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.

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.