Stop the clock, please. No, really. Stop it.

One huge overindulgent poultry feast complete and here I sit. I've spent the last few weeks gathering up the necessities for a Stewart-esque Thanksgiving appeal for my home and have quite frankly not had the time to write.

I guess that's partially true. I have a bunch of recipes I'd like to post and I really was embarrassingly busy making my own centerpieces out of recycled goods for a green approach to decor, bordering on the line of questioning my own sanity it was taking way too blasted long.

But really, I think- I know- a part of me has been avoiding the idea of writing like the plague of all cliches. Every night I go to sleep ignoring my journals beside my bed, and every day I see the computer I avoid blogger for no other reason than absolute denial of the pace life seems to travel these days.

Every school year begins the chaos of celebrations around our house. From the beginning of October, every two weeks is a birthday or a holiday which finally ceases after New Year's Day. Right now, I'm avoiding the day my baby turns two which is quickly approaching in two weeks, now that Thanksgiving is behind us.

There are times when I grip the reality my kids are growing up and I accept it with a decent amount of grace bestowed upon me. Now, however, is not one of those times. I'm fighting off baby fever daily, but as I've mentioned before I feel our days as parents of infants are long gone.

Peyton turns two ten days before Christmas. He was an indecisive, stubborn little guy who could not choose quick enough for my liking whether or not he was ready to meet me- not that I blame him. I was in and out of triage at the hospital a lousy three times before the fourth admission finally was the charm. From that day until now I sometimes feel like Peyton stood in the shadow of his big brother and sister. I was consumed with the responsibilities of mothering a not-so-toddler-14-month old and a teenager, so this lil' newborn was very alien to me. I think somewhere inside he knew he'd melt my heart sooner or later.

For a long time I struggled with that uncertainty a new child brings to the picture, questioning whether or not I could possibly love this new baby as much as I did my other. Falling in love with him did not happen over night as it did for me with Mason. But it did. Eventually, and I can't tell you the moment but now I see him becoming his own little person with his white blond straight hair that sticks in every which direction haphazardly, the way in which the subtle roundness of his cheeks match the tiny curve of his nose, his bright blue green eyes adorned with curled eyelashes, and the subconscious habit of grabbing my finger clasped in his hand while he sits on my lap sucking his other thumb.

And he's finally standing up to Mason sneaking in a sucker punch or two to his brother's rib cage when my eyes are diverted from him. At times his incessant need to verbalize everything gives me no sense of solace in a day, but just when my patience is maxed out he utters one of his favorite things to say: "Hold you!" with his arms outstretched to me.

Up he'll climb onto my lap with his blue "bankie" and his stuffed black lab puppy. He gravitates toward me in ways that Mason never did, and of course it made it quite simple for me fall so deeply in love with him. He's quick, feisty, ill-tempered, and yet gentle enough to sit on my lap playing with individual locks of my curly hair for 17 minutes yesterday. I sneak into my sons' bedroom every night and while they drift off into dreams I etch in my brain the way my angelic devils look at peace and how Peyton still sleeps the way both boys did as babies.

The way he tucks his little arms under his belly and scoots his butt up into the air just oozes innocence I sometimes forget when they're pulling out each other's hair by the root fighting over who gets to play with the fire truck.

So I guess two sounds mighty old to me but truly is just the beginning of the sand dropping in the metaphorical hour glass. So cheers to that little bit of sand that's dropped for you dear Peyton, so for all the 723 days that passed us by I'll just tuck them away for now, and hold on tight until they too are just other faded memories of yesterday.

Uh-uh, no he didn't.

In a recent effort to dumbfound their parents, both Mason and Peyton have picked up the pace a bit in the world defining toddlers.

Last week I sadly regretted leaving Peyton for five minutes too long while I threw the wash into the dryer downstairs as he remained seated in his chair at the kitchen table. Jason always warns me that Peyton is a Jason-in-the-making kind of kid. My husband, who was not your run of the mill little boy, turned every one of his parents' hairs gray by the time he turned 18 months. No, no, I say-- Peyton has a smile that will melt you in 2.8 seconds if you ask him if the whelt on his big brother's back came from his tiny little fist.

So back from the laundry room I came, and there was that little smile again. He already has his gig down pat. As I slowly walked up the steps I peered at his heartbreaking smile and I swore he batted his eyelashes a few times, something he may have learned from his father. Sitting between his tiny hands was my mug. Full of coffee. That he retrieved off of the table with his disproportionately long arms, also something he inherited from dad. Good for basketball. Bad for reaching anything without his name on it.

"Maaaaaamee! Yook it's cooopee!"

No, buddy, you finished that mug of coffee. Bone dry it was. All that remained of my Peppermint Mocha Cream with a touch of Columbian fresh ground coffee was the trace amount on Peyton's upper lip. He was a little wind-up toy well past lunch. Lesson from Peyton: keep ALL beverages at unattainable heights until he has entered into college.

The second mini-lesson was merely a vicarious experience through Jason a day later. Thank God.

Mason, the potty training guru of the house has become, well, stagnant in his porcelin throne degree. The process is difficult for all parties involved, it goes without saying. Often by evening hours Jason takes reign of the duties if you will.


Not surprisingly, Mason was reluctant that evening and so Jason took the wee one upstairs. I secretly smiled at the bickering I heard overhead thankful that I was not in the potty tantrum whirlwind at that moment. More screaming from Mason resisting. More retorting back from Jason. He tried calming Mason. He tried raising his voice. Rewards. He conceded to stay in the bathroom all night if need be.

Then, "MASON, what are you doing?!" More crying. Then silence. Toilet flushed. Out scampered Mason's little feet so fast I'm certain he left a trail of smoke in his path downstairs to me. It reminded me of the same fearful expression I would see on my dog's face when he did something like, oh I don't know, pee on the carpet.

Jason came thundering down the steps next muttering something under the paper towel he was blotting upon his face.

"Huh?" I asked.

"Pee! He peed on me! No I mean he really peed on me," almost as if I couldn't understand just exactly what that entailed he continued. "I said 'Relax Mason,' and he leaned back on the seat, screaming and crying, and out came the pee. On my clothes, on the floor, and as I yelled at him in response it... it went in... my... mouth!" Lesson from Mason: face masks may be an upcoming trend for swine flu prevention, but also for deflecting the offshoot of my wayward potty trainer.


Lesson three: never doubt what a toddler can consume or what they can regrettably serve.

Eyeing the bigger picture

Can I just say I have moments where I actually pity myself? Can moms do that?

I mean, I'm past the covered-in-puke motherhood stage of raising infants where the cycle of feeding baby, changing baby and putting baby to sleep occur an exhausting twelve times a day. I've moved onto the toddler stage, which is tiring in a different state of mind where it's absolutely downright expected to play "158 Questions" fifteen times a day. With each child.

So can I have reflection of self pity? I have three healthy kids. I have a doting husband who is a good man, and a compassionate father. I can stay home with my kids. I have a house, food in my pantry, running water, and heat occupying the rooms barricading us from the too early wintry weather. In all those senses I am beyond fortunate and should not feel jealous or envious of the business woman walking downtown in her fashionable shift dress, posh knee high boots, and oversized hobo bag. Doing something important. By herself.

Yesterday was my moment of glory. Grocery shopping. By myself. In a stained sweater. With a frizzy rat's nest of a hair 'do, and a walking coat two sizes too big now. "Must be nice to be by yourself today, huh?" said the deli clerk who noticed I was missing the obnoxious toddlers, and husband who normally pushed the cart.

Clarity struck me. Where did that fashionista of a business woman go that I knew three years ago? This -grocery shopping- is now my important something.

At times, being a mom makes me feel like my brain is rapidly shrinking. I tire of wearing the same jeans day after day with the same shirts I bought on clearance two years ago at Marshall's. My hair always looks... scattered... to match my mind.

Yesterday, I got Justine ready for her first high school Homecoming. She came into our bedroom, and peeked into my closet. "Can I see your red stilettos? Not to wear, I mean, they just look so fun! I want to see if they fit me yet." A part of me twitched inside. Yes, I thought, you probably would have somewhere fun to wear these. Sure enough, they fit her perfectly and I envisioned her wearing them out to dinner with girlfriends or something like that. Maybe not. She's fifteen. And they're 3.5" spiked heel stilettos.

"Don't worry, Steph," she said noting my wistful expression. "You'll find something to wear them to soon. Something will come up, I'm sure!"

Sigh.

Like I said, I know it sounds dreadfully petty. But no matter how much important "stuff" I know I'm doing every day with my kids, don't you think it's difficult to stifle the notion that somehow I want to feel I'm doing something important too.... selfishly enough, something important to me? When I say that last part, my voice shrinks a bit and becomes small.

Becoming a mom is amazing on numerous levels; I've lost track of the benefits being at home brings our family. Staying at home vs. working are personal to each family and for us the former works better than the latter. But with each decision we make, there are gains and sacrifices.

It goes without saying that, at times, I think -no- I know moms are too proud to admit they miss having an identity a part from their kids. Because of the above- they have so many overwhelmingly wonderful blessings that should not be taken for granted, so why complain about the voice inside that wishes she had somewhere to wear that cute belted boho dress that she saw at TJ Maxx yesterday? So she doesn't complain, but the more she looks into the mirror every night after her shower, she begins to wonder if pieces of her identity wash away little by little down the drain.

And truthfully, it has less to do with the boho dress, and more with what I would do or where I would go looking so glam. And I guess this is why women started at home businesses and thrived in the spotlight of Mary Kay and Tupperware. It opened up professionalism in the home while still offering the possibility to be with kids at the same time. Somehow, there are moments when Mason and Peyton aren't yelling as they sprint seventeen times across the basement carpet and I can actually quietly think to myself, and I wonder what I would be doing if I weren't at home at this moment?

So if I could, would I trade it?

Perspective, along with my mind, is something I have lost over the past few years. Because on the flip side, I look down the road four years and it's a glaring reminder that right now it's just a different season of my life, as I reflected during a dinner out with friends last week. And it becomes obvious that I need to make the best out of now. Right now.

When I'm tearfully waving good bye to Mason going to first grade, Peyton starting kindergarten, and Justine stepping through the doors of college how am I going to reflect on my time I spent home with them? Will I be painted with regret for not enjoying them totally and completely in the time I spent during their early years?

Enjoy it now. That has become my mantra of sorts. Although I know there will NOT be a bystander considering me a business fashionista in passing as I walk with a stroller downtown, at the very least I have two sons in tote who fill my heart with more pleasure. Sometimes the small opinions matter more, I realize while I'm looking disheveled in the kitchen pouring myself a cup of coffee to open my eye lids one more quarter of an inch. Wearing my pjs with dried oatmeal pasted to my camisole strap, my oldest little boss looks at me over his cup of milk and says with wonderment, "Mommy, you're boo-ti-fool."

Guess I don't need those stilettos after all. They can wait.

Two years, 364 days

I've been mustering the strength for about a week now to come to grips that Mason's days of being referred to as two are numbered.

Here it is. His last day, as I promised him this morning.

There are moments in my life, as a mom now, when a milestone takes place or a birthday arrives seemingly out of the blue and I'm forced to acknowledge the notion that life speeds quickly out of our control when we want it to slow to enjoy the simplicity a bit longer.

Three years ago I sat right now uncomfortably awaiting my first epidural. I had been in labor since 11 am that morning, and wouldn't meet Mason until 3:22 am the following day.

Sometimes I feel like I've been a mom forever but it's only been three short years. How strange it feels that my life has spun on its side a hundred times over in those 1,094 days. What was life before motherhood? It was predictable. It was extra sleep time on Saturday mornings. It was planning my dinners at a whim in the grocery store, and if I couldn't summon the energy to cook Tuesday through Friday- I didn't. I wasn't putting out fires every hour on the hour between two unruly toddlers. I had no gray hairs in sight.

And then he happened. Mason Paul. His pink pudgy skin, tiny button nose, and rosy cheeks to match his plump baby lips was all it took for my heart to just double over in size. His cries stood out over the other twelve babies in the hospital nursery and the newborn cry was mine to respond, and I couldn't wait. He belonged to me, his heart forever a part of mine, and my life was forever changed.

I absolutely miss Mason being a baby. Have another? Not likely. It's my babies being babies that I miss and surely always will. But I also love the stages they're in now. In honor of Mason I absolutely love listening to him talk passionately about every object somehow relating to trucks. His swing, his bed, the IKEA chairs in the basement-- they are all trucks, big big trucks. And when he says anything in reference to a truck, his small voice drops an octave sounding too masculine for a toddler. But in his mind, he's growing up to become a man every day, another step closer.

He tells me about every other day that when he's soon fifteen he's going to be on the football team. He's going to become a firefighter or a teacher like Daddy and someday he's going to go to the big big school like his older sister- and again his voice oddly becomes purposely and unnaturally deep. Incessantly, he fixes things that needn't be fixed but still insists the chairs are broken, the pipes need tightened or the screws in his tricycle are loose. His tools in nature are twigs, and he can honestly decipher among the 57 twigs of debris in our yard which one exactly he played with yesterday afternoon. And off he goes into the dirt pit of the jungle gym making power drill noises with his mouth telling me he's fixing the broken house.

And it is a chapter book I continue to write by the hour with my kids that truly causes me to question how exactly I ever considered my life fulfilling before the gray hairs, a small cosmetic infraction, of motherhood bestowed upon me. After all, that is just a minor problem, and nothing that can't be covered quite simply with a box of Clairol.

But this book of motherhood, could obviously not exist without my boys.

And so, with that, I tip my hat and my heart to you Mason. Happy Birthday little man.

I love you to the moon, over to the sun around the stars and back.