Rollin'.. Rollin'...Rollin'...

Be it here noted that on this 28th day of February, 2006... TM rolled over. I was afraid that the second time around all these firsts wouldn't be as exciting as they were with JT... today, I finally put those fears to rest.

I squealed like a schoolgirl, and spent the next 20 minutes trying to get him to pull out a repeat performance so I could record it in quicktime with the digital camera. He finally did it again (once I put the camera away) so it's not recorded in easily shared digital format... but it is permanently burned into my brain.

My Baby Is Mobile!!!

Wait.

My Baby Is Mobile???

Dear God. Why was I happy about this again?????

Chaos and Cosmos

I had a moment this evening to ponder a past life.

We live out in what is colloquially referred to as "the country". We're on the down side of a mountain and between us and what I like to call "civilization" is a narrow but dense wilderness, consisting of a large river, lots of trees, a few stretches of farm land, and a couple of vineyards. There's not much out here in the way of shopping; if I want anything less than 20 minutes away my choices boil down to a couple of grocery stores and the local Wal-Mart. Oh, and there's a Dollar General, but I quit going there after a very very drunk man, still reeking of yesterday's urine, attempted to pick up my terrified 2-year-old. I'm sure he didn't mean any harm - he really seemed like he just wanted to continue the one-sided conversation he'd been having with JT - but when it comes to my kids I'm just a teensy but overprotective and paranoid. There are a couple of coffee shops and one very awesome kids' consignment store, but beyond that the pickings are pretty slim.

In a previous life, more often than not, I crashed with T (who was then my boyfriend) at his very cosmopolitan apartment in downtown D.C. Their were more local haunts than you could shake a stick at; we could walk out the front door of his complex and go across the street to this great little Italian restaurant that had a fantastic house chianti and these incredible little crusty bread rolls. We could catch a cab up to Cleveland Park and spend an evening drinking heavy beer and hard cider while we gnoshed on Irish soda bread and chips with malt vinegar at Ireland's Four Provinces. We could take a quick drive to Arlington Cinema Drafhouse and watch a movie with a pitcher and some nachos, or catch the metro to the museum district and spend an afternoon wandering the various Smithsonian buildings. Before I ever watched an episode of "Sex and the City" or even knew what it was, I felt like the Carrie Bradshaw of D.C. (minus the outrageous shoe collection.)

In my heart, I have to admit I'm a city girl. I prefer the hustle and bustle, the car horns on the street below and the ability to get a decent cup of coffee at any time of day or night. I miss wandering anonymously through a crowd and taking a mall for granted. I miss the million strangers all around and bagel sandwiches from Pumpernickel's Bagelry.

But, as fate would have it, for the time being I am a city girl out here in the country. I don't regret our move out here; it's done wonders for JT and he and TM have a real yard to play in. There's enough room to put up a playground or maybe even get them a dog one day (if I can feel up to attempting that adventure again.)

And, even though it gets awfully quiet out here in the sticks, I have to admit that there is something at once wistful and comforting about hearing the lonely sound of the whistle as the trains barrel through town in the middle of the night. I can hear them thundering over the tracks with the soft rumble of a fading storm, unmuffled in the cold night air. Reminding me that I am a long way from the city. Reminding me that I am home.

Proof.

Proof #452 that I am his mother -- He loves pizza as much as I do.


Okay, so there's also those cheeks. But we'll pretend he didn't get those from me.

F this, that, and the other thing...

F for Food, Friends, and Frickin' Fantastic Fun. Good times, indeed.

T had his annual review this week and, hallelujah, he got a promotion!!! We decided to go out and celebrate with crab legs at a local hole-in-the-wall, but quickly changed our plans after an invitation to party like rock stars with some of the coolest people you could ever hope to meet.

When I say "party like rock stars" I mean, of course, that we stayed up past our bedtime, consumed mass quantities of adult beverages, and talked until our voices gave out. And everyone who reads this is incredibly jealous that I got to spend the evening in the company of this gorgeous woman:See? Told you she's a babe. If I could create the perfect amiga in a lab, she'd be exactly like PK. (But a little less hot because, really, no mother of 3 should be allowed to look that good.) Admit it - you want to lick your monitor, don't you?

PK also happens to be married to T's bizarrely identical non-twin, JK. The four of us mesh so well, I sometimes get the sneaking suspicion I've stumbled into a John Hughes movie. Animated discussion, copious laughs, and no akward lulls in the conversation. What more could a person need in life, really? Well, maybe good food -- which was also had in abundant supply. I think I'm still full from yesterday, but that may be because I about half a cow and a generous portion of snow crab legs.

The kids were harder to please in the food arena, but I ended the night feeling like super-parent when JT consumed half a loaf of zucchini bread he gaffled from the counter. Hey, he stole food with veggies in it -- we called it a nutritious main course and moved on. TM finally settled down after a long evening of watching the big people party and actually slept for about 8 hours. All in all, a win-win of an evening. CONGRATS! to T and THANKS! to the K's for their unprecendented hospitality.

These Shoes Were Made for Walkin...

The Costco that we go to is part of a trifecta. Costco, Target, and Kohl's department store share one giant parking lot. This entails a very tricky situation, as any of these 3 stores alone is enough to put us in the poor house; together they mean instant death.

Before going on the aforementioned Costco excursion, I stopped into Target with no real list or aim, but a vague notion that JT could use a new pair of jeans and some new shoes. He's been wearing the same "Plaza Sesamo" sneakers for about 6 months now. (he picked them out himself, and they didn't have any english language version ones with Elmo on them. So, no Sesame Street... Plaza Sesamo.)

Target had english language Elmo shoes but JT, being older and more discerning now, shunned those in favor of a pair of shiny new Thomas and Friends sneakers. He immediately realized, to his horror, that he was wearing the toddler equivalent of Last Year's Manolo's and DEAR GOD he had to get them off NOW RIGHT NOW THEY BURN!

I ran distraction while I paid for the new shoes, and before we set off on our Costco adventure he was safely ensconced in his new pair of size 7 and a half sneakers. He wore them in Costco. When we got home, he wouldn't let me take them off.. so he wore them around the house.

When bedtime came, T removed JT's shoes, pulled off his courderoy pants, and changed his diaper. At which point JT went into apoplexy because the shoes were no longer on his feet. So T, being a daddy and somewhat more inclined to sympathy in these situations than I would probably be, put the shoes back on him. At which point JT promptly went to sleep.

I removed the shoes from the sleeping child before going to bed myself, only to be awoken at 6:30 the next morning to wails of "CHOO CHOO SHOES! I NEED CHOO CHOO SHOES! ONNA FEET!"

So he spent the rest of the morning in his shirt, a diaper, and his shoes and socks. I think we got pants on him eventually. At least we've managed to scale down to not actually wearing the shoes in bed... now, they just rest comfortably in a place of honor next to his pillow while he sleeps.

I'm thinking it's safe to say he has his daddy's sense of sentimentality, eh?


Unrelated TM Update: Last night the little angel went back to his old self, at least temporarily. Put him down at 11:30, he woke up at 4am to nurse, went back to sleep and stayed there until 7:30. I actually feel almost human today.

This will hurt.

If you put a frog in a pot of hot water, it will jump right out. If you put it in cold water and slowly crank up the heat, the frog will sit there until it dies. So I've been told, anyway. I would never perform such an experiment, myself. But the concept is there.

My kids are great sleepers. JT slept in his crib, in his own room, from the first night home from the hospital. This time around, I wanted TM close to me. He was so tiny, so defenseless - not to mention so noisy I was afraid he would wake his older brother if put in the nursery next door. But by 5 or 6 weeks old, TM was sleeping 8 hours at night, broken up with just one feeding after 4 hours, after which he would go right back to sleep. For anyone without kids, let me tell you that this is a new parent's dream.

So what happened? Well, like the poor frog, he slowly began to turn up the heat on me. As close as a week ago, I still would have told you "My baby really is a good sleeper, he just has a bad night here and there."

In the last few days, however, it has dawned on me. Not only does he not sleep long stretches well any more, but by the time I wake up in the morning he has somehow migrated to a spot next to me in the bed. He starts out in his bassinet, but wakes every few hours and settles back down only after I replace his pacifier and give him my hand to hold. Eventually, in my zombie-like state of exhaustion, I move him next to me in bed - where he snuggles up to me and finally falls asleep for a stretch of more than 2 hours. And then I get some sleep.

He is a very clingy baby by nature, something JT never has been. If one of my hands get anywhere near him, he grabs for it, pressing it to his chest with both tiny pink hands as though I might snatch it away. It's simultaneously heart-melting and terrifying.

Today I realized he hasn't taken a daytime nap longer than an hour or so in at least a week. He may take only 2 or 3 of these naps all day. My baby is exhausted, and his mommy is not far behind. So, after I got JT down for his "quiet time" (which may or may not involve sleep, it depends on the day) I nursed TM until his tummy was full and his eyes were half-closed. I laid him down in his bassinet and covered him with his favorite blanket. And then I walked out of the room.

After 4 minutes he started screaming. By 10 minutes he was at a full-fledged wail. By 20 minutes I was headed upstairs. I got halfway up when he suddenly went quiet. I waited. Counted to 30. Tiptoed into the room. He startled a little, opened his eyes, then slowly closed them again and drifted off as I watched him.

Progress. Or so I thought until he woke up about 2 minutes ago. He started crying in a sad, half-hearted kind of way. It has built to another scream.

He's safe, he's not hungry, his diaper is clean, and he doesn't have gas. Suddenly, my 2 and a half years of parenting experience leave me totally unprepared to deal with a baby who WILL NOT SLEEP.

I've decided to give him 5 minutes more to try to fall back asleep on his own. This may be a good time to start looking for a book on what kind of therapy will help him deal with the abandonment issues I am currently giving him.

But I'll probably use the time to tear the house apart in search of something with lots of sugar and no nutritional value.

I really need to locate a more constructive coping mechanism.

TP or not TP

The big adventure of yesterday was my periodic excursion to Costco. Some women? They spend a day at the spa, or wander the aisles at Bloomingdales. For me, the true extravagance in life comes from looking at 5 gallon cans of tomato sauce and industrial-sized packs of underwear.

I never leave that store without being at least a hundred bucks poorer, and utterly confused about where the money went. Case in point: My primary purchases yesterday were a 40 pound bag of Cat Litter (you're welcome, honey!), a few bags of frozen necessities (you know, health foods like potstickers and chicken nuggets), diapers, baby wipes, and jumbo-sized packages of paper towels and toilet paper.

I know the size of the items, the sheer quantity, is massive in scale compared to what I would be getting if I purchased the same items at the grocery store. And yet that total on the receipt still boggles me. And, being prone to oversimplification as I am, I can't help but boil it down to one simple question for my self.

How the hell did I spend a hundred and fifty bucks on toilet paper??

Unrelated Aside: The caterpillar is gone. I no longer have to fear waking in the night to find I am in bed with Morgan Spurlock. He did keep the pointy sideburns, but only because I insisted. They're right sexy, those are.

The Wrong Side Of The Bed.

Yesterday I looked at T and said, with no trace of irony at the time, "As long as you don't tease, torment, or otherwise cajole me, today has the potential to be a very good day."

It was still morning, and I knew that, mentally, I was in a place to have a good day. I then asked him if he thought it was at all weird that I could wake up and know right away if I was going to be unable to have a "good" day that day. He shook his head and said, with his trademark shrug "there's an expression for that 'woke up on the wrong side of the bed' - it's totally normal."

That's reassuring -- in a bizarro kind of way. Today I feel pretty numb. I'm finding it difficult to figure out what I should be doing, or what I want to be doing.

I'm a very single-minded person -- I tend to go into tunnel vision when I'm working on something. If I start a painting, pick up a book, or turn on a movie I will get absorbed in it to the exclusion of all else. I don't hear people when they talk to me, I don't see things happening around me. Basically, any senses unnecessary to the task at hand get filtered out in my brain.

When I was working in an office, this was actually an asset, as I could crank out a very intensive project in record time and with no mistakes. Now that I'm a mother, I find that I am so far unable to focus on the role of motherhood and homemaker with that intensity. I am also afraid to focus on anything else because, as a mom, you CAN'T filter out your children and their needs for any period of time. They have to eat. They need diapers changed. They need love, affection, attention. You can't ignore them, it's not fair to them.

Even so, I always feel like there's something else I should be doing. I have a burning need to express myself in some way, to have an intellectual goal of some kind that I'm working towards with the oversight of a boss, a professor, an Auditor of some kind.

You would think 2 gorgeous sons would proivide a total sense of fulfillment. It's not that I don't adore motherhood, because I do. I love going out with the boys and seeing strangers smile at their incredible cuteness. I cherish every "first", and my heart melts at each indication of proof that they love me in return. I enjoy washing dirty faces, and I don't even hate changing diapers.

So what is it that is lacking? Is it something innate within myself? Or is it okay for me to feel like I need something more? Am I a terrible mother because there are days when I think "I'd really like to go back to a regular job now?" or that I'd like to go back to school, and waiting until my kids are all in school themselves seems entirely too far off and in the distance?

Is this why I ate a gallon of rice pudding last night?

Hearts and Handle Bars...

First off, thanks for the lovefest of comments. It comes as something of a shock that the smoke signals I'm sending off into the ether are actually reaching anyone. Even moreso, I'm still wrapping my brain around the idea that y'all might be enjoying what I have to say. Then again, it may be more along the lines of slowing down at a car accident -- you know we all do it -- give in to that irresistable urge to stare at disasters. And "Disaster" is so appropos a descriptive for this little redhead.

Oh, and speaking of disasters... here is my missive for this morning:

My husband has a cute little tradition. Every year, over the Christmas Holidays, he takes a break from shaving. This way, when he returns to work after the first of the year, he has a nice full beard.

Aside: T's heritage is mostly Swiss, but there's some Native American mixed in and the combination somehow came out looking vaguely Arab. His dark complexion and the copius nature of his facial growth have, on more than one occassion, caused him to get funny looks at the airport. And though it's supposed to be random, I swear he's been flagged for a "random check" 90% of the times he has been through airport security since 2001. At least I was finally able to convince him to get rid of his cargo pants with the urban camo print.

Anyway, typically the beard stays until sometime in March. This year, however, he decided to trim it up a little early. I filled up his travel mug with coffee and met him at the front door. He had been up in the bathroom finishing up with getting ready for work. For the life of me, I can't determine what he was thinking when he did THIS to himself:

I'm not sure if it's truly a handle-bar mustache, or more of a reverse-mohawk goatee... But as he walked out to the car, I couldn't help but call out (In my best imitation of an Anna Nicole Smith Texas Drawl)

"Ah Luv Yew, Cletis!"

I'm not sure what they'll think at his office... My best advice was to tell them he lost a bet.

The saving grace, however, is that he swore he would shave the rest off tomorrow morning. I think I would have a difficult time kissing him very often if I have to include the caterpillar.

Pudding the hurt on ya...

Using the leftover rice from dinner to make rice pudding seemed like the wise, frugal, Betty Crocker thing to do. After all, JT turned off the rice cooker half way through and what should have taken half an hour to become sticky white rice ended up taking about 2 hours. How could we not use every last hard-fought grain?

So, all of this seemed like a great idea. That is, up until about 3 minutes ago when I realized I just ate almost an entire cup of rice pudding. Suddenly, I'm having visions of the pidgeons they tell you about -- you know, the "don't throw uncooked rice at weddings because the pidgeons eat it and explode" variety.

You would think I would learn not to overeat. I mean,the leftover Gumbo we ate for dinner was spectacular (in spite of the cat puke incident, and the fact that I burned the bottom of the pot while reheating it.) The rice pudding wasn't even that good -- it always turns out better when T makes it, and he was already headed downstairs to his computer for a night of gaming.

So why oh why did I just turn myself into an overstuffed pidgeon? And how big a mess should I expect when I blow?

And most importantly, when I explode all over the walls of the house, do I have to clean myself up? Eh? EH?! That will keep you up tonight wondering, now, won't it?

My Truths For A Sunday.

1) T makes amazing, MIND-blowing, delicious Gumbo.

2) If you leave out an unfinished bowl of yummy gumbo the cats can and will help themselves to some, in spite of the fact that cats have no business anywhere near food made with old bay seasoning and tabasco sauce.

3) Cats will projectile vomit after eating Gumbo.

4) Stepping in cat puke of any kind is not pleasant, but Kitty Gumbo Vomit ( in my bare feet and before my first cup of coffee, none the less) really has to be the worst kind.

Camo Whamo...

What you would have overheard at our house this morning:

Me: Honey, those neon orange pants so don't match his green froggy tee shirt. Can you put Jack in something else?

Him: I think it looks fine.

Me: The pants are also a size too big. He's falling down every 3 steps.

Him: Nah, he's fine.

Me: Is there a reason you are so set on him wearing those godawful pants?

Him: I'm afraid if I take them off he'll get shot by Dick Cheney.

One, two, bring me a brew....

How cool is this?

So if Jack and Toby are going to someday rule the world, as Mama has intended, this means I should start brushing them up on some algebra before I send them off to play with the preschool set, right?

Okay, so actually maybe this just means I can get them to understand how many beers to bring Mama from the 'fridgerator... but anyway, it must be somehow significant... Babies! Math! Look and be amazed!

Hooray for VD!

VD for Valentines Day. At least that's the story I'm sticking to.

I've never been a fan of the holiday, myself -- too commercial, too corporate, too contrived. Yes, I may be a bit jaded, but something about seeing conversation hearts at Wal-Mart on January 2 really turns me off of the whole thing. Especially now that they say things like "Fax Me".
...
Jack woke up this morning with gusto. We met in the hallway at the top of the stairs, as is becoming a morning ritual. He waited patiently while I put on my raggedy flannel robe (over my new pink underpants, in case you were wondering).

"Mommy jammies?" he asked, pointing at the above-mentioned robe.

"Yes. Mommy's jammies."

"Jack have jammies!"

"Yes, you have jammies, too."

"Jack have Me-me," he indicated his faded and increasingly tattered security blanket. He named it before he had really learned to talk. Me-me goes everywhere with us; when we go for walks he wraps it around his head and shoulders like a pashmina. When he goes to bed, Jack settles it next to him and wraps his arms around it. Me-me is the first thing he looks for when he wakes up in the morning.

"Yes, that is Me-me," I agreed.

"Where Mommy Me-me??"

"Mommy doesn't have a Me-me."

He considered this for a moment, while I sat at the top of the stairs so he could climb on for a piggy-back ride down. I watched the gears turning in his head, then saw the lightbulb appear.

Chocolate and Flowers are nice. Diamonds? Sure, I wouldn't turn them down. At the end of the day, though, none of them can begin to compete with my 2 year-old son as he walked over to me and, very gently, wrapped Me-me, his most precious posession, around my shoulders.

"Here, Mommy."

And just like that, I became a convert. Happy Valentines Day.

Panty Raid

Hello Internet. Allow me to share some very exciting news with you. Today, for the first time in over 3 years, I purchased brand-spanking-new underpants. (no pun intended.)

Unfortunately for T, I did not buy enough pairs to permanently retire all of my maternity undies, which are still called into service from time to time. But hey, you can't win 'em all, baby.

Just wait till he sees what I saved for Valentine's day. You know the horrible, disposable, fishnet granny panties they give you at the hospital after you give birth? Oh yeah, baby. Somebody is getting SOOO lucky tomorrow night...

Snow Job

We got about 8 inches of snow, all told. We did some driving as it fell last night, and it wasn't pretty. We got trapped behind an SUV going 5mph down route 9. This means we were going attempting to go up the mountain without momentum. While usually I am of the "don't attempt to pass in a snow storm" mentality, the Complete Idiot in front of us was causing me to have to brake around hairpin turns on icy roads, so as soon as there was a wide road and no oncoming traffic we cranked it up to a beefy 9 mph and passed him. After that, we made it home without further incident.

I learned last night just how stressful it actually is to drive in bad conditions with your sleeping babies in the back of the car. I like to say that I am not a religious person, but I do think I am a spiritual person. Last night, I begged several deities AND the Buddha to see us safely home as I white-knuckled the steering wheel and tried not to look in the mirrors to check the kids "one more time".

When we got up at the crack of 10am, T borrowed the neighbor's snow blower and cleared the sidewalks and walkway. Then he dug his car out so he could get it off the street and into the driveway behind mine. He and Jack played out in the white stuff for about 5 minutes before the cold was too much for Jack. T finished their snowman by himself, then came back in for hot tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. (Hey, it's what my mom did and it's the perfect cure for the snow chills.)

We spent the remainder of the day enjoying the warmth of Indoors. I made a point to finish the second half of last week's episode of Grey's Anatomy. Before last week, I hadn't watched it in a while. This is the part where my paranoia kicks in, because I swear they wrote this story line simply to suck me back in. Somewhere, an ABC executive is rubbing his hands together in an evil way and cackling about the success of his dastardly plan.

For anyone who missed it, the 2-episode sudsfest included the following subplots: Resident and show regular Miranda Bailey goes into labor. Bailey's husband gets in an accident on the way to the hospital for the birth and ends up in surgery for a closed head injury. Meanwhile, some guy shoots himself in the chest with a homemade bazooka and is rushed to the hospital via ambulance before anyone realizes he has UNEXPLODED ammunition in his chest. He also has the hand of the delicious Christina Ricci in his chest, playing a paramedic who was innocently attempting to stop the bleeding. Once they realize the shell is in there, they evacuate half of the hospital - except for the operating room next to the bomb because (of course) Bailey's husband is in there with a skull flap open and blood being sucked off his brain. And of course, once Miranda Bailey hears this news, she goes into a panic and clamps those knees together, refusing to give birth while her husband is in peril.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to. So much emotional manipulation was packed into 2 hours of television, I may need a box of Godiva just to get me through the wreckage of the next few days.

Half of me is totally mortified that I actually stared, with baited breath, while all of this unfolded. I am ashamed to admit that I actually talked to my television set, pleading with the characters to make it all come out all right. This half of me bemoans the fact that I wasted 2 hours of my life on this melodramatic drivel.

The other half of me rolls her eyes and says "Shut the hell up, it's damn good T.V. and by the way isn't Patrick Dempsey dreamy?" And now that you mention it, Yes, he sure as hell is.

Projected Failure...

I just checked woot and realized we missed the opportunity to get a projector for $500. Not that we have $500 to blow on a projector, but..

Okay, at second glance it appears it was probably for the best that they sold out before I got there. After all, I have a new freezer that I need to fill with Stuff. It must justify its existance, just like the rest of us. But still.... Projection TV! $500! Neat. I so love woot.

It's snowing.

And even I have to admit that it is beautiful. Not much is sticking yet; there is just a silent cascade of delicate flakes drifting down over the world outside. It is cold, and gray, and lovely in a heartbreaking sort of way.

*Burp*

I just had a rendez-vous with a man named John... Papa John, to be exact. God, I love pizza.

I just heard it's supposed to snow through the weekend. This is not great news, as we have not one but TWO birthday parties to attend tomorrow. I'm keeping my fingers crossed the weather holds until Sunday. After that, it can snow as much as it likes. In fact, that would be great -- I'd love to have T working from home for a few days.

Thank Goodness It's Friday. At least we'll have a few days to enjoy each other's company, and torment the children. And What Not To Wear just started, so I'm going to go get my fix. I am totally addicted, in spite of the fact that I have The Fear that someone will nominate me for the show. Not that they would pick me, thank God. I've never even been picked for jury duty (*knock-on-wood*) let alone for something that involves the ability to spend someone else's five thousand bucks.

Binge By Proxy...

I've never really watched The King Of Queens, but it somehow made it onto our DVR this week.

Kirstie Alley was on, and there was a running gag that involved her sticking to her diet by having other people eat the things she wished she could have while she watched.

I sooo need to get me one of those. Who wants to volunteer to eat me a dozen Krispy Kremes???

You Are My Sunshine...

God Bless Children. Especially Mine.

After my emotionally draining morning, I went upstairs, got dressed, got the kids ready, and we headed out in search of Elsewhere. I just needed to get us out of the house for a few hours.

Last week at a playgroup, someone told me about Beans in the Belfry. It is my new definition of Nirvana.

BITB is a coffee shop inside a church from 1910. Seriously. High ceilings, overstuffed and mismatched chairs and sofas (and even a few church pews, used as benches), a coffee bar and AMAZING sandwiches. (I tried the Old Berlin, which is basically a panini-fied Reuben. FAN-TAS-TIC.) Jack and I shared a sandwich, Toby napped in his car seat, and I sipped a steamy caramel latte.

Spirits instantly lifted, we left there with renewed smiles on all our faces. Stopped at CVS to drop off 4 disposable cameras that have been kicking around since around since Jack was born. Dropped off a bunch of T's work laundry at the cleaners.

We're home now. Jack took his nilla wafers up to his clubhouse for a snack and a nap. Toby is blissfully snoozing in his bassinet.

I really should be napping, as well, but the babysitter will be here shortly so I can go for my walk/jog. I'll try to nap after we take her home.

Funny how a day can start out on such a down note, but the smallest thing can give you hope enough to get you through the day better than you started.

The kids were better than angelic, and Jack hugged me so long and so hard I wondered how much of my blues his 2-year-old brain had picked up on. Every night when he goes to bed, we sing him "You are my sunshine". Today, he reminded me that it's more than just a song -- I really mean it, every time. The 3 men in my life are the ray of sunshine that get me through my dark days.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.

To Whom It May Concern...

I couldn't really give a good reason why I started this blog, nor a good one as to why I continue it. Most days, it is a dumping ground for the silly thoughts that flit through my brain. Then today, I read JJD's entry over at empire, and I cried. For someone as emotional as I perceive myself to be, I really don't cry often. I couldn't figure out why I would cry .. after all, the emotinal events in the life of a distant friend, one connected to me only through T and very little even then, could hardly reasonably strike such a nerve.

After a few minutes, I realized it was the raw honesty of it all. Not something I allow myself very often, especially in a public forum. I decided that, maybe just this once, I would cast my thoughts out into the ether without censorship or grooming.

Because, maybe just this once.. in the cacaphonic whirlwind around me, I can find a brief circle of stillness in which I will have a voice.

So here are some truths about me.

I avoid making phone calls to strangers - be it the insurance company, the pizza place, whatever - at almost any cost. It terrifies me.

I'm terrified to open the door to a stranger.

I have never had a desire to hurt myself or anyone else. I am terrified of death - maybe even obsessed with the fear of it. I wish I could live forever, and make everyone I love live forever, too.

I go through up/down periods of energy. One day I will clean the entire house, top to bottom, do all the laundry, and take the car to the car wash. The next day I will spend entirely on the couch, in my pajamas, unable to do anything more than feed the kids and change diapers.

I would wrestle an angry tiger with my bare hands to protect my kids.

I am a compulsive eater, especially when I am sad or angry. As a teenager, on more than one occassion, I ate an entire can of frosting. With a spoon.

I am sometimes paralyzed under the weight of my own sadness. I don't know why, or what to do about it. I have gone through these periods of 'mourning' periodically for as far back as I can remember. They don't strike without warning, but in some ways that is worse -- feeling the slow cold of it creep over me as the days go by. Once it is in full force, it is crushing.. but not absolutely. I ride a roller coaster of good days and bad days - manic and depressive, though I don't really believe the medical classification is literally appropriate to me.

I can hide behind a smile better than anyone I've met. The only person who sees through me is T. I can't hide from him. Partly because he is so much a part of me, but not just that -- it's who he is. No one in his life has ever been able to hide from him. He looks out of those eyes - so brown they're almost black sometimes - and he sees it as it is, without pretext or disguise. So, he sees me. But he doesn't plumb the depths of what he sees. I think he's afraid to, because the hurt there is so raw and unmended, and because he can't fix it. He can't fix me, and so he carries my hurt like it was his own wound. And trust me, he has wounds enough of his own - adding to his burden is a constant spectre in my head. Knowing that he believes that if he could just love me enough, if he could just find the magic bullet he could make me happy and make me sparkle. Knowing that it just doesn't work that way. It rips at me, leaving a little bloody trail of regret behind. Because I want to be happy - if not for my own sake, then for his.

I don't want my little boys to grow up and remember a mom who always seemed sad, even when she was happy. I remember a mom who was that way - is still that way. You want to tear your own heart out and hand it to them and say "here, maybe this one will be a little stronger, a little less easily bruised".

There are days when I feel myself slipping away, drifting off into the fog. I want to scream - to shake myself awake. I tell myself what a terrible, self-consumed person I am. I want to slap myself silly, because there are people worrying about me and I don't want them to worry. I want to take myself off of their long list of worries.

I seem to spend my time walling off as much emotion as possible until the dam breaks and I am overwhelmed. Then I start the process over again. I guess today the dam broke. Just reading JJD. Because I remember how it all started, and that I was hurt. I don't think I ever admitted, even to myself, just how much it hurt.

I have not yet learned to grok old hurts, to consume them and make them a part of me, and to move on. I have learned to understand a lot of things, in retrospect. But it's not the same thing. Just understanding isn't enough -- I have to learn to accept that I am powerless to change the past. I have to learn to do it soon, before I completely miss out on the future.

Hit or Mrs.

My adorable 13 year old babysitter came over this afternoon to watch my kids while I went for my bi-weekly power walk. I'm really hoping to turn this into a bi-weekly run, but so far my knees have been uncooperative and so I have stuck to walking.

Anyway, this sweet little twig of a girl called me Mrs. I stared at her like she had suddenly grown a second head and said "wait, WHAT did you just call me?" *blink* .

"well.. umm... my dad insists on it."

"Okay. When I'm at your house, you can totally call me that. When you are here, though... Please, PLEASE call me Mel."

I can't decide if I broke some cardinal rule about undermining someone else's parenting, but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I can't bear to be called "Mrs" in my own house.

The whole episode was almost as upsetting as when the 20-year-old cable installer called me "ma'am". I will NEVER be old enough to be a "Ma'am". I didn't have the nerve to tell him so, though. I just died a little, on the inside.

Magic Hands.

Last night was a long night.

Toby has been exhibiting growing difficulty staying asleep at night. He's restless, he tosses and turns, and he often wakes up and has difficulty getting himself back to sleep.

After a few nights of misery and eventually putting him in bed with us, last night I moved the bassinet next to my side of the bed. Each time he woke up, I reached over and gave him my hand to hold.

And it worked. He grabbed it with both tiny hands, wriggled back into a comfortable position under his blanket, and drifted back to sleep. Then I drifted back to sleep with two tiny, warm hands gripping mine.

My hands. They are Magic.

Now, if only my hands, they were detachable... then maybe we could finally start putting him in his crib.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

I've added a new subsection in the right column.

See? -------------------------------------------> Over There--------------->

It will be a periodically updated list of things I lust after. Because I'm an Internet Window Shopper. It's incredibly difficult to get out to real shopping with the 2 boys, not the least because I live a minimum of 30 minutes away from any malls or decent stores. SO, instead of going out to window shop and see things in the "I wish I could but we would go broke" category, I window shop on the internet.

This is not in any way a forum for me to ask anyone to buy me things. Well, unless you are flush with lots of extra cash and you REALLY REALLY want to. In which case, how could I be so heartless as to deny you the joy of giving to someone less fortunate than yourself? But at the least, I will grant you the title of My Internet Sugar Daddy. See, that sounds like a fair trade, right???

Actual Actualization in Actuality...

Every morning Jack has a Pediasure shake for breakfast. He calls them his "milk shakes" and has a devotion to them akin to the worship some people bestow upon their various deities. The child would go without food or water if we let him, and consume nothing but these thick, vanilla-flavored beverages.

Personally, I don't get the appeal.. but to each his own.

This morning, I poured the shake into a sippy cup and handed it to him. Jack took it with a very polite "thank you"... then pondered a moment and said "Actually, Mommy, I want a cracker" as he pointed at the box of saltines on the counter.

He has never used the word "actually" before. More bizarre is the fact that he used it in the CORRECT WAY.

Added to the fact that we watched Serenity last night, and I'm starting to be convinced that my son is a secret goverment project. I'm just waiting for the subliminal messages in SpongeBob to trigger him into super ass-kicking mode. I can picture the other toddlers on the ground, nursing kicked shins, while he towers over the gruesome scene.

...

After re-reading the above paragraph, I can't decide if I'm just REALLY sleep deprived or if I should actually start worrying about my mental stability... But don't worry, the voices in my head will give me that answer soon enough. I just wish they wouldn't yell.. I'm not deaf, after all.

Step Into The Freezer...

Today we became the proud owners of 9 cubic feet of Icy Cold Freezer. This is fantastic, as I now have room to actually make use of the bulk frozen foods section at Costco.

Not to mention it's a handy place to store the bodies while we figure out where to bury them.

Which reminds me of a bumper sticker my friend Natalie had on the wall of her apartment at BYU..

"Friends help you move. True Friends help you move the bodies."

Which is neither here nor there, really, but just thinking of it makes me miss Nat and some of those wild nights at clubs in Salt Lake City. (Yes, there were clubs in Salt Lake City - even before the olympics.) In fact, I have to confess that I once made out with a complete stranger on one of those excursions. It was a one-time foible on my part - so much so, in fact, that I still remember the details -- his name was Nathan and he was in the navy. And I was wearing a little black dress and a pair of super sweet knee-high black boots.

Funny the things a person remembers. I couldn't tell you any of the classes I took my freshman year of college, or who any of my professors were (except for Frank Fox, who was really cool and had a totally awesome son named Dave who I adored and wish I had kept in touch with. He was a great friend.)

So apparently getting the freezer has led to me pulling a few frozen memories out of my brain and thawing them out for inspection. It all feels like a lifetime ago, and in many ways it was. The really funny thing is, things that happened almost a decade ago feel like they happened in another lifetime - but I met Allie when I was 12 and it feels like yesterday. And here we are: both married, I have 2 kids, she will soon be Dr. Allie, and we have no more algebra homework to do.

Time is a bizarre and baffling thing.

The Case of the Mystery Poo

The other night I was up in the nursery changing Toby's diaper. I heard the doorbell ring, and heard Jack shouting "Daddy! Daddy!" I fastened up the velcro tabs, snapped on Toby's jammies, and headed downstairs. This was all of about.. oh.. 20 seconds.

I arrived at the door to find Jack looking curiously out the window, the door still locked, and no T in sight. Looked out the window - no car in the driveway. Curious, indeed.

I opened the front door and looked out. Nobody in sight at all. Dusk was settling, and the neighborhood had settled into the half-light of 6pm on a January day. I shrugged my shoulders, closed the door, and went to get a drink of water. I paused at the sink, the water running unnoticed down the drain.

Something was niggling at the back of my brain. What had I seen? Something out of place... there was something... something on the porch?

I walked back to the door. Opened it. Looked out the storm door and down onto the brick porch.

And there... in the purple light of evening, were 2 white tissues. Strange. But wait.. what's that? Under the tissues? Why.. it's a pile of poo. Not just any poo, mind you, but exceedingly Fresh poo of the Very Large Dog variety.

My mind quickly runs through the list of neighbors... have I unwittingly offended someone? Did the new neighbors next door find the poo in their yard and assume it was from us? But we don't own a dog... and I can't see the people with the Missouri license plates putting poo on the doorstep of someone they just moved in next to. They don't engage in that sort of behavior in Missouri. Neighborhood juveniles engaged in a random act of delinquency? But why target our house?

And so the mystery of the poo. I examined the poo from a safe distance. Pondered it. Took note of its characteristics in my best rendition of a CSI. (The hot Marg Helgenberger kind from TV, not the actual CSI guys who are in way worse shape and don't even get to slap around witnesses.)

The Poo was well-formed, still in its natural extruded form, and fresh enough that - had it been carried from another location and placed on the porch - one would think it would have been somewhat mooshed in the transporting.

And so I come to the conclusion that someone actually allowed their very large dog to poo on my front porch. They placed tissues on it for some unknown reason, then rang the bell and beat a hasty retreat.

My brain begins to throb from the detailed observation of The Poo. I become less concerned with its origins than with where it is headed next. The idea that I might have to actually have any sort of contact with The Poo beyond my piercing visual observation is inconceivable. I feel my pulse beginning to race, and the opening symptoms of a mild panic attack begin to creep up on me...l

Just then, I knight in full plate armor rides up on his steed. The white stallions muscles ripple in a sudden beam of sun which illuminates the sky behind him. He raises his sword high into the sky, denouncing the heinous besmirchment of my maidenly honor. The stallion rears up with a mighty scream and the knight charges forward, tabard streaming behind him like a ribbon in the wind...

That is to say: Just then, T pulled up in his shiny blue car and came up the walkway towards the door. He saw The Poo, heard my Incredibly Brilliant deductions on its origins, grabbed a handfull of paper towels and, in a matter of secoonds, had removed The Poo to an undisclosed location. (also known as the dumpster.)

My Hero.

The Mystery of The Poo remains unsolved. If you or anyone you know has any information on the perpetrator of this Heinous Crime, please call our tip line. A reward of Our Undying Gratitude has been offered for any information leading to the apprehension of this dangerous (and very inconsiderate) fugitive.

State of Disorder...

I didn't watch the State of the Union address last night. My mom would be horrified... but really, I couldn't bring myself to witness the train wreck. If I hear him say it "nuke-you-lar" one more time, I may claw my own eyes out.

Sorry, Mom. But if it helps, I can give you something else to obsess about... I'm a registered Democrat.

But I still wouldn't vote for Hillary.

Today was a bit of a washout, though I did manage to keep Jack from tearing the house apart completely, so it should still be presentable for the playgroup here tomorrow. It's the first time I've hosted an official Mom's Club activity. I can't decide if I should pull out the only turtleneck sweater I own and go all conservative suburbanite, or throw caution to the wind and rock my new "Who wants a Sugar Daddy?" T-shirt.

The only thing I know for sure is that Mommies at playgroups expect snacks. On that note, I'm heading to 7-11 in search of Coffee Mate and pastries. As I am going totally alone, this is the Mommy equivalent of what a night out at the clubs used to be. Except now, instead of body glitter, I'm wearing baby spit-up. (For the uninitiated, "spit-up" is what you call baby's puke. It's supposed to sound cuter, I think - but really it just allows me to be in denial that my life has actually come to the point where I voluntarily leave the house wearing someone else's vomit.)