I’m not always the mom I want to be.  I just pulled up little man’s chin and forced him to look at me and told him I was very frustrated with him because he was being mean to his baby sister and not listening to me.  I said it with a growl in my voice and a scowl on my face.  That’s not the mom I want to be.  I like the basic philosophy of the Love and Logic parenting series and their whole theory is that when we loose our cool, as parents, the kiddos win.  If I had not been so frazzled, I would have just picked up little man (who was sitting on the potty, naked from the waist down), said “uh-oh no, we don’t kick or push our baby sister, time out in your bed time,” plopped him in his bed, picked up the baby, and walked away.

But I was frazzled. 

It was a Wednesday morning and I was trying to get little man out the door for summer school (which he LOVES) and that involves preparing breakfast for 2 kids (while little man makes farting noises into his cup), feeding them breakfast (which involves actual spoon feeding for baby girl and goes like this: spoon of yogurt, SCREECH! spoon of yogurt, SCREECH! spoon of yogurt, SCREECH!), shoveling oatmeal into my mouth (the microwave in 60 seconds kind, not the healthier cook on the stove top kind my own mom/nana creates), cleaning up said breakfast (including waffle bits tossed on the floor by baby girl to signal “all done”—the kid has her own version of baby sign language), washing two little sets of hands and faces, realizing that even though I already dressed baby girl and she had a bib on, she’s all wet because she’d been, under the radar, spitting water out from her sippy cup and not drinking it, corralling little man down the stairs (who wants to be caaarrriiiieeeedddd—and I can’t carry him because I have to carry baby girl and this not so young mama’s back has been hurting lately and I’m sure I’ll throw it out if I attempt to carry two children…which knowing me I actually would), re-dressing baby girl (who wiggles and rolls over and squawks the whole time because she doesn’t like to be confined or forced to be still…ever), and dressing little man (who’s running around the room and tossing his clothes in the air while baby girl, who loves her new skill of balancing on her feet is climbing up me with her hands and swaying and giggling in delight and pulling my hair in the process because it’s the easiest thing to lunge for when you’re falling) and combing his hair (while he’s yelling ouch, I want to do it when I know I am being as gentle as I can be).  And little man suddenly howls “I have to go POOOOOOP!” and I’m plopping him on the toilet and baby girl is now crawling towards him and pulling herself up on his legs and he’s yelling “NO” and kicking and pushing and wiggling her away (and I get that maybe the boy wants a little privacy while he poops) and that’s when I lose it and grab little man’s chin and pull it up so I can stare him down.

I want to be the sing-songy uh-oh no mommy.  And sometimes I am that mommy.  But I wasn’t on Wednesday morning.

In a perfect world, my two children would eat their breakfast with quiet smiles on their faces and tell me how much they appreciate me (great waffle mom, thanks for making it this morning), and baby girl would pull her two little fists together to tell me “more” or wave her little hands when she’s all done.  And when it’s time to go downstairs and get ready for school, little man would say “ok, I love school” and quickly skip downstairs and pull on his own clothes (which he can do but doesn’t like to) and baby girl (who would still be dry of course) would quietly sit and hold a toy while I brushed little man’s hair (who would of course be standing still the whole time) and then we would all happily walk to the car, sing happy songs together as we drive (instead of little man yelling Veggie Tales, I want Veggie Tales from the back seat and me, who really needs a little church music so I don’t throttle my kids, saying mommy’s choice this morning—which I did actually manage in a sing song voice), and get to school 5 minutes early (instead of 5 minutes late).

That would be a really nice morning.  But that’s not how my mornings ever go.  So instead I’m frazzled.  But it’s really more about me than it is about them.  I’m the mommy and I’m the one who’s (supposedly) in charge so it’s my job to choose my words and choose the tone in my household.  But some days, that’s so stinking hard.  Some days I’m just barely hanging on and holding it together.

I want to be that mom who’s got it all under control.  Whose kids are polite and have well combed hair.  The mom who runs her own business AND spends focused, calm time, with each of her children daily, and makes home cooked meals every night and sits and converses with her husband each night over wine after the kids are in bed.  The mom who walks around singing as the birds twirl around her and do her chores.  The Cinderella mom.  She’s always kind, always calm.  Never has a negative word to say about her child or husband or that other mom.  I want to be the Cinderella mom.  The one who scrubs the floors and speaks kindly to her evil step-sisters as they flounce off to the ball.

But I’m not.  And I can’t do it all.  I’ve actually failed in my own eyes.  I’m bringing in a nanny.

I have been totally opposed to a nanny.  But you RUN your own business! my friends remind me.  So far I’ve functioned with what I call “the big juggle.”  It involves grandparents, piecemeal assistance from college girls when I have appointments, working during naptimes and in evenings and on weekends.  It involves rarely spending time with my husband and collapsing at the end of the day in front of the TV for a few minutes before I fall into bed.  When I recounted all this and started to break down to an older friend of mine she simply said, “you need help.”

I don’t need help!  I can do it all!  But at what cost?  A nanny sure costs…  But I’ve come to realize there are other costs.  The costs of being frazzled all the time.  The cost of added stress on my marriage.  The costs of not being fun for my kids.  I worked at summer camps all through college and I was totally the fun one!  I ran around all summer with kids just being fun!  When did I stop being fun? 

So starting this week, 2 days a week we have a nanny/helper coming (as in she cleans and cooks too!).  And the grandparents will still take Friday afternoons.  And I’m petrified.  All the what if’s of the crazy nanny freaking out on my kids and the loss of control and…

One of my friends said she thinks I’ll adjust pretty fast.  I’ll repeat that the nanny/helper cleans and cooks too.  Oh, and does laundry.  Another friend told me that she thinks I’ll start sparkling: my hair will suddenly always be done, my make-up perfect! (and now I’m wondering how I usually look?)

I keep wondering why I am so afraid of acknowledging that I need help.  That I actually can’t do it all.  That I actually really need my friends and my community and my family.  That I need a village.  Sitting over dinner with two girlfriends last week, one said, “I have a village—I just pay my village!”

After another crazy morning at Sea World earlier this week where baby girl, for the first time ever, refused her morning nap and instead screamed for 1.5 hours, and little man and BFF blondie girl ran around like maniacs, and oh yeah, I forgot it was August and the place was PACKED, and my girlfriend and I just kind of looked at each other and chuckled.  That kind of low key sarcastic laugh—not the ha ha this is truly funny laugh.  I looked at her and just said, “I’m so thankful I have you.”  “We get each other,” she replied.

Needing others is a hard place to let myself get to.  But I guess even Cinderella had her little animal friend helpers.

It’s a hard place.  But it’s a good place.

So lately I pretty much feel like I am being constantly screamed at.  Though baby girl’s colic stage is behind us, the screaming as means of expression has continued.  When baby girl is hungry, screeeech! When she is full, screeeech! When I’m simply not shoveling food in fast enough, screeeech! Swallow, screeeech! Swallow, screeeech! Swallow, screeeech!  When baby girl is tired, screeeech! When she wakes up, screeeech!  When she has a wet diaper, screeeech! When she has a poop, screeeech!  When she wants a toy 6 inches from her, screeeech! When she’s bored in her jumpee, screeeech! When she wants into her high chair, screeeech! When she wants out of her high chair, screeeech!

My very sweet pediatrician friend told me that the personality of a baby up to 18 months is not necessarily an indication of their personality after 18 months.

She told me that to console and encourage me.

But I think this screeeech! IS baby girl’s personality.  See she is night and day different from her big brother who was mellow as a baby and is still an easy going, introspective, generally happy, kid.  From the first week of life, I knew that baby girl was going to be a different animal than little man.  Little man used to take 45-50 minutes to nurse when he was a little peanut (and hey, it was my first kid so I DVR’d a lot of TV shows and put my feet up and it was pretty awesome).  Baby girl could empty one of the girls in 10 minutes flat at her littlest and slowest stage.  Little man still takes his time and is deliberate in everything he does (to the bane of my existence sometimes as mama doesn’t have time to move slooowwww).

Little man was slow on all of his motor skills but did them perfectly the first time.  He did a perfect roll from belly to back at 4 months and then I taught him to roll from back to belly in 10 minutes at month 6 (shift the weight over, reach for the toy).  Baby girl rolled over belly to back by herself at 7.5 weeks and never stopped.  Maybe it’s the second child hey someone look over here and see what I can do phenomenon.  Look at me!  I’m rolling!  Wait for it, wait for it, here I go again!  Then she rolled back to belly on her own initiative at 4 months.  I had to stop worrying about SIDS because the kid was just going to sleep on her belly.  Then little man spent all of month 9 in perfect crawl position, on hands and knees, just rocking back and forth, rocking back and forth, and smiling, and rocking back and forth, and giggling, and…until one day I finally put my feet on either side of him and showed him that he could move also.  And his first crawl, which followed shortly thereafter, was a perfect hand in front of hand, crawl.  At the very beginning of her 8^th month, baby girl began propelling herself forward.  It wasn’t exactly a crawl.  It’s that whole army elbow-belly-knee I’m going to knock over big brother’s block tower no matter what type of movement forward.  Sheer determination is this kid.  If she can get there, it doesn’t matter if it’s pretty or not.  Then at 10.5 months, little man casually pulled himself up on a table (reaching for Nana’s salad) and looked rather nonplused about the whole thing.  Little man’s walk was the same: he wouldn’t let go of my finger until he was 16 months old but he had a perfect (though slightly John Wayne) gait from the moment he did.  Though baby girl has not attempted to walk yet, by 9 months she had already pulled herself up and was proudly knocking things off little man’s train table—without yet doing that perfect crawl.

And talking has been the same.  Little man’s first word came in his 9^th month and it was a clear, 2 syllable, “doggie.”  Kitty, dada, and mama followed shortly thereafter.  Baby girl, early in her 8^th month, started a continuous stream of mamamamamamama which some would say, and I thought so at first, was just vocalization.  But the mamama’s increase in length and loudness when she is awake in her crib after nap or wanting another mum mum handed to her.  She’s not perfect in her linguistic usage, like older brother, but she’s clear and persistent!

So right now, I think the screeching IS the personality.

As an aside, I have been madly trying to teach her basic baby sign so that hopefully the screeching would decrease and I now do have a very proud arm waving “all done” and a hand clap for “more” beginning (or she’s just proud of herself for eating since I clap every time the food stays in her mouth and is not spittled back at me) and I think they are helping.

The screeching IS the personality.  But to be honest, as much as some days I feel like I’m just being screamed at from either side of me (as baby girl’s screeches somehow result in little man getting louder and crazier as well), I love that this is her personality.  I love that my kids are exactly who they are.

I love that baby girl is a total go-getter jump in-until-I-figure-it-out kind of girl.  I hope she stays this way.  I pray that she will know herself, be content in the person that she is, and go for the things she wants in life.  Funny, because that’s a lot like her mama—and to be honest, my route of getting places hasn’t always been pretty.  I often feel like I’m army crawling through life.  I just pray that baby girl will know how deeply she is loved, how precious and beautiful and unique that she is, that she will be able to avoid some of the messy heartache that jumping in sometimes involves.  This mama has had her share of that.  Amazing that baby girl is 10 months old and I’m already worried about her little heart when she’s 16.

And I love that little man is exactly who he is.  I love that he watches and focuses and applies that observation to his skill set.  One of our friends said we should teach him golf because he has such an amazing ability to focus, even as a young kid.  I think he’ll excel at whatever sport interests him.  And I love that he is cautious.  One of my mom friends said, “that’s good—less blood.”  I love that he isn’t the first kid to jump off the side of the pool (and is usually the last—after every kid years younger than him is splashing away).  I know he won’t be zipping down the black diamond run when he’s 5.  Or skiing past the avalanche warning signs when he’s 17.  This mama is pretty happy about that.

One of my mantras as a mom has been to value my kids for exactly who they are—to even look for who they are.  To appreciate their differences.  I want them to be content in the little people God has made them to be and  appreciate who they are—appreciate their uniqueness.  When I’m at my best, I kind of see myself as an observer-director (and oh that I could always be at my best!): looking for who they are, valuing who they are, letting them know they are just perfect exactly in who they are, and encouraging them to strive to be kind, loving, and generous (and fair and rule-abiding…what stop sign, officer?) little people.

So that’s the kind of mom I want to be.  And you can remind me of that when I’ve been screamed at all day and can’t wait for my 8pm glass of ZIn.

So I have admitted that I am trying to do it all. And that means I juggle a lot. And I know all my mommy friends do too. One of my girlfriends told me she wants to send her husband with 2 kids to the beach by himself (like she does every Friday during the summer) and sit on a rock from a distance away and just watch. Pure comedy. Which is how I feel my life is most days. But in the midst of my crazy trying to do it all life, some days are just more comedic than others.

Enter Saturday.

7:00 am. Husband’s voice wakes me out of a sound slumber: “little man has a rash all over his body.” Were those real words or am I still dreaming? Eyes still closed. “Look, mommy!” Pry one eye open, little man with shirt raised to his chin is excitedly looking down at me with belly protruding. It’s covered with tiny red bumps. As are his face, arms, and legs. I have a wedding to coordinate today. They look more like a mild skin irritation than a measles mumps kind of thing. Attach slobbering about-to-pop-a-tooth baby girl to breast, close eyes.

7:30 am Put on workout clothes, force legs to move upstairs to kitchen, feed baby girl mashed mixture of bananas, yogurt, and prunes. Yes, she needs prunes. Little man is running around in his wish-I-could-harness-the-energy-of-a-3-year-old way so I’m thinking he’s probably fine. Scan forehead with laser-like thing. No temperature. Ok.

8:15 am Send little man on Saturday morning ritual of breakfast with grandparents. Play with baby girl.

9:15 am Put baby girl in sleep sack, sing song, and place her in bed for morning nap. Pack car (with trunk already full of bridal boxes of programs, menus, ring bearer pillows, and more fancy things gleaned from rehearsal yesterday) with bag, client folder, chalkboard directional signs, invitations to drop at post office for another client, and 4 dresses I really want to get altered to actually fit.

9:25 am Text bride, “Yaay, it’s your wedding day! C u soon!” Check weather on my iPhone app: predicting sun by 1pm. Yaay, cloudy beach morning.

9:31 am Pedal my little arse off on my elliptical machine

9:50 am Jump in shower. Through splatters, I hear husband: “I’m worried about little man, I think we should take him to a clinic. There’s an opening at 11:20.” Sigh. I know he’s right. We have church tomorrow and school Monday and we need to know if little man is going to infest his peers with some contagious African flesh-eating phenomenon. Because, yes, it would be my kid who would get it. On our first trip to Ixtapa over a year ago, little man picked up hand foot mouth disease and when we sat in the doctor’s office upon our return, I got to hear the favorite words you can get from your doctor: wow, we haven’t seen this strain in our community. Yes, I’m the family that brings back the international virus. Sorry 2-year-old cousin who therefore got it twice.

10:00 am With towel still wrapped around me, “mommmyyyyyyyyy!” ricochets across the walls as little man announces his return. I don clothes and all I’m thinking is I NEED Starbucks. I pry little man with offers of a treat (though he’s already had a sugar-filled muffin with the grandparents I’m sure) to get him to walk a block with me to the tall soy latte beckoning me from around the corner. Parent of the year, right here. What I’ll do for Starbucks. I’m clearly one of their zombie soldiers infiltrating the population.

10:30 am Return with latte in hand and somewhat perkier eyes to husband and squawking baby girl. Attach baby girl for 2nd time today. Husband mentions that he thinks it would be great if baby girl and I went to the clinic also so we’d have some family time today since I’ll be gone all afternoon. Sigh. Decide that agreeing with husband is best. Once baby girl has contented milk belly, I grab diaper bag, string cheese and squeezes for both kids, beloved yellow baseball hat for little man, and crinkly horse-toy for baby girl.

11:00 am Whole family in car en route to clinic. Phone rings. Site coordinator from church, venue for ceremony a couple hours later, is on the phone. The bride had requested the church’s white silk rose petals line the edges of the white runner but she can’t find them and only came up with pink rose petals. What should we do? What should we do? Should we line it with pink petals? Answer: no. Secretly sigh with relief as I have less than positive feelings regarding silk rose petals.

11:30 am Clinic doctor inspects little man: just a virus and most likely not contagious at this point. But he’ll run a test for strep just to make sure. Ten minutes of watching Horton And The Who in the waiting room and we are off with a “yup, he’s healthy” note from the doctor.

12:00 pm Entire family re-loaded into family SUV, little man proudly licking lolli pop for good behavior. Parent of the year, here. I sit in back and pop bits of string cheese into baby girl’s mouth as we head home. If I don’t feed her, she’ll fall asleep and she’s not allowed to sleep until she’s in her sweet little bed at 1:30 because otherwise I’ll be leaving slightly nervous husband alone with a cranky off-her-schedule baby girl all afternoon and evening and we all know how that goes. Remember, code name: the screamer.

12:30 pm Home. Make lunch for self and, because I’m trying to be thoughtful, husband too. Call comes in from wedding beverage service: “did you want 1 bar or 2 bars on the terrace?” Answer I want to give: read your event notes I sent! Answer I give: just one, please!

1:15 pm Haul kids downstairs, nurse baby girl once more, place back in sleep sack and back in bed. Kiss little man’s head as husband reads him stories.

1:30 pm Dash to closet: put on black dress and heels. Dash to bathroom: apply make-up. Stop at mascara since I’m going to blow dry my hair and I don’t want sticky lines of black marks all over my face. Tell myself: remember to put on mascara when you finish!

1:50 pm Depart house. Dash to post office to mail client’s invitations. Look in car mirror. Dang it, no mascara! Text assistant: if you haven’t left yet, could you bring a black mascara with you? Answer: sorry, already left. Want me to stop and get you some? Answer: yes! Arrive at post office. Shuttered up. Sign on the door reads Saturday hours: 10am-1pm. Dang it. Text comes through from assistant with picture of mascara and message this is the cheapest one! Answer: buy it! Dash to alteration place. I don’t really have to do this now but how often am I out without ANY kids? Alteration man is literally turning the sign on his door from open to closed as I park in front and come streaking in with 4 dresses flying behind me. He lets me stay.

2:30 pm Arrive at church. Florist is hauling in flowers. Two assistants are sitting there in matching black skirt suits, one proudly holding out pink mascara wand in her palm. Breathe. Open event notes. Mystically put on my wedding planner hat. The aisle looks way better without the pink silk rose petals.

One of my good friends asked me the other day how I am doing balancing everything in my life. I responded with, some weeks I’m good at one thing, and other weeks another thing, but I’m never good at everything every week. Some weeks I remember to tell husband how much I appreciate him and go to bed at the same time he does. Some weeks I remember to call or text my friends. Some weeks I exercise every day. Some weeks I get a bunch of appointments with clients in or finish the event documents I have to get done. Some weeks I text my extended family funny pictures of the kids. Some weeks I’m the kind, patient, but in charge mommy I want to be. Some weeks I volunteer to do something at church or for little man’s school or pause long enough to smile at the elderly woman making googly eyes at baby girl. Some weeks I’m even 2 or 3 of those things. But I am never all those things every week.

Maybe that’s what balance is: accepting that it’s okay to not be good at everything every week. Or maybe it’s my recent justification self-talk for only exercising 15-20 minutes a day as of late. But hey, I’m still breast feeding AND chasing the energizer bunny every day.

But maybe that’s what I need right now for mental peace: to allow myself to be better at some things some weeks and other things other weeks. It’s too much to try and heap everything onto my plate each week. Otherwise, I won’t have time or will be just too frenetic to notice the snail on the sidewalk with little man or to just lie on my belly and make faces at baby girl as she does her pre-crawl pushups.

Do I, in my type A mania, put this pressure on myself? Does our collective community? I have this need to do everything and be everything to everyone, but am I really enjoying my life when I do that? I mentioned before that I’m really trying to follow Ann Voskamp’s challenge in 1000 Gifts to live fully where you are and notice the small gifts of every day: little man’s fascination with the snail, baby girls’ giggle in the bathtub when I wash her neck, the orange red sky of a beach sunset. And then on top of that, to whisper prayers of thanks for everything. Everything. Thank you that little red dots on the skin made me slow down and be with my family. Hey, little man found excitement in the little red dots! Thank you for a yummy latte. Thank you that baby girl still wants to nurse and that I still have a supply (take that, o you allergies out there!).

So maybe balance is accepting my limitations and letting myself breathe in the life and beauty that is all around me. Especially the beauty of life with my little people.

Apparently my 3-year-old son loves techno. My husband is all to blame for this one. Because husband is techy guy of the year annually, he has set up our phones so that we share our Pandora play lists. Maybe that’s not rocket science to set up but this girl equates most technological knowledge and know-how with corresponding devises to attempting to walk in 4-inch stilettos—might be possible but not for this girl. Anyhoo, so driving in the car with little man today en route to the store, I pop up Pandora on my phone, and little man yells from the back seat “GUMMY BEAR! I want Gummy Bear!” Now this child is not referring to certain edible squishy candy in the shape of a certain woodsy animal. He is referring to his new favorite song and the name of a techno station I suddenly found on my phone. And this gal for sure didn’t add it. (see icon above for picture of said techno-singing bear)

It’s awesome to be 37 and roll into the Trader Joes parking lot with techno blasting from your car. Little man has his black shades on and is totally chilling in the back in his car seat, window lowered half-way down.

I should have seen this coming. When he was just 2 and we were listening to the Veggie Tales playlist, which this mama put on our shared Pandora set-list, I heard a certain familiar beat begin to rumble through my car stereo and suddenly I’m tapping my foot to Party Rock Anthem and little man is yelling from the back seat “MAMA, I LIKE THIS ONE” as Chipmunk voices and a techno beat take over. I’m totally listening to Party Rock sung by the Chipmunks. I am so cool.

I don’t know when or how little man became such an avid fan of techno. Husband has a history of frequenting clubs with said style of music in his younger years but this mama is completely R/B-Pop with a little Folk-Alt and Classic Rock thrown in to spice things up. So for this odd genetic streak in little man, we’ll blame husband.

But there is a lot you can blame me for. Namely the “WOOHOO” that has been coming from little man’s lips lately. I don’t think husband has ever uttered such phrase unless he was mocking this wife. Last week, kiddos and I were driving back from the park and we took the scenic route past the beach which we like to do so we can check out the surf and this day there is some swell and a group of wetsuits are jockeying for waves and one suit grabs a wave and from the back seat comes “WOOHOO! He got it! Good job guys! WOOHOO! WOOHOOOOO!” Did I mention the window was rolled down and little man was pumping his fist while articulating such remarks? I turned bright red as passersby’s looked over in amusement.

You can blame me for the WOOHOO.

It’s funny how we rub off on our kids. It’s pretty scary too. I watched a little guy at the park riding his trike and another little boy rammed into him on some other wheeled vehicle and the first little guy raises his index finger at the second and says “bad boy! Bay boy!” I’m sure he didn’t come up with that on his own.

This mama is pretty good at not cussing—though there is an occasional potty word or two that escapes now and then. But I think it’s beyond that. It’s amazing to see how little man says things in the same voice and style that I do. A lot of it is pretty funny and endearing. Like the woohoo.

But lately he’s started ordering me around. “Mommy, I need you to bring this here.” Does mommy say that? Clearly. Is there a role for moms to say things sometimes that are not for kids to say—yes. But would it kill me to say please?

Little man is like a mirror to me. I feel like I see all the good and all the bad that comes from me staring me back in the face. Every day I pray that I will be patient and kind and overwhelmingly giving to both of my little people. And often I pray that multiple times a day. Especially after I have snapped at little man. Some days he’s like dripping water: a constant irritation. At 3, he already knows exactly how to exasperate me. I see it in the sly sideways looks he gives me as he asks the same question for the 10th time in two minutes. How is he so clever?

But he’s my kid. And he’s just a 3-year-old little boy who wants to play (ALL the time—it’s way more fun than eating, getting dressed, exercising, or pooping…the things that I throw in the mix). It’s my job to do my best to mold and shape him. He’s my absolute joy but he also refines me. I am forced to become a better person by being his mommy—by choosing what I say, by practicing being patient every day, by sometimes even telling little man that I’m sorry for being short with him. He’s my kid. My responsibility. My exacerbation and my joy. My character-building little instrument in my life.

Whatever man little man turn out to be, to a certain extent you can blame me (woohoo). Sure there is mental illness and extenuating circumstances, but if my kid can’t share or be a team player or a positive member of society, then I think I should ask if I’m doing enough? It’s my job to shape him, to love him, to discipline him, to teach him my morals and beliefs. As one of my friends said, “I don’t think people younger than me know more than me.”

I’m not talking about likes and dislikes. One of my mantras is to daily focus on figuring out who little man is. He’ll choose the sports and instruments he plays and he’ll choose whatever career he wants. I don’t care if he goes to Harvard or a state school. I want him to be a generally happy, well-adjusted person, with a moral compass, at peace with himself, and a positive part of our community—a light in the lives of those around him.

Maybe I’m still just reeling from Sandy Hook. I know there were mental issues involved and I’m not going to get into the issues of that or gun control. I watched 60 minutes a week ago Sunday when a bunch of the parents were interviewed. It came out that the gun cabinet was actually located inside the kid’s bedroom. As one of the dad’s said, who had lost a child, “there was something going on in that family.” I can’t speak to what was going on in that family and obviously the kid was off his rockers and maybe the mom too. But what it has gotten me thinking about is who is the kid that I’m raising? If I’m not responsible for who he becomes, then who is?

So on days like today, when I’m plodding downstairs about to put baby girl in bed (another loooong Tuesday for those of you who have been following my blog), and I’m feeling a little low for snapping at little man a bunch of times today, and from upstairs husband calls after me, “you’re almost done!” and I’m definitely ready for my glass of Zin and the Amazing Race, I need to stop and be thankful for my sweet little children and the people they are becoming. I need to appreciate that they cause me to look at myself and who I am and the parent I am being. I am a better person because of them. And every day I pray for the energy and joy and mirth and strength it takes to be the mommy I want to be.

Whatever odd mixture of techno-loving sun-glass wearing kid little man turns out to be, for much of who he is, you can blame me. It’s exciting, daunting, challenging. I guess its parenting.

My friend forwarded this to me and it’s pretty stinking hilarious.  Present author did not write it so cannot be held responsible for material enclosed.  Present author further does not know who wrote it so we can’t throw tomatoes or laud with tweet blasts.  You’ll simply have to giggle.

Thinking of Having Kids?

Lesson 1

1. Go to the grocery store.
2. Arrange to have your salary paid directly to their head office.
3. Go home.
4. Pick up the paper.
5. Read it for the last time.

Lesson 2

Before you finally go ahead and have children, find a couple who already are parents and berate them about their…

1. Methods of discipline.
2. Lack of patience.
3. Appallingly low tolerance levels.
4. Allowing their children to run wild.
5. Suggest ways in which they might improve their child’s breastfeeding, sleep habits, toilet training, table manners, and overall behavior.
6. Enjoy it, because it will be the last time in your life you will have all the answers.

Lesson 3

To discover how the nights will feel…

1. Walk around the living room from 5PM to 10PM carrying a wet bag weighing approximately 8-12 pounds, with a radio turned to static (or some other obnoxious sound) playing loudly.
2. At 10PM, put the bag down, set the alarm for midnight, and go to sleep.
3. Get up at 12 and walk around the living room again, with the bag, until 1AM.
4. Set the alarm for 3AM.
5. As you can’t get back to sleep, get up at 2AM and make a drink.
6. Go to bed at 2:45AM.
7. Get up at 3AM when the alarm goes off.
8. Sing songs in the dark until 4AM.
9. Get up. Make breakfast.
10. Keep this up for 5 years.
11. Look cheerful.

Lesson 4

Can you stand the mess children make? To find out…

1. Smear peanut butter onto the sofa and jam onto the curtains.
2. Hide a piece of raw chicken behind the stereo and leave it there all summer.
3. Stick your fingers in the flower bed.
4. Then rub them on the clean walls.
5. Cover the stains with crayons. How does that look?

Lesson 5

Dressing small children is not as easy as it seems.

1. Buy an octopus and a small bag made out of loose mesh.
2. Attempt to put the octopus into the bag so that none of the arms hang out.
3. Time allowed for this – all morning.

Lesson 6

1. Take an egg carton. Using a pair of scissors and a jar of paint, turn it into an alligator.
2. Now take the tube from a roll of toilet paper. Using only Scotch tape and a piece of aluminum foil, turn it into an attractive Christmas candle.
3. Last, take a milk carton, a ping-pong ball, and an empty packet of Cocoa Puffs.
4. Make an exact replica of the Eiffel Tower.

Lesson 7

Forget the BMW and buy a mini-van. And don’t think that you can leave it  out  in the driveway spotless and shining. Family cars don’t look like that.

1. Buy a chocolate ice cream cone and put it in the glove compartment. Leave it there.
2. Get a dime. Stick it in the dvd player.
3. Take a family size package of chocolate cookies. Mash them into the back seat.
4. Run a garden rake along both sides of the car. There. Perfect.

Lesson 8

1. Get ready to go out.
2. Wait outside the bathroom for half an hour.
3. Go out the front door.
4. Come in again.Go out.
5. Come back in.
6. Go out again.
7. Walk down the front path.
8. Walk back up it.
9. Walk down it again.
10. Walk very slowly down the road for five minutes.
11. Stop , inspect minutely, and ask at least 6 questions about every cigarette butt, piece of used chewing gum, dirty tissue, and dead insect along the way.
12. Retrace your steps.
13. Scream that you have had as much as you can stand until the neighbors come out and stare at you.
14. Give up and go back into the house.

You are now just about ready to try taking a small child for a walk.

Lesson 9

Repeat everything at least (if not more than) five times.

Lesson 10

Go to the local grocery store. Take with you the closest thing you can find to a pre-school child. (A full- grown goat is excellent). If you intend to have more than one child, take more than one goat. Buy your week’s groceries without letting the goats out of your sight. Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys. Until you can easily accomplish this, do not even contemplate having  children.

Lesson 11

1. Hollow out a melon.
2. Make a small hole in the side.
3. Suspend it from the ceiling and swing it from side to side.
4. Now get a bowl of soggy Cheerios and attempt to spoon them into the swaying  melon by pretending to be an airplane.
5. Continue until half the Cheerios are gone.
6. Tip half into your lap. The other half, just throw up in the air.
7. You are now ready to feed a 9 month old baby.

Lesson 12

Learn the names of every character from Sesame Street, Barney, Disney, the Doodlebops, and the Wiggles. Watch nothing else on TV for at least five years.

Lesson 13

Move to the tropics. Find or make a compost pile. Dig down about halfway and stick your nose in it. Do this 3-5 times a day for at least two years.

Lesson 14

Make a recording of Fran Drescher saying “mommy” repeatedly. (Important: no more than a 4 second delay between each “mommy”; occasional crescendo to the level of a supersonic jet is required). Play this tape in your car everywhere you go for the next four years. You are now ready to take a long trip  with a toddler.

Lesson 15

Start talking to an adult of your choice. Have someone else continually tug on your skirt hem, shirt- sleeve, or elbow while playing the “mommy” tape made from Lesson 14 above. You are now ready to have a conversation with an adult while there is a child in the room.

Poop is still my life. It’s amazing how much of a focus it takes each day. I have my one child, 3-year-old little man who won’t poop for days and then finally does in some screaming fit in his swim pants at swim class or in a pull up at pre-school or occasionally in his little potty at the house. We now own Everybody Poops and It Hurts When I Poop and we read them A LOT. I asked my pediatrician for advice and he responded with one word: bribery (further advice welcome here, dear readers). Little man was pretty much a sugar-free kid until we potty-trained. Now we ply with ice cream, cookies, and the crown jewel cupcakes! We doll out gold star stickers (thank you Grannie Hannah) for successful poops in the potty that can be traded in for real Thomas & Friends trains. We have failed—fallen from our lofty hill of generic non-media based toys. We will do anything to try to get little man to poop in the potty.

We just got back from a week in Ixtapa, Mexico—I will forever sing the accolades of the all inclusive (read: abundant alcohol) high-chair, pack’n’play, stroller, and kid’s club-providing Club Med there—and we spent a good part of everyday pacing back and forth between pool and little toilets (they even had mini toilets—I LOVE this place!!!) and beach and little toilets and dining room and little toilets and each episode usually concluded with two seconds total sitting on the potty and a proudly announced “I’m done!” with nothing to show for it in the potty and back to whatever activity we had been in the midst of we return…for 15 minutes and then the groans and potty dance from little man resume and back to the toilets we go!

Little man just won’t go until he REALLY HAS TO GO and that often takes days and when he finally does have to go we’re not always right by a potty. And the pool always seems to pry open the floodgates. One morning in Ixtapa, after countless trips to the potty, and after being on strike for days, little man had his usual little mishap in his swim pants that’s now no biggie. I’ve become a pro at this: after our screaming trips around the pool at swim class (which as an aside, amused husband really wants me to video and I’m like, how do I hold infant, chase howling little man, and use finger to record all at the same time, not even to mention the quality of the video being taken due to vigorous movement involved? I let him know he is welcome to come to any swim class and be our videographer at any time—he’s now contemplating paying a babysitter), I now put a little liner inside his swim pants so if he goes at swim class (I have instructed him that he has to get out of the pool and stand on the side so as not to contaminate said pool), we just plop the liner and poop in the toilet and back to the pool we go in 1 minute flat. This is my new strategy. I’m trying to decrease the stress and angst of my 3-year-old because it kills me that he’s already carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. And our screaming streaks have reduced significantly.

Well husband hasn’t had quite so much experience with our whole screaming around the pool throw the liner out thing and was grossed out by the little reserve left on the swim pants and took them entirely off so now little man had liner-less board shorts on and the floodgates had been opened but not emptied because did I mention he had been on strike FOR DAYS so when little man got back in the pool he suddenly realized he had to go more and luckily got out of the pool (thanks to our swim lesson training) before plop—yes a huge poop dropped straight through the airy board shorts and took up residence on the side of the pool. Husband on the deck looked at me. I looked at husband from the pool with baby girl. I totally gave him the “you’re closest” look and husband took a paper cup and napkin and scoop before the lifeguard could notice. Yes: my child pooped on the side of the pool. Yes: mortified.

Then my other child, 6-month-old baby girl seems to poop all the time and it goes EVERYWHERE. I swear I lose a shirt or pair of pants a day to her poops. And on the not so lucky days, I lose an entire outfit. Christmas Eve, sitting in a fancy restaurant in my silk purple dress with the grandparents and kid-free brother and his wife, we hear an audible explosion over the restaurant din and yes, there is a puddle of poop in my lap. Awesome.

“What did you do?” one of my friends asked. I actually felt smugly proud of myself because I had a plastic bag in my diaper bag just waiting for such an occasion and a whole other outfit to change baby girl into (too bad I couldn’t magically unfold a wrinkle free outfit for me too!). I asked for some extra paper towels from fancy French-speaking waiter and just sponged off the best I could. And continued! If my brother and his wife never have kids, I think the cosmos can just blame me…and my sometimes screaming, poop-filled children.

Baby girl has mastered the ability of explosive poops at the most inopportune times. Picture the scene: returning from our trip to Ixtapa, descending in flight into LAX, the entire family in one row with me and baby girl by the window, husband on the aisle, and little man between us licking a lollipop to keep his head from exploding, we hear the audible plthbtbt that seems to last for minutes. I sit up baby girl and her entire back is now brown. And there’s a puddle on my maxi skirt where she was leaning. At the same moment, little man starts wiggling and shouting I HAVE TO GO PEE I HAVE TO GO PEE I HAVE TO GO PEE and remember we are descending on our flight so there is no getting up from our seats for at least 15 more minutes and we remind little man that he has a pull up on since we’re traveling but he’s a big boy now and he won’t use his pull-up but would rather wiggle and moan and grimace all in unison.

So at the risk of being pounced on by air marshals, husband unbuckled little man and held him on his lap while simultaneously laying out a changing matt, wipes, and a new diaper. I stripped baby girl and put cute onsie with stars and little bow only worn once, along with nasty diaper and wipes, all in a zip lock (also supplied by handy husband), discreetly placed the entire bag on the floor, and slyly pushed it under the seat ahead of us. We had tried to hand off a yellow only diaper to a stewardess earlier and she had made some commotion about diapers being in the same trash bag as food products and instructed us to carry it to the restroom in the back. Since there was no getting up at this point, we left ziplock with nasty diaper and onsie on the floor. We threw away the onsie. And since I had worn shorts to the airport in 90 degree Ixtapa and changed into my maxi skirt for the plane, I did a reverse deck change, pulled on shorts under skirt, pulled off skirt, and voila! Though I considered it, I didn’t throw away the skirt. It went in another plastic bag and got buried in my carry on.

Then as soon as we landed, I left baby girl with husband, picked up little man, and dashed past “occupied” plane restrooms, through terminal and extra long moving walkways, pushing aside passerby’s, and deposited little man on floor in front of nearest toilet we could find. The entire world breathed a collective sigh of relief. It’s funny how people get out of your way when you throw an elbow here or there and with 3-year-old in tow announce loudly, “excuse me, potty crisis, excuse me, potty crisis.”

People assure me that little man will not be withholding poop when he’s 15 (though at that time, I may wish he were). And with the introduction of solid foods into 6-month-old baby girl’s diet in the last 2 weeks, the poops are becoming, well, more solid. Someday we’ll laugh about the fact that we actually owned poop books (I count 4, off the top of my head) and about the amount of laundry that I currently do. And on that day we’ll miss the 3-year-old who deposits mini trash cans around his room and makes me use finger puppet animals to call the garbage truck over to retrieve the trash from each of them. And we’ll miss the toothless wide-eyed sparkly grins of little girl reaching up for my nose from her snuggly little cradled position in my arms. So once again, I thank God for my screaming-child-poop-filled stage.

Some days I step back and think, am I really a mommy?  Two kids and three years into this whole thing and some days I’m still surprised.  Me, mommy?  When I was a teenager, my mom used to ask me if her outfit looked ok and I’d reply, “sure, for a mom” and she’d kind of glare at me. But in my mind, at that time, it made sense.  Mom’s weren’t supposed to be hot or always be in style or have the perfect outfit on anyways.  That was my impression of moms growing up.  Is that me?

My girlfriend and I were laughing over a cute 20-something at our church who always has on the most adorable sky high heels and we can’t imagine wearing heels like those now.  I told me girlfriend that we are in the “damn it, I still look good because” stage.  Because I’ve carried and bore two children.  Because I don’t have a personal trainer or chef or full time nanny or infinite clothing allowance.  Because I no longer have those I-work-out-an-hour-a-day abbs.  Because the twins are no longer quite as perky after breastfeeding two children.

I used to wear heals.  I used to wear them all the time.  A random woman once commented to me in Whole Foods, “I love to see a tall girl wearing heals!”  I realize that I used to wear heals because I used to stroll everywhere.  I used to stroll through the market, examining my options, and placing them thoughtfully in my basket (back in the day when a week’s worth of groceries could fit in a basket…and back in the day when I actually strolled through a market) tucked neatly on my arm.  Now I wear sensible mom shoes because I have to RUN everywhere.  I RUN to get the blanket from upstairs for my wailing little man.  I RUN to pick up the squawking baby who has woken up first from naps.  I RUN to get to preschool on time to pick up little man because I have too much to do in life to serenely stroll in early.  I RUN.

But of course I do my best to find cool mom shoes that don’t look like mom shoes.  Like my Vans or my giraffe print flats or my 1-inch healed cowboy boots.  Am I fooling anyone?  I think I’m running from the 16-year-old voice still in my head that says for a mom.  I’m cool for a mom.  I look put together for a mom.  I look fit for a mom.

Last May, with my ballooning belly, husband tried to put old bucket car seat in our little Rav4 next to little man’s toddler car seat to see if they would both fit.  No such luck.  So off to the dealers we went to survey our options and a few weeks later we had a Hylander sitting in our garage.  I was desperately trying to get the I’m still cool car that still sat 7 as I contemplated my future role as carpool mom. At the same time, my girlfriend needed to get a larger car for her burgeoning family and she texted me from the car lot, “I’m totally getting a minivan.”  The tone was head hung low, tail between the legs…total failure.  She had failed at coolness and she knew.  And the hilarious part was, she didn’t care.  Oh how far the mighty have fallen.

It’s like I’m working so hard not to be the mommy of my mom’s generation—but what was wrong with that?  Our 60’s and 70’s moms were the ones who often made mommyhood their sole job title because they believed that raising us was the most important thing they could do.  Most of my little friends mom’s, growing up, didn’t work.  They led our girl scout troop, monitored our after school play dates, fixed home cooked dinners every night, and carted us from piano lessons to soccer practice.

I’m the one trying to juggle kids and work and frozen Trader Joes food that miraculously become risotto in our saucepan.  It’s like somehow I’ve failed if I fully submit myself to mommyhood and embrace it alone.  Which means I never have time for anything and wonder if I’m doing nothing well.  Do we, in our generation, just have higher expectations for ourselves?  Or is everyone, like me, running from this phantom mommy that for some reason we really don’t want to be though we’re not really sure why?

For some reason, having my second child has forced me to own mommyhood more than before. Maybe it’s that I really don’t have any self time anymore and I’ve just given up.  I’m a mommy.  My chief job in life is mommy.

We went on vacation last week in Ixtapa, Mexico (more stories to come, I promise) and upon return, people kept asking me, “did you get to relax?”  Ha!  My friend told me about a bumper sticker that reads you know you’re a mom when a trip is a lot of work and going to Target by yourself is a vacation. Relaxing? Ha!

“A bit,” I would reply.  The kids still took afternoon naps and husband and I holed up in our air conditioned suite and read most of the time (I actually read a novel for the first time in a year! Lisa See’s Dreams of Joy was awesome).  “But,” I would add, “I probably had more fun than on previous trips.”  There was just something so fun about jumping through waves with little man, floating baby girl in pink sunglasses through the pool in her blow up baby inter tube, and dancing around with little man at the kid’s shows (that you really can’t do kid-less) that added a whole new dimension of fun.

So what does it mean to be mommy?  I guess it’s just flat-shoed fun.  And I guess I just have to embrace it in my own way—with my trying to be cool mom car and frenetic frozen Trader Joes food juggle.