Zoe & Xander

3!

2012-01-27T22:30:00.000-06:00

My little man turns three this weekend. THREE! In the whole scheme of things, three is still a baby, but when he's losing the baby fat, letting us know when he has to "GO POTTTTTTTEEEEEEEEEEEEE", and he can say, "I sorry, My sister Bella!" each and every time he's transgressed against her, I feel like he's a big kid.

And a big kid is so awesome for him to be... he is so stubborn and determined to do what he wants, when he wants, and with as little helps as he wants... he's ready for some more room to grow.

But MOMMA IS NOT.

He still wakes up sweaty and damp, holding his "Lob-ee" (Lovey) in one hand with both arms outstretched for his momma to get him from his crib. He's borderline stunting his growth sleeping in his crib (he looks like a Great Dane in a Bishon's crate), but he has never once climbed out, fought us about a crib, or looked interested in "a big boy bed" so why bother? He's comfy, safe, and sleeping.

He still loves to pick out a diaper - always Mickey Mouse - but the decision of Mickey holding balloons, Mickey hugging Pluto, or Mickey with jazz hands is quite a dilemma each diaper change. Sometimes I throw "Mickey briefs" in the mix, but those are usually tossed a half-second before the Mickey with balloons. My boy is a boy's boy, but he loves those jazz hands.

He still wants milk before bed. His preferred method to sip is to curl into your lap with one hand on yours and just as your leg falls asleep he gives a milky kiss that makes you pray time stops. Right. Now.

He needs help with his shoes and shirts, but yesterday he got a pair of pants on by himself. He jolted off the floor with a "I DID IT!" (break out the jazz hands, thanks, Mickey Mouse) and smiled a killer set of baby teeth. And I teared up as we high-fived. If he doesn't need help with his pants, no one else will. It's over. Until Mr. and I are both 80 and I'm helping him with his, but that is so not the same. At all.

He needs to constantly be reminded of the boundaries, rules, and standards in our house, but he also knows when he breaks them and a set of shiny blue eyes and a single tear tell me he has remorse as deep in his soul as I do. I hate to disappoint and he does, too.

Xander has stolen my heart in three short years. It's exhilarating to think what lies ahead in our relationship and lives, but in the middle of the night when he needed his momma (last week), it hit me.

I already hate his wife.

Never Have I Ever...

2012-01-24T22:15:00.000-06:00

1. Said, "Get your penis off the kitchen table. NOW." (Drink!)

2. Locked myself in the garage so I could finish scheduling an appointment after hearing, "I'm sorry, I cannot hear you" turn into "Ma'am? I need to hang up if you cannot find somewhere quiet to speak".(Drink!)

3. Chopped up mushrooms, in front of my four-year-old, added them to the dinner mixture, and then swore up and down that there were no mushrooms in dinner, she could eat it in safety of dying from the miserable fungus. (Drink!)

4. Went to a mall A) with no intention of shopping and B) never walked into a store. (Drink!)

5. In the heat of an argument screamed at my husband to stop complaining about a two hour traffic jam because "I would give ANYTHING - and I mean ANYTHING - to be stuck in a car ALONE and in complete control of the radio, noise level, and nothing thrown at the back of my head followed by howls of laughter!", sir. (Drink!)

6. Watched Dance Moms, Little Miss Perfect, Toddlers & Tiara's, and most shows on A&E, to solely feel better after a bad parenting day. (Works every time... DRINK!)

7. Confirmed to a telemarketer that yes, those are in fact monkeys in the background. (Drink!)

8. Wished their little life's away "How many more days until school starts again?" only to feel awful and not want to miss a single minute. (Drink!)

9. Said, "You may not try to see how long your little brother can stand in the snow without shoes. Let him back in. NOW." (Drink!)

10. Knew I'd "never have those kids" until I had them. And I wouldn't trade them for the world! (Drink!)

Poopy Day

2012-01-22T22:00:00.000-06:00

"I NO WEAR UNDER WEAR. I big boy BUT NO. UNDER. WEARS!"

Switching tactics, I threw the Mickey Mouse boxer briefs (yes, they make them... and filled out with a tiny tush they top my "cutest things I ever saw" list) to the side and pulled out a Mickey Mouse diaper (see a theme here?). Xander saw the diaper and wiggled away with a "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO Nothing. Nothing. NAKEY PEANUT!!"

So, against every bit of good judgement I put legs back in his (Mickey Mouse) jammie bottoms, tucked a baby peanut in, and pulled them into place. Kissing his forehead, cause really it's cute to hear "NAKEY PEANUT" even at 6am and at 100 decibels, and pulled him into the upright and locked position. He smiled and climbed onto the couch to watch "CAILLOU NOW!".

He's almost three and feeling it, people. There is no longer a battle of wills, a battle of manners, a battle of "my kids will never act like that" realization that "my kids ALWAYS act like that", it's momma for herself and I needed to find the Keurig. And quick.

Zoe came downstairs and her sleepy eyes went from glossy to bright. No good morning from this kid, just a screetch worthy of a B grade horror movie, at least.

"What, baby? Zo, have you seen my Tazo tea for the Keurig? Did you drink it all?" (Yes, my four year old is a closet hot tea drinker. She likes it black, bold, and before preschool. She is also able to make a K cup in the time it takes me to change over a load of laundry.)

"He POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPED!"

"Ok, we all do. But really, where is the tea?" with my hind end hiked to the sky as I searched the bottom of the pantry (where no one should attempt to search without gloves, a mask, and tongs) for one misplaced cup.

"No. MOM. He pooped. On. The. COUCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

Then I remembered our "Nakey Peanut" incident an hour earlier. And then I heard Xander say, "Momma I did poo poo! Change me NOW!"

Before I could get out "DON'T MOVE!" I saw him squirm off my light green microfiber couch. Sure, I told the sales guy I wanted the cheapest cute set he had because I wanted the furniture to be disposable after two kids in five years, but not because my kid shit on it... at 7 am.

I saw it just in time to start gagging and dry upchucking. Xander started to cry and ran to me, but as the poop balls fell out of his jammies, hit his knees and ankles, plopped on our once-ivory builder-grade carpet it startled him. So he turned around with enough gusto to smush the turd balls into the carpet, get even more frightened, and flop his body into a two-year-old flop only a tantrum-throwing tot can do with perfection.

Meanwhile, my sidekick, my best friend is doing a perfect "My brother has defiled our home" performance (and soon reenactment) complete with gags, dry heaves, and "Oh no he didn't" thrown in for good measure.

The first thing that came to mind was RUN. Run in the opposite direction and never turn back around, but I pulled up my big girl panties, grabbed Xander (by his armpits) and ran to the toilet. Turds bombed the carpet, then ceramic tile, and I felt like my feet were Pearl Harbor under attack. I was hit, hit hard, but I kept moving. I wasn't leaving this little soldier in my arms behind.

We found the powder room (and for a nice home, we have a horrid powder room. It's cramped, cold, and you can barely get around the door to close it, so you can imagine the Cirque de Sol maneuvers to get us into the toilet). I yanked down those Mickey Mouse jams, plopped a sobbing babe on the potty (which on a good day makes him cry), and heard threw the sniffles (mine or his, not sure) "I all done, Momma. My poo poo all done."

This is the first time I realized just how much poo poo we were talking about. And, for the record, this collasol amount cannot be called poo poo, even if it came out of the cutest Mickey Mouse boxer briefs ever. Nope. This was SHIT, people. It was down his legs, smudged on his forehead, in his ear, and all over the front of the toilet. The stuck turds were freed when I pulled down his pants, so those were now let loose all over the powder room.

I stripped X down and told him not to move.

I did what any respectable momma would do with her child's most prized Mickey Mouse jammies Santa had just gifted her son. I threw them away. Immediately.

At this point I could survey the real damage and it wasn't good. It was horrific. My kitchen, living room, and couch not only lost the battle, but I was truly afraid they had lost the war.

Before I could clean anything I wiped X-man down with baby wipes and chucked him in a tub of bleach (California Baby 100% natural and organic, but I really did consider bleach) and told his sister in Act 2 of her production "Sit here. Watch him. Do not touch him. Just sit here. Scream if his head goes under."

I could hear "Mom... I'm only four. Am I allowed to watch a kid in a bath? Alone?" and I just kept jogging down the stairs.

My couch cushions are machine washable. The label says otherwise, but they are. They can also tolerate a little bleach (definitely Clorox this time - nothing organic in that load but the load he unloaded (pun intended)), a gallon of detergent, and even more bleach.

Woolite, Oxy-Clean, and Resolve bottles in varying stages of empty were now used, abused, and recycled.

Xander's water was cold at that point, so I did what any other respectable momma with a child covered in shit would do. Drained it, turned the shower on his unsuspecting head, drained that, and filled it up again with bubbles, warm water, and bleach.

Ok, it wasn't bleach this time, either, but I would have felt better if I did. I was having wild, poop smell induced flashes of my child having C-diff from this horrific morning, but I never did bleach the kid.

The carpet was the hardest. And the worst off. Apparently, when you call Stanley Steamers and cry, very very hard in Stan's ear (yeah, there's an awesome joke there but I was too exhausted to try it), he clears his schedule and makes it to your place. Quickly. With an OSHEA suit on.

Xander looked like an amphibean by the time he was sanitized and Zoe earned herself time on sproutonline.com for her heroics as the "my brother did not drown under my watch" champion.

By 10 am all was calm, all was bright, all was good. Except me. I could still be heard shaking and dry heaving in the laundry room. Pretty sure, a week later, I'm experiencing PTSD at 9 am and 4 pm daily (Xander is very regular now), but we'll make it. (And he can go to Kindergarten or even Prom in diapers if it means we will never have another morning like that one. Potty training smotty training.)

Weiners

2012-01-20T20:10:00.000-06:00

I cannot say NO. It's not because I am unable, mute, or not aware of all the directions I am pulled day in and day out. I cannot say NO for one reason: I do not want to say no! I want to go, go hard, and do it all. I want to be the momma who is involved in everything; not creepy, suffocating momma, but room mom, Parent-Extraordinaire. So I am.

Last Wednesday I was responsible for procuring pizza for the Little Friends pizza party. It's a monthly fundraiser that for $5/child they get a slice of pizza, fruit and veggies. In all honesty, it's really so the mommy's get a day off fighting their preschoolers on which vegetable they will attempt to taste. See, we must send in five - yes, five - of the food groups in their lunch. Fantastic on paper. Miserable in practice if your son is anything like Xander.

Xander has some sensory issues that make meal times a challenge. Not a challenge like "Take five more bites and you can have a snow cone" or even "Take three more bites and you can have a pony" that my friends talk about. Nope, this is balls to the walls prying his pinched, pursed lips and locked jaw to get three bites of ANYTHING down his throat within a three day span. I have literally dangled a Popsicle, Pop-Tart, and Eggo in his face in attempt to see a single calorie intake for a 24 hour period to get a "Nah" as he walks away.

So packing his lunch isn't the easiest of exercises. He sees his puppy dog insulated tote come out and immediately starts with, "I no lunch." It only gets worse when he sees a wayward carrot slipped into the bag along with a single strawberry. Forget the Ritz crackers and a single cheese cube (which apparently round out his "acceptable" list, right behind Apple Jacks and, well, um... a grilled cheese once upon a dream), this kid saw the veggies and it isn't pretty. Thankfully, we aren't the only home dealing with this carb-a-holic dilemma of what to pack her preschooler. One of my closest friends once admitted to using the same baggie of carrots and apples until they molded and then starting fresh a month later. All year. Hey - she SENT the food. The miracle workers in the classroom could deal with getting the preschoolers to touch the food!

Back to last Wednesday and the procuring of pizza.

I got to the Costco Food Court as it opened and was surprised an elderly man in a wheelchair was already ordering. I offered to help him with condiments on his hot dog - he declined - and then I immediately ordered an abundant amount of 18" goodness in the form of molten cheese and crust so chewy it's been known to beat the Tooth Fairy at her own game by taking in loose teeth to never see them again. I had 45 minutes to kill, so I took to the aisles of retail glory that is warehouse shopping.

While picking through a pile of girls Speedo suits for $6.99 ($6.99!!!) my elderly friend was scooting along next to me and stopped close by. I glanced over and then jerked my head back, unsure whether to call the police or ask him if he needed help finding the (now missing) bun. Sitting in his lap was a Costco-sized hot dog. Not on a plate, not wrapped in foil, and without a bun. Just laying there in a creepy greying crotch/leg of a man with a twinkle in his eye and grease on his sweat pants.

I dropped the Speedo ($6.99, people!) and walked away as tears squirted out of my eyes. I couldn't laugh... right? Was this a joke? What in the hell?

I watched woman after woman drop an item, blush, and move away as Wiener Gate 2012 took place. And I tell you what... that twinkle in his eye told me that this wasn't his first time to play with his wiener in public.

Hiatus... Over.

2012-01-20T14:34:00.000-06:00

I'm back, people!

You know, in July of 2010 I thought things couldn't get crazier. I had an 18-month old and a new three year old. They were just starting to learn about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. And by pursuit of happiness, I mean wanting whatever the other child had. No matter what. Acquiring said item was the only way to feel happy.

Fast forward a year or so. I am now the mother of a four year old daughter whom I don't know whether to pour a cup of coffee and gossip with or give her another lecture that I'm the mommy and she gets to be the kid... so please don't harp on Xander's "poor choices" and put him in Time Out. I'll handle it.

Zoe is a lot like her Aunt Hanah. Everything she tries she is does well and everything she works at turns to gold. Nothing is difficult (except hearing the word NO), nothing weighs her down (except her little brother wanting to hang onto her legs and get pulled across the kitchen), and nothing seems impossible. She embraces life with a smile and shout of glee. Zoe loves to tumble, dance, and sing "Poker Face" and anything Black Eyed Peas. She is the light of my life and my very best friend.

Xander is my heart. I have a 36" little lover who hugs, kisses, and snuggles like the man you always dreamed of would. He came into my life in a mess of emotions - I didn't know how I thought about having Baby #2 let alone a little boy. Well, I've realized my little man couldn't be a better addition to my life unless I had him cloned. Xander is smart, silly, only wants to please, and is so empathetic he'd give his best toy to a stranger if they were crying. He is literally my heart walking around outside my body.

My husband is a fighter. He's been through a lot and continues to keep swinging. He's quirky, hard working, and a great dad to two great kids.

That's us in a nutshell. Keep an eye on the site - I'm back and I'm back for good.

WTF?

2010-07-15T09:06:00.000-05:00

This week, overall, has been a complete train wreck. I've gotten so stressed and exhausted trying to schedule a car tune up that I threw the French doors closed and stood, shaking, in the dining room as two little possessed kids tried to nudge/hack/shimmy their way into my personal space while screaming at the top of their lungs. I literally had to call the man at "Al's" back twice because I couldn't understand a word. All I could focus on was that I had two kids about to shatter forty panes of glass just to get close to me and all I wanted was to be alone. Was something wrong with me?

When the urban youth stopped by to sell $43 cleaner "scented lavender for all the Queens - like you" I bought one. I opened the door, listened, and bought one. I just didn't have the heart to say no to his spiel on a ninety-nine degree day in Iowa. He had on jeans, long sleeves, and was sweating out of control. Not only did I buy his product, I also ended up giving him a Gatorade and a pep talk... while my kids ram sacked his backpack, jumped off the porch onto my hostas, and he looked at me like "you poor thing!" instead of gratitude. Was something wrong with me?

Xanders favorite way to snack is to lay on a blanket, picnic-style, on our great room floor. He and Zoe started out okay on the same red blanket with bears. Now Zoe has to have her Ducky blanket at a forty-seven degree angle from the TV, certain throw pillow she used a Sharpie to decorate a few weeks ago, and a sippy cup she hasn't used since she was in Pampers. It used to be fun and a great way for momma to get in twenty minutes of space. Now it has turned into a complete disaster in which if Xander's big toe is within one inch of Zoe's blanket, she steamrolls an unsuspecting baby and squishes him until he cries. In return, Xander grabs fistfuls of toe head hair on top of him and pulls, yanks, and tugs until each fist takes away a nice souvenir. I watch, disgusted with them, pull them apart and scream. What is wrong with me?

Xander has a handful of words he uses. Maybe less than a handful... unless they are in eighteen-point font. At his age, Zoe was a walking storybook, telling tales of every adventure she could think of that entailed a horse, stop sign, and gas station - the things she remembered on her last trip to the store with her mom. We would laugh and create enchanted lands with our words and have conversations that could rival some adults. Xander grunts, points, and breaks down with a scream, downward facing dog, and head bang instead of sign "Milk" most days. What is wrong with X?

At swim lessons, which should be a thirty minute break, Zoe played tug of war with another little girl over the green turtle kick board. They shouted, tugged, and splashed one another, both ladies showing a fierce attitude that could rival Naomi Campbell's, until an instructor pointed out that all six kick boards were, in fact, identical green turtles. Instead of calmly reaching for another, both girls locked their grip on The One and waited. The instructor, exasperated, handed each of them a new kick board and threw the sought-after one in the deep end. I pretended not to see the ordeal. What is wrong with Zoe?

When Mr. comes home from work and after an hour has sighed fourteen times and broken up six sibling arguments, instead of feeling kinship, I usually snap, "Don't look for sympathy from me, Bud. I've done this ALL. DAY." and go back to escaping in a hot sink of Dawn and a scrub brush. What is wrong with us?

I. AM. EXHAUSTED. If someone handed me a ticket anywhere from here for the weekend, I would walk out the door, pick up some chick lit at the airport, and step on the plane. I'd sleep in-between pretzel and Sprite breaks and enjoy being cramped in an itty-bitty seat without an infant puking on me while a toddler kicks the seat in front of her every forty seconds (which is enough time for the passenger in front to get comfortable again, settle in, and then "BOOM!"). When I hit my destination I'd call my man and make sure he and the kids were alive, hang up, and sleep. Read. Eat. Repeat. I'm sure I'd miss them within twenty-four hours, but I know that first day I wouldn't think twice about neglecting my mommy duties. What is wrong with me?

Sometimes I want to shake so hard the kids vibrate off of me, almost like little tops, and spin away. Not too far, but just far enough that I can move without tripping over one of them or their toys that are always everywhere. I find the premise to Toy Story non-fiction. Those toys, which were put away and organized when I left the room, always manage to party their way onto the stairs, into the middle of the floor, and under my feet the second I return to the room holding two loads of laundry with Xander perched like a cherry on top. Zoe is no where in sight, typically roving through her closet in search of the one item she cannot reach, piling up pillows and Pottery Barn chairs, and climbing the stack to reach her elusive tutu, only to lose her balance, catch a hanger, snap it in half, and carve a bloody tunnel out of her cheek, all while I don't have my eyes on her for a minute. This has happened more than once. What is wrong with us?

I know there will be bright moments in my day today that I wouldn't trade for the world, but all in all, I would love to escape. Just for a day or two and get back my mojo... or until nap time.

Flashdance

2010-07-09T08:10:00.000-05:00

Couldn't tell you what started it. Maybe that I said an emphatic NO! to Kudo bar #8 for the day, only pushed them on the swings for 43 consecutive minutes in 90 degree weather in direct sunlight, or turned off the sprinkler when a flash flood erupted in the middle of our backyard? Perhaps it was my offering of mandarin oranges, watermelon, celery with peanut butter, cheese and crackers, grilled cheese, hot dogs (no buns, cut in little pieces with cheese on top and pretzel sticks as toothpicks), chicken noodle soup, and macaroni and cheese for lunch, as opposed to the chocolate chip cookie dough the four fat hands clung to quickly as they snatched it out of the open fridge? Whatever it was, it pissed some kids off.

Xander can go from all smiles to screaming dervish in a matter of seconds. It's an amazing transformation to watch his gorgeous tanned cheeks to turn into pink and finally, with the proper scream, cherry tomato red. He flops around as if he is dying from a lack of oxygen, and does maneuvers with his back that would make an inch worm proud. While doing this little routine, he swats away his momma's comforting hands, but will scream and escalate if his momma is more than twelve inches from his side watching every move.

X-man was knee deep in a Tantrum and Zoe and I just watched. It was so interestingly orchestrated that Zoe gave up her screaming, throwing, and kicking to be a spectator to the master. Hey, he's learned from the best.

All I can think is that if I just knew where our Flip was, I could get this on tape, post it on Facebook, and my friends could have easy access to free birth control via a minute video of a seventeen-month-old in action. I think it would be better than Sex Ed and really promote abstinence. I mean, if you had an image of Xander acting like this when you were about to get it on, it may just curb the desire into a little healthy fear of a baby. Worth a shot, Sarah Palin.

In the tone of a video shoot, I started thinking about the soundtrack I'd play. And it hit me. FLASHDANCE! Someone give this kid a chair and a leotard! That's a tough dance and I have a prodigy on my hands - he did it with ease and precision.

Xander needs a college fund? Check. Here we come, Little Miss Perfect. I have a male entrant who has a talent that comes out with one snatch of a block, lack of nap, and nothing in his system besides granola bars and oyster crackers.

Take that, three year old girl in more make up than a MAC counter can offer, a fake tan, and four hair pieces who can sing God Bless America backwards while standing on her head. I have an all-natural beauty with a set of lungs who isn't afraid to use them.

Cow Patties

2010-07-08T20:32:00.000-05:00

Twenty-four miles northwest of Des Moines, Iowa really doesn't sound like it would be too far away from civilization, I thought as I plugged in the White Fence Dairy Farm's address. Our mom's group was meeting at 10:00 and we thought we'd take the mini-van for a spin on some gravel roads and pet a cow or two. Hey, what else did we have planned?

I copied the directions and when I got to number fourteen or so it got vague. The "Turn Right on Route 43/S. Main Street (14.2 miles)" turned into "If you make it this far, throw a stone and go the direction it lands. You are in the middle of nowhere. Why would you go to Woodward, Iowa?" and so on. I was on my own with a cell phone saying "No Service" and two kids pumped for some fresh dairy and good ol' fun in the manure.

We were flying down a very rural highway, feeling the speedometer hit 70 and the blacktop under Michelin's finest when all of a sudden a country, gravel road sprung up out of nowhere. We threw out a plume of dust and bumped, grinded, and gave our shocks a good test of durability. In Iowa, rural roads are not marked with 50 miles an hour signs. They aren't marked with "Beware, Deliverance Country" signage, either. They just pop up and scare the shit out of a "city girl" like me.

After we took the appropriate turns, ramps, and unmarked roads, I realized that I may be raising my children in the middle of a soybean or cornfield until my cell could find service. It gave me nightmares about my own Children of the Corn as I prayed Verizon could just let me get out one "Can you hear me now?" to 888-555-COWS. Seriously, that was the number. Verizon didn't let me down, we made a thirty-second call and talked to a very chipper Jo Jo who used directionals like, "Herb's barn. Can't miss it, roof is caved in. Turn there." and "When you see all the feral cats in a field, go another mile and then turn by the llamas" which made me do a little chair dance when we actually saw the White Fence Dairy Farm sign.

"Look, Zo! A cow!" I exclaimed excitedly as the kid's doors opened and I got the stroller out.

"Yech. It reeks! What is that smell?" came from my cherub.

"Cows. Country. Iowa."

"Nope. Poop. I know the smell of poop, Mom." Well, you got me there, Zoe.

Xander didn't do his usual go-boneless-and-scream when put into the stroller and we started up the rocky drive to a tiny barn surrounded by blue skies and white puffy clouds.

Jo Jo greeted our group of forty, threw her hands on her knees and smiled a lot, and talked waaaay over our kids heads about her bovine brood. We learned a heffer is a young female yet to give birth (and not a fat fat cow as I assumed) and the difference in stature, make, and color of beef vs. dairy cows. The mom's tried to pay attention as the kids entertained themselves by throwing rocks at the fence (and therefore, the cows).

ZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!

Shrieks and cries erupted from a young mom as she tore her preschooler from the electric fence the pudgy fingers were gripping as a shock ran through her hands.

"Oops! I should have told you all that this fence does have electric currents running through it! Great to contain cows, not great for the kids!" as she skipped off to the calf barn. Over her shoulder Jo Jo threw out, "Keep little hands off it! It'll give your ticker a jump start!"

Twenty wide-eyed petrified kids hung back as the mom's coerced them with "there's ice cream" and "wanna see a baby cow" concepts as we made our way in Jo Jo's direction.

Another interesting fact we learned is that young male calfs can get, and hold, an erection when surrounded by a group of young, curious children.

We also learned that it wasn't mud, but cow feces, that covered the wet, murky path to the cattle barn and therefore, flip flops, Crocs, and sandals are not the best choice in dairy farm touring footwear.

The kids perked up as they walked the length of the barn and could get a quick tug of an ear, nudge of a nose, and gutteral sound from the cows that couldn't care less that we were inches from their lunch. It was cool to see Zoe grab that hay in one hand, still gripping an old granola bar in the other, and try to feed the cow. When she was more interested in the bar, Zoe gladly let the cow try a nibble and then decided to finish it off herself. I had to read my Purell bottle closely to see if I could use it on her mouth, lips, and tongue. No such luck.

Xander was a little overwhelmed and was thrilled to ride in his stroller and let his sister get nibbled by the Jersey Girls. We showered off our feet, calves, knees, and strollers and went into the barn to ask any questions. When one woman asked what happens to a heffer who cannot get pregnant Jo Jo replied, "She gives us beef!" with a smile.

Then, the closing line of Jo Jo's presentation, said with gusto and passion, "A dairy cow is a magnificent, giving creature. From her first pregnancy to the rest of her life, she will spend it making and giving her milk to us. Then, in a final act of selflessness, she will give us herself in the form of beef!" Jo Jo's eyes shined with excitement, and I almost felt like I should applaud, or hand her a kerchief. Instead, I thought, "let's get the cow's side of this story, sister!" and kept my mouth shut. I also thought of how many nursing momma's were in our group and how many of them would like to be pumped twice a day for the rest of their life so some other species could make sugary treats from her mammary glands. Not many, I'd guess.

We got to taste some amazing chocolate milk - honestly, it was like chilled liquid gold - and ice cream that was so delicious it made me rethink the "no bowls of ice cream before breakfast" rule in our house.

On our way back to the car, I looked down and had two kids with brown mustaches, sticky hands, and a wayward cow poop smear here or there, and smiled. Sometimes, it's nice to live in Iowa.

Sometimes.

In the still of the night

2010-06-06T20:22:00.000-05:00

I got to give Xander his bottle tonight. Yes, he is sixteen months old. No, we haven't weaned him. When Zoe was ten months old we started the process of weaning so we'd be right on traek for her first birthday. Just say no to bottles! all the books say after their first taste of cake. Our Ped, at Xander's first year appointment, threw out, "So, you've weaned him from bottles?" in a half-question, more of a statement. She knew how I felt about bending the Rules.

"Um, we are working on it," I stated shamefully. "Hopefully we'll be on track, meaning off bottles, next month... at least it's whole milk. No more formula!"

"What's the hold up?" she asked, putting down her stethescope.

"Not sure," I replied as I stroked his silky semi-bald head.

"Is it because he's your last one?" as she settled onto her swivel stool Zoe, moments before, had been Hell-bent on twirling til she puked.

"Maybe?" I truly didn't have an answer. I knew that with my first, Zoe, the Rules seemed to be the only Rules I could go by - I mean, doctors, mother's of multiples, and therapists all agreed. I couldn't go against the grain. Could I?

Four months later I've put off his fifteen month appointment because our Ped is on maternity leave and because I'm not ready to admit that her generous fifteen-month mark has flown by and we still have 8 ounces of icy cold Vitamin D nightcaps in this house. Every night. And sometimes right before his nap.

Does Xander need a bottle to sleep? No. On nights we've tried to go sans liquid gold, he cries for fifteen minutes and then nods off to dreamland on his own (he does a similar routine with a bottle, but he only cries for three or four minutes those nights). We never let him fall asleep on us or take his bottle in his crib. We don't break those Rules. We rock him in his glider, lean him against our chest, and sing, talk, or just take in the still of the night. It's never quiet here. It's never the right time to spend twenty minutes doing nothing with him. Zoe always needs our attention, trash needs to go out, email needs to be checked, laundry folded, you know how it goes. Never ever is it just time for Xander to get quality loving from his mom or dad. Bottle time is. One of us goes in to read Zoe three (or seven) books in her bed and one of us goes in to rock X. It's a great time of peace and love in our house in both rooms, but that bottle session is the one time of day you really feel connected to the little man.

Once upon a time I found out I was pregnant with my second baby. We had just celebrated Zoe's first birthday and it was the first time, in a long time, that I saw the light at the end of the post-partum depression tunnel. As much as I adored my baby girl, she was a baby and she was a lot of work. She wasn't a lifestyle change - she was a totally new lifestyle we had to adapt to quickly in order to survive. She rocked our world, for the good, the bad, and the ugly --- and I was smart enough to know Zoe was a great baby. She slept. She rarely cried. She preferred her Boppy Newborn Lounger to being held all day. She was awesome. But she had recently gotten her groove on and was moving and shaking all over the place. Watch out world, here comes Round 2 of Life Change. Kid on the Move and Not Taking No for an Answer!

I sat in a mother's group meeting and opened up about how I really didn't want another baby right now. I was okay with Zoe being an only child. I liked being over the newborn-first-year-yech that we were shaking off our boots. The idea of going through the first year all over again - with a toddler to boot - was horrifying and scary. Do I love kids? Yes. Do I love mine? Yes. Can I do this? Yes. Do I want to do this? NO.

Life has a way of shaking things up. Just when you get comfortable you are tossed into a Yatzee sphere and spit out in a new position, new board, and new rules. This is where we were in late September of 2008 when I woke up and thought I peed my pants. It was the middle of the night. I was in my fourth month of pregnancy and couldn't believe the bladder control issues already started. Well, the heartburn was in full effect, as were my cankles, so maybe Round 2 everything comes really early?

Zoe was crying in her crib, so I got out of bed, threw off my undies, and stumbled, belly first, into her nursery to get her out before she started howling. It took a lot to get her going, but once she did, it was hard to put out the fire.

She was all warm, covered in sleepy sweat, and jumping in her crib yelling, "Momma! Tum get me!" like she did every morning. I laughed and hauled her over the crib. And I peed again. It was a lot of pee!

Zoe was coughing hard, like she had all night, and I couldn't think about my bladder control issues. I had to call the Ped and get her in. That cough sounded really bad.

All day I wondered why I was peeing anytime I stood up. They popped my amniotic sac when I was in labor with Zoe, so I never thought anything about water breaking. I was only four months along! It couldn't be anything serious.

As the Ped requested some chest X-Rays for Zoe's lungs, and told me it was pneumonia, I peed again. It was enough to call the OB/Gyn and ask for super strength prescription pads or something. Immediately her nurse took my call and instructed me to go to the ER.

Zoe was in the middle of her exam, she felt like crap, and needed her mommy. But the Ped heard the conversation and urged me to go get examined.

We called Mr. on the way downtown and I told him to meet me at the entrance, switch cars, and I'd be home in an hour.

Life changed in that hour.

My water had broken, my cells were ferning, and our baby wouldn't be saved for a month because he was too small to save. We would stay at the hospital and deliver the baby. Chances were 90% I'd deliver him within 48 hours and there was nothing anyone could do.

When we made it - on miserable bedrest - to 22 weeks, attitudes started changing. We saw OB's, perinatologists, and anyone else who had anything to add to how we could get this baby out of me safely. No one could believe it had been weeks - almost a full month - with a broken amniotic sac and a healthy baby. Not only was he hanging in there, but he was growing quickly, looking healthy, and he was big!

Every appointment - which was daily - was negative. It was about how we would have a sick, unhealthy child who would need constant medical attention and support. I cried to my baby hourly. I knew in my heart that my not wanting a baby at this exact time was what drove this to happen. Rational? Maybe not? Mother's Guilt? Oh yeah.

My mom dropped her life in California and left her husband, friends, and house to winter in Iowa. Once a month she'd go home and my father-in-law would give her some respite. Zoe was still a wild-child one year old ready to take on the world, whether her momma was allowed to get out of bed or not. Mr. was our only breadwinner and insurance carrier, so he was on job duty. Family pitched in and we made it work.

Then, one week a little too close to the beginning of my final trimester, something awful happened. My body developed severe atypical pre-eclampsia, again, and the only way to keep the baby and I alive was to deliver. Now. Early.

When Xander came out he was a peanut. He didn't scream, he just took the bright lights, masked people, and cold in with a big glance around. He took to his little oxygen mask quickly and met his daddy before his momma. My arms were still pinned to the operating table, but I got to touch his cheek and see his blue eyes, wide from the excitement.

Mr. was whisked off with the little man and my OB started the soul sickening task of tying my tubes. We had decided, as a medical/personal/emotional team that my body was not cut out to bring babies in the world, no matter how cute or perfect they are. So, she showed me the tubes and in my haze I fought back tears.

Xander was a rock star in the NICU. Those nurses have angel wings and halo's hidden under their scrubs for all the miracles they performed for our miracle man.

Going home without him was the most intense, surreal experience of my life. Leaving the hospital with some blue flowers, balloons, and a carton of extra pads and pills, but no baby was heart-shattering. Even seeing Zoe again couldn't get me over the fact that my baby, who faced adversity and perservered was in the NICU, fighting for each breath while I ordered pizza and watched Million Dollar Baby on Pay Per View. It just didn't make sense.

And then, all was right. Everything made sense. Our little man came home, met his sister, and took his place in our family as our Miracle. Zoe was our Wonder Girl, Xander was our Miracle Man.

So, sixteen months later I'm hesitant to give up the bottle. I remember countless hours trying to get his sweet pink lips to wrap around a bottle's nipple and take down 10, 15 cc's... and watched him get most of his nutrients from a "nose hose" as one rude nurse (the only rude nurse we encountered) put it. It took him weeks to learn to feed on his own. That time in the NICU with an Enfamil premade bottle pressed to his cheek, holding him like a football at a 90 degree angle, and massaging his chin to take one more mil, still comes back to me like a fury in the middle of the night.

Xander doesn't need the bottle anymore. His mommy does. He is my last baby I can hold and cuddle. The time he spent in my body was educational to me - he made me realize I wanted another baby more than I wanted my next breathe. And now, as he runs instead of walks, babbles instead of cries, and shows me how big he is with new delights every day, I realize he is my last baby who will need me to feed them. He is the last one who will need me for 100% of his or her daily care. All the needs. After X, it's over.

I could use an icy cold nightcap myself.

Nap?

2010-05-28T08:34:00.000-05:00

Mornings start off with a bang around here. You would think that after three years as a mom I'd have learned a long time ago that just because the kids are not up this instant, and you cannot hear a noise in the house, that you can close your eyes for "just one more minute". That minute is a bitch, she waits until you are about to go completely under and then orchestrates an elaborate symphony of baby waking, baby jumping in his crib, toddler screaming for a lost Lovey, toddler ripping off her Pull-Up, hubby dropping the soap in the shower, the cat purring between your ankles, and the dog licking her crotch two inches from your pillow. Good Morning, Beautiful.

Does anyone remember when the morning meant turning on the Today show, catching up with Matt, Meredith, and Ann while marveling at Al Roker's size - or lack of - for an hour as you dozed in and out? Maybe you threw back the clean down comforter, sprinted to the bathroom for a quick pee, sprinted back in, and cuddled for twenty minutes? When did spooning start involving diapered butts and furry animals who sneak into your bed in the wee hours?

I love my kids. I love their sweaty morning scent that takes my breath away the first time we meet each morning. Xander in his crib, jumping like a Mexican jumping bean on crack, who reaches up and nuzzles his warm head under your chin, into your neck, in a way that makes you pause and Thank God each and every morning for the most wonderful creation on Earth. And Zoe, who is now old enough to hop out of bed, tear off her Pull Up (Oh, she is totally potty trained but I have no problem saving myself nightly sheet changes "just in case" with the simplicity of pulling on some "special panties" at night.), sprint into our room with her wild mane sticking up all around her, jump into our bed in one flying leap, and boot Mr. right out of his spot, all the while sticking two sock-clad feet into my ribs, sides, and belly, while I smile and Thank God for this magnificent creature I call mine.

When the X-man is tired of jumping, he starts wailing and then it's game time. Never in her life has Zoe allowed me to get the little guy on my own. She has to lead the way, open the door, and get up close to his crib and whisper "Hey Buddy! Your girls are here now!" in a way that makes me laugh and tear up at the same time. She will also caress his sweet cheeks while I open the blinds and get out a diaper. She loves her little brother and in the early morning sunlight, she shows it. And then Xander gets ahold of her Lovey, pulls it into his crib, and sits on it with a grunt and two big blue eyes peering back at her.

Game On.

The sweet reverie of the morning is broken with a shriek. I'm sure the neighbors sat up in bed, looked at each other in horror, and asked, "Tornado Siren?", looked at the clock, and said, "Nope. Xander took Zoe's Lovey again. Just like clockwork," and laid back down until it was a more reasonable hour to get out of bed.

Once Lovey is back to his rightful owner and Xander has completely melted my heart with his head tuck into my neck, we head downstairs to shouts of "I want to make the waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-fles" today! and "Are we still out of OJ? Seriously, Mom! Put it on the list!" and other things, and always a "Have you seen my keys/blackberry/computer/wallet/gym bag?" we have Eggo's in the toaster oven, sippy's filled with cold drinks, and a mom ready to 1) brush her teeth and 2) put on a pair of pants.

And then, one in a high chair, one sucking down blackberries and trying to see if they float in ice water, they look at each other, start making raspberries, and smile. And mommy knows this will last for thirty seconds, tops, but for those thirty seconds, all is right in the world.

Parents

2010-05-17T08:18:00.000-05:00

You know you are parents when...

- You both pretend it's an hour later than it is just to get the kids down before Survivor starts.

- When on a date, the topics that will inevitably come up will include the lack of parenting on Max & Ruby, how much sugar is in yogurt, and how regular your children's bowels are... even if you swear kids are off limits for the evening.

- You swore off "the Family Bed" technique until you have a toddler in a big kid bed. It's easier to throw them in with you than walk them back in their bed ten times a night.

- You have had very heated, passionate debate on Huggies vs. Pampers on a moments notice.

- When you walk out of a parent/teacher conference you have wondered, together, if they are talking about YOUR child.

- You secretly hope your preschooler asks for you to read her stories at bedtime... and then feel bad for the other one for missing out on such a sweet moment.

Drop and give me 20

2010-05-14T14:54:00.001-05:00

Today I flew into the McD's parking lot like a bat out of hell. I remember that song "Mind on my money and money on my mind" and you could replace money with McMuffin. I purposely didn't nibble on a stray (cold) Eggo from Xander's tray or a few blackberries (they the squisheded ones, mom!) from Zoe's plastic pirate plate with the full intention of my last meal being savored and enjoyed.

"What'll it be?" squawked the speaker.

"One McMuffin, no meat."

"Meat?"

"No bacon, please."

"Bacon? We don't serve bacon."

"Sorry. The #1 says 'Canadian Bacon'. I don't want that."

"You don't want the McMuffin? Huh?"

After three or four more minutes of this brain cell murder, we pulled forward with $2.77 in hand, ready for the best taste bud sensation in the world... The Egg McMuffin.

Honestly, I didn't even taste it. I just knew it was awesome and heavenly and divine. I threw back an ice water to stop myself from swallowing it whole, and we took off down University to The Healthy Living Center. The HLC is a cool new Y concept - it is a medical plaza with the swankiest Y ever in the middle. The concept is definitely a winner. Except, where I was going was within 10 steps of the cafe, which I really think is just mean.

The Center is full of people like me who have made excuses for why they eat, given reason to why it's okay to buy a larger pair of paints - again - because they must have shrunk, and who think a snack is 1/3 a package of Oreo's. Sadly, I am right where I belong in the middle of these misfits and have to do a major 180 in my lifestyle. The Center is my beacon. My beacon of hope that I can truly change from within while I change from the outside.

Zoe did her best to make sure I felt extremely guilty for placing her in the Child Watch area, after the fifteenth, "I'll Just Go With You!" I almost replied with a "Sure. Sounds awesome. Maybe this time you can clothesline yourself by sledding on the waxed floor on the doctor's stool, the blood pressure cuff, and a not-totally-pushed-in stirrup just in time for the doctor to walk in to see the whole show, in full tongue-depressor-in-each-nostril glory again!" I bit my tongue, kissed two sweet kids good bye, shielded my eyes from the Kit Kat on the top shelf of the free standing candy bin exactly 90 degrees and four feet to my right - and walked into the Center.

I still had a little McMuffin in my molar as I signed in, feeling guilty, and looked around to see a lot of tired eyes. Eyes that have been on 900 calorie diets for weeks, months, eyes questioning the one question I've been asking myself since we forked over $4000 for this insane life boot camp... Why did I make myself have to come to this?

After the panic-inducing weigh in I went back to the lobby to hear other's tales of horror and triumph. One guy was so hungry he chewed a dog biscuit because he didn't think it had any calories, as there wasn't a nutrition guide on the Milkbone box. Not good. Most of the people sat their with diet pops in their hands and I just wanted to say, "Just because you CAN have it, doesn't mean you SHOULD have it all the time!" but as a rookie, I knew it was best to keep my mouth closed.

And, as I learned in my first group meeting, learning to keep my mouth shut is exactly what I'll accomplish over the next 18 weeks.

Water Park

2010-05-11T14:13:00.000-05:00

Things I learned over a weekend at an indoor water park...

- Any three year old who jogs around a lazy river a few dozen times (in one hour) will sleep very well.

- If I am ever the parent who allows the "life guards" to guard my child's life as I sip drinks in the Wet Rooster bar, please send in the firing squad. I have failed as a parent.

- When a life guard has a bigger tire around their middle than I do they WILL NOT move quickly and efficiently when trying to get out of the way of a 200 gallon bucket of water splashing. As much as you do not want to laugh, you might. A few times.

- A one year old who cries and begs to play pool basketball, dunk, and hang on the rim will draw an adoring audience.

- "Balmy 84 degrees" is simply false advertising. Try "Goose Bump-inducing" and you've got it!

- When a life guard throws on a pair of goggles and a snorkel - yes, a snorkel - to fix a drain at the bottle of a 3 foot kids pool, you might stare and then laugh. Again.

- $8.99 personal Pizza Hut pizza's just taste better with a little chorine.

- When your three year old smiles from ear to ear for six hours straight, you'll already be looking for the next weekend you can head back!

Chicken

2010-05-10T13:57:00.002-05:00

"STOP!" I screamed for the fifteenth time today, and millionth this month (and it isn't even the tenth yet).

Zoe seemed destined to end up as a hood ornament on a neighbor's minivan or SUV, as she truly seems drawn to the street. She will sit in a cute little dress, pigtails with matching bows fluttering in the breeze, and then dart like a rabid gazelle into the black top of horror, our street.

Yes, we live on a cul-de-sac. In a small town. In a sleepy state. BUT IT IS STILL THE STREET. The street where every so often you turn on CNN to see a too-somber reporter preening at a children's hospital where another negligent mom turned her back - for 1/100th of a second (how dare she?) - to let this poor waif run into the street to meet her destiny with a UPS truck. They never show the other side of the story, the one where the mom has been thisclose to using duct tape, string, and a staple gun to keep said waif on the safer side of the sidewalk, as pleads/lessons/scoldings/spanks/and sheer frustration do nothing to keep kids (like ours) from chasing butterflies/bubbles/bumble bees/breezes into dangerous territory.

I do not want to be a statistic. I want my daughter to remain bipedal with use of her arms, brain, and all five senses. I watch the Discovery Channel. I know what can happen.

When Zoe did this in California while visiting TT & Bobsa my mom didn't hesitate to swallow her words about the horrific kid-leashes and try to wrangle my monkey into a leash with a monkey attached to her back once she played dodge-the-Lexus a few too many times. Zoe relaxed, pulled us around, and then acted like it was vaccination time at the pediatricians office as she hopped, hollered, and kicked herself away from our gentle lead. Even a (quick) jerk of the tail didn't stop her, just jerked her chain. It didn't go so well and after a quick trial run, we had one pissed monkey and one tailless monkey.

Plan B?

Scare the living poop out of her. Tell her what cars can do to little kids.

"I gonna be a pancake, mom? With syrup? I only wanna be a pancake with syrup AND butter. I hate pancakes without butter. Mom, do you like pancakes? How do cars make kids into pancakes? Do they use eggs? Can I crack them, Mom? Can I?"

Plan C?

Take away things she likes each time she misbehaves and runs into the street.

Once I had a pink metal collection of trikes, bikes, baby strollers, and a nice array of sand toys and a child who thinks dodge-the-mini is an awesome way to wither away an afternoon, I resorted to a spank.

Just as the Iowa "breeze" picked her up, my hand hit her butt and she looked like she would catapult into the prairie wind without a second to lose.

"OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWE!" she yelled, fake crying and flailing about.

"Zoe, mommy hates to spank you but you may not EVER go into the street."

The tears abruptly stopped.

"What about when I help pull in the trash can? Or hold your hand to go to Regan's house? Or when Grant and Chase let me play ball with them? Or when I get the mail?"

"You need to be holding an adult's hand to go into the street."

"Ok!"

"Ok? You understand?"

"Got it."

A smile came upon my face as I knew my little prodigy got the concept and would abide by my rules.

Hours later we pulled out of the driveway, on our way to Costco, and I hear a clicking - nope, make that tisking, sound from the back seat.

"Mommy is in trouble! Mommy is in trouble!"

"Slowing the mini, I turned around and said, "Why am I in trouble, Z?"

"We are in the street and you didn't hold my hand!"

Sure enough, we were stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac, the street, if you will, and my safely strapped in child was gloating in the fact that I, somehow, broke my own rules of "always hold hands in the street".

Just as I sat back in my seat wondering how to explain the difference to the Queen of Why's, she said, "Don't worry, Mom! I still love you. And if you were a pancake, I'd love you even more!"

Gumby

2010-05-06T12:31:00.001-05:00

Chest high in freezing cold water at 5:25 am is when you see how many jumping jacks, scissor kicks, and cross country lunges you can muster before your toes and fingertips fall off. Surprisingly, I can do quite a few. I can also make new friends easily.

Rebecca and I are settling into our new routine of unGodly hour exercise and to be honest, we are enjoying it. We've also gotten more comfortable in the water and do more with our mouths than take in chlorine - we talk to the assortment of other aqua-sizers a bit too big for the bathing suit they squeezed into while their partner snored loudly in the warm bed they crawled out of exactly 8 minutes earlier (cause who gets up and moving a second before they have to before the sun comes up AND kids are sleeping?).

So, we did the usual, "WOW! This water is cold! Was it this could yesterday?" routine and once our shoulders drop from our ears and we get used to the "heated pool" (yes, it is heated compared to a pond in northern Michigan in, say, January) and kick around in the shallow end.

Some women immediately grab their water weights, just in case the usual 12 are bombarded by 24 more geriatric and/or obese class go-ers and they cannot have the exact weights. Newbies are hard to come by - I think the collection of white, sparse haired ladies, blubber-covered young ones, and overall splashing like Shamu coming from the pool is enough to make the Speedo-clad run and take cover in the two open lanes.

We were all telling stories of things we did in our youth. Most were stories of when we acted like a chump. As I told mine I failed to mention that this happened yesterday, not a decade and eighty pounds ago. "I just wanted to see if I COULD bite my toenail. I saw a thing on You Tube with these chicks who don't use clippers and just throw their leg in the air and chomp the nails away! So, I thought today was as good as any to`try!" smiling as no one seemed to catch that I was either obese AND flexible or was skinny when You Tube debuted. Bless their (slowing down) tickers! "So, I threw my right leg up to my chest, bent my knee, and fell completely backwards. Once I couldn't get up again I knew I'd pulled some sort of abdominal muscle - wasn't too too bad until my husband asked me why I couldn't let the dog out before bed and I had to show him my arsenal of heating pad/ice/pillow that were under the covers with me on the couch!"

A giggle or two from the audience as class started. Rebecca scooted next to me and said, "I kind of did that once. In bowling shoes. To prove I could still put my feet behind my head!"

I didn't want to ask why she needed to prove this, and who cared, but I assumed a few beers were involved and she was winning a bet. My eyebrows must have spoken for me, as she went on to talk about how the bowling shoe got caught behind her head - or was it ear - and the lip of the shoe wouldn't budge. "So, I had to tell them, NO REALLY. I NEED HELP!" but no one came to this damsel in distress' aid - just laughter, and a little finger pointing as Rebecca became a legend at Woody's Lanes that night.

Rebecca isn't so much of a story teller. She listens a lot, laughs, and occasionally shares a story, but this one threw me off. I could just picture the always Merona dressed lady with a leg behind her head smug and ready to make a point until a blush appeared on her cheeks when she realized that leg wasn't going anywhere except the ER if she didn't get it unwrapped fast. But then, the bowling shoe was caught on what - her hair? head? ear? and she had to ask for help all the while hunched over, legs spread, and what? sitting in the middle of a bowling alley?

Just as I laughed out loud as I type this story, I started laughing so hard and powerfully that I got the attention of the entire group (and also took in water from the nostrils, right ear, and mouth - tricky, really) and kept going under from the weight of the water and not-so-sure footing on the rough pool floor. So, this clown drowning act had twelve exercisers stop to listen. At this point, Rebecca clammed up until she retold it to the ears perked crew. EVERYONE laughed and laughed. Even when we calmed down and started the usual underwater bicycle routine you'd catch someone look at Bec and then laugh again.

In a bowling alley? She wins!

Cozy

2010-05-05T14:06:00.000-05:00

We have a new lunch spot in our tiny town called the Cozy Cafe. Mr. and I ate there three times in four days the first week it was open. Lunch Saturday, Brunch Sunday, and two more lunches. It's cute, clean, and has to-die-for chicken salad. I'm talking about the perfect mayo to chicken to grapes to walnuts to celery ratio. They've got it down to a science.

My girlfriend, who is also named the same outrageous name as I am, and I have taken the kids here for lunch a few times and crawled to the front corner booth and enjoyed some conversation while the kids played hockey on the table with the abundance of jelly packs in a plastic container a'la Perkins. The kids can climb over one another and no one really notices and we can actually eat our food - as supposed to shove it down in one bite - and enjoy at least half an iced tea.

Today was not such a day.

We met up with our Mom's group at a local park for Spring Art Fest. A former kindergarten teacher, in all her glory, created an art scene any preschooler would pee their potty trained self upon arrival. There were stations to paint in with fingers/pudding/shaving cream and places to glue noodles/fabric/leaves/boogers (Check the orange paper with Z's name on it. You'll see it.) and all kinds of nifty art stations.

It was like the art classroom you never had in elementary school that came to life in movies. Except, it was alive and kicking in real life. Really alive and kicking. The prairie winds had recently sent us into a Wind Advisory. This is saying something in Iowa, as I feel like everyday we could call the breeze tornado-like winds. However, not sure what made these prairie winds advisable, but they were in full gear, dancing the paint bottles across picnic tables, paint brushes flew like shot put spears into the bushes, and nearly every carefully dyed noodle ended up glued to children's smocks as they squirted some Elmers just as Prairie Wind thrust her power and sent the trail of glue onto little chests, just before the macaroni's danced a jig and ended up tangoing themselves onto the glue.

Even some masking tape and creative thinking couldn't keep the artwork from swan diving off the picnic tables and into a race against each other in the wind. Moms started cleaning up and kids started shivering and climbing the long, narrow steps of the ladder to the slide of death. It may have only been a super tall twisty slide, but I was sure Zoe's Gymboree bows would use her swirling pigtails as wings and take off, spilling her 30lbs of cuteness into the two stories of open air below while her sweatshirt ballooned out, creating a sail, and the next time I'd see her would be when I could catch up to her in Chicago, or some other Eastern city where the wind dies down. Yeah, Chicago's only the Windy City because people actually go there for fun and experience the wind. Lose the skyscrapers and people and you've got yourself a real Windy City.

Anyways, we were tortured and bruised and I looked over to see Zoe bare-crotched and squatting in the wind, pee whipping around the grass in a steady flow. We made eye contact and she did a little shrug, pulled on her clothes, and gave new meaning to drip and dry, ladies.

Mrs. 2 and I decided to take the kids to the Cozy Cafe to have some warm food, coffee drinks of choice, and 20 minuets of quiet before the afternoon Nap. Ah, Nap.

We were welcomed with a "Hey! Nice to see you!" from our usual server just as Zoe lurched onto the floor, clutching her stomach, and squealing.

"I know you are hungry! Let's find a table!" I said cheerily, praying no one else we knew was in the place. A group of four elderly women pushed past us and took our table booth. Three of them. Six of us. The rest of the place was four or two top tables.

"I HAVE TO GO POOP!" shouted Zoe as she rolled, summersaulted, and tumbled on the floor.

"Get. Up. NOW!" I hissed, trying to keep a tight grip on the little monkey on my hip who really wanted a piece of the action as I leaned down to the psychotic dwarf writhing at my feet.

Holding both of them, we ran as Zoe made it known as to what we were heading to the bathroom to accomplish.

Xander took it upon himself to try to lick every surface in the bathroom at least once as I also tried to help Zoe balance on the king of all potty seats. One sneeze and she was going in.

We made it out with six jolts of automatic soap, one landing on X's head, and sixteen paper towels, to see Mrs. 2, Camile, and Cole were trying to squeeze themselves on one side of a tiny booth. We did the same, just in time to have Zoe & Camile have a jelly slurping contest - something apparently Cole created in which you pull back the tiniest bit of the jelly film, cover it back up, and see who can slurp the jelly out the fastest. They were also throwing back sugar packets like it was Spring Break in Candy Land and we also had Escape-A-Xander on our hands.

"Are we ready to order?" got an emphatic and resounding "YES!" from two tired mommas.

Zoe tried her best to use her head as a wedge between the wall and a pretty piece of artwork. She failed, but not until the owner came over to gently place his hand on the knock off and ask Zoe to knock it off. If we hadn't already ordered, we would be back in the car with me threatening no more treats/Diego/bubbles, in that order, but we had ordered and our food should be here "any minute".

Seventeen minutes later we had cleared out the booths around us and had Xander on the hip of a waitress getting a tour of the kitchen. I don't even think I tasted my chicken salad. I did, however, taste the ketchup that somehow got squeezed at the perfect angle to miss any food items, but directly hit the side of my shirt, shoulder, mouth and nose. Good thing I was wearing white!

Xander decided to try going boneless, and succeeded, and we scarfed our food and paid our checks (what is 40% of $12? You know, let's make it 50% so we are allowed to come back).

Zoe and Camile dashed into traffic as we both screamed NO! and Cole managed to smuggle out a piece of cake from the dessert counter on our way out. I could hear Mrs. 2 about to lose it as I strapped my two monkeys into their seats.

As she pulled out we made eye contact. At that exact time we both raised our right hands and pretended to shoot ourselves in the side of our heads.

Fantastic!

2010-05-04T14:55:00.000-05:00

A long time ago, a monkey was kept in an awful cage down by the Little Miami River. It was an old biker bar on the river and they taught the monkey/ape/chimp to smoke, drink beer, and do unmentionables with his private parts. When we walked the gorgeous bike trail near the river, I'd beg to go see Sam the Monkey. One time we caught him still in the mood after his one man show, smoking a cigarette, and that was the end of my time spent with Sam. A few years later animal control finally came to get him. I've always hoped he ended up in some gorgeous rainforest or other wonderful habitat, and not just in a cage in a lab somewhere. I need to think that he is free and happy - making goofy faces to make others laugh, swinging all over, and off and running where no one can catch him.

Speaking of free and happy, it's 1:00 and the preschool is about to explode with sugar-induced chaos. The kids sit on their yellow chairs eating something from all five food groups, drinking from non-sippy cups, and giggle, laugh, and finish their veggies. Then, even the wild-child from the birthday party you attended weeks ago is sitting "criss cross applesauce" and listening to another wild Clifford adventure.

Today was Teacher Appreciation Day so each family took the reminder email from the director to heart and brought in trinkets of love. These teachers could have had Sam the Monkey curtsy-ing and saying, "Pass the Grey Poupon" if given a week and some time to work their magic. The three of them handle the ten kids with grace, respect, and not a single bribe/beg/threat. It's like they are magical. One thing, we all know, is that if it is anything out of the ordinary, kids respond with a temporary psychosis. It just throws them off. So, trinkets, confections, and mommy's arriving was enough to send these PB&J covered beings into a tither.

As soon as that old wood door opened, it was a stampede of waist-high preschoolers and moms, younger siblings, and teachers all trying to talk, gather up sweaters (it was a little chilly this morning), lunch boxes (except for Zoe. She'd much rather have a brown paper sack than her $37 Pottery Barn Kids personalized lunch bag), and back packs (once again, nix the $50 pink one with chocolate brown piping and a scrolled "ZOE" across the top pocket, the SHAMU SHAMU in gaudy primary colors from our trip to Sea World knocked that pink one with a Shamu Splash so fast we didn't see that tail coming), and all art projects/worksheets/notes/birthday party invitations that you couldn't imagine one child creating/doing/writing/knowing.

"She had a fantastic day!" was all I heard as my mind did a smug little told you so! to my worry center. Zoe doesn't do well with change and bringing in presents and gifts was just enough to set her off. Rebecca and I started comparing notes on The Zoe's and soon I realized Xander was still on my hip (and my arm was still asleep from his weight) and Zoe wasn't anywhere to be seen.

'ZOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I yelled down the hall. In a church. Twice. My mind starts playing some mean tricks on me since that Stalker Man entered our lives. "ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-" I was interrupted by giggles at the water fountain. Zoe was slurping up the water from the bottom of the fountain (ie: the drips from a little boy slopping up the fountain water and all over himself, the wall, and my daughter's pony tail). "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GET UP!" as I tried to set down a water colored picture, very sleepy 15-month-old, Shamu's ugliest apparel, a treat cup from her prayer friend, and two sweaters (we always forget that one sweater...) to snag her off the floor. Even Carson, the dog, would just walk away from this mess. Zoe was covered in second-hand water drippings and was making her own drippings on the floor. Just then Bestie Zoe came zooming around the corner and the Zoe's were off in a blond cloud.

Picking up the 15 items meant to go to our house, I could hear the children's ministry director begging some unruly kids to slow down, stop, and take a break.

Shit.

There was a tagging "You're It!" cloud of blond girl as the Zoe's tagged, wrestled, and bobbed throughout the chaos of dismissal time. However, all the mobs of people were apparently invincible, as the girls just didn't see anyone they rammed, bumped, passed through, or summersaulted under in the packed church. The always kind Director stepped out and used her Teacher voice, but mommy's were here and they'd been good for four hours. Now it was time to put on a show.

When I finally caught her skinny little arm in the two free fingers I had, I started to hiss something about a bare-butt spank and realized we were in God's house. Just wait, little lady, until you are in Momma's House.

And then, someone or something caught my attention, a skinny arm slid through my two-fingered grasp, and off she went, through the double doors after Zoe.

STOP! at least ten different mothers yelled as the Zoe's ran to the edge of the sidewalk, that leads to mini-vans and SUV's heading off to nap time in a hurry. Bestie Zoe's curls lunged forward as her thin frame stopped at the edge. Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief before screaming another STOP! at my Zoe, who was apparently unaware of the golden rule of childhood - NEVER EVER GO INTO THE STREET!

Not only did my Zoe go into the parking lot without a glance back, but she did a two footed hop off the edge and threw her arms out as if she were practicing landings for Team USA.

Bela Karoli I am not.

Shaking and furious, I didn't know what to do with my little perfect 10 landing, so I made her sit on the curb and watch the cars. I mentioned she could have been squashed - to the disbelief of some waif of a mom in her tennis skirt opening up her Mercedes and a dirty look in my direction.

What? Play it cool? Act like it's okay, now that she is in my grip? Pretend she could have been a pancake faster than you can scream STOOOOOOOOOOOOOP to a tired momma with naptime on her mind leaving school? I don't think so. She broke the cardinal rule and would be dealt with.

Once she slurped out a Sorry (in a mumbled garble that could only be done by a mad Zoe as she tried to stop crying boogers and tears down her face) we got into the van. Said tennis mom stayed in her car, with the windows rolled down, staring at Zoe, Xander and I until I drove away. Was she afraid I was going to run over Z's foot, just to make a point?

So I did the meanest, cruelest thing I could do to Zoe.

I buckled her into her seat and showed her her treat. Her capri sun and popsicle she'd begged for since dinner the night before that was to be her treat. And I threw them away.

She may have preferred a bare butt spank, but a slap on her little butt cheek doesn't deter Zoe. Losing her rewards, awards, and treats deters Zoe. So, she lost both treats she had her heart set on and cried all the way home.

Sometimes, I still think about Sam the Monkey. I hope he is swinging high in the branches, feeling wind in his fur, and doing whatever makes him happy. But I also hope his momma is close. Because, these little monkeys like to be wild and free, but ultimately, keeping them close isn't such a bad thing, either.

Things I love about 3 year olds

2010-04-30T13:01:00.000-05:00

- You can never have enough glue on your project.

- When choosing your outfit, it matters if you LIKE each piece, not if they go together, match, or are even in season. Why not throw on a Buckeye jersey, turtleneck, tutu, leggings, and one tennis shoe and one croc?

- Going poop is still reason to celebrate with a high five and a piece of chocolate.

- Kicking your brother's legs out from under him, if an Olympic sport, would earn you some gold.

- Plastic heels are perfect for every occasion.

- Time stands still when you look at a butterfly.

- A new set of bubbles and a wand will not only make your day, but will make your day awesome.

- Life really is as simple as listening, smiling, and going with the flow. (If you are in the mood to listen, smile, or not rule the roost.)

- If someone is able to walk, communicate, and smile, you are instantly friends for the duration of the play date. They get kudos if they have an extra set of fairy wings.

- Without a doubt, you know you are the prettiest, smartest, funniest, nicest, and best kid in the world.

Shoe Man

2010-04-29T14:22:00.000-05:00

I was taught, at a very young age, that good, solid shoes needed to fit correctly (one thumb from the tip of the shoe) and constantly be in excellent condition and if they should ever break down, wear out, rip, etc. it will, in fact, change your entire spinal alignment and those shoes should be donated (to some poor sap who wonder's why the Goodwill sneakers she relies on give her a bad back) immediately. Seriously. You can't make this stuff up.

My father has always been in the shoe business, at least as long as I've known him. He is funny, smart, caring, and generous to a fault. In fact, our best man's speech at our wedding talked about when he met my parents, my dad opened the door and said, "What size are you?" while shaking his hand.

Best Man had no idea my dad was a shoe man and didn't know wether to punch him or rattle off his neck/sleeve numbers, inseam, waist, and anything else important, as this was the Father of the Bride and maybe if you gave him your size he would pay for the tux? Mr. (at that point, Fiance) explained my dad was known to give away shoes to anyone and everyone he meets (ask our cleaning lady, my sorority sisters, dry cleaners, and our wedding planner if you don't believe me) and within minutes my dad was on his ottoman-turn-shoe store fitting seat and was fitting Best Man into a few comfy pairs of trainers, runners, and boots.

This was normal in my house and until Mr. came along I never knew this didn't happen in most homes. It never dawned on me that Stephen's dad, who owned a local tennis club wasn't having you try out different rackets each time we were over, or a family friend who was a big wig at Victoria's Secret didn't have fitting rooms and a way to measure cup sizes in his foyer, but it just seemed normal that everyone was this generous and giving to the people around them.

My dad is endearing and everyone speaks highly of him, without a single pause, and loves his advice.

So, when it came time to get Zoe new shoes, it always falls on Bobsa and TT to fit and purchase very expensive shoes that will grow with the child, not mold or impression young bones, and make the child a genius (read the box). This would be easier if they lived within 1000 miles of Des Moines, but they are beach front on the West Coast loving the So Cal sun. So, TT came to town and noticed Zoe was in need of new shoes. So, they got four new pairs.

Zoe still had her heart set on a pair of glittery, gaudy train wrecks that she HAD TO HAVE. The kind of shoes that make momma's cringe and little girls cry over. TT offered to pay the $75 at Von Maur for them, but I begged her not to spend more than $20 on "disposable" shoes. Trust me, at the first rip, tear, or scuff they will be deemed unusable by momma and have to go to the poor kids, as Z calls Goodwill.

My mom shuddered and let out an animal-like sound as we walked into PayLess. This had happened one other time in my life, when I was in a small town desperate for black heels for a good friend's funeral. The blisters scarred my tender toes and I've since tried to erase it from my memory. Anyways, PayLess had a pair of silver glitter horrors that would make Dorothy's ruby reds look dull. So, we braved the cheap pleather-filled aisles and found The Shoes.

And Zoe did a little dance, twinkle in her eye, and fell in love.

I swear I heard her utter, "Hello, Lover!"

Seeing as she had them on faster than she has ever gotten a shoe on in her life - and on the appropriate feet - we knew we were hosed.

She threw her foot out so fast she tripped a little and said, "Check 'em out! Sparkly shoes!"

TT opened up her phone, dialed Bobsa, and said, "We have a problem" while explaining the situation. Bobsa urged us to trek back up the mall, past the play land, and the pretzel store, which ultimately, is like asking a soldier to race back through a mine field just for shits and giggles, with a few "$75 for correct spinal alignment is nothing!"s and we were dismayed. Then Zoe grabbed the phone.

"Bobsa! Bobsa! I got sparkly shoes! Real real ones! Dey are GORGEOUS!" and after she dropped the phone with a kiss on the mouthpiece, TT asked, "What do I do?"

And Bobsa said...

"Get them in every color!"

And that was how we knew, without a doubt, that the shoe man had yet another lady love in his life.

Wave Makers

2010-04-29T08:05:00.000-05:00

This morning I got my butt out of bed after Mr. kicked my shin - again - and told me I couldn't let Rebecca down.

"Sure I can!" I mumbled in his direction as I stumbled to our bathroom, refused to turn on the lights to pee and brushed my teeth in hot water because I turned on the wrong faucet. Does it make your mouth double clean to kill the germs with toothpaste and hot hot water? I'll have to look into this. Anyways, I pulled on the old swim suit that best suited a geriatric fat grandma than a twenty-something (I have three weeks) girl. Too bad it fit. Snugly. Too snug? Noooooooo.

Pitch black cold air shocked my eyes open as I hauled myself into Mr.'s Envoy. He left it in the driveway for me so I wouldn't wake the kids up when I left at the unGodly hour of 5-something to go shock my body that we were moving just to move, not to chase diapered butts or energetic preschoolers.

The Y was buzzing with activity, skinny people drinking stainless steel bottles of water with sweaty ponytails that looked better than my hair why I style. So, I stepped back out and waited for Rebecca on the sidewalk. As she walked up with some serious bed head and jammies -- I love her -- and did a little "Yay Us!" cheer that pumped us both us and made our round bellies roll as Svelte Momma held open the door for us and then ruined the kind gesture with a roll of her eyes. We entered the Y with a little bit of nervousness that happens when you see someone naked for the first time. When you can fit into clothes at Lane Bryant, trust me, a swimsuit is the equivalent of naked.

We giggled as we undressed in the locker room and literally ran and jumped in the pool, maintaining complete eye contact. Come to think of it I still couldn't tell you what her suit looked like from below the shoulder straps.

We made waves. Just our waves happened to be in a different direction, style, and tempo than anyone else in the class. More eye rolls ensued, some from ladies old enough to be my mom's mom. Apparently, the instructor thought "pendulum swing! One two!" was enough direction when all you could see was her neck and head bobbing in the cold pool to get you doing her exact moves. So, we tried and laughed and laughed and tried.

We were moving! And having fun. Although, I must have had a better work out than Rebecca because she had to use one arm on anything that made her DD's try to float out of her suit, which happened to be most circuits. We plan on going back twice a week, on mornings that our men aren't at the Y. I just hope the Moth Ball Lady who gleefully cheered "this rough pool bottom is like a pumice stone" just as I accidentally swallowed a bit of pool - and then choked it back out - and the incontinent lady who I'm pretty sure had a few bursts of yellow under her as we did some hard core jumping jacks using the bar weights. One time Moth Ball Lady called me out and asked why I was drowning, while my body weight should have been supported by my wrists. I called out FIBROMYALGIA, you old Coot! and shut her up. In my head.

All in all, it was a really nice way to start the day, even if I did ingest a little urine and sloughed dead skin from some geriatric toes.

"All You Care to Eat"

2010-04-29T07:47:00.000-05:00

Since when did restaurants start tooting "All You Care to Eat" instead of "ALL YOU CAN EAT!" in neon signs? When did this happen? I think it's been fairly gradual and I think it's really funny. Is this some way to combat obesity in America? Did someone really think changing the vernacular, not the meaning, of something will also change behaviors?

We went to a local supermarkets "All You Care to Eat" kids night. Mr. was out of town, kids were driving me crazy, and at some point someone had told me on Tuesday nights it was kid's night and they 1) Ate free 2) had crafts 3) supplied free nannies. Well, two out of three isn't bad.

So, I printed a flyer for the $5 All You Care to Eat event and packed Zoe & Xander and off we went in hopes of a plethora of dining choices to satisfy some growling stomachs.

What we walked into would make Weight Watchers shudder. It looked like a cattle drive for the most robust, rotund, and shoe-tying impaired Iowans. I was thrown off at the girth of most diners, sad to say I fit right in. We got in line (if you've ever wrestled two kids into five-point harnesses and then out of them, you know you are staying at the said location and NOT moving locales) and when we got in the store, realized it was a Chinese All You Care to Eat spread.

This was a greasy mess of rice and various friend meats that were every bit as sneezed and picked over like any ol' Sizzler or Ponderosa BUFFET my parents never let me step foot in.

Vernacular shift or not, these people were shoveling in all they cared to... and could.

We didn't partake in the buffet that bestowing China's name to may cause WWIII and stepped over to the deli to do sandwiches and a side of Ambrosia Salad - really, who can resist pink marshmallow's called salad? And we watched.

Zoe asked if three men were pregnant "cause they must have BIG babies in their bellies!" and if the one couple shoveling in fried rice knew they offered silverware AND napkins, and I lost my appetite.

So, dinner and a show.

San Diego is Spanish for...

2010-04-21T13:23:00.000-05:00

I made a huge mistake when we were visiting my parents in California. Everytime we were on the 5 and I'd see a sign for San Diego (which is all time time, as they are 45 minutes north) I'd say, in my best Ron Burgundy voice, "San Diego is Spanish for Whale's Vagina" and my dad would laugh and my mom would give me a dirty look. I guess we know who has seen Anchor Man and who has been deprived.

This went on for the 10 days we were out there last. Six weeks ago.

So, this morning I took of Zoe's nighttime diaper - I'm sure she is potty trained enough not to wear one at night, but who wants to wake up and clean sheets at 4am when you have another one who really isn't too pumped about sleeping all night yet? - and she threw her legs back and yellled, "SAN DIEGO! FINNISH FOR DOLPHIN'S BUTT!"

I laughed so hard my stomach ached and I ripped off the elastic tab of the diaper I was holding.

Finnish for Dolphin's butt? Really?

La La La

2010-04-21T13:18:00.000-05:00

This, from my napping first-born:

"My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! Come back here, Mocha!"

At 6 am

2010-04-21T08:59:00.000-05:00

At 6 am this morning Zoe ran into our room, Lovey on her head, and jumped on me.

"Morning, Mama!"

"Morning, Z!"

"Is Daddy at work?"

"No. He's in the shower, I think."

"Good. Girl talk time," Now, when I hear her say this I smile and get nervous. It's cute, but it always means bargaining of some kind. And sadly, she can out argue me in a circle until I give up like the best litigator you could hire. I just didn't need to have a mental beat down from a preschooler at 6 am, you know? "Here's the deal. We can go play outside and make brownies. Two deals. One is go outside. The other is make brownies. Deal?"

"No! We are going to lay here until the sun comes up and then clean the house before we go to Backyard Adventures for play date."

"Nope. I gave you two deals. Pick one."

"Z, I think you are confusing deals with options. When I give you two options (like stop throwing your blocks at your brothers head OR go to your room without a snack) you must pick one. A deal is when I bribe you in public, (like Stop screaming for Cheeto's in the middle of the aisle and flopping around like a dying fish and I'll let you eat the blackberries before we pay for them while you sit quietly in the cart). Neither of these are deals."

"Yep. It's a deal. Pick one."

The doorbell rang in the middle of this conversation to nowhere and I looked for a bra (didn't find one) and threw on a sweatshirt (better than a bra, even on 80 degree mornings).

We were outside (Deal 1) and she was in the sandbox for I even had a chance to shout for her to get inside and at the very least find her jammie bottoms, walked through the rest of the landscape job, and then I realized we had a play date we scheduled - meaning I needed to bring snacks for 18 kids.

I looked in the walk-in pantry of temptation and realized unless the kids wanted spaghetti, something with diced green chilis and salsa, or a Pringle's can of stale chips, we'd make a quick batch of brownies.

Licking the spoon, I called Zoe in from the backyard. It was 7:00 by then and she needed to eat an Eggo or something. She sprinted forth, smiling.

"Come on in, baby!"

"Yeah! You picked both deals!" with a high five into the house.

Huh?

"I played outside AND you made me brownies!" she smiled, hugged me, kissed my cheek and rubbed my back. Worked for me. Mom of the Year, folks.

I just smiled and rubbed her back when she plucked the brownie spoon from my hands, licked it, and winked as she walked away.

3 Things Zoe has done lately to make me crack up

2010-04-20T14:15:00.000-05:00

3. Does the Stanky Leg dance each and every time she gets in the bathtub.

2. Screams "I. WILL. DO. IT!!!" ten times, then, after I give up, she screams, "HELP MEEEEEEEEE!"

1. Sings "All the Stinky Piggies" to the tune of "All the Single Ladies" and wiggle her feet in Xander's face.

Don't Blink

2010-04-20T14:08:00.001-05:00

It was a quick trip into the mega-chain bookstore. Grab the baby, our stroller, and run in, up the escalator, and into the kid's section to find some new books for the almost-three year old's birthday gifts. Should have been a quick trip, actually.

Snapping Xander into his new, cheap-o stoller (I've given up on Chicco's, Graco's, and Combi's - if you've ever gate checked one on a plane somehow they get mangled into scrap metal with bits of colorful fabric by the time they get it back to you while deplaning) I pinched my *$(%&$%)#%*&$)*^& finger again. It's just deep enough to squirt blood from your sensitive finger than never gets used unless you are attaching a five-point harness on a 15-month-old with legs he wants to use, not a diapered butt he wants to sit on.

Cursing like a sailor I tucked Xander's hands by his sides as I wrestled this beast of a harness on his meaty frame. His eyes got big and he said, "Uh Oh!" Yep.

We made it into the store and when I handed the customer service employee who knows more about American Literature than I do (with my degree to teach it) a $50 gift card. He scans it and says, "$1.72, ma'am!"

Ok, two major issues here.

1. I thought this was the $50 I won from the local paper. Check it again with your nifty gadget. CHECK IT.

2. MA'AM? I may be overweight and can't pull off a bandana as a shirt anymore, but seriously, MA'AM? When did this happen?

"How old are you," I asked, checking his name tag, "Christopher?"

"Pardon me?"

"How old are you?"

"23."

"I am in my twenties, too!" for another month. Four weeks from Sunday, actually.

"Nice."

"Yes. So why is it that you called me ma'am?"

"To be polite?" he replied with a question ringing out. At this point Xander was fussing so I popped a forbidden non-Safe-T-Pop in his little mouth and gave Christopher a stink eye. "Did you need anything else?" as he started plucking away at the computer in front of me. I knew he was updating his Facebook status to say, "is stuck helping a Fat Middle Aged Woman realize she's a long way and 75 pounds from Miss."

"Please check the gift card again. I know it's for $50. Like it says," I say smugly, thrusting the card back at him.

Swipe.

"Nope, sorry, ma'am. Still $1.72."

"So, 23-year-old-Christopher-born-in-the-same-decade-as-me-but-still-feels-the-need-to-call-me-ma'am, how do I go about getting the full amount of the gift card that should be on it?"

Christopher was now printing something and reaching for it.

"How about you go home and find Curious George Goes to the Museum {Zoe's pick}, Clifford takes a Walk {a new board book for Xander), Of Mice and Men {when I thought I should start rereading a classic a week to keep my brain active}, Sex & The City: The Series {when I realized I can only read on the toilet and in the downtime I have, I want to watch Carrie before the next one comes out, not cry over a special brother duo}, and the Sesame Street Golden Book Set {yep, blew through it about three months ago}, your receipt, and bring them back. Once returned, you will have the full $50 back on your gift card balance."You know, he said this really smug.

As I slowly turned the stroller and a very sticky Xander around Christopher made sure to say a polite "Thank you, Ma'am!"

We then tackled the escalator, made it to the kids area, and managed to only clear off three displays, four shelves, and the train table before I grabbed the first five books I saw around us, put Sticky Man back in his stroller, pinched another finger, and found the elevator to go down, detoured to the Clearance, I mean "Bargain Books" area, and then as Xander tried his best to go boneless, clear a few more shelves and shoplift a few Lindt truffles, I pulled out my wallet.

Beads of sweat trickled down my face as the line of people grew behind us. Chill out, people. Unless you have a stroller with you, chances are you don't need to get out of here in lightening speed. I mean, you are chilling in a bookstore at 10am on a Tuesday, ya know?

Where is my Visa? Visa, where are you? I called into the depths of the diaper bag, as it was apparent by the 12 expired gift cards, stale mints, used tissues, a rattle, three dollar bills, 37-cents and Iowa license strewn on the counter that it wasn't in my Coach purse. I name-drop at this point because it is the only thing on me most days that would prove we are not homeless. I dress like this because it fits and will be stained within the hour, not because I have no other choice.

My face went white as I looked up to the teller and who is it? Jack-of-all-trades Christopher is standing before me, skinny arms crossed, impatient look on his pasty face. "Ma'am, do you have means to pay?"

"Nope."

I wheeled Xander out of the store in a hurry, realized the contents of my purse were still scattered about the store, picked them up, left the stale mints and a tissue for Christopher, and was almost in tears as I realized Zoe was playing Costco last night and kept talking about her silver Costco card. I bet it also moonlights as Momma's Visa.

As I did my best to disappear an older woman stopped in front of me, out of her place in line. She was dressed very well, had on expensive pumps, and wore a gorgeous set of ivory pearls around her aging neckline.

"Don't blink, honey."

I was a little thrown off and embarrassed so I did a half-smile and tried to walk past her.

"One day he'll be off and running and you'd kill to have him so close to you again."

"My baby girl will be three this week and it's so hard to imagine that three years have happened already - I barely remember her at this age and it wasn't even a year and a half ago!"

Xander did a zerbert and the lady laughed. He then squealed, threw his sippy at her, pulled over a "Best Sellers" cardboard sign, and puked up the last of the non-Safe-T-Pop.

"Doesn't mean your days aren't tougher than shit, but it does go by too quick!" she said with a laugh and stepped into the line.

I will have to remind myself not to blink because some days I'd rather just hit the snooze button and sleep through them.

Kitty Cat!

2010-04-19T23:33:00.001-05:00

Such a sweet morning around here. Both kids laying on our bed, footie jams on, heads propped on their favorite pillows. Zoe had Chip in a headlock and Xander's chubby hands tapped the top of the cat's head a bit too rough. In an effort to break free, Chip was sideways as Zoe pointed out his eyes, nose, whiskers ("for fat cats to be safe, X!"), and then on his back, arms askew, and starting to hiss.

"Dose are his nipples. Dose are his feet. Dose are his cute cute furry ball sacks!"

She didn't get any further as I yanked the cat away just before a little hand got to the cute furry ball sacks and she said, "Hey! We still 'splorin him, Mom!"

Nope. We are good for the day!

5 Favorite things from Zoe's mouth lately

2010-04-19T23:28:00.000-05:00

5. "Of course!" This is her new response to requests.

4. "Now, mom, does Peter in my class have a peanut or bagina? How do you know?" while peeing while Peter and his mom are in the next stall.

3. "Mom, why are you vacuuming? We having a play date here?" while I started cleaning for the first time since the snow melted.

2. "Maybe we should both calm down and talk about this later? Deal?" as she is being sent to her room. Again.

1. "That girl is a mess!" to a screaming toddler in Target. Dirty looks ensued, FYI.

Our Doodle

2010-04-19T23:20:00.000-05:00

In her first few days of being in our lives, at four months old, she learned to literally climb a baby gate to make her escape into the wild of the whole house when we'd depart. Soon, Mr. started putting double gates up - one on one in the doorway of our laundry room. Every day she would be out, waiting at the front door when we'd come home from work.

One day, curious how this nine-pound pup could escape over the two-story gates, Mr. came home from work and placed her in the laundry room, locking her in as usual. And then he stepped aside. A whimper, a whine, and a little energy came from the baby dog. She jumped straight up, caught her paws in the middle of the gates, grunted as she pulled her back legs up to the gate, pushed off, and threw her body over the top gate and whizzed through the air until she slid across the hardwood in the kitchen, stood up, and shook it off. Tail wagging, paws-too-big for her body shaking, she hopped up and jumped - literally - into his arms.

Mr. jimmy-rigged quite a few contraptions, but even with the best duct tape, string, tennis balls, and glue our junk drawer offered, it couldn't contain this sweet apricot-colored beast. In time, she taught us that she ruled the roost and she was a free spirit who should never be contained.

Then, one day, it happened. This sweet, smart beast started talking.

And she had a lisp. And maybe a tongue thrust?

"Frow it! Frow the damn ball!" she would scream in our faces as soon as we were within a twenty-foot radius of her prized, filthy, slobbery tennis ball.

"Sheriously, Dad. Shtop blaming me!" each and every time a miserable smell would permeate the room.

In her four years on earth her vocabulary is startling similar to the first time she started speaking in front of her human slaves. Occasionally we'll get a new curse word or two (like when we pluck her from the tub when the kids are getting their baths and she really wants in on the action) or when we refuse to put her desires for a butt-scratching above our need to use both hands when we eat, but for the most part she just screams "FROW IT!" when we are near a ball, frisbee, or water bottle.

Doodle hates to be tied down. So, leashes are out. She eats her leashes as snacks and likes to get the leash down to one string, stay close, and then at the worst possible time - like entering the groomers or when a pack of beagles go down the street - she moves forth and with a snap of her head, she's running free and you have another $20 "Life is Good" leash dangling from your hand, minus a dog. Trust me, it may say Life is Good, but a dog on the run is not what makes life good! Especially in a neighborhood with rules about dogs and leashes. Oops. Dogs on leashes.

My dog isn't afraid to bite a humping dog's penis in retaliation for his unwanted advances, which I may say is definitely the equivilent of a rape whistle for dogs. She uses it well, and sometimes a bit prematurely, but it gets the message across.

When we were robbed a few months ago she led the burglar like Sacajewa leading Lewis & Clark West, leading them to my grandmother's black pearls, diamonds, and emerald ring with one slice of lunch meat and a wag. When stalker man entered our home she was sunning herself on the deck, all four feet suspended in mid-air as she dreamed about a 16 ounce filet. She is a gentle soul. Unless a beagle crosses into our sidewalk. Then it's game on. If people can be racist on the basis of skin alone, then dogs can be breedist based on breed alone. Word to the wise: if you are a beagle, do not, repeat, do not walk on the sidewalk on either side of our house. You will be growled, howled, and barked at until you quiver under her ferocious presence. Then Doodle will go find a ball, nudge it in my direction, and curse at me until it's thrown.

I have learned a lot of great lessons from this pooch and her vocabulary, but when it comes down to it, she has taught my kids how to love and respect a life, even if it is cursing from it's snout to FROW IT!

Wiggle when I Giggle

2010-04-19T14:28:00.000-05:00

When I put my phone on vibrate, I wondered how much it vibrates? Cause, I don't need anything vibrating in my pocket that makes my belly wiggle that triggers my boobs to dance and me to say, "Helllooooooooooooooo!" as I answer. I just need it to vibrate and not sing "All the Single Ladies!" when my best friend calls or something equally embarrassing. Like the 50+ Momma in Target the other day who's phone started screaming out "Muskrat Sally" a little louder than my kids were roaring... and roar they were, as we couldn't find anyone in the free cookie area of the bakery. You should see how fast Mama shops when it's a non-free cookie day at Target. Game On. I will break a sweat to get us through the aisles with everything we need, $20 in things we definitely don't need, and a bunch of items my kids have grabbed off the shelves or from another cart when we are in a tough squeeze in a busy aisle.

Phone on vibrate, kids in bed, and cold glass of water on the end table. CHECK. Mac powered up and ready for some Facebook, Yahoo, and Blogger time? CHECK.

Quiet time countdown is on.

As I got knee deep into a great new article, I heard a "Mooooom!" that could only be whined by Zoe for that long. That girl has a set of lungs on her.

"ZOE! Shhhhh! Xander is sleeping!" I stage-whispered up to her as she sat outside Xander's door and shouted down to me.

"Come get me," comes from the girl who has apparently climbed down from her tall bed, gotten into my make up stash, and was playing with the remote control in my room while she was supposed to be sleeping. Yep, I think she can handle coming down the stairs on her own. I tell her so and the arguement I knew would ensues.

Finally, she gives up and starts down the stairs, one by one. I turn on Diego and make a bed for her on the couch, and get back to mommy's time.

"This house is a train wreck!" comes from the makeshift bed.

"Wreck. Not train wreck."

"Nope, pretty sure it's a train wreck."

"Zo, just watch Diego. Mama needs a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay."

Seven seconds later, "Let's blow bubbles!"

"NO! You can go up and nap or you can watch a Diego. Either way, Mom needs a break."

"It hurts to break your leg. Nick told me."

"I'm sure it does."

The conversation continued until I closed the laptop, chugged my water - because God help us all if I leave a non-sippy-lidded cup out - and went into the kitchen.

"Let's make brownies! Or chocolate chip cookies!" shouted my not-at-all-sleepy side kick.

"Zo! I am just putting my cup away. We aren't baking today."

And then I looked at her. Her little eyes lost her spark and shoulders sagged just a little.

"Okay, come on. Let's get out the Play Doh!" came out of my mouth before I remembered that Play Doh means absolute chaos and my mind completely on the task at hand. No multi-tasking when Play Doh is out and all over the kitchen.

She then started in on doing the Stanky Leg dance in her t-shirt and undies from her nap. I laughed and she then said, "Your belly just shook like a bowl full of jelly! Like Santa!"

Yep, baby, my figure is in vibrate mode for now.

Inside Jokes

2010-04-19T13:58:00.000-05:00

Sitting in church when everyone is praying, I do a really bad thing. I bow my head and do a fake close of the eyes. Then my eyelids spring open wide and I do a crowd intake. Sort of like a census - how many people are here, do I know them, and how my kids are behaving compared to theirs. I pray sometimes, but most of the time I save my prayers for when I am alone and can focus on them. I've never been able to pray in public - it doesn't feel right to me. The idea of it is cool, but the actual praying part is a bit daunting. What if someone here CAN hear my thoughts? No thanks, I'd rather take a pass and speak to the big man in private.

For the most part, I feel a kinship with the kids in the pews. Some do the fake bow down, too, but most are oblivious and go on lifting their skirt, mom pulling it down one-handed and head bent, skirt up, mom pulls it down over and over, while the little one picks her nose and silently tap dances. It happens every time and it's always a someone else's child. A few times I've started to laugh out loud and had to muffle it when a person looks up, kinda like Jesus and I are participating in the best inside joke. But, the kids and I, we have a hard time absorbing all this information thrown at us in one hour. We haven't been schooled enough to know what they are talking about, so we pick up the main points, sing really loud when it's a good song, and sometimes need to shake our legs and move when it gets a little stuffy in there.

This week Pastor Timm spoke at length about being luke warm - the people who went to church, were raised in church, and then turned their backs on it. The people who believe they are spiritual but do not believe they need to go to church. I felt like he was looking directly at me and wondering why I was sitting there pretending to pray, clapping with the music, and rubbing my daughter's back (after threatening her to "throw a rice crispie in church one more time". I am who he was talking about - the luke warm. The non-believing believer. Although, I wasn't raised in church.

My dad grew up with two of the most devout Catholics you would ever meet. My MomMom once told me a story about being audited for six consecutive years because no one really donated, and claimed to donate, that much of their income to charity and church when they made so little income to start. But they did. They went to church faithfully and were the picture perfect members of the clergy - you could set your watch and calendars by their Lord's Prayers and service attendance. They lost a young son in the Vietnam war, although ironically, he died in Germany, and I know their faith was the only thing that kept them moving, while their three kids and plethora of grandkids eventually kept them living.

Nana and Papa were of different faiths - both Christian, but just different enough to make the nuns ill thinking the White kids were raised with two religions and not just Catholic. My mom remembers being slapped on the knuckles in parochial school for defending her dad to the nuns, as they promised he'd roast in hell. By the time she was in middle school she was skipping CCD to meet some friends at the ice cream shop with her donation money. She knew where she wasn't wanted and never got the warm hug and glow from the Lord. Not in that church.

Maybe it was losing his brother when his parents spent their life as servants to the one who could have granted their biggest prayer, or maybe it was knowing my mom wasn't comfortable in church, or maybe my dad really felt lukewarm, too, but they made a conscience decision not to take me to church, temple, or mosk. Sundays were days to spend together, do what we loved, and become closer as a family. Sundays were about having everyone to our house for a big dinner and a poker game or two after the dishes were done - from the kids to the grandparents, everyone had a spot around the table and a trick up their sleeve. I look back on Sundays with the fondness and appreciation I look back to my first love or kiss. Sweet and perfect.

I went to a YMCA residence camp - Camp Kern - and fell in love with "church music". I'd go home after a week away singing all the songs I'd learned and slowly by fall would remember Princess Pat and Alice the Camel over any of the others, summer after summer. Finally, I found heaven. During the summer of 1999 I was a camp counselor - real deal, not junior counselor - at Camp Cheerio in Roaring Gap, North Carolina. I fell in L-O-V-E with residence camp, wilderness, and CHURCH MUSIC!

Every night at Vespers we'd gather around a gorgeous campfire deep in the Appalachians and sing beautiful music. During devotions we'd sing and all day we'd sing. Some silly, some slow, some fast, but all gorgeous. I heard almost every Mercy Me song for the first time at least a hundred times and loved Steven Curtis Chapman and all his lyrics. At nineteen, I learned I was a very very spiritual person.

I love church music. Contemporary church music. I don't love a lot of the "Good Christian People" I meet all the time who can sing every line of the songs. You know, the type of person who someone who regularly attends church and thinks highly of who they will be called a "good Christian person". What does that mean? It's somehow supposed to be the highest honor you can bestow upon someone, but I think the mere whisper of that is degrading to my Jewish cousins or Muslim neighbors. Instead of "they are a good person" it's "good CHRISTIAN person", so other religions cannot even compare to how good this person is in daily life.

I love the idea of using the Bible as a piece of literature to grow and love by - but all the hate that is spewed forth from Bible worshipers is sickening. I'm not even close to inferring all Bible worshipers are hateful - in fact, it seems to be a small percentage - but those people make the others look bad. The people I'm talking about spew forth about God loving everyone, God makes no mistakes, etc... but are the first people to hate on someone of a different race, sexual orientation, or creed.

I know so many people who 99.9% of other Christians would have no problem labeling "Good Christian People". However, these GCP are the ones who immediately turn up their noses when they learn someone's child "turned gay". Huh? Where is God's love? The GCP is sometimes the one who will raise your eyebrows as you talk by your mailbox with a nod to the new neighbors and say, eyebrows raised, "You know, they are from The South Side AND have a bi-racial grandchild!" expecting you to gasp, faint, and quiver on the front lawn. They are the same people who feel threatened in their marriage and the sanctity of their vows when another loving couple wants to make it official, too. Who happen to be of the same gender - how does that hurt your marriage? How does it make you more Godly to deny good people the rights you have as a heterosexual? What good will come of that?

As I sat there listening to Pastor Timm, who I adore, I must say, I realized I am lukewarm. Very lukewarm. I believe in 90% of what I'm told when I sit in his church. He's a very very kind man, wonderful role model for my children, and believes with a passion what he preaches. He speaks with so much energy and enthusiasm, and never puts himself on a higher level than who he preaches to - his kids sit in the second row, behaving, but also acting their age occasionally and his wife is pretty, nice, and sometimes wears jeans. They are great people. I haven't read the Bible. I haven't done a Bible study, or small group, or really learned a lot more than what I've learned in a plethora of services over the years. I should, so I can make my own decisions and decide once and for all where I sit on this spectrum we call faith.

What I do know is that my mom made a comment to me one time that I was as good as a GCP can get. I asked her what she meant and she said that I will help anyone and everyone, give and never expect to get, and help charities and needy people without a blink of an eye. She said it's acceptance and a willingness to understand everyone, selflessness and an understanding of the world while feeling the spirit of God all around you, all the time, that makes you a GCP, not fervently attending Sunday mass and donating 10% of your income, that make you a GCP.

Perhaps. Thanks, Mom.

Or perhaps it is something greater, like the desire to be God's Child again, like Pastor Luke challenged us to want to become that makes us a GCP. You know, not to be a better version of yourself, but to become a child of God and new again. I just don't know.

I'd love to know Pastor Timm's thoughts, because after his service Sunday, it's all I can think about.

Outhouse?

2010-04-15T21:56:00.000-05:00

We live on the corner of a quiet cul-de-sac and the main entrance into our neighborhood. A lot of cars buzz by, all day long. The late afternoon hours see more traffic, and coincide with the witching hours at our house. You know, the time a few hours after naps (when they take them) and before dinner (and when daddy comes home). The witching hours.

Hands-down, it was one of the top five worst afternoons ever around this place. Kids were nuts, neither napped, and a storm was rolling in. Storm + Rain = Muddy Backyard we cannot play in. Ugh.

Zoe was running around on the deck, smashing her new Easter-egg shaped chalk all over the wood, house, and occasionally the sliding glass door. To my knowledge, there were six eggs in the package, however, after said eggs were plucked from between her toes/hair/fingers/knees, she still managed to find large pieces to continue this miserable cycle until I almost screamed so loud it would knock her over. You know, I could picture myself as a cartoon and this tornado of hot air would just hit her and take her down as I just screamed, blowing her hair back until she plopped on the ground, staining her Dora's.

Instead, we talked calmly about poor choices, good choices, and how to model great behavior! SCORE! No spanks, just talking. Feeling like I did my job, almost smug as I sauntered into the house, I was snapped out of my reverie as Xander tottered on the brink of the bottomless stairs, one tiny step from a trip to the children's hospital. Again.

Scooping him up and pulling a green bead, dime, and half-rice krispie bar, respectively, from his storage hold (aka cheeks) I took him to his safe spot. The high chair that has a five-point harness, secured to the floor, and a tray to help wrangle him down. As I was securing the escape artist to his seat I looked up.

My daughter was bare naked. As in check-out-these-tan-lines bare naked.

"What the fu---" went through my head and was quickly interrupted with my mouth screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Her eyes were bigger than UFO's as we made eye contact.

"Anything!"

"Anything? You aren't doing anything?"

"Anything!" as annoyance crept into her voice.

"WHY ARE YOU NAKED? Are you peeing?" opening the sliding door and stubbing my already broken baby toe on the threshold.

"I not peeing."

"What are you doing?"

"It feels good to be nakey!"

I was 99.9% sure she was peeing. However, I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Zoe was, afterall, two and curious. Maybe she did just want to feel the warm sunshine on her pasty-white ass cheeks. We pulled up her pants, I kissed her head, and we parted ways.

Xander had thrown all his toys off his tray and was trying to rock himself out of the safe seat and into harms way by way of a split noggin on the ceramic tile.

Glancing up, Zoe wasn't on the swing set. Heart thumping, I let Xander attempt to get a personalized baby helmet and walked out the backdoor. The school bus' wheels were screeching to a halt, kids hopping off, and a few started laughing. At me. No, following their gazes, I saw what they were laughing at. A little girl with pig tails, pink bows, shaking a tail feather. A naked tail feather.

"ZOE!"

"Anything."

"GET. IN. HERE. NOW."

"I not do ANYTHING!" (Slowly stopping her Elvis-inspired pelvic number.)

"You are naked and dancing like it's spring break on South Padre Island. Go. INSIDE. NOW."

She sauntered over to me, not even bothering to pick up her dress, undies, or socks, and went inside defeated.

I didn't even ask her to explain. She had pee running down her leg - must have been quite a show out there - and wiped her down, slipped clothes on, and drug her up to her bedroom for a "rest".

When I came down Xander was screaming, dinner was about to boil over on the clean stove, and I sat down and just started laughing.

The kid really does have some rhythm.

10 Things I've learned from my son

2010-04-15T14:23:00.000-05:00

10 things I've learned from my son.

10. There is nothing cuter than a little boy in a real Polo shirt. Or a little boy in a white onesie. Or a little boy with his first big boy haircut. Or a little boy snuggling on your shoulder. Or a little boy smiling at you.

9. He might be a Momma's Boy, but when Daddy walks in the door, no one else will do for at least a half-hour.

8. He will pee like a sprinkler on a thirsty lawn as soon as his diaper is off.

7. Babies do not deconstruct if their diaper is not changed every 90 minutes. In fact, they can go on three diapers a day on really really hectic ones.

6. He has known how to flirt since he came into the world. His smile will melt the elderly, young, and pessimistic alike.

5. He might be on Earth to change the world, do great things, or make the sea part. Or to be a plumber. Doesn't matter. As long as he's happy, you'll be thrilled for him.

4. In his eyes, you will see every characteristic you dreamed of in a man. He is perfect.

3. Pink is the new blue. At least when your sister is your personal stylist.

2. When someone is cruel to you just hug them, forgive them, and move on. Life isn't about fighting for your toys back, it's about loving and appreciating the people around you.

1. His penis is his prized possession. Anytime he has access to his goods, he will check on it and make sure it's there with a little wiggle. Or two.

Look Both Ways!

2010-04-14T20:18:00.000-05:00

The kids both said, "WHOA!" as we skirted around the goose. Another pair of geese began to cross the street when a car 200 feet in front of us hit one of them. Looked like the male. He soared like a spiral-tossed football up and over the Jeep. Red brake lights never even flashed.

I must have made a sound because Zoe was immediately alerted and said, "What? What's wrong, Mom?"

"Oh... just a goose got hit by a car."

Just then I noticed the smaller of the pair of geese. She was quivering and looking at her dead partner. His wing flapped lifelessly in the strong prairie wind and I swear her feet almost gave out under her. I slowed to almost a crawl, noticing her quaking legs and droopy head. She was paralyzed in fear.

I started to pull the car over. Anyone who has spent longer than an hour with me knows I am a bleeding heart for anything in trouble and kids and animals trump all else. So, a sad goose who just lost her mate was enough to send my PMS-ing self into tears on the side of the road.

As I pulled over on a deserted neighborhood street it dawned on me that the goose wouldn't come to "Treat!" or "Come here, girl" like Doodle. I needed something to shoo her out of harms way.

Looking at the floor of the mini, I had a red fleece baby blanket, six individual sippy cups, one pair of winter boots too small for Zoe and too pink for Xander, and three empty Venti plastic cups from the grandest place on earth. Grabbing the baby blanket, I stepped out onto the street. The kids were engrossed in Diego, or so I thought.

Mrs. Gander & I locked eyes. She was still quaking, shaking, and looked completely lost. She didn't even budge as I stepped closer to her, still on the other side of the curb. Out of nowhere, another mini-van tore out from a cul-de-sac and flew up to us. Without so much as a tap to the brakes or swerve of the ol' wheel, the crunch of Mrs. Gander hitting the grill is something I'll never forget. My eyes must have closed because I cannot remember seeing it happen. I did, however, see Momma Mini texting and applying another coat of mascara, so I'm not sure she knew if the thump was a child, goose, or muffler.

Warm tears flew off my cheeks and dropped to the pavement. Shoulders slumped, I opened the door to hear Zoe crying.

"Mom! That poor poor duck! Did you see that? Why? What dat happen?" as huge tears fell off her chubby cheeks.

"Zo, I don't know. I don't know why that happened." Hopping into the driver's side I didn't even have the strength to comfort her. I was torn up. "Zoe, you need to be extra careful when you cross the street! You look both ways. Both ways!" That goose could have been you! went through my head as I got a little shakier, and dizzy from shaking my head side to side a half-dozen times to illustrate proper street crossing etiquette.

Just then, my cell phone rang and it was my best friend in Iowa. Her dear father-in-law passed away suddenly and she had driven the 14-hour drive home alone, with a two year old and five year old, and her husband was flying in from a business trip out west that evening. Grief swallowed me up with a gulp and I had to resist sobbing into her ear as she sobbed into mine. Quickly, we got off the phone with the heartbreaking cry you can only do when you've lost someone you love in my ear.

My mind was spinning out of control.

"Momma! What happened? What Momma?"

"Camille's grandpa died. Her momma just called to tell us."

"He died? Like the gooses?"

Heartbroken, I didn't even have the energy to explain gooses vs. geese. "Yes, Baby. He went to heaven like the geese."

Pause.

"He should have looked both ways, Mom!"

Isn't that the truth? We all need to look both ways and soak in the goodness because life truly does change in an instant.

Can I get a drink?

2010-04-13T08:30:00.000-05:00

We were lounging on the couch, in the instant before it sank in that we were late for play school, while it was still downtime as Xander napped above our heads.

Zo was feeling really relaxed as she dug for gold - how does one finger get that far up a nostril - and watched Olivia while also playing on her lap top. Sweaty feet on me and a granola bar on her lap, she really was completely relaxed.

Not paying too much attention to the finger until I saw it pop into her mouth, I almost gagged. Zo pulled it in and out, letting the booger linger on her tongue and then pop out, each time less attached to her pointer finger.

Resisting the overwhelming urge to puke, I stood up, grabbed the ever-present Purell and suds her hand with a double dose of the chemical concoction guaranteed to be awful for human kind in a decade. Studies will show it. Anyways, I asked her where she learned to do this new trick.

"Doodle taught me!"

"Zoe! Don't lie to me. Dogs don't eat their boogers!"

"Nope. But they do lick their butts!"

"So, are you going to try to lick your butt now, too, just to make it officially the grossest day EVER around here?"

"Sorry, Mom."

We settled back into the gentle reverie of the morning and then her clammy foot was tapping into the side of my stomach. As my head turned in her direction, this is what I heard.

"Mom! Can you get me a drink? Big boogers are SAAAAAALTEEEEEEE!"

Hold this!

2010-04-12T14:14:00.000-05:00

We had just done the Tour de Target (pronounced Tar-shay, like it's French) and Zoe had spent the last two hours practicing the role of "13 year old with a serious attitude" she must be auditioning for soon. I was unloading the back of the mini-van and each time I passed Zoe's side she would ask to be unbuckled.

I guess "ask" isn't really the term I should use. What word fully describes "get-me-out-now-or-I'll-continue-to-screech-at-such-a-high-octave-and-decibel-you-will-not-only-want-to-cry-but-will-have-to-break-down-in-total-hysteria-with-threats-on-my-life-to-stop-me"?

So, Zoe asked about a hundred times to get out of her seat and I had to wonder why. She knew she was destined for a nap - something she loves to hate - and she was currently half-way through a new Diego episode about a wild antelope in her recliner-inspired car seat that costs more than my entire line of Coach purses.

"Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom. Hold this!" She thrust her tiny little hand out of the car and into my face.

"What is it?" as she wiped it on my cheek. NOT GOOD. I repeat, NOT GOOD.

"Snot!"

Well, she got her wish. That five-point harness (that would keep her torso from moving even if I could hit "EJECT" and thrust her through the moon roof on days like today) came off so quickly I wondered if it was actually all locked up. Her little body was tossed into the back foyer so hard she was a bit thrown off and when I told her to SCOOT, NOW! she did it.

I slapped her self on the toilet, demanded some pee action, and was surprised by how quickly she made water and hopped off. No argument commenced about the merits of washing our hands vs. not, she just started lathering up. She hopped into bed, I kissed her, and closed the door.

I. NEED. A. BREAK.

With one hand my bra was off as I fell onto my bed. Closing my eyes I knew I could take a three hour nap and wake up with drool so heavy my face would chap. Done. Just as I nodded off I remembered something. Something important.

Oh, shit. The groceries!

As I walked by the car again I noticed something moving. XANDER!

Xander's little foot was moving as he chased something in his dream. That poor second child - he was left for twenty minutes in the car to fend for himself. Looks like the new Cheeto bag was within his reach, based on the orange fingers, mouth, and toes(?).

So, what is a mom to do? I propped open the door to the house, put the garage door down, and reclined my driver's seat to take a twenty minute power nap so powerful my drool would make my face chap!

Do you remember?

2010-04-12T13:38:00.000-05:00

Do you remember the days when blowing bubbles at a park was the only thing on your mind? As in, that minute, that second, that single moment? Watching your bubble grow as you adjust your breath to create the perfect sphere that shined like a rainbow in the April sun? I don't either.

I watched my kids this morning and I was downright jealous of them. We met up with our Mommy Group at a local park that had it all - picnic shelter, a big kids and a little kids area, and best of all -- a huge sandbox and swings. From a two month old wrapped Moby-style around her momma's midrif to a pair of four year old twins, we had buckets, shovels, sidewalk chalk, and bubbles everywhere. The kids were all giggles and smiles as they knew that the 76 degrees and sun were just the start to many many more days like this one. Spring has sprung!

Zoe made instant friends with one of the four year old twins and they didn't seem to mind or notice an 18-month age gap.

They just cracked up at each other jokes, "Knock Knock!"

"Who's there?"

"Cat!"

"Cat Who?"

"Meeeeeee-owwww!" as they both fell into the grass in a fit of laughter.

Mason's mom had his little sister wrapped around her, came from Library time, and remembered to stock her car with all the sand and play gear previously mentioned. I felt like a real loser with the two Mercy Hospital mugs (my C-section war badges) and two Gladware containers we brought. In all honestly, I was pumped I remembered anything that could be used in the sandbox! Usually I only catch on to making a Park Pack in late-August each summer.

Xander just followed the older boys around and had a ball in the sandbox that could also host a truck rally it was so dusty and dirty. More than once I saw him nibble on a pebble or two and wondered if that would be considered an organic snack or not?

Zoe and her new friend were laughing hysterically and then suddenly started playing butterfly. You could feel their energy and almost picture their gorgeous five foot wing spans with hearts and rainbows bedazzling the air. They ran with their heads thrown back and knees high, delighted to just move in an open space and warm air.

When was the last time I ever wanted to run? Actually wanted to throw my hands out and just move? When was the last time I laughed so hard my sides hurt with a new friend? Actually laughed a real laugh with an adult? Have I ever bent down and stared a grasshopper eye to eye without any intent to get it off my porch/deck/driveway? Just looked at it to look? Have I ever stepped into a sandbox and said, "Hell yeah!" while kicking off my feet and diving in, belly first, not caring if it was inside my undies or toenails?

This place is free. It doesn't cost a thing. You can show up at all hours and enjoy it. My kids had more fun here for three hours than they did at $60 a pop at Sea World this winter.

When did it take a lot more than a bottle of soapy water, a wand, and a blue sky to make me happy?

How can I get back to this place in time where the world stands still and your cares drift away until you are left with a smile, dirty fingernails, and an overwhelming desire for a popsicle on a park bench?

Wild Rumpus Party

2010-04-12T09:58:00.001-05:00

When handed the hand-crafted invitation, I was really impressed. A 3-D monster with pipe cleaner wild fur and googly eyes begged for our presence on a Sunday afternoon in two weeks. We didn't know the family at all - just hey's and can you believe it's Thursday already's? from the pickup line at preschool, but Zoe loved Andy and when he was handing out invitations she gave an emphatic "I'll be there!" and a wink.

The week before we were walking through Target and I told Zoe we should think about what we want to get Andy for his birthday. She replied after giving the question some thought, "I think a present, Mom!"

The Easter Bunny had recently delivered The. Coolest. Gift. Ever. A wild and crazy bubble maker that guaranteed - and sadly, delivered - a thousand bubbles a minute. The Bunny thought it would fun to have bubbles all over when the kids came down on their morning egg hunt to show where the baskets were "hidden" (in plain sight on the kitchen table). Well, after saturating the carpet in suds, froth, and layers of bubbles, it is now delegated to the ceramic-tiled bathroom during bubble baths.

Zoe's eyes widened at a "Summer is Coming! We promise, Des Moines, we will wear shorts by July!" display and cried out, "Mom!!!! I know where the Easter Bunny shops!" and miraculously pointed out a majority of her Easter basket trinkets!

I love two year olds. She just trusted that a bunny shopped here for his wares as opposed to asking the all-important, heartbreaking question I will never be ready to answer or explain.

"Can this be Andy's present? It is so cool!" she asked, hopping off the cart she had been precariously perched upon in a single flying leap.

"A bubble maker? I don't know..." this is a pay back present. One perfect for the crazy uncle who gives your kids no-volume button toys guaranteed to make you insane, deaf, or mean mommy by 10am any morning they find it from it's "hiding" place. Andy's mom seemed nice enough, but I didn't know her. Would she freak out if bubbles were on her builder-grade carpet trashed from three years of kids, dog, and two cats like I do on a regular basis? Okay, I never flip out. I just try to make it blend in so one day, in a few more stains, it will look like cool tie dye carpet.

"YES!" and that settled it, as the bubble maker and Zoe were back in the cart already. We picked out some more bubbles as refills and a cool Diego bubble wand that the Easter Bunny had already graced us with, and remembered to ask for a gift receipt. Proud of myself I made a mental note to mapquest their address BEFORE we were running late to the party.

I plugged in the address twice, just to make sure that this was the house we were to spend two hours on a Sunday in... yep. The huge houses off a main street we always go by on our way home from Target.

I am a house nut. Seriously, I could go to Parade of Homes, Home-a-Rama, whatever, every day for the rest of my life. I love houses, house hunting, and all things that go in houses. So, this was more of a treat for me.

Emailing Andy's mom, I asked if parents were supposed to stay, leave, what? Andy's Mom was sweet and laid back - whatever you feel most comfortable with.

On the day of the party Zoe completely dismissed her cute new yellow Polo dress, Janie & Jack sweater, and leggings and would only wear her Gap hooded tunic and some new favorite 80's style leggings we were not about to leave the mall without. Really? To a party?

We pulled up and if we hadn't seen our best friend Zoe and her momma walking up the winding cobblestone walkway to the grandest house of all, I wouldn't believe it was this house. The nicest, most decadent house on the street. It was like a beacon of cedar, stone, and leaded glass with landscaping and sculptures from the coolest modern art garden you've ever seen in an ad.

The entry way did not disappoint. Andy was looking cute in his usual surfer boy duds and a smile on his face as his besties made their way into his gorgeous digs. Shoes were flung off as kids were off to the greatest of great rooms I've ever seen. The wood work alone in this house would make a Master Carpenter weak in the knees, let alone the walls upon walls of windows, and the decorative touches that made this house look like the perfect collection of eclectic taste that just made the lime, violet, and new blue shades work like a fine-tuned machine. No builder grade carpet in here. Actually, no carpet in here at all. Just miles of hand-crafted mahogany? teak? maple? that made my heart skip a beat.

Andy's Mom ushered us all into the basement and Other Zoe's Mom said it best with a, "I have to keep pushing my jaw up" as we entered a basement so open, spacious, and gorgeous that all three finished floors of our home could cozy up on this level alone... and correction, this visible part of the lower level. It was way bigger than our house once we started walking around.

Her craft room was decorated like something Martha Stewart would love to hate. It wasn't crafty. It was clean, organized, and chic. Galvanized steel tables the size of my garage, storage everywhere, and wooden scissors, three foot paint brushes, and phenomenal colors on the walls that weren't decked in floor to 15" ceiling windows. Set out were all the fixins to make the monsters of the hour - and the kids dug in.

Andy's Mom looked at us and said, "I didn't realize they are all such capable little people!" and I had to agree. A half-dozen three year olds just scampered up stools and started working, mastering glue dots, craft tack, and scrapping supplies galore to create amazing 3 foot monsters. Zoe also liked being the Glue Master and made sure that her four-eyed creation would not only stick to everything in sight, but not dry by the next morning.

The kids were then welcomed into another area of the basement that made the coolest of play areas - public or private - look somehow boring and mundane. The carpet created a moat around the two story castle fit for the princesses and prince's who raced into it and started playing all kinds of great games only three year olds can create and enjoy.

I just looked around and realized that once again, a major portion of my house could fit into the playroom portion of this amazing basement.

The party went on like this - each new room to explore and create perfect entertaining venues for the pint-sized and adult-sized alike.

I don't think I could explain this house to you correctly, so I won't. But I can explain that I initially thought Andy's mom was aloof. She just didn't talk a lot at pick up/drop off and the few times we'd run into each other at Target or the grocery, she didn't do much more than a "Hi" and wander off.

In her own home, she was the consumate hostess, and opened up and just wanted to talk. I knew I liked her when we walked past the exercise room and the gorgeous art said, "Andy's Mom, put down the cookie and get in here!"

The party was low-key and perfect. Andy opened up his gifts with his best friends all around and the kids didn't care if they were in a castle or a cage. They were just together and that really was the most impressive part of it all.

Until Bestie Zoe said, "Mom! Can I have my birthday party at this place next year?" and everyone started laughing. Yeah, Andy's Mom... what are your rental fees? I'd love a night in this place!

WIll you take less?

2010-04-10T21:11:00.000-05:00

There had to be six or seven dozen more hangers to detag, mark down 50% off, and then count, recount, and make sure the amount of tags matched the amount of items this buyer was purchasing. It could have been a very monotonous task, but there were so many people in line behind this woman, and so much work to do for each sale, that instead of getting bored, I considered just pulling the tags off instead of taking off the safety pins - one by one by one - my fingers were started to bleed, and I just kept moving, grooving, and making jokes.

Some people laughed and would start helping out, but most people during the last two hours of the church consignment sale were there only to get a bargain - not to make a new friend. They were especially not there to help out and actually take some tags off the new-to-them items. Arms limp, like cooked noodles, staring off into space as if I was some peon not even worth their time, I'd haul their wares out of their bags, off strollers, and out of boxes.

At some point I did a full sniff check of the pits, as I smelled something foul and wanted to make sure it wasn't emanating from me. Nope - someone must have been rethinking that chimichanga for lunch or something. Anyways, I started detagging her items and realized she had a triple stroller and two preschoolers hanging off of her every limb.

I said, "Well it's a good thing you don't have your hands full!"

Not even a smile. Quickening my pace I asked her if she understood that any tags written in red wouldn't be marked down, all other tags were half-off.

"Oh. Then I don't want them," she said, not even looking in my direction. Now, this could mean a few things. Like, I don't want any of the red tags, the whole lot of at least 200 items you have now taken off no less than three safety pins, one tag, and a hanger off each item, or the five kids that were making her prematurely gray. I tried to clarify, but she just reprimanded her oldest and stared straight ahead.

"Ma'am. Do you want any of these items?"

"Yes. The half-off ones."

There was a line of over 30 people with equally large purchases waiting for the two of us volunteers to help them get through the line. I hadn't eaten breakfast, had bleeding fingers from multiple safety pin pokes, and now I was to go through the descriptions of each of the 200 labels to determine which clothes I'd have to put back and then find those actual clothes to rehang.

"I'm really sorry, but I'm going to need your help. You see this line of people I have to help? I cannot go through this without you! Someone was supposed to give you a heads up about the half-off in any color but red," I said, thinking about the fifteen minute intercom blasts explaining so much, all the sign-age, and the greeter at the entrance telling each person entering about the 50% off sale.

"Oh. I heard. I'll just pay half of the total bill. Do it all the time."

Now I was dazed and confused.

"This is a church fundraiser. Individual sellers set the price and determine if it's half-off or not, and what their price is. We cannot, in any capacity, change the worth of an item. It's what is listed, half-off, and nothing is debatable, not like a garage sale."

"I'll take all the half offs, and pay half of that. Final offer."

"We cannot barter. It's the price is the price the sellers set."

"Well, I'll give you 30%."

Now the customers were getting irritated and restless.

"It truly isn't that simple. Whatever we add it up to, that's what you'll pay. You can go through and pick the items from there, but you'll have to sort the tags and items at that point."

It just kept going. I finally offered to start helping other customers as she bartered about bartering. All the while the three in the stroller were howling, the older two were playing hopscotch through the line, and I was seriously hoping my deoderant was holding up to this stress level.

I then realized that maybe she just couldn't afford to clothe her kids. She wasn't being rude. She really had little money to get them clothes and even at consignment prices at half-off they needed a discount. We were in a church, for God's sake! I needed to help this woman instead of wish her out of my sight!

"You know what? I know what it's like to have your hands full and lots of people to care for! In a half-hour all this stuff will be boxed up and picked up by the Family Thrift on 3rd. If you go there tomorrow or early next week, I'm sure it'll all be there at even lower prices," proud of myself for spilling the beans as to where the items were going, and knowing even if this church wasn't about to make money from this sale, it would be goodwill and charity, and God would happy.

"Are you serious? You think I need charity?" she sputtered as she laughed in my face. Before I could even back peddle out of this one, she marched the six of them out of the sanctuary and into the parking lot in a furious fit.

Someone in the middle of the line applauded and I wasn't sure what to do with the 200 plus items on the rack in front of me. So, I cleared them off, laid them in piles on the ground, and started helping the next customer.

"You have GOT TO BE KIDDING!" shouted the customer who had detagged, desafety pinned, and neatly handed a stack of tags to me.

I looked in the same direction to see the previous customer loading the kids into a pimped out Escalade... parked in the handicapped space.

Do you have a minute?

2010-04-09T10:16:00.000-05:00

A ball of furious one year old and two year old rolled past me, both death-gripping the handle of a cheap rolling backpack I found at a consignment sale. They are rolling through, under, over, and by a few thousand dollar's of Toys R Us' finest, but when it comes to one really wanting to play with one toy, it's game on. No other toy will do. So this minute it's the $3 used back pack with Diego and Baby Jaguar smiling on them as they scream, scratch, and howl, making the WWE look like a pack of wussies.

Just short of cracking a chair over Xander's head, Zoe let up to grab her baby brother's prized possession, a dollar store foam sword. She wacked him, he swung the backpack at her, and they both screamed and tried to get the other's toy - without giving up an inch of the one they clasped in their sweaty paws.

The Wonder Pets sang about Teamwork in the background, dog howled as a beagle trotted down the side walk (seriously, can dogs be breedist?) and the phone rang from somewhere under a couch cushion... or the basement stairs?

"BE QUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIET!" I shouted as I brought the phone (on it's fifth, and last, ring) to my ear.

"Pardon?" came a gruff voice on the other end.

"Not you, the kids. Who's speaking?"

"Detective Man."

"Oh, sure. I was hoping you'd call. Any news?"

"We need to ask you a few more questions about the events Saturday evening."

"Okay. Did the other Detective fill you in?"

"Mmmm Hmmm." And so came a round of at least 20 mundane questions I've answered to six, seven different officers in the past week.

While I tried to stay on track Xander started up the stairs, something he just now mastered, pulling up the now jam-packed with a helicopter, little people farm, and various plastic toys we've accumulated from way too many happy meals backpack. He was tottering on Step #5, trying to use those baby muscles and about to lose the fight to opponent Gravity. Zoe was also closing in on the backpack with her plastic Big Bertha her grandparents thought she'd enjoy. They were right. She did enjoy it. Just not to hit plastic golf balls. She loved to use it as a mallet to hit babies on the head/back/stomach when they least expect it, the big screen TV when pretending to play baseball, and the back of my head when I would sit on the floor to pick up toys.

Maybe I responded with a few too many "Sure. Yep. Sounds right!" because Detective Man stopped and asked, "Are you listening to me?"

An emphatic YES - maybe too emphatic - came from my end as I heard a whack and two 20-something pounders come tumbling down the stairs.

"I will call again, Mrs. at a better time." grumbled Detective Man. The phone went dead in my ears as I realized Detective Man did not get his job by enjoying a good sense of humor or by oozing charm.

"Talk to you when they are both in school full time." I replied with an exasperated chuckle, checking for broken bones in a pile of human and plastic debris, to the "hang up, dumb ass!" tone crackling in my ear.

I Do It.

2010-04-09T07:32:00.000-05:00

Zoe and Xander like to take their baths together. Correction. Mr. & Mrs. like to give the kids a bath together, making it a half-hour bathing 5K as opposed to an hour bathing marathon.

Xander has graduated from his bath seat. He knows this means freedom with a capitol F and he likes to do a slippery death wiggle to the side of the luge, stand up, and hold onto the side and jump. Jump. On the same legs he doesn't trust himself to propel his body forward in the same fluid motions the rest of us just call walking, he jumps on the slippery slopes of a Jazuzzi tub with a built-in wave maker.

The wave maker stands about 35" tall, has light yellow hair, and takes pride in soaking anything within five feet of the tub.

Little Miss Wave Maker and X played in the bath while cleaning the bathroom floors by slopping out soapy water and throwing rubber ducks and foam letters out of the tub to skid across the floor and do more cleaning than mommy does on a usual monthly-rotation.

"You missed that corner!" I said as a purple Z whizzed by my head.

Zoe took aim and used a small rubber duck to detail a cabinet corner that hadn't been wiped down in awhile.

Xander just laughed and tested his luck (and tried to determine if it's little boys or cats who have nine lives) by cruising by the wave maker and all around the Jacuzzi tub, little dimpled hands clinging to the slippery ivory cast that is supposed to look like ceramic tile.

Time for suds I called out either in my head, or aloud, as I grabbed the Burt's Bees and started to lather X-man up.

"I do! I do it!"

"No, Zo, I'll wash him." I tried to stay calm as she wrestled the bottle of not-cancer-causing children's wash from her rather impressive grip.

"No. I. Do. It."

"You may wash his belly and feet," knowing what argument would ensue. "feet and belly only."

"No. I'll get his Peanuts."

Zoe is enthralled by the tiny appendage just south of his belly button and takes any chance she can get to explore.

"Nope, Momma already did. But you can do his feet."

"Nooooooooo! I clean his peanuts!" Now, granted, his peanuts was within inches of her shoulder as he completed his lap around the tub, and she did have a significantly better angle on it, but I had to defer that task to myself.

After he was lathered and she was slipping a hand or limb in to make sure his 2000 parts were not only clean, but sparkling, I turned the Burt's Bees on her.

"I. DO. IT!"

Nooooooooooooooooooooo! I'll do it, for the love of God. I'll throw some soap on you, bubble you up, rinse you off, get both of you out of the bubble bath before I, who am not partaking in any submersion, prunes, and off to bed before I commit myself.

Instead, I handed her the bottle and let her start at her face and work her way down to her sweet pruned toes. She is so good and thorough, and takes her time. As in, each hair must get a bit of a massage, fingers splayed, she gets between each one, and she makes sure that even behind her knees have been washed and rewashed within an inch of their life.

So, we talked and talked. About play school, her best friend Zoe, and why Xander liked to walk around the tub over and over and over and over and over again. We both laughed a few dozen times and I started to relax - hell, a few towels will clean up the moat around the tub and it's just water saturating the baseboards. What's a little water when you are kneeled down next to your greatest gifts giggling as the sun goes down?

Mr. was done with the dishes and came in to giggles and smiles. He smiled, kneeled down, and plucked the X-man and his glory from the tub, wrapping him in a Xander-sized hooded towel.

"Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!" shouted Zo. "I want to be Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!"

Mr. and I looked back and forth at one another wondering how the conversation took a drastic shift to a religious conversation neither of us were excited to explain that there was only one Baby Jesus and he wasn't ready to hand over his crown of thorns to our only daughter quite yet.

"Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!" shouted Zo. AGAIN. "I want to be Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!"

With a look like, Have Fun, Momma! Mr. turned to leave the soak zone and glanced in the mirror. Burrito Boy was wrapped in a large bath towel with only his little bare feet and round face sticking out. Just like Baby Jesus in our new kid-friendly cresh.

After determining Zoe wanted Daddy to hold her all wrapped up like Xander, he handed X off to me and grabbed Zoe's treasured butterfly towel. And she went balistic.

When I say balistic, I say this with the complete respect for the way a two year old was programmed to do - the finest 0 to 60 you've ever experienced, really. She went from pale to red to purple as she held (and held) her breath til the breath, Zo, breath chant in my head started. Her lips blue, she let out more air than a depressurizing scuba tank unleashed.

The roar ripped through the bathroom and tore off the blinds. The roar made walls shake, hair stand on end, and the trash can fall over. Nope, that was the Doodle who had been cowering in the corner tearing out of the bathroom and knocking into the trash can in her rush to leave me alone with the Beast.

Mr.'s head popped back into the room as he shouted, trying to make his point over the roar, to no avail.

"Do. YOU. want. a DIFFERENT. TOWEL?" he shouted, third time's a charm.

"Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!" shouted Zo. "I want to be Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!"

Mr. started ranting, I started working on the migraine of all migraines, and X started to crawl back into the standing water in his clean jammies.

Jumping off the soaked stool, I grabbed him and gladly gave Mr. and Zo the bathroom to have a showdown.

Screaming ensued, Daddy cursing started as he tried to get the slippery seal out of the tub as she went boneless and skated around, just out of daddy's reach, all over the bottom of the large luge.

I threw Xanders towel in, hoping another towel on the floor could soak up some of the remaining moat and create a less slippery footing for Daddy, and she stopped.

The Beast was no longer roaring. Beauty took his place. She stood up, let the water out of the tub, stepped through Daddy's arms, and picked up the towel, wrapped it around herself, and hopped into his arms.

A stunned Daddy turned as he held a Burrito Girl.

"Baby Jesus!" she shouted with glee.

Apparently Baby Jesus is only authentic if wrapped in a pink and navy floral towel her parents got on their honeymoon in Hawaii.

Cockadoodledoo

2010-04-09T06:38:00.000-05:00

You know it's early when you cannot call anyone. As in, it's an ungodly hour here, on central time, so can I call the East Coast? Nope. Still 6am there. Can I call my mom in California? Definitely not. A close mommy-friend in Iowa? Just because things are stirring at their house does not mean she wants me talking her ear off as she half-sleeps with the Cartoon channel blaring in their ears as she wings a half-eaten fruit roll-up to each kid as they climb into with mom and dad!

So I drove home from the airport in complete silence. Do you know how quiet that is?

At first, it was really really nice. I listened to the interstate under the good ol' mini and got into a rhythm with the monotonous tones of the road.

I was rubbing the doodle's head - mentally thinking I needed to call the groomer for her spring shave down - and a little bored.

Stopped at a lone McD's south of Des Moines on a quiet street.

"A number one, no meat, sandwich only."

"Ma'am, it's breakfast only."

"Yes. I'd like the number one, no meat, sandwich only."

"No sandwiches. Just breakfast."

"Okay, I'd like the number one, no meat, McMuffin please."

"Please pull around."

When Drive-Thru lady and I were finally on the same page, I threw in another curve ball.

"May I please add a number two meal with a large coffee and extra hash brown?"

"Huh?"

"May I please add a number two meal with a large coffee and extra hash brown?"

"It'll cost ya." Now, are we talking the going rate of $3.79 plus tax, or something else?

"Yes, I'm prepared to pay for it." Maybe some people get their kicks ordering a lone sandwich and then demanding a large combo platter for their sleeping husband at home, demand it be free, so they not only get a free meal but also rid themselves of the guilt associated with eating McD's at 5am?

Back on the freeway, when I had gulped down the best culinary masterpiece in the world, I was wishing I could eat an Egg & Cheese McMuffin every morning for the rest of my life, thoughts filled my head.

My Life! I'll be thirty in six weeks. T-H-I-R-T-Y. There are some cute song lyrics describing the epiphany you have on your thirtieth birthday, but I haven't had an epiphany. I've had an anxiety attack or two, but no epiphany.

As I plucked McMuffin remants from my molars, drove by myself on the highways outside of Des Moines, I did have an epiphany. Contemplated calling my hubby, but his sweet self isn't so sweet before 8am, two cups of coffee, and a hefty helping of Mike & Mike on the radio, that was out.

Radio! This car has a sound system that with the switch of a button spins music meant for mommy's. Even women! Sometimes Mommy's who also feel like Women!

And music that makes mommy remember Thursdays weren't just exciting TV nights, a size four was when I felt fat, teas were excuses to get drunk with hot frat boys and my sorority sisters - side note, do hot frat boys still wear Gap button downs, sleeves slightly rolled, khaki pants, and Reef sandals? If so, reunion to BGSU, Pi Phi's. I need me some Sig Ep eye candy!

Back to the epiphany. A radio. A sound delightful to my ears that takes me back to dancing with my dad at our wedding, my husband and I's first song, the song my first love and I broke up to in his car, the last song I heard waiting on news that a grandparent had passed... you get the idea. MUSIC. Not Diego, The Letter Factory, or Sesame Street 25th Music Anniversary. MUSIC.

Silence really isn't that golden when you have thirty stations to scan through seeking that one perfect song in the wee hours of the morning!

Monitors

2010-04-08T22:41:00.002-05:00

At three a.m., in the darkest of night, a man was in our bathroom. He was speaking softly, but he was in there.

Mr. grabbed the bat hidden under the bed and crept to the bathroom clad in black socks, some boxers that should have been pitched before fatherhood, okay, before we started dating, and some serious bed head.

"Shhhhh. Stay here." my husband whispered in the still of the night.

Nah, I think I'll go make some bacon and eggs while you kick the intruders ass with your little league bat! went through my head as I laid there, listening to this man speak softly from my sink.

Mr. threw on the lights as he burst through the bathroom door, bat ready to strike the whispering giant.

No one.

Trembling, but adrenaline pumping, Mr. swung open the door to the commode.

No one.

But still, the whispering giant was in the room.

Under the sink? Nope?

In the master closet? Uh uh.

And then, oddest thing of all, the sleeping giant started singing.

"What the Fu--" from my husband was interrupted by both of us realizing our neighbor was taking care of his new baby girl and singing her back to sleep.

Sweet Neighbor baby was back to sleep, Neighbor Man kissed her good night and whispered sweet dreams as he climbed into his own bed next to his sleeping wife, and my husband and I were wide awake and laughing.

That baby monitor was perched on our counter in the master bath, whispering sweet nothings in all our ears. Time to change the channel!

Real Party?

2010-04-08T22:26:00.001-05:00

Jilly Bean brought Zoe the cutest raincoat ever. Ever. Pink, polka dot lining, heart pockets. Adorable.

We had an ice cream cake and a mini party for Zo so Aunt Jill could celebrate with us before leaving in the morning. Zoe was thrilled, but had to mention - over and over - that this wasn't her real party, but pretend. Mr. thinks she was trying to convince us this wasn't a party, just a chance for some ice cream cake and a gift. She needed to make sure this was just the beginning of Birth Month.

Pumped, Zoe ripped into her beautifully wrapped gift and pulled out... the raincoat. And pulled out some tissue paper. And some tissue paper. And turned over the pink bag, shook it, and shoved her little blond head up into overturned bag.

"Um. Jilly Bean. Where my gift?"

"The raincoat, honey!"

"No. My gift. For my birfday."

The card fluttered out of the bag, landing on Zo's feet.

"Yes! A Book! A New Book! I love Books!"

"Sweety, that's your card."

"Dad, dis not my real birfday gift, right?"

Jilly Bean

2010-04-08T22:17:00.001-05:00

After Stalker from Hell entered our lives we've learned that it isn't smart to have just one adult in this house -- it's nuts around here and easy to lose sight of a sweet angel we love so dearly. So, this week my Aunt Jill came out to be our Savior. She flew in Tuesday morning and Xander and I parked in short term parking.

I ended up getting my rotund self stuck between the slider door and the Escalade next to us. Good thing it's winter in Des Moines and cars are clean. NOT. They are covered in crud. Nice. My new raincoat was a fun splurge that was now looking like something I drug out of the Goodwill pile that had been chilling in our garage for a decade. X was rocking his new Baby Gap navy overalls and navy and white striped button down - he was downright adorable and clean, as I held him out like a cub meeting his pride (think Lion King and Simba a la Circle of Life) and he just kicked and kicked thinking this game of "how can we not get covered in scum" was the best game ever.

We made it into the airport and waited at the end of the tunnel where passengers emerge back into the bomb-laden waiting areas. A portly, tiny man better suited to spend his days playing Bridge at the local Senior Center came over to us and tapped on his TSA badge. A conversation ensued that really, is comical now.

"Ma'am, are you a ticketed passenger?"

"Nope! Just waiting on my Aunt."

"You do see the sign stating TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT?"

I looked up, saw it, and realized that Xander's Pedi Ped-clad toes were sort of beyond the sign.

"Oh. Sorry!" and Baby Unibomber was pulled back into the war-zone.

TSA Grandpa walked back the eight feet to his stool, sat down, and stared. When Baby Unibomber started to totter within two feet of the sign, he hauled up his girth, shuffled on over, tapped his badge, and started the whole thing over again.

And again.

Let me assure you this airport is not JFK or LAX. In fact, I once forgot my driver's license and was waved through security with a smile and a have a nice trip! I've also never once been asked to not bring a liquid through or take off a sweatshirt.

So, I think Gomer Pile was just thrilled to finally have something to do with his eight hour shift. Something exciting like tap his badge and make sure Baby Unibomber didn't get within a foot of a thirty foot tunnel to security.

Finally, after his badge was covered in his finger prints from tap-tap-tapping, Aunt Jill came through the tunnel and Xander started saying, "Nanananananananananananana!"

Nana was my grandma, Jill's mom.

Jill's eyes teared up and she said, "I'll be your Nana!"

X dived-bombed her arms and nestled into her neck with a "Nananananananananana!"

A love story shortly commenced and my Aunt's heart doubled in size as her sweet grand-nephew felt her mom's spirit in her essence. That, if you knew my Nana, is the biggest compliment a woman could receive.

Oh, Nana. I'm glad you've met my little man. I knew you'd love him, too.

xoxo

2010-04-05T20:21:00.000-05:00

Just an apology to my readers. Since that damn pervert walked into our lives we haven't had a whole lot of patience or humor happening around here. Hopefully I'll be ready to write again soon. :) xo

My Chick

2010-04-04T13:55:00.001-05:00

It interests me that Easter dresses are always sleeveless. Always. Isn't it 60 degrees or below in most of the USA (or world) on Easter Sunday every single year? Why can't we get cute 3/4 sleeve dresses on our little girls? Would it be too much to ask? Or, perhaps, are the dress makers in cahoots with the white sweater makers and when you have sleeveless dresses, you must buy a new white sweater all in the name of Easter. Actually, that is a really good idea on their part. Nevermind.

We forgo-ed the customary white sweater with a hot pink one. Zoe was rocking her sweater, Ralph Lauren silk dress, and her too-small tights (seriously, tights do not go in the dryer... maybe one day I'll remember? Or is it that they are so small to begin with that I don't see them as they are in a pocket or sock and when they come out it's too late?) with the cutest pig tails ever. She was so precious. Zoe sat through the service like a professional church-goer.

Solemn? No. Serene? Not even close. Interested? Yes. Learning a little? Definitely.

The day before we went to a family Easter party at a local farm. They had hay rides and all things eggs -- hunts, decorating, painting, tosses, recipes, you name it, they had it to do/see/touch/taste/create. Zo really got interested in the chicks and repeatedly left the activities to pet the little fuzz balls.

"Awe, Mom! He is so so cute! Look at that little little tiny wing!" she would say in sweet excitement petting the tiny creatures.

In the Craft Loft (yes, an actual barn loft) she got to try her hand at dyeing a hard-boiled egg. This was a first. She created a nice grey egg from the plethora of colors she mixed and slopped on top of one another. It was a masterpiece in deed. Settling her gooey creation into a "I Love Iowa Eggs" plastic bag, we stepped into the bright sunshine to find a patch of grass.

Xander busied himself with eating a nice blade of grass and the stench of the petting zoo wafted by in the slight spring (okay, late winter-ish) breeze.

Zo clutched her egg and rocked it back and forth. Mr. & I could hear a "Twinkle.." then "Rock a Bye..." then "ABCDEFG...." as she sang to her egg.

The egg was then set on a soft grassy spot and Zo laid on her stomach to get eye-level with it.

And she waited.

And waited.

"Baby, what are you looking at?" wondered Mr., as our two year old wasn't begging for cotton candy/a pony ride/or goat food, but laying in the grass staring at an egg.

Zo rolled her eyes.

"Why did you roll your eyes at me?" he asked as he rolled his eyes at me.

"I'M WAITING FOR IT TO HATCH!"

Oh.

Soon something else looked like more fun and she took off. I quickly de-shelled it (like a shrimp) and tossed it into the petting zoo. Those goats looked like they could use a little protein.

Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn't mentioned again all day, through the night, or even as we got ready for church.

"Open the eyes of my heart Lord, Open the Eyes of my heart. I want to see you..." we sang. A little hand started climbing up the bottom of my shirt, a sign she wanted my ear closer to her little rosebud lips.

"Did Jesus die on the cross?" Yes.

"Did Jesus come alive again?" Maybe. Still battling with that one.

"Did my egg die?" Yes.

"Your chick is in a better place, Zo." I replied, rubbing her sweet shoulder. Congratulating myself on how smart and perfect my baby is, she shattered the moment.

"Like Sea World?"

Toddler Talk

2010-04-03T16:11:00.000-05:00

Mom: Zo, you should start thinking about what you want to get Drew for his birthday.

After a long, thoughtful pause: I think a present, Mom.

Blind Sided

2010-04-02T14:28:00.000-05:00

Like any other twenty-something lady, I love a good Sandra Bullock movie, but this isn't what the post is about. I feel like my family was parked at a red light and I was turned around looking for a lost sippy cup and had no way of knowing a big-rig was barreling down the intersection and into our car. Seriously, I hurt all over like we were literally hit by that semi-truck running a red light.

It was the first fantastic spring day we've had in forever. Literally, when forever has been the past seven months of minus zero degrees, minus 30 windchills, and needing to literally shovel out so the postman could get an idea of the general direction to toss the bills into the growing snow drift that was our mailbox. It was brutal. But, as life's seasons always drastically come upon us, birds were chirping, crocus' were popping, and I actually thought about sunscreen that morning.

Dressing Zoe was a ball. The biggest social event of the season was happening at Play School. The Easter Bunny and his entourage would be hiding hundreds of dozens of eggs on the school grounds and then posing for pictures with his/her ankle biter-sized admirers. Zo and I had drug out the bins of clothes of seasons past, and some of the ones that keep Gymboree in business, and had settled on her navy dress with bright butterflies and pink grograin ribbon detailing. She had her navy sandals, hair pulled back in a signature bow, and life was groovy.

The car ride to school was festive -- moon roof open and two kids cheering when I'd do a "Walk Like an Egyptian"-type dance with my hands into the blue sky as we drove up to Bella's heaven on Earth. The kids were giggling and moms were fussing over the little girls all dressed up and ready to get muddy coming through the sanctuary doors. You could smell sunscreen, sweat, and Easter candy. SPRING has SPRUNG! went through my mind as I kissed my favorite bunny good bye.

Xander and I contemplated running to the grocery to pick up a few dozen eggs to start boiling and decided it was waaaaaaaay too nice of a day to spend it near the stove, so we hurried home to get some Vitamin D treatment the old-fashion way.

I was feeling rather daring and parked in the middle of the garage - not my usual spot - woot woot! And left the garage door up to get rid of the stank of months of dirty diapers stored in the enormous trash cans just inside the garage. Pulling out some toys for Xander to climb/push/explore and whittle away a few minutes before morning nap, I started canvassing the empty lot next to us for the trash that had piled up all winter. Someone's drain spout, a few Capri Sun pouches, and a variety of debris that just piles up in the weeds of one open lot after careless trash personnel dump it as they careen down the street before the trash cans are even back on the ground safely.

Xander was talking up a storm and between hearing birds chirping and his own noises it ran through my mind that it was the prettiest sound I'd ever heard. The Dog kept sprinting around me, eager to fetch anything I would throw her way, and as I realized it was time to throw the little guy down for a nap I reminded myself to bring out a lawn and garden bag to collect the rest of this mess.

X was safely screaming in his crib - why do they scream? Do you know what I'd pay for someone to take me into my wonderful bed, lay me down while smothering mommy kisses all over, and beg for me to refresh myself for the next hour. Trust me, babe, you'll want this back one day! As you will wish for someone to pinch your chubby thighs and say, "Oh, I just love these!" That won't happen in twenty years. I can guarantee it.

Trotting down the stairs and trying to think where lawn and garden bags would be - dining room now makeshift consignment shop staging grounds? Laundry room cabinets? Pile of Goodwill items and donations sorted for various local children's charities? As I stood in my great room, almost to the ceramic that starts the kitchen, the back door opened. At first I just thought it was the wind, or a neighborhood kid missed a bus and wanted a free granola bar and Wonder Pet's viewing before they would get picked up again, and I looked up.

He was almost as tall as my husband (who rocks the charts about 6'5") and the Demon creepy-looking, as he was dressed in a long black trench coat, dark clothes, black boots, and worst of all - black leather gloves. On a 80 degree day.

I dropped whatever was in my hands - it may have been the lap top as I picked it up, saw an email, and was wondering when the Des Moines Spring Clean Up was - or it may have been an empty bottle from X's room from the night before. Whatever it was, it fell out of my hands as I backed up.

And I did what every stupid girl who dies in a horror film does, as you chastise her and beg her not to... I went to the stairs. Backwards. My screaming baby indicated I was not alone in the house and this filthy creature with a mop top of brown hair and pale skin was NOT getting near my baby without killing me first. Finally the scream erupted from my throat - gutteral and primal, nothing like a warning or threat.

And the Demon just looked at me, turned around, and walked out the back door, slamming it behind him. Running up the steps, pulling my cell out of my pocket, and locking Xander's bedroom door all at once, I was out of breath and puking as "911" whispered into my ear.

It was a flurry of activity within minutes - officers surrounded the place, neighbors were questioned and asked for information, prompting them to come out of their safe houses and down to mine where the action was. This was not the safe house.

The Dog, my dog, had been chilling on the back porch after a long morning of being a high-energy dog, ready for her own mid-morning siesta, and was hackles up, ready to take on anyone since the back door slammed and I sounded like something from Cowboys and Indians battle-scenes. Doors opened, doors closed, and more uniforms, neighbors, and dogs came and went.

My report was all over the board. Description accurate. Then the walkie-talkies shrieked with information on a similar case just down the street with a similar perpetrator description. The officer with kind eyes and a big belly gave me a look like, " that your guy" as the dispatcher read off the other description.

Yep.

Canine dogs wildly trotted our property while my canine wanted in on the action, too.

Why didn't the dog bark? Why is the garage open? Anything missing? Questions flew at me, and an "X" etched into my forehead for negligent momma here, folks.

Do you always leave the garage door open? You didn't see anyone suspicious? Did you see a car drive away?

No. I saw a bastard in black in my house. I saw his face, I saw his gloved hands, and I saw my baby and I in danger. He knew we were home. We were just outside. He knew what we looked like, what my laugh sounded like, and that Xander had finally mastered pushing a stroller downhill with control and pride. He knew my car radio was pumping out some Goo Goo Dolls song that reminded me of high school and that the other neighbors were all at work, still sleeping, or doing other things. He knew no cars had gone by for a few minutes and that we shop at Target because I was initially using those bags for my clean-up project. He knew my baby's hair had already gotten a little bit bleached blond from the California sun and he blushes when his momma sings "Baby's Black Balloon in his ear".

He knew what he was doing, or thinking of doing, when he walked into MY HOUSE.

I can only imagine.

After what seemed like mere minutes, or maybe an hour, or possibly a day, the cops left one by one and the neighbors gave hugs, shivered, and promised to be vigilant in keeping an eye out. Many promised to stop back over again. They did later. We have good neighbors on this street.

Shaking, aching, and about to get sick again, I didn't know what to do. I just retold the story in a monotonous tone until no one needed to hear it again. And then the "What If's" parked somewhere in my anxiety-ridden mind.

What if Zoe had been home? What if I had been outside, picking up, as X slept in the house alone? I was planning on finishing the lot next door in the thirty minutes he usually cat naps. Like I leave him in there blissfully unaware to check the mailbox, weed, or take the garbage out. What if I hadn't have come right back down, and hopped into the shower like I usually do after taking Zo to school? What if I had laid down because the night before we got little sleep? What if I had run to the grocery and started boiling eggs? What if X decided he wouldn't start rubbing his eyes and he would have been outside playing in the drive way with me listening to him and occassionally glancing up from my Save the Earth mission?

What if...

What if...

What the F is wrong with people?

Turns out, a lot. Des Moines police are seeing a startling trend of creeps looking for kids. Especially blond haired blue eyed little girls with a twinkle in her eye and a laugh that would light up the world.

We moved to Iowa thinking we'd be safe. Safe from populated cities and too much growth. Safe from the dangers of living near a big city -- really, the Des Moines airport doesn't need to be on Orange Alert with the rest of the country. No one is going out of there way to get here, much less use DSM as a target practice.

Except we aren't even safe to run outside to do yard work, lay a baby down, or answer a phone, because in mere minutes a Demon can enter your life and your whole world will shatter.

He took her panties. The panties in the Goodwill pile outside the garage that was to be loaded and hauled today. He took her Elmo's, Abbey Cadabby's, and a few Dora's and walked away.

What if?

That's A-MAZ-ING.

2010-03-31T15:59:00.000-05:00

A trip to the Des Moines zoo isn't a trip, really. It's more like an hour or less of your time on a few acres that house the animals Green Peace forgot. It's tragic, really, the one snow leopard who I'm almost 100% sure is really stuffed and they had a taxidermist hang a real tail from the top of the highest tree. Like a "Where's Waldo" of large cats game, or something. You can hear a canned roar from the one lion and trust me, she is tamer than our house cat.

The pride and joy of the Des Moines Blank Park Zoo is a tiny playground in a tiny barn-like area with a dozen goats, handful of llamas, and a token donkey. I'm pretty sure they aren't fed anything but the little brown spheres you pay $1 for 10 for all over the area. And, who can ever satisfy their child with one serving of food to feed the animals? If you can, give me your advice, because I am always working my way up to a Benjamin by the time we leave there.

Today I was smarter. I brought a plastic container filled with our dog food. It is the exact same size, shape, and color (tiny, dark brown spheres) and when I read up on the food goats eat, it was the same ingredients as our cheap-ass dog food. Win win, really.

Xander was content eating his toes in the stroller while Zo rushed from goat to kid to kid to goat, all in the name of filling their bellies. I took the prerequisite pics and then settled on an open bench to close my eyes and feel some sun on my face. Seriously, I was not neglecting my child. When is the last time you heard on the news, "This just in! Plastic surgeons reattached a little girl's hand she lost while feeding docile, if not drugged, goats at the petting zoo"?

Lost in my own day dream about Vinnie from Entourage sweeping me off this log-bench in the middle of a stinky barnyard, I felt little eyes burning into my skin. Opening my eyes I had two huge-longest-lashes-you've-seen-on-a-two-year-old eyes lit up in excitement.

"MOM! Coolest thing ever! EVER!" pierced my ears as we skipped over the corral.

"Did a baby goat drink it's mommy's milk?" I asked, hoping she understood what a beautiful moment that was to experience.

An are you on drugs look came over her face as she pointed out a goat "doing his business".

"Watch, mom!" she said as she grabbed the last of the goat/dog food from her container and fed it to the flatulent goat.

"Hmmm! He likes the food! Nice!" I said half-heartedly, searching for Purell.

"No, mom. He likes it so much that as he eats, he pops it out there," (pointing to the still-coming poop shower from his nether regions) and then, "you can pick it back up like this and he eats it again!"

Where is that Purell?

Wally World

2010-03-31T15:42:00.000-05:00

It may not be the best socially-conscious place to shop, but when I have a list that includes diapers, seven rubbermaid containers in various sizes, toothpaste, Captain Morgan, 72 Easter Eggs and candy/trinkets to fill them, and dryer sheets, it's off we go to Wally World, or Wal-mart, as Zoe calls it.

I do like the fact that I do not get evil glares and hits put out on me simply because I do not have reusable bags with me. The concept is smart, cool, and I'm totally game. But I usually have one child wriggling (like a Slinky) stuffed under one pit and a toddler playing chicken with the oncoming traffic in the parking lot. Don't forget the diaper bag that could actually be a sling for Xander it's so big, my keys in my mouth, and a sanitary wipe to make sure the cart handles/seat get a good disinfecting. However, some of the other grocers in Des Moines make you feel like you aren't welcome without your green bags and that you are as close to gassing down a gaggle of ducklings as you are to being Enemy #1 with our Earth, walking in without reusable bags. The nerve!

Anyways, I've learned quickly to let them pick out ANY treat in the store - anything as soon as we walk in. Then they can hold it, squish it, play with it, or dream about it becoming theirs the entire trip through the aisles and I get an extra 15 minutes to shop without constant, I am so so sorry's!

Zo grabbed a Dove chocolate bar (that's my girl) and Xander wanted to play with the rake we picked up. More power to them. We went into the Garden Center and I was congratulating myself on making it through the first ten minutes without a single tantrum or threat. We went around a corner and all hell broke lose.

But not from our cart.

A father had one little girl sitting in the basket on top of a jumbo pack of Charmin eating a XXL sucker and one older child going having what appeared to be a psychotic breakdown. She was throwing anything she could get her hands on, pounding the cart, and projectile vomiting while her head spun. Well, not really, but it was likely they'd be calling the family priest to get exorcism rates if she did this for longer than a quick spell. Of course, this psychotic scene was causing quite the traffic jam with the elderly and toothless alike, and our cart was smack dab in the center ring of this miserable circus. There wasn't anything I could do but try to get my kids interested in the roach and termite pesticide display.

They weren't about to tear their eyes away from this drama unfolding at their feet. They were soaking up every fist pump, scream, and projectile as if this was Dora and Diego live and in concert. So, I leaned back, knocked over a few pesticides, and took a breather. Hell, this was the first time in a long time I wasn't the mom getting the stink eye from other shoppers for my kid's behaviors. Soak it up, people, soak it up!

"That hmpfhskljdf!" said Zo.

"What? I can't hear you!" I replied above the roar of the Exorcist and her furious father.

"That girl is jkahsjkhgfdbg!" she said, significantly louder.

"Say it one more time, ok?" I whispered, close to her ear.

The good news? Some threat Daddy made worked because there was silence and in that split second, "THAT GIRL IS A TRAIN WRECK!" came out of my daughter's mouth.

As fire came from Daddy's nostrils and Exorcist threw a can of tomatoes at our cart, one of the elderly or toothless (or, really, both) applauded and everyone went on their way.

Yet another great observation, Zoe.

Pooper Scooper

2010-03-30T21:34:00.000-05:00

Six Target bags looped on my waist and an old newspaper wrapper tied on one end and tucked into the top of my sleeve at my shoulder, I was either ready to deliver a cow get me some dog poo.

Pooper Scooper Momma was in full effect. Zoe had full-reign of her play set for the first time since September and Xander had his full arsenal of all things that move, light up, or giggle when touched around him on a blanket. I was ready.

FOUR FULL Target bags later I still had at least a third of the yard to do. And that was when Zoe thought it would be fun to terrorize her little brother by pulling him off his blanket and onto the grass. Xander lifted both legs and threw out his arms, so all that was balancing on the grass was his diapered and covered butt.

After a few empty "help your brother or else's" slipped through my lips, I continued the thrilling scavenger hunt. Lost in a "did I check this section? Is that poop or a mouse? Yech. Half eaten mouse" conversation with myself, and no screams/cries/blood coming from the kids, I finished the backyard as Mr. walked out of the house fresh from work.

"What's up with the kids?" Mr. asked as he made his way back to them.

"Huh?" was all I could mutter, as I realized I had not one, but two half masticated mice in various stages of decomposition in my hands.

"What are you guys up to? Did Mommy tell you to do that?"

I turned, dropped a bag of poop, both mice, and my frustration to see both kids balancing with legs lifted, arms out, only tailbones balancing on the grass.

"Xander started a new game!" Zoe cried as Mr. joined in on the action. Soon all four of us were in his position and learned that my little man has a six pack under that milk-made keg!

That was one tough game.

Hot & Spicy!

2010-03-30T21:05:00.000-05:00

"Hot and Spiceeeeeeeeeee! Hot and Spiceeeeeeeee!"

Nope, we weren't trying new salsa's or anything else as tame as Mexican food where a two year old girl screaming out a good old Hot & Spicy comment wouldn't immediately cause alarm and panic.

We were in Target and passing the lingerie section.

"Hot and Spiceeeeeeeeeee! Hot and Spiceeeeeeeee!"

After garnering the attention of at least a few curious shoppers, Zoe stood up in the basket of the cart and started doing her Hot & Spicy dance -- full on booty shake screaming Hot & Spicy the entire time. I just smiled that pathetic, feel bad for me, mommas, smile and told her to "Be Quiet". NOW.

My plead for her to stop was like ignitor fluid on some hot coals. She only got more excited and danced wildly about. Xander started clapping along with his big sister's song and just shy of a circus monkey tumbling through the crowd, we were as much entertainment as aisle 10 had ever seen.

We somehow made it to a quieter spot (i.e good place to reprimand without an audience) and my ramblings of what got into you, why did you do that, and what is going on here? did nothing to calm her down. She just kept saying, "Daddy likes hot and spiceeeeeeeeeees!"

I left the cart, pondering leaving my oldest child, right where we were, deciding against it, and put one child under each arm and got the hell out of Target.

"You'll never believe what Zoe did!" started a ten minute ramble to my momma sunbathing on some fantastic beach in California with a cell to her ear. She started with a giggle and ended my rant with a full on laughing fit.

"I get it that the worst thing that could happen to you today is that you could chip a newly polished toenail, and this might seem funny now, but the dance she was doing while screaming hot and spicy could have warranted a call to Child Protective Services around here, mom! People don't take life as easily as they do out there!"

"Baby, chill out..." then some mom talk and finally some words that caught my attention. "Christmas.... Mr.'s boxers.... said they were hot and spicy... I'm sure that's where it came from."

My mind raced back to the last major holiday. I was still on bed rest with Xander and my mom was "wintering in Iowa" as she told all her friends back home in Southern California. She was practically married to my husband and they raised Zoe together for the nearly four months I was imprisoned. They would share all household chores and started a joke about "hot and spicy" undies when doing laundry, as all of my mom's were granny panties and all of Mr.'s should have been donated to Goodwill a decade ago (when in doubt, if they do not have a hole in the crotch, they probably aren't his). So when one of them would have a pair that was either new or perhaps a high cut brief, it was a joke that it was hot and spicy.

Let's just say my maternity panties erred on the side of fullest-coverage-you-can-muster-with-out-being-a-wet-suit and Zo was just singing her little song about fancy pants undies in her line of vision.

We did get a little nervous, however when a few weeks later a young waitress bent down near our table and Zo reached out, touched her lower back, complete with a tattoo and thong strap, and said, "Oooooh. Hot and SPICY"!

The good news? Zo earned herself a free kids meal.

The bad news? Every time we ate at the local haunt we heard, "that's the hot and spicy kid", so it's now out of our rotation.

If Zo wants that reputation, it isn't going to be before she hits three years old.

Ten things I've learned as a mother of two little kids.

2010-03-30T14:04:00.000-05:00

10. There is no such thing as "We can be there in ten minutes" anymore. Those days are long gone.
9. Dinner out with friends can only take place where pizza, fried chicken strips, and orange-powdered mac n' cheese dominate the menu.
8. When choosing a babysitter, don't ask for a CPR/First Aid license. Tell them a good old fashion joke. If they laugh, they are hired. They are gonna need a sense of humor with this crew.
7. A diaper bag without a new package of M&M's in the doctor's office is the equivalent to breaking your high heel and going in shoeless to a very important meeting with your CFO. Nothing gets accomplished and you come out defeated and worn.
6. When someone asks your opinion of the ongoing war, you should not respond with "Interestingly enough, he is finally sleeping in his own crib for at least a few hours a night, so I think we've won that battle!"
5. It does not matter if you order chocolate, cinnamon, or pistachio ice cream. Your child will decide after eating half of theirs (i.e. licked, slobbered, and dropped the rest) that YOUR cone is the only cone that will do.
4. Give up. One day you will have to have a birthday party festooned with characters from the one TV show you would yank off the air in seconds if you were in charge.
3. You will make new friends and bond over nipples, leakage, and weight gain in seconds each and every time you go to a park.
2. Do not mention anything, and I mean anything, out loud that you wouldn't say in a concert hall with a microphone in your hand. It will be repeated.
1. Never ever ask a very pregnant mother of more than two kids "if she knows where they come from". She won't laugh.

Grass

2010-03-30T11:16:00.000-05:00

Flying down the main channel to our neighborhood, Zoe piped up, "I need to PEEEEEEE! PEEEEEEEEE NOOOOOOW"!

"We are almost home. Two minutes, baby!" came out of my mouth as I started to pit out of my pajama top I had yet to get out of for the day.

"No. NOW." came from the backseat.

The last time we had this conversation it ended in me elbow-deep in warm soapy water, a scrub brush, and an hour I didn't have to stand in the drive way scrubbing a gallon of urine out of a top-of-the-line-costs-more-than-a-plane-ticket-down-south-at-spring-break-time car seat.

"Can you hold it? Our house is right up here..." I trailed off thinking we still had to pass the horse farm, icicle house, and the two elementary school crossing guards who seem to think that even if there is nary a school aged walker in site, they must hold up a STOP sign until all children are safely in their homes stuffing down an Easy Mac or something.

"Nooooooooooooo!" cried a desperate two year old.

I did what any desperate parent would do. I yanked the car into the side of the road, ran around to Zoe's seat, unbuckled her straps, pulled down her leggings, panties, and held her in the air so the Iowa wind would whip it away from us, as opposed to all over us.

No such luck. Zoe was breathing a sigh of relief as she let out what I'm sure Sea Bisquit couldn't compete with and then said, "MUD"!

Knowing full well I had to get her into the car, dressed, and on our way before she showed an active interest in the mud she created below our feet, we were back on the road and in our house in minutes.

It felt good to handle a situation that could have sent me into a panic attack at the beginning of potty training with ease and a smile.

That smile was erased, however, as I went to accelerate and felt something squishy between my foot and the pedal.

"What the Fu--dge?" I cried as I got a whiff of the mud from the bottom of my shoe.

"Zo, did you just pee pee in the grass?"

"Nope! I even made a few pickles!"

Pickles = turds at our house, apparently.

Well, score. A Gerkin is now all over my pedals.

Suburban Mommy Crack

2010-03-30T10:55:00.000-05:00

Hello, my name is Mrs. and I have an addiction! sarcastically ran through my mind as I waited for my endorphins to be set on fire as soon as I could ingest this magical potion.

I have been known to wake up in the middle of the night, plug in the www's and attempt to find a 24 hour place to feed the craving beast within myself.

Legs jittery as I waited my turn, sweat pouring down my face just in case the credit wasn't good - I didn't owe them anything, did I - and cash was hard to come by these days and if I paid with a joint account card, my hubby was sure to know what I had put into my body that day. And that could be grounds for a major battle. I'd just rather get the goodness in my mouth, enjoy it, and get on with my day in peace.

"Good Morning, Mrs! Got the usual ready!" squealed the barista as she took what may be the last treat purchase on my card from Christmas from my outstretched hand.

Holding the nectar of the Gods in her hand, right in front of me but just out of my reach, Barista peaked into the backseat and said, "Full crowd this morning!" and set the delicious goodness out of my reach and went back to the bowels of the shop.

Unstrapping my seat belt, opening the car door, and using my Go Go Gadget arms could not connect me to the liquid gold, so I settled into the driver's side seat and prayed for patience.

Barista brought three puppy latte's to the window and passed them to the animals in the back - two toddlers, and a dog who all dive into a dixie cup full of whipped cream with avengence. Then it was my turn.

With that thick green straw through my parched lips I slurped up a Venti Black Iced Tea no Sweet before I pulled out of the parking lot. My shoulders dropped, tension left the minivan, and I smiled and said, "What are we up to today?" to my charges in the back, smile on my face.

Seriously, this is suburban Mommy Crack. One hit and life is good.

No such thing as a free lunch.

2010-03-30T10:29:00.000-05:00

Zoe and I are working on creating the shopping lists together so she feels like she has a say in what we are buying and has yet another chance to recognize some sight words. The short list in one hand, sippy cups in both, and a snack cup of something advertised as kid-friendly and mother-approved between them, we headed into the warehouse of all warehouses. It started out as a quick trip to Costco - diapers, formula, wipes, bottled water and kitty litter. With two kids in the front of my cart I knew I could totally stick to the list and be out of there in half hour with less than $125 out of my cash stash.

"Zo Zo! Lil X!" gushed our great friend Kelley. It's amazing that she is as excited to see us as we are her - which is at least once a week. Kelley waved my fake-looking-for-the-membership-card attempt off and started asking Zo if she had gotten the pipe cleaners we needed last week to create the monster for her play date.

Kelley is the type of friend you don't see outside of Costco, but when you do see her, it's like homecoming. We could lean against an oversized shopping cart and gossip for hours (or at least until another momma and her brood come in at 10am on a weekday morning) until the Samples of all Samples smells drift up to the front of the store. Then it's a quick Peace Out! to our greeter and off to tempt our tastebuds with freebies.

The intention was simple - get in, get out, and get on with our day. But come on... free baked brie, croissants, ice cream, four kinds of lunch meats, dish detergent samples, hummus, rotisserie chicken salad, corn dogs, pita chips, Go Gurt, Belgium chocolates, energy bars, various smoothies, and jelly beans all being handed out like our lives depended on tasting them... who could pass up the parade of vendors on our way back to the kitty litter? A dozen napkins each, two drained sippy cups, and a momma going back for just one more baked brie (I got lucky, the vendor was bending down behind her stainless steel charriott) and I could easily grab three more morsels of cheese sent from heaven. SCORE!

Who says there's no such thing as a free lunch?

We pulled ourselves away from the samples - seriously, do they magnetize these carts to return over and over again to the steel carts of goodness all around the Holyland?

$300 in produce, items off our list, and a cool sand and water table we needed - it was so cheap! - and six various items from the sample people hawking their wares, we sprinted back to the front of the store to check out before more damage was done. And trust me, damage could be done... gorgeous 800 thread count sheets marked down to $60.97 (when does that happen, really) and a twenty-four pack of Pyrex I could use were calling my name... as were the Tommy Bahama towels I felt would look great holding our lawn chairs at the pool this summer...

Receipt in hand, employee following us with items that absolutely could not be worked back into our cart, we headed to the exit.

My nerves were alive as I realized those sheets may never ever be available again. Maybe I should turn back and get some? Nope, stay focused. Eyes on the exit.

"Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu See!" Zoe screamed as she tried to scamper out of the cart.

"Miss Z! What's happening?" our favorite customer service rep Lucy asked, thrilled to see her two favorite shoppers.

We started chatting and I mentioned I was borderline on the sheets.

"Just got some. Amazing. I'd have paid retail for those."

The words weren't even out of her mouth as I left the kids, carts, and two thrown off Costco employees to watch my babies.

Dodging past the old coots who could spend days perusing every aisle, I flew back to the linens, grabbed two sets, and then saw the piece de la resistance... a gorgeous gallery frame set for above our bed. Grabbing all of the items, and breaking into a cold sweat, I made it back to Lucy, the kids, and two filled carts with almost $500 in trinkets later.

"Wow! Quick trip, huh?" Lucy joked as she helped me haul everything to the Golden Egg, aka minivan. "Hope you enjoyed your free lunch!"

As we drove off Lucy waved and said, "Oh, thanks for the Christmas card! The kids on Santa's lap was priceless!"

Heightens each sensation

2010-03-29T20:53:00.000-05:00

"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation! Darkness wakes, stirs imagination..." ran through my head for the seventh time that evening as I held a restless little man in the wee hours of the morning.

My favorite musical is Phantom of the Opera. If I knew how to sing well I would have played Christine in a heartbeat (or even Meg) in theaters all across the globe. Seeing as in high school show choir I loved the stage, the music, the energy, and the dancing, but God help us all if I would have actually let out more than a low mumble with a mic pinned to my sequined number, I relegate singing to the shower, car, and into my babies ears the nights they cannot sleep.

Thoughts about our future raced through my head - the mundane ones like if I had missed out on registration for Vacation Bible School for Zoe to the real issues that can wake you from a deep sleep covered in sweat unable to catch your breath. Xander was my rock, my comfort, and I his. Even as my weary knees tried to give out after lap 1,239 around the first floor while simutaniously trying to rock, bop, and pat a child into sleep, I realized how fortunate I am to be a mom and have a perfectly healthy little man in my arms, comforted solely by my presence.

Xander wasn't supposed to be here. Not like, he should be in his crib at 2am, but actually not supposed to be alive and a part of this world.

Almost nineteen weeks along in my second pregnancy, I peed my pants as I picked up my new one year old out of her crib. We said good mornings and I joked with her that maybe mommy should be the one getting a diaper change! After she was wiped and dried I went to do the same - if you've ever been pregnant, you'll understand that it is almost blase when you pee your pants when you are with child.

Something just didn't seem right as I stood in the bathroom and being the slightly neurotic mom I am, I knew I should call the OB/Gyn, just in case.

After what felt like an hour the elevator music stopped and a live person chirped into my ear, "Good Morning, OB office. How may I direct your call?" I explained I had a serious incontinence situation earlier and I'd love to leave a message for my OB to call back and maybe give some pointers as to how to keep this from happening again.

As we were talking, I peed again and even said, "Yep, this is definitely something I could use her help with!" We laughed, I threw on a pad, and Zo and I went out the door to her pediatrician's office, as her miserable cough sounded bad enough to warrant a trip to Dr. Wonderful's office.

Dr. Wonderful is the pediatrician people would pay triple to have in their child's life. She listens, engages, and is thorough without making you feel like your child not growing the recommended inch for that time period does not mean they are a dwarf. Momma's, you know what I mean.

Dr. W was asking if we'd started talking about the big change coming into our lives in March, and I said something about well, at this point she just thinks it's either produce (a watermelon) or a beach ball, so we haven't gotten that far. Then laughing, I mentioned we'd have to talk about it sooner than later because Momma may be the one needing potty training.

Zoe ended up needing chest X-rays, as my baby was showing signs of pneumonia. While she was getting her scans, I peed again. And again. I mentioned it to Dr. W, as surely she may have some suggestions for retraining continence and she said, "GO TO THE ER NOW!"

No one had to tell me twice. Zoe and I called Mr., he met us there, switched me cars, and I went into the maternity ward not sure what they could do - maybe give me some pills to soak up excess water in my gut? Who knew?

As it turns out, just shy of my fifth month, my water broke. Xander's amniotic sac was leaking amniotic fluid at a rapid and dangerous rate. As Mr. and I learned we had less than 1% chance of having this baby, and less than 1% of 1% that the baby would ever be a typical-developing child, I sat in a dark hospital room listening to all the horrors and fears that would consume my every waking minute for the next few months.

The one lesson that truly sank in during the darkest hours of my life is that sometimes, just sometimes, you need to just listen to the music of the night.

Lap Time

2010-03-29T20:13:00.000-05:00

It was one of those evenings that if you could hit fast forward, you would. In a heartbeat. Or TIVO it, pause, and then when things are calm you could go back and not miss the high points but definitely skip the lows. This not being an Adam Sandler or Jim Carey flick when we are handed such powers, Mr. & I just needed to hack our way through the tangly, thorny brush that was our family dinner hour.

It started with Zoe wanting to desperately help butter the baked potatoes. To the child-less reader, this may seem like an innocent wish on her part and a learning moment to boot. NOPE. It was a fight over getting the mail opener she mistook for a safety knife out of her sweaty grip before stabbing herself in her shirtless chest, realizing she had also climbed onto the counter and pulled out a steak knife as her backup buttering instrument of choice, and now had upped the ante to opening up her chest filet-style. Fantastic.

Skip to Xander doing his damndest to throw absolutely any item he could consecutively off her tray and onto the just vacuumed carpet. As a pea zinged past Mr.'s head he ducked and it made a nice SPLAT! on the cabinet.

"Niiiiiiiiiiiiice aim, lil' man!" as Mr. thought twice about filling his glass with Coke and ice. Yep, a generous splash of the Captain would help the night sail along smoothly.

We all ended up sitting down with a baby emptying his tray at record speed, a hubby with a lot more than a simple splash of courage in his cup, a shirtless, pant-less toddler licking spoonful's of butter off her carving knife, and one mom who needed a cocktail, night out, and make over but would be thrilled with a shower.

Instead of lifting our spirits with a "Yes! It's almost summer!" dinner from the world's best Montgomery Inn sauce all over our BBQ chicken, it just made us both a little more homesick for the Buckeye state.

After getting kids wiped down/sprayed off/sanitized, we the war begin. Xander had garnered all of Mr.'s attention with his dimples and sweetness, I was up to my ears in soap suds as I tried to chisel off the molten BBQ sauce desperately hoping to live forever in my new Pyrex pan, and Zoe had some unattended time on her hands.

Three* nicely folded piles sorted into laundry basket by recipient were stacked on the landing, ready to ascend the stairs to a closet or drawer before bed. *Although we do not have fancy-pants side loaders we do our best to shove the absolute most in each and every load in our decade old generic W/D combo. So, this was surely what most people would easily call six loads of clothes. I digress...

Little Miss Sunshine decided to knock over the piles and pretend to make it rain. Yep, she put up her new Tinkerbell umbrella and not only made it rain, but create what was surely something mother nature should take note on when she wants to give a region a serious wrath of her power.

Mixed, crumbled, and all over the place I just started screaming when I saw all the laundry I spent working on all day (which took away from my precious Facebook time) was now in worse shape than when it went into the wash, hours earlier.

After more than a little sassing back and a snide smile or two, Momma had to pull down some Dora panties and give her princess a smack. The princess was in a fit of tears as she headed to the highest room in the tallest castle and I wasn't sure if I was crying over the work ahead of me or because I had to spank my baby girl.

Mr., Baby X, and I folded, sorted, and stacked and I felt like I needed to puke. Like a dog hanging his head, I went into Zo's room and laid down with her on her bed. We talked for a long time about how much I love her and just want her to make great choices and learn how to respect people, things, and her home. She understood, wise beyond her years, and snuggled in.

"When you need some attention next time, maybe say, "I could use some lap time, okay, mom?" I whispered into her sweaty hairline as she snuggled against me.

"But Mom," her hair sticking to my cheek, "you are too big for my lap!"

Blush

2010-03-29T14:04:00.000-05:00

Blush! I chanted in my head as I watched Xander take a few steps on his own. It's so cute. He is my quiet, draw-no-attention-to-myself child that somehow came from the same genetic pool that his older, EVERYONE WATCHING WHAT I CAN DO?!? sister first sprang from.

X was taking his solo steps from the sofa to the toy box he did everyday. Instead of realizing his feet could take his body anywhere now, Xander preferred to test and make sure they worked every day, as if sleep somehow took away this new special super power of being bipedal.

If Xander so much as sensed someone was within watching distance, his little (okay, chubby-fall-off-his-face) cheeks would turn magenta, hives would appear on his neck, and he would plop down on his Pampered butt and crawl the rest of the way. It happened every single morning for the past four months. I learned to make myself scarce when he started moving on his own accord and make sure Zoe was engrossed in something else.

Even if his sister could be a defensive lineman for a pro-football team, and liked to show off her tackle skills, she had a heart of gold and would make sure her little man knew she could also throw off her pads and helmet and become his favorite cheerleader. In fact, she was his biggest fan.

Not realizing I was holding my breath, I let out a huge sigh of excitement as Xander went the twenty steps from the couch to his beloved oak chest of goodies. Zoe grabbed my hand and squeezed it, smiling up at me.

Surely she didn't know why I had been quiet and pretending to scrub the dishes that refused to shine?

"He did it, Mom! He's growing up!" she exclaimed with her clammy little hand in mine.

You both are, Zo. You both are!

The Very Hungry Toddler

2010-03-29T13:44:00.000-05:00

"We've never lost a kid before!" huffed the usher, as I assured her I would sit with both of my kids in the large theatre, as opposed to go with her directives of two of us in row A, one in row B. Bare in mind here that my kids are 1 and 2, respectively. As tempted as I was to duct tape Xander to her leg and let her enjoy him for an hour in a dark, quiet place, I simply stepped around her to the next available row and sat down in the flurry of young families trying to pick out seats in the crowded circus ring they called the Civic Center.

"Lot of nerve, that one!" Grouchy Mc Gee called out behind us as we sat together - as a family - in a row further back than reserved, just so we could have our seats together.

It was open seating, wasn't it? Sure was, so I sat down and got jackets off, shoes off (my kids cannot have restricted toes for one minute longer than necessary, at any given time - their rules, not mine) and sippy cups out. Soon the lights dimmed and Xander took a keen interest in the little girl in front of us' hair clip. Good thing she was either A) comatose or B) one of ten siblings who was used to a lot of distraction, because she didn't even move or swat him away as he tried to pick those cherries off the top of her pony tail!

Zoe clapped along with the other kids as the black lights lit up a cute little stage with an antsy chammelion making his Des Moines stage debut (at 9 am on a Monday morning... not exactly Broadway bound) and squealed in delight as the opening amphibian wiggled, waggled, and tried to morph into a flamingo, deer, giraffe, goldfish, and elephant before realizing being a chamelion - himself - was the best thing to be. Cute story line that lasted three minutes.

What was I nervous about? They are awesome! I thought to myself as I leaned back in my chair and started to take my own coat off.

Maybe my sudden movement changed the aura around us, but suddenly it was like, "Mooooooooooooooooooom! I'm Star-viiiiiiiiiiiiing!" in surround sound. Both kids pretended they hadn't gotten two Eggo's a piece and some fruit less than two hours earlier and decided to ramsack the diaper bag for treats.

What I learned is that a play about a hungry caterpillar will induce hunger pains as dramatic as labor pains. They go up and down, get shorter between pangs, and can only be controlled with serious endorphins (like a sugar high). I also learned that kids who usually throw up their noses to Craisins day old gummy bears will be giddy with excitement at each new find and scarf them with gusto. Kids will not die if they ingest anything without 10 or more grams of sugar if it constitutes as a "desperate measure snack". Also, sand, fuzz, and diaper bag crud can easily be cleaned off a once-licked sucker that somehow was only half-wrapped back up before the user threw it to the depths of the diaper bag by simply swishing it around in Mom's mouth before a toddler's...

And, if you can handle an hour in the dark with two toddlers who are supposed to be silent, you deserve a stiff shot of something potent not sold at a children's theatre drink stand.

Not Mommies!

2010-03-29T13:17:00.000-05:00

When it came to the hey day of women's liberation, I wouldn't have been in the front of the picket lines, but I would have signed a petition or two and sent a check (even if they didn't send me return address labels first) to fund some of the fight. I would have posted links on a social networking site (they had Facebook in the sixties, right?) and read up on the latest before attending a cocktail party, just to piss off some macho men.

Zoe was begging for her Daddy to make her a Daddy Delight Grilled Cheese for lunch (what makes it a Daddy Delight? Well, it's a white bread/American cheese creation they always love, but he uses about a 1/4 pound of butter per sandwich and that is a delight)! I was kicking the darn washing machine because as it does a few times a year, it was refusing to do it's final spin, so clothes were taking a day to dry in the dryer and once again I jumped the gun and called the Maytag repair man to fix the dryer. A $60 service call, ma'am you just need to clean out the lint trap - gummy bears will affect the dryer's drying capacity, and a have a nice day later I realized it was the WASHER. So, I was perfectly content with my kids knawing out enough chocolate chips from granola bars to constitute as lunch (it not only gets them fed, but also gives me some mommy time), and not exactly up for some cheese grillin'.

"It's Monday. Dad's at work today!"

"Why he here yesterday?"

"It was the weekend. On weekends Daddy's and other's who work outside their houses get to stay home with their family and relax." Ha. Relax! How about bake 72 cookies for the church bake sale, three meals for other mom's who just had their second (or third babies), weather strip each outside door, decorate for upcoming Easter, reorganize the garage, and keep two toddlers entertained. Yeah, a real spa-like atmosphere weekends are...

"Not Mommies!"

It wasn't a question, it was an emphatic statement. And that is why my head swiveled around at lightening speed, and I put down the sledge hammer (damn washer).

"What do you mean, Not Mommies?"

"Mommies don't work! Just Daddies!"

"Do you think that Mommy doesn't work?"

"Yep!"

"Do you think this is fun?" I retorted, looking at a pile of play dough lumped in the corner I somehow missed when I mopped last month, at least five loads of laundry in various stages or laundering, cat puke all over the litter box (?) and a baby in only a size-too-small Pamper bathing in the dog's water bowl.

"Yep! It is fun, Mom!" Zoe exclaimed as she curled her little arms around my thigh and gave me her famous "hurting hugs" she likes to do to emphasize an 'I love you moment'.

At that point I realized my baby girl didn't care at all that I was a woman or a man, or anything about gender roles. She just knew that I was the lucky one to stay home all day with my babies. And she's right. As busy as a Mommy gets, it really isn't work. It's luck that brought all this chaos into our lives and as the wise women who came before us promise... we are gonna miss this!

Doughnuts?

2010-03-27T14:28:00.000-05:00

Is it wrong to assume a continental breakfast will be included at a bariatric weight loss informational clinic? I mean, it's early in the morning, last for a few hours, and is a way to recruit paying customers. Sadly, out of the 12 obese souls I sat with in a bleak conference room somewhere in the bowels of Mercy hospital, I was the only one who didn't bring substance to get through two hours in a meeting.

Nary a stale bagel in site, I had to satisfy my growling belly with an entire box of tic tacs. At least they were one calorie each, so really they are diet food... right?

What I did learn is that I am clinicly obese, at a 12x more likely risk to die of heart disease than my still-skinny sorority sisters who I shared clothes with a decade ago, and your mouth goes numb on consecutive Tic Tac #46.

I also learned that obesity is something we can fight daily - in our every choice, action, and decision. The lost souls around me seemed to not get the message, as each of them had quite a staggering array of Mountain Dew, Little Debbies, salty corn chips, and various King-sized chocolate goodies stashed in pockets, purses, and actually, I'm not quite sure where the older gentleman kept his arsenal, and really, I'd rather not know.

The main point that the surgeon made me take note of is that you have to have a support system. A person who loves you who will support you throughout the weight loss journey. I knew my husband was that person - he is strong, smart, motivated, and my biggest fan. Fantastic!

I went home with a lot of questions in my head, swirling around and causing confusion and chaos that happens as new life-changing information can only do. Racing in the door the dog greeted me with a jump on my chest, knock down of the purse, and a lick to the crotch. Love you too, pooch.

"Mr! I'm back!" I quietly yelled (if you can quietly yell) down the stairs, as it was the most wonderful time of the day - nap time! No one answered so I did a quick look around the upstairs, kitchen, and backyard only to realize he had to be downstairs. NCAA tourney blasting, a Miller Lite empty (or two) on the coffee table, and the Mac with multiple windows pulled up.

"Hey. Did you fill up the car? I noticed it was low," came from behind the Mac.

"Of course. I have so much information to go over with you. Lots of decisions to make."

"Hmmmm. Where'd you go again?"

"Bariatric Weight Loss Meeting. At Mercy."

"Oh yeah. How'd it go?"

"Interesting. Gotta sort some things out."

"Okay. I 'm going to lay down for a bit and reenergize. The kids wore me OUT!"

So maybe it's time to rethink this support person?

Observations

2010-03-27T08:23:00.001-05:00

I am that mom who really thought somehow TV would creep into my sweet angels eyes and turn them into ADHD/Autistic/Rude little beasts who would have Elmo steal any chance of a future as a Literary Scholar/Doctor/Lawyer (not the shark-type lawyers, but the do gooders who change the world AND make money). This thought process consumed me in my first pregnancy -- we would NOT have a TV on when said child was in the room/house/neighborhood. It was the devil and the devil was not welcome to 152 Aurora Ct.

Then I learned that taking a shower, making a phone call, or cooking dinner are the prime times for the needy "Moooooooooooooms!" that pop up from a child perfectly absorbed in his/her game/book/fort until the exact moment you need a little quiet. Then the somehow something shattered that perfect ten minutes of quiet and you are left asking your physician to "hold on, just a sec, OK?" and scrambling for a sugary treat worthy of ten more minutes of quiet.

One day, in angst, I threw on the TV. Of course, it was PBS, and at the beginning of the show it talked about how it's like "preschool on TV" and gave some curriculum indicators that would be addressed/mastered/discussed in the next 20 minute segment.

We won't get to the third benchmark, PBS, I snidely thought, as I knew the second the doctor and I got a chance to discuss the test results no more TV. After fifteen minutes of complete quiet from the great room, I sprinted over to Zoe to make sure she was, in fact, still breathing. Not only was she breathing, but a giggle escaped her sweet lips as she watched a bi-racial cartoon character jive about the scientific process.

Plopping into an overstuffed-crazily-upholstered art deco chair I watched the rest of the show with Zo. And it was not only cute, funny, and entertaining, it was teaching her the scientific process... at two.

Later that day over organic whole wheat bread, all-natural peanut butter, fresh strawberries from our small, yet functional, garden, and an apple from the Farmers Market, we talked about making observations. OK, you caught me. We tried organic for at least a week. I mean, really tried. Until I realized all the organic crap was in the farthest part of the mega-grocery and totally organic meant no more Oreo's in this house. Zo was stuffing her mouth with the last of her fries - she loves those Mickey D's fries - I mean, organic fruits - and she commented on her Happy Meal toy's long spindly legs. I said, "That's a good observation, Zo! Yes, your odd-soon to be in the Goodwill pile toy DOES have spindly legs! You made an observation!"

Zo shrugged and I polished off the last of my sandwich and her nuggets with a smug little comment to PBS about how they may have a bi-racial kid jiving to the scientific process, but that doesn't mean the viewers will LEARN the scientific process.

No more TV in this house! I will not, I refuse, to use the TV as a babysitter!

A few mornings later, in the rush of getting the Mr. off to work and two kids to two different ENT/OT appointments in assorted parts of town, Mr. begged Zoe to bring him a pair of clean socks to cover her little feet. When on the fifth request as he simultaneously dressed, shaved, and scarfed down a banana, Zo brought in some graying white socks. Mr. leaned down to cover those adorable piggies to realize the socks were definitely not from the clean pile.

"Zoe! These socks are filthy! Filthy!" He stated a little upset that his two year old could not differentiate a clean from a dirty sock.

"Yep! Here's the clean ones." she stated as she pulled another clean white pair out from behind her back.

Puzzled, the Mr. said, "Those are clean!"

"Just wanted to test you, Daddy! You can make good observations!"

Grilled Cheese & Nipples

2010-03-26T23:25:00.000-05:00

Where in the hell is my phone? ran through my head for the fifteenth time as I looked under the mounds of clean (and no longer clean) laundry and various paraphenilia on the large kitchen island.

I threw a couple of pairs of size 12 month baby pants out of the way just as I caught my call going to voicemail. Sliding by Xander, who patiently played in his high chair, Zoe sprinted through my legs and grabbed her animated-walking puppy that will serve as a catalyst to a broken bone sometime in the near future. Hers? Mine? Not sure - just mark my words.

After a quick "Zo! Please keep that in the play room! If I see it again it becomes mine" to the back of her cute pony-tailed head as she trotted off with puppy in hand, the task I was elbow deep in needed my immediate attention. Someone put the gallon of milk back in the fridge without the lid on and Xander used the milk jug on the bottom shelf to try to pull himself up while I attempted to make breakfast this morning. I had just stripped Xander down to his Pampers and threw my shirt in the wash, but still had quite a few shelves, drawers, and jars to de-milk, so I got back to it.

"Mooooooooooooooooom! Xander is a stinky stinky baby! Yech!" came from the high chair. Zander was fussing, Zoe was playing a game of peek a book with X and the puppy, and our real dog was sniffing Xander's crotch with interest. Yep - diaper change time.

As soon as I laid Xander down I knew it was an exploding diaper situation. A dozen wipes later, X was still trying to slither through, under, and around me as I attempted to keep my ivory carpet ivory and his clothes clean. Zoe was doing her "Dancing dancing booty dance" she likes to do when she is craving attention (in her Dora undies, a two year old version of a booty dance).

As I wrapped up a filthy diaper and an even filthier baby, I started laughing and in the split second Zo had my attention, Xander was crawling away at a hare's pace. Crap! Literally.

Grabbing him I did what I had to do. I set him in the utility tub, grabbed the sprayer, and doused him in bleach. Maybe not bleach, but he was sanitized, rediapered, and safely secured into his high chair to a chorus of "Grill cheesh in apples, peas!" was sang over and over like a mantra from somewhere in the kitchen.

"Zo! We just had breakf - " I stopped talking as I realized it was noon, and we had breakfast more than five hours earlier.

"Two grilled cheeses coming up!" I said aloud as my head said, Lord knows your brother will need something in his stomach after that doozy!

I remembered to scrub my hands and in doing so could still smell something more like a septic tank than a grilling sandwich. If the (real) dog had another accident in the house, she's outside the rest of the day!

Nope. Not the dog. Upon further investigation (ok, a sniff test that lead me back to myself) I realized I was covered in some diaper damage and stripped down to my skivvies... except I had yet to get a bra laundered for the day, so skivvies meant black socks and old pink Hanes panties a size too small. Not to worry - get the sandwiches cut (triangles for Zoe, tiny pieces for the little man) and I'll hop into the shower.

As I leaned over to stop the chocolate milk from spilling all over the table, Zoe screamed, "Mom! Get your nipple off my grilled cheese!"

Sometimes, you just gotta laugh. So I laughed until I hurt and made chocolate milk blow out Zoe's nostrils. The doorbell rang and realized all three of us were topless, only in undies and socks, and it was a December day in Iowa. I threw on some clothes out of the dirty pile on the kitchen island and just laughed when the delivery man said, "Sure wish I could sit around and play with my kids all day, too!"

Me, too.

So I stopped the fridge clean out, carpet scrubbing, and dishes-doing and joined Zoe in the Dancing Dancing Booty Dance while Xander clapped along.

A Little Fur

2010-03-26T23:19:00.000-05:00

howering used to be synonymous with relaxing, rejuvenating, and renewing. That was before I had two babies in 18 months.

Now, on the mornings I can drag my lifeless body into a trickle of water before my husband leaves for work, it's fast, cold, and I usually miss something. And I always wash at least one thing twice - you know, "Shit. Did I already to my hair?" as I am rewashing my hair for the third time but totally forgot my pits. It's inevitable and happens. Those are the days I actually do shower without an audience.

I used to have a cute figure. Ok, a knock out one. Every once in awhile I would have a few too many cocktails and imagine what it would be like to entertain in the nude... never did I imagine it would be to a crowd of little people I gave life to...

Now that cute figure is further from my life than a reliable babysitter and I'm not as comfortable with the "more to love" version of myself, but a crowded bathroom happens daily. So, my husband hopped out of the stall, stubbing his toe on the dusty, rusty, and seldom used Weight Watchers scale and tripped over a few dozen (new) tampons from the industrial-sized box Zoe was using as logs for a staggeringly large tampon cabin she'd erected. Ty's towel dropped and Zoe's eyes zeroed in with interest. She stood up, eye level, and zoomed in as Ty quickly scooped up the towel and scurried into a more private place for his privates to hang loose.

Zoe didn't say a word, Ty lifted his eyebrow's with a "dodged a bullet there" look over her, and I winked and hopped into the now-icy water. Why do we always let it run between showers? It never actually works out that I hop right in as he hops on out.

Of course my towel was missing when I was getting out of the shower, as it was used to mop up the moat of water Zoe somehow got from the sink to the tampon cabin, so Birthday Suit Momma got to do the strut of shame to the linen closet.

Just as I was pulling on some clean undies - which, in our house takes a few minutes to find, as you never know if they'll be all over the master bedroom in clean laundry piles, in the appropriate drawer, or on Zoe's head as a "Diving Mask" when she plays "Scuba School" in the dry jacuzzi tub. Zo peaks her head from the bathroom and says, "Mom! You and Daddy are the same but different!"

"That's right, baby." I mumbled hunting for an actual pair of my own socks.

"Yep. You both have fur!" She stated, very proud of herself.

"Fur? Like a teddy bear?" I asked as I settled for a pair of my husband's trouser socks he refuses to wear unless it's a job interview or funeral.

Gleefully she responded, "Yep! Fur. To keep your peanuts and vagina all warm!"

Yep.