if you have a problem with me and my four amazing children, here is what I have to say:

We make it work. We have everything we need. We love them. They love us. That might not be good enough for you, but, it's everything to us.

Oh, and shove it.

January 3, 2012, the day I became "that lady who should invest in cable".




Look at how AMAZING they all are. I can't imagine life with "less". Great, now I want more. See naysayers, BACKFIRED!









My Daughters Were Not "Born to Shop".

I am a woman, a sister and a mother. I come from a family of all daughters - a tribe of fearless females. I also have 3 daughters of my own. 3 daughters! Boom. Pow! CRASH! Those are the sounds of responsibility hitting me square in the face. It is 2012, but, if you take a look around, the stereotypes and gender role messages from the past are as clear and loud as ever. They are not even lurking. They are slapping you right in the face. They press the boundaries of our collected comfort and continue to exploit the roles and "duties" society still obliges our young generation of women to fulfill. And, what role do we play in the passive assignment of who our girls "should" be? Are we taking a stand? Are we aware, enough, of what everything around them is telling them? And, what exactly are "they" saying? This parenting thing is tough. My brain hurts. I need a drink.

I live in the world of the Disney Princess. My little women watch with delight, mimic with gusto and dream of their Happily Ever After. They role play in scarves, ruffles and glitter. They sing the songs, they know the words. Oddly enough, I am ok with this. These are fairy tales. These are bedtime stories of fancy. And, in their own right, many of these heroines have just enough kick-ass to make them a household fixture that I can enjoy through my daughters' eyes. And, as time marches on, the princesses are changing. They are moving into an awareness of their special talents/gifts. What am I saying? I have no idea. I THINK I'm saying that my love/hate for the Disney Princesses is complex. It is effing deep and difficult to navigate. I have feelings. Feelings that overlap. Feelings of confusion, but, mostly, I just want to sing along. Sue me.


This is not a princess hating post. This is a post about my feelings about other gender stereotypes that are not complex. This is a post about my downright hatred of certain clothing phrases. You know, the statements we plaster across our babies and young girls' chests. Messages as clear and revolting as Grandma's 50s-era Spam dinner. We knowingly and often suit our girls up in ruffled phrases that mock the progress women who came before us have made. It is crazy. It is offensive. It has to stop. Please, make it stop! So, for your viewing displeasure, here are three of my most hated onesie/clothing statements:

"Born to Shop" - Dearest girl child, your life is full of potential. You are a bright star. You have every opportunity. Opportunities that women in other countries can only dream of. Here, wear this onesie that lets everyone know that you are a female and females just LOVE to shop. In fact, you were BORN to do it. You were not born to explore space or become President of the United States. You, my dear, were born to shop. Grab your plastic, Miss Fantastic and let's head to the mall.

"Daddy/Mommy/Grandma/Grandpa Thinks I'm Pretty" - You are a girl. That means it is your JOB to be pretty. Everything else is secondary. All the people closest to you think so and that is why we are letting the whole world know that this is your great gift/talent as a female. To reiterate, it's not being kind, smart, witty or talented that makes us proud to be your closest relatives. It's how cute you look in dresses. How pretty your tiny face is. Above all else, You. Must. Be. Pretty. Pretty girls rule the world. Don't ever forget that, Dimples.

"DIVA" gear - Are you strong willed? Do you ask for what you want? Are you opinionated? Are you full of personality? Well, then you must be a DIVA. That's right, girl. You aren't anything more than an attention seeking fameaholic. You couldn't possibly just be strong, opinionated, dynamic or the thousands of other words that apply. No, you are a DIVA. Add some glitter and a crown to that one word and walk around with it plastered to your chest. Let the world know that you are "hard to handle" and have "unrealistic expectations". It's time to start selling yourself short.

And, really, that's my big, core issue. We are telling our girls, in print, that we have the very basest of expectations for them. We anticipate that they will love the mall, be a beauty and that they just wont take no for an answer when it comes to sweet talking that extra $20 from Daddykins. Our pretty little diva shopaholics, the new generation of independent women. The tomorrow we've all been dreaming of. No? Not your dream? It's not mine either.

So, I'm campaigning for these new onesie/t-shirt phrases:

Daddy Thinks I Kick Ass!
Mommy's Mensa Candidate!
Future CEO!
Born To Be the Best Me I Can Be!
Tough As Nails & Smart As A Whip!

Let's have a good old fashioned bonfire for the others. However, I won't be burning my bra. I need it to nurse my youngest, bright star who was born to do great, unknown things that are too varied and wonderful to be splayed across her chest.


*Have your own hated onesie/clothing phrases? Please comment and share. Sharing is caring.*

What I Want to Be When I Grow Up/(Beauty) School Drop-Out

As "Bad Parenting Moments", I love to explore, exploit and enjoy the humor of parenthood. This is my "shit just got REAL" post for the month. I'll return to the funny next week. I promise! xo - Debbie Downer

When I was a little girl, I went through the normal line-up of prospective careers: Rainbow Brite, Princess, Veterinarian, Doctor, Lawyer, President, Ballerina, Actress on, "Hey Dude!". The usual. Then, I grew up. Well, I partially grew up. I did well in school. I was fortunate to be given a scholarship to college. Before college, I narrowed down my career choices: Lawyer and Rainbow Brite. Sadly, UGA did not offer advanced degrees in Rainbow Brite or the option to minor in riding horned unicorns over rainbows. Hey, no school is perfect. I settled for pre-law. My freshman year was a disaster. A total disaster. I was a mess. I was immature. I was afraid. I did not know who I was or what the hell I was doing. I was 18. I would like to say that somewhere deep down inside of me, where I knew I could be and do whatever I wanted, that I channeled my inner She-Ra and pulled through. Not the case. After a year of failing, I failed myself and quit. The broken pieces of my paper bag princess hopped a Greyhound bus from Georgia to Los Angeles, California (another blog for another time) and I never...ok, I rarely looked back. I started working and built an excellent career. I started at the bottom and worked my way up the "old fashioned" way. I met a boy, fell in love, had lots of babies, moved to a small town in New England and put my ideas of what I thought I wanted to be on the back burner of the extra stove you keep in the basement. What I wanted to be when I grew up was irrelevant. I was living the dream. Happy, healthy family. My greatest career? Mom, of course! Babies and joy and chaos. There was no time to examine the 18 year old I was or the Poet/Lawyer/Warrior Princess she wanted to be, but, who cared. I. Was. Living. The. Dream.

I have written about this before. The quiet need of a mother to find and/or retain who she is amidst the joy and chaos of parenthood. I write about it because I have no earthly idea how to manifest this idea in real life. A mother finds little outlet in the day to day, in the "thick" of parenting to nourish herself, EXCEPT, through the growth, happiness and nourishment of her children. That is spectacular and gratifying, but, is it enough? I don't know.

Some would label me unhappy or ungrateful for even having this thought. Guess what, I am scared to have that thought. What kind of mother am I if I say, in print, that being a mother may not nourish every fiber of my being to satisfaction. What if, I dare to say that I may need my own childhood dreams of being my own super hero fulfilled outside of the confines of "mom"?  And, my biggest fear, what if I am not the best mother I can be because I do not know who I am outside of their mother. What if I fail them like I failed at 18. Because, like stepping into the world at 18, I am afraid and, on most days, I still do not know who I am or what the hell I am doing.

Here is the difference; my complete, heartbreaking love for my children will not allow me to quit. They make me want to truly examine the desires I have to become not just their mother, but, a woman they can be proud of. In quiet moments, I imagine my adult relationships with my children. In all of these imagined scenarios, they are always happy. We are always laughing. I do not know if they will be ballerinas, doctors, lawyers, veterinarians, paleontologists, Broadway actors, college grads or college drop-outs. Are they happy? Are they fulfilled? Do they know who they are? Do they know that it is never too late to figure out who you want to be in the world?

And, what's next for me? Well, it is never to late to figure out who you want to be in the world. I don't owe Rainbow Brite or college for that piece of truth. I owe my children for that life lesson.

Easter Can Kiss My Keister!

(Warning: Ranting/Rambling of a non-religious person forthcoming. If you are offended, I sincerely apologize in advance. If you continue reading, don't say I didn't warn you!)

Every year since we started having children, the scene has been relatively the same. It goes something like this:

Catholic Husband  (Thursday before Easter): "I don't know what you have planned for the kids for Easter on Sunday, but, I'm going to take A (our oldest) to mass with me."

Me, Heathen Wife: "CRAP!!! CRAP!!! Easter is THIS Sunday. You are joking me? How late is (fill in the name with any super sized bargain store) open?"

Easter! You did it again! You are one stealth holiday, my frenemy!

It is not just that it always sucker punch's me in the face and then while I'm recovering, kicks me in the stomach. It's the whole shebang. It confuses me. SO, let me get this straight, Jesus came back from the dead (WHOA...that is AMAZING. Note to self: DVR The Walking Dead) and we celebrate this by buying green plastic grass, hiding eggs in bushes and perpetuating the (terrifying) myth that a 7 foot tall rabbit is breaking into our homes to bring us diabetes?

The egg hunts, the wearing of fancy clothing, the dye, the egg massacre in my kitchen, the candy, the 2:00 p.m. tantrums, the serious lack of alcohol to make any of this palatable. It is my least favorite holiday.

I imagine if I were religious (i.e. not going to hell in an Easter (hand)basket), Easter would be so much more. Respect. For me, with 4 small kids and a serious lack of religious upbringing, it is the antithesis. It is another Wal*Mart sponsored spending spree that leaves me feeling ambushed and with an additional 5 pounds of candy weight.

The DEVILed Eggs

But, I love my kids. I love them like CRAZY. So, I will SQUEEZE my post-partum body into a frock, hide jelly bean filled eggs, create baskets that would make Wilford Brimley shake in his diabetes filled boots and start downing mimosas at 10:00 a.m. . I'm a mom, it isn't about me! My little heathens LOVE Easter, so, I will pretend to love it too. And, to be fair, they are the four cutest cadbury eggs on the planet.  Sigh, Easter...you win again.

See, I manage to pull it all together.

HOLY cuteness. Easter 2009. This Easter, 2 additional bunnies!

My Body is a (Shirley) Temple (of Doom)!

Some people take great pride in the wonderful care and treatment they provide their life's vessel. Me, my greatest accomplishment (aside from carrying and birthing 4 children) is eating an entire bag of Reese's Trees in one sitting (delicious bastards). I would LIKE to say that I practice safe satiating, but, I do not. In fact, look up glutton in the dictionary. That is me (smiling and waving with chocolate all over my teeth). In fact, I should update the definition on Wikipedia to include my several proud gluttonous feats. I have eaten 1/2 a cake in one sitting more times than I'd like to admit. I don't even know if I can count that high. When it comes to self control, I have zero. If you are a delicious and tasty treat, I will eat you until I'm nauseated and then I will eat a few bites more.

Oh, and don't worry, I'm not one of those thin people that you want to beat with a 3 foot tall chocolate bunny. I'm lucky. I'm just one of those people who can eat whatever they want and just get really, really overweight. I know, just blessed with lucky genes I guess. I am surrounded by thin moms daily. I assume they work-out. I have no intention of working out. If a murderer was chasing me, I MAY run or, I may just resign myself knowing he's probably in superior physical shape. "Ok, buddy...you win! Let's make this quick."

NOTE: I save all my despicably impressive gluttony for nighttime. If the kids are in bed, you can find me on the couch with some of these favorites: 1) A "family size" bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms. 2) A bag of individually wrapped Reese's treats in the corresponding holiday shape. After eating entire bag, I like to pretend I didn't by hiding the 50 empty wrappers underneath a layer of trash in the trashcan. Can't see them? DIDN'T HAPPEN! 3) Cake. I have a serious, serious problem with cake. Case in point, I ordered a sheet cake for our children's combined birthday party. At the end of said party, there was over 1/2 a sheet left. I had a dear friend drop cake off at the local Fire Department because I knew it would come home with me and I would eat the remaining portion in 2 days. Giving the cake to the Fire Department ensured that the Fire Department would not be arriving at my house 2 days later while I choked on frosting. A backwards thank you and preventative measure. Genius.

Aside from my Dessert Outbursts (DessertBursts...mmmm, sounds like a delicious dessert!), I am a relatively healthy person. Like with any problem, the first step is admitting you have one! SO, here it goes, My name is Bethany and I have a serious dessert addiction. At my intervention, please bring Reese's Eggs.

BPM's first guest DADDY blogger!

Today, we are sharing our first Daddy guest blogger! Our BPM Daddys don't get the floor very often. I am pleased to be able to yield said Cheerio covered floor to bad(ass) Dad, Aaron Graff. Aaron is the father of 2 young boys and the inventor of a word I use almost daily, "Sadlarious". Let's give Mr. Graff some BPM love. Enjoy his guest blog post: "How Deadwood helped me raise my children!"

http://miscunderstanding.blogspot.com/2011/12/how-deadwood-helped-me-raise-my.html

An Inconvenient Poop

"In the Parenthood Justice System, the people are represented by only one all powerful unit. The parent who investigates crimes and the same parent who prosecutes the offenders. These are their stories."

It was March of 2008. I was a new mom for the 2nd time. My son was 2 weeks old and my darling first born was just over 2. The transition for her had been rough. The transition for me had been rough. Lots of tears. Lots of jealousy. Lots of mistakes. Lots of "learning moments". Our daughter, OLD baby, was taking a nap. I was hanging out with NEW baby in the living room, nursing, making lovey dovey googly eyes at him. You know, the usual. I then heard my daughter call for me. A very (suspiciously) sweet and light, "Maaaahhhh-mmaaahhhh". I pick up new baby and head over to the door. As I began to open the door, I was hit with the unmistakable smell of nap poop. Now, parents know what nap poop is. It is, hours old, burn the hair out of your nostrils, stagnant closed door poop. It is vile. I brace myself by taking a deep breath so I can run in, grab O.B. (old baby) and get out of the toxic fumes. Sadly, it was not just low level breathable toxins that awaited me. It was so. much. worse.

The next few minutes are a blur. I'm fairly certain I went into a sort of trauma coma. I do not know how much time passed before I recovered, but, when I did, this is what I saw.

1) Completely naked 2 year old covered in crap from head to toe
2) Crap wall "mural" behind crib (looking back, masterful artistry)
3) Crib bars, rail, mattress, sheets, blankets and stuffed friends (with friends like my 2 year old, who needs enemies) covered in crap.
4) Crap filled diaper (how much crap was in there?!?!?!??) upside down on CARPETED floor.

I managed to muster some sort of quasi sentence out. "Annabelle..what...what...happening? What?!?"

Her reply, "Mommy, I eat it? Why I do that?"

The sound that came out of me at that moment can only be described as the deep, primal, guttural bellowing that people generally reserve for grieving death. (To be fair, part of me died at that moment). I sank to the floor, still holding my newborn, and started to sob while screaming, "NO...NO...ANNABELLE! NO. NO. You did NOT eat it! YOU DID NOT EAT IT."

Annabelle begins sobbing and shrieks, "WHY I DO THAT?"

At that point, Mother Bethany bitch slapped Falling Apart Bethany on the floor. "GET YOURSELF TOGETHER! Welcome to motherhood!" In a daze, I picked myself up and began to formalize a plan of action.

Step 1 - Put. Baby. Somewhere. I set up new (and now favorite) baby in his bassinet. Ok, I can do this. One step down.

Step 2. - Find gloves. No gloves to be found. Ok, I'll improvise. Wrap hands in saran wrap. Check.

Step 3. - Retrieve toddler (from Hell) from her room. If we can even still call it a room. I remembered thinking, "We may have to move."

Step 4. - Shower toddler with bleach? No, that can't be right. Ok, no bleach.

This went on for HOURS. I meticulously corrected every foul, ungodly thing my daughter had done. At the end, not even CSI (The S, clearly standing for something else) could have detected the horrific event had even occurred.

I don't like to talk about it much. It is one of those parenting stories that will live on as family folklore. Maybe one day, a few generations from now, they'll forget all about it. Sadly, I never will. It is burned into my brain and corneas. In the history books of my time as a parent, this will be my Vietnam.

After this happened, I was not (and still am not) afraid of ANYthing. I know I can do it. And, if for a second I doubt my strength, I can count on Mother Bethany to give me a good bitch slap back to reality.

Our first BPM Member guest blog. It is practically perfect in EVERY way!

http://maryslittleblog.wordpress.com/2012/03/23/a-challenging-morning-who-am-i-kidding-a-craptastic-morning/

Please take a few minutes out of your morning to thoroughly enjoy our very first BPM member guest blog. I laughed, I wanted to cry (for Mary), but, the tears ended up being from laughter. This is a perfect, honest parenting moment. Enjoy and, let's all have a moment of silence for our comrade, Mary. Mary, we salute you.

Enjoy this blog? Please follow her blog on wordpress!

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I love ya, Tomorrow!

I realized this morning in the shower, that's where I do all of my serious thinking since it's generally the only 15 minutes in a 24 hour period I am alone, that this group is growing, I am considering growing a brand, a website and, I'm asking all of you and your friends to come along on the ride with me. Essentially, I am asking for your trust. That is a big deal. It's, quite frankly, a huge deal. Most of you don't know me and, even if we pass in the streets or share a passing conversation, we don't know what each other are made of. Some of you I have never met. Some of you live outside of the United States. So, let me introduce myself, tell you some of my secrets and then, when I ask you to join me, I hope you'll say, "Wherever that crazy lady is going, I want to be there too!"
The biggest part of my life is being a mom. It is so immense that I have often thought, who am I without them? My kids define me. I would be lying if I said anything else. I do not have hobbies (outside of my children's hobbies), I do not exercise (evident upon looking at me), I do not have a career (I left that in 2008 and have been home with babies ever since). Since the birth of my first child in 2006, for all intents and purposes, Bethany Kriger Thies has ceased to exist. Since the second my children were born, I lived for them. My interests were their interests. My time = their time. My schedule = their schedule. My life? Most definitely enveloped in their lives.
I wouldn't have it any other way, but, it can be lonely. It is lonely to lose a part of yourself even when the gain is so immeasurably great. It is lonely to not know yourself outside of mom. And, in that loneliness, there is a huge pressure to be perfect at the one thing you know you are. Every year since 2006, my New Year's resolution has been to be a better mom, to be more patient, to be more present, to be...MORE. If it is the only thing I know I am, then the failures, even tiny ones, seem overwhelming and sad. Am I a bad parent? Is every impatient word I've spoken seared into their tiny brains? Will they grow up and ignore my (desperate and constant) calls on their phone?
At the end of every night, when I'm lying in bed I think, "Tomorrow, I WILL do better. I will do more puzzles. I will make 3 nutrient rich and delicious meals that my kids will devour. I will brush my hair, put on non maternity clothing and look presentable during school pick-up. I will be a GREAT mom, scratch that, a PERFECT mom." As we all know, perfection will always be denied.
I want to continue this group because since I started it, it makes me feel ok about my moments of weakness, my impatient moments...my human moments. And, in the process, maybe I can let the full-time job of molding my piece of the future generation not seem so lonely. We are all in this together and I feel that more today than I did 1 month ago when I , with a little fear, publicly announced that, every day, I have bad parenting moments. Several. Ok, more than several.
Thank you for sharing, for laughing, for reminding me that failure, when honest and owned, makes for great recovery and for coming along on this ride.
Who am I? I'm still figuring that out, but, for now, I am a proud mom of 4 and proud to share this new part of my life with all of you.