That time of year- again.

I've been different things throughout my life some changing, some remaining constant; but one thing I've been for most of my years is a writer, a journalist, a person habitually scribing life as it happens before me. Since my kids have graced me, it's become nearly relentless.
But here my blog sits untouched for months. My personal journal has been unscathed collecting dust upon a pile of other journals I use to write to my boys. All of them without writing. And it's not even like I'm without material in the least.
Time is my nemesis right now, and writing forces me to just deal with the fact that life is moving so much quicker than I realize, and certainly much too much for my liking. So I just avoid, because somehow stifling the emotions is easier that way.
However, now school is upon me. Jason and Justine start tomorrow, probably a mundane act for one and partial social excitement for the other. I am agonizing over all of this while trying to smile through what I know will arrive in a blink of one eye.
Two weeks from now, I'll drop off Mason for his first day of preschool. I keep faking my excitement, because he's timid and shy at best so I am doing my best to give it the college try at being happy for him leaving home officially for the first time. I'm even doing a crappier job facing myself in the mirror.
I knew this time would come. Four years ago it seemed so far off for me to even fathom. It was light years away, and I told myself I would do everything I could to make certain I did the most with the time I had with my kids. It's been hard. It's been challenging. Mothering has brought me to my knees on more occasions than I can recollect. I've been at the mercy of my kids temperament but also to their candid hearts.
I've selfishly had them all to myself for four years. Now I have to accept that opening their world a little more means letting go ever so gently, and it is inexplicably difficult. Opportunities abound for Mason, and I can't wait to see how his mind will fill with questions and curiosity; growth will be a strong factor for him this year for certain. I also know school will obviously continue from here on out until he's ready to leave home.
Letting go is a principle of motherhood I constantly struggle with.... and for an avid reader and google searcher, for the life of me I cannot find a book to support me through this transition. I want a quick fix. If I can find that book entitled something to the effect of "Mending your heart when your little one goes to school: a How-To Manual for restructuring your own identity apart from your child who is growing up", I would be good. It would give me solace in knowing there are so many other women and men out there channeling the same emotions of letting go, so many in fact, it was necessary to publish a book about coping with the aftermath.
I guess I'm just looking for a way to get past this... this idea that I still hear the words of Louis Armstrong crooning "Wonderful World" over the stereo of our living room while I rocked Mason in his newborn swaddled blanket a few days after we brought him home from the hospital, a day that was nearly four years ago, but is crystal in my mind. I remember that exhilarating, unparalleled feeling of being a mom for the first time as clearly as I recall Mason chasing me with the football this evening attempting to tackle me.
I am loving this age, and all that approaches in the bright future for these crazy, unruly boys, but I would be oozing with lies if I told you I didn't miss their baby days, or that I didn't want to transport back to their time of crawling and babbling for just a moment. I know I have quite a while until I have to let go... like, really, cut the cord.
But for now, Mason tells me his college is going to be right next to Daddy's school, so maybe it won't be so bad after all.

...And found.

It's weird how much I avoid blogging anymore. What used to be a period of time devoted to my kids has become a thorn in my side.

I'm not without material by any measure. My kids are amusing at the very least, and would provide daily jargon for me to share. I'm just... not.

And so the guilt comes. I used this small corner of the internet to validate my life as a mom; to share the maddening yet adoring moments of my children; and to combine those two things so upon their departure from my nest in fifteen years that I will have documents, journal writings and sentiments of my crazy yet treasured times with Mason and Peyton. But oddly enough I'm finding it difficult to sit down and write more about them when I'm not with them.

See, as I've written before, motherhood has a way of rearranging your thoughts about what you thought parenting was about, and even in the course of real-time parenting kids have a way of misconstruing those ideas forever changing you. I've read recently that we often think of ourselves as the most important teacher to our children, which I still support, but on the flip side our kids, in turn, happen to be the greatest teachers to us. Patience and humility are tested when, oh I don't know, Peyton turns his milk-filled sippy cup upside down and creates his own masterpiece upon the table and floor [just-cleaned now milky floor] with a look of pride and mischief upon his six inch wide grin. Do I want to fasten him somehow to the ceiling in our basement? Yes! Do I wish to yell at him profusely for making yet again, another mess? Undoubtedly!

But I digress. I talk calmly. Firmly. Almost too faint to hear in a whisper. And when he begins to apologize to me I notice he is responding in the same calm faint whisper. My mind starts to wander and I pause to think what his reaction could have been had I yelled instead?

Before Mason was but a little gummy bear in my uterus, I had all of the intentions of being a working mom. I was not down for diapers every moment of the day, I thought. Baby talk before water cooler talk? I thought not. And yet here I am, a proud translater of toddler speak; though I don't do diapers 24/7 anymore, it's still something I repeat at least three times over in a day. Motherhood tweaked my brain.

And that is all well and good. Really! But my working mom mentality was influenced in part by the idea that I was not ready to forfeit Steph. I was not ready for Steph to take one for the team and lose out on her career, and quite frankly her identity. But I did... And since the beginning of 2010 I have realized the notion that being at home with my kids does not mean that all things that made me Steph pre-kids does not have to cease existence until they are grown up warped teenagers moving onto college. I can still exist simultaneously-- mom, and Steph.

So, oddly enough, I guess that's why I haven't been frequenting here... not that the world is missing desperately my posts, but I've been taking time out for me. And for me that means, kicking up my feet to study my books for personal training, or reading RealSimple outside in the patio, or any reading material not revolving around my kids. Refocusing on myself has been a daunting task, because somewhere when that umbilical cord separated my boys from me I have instilled the idea that I must forever keep one eye open focused on them so as not to miss a thing. In the process, I've lost myself.

However, an amazing thing I have found is that it's truly possible to be found again no matter how long you've been amiss.

A Tale of Twigs

Although the content of the whispers and giggles was uncertain from down the hall, CurlyLocks could hear the quiet hum drum of a conversation flowing out of TweedleDee and TweedleDo's room. The two boys settled into bed about a half an hour earlier and yet still they continued with their banter late into the evening.

CurlyLocks entered her bedroom which was adjacent to the TweedleBoys' room. She set her alarm for the early gym wake up call at 4:55am, and paused when she heard something perplexing coming from the conversation in the room next to hers. The wee little boys are toddlers and so the content was a bit surprising to say the least, but at the same time she shook her head remembering who their father was, and acknowledged also they are a species to which she cannot fully understand: they are boys.

"TweedleDee, you know your twig and berries?" shouted TweedleDo from his crib.

"My twig and berries, TweedleDo? Yes I know."

"Oh. Ok-aaaaaay." Long pause. "Can I see?"

"You want to see my twig and berries, TweedleDo?"

"Ummm... yes please!"

"See that TweedleDo. See my twig and berries?"

"Ummm... no. Where TweedleDee?"

"It's right there, TweedleDo! See it?"

"Oh, ok-aaaaaay! Thank you, TweedleDee! I not show you my twig and berries. I keep my jammies on." Long pause, again. This must have been a moment of intrigue for them both, but a moment of utter shock for CurlyLocks. "TweedleDee, you see Daddy's twig and berries?"

"Yes."

"Mommy's twig and berries?" CurlyLocks held her breath ever so gently and quietly gasped. In fact, it was most certain that the entire session of eavesdropping was accompanied by a long, progressive gasp.

"TweedleDo, Mommies don't have twig and berries. They have... they have... sumpin'."

"Yea. Sumpeeen awright... um, TweedleDee?"

"Yes, TweedleDo?"

"You like red trucks?" And so the conversation drifted away from the gutter banter and continued toward discussion of innocent topics like firetrucks, rain puddles, and marshmallows. And within a few moments CurlyLocks lifted her jaw that dropped to the floor, planted a smile upon her face, a giggle under her breath ready to share the story with her hubby, Mr. Clean, who would undoubtedly feel a sense of pride for his young brutes.

Mr. Clean did not disappoint, and they all fell to sleep peacefully ever after.

Oh, Lucy.

Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep I was stuck in that frame of mind where odd thoughts pop up out of nowhere when all you really want to do is zone out for eight hours.

Sometimes those thoughts range from attacking the boys mountain of laundry that needs folded in the morning or finalizing those pesky holiday cards, or any other annoying trivial mom-related thing I need to accomplish upon waking to my bright eyed little boys.

But you know what, it wasn't about that at all. It was dreaming of what's to come in three months... my first little niece, Lucy.

My brother and his fantastic wife are expecting their first baby sometime in March, early March for Colleen's sake. And like any expected baby brings, there has been much anticipation over meeting her. In the past, I never got sucked into the excitement because I guess sometimes I found it difficult to bubble with enthusiasm over someone I haven't met.

But, now, I can't wait. And, even more, I can't wait for Josh and Colleen to meet her.

There is something completely indescribable about meeting your child for the first time. And all of the other first moments that follow. Will Josh fumble around cutting the umbilical cord because he's so stifled with unexpected tears and jitters? Will Colleen take the scissors out of Josh's hands and do it herself? Yes and probably yes. She is a strong independent woman who will make an amazing mom, and I know Josh will be right there with her earning his much deserving title of daddy.

When Mason was born, two months later Josh met him for the first time with Colleen over Christmas. While Colleen's maternal instincts kicked into gear, Josh and Mason kind of stared at each other one bobbling head eyeing the other not really certain what to make of the situation. But the months that followed their visit, I remember hearing the excited phone calls to our house asking about Mason. He laughed at my stories asking regularly about the stages and milestones of each nephew. The way they've shown love to my kids is more than I could have expected, and show so much eagerness and excitement over being an Aunt and Uncle. Together I see the keen instincts that are about to debut when they meet their little girl.

Half of a country stands between our homes as they are Austin-ians and Long Horn aficionados in the great state of Texas. While their town is UH-mazing it brings me some sadness I can't see up close how Lucy grows. But in the light of skype and digital photography I know we'll keep up.

And even though distance will keep us from experiencing those small moments together as family, I share in the joy in knowing what they'll be feeling for Lucy. Her cry that belongs to them. Buckling her up in the car for her first ride home from the hospital. That crazy first night home that never seems to begin or end. I will share in my fair share of sympathy for the inevitable sleep deprivation. Once the whirlwind stops after a few weeks [er months] I can't wait to hear about how tears came to their eyes as they checked on her sleeping before they went to bed for the night and they couldn't believe how damn lucky they are to have such a happy, healthy, beautiful baby girl of their own.

I am delighted to shop for a girly Adidas warm-up too, and maybe a cute dress or two, and I will abstain from over abundance of pink. But mostly, right now I can't wait for Josh and Col to join the parenting ranks, the bittersweet but nonetheless amazing club to which they are forever indebted. And absolutely, to meet Lucy-- I can hardly wait.

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.

Family vacation. An ultimate oxymoron.

Hold off on plunging tomatoes at my head or stoning me to a state of unconsciousness. I have very fond memories of my family vacations as a kid, but in hindsight it is from the perspective of a child and I have a new found perspective of being a parent. Of toddlers. And a very hormonal teenager. All of whom I love.

But now I need a vacation.

It was a week of beautiful weather. I scored a bronzey tan which I'm totally gloating about like I'm a 13 year old pool rat again trying to gain bragging rights to a summer tan before going back to school. And I caught some sweet waves. On my body board. Conceal the snide laughs; I haven't tested the surfboard on Jersey waves for God's sake.

Our family of five ventured to a gigundous beach house shared with my parents, my in laws, my grandma and my youngest teenage cousin who contributed to keeping the balance among the teenage population. I cooked four fantastic Rachael Ray meals that will be added to the bangin' foodie list. But it was beyond exhausting on many parts, mostly because of the kids. I've realized how much energy is put into them even more so on vacation because as a parent I want them to enjoy the aura of the beach as much as I do.

I want them to point to every obnoxious advertisement being flown overhead by the puddle jumper planes, the military jets that rip past us, the tug boat too close to shore, the sand crab pinching my toe, and the dolphins jumping beyond the waves. But they don't yet, so I act as the motherly tour guide for the majority of the time. Sorry folks, it's tiresome. Especially if your kids want nothing to do with the above and really only want to eat piles of sand by the fistful causing ungodly sights and stenches in their Pampers, thank you very much.

Add to that: a week of spoiling, limited structure and discipline and you have yourself a picture of childhood anarchy.

I was sad to see the week end mostly because through it all we had a great time, but Jason and I were eager to get home. Half way through the trip home we were busy crooning along to Bob Schneider, Barenaked Ladies, and Dave Matthews incessantly when our SUV began sputtering on the Schuylkill Express outside of Philly. It's not our vehicle, but was graciously borrowed from Jason's oldest brother. The Yukon died in transit on the Schuylkill three times before we literally stopped 500 yards before the Conshohocken exit.

A lot of things went through my mind at that point, mostly all of them referring to dangerous statistics about highway fatalities to stranded vehicles. Every tractor trailer that passed in a blur of motion sent chills down my spine as its sheer power sent our 7-passenger vehicle rocking subtly. The view out my window led to a steep hill bordering Amtrak lines. I am a catastrophic thinker, and all I kept seeing in my mind were headlines about a family's vacation ending tragically on the Schuylkill.

I began retracting the thoughts I had about my kids. The "seriously isn't it bedtime for you kids, yet?" thoughts. I still do regret thinking them. Well most of them anyway. The teenager's request for a pink bra, no I'm sorry a Victoria's Secret PINK bra, was still not happening during day two of vacation and will not happen now either, mind you, and I don't regret the internal expletive thoughts I had after that little proposal. And I don't regret my reaction to my toddlers' baffling stunt where they managed to score dad's electric shaver out of the wall, shave off pieces of each other's hair, dismantle the mechanism, all in about ten minutes after I put them to bed for naptime on day three of vacation.

But all of the other grumblings I said under my breath out of exhaustion... yea those I totally regret.

And I still need that vacation. As if it were in question.

Oh, to be 14. Or pregnant. Just not both. Or either really.

I don't know why it is that when you become pregnant for the first time that suddenly any tiny tid bit of personal information regarding the little peanut growing in your uterus becomes public domain.

Cart blanche on Twenty Questions? Can you really see yourself asking a woman in the grocery store, who is by no means pregnant, how much weight she's gained in the past forty weeks? Put a prosthetic belly under her shirt and suddenly the gloves come off.

No, I am totally not with-child. Not in the least. I'm loving the idea of sporting a bikini for the summer even if it does invite questions like, "Aren't you, like, Justine's stepmom?" Teenager for "Are you stoned out of your mind? Where do you get off thinking you can wear anything besides a moo moo to the pool? Enter motherhood, exit mid-drift revealing clothing."

Over the past few days I've exchanged conversations with people who were thinking of becoming pregnant, and so were curious about my two-fold journey down that lane. How much weight did I pack on? How did I manage to get my little darlings to sleep through the night without having to stuff a pillow over their face? Did I swell up like a balloon at the end of my pregnancy? What kind of birth did I have? Did I tear? Drugs, did I use them? [Yes, quite heavily as a matter of fact.]

But I think it's the most absurd yet equally amazing thing that pregnancy and kids can truly tear down the walls of ambiguity, and break out the sentiments of brutal honesty. When you enter into pregnancy, you become a part of this secret society of motherhood where you realize you all go through similar journeys to bear children, your hearts bleed the same as you experience heartache together, and likewise can totally relate to the necessity of scrutinizing your child's poop for about the first four years from infancy to toddler. Unbelievable.

Then I sit next to one of these grown up babies at the pool yesterday. A clan of teenagers, in fact. Something I fear and loathe my boys to become. Worse yet: something my boys will like.

As the valley girl clique readied to sunbathe beside me, I stumbled through Sense & Sensibility, while one of the five vixens bared her bikini body for all the rest to see. I didn't look up. Their squeals pierced my ears and made me burn my eyes deeper into Austen's novel even though I cannot get past the nineteenth century lingo.

"OOOOOOOooohmigod. Seeeery-us-leeeee, your boobs look huge!"
Eh, what?

"I know, right? Aren't they uuuuh-may-zing?!"

Then I revert in my mind back to the cart blanche mode, that I also inherited since having children. And I realize that she's not pregnant and so I can't ask her a brutally honest question like, "Sweetheart, if you only knew where your leopard print bikini, 32DD boobs, navel ring, and naivete are going to take you in life you would be so inclined to keep your nose in the books instead of the help wanted ads for the adult film industry, right?"

No, no. She's something far different than a pregnant woman. She's a teenager, and unfortunately she's quite the opposite. Her demeanor invites all the questions like the former, but she however is more cunning and will deliver no answer.

Surrendering to the daybed

In the past month I've managed to do very little for myself, in terms for writing. Ob-viously.

Jason and I did manage to throw a cocktail party Friday night. So every last nook and cranny of the house was investigated, fixed, touched up with paint, six scoops of mulch spread around the house, and our square foot garden appropriately decorated with flag stones. Just so... ya know... his friends don't think we're sloppy home owning parents of some toddlers and a teenager with oodles of free time that is not spent on our humble abode.

That was fun and I intend to post some delish recipes I tested at a later time.

Right now I sit here a bit more stable minded than I was eight days ago. It started a few days before that too. Suddenly my oldest son, Mason, discovered that hurdling over the crib railing was incredibly similar to that of the bathtub, a new trick he recently mastered. Lo and behold my future Army grunt began sneaking out of his crib and tiptoeing over to the basket of stuffed animals only to create plush chaos all throughout the room until he burst out laughing at the madness.

It's just a phase, I told myself the next day, as I wiped the mulch off of my hands, when my stepdaughter came out to tell me Mason just came downstairs to visit after he was seemingly napping. No naps for the next two days. I was going out of my mind. Finally on Saturday I conceded to the idea of converting his crib. Being a crib railing hurdler was one thing, but him forgoing an afternoon nap was just about as awesome as beating my head against a brick wall.

The rest of Saturday, since he wasn't napping Mason helped me spread mulch which meant really that he picked up every last piece in front of him and directed his new favorite question to me, "Mommy, what's that?" In between repeated questions I repeated to him that tonight was the last night he would sleep in a crib. Tomorrow, I continued, you'll be in a big boy bed.

I took pictures that evening. He looked so proud standing beside those crib rails. He stood off to the side a bit and propped one foot on the rail and it reminded me of the stupid soccer poses we would do as kids when it was picture night with our feet posed on top of the ball. He defeated that crib, and I succumbed to letting go of it.

That night, I wept in the shower, on Jason's shoulder, and also on Mason's baby quilt that was temporarily stored in our bedroom hanging on the extra pack in play. I wrote in Mason's journal and as the tears stained the pages my mind retraced back three years when my Dad and Jason put together the new glistening cherry crib. Now, teeth marks remain literally everywhere and it looks "lived in". But that's what I love about it.

Sometimes I feel guilty that a larger portion of this blog site is dedicated to the realization of Mason growing up, and not collectively shared between the boys. An entry struck me sometime back in December which is entirely about Peyton, but somehow because Mason is my first babe, I seem to get choked up quite easily because I am letting go of him first while somehow still holding onto Peyton. Or maybe I just know that some day way too soon Peyton will also become a crib hurdler so I'm preserving the tears for a later date.

When I step outside of myself to reflect on this, it is obviously just a crib. But it's more than that. It's a close to a chapter. He's growing up. I know that time marches on and is most certainly one of the only constant factors in life, but it still leaves me a bit misty-eyed and my heart aches a little. Okay really misty-eyed, and my heart aches a lot.

But if there is a silver lining in any of this, it's that right now-- he's napping.

Just in case you forgot

I am a Jon & Kate Plus 8 naysayer.

Most of the time when a friend asks if I watch it, I groan. I have three of those things I call offspring and so no, I steer away from shows devoted to the chaos "they" bring after they are in bed.

But yes, I have seen the above show. Sometimes in desperation I watched for a mere two minutes until Kate mouthed off to her husband or snapped at her kids then passed a knowing eye-roll to the camera crew. I avoid it because they've created a brand out of their family. Don't misunderstand that I just have a vengence for Jon & Kate, because I also scrutinize the Duggar's and other crazy Octomom type charades blasted over the vicious channels of media these days.

But last night I shamefully sat on my chair watching the overly publicized season opener of Jon & Kate Plus 8 which may have been the kiss of death for the show. And rightfully so.

The parents are just like me and Jason. No, well, not really. I just mean that they are a mom and a dad trying to raise their kids who are just numerically beyond the norms of society. And they've been taped by a camera crew, coached by a producer, and assisted by publicists but otherwise they are just parents.

And so to people like me, who mostly live under a rock when it comes to reality television, I understood in advance that there was some type of speculation of adultery going on off-camera as I watched last night while they danced around "the topic". If you've shopped at a grocery store in the past six months you could not have avoided their pictures plastered across the tabloids in the check out aisle. It was out of the question to avoid this topic on their own show.

I watched the train wreck as their premiere went from happy-awkward children's birthday party to estranged Barbara Walters style interviews focusing on each parent separately who discussed their point of view on the demise of their marriage currently dissolving before American family room TVs.

At one point, Kate pondered how their marriage got to this point, and how to fix it. You've got to be kidding me.

This is what gets me. As a mom and a wife, I completely understand how things can get skewed in a marriage making life at home a bit uneasy. I totally get that.

But to be baffled after signing over the privacy of your life to mainstream media that one day it crumbles at your feet? This is basic decision making 101. Pros and cons weigh our every day decisions, and if it was an afterthought that maybe turning family into celebrity may be a hefty con then at least while you're tumbling down hill in a hurry with your marriage and kids in the crux of the fall make a daunting escape to salvage what you may.

Before having kids I think we are all misled a bit. Friends and family promise you that the parenting gig is a priceless but difficult one. It's exhausting, but if you knew now what you knew then you would still do it all over again. And so I know that the peaks, valleys and mountains that me and Jason have faced already is only a picture of what's to come in our hopefully long journey together. But those are quasi-normal difficulties without the added influx of fame, money and media overexposure in our lives.

But I certainly hope and damn near expect that if a decision we made as a couple began to unravel our family I would make a graceful exit. Pronto.

It comes down to our priorities. Like I said, I know things get clouded when you're parenting. But turn off the damn cameras and focus on your family. My heart bleeds for these kids who are in the center of this mess. It's a sick twist in irony to see how a show that began because of the multiples, all eight of them, are now going to ultimately suffer as a result of it.

And any parent no matter how clouded their vision can plainly see that.