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.