...And all I got was this stupid T-shirt

So I did it.

I had a root canal this morning. I asked him to set the nitrous to the "sissy bitch" setting. He numbed me well enough that I felt nothing. However, my biggest mistake in this whole scenario was googling "root canal" the other night. Let me tell you this people: never EVER google a medical procedure that you are about to have if you previously don't know how it's done. You're better off left in the dark.

Though I felt no pain, I felt weird sensations and thought back to that very graphic website I saw. I imagined what he was doing each step of the way and when he got to the point where I could feel him pulling the root of my tooth out, I got dizzy. Very dizzy. Dizzy enough for me to grunt, hold my right hand up, and spin my pointed index finger in a circle, indicating the problem. Thankfully, he understood right away. All I wanted to do was sit up and put my head between my legs but that was an impossibility in the present situation. Frick that. What I really wanted to do was rip all that crap out of my mouth and run for the hills. Vodka-soaked hills.

Instead, I stayed and took deep breaths. He tilted the seat further, my legs elevated above my head. He put a cool rag on my forehead and turned the nitrous to oxygen. The feeling eventually went away. I'm not sure if it was my nerves or the nitrous or both. But in either case, it was not a pleasant sensation. If I'm gonna be that dizzy, there better be a baby shooting out of me or a empty bottle of Grey Goose on my counter.

But I survived. I was numb most of the day and now that the Novocain has worn off I am definitely sore and throbby. I'm taking motrin every few hours to keep any inflammation down. I resume dental activies in two weeks for more fillings.

There is a silver lining: When I'm in this much pain and told to stay on a "soft diet," I often opt for a liquid dinner.

(My favorite part of this picture is the baby bottle in the background.)

Clenching

I can't really accurately describe how things at work have been. Picture a piss and dirt sandwich. I mean, that's pretty gross, right? And you wouldn't want to eat it. Ever. But then they tell you that in order to keep your job, you have to eat it. And you have to eat it by Friday. And they're gonna sprinkle some shards of glass and asbestos on top. And you have to wash it down with lighter fluid and paint thinner. Because you need an income to clothe and feed your two children, you do it. You don't really have a choice.

It's come to the point where I'm a broken soul at work and every time they announce a new change or tell us we have to do more work, I shrug and say "okay" while other people get up in arms. It doesn't seem worth the effort to get upset anymore because we're gonna have to do it anyway, so why expend the energy to give a marmoset's ass.

Because of this stress and some other things going on, I've been doing something I haven't done in years. I've been clenching my jaw in my sleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night with my face in so much pain, like all the muscles in my face were spasming and my forehead hurt. And as I woke I realized my teeth were clamped shut and my jaw was locked so tightly and for so long that the muscles were starting to scream.

This has happened quite often that I can catch in the past month or so, since the Stress Pile O' Shit keeps getting bigger and bigger. As I fall asleep at night with thoughts of deadlines, mortgage payments, Sawyer's dedication ceremony this weekend, debt, and the overall stress of parenting two small children, I have to consciously make an effort not to tighten my jaw and clench my teeth together.

This is obviously not helping my root-canal-needing-uber-painful tooth situation.

I had a mouth guard made for this a few years ago when something similar was happening, only it wasn't hurting already sore teeth, but causing TMJ. The mouth guard hurt too much to wear and was so uncomfortable and when I tried to wear it again this time, my teeth must have moved because they didn't even fit the mold anymore.

I love working. Truly, I do. But my actual job is another story. I work to feel a sense of value in another facet of my life - a life solely mine - and instead I feel like I am at the reject table eating piss sandwiches.

A week

In a week from today, the country will change. Even though the new president won't take office until January 20th, the world will change on November 4th. Of this, I am convinced.

I remember watching the Berlin wall come down on the TV in my grandmother's room as a child. I didn't understand, but she told me "You watch this. You're watching the world change right before your eyes."

I lived history the day the planes crashed into the towers. Here in the suburbs outside of the city, we still live its legacy.

My mother tells me a story about how my grandmother slapped her across the face when she ran to tell her President Kennedy was assassinated. She thought she was lying and her reaction to something so horrific was guttoral. That memory is so vivid for my mother that I almost live it with her.

There are moments that when you live them, you know you are living history. A woman. A black man. Both ran for president. One is still in the running.

And that is Goddamned Fantastic.

I hope my children grow up in a world where this is no longer history-making but a banality. That the strong trump the ignorant and our country starts to believe that truly, all people are created equal.

I'd love to never have to tell my son that his godfather can't marry a man he loves because someone says it's wrong.

I want to raise my daughter to know that she can be anything in this world she wants to be, even the president. And I'd love her body - and any decisions she makes regarding it - to be hers. And hers alone.

I hope I wake up on November 5th with hope renewed and a sense of forward movement. A movement out of the Christian Right that believes they can govern who people marry, what women do with their bodies, and deem what is morally objectionable in medical and scientific research. Into a world where the self and love and life are celebrated and life-saving scientific breakthroughs are rewarded and supported. Where a woman's right to choose is still her right.

Even if the side I'm rooting for loses, I believe with all my heart that change is coming. We are living a major moment in history.

And my only hope is that one day, my children will look back on this time in their history books in disbelief - that we lived like this for so long. In such darkness.

Vote.

Six hundred

This is my 600th post.

In honor of that, I would like to list 600 things about myself.

1) I'm so kidding.
2) I don't even think there are 600 things about myself.
3) Could you imagine if I actually did this?

In those six hundred posts, I've found friendships with people I may have never met otherwise - friends who will be crashing at MiniBlogHerInMaHouse in a couple of weeks. I'll actually be having dinner with and hugging and toasting with people I now consider true friends, regardless of the fact that we've never had coffee, never babysat each other's kids, never went to the mall. Not because we wouldn't. But because distance gets in the way and we couldn't.

I talk to these women every day. I tell them things I don't air out here. We talk about things we feel like we can't talk to anyone else about. We understand each other, and when we don't we still support each other. We're all different. And yet the same.

A lawyer, an editor -- no matter what any of our "titles" in life are, we're all mothers. All friends. We know what it feels like to worry so much about your children that your heart stops and your breath catches in your throat. We know how it feels to have people in our lives make us feel like we're not doing a good job.

We know how hard it is to find the balance between mother and wife, self and soul. We share our passions, even if their squashed beneath diapers and spit-up and encourage each other to find our hope. We confess about wishing we could duct tape our toddlers to the wall or the days when we just feel like we can't keep it together. There is no judgment.

We make fun of each other. We send each other cards and gifts on special occasions. We talk about each other to our other friends as if they lived around the corner.

Friendship has no face. It has no distance.

But in two weeks, it will be at my house.

The Bane of Sparkles

Charlotte is in a phase where she wants to only wear clothes that are sparkly.

This limits us to one pair of jeans, one pair of shoes (out of the 8 she has for chrissakes), and thankfully a decent amount of shirts since I knows she likes bling.

I'm not a control freak. I often let her pick out her own outfits and couldn't care less if it doesn't match or if she wants to wear her rain boots with a tank top and sweater. Whatever. If she's warm and happy, what-the-frick-ever.

But getting dressed is turning into a nightmare. She only wants THE SPARKLY ONES, MOMMA!!!!!!!!!!!!

So I've been caving and washing the jeans and letting her wear her pink sparkly shoes (that I bought to go along with her Halloween costume) because the meltdown is of biblical proportions and I'm not sure it's one of those battles I want to pick.

I know kids go through phases like this. So should I just let her wear what she wants and let her outgrow the rest of the 908234549038 pair of pants, shoes, and shirts she has. Or do I not give in all the time and make her wear the other clothes? It's not so much the clothes as the issue behind it.

If I give in, am I letting her win? But if I don't let her chose what she wants to wear am I curbing her self-expression and independence?

I'm going with the latter because I want her to be her and really, it's not like she wants to wear hooker boots and fish nets yet. But HOO BOY are mornings now requiring a splash of Baileys in my coffee.


(Sorry for the crappy quality photos. The memory card from my good camera is still on the Fucked-Up-Need-A-New-One list along with my boobs.)

A new word

There should be a word other than "tired" to describe the unending fog of doom and despair that comes from functioning on little sleep for what seems like YEARS.

Most days, functioning is not a problem. After the first hour or so, a few hundred ounces of coffee, and some exercise, I usually feel pretty decent for the rest of the day. I eat well. I work out. I drink obscene amounts of caffeine. I'm a generally high-strung person. Energy is usually not a problem.

But then there are these days. Days when if my toddler makes one more stupid request or my infant wakes up early from another nap I may just officially lose my shit.

These days come at the expense of trying to maintain whatever social life I can hold on to. I go out with friends - I NEED these nights - but then I pay for them for days in depleted sleep and mental faculties. Ninety-nine percent of the time, Mike will get up with the kids on these days so I can get in a few extra hours of sleep. However, he has to work an overnight shift tonight so even though I got in at 2, up at 4 to feed the baby, and up with Charlotte at 6, that lack of sleep doesn't compare to the NO sleep he'll be getting tonight. He offered. I made him go back to bed.

So I sit here at 10 am, all of us still in our pajamas with no intention to get dressed. I've manged to get some Cheerios (have you tried the new banana-nut kind? they're so yummy!) in my toddler and a bottle in my baby's mouth. I've even fed myself and had my minmum requirement of two cups of coffee. I even made more baby food to stockpile. So I function. But I do it on just one level above bat-shit crazy - with eyelids drooping, a shorter temper than I'd like, and the knowledge that as soon as Mike walks downstairs, I will be walking up them for one kick-ass nap.

A deal with the devil

I went BACK to the dentist yeserday. Dr. Patel and I are like BFFs now. However, when I invited him out for martinis, he said he prefers them dry and not too dirty. That was the bad news. The good news is that he's not an asshole trying to get money out of me and when I said that all three of the teeth on the side hurt and throbbed, rather than do unnecessary work, he refered me to an endodontist. I made the appointment and they will do an "electric pulp test" which will determine which tooth the nerve pain is coming from, if it IS all three or which one needs to be taken care of.

And by "taken care of," I mean that in the most mob-like sense of the word. Destroyed. Swimming with the fishes. Belly-up. Root canal. The death of the root of my tooth.

The words literally make my stomach lurch a little.

The other sucky-ass news is that I have to continue to be in this pain until my appointment which isn't until Tuesday. And then the results get sent to Dr. Patel who I then have an appointment with on Thursday. I did get two fillings while I was there yesterday since he didn't want to "waste a visit" and didn't want to mess with the sore teeth.

I apparently have TWELVE more fillings to get - three more which are going to require the in-lays (caps, crowns, whatever they're called). You'd think I never brushed or flossed in my whole life. Granted, I hadn't gone to the dentist in like three years, but SWEET JEEBUS, twelve?!? In THREE years? Apparently, being pregnant changes hormones and because my diet wasn't that great (read: I had rice krispie treats for breakfast) during the seemingly three years I was knocked up, all the cavities just piled up.

And now I deal with this. Thank dog I have good insurance and the fillings and root canal(s) (eek!) are covered 100%. The in-lays are only covered 60% though and they're around 1-2K each. I. Could. Just. Gag.

Mark my words. When this is over, I WILL go to the dentsit every six months for regular check-ups and cleanings.

I hate learning things the hard way.

In the meantime, I'll keep popping pain pills and drinking martinis. Just call me Dr. House.

A conversation with a three-month old

My mouth hurts too much to think right now; instead enjoy an enthralling conversation with my son. Because seriously, is there anything cuter in the world?

One of them mornings

Yesterday was one of those mornings where nothing - NOTHING - went right. And when that happens, it kind of filters down the rest of the day so that by 9 p.m., you're drunk and babbling in a corner about deadlines and no sleep.

After the pain killers finally kicked in and I fell asleep, the baby was up again at 430 to eat and up again at 530 for the day. I had a baby that used to sleep through the night. Has anyone seen him? Because surely this alien-headed spawn that wakes up at 12, then 430 and then 530 is not MY sweet little baby who USED TO SLEEP. I'm not sure if it's a growth spurt of if I'm entering into some hellish vortex of doom where I have a baby who eats in the middle of the night forever. I can picture it now: he's 11 and I'm up at 4 am making him eggs.

I jest because as soon as this kid is on solids, and I know he's getting enough food during the day, we will start the sleep training and the tapering off of the middle-of-the night feedings. But now? He's still little and really fricken hungry at night. I can hear his little tummy growling and burbling as the warm formula pours into his stomach. And he wakes almost just as hungry. He only takes about 4 oz during the day and 6 ounces during these night feedings. So it's not like I can make him take MORE than his little belly can handle just so I can sleep so I can KEEP MY SHIT TOGETHER.

After going to bed in pain and hopped up on percocet at 1 am, feeding Sawyer at 4 (If I had asked Mike, he would have gladly gotten up for me, but he didn't even hear me get out of bed) and then up at 5, I finally get him back down around 6:30 to take a shower. for a good 10 minutes I sit on the couch in some sort of haze, too tired to move and yet knowing I had to get my ass to the office. I start undressing and gathering my stuff quietly. My mom arrives early, figuring both kids are awake and I could get an early start on my comutte. I groggily open the door in just a long t-shirt and hold the door open for her as she always, always, ALWAYS shows up with a bunch of stuff that she "found" for the kids.

Because Cronus, our giant Maine Coon cat, loves the cold weather, he darts outside as soon as I crack the door. My mother has bad legs so she tries but can't chase after the cat. So I run outside after him. In just a t-shirt. In 30 degree weather.

He's not trying to run away so much as he just wants to be outside, climbing a tree, licking frost - the things Maine Coons are born to do. But EFF THAT CRAP when I'm half-naked. So he runs along side of the fence towards the neighbors house and I trot along beside him hoping the elderly woman doesn't wake up, get scared and call the police because a fat half-naked woman is in her yard. I eventually call him and he comes right to me and lets me pick him up without a fight and carry his 22-pound furry ass back inside. No shoes. No pants. Thirty degrees.

In case anyone finds my nipples, please return them.

It's 12:19 am

And I'm still awake.

The baby has woken up once, been fed, and passed back out within minutes. The rest of my brood is upstairs sleeping, both most likely dreaming of mermaids, though Mike's are probably shell-less.

I, however, have a jackhammer in my jaw. My toothache(s) have gotten worse. Some days it's okay and other days, it throbs and hurts. The dentist said to give it a couple more weeks and see if the nerve pain died down since the filling was so deep, the nerve was irritated. But it hasn't. I haven't been able to chew on that side in over a month. I'm not even sure which tooth it is coming from, or if it's coming from all three on that side because the whole jawline aches and throbs.

I'll be calling the dentist again tomorrow and hopefully he can get me in quickly and knock me the hell out to do the root canals I'm sure are inevitable.

So while I sit here in pain wishing the percocet would take effect quicker, knowing that 5 a.m. is going to shit in my hat tomorrow morning, I've pulled some pics off the camera for your viewing pleasure.


Can someone tell me why I look like I have a witch's hook nose, here?

And why are toddlers incapable of a normal smile when a camera is around?

(Yes, 1984 is still alive and well. It's one of her favorite dress-up dresses)



And why my baby is so damn cute?





"And this is how I feel about Proposition 8. Everyone vote! Or you're a poopyhead."

What I live with

My phone vibrates while I'm sitting in my allergist's office waiting the twenty minutes to make sure I don't die of anaphylaxis from the shot.

I pick it up quickly and hear Mike on the the other end.

"Do we have any peanut butter?"

"You're seriously calling me while I'm at the doctor's office to ask me if we have any more peanut butter?" I say trying to keep my voice from annoying the 10 or so people in there waiting with me.

"Yes. I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich really badly."

"Well, I'm sorry you want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich really badly, but I don't think we have any left," I answer mocking him. "Want me to stop on the way home and pick up more?"

He sighs. "No, that's fine. I'll eat something else," and I can hear him pouting on the other end.

"I"m sorry you can't have your peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I'm almost done here. I'll be home soon."

I hang up the phone and put it back in my purse. The woman next to me turns and smiles sympathetically.

"Your kid calls you for stupid stuff, too?"

"Um, no. That would be my 31-year old husband."

Rearview

I was the first of my immediate group of friends to get married. I was 24. It wasn't rushed; we were engaged and living together for 18 months before our wedding and together for some time prior to that. I just happened to meet the man I wanted to marry at 22.

I got pregnant with Charlotte on our honeymoon.

By my 25th birthday, I was happily married with my first baby. Eighteen months later, we planned and got pregnant with Sawyer. Our little family had gone from two to four in less than three years.

I'm happy with my choices and my life. My birthday is just around the corner and I will wake up on my 28th birthday with a new president, two healthy children, and happily married.

In the last three years, a few of my friends have gotten married but many are still happily single. None of my close friends have had children yet and most have no intention to anytime soon. I am not judging one way or the other - have kids or don't, get married or don't - what people do with their lives is what should make THEM happy. And I'll be their friend no matter what.

This past Saturday was an informal ten-year high school reunion at a friend's house. A few people from our class had worked hard to track as many people down as possible and a lot showed up. I am still quite close with a decent number of people from my high school since we only graduated with 48 students. So I saw some faces I see ever week and I saw some people I only talk to via email and I saw some people I hadn't seen in ten years.

I was the only one to show up with my kids. The invite was for everyone and their families and normally I would have gotten a sitter, but we had to leave early for a family party with the kids right after, so it made no sense. They were welcomed there and everyone oohed and aahhed and Charlotte had a good time playing in the backyard. But out of the 30 or so people, I was the ONLY one with kids there. I think two other people there had children but they were unable to make it or home with their spouses.

On Friday night, I went to dinner with some close friends - a couple and two single friends. Mike stayed home with the kids. I love these friends. I've known them for almost 15 years. One of them is the godmother to my daughter and was my roommate in college. It's not that I don't feel comfortable with them. It's just that I don't fit in with them - in the place in their lives where they are. And it's no one's fault. They try and include me and Mike. But our reality is two kids who get up before 6 am and one who is still up in the middle of the night. I can't stay out late drinking. Mike and I both can't go out together with the group often.

So we try and meet up with them when we can, which is unfortunately not very often.

And I hug my friends with beers in their hands as I leave the reunion early with my little family.

I sit in the car, two kids in the backseat, a wonderful husband next to me, and in the rearview mirror is a life I feel like I just can't fit into anymore.

I just don't know where I fit. And it makes me sadder than I ever thought it would.

Credit

Sometimes I don't think I give my kids enough credit.

Charlotte can be a spawn of the devil on some days, but she's incredibly bright, funny, and compassionate. She can have full conversations with you about the fairies that live in her swingset or about what she did with her friends that day.

Sawyer is a good, laid-back easy going baby. But, he's still a newborn. He still has those infant screams and nuances and preferences. He will only sleep swaddled. He hates tummy time. He loves sitting up and looking at the trees.

But Charlotte loves her bippy and Sawyer loves his swing. I just knew that giving them both up, even though I knew it was the right thing, would be hell. I'd need vodka, coffee, and earplugs.

I was wrong.

After day one, Charlotte has had no problem without her bippy and has only asked for it once and it was in the car at 930 (way WAY past her bedtime) on the way home from a family party. And when we told her no, that she could have it when we got home, she didn't complain. This morning, when she came downstairs with the bippy still in her mouth, I told her she had to go back upstairs and put the bippy in her bed. She did without a word of complaint and came happily downstairs announcing, "Thanks Momma. I forget!"

I'm not sure how the transition from bippies at bedtime to no bippies at all will go or if it will be this smooth. I'm leaning towards the HELL NO but I don't want to underestimate her. She has six months left since I plan on taking them away by her third birthday and part of me is hoping she'll give them up on her own. However, considering her long love affair with the bippy, I doubt she knows how to just say no.

Sawyer has transitioned into his crib COMPLETELY now. (Don't worry, Kellie, we left the hammock up in our room so he can sleep with us when you come down.) I thought getting him to nap in the crib would be a major feat. Because if his flat-head, we had to swaddle and prop him with a sleep positioner and rolled receiving blankets to get him to sleep at least partially on his side. He started taking good long naps like this. Then we figured what the hell and put him in there at night, sure he'd wake up too early and need to go back to his hammock. But he didn't and he hasn't.

He sleeps soundly and deeply and most importantly, on the side of his giant head. The thought of my poor baby in any kind of helmet has my stomach lurching. I keep trying to give him more tummy time but he HATES it. I lie down with him, prop him on pillows, put mirrors up for him to look at - all of the same tricks I tried with Charlotte who also HATED it - and nothing works. He has good trunk and neck control and meets his milestones, but one of his favorite things to do is lie on the floor on his back at bat at toys, or sit in his bouncy seat. Both of which are not good for babies of the flat-headed persuasion. So I try and rotate him often, put him in the bumbo, or prop him on the couch with pillows. I can't keep him off his head all the time but figure the zillion hours a day he sleeps should be at least a huge improvement.

So I've needed less vodka and duct tape than I thought I would and the kids have been really great in these transitions.

I suppose I could take a lesson away from this but quite frankly, I'm still too tired for life lessons.

Trying to make HEADway, Ha, Get it?

Today was Sawyer's three-month well visit. He's still small - only 13 pounds - but growing well. He's tall and as exemplified by his mother in a public forum comparing him to an alien, the child has a HUGE dome. But some studies have directly correlated head size with intellect, which means at the rate his head is growing, he'll be in MENSA in a few months. So, prepare your tax documents now because my son will be able to do them for you by next April

Speaking of his massive skull, the back is quite flat and the doctor made it clear that its not bad now but it could GET bad. And all I can imagine is my poor baby not only with a flat giant-ass head, but having that flat giant-ass head crammed in a restructuring helmet.

I've taken such diligence to putting him on his back to reduce SIDS and it seems my persistence to keep my child breathing has also flattened the back of his head. It's not the bed he sleeps in at night since it's a soft surface with "give" - It's the swing he naps in all day. I KNOW, I KNOW I should be putting him in his crib to nap, but that swing - oh, that swing - can get me up to two hours at a time. Do you know how hard that is to give up? But because I don't want him to be a giant flat-headed alien, I'll suck it up.

As a matter of fact, he's in his crib right now on his side, thankyouverymuch. This was not an easy task, because 1) he does NOT like to sleep un-swaddled and 2) I couldn't figure out how to swaddle him (we use the Miracle Blanket so his arms are prone) AND keep him on his side. So, I did what any parent in 2008 does. I googled it. And found one site that had a woman explaining a very similar situation where instead of prone, she swaddled with the babies arms across the chest and when she put her on her isde, rolled up two receiving blankets and propped one on each side to keep her from rolling over and from lying on her arms. We had a sleep positioner, so I did just that and wedged the two receiving blankets on either side and he's passd out, happy as a clam. Until that punk-ass kid from up the block keeps riding by on his motorized scooter and startles him awake since we have the windows open. I swear, one of these days, I'm going to put sugar in his little 3-ounce gas tank.

He'll be moving to his crib full time in a few weeks so getting him to take naps and the first leg of his night is a good segue I think. I hope.

We've also implemented a Bippies-Stay-In-Bed-And-Are-Only-For-NightNightTime Rule for Charlotte. And I have this to say: IT IS NOT GOING WELL, PEOPLE. And it's only been a day. She loves them. When she's relaxing, she needs a bippy. When she hurts hurtself, she needs a bippy. When I put her in time out, she needs a bippy. When she gets pissed off, she NEEDS A BIPPY WIGHT NOW MOMMA! She's two and a half and I want them gone by her third birthday. I have no intention of taking them away at night right now as the poor kid has gone through a lot of changes in the last few months and I don't want to take away her source of comfort.

So I figure this is a good step. She'll learn to soothe herself in other ways and learn to get over it when she's upset. Today, she asked for it 93853 times and I was only with her from 3 pm onwards since she was at her dayhome today. She cries big, sad tears and tells me, " I miss it Momma. I miss my BIPPYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY." And I'd try and distract her. "Here, you want some juice? Want a cookie? Want pure sugar? Methamphetamines? ANYTHING TO STOP THE WHINING DEARLAWDY." I've also tried to make her laugh or do something silly as soon as she starts to whine for it. It seems to be working some times and the other times it just pisses her off and she gets more upset.

I think between getting Sawyer to nap in his crib and Charlotte to give up bippies during the day, the next few weeks will require massive quantities of vodka.

And I'm dangerously low on olives.

Free spirit

As I type this, my husband is cracking his shit up over the movie A Bugs Life. I mean, CRACKING UP.

And Charlotte, the little person we put the movie on for because Dear Mother Mary of Goats if I have to watch Max & Ruby one more time I may very well be committed, couldn't care less and is busy hopping from one end of the couch to the other. And rather than yell at her for jumping on the furniture, I help her out by counting to three and yelling "ready?!" when it's time to jump and celebrate her landing without falling on her face.

Then I started thinking: we don't really have too many strict rules around here. I let her jump on the couch and on her bed. I let her make a giant mess with paints and play-doh. I let her splash in the bathtub and blow bubbles in her milk. Of course, I teach her that these are not acceptable in public. We don't jump on other people's couches. We don't blow milk bubbles in restaurants.

I figure she's a kid and I should let her be a kid. If her actions aren't hurting herself or anyone else, and the paints are washable, what's the harm? She'll learn her limitations in how far she can jump when she falls. She'll learn how to curb her messes when I make her help me clean up the paint. She'll splash less rambunctiously when I make her towel up the bathroom floor.

I just feel like she should learn by doing and not by not doing. I tell her not to touch the open oven and she can never never use the left faucet when turning on the water to wash her hands. I can give instruction but until she feels the hot water or accidentally burns herself (which thank dog hasn't happened yet), how will she ever learn?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not in the mindset of letting my child hurt herself in order to learn lessons. I just don't think being strict about certain things gets anyone anywhere. I try and let her be her within the realms of safety.

My office has an annual pumpkin decorating contest each year for ages 2-10 and they are displayed in the cafeteria. This year, she was finally old enough to decorate her own. So I bought her some cheap Crayola washable paints, stickers, and some pumpkin decorations and let her go to town. The paint ended up being mud-colored and there were stickers of princesses in all directions. She decided to use 9 eyes and 2 sets of lips from the decorating kit and shove them all over the pumpkin instead of making a face. And I let her.

And on Monday when I turned in her pumpkin and placed it on the rack next to the one decorated as a devil with horns and the other one perfectly painted as Frankenstein, I was proud that my kids' pumpkin looked like something the art aisle of Target threw up, because it means she's creative and does things in her own way.

I don't make her color in the lines, or help her decorate her pumpkin.

I let her jump on the couch and splash in the bathtub.

I want her to find her own way to who she is.

I want her to enjoy being two and having an innocence that is all too fleeting.

The-No-time-for-words-weekend-roundups

Pumpkin picking two weekends ago:








(Can you see which child was being the spawn?)

From the wedding I went to last weekend:


(I was trying to get a good pic of the dress. Didn't work so good but I still rocked it)



From the KidsDay Fair last weekend:


(notice my complete inability to get any child to look at the camera)

Random Very Serious Don't-Eff-With-Me-Or-I'll-Cutchoo baby picture:

Quick Sand

Work is still kicking my ass. I'm treading faster and faster and feel like I just keep getting sucked under, like quicksand. The light at the end of the tunnel is still there; it just seems like a really fat dude is standing in front of it. It tends to make me a little irritable to constantly feel like I'm working my still-jiggling-but-less-so-since-I've-lost-17-pounds-in-three-weeks ass off and not getting anywhere fast.

I had a dream that I got a new job and the joy of quitting was a feeling of elation I've only had in dreams that involve nekkid men of the Agent Booth persuasion. And then I woke up before dawn and sat in my cubicle with the downtrodden realization that it was never going to happen. At least not anytime soon. I'm good at my job, it provides me with an incredible flexible schedule, and although I have a micro-manager who can drive me to drink some days, she's a pretty decent person and is always very flexible and understanding when it comes to family and days off. So, for now, this is my life. Struggle to stay afloat and then have someone piss on my head. C'est la vie.

---

I'm going to say something that may piss some people off but I have to just say it: All of the political talk on the blogs and twitter is driving me effing batty. I believe in people's rights to opinion, and I respect that opinion. Whether or not I agree with you or think you're an ignorant cow, I respect it. But I'm so sick of having it shoved down my throat everywhere I turn. I fully realize that people have right to write what they want and I do not have to click over to their blogs, and if the incessant twittering gets on my nerves I can just unfollow those people. But the problem is that I like these people. I usually enjoy their blogs and interacting with them in Twitter, but the political propaganda is making me want to eat my laptop, throw it up, and mail it to them.

You yelling about me to Vote for Obama or Vote for McCain in twitter or your blog is not going to change my opinion on who to vote for. It's not important to YOU who I vote for. What is important is that I VOTE. Men and women give their lives so I can have that right and I don't consider that lightly. However, if ANYONE on this green earth is going to be swayed by a blog post or a twitter, then maybe they shouldn't vote because I can't imagine it would be a very informed decision on their part.

By all means, support your candidate. Put up buttons. Tattoo his face on your ass. Put signs on your front lawn. That is your American right and I support it 100%. Just, please, for the love of all things made from chocolate, stop pushing it down my throat.

And that concludes my first and last political rant on this blog. Maybe.

Two

A friend once told me that age three was worse than two.

And to her I say this: If it gets worse than this, please come with a spatula and scrape my flattened, beaten soul off the kitchen floor where it will be in a heap.

I love my daughter. I'd walk in front of a train for her, rip anyone who tried to hurt her limb from limb, and give my last breath to protect her from harm.

However, I almost left her at a fair today stapled to a tree with a "Free to Good Any Home" sign.

She doesn't listen. She throws fits. She's two. I know this is normal, but it's just so...exasperating. I'm in a crowded fair, pushing a stroller, Sawyer strapped to my chest, happily kicking air and cooing at every old lady who comes to grab his toes, all while galumphing after Charlotte because she's chasing bubbles, poking a fish, grabbing at lizards, knocking down displays, run off to the giant sandbox, or climbing the diggers by herself.

She's not doing anything wrong per se, and I'm happy that she's so curious things work, she tried to turn on the 15 foot bulldozer, but for the love of Tina Fey, people, have you tried to chase a toddler with a 13-pound baby strapped to your chest while pushing a Sit-n-Stand stroller? Thank dog my sister was with me today because 1) I never would have attempted to take these feral children to the fair on my own (Mike was out fishing with his friends) and 2) She was better at being the chaser and another man on the defense.

Charlotte is smart and curious, dramatic and demanding. While these traits will one day make her one kick-ass little person and eventually a woman I'll be proud to call my daughter, right now it's making her one step away from having red pupils, a rotating head, and green projectile vomit.

Partly though, her worst moods can be attributed to my fault. When we're on the go like this, even though I pack a ton of food, by the time I offer it to her she's in full meltdown mode, stepping on smaller children and tossing cars at the Empire State Building. Usually, as soon as she can stuff her cry-hole with her peanut butter and jelly sandwhich (Thank you Smuckers, for making Uncrustables; they're the perfect kid-shutter-upper) her mood has dramatically improved. And if I'm lucky enough to pour milk down her gullet or get some fruit in her, she's like a new kid.

Which is exactly what happened today. After she ate, she was able to enjoy herself more and even went on rides I thought would scare the piss out of her. She sat in the front car of a roller coaster with my nephew, went on a ferris wheel with my sister, and rode one of those scary swinging boat rides. She rode a pony and enjoyed the rest of the afternoon. Then, we came home and all three of us passed out for two hours.

So, moral of the story is this: make sure kid is fed and full to avoid tantrums of biblical proportions. If that doesn't work, leave her with the clowns in the circus tent.

Public Service Announcement

I am not being paid for this, nor have I been in contact with any people from any company. I'm doing this of my own volition because I feel this strongly about it.

I want every one of you that has children to watch this. If you don't have the five minutes now, come back later and watch it. Please. If you do nothing else for me, I'm just asking this of you.



And when you're done, here's the link to go buy them. They're sold out online in most places. They also have them at Home Depot and Lowe's.

I recorded the one we have in Charlotte's room. It took me three tries because I kept getting choked up at the thought that one day it might go off. But please please please don't ever let it go off.

"Charlotte!! It's Mommy! Get up! Get Outside!"

And it loops.

"Charlotte!! It's Mommy! Get up! Get Outside!"

"Charlotte!! It's Mommy! Get up! Get Outside!"

I hope she never hears those words.

---

If you think this could help someone you know with kids or you want to help get the word out, help me by linking this post on your blog. Or write an entry of your own. Maybe if we get enough people to get out and buy one, it could save someone's sleeping baby one night to make sure they wake up in time.

No news is good news

Well, it's been three weeks and I haven't heard from the dermatologist yet and he said they only call if there's a problem so I think I'm in the clear. Part of me was sure that every voicemail I listened to was going to be The One: You have skin cancer. Please come back so we can amputate your leg.

But it wasn't. Despite my fair complexion and my moley (MOLEYMOLEYMOLEY - I can't help myself) body, I seem to have slid under the radar this time. I will make sure to go every few months to have Dr. I Still PeePee In My Bed to get checked out.

---

Today marks the two-week mark that Sawyer has been on the Prevacid and HolyMotherofGoats, is he a new baby. No screaming. No arching his back. No more pain during eating. He barely cries at all. Seriously, it's like I ordered this baby from a catalog:

"Hi, I'd like the kind that cries only when hungry and only until a bottle is shoved in his whine-hole, giggles at my goofy faces, talks to the picture frames on the wall, and sleeps through the night."

"Well, aren't you in luck, Ma'am. We have the new Sawyer 2.0 model available for a low payment of $100,000 which you can pay over the next 18 years. However, we cannot guarantee the product will not get pee in your eye, snot on your shirt, or spit up in your bra. Also, he may or may not crash you car in 16 years."

"Great. I'll take it!"

I couldn't be more relived at how well he has improved and kick myself for waiting so long to get him on meds. I just kept hoping that it wasn't - that it couldn't be - reflux for both babies. And yet it was. But it's all under control now and despite a little cold he has, he's the happiest baby I may have ever seen. He'll sit in his Bumbo, on your lap, in his playpen (oh wait, it's not PC to call it a "pen" anymore, right?), on the floor, in his crib and just smile and kick his legs like a dreaming dog chasing a rabbit. He laughs at your smiles, coos when you talk to him, and searches the room until he finds you when you call his name and then lights up in grins when he sees you.

And my god, he's so damn cute.

Chasing pavements

Are any of you Adele fans? If you are, then you know this song. If you're not, listen now while you read. You won't regret it.



Should I give up,
Or should I just keep chasing pavements?
Even if it leads nowhere.
Or would it be a waste?
Even if I knew my place, should I leave it there?
Should I give up,
Or should I just keep chasing pavements?
Even if it leads nowhere

I listen to this song in my car almost every morning on my commute into the office. It's one of my favorites and though she's mostly talking about love and not her career, it resonates with me. It gives me chills and makes my eyes brim with tears every time I belt the lyrics out in my car.

I'm happy in my life. Often, deliriously so. I have a funny, sexy husband who I adore, two beautiful healthy babies, a roof over my head, two cats who only puke a few times a year, running vehicles, etc., etc., etc. The list goes on and on. This is not about being grateful or thankful. This is about me. Just me.

If you subscribe to the theory of The Butterfly Effect, any change in my past, however small or seemingly insignificant could greatly alter the outcome of my life. And OF COURSE when I think of different roads I may have gone down, I do not mean in any way that they would take me away from the path that brought me to my husband and children. If that one path could remain unchanged no matter what decisions I made in my life previously, would I have made different decisions?

----

I look people in the eye when I walk by them, smile, and say hello - even if they stare at the ground and ignore me. I acknowledged them and that was enough. I try and compliment people often. I love the color of your shirt. Your hair looks great that way. But I don't lie. I MEAN the compliments. I am being sincere and genuine and want that person to feel my respect. I use people's names when I talk to them. I call people back. I return emails. I am always on time.

I like myself. I think I am a good person and believe in karma. It's kind of like peeing in the wind - one way or another, it's going to come back to you.

Then why at the end of the day do I feel so unfulfilled? Why do I feel like I'm not where I thought I'd be?

I always though I'd do something romantic - like edit books or work for an big ad agency. With my creativity and half-way decent ability to write, maybe I'd be an Editor of my own magazine or at the very least, a columnist.

Maybe I should have majored in the sciences where I could have used my analytical mind and endless capacity to memorize things and store useless information to work on cures for cancer.

Maybe I should have gone into the medical field like my mother. I'm an excellent researcher and intelligent and compassionate enough to have been a doctor. I could have made a difference there.

But the reality is that I didn't know what I wanted so I went with what I was good at: English. Philosophy. Writing. Why? Not because I had a deep passion for it. Because it was easy. It was easy BECAUSE I was good at it.

I breezed through college, graduated on the Dean's list and got a decent job right out of school. And you know what?

I'm still there.

I haven't tried anything new. Because I'm good at what I do, and therefore, it's EASY. Don't get me wrong. My job is NOT easy and the deadlines, stress, and politics are enough to give you an ulcer, but it's easy in the sense that I'm good at what I do.

But at the end of the day, if I dropped dead, my absence wouldn't affect their bottom line. It would matter little to the international authors I deal with on a daily basis.

I always thought I'd do something that mattered. And I couldn't feel like I matter any less than I do in my corporate publishing job.

Even if I could change my career, I'm not sure I have the first clue what I want to do. And I know that so many of you will say "you're never too old to go back and start over- you're so young." And for the most part, you're right and I would say the same thing to someone else.

The reality is that I have a family to support, a job that fits my schedule, a financial situation that doesn't allow room for risk-taking, and two children who take priority over any whim or flight of fancy I may have.

They're two beautiful reasons why my aspirations are on hold, whatever those aspirations are. And that's more than okay by me.

It doesn't stop me from thinking about things though - about things that might have been, things that still could be, about the bigger picture I could affect.

It doesn't stop me from dreaming.

Somfing's missing

Every night when we put Charlotte down, she tries to con her way back out. Despite making sure she has everything - her water, pacifiers, nightlight, Dora pillow, the blood of small villagers - she always finds something to need.

"Momma, I need a hug."

"Daddy, I'm feewing a wittle funny."

"Momma, somfing's missing."

"Daddy, I need a SPATULA! I makin' cookies!"

And we always send her back to bed, often with that hug she asked for because have you seen how cute she is?

She has gotten better about staying in her bed at nighttime since we put up a railing, but she's still staying up later and getting up earlier. Oh, and not napping as long. (Send toddler Ambien, please. Also: More vodka.)

She has taken her diversions away from bedtime now as she's learning how to extort as well as get away with criminal activity. We'll catch her doing something naughty and before we can yell or send her to time-out, she says "I hug you now, Momma?" Or when she wants something she's not supposed to have, like a sip of my coffee, she holds up one finger, scrunches her nose, tilts her head and bats her eyes as she says "Just one, Momma. I just want one," as she shows me her pudgy little digit.

Today, Mike was measuring me for my monthly shrinking report (which by the way, down almost TEN inches total this month - woot! P.S. Thank you 30-day Shred), and she kept asking, "Daddy Measure me now?" and he replied, "Hold on, baby. I'm just measuring Momma's ass." And before he could catch himself, she bent over, patted her diapered butt and said "Daddy measure MY ASS TOO?!!?!"

----

In unrelated news, I think my son is part alien. I mean, he's cute and all but my GOD people, the size of his dome is UNRELENTING. Like, does the skull never END?

Do you also see the resemblance?

(I did not buy my very manly son a purple Bumbo; it's from Charlotte. Also, I know you're not supposed to put the seat on the table, but I was right there.)

I'd also appreciate it if you wouldn't tell my son in a few years that his mother compared him to a giant-headed interplanetary traveler.

But seriously ZOMG, GIANT-HEADED BABY, right?

Two roads diverged in a wood --

Are you happy with the path you chose? I mean, really happy. Not happy because you have a loving family and beautiful children who you'd gladly take a bullet for, but...satisfied.

Are you where you thought you'd be when you were 10? 20? 25?

At the end of the day, do you feel like you go to sleep without any regrets? Any yearning for something more from your life? Again, I mean aside from your parental/spousal roles.

You. As a person. Are you happy with you?

The Potty

This morning, Charlotte woke up dry as usual and I told her that if she wanted to wear her Dora pull-ups, she had to go pee-pee on the potty (sure didn't think when I was getting those degrees that I'd actually speak like this). So while I was changing Sawyer at the asscrack of dawn - seriously, the birds were looking in my window asking what the fuck I was doing up so early - I hear her tinkling in the potty for the very first time! I quickly threw a naked newborn on my shoulder and ran into the bathroom where I did a little dance and clapped and yelled about how proud I was that she was peeing on the potty (seriously, what has my life come to?).

I must have startled her or she realized what she was doing, stopped, and proceeded to have a stroke.

"Oh no MOMMA!"

"What's the matter? You're such a big girl. You did pee-pees on the potty!!"

"Oh, NO! Oh, NO! My poops! MY POOPS! They're gonna fall out!"

And then she hurried off the potty (while I was trying to be serious and hide a fit of giggles) and hasn't wanted to sit on it since. She hasn't even asked for her Dora pull-ups.

I haven't pushed potty training on her. Especially with a new baby, I wasn't about to urge her to do something she'd just regress from. But, it's always there. Sometimes she'll ask to sit on it. Sometimes she'll pretend to push. She usually wakes up dry and I always ask her if she wants to.

We tried the naked thing. We tried the big girl panties thing.

But, in all honestly, we're not really trying. And I have to be honest, I'm not very interested in it. I figure she'll do it when she's ready and that if I push her, it will backfire.

But now there's this new thing where she's afraid to lose her poops? I've read that she thinks it's a part of her and that "losing" it is scary.

She's only 29 months old so I'm not worried and I KNOW she will do it in her own time, and since she's inherited my stubbornness, pushing her will only cause her to push back.

We McLastname women don't like to be pushed around or told what to do, that's for damn sure.

Why I can never take my daughter to a nice Italian restaurant

8-ball says: Outlook better

Holy shit, people. How come none of you have written me saying "Snap the fuck out of it, you daft whiney cow?"

It's pretty obvious that for the past few days, I've been rather glum. I suppose all of us have these days where no matter how clearly we see our silver lining, it's still inside a goddamned black cloud. It's not like me though. I'm usually the one staying positive, keeping people upbeat and motivated, running around my office doing Molly Shannon's Superstar pose to make people laugh.

But I've just felt beaten down lately. Mostly at work. I came back after a four-month leave and my journals were in complete disarray. I've been trying to dig myself out of a hole at work that I didn't create. I left my journals not just on time, but EARLY. I left detailed scheduled, print outs, instructions, and hardly any was followed. If you know me at all, you can imagine how psycho I am with organization and details. It's the only way I can manage such a busy life. And I came back and my stuff was EVERYWHERE. Nothing filed, piles of papers (we're supposed to be paperless) eight inches tall, folders strewn, inbox full. I damn near had an anxiety attack just looking at my desk.

But after a few weeks, things are looking up and there's a light at the end of the tunnel. It's not coming until the end of the month, but it's there.

I've gotten a few good nights of sleep, thankyoubabyjeebusandthemakersofPrevacid, and HOO BOY is it life-altering thing when you close your eyes at 11 and wake up at 5 and realize that you really did get six hours of sleep. The baby has been sleeping through the night from 7-5 for about a week now with the exception of one night this week, which of course was Sunday when we had to go to work and daycare the next morning.

And what feels just as good as the big chunks of sleep is the schedule. I love me some schedules. With a newborn, you can try as hard as you want to make one and as soon as you do, they give you the finger and screw it up. But now, just as we're about to round the three-month corner, he's finally gotten a nighttime schedule down. It's comforting for him and me to know that after his bath and bottle, he'll drift off in my arms, eyes heavy like a stoner. Then I'll burrito the hell out of him in his Miracle Blanket (dude, I so just made "burrito" a verb) and he'll go in his hammock. I know that I can then focus on getting Charlotte in bed and cleaning up for the morning and that by 8 pm, I'll either be working or like last night, watching Bones and having naughty fantasies about Agent Boothcatching up on DVR with Mike.

So, let's recap:

No sleep + Stressful work situation + crabby toddler + reflux baby + economy sucking + trying to fit time in at the gym + no Tassimo packets + no schedule = Sad, whiney AndreAnna

Decent sleep + Work outlook brighter + happy toddler + baby thriving on Prevacid + being thankful we still have our home + losing weight from all my hard work + Stabucks Tassimo packets + good schedules = Happy, Energized (or caffeine-cracked-out, same difference) AndreAnna

Am I the only one whose whole life can be altered just by things not being on schedule? Am I that anal retentive that I can only be the best me when things fall into place just as I want them?

I thought I was a flexible person, but maybe I'm not.

What about you? Do you go with the flow? Or does not being able to control the flow make you a crazy person ?

One day

Last night, I was thisclose to having a whole night of uninterrupted sleep. Sawyer was passed out. Charlotte miraculously was staying in her bed. And then I woke, startled. Thunder. Lightning. Wind. I spent the next 20 minutes staring at the video monitor convinced Charlotte would wake up and why bother going back to sleep when I'm just going to be woken by toddler shrieks in mere minutes?

She never woke up. They both slept while I lie awake waiting for them to wake.

This is the price we pay being parents. The lifelong worry. Convinced our child will be scared when the thunder comes. Convinced our baby is dead when he sleeps through the night. Lying in bed, awake, worrying, thinking, wishing, hoping that nothing ever hurts them. That we can protect them from every pain, every heartbreak, every fear. That tragedy may lurk around some unseen corner but if we wish hard enough, maybe it will stay around that bend, far off. Distant.

Trying to stay one step ahead.

If I stay awake, when she wakes up scared I can be right here.

If I make sure he's on his back, swaddled, and slightly elevated with a pacifier, we won't be a SIDS statistic.

Yet no matter how hard we wish or hope, some day my children will feel real pain. My daughter may fall out of a tree and break her leg. My son may be rejected by the girl he likes. They will hurt each other. They will deal with loss.

Emotionally and physically, my children will hurt at some point. And that will help mold them, make them stronger, become who they ultimately will be. Without pain, there is no healing. Without healing, there is no growth.

But now, when I look at her hair flopping in her eyes or I watch him stare at his toes, I can't imagine anything more perfectly innocent. So undeserving of anything less than pure love and joy.

Yes, one day they will feel true pain. They will know sadness and loss. And mostly, I'm okay with this.

But for now, they're just my babies. I will lie awake wondering if some unseen force lies dormant waiting to pounce and I will think of ways I will kick its ass if it does.