Busy, busy, holiday busy...

I'm been remiss in blogging for, oh, about a month.  Life got the best of me with holiday happenings.  Lots of shopping, cooking, entertaining, skiing, wrapping, laughing and good times shared.  I'd say the blogging break was worth it just to spend the time with family and friends.

Now it's back to real life.  I have a lot of things on the docket for 2010.  Not resolutions, just a lot going on personally and professionally.  Here's the latest run-down:

I was selected to be a guest blogger for the new Colorado Ski Mamas tour being sponsored by Colorado Ski Country.

I'll be heading out to Powderhorn Ski Resort in late January or early February to enjoy a fun ski weekend with the family.  This opportunity is perfect for me because I love discovering little tips that make mothering easier - particularly when it comes to mothering on the ski slopes.  I'll be blogging and tweeting about the exeperience.  Stay tuned for an update on the all of the fun adventures in Mesa/Grand Junction, Colorado.

I just finished a revision on my brother's blog template.  Check it out here.  I love the slideshow header with rotating images.  Trying to come up with a way to incorporate this into my own blog design.  I'm itching for an excuse to redesign my template anyway, so perhaps this technique will be the starting point.

I'm editing a book for an amazingly talented colleague of mine, Mike Strunk. He is a photographer and writer who is finishing up his second coffee-table photography book.  His photographs are stunning.  I proudly display his first book, Potraits of Preservation, on my own coffee table.  And I can't wait for Butch Cassidy and Outlaw Trail to be complete in the next few months.  You can check out all of Mike's work, including photos and excerpts from both books, here.

After an extremely productive November thanks to NaNoWriMo, I cranked out half of my novel, Sliver of Souls (working title - still not sure what it's going to be called.)  I had every intention of finishing it in December, but then life at the holidays happened.  So, January is the month that I'm back on track to crank out another half. I can't wait to see what Maggie and her cohorts do next.

Just picked up a new story assignment for Purina about rescue dogs and their owners who are involved in agility competitions.  I love writing these stories for Purina's publications, and I get to meet some amazing people in the process. True animal lovers are some of the most passionate and caring people in the world.

I've been in the midst of assisting with the planning of my husband's 20th high school reunion.  I just finished a very down-and-dirty web design for their class to track RSVPs, etc.  You can check it out here.

Lots of other professional activities - a strategic planning session this month, two more website redesigns and a new travel brochure layout for a local travel organization.  The year is starting off to be a busy one, and I'm focusing on taking it one day at a time.  Tomorrow is the beginning of Alex's Mini-Moutaineer program at Echo Mountain ski school.  Shoud be a great day for all those little skiers.

Digital Scrapbooking :: My Kids Need Baby Books

I have a dirty little secret that I've locked away and I'm ashamed to talk about.  Neither of my kids have a baby book. I pride myself on being a good mom, and (in my mind) along with the responsibility of raising kind, happy kids, comes the documentation of said raising.  Well, I've fallen below the bar on that portion of my mom responsibilities. Don't get me wrong.  I've taken tons of digital pictures and have kept various computer files stashed in various locations with funny phrases and momentous occurrences.  BUT...none of this information exists in a cute, tidy little book over which parents and grandparents can ooh and aah.

I have to admit that part of my shame stems from the fact that my mom did not make me a baby book until I was 32 years old.  My entire life I would go to friends houses and page through their cute baby books with graphics of yellow chicks and fluffy lambs, hospital bracelets flattened and yellowing under their chock-full-of acid tape (we were kids of the 70s - this was long before acid-free paper, etc.).  I felt left out and neglected in a very tongue and cheek way. Although a tiny, tiny part of me in the very dark corners of my mind, felt truly neglected, like I wasn't important enough for my mom to whip out the scrapbooking supplies and make me a sugary sweet baby book.  Even though my mom was seriously mom of the century and my brother and I turned out to be great human beings, I felt less of a great human being without the book to document my turning into this responsible, kind person.  Tee hee.  Pretty pathetic, huh? That's how my teenaged mind worked.

Now my brother, on the other hand, never cared that he didn't have pictures of himself drooling, surrounded by cartoon puppy dogs and froggies.  And I'm guessing that my boys won't care either.  But I still feel as though I might miss out on the Mom of the Year Award if I can't provide the visual documentation of all of my hard mothering work. 

So, please help me win this giveaway from Today's Creative Blog. 


I want to win the gift certificate from Ella.  $20 that could go toward the future mental stability of my sons.  Because as I've adequately proven through my own neuroses -- NO BABY BOOK, NO MENTAL STABILITY!!

I couldn't have said it better myself!

Have you seen this?

Click here for the link. I tried to post the article here, but I couldn't get the formatting right so that it was readable.

I'm not posting this in some self-righteous attempt to justify my current existence, but more as a way to explain to myself and others why it seems like have less patience (and more patience than ever in the same breath), less time, less energy (and more energy than ever), less self-respect (and more than ever) and A LOT fewer complete thoughts than I ever had before.

When I sit down at the end of the day and wonder what I did with my time, I'll just read this over and over and thank my lucky stars that I've been given the chance and the gift to take on this crazy challenge called motherhood. And then I'll go have a cocktail!

Vacay...Away...Hooray!

I haven't completely let my new priorities take over - the blog is still on the daily to-do list. Kevin and I took a kid-free vacation, and I've been swamped with "real life" stuff since we made it home. The vacation was wonderful.

We spent three nights at our condo in the mountains. We skied three days in a row which I don't think I've done since 2004 (Before Kids - or BK for short). Got to eat Indian and Thai food which is an experience that has become infrequent since our kids became old enough to express their EXTREME opposition to it. Had a leisurely dinner in a restaurant with friends. No "feed bag!" That what's we call the red zipper pouch in which I carry all of the emergency snacks and toys to keep my kids occupied in case of a slow (or even average) wait person.

I even took a very quiet and languorous trip to Target by myself. Never has perusing drive belts for vacuum cleaner felt so indulgent! But something else happened in the midst of all this child-free bliss. While waiting in line at Target a toddler two check-out aisles over started chattering to his mother. She understood every word of the incomprehensible babble...and I physically hurt. It was that primal milk letting down sort of pain that twinged through my body. That little voice made me ache for my kids. Not enough to get in the car and run home that instant. (I may be attached, but I'm not crazy -- it was only the first night), but enough to realize that my threats to run away to Mexico are full of hot air. I'd be on the next kayak out of the Sea of Cortez to get back to all of the nose wiping and argument refereeing. What can I say? I'm a sucker for my kids!

We came home on the day of Alex's 4th birthday party. Pictures to come soon of Scuba Party 2009. I guarantee the scuba diving birthday cake is unlike anything you've ever seen. Pretty? Probably not! Unique? Definitely!

Superheroes of the Most Usual Kind

For as long as I can remember, Alex has been obsessed with firefighters and fire engines. In fact, he's pretty much obsessed with anything safety related. Words that make his ears perk up are "smoke," "fire," "rescue," "alarm," "emergency," "ambulance." You get the gist of it. We have to constantly monitor our conversations to ensure that we don't use one of the hot button words which might result in a 20 minute conversation about the specifics of how the smoke detector works or why the ambulance has words written backwards on the front of it. Believe me, I'm very proud of Alex's curious nature as well as his constant quest to ensure that the world is safe from danger and wrong-doing. But, I can only detail the specifics of the inner workings of a rescue vehicle so many times.

Somehow, in the midst of his life full of safety, Alex has gotten it into his head that the most honorable birthday parties are not ones with marketing-laden figures like Nemo or Elmo or even Batman. Birthday parties are about honoring those that make our world a better place. Alex takes superheroes very seriously and won't stand for imposters or wannabes. Last year he carefully considered the job of our college friend Jason and said to me, "Mommy is Fireman Jason a superhero?" In his world, superheroes are real-life do-gooders. Thus the reason that Alex wanted to call Fireman Jason to tell him about the first time he went potty on the big boy potty. Jason, who does not have kids yet, feined surprise and appropriately praised the budding young firefighter who had mastered the most important fire hose - his own!

Given all of the firefighting hoopla surrounding our house, last year Alex requested a firefighter birthday party. The cake was a huge hit complete with Smartys serving as hose hookups on the sides. During our potty training days with Alex, we started using Smartys as a bribe to get him to use the potty. One Smarty for going #1 and two Smartys for going #2 in the potty. It worked pretty well. So well, in fact, that when I brought the cake out at last year's birthday party, Alex loudly declared, "Look Uncle Mark. There are potty treats on my cake. If you're really good, you can have one!"

We played firefighter games. A relay race to see who could put on all of the firefighting gear the fastest. "Pin the Badge on the Firefighter":

I bought clear plastic ketchup and mustard bottles like you find at a hotdog stand. We filled those with water, and the kids shot the water at the tissue paper in the bank windows to put out the fire.
All in all, it was a huge success and although I was happy, I was also slightly concerned that I had set the expectation for even more creative birthday parties in future years. And, I was right!

This year, Alex has decided that he wants a scuba diving party, complete with a scuba diver birthday cake, blue streamers hanging over the windows and an ocean sounds soundtrack so that his guests feel like they are underwater when they get to our house. He has requested a relay race called "Who Can Put on the Scuba Gear the Fastest and Run the Farthest in Flippers." This child's imagination knows no boundaries at the ripe age of 3 years and 350-some days. His list of ideas goes on and on.

I did find a fun picture online of a scuba diving cake made with white cake and blue jello that fits down into the cake to form a body of water supspended in the cake. Now I just have to come up with some scuba diving games and all will be right in the world of superheroes - those that rescue, those that save and yes, those that dive!

I can bring home the bacon...but shouldn't I just fry it up in the pan?

When Kevin and I made the long awaited decision to have kids, we agreed that we both wanted me to be a stay-at-home mom. I was raised by a mom who stayed home with us, and I loved the feelings of closeness and security that came with knowing my mom would always be around to dance with me or paint with me or just cart me around from activity to activity. I wanted that for my kids. I wanted that for myself. Or did I?

After being home with our first born, Alex, for a few months, I started to get antsy. Not antsy to get away from the house. Not antsy to get away from Alex. Simply antsy to explore other venues of myself while being a mom. Slowly but surely I started picking up writing gigs, volunteering opportunities, consulting jobs. Suddenly my noodle in the acronym soup had changed. I was no longer a SAHM. I had become a WAHM without even knowing it.

Part of this transition was simply that I like being busy. I like feeling as though I'm being intellectually challenged and that I'm doing something to better the world. Deep down, I think my greater fear was becoming obsolete as a person. I would soon be able to define myself as a mother, but would shortly not be able to define myself as anything else. This really scared me.

Something about writing "stay-at-home mom" or "homemaker" on my tax returns made me cringe a little bit. If I'm honest with myself, I'll admit that something about those phrases didn't feel good enough to me. In spite of the fact that SAHM was the title I had dreamed of my entire life and a title that I truly believe is the most important one of all in this world.

Here's what I've learned. I have loved being a Work at Home Mom - a lot! I love spending time with my kids and helping them to become better people. I love the picking and choosing that comes with having my writing career and my consulting job be secondary to my primary responsiblity as a mother. Don't like the option that's being presented at work? Don't want to seek out a new gig? Don't want to go to work today? No big deal. My "real" job is being a mom. I can say no to all of those things that I don't want to do in my freelance life.

BUT...and this is a big BUT. I'm not very good at being a WAHM. In trying to combine my two careers - that of a money-earning part of the working world and that of a child-adoration-earning part of the home world - the career that suffers is the one involving my family. There are many times when I find myself saying "One more minute" (which is really 30 more minutes) while I finish up an article or a newsletter layout or a strategic planning agenda. Meanwhile, the dishes sit unfinished, the laundry sits unfolded and the kids sit waiting for mommy's much needed attention.

What I've noticed is on the days that I am fully committed to my SAHM job, my entire family (including myself) is much happier. Things are clean. Things are organized. Mommy has more patience. And life is a lot more fun. So, I'm trying to find a balance. Selfishly, I don't want to give up my WAHM career. But honestly, I want to a more focused mother, a more focused homemaker and a more focused partner. I'm working on ways to divide my time more evenly so that I don't have to stop writing or mothering, but can do each one just a little bit better.

There's no right or wrong answer. And I know there's no panacea in the "Mommy Wars." But I feel like I'm having my Mommy War as a civil war within myself. Any suggestions?

Please tell me why my car is in the front yard??

Okay...it's not actually my car, but I do have a question. What do you do when everyday you find something new lying in your yard? Something that is not yours. Something that belongs to your neighbor. The latest culprit?This skateboard that I almost backed over while pulling out of the driveway this morning. Our neighbors have three kids who are older than mine. They love playing outside, and they subscribe to the old-school thought process of roam the neighborhood and knock on doors to see who might be home to play.

I love this about them. We've been hearing so much about the difference in children's play-style since we've all become helicopter parents and the safety of our world has gotten more questionable. It makes me happy to live in a neighborhood where, in spite of the fact that there are no sidewalks and multiple wild animals (i.e., bear, mountain lion, coyote) who could devour our children, these kids are still having endless hours of unsupervised adventure outside.

Every day I wonder if when my kids are old enough to play on their own outside, I'll be brave enough and smart enough to give them a long enough "leash." I'm a pretty protective parent and come from VERY protective parents, so it's going to take a whole lot of self-talk to prevent me from building a cage that my kids can play in outside - protecting them from the dangers of our mountainous neighborhood, protecting me from the dangers of seeing my children hurt. Come to think of it, maybe a cage isn't a bad idea. Even now, my boys are constantly fighting with each other. We'll throw them in there and charge admission. It'll be like Ultimate Fighting Evergreen style. They always say that white trash moves to the mountains. So, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Ultimate Cage Fighting it is!

But, I digress. Along with spreading their love around the neighborhood, these kids spread their toys all around the neighborhood - at least my portion of the neighborhood. If I collected everything that I've found lying in my yard, my boys would be pretty happy in a few years. They would have soccer balls, dirt bikes, shovels, bows and arrows, army men, bungee cords...and a skateboard! And a little plastic ring in the shape of a pink heart. Not sure which one of the boys was wearing that one when it was plopped in our yard.

These items mysteriously appear. I never see the kids playing in our yard with said toys. The toys just make their way into our driveway or grass on their own. So, I've been watching. I think I've determined the problem. The neighbor kids stand at the bottom of their driveway waiting for the school bus every morning. Their driveway is directly across the street from the top of our driveway. The school bus door opens on our side of the street. The kids must hold on to their beloved items until the last possible minute and then toss them (into my driveway) before they step onto the school bus.

Here's my dilemma. I don't really care all that much, but I feel like I should care. I grew up in a perfectly manicured house with a perfectly manicured lawn, and I guarantee that if my neighbor had left his skateboard in our driveway, it would only have happened ONCE. But I feel like I should do something.

Sometimes I ignore it, and the toys mysteriously make their way out of my yard in a few days. Sometimes I place all of the items in a nice tidy pile at the bottom of their driveway. Sometimes I almost crush the skateboards with the wheels of my car. Regardless of the action that I take, nothing is ever said about the toys by me, the neighbor kids or their parents. It's like this silent game we have going to see who can not talk about it the longest.

As my kids get older and I'm constantly stressing picking up after yourself and caring for your things, I feel like I should be setting an example for my kids by setting our neighbor kids straight. Am I making too much of this? Or should I just hide everything in my garage and be happpy that I don't have to buy my son his own skateboard?

Got Milk? Not us!

Our youngest son, Ben, is a strong willed little boy. From the moment he came into this world, things have been his way or the highway. Or in the case of his birth - both!

From the very beginning, he was an excellent nurser. He latched on within five minutes of being born, and never looked back. I weaned him at 13 months, but he probably would have kept nursing for another year had I let him.

Now he is underweight. Not that I put too much stock in the growth curves, but they did create them for a reason. At his 18 month check-up, he was in the 98th percentile for height and the 0 percentile for weight. Yes...ZERO! To our credit, both of the boys had a projectile vomiting plague the week before Ben's check-up. He lost five pounds that week, which for a boy of his size is a lot of weight. You could see his collarbones sticking out. I could trace the contour of every rib with my eyes. It was like watching my little boy peer out of a super model's body.

What is the connection between his weight gain issues and breastfeeding? My mommy guilt! Before weaning him, Ben would never take a bottle. We tried day-long nursing strikes, we tried bottle, cups, syringes...anything to get milk into him another way besides directly from my udders. I certainly didn't mind all of the nursing, but a girl's gotta have a break. He wouldn't take anything. I finally got him to take a few sips from one of those plastic shot glasses that comes with children's Tylenol.

Before weaning him, he would also never take milk, or formula - nothing except water - and then only if it was from the short-man's shot glass. I always assumed that after I weaned him, he wouldn't have a choice and would start drinking milk. We tried whole fat, half fat, no fat, goat milk, buffalo milk, soy milk, rice milk, chocolate flavored, strawberry flavored. It was a veritable Starbucks of dairy drinks at my house. No luck!!

I even went so far as to put cinnamon and vanilla extract into his drink thinking the incredibly unique flavor would tempt him. It didn't. And then my pediatrician reminded me that vanilla extract has alcohol in it. Granted, it was only a couple of drops, but at least he had the right mocktail for his little shot glass.

Now, I know that milk is not the panacea of children's weight gain, but you have to admit, it doesn't hurt. Especially breast milk. There have been numerous times in the last six months (as I've watched Ben's weight curve plummet), that I've wondered if it wasn't my own selfishness that caused me to wean him when he was still happily nursing. Not only does a girl need a break, but a girl's gotta have a cocktail sometimes, too! And I wasn't a big fan of those bite marks I was getting from his periodic experiments with chewing while nursing.

Life can't be full of what ifs, but this is a what if that I've been thinking about a lot since his mandatory doctor ordered weigh-in is on Thursday. We'll just have to hope that all of that mac n' cheese I've made with heavy cream and those avacadoes that I've hidden in his grilled cheese sandwiches are doing the trick.

Getting back to nature...the Captain Hook Way

The weather has been unbelievable in Colorado this month. There have been multiple days that I can leave the house without a coat and be perfectly comfortable. This weekend was no exception. The sun was shining and it was a great weekend to be outside. We loaded up the family and hit the trails at Flying J Open Space Park which is only about 2 miles from our house.

Everyone was happy. Bailey was enjoying the sunshine:Ben shoved his last handful of crackers into his mouth (as you see here) and was ready to hop into his Kelty carrier.Kevin and I were excited to stretch our legs after a long week. And Alex was...well...GRUMPY!

"I'm cold. Why does Ben get to ride and I have to walk? I don't want to go home, but I don't want to be here."

What is it about standing on the precipice of four years old that makes kids grumpy? At least, my kid grumpy? He's old enough to voice his concerns, but still too young to hop in the car and take off for his friend's house if things aren't going his way.

We started off on the trail in spite of his complaints. He wanted to hold my hand. He didn't want to hold my hand. We were walking too fast. We were walking too slowly. The only thing that seemed to make the whining stop was reading the periodic signs about wildfire suppression along the trail.

This went on for about twenty minutes until we had all had enough.

"Alex, it's a beautiful day. Why can't you be happy to be outside? You love being outside. Look around you at all of the fun things to see."

Then I remembered - he's three. He doesn't want look at nature - he wants to interact with nature, he wants to have adventures in nature. It's not about being "there." It's about experiencing "there."

And so our adventure began. We were explorers searching for treasures on the trails. We found golden pine cone coins and filled our pockets. We ice skated across the frozen pirate river. We used our "navigation computers" to spot people in the distance. We hopped aboard our pirate ship when the great storms came and blew down the pine trees around us. We used our "magic color scopes" to find dead trees with brown needles and the trees with green needles that had survived the torrents. We found tiny holes into which pirate mice had fled to escape the arctic breezes of the ocean crossing.

It certainly wasn't the quiet, reflective hiking that I love. But I have to admit - it was fun! And suddenly everyone was happy. No one was cold. No one was tired. No one was grumpy!

I curse myself that on every outing it takes me a good half-hour to remember that all it takes is a little engaging adventure and my happy kid is back. I'll admit, sometimes I don't forget. Sometimes, I'm just tired. It's hard work always thinking one step ahead and creating the next big saga that will grab my kid's attention. Sometimes I just don't want to do it. But I always do because then I remember - that's my job. And I'm good at it.

And when I watch my kid playing with other children and he takes the lead in having an adventure - his friends laughing and playing along as they rush into a burning building or scuba dive in a hidden reef, it makes me happy. Happy that I can feed his imagination so that he can pass on his gift of creativity to someone else.

New Look, New Feel, New Me??

If you're a longtime reader, you've noticed that I've changed the look of the blog. I've been playing around with some new features. So today's post isn't showing up on the main page. You can visit here to see the new 100 Things About Me page. You'll learn some new things that you might not know. Click here to read it!

Back to regular posting on the main page tomorrow.

10-4, Good Buddy!

We had a playdate with one of Alex's friends from preschool today. As the kids were playing, Alex's friend wedged herself into a 25-gallon Rubbermaid storage box. Alex continued to stack cardboard bricks up beside her, all the while talking about building a bridge over his friend's head. Meanwhile, the friend kept glancing below her into the container and talking to people named Harry and Temp. Her mom informed me in that Harry Potter and Templeton the Rat (from Charlottes Web) are her imaginary friends.

This led to a discussion about those crazy specters who accompanied many of us throughout our childhood years. So far, it doesn't appear that Alex has any imaginary friends. He is incredibly creative when it comes to imaginary play, but doesn't seem to have one consistent invisible buddy by his side when he "puts out the fire on Broadway" or "climbs to the poop deck of the pirate ship." And Ben doesn't seem to need an invisible friend yet, given the constant companionship of his older brother.

My niece, on the other hand, has thousands of invisible friends. The central character in her adventures is a microscopic cat named "Tiny Shadow Kitty." TSK has been a trusty cohort for many mishaps and escapades in my niece's short life. Over time, TSK popped out some kittens or found some friends, because now my niece enjoys telling me about the complicated genealogy of TSK's even shorter life.

I, too, had an invisible friend as a kid. Mine wasn't a furry creature or a magical young boy, however. At the age of four, my invisible friend was a 14-year old boyfriend named Tracker. And Tracker was a semi-truck driver. I used to put on a blue and red striped dress that came down to my toes. With my Big Bird houseslippers peeking out from under that dress, I communicated with Tracker on a plastic CB radio as he drove his rig to my house for our dates.

I don't think that Tracker and I ever officially went out on a date. All of my time was spent preparing for the date and talking to him as he was en route. We had longing conversations about his latest cross-country haul and the adventures we would have once he finally made it to my driveway. I guess even then, the anticipation was part of the fun.

1978 must have been a big year for truckers, because I distinctly remember the series of events that led to the creation of Tracker. First off, there was a television show that premiered that year called "BJ and the Bear." I have vague memories of the show, but according to IMDB.com, the show was about "B.J. McKay, a guitar-playing independent trucker who travels with a fun-loving chimpanzee, named Bear, and finds himself caught up with a bunch of young women trying to flee a white slaver who happens to be the local sheriff."

I'm slightly appalled that at tender age of four, I watched this show - given the whole young women, white slaver aspects. But all that I remember is how cool I thought it was that BJ got to drive around in a truck...that had a bed in the cab...with a chimpanzee. In all of our torrid CB communication, I never confirmed that Tracker had a chimpanzee, but let's be honest, I don't think I would have been dating him if he didn't. The lack of a chimpanzee can definitely be a dating dealbreaker!

We also had an amazing, albeit little known board game, called "10-Four, Good Buddy" made by Parker Brothers. I'm guessing this game wasn't around for long, but it was the source of the black plastic CB radio that was the lifeline to my boyfriend.

The game also came with a CB slang list. My older brother and I would pour over this for hours memorizing phrases like, "Bit on the seat of his britches" (Got tagged for a speeding ticket) and "Eighty-eight’s around the house" (Good luck and best wishes to you and yours.). You can imagine how colorful our dinnertime conversation was when my brother and I would break into our trucker talk.

Needless to say, Tracker eventually went the way of all other imaginary friends - back to the plane of consciousness where they meet and greet and wait to be claimed in some form by another kid looking for companionship. I've always hoped that some other kid latched onto Tracker and actually got to see that big rig and meet the chimpanzee. If not, I'm sure Tracker's hanging out in Imaginary Friend Heaven with Tiny Shadow Kitty, watching over me and sending out eighty-eights to all.

Lie to me...I promise I'll believe you!

Becoming a mom has made me a better person in so many ways...except one. I've never been a big liar in my life - sure a few white ones here and there, but nothing extreme. I'm a writer, so I've always been able to spin a good yarn. But now that I'm a mom, I find things flying out of my mouth before I even think about them. Things that aren't hurtful or in any way going to scar my children, but things that are simply not true.

Case #1: We try to avoid giving our kids excessive amounts of sweets. Sure a piece of cake at a birthday party or the random cookie here and there, but by and large, we don't shovel sweets into our kids. I, on the other hand, am another story. I'm a huge chocoholic and it seems to have gotten worse since I've had kids. Chocolate is my stress food, and I must be a heck of a lot more stressed because I find myself turning to it regularly since we entered the terrible twos and the thankless threes and the f***ing fours (at least that's how my sister-in-law refers to them!)

In a moment of desperation, I'll whip out a bag of chocolate chips from the baking drawer and shovel them in by the handful. One night, my oldest son asked if he could have one. Without blinking an eye, I replied,

"Oh, honey. You wouldn't like these. They're mommy's SPICY drops."

I don't know where it came from, just bubbled up and poured out of my mouth. And henceforth, Nestle Tollhouse morsels have lovingly been referred to as Mommy's Spicy Drops. Alex will even say to Ben. "You won't like those. They're spicy!"

Case #2: My niece was visiting for a week last Christmas. She was running a fever while here and her mom was trying to get her to take some medicine. It was fairly benign stuff as far as medicine goes (probably Children's Tylenol), but my niece hated the taste. Her mother had tried everything. I finally told my niece that when medicine is exposed to air, the taste starts to change. The longer she waited, the worse the medicine would be going down. With that she promptly picked up the medicine cup and chugged the offensive liquid.

I, on the other hand, had to pause momentarily and take stock of the lies flying out of my mouth. Where do these things come from?

Case #3: Yesterday, I had my boys at the grocery store. Ben was riding in the seat at the top of the cart, and Alex insisted on walking. He was dawdling along and kept veering in front of the cart. Thoroughly afraid that I would squash my son's toes flat, I bit my tongue and reminded myself he needs his independence. Once I've warned him, he needs to learn for himself that the grocery cart will not feel good ramming into the back of his head.

We hit the dairy section and he started complaining that he was cold. This was my chance. Without thinking I said,

"You should get in the cart. There's a heater in there that will warm you right up."

Alex questioned. "Really?"

"Absolutely. It is so much warmer in the cart with the magic heater."

Now, once I threw the word "magic" into the sentence, Alex knew that this was a good natured story. The woman next to me near the cheese case looked appalled, however. She glared at me, as if to say, "How could you blatantly lie to your child like that?" Obviously, this woman has never had children and did not understand the things one will say in moments of mommy desperation.

After much thought I've decided that calling this behavior "creative parenting" rather than "lying" will assuage my guilt. I also think I've determined how these dishonest impulses made their way into my being. This is all the fault of my dear, beloved BROTHER.

Growing up, my brother would tell me entirely unbelievable things on a daily basis. I won't chalk it up to "creative brothering" as much as "mischievous brothering." He wanted to see how much he could get away with. How many crazy things he could get his sister, four years younger and four years dumber, to repeat as gospel. Would you like some examples?

Until I reached driving age, and was forced to learn the ins and out of my own car, I wholeheartedly believed that the black lines that run across the back windshield of a car (known lovingly as defrosting wires) were to deflect lightning should it hit my car. During one of our endless Griswold-driving vacations, he convinced me that should we ever get caught in a catastrophic rainstorm, those lines would act like a lightening rod, protecting our car from the ravages of airborn electricity.

We grew up in the Chicago area, and spent A LOT of time entertaining ourselves in the backseat, as our family traveled on various toll roads throughout the state. In Illinois, the road department creates rumble strips about 1/2 mile before the toll plazas to warn drivers that a toll booth is approaching. The sound of those rumble strips buzzing beneath our car and my mom saying, "Open my wallet and find me another quarter," could be part of a soundtrack to my childhood. One day in a moment of boredom, my brother convinced me that the rumble strips were for blind drivers who couldn't see the toll booth approaching. Blind drivers? Yes. The sad part, is that I didn't question, or even think twice about the concept of a visually-impaired driver until much later in life.

This trip down memory lane has convinced me of one thing. When Alex is 16 and tells his first girlfriend that he can't eat her chocolate-chip cookies because he doesn't like spicy drops. He will come home utterly confused because his girlfriend thinks he's a freak. It will not be his mother, who suffers from a mild form of Dishonesty Tourettes, to blame. I'll simply smile, throw a handful of Spicy Drops in my mouth and say, "Go talk to your Uncle Mark."

Oh, Captain! My Captain!

My oldest son always wants to be the leader - a typical first-born, Type A personality. He is the fire chief, the "space man captain," the leader of the pirate ship. He makes his younger brother play Wendy so that he can be Bob.

Even in his imaginative play, he is always the person taking care of others. When teaching his younger brother to scuba dive in Hawaii-connect (he forcefully told me that this was not Hawaii, when I corrected him, but a small island off the coast of Hawaii called "Hawaii-connect"! Who taught this 3 1/2 year old to read a map?), he is the one checking the air tanks and making sure the helmets are strapped and walkie-talkies are operating correctly for undersea communication. Don't you wish your real-life adventures were half as exciting as his pretend ones?

Last night, we saw the nuturer in action in a way that filled my heart with pride but also left me with that gasping for breath feeling of helplessness.

We finally got the boys to bed. On hockey nights in our house, it always takes awhile to get the boys settled down - especially my husband, but that's another story. My husband and I decided to get in the hot tub to check out the stars. Just to set the stage, the hot tub is on our deck which connects to my husband's office. A mere 20 steps or so from my oldest son's bedroom.

We usually wait to ensure that both boys are asleep (my oldest is infamous for getting out of bed 2-3 times before officially giving up the fight and going to sleep). After his second visit to Kevin's office for just one more hug, I ushered "The Captain" back to bed and was sure that he was down for the night.

I jumped in the hot tub, and an hour or so later we made our way back into the house. Our first clue that something was wrong was Alex's door standing wide open and his light turned on. I ran down the hall and found an empty bedroom. We bolted up the stairs and found the door to my youngest son's room standing wide open with the light on as well. Ben was standing up in his crib and Alex was sitting on the rocking chair reading calmly to his brother from an Elmo and Zoe book.

They both appeared to be content (save the fact that it was 10:30 p.m. and Ben was bleary eyed from having been awakened by his older - more antsy - brother). But as soon as I spoke, Alex's eyes welled up with tears, and he exploded into body-shaking sobs. Once Alex lost it, Ben's face changed to a terrified look, and he started sobbing as well. My husband and I each grabbed a kid to console. I took the older one since he seems to need me more in moments of despair.

"I couldn't find you."

"Honey, we were in the hot tub. I'm sorry you couldn't find me."

"I wanted to give you one more hug. I just didn't look in the right place. I didn't have my firefighter flashlight. I read two books to Ben."

"You did? Was he crying?"

"No, he was sleeping. But I went upstairs to check on him because I thought you were gone!"

My heart skipped a beat. GONE! The most terrifying feeling in the world for anyone. I had visions of those news stories where a mom has passed out and the kid dials 9-1-1 and waits for someone to come rescue them. Heaven forbid, we had been gone, Alex would have calmly read the entire Sesame Street chronicles and soothed his brother until daybreak when someone discovered them sitting together, and Alex could finally stop being the caregiver and just be the 3-year old he's meant to be.

When did my kid decide it was his job to be responsible for the world? As I soothed my Little Man and rocked him to sleep, I was filled with such mixed feelings. I know for certain that Ben will have a protective older brother who will always look out for him on the playground. But I also know that my studious, serious boy has inherited from me that caregiving urge to ensure everyone around him is safe and happy. Even if it means masking his own middle-of-the-night worries with the words of Elmo.

Is that my uterus in that Taurus?

The time has finally come. After 18 months of reflection, it wouldn't be fair if Ben didn't get a play-by-play birth story just like Alex did here. I needed quite a bit more time to wade through the post-traumatic shock of Ben's birth. Thus, the reason it's taken a year-and-a-half to write it.

June 9ish, 2007: My last appointment with the world's best OB/GYN ever, Cristee Offerdahl. For more details on Cristee, you can check out Alex's birth story. Cristee is pregnant with her own child and delivered a few weeks before my due date. We have introductions with one of her partners who will take over my care while Cristee is away. I like him and feel comfortable about the fact that he'll be doing the important stuff.

It's a tough week following the appointment. This second pregnancy has gone smoothly, but I've been much more emotional and much more uncomfortable this time around. Maybe it was the way it kicked off with a bang - 14 weeks of morning sickness. Scratch that - all-day, round the clock sickness. I couldn't even pick up a copy of Gourmet magazine without running for the toilet. Those 14 weeks set the tone for a long 40 weeks ahead.

And if it is possible, this baby is even more active than Alex was. He must be practicing Tae-Bo or in training to be a young David Beckham in there. And true to form (like his mother and his brother) he has body-wrenching hiccups - A LOT! You can actually see my belly jump in rhythmic movements when his hiccups start. But I only have three more weeks according to my due date, so I can make it, right?

June 16, 2009: My second appt with Cristee's partner. Pretty routine. He checks and I'm 2 cm dilated and about 75% effaced. That makes me feel good, that we've had some progress. I've been spending my sleepless nights on a forum called Mothering.com. I don't know why reading about other people's birth stories and about their crazy rashes or weird cravings is comforting, but it is. I guess it makes me feel like I'm not the only one in the world going out of my mind with impatience.

The other reason I chose this forum is that I've decided to attempt to have this baby without the drugs. You will remember from the birth of my first son, I loved the drugs. The epidural was a happy thing. But, I started taking a pre-natal yoga class during this pregnancy. My instructor keeps talking about breathing and focus and ohms and the white light to help you through child birth naturally. I've never liked the idea of drugs anyway (my body doesn't react well to them) so I'm easily swayed by this line of thought. I told Kevin that I wanted to try it without the drugs, but would feel no shame or disappointment if I changed my mind mid-stream. In retrospect, people, be careful what you wish for!

June 17, 2009: We're taking a tour of the birthing section of the hospital. This is a different hospital than the one where I had Alex, so we wanted to get the lay of the land. The birthing rooms are amazing with jetted hot tubs and CD players for music. It literally looks like a spa. There are even leaf patterns stamped into the ceiling's acoustical tiles. Something about a focal point during labor. Hmm...maybe that will come in handy later.

There's only one small glitch in the tour. Being that this is a new birthing wing, they have these rooms called the triage rooms. They inform us that many mothers get to the hospital long before they are actually in full-blown labor. Looking back, that was definitely the case with me for Alex's birth. So women who aren't ready to have their own L&D room can hang out in the triage rooms...with other laboring women. The first thing that I tell Kevin when we leave the hospital is that I have NO intention of hanging out with a bunch of other pregnant women who might be in labor. I'm fat and grouchy and uncomfortable enough...no need to share the love with others! A word to the wise, please be careful when you say, "I'm waiting until I'm absolutely positive that I'm in labor before we go to the hospital so that I don't have to hang out in the Birthing Purgatory."

June 20, 2009: Another appt. with the doctor. Things look good. A little more dilated, a little more effaced.

"This would be a good weekend to have a baby. I'm on call," he says.

Point taken. I'll be sure to ring down to my uterus and make sure the baby knows he has a 48 hour window during which he needs to hurry up and get busy, otherwise we may have someone we don't know delivering him. I know that there are hundreds of women every day who have doctors that they don't know deliver their babies. But, over the years I've learned that when in stressful situations (like childbirth), I prefer the comforting face of someone that I already know. I'm not that comfortable with strangers getting all up in that bid-ness.

June 20 (later in the day): I've been reading a lot on the mothering forum about natural ways to start childbirth. If we're really going to get this party started this weekend, I better start trying some of these things. I go to the store and buy an entire pineapple. I eat 3/4 of it in one sitting. Something about the enzymes in fresh pineapple is supposed to kickstart things. I drink a cup of raspberry leaf tea. I attempt this crazy acupuncture ankle massage that I found online. Hmm..not much going on. I tend to have Braxton-Hicks contractions for the last four weeks of my pregnancies, so I don't get too excited about twinges here and there - knowing that most likely after a big glass of water or lying down, things will calm down in there.

June 21, 2009: My mom calls with a question, "If you're already 85% effaced and only a couple of centimeters dilated, what happens when you start to dilate?"

I have to mumble a little bit because my mouth is now coated with crazy sores from ingesting pineapple for 3 straight hours yesterday. My smart-ass response, "I guess the baby just falls right out!" Again, a warning for all of you sarcastic know-it-alls out there, the Gods of Irony might be listening!

June 22, 2009: I spent today packing for the hospital They always tell you to be prepared, and if my Morse Code tapping is doing any good at all, the baby knows that he needs to vacate the property this weekend. The thing I'm most excited about this time around? The CD player. I can't wait to hang out in the jetted tub listening to CDs and trying to reach my Zen-like place. I have a whole CD case filled with Sarah McLachlan if I'm feeling like singing, Yo-Yo Ma if I want some peaceful cello music. Even a little Bob Marley is we need to feel a little laid back. I'm ready to face this natural child birth head on.

I go to sleep around 10:30 tonight. Once again, saying a prayer to any God that I've ever believed in to help with getting labor started. But, I'm not hopeful. We've had countless nights of false starts this week.

1:00 a.m.: I am awakened by what feels like a contraction. Hmmm...this could be something. But don't get excited. Go back to sleep.

1:20 a.m.: Hmmm...there's another one.

1:40 a.m.: Another one. This could be good. Oh wait, it's time for the concretized intestines to start emptying. To keep it clean and brief, for those of you who don't know, many women in labor need to "clean out their" systems before delivering. There are many weeks of food stuffed into a very tiny place between your stomach and the baby. You can read more about this process during pregnancy #1 here.

No one warned us about this during pregnancy #1, so in spite of the fact that we were safely at the hospital, the whole Potty Parade (PP) freaked both Kevin and I out a little bit. We had heard that second deliveries are usually a bit faster, so I joked when I got pregnant the second time, "Maybe we should take a pot in the car. I don't know what we would do if the Potty Parade kicked in while we were in route to the hospital."

2:00 a.m.: Still having the contractions and still on the Flushing Float of the PP!

2:30 a.m.: Now the contractions are coming much closer together. Kevin decides to jump in the shower to wake himself up for the drive to the hospital. We start timing the contractions. They're still 6 minutes apart, and you're not even supposed to call until they are 4 minutes apart. In retrospect, maybe they should change this 4 minute scale so that there are urban estimates and rural estimates. Had we been using the Rural Contraction Scale, perhaps things would have been different. But the contractions are strong enough, I suggest we call my mom to come over and call the doctor to see if we should head for the hospital.

My mom zips over and I get the doctor on the line. He says, "Come on down the hill and drive safely. See you soon!" The contractions are bringing me to my knees at this point. Once I've worked through one, I can continue grabbing bags and giving my mom instructions about Alex's breakfast, etc., until the next one.

The last thing that my mom says to me before we head out the door is, "Are you going to make it to the hospital?" What? Of course I'm going to make it to the hospital. This is just the beginning of blissful hours of a meditative state, you silly woman!

3:20ish a.m.: We hop in the car with one stop in the driveway for a contraction, and we're off. Now, let me paint the picture. I'm in the front seat, with my seatbelt on and my maternity jeans, and flip flops. It was at this point that I realized that perhaps two people live inside my head. The next 40 minutes were narrated by not one, but two voices, inside of me.

Voice #1: "I can't believe this is actually going to happen today. It's been such a long 39 weeks. Let's go."
Voice #2: "Holy crap! Kevin, you need to get moving. This really hurts - like nothing I've ever experienced."
Voice #3: (The out-loud voice that Kevin could actually hear) "Moan, groan, moan, groan. Moan, groan."

The minute the car starts moving, the contractions start coming one on top of the other.
V#1: "I thought there was supposed to be a break in between. They always tell you there's a break in between. Just focus on your breathing."
V#2: "Breathing...what breathing? I can't breathe at all. There's no time for breathing."
V#3: (The out-loud voice that Kevin could actually hear) "Arrgggh. Uggh! Please make the car stop bumping."

At this point, I close my eyes. I feel like if I can focus all of my energy on getting through the pain, I'll be okay until we reach the hospital and I can get the epidural. Somewhere around the US-285 and C-470 exit ramp, I start to get a little overwhelmed with the pain. My eyes shoot open desperately hoping that we've made it farther than we have.

V#1: "Don't forget your focal point. That should help. No autumn leaves on the ceiling. Maybe you can use the digital clock on the dashboard. Squint your eyes and focus on that."
V#2:"Natural childbirth? Hah! Where's the epidural when you need it? And that light on the dashboard? Yeah, you try focusing on it when you're writhing in pain."
V#3: Too loud to describe

I remember something that I've been reading on the mothering forum. It's something called the birthing song. You're supposed to just let go and vocalize. It helps the pain to verbalize. Now I'm balancing with my feet in the footwell and my elbow up on the console in between the front seats (i.e., with my mouth as close to Kevin's ear as it can possibly get).
V#1: Okay, I know you're not a big screamer, but let's try out that birthing song thing. That might help.
V#2: Here's goes. Moooooooooo-muahhhhhhhhmoooooooh!
V#1: Wow, that's really loud. Maybe that's hurting Kevin's ears. Maybe you should stop.
V#2: Stop? I just got started. Screw Kevin's ears.

The noise that came out of my body can only be described as something emanating from a Godzilla-sized Holstein who hasn't been milked in 36 days. I wouldn't call it anything resembling a song, that's for sure. But, I have to admit lowing like a cow really did seem to help for a few minutes.

I'd like to take a short break to discuss the inadequacies of the Ford Taurus. Most cars made after the year 2000 (this particular car being a 2005) were made with something lovingly called Oh-Shhhh-ugar handles. Those flip down handles immediately above the passenger seat that you grab white-knuckled when your husband takes an exit ramp at 60 miles an hour. However, the Ford Taurus does not have a passenger seat OS handle. Kevin has one above his seat, but he's not the one who needed it. Although he was saying Oh-Shhhugar at various points throughout this process. If the Ford Taurus had one of the aforementioned handles, my loving husband would still have an intact right eardrum today.

3:50ish a.m.: We've made it onto I-70 (the busiest highway in America). We're driving 85. I keep looking at the speedometer.
V#1: Please don't drive too fast, we'll crash!
V#2: My God, man! Can't you make this thing go any faster?
V#3: Still lowing like a Guernsey.

If you've been paying attention, you might remember an earlier comment that I made rather offhandedly about a pot? I start to feel this unbelievable pressure as if we might be needing that pot. You get my drift. I even remember saying to Kevin, "Maybe would should have brought the pot."

I reach down into my maternity jeans. Let's be honest, this is not one of my finest moments in life, but I've told the story so many times, I'm sort of over the embarrassment of it all. I don't know what I would have done had the Potty Patrol been visiting. I think it's a once in a lifetime experience to think that you're going to be catching your own Shhh-ugar! Thank goodness (and unfortunately, all at the same time) there was no need for the pot. What did I feel when I reached into my jeans? That's right...a head.

V#3: OMG, I feel a head.
Kevin: A what?
V#3: A head!!!
Kevin: Don't push!! Please don't push!

Kevin pulls out his cell phone to call 9-1-1. You're probably asking yourself why we didn't do this sooner. In spite of all of the pain, I never once dreamed that I would be having this baby in the car. There was one point when Kevin said, "Only 11 more miles on the highway." And I said, "I can't make it 11 miles." But I meant, I can't stand the pain for 11 more miles. I did not mean, the baby won't wait 11 more miles!

Things start to move really quickly at this point. Kevin gets the 9-1-1 operator on the phone who immediately connects him with an EMT. Now the conversation becomes the standard stuff that you always hear in the movies, but never think happens in real life. "My wife is having a baby in the car., we're on the highway, heading to the airport."

What, the airport? That part doesn't happen in the movies. Yes, he did tell them that we were going to the airport. I think in all the confusion, "hospital" became "airport." The EMT thought that Kevin was crazy taking his 9 month pregnant wife to the airport. Kevin was instructed to get his shoelace out of his shoe so that he could tie off the cord. I don't think that the EMT realized that we were still driving. Kevin is driving, holding the phone and trying to untie his running shoes.

Meanwhile, the voices were back.
V#1: I remember reading something on the Mothering forum about pushing against the pain. Maybe if I push the pain will stop. Wait, no. Maybe pushing isn't a good idea.
V#2: Sounds good to me. Anything to make this firey pain stop.
Kevin: No pushing!!!!!
V#3: I'm pushing!!!

Kevin says that from the time he looked over his right shoulder to make sure he wouldn't hit anyone in the right lane as we tried to exit the highway, to the time he looked back toward the road, I already had the baby on my chest.

The pushing was very nice. All I could think was that it would make the pain stop. And it did make it feel better. But, it also makes babies come out. Funny how that works.

I reached down and just grabbed him. He was slippery and warm and silent. I pulled him immediately up to my chest so that I could see his face. He was breathing but still silent. So I reached into his mouth with my pinky finger and and swiped out a mouthful of gunk. He cried. Just once, but he cried. I felt better. Terrified, but better.

I'm not sure how on earth I thought to swipe out my baby's mouth, but not wrap him up in anything. Thanks goodness it was June, or his temperature would have dropped even more than it did.

We exited I-70 almost immediately after he came out.
V#1: I can't believe I'm carrying this baby without a carseat.
I kid you not! I'm such a safety girl. I'm holding a 30-second old baby that is still attached to me, and all I can think about is carseats! What is wrong with me?

We pulled into a gas station right off the exit ramp and two ambulances and a hook-and-ladder fire truck pulled up within seconds. They took the baby from me and cut the cord. Kevin was relieved that his shoelace didn't need to come into play. And then they started carrying my newborn to an ambulance. Another paramedic helped me out of the car. Another picture? Not a pretty one...my lily white behind is hanging out for all to see (jeans around my ankles) in the Conoco parking lot. At this point, there's no modesty left in life. I traipsed over to the ambulance, climbed up on the gurney and they lifted me into the ambulance.

I remember telling Kevin to get my shoes (there was a distinct moment, right about the time that V#1 was saying, "Oh that must be the water breaking because I don't think that's happened yet." that my flip-flops started bothering me.) I was frantically kicking to get them off of my feet. I also told him to grab my purse. We all loaded up into the ambulance and it was off to the hospital.

As with Alex's birth story, I'll spare the rest of the boring and messy details. The bottom line was the baby was fine, I was fine and Kevin was fine. The car? Well, that was another story. We had to find a Haz-Mat cleaning service to get my husband's COMPANY CAR cleaned the next day. And my unbelievable bundle latched on and started nursing right away. He didn't stop the whole way to the hospital.

The hospital? Well no need for that. We did get a good breakfast and a nice spa-like room for the rest of the day.

Why do I keep calling him, "the baby?" We are notoriously bad at naming our children. Maybe it's the procrastination gene in both of us, but we didn't name either of our children until the birth-certificate woman showed up to fill out the forms. We had lots of suggestions after the fact: Conoco, Taurus. One friend even suggested Carson (get it? Car-son), but we decided on a more traditional name like Benjamin. His initials are B-A-M, which seems rather fitting.

And Ben has continued to be a BAM sort of kid throughout his first 18 mos. He is sweeter and happier AND more sad than most kids that I know. He just feels everything more deeply. He wants it when he wants it - even when it comes to life in the outside world. And I absolutely can't get enough of him! My little car-son. Now do you understand why we're finished having kids?

Saving the World: Finding Myself

I just finished reading "Saving the World" by Julia Alvarez. It was a well-written and interesting book. I especially liked the juxtaposition of the 1800s heroine, Isabel, and the modern-day heroine, Alma.

A book review is not what this blog post is about, however. At the end of the novel I found myself bawling. I won't go into the details of the plot because I don't want to ruin anything for the would-be reader, but suffice to say, something sad happens.

Although the subject matter was sad, I couldn't figure out why I was crying like a baby. And then it hit me - this has been happening A LOT lately. I've been crying about things that I never would have cried over in the past.

I'm not feeling sad right now. I'm not feeling depressed right now. But I am feeling different.

During our college years, my best friend and I used to talk about how lucky we were that in spite of a few majors hiccups in our lives, we'd never had a bring-you-to-your-knees, uncontrollable-weeping experience. And believe me, there have been several instances in my life that would have qualified as such, but I never found myself actually doing the bawling. Crying? Yes. Gut wrenching hurt in the depths of my soul so that I truly felt like life couldn't go on? Never.

And then I had kids. Two beautiful, stubborn, hilarious, amazing kids. The day my first son came swimming out of me, my heart followed right along with him. Instead of being stashed safely away inside the confines of my chest, my heart found its way out into the light of day. The result? I feel everything more deeply. My pulse beats a little closer to the surface now.

It sounds cliche, but becoming a mother made me more alive. Experiencing life (both the good and the bad) through these eyes:

as well as my own, has made everything so much brighter and sadder and richer.

Don't get me wrong, it's not the greatest thing when I find myself tearing up at something as cheesy as "I can be your hero, baby" by Enrique Iglesias. No joke, it happened one day in my car. I looked around to make sure no one else was in the car to make fun me and then switched the radio station as fast as I could.

But on the flip-side, when I find myself tearing up while decorating the Christmas tree, I'm okay with that. One of my happiest memories of the 2008? Sitting on the couch with both of my kiddos while we watched my husband hang the bow on the top of our tree. It was warm; it was exciting because my kids knew Santa Claus was coming. It was, in its own small way, the finding of myself.

I waited for 30 years of my life, knowing that I wanted to be a mother. And when I became one, everything else fell into place. The joy that I felt sitting on the couch, ushering these two little guys into a quiet Christmas eve, was overwhelming.

And now, everything is different. My hearts sits in the palm of my hand for everyone to see. I have to protect it more fiercely now, but I also open it more freely. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Cover your ears!

I was at the grocery store this morning with both of the boys in tow. Two little heads poking out of the Mack truck-sized race car grocery cart that was invented by someone who thought it would be fun for kids, but never took the opportunity to test drive his invention between shopping displays and in the maze that is the produce section.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear that my kids have a secret pact. To convince anyone in public, particularly at the grocery store, that I'm teaching them to say appalling things.

The first of many of these occurrences was when Alex was about 18 months old. He loved eating Saltine crackers (such a quality diet we provide at our house!), but he couldn't say the word. Every time we got to the checkout line Alex would yell in the loudest voice possible,

"Mommy, cockers. Cocks, cockers, big cocks, Mommy!"

I kid you not. How do you explain this to the general public. And why did he have to add the "big" part? I didn't add that for comic effect. Alex has always been convinced that he must receive the biggest portion of something possible. Not little, big apples, Mommy. Not slices, big strawberries, Mommy. And yes, Big Cockers, too.

In 2008, I read a great article about biodegradable products for Easter baskets. In an ongoing effort to support my eco-friendly and slightly eco-crazy husband, I bought a bag of Pirate Booty to use in place of cellophane Easter grass at the bottom of the baskets. If you haven't had it, Pirate Booty looks (and tastes) similar to those biodegradable packing peanuts made with corn starch. The only difference is that they throw on a little green powdery stuff that is supposedly made from kelp and spinach to make it more palatable.

The boys loved the stuff. Especially Ben. He scarfed it down and we were buying Pirate Booty for weeks. The same week, however, Alex had his three year check-up at the pediatrician. The nurse asked him if he got anything from the Easter Bunny. Alex very simply replied,

"Oh, not much. Just booty!"

The nurse loooked at me like my son had just stepped out of the junior version of MTVs "Cribs." "Oh not much, just some fine weed and some late night booty." Booty (and all of its rich meanings) is a hard word to explain to a 3 year old...and to a pediatric nurse!

Today, the linguistic monsters struck again. Ben has two recent favorites in life: applesauce and Bob the Builder. Both pretty benign, right? Wrong.

Once again, at the grocery store, as we're passing through the canned fruits section, Ben starts screaming for:

"Ass-elsauce! Ass-elsauce!"

Now at least that one, within the context of the canned fruit aisle, is understandable. The asselsauce rant didn't turn too many heads. Then again, there aren't that many people buying fruit cocktail at 9:30 on a Monday morning. I drove on, we steered past the batteries with no mishaps. But next to the battery endcap is a section of DVDs. Anytime, Ben sees anything that looks like a DVD box, he starts singing. The Bob the Builder theme song. Repeatedly.

But pronunciation can be challenging for an 18 month old, so Bob the Builder comes out as,

"Bah Da Dildo!"

And Ben, like most Americans when faced with a non-native speaker, believes that if I don't respond the first time he says something, he need only yell his sentiment more loudly and slowly so that I will comprehend.

"Mommy, Baaaaaaah Daaaaah Dildo!"

All heads turned. I had no way to explain that one. I bravely took a step forward, raised my hand and said,

"Hi. I'm the mom. And we love asselsauce and dildos!" I'm afraid to find out what will come out of my children's mouths next.

Can we do it again? and again?

Just kidding, that's not Alex!

I took Alex to Echo Mountain Ski Area for his first ski lesson today. Recognizing the hesitancy of our three-and-a-half year old to be more than four bodily inches from his mother (especially when trying anything new), we thought it would be best to enroll him in the Parent and Me intro class.

Throwing him into a frenzied group of squealing four year olds tends to put Alex into a catatonic state. His body is there, but you can almost see his mind try to push itself as far inside his head as possible. His eyes start to glaze in the midst of all of this untamed energy and the mechanism that connects his mouth and his feet to his brain temporarily shuts off. I can see the metaphoric sign dangling from his forehead, "Back in 5 minutes (or whenever these unpredictable little monsters leave the area!)"

Mommy and Me skiing was the best choice ever. Brenda, or Miss B, as she called herself, was a great teacher. At first, I tried to encourage Alex when needed, but I quickly realized that as long as the invisible tether to which I am attached in new situations didn't get longer than about 3 feet, Alex was just fine without me.

Miss B. tuned in immediately to Alex's needs. Lots of encouragement, lots of fun and the ability to drown out the amazing amount of stimulus that surrounded us. At one point, she bent down, grabbed Alex's cheeks gently and said,

"Alex, I know there are a lot of other kids here today, but all you have to do is concentrate on my face."

She turned his head, he focused on her eyes, smiled and skiied down the bunnyhill. I wanted to hug Miss B. and pat her on the back for her insight. This 20-something with the tie-dyed hat and Japanese-anime covered skis actually got my kid!

And Alex had the time of his life. At first, there were a lot of nervous laughs and, "I can't"s. But Miss B. wouldn't hear of it.

"Don't tell me you can't. You just did! And now let's go do it again!"

By the end of the hour, my little man was skiing down the bunnyhill entirely on his own. Even after the lesson was over, he kept asking to ride the Magic Carpet up just one more time, and just one more time again, so that he could ski back down. He can't wait to go again next weekend. What a great introduction to the sport!

A Perfect World of Imperfection

I've realized something about myself - I'm a perfectionist. Let's step back for a second. I've actually always known this fact. As a kid I spent hours at the piano because if I made even one mistake, I subjected myself to the self-imposed flogging of starting the song over from the beginning again and again until it was perfect. That's a lot of "Mary Had a Little Lamb"s!

What I've realized is that it's tough to be a mom who is a perfectionist. I'm self-aware enough to ensure that I don't subject my kids to the tortorous and often neurotic routines that make up my daily existence. Although my eldest is fairly uptight about making sure his stickers are always placed precisely inside the lines, I think the boys will dodge both therapy and the musical stockade of Faber's Piano Primer. But...I'm not so easy on myself.

Two kids, a miscarriage, a lengthy bout with post-partum depression and several months of therapy helped me realize that sometimes good is good enough in this world. This is the mantra that runs through my head every day. Every day as I'm beating myself up for not getting the toilet cleaned while finishing my weekly column, teaching my oldest to write his name, teaching my youngest to maneuver stairs, cooking dinner and trying to save the world, I say to myself,

"Good is good enough!"

But saying it is one thing, and living by it is quite another. And the hardest part is that the very loud voice that lives inside my head doesn't always believe it.

As a result of this, I have a hard time letting other people in. I know that people love to share other people's problems- there wouldn't be room on the airwaves for 9 million different talk shows if people didn't enjoy reveling in the misery of others. I just don't enjoy subjecting people to mine. Because - and if you've followed the perfectionist line of thinking thus far, this shouldn't come as a surprise - sharing problems is admitting fault. Admitting fault is admitting imperfection.

The craziest part of it all? I don't judge other people for their problems - little or big. And I don't care one lick whether other people perceive me as perfect or not. It's not about some great Wizard of Oz show that I put on for the benefit of others. The smoke and mirrors about the perfection of life is all something that I've created for my own internal judge and jury.

Now, here's the kicker! You can spend an entire life trying to control things. Don't know the material well enough? Study harder! Can't run that race fast enough? Practice longer! You get the point. You can even work pretty hard to ensure that your lovably imperfect husband succumbs to your craziness. Boxers always on the floor? Nag until he picks them up! But throw two kids into the mix. Two living breathing kids who are trying to find their own way and establish their own personalities, and control goes right out the window.

My son is shy and has a hard time making friends? Nothing I can do about it except love and support him. My other son doesn't like to eat and won't gain any weight? Aside from jamming a funnel in his mouth and force feeding him a liquid diet, nothing I can do except offer food and love and hope that it will all work out.

These are not life-marring things. These are not uncommon things. In fact, if you talk to other moms, you'd probably find that these things are more common than not. But once again, here's the problem. Talking about them is admitting something less than perfection to myself. So I don't! I wring my hands, I stew about them, but I don't simply call up a friend and laugh about them. All that worrying is tiring, I know!

So today, I was given a gift. My neighbor called me up. Her son needed a playdate and my neighbor needed a playdate. A playdate to share some of her simply-out-of-her-control mommy issues. And I shared mine, too. You know what? It wasn't that hard. In fact pretty easy. And I'm still here. My very good, but perhaps not perfect, life didn't come tumbling down around me. Today, I remembered that good is good enough. And when I let down my guard long enough to share it with a friend, it might even be great!