St. Juanmas

Maybe it was at 9PM when my youngest vomited all over me during the decent into San Juan, Puerto Rico (a stop not on our vacation itinerary but made necessary (and without our luggage) due to a missed 6:30 AM flight)  or when my oldest was attacked by a giant iguana on the beautiful sands of St. Thomas that I knew this trip was going to be epic.

Or it could have been when we got to the airport in Puerto Rico and we were weighed before we got on the Cessna to the island and I couldn't get "La Bamba" out of my head. Or maybe, still, it might have been when, after 24 hours of taxis, and shuttles, and planes (oh, my!) my 2 year old, in his clothes from yesterday because our bags were in Charlotte, NC,  had a massive meltdown after our driver had dropped us off at the wrong hotel and the boy was told he had to take yet another shuttle to the right one. He screamed at a Metallica concert decibel level, "NOOOOOOOO!!" expressing the emotion all of us were feeling. Not sure the lobby patrons recovered their hearing.

Nope, I actually think it was when I had my own meltdown.

The lovely, Tameka, at the front desk (at the RIGHT hotel) opened a map to show us where our villa was and asked, "did you drive a car?" and proceeded to map out a hike for us to get to our place. I began to cry and she very quietly and promptly signaled someone to take us there. Upon arrival, the sweet bellman told us that our room was on the second floor, but had forgotten to mention which room number. I ran, sobbing, from room to room with our key, trying each door, while my husband, delirious in his own right, stopped the elevator door and pushed the fire department button and asked the poor soul on the other end, "do you know what room we are in??"

We were in for one, wild ride.

SO, Here are my 10 MOST EPIC MOMENTS of our beautiful, all-be-it shortened, trip to St. Thomas, VI.

10. When we were waiting for our plane to San Juan, we were in the terminal, just killing time. My oldest son had been a total trooper for 9 hours (!), but was slipping into that "I need a nap" zone, so he actually slipped and got a rug burn on his nose. Then, he spotted one of those "use the claw to get out a toy" vending machines. We did it a couple of times without success OF COURSE BECAUSE YOU CAN'T WIN AT THOSE GAMES, THEY ARE DESIGNED FOR YOU TO LOSE, but my son was not having it. There were multi-colored balls in there and he just had to have one. So, my husband handed me some ones and just said, "to buy us just a few more minutes before we board." I put in the dollar bill, maneuvered the claw and GOT A YELLOW BALL!!! IT ACTUALLY WORKED! My little guy started jumping up and down. I thought out of pure joy of my massive accomplishment. Oh, no. It was out of anger. He wanted the BLUE BALL. So, in went more dollars. They call our plane. We need to board. And Thank God, I was able to get a blue one just in time.

9. You need to know how we missed our flight. I mean, I could say,"I have 2 children under the age of 3 and a husband that hits snooze 47 times before he gets up" and that should give you plenty reason why we would miss our 6:30AM flight. But here's the deal. 3 alarms that were set did not go off. The driver tried to call my phone. My phone was turned off, hence the lack of alarm on my part. I was able to reach the driver, 30 minutes later, and asked (actually, begged) him to come pick us up. Thank goodness he had a sweetness and compassion and came back. We are now running an hour late. There, of course, was an accident on the highway and so we had to detour. Our driver then dropped us off at the wrong gate. Piling back in the car, we get to our gate at JFK 45 minutes before our flight. US AIRWAY (DO NOT USE THEM, EVER!!!) saw us with our 6 bags, car seats, double stroller and OH, 2 CHILDREN, and said that we had "just" missed the cut off. The plane was still at the gate, not taking off for another 30 minutes, but we would not be allowed to board. I walked away, with my baby in my arms, regained composure and asked how we were going to get there. THE IDIOT at the computer told us that there wasn't another flight until NEXT SATURDAY. I had never considered homicide before this, but this little old lady was making it look ideal. Thank goodness a guy took over and worked some magic.  Our bags were sent to Charlotte, NC, we would meet them after we made one of three stand-by flights and then fly to the Virgin Islands Sunday morning. Fine. OK. Miss one day. Well, as we were waiting for our first stand-by flight, I hear over loud speaker that an American Airlines flight is calling last call for boarding for a flight to St. Thomas. I send Daniel to that gate. He comes back with an unrecognizable look on his face. Part disbelief, part rage. Apparently, that flight had enough room on it for all of us (we also had our babysitter with us) and would have gotten us to St. Thomas directly in 4 hours. I tried to catch my breath. Had a hard time. OK. fine. We will have fun in Charlotte for a night. We go to our stand-by flight. NO ROOM. We wait for our second stand-by. We miss it, due to our own stupidity of thinking we were automatically moved to stand-by on the next flight when we missed the first one. We were not. So now, as a result of missing our flights, again, we had to be put on stand-by for our morning flight to ST. THOMAS. Well, this just wasn't acceptable. We might be able to get all 5 of you on board. ??!!! NO. The woman at the counter was very understanding and did what she could. She got us on a flight to San Juan at 3pm and then a guaranteed flight in the morning to the island. GOOD LORD!

8. Puerto Rico. All right, so our vacation starts somewhere unintended, but still kind of tropical? We are feeling ok, well, besides the horrific smell that is wafting from my clothes as the baby puke dried. We got to the hotel I had booked while trying to win my son a stupid ball from that stupid game, and it was beautiful. It was all white and peach, reminding me of MIAMI VICE. It had a casino, gorgeous people, a lovely gift shop where I could purchase a shirt and possibly set fire to the one I was wearing. I am excited. It's gonna turn around. I can feel it. I tell the charming woman at the front desk who we are. A bell man passes by. "Luggage?" "That's just heartless, dude. No, we don't have luggage." So, she looks up our reservation, smiles sweetly and says, "I'll be right back." We are all starting to breathe. The vacation is beginning. The island beat is thumping and bumping in the casino. The neon green, pink, and blue lights reflecting on the tropical fish tank are a welcome change from the florescent lights of the airport. Ahhh, could it be the beginning of our dream vacation? Here she comes. Ready to hand us our room key. "We are sorry. We are overbooked tonight and don't have a room for you." Que?????? I'm sorry. I'm not sure I heard you correctly. But before my face could turn purple she says,"We are putting you up in one of our sister hotels and will pay for everything. So sorry for the inconvenience." Ok. not great, but not awful, either. A few hundred dollars saved. So, my husband takes that saved money and puts it all on the number 31 to hit at the casino. IT DID!!! Our luck was indeed changing.

7. On our La Bamba flight to the Island, we flew under a rainbow. It was absolutely magical. It made everything we had experienced the day before, worth it.

6. We were told our bags would meet us at the airport. They were not there. AWESOME. After several phone calls and 4 more hours, they arrived at our door.

5. When we finally did settle into our hotel, we had a concierge meet us in our room to tell us about the events at the hotel and on the island. He was a big, fat sweaty guy who just made himself at home. He started talking about all of the fun things we could do while visiting St. Thomas. My 2 year old decides to climb on the counter and bumps his head, shattering a light bulb in an overhead lamp. The heavy breathing blob does not flinch. Then he starts rambling about how he knows the best spots in town and could get us deals and to always call him for ANYTHING. Then my son slams his toe in the door and screams bloody murder. Still, doesn't budge. He's still babbling about the Osso Buco at some dive that we should try on our date-a-versary (we met 4 years ago, October 17). My child is bleeding and this guy is asking if we want to take them snorkeling. Finally, I opened the door to shoo him out. He fiiiiiiiiiinally leaves. The next day, I go into town to buy swimmy diapers for the boys and the KMart is out of them. I leave a message with him if he has any other ideas. He suggests Walgreens. Again, no go. Finally, I track some down and ask him to pick them up. "I'm sorry, I can't right now." A few hours later, I am at the other property having a SPA DAY (yes, it did get better) and that hotel's store manager was like, "I'll call this pharmacy and get them to hold some swimmy diapers. And if you can't pick them up, I'll get them for you and run them to your hotel" She was amazing. But I tell her, "Oh, no. We have this nice concierge who said he would do anything for us. I'll ask him." He texts me, again,  "NO, sorry. I'm busy. I can't help you." Even still, that night, I make reservations at one of the restaurants he recommended. Not great. In fact, not good at all. Then, the next night,  I decide to ask the front desk "if you were celebrating an anniversary, would you go to this or that restaurant?" This being the one Fatty recommended. "Oh, you don't want to go there. At all. You want that place for sure." We changed our original reservation and our evening was perfect. Dude, hospitality is not your bag.

4. We went on a sunset cruise and our children were lovely, the skyline was divine. I felt like we had finally arrived.

3. On said cruise was a very handsome sailor who was part of the crew. This handsome sailor took out our babysitter on our last evening on the island. If you want to feel good about your post-baby, 40 year old body, here's a clue. DO NOT TAKE YOUR 24 YEAR OLD BROADWAY DANCING BABYSITTER. She turned every head, rightfully so. In all fairness though, WE WOULD NOT HAVE SURVIVED WITHOUT HER. She was amazing and dealt with all of our drama so beautifully. I highly recommend taking your sitters, no matter how gorgeous, with you if you travel with your children. She worked her tail off and in return, had her tail chased by a local. I hope that date made up for the 400 times she took both boys down the water slide.

2. The temperature of the pool was dialed in at "heaven". I have never, in my life, been in a pool this perfect. All pools will suffer in comparison.

And before we hit number one, there are some second-team selections I must mention. Moments like beautiful jewelry given as gifts, gigantic tubs to swim in, and Salinger read in the moonlight. There was as much beauty as pain. As many ups as downs. I guess traveling with kids will always be this way. Unpredictable.

But without further ado...

1. The most EPIC MOMENT of our entire trip - On our return flight, my oldest son had a 2 hour, red-faced, massive, inconsolable melt-down in first class. From wheels up to wheels down, he did not come up for air. He screamed, kicked and clawed, refusing to let anything calm him down. I had the pleasure of looking at each person in the eye and apologizing to them as I waited for our stroller and they exited the plane. One of my finest moments. One I will treasure for the rest of my life. One I will recall every time I am taking my children on a trip. One that I thank God for as it will give me the greatest compassion for anyone who has to go through the embarrassment, despair, and hopelessness of trying to quiet and console a fitful child on a plane.

So, who's in for BALI with my family on Christmas???!!!

When the student is ready...

As I was catching my breath after getting winded doing my fifth round of "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, " my children were giggling with total abandon. I was overcome with a feeling of not only how out of shape I am, but just how grateful I am that these little monkeys are in my life.
I have been doing a lot of self-sabotage lately in my writing, so today, I am going to concentrate on the yumminess of my boys. I have learned so much since becoming a mother and for this, I am beyond grateful. I'd like to share the loving lessons I have learned thus far in my motherhood.

So, here it is...

THE TOP TEN THINGS MY CHILDREN HAVE ALREADY TAUGHT ME.

10. Black Yoga pants are the perfect substitute for any kind trouser. And yes, I did just use the word "trouser." I have gotten to where I can dress myself while bathing one child and feeding the other. Add a cute little cardigan or a necklace and I look downright fancy.

9. The four basic food groups are Fruit, Pizza, Peanut Butter and Jelly, and Chicken Nuggets. 
I have felt tortured by my inability to cook for my children organic, delicious meals that are full of nutrients but each day my child asked for a banana for breakfast and a PB and J for lunch. I try to get clever with dinner occasionally, but Pizza and Chicken Nuggets alternate as the special of the day. Hey, at least they are eating.

8. I can go days without washing my hair. I used to wash my hair at least every other day. Now, the shampoo bottle goes untouched for several showers. I am so grateful that my children have taught me that my hair pulled into a bun on my head will look the same whether my hair is clean or dirty, giving us more time for Lego castle building.

7. Paper towels are fucking genius. I wanted to be more eco-friendly than I am, but I use a dozen rolls of these little jewels daily. Whether I am wiping hands or the juice off the floor, my children have advised that I keep a significant stock available.

6. The alphabets song can be used in several ways to pass the time. Conley loves his letters! He does the traditional ABC song, but then will do them phonetically. Or do a word that begins with each letter. He will sing or say it, dance or zone out. When in doubt, call out a letter and let the fun begin.

5. 4 AM feedings are a good time to talk to God. The house is quiet. All 3 boys are snuggled in bed with me. There is the blue glow of the moonlight flirting with the sunrise and my youngest is sucking my breast in his sleep. I can't help but reach out to the Source of All in a prayer of gratitude. THIS IS WHAT IT IS ALL ABOUT.

4. I love to write. Writing was something I always wanted to do, but I either couldn't find time or would judge myself so viciously that I wouldn't even begin. My children have taught me that my passion is writing. It's the first thing I do when the boys go down for a nap or when I have "free" time.  I am so grateful that they have given me my voice.

3. They listen to every single fucking word I say so I better not say fuck. I have learned to be a lady because my children have echoed back to me in their sweet voices my sailor's vocabulary. I have cleaned it up, thanks to our mini-me's.

2. Nothing is more beautiful than Conley's voice saying "I wuv you, Mom. I am so happy to see you." What more do I say?

1. I married the right guy. My children constantly reinforce the fact that I am married to a wonderful man. My husband will take the kids and spend the day at the park with them. He will walk my oldest to the deli so that they can buy flowers for me. My boys will be gentlemen because I am married to one. I glow with gratitude for this lesson.

My Top Ten
Is it David Letterman ready?? Probably not.
I just wanted to express my soft heart of gratitude this morning.

Enjoy the weekend.

The Sins of the Mother...

I may struggle through this post.

I have a lump in my throat and my heart hurts a little.

But I came to a realization a few moments ago that has got me spinning (and I DEFINITELY don't mean the exercise class).

MY OLDEST SON IS JUST LIKE ME.

And I am so sad about it.

OK. Here's what I mean.

First of all, you look at my 2 year old and he is me, only 37 years younger, a small child and a boy. He has my eyes, (only, I missed out on the mile long lashes) and my coloring. (poor child will be investing in SPF's) The blonde hair could be a phase, but I have a feeling he will not have to pay to have his hair high-lighted like his mommy's. He looks like me and I will say this with sincere humility, he's beautiful. So when I look at that face when he is frustrated, sad or angry, I absolutely see me staring me in the face.

I have never had an understanding of some simple things in life. Things like the shortest and most direct path is usually the best route, it is necessary to read the fine print, and adding a throw pillow can brighten up a room. I get frustrated with technology and want to scream when putting something together from IKEA. It's a very immature frustration that I experience. I want to throw things and stomp my feet. I don't like to do things I don't know how to do which means I don't do much. This condition is beginning to show up in my son.

He talks to inanimate objects. Not like his cars or stuffed animals where the occasional conversation is warranted, but his blocks and legos and if they don't do what he asks them to do ("you stay right here. don't fall down"), he will throw them and stomp away, destroying his castle/tower/high rise. He will get mad at drawers and yell at the refrigerator. These things just aren't doing what he wants them to do. And I think he knows that he is in control of them so that means HE CAN'T MAKE THEM WORK. This is how I feel. I am unable to make "things" work for my benefit. I have often wondered if everyone else was given an "how to" manual at birth and I was somehow forgotten. I have to ask for help ALL OF THE TIME and it is so crushing to my precious ego.

Unlike me, my son is very proficient on the computer. It's quite scary, actually, how good he is. But if he comes across a new game or something where he is not "getting it" right away and I ask him if I can help, he will promptly say, "no, I do it myself," fighting back tears. Within a few seconds, he will tap the Mac mouse with his pointer finger in frustration and we have to walk away from the computer and distract with a game of baseball. Who am I kidding?

Earlier today, we were playing T-Ball with a new plastic T-Ball set.  My number one son in his Pull-Up was quite excited about his new toy. Thank God, I did not have to assemble anything as this would soar me into a high blood pressure and sweat situation. One piece into the other and done. I chatted with him about how important it was to look both in front and behind of ourselves when we are going to swing a bat (he had already injured his brother this morning. I wasn't in the mood for more) and to keep our eye on the ball. Now, I think anyone in my family that is reading this is already laughing. I do not play sports. I can not play sports. I LOVE them, but wow, I am not athletic. The equivalent of a dog buying lipstick, just not happening. But I have a secret hope that my son excels at them. I want that for him because I was so horrific at anything that had a ball needing to go through, go in, or go over a net, that I avoided parties and recess playtime to divert attention from my lack of coordination.  I don't want that for my boys. I want them to be able to PLAY.
Conley showed no interest in his T-ball set.  He didn't want to know how to hit the ball (and that fact that I was trying to instruct him was somewhat humorous.) He liked swinging the bat. He liked swinging the bat dangerously close to his brother's head. He would set the ball on the tee and swing, ignoring the "hit the ball" concept. Now, he's 2! I get this. But, as I watched him make up his own rules to his new game, I wondered if he was going to be like me. The second I saw that I wasn't going to be good at something, I quit. Sports, honors classes, computers, relationships, art, music...Is he fated to that mentality? Will he not want to practice for fear of being seen as "learning" and not an expert??

I see that insecurity creeping up in him and as many times as I tell him how strong, smart and sensational he is, I can't help but feel he may have a delicate ego and a crushing voice inside of him that tells him he can't do it, whatever "it" is.
I can't even explain how painful this is for me. My minuscule self esteem was the ache of my entire adolescence and when I carried it into adulthood, it grayed my opportunities. And the one thing I wanted to not be passed in the DNA was this frail, precious ego and its partner, insidious insecurity. Has it already happened?

And then, there's number 2 son. He is the exact opposite. The child can't speak or walk yet and you can already tell that he is just going to bulldoze his way though life. He will point at an object and grunt or scream until he gets it. He crawls so fast, he looks like one of the NYC cockroaches, making a run for it. He is completely focused and determined with every move.   Funny enough, he looks exactly like my husband.
My husband.
A man who lives on the opposite spectrum of insecurity. He KNOWS if he tries something, he will succeed. He could see the route to a touchdown when he was passed the ball and the basketball hoop was more like a hula hoop when he took a shot. He could get A's in his sleep and got into a major MBA program while sleeping through the GMAT. He is the water to my oil.
And Thank God for this! Whatever insecurity I passed along, Daniel is responsible for their confidence. He just seems to look at life with an "I got this" attitude. Holden is absolutely riding the same train. There is no slide he can't climb or ball he can't throw. He is mad when you don't give him utensils with his food because he has already mastered them. He is 14 months. Now, he's not walking yet, but apparently, that's my fault because I didn't walk until I was 16 months. I'm almost grateful because he'll walk himself right down to 44th and Park and get himself a job as soon as those feet get moving. He's a Leo and so full of himself, my little actor (wait, that's something else I passed down...) I just don't think I'm going to have to worry about him. Conley, my fair angel, I'm not so sure...

I know that I was just a vehicle for these monkeys to come into the world and that I am not responsible for the curriculum they came here to learn, but it's hard not to want to protect them from anything that might cause them the slightest bit of pain. Especially when the enemy may be the one inside their head.

I just have to trust that they will learn from both parents the art of life, the brush strokes of love and adventure. That our example will fill them with hope and security. That's my prayer, anyway.

Crummy Crumbs

I was a crap roommate. I wasn't much for sharing. I had to be told when it was my turn to buy stuff, to clean stuff, to trash stuff. If a light bulb went out, I wasn't in a hurry to change it. It was never out of spite or malice. You could call it spoiled, you could call it lazy. My husband called it, "a travesty." It took me a while to get the hang of things when I was first co-habitating with the father of my children.  With someone coming to clean the apartment twice a month (I'm aware of how lucky I am for this),  I was not one for dusting in between shifts. I admit it. I TIDY. I don't clean. But since becoming a mother, I have had to learn to take better care by using the occasional Lysol product. If I don't take time to pamper our home a bit, our sweet little apartment becomes a rave for roaches. Vacuums are my friends and I can never buy enough paper towels. I find myself scrubbing the counters and washing the floors without a problem. But one thing I just can't get the hang of, I totally don't understand. It doesn't matter how hard I scrub or how many times a day I do it. 2 things will remain a mystery to me.

1. THE MAGNETIC FORCE ATTRACTING FOOD AND CRUMBS INSIDE THE CREVICES OF MY CHILD'S HIGH CHAIR, MAKING IT THE MOST DISGUSTING THING ON THE PLANET.
2. WHY CAN'T I KEEP THE FOOD OFF MY CHILD'S FACE, EVEN AFTER WIPING IT OFF? IT'S GONE ONE MINUTE, BUT BACK THE NEXT.

Let's discuss the high chair situation. It's amazing, really. I could scrub that thing until my knuckles bleed and it still won't be clean. I have found incredible morsels stuck in the cracks of my monkey's chair. A raisin smeared with avocado and applesauce, followed by cookie doused in marinara. Where does it all come from?? I mean, my child can't miss his mouth that much, can he?
Apparently, so.
We've gotten to where we have to actually hose down the high chair with the garden hose. We are not opposed to using this method to clean the boys, either. I'm at a loss with them, too. I wipe their sweet cheeks with a paper towel or a wash cloth. Still, the jelly from the morning toast re-appears before afternoon lunch. I have even wiped just a little too hard leaving a nice rouge and STILL...it's back.
And after a popsicle, forget about it.
We were having dinner poolside with relatives one night and Conley's uncle was amazed that I could just leave the pasta sauce stain on Conley's face.
My response..
"What? We are at a pool, right? It will wash off, eventually. And if the chlorine is unsuccessful, we will attempt to remove it at bath time and if that doesn't work, well then, thank God he's cute, right?!"

I often wonder if this is my bad roommate karma coming to get me.

I never scrubbed the cracks or removed the stains as a single girl in LA.
As a married mother of two in NYC,  I have never known crumbs this intimately.

But these crumbs mock me. They taunt me. "You will never get rid of us. You will feel like you are failing as a mother because we will always come back. Always."

I know it sounds dramatic, but my battle with the cracker and cookie crumbs is one I have to gear up to face every day. I arm myself with paper towels and sponges every morning, hoping that the morsels I removed the night before have not magically appeared to mock me again. I must focus on my child's sparkly eyes, not his sticky chin.
I look forward to a day when I am not responsible for the stains on their faces or the crumbs in their chairs.

Oh, who am I kidding?

They are adorably messy and in a time in the not-so-distant future, I will long for the days when I got to look into those cherub faces as I wiped them clean. Or the taste of grape jelly after a smooch on the cheek.

So go on crumbs, mock away. And someday when you think you are lost forever in the recesses in the high chair...BAM...you will be mine.

Mirror, Mirror...

"You are a princess."
My 2 year old said this to me as I re-entered the room after a long, steamy shower that included a hair wash and leg shave, both of which had not happened for a week. This "spa day" also included make-up, something my family hasn't seen on my face in several months. My husband had bought me a sweet lace sundress to celebrate the end of summer, a perfect ensemble for our family stroll in the park. With a gleam in his eye, Conley says, "You are a princess."
As I had to pick my heart off the floor and wipe the tear from my eye, it came to me. I used to be cute. I used to be an attractive woman. I was princess-ly. I wore dresses, curled my hair, and applied lip gloss. Now, it's a good day if I am wearing deodorant.  I go from pajama pants to sweat pants and classify that as "changing my clothes." I am a mom.

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO BE GIRLY ANYMORE. 

I think this is the result of several issues.
1. I am surrounded by penises. Don't get me wrong. I am thrilled to be the mother of 2 (well, 3) boys. I think that boys are fun, loud, and silly. I think they are wonderfully simple creatures, not as dramatic and complex as girls. But man, are they filthy. They love dirt, sand, and any other substance that they can get all over themselves. They fart and pee, um, everywhere. Why would I want to look cute cleaning up after them? or have make up on to sweat it out at the park, running after my toddler?
2. I don't use my "free" time for pampering. And yes, this means that I choose to not even bathe at all some days. I don't want to get all fresh and clean to have applesauce thrown into my hair. When my babies are sleeping or my oldest is at pre-school, I don't choose, much to the chagrin of my husband, to make myself pretty. I may choose to fold laundry, wash dishes, or, (you guessed it) check my Facebook. Getting pretty just seems so frivolous.
3. It takes me 45 minutes to blow dry my hair. Nuff said.
4. I am not a fashionista. I have never been good when it comes to fashion. My husband is better at it than I am. He finds amazing outfits for me. Thank God because I would be in yoga pants and a t-shirt permanently if he didn't come home with an occasional find. And I live in NYC. I should be cool by default, but I am so not. I don't know how to put the right dress with the right shoes and bag. I wish I knew how to pair perfect earrings with that perfect outfit, but earrings just mean "toys" for my one year old. Gorgeous dangly earrings that compliment the blouse are history inside of 4 seconds once they are seen by my baby. I just get hives when I look through fashion magazines. It's like a foreign language. I know you are talking to me, I just don't understand you.
5. I have boys. I think that if I had two little girls instead, I would make an effort in playing the part. We would be dressing up in princess attire and applying make-up instead of digging for worms and building forts. When I think of all that is necessary for little girls -the dresses, shoes, tights, hats, bows - I look at my boys' closet and sigh deeply. It is a two-fold sigh - that of relief and loss.
6. Beauty is not only skin deep. This is a bunch of crap. I can be all spiritual and sweet, but if I haven't brushed my hair for a couple of days, I am gross. just gross.

Ok. So there. I have my reasons.

But when Conley said his sweet words to me, I felt like he was proud of me. I know that he loves me. His snuggles and butterfly kisses speak volumes, but there was a look on his face that said, "Wow, mom," and I liked how that made me feel. Is that weird?

Now, my husband compliments me all of the time. I am so blessed in that regard. So why does it take a "compliment" from my son to make me want to actually use soap once in a while?
My husband deserves to have a beauty on his arm. Why did being a princess for a day inspire me to wear blush and bracelets?

I take for granted that my husband sees me as a woman and not a mom. I may be picking out pieces of banana out of my bra, but he still sees me as feminine.(Thank God.) My children deserve a mother who takes pride in her appearance as much as my husband needs to see me as the woman he fell in love with, even if it's just once in a while.

I hereby promise to put as much effort into my appearance as I take time with theirs. They both bathe every night. Wash their hair. Conley is sure to have a matching ensemble for school and Holden will look cute for our walk in Central Park and I will look my best for my family. Even if by days end, I am covered in pasta sauce and ice cream.

Now, where's my tiara?

Two Words that Go Great Together : TIME and OUT

You know when it's about to happen.
He gets that conniving and smug, but somehow still adorable look on his face.
You've already told him twice not to "hit your brother", "throw the ball in the house" or "say that word".
Your stern voice proclaims the warning and despite your impressive pipes, the forbidden action ensues.
You now must follow through with the threat. Picking up your maniacal toddler, you place him in his makeshift cell. You've called it. It's here.

TIME OUT.

Now, I read somewhere that I am supposed to put my 2 year old in Time Out for 2 minutes, one minute for each year. And it's kind of amazing how my child will turn his energy around and "apologize" within this time frame. He will sit and look around the room, naming each object he sees or what color the walls are. If particularly defiant, he will kick the chair or hit the counter top as he is calming down. But always after the timer beeps and his the cuffs are unlocked, I'll ask him why he was in jail and he won't have an answer for me, but then he will say in the most heart squishing voice possible, "I sorry, Momma." He'll jump down from his chair and go kiss his brother. Ah, harmony is restored- for about 5 minutes.

What I have been experiencing lately is that my son doesn't really need the Time Out. I do. When he is onry or particularly challenging, my voice will get too loud or my grip around his wrists a little too tight. Instead of taking a breath and understanding that I am the adult and he is the toddler or that he is the student and I am the teacher, I will throw a fit and express my frustration.

I AM IN NEED OF A TIME OUT, USUALLY SEVERAL A DAY

I'm 40, so in a 40 minute time out, could I turn my mood from bad to good, my rage to peace?
Wouldn't that be lovely?! "Sorry, boys! Momma needs a Time Out. You go ahead and fold your laundry and fix your lunch. I am going to breathe for 40 minutes, maybe meditate, do my nails, and afterwards, I will hug and kiss you after I apologize for my grotesque behavior."

I'd love to call Time Out when I am "disagreeing with" my husband. Just say, "I need some time to sit alone to regroup. Let's table this for when I am calm."
It's really not that bad of an idea.
The 40 minutes would have to be shaved down to maybe the 2 minutes, but I think I really need to take a break when I start to feel my frustration boil. It is beginning to scare me, well, all of us.

I didn't know that I had a temper until I had children. I had always been the baby. I always got what I needed when I needed it. I never had anyone tell me that what I was doing wasn't right or not good enough. I kept myself small so that I could keep my feelings small. Now that my life is so big and so beautiful,  I am like a scared little cat and I just hiss when it feels threatened. My emotions are too big. I don't want my world to collapse and when my child is screaming from the top of his lungs because he didn't get to flush the toilet 4 times, it feels like it will and I will not survive.

Is that an ego thing? That because my child is not behaving a certain way, it must be a bad reflection of me? Is that what I need to use the Time Out for? To check my ego and go to the love?

I think it's more than that. I'm scared that I won't know how to help my child. That I won't be able to teach him the right way to express his precious emotions. That he is reflecting my own uncontrollable frustration and anger. I am scared that even when I say, in a soft soothing voice, "Conley, please don't throw your toys, " he's only taking note of the times I lose my cool.

I also know that I have been without my tribe, my California/Kansas folk for too many years now. I miss having close friends and with that, I miss being able to emote at someone other than my husband. I miss the understanding that only a good girlfriend over a cup of coffee can give.
I miss my family at places like Molly's on Saturday and the Log Cabin. I had long, luxurious Time Outs at these places. I could really use a dose of your love, here in NYC.

So, what should I do now when I am behaving like the child?

The next time I feel the bubble up of upset making it's way to the surface, I am going to announce that I am going into a Time Out. I'll immediately sit in our Time Out chair and just pause. Pause and breathe.
"This too shall pass." It may not be a pedicure, but it will serve its purpose. To put simply, it will keep me sane.

The Thing about a Blog...

The thing about a blog is you have to write in it.  My intention was to write my feelings, thoughts and ideas about motherhood in NYC. The key word here is WRITE. In order to do that, day in and day out, I would need time. As new mothers know, this is a complete luxury. When a "break" presents itself, I have to consider bathing, laundry or cooking in order of importance. What truthfully happens when I have a chunk of "free" time is a catch up on phone calls or cheezy prime time TV. Blogging tends to take a back seat. This pretty much sums up any kind of creative activity for me. When I became pregnant, my big idea was to keep a journal of the 9 months and then when Conley was born, I wanted to take a picture of him every day and log our activities as he was growing and making his milestones. I was going to give him these journals and pictures wrapped in a big, red bow that he could open on his 18th birthday. What actually happened was a journal for 3 weeks of my pregnancy, pictures for 4 days of his life, and a baby book that has cards and little keepsakes jammed into it with no order whats so ever.

I HAVE NO FOLLOW THROUGH WHEN IT COMES TO KEEPING A BABY BOOK/JOURNAL FOR MY KIDS. I HANG MY HEAD IN SHAME.

I haven't written in a while because I was on vacation. See, that is not true. I haven't written in a while because I chose to do other things with my time. The only person I am disappointing is myself, really, but that's it -  I am disappointed that I don't find time to creatively express my life or the lives of my kids. It's kind of sad, actually. I recently saw the video of the guy that took a picture of his son every day for 21 years. I bawled. And when google had the commercial with a dad who wrote an email to his daughter every day for 18 years, I was a wreck. See, I want to have that ability to creatively document these boys, but I was just not born with that gene. In college, I was always jealous of those girls who had a camera with them everywhere they went and who would make adorable, crafty photo albums to look through twenty years down the line. I have zero pictures of my years at Marquette or KU. I have high school year books, but no personal photo albums. I do have gradeschool photos for some reason. I can fondly look back on 6th grade when I had it so good. Recently, my husband and I went through pictures. He had so many photos of himself in college, looking handsome, happy and carefree. (ah, the days before children.) It was so fun journeying back there with him. He told stories and smiled at "the good ol' days." It was a joy for me to see the path he walked to get to us. I couldn't offer him the same experience and it bummed me out.
I guess I am trying to be honest about my inability to capture my life and the lives of my little ones in the hope that it inspires me to make more of an effort.
I did have this breakthrough, though. My son, Holden, turned one over our vacation. It was a wonderful celebration of his special day. I had made a photo album (with actual, physical pictures) at midnight the night before his party so that people could look through and glimpse his first year. (My husband went through the book several times in a row, and each time, at the end he would adorably say, "again?") I'm so glad I made this album because after the presents had been opened and the cake had been smashed, my mom took his little party hat and a bag that had been personalized for his first birthday and said,"you should keep these for your baby book." And instead of bashing my head against the wall, feeling like a horrible mother, I actually had one started for him!

My kids deserve to look back on these years in this incredible city with fondness and even though they may not be able to recall their experiences (like a Tom Petty concert or Broadway show), they will have the proof that they were there and can someday, journey with their loves the path that brought them to each other.

I am thankful for digital cameras, Face time, and Facebook. They make it pretty easy (even for a non-crafty) to snap and share. My parents wouldn't get pictures capturing all of their grandchildren's shenanigans otherwise.

The thing about a blog is I get to talk about all of this stupid stuff and feel just a little lighter about it all. The thing about a blog is that I can share my thoughts with you to see if maybe, just maybe, I'm not alone. The thing about a blog is that I can only write while my children are sleeping and baby #2 is stirring, so I must getty-up.
I love you, mommies. You rock.