Date Night

Ah, the perfect setting, sometimes you wait weeks for this night, but in the end, it's all worth it to spend some quality one on one time with your sweetheart. No, not that sweetheart. I'm talking about date night with your kids. Wait, what? Isn't the point to spend time with your hubby without the kids? Well, yes, you should go on dates with the hubs, he kinda likes spending time with you too, but if you have kids (especially more than one), it's nice to go out on dates with them individually as well.

We've started a new tradition in our house and every other Friday, Jim and I each go out on a date with one of our girls. Then the next time, we switch. Now that the girls are old enough, we thought it would be a fun way for them to get to spend some one on one time with us.

Our first night out, Jim took Peri and I had Ryah. We went to different restaurants for dinner then different stores so that each of the girls could pick out a gift for her sister. Peri chose some new jammies for Ryah and Ryah picked out a princess frog shirt for Peri. The girls had a blast and it was nice getting to spend some alone time together.

This past weekend was round two. I had Peri this time around. We had a lovely dinner at Panera Bread then off to Barnes and Noble where she picked out a new book about the Tooth Fairy. Food and books, two of Peri's favorite things. I could have spent more time at the bookstore, but when your child starts complaining to wandering sales people that it's time to go, it's time to go. She had fun though and loves her new book.

The kids are so different in what interests them, so it's going to be fun coming up with different things to do. Peris' dates will likely be creative with crafts, books, movies and going to the theatre while Ryah is more active and will enjoy things like skating, parks and sports. It'll be nice to change things up for myself too and I know Jim's having fun as well. Having it regularly scheduled is great too because we all know it's coming and we look forward to it.

We're redefining date night in our house and having fun with the possibilities. Not to mention, we don't even need to find a sitter. :o)

The What If's

If I had never became a mother...
I wouldn't have to wonder "Is that chocolate or is that poop?"

If I had never became a mother...
I would never have to use the bathroom or shower with the door open

If I had never became a mother...
I wouldn't step on legos with every step, causing me to scream out in pain

If I had never became a mother...
I wouldn't have gained this spare tire that I carry around the space where my tummy used to be.

If I had never became a mother...
I wouldn't have to buy Handi Snacks and Goldfish crackers by the grouse

If I had never became a mother...
I wouldn't have had the pleasure of pulling the back on someones pants open to see if they pooped.

If I had never became a mother...
I wouldn't have to buy an entire new wardrobe for them while I, myself, make do with one good pair of jeans and one cardigan.

If I had never became a mother...
I wouldn't have sat up until the wee hours of the morning lulling a crying baby to sleep when all I wanted to do was cry myself.

If I had never became a mother...
I would never have eaten so many cold meals in my life.

***************

If I had never became a mother...
I wouldn't get to see young minds grow and discover the beauty of the earth

If I had never became a mother...
I wouldn't have two sweet little warm bodies who find no greater joy than crawling into bed with their Mama for a good morning snuggle.

If I had never became a mother...
I would never had had the chance to nourish another human being with my own

If I had never became a mother...
I would never know how proud I could feel when someone does something that seems so small.

If I had never became a mother...
I never would have had another beating heart lay so close to my very own, literally.

In It For REAL Life

My husband and I are not perfect. Far from it, in fact. Sometimes we argue and sometimes we disagree. Sometimes we are in bad moods and sometimes the natural stresses of each and every day take their toll on the two of us. That doesn't make us any less in love though, it makes us human.

I know that my children are watching my husband and I. I know that they can pick up on our moods and on our good days as a couple and our bad ones. And I know that the example that we are setting for them now will influence the way that they map out their futures.

I have a hard time pulling the June Cleaver act in front of my kids, because lets me realistic here, no one is that freaking perfect and to me putting on a front and pretending to be something that I'm not, that my marriage is not, would be setting up my children for failure. I think that it's my duty as a good mother to provide them with a realistic view of what happens in a committed relationship.

Now that's not that say that my husband and I argue or fight in front of our children. But we do sometimes argue and part of life is holding your tongue until the appropriate moment, if there is one at all. I want my kids to learn that.

I firmly believe that my marriage is a prototype for the kinds of marriages that my kids will have. It's something that I have to work at. It's hard and is often times unpredictable. But I have a partner in this world for life and knowing that and feeling the love that surrounds our home makes it all worth working for.

Once Upon a Time ...

Both of my children absolutely love to read.
Unfortunately only one of them actually can read.
But that's where bedtime stories by mom and dad come in.

We have a family tradition around our house where bedtime, the time when dreams and imagination take over our minds, starts off with not children watching television, but rather reading a book.

Each night the boys take turns picking out a book to be read to then. Often times they choose the same books, favorites that we read over and over again, always igniting the same smiles and laughter. Sometimes Brayden reads the night time story to his brother and his father and I, a book on loan for the evening from the school. But each night is always the same as the events of the day commence with a book read cover to cover.

Brayden curls up in his bed with a book and digests every single little word while Gage happily flips through to pages and admires the colorful pictures while listening intently.

It makes my heart soar to have two children who have a love and appreciation of books in a media driven electronic world. Reading and comprehending words and coming up with vivid mental scenarios allows their budding imaginations to soar like kites on a windy day. And so we add to our home library often, choosing special and significant books.

Brayden's favorites include:
The Giving Tree - Shel Silverstein
Harold and the Purple Crayon - Crockett Johnson
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day - Judith Viorst

Gage's favorites include:
The Little Engine That Could - Watty Piper
The Very Hungry Caterpillar - Eric Carle
The Foot Book - Dr Seuss

Do you read to your little ones? What are your families favorite books?

Mom vs. Flu

Perhaps it is just me, but I firmly believe that every single mother in the world who is dealing with a sick child or sick children deserves a medal. And perhaps a parting gift including an all expenses paid trip to some fancy tropical resort on the beach.

Right now in my house we have two very miserable children who, after a few days of sickness, are still bed ridden with the flu. And I'm pretty sure without getting graphic we all know what kind of messes that entails.

It really should have been expected though, as Brayden is in first grade, which is just a large breeding ground for all sorts of gross and paralyzing different germs and sicknesses. It's a dirty, sticky, germ-infested little haven where small people all share pencils, snacks, glue, and every other sort of magnet for parasites, viruses, and bacteria of all description. It's biological warfare against mothers, and I for one am fighting a mighty battle.

While my children start to get better and the glaze over their tired eyes fades away and the bright inquisitiveness returns I start to feel weaker and weaker. That's usually how it goes though, when one of us get sick we all get sick as whatever strain of that years illness makes its rounds through our house. And so we Lysol and we scrub.

I'm not sure if what I'm feeling is the result of the passing flu or if these are symptoms of another sickness that my body has been fighting for awhile now. And so when I need comfort, to feel well, and love, and I go to the only person whom I'm sure can put me at ease, my mom.

It's right there, in the middle of my conversation with her that I realize that it never really ends. Yes, the sicknesses may come and go but it never stops; a mothers need to nurture, support, care for, and love her children.

Cooking Up a Memory

Growing up in a large family with three younger brothers was joyful chaos. Though our home life was a far cry from the mannerly fashion of the Cleaver residence from the classic T.V. series Leave It to Beaver and more like the Connor family from Roseanne, my mother was the embodiment of June Cleaver when it came to cooking the most amazing meals night after night. Each day when I would come home from school she would be standing at the countertop kneading dough for the fresh, hot bread that would accompany a home cooked supper, or stirring homemade speghetti sauce that had been cooking on the stove all day long which was always made from the finest ingredients and prepared from scratch with plenty of love.

I was always eager to join in the process of cooking, and I will be forever grateful to my mother who always allowed me (after a thorough scrubbing of my grubby paws had taken place) to do just that. Though it was not the birth of my passion for cooking, it was certainly then that she began to lay the foundation for teaching me how to cook, a skill that has proven to be invaluable. But even more important than learning to master the perfect lasagna, or knowing just how long the rice ought to simmer before the lid should be lifted, were the fostering of affectionate moments and cherished memories I have come to treasure.

As a young child it was the self-satisfaction I gained as I was able to crack an egg into the bowl with one hand without the slightest shard of shell, or the pleasure I discovered in sampling the finished product, and especially in the overwhelming feelings of gratification and victory I gleaned as I watched loved ones enjoy my completed meal. As I became older, it became more about the experience of sharing in intimate and exclusive conversations with my mother while we carefully and lovingly produced our culinary creations together. I would confide in her, and she would share with me her wisdom about life, relationships and cooking; things which will remain infinitely intertwined for me.

Now as an adult with young children of my own, I allow them every opportunity to cook alongside me whenever they have the desire. There are times when they all want to have their hands in on the action and times when only one of my two children gravitate to the kitchen to participate. With each completed dish comes a memory and forever attached are those precious giggles when the cake batter goes flying from the thrashing beaters, the widening of eyes as the bread rises in the oven, the confidence they display when trusted to handle a “very important duty”, the smiles as they partake of their tasty concoctions. I love to be present while they cook up those same memories I did as a child, as all their senses are tickled with the delights of taking part in the sweet experience of “cookin’ with mama.” The messes are only temporary, but those tender impressions are for keeps.

A Self Centered Mother

This is me.
And I am a self-centered person.

My boys don't often get what they want and ask for, often because it is not in MY best interests.

And sometimes they are encouraged to things that would make ME happy.

My own mother liked to indulge, or so I thought growing up. It's only now, as an adult with children of my own that I can really see difference and she has taught me well. Because as the saying goes, if Momma ain't happy, then nobody is happy.

My own mother never signed my three brothers and I up for every single extra curricular activity under the sun that we often begged her to do, but rather only the ones we expressed genuine interest in. She didn't have to run all over town carting us too and fro, and we all never had to waste our time with something that we were less than passionate about. Except piano lessons ... I failed miserably at piano lessons. And I certainly am no girl scout, although 15 years ago I was convinced that I was.

My mom encouraged us to volunteer, saying that the experience would not only enrich our lives but also give her a quiet house for a few hours. Every summer for five years I volunteered at a local art center painting faces during their summer festival to raise funds. Not only did I have a blast there but I helped to support a cause that I was and still continue to be passionate about.

Mom always talked me into making handmade invitations for birthday parties and such. They were always so much prettier and the time and effort that was put into each one always reflected love. So now when I think back to her saying I don't think we can afford the fancy ones from the store this time, I see her ulterior motive.

Simple things like that let me see my mother for who she really is. She knew I would hate wasting my time with something stupid like gymnastics when I was younger, and she knew that I would find a home at the art center volunteering, and she also knew that I was a creative child and making those handmade invites was something I would enjoy, yet she never came right out and said those things, because truth be told if she was blunt about it all I would have scoffed and not listened.

So instead my mother put it all on herself, and acted as the self centered one simply so that I might enjoy life and enrich my spirit.

So now for my kids I will do as my mother did for me, feign self centered-ness.

Thank you Mom.

Hanging the Years on the Tree

That is me on my very first Christmas. I was only 3 months old. My mom and dad, who talk vividly about that day when they sees this picture say that I was so bald that the little bow wouldn't stay in my hair so they had to tape it to my head. Apparently that was also the first dress I ever really owned, that little red, fluffy corduroy thing there. I don't remember that day at all, or even most of the Christmas' that followed it, but with that ornament and my parents stories of that day, I'll always know just how loved and cherished I was and that my family celebrated being together that holiday.

We don't really have any fancy traditions around my house for Christmas.

I bake cookies. Endless amounts of cookies, all for our family, my parents and my brothers, and Mikes work. This year it was a 4 day process and I was burnt out after day one. I consider a tradition to be something that you enjoy doing each and every year ... and on day 3 as I was picking the dried dough out from under my fingernails and was covered head to toe in flour I certainly wouldn't have said that I fully enjoyed doing all of that baking. My mom used to bake for a week, playing her Time Life Christmas Classics Treasury record in the background while I would lick the beaters and taste test all of the yummy cookies. Now I'm so sick of baking all of those cookies that I most definitely don't want to eat them ... heck, I don't even want to look at them.

We always put up our Christmas tree sometime during the weekend after Thanksgiving, something that my parents did also growing up and I've carried over to my family. But Mike is allergic to Pine. I'm talking, deathly, will break out in bright red itchy hives if hes anywhere near so much as a pine scented candle let alone real pine. So our plastic tree comes out of a box in an assortment of branches and pegs. Its not packing the family into the car and hiking out into the woods of a Christmas tree farm with a hacksaw that I recall.

Around this time of the year, after all of the too soon (thank you stores for putting out Christmas decor in October and ruining the anticipation of the actual season for me!) nostalgia wears off I always get into a sort of Christmas funk. Things have changed so much from the magical holidays that I remember having when I was a child and I'm scared that my boys will look back as adults and feel the same way.

Our only real tradition is that each and every year we get a family ornament, nothing fancy, just something to mark the year. It all began in 2001 with Mike and I's first Christmas together. It was the only new thing we had on our tree that year and it stuck out as plain in a sea of bright and shiny vintage treasures. We've kept this tradition and this tradition alone up every single year.

In 2007 I didn't get our family a Christmas ornament. I was stuck somewhere in between trying to make the season special for the children and wanting to tell the world to stick it up their holly jolly bums. That was the year that my mom gave me my Baby's First Christmas ornament, which now hangs on my tree instead of hers. I needed the reminder of what it was that my family was celebrating year after year. It wasn't some fat guy in a red suit, it wasn't presents or turkey dinners. It was being with the ones that your loved. And so our tradition has a whole new meaning.

They are not just ornaments on the tree to mark the years, but reminders of what we celebrated that year, who we were with, and the love and blessings that we shared.

And when my kids are grown and jaded by the season, I will pass on their ornaments to them as my mother did to me.

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Originally posted at Oh Mandie

Oh Christmas Tree

The holidays are my favorite time of year because of all of the traditions involved; driving around in the car to find all of the decked out holiday lights, black Friday (because without it, I don't know how else I would get my online shopping done), the smell of the house from holiday baking and my personal favorite, the tree.

Tree huggers avert your eyes. While I am also a lover of trees, one time a year, I appreciate a single one even more, in all its fragrant glory in my living room (and I'm doing my part to support the local tree farming economy). :o) I love those first few days after bringing the tree in and the fresh pine scent permeating everywhere. Aaaahhhh. It smells like Christmas.

Jim and I have toyed with the idea of going "fake" but for our family, getting the Christmas tree is an event in itself. The kids start talking about it as soon as the last Thanksgiving plate has cleared. We usually go the first or second weekend in December because if we're going to spend the money, we're going to enjoy it as long as possible. Though, we have enoyed the tree a little too long before, and missed the Boy Scout pick up at the beginning of the year. Nothing more festive than a brown tree sitting in your backyard. :oP

Hunting for a tree is part of the fun. It's like house hunting, you'll know it when you see it and everything else just looks the same except "the one." Not too big but not too small, not too boring but not too funky; the one that's just right. This year, both girls gave the tree a hug once we found it. I'm not sure if it's because they were excited about the tree or thrilled that we were done because it was a little chilly outside.

In any event, we got it home and had our traditional hot chocolate before our little tree trimming party. The girls took turns putting up ornaments, and while it looked a little silly having everything hanging at the bottom, both of them stood back and marveled at the beautiful result. They were so proud. And it's warm fuzzy moments like that that make traditions something to look forward to. Though, sometimes, they seem like more trouble than they're worth, it's the memories you and your kids will keep that are priceless and so worth the extra effort.

Giving Love

Its December 25th, 2001 and Mike and I are broke. I'm talking all out, ramen noodle eating, broke. We weren't married yet and together we lived in a crappy townhouse on a very busy road, surrounded by some less than trustworthy neighbors.

That house was the first place that we lived together, the first place that we made into a nesting place of both of our likes, dislikes, interests, and hobbies. That house held our very first (fake - thank you husband who is allergic to pine) Christmas tree, our very first stockings, our very first holiday memories.

At the time I was working a crappy waitress job where I made next to nothing and Mike had just picked up an equally crappy seasonal job at the mall selling calenders after being laid off from the factory he was working at closed down. Together we accumulated stacks and stacks of bills, phone calls from debtors who wanted money, and a barely above negative balance in our bank account.

Times were hard, but we barely noticed.
We were together and therefore we were happy.

We didn't have much in the way of decorations, outside of a few donated boxes of garland and lights and a tree courtesy of my mother in law. But we made due. Together Mike and I would curl up on the couch and pop a movie in and make decorations for our tree out of things that we had around the house, old floral garlands that I had picked up over the summer from a yard sale, paper, ribbon, felt, and so forth.

We didn't have any presents for one another and the stockings that we had hung with care were empty. The extra money to burn on cliched tokens of affection for one another simply didn't exist that year so rather than divide our last few dollars up between up to buy each other presents we challenged each other to see what we could come up with using things around the house.

A few days before Christmas I got out all of my trusty scrapbook supplies and make Mike a book that listed 200 reasons why I loved him along with a few stories that I had written out documenting some of memories of ours, along with some pictures and quotes and other memorabilia like cards, movie ticket stubs and so forth.

All the while I was working on that Mike was in the basement working away on something that involved power tools, that much I knew from the sounds coming up the stairs. On Christmas he surprised me with the most beautiful spice rack that he had made out of some spare pieces of wood and an old medicine cabinet missing its door. He added shelves and a roof, and even a little hay loft and a coat of red paint. My husband is good with tools when it comes to cars, but he is no carpenter so my sweet little spice rack was crooked, the paint was streaking, and parts of it needed to be held together with extra nails and glue. It was absolutely perfect and is the best gift that I've ever received still to this day.

On Christmas morning our stockings were empty and there was only each others present under our tree, but we were so thankful and so happy.

That night we dined on left over turkey and ham made into sandwiches from his mothers Christmas Eve dinner the night before and for desert we had burnt sugar cookies thanks to our oven whose temperature was off by 25 degrees.

But we were together.

And this Christmas, with two children and times once again hard, but not that hard, we're once again taking the time to celebrate the most important gift that we can give to each other, our love.

Leaving Proof

Todays blog post is dedicated to the amazing Aleida Franklin.She was a wonderful wife, mother, scrapbooker, artist, and an inspirational blogger who often posted pictures of herself along with children for her readers to see. I didn't know Aleida personally, but she taught me something I will never forget.

Aleida prompted "Have you ever seen a photograph of your own mother and thought to yourself how fat she looked? Or how she wasn't wearing make-up? Or wasn't dressed in a glamorous outfit?"

Of course my answer was no.

She then responded with saying that she made it a goal to take a picture of herself with her children at least once every month. And that to use excuses about how we look, as women, is ridiculous, since our children will never care what we looked like, but only that we had physical evidence of the bond between mother and child.

Aleida tragically and unexpectedly passed away in an auto accident in September of 2008, leaving 2 small children and a grieving husband. After she passed I thought of how those children must feel to have those precious photographs.

I, along with many other women, have made it my personal goal to follow her wise suggestion and I try to take photos of myself with my children....double chins, make-up free, bed-head and all.

And so, if you want to take Aleida's Challenge, snap some pictures with your children and smile! And post 'em here to the official flickr group.

Originally posted on Nov 9, 2009 at Oh Mandie.

xoxo

Best Laid Plans

Planning.

There are so many clichés about making plans and setting goals for yourself. Something about having a "goal in life" is apparently supposed to make it easier to end up where you want yourself to be in life. I can personally attest that that is complete and utter bull sh*t.

I was 14 or 15 when I first laid out my life plans. Encouraged by an underpaid guidance counselor at my high school and teachers who were all trying to "lead me in the right direction", I scratched out a list of what it was that I wanted to accomplish in my life. It looked a little something like this:

1. Get out of this town.

2. Go to college somewhere great, like NYU or Berkeley

3. Get a masters or doctorate in creative writing.

4. See the world.

5. Have an amazing career, living in NYC and writing poetry.

6. Get married, preferably to Johnny Rzeznik (Singer of the Goo Goo Dolls).

I had plans. I never really stopped to consider if those plans were really my own or the echo of parents, friends, society with their notion of what defines success. But I was ambitious and I wanted to succeed.

My senior year in high school everything in my life was perfect and headed in the right direction. I was 17 and determined to start my life, my goals shifting slightly to include publishing a book of my poetry and going to college a little closer to home.

I sent in my applications and was accepted to a number to colleges, and was ready to start my life. I had my best laid plans all set out before me and I knew exactly where I was going to end up, even if the road had shifted from NYU to Penn State, I didn't care. My life was on track and I knew who I was and what I wanted.

One month after I got into my dream college, my father had an accident at work and broke his back, leaving him unable to do his job and my families bill unpaid. I did what any daughter would do in that situation. I freaked. I had a crappy part time job then working as the Burger King clown (I was in high school ok!!) and helped out financially as well as I could, but when it came time to send in the college the deposit for housing, it simple was not there to send.

And so I decided that I would take a year off before college and work and help out my family while my dad recovered. It was in this year that I had my rebellious streak, moved out of my parents house and in with my boyfriend and got engaged, pushing my plans back a little further. I've always known what I wanted and went after it. I'm impulsive. So when Mike asked me to be his Mrs. I said yes, and together we decided to get married as soon as possible seeing as there was no need for a long drawn out engagement. We were young and in love and knew that we would always be together. Like I said, impulsive.

Three months before our wedding we found out that I was pregnant, and then a month after that I almost miscarried. And right there, while holding on so desperately to that tiny heartbeat that laid beside my own, all of my best laid plans went out the window.

The scary thing about all those plans is that if soidmeone would have shown me this part of the destination, at least the part on paper, I'm positive I would have scoffed at it. No one plans to have not one but two extremely difficult pregnancies, go back to college full time while being a wife, mother, and working a crappy full time waitressing job, and then to develop an anxiety problem.

But if I did have to option to avoid the plans that have paved the road to my current life right now I would be missing out on the very few things that I am so sure of, my husband and my boys.

Nowadays my best laid plans are quite different.

1. Strive to be the best wife and mother that I can be.

2. Be happy.

I can say with certainty that it’s the unplanned things in my life that have proven to be the best.

Love for Daddy

I don't know about your husbands, boyfriends, partners, whoevers, but- my husband is amazing with our kids. Sometimes I forget just how much he loves them, until I'm uploading pictures and I'm able to look at my memories from a very different point of view.

The other day, Christopher (my husband) taught my daughter how to play hop scotch. At the time, I was multi tasking- taking pictures with one hand, pulling rocks out of the babies mouth with the other (seriously Charlie, you're going to break your teeth before they even peak through your gums), and keeping a very close eye on that spider off to the right, because I swear to God Mr. Spider, if you take even one step closer to me, its lights out. While doing all of that, I was thinking about what we'd eat for dinner (I've really been slacking with the meal planning), trying to visualize my to do list and what had or had not been checked off yet today, trying to piece together mental images of my homemade Christmas wrapping paper that I'm this close to completely blowing off, even though I know I'd regret it if I did, and ...wait, what was I saying? I'm doing it again. Ya know, playing brain ping pong.



So here I was, sitting in neon pink sweat pants, not having showered in days (who needs personal hygiene anyways?), finally settling down to organize a few pictures from the night before, when the "awwww" fairy smacked me across the face with her magical wand, and took the anger right out of my eyebrows.


Wow.

He really is a good father. He takes the kids outside when nobody asks him to. he just does it. Hes not afraid of, or ashamed, to pick up a piece of chalk and draw a sunshine for his daughter. He sings at the top of his tone deaf lungs, silly songs that make both of the kids erupt into fits of laughter (not because it sounds awful, either), because he'll do anything to make them happy.

Eleanore, who hadn't gone down for a nap after all (surprise surprise), pulled up a chair beside me, and together we looked through some pictures. After a few clicks of the mouse (note to self: put "mouse pad" on Christmas list) and a few explanations of how hop scotch works, since she still doesn't quite get it, we wrote a letter to Daddy-


*sigh*

Sometimes it just takes a different point of view to help you see the things that slip between the lines on your to do list .

...Wait a second. Where did that spider go?

Heros, Husbands, and Happy Dances

When my husband grabs our sons amidst shrieks of delight and tackles them with love and outlandish wrestling maneuvers en route to bed my heart wants to jump out of my body and do the happy dance.

He is their hero. I love that they get that. But he was mine first, even if it took me a while to figure that out.

My husband is not tall. He is, however, dark and handsome. But that’s where his resemblance to the Prince Charming of my favorite books and movies ends. It’s not that I expected him to swashbuckle, ride a horse or sport a suit of armor. My Prince Charming expectations were more subtle than that.

And it has taken me years to unravel and escape them.

I expected that a husband would intuitively know what I was thinking without needing to be told. I sulked when he couldn’t figure out what I wanted him to do and then sulked some more when he didn’t understand why I was sulking. I resented his inability to understand my whims. And no matter what his own day was like, I expected he would arrive home when the mood occurred to me just in time to sweep me off my feet with flowers and candlelight.

I did not expect all the extra dirty socks and dishes.

Because I had unwittingly bought what the movies were selling – silver screen romantic perfection wrapped up in the ability to please every unspoken desire in a neat 120 minute package – I was disappointed. I was also blind to the fact that I had reduced my husband to a means for accomplishing my own ends; whether those were candlelight dinners or simply involved a thorough cleaning of the bathroom. Either way, my happily ever after was not going as smoothly as expected.

My wake up call came in the midst of a loud and familiar argument about his failure to understand me when he yelled, “Well if that’s what you wanted me to do, why didn’t you just SAY SO in the first place.”

“Because that’s NOT ROMANTIC!” I yelled back.

And there it was staring me in the face. The choice. To be real or to be movie grade mysterious. The choice to be direct or to manipulate. The choice to come down from my tower, stop feigning distress, and meet him as an equal participant in our story. Or to make us both unhappy.

Slowly, grudgingly, I chose to share. I opened up my stash of secret wishes and spelled them out for him. And under his scrutiny, they did not melt. No, in his hands they became real. Suddenly, he didn’t have to imagine what I was thinking or feeling, what I hoped about our future or wanted him to say to me when I was sad. He had a roadmap. And so he could come to my rescue so much quicker and more efficiently than before.

It embarrassed me at first to be so open and direct. It made me feel vulnerable. But all I lost in the process was some of the weight of my pride – and let’s face it, who can’t stand to lose a few of those pounds. Don’t let the books put one over on you, happily ever after is a heck of a lot of work, particularly when you have kids thrown into the already crazy mix.

But when you do the work you wake up one day and find despite (or perhaps because of) the aches and pains that the man you married has grown into the man who makes your heart want to do the happy dance. He understands you because you worked hard to let him. He cherishes you because you’ve shared how much that matters. He unpacks the dishwasher because he knows it’s your least favorite chore. And right there, that’s what I now recognize as romance. And I discovered that it’s only when you’re not demanding it, that you find it staring you right in the face.

The End Of Breastfeeding

Charlie barely ate while he was sick with the H1N1 Virus, it made me crazy. I could get in maybe two breastfeedings a day, and solids were absolutely not an option, he just wasn't having it. He refused everything. Towards the end of the his flu, and the beginning of his pneumonia, his thirst returned x2, but in a much different way. Mid gulp, he'd turn his head away, letting milk spray him all over his face and body, soaking the couch and floor, whatever was within a few feet of me, and he'd just be done. I have whats called an overactive letdown (moms I'm sure some of you have experienced that, and maybe just laughed a little because you know exactly what I'm talking about). Basically what that means, for anybody that is new to breastfeeding terms (and I hope none of your are uncomfortable while reading this, I assume if you are, you'll just exit the page and come back another day?) is that my milk shoots out in the same strength of water blasting out of a pressure washer. No, really. Its insane.

I wanted to breastfeed Eleanore. I tried to, but my breast was easily four times larger than her tiny little head, and there were no nurses skilled in helping a mother with that large of a bust. I gave up with Eleanore all too easily, and made the decision to pump for her. I hooked myself up to my medela for 3 hours a day, for 6 months. After 6 months, when my chest was equal the size of an entire person, I threw in the towel and switched her to formula. I had done all that I could do, and with my next baby, I would try harder...

So anyways, he would turn his head mid feeding, start talking and laughing (goo goo gah gah type stuff), get down, and go play. "Seriously?" I'd say out loud, still holding my boob in one hand, sitting in a puddle of my own milk. "Just like that, you're done?". This happened a few times, the breast milk showers and ADD baby, so I chalked it up to "hes still not feeling well". It went from sometimes, to always. By the time he was completely recovered from his pneumonia, he was biting me. The first time he bit me (and man he bites hard), I firmly told him no, gave him a little pat on the cheek to enforce it (similar to that of a Mama cat correcting her kitten), and then watched my baby explode into a fit of tears and screams. "Did Mommy just yell at me?!", I could see his glossy eyes ask.

I sure as hell did. That hurt!

Feedings from then on got shorter, and farther apart. He used to wake up to eat twice a night (something that all the doctors scold us about), and as often as he could during the day. One night, he woke up at his usual time, but this time it wasn't to eat, it was to curse his top tooth that was causing the roof of his mouth to throb. "Poor baby. Come here, let Mommy sooth you with the breast".

He didn't want it.

"What? No, come here. Lets eat. Its eating time. You always eat right now, so lets eat. I'm awake, you're awake, you're crying, you're thirsty, I'm full of milk... it all works out. Lets eat".

He didn't want it.

"WHAT?! Mommy loves you! Please take my milk! I made it specially for you. Its right here. Lots of it. All for you. Eat baby, eat"!

No.

It took hours to soothe him back to sleep. The same thing happened the next night, only, instead of taking my milk, he went downstairs and ate two bowls of rice cereal. Can you imagine the sinking ship that went down inside of my heart? I was devastated. He had never, ever ever, taken solid food over my breast. Ever. The next night, same deal.

Meanwhile, I started pumping milk (dusted off the ol' Medela from Eleanore's baby days). Charlie had never had a bottle (maybe three or four times total), and had never touched a sippy. I could tell he was getting dehydrated, having gone from drinking nearly a gallon a day to absolutely zilch. We worked on getting him used to a Nuby cup, increased his intake of solids (his stomach must have quadrupled in size), and after 6 days of my son refusing my breast, I've accepted the fact that he is done breastfeeding.

The funny thing is, because I'm really trying to see the bright side of things right now, is that a week or so ago, I took my very first breastfeeding picture. I had always wanted a special photo of the bond that Charlie and I shared (and until you breastfeed your child, you could never possibly understand how strong this bond truly is, I learned that in the first few days after he was born). I had brought the camera into the bedroom, and one night while he dozed off in my lap, drinking peacefully, I snapped a picture. A perfect picture. A picture that would capture every emotion that I had felt during the past 10 months of our 3am feedings.

So thats that. The End of Breastfeeding.

(If you want to see that picture, than I welcome you to click over to my personal blog, where I originally posted this.)

Did you breastfeed? If so, how long? Did your baby wean himself? Did you have a hard time making the transition? I'd love it if you'd share your story...

For the Love of Brothers

Brayden’s first words to his newborn baby brother upon arriving home from the hospital were, “Paper Towel Gage Michale, I wuv 'ew!” Followed by the biggest of smooches. The sweet, sloppy kind that only an four year old can perfect. A tender and sweet memory that I will cherish forever.

(Back story: When I was pregnant with Gage Brayden in a small fit of jealousy asked if there was anything that he was allowed to do to help with the arrival of his new baby brother. I asked him what he would like to do to which he replied that he wanted to help name the baby. He then proceeded to dub Gage with the name Paper Towel, all proud of himself because that would be the babies new name and he picked it out all by himself. For 4 months of my pregnancy and for 6 months after he was born, Brayden happily referred to his brother - despite our many attempts - as Paper Towel)

A year into this bond of brotherhood, I also admit there are a few memories that have thankfully not been memorialized. Like the snatching of toys, the subtle or not-so-subtle moments of “I want most of the attention… like right now!,” and the day that Gage realized he’s also got a touch of the family spunk after all. Actually, it was a Sesame Street remote with a little something called whopping one’s big brother upside the head.

Ah, me. I have visions of more toy snatchings, pummellings, and “But, he hurt my feelings!” to come. And that's ok because I'm it not for the loyalty. The fierce loyalty already surfaces from their little, big hearts.

Every morning, almost without fail, Gage wakes up about an hour or so before Brayden. As soon as he rolls out of bed and sleepily shuffles his way into my bedroom Gage asks me where Brayden is, still in too much of a sleep stupor to realize that his brother was in the top bunk bed fast asleep when Gage woke. This continues until I wake Brayden up so that he can get ready for school. And then once Brayden gets on the school bus at 8:08am every morning, Gage repeatedly asks for his big brother and when he'll be home until the school bus rolls back up to the front of the house at 3:45pm.

It is, however, a two sided story. When we’re out in public and someone asks Brayden for his name or strikes up a conversation with us he typically replies with, “That’s my brother, his name is Gage.” When we’re playing or driving in the car with our extended family Brayden will randomly announce, “Gage is my brother. Did you know? My brother.” And when I put Gage in a time-out of sorts for bopping Brayden, the older of the two has an immortal fit with wails of, “My brother! Don’t put him in time-out! He'll be very, very sad!”

Already they seem to get inside jokes that we don’t quite understand. When they exchange knowing kinds of smiles I’d like to think that in a way I know what they’re saying, “I get you, old friend. In fact, I don’t even remember life without you. Whether we hug or have it out, we’re in this thing together. Yep, I love you."

I’d like to think those are the kinds of smiles they’ll be giving each other from ages 0 and 4 to 80 and 84 and so on and so on.

I'm a Ninja

I'm a Brayden and Gage ninja.

Brayden and Gage are my children and I know everything that there is to know about them. I know that nothing makes Braydens day quite like when I tell him that we're having tacos for dinner. I know that Gage likes to line up all of his little wooden trains in the window sill and play in the sunlight. I know that Brayden likes to sing songs when he thinks that no one is listening and I know that Gage doesn't particularly care for macaroni and cheese.

Not only do I know the facts about my children, but I also know that Gage prefers Nickelodeon to the Disney Channel, and Brayden's newest pastime is reading the Capt. Underpants books. Gage is a klutz who trips over his own two feet and walks into walls, but never cries and a kiss from mom is all it takes to make a boo boo all better. Brayden very much loves everything having to do with Star Wars and has a small crush on the girl who stars in iCarly on tv. Gage is independent, while Brayden would rather have a playmate. Brayden is willing to try new things while Gage is stubborn. They are both full of love and affection, forgiveness and strength.

Study all you want, you'll never know more about them than I do. I'm a Brayden and Gage ninja, and if you're a mom, then you are someones ninja too.

There is more to my boys than their doctrine and their characteristics. I hold their little hands and I feel their gentleness and trusting adoration. When they wake up and say Good Morning to me I can gauge whether or not they had a good and peaceful nights sleep, if they were restless, or if a dream was had, all simply from the words Good Morning. I can look at my children in a crowd and know what they are wondering and on occasion I can finish their sentences. I know their daily requests even before they are made, and I know when a loving squeeze is needed by reading the tiny change in expression on their faces. I've been soaking up Brayden and Gage's attitude, demeanor, personality and manner for years now. They are not like anyone else to me, and I can pick out their individual voices and presences even before I've consciously heard or seen either of them. You do the same thing with people you love. And because we know them this well, we are not the same -- they have influenced us.

I'm a mom.

I'm a ninja.

Sunshine and the Leopard

The weight of being a mom is almost always noticeable on my shoulders. It can be quite heavy or quite light, all depending on how I choose to carry it.

Every single night before Brayden drifts off to sleep he has to snuggle up in bed with one of his two favorite stuffed animals, leaving the other one to have a "sleepover" in the bottom bunk bed with Gage, who is more than happy to have a cuddle buddy for the night.

Brayden made Sunshine during a family vacation to Va Beach in the summer of 2006. I was five months pregnant with Gage at the time and one evening after spending the day at the ocean we all went to the local mall in an effort for me to beat the heat by still be out and enjoying myself with my family rather than be cooped up in a hotel room. It was there that we saw it, Kid Heaven. $50.00 later Sunshine the beach bear was born courtesy of the Build a Bear Workshop. He came home with us complete with swimming trunks, a tank top, a Hawaiian print over shirt, sandals, and a bucket hat, most of which has been removed and since lost. It was love from the time that Brayden stuck that plush red heart into his new best friend. The two have been inseparable ever since.

Brayden got his next buddy on yet another vacation to Va Beach in 2007, this time from the gift shop of the local zoo there. Back then, when he was younger and still enamored by pre-k television spending his "pocket money" at the zoo shop was the highlight of Brayden's vacation, courtesy of Charlie and Lola. It was there that Brayden picked out a super soft and super cuddly stuffed leopard. For a little over two years now, in addition to Sunshine, Brayden and that plush leopard have been the best of friends, sleeping together, watching cartoons together, sitting at the table for dinner together, and so forth.

The one thing that Brayden never did to that stuffed animal was give him a proper name. No Cuddles, No Lenny the Leopard, or any other cute and catchy names in which a small child might give to a stuffed animal. Brayden simply refers to him as his Son.

This is where my life gets heavy. In the total normal act of a child bonding with a toy I see how my son watches his father and I and comprehends our own parenting skills, transforming them into a daily routine of this very own between him and his Son. Brayden wants to be a parent as a direct result of the examples he has been given.

Brayden is watching me and I act now, with even the simplest of things, will directly influence the rest of his life, and his children's lives, and so on down the line. I have a responsibility to that little boy and to the future generations of my family to be the best mom that I can be. And as the direct example, I have a responsibility to that leopard as well.

Take a Moment and Hug Your Kids a Little Tighter

I'm taking a break from my normal snarkiness today; don't worry, I'm sure it will return. I feel compelled to share a personal story that has touched me deeply and will no doubt continue to affect me for years to come. I wanted to introduce you to my dear friend, Diana Brookins.

I met Diana, several years ago, doing community theatre. Her mother, Kim, had started a local theatre called HART, and she and I met doing a play there. Diana was in a grade ahead of me at school, but her brother, Jeremy, was my age. She and I bonded, and continued meandering in and out of each others lives as we traveled paths that occasionally intersected. We always picked up right where we left off. Imagine our surprise, when on one such occasion, we both found ourselves to be pregnant and due within a week of each other. We immediately started making play date plans and as luck would have it, we were both having girls.

While my pregnancy was less than desirable, with the constant morning/noon/night sickness, mine couldn't even hold a candle to what Diana went through. Around 16 weeks, Diana found out she had gall stones that were serious enough to need surgery to remove. What appeared to be a successful surgery had horrific repercussions. Something went wrong and Diana suffered numerous infections and 9 more surgeries, including gastro-intestinal reconstruction, to correct the initial surgery. She endured all of this while pregnant, refusing to terminate the pregnancy, even though it could potentially save her life.

On July 17th, Julia Bell was born via cesarean, very premature, but it was necessary as Diana had kidney, liver and heart failure due to a staph infection. A heart valve transplant was imminent and crucial. However, the doctors decided to hold off on the transplant and let her go home.

Diana died July 25th, at home, but not before she was able to hold her baby for the first and last time. She was 25 years old.

Why am I telling you this? Because while I lost my friend, Kim lost her daughter and Jeremy lost his sister, it's Julia who has suffered the most, because she lost her mother and she'll never know how wonderful her mother was firsthand. I'm telling you, because she'll hear about all of the great things her mother did and the beautiful person that she was, but her mother will never be there to tuck her in at night or read her her favorite story. I'm telling you, because her mother will miss her first day of school and she won't be there to comfort Julia when she has her first broken heart. I'm telling you, because her mother will miss her prom, her wedding and the birth of her own first child.

I'm telling you, because we need to hug our own children a little tighter tonight.... because we can.

While it saddens me to reminisce, I often find myself thinking of Diana when I've had an especially hard day with the kids. Because even though my job might suck at times, I know Diana would give anything to be here for Julia and I feel very fortunate to be here for my children. And I hug them a little tighter. Diana will never know how many lives she has touched and, who knows, perhaps she has touched just a few more.

Julia Bell

Pictures taken from an online memorial.

An Interview With a 3.5 Year Old

I saw this interview and thought it would be fun to try out on Gracie, which I did back in April. It doesn't matter how old your little kiddo is, as long as they are of talking age. So go on and try these questions out on them! You'll be laughing at their answers, to be sure!

My interview with Gracie:

1. What is something mom always says to you?
Don't run away

2. What makes Mom happy?

Being a good listener

3. What makes Mom sad?

Bedtime and naptime

(oh, yeah right!)

4. How does your mom make you laugh?

From making silly faces

5. What was your mom like as a child?

Like a baby

6. How old is your mom?

This many (holds up five fingers)

I'm five?

Yeah. Five

7. How tall is your mom?

Like a giant

(seriously, I'm 5'2'' and the shortest person in my family, including my 13 year old cousin)

8. What is her favorite thing to do?

Play with me

9. What does your mom do when you're not around?

Play with my toys

(um.... no)

10. What is your Mom very good at?

Drawing

11. If Mom became famous what would it be for?

{Gracie begins to cry}

Why are you crying?

Because I don't want you to be famous! I want you to be my mommy!

Gracie, seriously. Stop crying. If I went on TV, what do you think I'd be doing.

Being on a cooking show

(for what, making macaroni and cheese and chicken nuggets?)

12. What is your mom not very good at?

Not good at doing the alphabet

13. What does your mom do for her job?

Work with Angie

(Angie is the gal who does my prints, and one of Gracie's favorite people)

14. What is your mom's favorite food?

Spaghetti

(It really isn't. We just eat spaghetti all the time because it is quick and cheap)

15. What makes you proud of your mom?

Taking a shower

(exactly what is she trying to say here?)

16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?

Ariel

(she’s right, I would choose Ariel)

17. What do you and your mom do together?

Play tag and paint

18. How are you and your mom the same?

Because we have hair

19. How are you and your mom different?

Because we are different than penguins

20. How do you know your mom loves you?

Because you lick me and you’re my friend

(yes, that says LICK not LIKE. Apparently I lick her)

So come on, mamas. Grab a paper and pen, and interview your kiddos. You just never know what is going to come out of their mouth.

Enjoy!

xoxo,