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.

Doting on Daddy Day

I only have a few minutes to bust this blog out as one child is napping while the other plays with his biggest pal, his Pappa. And to all of you fathers out there, hanging with your number one fans this afternoon...
HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!!!
So in the spirit of celebrating and adoring those big guys we call "Dad",  I would like to share my 10 favorite things about Conley and Holden's daddy, my husband, Daniel.

1. He PLAYS with his boys. I love that my husband will play games, throw balls, and jump on the bed with his children. It also drives me crazy that I have to dodge and weave in my house, but there is awful lot of laughter going on.

2. He makes bathtime a musical jam session. Whether blaring the Beastie Boys or Billy Holiday, both babies make bubbles in the bath to a beat. Drums and harmonicas will be played while all parts get cleaned.

3. That he will give them a bath in the first place. I know that I am very blessed to have a guy that will take bathtime as an opportunity to bond with his kids (not to mention give Mommy a break.)

4.  He taught my son the word, "patience." It started with the song by G&R, but my husband, the least patient man I know, somehow taught Conley "wait patient." When we are standing at a street corner, Conley will say, "wait patient" as we wait for the walk light. When a DVD movie is gearing up to play, "patience" will ring out from the little person on the couch. It's adorable and my type A, high strung hubby taught him this valuable lesson.

5. He has taught Conley to "bring Mommy flowers." One of my favorite things about living in Manhattan is that fresh flowers are available all year round at the corner bodega. Daniel will take Conley for a walk and they always return with flowers. Conley will very proudly pick them out, pay the "guy" and strut into the apartment with a huge grin and give Mommy the flowers. So precious.

6. Bedtime is always late. Now, you might be raising an eyebrow at this one. I say this with pride (today) because my husband wants to spend quality time with his little guys, but he doesn't get home from work until 7 or 7:30. He plays hard and makes the bath an event, turning minutes into hours. Our alone time may suffer, but we make up for it. :)

7. He likes to surprise us. And I don't mean in the hide-behind-the-door-and-yell-BOO kind of way. I hate that. He brings home surprises. One night, he even brought home a violinist and a cellist to play for us while I made dinner. He knows what clothes to buy for me better than I do and he will surprise me with a dress or an outfit just because he "saw it and thought of me." For the kids it's the occasional Matchbox car or movie DVD. I gotta say, I like Christmas in June.

8. Dancing is a requirement. In order for us to function as a family, we must be able to groove. I have never danced so much in my life as I have being married to Daniel. Whether it's jumping to Van Halen or electric sliding to the BeeGees, dancing is a must. My favorites are the slow dances in the kitchen.

9. He works his behind off to provide for his family. None of this can happen if he doesn't fight the tiger every day. He works 9-10 hours and is able to rev the engines and to work a few more when he comes home. and he does this without bitterness. I don't know if I could do the same.

10. We both had the right examples. My dad taught me how I should be treated and Daniel's father paved the way. I am grateful for all of the Dads in my life. Thank you, Daniel, for loving me and our children so fully. Dad, for showing me how much you adore my mother so I could recognize love, and C.L, for making it look so easy.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY, GUYS!!!! XOXOX

The Bottle and the Boob

When I was pregnant with my first baby, I read a lot of books and did a lot of research on line about everything from car seats and cribs to binkies and bottles. I would get myself worked up about the possible things that my child might experience during my pregnancy and his birth by spending every waking moment (which were many, considering my insomnia during the last trimester) reading. I was sure that one crumble of bleu cheese I ate would surely cause some permanent damage or that I would buy a front carrier that would suffocate my child. The messages I was receiving from one new mommy web-site would contradict the messages I was receiving from another. It made for stress and confusion, but there were two things I was sure on. I wanted to breast feed my baby and that he would't be given a pacifier, ever.

I FED MY BABY FORMULA AND GAVE HIM A PACIFIER. HE IS 2 AND STILL TAKES THE PACIFIER, OR AS OUR FAMILY CALLS IT, GINKY.

When Conley was born, I did all of the things my Lamaze Nazi teacher told me. I allowed Conley to find the breast on his own. I made sure that the nurses knew that I didn't want him to have formula or pacifiers. Within 24 hours of Conley's birth, my milk had not come in and my baby was hungry. I had to feed him. The nurses gave him formula and I was riddled with guilt. GUILT FOR FEEDING MY CHILD. I was mortified that I had already tainted him. All of the books and mommy advice I had been given had led me to believe that I was indeed poisoning my child. I cried. I felt like a complete failure. When I returned home with our newborn son, I tried and tried to give him enough breast milk and would have to top off my efforts by giving him a few ounces of formula. Every night, it would pain my heart. On the third night, the baby was crying and seemed to be inconsolable. My mom who had been staying with us for the birth of her first grandson, suggested that I try to give him a pacifier.
Me, in tears, "No. He will experience nipple confusion."
Mom, trying desperately not to laugh,"Nipple, what?!"
Sobbing,"Nipple confusion. He is having me, the bottle and a pacifier. He'll not know that the breast is best!"
She gave him the pacifier and he was asleep in minutes.

From those first nights forward, we used formula when I hadn't pumped, which was all of the time because I was a stay-at-home-mom and didn't need to pump. We used the ready made bottles when we would travel or go out to restaurants. The looks I got! (or at least, thought I was getting) Formula saved my child, well, both of my children's lives. I had to have 2 blood transfusions with the birth of Holden and was completely out of it for 2 days. He was 10 pounds and a trucker! He had to eat. Formula was an absolute necessity.
And yes, Conley still has a pacifier.

Why do we judge our mommy sisters? We ALL want what is best for our children. And sometimes, what is best, isn't the same for you as it is for me.

I met a woman at Starbucks a few days ago. She has a beautiful 5 month old daughter and we got to talking about our munchkins. She was going through sleep troubles and I was going through teething issues. In our conversation, she mentioned that she had felt judged because she was formula feeding her daughter. When her daughter was born, she struggled many days to breast feed and then felt ashamed because she had to turn to formula. Here she was, a lovely woman with a gorgeous baby feeling less-than because she made and continues to make, a choice that works for both her and her child. She feels judged at her mommy and me classes when she pulls out a bottle and not a boob.
I "exclusively" breast feed Holden now, but if formula is needed for whatever reason, I thank God that there is a solution.

Mayor Bloomberg on his rampage to curb obesity has wanted to remove formula from the hospitals, thinking that children who are fed formula have a greater risk of being obese adults. Could you imagine the mothers who, like me, want to breast feed, but can't because they had surgery or because their milk hasn't come in? What do you do then? Will the hospital have wet-nurses?!

I also know the reverse of this problem. Many women judge those that breast feed as "hippies" or too progressive. "My children were raised on formula and they turned out just fine" rang out when I was doing my research. "Breast feeding creates insecurity." Really?!
Or what about those mommies that choose to breast feed their babies well into their toddler years? Remember the uproar about the cover of Time Magazine with the 4 year old on his mother's breast? Why was there such a deal made about a mother making a choice? Time Magazine made it our business when it's clearly a mother's prerogative.

I'm just to a point now where I want to embrace the decisions I make for my family as being the right ones for MY family and celebrate the decisions you make for yours.(and if I happen not to like it, keep my opinion to my damn self) I know it takes a village, but I want a village of supporters and cheerleaders, not nay-sayers and boo-ers.

So here's to the bottle AND the boob! May we always have options in taking care of our children.

And Conley says, "Go Ginky!"

2's Company, 4's a Mosh Pit

When I was just starting out babysitting in my preteen years, I would occasionally watch a little boy, Mark. He was a darling kid around the age of 3. The very first time I watched him, my brother came along for moral support. Mark was well behaved and mild mannered. He didn't have separation anxiety, he simply wanted his toys and books. My brother and I just kind of sat there as Mark did his thing. And then the cuckoo clock chimed. One o'clock. Mark looked up from his Legos and said, "nap-time." My brother and I glanced at each other. Mark got up from his pit of toys and headed up the stairs. He got into his bed, laid down, closed his eyes and in minutes, fell fast asleep.
"Really? That's it? That's all we have to do? I like babysitting," I thought.
Of course, I soon realized that Mark was not the norm. With other kids,  I had to bribe bedtimes with ice cream or bath times with chocolate. I would chase the occasional child around the house to get them to climb into bed. I understood that getting a little human to sleep in their own bed was not as easy as it seemed with Mark.
Some years later, I vowed that if I ever became a mother, I would "train" my child. He would have a 1PM nap time and a 7:30PM bedtime. He would have a blanket and his favorite book to lull him to dreamland in his little airplane shaped bed in his little airplane room.  My husband and I would then put on soft music, light candles, and share our dinner. We would cuddle as we watched TV. After falling asleep on the couch in each other's arms, we would wake and walk sleepily into our bedroom to make love all night. And that's exactly what happened.

BAAAAWWHHAAAAAAHHAAAAAAA!!!!

Cut to the night before last:
My two children are up at 11PM as The Rolling Stones sing,"You Can't Always Get What You Want" at full volume. The oldest has had dessert (s) and stories. The youngest has had a bath and the boob. Neither of them had any interest of going to bed. And the best part of this story, they sleep in our bed. Both of them. Sleep. In. Our. Bed.

I have a hate/love relationship with our "family bed."

I would love to tell you that we had every intention of having a family bed from the start of my pregnancy, that we had read all of the books and wanted to go in the "attachment parenting" direction. I would love to tell you that it came from a philosophical place of believing that it would be best for the child. NOPE. Not even close. Sleep. It came from the need for sleep. One night, I brought the baby into the bed to breast feed and we both feel asleep. Neither of us woke up for eight hours. From that moment on, our beautifully jungle-themed nursery became an exhibit for the Natural History Museum of "where an American Child WOULD sleep".
Conley was 3 months old when he inhabited our bed and I had every intention of getting him back into the crib, but it just never happened. I told a friend of mine that he was sleeping in our bed and she furrowed her eyebrows, clicked her tongue and hissed, "bad girl." I had been getting up every 1.5 -2 hours, nursing and rocking, nursing and rocking. I was a zombie. I did what I thought was best. Was I wrong?

THE FAMILY BED PROS
cuddles
sleep
builds trust and security
seeing their sweet faces first thing and hearing "good morning, Momma. I love you."
creative solutions for "adult time" with hubby

THE FAMILY BED CONS
no "adult" time with hubby
no room in the bed
the argument that it creates need and insecurity

Another reason we "chose" the family bed is that I was (and still am) too weak to do the "cry it out" method. I have supermom ears. I hear everything and when Conley was first born, I could detect any change in breathing. Forget about crying. I couldn't bear it.
See, my new motherhood had been colored by one of the most tragic events of my life. A dear friend lost her daughter to SIDS. I used to think of her every night, but when I became a mother, it was every minute. I had no idea the amount of pain she must have felt until I had a child of my own. Even now, I can't even comprehend it. It made me so scared. I couldn't just let Conley cry alone. I couldn't stay in bed as he screamed. I wanted him close. I needed to feel him breathe.
And now, I love to feel Holden's breath and my face and Conley's elbow in my ribcage. Most nights. Other nights, I just want to put them both into their own beds, give them just a little NyQuil, close the door, and snuggle in with my husband.
OH, yeah. HIS opinion of all of this??
He will rage about it one minute and coo about it the next. He'll be so frustrated that we are not alone and then ramble on about how blessed we are to have two snuggle monkeys intertwined with us. My husband said one of the most beautiful things about the family bed. I was struggling when Holden was born because I wasn't spending as much time as I wanted to with Conley. I thought that he was feeling that we weren't a family because Daddy was taking him out to the park/to dinner/ to the museum while Momma stayed home with the baby. Daniel said that Conley knows we are a family because we sleep in the same bed for 8-10 hours a night. Even though we are unconscious, Conley feels how connected we are to each other. That gave me peace.
But peace I did not have the other night when the two would not go to sleep. I kept thinking, "Why didn't I let them cry it out!? They are going to be in our beds until they're seniors in high school." That's me, living in the day.
My husband also saved our marriage ;) when he woke up one morning and said,"I am buying a king size mattress RIGHT NOW." He got up and ready to go, dressed Conley, and took him in a cab to pick out a mattress for the family. Then called friends that were expecting a son in June to come to our apartment and pick up a crib, rocking chair, and huge box of baby clothes for a very low price. Our Natural History Museum exhibit was dismantled and our queen mattress was moved into the nursery. (Now, he almost ended our marriage when he picked out the bedding for the new king, but we fixed that quickly.) The nursery is now "Conley's room" and he loves it. He falls asleep in the bed, wakes up around 4 or 5 in the morning and comes to cuddle with us. Funny. When you make room, something will fill the space. Conley saw an empty space and filled it.  Maybe, he won't be in our bed come graduation.

I am horrible at keeping a schedule for my kids. Bedtime has a 3 hour window. 

I also have a hate/love relationship with schedules. I crave them and despise them. I am insanely jealous and simultaneously repulsed by the regime keepers. By this I mean:

We eat chow at 0700
Followed by a diaper change and puzzle time
at 1000, we hit the playground, doing slides followed by an intense round of swings and monkeybars.
at 1200, we meet back at the mess hall for some lunch and diaper change
at 1300, it's nap time.
1500, an alarm will sound. Diaper change and then Music will be played for exactly 45 minutes.
1600, snack.
1630, DVD
1800 delicious, healthy, homemade dinner with family
1900 bathtime
1930 diaper, pajamas and bed time story
1945 child hits the hay

I want it, I do. And from everything I've read, "they" say that a child craves discipline and order. I think that is true, but there is something to be said for a little independence and choice.
The fact that Conley could sleep anywhere, any time, saved us when we would travel which seemed to be a lot in his first year. He could hang with us in Europe or swim with us in Cabo without going through a traumatic adjustment period. Sometimes, he would go to bed at 10PM and then wake up at 10AM. It was actually pretty lovely.
But see my ego wants to be a schedule keeper to impress other parents.  I would like to tell a babysitter, "put him down for his nap at one," and know that he will go to bed. I would like to share with our friends and Conley's teachers, "he goes to bed at 7:30." This is truly not the case today.  I hang my head low if we stroll the kids through the neighborhood past 8PM, shameful that my children are still awake. It doesn't matter if they wake up early, go to school, play outside, or the opposite. Their sleep schedule is completely unpredictable.
Part of this unpredictability is laziness. I will not deny this. I need to create the discipline for our family and instruct a boot camp and honestly, I just don't want to do that. It's too much work. Just for today, I have to be alright with knowing a nap will be taken, eventually, and both babies will sleep for the night, soon enough.

For now, a family bed works and a relaxed (that's what I'll call it) schedule is OK.
Check with me in a couple decades or so. I'll let you know if my kids have turned into needy, insecure, undisciplined hellions or the next Bill Gates (it's always one extreme or the other, isn't it?! A criminal or the President. It's never just an accountant for a small firm in the suburbs.)

This entry was a little schizo because I am up and down about our family bed and schedules.  I see the benefits and downfalls of our decisions daily and it makes for a little crazy.
Hope you enjoyed the ride.

Paranoia Will Destroy Ya

Have you seen the movie "Kramer vs. Kramer"- a genius film starring Dustin Hoffman and Meryl Streep?  Meryl won her first Oscar for Best Actress in a Supporting Role playing a woman seeking divorce and custody of her son despite having left them. I loved this movie. The heart-wrenching performances made me fall in love with acting when I saw this film at a very young age. It also inspired a wacky fear of playgrounds.
Let me explain. Spoiler Alert: Do you remember the scene when Dustin Huffman is at a Central Park playground with his son and is in deep conversation with a woman as the boy is climbing a jungle gym? Of course, the child falls from the top and the next scene is Dustin Huffman running while carrying his crying, bleeding son,  several New York City blocks to the hospital. The boy has to get several stitches. From the moment I saw blood on the screen, I never wanted to be at a playground again. Whether I'd be climbing with or watching my monkey friends swing from bar to bar on a jungle gym, I would panic.
It's only fitting that I should have such a playground down the street from our apartment, ideal for any family with small children. 2 lovely little playgrounds. FULL OF DEADLY SWING SETS AND MONSTROUS MONKEY BARS.
The possible accidents with blood are not my only fear.  The politics that happen at the park are totally stressful. Who goes first on the slide? How long do you swing? Until there is a line? No child can run up the slide, unless it's your kid doing the running up. The negotiation of toys that are left in the sandbox for "everyone" happens over tears. How involved do you get in conflict management? This keeps me up at nights. (I exaggerate, but you get my drift.)

I hate taking my children to the playground.

The scene is usually this. The park is full of little monsters, running, screaming, laughing or crying while playing on the scary structures or digging in the poisonous sand box. Their mommies or nannies sit on the park benches creating a perimeter for the nightmarish scene. They sit, looking up from their iPhones every so often to make sure no one is dead or missing.  Me?  I hover around my 2 year old like a nervous little ninny. I usually have the baby in the stroller so I am following Conley like an annoying buzzing bee, the tires almost taking him down for fear that he may, I don't know, skin a knee? get eaten by wolves? Well, those other little toddlers can be awfully garish. Stealing toys, throwing sand, they can be down right awful. Hence...

I do not schedule play-dates for my kids.

This is not because I don't love children other than my own. I do. I am just scared of them. They are little beings with their own agendas and I don't know that I fit into theirs. I feel like they could look at me and say, "Look, lady. You are not my mom. You can't tell me what to do or how to behave. Now, go, and let me eat this crayon in peace." I know that these children will surely want to sit on the stoop and share a smoke with Conley as they pour one for their homies. I am also afraid of my own child's behavior. That he won't share his toys, that he will want to be the alpha male and stomp on his little friends or that he will have a tantrum that lasts for an hour.  Soon all of the parents in the neighborhood will ostracize us from any and all play-dates.  They will whisper, avoiding our eyes as we pass in our screaming double stroller, "There they are. Do not invite them over. They are a mess."
I realize that "playing well with others"  is a huge part of a child's experience of life- resolving conflict, making and becoming a friend. I remember some of my play-dates growing up. I learned things like how to draw a star, tie my shoes, and ride a bike. I laughed so hard while eating Speghetti-O's that they almost came up through my nose. I danced my ass off to the BeeGees. I got into verbal spars as only a 6 year old can, but I also learned how to say "sorry" and how to forgive. I am sure that my childhood would not have been the same had I not been scheduled these "meetings" by my mother. Despite all of these rewarding experiences, play-dates still make me nervous.
This could be because I am also afraid of the other mothers. Afraid of their judgments, their innate abilities to better parent my child because they are more creative or more eco-friendly than I am. That they have perfect conflict resolving skills and I am only equipped with the words, "Stop it." As often as I tell myself that we mothers are in the same boat, I am still suffering with this fear of being judged.
Because Conley is now in preschool, I know that these playground play-dates will soon be a must and I will have to get over my fears. I will have to just wring my hands and hope that I will be blessed with patience and love, and that I will find the words to remove the crayons from the their mouths. That I will know how to band-aid a scraped knee. That I will be able to let them resolve their conflicts and be present as a loving battery for their process.

I am taking my son to the playground after preschool and just for today, I will not fear the monkeys or the monkey bars.

Rain, Rain Go Away

I love the rain. Growing up in Kansas, some of my favorite childhood memories are snuggling safe in my room to the soundtrack of rolling thunder, the flash of bright lightening, and the pitter pat of heavy raindrops. I missed those summer storms when I lived in LA for 13 years. It rarely rained in the time I was there, but I was always amazed at the paralysis the occasional rain storm would cause Angelians. For example,  I would call a friend to ask them if they wanted to meet for dinner and they'd say, "No, I don't think so. It's raining." I would think to myself, "how does one relate to the other? Do you not eat when it rains?" and then I would get in my car, drive into traffic and completely understand why said friend would not want to leave the house. When in rains in LA, people become moronic. If the windshield wipers come on, forget about it.
From Kansas, you learn how to navigate the four seasons. You drive a car in snow, rain, ice, and extreme heat. You could never use the weather as an excuse, but in LA, it's very common practice. This used to baffle me. Until I moved to NYC.

I kept my child home from school the other day because it was raining. 

I explained the whole thing to my mom...how I would have had to bundled up both children, put the older one in a single stroller that has a little rain slicker it can wear (because the double stroller does not), put myself in a raincoat, papoose the baby and carry an umbrella to walk 4 blocks and an avenue. I told her how it would have just been too exhausting to bring him to a glorified nursery school so he could paint a picture of a fish.

Crickets.

See, it's hard to wrap your head around not leaving the house because of a rainstorm when you are from the midwest. You strap the kids in their car seats and battle the traffic, never having to get wet. It's just what you do.
I battled with myself for an hour. The asshole in my head said, "You wimp! Get your shit together and bring your kid to school. You are not a true New Yorker if you can't do this. You are failing as a mother if you can't fight the elements for your children. C'mon!"
I believed the asshole, but I chose to call his school and tell them that "Conley is unable to make it today (because his mother is a wuss.)"
For the rest of the afternoon, I wondered if he knew...if he knew that I had wronged him. I made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (for the ump-teenth time this week) and hoped he would never remember this day. (you think I am kidding)
The very next day, more beautiful, taunting rain. But now, I had a doctor's appointment for the baby. I had to brave the storm.
I prayed. "Dear God, let my oldest child have patience and love for his mother as she navigates not only the weather, but the doctor's visit and Holden having to get shots. Let him be the little angel I know he once was in heaven. I need this, God. Thank you."
After an hours worth of putting on coats, rain boots, hats, stroller covers and grabbing diaper bags and umbrellas, with a raised pulse and sweat dripping from my nose, we were finally ready to leave.
The rain egged me on. "Betcha can't do this, lady. We are too much for you to handle."
My oldest son who is in that phase of wanting to walk everywhere, gently got into his slickered stroller and quietly played on the iPad. Stage 1 complete. He's actually IN the stroller.
We needed to walk 2 blocks and 2 avenues without him budging and the baby not crying. Stage 2 complete. We arrived without tears.
At the doctor, I needed Conley to sit quietly while the doctor examined Holden and gave him his shots. He sat in a little chair in the office and did not say a word except, "Hello, doctor." Stage 3 complete. I had to lift my jaw from off the floor.
Final maneuver, Get the crew home without any drama. Stage 4 and Mission, COMPLETE.
I did it! I navigated my family through the rain. Thank you, God.
I had to celebrate. I called people. I put on music and danced with my kids. And we ate...and what did we eat...?
PIZZA!

My husband suggested that next time, I call a car service. Yes, a car service to drive us 4 (ish) blocks.

Ahh, New York.

A Momma's Gratitude List, New York Style

Happy (belated) Mother's Day to all of you unbelievably courageous and beautiful mothers out there! Hoping you were loved, celebrated and adored!  I had a wonderful day, celebrating with my little monkeys. After breakfast  was ordered in by the biggest monkey, we went to one of the most iconic parks in the world to play. As I watched my childish (I mean, child-like ;) ) husband climb on swing sets and build castles in the sand with Conley while I sat on a bench with Holden who was snoozing in the breeze, my heart took flight and I had to wonder...

What in God's name do I have to bitch about???!!!

So, a day late, I would like to give you my list of 10 Things to be Grateful as a NYC Mom

1. First of all, I am a mom. I never knew the pain of trying to get pregnant. I do know women who have and it makes me all the more aware of how truly blessed I am.

2. My 2 little guys. I have the most beautiful, totally happy and healthy monsters. What a gift to look at their popsicle stained faces and know that they chose me as their mommy.

3. We live in a GARDEN LEVEL apartment, not a 5TH FLOOR WALK-UP. I don't have to  schlep 2 nap-needing screamers up several flights of stairs. I can carry groceries in without breaking down their stroller, breaking a sweat, or breaking into tears.

4. I have a washing machine/dryer just outside my bedroom door. I don't have to pack suitcases and roll them to a laundromat like so many New York mommies and daddies. I just have to make sure I have the quarters and detergent.  and if I don't, I can call a deli to deliver them to me.

5. I can call a deli to deliver them to me. and "them" is ANYTHING. I don't have diapers, I call someone. I need juice and applesauce, and a guy on a bicycle will deliver them right to my door. Our dinner is delivered to us from different neighborhood joints several times a week. (Our son actually thinks every person that comes to the door is named "guy" because we hand him the money to give the delivery "guy".  He gives them the cash and says, "Thanks, guy. Bye, bye, guy.")

6. We live less than a block from the park. No, THE park. Central Park is just outside my door with 2 amazing children's playgrounds at our street's entrance. I'm still not convinced it isn't a movie set, it's that cool.

7. We can walk everywhere. We don't own a car. I stroll several blocks daily with my kids. The kids' pediatrician, Conley's school, our bank and any drugstore are all walkable. This is not only fabulous on the budget (although, NYC rent is not) it is fabulous on a 2-kid-bearing-bottom. I walk a lot. I walk while eating a doughnut, but I walk.

8. The NHM and the MET. My kids get to go to the Natural History Museum to play with dinosaurs and the MET to gaze at Monet. How freakin' great is that?

9. Our babysitter is a dancer on Broadway. 'nuff said.

10.  My husband is a terrific father. He's 2 parts playful, 1 part hopeful, and the rest just sugar. The kids adore him and I'm a huge fan. He has to face the NYC beast every day - the weather, the subway, the attitudes- to make sure our barrel of monkeys stays afloat. He fights the good fight and is able to come home with a smile on his face and kisses for his family. I am so grateful for a true partner in this parenting gig.

And as a final thought, I have the best mother in the whole world. 

So there you have it. Instead of crying about motherhood today, I thought I'd celebrate it. Celebrate just how good being a mom - the mother I AM - is.

Happy Mother's Day!

A Sobering Thought

Today is my 12th anniversary of life without alcohol. In 2001, I decided that I needed a massive spiritual overhaul and realized that the thing keeping me from a beautiful life swam in a bottle of scotch. I was a lukewarm alcoholic. No vodka in the morning smoothies, just a lot of weekend irresponsibility. I didn't give up alcohol because the quantities of drinks were too many, but because the quality of life was not enough. I am beyond grateful for my sobriety and the gifts I have received because of my choice and God's grace. That being said...

NOTHING has made me want a drink more than raising 2 young children in New York City

Let's take yesterday for example.
In the morning, my husband and I strolled our oldest to preschool. He started a week ago. The first week was a wonderful success. He seemed to really like it, having very few tears and lots of smiles. When we got to the door of the school yesterday, he got out of his stroller, shaking his head and waving his hands, saying, "no, no, no..." Then came the saddest cry I had ever heard in my life accompanied by a perfectly turned down lip. I thought my heart was going to split open. Of course, he was fine 5 minutes later, but I thought I was abandoning my child. I took a long stroll in the park, checking my phone every 2 minutes in case the school called to say,"You must pick up your very sad child. He is inconsolable because you are a terrible mom." My phone, thankfully, did not ring. Then came time for pick-up. He was sitting at his little table with his little friends eating his little lunch when I opened the door to his little class room. Happy to see me, he ran into my arms saying,"Mommmmmaaaaaa!"  I thought to myself, "This. This right here is the best feeling imaginable. I am needed, wanted, and completely loved." Cut to:
 5 minutes later when a demon has possessed both of my children and they are screaming louder than the construction on our busy NYC avenue. I got head turns and stares for 5 city blocks from the Gucci bag toting mom's with maids while I held one pissed off toddler by the hand because he wanted to walk even though we had the double stroller containing the other sobbing child. This didn't keep the taxi driver from cutting us off or my mouth from letting him know how I felt about it. I thought someone was going to call Child Services. The minutes it took me to get home felt like hours, but the one thing that kept me moving was knowing that nap time was right around the corner.
Yeah, right.
NO nap for either child.
There were tears because I gave him juice instead of milk, then because I gave him milk instead of juice. He cried because I wouldn't let him outside without his shoes, then when we got the shoes on, he refused to walk out the door. The baby is in a stage where he hasn't figured out how to crawl but desperately wants to so he cries. He cries a lot.
Thank goodness we have made Mondays "date nights". Our Broadway dancing babysitter has the night off from her regular high-kicking gig and chooses (God love her soul) to spend it with our family. I could have kissed her as I bolted out the door and ran to my husband's side at a table at our corner bistro. The sun was setting, casting shades of gold through the concrete landscape. The temperature was perfect, a cool evening warmed by a heat lamp. I flopped down in the chair, glazed wild eyes staring at my husband.
He looked scared. "You ok?"
And I thought to myself as I stared at my husband's martini glass, "just for a minute as this golden light hits my face and no one is crying, I would like to feel my shoulders move down from ears, my teeth to unclench, my stomach to warm as I sipped a glass of wine. Maybe I could quiet the "Perfect Mommy" voice in my head. Ah, just for a minute."
"I'll have a cranberry juice, thanks."

I am jealous of those mommies that get to "celebrate" bed time with a toast or two. This is a hard job and I would like to congratulate myself with a cocktail.
I mean, are all of these mommies actually hammered? How do they all get through the day?

I had a wonderful evening with my hubby and came home to bathed, tired babies. The preschooler fell asleep an hour earlier than his normal bedtime which gave me even more time to relax.
Without a drink.
A perfect memory of the screams and sadness, the kisses and love.

I'm sober 12 years. I'm a mom. I'm a sober mom.

Technically Speaking...

Thank you so much for the comments you have left here and on my Facebook page. After I allowed myself to middle-finger my ego a bit by sharing my truth, I have felt so much better. I didn't realize the load I had put on my shoulders. Just cracking the door to my authenticity that little bit, brought light to a very dark place. And to know that I am not alone is precious. Thank you.
This purging has also made me aware of the simultaneous blessings I am experiencing as my child throws his twentieth fit of the day. He is healthy (he's got a pair of healthy lungs, that's for damn sure) and so am I. He maybe be eating pizza, but at least he is eating. He screams, but he makes eye contact and connects. He is expressing his feelings and I know there are parents that long for that glimpse of emotional life in their child. Regardless of the consciousness I have of my blessings, I still need to confront this ugliness that I am not enough in my mind.
So, since it felt so good the first time, I thought I might confess some more. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for listening to my moans and groans. Here we go.

I WILL GIVE MY CHILD AN iPHONE, iPAD, iANYTHING IN ORDER TO KEEP THE PEACE. TIME ALLOWED ON SUCH DEVICES ISN'T EVEN AN ISSUE. HOWEVER LONG IT TAKES.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. Wow. This really does feel good.

So, I bought my husband an iPad a couple of Christmases ago. We both loved it. Especially for music and as a backup for our pictures on the computer. We put ONE app on it for our son. At the time, he was just one. We went on vacation to Mexico and on the flight, my husband showed him how the application worked. My son was thrilled. He loved touching something and making it work. He could control his little universe. This well-seasoned flyer really didn't need the iPad for entertainment at this time. He was usually lulled right to sleep when the engines started. I think my husband wanted something to do so he taught our one year old how to navigate his dancing monkey application.

Cut to 2 days into our lovely vacation. My husband (Daniel) and I are on our bed, chatting while the 2 year old (Conley) is playing with some toys on the floor. We can't really see him because we are lying down, but we hear him open the iPad. I mean to say, unlock the iPad. Now, how he's figured out to do that, I will never know, but he has. His little one year old paw pushed and slid the right buttons the right way to open his application. He contently played on the it for 20 minutes, as we laid there, not making an f-ing sound to see how long he could entertain himself. My husband says to me, "Wow. This could be just the thing to give you a break in your day." (warning!) Now, I have forgotten to mention that I was newly pregnant (code for sick, irritable, and a total bitch) with our second AND planning our wedding (we did things a little out of order) at this time. I had just been given a green light to hand our iPad to our child so that I may "have a break." After our trip, we downloaded more applications and my son was off and running (well, running his fingers) while I sat, eating my twelfth cookie.

I planned our destination wedding in just a couple of months which required phone calls and emails, pretty much daily. In the morning after fighting my nausea, I would hand Conley the iPad and I would get to work. It was perfect. We started taking it with us when we would go to restaurants. My child was perfectly behaved, as long as we had the device. I thought, "This is genius. What did parents do before this thing was created?"
Then I read a post on Facebook..
"Are parents unable to parent their kids anymore? I go to restaurants and all I see are toddlers on iPads."
My ego was shot. I AM A HORRIBLE MOTHER. Now mind you, this asswipe that wrote the post is a MAN without CHILDREN, but I still felt like I was somehow damaging my child and that I am incapable of nurturing a creative environment for him. I could leave him for a good couple of hours on an iPad and I have done that, many times (wow, this confession thing is goooood.) and now my child has mornings where he wakes up, eyes still closed, yawping from the deepest part of this perfect toddler body, "BIRRRRRRRRRDDDDSSSS" (He's currently obsessed with Angry Birds.) Is he destined to have ADD or ADHD or some other behavioral problem because I want to check yahoo or eat my spaghetti in peace?
I think these thoughts and then I am reminded of a very special day. When we were in KC visiting my folks when Conley was 18 months, we went to see my dad at his office. He's a physician and on the wall was an eye chart. My son, who didn't talk much at all, pointed to and said the letters on the chart. He couldn't say most of them, but then when I noticed what was happening, I would ask him to point to a  particular letter and he would do so without hesitation. Now, I would love to tell you that I had been teaching my son the alphabet by using flashcards or puzzles or whatever it is perfect moms use to teach their kids letters, but I hadn't been doing a thing. I was big and pregnant. I was lucky if I got off the couch to walk him to the park for some sunshine. But my son knew all of his letters. And he learned them from pbs.org downloaded on the iPad. My son also knew his numbers and colors, all taught to him by his friends on Sesame Street. ( another site that I love that was recommended to me by a teacher is starfall.com (it might be .org) at any rate, it's awesome.)
A friend of mine said that today's iPad kids have been called "natives." They seem to have been born with the abilities to work all devices. I see it in my 9 month old. He will take my phone and slide his fingers across it to make it "dance." When this happens,  I don't think, "Wow. That's kind of cool." I think about all of those mothers out there that finger paint and sculpt and how terrible I must seem to them. I don't like to paint and I certainly can't sculpt. I wonder how much I am hurting him because of my own deficiencies. (the ego is a bitch, isn't she? do you see how "in my own way" I have become? I am so freakin' self-obsessed!)
And television, forget about it. All of those books say that you shouldn't let your child watch any TV until age 2. Well, I screwed up there because by age 2, my son and I knew the theme songs to Curious George and Super Why, every character on Mickey Mouse Club and became obsessed with the 3 special steps Special Agent OSO had to make each episode. My newest boy, he's a big George fan, too.

I LET MY KIDS WATCH TV. A LOT OF TV.

Does this actually make me a bad parent? I think it does if I ignore them and don't engage them. But I do. I participate. It might be by asking my son what color Oscar the Grouch is (he's green, btw), but I do play-in. How do I forgive myself for not being the arts and crafts kindergarden teacher? I suck at arts and crafts. But I'm really good at snuggles. and kisses. and sillies. Will that be enough? Have I done some permanent damage? Does it matter?  I love my kids and they love me. My son has learned so much from technology. And I have been able to breathe because of technology. And I have to be ok with this despite Martha Stewart's tisk tisk in my head.
So, Thank you, Steve Jobs, Jim Henson, and public television. You are helping me to raise my bright, beautiful sons and keeping me sane.

Bless me, for I have sinned

OK. I can't take it anymore. I have to get this off my chest. I'm ready for all of the judgements from you, God, and the fabulous women strolling in the upper 70's and 80's of Manhattan. I am opening myself up to the ridicule of the Whole Foods hopping, baby food making, cloth diaper washing do-gooders of my beloved Santa Monica. If I continue one more day wishing I was the mother in my head and not the one who is bathing my kids, I will explode into tiny Lego pieces. I have to purge, purge my off the floor, dirty Cherrio eating soul right now. OK, here goes...
I FEED MY KID PIZZA. FROZEN PIZZA, DOMINOS PIZZA, ANY PIZZA, MORE THAN ONCE A WEEK.
There. I've said it. Let the lashings begin.
In all seriousness, I feel better that you know. I have been living in isolation, tucked away in my cottage-like brownstone apartment wanting desperately to be the mother I thought I would be versus the one I became. I wanted to be eco-friendly, recycling, and natural. I wanted to be fashionable, trendy, and up-to-date. I wanted to be calm, reassuring, and serene. I wanted discipline with freedom and freedom with discipline. I wanted the intimacy of the family bed with the privacy of the crib. I wanted to be the best damn mother this town has ever seen. And I wanted to NEVER feed my kid frozen pizza, ever. I have failed. failed. failed.
I am jumping on the confession band wagon of such greats like momastery and reasons my son is crying (thank you, Renee and Carol)  because I need to let this false image of perfection I have in my mind dissolve. These sites have been able to make me laugh in the midst of melt-downs (my own or my 2 year olds) at this strange concept I have grasped onto that I must be pristine and perfect at the grossest job in the world.
But what is that? Where have I come up with this idea of being perfect? Not to get all psychological on you, but is it my childhood? My mom seemed to do her motherhood effortlessly. My lunch was made, the house was immaculate. She was my room mother and brownie troop leader. Yep, she was kind of perfect. Is it fucking facebook? I read a stat about one of my girlfriends making play-do so her kids could play inside from the rain while she baked a cake and I vomited just a little in my mouth. I saw pictures of a fairy tale party someone had for their daughter where all of the magical ideas came from pinterest and I thought my eyeballs were going to melt. How can I live up to this when my 2 year old is screaming for an hour (no exaggeration) because, well, I don't know, I put his juice in the Buzz Light year cup instead of his Elmo cup? and my 9 month old has decided that now would be the best time to suck on the sole of my husband's flip flop that has flipped flopped on the dirty grimy NYC sidewalk and subway stations? How can I be perfect when at the grocery store, my child is screaming at the top of his lungs and flailing like a fish trying to survive out of water? Who is responsible for me thinking that I have to have perfect children and that I need to handle them in perfect ways?
I think one of my past roommates is responsible. It's her fault. She was perfect. She could cook, clean, shop, organize, while being hip, slick and cool better than any style.network make-over show. She was fabulous. And when I look at my high-chair that has a film growing in its cracks or the pile of laundry I haven't done, I think, "*** would NEVER have this going on in her house. She is probably teaching her daughter french as she is cooking flambe for her gorgeous husband who will undoubtedly walk in with flowers and a smile." (note: my husband brings me flowers often. this is one thing I can say is perfect all of the time. He brightens our home with daffodils or roses every week.) She has a great, magical life and I am just happy if everyone has survived the day. Yeah, it's her fault.
Alright, maybe it's not her fault, but why can't I shake this idea that I am completely fucking up my children because I didn't make their baby food or my son has Crayola marker stains on his Curious George t-shirt?
My kids are a mess. There I have said it.
I am a wreck. I don't shower as often as one should. There, it's out.
Why can't I just admit that being a mom is HARD. I am not very good at it. I yell when I know that I shouldn't. I pout when I should play. How do I get over myself and just love the mother I am?
This blog is for me. I need to confess and praise, laugh and cry. I need to kill the Betty Crocker/Mrs. Cleaver/Mary Poppins bitch that is ruling my life and let you all know what I am doing. I am raising two, gorgeous pains in the ass. and that even though, I am not living up to the perfect mother in my brain, I am somehow, perfect.