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.