Reilly and me

Last week, Hubby and I finally made it out, alone, to the movies (unlike all the other parents at nine o'clock on a Friday night who apparently consider The Curious Case of Benjamin Button to be a children's movie - "Look! he's an old-man baby! Cute.") to see Jennifer Aniston's new opus, Marley and Me. While we were afraid it was going to be full of madcap dog humor if the commercials were any indication (yes, he's running away again, we get it already), we simply loved the book so much we had to go. Well, and because we have a Marley of our own.

The movie turned out to be amazing. Rather than being a highlights reel from America's Funniest Home Videos audition tapes, the plot centered largely on the trials of a young couple getting married and starting a family. Hubby and I were prepared to see a mildly sentimental comedy, but instead we watched a snapshot of our lives unfold on screen, including an excruciatingly accurate representation of my own miscarriage, and the struggle to accept the roles of financially-burdened-professionally-frustrated-young-father and formerly-career-driven-now-willingly-stay-at-home-mother. We watched these characters change from children to adults and felt like we had seen our lives in fast-forward. Of course, there was the dog. And since, as you can see by the photo above and this posts' title, this movie made me take pause and recognize for the wonderful canine he is, my Reilly.

Like Marley, Reilly is a slightly overweight, food obsessed, perpetually adolescent, yellow Labrador Retriever. And, like Marley, Reilly was our first born. After a year of unsuccessful reproduction attempts, we decided to shelve the whole thing and get a dog. I think the pregnancy test came back positive three days after we sent the check to the breeder.* So I spent the first few months of Reilly's life trying not to vomit for two reasons as I cleaned massive piles of crap. But we were in love with all of his quirks, like the way he slept curled on our pillows, with his bottom on Hubby's and his head on mine (the other way and that set up would not have lasted a week). Especially memorable was the evening I came home to discover he had opened the closet door and ate his way through half a bulk-sized bag of kibble and found him, literally, with his ass sticking up out of the bag as he continued to eat his way south. We took him for long walks in the park and smiled in a self-congratulatory manner when strangers stopped to exclaim over his extreme cuteness.

And then the inevitable happened - our first child was born - and thus began Reilly's rapid descent down the totem pole of our family. What was once cute now drove me to the brink of insanity. The energetic pulls on the leash made it impossible to walk him with the baby. His overly-sensitive bark reflex woke the whole house during naptime with frustrating regularity. There is a scene in the movie that is so true to my life I might sue. Jennifer Aniston has just gotten all three of her kids, including a newborn, down for naps and lies down exhausted on the bed, with the dog, to nap herself, when she hears the beep of the garbage truck backing up. She puts a gentle hand on the dog. "Marley, no", she whispers. Two seconds pass and the dog erupts into a fit of barking, scrabbling down the hallway, across the hardwood floors, to the windows, and immediately, all the children are awake and crying. If I have a dime for every time that has a happened to me, instead of a pathetic blog, you'd be reading the book I had paid childcare-time to write.

Equally as accurate, was Aniston's reaction. She, of course, goes berserk on the dog, and when the husband gets home, threatens the canine's ejection from the family. Hubby almost died when Owen Wilson told the dog, "You gotta cool it. Do you hear her? She's gonna kill you. We're both hanging by a string here, pal." Sadly, Reilly has suffered much verbal abuse for nap-ending barking, stealing neglected bags of Goldfish and, embarrassingly, if I really want to be honest, for simply having needs.

While there have been major transgressions, like the chewing-up-a-purple-gel-pen-all-over-oatmeal-colored-carpeting episode of 2004, watching this movie I realize that my reaction to Reilly is often angry because I simply can not handle one more thing on my plate. I can't handle his whining to go out when the baby is removing every pot from the cabinets and my oldest is trying to do homework all while I am trying to cook dinner. He didn't ask to be a member of such a large family and, although he loves it, he gets the short end of the stick I never have time to throw for him anymore because we are spread so thin. But basically, he is a good dog.

After getting used to the idea that this red, screaming bundle wasn't leaving and was pretty important to us, Reilly grew to love my kids with a ferocity that can best be pictured when he, literally, can not be separated from me when I am walking with the stroller or when we are out with the kids. My father tried to take the dog back to the house one time when we decided to continue up the street to the playground. He had to physically pick Reilly up and carry all one hundred pounds of him. When the kids have playdates with their friends, the majority of whom do not have a large beast living in their homes, Reilly just sits there with a, "Will you please do something about this?" look on his face, as kids straddle him and ride him like a pony. He has endured hours of each of my firs two kids pulling at ears and poking at eyes during varying stages of infanthood and yet he lays still as my last one uses him to reach a standing position.

But the worst is, no matter how angry I get, no matter how many times I forget I have moved his water bowl to the counter because the baby is using it as a wading pool, or feed him an hour late because I'm too busy with the kids, he loves me. He loves us. Last night, I was putting the baby to bed and afterward, could not find the dog. I heard him whining, but he was not outside or stuck behind the closed baby gate in the basement. Distracted by bathing my other two, it wasn't until thirty minutes later I realized he was still in the baby's room. Rather than bark and wake Little Man, he waited. Now that? Is Reilly.

So, thank you, Reilly, for being the dog you are. You definitely don't get the attention you deserve and if anyone is going to open the gates of hell for me, you are. For every missed walk and screamed curse. But here's hoping, Buddy, you live long enough for all the kids to be in school all day and you and I can go back to our beginnings. Long walks, lots of petting and, I promise, you can bark all you want and I won't even yell.

*Yes, we used a breeder. I didn't want some dog the ASPCA swore up and down was half Lab biting my future offspring's face off.

If You Give a Mommmy a Cup of Coffee

Based on the book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. Dedicated to all parents out there who lives, like mine, lack any linearity.

If you give a mommy a cup of coffee, she's going to want some milk to put in it.

When she opens the refrigerator and takes out the milk, her middle daughter will ask for some.

After she gives her daughter the milk, her child will proceed to spill the milk all over the kitchen floor.

She will clean the spill up off the floor, using the last of the paper towels. She'll run to the laundry room to get more.

While she's in the laundry room she'll notice the huge pile of laundry she's been meaning to fold all week. She'll start folding.

A few minutes later her older daughter will find her and ask for a snack. She'll go back upstairs and wash some grapes.

Her daughter will take the grapes into the living room and, moments later, the baby will grab the bowl, left unattended on the coffee table, and drop them all over the floor.

She will go into the living room, clean up the grapes, and daughter #2 will ask her to read Harold and the Purple Crayon.

After reading the book to all three kids, struggling to keep the baby from ripping the pages, her daughters will ask to draw a picture like Harold in the book.

She will go into the kitchen to search the junk drawer for three intact purple crayons. While the kids are drawing in the kitchen she will realize it's lunch time. She'll make lunch.

After instructing her kids, five times, to wash their hands, she will finally get them to the table. Eating their peanut butter sandwiches and baby carrots, her daughters will tell her they are thirsty.

She will go the refrigerator to get them something to drink. She'll take out the milk.

And chances are if she takes out the milk, she might remember the coffee to go with it.

I love a hangover.

OK, OK, I know I sound like a complete alcoholic with that title, but it's true.
I am, now, finally over the hangover that resulted from my belated birthday celebration, pictured left (What's with the finger? Do I think I'm at the Super Bowl?). Yes, I'm aware my birthday was in December, and while I did have a lovely day, I have put myself among the ranks of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, and each year I select a date in January for "Mary's Birthday Observed". There's nothing I love more than a party and given the slightest reason I will throw one. And since, as you all know, I live in the tiniest house ever, and I barely have time to keep my family fed and dressed, never mind shop, clean and cook for a party, the majority of my gatherings have been outsourced as of late.

So this Saturday, Hubby and I headed to Hoboken with a bunch of friends to visit some of our old watering holes and generally make asses out of ourselves. Well, I did anyway (at least I didn't wind up on stage with the band like I did last year). Yes, S, I do know all the words to Timbaland's "The Way I Are" and, no, I am not embarrassed I almost got into a fight with those bitches who were getting into the car we had called.

Once we got home, Hubby and I managed to not totally embarrass ourselves in front of the babysitter. I think have perfected my "I'm not drunk" face, but I'm sure if I saw video I would see I was spectacularly unsuccessful in my deception. Hubby gives me away as he fumbles around looking for cash to pay her and finally gives up, shoving a wad of bills into my hands and stumbles down the hall to bed. I managed to get to bed around two thirty and was able to amass four hours of drunken unconsciousness (because we all know that's really not sleep as you wake up every hour to suck down a glass of water) before our eldest rooster-child came in to wake us at six thirty.

So yesterday, obviously, was not my most productive Sunday ever. There was much Wow Wow Wubbzy watched and breakfast consisted of things Hubby and I could pour quickly into bowls so we could crawl back to the couch to resume our prone position. Mercifully, my amazing brother in-law and his fabulous girlfriend, who stayed out later than we did indcientally, took the girls for the whole afternoon as a birthday gift to me.

This was the part of the day where I got to fully embrace my hangover and indulge it in all the ways I was able to before I had kids. Hangovers are great because unlike being truly sick, you know the pain is short-lived. You also have the right, I feel, to indulge your very whim. With the older children gone, Hubby and I were able to watch bad TV, since the baby is too little to ask what sodomy is while watching Law & Order*, and eat ridiculous amounts of junk food. I am not embarrassed to admit I ate an entire box of munchkins and was actively annoyed when I reached the bottom.

Hangovers also give you the right to nap copiously, which we did with abandon. We were serious about it and got fully under the covers and I even put on my eye mask. Hubby points this out as, yet another, aspect of my life in which I am high-maintenance, requiring an eye cover to sleep. He loves the quote from When Harry Met Sally, "You think you're low-maintenance, but really you're really high-maintenance." To which I reply, "No, I know I'm high-maintenance, I just think I deserve to be."

The day was all about indulgence and relaxation and it was freaking amazing. While I don't plan on drinking seven (OK, ten) glasses of champagne again any time in the near future, indulging in a hangover day can be really fun - when you can get someone to take your offspring. We ended the day with a bang, or should I say a meatball parm and pint of guacamole with chips, and three episodes of Rescue Me. And while I did enjoy yesterday fully, today is a bit of a let down. But I guess it's not every day you get to eat your body weight in donuts.

* You all know my baby-as-purse- philosophy

I Heart U, Michelle

I am so thoroughly, completely tired of hearing about Tuesday's inauguration. Yes, it was crowded, yes, it was wonderful, but, GOD, enough already. More reports about Michelle Obama's outfits? Well, I'm not really tired of those yet.

I totally, unabashedly have a woman-crush on The First Lady. In fact, without even considering ther politics, I'm a little in love with both the Obamas. Their witty give and take during interviews (loved during the Babs Walters interview Michelle questioning a statement Barack made, "When do you do dishes?"), the fact that she fell in love with him when he was poor and driving a car with a hole in the floor on the passneger side, and the clearly apparent fact they can not live without each other (see left), along with the skinny guy with big ears and tall/big gal thing remind me of me and Hubby. Conceited? Sure, but I don't care, they make me happy and want to kiss my husband when I see them fist bump.

But Michelle is who really rocks my world. Of course, having a similar body type - little smaller on the top with some junk down south - I love every single thing she wears. Well, except for that palazzo pant debacle, but we all need to experiment once in a while. She has all the class and style of Jackie Kennedy minus the snobby, bitch thing. J. Crew rather than Givency. And unlike other political wives, she lets us see her when she's not looking her best. Early morning at the polls Election Day? A ponytail and long-sleeved t-shirt , it's six in the morning for Christ's sake!

Even if she looked a hot mess, I would still love Michelle because of what she stands for. When I read, on a website, what she said during an interview, she stated so clearly how I feel about my own life I almost wept:

"O'Brien wondered how Michelle felt about following a dream that wasn't hers. She asked about leaving a "high-powered and highly compensated" career. Michelle acknowledged the challenges. She graciously offered that she missed her colleagues and her work. But, she continued, she could always find another career. With only the slightest hint of irony, she said if she had more time, she might bemoan the loss, but she "had a lot on her plate" and what she was doing was "pretty significant." O'Brien continued, "But sometimes your career helps to define who you are," she said, probing. "It doesn't for me," Michelle said immediately. "What I do in my life defines me. A career is one of the many things I do in my life. I am a mother first. Where do I get my joy and my energy first and foremost? From my kids."

Thank you, thank you, dear God, for sending us a First Lady of this caliber. She is the kind of woman I aspire to be - strong, intelligent and, most of all, seemingly confident in her choices. She is the perfect examply of my "taking turns" philosophy (as are the Clintons, as you can see Hilary is having her turn now, but they make me want to puke, with their loveless-keeping-up-appearances marriage, so let's not mention them, shall we?). On those days when I feel I can't wait for my go at the larger world any longer, I will turn my thoughts to Michelle, becasue she is not only making this sacrifice for the good of her own children, but for the good of a country, some of whom are not thanking her for the effort. And while your politics may differ, you can not deny, she is an example for little girls and women everywhere.

Especially with that one-shoulder number. Word!

Not my proudest moment...

And the complete antithesis to yesterday, I came down the basement stairs returning to Little Man who I'd left in the playroom while I ran up to the girls' room to quell a Polly Pocket skirmish, to find him waddling around holding a Chapstick (where the hell did he find that?) with a mouth stuffed full of dog food which he had, apparently, pilfered from the half-open bag in the laundry room. And he actually cried when I pried it from his mouth.

I am awesome!

Some days I get it right...

To deviate from my usual pattern of self-abuse and denigration, I have a proclamation to make. At the risk of sounding five years old:

I AM PROUD OF MYSELF TODAY.

What momentous events transpired to bring about this change in thought pattern? Did I cure a disease? Did I find a way to make donuts negative in calories? Sadly, no. What did I do? I looked for, and found, a Tasha Backyardigans sticker (yellow hippo-like being pictured, left).*

I know, pfft, big deal.


This afternoon, I found the energy, despite having been up since five o'clock in the morning, to drag all three kids to Barnes and Noble for their four-thirty story hour instead of doing what I wanted to do which is park them in front of Max and Ruby while I drink a gallon of coffee. This sojourn entails getting #1 through her homework in a timely fashion, keeping her focused, without yelling, as I so desperately want to, "If you'd stop fucking around with your eraser you'd be done by now!", stuffing a snack down #2's throat, and wrestling the baby into the car for the tenth time today which he's not at all psyched about.

Once we arrive at the book store, I have to shuck everyone of their eighty-five layers of outerwear, negotiate the girls' finding seats on the rug where twenty over-sugared-under-supervised four to seven year olds roll around willy-nilly with nary a parent or nanny in sight to tell them to sit on their ass or have it handed to them, so my kids, who are sitting cross-legged (formerly known as Indian-style for the un-PC) the way they should be, can see. Toot, toot, yes, that's the sound of my own horn.

Once story time begins, and the Storybook Lady passive-aggressively tells parents to get a handle on their kids, I undertake the Herculean task of keeping Little Man entertained in the stroller for thirty-five minutes, after which I will allow him to use the germ-laden marketing ploy, otherwise known as the train table (conveniently surrounded by Thomas merchandise). Showing him board books works for a while, but not for long, as someone who has finally just mastered the use of his legs for locomotion, he is eager to explore the terrain and wreak all the havoc he can.

Fast forward said thirty-five minutes, and I am a sweaty mess having unwisely emancipated LM from the stroller early and spent the duration of storytime chasing him around, reshelving books, and checking to be sure the girls haven't been abducted, since in this day and age, if your children are more than fifty feet from you Child Protective Services can be called. While gathering my offspring, Storybook Lady asks the girls if they'd like stickers and seeing they are of their favorite TV show, The Backyardigans, joy erupts. Stickers stuck on coats we re-cocoon ourselves and head out into the tundra of the parking lot.

Half-way through the asphlat gaunlet my oldest shreiks, "MY STICKER IS GONE!" Now the Storybook Lady gave me some extras, but I know they are not of her favorite character. I am exhausted and cold and it is dangerously close to dinner time so Little Man will be getting his crab on shortly. But I look at her face and remember how getting the exact sticker you wanted could make your day and losing said sticker could ruin it, so I turn the whole brood around and pray said prize is in the parking lot. No such luck. Shit. Now I have to drag them back into the store, through the two sets of double doors, which apparently are sight-stealing portals as no one ever notices me, or offers me a hand, as I try to hold the door open with my ass, shove my older ones through and follow them with my battle wagon of a stroller.

We get through the doors, and since I'd sooner stick hot needles in my eyes than drag all three kids through the entire store again, having them stop to inspect every book they see, I instruct the girls through clenched teeth, "Stay here. DO NOT MOVE." and park them next to the checkout comforting myself with the fact I used to walk ten city blocks on my own at my oldest's age and assuming if anyone tried to nab them , the pox-faced, nineteen year old behind the counter might look up from his text messaging and notice.

Little Man and I arrive in the children's department and right there on the carpet, face down, are not one, but two stickers. I grab them and neither one of them are my daughter's. Sweet, chocolate Christ! I have exhausted all my options and I realize I will have to deal with tears and hope the acquisition of two wrong stickers rather than one right one will soften the blow. I return to my, non-kidnapped, children and show #1 my findings, at which point #2 looks down at her coat and exclaims, "Those are mine!", never having noticed they were missing in the first place. My first-born, looking crest-fallen, bows her head in dismay, at which point I notice her goddamn sticker is stuck in her hair. I point this out, return #2's stickers, this time to the inside of her coat and mercifully, mercifully, we make our way home.

So why, dear readers, am I so proud of myself? Why? Because I didn't snap. I didn't tell my daughters to just deal with it and chalk it up to one of life's many disappointments which they will have to learn to accept. And while that is a valuable lesson to learn, I am proud of the fact that today, despite my exhaustion, despite it being the second night in row Hubby would not be home to help with the kids, and I knew another long night of baths and tooth-brushing and stories awaited me, I chose the harder of the two options and made my kids happy. And while that may not always be the case and they will have to learn to deal with disappointment, today, I was able to make it everyting right.

Today I felt like a good mother.

*I also ended the day by replacing my broken treadmill motor by myself, with no manual,which involved way more axle grease than anticipated and almost pinning myself under the thing turning it on its side, but I did it! I rocked it today.

"COLORS OF THE WORLD..."

"SPICE UP YOUR LIFE...EVERY BOY AND EVERY GIRL!"

Come on, you know the words.  Do not try to reclaim the brain space that the Spice Girls' 1997 smash hit "Spice Up Your Life" has claimed.  Have you seen that commercial where the thirty-something woman goes running, with her husband driving along side her, providing running music, blasting, "Wannabe"?  Genius, because  that is exactly who still listens to this pap - and I am one of them.  This is precisely the scenario in which I indulge my penchant for over-produced girl groups and I nearly peed in my pants after seeing this commercial, picturing the numerous mornings I have spent on the treadmill with Mel B screaming in my ear.

The Spice Girls are one of my many guilty pleasures along with Bridezillas, Nicholas Cage action movies and leftover spaghetti with Ragu fried in butter.  And while I might not be spinning their hits in the van with any regularity (not even the flames could overcome that blow to my cool rating, which as we all know, is close to zero in that behemoth), I refuse to be ashamed of what I consider to be pure cotton candy, fun music.  In fact, I think the Spice Girls themselves have a lot to offer - I mean in their 90's incarnation, not the current Eddie Murphy-suing-baby-mama-drama-creating-Dancing-with-the-Stars incarnation of the 00's.  It was genius to have different elements of a woman personified, to be highlighted and celebrated.  Even if some were slightly off the mark - or completely absent.

In case you are unfamiliar with the personae of the SG, there is Sexy Spice, Scary Spice, Sporty Spice, Posh Spice and Baby Spice.  Sexy Spice was played by fiery redhead, Geri Halliwell, and while I absolutely l-o-v-e that Union Jack bustier get-up, I take issue with her being called Sexy Spice and thought she could have been called, Most Women after Four Glasses of Wine Spice because all she really was was loud and lacking a verbal filter.  She was hot though.  As for Scary Spice, played by Melanie Brown, I guess she was scary.  I mean the animal print clothing and the wild hair sure meant to imply that, "Oooh, leopard print!  Watch out!", but I thought she was more Everybody's Loud Friend Spice.  She's the friend who attracts a bunch of guys when you're out.  And not the right kind.  She really likes karaoke.

Following behind the glaring spotlight of those two media whores, were two pretty straight-forward characters.  Posh Spice, Victoria Beckham, before the anorexia and the tragic loss of her ability to smile, was the lady of the group, representing women's feminine, well-mannered side.  Sporty Spice was the jock of the group.  Sporty!  A British term I l-o-v-e which I think we need to use with much more frequency in the U.S.  "She's sporty", rather than, "She's sort of dyke-y in the sports way, but otherwise, totally straight."  

And finally, the repellant Baby Spice.  Other than giving the seven year-old demographic a Spice Girl to identify with, I see no purpose for this particular character.  Anyone who does has major Daddy issues and needs to find a shrink stat.

I think every woman has a percentage of each Spice Girl in her personality.  Of course, omitting Baby Spice (meh).  I think a better substitution would have been to create Brainy Spice.  You know, do the whole "hot librarian" thing, all horn-rimmed glasses and short tweed skirt.  So the next time you're putting music on your iPod, consider downloading "Spice Up Your Life" and imagine yourself in all these different roles seeing who's in your head.  You might be inspired to let one of your other sides take the reigns for the day.  

Now where did I put that bustier...

Coming soon to a theater near you...

I can't believe I lived through this week with my sanity intact, my children not (truly) emotionally scarred, and my husband alive. Thank, thank you, dear Lord, it is Friday. In the spirit of celebration, I thought I would share with you a game you can play as you meet friends for dinner and the conversation lags.

The game is called The Movie of Your Life. My girlfriends and I came up with this game at some point after college during one of our many wine-sodden weekends away together. The premise is simple - cast the actors who would play you and your loved ones if a movie of your life were to be made.

There are only a few rules. First, and most importantly, you can not cast yourself. This is to eliminate any false humility ("No! Cindy Crawford couldn't play me!"), but casting yourself would negate the whole point of the game - to get an idea of what your friends think of you, both physically and personality-wise. I mention personality because while you can stick to the truly physical, many times while playing this game you will come up with a celebrity whose very essence is so similar to a person in your life it would be impossible not to cast them. Which brings us to the second rule - you can put together your own combination of stars, one for physicality and one for personality. For example, my youngest brother in-law is a dead ringer for Jake Gyllenhaal, but Jake is a little too mild for a perfect match. Who is? Will Smith. Put them together and it's Oscar worthy.

The third rule is you can also cast actors who have kicked the bucket. When we first played this game, my friends and I agreed Hubby would best be played by Jimmy Stewart so we decided to add this rule to expand our options. For the record, other celebs who briefly filled my husband's fictional shoes: Dylan McDermott (the guy from The Practice and lesser known as Shelby's husband in Steel Magnolias) and Kyle Maclachlan (Trey from Sex and the City, a coinsidence all of his matches are background players to a dramatic, female lead? Um, no.). But it was finally, and unanimously, decided that both physically, with his silver fox good looks, and personality-wise, with his dry, sharp wit, Jon Stewart is Hubby's cinematic doppleganger.

This game can be dangerous, especially when the subject of the movie does not agree with the casting, so tread carefully. My father did not especially enjoy it when I told him Fred Gwynne (Herman Munster) would play him, but now as the years go on, and they both age in the same way, I think Mel Gibson would be a dead ringer. See what I mean? There's no way in hell anyone would cast Mel Gibson for themselves without looking like a conceited schmuck. Refer to Rule One. I heartily disagree with many of the options presened for myself when we play. Many are based solely on the red hair - Julianne Moore, Julia Roberts, Katherine Hepburn - and while, flaterring, I feel all of these actresses are way to refined to play me with my (shall we generously call it?) hard edge. And as for Mary Louise-Parker? Please. Hubby opines Leah Remini from King of Queens is the perfect match, just give her a red wig. I opine he is an idiot and should shut his Dorito chute. Ahem.*

So I hope you enjoy flattering or offending your friends this weekend. You can also branch out and help them cast the rest of the roles in their movie since you can always say someone else's mother looks like Rosie O'Donnell without being cut out of the will. We have had many an enjoyable night in our imaginary Hollywood, I hope you do too.

* Feel free to share any casting ideas for yourself or others in your comments.

Do you have this in a large?

After hearing the weather forecast for the rest of the week and realizing my oldest owns exactly one sweater, I decided to cram all of the offspring into the van after homework was done and head to the mall. Usually the last place on earth I'd want to be in the afternoon hours, I was willing to work through my four o'clock slump (which I am trying to deal with sans caffeine lately in an effort to partially lessen my dependency on legal, mood-altering substances in order to deal with my children) since Hubby would be late, yet again, dealing with this new work project and I figured feeding the kids their favorite meal of chicken nuggets and french fries in the food court had no chance of devolving into an exhausting, bargaining contest ending with the usual "broccoli for cookies" exchange.

After braving the perils of the parking lot with all three of them in tow, "Hold onto the stroller!!!", we exploded into Old Navy on the hunt for warm clothing. Squeezing the stroller through the tight aisles with the baby, arms akimbo, joyfully leaving scattered displays of acrylic fleece mittens in our wake*, we reached our destination and #1 began slipping sweaters on to make sure none we purchased were "scratchy".

Successfully talking her out of any items involving faux fur trim, my first-born pulled a size medium fleece hoodie over her head and when I declared it too small she excitedly replied, "You mean I got bigger?? I get to wear a bigger size??? Yay!" I laughed at the sheer joy the expansion of her being brought her and mourned, in advance, for the loss of this pride that was to come, despite my best efforts to sheild her from all the body-hate that's out there. I marveled at the enormous difference between her reaction and mine were I in the same situation. Let the self-flagellation begin!

It's such a tragically short time that girls get to feel this way about their bodies. I remember being actively excited when I found out I broke the one hundred pound barrier during the annual gym class weigh-in in eighth grade. To be bigger was to be older and stronger, less of a little girl, and closer to what I was sure was to be my exciting life as a grown-up wearing lipstick and high-heels everyday (we see how accurate that prediction was).

It turns, at some point, for most women - I don't say all because I hold out hope someone out there has escaped this trauma and has the all the answers for me - but for now it brings me nothing but happiness to see how my girls love watching themselves expand and take up more room in the world around them, urging their bodies to catch up to their dreams and expectations. And it begs the comparison to adult women in the dressing rooms around them, scrutinizing their flaws and wishing pounds away.

I'm not saying we should use this thinking as an excuse to actively pursue moribd obesity or justify eating a dozen donuts at a time (that, my friends, is a God-given right), but wouldn't it be awesome when you do have one of those days your jeans don't fit to not feel like it's a moral failure?
I'm just sayin'.

*Do they not know who their target demographic is? I excuse Banana Republic for packing the inventory in, but if you sell infant clothing for under ten dollars, you'd better expect a few double-wide strollers to come rolling through - layout your stores accordingly or expect wreckage.

The Green Eyed Monster

As I have discussed previously, I am at a bit of a crossroads with the whole stay at home mother thing. No, I am not considering going back to work, but I am at the point where I feel I could be doing more intellectually if the opportunity, and the childcare, were to present itself. Sadly, with the economy in the crapper and our plan this year to end our days as The Family Who Lived in the Shoe, I have had to shelve the sitter/writing plan and try to squeeze in a little work here and there when I can. And as anyone who has spent a significant amount of time with three children under seven knows, little means, none at all.

Do not fear, this is not a bourgeois-angst ridden post about how hard it is to be doing something some women would give their eye teeth to do, but rather I want to confess feeling yet another ugly emotion so you all know you are not the only ones.

During the dinner rush Friday night I got a text from Hubby telling me a project he was working on during the holidays has gained momentum again and he would need to work all day on Sunday. I could tell by his choice of words he was super-excited and I was excited for him as well and, while I quickly got over my disappointment that I would be alone with the kids on what is usually our family day, something stopped me from being there one hundred percent.

When he got home he filled me in on the details and the big meetings that would ensue and what a great project this was, all while frantically checking his Blackberry while we had our Friday night drinks. Rude? A little. But considering he was getting vital emails on Christmas Eve I wasn't surprised and held my tongue. That is until the wine got to me, and Hubby's brother called to invite him to dinner on Monday night, adding a social outing to what was already going to be a week I would wind up being a single parent and I snapped.

What was the problem? What could be my issue with my husband working long hours on a project he is excited about or meeting his brother on a weeknight when, to be honest, I'd rather stick needles in my eyes than go out on a Monday? Sure, it adds a little work to my day, but the real problem? The real, ugly, God's honest truth of the matter?

I. Am. Jealous.

There, I said it. I am jealous my husband is feeling the same excitement and professional fulfillment I once did before I had children. And while I have discussed, ad nauseam, my issues with being at home with the kids, this particular Friday night I was really proud of myself because I put it out there. In a wine-fueled, tear-filled deluge, I let is all out, confessing to Hubby rather than doing what I usually do which is pick a fight about laundry or taking out the garbage, which I then nicely let spiral into an You always/You never-fest. Which, as we know, is always very productive. It's kind of liberating, actually, to just come out and say how you feel. Rather than talking around it and going on and on about "life choices" and "validation", stomping my foot, literally (not my proudest moment), and wailing, "It's not fair!", felt so good and honest, and frankly, it saved shitloads of time.

To his credit Hubby didn't call Bellevue to immediately prepare my room, but he listened. And after the storm passed I was able to see the forest for the trees. Raising a family is all about give and take. As I tell my girls, with three kids, everyone can't have my attention all the time, but everyone gets a turn*. And right now? It's not my turn. Right now is not about me, it's about my kids and our family. My turn will come, and is coming, as I enrolled Little Man in school three mornings a week in the fall, and I will have more and more time for myself to pursue my goals. And in our world where we all operate on the principal of self-interest, it may sound like a throw-back-fifties-housewife-cop-out, but I think, sadly, at thirty-five, it's a sign of growing up.

So I just wanted to put it out there, dear readers. Since letting you see my ugly is what I'm all about. I'm wondering if I can start a movement to have all disputes distilled down to sentences containing five words or less, such as, "I'm angry you did that" or "That was rude". But then again, not ever being able to say again, "If you keep leaving socks on the floor I will be forced to shove them up your ass", would be very limiting. Or maybe I could adjust. "Only douche-bags don't use hampers". Ha!

*props to Sasha for enlightening me to this "taking turns" way of thinking after one of our many "I have too many fucking kids" phone calls.

Pucker up...

Christ on a bike, Mean Mommy does not have her sea legs back and this first full week back at work is kicking my ass. Add to the hectic drag-my-kids-around schedule, the fact that my body is probably in withdrawal from alcohol and sugar which were both consumed in large quantities via birthday cake and champagne on a daily basis (that cake took a while to eat) and I have had other adults around to help with the offspring for the better part of two weeks, it's no wonder I feel as shaky as a first-time mother who suddenly woke up to a house containing three children who all need to be put back on their school day schedules and be told the cookie free-for-all is over.

Speaking of shock, I am only now recovering from one I received courtesy of my eldest a while back. Drum roll please...she had her first kiss. I know! She is six-friggin'-years-old! Let me begin at the beginning.

So I pick #1 up from school the other day and immediately upon entering the van, our car pool kid blurts out, "Jake kissed (#1)* during gym!" After I picked my jaw up off the graham-cracker encrusted floor, I asked, "Really? Where on your body, #1?", picturing a chaste black and white photo of cheek-kissing kids holding red roses from dorm posters in my college days. "On my mouth", my eldest replies getting that weird, oh-shit-am-in-trouble? look. Shock does not begin to describe what I was feeling and in an effort to not totally lose my shit and give carpool kid something else to talk about, I calmly said, "We'll talk about this at home."

The story goes something like this. Jake, whom I originally thought was #1's friend, apparently has the hots for her. So during line-up after gym he asked if he could kiss her and my kid's reply? "You can try." which he did, successfully. Not until I walked #1 to school the next day in order to check out Casanova did I figure out who this kid is. I vaguely remember her telling me there was this boy who liked to put his head on her shoulder at their table and Hubby telling tales of "some weird hugging kid" during his visit as Special Person of the Day, but I had no visual. Once we reached the school yard, however, the "you can try" aspect of the scenario became clear as he is a full head and a half shorter than my daughter, and while she is a tall drink of water, he is Lilliputian by anyone's standards. He must have needed a boost from some of his buddies just to clear her clavicle.

After having the whole "boundaries" and "we don't kiss anyone in our families until we are married" discussion, during which she busted me and pointed out her not-yet-married uncle and his girlfriend kiss, forcing me to change the wording to "when you are a grown-up" which led to another discussion about when that actually happens (I used college as my bench mark, but that is clearly a lie if you have met anyone who has a zero at the front of their graduation year), we put the whole event behind us. Although I did hear at conferences how Jake desperately told the teacher after "the incident", as it is now being referred to, that he is "IN LOVE with her!" - emphasis being his.

Dear Lord, I am not ready for this romance thing. Although I clearly remember having a crush on a kid named Chris, with a bowl cut and giant buck teeth, in second grade I thought I at least had a year before I had to discuss "boy feelings" and at least ten before I had to worry about actual physical contact. Yes, I know. I'm fooling myself and eleven year old kids are having sex and talking about it on Jerry Springer, but I, dear readers, was a good old-fashioned dork growing up with a side of prude for good measure. And I while I do not look forward to the social pain it will cause her, I had become quite comfortable with the idea my eldest was following in her mother's socially awkward footsteps. Because as we all know, the geeks shall inherit the earth. My philosophy? Loser in high school? Winner in life.

Now calm down, all of you who were blessed with clear skin, cooperative hair and good social fortune from the Puberty Gods. I'm sure there are some of you out there who do not deserve to burn in hell for eternity because you were actually decent to those on the lower rungs of the social ladder. But do I take way too much pleasure in the fact that, Kim, my middle school nemesis became an unwed, Bon Jovi-fringe-jacket-wearing teenaged mother right after graduation, and spent her twenties wiping asses while I got my bachelor's in Chemistry? You bet your ass I do. So do I hope my girls (and boy, let's not discriminiate) wind up, either by choice or lack of opportunity, "less experienced" when they go to college? Um, who do I sell my soul to to ensure this?

So while I'm sure my daughter's first physical encounter was entirely innocent, as well as involving a boy who I'm pretty certain is King of the Dipshits**, I will hope this is her last close encounter of the boy kind until she's old enough to roll her eyes and sufficiently think I'm lame. But knowing kids these days, that might be next week.
Lord help me.

*Names have been changed to protect my ass among my local readership.
**Bonus points if you can tell me what 80's movie this moniker is from.

New Year, Old You

Happy New Year!  Now's the time to list all the things you hate about yourself and swear to God you will be an entirely new, perfect version of yourself come this time next year.  Good luck to ya'.

As I have said previously, resolutions annoy me with their implied self-hatred.  Plans to eat less, drink less, spend less, exercise, quite smoking,  give more to charity, finally read War and Peace, while all admirable goals, are rarely listed singly.  I  applaud any effort to improve one's life and health, yet I find it depressing to hear people lump several, if not all, of these goals together to create an impossibly perfect version of themselves - basically trying to turn themselves into a whole new person.  

I take a different view of things.  Unless you are a homeless, friendless derelict, who is either an alcoholic or drug user, you must have some people who like you pretty much the way you are, give or take a few peccadilloes (and do you really want me to stop dancing to Beyonce in the kitchen, H?  I think not).  So why not, this New Year, make peace with who you are and unless a major life change is necessary, say you are, in fact, drowning in debt, or you are still smoking (ahem, Dad), even socially, (ahem, B), or really do need to lose a significant amount of weight, chose a resolution that affirms you kind of have your act together.  

For example, the ever-popular resolution of losing weight among the within-normal-weight-limit population is getting kind of old.  Sure, we could all lose five pounds and fit into really small jeans by following a careful, healthy, eating plan, but then I would never go out to dinner with you again because Dressing on the Side Girl is annoying and she probably doesn't drink either.  Instead, pick something that seems rather insignificant, but is actually life-changing.

Ten years ago, my resolution was to start  flossing every day.  Lame?  You betcha.  Am I still doing it?  Yep.  This year I have set the bar especially high and have chosen TWO equally lame goals.  First, to take a calcium supplement every day and not just for  the two weeks after my annual OB/GYN appointment when I see pamphlets for bone density scans strewn all over the office.  I wasn't that great about taking one during my three pregnancies, or when nursing, since apparently physically making milk wasn't reminder enough and I'm sure my bones look like swiss cheese.  Dowager's hump?  Not cool.  Second goal?  To stretch every day.  Since the end of my workout each morning consists of me sprinting up the basement stairs covered in sweat to jump in the shower and start making breakfasts and packing lunches, there's not much time for a cool down and flexibility training.  At the gym on my birthday I was shamed mightily by the fifty-something ladies around me (prime meat for you, Vlad, thongs and all) who were able to bend over and press their palms to the floor while I was stretching my arms out feebly trying to get my fingertips to touch.  One of my main motivators behind exercise is the whole "use it or lose it" theory and what good will my strong muscles be later in life if I can't life my arms above my head to get my pill bottles?

So, Happy New Year to you all.  Ignore all those magazine covers out there.  You are great just the way you are.  So go pick something you've been meaning to do for a while and stick to it.  Because, seriously, the odds are much higher of you successfully taking out the recycling every week (ahem, H), than giving sugar and white flour.  Life without donuts?  Not worth living.