Little Social Creatures

Though not recommended by professional bloggers or most internet enthusiasts who religiously journal in their sleep, I must say that taking an impromptu month-long hiatus from my *notebook* has afforded me a big, much-needed gulp of fresh air. I had recently written about how unremarkable September usually is, and for what it's worth, I still stand by that observation. If I were to compare the entire month of October to the month prior, the change would be so drastically stark that I'd be tempted to think that I was experiencing parallel universes. Just when we think we have our feet firmly planted and our grip white-knuckled and tight, life has a way of spinning us into a complete 360° turnaround. We ritualistically rolled with it, kicking up only a minimal amount of dust. Now as the end-of-month draws near, we take another deep breath as we prepare to usher in the holidays and simultaneously laugh, cry and sigh all at the same time. Memories made; memories in the making.

I was in the throes of planning a party (that tanked due to uncontrollable circumstances), we had the pleasure of a new daily houseguest, and we experienced, for the first time, taking one of our kids to the Children's Hospital emergency room. What follows is the first slice of what is going to be my 3-part missive detailing our busy October.

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As part of our How-To-Make-It-On-One-Income scheme, we decided in favor of taking on an additional child in our home versus me working part-time nights at a call center. The decision was swayed by several factors, but the two biggest deciders were me being able to be present for our family dinners and the kid's bedtime routines, coupled with the incredible luck we had in finding a couple who we knew very well in need of our services for their sweet nine-month-old daughter. It seemed to be a perfect fit, and although we were in the middle of planning for the twin's birthday, it wasn't too big of a change to our routine. My girls enjoyed her company and it was funny watching my nearly 2-year-old son get all wound up with the extra estrogen addition in the room. His antics were turned up a notch or two, as if having a wider audience demanded more stellar performances. It's both notable and hilarious to watch the usual family dynamic flip with an extra baby thrown into the mix. While our routine may not have changed much, our goals certainly did.

Our girls learned a lot from Emma, who at the tender young age of 9 months has the physical agility of a 12-15 month-old. She pulls up, she stands up, and she started cruising literally days before joining our little circus. Watching your child watch another child is amazing. It gives you an interesting dashboard view of what they strive to be capable of. It was quite apparent that Samantha fiercely desired to join Emma in the Land of the Bipeds as she worked her otherwise lax little butt off trying to stand alongside her at the activity table. Sophia greedily coveted her lung capacity and mimicked the volume of her screams, squeals and baby vocals. In BabyVille, time is warped to the point where leaps and bounds literally transpire by leaps and bounds. The first week in her company, Samantha started trying to pull up. New sounds emitted from the usually-silent Sophia, and she turned her volume up a few decibels. My son Adler, an unwilling participant in what I fondly referred to as the Hen Party, asserted his male dominance and imagined superiority in typical rooster fashion, taking every opportunity to show off and act out. He very briefly reverted to infantile whining as a means to ask for things he wanted, but I'm almost certain that the behavior is typical of almost-2-year-olds who are still struggling to fully verbally communicate their needs. 

Although the first week went by quickly, with only a few minor naptime routine hiccups and no major disasters, we found ourselves once again a party of three kids when week two was interrupted by a not-so-minor illness that had us quarantining our children from visitors. More detail to come in a later post, but that short break warranted a do-over of our "get to know each other" acclimation period when the childcare resumed after we all got better. Small children have a very limited recollection, and although Emma wasn't a complete newbie to our kids, it was almost like they just picked up right where they left off. Fortunately for me, her parents are the cool, mellow sort who have the great sense of humor to tolerate the silliness in our household, and wasn't at all opposed to the myriad of crazy photo-ops, videos and shenanigans we partake in around here. There were so many opportunities to don the three girls in silly hats, costumes and situations that I nearly filled up my iPhone with pictures of just the Hens At Play. Emma's mother even provided some of the props (faerie wings, tutus and girly skull caps) for our fiascos! 

I've mentioned before how incredibly lucky I am to have the services and the good company of my elderly dad with me each day, despite the fact that he's getting kind of long in the tooth. He absolutely LIVES for his grandchildren, and it was unfortunate that his health took a left turn on us, rendering him a lot less capable of pulling 8-hour days wrestling and wrangling the children with me. We decided unanimously as a family that he'd scale back his full days in order to take better care of himself. To be fair to both Emma and her parents, we made the decision to opt out of the childcare arrangement for now, as I just wasn't confident or capable enough to handle four kids under two all by my lonesome while nursing a sick dad back to health.

I was and still am grateful to have had the opportunity to socialize my babies for that short period, as I learned a great wealth of information on where their shortcomings were, where their strengths lied, and what we would strive to work on developmentally. I look forward to watching them grow up surrounded by other kids as they get older and to take note of how they interact with each other as they mature. They'll be learning to be moral animals with the human advantage, and the behaviors and social skills they pick up along the way will no doubt shape how they fit into society. Siblings interacting with one another is interesting, but throw in another child outside of their *pack* and you begin to notice new personalities emerging, new behaviors forming, and even new goals that they seem to set for themselves as far as "catching on" goes. If, as they say, there is always an underlying competition present in children, I can testify that there is also a camaraderie and benevolence that is subtle and unspoken, but definitely there. Our little people already have empathy and cooperation hard-wired into their brains, so it stands to reason that it's important to nurture and guide them while you purposefully surround them with their peers. 

We look forward to future playdates and more socialization as our schedule allows! 

Momma Said There'd Be Days Like This

As a mother, you never really want to admit to feeling defeated or deflated by what can occasionally transpire between the four walls of your fortress. Most stay-at-home moms like myself consider their role to be as important and demanding as any executive, and it is with much pride that we often reiterate to others how it is no small task managing domestic affairs while taking care of small children. We enjoy feeling large and in charge, and when things go completely, utterly wrong despite our best efforts to keep it copacetic, we don't usually shout it from bullhorns to share with the rest of the world.  We often suspect that no one takes our roles seriously enough, but perhaps that's only because we're looking for validation as contributors, as hard workers, and as key players in society. We thrive on being recognized for our efforts, but like the Michelob jingle goes: some days are better than others ... and some are so awful,  you don't even want to own up to it. I'm going to own up to this one with no shame. I'm not a perfect mother, and my kids aren't perfect angels. There. I said it!

If you were to visit my Facebook page, you'd see images of clean, kempt, happy children along with a stray photo here and there of my husband and I looking well-rested and vibrant. For the most part, that is a very accurate depiction of our family, but if you ever wondered why the photos of the parents are far and few between, it's because there is only one to two times during the year when we actually feel well-rested and vibrant enough to allow our photo to be taken.


If I were able to somehow capture in a photo book the events of a day like the one I'm about to describe, I'm pretty certain that viewing it would serve as a flawless, error-proof birth control method for anyone considering having children. In fact, it might even throw such a wrench into the natural tendencies couples have to copulate that the human race would fail to propagate at the rate and speed it has since the beginning of time, and - Poof! - our slow descent into extinction would soon follow.

Okay, maybe that's a bit of a dramatic stretch. But it was truly was the epitome of "one of those days" - cliché be damned. A day where you curse being an adult and contemplate building a blanket fort in your room just to hide from the kids. I should have seen it coming from a mile away. Had I been paying close attention, I would have known that the rest of the day was going to go horribly awry by the way the morning seemed so picturesque and perfect. Had I anticipated it, I could have evaded it somehow ... Should Have, Would Have, Could Have - the Retrospect Trinity, the proverbial slap on the forehead - the hindsight that has absolutely no utilitarian purpose whatsoever except to remind you how horribly you handled it all.

It started out so good. Warm sunshine beaming it's rays through the open blinds and onto the pine floor. The cat purring at my feet, which were hurting less than usual. My 21-month old son sitting complacently in his high chair, content to just quietly sip his almond milk while curiously examining a Lego. The twins happily babbling to one another as they patiently waited for me to enter their nursery. They put up no resistance to being diapered, dressed and placed in their respective high chairs. Breakfast went over without a hitch. Smiles, all around! I had the company of my elderly dad and we enjoyed being able to drink our coffee as we lingered around the kitchen table longer than usual since the kids were being chill. My dad retired to the living room to play with the kids (his favorite pastime) and I begin the usual morning chore ritual of cleaning up breakfast dishes, starting a laundry load, making the bed ... all very routine, all going without a hitch. Sounds of laughter coming from the living room, signaling the good times being had between the kids and their Poppa.

Naptime came and went, and the luxury of catching some winks with your child so you can both be refreshed and recharged to tackle the afternoon proved, as always, to be priceless. There's nothing quite like laying down with your child and both of you waking at the same time - their arms around your neck, happy to see you - the smell of the damp curls on their head as they nuzzle their head on your shoulder. That split second where you and your almost-two-year-old lock eyes and seem to have a deep understanding of what is expected of one another. Unconditional love bursting like supernovas in your chest, you just want to freeze that moment in time and bottle up the warmfuzzies. We laid there, awake together, for more than just a few minutes. It was nice. I was making a mental checklist of all that I aspired to accomplish that afternoon: Laundry done and put away. A shower for me, and possibly even straighten my hair and put on some makeup. Get started on some crafts for the twin's first birthday party coming up. Maybe even do a bit of blogging!

This is where the rest of the day began to go downhill.

Up from nap, onwards towards a diaper change. He wasn't having any part of it. He wanted to stop and pick up every single toy on the floor on the way to the changing mat (read: couch). His little arms were so full of items that he couldn't raise his arms to be picked up. I manage to pry them out of his hands and he resists. 21-month old boys have herculean strength when they're fighting to keep something in their possession. I finally get him on his back and as soon as I get the diaper off and he expertly does the cockroach-flip onto his stomach. I turn him back over. We do this song and dance for the next ten minutes, and I finally have to pull out the big guns and tickle him until he tires out from laughing so hard. While he momentarily gives in long enough to lay on his back, I quickly and expertly get his diaper on. Mommy 1, Adler 0.

I attempt to continue our regular routine: into the high chair for lunch he goes - after the fight, of course. There's me versus thirty-nine pounds of flailing toddler. I'm no weakling, but he knows he has the advantage when he finally stiffens into a rigid "X" posture, making it impossible to seat him. I hold him above my head, threatening to "eat a rib sandwich" (nibble at his sides) if he doesn't sit down. Worn down from the prior tickling, he thinks the better of it and finally acquiesces. On the menu we have diced ham chunks, cubed pieces of string cheese, grapes cut into small quarters, and half of a granola bar. Little man munches out like it's nobody's business, because you know - all that resisting and tickling and tomfoolery really whets a boy's appetite. I choke down some reheated coffee and the other half of his granola bar, and make the dire mistake of turning my head for a split second. He's now standing up in his high chair, has managed to grab hold of the mini blinds behind him, and the entire rig is threatening to topple over. I jump up to grab him, and feel squishy grapes that he's unceremoniously discarded onto the floor between my toes. Nice. Mommy 1, Adler 1.

Time to get the girls up. Adler is sent into the living room (once a den, now a play yard) to burn off some energy while I get the girls changed and fed. They've both got the crankypants on, growing ever impatient for their turn. Samantha waits until I get her diaper off, and then pees on the changing table in the nursery. That's alright - I lined the cushion with a shower curtain! Sophia The Drama Queen is not shy about vocalizing her agitation while she waits for Samantha to get her outfit changed. Back into the crib Samantha goes, onto the changing table for Sophia, who is past the point of agitation. Her disquietude is communicated through the rigidness of her legs, fully intending to make the wiping of her butt into a chore. Whattya do? There's a dozen creases to be cleaned. It's only a pee diaper, so you can do it rather hurriedly. You tickle them into submission, and you forge on. The silence in the living room had me a little worried, so I peek around the corner to see what Adler's into. Nothing major, it turns out. He's just stripped the couch of all throw pillows, seat cushions and armrest covers and is picking at the debris that's been hiding underneath the seats. There's crumbs on his mouth, and I'm praying that it's this morning's animal cracker that got clandestinely stashed there and not an 8-month old nacho chip that's been sitting there since the last Superbowl. Back to Sophia, in her fresh new diaper, who now has the red-faced, lip-pursed, squinty-eyed grimace babies do when they're trying to squeeze one out. I just changed her diaper, but so what? These things grow on trees, and are free! (NOT) I patiently wait it out, and I know when she's finished because her face relaxes and she looks pleased with herself. Samantha's babbling at her, perhaps twinspeak for "pinch it off already! I'm hungry!" . Sophia looks at me as if to say: "Will you move this along, please?"  and I commence to changing her for a second time. I notice for the four thousandth time the ridiculous number of snaps on these baby outfits. I clean her up and manage to only get a little bit of poo under my fingernail. Not from carelessness, mind you - but from attempting to get her hands out of it during the ten seconds it takes me to fold the diaper over. 11-month olds are so grabby. I don't fret about the brown fingernail. You get used to it. You wash your hands and move on.

I'm sure many of you with toddlers can relate to the many Olympian feats mothers go through each day. The crossing of child gates while holding babies in your arms is one of them. We have three of these hurdles to get over from the living room to the girl's nursery, and I don't know if it counts as exercise or not, but after about six trips to and fro while carrying something - it sure does feel like it. I get both girls into their Bumbo seats and line up their little plastic cups of pureed goodness. Apples and chicken, squash, prunes - a multi-colored goo-fest just waiting to cover every square inch of the kitchen table before it's all said and done. At this point, Adler is hanging over the child gate to the kitchen, raking his sippy cup over the trellis like some forlorn prisoner while he whines like a Pekinese for "mo! mo! mo!". It's half-full, but that doesn't matter to him. The girls are out, and he's having to compete for my attention, so he's going to create scenarios in which his needs are not met due to my negligence. I've been trying to condition my son not to whine, so his grievances aren't going to be acknowledged until he asks for "joo!" (juice) in a regular voice. The bibs are in place around the girl's necks, and I've got a wet washcloth in one hand and a rubber spoon in the other.

Feeding a baby can be messy. Feeding two babies can be like sitting front row at a Gallagher show. Instead of watermelons, expect to be covered in baby food. It's just another one of those things you get used to. I once entertained the idea of wearing some sort of smock to protect my clothing, but I'm wearing the husband's old T-shirt and yoga pants, so why bother? For some reason during mealtime, Samantha has started grinding her top two teeth to her bottom two teeth, and the sound makes me want to poke sharp objects into my eardrums. I try to keep her mouth occupied so she doesn't do it, but there's the other twin clamoring for her spoonful, and sometimes I have to pause to wipe them off, or wipe me off, or wipe the floor or the wall or the cat off, if he's in range. Today was a particularly messy affair. Perhaps they were getting me back for taking so long at the changing table - I don't know. We were halfway through their lunch and I realize that Adler has gotten suspiciously quiet. Something's afoot when you can't hear that boy playing. I peek around the corner to find him pulling all the fake moss out of the base of one of our fake potted plants. He's only pulling it out in long strands and transporting the long strands to  ... OH NO! ... inside the girl's playpen. I'm torn between finishing feeding the girls real quick (who cares about fake moss?) and putting a halt to his shenanigans. Just when I was about to return to feeding, I have a flashback of when my cat ate Christmas tree tinsel and having to carefully pull the strands out of his butt when he couldn't pass them all. The visual of fake ficus moss hanging out the leg holes of my son's diaper made me set the spoon down and go clean up the mess, pronto.

The moss cleanup should have only taken about four minutes at most, but Adler decided that this would be a great time to sit on my foot and ride it pony-style while clinging to my leg in a bear-hug. Sometimes it's just easier to just give a free ride versus trying to pry them off, and today was one of those times. When it came time to cross back over the gate, he unhappily dismounted and glared at the girls for cutting in once again to his Mommy Time. I bend down to give him a kiss and I hear the SLUP sound of Sophia's foot going into the squash that I foolishly left on the table near her Bumbo. She squeals with delight and kicks it off the table. Yellow gobs of goo on the floor get mopped up with a wet paper towel. As I'm getting up from all fours on the floor, Samantha's apples & chicken covered hand grabs a fistful of my hair. I silently curse myself for the rookie mistake of getting within grabbing distance and use the same wet paper towel to clean smear the goop off my head. Right as I'm smelling the burnt aroma of a coffeepot left on for too long, my dad comes back over to spend the rest of his afternoon with the kids. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude that I have extra hands at my disposal, so much so that I blow off the recent catastrophes and welcome him in with a calm, I've-Got-My-Act-Together smile that belies the discomposure that I'm actually feeling. Adler is so excited that his Poppa has returned to play with him that he nearly knocks him over in the entry hall. He gets scooped up in Grandpa's arms and gleefully steals the hat from atop his head. There is absolutely no such thing as a grievous offense in Poppa's eyes, and Adler knows this.

Lunch is over, and it's round two of changing outfits on the girls. Actually it's round three if you count getting them out of their pajamas first thing this morning, but that seems like a lifetime ago, so I don't let it register. I plan on snapping photos later in the day, so I pick out something extra cute that matches each other. Into the living room to play on the floor where we all hope and pray Adler doesn't accidentally stampede them with his Godzilla-like mannerisms. We sing songs, we dance, we have pony-rides until mommy's foot feels like it's going to detach from her leg, and then we let the kids wind down by watching BabyFirstTV shows. They love the songs and the characters, so it usually will keep them occupied for at least seven minutes. More coffee for the grown-ups, and I take the opportunity to text my husband at work. Suddenly, it's time for Poppa to go home again. Back to the grind!

After another round of post-lunch diaper changes and realizing that seedless green grapes do not fully digest in a toddler's tummy, I try hard to get some chores done while still interacting with the kids. Laundry folded and put away -check. Coffeepot scraped out - check. Countertops wiped, under the high chair swept, mail brought in from the mailbox, dishwasher emptied - check. At this point, the living room looks as if a tornado has swept through. Toddlers don't just play with their toys - they scatter them, and place the especially small ones strategically on the floor to be stepped on, and shove sock monkeys behind the T.V. stand, and push buttons on your husband's beloved X-box, and hide your shoes so you can't find them, and if they're especially determined and industrious like my little boy is, rearranges the furniture to their liking so that the coffee table is beside the window and the wingback chairs are in the middle of the living room. Our love for furniture coasters and pine floors make that incredibly easy to do, so we must scold ourselves before scolding the child for it. I make fast work of putting most of the toys up, and solicit Adler's help by counting each one as it leave the floor and goes into the toy basket. He loves to help. I look up, and can you believe it? It's late afternoon, and I've got to put that washer load into the dryer, get a casserole started for dinner, and .... well, it looks like that shower ain't happenin', so I'd best do a quick ponytail and at least apply some lip gloss and mascara before the husband gets home so I'm not looking so haggard. Definitely wouldn't want him to think that I can't manage my time effectively!

I'm deciding on whether to start chopping veggies for the casserole or tend to my appearance when all hell breaks loose. Samantha has Sophia by the ear, Sophia has Samantha by the hair, and they're pulling in opposite directions, screaming at the top of their little lungs. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! goes the sound of Adler's plastic Elmo guitar getting pounded against the sliding glass door. I take it away from him and Adler joins in the chorus of the Screamphony that his sisters started. It takes a full 30 minutes until everyone mellows out, Mommy excluded. One girl goes in the doorframe bouncy seat in the kitchen, one goes in the walker in the dining room, and Adler gets seated in his high chair to use his crayons and eat a snack while I start preparing dinner. For an entire 15-20 minutes, everyone seems to be happily occupied. When it seems like they're getting restless at their respective stations, I can usually belt out the tunes to one of their favorite songs and they commence to grinning. This tactic works, I'd say 4 out of 5 times. Just not on this day. On this day, Adler chooses to eat a magenta-colored crayon. On this day, the girls just aren't into swaying from doorframes or running the length of the kitchen/dining combo in the walker. Everyone's restless. I can't remember if I added salt and pepper to the casserole, and decide that too much would be better than too little on the spice front, so I just throw it in the oven that I (DAMN! Not again!) forgot to preheat.

Time to rearrange the rascals and do one more diaper change trifecta before dad gets home. I thought Adler had done really good with his animal crackers and mandarin oranges snack, but as it turn out - he stashed most of them in the waistband of his diaper. I guess he was saving them for later, I don't know - but it warranted a complete change of clothes, because the child appeared as if he'd been dipped in orange nectar and then rolled in cracker crumbs. I carried him to the bathroom for a quick wipe down, and realized how bad my feet were hurting. I was thankful that I got the nap earlier, because there was still dinner to cook and clean up after, three kids to bathe, bottles for the girls, the dreaded evening wind-down for Adler ... man, was I glad that my husband was due to be home soon!

In the short time span between the truck-stop bath for Adler and my husband coming home, a lot happened. The casserole overcooked because I failed to start the timer on the oven. Sophia had a diaper blow-out (prunes! arrgh!). Adler had every single toy (and a few of my things, too) on the floor.  All three kids decided to start crying at once, and no amount of singing or dancing or acting the jester on my part was going to console them. Regardless, I dutifully picked up the toys (again) to the soundtrack of my own voice singing Itsy Bitsy Spider, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Wheels on the Bus and the such. My rudimentary hairstyle (a.k.a. ponytail) had come unraveled. I never managed to get makeup applied, although I did run into the bathroom when I heard my husband's Jeep pull up in the driveway to slap some powder foundation across my nose and forehead. Thank goodness for that big mirror in the hallway that lends it's horrific image back to me when I pass by, else I'd certainly have looked like the frantic, disheveled mess of a woman that I was.

Kisses, Hi Honey's and warm embraces all around. The kids and I both were happy to see Dad, and Adler did his customary happy-foot-stomp dance before my husband even got all the way in the door. I'm setting the table as my husband goes to change out of his office attire and into his comfies. The ruckus from the living room alarms me to the fact that my son is once again pulling out every single toy he owns. I rush in to curb the disaster and sigh an exasperated "Ohhhhh, Adlerrrrrrrr, Nooooo!" a little louder than I'd intended, and my husband picks up the guilty child and admonishes Mommy to chill out, because (and I quote) "He's just a little guy trying to have a good time!" I clench my teeth and move on. Samantha grinds hers. Sophia chews on the ear of her teddy, oblivious to all else.

After dinner, and the clean-up of the kitchen, the baths all around, and the time the five of us spent together before bed, I'm pretty much ready to just pass out. Sleep evades me. Too wired from the day's events to start resting, I run over in my mind everything I could have done differently to make the day flow smoother. I feel guilty for getting bent out of shape over a not-quite-2-year-old's antics. I wish I would have spent more one-on-one time with each individual twin. I regret not having the energy to make love to my husband, and I remember that I never fed the cat. I once again feel grateful that my dad chooses to spend his retirement with me and the kids, and I decide to text message my best friend to see if she possibly has any anecdotes, words of wisdom or funny stories to share about her childless day at the office. I'm careful not to gripe much, lest I appear ungrateful, and I end up falling asleep mid-text message without so much as a "TTYL". But she's used to it.

I'm happy to report that the next several days went far better. You may think to yourself: Why is she dwelling on one bad day? But I assure you - the ranting and raving and hammering out of keystrokes I devoted to reminiscing on this day-from-hell serves as both a catharsis and a reminder. One day I will look back. My kids will be long gone from the house, and my husband and I will be growing old and feeble (we parented late in life). I'll want to come back to this missive and remember every single detail, both the bad with the good. The good will remind me of how fortunate I was to have been able to raise a family. The bad will remind me that what seemed like insurmountable obstacles at the time was actually a test to see if I'd crack under pressure. I'm sure I'll have lots of instances of cracking, but I'm also confident that I'll have an equal number of times that I bounced back and survived it relatively unscathed. I may not win any Mother of the Year awards, but I will be able to boast that I'd been to Handle It School, even though they didn't hand out any honorary degrees to hang on the wall of my retirement home.

Frighting, Feasting, Fa-La-La-La-La-ing

The month being halfway over and Labor Day already a big blur in our rearview mirrors, what we're experiencing now is the calm before the holiday storm. The newsflash here is that we're nearly through the halfway mark of this calendar square, and Captain Obvious is here to report to you that there's only a little over two weeks left to rejoice in the unremarkable-ness of the tail end of grey, drab September.

It's actually bright, sunny and quite balmy in my particular place on the map. The warm climate here in my region belies the upcoming cool crispness that prefaces the holiday season and ushers in winter, but I'm going to stand firm in my choice of descriptive color for this month. It matches my mood every September, as it's right on the cusp of the huge holiday trifecta, The Big 3: Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Knowing it's time to start bracing myself for all the tomfoolery that we all shamelessly partake in over the next hundred days, I both look forward to it and dread it, all at the same time. The extra financial strain, the buyer's remorse, the joy of watching your young children discover the magic to be had, and the time spent with family - such a joyous, crazy mixture of highs and lows, you don't know whether you should anticipate it, or feel trepidation towards it. Either way - the middle of September signifies that it's all right around the corner, so you'd be wise to prepare yourself for it. I'd normally spend the bulk of September enjoying the calm, quiet and tranquility before all the craziness hits, but let's be real: I have three children under two, and that kind of luxury has become a relic of the past.

My children are very young, and were cursed with being born in the latter months, where birthdays fall during the most expensive, hectic time of year. Although they all three officially have one Christmas under their belts, they're too new to this world to have fond memories of the past to draw from, yet they're just at the ripe young age where an awareness of the seasonal festivities will begin to resonate with them. As a parent, I feel an extra responsibility to mould their memories-in-the-making into something realistic enough to be able to pull off each year, exciting enough for them to be foaming at the mouth over it, and special enough to instill into their pliable little minds the importance of giving, of family, and of gratitude. I know that everything we do from here on out regarding the three big holidays will set the traditions they will reminisce about when they mature into adults, possibly even choosing to adopt the same celebrations and observances for their own families.

Some people don't count Halloween as a major holiday, but my husband and I are fright fanatics, having actually outspent ourselves for two years in a row on Halloween over Christmas. We'd host huge costume parties, turning our home into a house of horrors that would take weeks to decorate. We schooled ourselves YouTube-style on special effects tutorials and spent what is now our diaper and formula budget on make-up and costumes. Our buffet table included the pumpkins puking yummy guacamole, Jello body parts floating in the punch, and spiders crawling out of the black bean dip.

Most of the eerie extravagance we painstakingly perfected has been permanently shelved for the next decade, as we don't want to frighten the devil out of our young children with our life-sized ghouls and scary special effects strewn about. While we won't be able to expose them (yet!) to the stuff nightmares are made of, we very much want them to enjoy the tradition of dressing in costume and trick-or-treating that we did when we were young. It's really the only time of year that you're given the license to be in full character for an entire night, and I truly believe that it will foster great creativity and imagination in them. As they get older, we absolutely look forward to giving them the good, proper scares that most people delight in. I believe it helps draw clear lines between what's imaginary make-believe and what's real, and hopefully those important distinctions will spare them from becoming prey to superstition and the kind of irrational fear that serves no real purpose. I'd like to have them host their own holiday parties for their friends and enjoy the make-believe illusions of witches, ghosts and goblins.

After Halloween, all the faux cobwebs are taken down and the triangular carved eyes in the jack-o-lanterns start to wilt. The television, mailbox, online media and drive-by advertising is inundated with the message to SHOP SHOP SHOP SHOP SHOP SHOP, because Christmas is right around the corner. It's not enough that most department stores have already put out Christmas gear in order to reel you in sooner. We're constantly reminded that there are only X amount of days left to part with our money, get our houses and yards elaborately covered in lights before the neighbors outdo us, and time to rearrange the living areas of your home to make room for the tree, the villages, the stockings, the poinsettias ... but whoa! There's still a few weeks to procrastinate. Relax! It's time to feast!

Thanksgiving is, hands down - the best four-day weekend of the whole year. The food. The football. The family gatherings. I can't think of anything off-putting about the Thanksgiving holiday except for the silly American tradition of Black Friday. Even before I had kids, I boycotted Black Friday simply as a gesture of waving my middle finger at the ugly side of gluttonous consumerism. Now that I'm a mom, I will be (discreetly) flipping not one, but TWO middle fingers at the entire ruse that I feel is an embarrassment to our otherwise decent nation. I'd like for my children to realize that there is no amount of discount, no product so "hot" that could warrant mingling with a mob of people fighting over items, afflicted with a case of rabid consumerism that turns ordinarily friendly folks into street brawlers. We'll be spending the Friday after Thanksgiving watching movies while we happily suffer the indigestion that comes from eating too much pumpkin pie. We'll be happy to have visited with relatives, and we'll discuss how grateful we were to have such an abundance of food. I sincerely hope that I raise the type of children who, instead of bringing in stray dogs and cats, unapologetically springs a surprise guest to our meal table purely for the reason that they feel compelled to share their family's bounty with someone less fortunate. I'd be one proud mama!

Christmas always sneaks up on us, even when we overzealously put up the Christmas tree on Thanksgiving weekend. It seems like I'm just getting around to throwing out all the turkey-based leftovers and BAM! It's time for the 12-day countdown. Ever contemplated just leaving it up year-round so you don't have to fool with carefully packing up all the ornaments again? I actually enjoy it's ambient glow, and I know my babies did too, judging from the way they'd stare at it until their eyelids became heavy. The last two Christmases have been very easy and inexpensive, as our son was thrilled by boxes and paper moreso than the items inside them. We know it's going to get more expensive and more difficult as they begin to covet what their friends have, and wring their little hands with childish desire when they see the toys and gadgets in the stores throughout the year. Having grown up in a family with very little money, I am quite confident that kids who don't receive every.single.thing. they want for Christmas do not suffer any long term psychological damage. In fact, they probably walk away from it with a standard of appreciation for things that extends far beyond their maturity. Therefore, my husband and I don't plan on worrying ourselves to the point of stomach ulcers when we are faced with having to purchase gifts for three teenagers someday.

We have decided to go along with the Santa Claus scam because there's just too much joy to be had for the children when it comes to imaginary characters who do good deeds for them. We believe it may even foster in their imaginations ideas of how they can bring cheer and goodwill offerings to others, since kids often mimic their heroes. We also believe that the good to be had cancels out the fact that we're BS'ing them into thinking that a fat man from the North Pole traveling with flying reindeer drops off toys to all children, worldwide. I hope that as my children age, they will put their little minds to work trying to figure out how the logistics would be worked out, the physical improbability of a fat man sliding both down and back up the chimney, and the moral conundrum of why Santa doesn't choose to do good deeds year-round by delivering food to the homeless, housing to the impoverished, and medicine to the sick people. While we may occasionally fool them into what to think, we want to encourage them to learn how to think, and encourage them to question everything. In other words, kids - if it seems too good to be true - it probably is. We definitely aspire to nurture a sense of goodwill and charity in them that will hopefully stick for the rest of their lives. This strategy will apply in our household to most of the Nativity stories that are shared among the many religious cultures pertaining to the origins of Christmas. Those stories are important too, and we want to give them adequate exposure at home before they hear it from more fanatical sources outside the home.

There's so much tradition to uphold surrounding this holiday, it leaves me optimistic in hoping that the whole gross overspending tradition that goes with it here in the West just gets lost amid all the other festivities, and our children don't grow up believing that this time of year is when Mom & Dad overspend, go into debt, and struggle for following months just so everyone can get that iPad, or iPhone, or iTouch, or whatever iGottaHaveIt gadget is popular for their time. We want it to be fun for them both as little kids who believe in the magic of Santa, and as teenagers who have figured out the gimmick for what it is. Plus, who can pass up the timeless I'm-Scared-And-Gonna-Pee-In-Santa's-Lap photo opportunities?

As we prepare for the upcoming holiday season, I raise my glass in the general direction of all parents out there who are going to try their level best to make it as enjoyable as possible for their kids. It's not going to be easy, but we're going to be up to the task, simply because we are Mommies & Daddies who can pull off most anything as long as it makes our kids happy. I propose a toast to having a few more ordinary, run-of-the-mill weeks left to enjoy the redundant normalcy in this grey September. Embrace the usual boring routines we typically gripe about from February-August before the holiday storms roll in, because they're going to be the ones we'll be yearning to get back to once the back-to-back festivities of three major holidays burns us completely out. We'll have a nice break before having to wheel and deal with the more minor ones to follow. Dealing with Valentine's cupids and the Easter Bunny will seem like small potatoes after this!

Last but not least, I propose that we all band together and vow to do away with - once and for all - that spontaneous, punctuality-be-damned Tooth Fairy that we can never set our watches by. We all know she will likely warrant a visit to our children when it's incredibly inconvenient, making us go to the ATM in the middle of the night just to keep the fire of belief burning awhile longer in our kids. Can't we just bury their baby teeth like they did in early Europe back when people were saving their coins for more honorable endeavors? It's time we let go of just one teensy-tiny myth that is inarguably the least important one of them all. Let us set fire to this particular tradition right here and now, because isn't it a little gruesome that a fairy pays good money for discarded body parts? Moreover, who would want that kind of creature entering their children's bedrooms and rifling underneath their pillows? We draw the line here, and we draw it now. Who's with me?!?!

18-24 Months: The Litmus Test of Parenting

The quixotic, well-intentioned ambitions of an inexperienced new mother knows absolutely no bounds. The preparation, the planning, the laying out of what you think is going to be a solid foundation to start from - it consumes you while your child is in utero. You worry about how difficult it's going to be, this mothering business. You fret over whether or not you'll always be up to the task, and how good you'll be at not just meeting your child's every need, but helping him thrive from infanthood to adulthood in a manner that would make him look back on his own childhood and think: My mom had it going ON! You unknowingly mistake your naïve aspirations towards perfection as a sign of being a responsible parent-to-be, even though you have no way of knowing how up-to-the-task you already are from an evolutionary standpoint. Being a child-bearing female equips you with more know-how, intuition and mothering capabilities than you ever thought you possessed. It just doesn't ever prepare you for how difficult it gets when your precious little darling turns into a hot-headed little firecracker during the toddler years.

When I was pregnant with my son, I did a lot of future planning and had many projections for how we were going to spend his early formative years together. Drunk with love, high on hormones, intoxicated by the intuitive mothering pull towards my unborn baby - it was easy to convince myself that I had my whole new-parent plan already mapped out and set in stone ... even though I'd only had two ultrasounds and hadn't quite crossed that third trimester mark yet. I was absolutely terrified of other people's newborns, yet strangely had such overwhelming feelings of familiarity with the life growing inside me, I was confident and certain that I wouldn't run scared as soon as he was born and put into my care. I spent a great deal of time sitting in his unfinished nursery, carefully calibrating and fine-tuning how I was going to react and respond to just about every single need that my infant could possibly manifest. I knew how I wanted to nurture him, how I wanted to shower my love onto him, and how I'd do everything in my power to make sure his environment was happy, safe and secure. I had no idea how easy and natural that part was going to be, especially the first year. But until you've had to pry off a sweaty, screaming toddler mid-tantrum from your pants leg, you have no idea how challenging your role will be going into that second year. You get tested, and retested, and then when you think you know what to expect out of them, they throw you for a loop and redefine the art of being bad.

It's worth looking back at my misconceptions and laughing now, especially since I got the pleasure of three babies in under two years. Clearly, I focused too much on how to take care of an infant, and didn't invest enough time strategizing how I'd have to learn to compromise with a toddler. Granted, the newborn stage isn't a complete cakewalk. There's several weeks of sleepless nights due to their incessant every-two-hour feeding marathons, coupled with the urge to check in on them when they finally do sleep for a decent stretch to make sure their breathing is normal. But seriously - aside from making sure they have full bellies, dry diapers and adequate sleep (often at the expense of your own zzzzz's) ... newborns are relatively easy. My son was a new mother's dream: Never cried unless he was hungry, smiled at you just for meeting his gaze, sat still in his little bouncer seat and charmed anyone who had the good fortune of walking in the room and becoming acquainted with him. The twins have proved to be a little more high-maintenance (they're girls, what did you expect?), but all in all, they aren't much trouble right now, either. You'll notice the subtlety in which I don't project any farther into the future with them. Let's just say my lessons have been learned ever since my toddler son put his doting mother through a grueling six-month course I affectionately refer to as Handle It School.

What I'd like to know now, is ... Where did my sweet, docile baby boy GO? Once the 18th month hit, he morphed into an opinionated little rebel-rouser with the short temper of a rattlesnake and a set of lungs that, turned up full volume, could rival the shrill pitch of a police siren. I toss around the phrase "opinionated" as if the little fella can actually speak in cohesive sentences and express himself outside of the toddler vernacular of "mo" (more), "no" (his answer to every question) and "mine" (which applies to his things, things that aren't his yet, but are about to be, and every other thing in his immediate radius), but I assure you - the little boy is quick to elaborate on how entitled he is to his opinion, and he's not afraid to act it out for us, lest we be unaware. Sometimes these opinions are expressed through body language, such as the arched back/head thrown towards floor sentiment that really means HELL NO, I WON'T GO. Then there's the more complex theatrics that illustrates his aversion towards taking medicine, which is his rendition of a lockjaw-patient-shape-shifting-into-a-snapping-turtle. There's also the wordless miming of raising one eyebrow (how does he do that? I'm envious) that clearly communicates to whoever is trying to get him to eat that one more bite of food that they're going to be wearing that spoonful if he has his way about it. Naptime really brings out the thespian in him, and he has about fourteen different soldiering personas for fighting sleep. Those range from the noiseless, sneaky belly-crawl out of bed to the incessant chattering that he belts out at the most ridiculously loudest decibel imaginable, all because he's realized that the one thing I can't put an absolute stop to is the range of noise he can emit from his vocal chords.

I think back to the newborn to first year period with him: The joy of seeing him hold his bottle for the first time. The clumsy little bowlegged, tippy-toed walk he first attempted. The glee we'd all share in when he'd patty-cake his little hands, or how we'd all laugh and think it was cute when he unceremoniously tossed his sippy cup to the side when he finished his drink. Then it abruptly ended, and although the cuteness lingered and the smiles and joy never dissipated, a new level of disobedience gave rise in that boy, and so help me - there's days when I wonder if someone came into our home and reprogrammed him with a bunch of insolence software. I realize that most boys are rambunctious, and perhaps some of the fire that kid has comes from the bullheadedness he inherited from his 'rents, but some days I'm certain that the fabled "Terrible Twos" is just a diversionary tactic used to blindside mommies and daddies when they're feeling comfortable with the fact that there's still a good six months or so before that kind of behavior is due. It sneaks up on vulnerable newbie parents and we're left stunned, unable to render any kind of authoritarian role over them because we still consider them our sweet, cuddly little angels of innocence. All it really takes to snap you back into reality is having a nearly-full sippy cup hurled at you from a distance of about six feet. It's the knowledge that sinks in when you realize that they meant to do it, when out of the corner of your eye, you see them triumphantly grinning because they know their cup connected with your face. Sure, you correct them for the offense. You forgive them easily, because that's what good, loving mothers do. You go on about your day, trying to act like it didn't rattle you much, even though your left cheekbone hurts like hell.

I never got the humor behind the incredibly popular ReasonsMySonIsCrying website, and used to think to myself: Why on earth do people find it funny that their children are feeling anguish? I also never understood why they'd take photos of their kid's throwing fits, until mine started doing it. They happen so spontaneously that it becomes dangerously entertaining, kind of like watching a funnel cloud turn into a tornado. You know the shit is about to hit the fan, you'd be well-advised to hunker down, 'cause it's about to be Get Your MommyPants On time where you have to deal maturely with the situation. It's just that they happen so randomly, and so often, that you know how to discern actual anguish from just a routine meltdown that can be quickly tuned down by a simple distraction like whistling, or holding them in a bear hug and covering them with kisses (ooooh, but he hates that when he's mad!). Sometimes you've just got to enjoy the fireworks - even though you know it's about to set the yard ablaze. I believe in letting my son express his frustrations, and I never want him to feel like he has to hold anything inside, as I believe that can pave the way for some communication barriers in the future. I fully realize that there will be a time when he can express his feelings without falling on the floor and venting red-faced rage, but right now, this is the best he can do.

I don't believe it's healthy to laugh at your children for any reason, because you certainly don't want them left feeling taunted, or belittled in any way. But after going through the whole "mommy understands you are mad" routine, let them know how silly they looked while  throwing a tantrum. It gets my son EVERY time. I urge you to try it! After the situation has been diffused and your child has calmed down, throw yourself on the floor and start spazzing out like they did, complete with the noise and the flapping of hands/kicking of feet. This cracks my son up, and the laughter is contagious, and before you know it, we're both acting ridiculous. He forgets that he thought the world was ending five minutes ago when I wouldn't let him bludgeon the T.V. with the pointy end of his stick horse, and I forget that my precious little boy looked upon me with a homicidal glare when I took away the stick horse his Poppa gave him.

I'm learning lots of valuable lessons with my son that I hope I will be able to apply when his twin sisters hit their Mean Toddler phase, knowing full well that it's going to be a whole other ballgame due to the fact that 1) there's TWO of them, and 2) girls are, by design - more difficult than boys. However, I think it's important that I've nearly completed this first "test" as a new parent and still have (most of) my marbles intact. I have concluded that if you get through the sometimes scary, sometimes maddening, oftentimes nerve-fraying 18-24 month period, the rest of it is just a long string of happy discoveries, new accomplishments, artsy little macaroni plates, and other such whimsy. If you manage to make it through without tearing your hair out (most of it will fall out anyway), your parenting skills will have reached a critical mass that will render you capable to deal with anything parenthood has to throw at you, and most importantly - you'll do it effectively, efficiently, and with a honed sense of humor that will keep you from crumbling.

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall - What Happened?!

Preface:
This post sat drafted and unrevised in the fashion that I'm sure fellow bloggers are familiar with: You become inspired to opine about a particular subject, hammer out a ridiculous amount of keystrokes building your narrative, and as the text flows, you begin to lose confidence and/or interest in both the content and the subject matter. In my case, I got so long-winded in my composition that my original point got lost in a rambling sea of musings. To add to the post's demise, the life happening around me demanded that I stop halfway through my missive, and the truth is, I never really intended to revisit it. I've learned from past journaling that when that happens, my mind isn't always at the same fervent pitch it was when I started, so my original idea will just trail off into Draft Neverland. Thus was the case with this post, until I came upon another post by Jill Raffiani that was very much along the same thread as my cobwebby draft.

The Letting Yourself Go Debate inspired me to rethink my position, reopen the post-in-the-making, and elaborate on my own position for this very hairy (no pun) subject matter that we're all a bit sensitive to - our appearances. I thank her for the great article, plus the spark and motivation it gave me to not only finish what I'd previously started, but to revise it in a way that would encourage me to KEEP IT REAL, and to dive headfirst into a self-improvement mission that was seriously long overdue.

******

I'm no stranger to self-reflection. There's always a steady stream of it playing in the background of my subconscious at any given point in my busy day. It's pretty crowded in there, with the proverbial foot of hindsight kicking me in the back of my head, scolding me for not making better use of my time and brainstorming about how I can expand every nanosecond of the next day to trump the prior day's productivity. Sometimes it's the endless chatter of the merciless, fault-finding heckler that relentlessly points it's gnarled, accusatory finger in my face, nagging me about unfinished projects and giving me a good lashing for being a procrastinating underachiever, even if I managed to get (what I consider) a great deal done before noon. I'm fairly certain that my inner voice is a cross between a mild-mannered philosophical problem solver and a brutal, highly critical Jewish mother figure. These two are constantly at odds with one another at the intersection of Praise Lane and Bash Boulevard, and deciding which one of these counterparts I want to side with kind of drains me sometimes.

Lately, my chief inner grievance has been my failure to reconnect with my femininity after wearing the SAHM hat for almost two years. I've noticed changes in myself on both a physical and emotional level, and it's been troublesome, to say the least. I have a dogged determination not to let anything resembling depression put a damper on what I consider to be a wonderful home life, and I'd rather take a sharp stick in the eye than expose my husband and kids to the extreme funks I can get myself into. Sometimes, I crack. Not often, but I do. I had to come to grips with finding out that I had the tendency to be a sniveling whiny-baby during my meltdowns. I don't let the kids see me in that state, so it usually spills out into my husband's lap complete with tears, sobs and a great deal of snot. And mannnnn, does it feel good to let it out! What I most love about my husband (besides him being good looking, smart and funny) is that he listens to me. He also knows when to sympathize, and has been schooled on knowing when to reel me in when I get too far out there at my pity parties. We both have a huge arsenal at our disposal to fight off my occasional crazies with, and I'd have to say that humor is our tactical weapon of choice. If it weren't for our wisecracking banter and general buffoonery warding off full-blown breakdowns, I'd probably be committed to a padded room and administered several antipsychotic prescriptions.

Since the bane of my existence here recently has been my personal upkeep, I know that it's time to stop kidding myself about it and adopt a new, improved self-betterment ritual that would restore the confidence towards my womanhood. I was never a vainglorious, selfie-posting, smug-kinda-gal prior to becoming a wife, mother and a SAHM, but having a career and the free time to hang out with female friends (who we know and count on to critique us into submission when we get lazy) pretty much mandates that hair, nails, clothing and accessories be tended to on a daily basis. Having that part of my life replaced with being a mommy to three very demanding little babies somehow gave me a license to become lax in the broader areas of maintaining my personal appearance. Some of it is due to finances, and the budget cuts we took in order for me to be able to stay home with the kids. The typical six-week cut, color and blowout I'd treat my coiffure to happens about every six months now, with a few *box* treatments sprinkled in here and there. Spa pedicures and manicures went by the wayside when we started spending $240 a month on diapers and formula. I've always been anti-chick (and not very fashion-forward) in that I hate shopping for and trying on clothes. Luckily for me, I now have a valid reason to never step foot in a mall again. Our clothing budget was cut way back, and since my husband is an office jockey who works with upper management and VP's in his line of work, it only makes sense to make sure that his attire needs are updated and funded before mine are. As you've already figured out, these are nothing short than excuses. These excuses have been holding me back from my quest of self-improvement, and I've been leaning on them as a crutch for far too long.

My husband and I have only been married for three years, but have never put on airs around one another, even from the first date. We just meshed together, au natural, in our base forms, and fell in love without a lot of flamboyant courting rituals closely akin to peacock plumage and mating calls. I had never felt pressure to look a particular way for my husband in order to be his love interest. That said, I was not beneath using the feminine wiles all women possess when it comes to seducing your mate. There's a great deal of pleasure knowing that you can make your partner's heart (and other blood-engorged organs) thump by making yourself alluring and beautiful in ways that you know will steep his attraction to you. Two back-to-back pregnancies and a hysterectomy seemed to put that particular pleasure on the backburner, and while I'm not dissing my husband for being loving enough to not bust my chops about it, I secretly wish he would tell me that he missed that part of my personality. I say this knowing full well that the insecurities I now harbor towards my appearance would cause me to take it as an insult or a jab, so as you can see -  the poor man just can't win for losing where this is concerned. Luckily he's tuned into me well enough to know that, so he chooses his answers carefully when I childishly sling the "Do you still think I'm pretty" interrogation his way. I don't believe he is lying to me when he answers in the affirmative, but I do know that on some level, he must miss the "old" me.

After my twin daughters were born, there was a long stretch where I had completely justifiable reasons for wearing my husband's pajama pants and loose T-shirts day in and day out. I'd had a difficult recovery with the C-section, and the trips I made to NICU each day was a bumpy 25-minute ride on the Arkansas interstates (pothole capital of the U.S.A) that required me wearing that ridiculous Velcro bellyband underneath my clothing. Then there was the newborn feeding schedule, multiplied by two, which kept me up all the time. I was practically napping on the fly whenever I could nod off and catch a few zzzzz's, so why bother changing clothes several times a day and night? Four months later after my C-section scar had healed, I was admitted back into the hospital for a complete, lifesaving hysterectomy (up yours, cervical cancer!). The recovery time from that was grueling, especially with 3 babies at home to tend to, and the only person who was around to help while my husband worked was my elderly father. I hardly felt the need to fix my hair and put on makeup in his presence, as he'd seen me at my absolute worst. There began the bad habit of wearing pajamas all day and tying my clean but unkempt hair up into a loose knot at the top of my head. I said I did it because it was "easier". I complained about not having the time to mess with it, knowing full well that I probably wouldn't have bothered even if I did. I was in a deep rut that I'd carved out myself and didn't have the wherewithal to climb out of.

I started having recurring dreams (nightmares!) of my husband being surrounded by beautiful, glamorous women who were all vying for his attention. Through no fault of his, he'd wake up already on my shit list and have to deal with my blatant insecurities and unnecessary bouts of jealousy. I started resenting the fact that he got up every morning, shower and shaved, dressed presentably, and got to mingle in the outside world with other attractive, kempt, polished people. That alone gave me the incentive to start climbing out of the despair pit I'd let myself slide into, and for awhile, I started applying makeup again, straightened and styled my hair, wore my favorite perfume ... It improved my self-esteem, adjusted my attitude, and my confidence came back. It wasn't long before the day-to-day redundancy of housework, chores, multiple diaper changes, and chasing kids tricked me into thinking that sprucing myself up every day was just pointless, and futile, because it didn't look like I was going to be able to leave the house for the next three years save for some trips to the grocery or drug stores. Back into the rut I spiraled. Not wanting to fall prey to the inevitable depression that ruts tend to envelop you in, I began using a fair amount of self-deprecating humor to just laugh away my appearance. Poking fun at one's self can be extremely useful in a lot of situations, and it's often a good exercise to help a person not take themselves too seriously. However, it's not always useful, and can even be more of a hindrance than a help. It allows you to embrace your inconsistencies, and you begin to champion them versus trying to change them. I was shouting from my soapbox about my contentment as a Plain Jane, and I used Mommyhood as the reasoning behind it. I made it sound as though the two went hand-in-hand, and loved roasting and ragging all the airbrushed floozies on the pages of Parenting magazine, looking as glamorous as Supermodels while they held up children that surely didn't come out of their own birth canals, because really ... you're in a size 0 two months after delivering a 10 pound baby boy? I call shenanigans!

So this is where I was, just days ago when I stumbled upon Jill's post in a Google+ parenting forum. When I first read her intro to the Letting Yourself Go Debate, it was the closing line that got me hook, line and sinker: "Who were you before you were a parent?" My first kneejerk reaction to her post was to jump to the defense of women who chose to toss vanity out the window after having kids. I was ready to roll up my sleeves and begin a catlike debate over it, but something inside me (perhaps the scathing Jewish mother who often puts me in check) had me read it again, and again and then another time, to be sure - and I finally admitted that it was, indeed, an incredibly sound wake-up call to women out there who were B.S.'ing themselves like I was. There's no excuse not to pull yourself together each day, she remarked in her missive. You owe it to your husband, your kids ... yourself!

Now, while I didn't jump in my Jeep and head to the first salon that would take me without an appointment, it did inspire me to go back and read my previous draft that pretty much defended my carelessness and resignation. It motivated me to be more honest with myself, and it influenced me to take a personal inventory of something I used to take a fair amount of pride in: Myself.

I get really fired up when I make resolutions. It's almost like the tenacity to do better is a viscous liquid coursing through my veins. I hope to be able to regale countless stories about how the New & Improved Me adopts a whole new livelihood that is filled with excitement, and GLAMOUR, and new adventures with the husband that would make a puritan blush ... but the truth is, I truly wouldn't change anything about the way our life is right now. Nothing makes me happier than all five of us romping around on the floor together playing, or curling up with my husband after the kids are asleep to watch a dozen or so back-to-back episodes of American Horror Story or Walking Dead, popcorn and Hershey kisses in our respective laps. There is nothing more glamorous than taking photos of our kids wearing silly hats, capturing smiles and seeing their funny faces light up with glee. It's not the environment I want to change - it's me. And I'm not changing to make my environment more enjoyable, because absolutely nothing trumps this wonderfully chaotic household, in my book. I'm resolving to change only to feel better about the woman I see staring back at me in family photos or when I look in the mirror. I'd like to be able to high-five her and give her an Atta Girl rather than wince at the dark circles under her eyes that she was too lazy to cover up with foundation. I want my kids to be proud of the way their mommy looks when they enroll in school in the next five years. I want my husband to drive home at breakneck speed after texting him a provocative photo that spells out without words what he has waiting for him when he arrives. In short, I want to be able to make my trifecta of roles balance with one another in harmony - The Wife, The Mommy & The Individual.

Admissions: The Futility of Regret, and the Practicality of Do-Overs

I've only been a mother for a little over 18 months. Some days I feel like I've got this whole parenting gig down pat, and other days it feels like I am watching myself slowly unravel in my own piloted sitcom that has just shifted into the Friday Night Death Slot. Taking lots of pictures, journaling our day-to-day vibe, and blogging about it has become a habitual release. At first, I couldn't understand while I felt the urge to chronicle these events, but it's all pretty clear now: One day in the not-too-distant-future when I'm a seasoned old veteran of a mother, I can look back on the parenting days of yore and write an entire book with "No Regrets" worked somewhere into the subtitle.

Problem is ... I've already got regrets aplenty, and a good deal of the damage done is irreversible. I figure that realizing, internalizing, and then vocalizing my deficits as a mother would be best applied while using the catharsis of humor and self-deprecation as a coping mechanism. If anything, it'll be a good reference point for when I'm grandparenting, since we all know that grandparents are a little sadistically twisted in that they enjoy watching new parents stumble around blindly in the dark making loads of the same mistakes they once did. The offspring will be too proud to ask us for advice, and we'll be too amused to offer any kernels of wisdom. I plan on breaking this vicious cycle by just handing over the cliff notes and wishing them good luck while Grandpa and I are off on that Silver Couples Cruise boozing it up and dancing till dawn. Stuck at home with a screaming newborn? Sucks to be you, sweetheart - we've done our time. Call us when they can use utensils, defecate in a toilet, and dress themselves. Don't forget to study the notes we so kindly handed down to you, as it's a luxury we never had back in the day.

So far, the list of regrets is only about as long as my forearm, given a 20pt font and a lot of double spacing. I'll spare you most of them, as there are some motherly malfeasances that aren't worth owning up to, like accidently getting poo on the couch during a diaper change and just flipping the cushion after a hurried, perfunctory scrubbing. A multi-colored earth-hued sofa pattern encourages that kind of negligence, so I'm hardly to blame. What I'm focusing on are the biggies, and the regrets I've indexed thus far are mistakes actually worthy of remorse and repentance on my part:

Circumcision

I ask myself now - was mutilating my son's genitals really necessary? Had I bothered to do actual research prior to consenting to have the foreskin sliced off my son's penis, I probably definitely wouldn't have gone through with it. It certainly wasn't to comply with any indoctrinated religious beliefs on our parts, as we consider ourselves to be in the non-theism camp. There has been a great deal of skepticism on whether the health benefits (if any) necessitates surgery, which pretty much renders it completely cosmetic, in my book. Shame on me for going with the mainstream norm and allowing a 15,000-year old antiquated ritual be performed on my son without his permission. Shame on me for not giving such a major decision more consideration, and shame on the unsteady hand of the doctor who had to use silver nitrate to patch his poor little pecker up afterwards.

Breastfeeding                                    

I gave up both times, with all three of my children. I'd start out all gung-ho and determined, and then when it wouldn't flow like a faucet and work out so that every feeding was just perfect, I'd get frustrated and beat myself (and my boobs) up. I went back-and-forth until exclusive breastfeeding turned into supplemental feeding, and then I'd pump like crazy and wonder why the stream downgraded to a slow trickle. With my son, I just wasn't producing as much as I thought I should have been. Had I persevered harder, I'd have surely gotten over the hump. We had a great lactation consultant in the hospital, too. Once we got home, it slowly went south. With my twin daughters, I convinced myself that I had several factors already working against me. First was their requirement for extra calories, as preemies. NICU instructed me that if I were going to breastfeed, I'd need to supplement every other feeding with Neosure formula at least until they hit about 8 pounds. Going back and forth from bottle to boob was going to confuse them, I told myself. I'd have to either master doing tandem breastfeeding (not an easy task, but doable), or spend twice as long at feedings by doing just one at a time. My C-section recovery was awful, and I had a needy 10-month old competing for Mommy time. Once again, I threw my hands up. While I know that formula-fed infants don't necessarily perish, I know in my heart that if I'd just had more confidence, more patience, and more willpower - I could have been more successful, and my children would have benefited greatly from it.                                                     

Mealtimes
My son has been off the bottle for 7 months now and I hope to have my daughters off by New Year's Day. The transition was an easy one for my son - he pretty much abandoned the idea of the "ba-ba" soon after receiving his first brightly-colored sippy cup, and had shown interest in table food at a very young age. My failing here is that I can't quite commit to letting him feed himself actual food. Finger foods are fine - it's the actual entrees that I struggle with. I see pictures of my friend's kids sitting in their highchairs with spaghetti-o's covering every square inch of their tray, torsos and faces ... and I just can't bring myself to relinquish the utensils and let him use his hands, which is how it almost always ends up, regardless of the fact that he makes a decent effort to use his spoon or fork before growing bored with it and flinging it at me. I know that it's extremely rare for a person to reach adulthood (or even kindergarten) and still be spoonfed by their mothers. If they're hungry enough, self-feeding will come about naturally. With a little coaching, they'll master it eventually - but I am really dragging my feet on this one. The few times I've let him have a go at it, he delighted in making an earnest attempt at feeding himself, even though his clumsy little hands and his sense of exploration towards colors and textures had him (and the high chair, and the floor, and occasionally the walls) covered in food. My husband has gently scolded me for not letting him "just have at it", but I feel inside like I'm encouraging a lifetime of playing with his food. It's not that I'm lazy and trying to avoid the clean-up, but a small part of me feels like I'm giving him a license to make intentional messes. I'm still working on it, but I realize that had I started a lot earlier, we'd already have this behind us and he'd probably be able to use chopsticks by now.

Demoting the cat                            
Before you roll your eyes, let me assure you that this one is both relevant and nocuous. It took a long  time to realize it, too. We have a beautiful marbled black and orange Bengal cat named Morrison. He is docile, friendly and very un-catlike in his demeanor. I've joked to people how he isn't really a feline, but rather a lapdog, working undercover. He isn't snobbish and standoffish like most cats. He loves water and is very vocal and playful. His front claws have been removed, so he's not a danger to the kids or the furnishings. Like all Bengals, he's hypoallergenic - which is great, because I had him before I met my husband, who happens to be fiercely allergic to cats. His only major quirk is that although he's been neutered since kittenhood, he's very amorous and gets all Pepé Le Pew on blankets, stuffed animals, or pillows. This particular behavior became worse when I was pregnant with my son, and we believe it was the excess hormones I was emitting. Regardless, he was our child before we had kids. Since the kids arrived, he's become a second-class citizen and pretty much spends all his time out in our enclosed garage. While we didn't force that on him, I know it's because he stopped receiving all of our extra attention. We just didn't have the time to play with him or have him sit on our laps and stroke his fur while watching television. As a result, he's become more like a houseguest than a loving family pet, venturing inside only to drink running water out of our faucet (another quirk of his) or to give us an obligatory leg-rubbing with his arched back when he feels the need to thank us for his shabby accommodations. It's very important to me to raise our kids to be kind, loving, and compassionate to animals. This new homesteading arrangement for him made him skittish around the kids, and understandably so. My son has all the finesse of a bull in a china shop, and "petting" the kitty who wanders in every now and then isn't something he does with a lot of grace and subtlety. My kids look upon him as more of a novelty visitor than a household fixture, and this is entirely my fault. Networking him back into the family is going to take some time, and this is another item I've been dragging my feet on.

Personal Fitness                    

Prior to turning 40 and having three kids in under a two-year time span, I was one of those lucky women who could pretty much eat Cheetos and drink Coke for dinner, wash it down with some Skittles, and still fit into the same jeans I wore into high school with a very minimalist fitness regimen. After becoming pregnant with my son, I made more of a concerted effort to eat healthier foods and have more structured mealtimes. I gained quite a bit of weight while carrying him, but it just seemed to disappear as soon as I gave birth. The few pounds that refused to vanish troubled me, but my husband remarked that I "needed" it and that it made me look better. I went up one pant size for comfort, but was back in my regular jeans literally after the first month. I boasted about this, and I even admit to rubbing it in at every opportunity, to any woman who would listen. Karma came back around and bit me on that, and it bit me HARD. I had sashayed up to my OB/GYN six week postpartum check up in my tightest skinny jeans only to confirm that I was pregnant again. I was sure the stick test was lying, because 1) my boobs weren't tender, 2) I didn't cry at least six times before noon, and 3) my sex drive wasn't through the roof like it was when I first became pregnant with my son.  After giving birth to the twins just 8 months later, I had hanging around my midsection the phenomena known as Twin Skin. It just hung there like a deflated inner tube in all it's unsightliness as if to mock me for all the gloating I'd done before. Healing from a C-section scar renders your abdomen pretty useless for several weeks. Follow that up with a full hysterectomy just four months later, and you can imagine how intimidating the idea of a sit-up or a crunch must have been. I resolved to start working out vigorously as soon as my guts were healed up. 7 months later, and I've yet to do anything resembling an abdominal workout, unless you count bending over a crib or picking toys up and off the floor as a workout. Would you believe that the weight actually spread? To my ass? And thighs? And even my arms? It happened. The pre-pregnancy clothing that I fit into right after the birth of my son that I saved because I just KNEW I'd miraculously shrink again - let's just say it's made for a gross misuse of valuable real estate in my closet. I get depressed about it. I complain about it. And if I'd wipe the snack crumbs off my lap and put the Coke down, I might actually get around to working out. I already know this is going to be one of those things I'm going to have to start with a vengeance and commit to with all the willpower I have inside me. Right now, I'm too tired. The positive to be gleaned from this is that my husbands pajama pants and T-shirts are extremely comfortable.


While some of these regrets I've lamented on are absolutes that can never be rectified, I know that a little more self-discipline and resolve can fix the rest. I can get my body toned again, become a more attentive pet owner, and shrug off the messes that an 18-month old makes at the dinner table. Instead of complaining about there not being enough hours in the day, I can manage my time more effectively to be able to work in new routines and schedule new undertakings that would allow me to remove some of these items from the Regrets list to a crossed-off I Fixed This! list. Clearly, a whole new mindset is in order. But first, I must laugh at myself for being human, for being imperfect, and for failing at some endeavors. There is a fine line between harmful self-loathing and the ability to poke fun at one's own shortcomings. Some occasions in life mandate that you wreck yourself before you check yourself, and I believe that admitting my fallibilities is the first crucial step.

 

 

 

The Silliness Imperative

Three rules we hold steadfast to in our chaotic household is: stay busy, play together, and laugh often. While we appreciate the value of adhering to a routine and would probably all go collectively insane without one, we try our hardest to not let the routine suck the spontaneity out of our long days. Although my kids are too young at 18 and 10 months to follow a strict schedule outside of eating and napping, I've tried to keep some structure to our playtime so that the kids learn that some activities are a free-for-all, and others require cooperation and attentiveness on their parts. One thing I've noticed as my son hits toddlerhood is that kids are afflicted with uncontrollable bouts of silliness that they just can't - and shouldn't - hold in. I've also learned that a case of The Sillies are highly contagious, and I contract it often. I hope to never build up an immunity, as it breaks up the inevitable monotony and depression that a lot of SAHM's suffer from. It keeps me in a good, lighthearted mood that inevitably rubs off on Dad after a long, grueling day at the office.

My son is goofy by nature, a jester by trade, and delights in keeping us all in stitches with his daily antics. When I was pregnant with him, I fantasized about how we'd spend our day together: Reading classic children's stories by lamplight while he sat comfortably in my lap, mimicking each other with vocabulary exercises and singing sweet lullabies in a soothing tone while he played with my hair. I never visualized how it would actually turn out: Chasing him down the hallway when he gleefully and victoriously steals the book from my hands, making up new lyrics to classic lullabies that I sing in a ridiculously high falsetto while we dance around like lunatics, and how he enjoys not running his hands through my hair, but rather poking his little index finger into my corneas while showing off his anatomical prowess by saying "EYE!".

I fully realize that I'm cultivating future class clowns and armchair comedians, but I refuse to believe that this is a bad thing. There's plenty ... scratch that, there's too many opportunities in life to be serious, and I'm sure they'll be able to discern when they get older when acting silly and being funny is appropriate, and when it's not. For now, I just want their earliest childhood memories to be happy, fun and filled with laughter. Sometimes it's tricky to get them to calm down after an especially long afternoon of reckless folly, but my son seems to sleep better at night after exhausting his seemingly endless supply of energy by dancing around the living room acting a fool to an appreciative, familiar audience. He's actually quite shy around people he doesn't know, so I don't worry much about him going into spaz mode in public.

One thing my kids love is to look at photos of themselves, and I take at least a dozen pictures of them at play each day. They're so used to having the iPhone pointed at their faces that it doesn't seem to phase them, and that makes for some perfectly candid shots of them at their merriest. Even at my most disgruntled, in-a-funk moments, I can view these photos of the five of us having a jolly good time and it feels like the sun shines inside me. So while their happiness is my catharsis, I'm certain that Jovial Mommy is preferable to them than Serious Mommy, or Busy Mommy, or that dreaded old battle axe that no one can stand being in the same room with - Tired Mommy. Sometimes it's difficult to be "on" for your kids all the time. I find that mirroring their carefree, happy-go-lucky personas even when I'm moody and not particularly feeling it helps me be more of a kindred spirit to them, someone they can count on to not pull the wind out of their sails or pee on their parades. While conventional wisdom teaches us to be a parent first and a friend second, I don't see why the two can't be interchangeable, especially while they're toddlers. I know there will be a time when my silliness will be lost on them and probably embarrass them - as all kids inevitably grow up to be way too cool to enjoy hanging with the 'rents, so I'm going to suck every second of this up while I can.

My Facebook friends and family get kicks out of the photos I share of me, dad and the kids acting like morons, and it's a grand opportunity for me and the husband to let our hair down, forget that we're forty-somethings with our fair share of aches, pains and stress and abandon crummy adulthood by having fun with our kids. I think I take it farther than my husband does with the childish antics, as sometimes I forget to take my voice off of playful falsetto when we're swapping stories at the end of the day. Or we'll be in a serious discussion and I'll peekaboo him, just for the hell of it. Once we stole away to the farthest reaches of our boudoir for some of that fifteen-minutes-of-bliss parents of toddlers live for, and we both ended up getting the giggles over the ridiculous sing-song music still blaring from our television because we forgot to change the channel. It might have killed the moment for us as far as savage, wonton lovemaking went - but simultaneously being afflicted with a case of the uncontrollable giggles is right up there next to the big "O", in our opinion. Both leaves us sweaty, out of breath, and deeply fulfilled on an intimate level. Quality time, that!

A couple of months ago we sat in the living room with the twins on our laps and our son zipping in and out between us, and an opportunity presented itself for us to make a game out of fashioning burp rags to our daughter's heads just for laughs. What started out as a silly game turned into what is now a standing tradition. We immediately uploaded it to Facebook with the title being:

Baby Thespians Theatre Presents: Mother Teresa, Aunt Jemima, Bad-Ass Biker Babe & The Surgeon

It was such fun, and our friends and family enjoyed it so much, that we constantly look for household props to adorn the kids with for silly photos. I know for a fact that these photos will land in their school yearbooks, their wedding videos, and will haunt them for the rest of their lives. This, we're counting on. At the very least, I know we will be able to wallpaper the walls of our retirement home with them when our kids disown us for making spectacles of them at such a tender young age.

 

If you were to stoop outside our windows with your ear pressed to the panes, you'd likely hear me singing ridiculous songs that I made up on the fly just because my kids love to hear me sing, and - dare I say - I'm rather good at it, as long as it's not a serious performance. I have many songs I remember from childhood, like the good old mainstays Itsy Bitsy Spider, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and The Wheels on the Bus - and my kids love these songs, don't get me wrong - but after about the 15th time you've belted it out with the accompanying hand motions - it gets really old. Have you ever noticed that a lot of the antiquated Nursery Rhymes are actually very sinister and macabre? London Bridge collapsing, the baby plummeting to it's demise from the treetops due to that breaking bough, kids voluntarily falling down into ashes with pockets full of ... what?! They're just not the feelgood vibe I'm shooting for, so I tend to avoid those like the plague, which ironically is what children in the dark ages kept pockets of posies to ward off. Instead, I've bastardized my own versions of childhood songs to either fit the moment, the activity, and sometimes just for the hell of it. Some of mom's twisted lyrics go as follows:

(Sung to the tune of Farmer in the Dell, this is a song my son has enjoyed at each diaper change ever since he was a newborn, to present day)

 

 

Powder on my nuts!

Powder on my nuts!

Momma's gonna put some .... powder-on-my-nuts!

 

 

(This next one was adapted from the nursery rhyme titled Peas Porridge Hot, and it is reserved for those inexplicably, eye-watering, nose-pinching dirty diaper changes that would otherwise be a miserable, much-loathed undertaking*)

 

 

Poo Diaper Hot!

Poo Diaper Cold!

Poo Diaper on your butt, nine days old!

Some like it hot!

Some like it cold!

Some like it on their butts, nine days old!

 

 

*can also be adapted to a pee diaper, but I've become such a pro at removing/wiping/changing those that we're barely afforded the time and luxury of a serenade.

 

I don't kid myself into thinking that I wouldn't be committed by court order if a sane person heard me belt out these ridiculous tunes, but ask me if I care! I most assuredly do not. The kids dig it, I dig it, and as long as we're all enjoying ourselves, I'll fight rehabilitation from my personal brand of crazy tooth and nail. Of course, I don't manipulate ALL lyrics to ALL the songs we sing. There's also all the theme songs and jingles from their favorite shows on BabyFirstTV, and those can't be modified or amended, else the kids will know. They have memorized those song lyrics, and they know if you try to cut it short, or forget the lyrics. You can bet that they'll call you out on it in one hot, quick minute if you dare try to alter it. Because they know. Be warned.

 

As a relatively new parent, I naively swan-dived into the rock-your-child-to-sleep trap that other parenting n00bs fall victim to before they realize it sets a very cumbersome ritual that is hell to break from. As a newborn, my son got that luxury. With the twins, we knew better than to ever go there. During our practice run with my son, I put many, many miles on that glider rocker while trying to lull him to sleep on the swell of my pregnant belly with my fat, water-retaining crankles propped up on the ottoman to help balance the weight, since my legs would usually fall asleep before my son would. I only knew a handful of nursery rhyme songs at the time, so after the first fifteen minutes, I'd run out of material. But I improvised, and my son's ears were christened with just about every genre of MY favorite music - from Ray Charles to Nirvana to Metallica and the Foo Fighters. My husband didn't think it was weird at all that I slowed down Master of Puppets a few dozen beats to accommodate a sleepy child. Nor did he think it was odd to hear me singing the sanguine or angst-filled lyrics by a dead rockstar who no longer topped the charts. For the longest time, the 5-disk CD changer in my Jeep held only one CD that was a medley of Elvis Christmas Tunes that my sweet husband burned for me one winter. If my son remembers one thing about me, I hope it's that his mother could impersonate Elvis like a pro. We spent nearly every one of those first car rides straight into the spring and summer with that CD on full blast, singing about Blue Christmases.

 

My husband and I made a promise to one another that we'd never pimp our kids out on YouTube, no matter how great the content, but for Facebook friends and family, we'd share in our daughter's favorite game of wearing bloomers on their head. My husband and I aren't above wearing them, either. Don't judge. They were inarguably enjoying themselves, and that is apparent by their big grins and sparkly eyes:

 

 

 

Our son is, always has been, and always will be a big giant ham, and he revels in dressing up in anything other than actual clothes, and it's ALWAYS better to ride around the house on your trike with a monkey hanging from the steering column:

 

 

 

There is absolutely nothing my kids enjoy more than when Dad gets down on the floor with them and serves as their personal climbing structure. My husband no doubt curses the decision to replace our soft, plush carpet with hardwood floors, but hey - you live, you learn. Don't be fooled, though - creaky knees be damned, I'm sure this activity ranks right up there for him with the Superbowl, E3, and riding the Harley Davidson he so selflessly sold to help supplement funds when we decided I was going to quit my job to be a stay-at-home Mom. In my book, there is nothing sexier than an ex-biker romping on the floor with his kids:

 

 

We hope that when our kids are older, they won't be too traumatized by the amount of photos we took of them in precarious positions, wearing silly outfits, with ridiculous looks on their faces that just SCREAMED to be captioned. Who can resist photographing your twin daughter's first bikinis? Not us. We hope they never struggle with weight issues and blame this photo on their predicament. It's just that chubby babies are awesome, the more rolls, the merrier, and so on and so forth:

 

 

 

I'm sure we're not in the minority when it comes to parents being silly with their kids. I would venture a guess that kids bring out the silliness in most everyone they influence, because after all - who can resist making a child laugh and seeing their eyes light up? My view is that at the end of the day, if the housework, laundry, mess-sweeping, spill-blotting, booger-picking, butt-wiping blues have been cancelled out by the great fun you had with your children, then I call it a win/win for all parties involved. I pity the children whose parents greedily dole out laughs on an occasional-only basis, and I weep for those parents who are so stingy with their time due to their own personal agendas that they miss out on the delightful gratification of entertaining their kids while the kids are still young enough to worship them as not only their main provider and benefactor, but also their bestest friends.