Growing Up & A Great Article

So much is changing with my little people every day.  They are artists and musicians, actors and detectives, scientists and mathematicians.  They want to see and learn and hear everything.  They bounce all over, soaking it all up.  And they are becoming the slightest bit more trustworthy and independent.  They are finally (FINALLY!!!) starting to play together for short periods without screeching, so from time to time, I get a moment to myself.  Sometimes I can pee without an audience, you guys!  It's a miracle!

And I can talk to them.  I can talk with them, and it is such a pleasure it catches me off guard sometimes.

The Little One's speech is growing by the day and he's able to tell me so much more about what he thinks about and observes around him.  He can tell me what "fwaired" him in the shadows behind the door.  He can explain his nightmares to me (in simple terms, but still).  He can tell me when and where he's hurt.  And he tell me when he's excited about something.  He can tell me me loves me, or wants a kiss, or wants to "cwimb on yap and wead a book."  He surprises me on a daily basis with his new tricks, and though he also surprises me with the depth of his stubbornness and willingness to test me, I adore that little boy to pieces.

The Big One.  So big!  He is so expressive now.  He's picking up words left and right and- to my delight- is using them.  Correctly!  His context is spot on, and he gets it.  My English teacher heart soars with every new word.  He's picked up gorgeous, humongous, enormous, and glum.  And he's used them all.  I cannot tell you how much I love it when he asks what a word means, and I watch him absorb the meaning as I explain.  My wonderful little word sponge.

They are so big already.  It happens so quickly.  I've found myself drawn to pictures of them both as babies, as though I can preserve that tiny part of them if I just remember.  If I only remember.  But they're no different.  They are bigger, more capable, naughtier... but they are still the same babies that I held and cuddled back then.  I look at the pictures and I see the same expressions, the same mischievous grins, the same goofiness, the same heart-breaking quiver when they'd begin to cry.  They are the same.  My babies.  Always my babies.

Here's a bit of their latest adorableness.  Enjoy and swoon with me at their preciousness, won't you?

Little One:
Thomas = hummus (this may tell you where his loyalties lie...)
Frinkle far = Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star (That one took a while to figure out.  I kept thinking about Farkles the Unicorn.)
Fwaired = scared
Fweep = either sleep or sweep, depending on context

Big One:
After seeing a picture of me at my wedding, the Big One said, "Mommy, why are you wearing a blanket on your head?"  Touche, little dude.

"Mommy, you're a real superhero."  Damn skippy.

"I feel glum."  Well, then.


*  *  *
Also, in case you don't follow me on Facebook (HEY!  YOU SHOULD FOLLOW ME ON FACEBOOK!!!), here is an article that is in beautiful opposition to all the "lean in" and "opt out" articles popping up all over the place.  It rings true for me, and likely rings true for many of you, too.

"For the average married mother of small children, it is often cheaper to stay home - even if she would prefer to be in the workforce. It is hard to "lean in" when you are priced out."

Clarification

Dear Little One,

I feel there are a few things I need to clarify with you.  Please listen closely:

* Making something fly through the air does not make it a ball.  Please stop saying, "Ball!" and then throwing things.
         Example: That little metal truck you just hucked across the table?  Not a ball.  The bit of sandwich you called a ball and then threw at lunch?  Also not a ball.

* Screeching like a psychotic monkey will not get you what you want.
        Example: When I go to change your diaper and you twist and scream that horrid scream and throw things (which are still not balls), I still have to change your diaper.  I win.

* Calling it a button does not mean you have to push it over and over and over again.
         Example: Your bits are your bits, so... I'm not trying to be bossy and I definitely want you to enjoy... things... but we do have to get things done and... there's a time and place for....  We'll talk about this when you're older.  Nevermind.

* Trying to twist out of my arms while I'm carrying you somewhere you don't want to go isn't going to hurt anyone but you.
        Example: All of the times you do this.  Quit doing this.

* Refusing to eat will not make me suddenly decide to feed you nothing but cookies and milk.
         Example: See the part about only hurting yourself.  And the part about me winning.

* While that mischievous grin of yours is killer and makes me smile every. single. time... it does not give you free reign for naughtiness.
        Example: Flashing that smile at me before you pitch your breakfast or smash the metal car into the wooden table does not excuse it.  You're still in trouble.  So just stop.  Oh, stop.  Yeah, it's cute- stop.  Ohmygod, I totally love you.



And, actually, while we're at it....

Dear Big One,

You clearly need some clarification on a few things as well.  Listen up, big fella.

* Repeating something a quadrabillion times in a progressively more irritating voice is not likely to make it happen.
       Example: Hollering from your bed at nap time, "Mommy, I need the door a little bit closed!" (meaning open) over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

*Just because you say, "Excuse me," doesn't necessarily mean you're excused.  Hollering over your parents as we're attempting to talk in the five seconds we have to figure out dinner is not going to help anyone.  And yelling, "Excuse me," kinda cancels out the polite, there buddy.  See previous bullet.  And just hold on a second.

*Nap time really isn't for you.  It's for me.  So it's not optional.  You do not have to sleep, but you do have to stay in your room without yelling for a full hour at least.  (Note: that does not mean you get to start yelling after the first hour.  I merely require one hour for sanity.  More will benefit all of us.)
        Example: Today when I put you down for nap, you solemnly swore that you would lie down and stay quiet.  As soon as I left the room you bounced up and down and yelled my name for 17 different things that would mean I needed to come to the room and/or get you out of bed.  "I have to pee!"  "I have to poop!"  "I need a drink!"  "What was that sound?!?"  "I need my hippo!" (which is now across the room where I threw it so you'd have to come and retrieve it.)  "I'm hungry!"  "Can I read a book?"  "I miss you."   All of that is infuriating.  Please quit it.

*Saying you "need a break" right after you've done something that you know has earned you a time out will not get you out of time out.  Nice try though.
         Example: The other day when you pushed your brother over out of nowhere and then ran as fast as your legs would carry you to the corner of the kitchen yelling, "I need a break!!!"  Nope.  Still get a time out.

*Cracking up in the middle of your tantrum, while simultaneously amusing and exasperating, will still not get you out of whatever I'm asking you to do.
          Example: Yesterday when I asked you to go potty and get your shoes on before we had to leave to pick up Daddy, and you screamed and yelled and threw yourself to the ground... and then started laughing like a little lunatic... you still had to go potty and get your shoes on.  I believe this falls under the "I win" category.  But that transition directly into mania from fury was pretty impressive, Squishman.

*Being gentle and kind and loving with your brother will always get you 4,271 points with Daddy and me.  And your brother.  Keep it up.
         Example: Today, when we got home from dropping Daddy off at school, you very sweetly and gently helped your brother take off his jacket and shoes.  Of your own accord.  It was amazing.  I love you.

Attack of the Sappy: More Things to Remember

I am in need of more fodder for smiles.  Below is such fodder.


Things That Make Me Smile:
* The Little One is a head-banger in waiting
* The Big One is a break-dancer in waiting
* Words like: "fpider" (spider), "fponge" (sponge), "fweeper" (sweeper), "balilla" (gorilla), "bazoo" (zoo), and "lip cream" (whipped cream)
* When the Little One grabs any of his lovies or sees a stuffed animal from across the room and comes a-runnin' yelling, "BAAAA-EEEYY!!"  Followed by snuggle and, "Mmmmm" to said baby.
* The Little One's first words upon entering his room in the morning/after nap: "HIIIiiii!!!"  Spoken in exact same ridiculous tone I use.
* The Big One will sit in his crib for a freakishly long time just. reading. books.  And listening to "my symphony" (classical music).
* The Big One's new habit of leaning over and kissing my arm at random moments
* The Little One's new talent of jumping- the cutest part being the prep required and his proud grin after he jumps
* The Big One's booty dance
* Watching the kids gallivant in the sand on the first beautiful sand-worthy day of the year
* The way they both run for me with arms spread wide and giant grins whenever I return from "that store"
* They are finally learning to play together without maniacal screeching.  It is a wonder to behold.

Music That Makes My Kids Boogie:

* Tribe Called Quest (specifically, anything from Midnight Marauders)

* Talking Heads

* Any of Daddy's music

* 70s funk (or nouveau 70s style goodness like Escort)

* Caspar Babypants
* Bob Marley (we sing "Three Little Birds" to them as a lullaby)


The Big One's Ideal Mixed Tape:  (aka: "Mommy!  It's my song!!")
* We Are Young by Fun.

* Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People

* Somebody I Used To Know by Goyte
* The Weight by The Band
* Boom Boom Pow by Black Eyed Peas
* Cool Like Dat by Digable Planets
* Hey Ho by The Lumineers
* Anything by Daddy
* Anything by Wil "Uncle Woolis" Blades
* "That Monkey Song" (aka: Monkey Gone to Heaven by the Pixies)

Just To Make Things Clear...

Dear Little One,

It seems we have a bit of a misunderstanding here.  I apologize for any confusion.  Let me try to clear a few things up.

I want you to know that changing your diaper is in no way an attempt to murder or dismember you.  I am not trying to kill you, maim you, torture you, or upset you in any way.  I am merely attempting to rid the room of the foul stench you have produced, while simultaneously attempting to keep your bum happy and rash-free.

You seem to have come to the conclusion that diaper change = attempted murder.  Let me be clear: I AM NOT TRYING TO HURT YOU.  I swear.  No harm intended.  Just want to get a clean diaper on you and wipe up any mess.  So, if you could please refrain from shrieking and writhing as though I'm jabbing you with hot pokers, I think you could save us both a lot frustration and heartbreak.  And a neighbor call to CPS.  Which would be awkward.

Thank you.
Love,
Mama

Little Heartbreakers

So, I just started a new part-time job (and am about to start another), and the babes are already starting in on the guilt tripping.  Oh, man... this part sucks.

Today as I was preparing to put the Big One (who turns 3 tomorrow... how the hell did that happen?!?) down for nap, he looked at me, grabbed my face between his soft little hands and said, "Mommy?  I miss you."  And then I died.  Time of death: 12:47pm.  Cause of death: guilt overdose.

Me: "Sweetie, why do you miss me?  I'm right here."
Him: "Because you go to that store and I miss you."

I have gone to "that store" (for my new job) twice.  Two times.  For four hours each time.  And already with the guilt.

I know I am garnering no sympathy WHATSOEVER from the working mamas who read this.  I know.  I know I've been spoiled.  I know you've been dealing with this and struggling through this since shortly after your babies were born.  I know I really have nothing to complain about since I got to stay home with the Big One for 3 years and the Little One for 15 months.  I know.  I KNOW.

But if I've established anything here, I think I've made it clear that I am a good-for-nothin' whiner.  And so... here I am.  Whining.  Like a punk.  Because all of a sudden I'm having to struggle with the very thing that 80% of parents out there have to struggle with.  Ridiculous, right?

We've worked it out (because we can't afford childcare) so that my husband is home with the kids while I'm at work, and I am home while my husband is at school.  This is great because our kids are with us.  This is terrible because not only am I not seeing my kids nearly enough, but now I'm not seeing my husband either.  And it is hard.

Walking away from a crying 15 month old is tough.  But I know that more than likely, he's going to see something shiny in a few a minutes and be distracted and happy again.  Having a 3 year old remind you repeatedly that leaving him makes him sad... well... that just plain sucks balls.

And I know.  I know this is good for them.  They're used to me being around ALL the time and it's good for them to get used to more time with Daddy.  It's good for them to see their parents taking care of business.  And it's good for them when we can pay our bills(ish).  It's good.  I know.

But it still sucks.  I knew being a working mom had its ups and downs.  I'm just waiting to discover the ups.  I know they're there.  I know I will find them.  But for now... oof.  This is hard, man.

(I'm preparing to receive hate mail from all the working mamas out there.  I understand.  Go ahead.)

Um... I... Um...

So.  Ever heard of "kiss-feeding"?  No?  Me, neither.  Apparently it's a thing.  And Alicia Silverstone does it with her kid.  And it's... um... well, it's odd.

It involves chewing food for your child... and then feeding it to them.  With your mouth.  As in, mouth-to-mouth feeding.  As in, essentially, spitting food from your mouth to your child's mouth.  Um... I just....

I hate being judgy about other moms.  It's a huge problem in our society and it's one of the things I fight against the most.  But it's hard sometimes.  Really, REALLY hard sometimes.  As parents, we have to feel like what we're doing is right.  Parenthood feels like a giant crapshoot sometimes, and if we constantly feel like we're bumbling around, it's unbearable.  We have to feel confident about our choices, so we fight to the death to defend them.

I try like hell to respect different parenting styles.  I know that each kid is different (boy, are they) and that each parent has to find what works best for them and their children.  I know this.  I believe this.  I BELIEVE THIS.

But oh man, you guys.  Watching someone feed their kid like a bird is just... well, I'm having a rough time with this one.

Look, we've all popped a piece of apple in our mouths and bitten off a tiny piece for the baby.  Lots of us have even taken food that the baby has spit out and popped it into our mouths.  But, oof.  This one is tough.  It's not really the parenting choice that's getting me, exactly.  It's more of an "ew" factor thing.  As in, I kinda feel bad for the kid.  Can you imagine?  You're grown up, you're name is called in Bio during your sophomore year, and some kid goes, "OMG.  You're that dude who made out with his mom.  And she, like, she spit food in your mouth.  Dude.  That shit's weird."

People are mean, man.  I don't want to give anyone any more fodder with which to torture my children.  Kiss-feeding... well, that just seems like asking for it.

I'm trying really hard here.  I am.  I want to believe that there's a brilliant reason for kiss-feeding.  I want to trust that there's a solid theory behind using your own mouth instead of the Magic Bullet.  I know that there's history and science supporting the advantages.  But I... gah, I just.  It's... um... I... Alicia's doing what she feels is right.  Best for her kid?  Right?

Thoughts?  Help me out?  Comments, questions, concerns?  KISS-FEEDING?!?!?

More on Alicia's kiss-feeding: Here and here.  More on premastication as a practice here.

IDIOTS

There is something special about parenthood that makes even the most confident among us feel like complete idiots.  That unique something: kids.

There you are, minding your own business, thinking you've got it all figured out.  You've read all the books and poured over all the research.  OR you've worked with kids your entire life.  OR you've known you were cut out for parenthood your whole life.  OR everyone has always told you you'd make a wonderful mother one day.  OR you're simply a genius who excels at everything she does.  You got this.  You're ready.  You will definitely not be the kind of mother who does that.  Or that.  Your kids will never behave that way.  You know you need to be consistent and loving and you have it ALL PLANNED OUT.

And then you have kids.

The other day, I became the mother I always swore I wouldn't become.  I had seen such things and my children would never,  ever behave that way in public.  Until they did, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

All of a sudden, I was the mother pleading with her whiny, crying toddler splayed across the floor of the Nordstrom women's bathroom TO GET UP while her 14 month old screamed and tried to claw his way out of the Ergo.  I was attempting to remain calm while negotiating with a tiny terrorist.  I was pulling on his limp arms and doing that horrible whisper growl while random women stared and smiled judgingly.  One grandmotherly woman even asked my son to pull her finger (thinking it would make him laugh I guess?) and then offered to pick my toddler up off the floor.  Yes, woman I've never met.  Man-handling my tantruming son will absolutely improve this situation.  As will teaching him fart jokes.  Thank you.

Ugh.  It was completely humiliating.  And probably an appropriate rite of passage for a formerly self-righteous-not-yet-mother who just knew she would never let that happen.  What I did not know then is that sometimes you can't stop it from happening.  I was caught completely off-guard.  We had had a lovely morning playdate and were just running into the bathroom to change an ill-timed diaper on my 14 month old.  Everything had been fine.  Then my toddler's internal lunch bell must have gone off, because he totally lost his shit for no reason at all.  And then he laid down in front of the door in the Nordstrom women's bathroom.

As I was pleading and begging and threatening and negotiating, I overheard a conversation between two new moms who were in the lounge breastfeeding.  They were discussing the horror stories they'd heard about 3 year olds (anxious glance at my son) and how they simply couldn't believe that it was really that bad (second wary glance at melty puddle of toddler getting smacked in the head by women's room door).  I managed to drag my son up off the floor, pointed down at him and said, "This is three."  And then I smiled a great big giant smile.  Good luck, ladies!

Because I knew I couldn't warn them.  They wouldn't believe me!  Not their kids.  Seriously, I don't how every single one of us marches into parenthood filled with such moronic aplomb and certainty.  Admit it: it all goes to hell as soon as the kid arrives and throws a little humanity in our best laid plans.  What's worse is that we continue to announce what we will and will not do until our kids grow up and move out.  Or until we die.  Why do we not learn?  It is impossible to anticipate how you're going to react in any given situation.  You may swear up and down that you will never, ever, ever let your baby sleep in bed with you, but then one day you haven't slept in a week and she's sleeping so peacefully on your chest and... eh.  Plans, schmans.  You might vow that you will NEVER be the parent who allows your child to cause a ruckus in a restaurant, but then you find yourself with a warm plate of delicious food sitting right in front of you (something you have not experienced in, oh, however long your child has been out of the womb) and you hand him the spoon.  Because it's not that loud and they can just deal.

Parenthood causes you to eat your words faster and more often than any other experience on the planet.  Perhaps because we are all stubborn idiots who insist we are right all the time.  The Mommy Wars need to be done, my friends.  None of us are right.  We all try to be right and we all try to do what is best for our kids.  We HAVE to believe that we are right because this shit is hard.  But believe this: you ARE going to do that thing you swore you would never do (cheddar bunnies for dinner?  sure.)... and it's all going to be okay.

My kids had a ginormous tantrum in public, and I survived.  I was that mother.  Whatever.

Those Days

You know how sometimes you look around and you're like, "Is this my life?" and then you realize, "Yes, this is my life," and then you want to crawl in a hole for 2 months?  Yeah.  That.

The past few days have been those kinds of days.  They have required the kind of heroic patience, perspective, and fortitude that I currently lack.  Shockingly, things are not going well.

Yesterday:  Nothing went smoothly.  Changing diapers, pull-ups, and clothing became epic battles.  All forms of even beloved food were rejected (and thrown onto the freshly vacuumed carpet).  Mommies were screamed at and requests were denied.  Time outs were had.  Much whining occurred.  This was the kind of day where Mama used overly loud and harsh tones with the kids because HOLY SHIT MAMA CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE... and then burst into tears in front of them.  Because then there's the guilt.  Why can't I handle this?  And then as a final infernal straw, my toddler screamed about needing water after going to bed (right after I brought him water) until he woke up his baby brother.  Who then also screamed.  And this is the one weekday my husband doesn't get home until after 10pm.  Ah yes, THAT'S why I can't handle this.

Today:  A lot more screaming and a lot of ignoring Mama.  Four time outs before 10:30 a.m.  And then there were two more before lunch.  My toddler said the words, "I don't like you," for the first time.  To his baby brother.  While said brother was gazing adoringly at him and grinning.  I worried all morning about money (or our lack thereof).  I spent lunch begging the toddler to stop sticking his hands in the bowl full of buttery corn and trying to convince the baby to eat anything resembling a vegetable.  Lost on both counts.  And then my husband called just as I was about to get everyone all dressed and ready to go pick him up (which sometimes is a blessed 30 minutes of strapped down-ed-ness) in order to tell me he needed to work late. And then I burst into tears (again) in front of my children (again) and couldn't stop for an hour.  This totally freaked my toddler out, so I had to turn on the T.V. and hide in the kitchen where the baby toddled adorably over from time to time grinning and bringing lovies and soggy cheerios in an attempt to cheer me up.

People, I am experiencing a slow, but steady panic attack.

(Hold on... don't tell me you don't have days like this.  You better have 'em, people.  YOU BETTER.  I'm holding on to that hope like a menstruating non-swimmer to a leaky, inflatable life vest in shark-infested waters.)

Pffffttt.  I don't know if this is a special brand of insanity reserved for stay-at-home parents, or a special brand of insanity reserved for me.  All I know is that I am not a fan.  NOT.

I know that every little thing is getting to me much more than it otherwise would because life is handing me flatbed upon flatbed of lemons.  AND I DON'T HAVE ANY SUGAR TO MAKE LEMONADE.  I know that eventually- if for no other reason than ODDS, for the love of all things holy- things are going to turn around and start to get better.  I know that all of this is temporary and that I have the things that really matter in life.  I have a supportive, loving husband that I adore.  I have two beautiful little boys who make me laugh every day.  I have amazing friends who are willing to listen to me bitch and support me in any way I'll let them.  But sometimes I just wish life could be a little easier.  I wish there were just a few things to worry about instead of everything.  I wish I could say one thing was going smoothly so that I could focus on the other parts that are not.  But there are too many parts and nothing is going smoothly right now.  I'm tired.

Sometimes, I wish I had some sort of escape.  Last night, the best escape I could conjure was Simpler Times and watching trashy T.V.   Tonight it will likely be more Simpler Times and a shower that lasts until the hot water runs out.

Ahhh.... simpler times.  I'd like those.

Please tell me you have days like these.

FREEDOM!!!!

Apparently, I weaned my baby last night.  It wasn't really the plan, but he made his lack of interest in breastfeeding so glaringly clear that I had to pay attention.  I think it was the screeching and the twisting away repeatedly that made me stop and focus.  Because I am nothing if not observant.

What was it driving me to attempt to force-nurse this kid?  (I didn't, quit freaking out.)  He was clearly not into it at all and yet there I was trying to switch sides over and over, cooing at my poor baby in an attempt to get him to latch on for more than 5 seconds before origami-ing himself away again.  After about 15 minutes of squealing like a tortured piglet and impossible back bends, I picked that baby up and asked him if he was done.  "Are you finished here?  Are you moving on now?  Are you actually, VOLUNTARILY giving me my body back?  All done, Baby?"  And he grinned the biggest grin... and then catapulted himself into a pile of duvet.  I took that as a yes.

So, I'm free I guess.  It's weird.  Part of the weirdness stems from Last Baby Syndrome and the end of an era and blah, blah, blah.  But part of it also comes from my EXTENSIVE collection of mommy guilt. (Seriously, I could center an entire blog around it.  Oh, wait....)  I was planning to nurse him until 14 months just like his big brother for the sake of equality.  You know, so I wouldn't have to hear all that, "MOM.  You know this is all your fault because you stopped breastfeeding me too early.  My brother doesn't have these problems.  POINT MADE."  Those arguments totally happen.  And I was feeling all bummed and guilty that I hadn't made it to that magical benchmark... until my husband reminded me that the babe is just two weeks away from 14 months.  So that counts, right?  Equality maintained(ish).

Apart from being weird, it's also totally and completely and endlessly awesome, because I'M FREEEEEE!!!!!  Well, I'm free-ish. My body at least belongs to me now (although there will be kids hanging off of it for quite some time yet).  I can consume tequila and cold medicine and sketchy untested vitamin supplements with wild abandon.  I can tattoo myself from head to toe and use countless poisonous skin and hair products.  I could, in theory, leave for an entire week and the kids would be fine.  For the first time in four years (!!!), my offspring are no longer dependent on my body for sustenance, and that feels awesome.

Hurry, someone pass me some sketchy untested supplements and let's go get neck tattoos!

Things to Remember

'Tis Valentine's Day and I should probably be proclaiming love n' shit.  But hot damn if those darling kiddos of mine weren't throwing peas everywhere and refusing to sleep today.  They know not what they do and alas, they are not yet aware of little chalky heart thingies.  So... this.

On days like today, I find it important to have something to look at to remind me why I do what do.  When I was teaching, I borrowed an idea from a mentor and that thing was something cheesily called a "Smile File."  I filled it with kind letters from students, notes from fellow teachers, especially awesome assignments and anything else that made me happy and reminded me why I chose to teach.  Teaching is an incredibly difficult job, but a job worth doing.  My Smile File helped me remember that.

I am finding now that I'd like something similar to remind me why I love being the mother of two young boys.  On the days when want to sit down and cry into my applesauce-crusted arms, it would be nice to be able to cut myself off at the pass and take a little look-see at the things that make me smile.  I love my boys and I never, ever doubt that.  Ever.  But sometimes after a hard day and little sleep it becomes difficult to remember why I love being home with them.

So, this is my file o' love for staying at home with my two little whipper-snappers.  Apropos on Valentine's Day, no?  Try not barf.  Perhaps even smile.
(And don't be alarmed by my waxing happy.  I'll be back to my whiny, complainy self in no time.)

Reasons I Love Motherhood:
* Hugging my babies
* Receiving spontaneous and heartfelt hugs, kisses, and "I love you"s.
* Words like "opameal" (oatmeal), "fravrite" (favorite), and "noom" (balloon)
* Actually watching the wheels turn as a new idea develops
* Watching them try something new every single day
* The shit-eating grins they grace me with right before they do something they know is naughty
* Watching them sing and dance and my amazement at how naturally it comes to both of them
* Even on the days I can't come up with a reason to laugh, they give me one



Reasons to Love Having Two Kids Under Three:
* Listening to my toddler sing to my baby
* Watching them crack each other up until each is red-faced and rolling around on the floor
* Listening to them blow raspberries on the living room window with periodic pauses for the toddler to giggle and the baby to chortle like a 90 year old man
* The spontaneous composing of songs like: "Wren, I Love You. Yes I Do."  Soon to be a Top 40 hit.  Look out, Beiber.
* The way the little one looks at the big one.
* The way the big one looks out for the little one when he doesn't think I'm paying attention
* In approximately one year, I will be done with diapers FOREVER and my house will no longer smell like poop

Chaos Personified (aka: "Mommy").

Holy shit, Internet (and by "Internet" I obviously mean "Eight friends who read my blather and kindly pretend to find it interesting"... Hi Guys!!!).  Why can I not get it together?  Why can I not leave my house in under 40 minutes?  Why can I not unload the dishwasher (which was run 24 hours ago) before 10pm?  Why can I not clean up the toys scattered hither and yon throughout the house?  Why can't I do/fold the laundry fast enough for it to NOT resemble Mt. Vesuvius every 2 days?  Why can I not pull a decent meal together while both kids are awake without one beating the other one up?  Why, why, why?  (And, p.s., why can't I stop WHINING?  OR E-YELLING?)

This shit is getting out of control.  I would like to blame this often unfathomable craziness on my kids (because I'm an awesome mother like that), but it's not their fault.  I would also like to blame it on my husband (Hi Honey!!), but it's not his fault either.  All these boys in my life do their fair share o' dirtying, certainly, but I do my part, too.  And it's supposed to be my job to clean it all up.  I am the stay-at-home parent.

This is where I feel like somehow feminism has backfired on me.  What began as, "You can have it all!" turned into, "If you don't have it all, you are an utter failure."  And p.s. look awesome and keep the house clean and cook nutritious, delicious food while reading Tolstoy and writing that brief for your client in Norway.  I am a failure (at life and at properly encapsulating feminism.... damn it!).  I realize this is not technically true (if what my peeps tell me is actually correct) nor a logical thought to have.  Nonetheless,  I feel like a failure a shockingly large portion of the time.

I know this is reality a lot of stay-at-home parents struggle with.  There's no way to actually do it all and maintain your sanity or stamina.  One can certainly keep the house clean, the laundry done, and make breakfast, lunch and dinner daily... but that requires plopping one's children in front of the T.V. and/or ignoring them for the majority of the day.  One can also take the children out on exciting playdates, spend quality time playing on the floor with each child, and maintain a healthy nap schedule... but that means that one's house quickly begins to look like an episode of Hoarders.  Toys are spread in an even foot-severing layer across the entire floor, dishes accumulate on the counters and in the sink, and laundry piles begin to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pisa.  So we have to choose: parenting, or housekeeping.

You'd think this would be an easy choice.  Kids should always trump dishes, yes?  DUH.  But eventually, I start to look around and the messiness in the house starts to make me insane.  And then I start to feel like I'm not doing my job, because my job is to take care of the entire homefront, right?  No, actually.  This is where we get it wrong, peeps.  My job is to take care of the children and do what's best for them.  I am not a housewife or homemaker- I actively reject that title for a reason.  I am a stay-at-home-PARENT.  My priority is my children.  If I were working a paying job outside the home, I would expect my partner to pull his weight and help with household duties.  Though my job is unpaid and happens to occur inside the home, I don't really feel like this should change things.  Perhaps I am delusional, but thankfully I have a partner who is willing to pitch in.

When he's here, that is.  When he's not here... well, therein lies the rub.  Try as I might, I still cannot find a way to do it all.  I'd like to (especially as I prepare to- hopefully- take on a little side job), but I just can't figure it out.  Maybe it's just me.  There are people out there who appear to have it all: their houses are always clean, the TV is never on, their kids are always happy and well dressed with healthy snacks filling their go-bags, and inexplicably, they look put together and seem to thoroughly enjoy life.  I don't know how those people do it.  It seems impossible to me.

So... I like to think that those people have a big ole Monica Gellar-style closet.  A closet full of the mess that would otherwise occupy their homes and minds.  It's filled to the brim with dirty dishes, blocks, broken crayons and half-used Swiffers.  It smells of two weeks worth of dirty diapers and sour milk and sweat stained clothes.  There are Cheerios plastering the floor.  Attached to the inside of the door is a giant hidden flat screen with Finding Nemo playing on a 24 hour loop.  And the reason she can keep that smile plastered to her face despite her three children under 4?  She keeps several flasks of vodka strapped to her body at all times.  SEVERAL.

Sleep Training Sucks Balls

I hate sleep training.

The result, I love.  A baby who can soothe himself to sleep is gift from heaven.  But listening to your child cry and keeping yourself from stopping it is excruciating.  It's awful.  

My six month old son is still not sleeping through the night.  He never sleeps more than 5 hours at a time- no matter how much he's eaten- so it's time to buckle down and commit to the sleep training once and for all.  We've half-assed it so far, but we need to make sure he can soothe himself.  I know it's ultimately better for him, but I still feel like I'm torturing him.  

We sleep trained my older son at four months and, though it sucked, it went relatively smoothly.  After a few days, he learned to put himself to sleep.  If he woke up in the middle of the night, he would fuss a bit, then soothe himself.  Done and done.  My second son has been a bit different.  Not so easy as the first one, this guy.  Luckily, he's cute as the dickens.  He's never had trouble going to sleep in the first place, but has always woken up more than I'd like and isn't able to calm himself at that point.  Normally, he'll sleep from 7pm until 10:30pm or 11pm, then nurse and go to sleep until 3am or 4am, then nurse and wake up anywhere between 6am and 7am.  Not horrendous, but it's rare that I get 4 hours of sleep in a row, and this is totally kicking my ass.  Last night he woke up 45 minutes after I put him down and would NOT be calmed.  I'm not nursing him back to sleep every 5 minutes.  It's time.  

I'm doing the good ol' Ferber method and going up every 5, then 10, then 15 minutes (and so on...), but I tend to have stubborn babies and it's not going quickly.  Yesterday, after two full hours he was still crying.  He wasn't hysterical and there was no blood-curdling screaming, but the last time I went up to pat his back, he startled and then realized I was there.  He looked at me with such relief and reached for my hand before smiling the biggest, most beautiful smile.  And then I had to leave.  And he started crying... again.  Holy guilt, Batman.  Nonetheless, his actions tell me one thing: he really just wants me there.  Many would say that there's nothing wrong with that.  I can be there, so I should be there.  But the truth is, I can't be at his side every time he stirs in his sleep.  He will continue to wake throughout the night for... oh, FOREVER, so he needs to be able to calm down on his own.  His smile last night bolsters my confidence.  He was wasn't inconsolable, wasn't feeling so miserable that he was past smiling.  He was just pissed off.  Pissed off I can handle.

Sooo... I am officially on the Sleep Training Roller Coaster.  It's a bumpy ride, folks.