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.

Twenty-seven

Something about Miss Swift's latest single, "Fifteen" has me humming a tune of nostalgia. It's not so much the entirety of the song about the issue of high school drama, but more about the underlying notes of hammering out one's identity.

"I've found time can heal just about anything, and you just might figure out who you're supposed to be. I didn't know it at fifteen." Well, hell, I didn't even know it at twenty-five!

I didn't really know who I was supposed to be until a few weeks ago really. I'll be twenty-eight in a few months. Sigh, but I'll get to that later.

But as I've droned on before, motherhood has had its way of interceding the thoughts I thought I had about me, and what the heck I'm "supposed to do in life", or what I want to be in life in addition to the domestic guru I've come to be over the past few years. It's not as if I was in "the know" of my direction in life before kids. They just seemed to slow the progress of figuring that out if it were to ever happen.

Taylor Swift crossed my mind while I watched early home videos of Mason and Peyton this morning with the two of them nestled in my lap. They're both sick right now, as am I, but that's not really important. We watched and they both thoroughly enjoyed viewing their former selves on the TV; the stories I tell them from my recollection are not as entertaining as it is to literally watch Mason shake his butt on camera. I think in the three years of film I appear on camera all but a four times. I am behind the lens, but my voice is still audible.

Besides my pudgy lil' babes, my husband and stepdaughter grace the camera often. They were so natural with the boys. Happy. Overjoyed. Ecstatic. My kids adored them, and it was evident in the footage how much my boys loved them too. They were enamoured with each other.

And then there was me. Frantic, exhausted behind the camera. Happy, but I could just hear the discomfort I had in my own skin. As mom. I didn't know who I was supposed to be at twenty-five.

I trace through my journals and I know how abundantly my heart flowed with love for my kids and obviously I do more now twenty-fold than when the boys were infants. But most of the time when I was with them, I wanted to be someone else. Because I wasn't so sure how to do the mom thing. And I didn't want to admit it-- who acknowledges those things when you're a mom!? You're supposed to be a strong, all-knowing, life-giving being who instantly tames the crazy emotions and physical demands of being a mom the moment your child takes its first breath of air... but I wasn't.

I was totally disconnected, present physically but emotionally I was all over the place, and unfortunately my kids were left with a mom who was quite confused a lot of the time. Three years and a steady dose of counseling has given me time to settle and wrap my head around parenthood. With a clear mind now, I wonder in the cliche term that Swift sings about, if I knew three years ago what I know now, would I have enjoyed my kids a bit more?

Preschool registrations are rearing their head. Reviewing kindergarten regulations are not out of the question now. Both things are nearing quicker than I anticipated and I realize how fast the days have passed me at light speed. And so I wonder to myself could I do a better job tomorrow than I did today? The answer is always yes.

So thank you Taylor Swift, you savvy eight-Grammy nominee, entertainer of the year. All nineteen freakin' years of you gave insight to a stay at home mom. Imagine that.

As for figuring myself out, as I mentioned earlier-- that may be just as important as evaluating the time spent with my kids developing their roots, so to speak. I'm studying to be a personal trainer. While a part of me wants to drift into thought wondering how much happier of a person I would have been for my kids three years ago if I knew both how to be a mom and enjoy it, AND how to be happy with my purpose in my life trying to help people train and fulfill healthier lives... I won't.

I'm just thankful I figured it out now.

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.

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.

Lost in translation. And then found, again.

Prior to motherhood I used to think it was borderline ridiculous when I overheard families in public deciphering toddler speak as if it were as eloquent as my literature professor second semester Junior year in college.

Does it ever strike anyone else how indeterminable kids can sometimes sound when they are learning to speak? But to the child's parent[s] it's no sweat off the back to understand that Maddie just wanted to have her Elmo cup and some grapes please. Wow, that mom needs to get out more I would think with pity.

Now I am the resident toddler interpreter.

Prior to summer when Jason arrived home after a day of teaching and coaching, the kids eagerly wanted to talk to him; and it was fairly normal if not expected for him to look at them cross-eyed, shrug, and then look to me for a translation.

As the school year began to wind down I excitedly told him, "Just think: before the end of the second week you're home, you will be able to decode the babblings of the toddler ramblings."

How exciting!

I was looking forward to have some peace in knowing that someone else could spring to his feet when Peyton said "Buh buh" at the kitchen table while pointing to his cup, and could then get Peyton his milk. Buh and cup sound nothing alike, I realize. But tiny utterances that somehow I managed to decode these past three years, I was looking forward to Jason understanding too.

Then about a month ago we were getting the boys ready for bed. Each of us takes one of the boys and preps him for bathtime, then assists with the last chug of milk for the day, scrubbing the teeth, and a nighttime story. That night, Jason had Peyton, my mommy's-boy-until-daddy-came-home-this-summer boy.

"Listen to this, honey," Jason urged me while holding Peyton in his arms before tucking him in for the night. Jason leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

"Yah yew," Peyton said beaming at me.

"What's yellow, buddy?" I asked curious. Yellow is the new blue, his former favorite color. Every single object is yellow even if you tell him 57 times it was red with absolute certainty.

Another whisper in Peyton's ear.

"Mommy, yah yew," he said again smiling.

"Thank you?" I asked shrugging my shoulders in question. "For what, sweetie?" Yellow and thank you sound so much the same. Okay not really, but when he says it there is a subtle distinction between the two. I must have missed it the first time.

Jason smiled at Peyton and looked at him in the eyes and then over at me, still confused. I was beginning to feel out of place in my own job as a mom.

"I love you, Peyton," Jason said softly.

"Yah yew, Da-doo," he returned with a smile stretched across his face and gleaming at me looking for approval.

My first "I love you," and I was lost in freakin' translation. I conceded to squealing and showered him with kisses for a solid 45 seconds.

Jason earned his linguistics badge this summer, and though I missed the boat on a few occassions like the above, every now and then I have a moment when I'm reminded I still understand the kids. Pretty well.

Because this morning as Jason got the boys up to start the day, I heard Peyton following Jason from their room to the kitchen.

"Dodo! Dodo!"

"Yes, Peyton, daddy is here."

A minute later, "Mew, mew! Meeeew!"

"A cow? What cow, Peyton?"

I smiled to myself knowing that Peyton's first request was for his favorite stuffed animal dog that sleeps at his crib side "guarding" him nightly.

And the second remark was asking for his favorite book, Goodnight Moon. One that I happen to love reading to him. Maybe a little rusty, but I still haven't lost my touch. For now.

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.

Identity in check

For as long as I can remember writing has been my outlet, my private time, a moment to reflect and sort my thoughts.

It's therapeutic. At times it is poetic, and others it is just plain psychobabble. But it's there for me whenever I need to use it which has always been a comfort, and since I've been home with the munchkins I've found moments of solace when I'm able to retrace through steps of time transforming into a person of another moment as I reflect on my journals, all eleven of them to date.

I picked up my tenth journal a week ago and thumbed through pages documenting my pregnancy with Mason and shortly after he was born. It was a pile of endearing transcrptions about the newfound love I had for my first child. Suddenly when he was about four months old the newness and wonderment tapered off.

Maybe it was post-holiday blues. Maybe it was the encroaching Spring track season when I knew Jason would be gone for 60+ hours a week. Maybe it was both.

Maybe I was also beginning to struggle with a new identity. Women don't talk about how hard that is- to go from professional extraordinaire to diaper changing guru. It is a change. To go from water cooler talk to goo-goo-ga-ga one sided conversation is equally different.

Sometime in February 2007 I honed in on an urge to reconnect with old friends. So me and Google became good partners and I managed to track down a few. I was home with a baby who I loved so unconditionally, yet I felt so alone in every sense. I yearned for connections, and starved for good conversation that so lacked in my daily life.

"Yet more than finding these connections [with old friends], I desperately yearn more than anything to find myself," I wrote.

Those words made me ache inside because although I know it's something I still struggle with, I'm doing much better. But that initial shock of... loss, I suppose, was a feat to overcome. I have since acknowledged this identity issue in the same regard as an ongoing acne problem. It's there. It's not very attractive, but it comes and goes as it pleases. I know it's an inherant problem that constantly remains. I just deal with it.

I reconnected with friends.
I became a huge fan of Rachael Ray cooking. And that's a delicious reward itself.
I took up the position of chief landscaper at my house.
I dove into books. Good ones. Not parenting magazines. Good plot thickening books.
I gave birth to this here blog.
I succumbed to the relaxation of power yoga.
I commit to my 5am gym compadres five days a week.
I take pride in being the photographer of the family.
I enrolled in an art class at our local musuem.

Just last week, I picked up my brand new pack of charcoals and put my fears aside that this new sketch would NOT turn into a stick drawing of my kids but something decent. After two mediocre attempts I got something down that was workable and I went with it. Unforgiving and challenging, charcoal is something that is truly difficult to work with but when I finished this morning it felt amazing.

Do I still struggle with who in the hell I am? Absolutely. I shared drinks with some good friends from high school last month and one of my fellow moms shared a quote with us about just this topic.

"Motherhood brings as much joy as ever, but it still
brings boredom, exhaustion, and sorrow too. Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired. For nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality especially while you struggle to keep your own." [Marguerite Kelly & Elia Parsons]

Whatever length of time it is before you arrive at the conclusion that you don't know who you are anymore besides Mom, I can say that finding some well-deserved time for you is both priceless but necessary.

It might keep things in check for some of you, but for me it's been a saving grace.
Your husband and your kids will thank you for it. And more importantly you'll thank yourself.

Don't step on my toes

"Maaaa-meeee! Watch me slide all by myself!"

Little blond curls blurred in between the railings and feet in motion paced over the grid lined stairs to the top of a winding slide at the park behind our house. Looking for my eyes, Mason yelled for me again.

"Mommy, are you coming?"

I snuck around the side of the slide out of his eye sight and I jumped up in the air where he quickly looked over, his eyes lit up and he began squealing in laughter.

His laugh has always been one of my most favorite attributes, and when it's a genuine giggle, his cheeks round like apples causing his blue eyes to squint just so. Like most parents, I am susceptible to a fit of laughter when I hear him, and it's a sound that I love.

I continue playing this age appropriate peek-a-boo game with him each time his laughter getting louder and more intense. I hide and bang on the slide which he finds amusing and hilarious that a thunderous sound is coming from his mom without the slightest idea where I would appear.

While I continued this game with him, suddenly everything around me was slowing in motion as my mind flooded with two and a half years of memories. The laugh, his sparkling eyes. My little boy standing before me who is quickly becoming the master of the playground seems like only yesterday showered me with the same contagious laughter at four months of age laying under his hippo play gym while I played a more traditional peek-a-boo for the same amusement. I was befuddled. Stunned. The laughter remains but my God he has grown up.

A knot briefly formed in my throat and I quickly chased it away by just absorbing the moment of fun exploring with Mason and discovering new levels of our relationship. It becomes obvious that my kids continue to reinforce the simple notion that motherhood is a priceless yet bittersweet journey; it is joy and love, but it is sadness and heartache.

Finally after another minute or so Mason takes a plunge down the slide and proudly sits at the bottom. When I offer a hand to help his feet reach the mulch he reminds me, "No, Mommy. I can do it by myself."

Sorry to impede, little man. Sometimes I just try to ignore how quickly you're growing up.

The trivial Mother's Day confession

I wish I could inject some humor into today's writing.

But it's not here.

I haven't, in fact, been here for a bit. This spring has been hectic in the most modest of terms. I have a love-hate relationship with this season as it is finally an end to cabin fever, but it also resumes to the craziest time of year because Jason is a track coach and spends 86% of the week away from home which I realize is still less than some.

With the toddler boys and a teenage lady of the house it makes my world spin on its side a little longer. Coincidentally I also find that I tend to appreciate my kids much less these three months out of the year which only furthers my bittersweet sentiments toward spring.

To add to this Jason has been going through a whirlwind of sorts too. Nine years ago, he met various doctors and underwent second opinions of a diagnosis doctors conceived was Multiple Sclerosis.

Jason at his very core, is an intense athlete and exudes the physique of an Olympic runner, in my very bias opinion. He's very inward about his diagnosis, and rarely talks about it to people mostly because I think he wants to avoid the very stereotype associated with MS-- disability. After trying two different medicines over the past nine years and without any physical episodes since the original in 2000 and his MRIs only showing improvement we decided to speak with a neurologist closely focused on MS instead of a doctor dealing with a dozen different neurological ailments.

The search to find someone at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital was not difficult. So about a month and a half ago we set out on a new journey with a doctor who is on the cutting edge and directing the neurology department at UPenn. His resident who spoke with us for 45 minutes even seemed to allude to a misdiagnosis.

"Most people I see in here are female, or unfortunately overweight. You seem to miss both of those characteristics, I see," he said making light of the situation.

We even spoke with Jason's doctor for another half an hour but his feelings seemed to be more realistic I suppose. "Your father has MS, too, correct?" he said grimly. We nodded in agreement and he resumed to order more MRIs, an eye scan, and a lumbar puncture [LP] which Jason never opted to do nine years ago which also happens to be the most critical diagnostic test used in pinpointing MS. I could see Jason cringe in his seat squirming at the thought of a nine inch needle entering his spine.

What Jason feared most ended up happening... probably in most senses of what he imagined being the worst. He never complains. He never appears to be scared of anything. He leads the optimistic conversation in our home and in his classroom, yet I knew he was scared of the possible migraines to follow the LP. He was in the 3% who earned the god-awful migraines that tapered off after two weeks.

I never wavered in my support. For the first time in years I mowed the lawn- several times, in fact. With a freaking reel push mower. On a half acre. After a week of rain. Complaints were out of question when I would think of what Jason was going through. The boys were out of control as we were stuck inside while all the rain in our backyards kept them caged, and with Jason in such pain he had no "Daddy Energy" for them either and I come nowhere close to that level. I have a new found respect for single moms who do it all and do it well. Because I was exhausted.

Then last week we met with the neurologist who confirmed the second fear.

"You still have MS, Jason."

I don't think I remember so much of the smaller details of that conversation. Eye scan was great. MRIs showed growth in lesion quantities in the brain and the spine. The LP was positive for MS.

"But isn't there a benign MS," I retorted. "Because I've read about this new category of MS," just in case he missed that on the latest Google searches.

"Jason hasn't relapsed in nine years, so couldn't stay in remission--"

"His MS is active. His brain is just keeping up with the growth and he doesn't show the physical affects of it," the doctor said cutting me off.

The hour and a half drive home was pretty quiet. I'm pretty sure that those words were chilling to me. They burned in my mind as we drove home. What does this mean? It means he is back on the shots and continues training and fighting it like hell. Because it means he doesn't know if and when it will show up again and if it does how strong it will be or if it will go away quite as easily as it did nine years ago.

That night I retold the facts of the appointment to family repeatedly as Jason tried to relax for the night probably running the months' events over in his mind without mentioning it to me.

A few days later I was looking forward to a day. Selfishly enough I was looking forward to Mother's Day. I'm a believer in age old selfish events like my birthday and new indulgent ones celebrating my new found love of being a mom.

The embarrassed part of me admits now how hurt I was when I walked out to the kitchen on Sunday only to find two cards from my kids. They were sweet and endearing, and Jason printed pictures on the outside of the envelopes which I carefully opened with a steak knife for safekeeping. I secretly hoped that my card from Jason was hiding somewhere in the house with a bouquet of flowers or something. As the day wore on, it became more obvious it just wasn't happening.

It was a huge conflict of emotions. A part of me felt so hurt that I didn't even get a "Hey, Wifey, I love you for all that you do and what you've been through with me this past month and all those before... and for everything you do at home 24/7. Oh and enjoy the wildflowers too."

The other part was thinking, "You idiot, how can you expect that? Your husband is in a tornado right now! You can't be in the forefront of his world, when he doesn't even know what end is up."

So there, I admit it. I was swindled by Hallmark, 1-800-Flowers, and the five-star hotel down the road a bit who hosts a lavish Mother's Day brunch. So when the kids napped, I painted our bathroom with Jason and then I prepared the grilled feast I was serving to my in-laws for the occasion. A drained mother I was, and I felt resentful for it. Our evening ended on a more dramatic note than I had hoped as all of my emotions guiltily surfaced. It was what it was.

But this husband of mine is the same one who took inspiration from my favorite book, The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks, for Christmas this year and built me my very own art easel, purchased some canvas, a set of brushes, and oil-based paints. He also accompanied all of this with the movie.

So he gets a free pass for this Mother's Day because I know it was certainly out of character for him to bypass a holiday attributed to his hormonal emotionally-charged wife. In the end, I realize to appreciate what I have as he suggested. To him, he meant the cards with my kids' pictures printed on the envelopes.

To me, I realize that I've been given much more in these past five years of marriage, and much more than what could be wrapped up in a holiday. He's okay, right now. I certainly hope the MS continues to avoid being physically present in my husband's nervous system, but for the nine years it abstained from harming him and the many more years I hope it continues in that same manner... that I've realized, is exactly what we need.

Retiring from the club

Although time at home marches at a snail's pace on a daily basis, when Friday is upon me I suddenly realize that another week has gone by and my kids are becoming little boys and only trace amounts remain of anything baby.

Okay. So Peyton is still regarded in age by months, and in the big picture is still a baby, but not baby in the sense of cooing-and-yearning-to-be-held-in-my-arms baby. And Mason, is nearly 2 1/2. He is definitely of the age when "half" is a mighty big deal, and so on Saturday he will officially be 2 1/2. But, frankly, they're aging too quickly for my liking.

The other week I caught up with a friend from high school who just welcomed his second baby girl to his growing family. His first daughter is not quite two, and thus has joined a club I formerly understood well: 2 under 2.

While I know that having two mini me's under twenty-four months is a not a large feat in light of octomoms and quadromoms and families exceeding any normal standard in terms of offspring. For me, however, it was a big deal.

Two years ago, after adjusting to the perks of normal clothing, the joy of being able to see my feet again, and bypassing the maternity section with confidence, I learned I was pregnant again on Good Friday. Mason was all but five months old. Out came the same blasted maternity clothes that I so happily packed away, and with it came the nausea and exhaustion that only arrives with a little human growing inside.

When the time came for Peyton to be born, I felt Mason was this ridiculously mature and independent young boy, but really was only two months younger than Peyton is now. Their births are separated by 14 months and 4 days. Now Peyton is nearing his 16th month and I can no longer wear the "2 under 2" badge.

I sort of despise that.

But my friend can wear that badge proudly [and quite groggily], and I'm sure he and his wife are doing fabulously at it. It is draining, and tiring and I need not emphasize so much of this because if you are a parent you are sitting there nodding your head in agreement. But once you get past the incessant exhaustion your infant becomes more mature and you hear of a friend's new baby, or you see a little newborn nestled in her stroller, and you know that though your kids are still relatively young they are in fact no longer in that newborn camp.

And I guess I honestly miss that. Peyton is no longer content sitting on my lap or playing patty cake. Hello? He's a toddling boy who is nearing his one-and-a-half birthday. Why would he want his crazy, emotionally wired mom ogling at him in his face wishing he were still young enough to enjoy this pastime? But I do so miss the tiny onesies, and swaddling, and iddy-bitty hands that grasp onto my pinky making it look of gigantic proportion.

I've been treading over this beaten path for a while now, knowing that we are 99.985% certain there will be no more babies in this home [of the human variety]. Two weeks ago I threw up out of the blue without any signs of flu or food poisoning. Then I was drastically tired thereafter wondering what in the world was wrong with me. Things started smelling incredibly pungent to my nose and I kept myself up for a few nights with my mind running a thought marathon as to what we were going to do with this imaginary baby growing inside of me. What else could explain all of the peculiar pregnancy symptoms? My rational brain cell intercepted this fantasy and concluded that my menstrual cycle is like clockwork now and I haven't missed my friend for about 16 months so I avoided the $15 cost of a home pregnancy test and accepted that no matter how much I am willing that tiny miracle again, I am not pregnant.

It's the process of retiring my "2 under 2" badge that has gotten to me. First, it was the empty, unused bassinet that sat in our room for months until my friend needed it for her newborn, since Peyton quickly outgrew it. It's the long overdue haircut that I just gave Peyton who was bordering on the ownership of a toddler mullet because I didn't want to have to do that first cut; because his first haircut meant the last time I would see his fine baby hairs. It's the pack 'n play that continues to sit in our room now, where the bassinet formerly resided, that Peyton once used to nap. But he hasn't slept in there for four months. It's a void I'm choosing to fill because moving it will be another reminder that, yes they're growing up.

Don't get me wrong. I love all of the new things they're doing now. I love the degree of quirkiness that Peyton shouts "Ma-meeeeee!" with a proud little grin on his face. And the full sprint colliding hugs I get from Mason out of the blue with a kiss landing smack dab on my lips. I enjoy the forward roll that he continues to practice daily, and the 5-word sentences he's putting together.

However, retirement by its very nature can be a bittersweet accomplishment. It's a celebration of working so damn hard, but I think retirement can also mean closing a chapter that is often times missed down the road. And I know the forfeit of my "2 under 2" badge is one of small magnitude but I haven't underestimated the challenge that club brought. I am proud to be an alumn. I don't yearn for baby puke, twelve feedings a day accompanied with equivalent diaper changes, or the shrill ear piercing newborn cry.

But the aforementioned good stuff? Yea. I miss that. And most certainly always will.

Quips from a SAHM

If you're rereading that title sounding out SAHM, then perhaps you should read past this post to find something more applicable to you. I'm not making lofty assumptions, but it would be safe to say if that acronym is over your head, this entry will probably induce a yawn session. SAHM spills over into a world of domestic engineering, or otherwise known as a stay at home mom.

Perhaps it should be SAHP: stay at home parents seems to have a bit less of a gender bias.

Nonetheless, I recently became irritated [not that this is anything new], when someone commented on my assumed oodles of free time as a director of stay at home affairs.

As I wrote a few weeks ago, I have joined Facebook and in light of that, I have caught up with many former classmates. As I might have ventured before registering I have rekindled feelings, both good and borderline irritating, concerning some of my former equals. I made the error of commenting on my wall one day last week how glad I was to have my computer back in a working condition, and that low and behold I was connected to the world wide web once more. Technology is great, but when it turns against me, I take a short drive to crazy town.

To this comment, a friend inquired what I "do" besides the internet these days, with the full understanding I am at home with my kids.

This, is the be all end all statement that gets under my skin like nothing else. Prior to this tornado of a life as mom, I worked in a semi-chaotic corporate setting.

I had deadlines. I had a business card; although I could make one again, I don't know that I want to advertise surrogate motherhood any time soon. I had a desk, my own private extension, and secretly felt important to be paged on the intercom [unless it was my boss in which case I was a sitting duck]. Daily, I wore dramatic stiletto heels that give me painstaking cramps in my calves now after wearing them to, I don't know, get the mail. I made press releases and drafted business correspondences or marketing proposals for review of executives. I created streamlined presentations given throughout the state by our executive branch. My creative juices flowed freely, and I ate up the notion that I played a vital role in their creative department. There were nights I would get home only to scarf a salad, shower and get up at 5:30am only to do it all over again with pleasure.

With a pat on my back, and a paycheck wired to my account every other week I saw the fruits of my labor on a regular, or at least occasional basis. [I need not recount the instances I took a quick rest on the hot seat. It wasn't all glory.] But at least when I spoke to people outside of my profession, I wasn't questioned. I never confronted, "So, no, really. What do you do all day?"

My kids don't thank me for changing their diapers or fixing them baked oatmeal. I don't earn brownie points for reading to them, though I know this will pay for itself in the future. A monthly bonus doesn't fall into my lap for making certain the bathrooms don't smell like a urinal, or that the tumbling dust bunnies are vacuumed on a weekly basis. I do receive pats on the back for the weekly Rachael Ray delights, but really I won't be adding any of this to my working resume.

On a side note, I am in no way knocking the working moms. Because all that I do with my two toddlers [29 and 15 months young], I am puzzled to imagine how I could possibly function while also operating an adult, non-mommy related, brain cell. Something for me, or for my family, would suffer. I know how curt I was at times while I was working, and step-mommying, and later pregnant while step-mommying and coaching and being a wife, etc. It was crazy, and I know that some women can master that; I, however, was not up for the challenge.

But this, too, is crazy. Prior to my kids' boisterous awakening, I rise at 5am to get to the gym where I complete a rigorous 60 minute cardio slash weight lifting work out before Jason goes to school to teach by seven. From the time my kids are pounding their wooden cribs at 7:30am ravenous for food, they are on edge like little wind up toys and don't stop until lunch is over and scattered among the linoleum kitchen floor roughly by 1pm. After I get them settled for a nap I clean up, make a half-attempt at lunch for myself, and thereafter I prep dinner which then usually leaves me about an hour or so of uninterrupted time to myself if I don't have laundry to fold, bills to pay, furniture to dust, floors to mop, dishes to put away, shirts to iron, bathtubs to sanitize, rooms to vacuum, or toilets to defunk.

Until you become a parent you have no understanding how much that time of solace is to survival, and so be it if take an hour to peruse the internet or write a blog entry for all six of my readers to enjoy. Before I can breathe another second the boys are up and ready for more action by 3:30pm. In rare form, since they are refreshed with the energy reserves of marathon runners, ready to conquer the basement in search of another toy explosion until dinner time when Jason usually walks in the door. The energy levels kick up a notch at the sight of Dah-DEE and they are wild like banshees until 8pm after which point, Jason and I collapse on the family room chairs and exhale in relief for having made it through another draining day after shutting their bedroom door for the night. Aside from that, half of the week we increase our parental stamina after the toddlers are in bed to get Justine, our resident teenager, through the rest of the day with the remaining amount of tact, love and patience we reserved for her.

I need not validate with the other at home parents how draining this job is, and how downright undermining it can be at times. Do I really need to validate my life at home? I suppose not. I knew before taking this job offer that motherhood at home 24/7/365 can be a thankless job at best. It's demoralized by ignorant twits who scoff at the idea of it being anything remotely difficult.

But, ya know what? To each their own. Each of us working humans face the difficulties on the job, and while I don't see professional careers on the domestic front becoming slightly prestigious any time soon I have to say that I have respect for myself. When the latest headlines these days relate to how many more billions of dollars corporate giants are managing to smuggle away from the little guy, I have to say that raising a new generation of kids is a mighty fine gig.

Winter Protest

I hate the winter.

Not just because of the ridiculous expense of heating oil. Not because I wear three layers so the thermostat can comfortably sit at 65 degrees to save energy. Not because of the condensed wet snow that waited so patiently to be shoveled today.

I agree that upon a new snow there could be nothing more beautiful. It’s tranquil-- especially in the midst of snowfall at night or upon daybreak when few cars loiter the roads. The snow is still white, and looks beautiful as it dusts the evergreen trees lining the park in my back yard.

I think the reason I mostly hate winter is the pent up energy that resides in my house. The testosterone levels that gradually build up in my little sons’ bodies every day, and the ungodly cold that offers them no release outside. Peyton is only beginning to crawl and it is uneventful bringing him out into the cold. Mason would probably last until frost bite occured before wanting to come inside.

With the normally high toddler energy levels matched with the normally mediocre mom energy levels it makes for an interesting battle every day to keep them occupied and with all appendages attached. Occupancy is key, and I usually run out of ideas shortly after Elmo and prior to snack time.

This morning I began to wonder if the boys’ dislike for winter came to rise to the surface too. They appreciated the “snooo” as Mason described the frozen matter outside while he and his brother peered outside their bedroom window. But lately since we’ve been cooped up inside they’re aggression has increased way too much for my liking. Mason has ceased hitting his little brother for the most part, but instead now turns his little fist toward himself. Self-hitting is beyond my understanding to the degree at which they do it. I can identify with, You idiot, Steph! You locked yourself out of the house again for the third time today without your spare. Off to see hubby at work again. Won’t he be thrilled, as I turn my palm to my forehead in a quick “duh” realization.

Peyton, all 14 months of him, started hitting himself and creates a deja vous moment for yours truly upon every thwap to his tiny little head. Mason started this vicious cycle shortly after Peyton was born when he was 14 months old too. Jason and I assumed the cause was two fold: frustration and lack of verbal capacity to express his feelings. His physical motor skills are finely tuned, but his verbal skills are slowly catching up. Recently we’ve seen a rise again in this self-hitting for Mason when we thought it abandoned him for several months.

It’s not only frustrating [and seemingly painful to onlookers], but as parents it’s upsetting to watch this. Upon finishing the workout of clearing our snow-paved driveway I sat down on the computer chair to google, or wiki-search anything involving toddler self destruction.

I became aware that there are at least 100 other people responding to similar cries for help. Parents cited similar findings: lacking verbal expression. I was unable to find, however, any resolutions. Many parents stated they saw vast improvements with elevated physical activity and that it was a release for their child [most of which were boys that were in the 2+ year old category]. Snow snow go away.

I’m not terribly naïve enough to think that with the quickly approaching early spring crocuses and daffodils that my sons will cease their destructive behaviors but my god I certainly have hoped for crazier things in my life.
Like my driveway shoveling itself.

For the Last Time

“Time is too slow for those who wait, too
swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who
rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.” Henry Van Dyke

When I began this entry my family was celebrating my baby boy‘s first birthday. Leading up to his big day I was surprised at my strength, and that I hadn’t yet shed a tear. I had Mason’s birthday in October; Justine’s birthday in November. Between those two celebrations my Grandpa died. I made Thanksgiving for 14 people. Then I was preparing for the holidays. And of course, I was getting ready for Peyton’s first birthday. Perhaps in the midst of chaos I didn’t have the chance to dwell, and maybe for that reason I was avoiding the inevitable bittersweet feelings.
On the eve of his birthday, I sat in our living room and began to write in Peyton’s journal. I started individual journals for each of my two sons in hopes of preserving my memories as a mom for them when they’re older; however, I don’t know that I’ll honestly be able to part with them. Regardless, as I opened the book, I leafed through its brief history. Before I started a new entry, I read through the book sitting next to me I got him for his birthday.
Let Me Hold You Longer.

If you’ve never read it, grab some tissues before indulging and don’t expect to be able to muster the strength to read it aloud to your children without your throat constricting around the enormous knot that is bound to form. The author included a forward prior to the story that detailed how she realized how little we celebrate the last things our kids do but almost always remember the first. What if I knew it would be the last time my son played in the sandbox. Would I let him run his tractor until the sun set through the tunnels of sand? Would I ever put him down if I knew it was the last time my son would run into my arms wanting to be held? Yes and yes. The book is entirely about that.

From birth to empty nest, and it’s beautifully illustrated book. What got me was the things that have already passed for my kids. The “last” things that already happened. While I realized there are many pages that haven’t been covered with them, it will approach all too quickly. After all, our “lasts” with Justine take us nearly to the end of the story which caused the knot in my throat to become larger.

And so I finished reading that book, put it aside to be wrapped, and picked up my pen to etch another piece of history for Peyton in his journal through my blurred eyes, and tear stained paper.

Peyton’s birthday was wonderful. It was a beautiful day, and we spent wonderful time together. His first Elmo doll. How much better does it get? Not much, my older son would admit. The following day, my older son, Mason, was playing in front of me while I fed Peyton his bottle. As he nearly finished the milk in his bottle I noticed Peyton’s eyes becoming increasingly heavy to hold open. Peyton and Mason were both “babywise” babies, which means they learned early to go to sleep on their own with a fairly strict schedule at my very-type A discretion. They don’t fall asleep in our arms, or in the car, or in a rocking chair. It’s their cribs on their own time that they rest to sleep. This is a huge blessing to have a babe learn how to fall asleep on their own but in two years I’ve learned to deprives a mom of holding her still, soundly sleeping baby in her arms-- a gift unlike any other.

Peyton finished his bottle, and began whimpering for more. I put the bottle down on the floor, and he turned toward me with his eyes shut and put his thumb in his mouth and nestled against me. He slept on me. My little baby. As I sat in awe for a bit, it dawned on me that perhaps this too was the last time my baby would do just that.

Tears began to stream my face, and yet at the same time I continued to recite over an over again how fortunate I felt to remember the last time it happened.