Frumptastic!

I think it happens to all women at some point, particularly if they've gotten into some kind of lifestyle rut:

-a long term relationship (you know, the kind where you stop going out and start ordering pizzas and going to Blockbuster and you kid yourself because you're just SO comfortable being with him on your couch in sweats),

-working long hours and being so exhausted that the idea of putting on makeup is unattractive because you know that about 12 hours later, you'll just need to take it off again,

-you're a newlywed and you've gotten your bling and your thing and quite frankly, it's time to put the darn fishing pole away

-you're a mom and you've been home for awhile. THIS would be me.

We spend many holidays with my husband's family at their farm in New Hampshire. It's a place like no other....beautiful views of Mt. Chocura, a 13 acre apple orchard, farm animals to delight kids of all ages, amazing home-cooked food and the crispest air you've ever breathed. It's a place where you can leave your hair down, literally and figuratively. I don't pack a hairdryer, I don't pack my makeup....just my floss, toothbrush and maybe some moisturizer to slap on as I'm getting myself ready for the day.

When I was working, it was wonderful to get comfy in my sweats, pull up a ponytail, and take a break from the beautification drudgery of my Monday through Friday gig. Now, though, I've been home for almost 8 months. No more daily makeup. No hair styling. No matching my outfit. In the first few post-partum months, it was a coup to change out of flannel pajama bottoms and into maternity sweat pants before 1pm. I always took my showers (10 minutes minimum with water hot enough to potentially burn skin...that's how I like 'em!), brushed my teeth and wore my moisturizer (I'm now listening to my mother's sage skin advice, I've never seen a blemish on that woman's face), but other than that, there was no fancifying my look.

So, up in New Hampshire this past holiday, I was surrounded by family. One of the women there is a mom also and her son is about 3. Her hair was done.....her makeup looked great. She had a cute outfit and fun furry boots. She looked fantastic.

I took a look at myself in the mirror before we sat down to eat. Maternity sweatpants, with stains. Maternity t-shirt, with stains (appropriately placed too in the one area-ok, two areas, you really want stains, hair in a 1994 hair comby-clip, no makeup, Sasquatch brows. And the Pièce de résistance.....the non-skid socks from the hospital that I got when I had my second baby.

I knew I was in trouble. I had slipped. I realized that I had become. Frumpy. Frumpilicious. Olli Olli Oxen Frump. On a gadda da Frumpa. Frumpelievable.

I'm trying my best to turn this sinking ship around. I had a quick and dirty plucking session. I have filed my nails. I've banished my maternity wear to my workout wear-drawer, and thanks to a gift from my Dad...I've gone shopping. I didn't go crazy because I'm hoping to be down another size in the next few months, but I did get some fun stuff. Wanna see?

My first choice could still be deemed Frumpulous, but they're NOT. I swear. Yes, they're clogs, but they're save your black clogs. Look good with black or brown clogs. And some beautiful cashmere-blend sweaters from my favorite store. Oh, and two things for the kids.

So, it was all about a Mommy Makeover when I went shopping this weekend. Feel-good Mommy. Look-good Mommy. I'm going to take off my long sleeve gray t-shirt and kittycat pajama bottoms before 12 noon, Mommy.

So, thank you to CHRIS...my pretty Mommy inspiration. I'm turning down the ponytail holder and going for the cool headband. I'm throwing on some concealer just for the hell of it. I'm choosing my fun new shoes over my tattered slippers. And, although I'd love to dive in with facials and maybe a pedicure every few months, I'll hang here for a bit in the stratosphere between Frumpy and Fabulous.

Patrol

Warning: this may gross you out.

I hear that all parents have an experience like the one I had today. The moment when we're installing a carseat in our minivan, wiping rice cereal off of a ceiling, or attempting to negotiate with a toddler and it hits us: we're parents, and our carefree life is gone. Forever.

Necessary disclaimer: I love my life and husband and children and wouldn't change any bit of it.

Today was promising in that I was going to actually cross things off of my 'to-do' list. Tidy bathroom, check. Organize coupons, check. Wrap most of Christmas gifts, check. After one baby went down for a nap, my toddler roused herself out of a solid two and a half hour snooze and I went in to assess the situation and ready her for lunch.

The smell hit me before I could open the door.

Aaah, yes. The nap-crap. Nothing like pooping in your sleep, I guess. Everything just...relaxes. So, in I go. I notice a suspect bulge in her sleeper (a brand spanking new one, of course!) and the reality of what had occured hit me like a brick.

'Good afternoon, Peanut. Did you....um....take your diaper off?'

Nods affirmatively.

'Oh....okay. Let's see how we....okay.'

'Poop!'

'Yes, honey. Poop. You sure did. Wow, it's actually in the foot of your sleeper. Wow. Wow!'

'Wow!'

I ponder: do I just drop her in the tub or attempt to remove offending material on changing table first? I decide to take her to the changing table to assess the damage.

There is a lot of damage. Hard to look at damage. Can't breathe through my nose damage. How the hell am I supposed to make a dent in this, damage. I think I just saw a raisin, damage.

After the initial cleanup efforts, I take said toddler into the tub. It ain't pretty in here, either. I suddenly foresee some Comet scrub and elbow grease in my very near future. Aforementioned toddler is pissed about having to stand in the shower, and especially dislikes my 'Silkwood-esque' scrubbing of her torso. Amidst my showering of praise, 'You are doing SUCH a good job while Mommy cleans you, good girl being so patient' I realize that I'll need to eventually pick up and clean the sleeper that I tossed immediatley into the toilet (yes! that WAS my best option).

And so that is when I had my moment; I'm really not in Kansas anymore and there MAY be shit on my elbow.

In truth, the whole operation probably only lasted 20 minutes. The memories, however, will last a lifetime. And later, when loading the dryer with the twice-washed garments, I saw it.

A raisin.

Back

I have this thing where I don't want to sound like a broken record, or a hypochondriac...or both. So I try and not talk about it when I'm in pain, physically. But I haven't been able to hold back lately, it's just too hard and it just hurts too damn much. I've been inflicted what millions of people suffer through, at varying intensitites, every single day. I have a bad friggin' back.

It's the little things, really. Sitting on the can. Laughing. Picking up one the kiddos. Sneezing makes me almost cry. Rolling over in bed? Knives. Sitting. Sitting! I can't even sit. A three hour drive to New Hampshire had me sweating bullets until I rememberd that I had some Percocet left over from the c-section...hollah! Back pain? What back pain? Who's waving at me from the woods and why does he have on a green Dr. Seuss hat and how come I feel like kind of throwing up?

So, after 5 weeks of chiropractic adjustments and an MRI scheduled for next week, I'm actually feeling better. But the worst part of all of it was the fear. Am I going to feel like this forever? Is this my life from now on? Will my only form of exercise be walking? Will I be able to use my beautiful new elliptical machine gathering dust in my living room? Will I be one of 'those people'? You know, the one who is known for her back pain. Will it be what I talk about because the pain is such a part of my life that it feels weird not to? Will I purposely avoid talking about it because I don't want to bore people but secretly wish people knew really REALLY how much it fucked up my life?

So, I'm trying to chill out a little bit. I'm trying to relax and remember to take inventory of how healthy I really am. To appreciate how good and strong and able I am. To remember that I've had two children in two years and that my body is amazing. To be aware of it more often instead of lashing out all the time about my no good back and my extra baby weight and my hormonal acne and all the other crap that I complain about (at least to myself). Maybe that's why my body sends me these messages. Knock it off, appreciate what you have. You have a lot more than others do. Go take a walk.

And be grateful.

Hair

I know. Hair? What the hell. It just so happens to be a thing in my life right now. Hair. Gobs and gobs of it. In my shower drain. On every piece of flooring in my home. On all of my clothing. In my toddler's fingertips as she holds it up to me and says...'ditty'. In my infants mouth. In every broom pan I sweep into, there it is. I'm really not sure if it's hormonal or the normal changing of the follicle or whatever, but it's really starting to get annoying. I realized just yesterday, that hair has always been a real pain in the neck.

It's true. I have 'good hair' in the sense that it's thick and there is lots and lots of it (all thanks to genetics), and I've had some great hair cuts in my lifetime. But I don't know if I've had a really fair relationship with hair; I always seems a bit pissed about it. A bad cut, a spot of dry scalp, the way it falls out of my ponytail when I'm starting to exercise, so much that I really must stop and re-pony. The bang or no-bang discussion, or when banging, a snip too short which makes me look like I'm 8, or the quasi-bang, when you SPECIFICALLY ask for no-bangs (i.e., don't frigging touch them please) and they end up getting trimmed to JUST the length where they aren't really bangs, but they won't fit in the ponytail. This of course results in ridiculous overuse of the hair clip, whether it's the cute kind with the little butterfly or the Goody brown ones that held your head together on prom night.

I have a hairdresser whom I 'love' in that she's done my hair for years. She KNOWS my hair, you know? She knows to tread lightly on the bangs and that I need some help in the body department (i.e., I need layers and lots of thinning out). BUT, each and every time I get a snip, I go home aggravated. And I stay aggravated for about 3 days until I get over myself, over my hair, and back on to things that really matter (but I dare you to find a woman who says that the bang/no bang decision is one to be taken lightly). My husband is perpetually perplexed.

"Why don't you go to someone else? You always seem to not like your hair."

"Well, I could....but Margaret totally knows my hair. And she gives me a great deal." (this I toss out to end the conversation because he's a penurious fellow).

"I know but it just seems that you never like your hair when you come home. I mean I think it looks great, but maybe it's time to find a new stylist." Note: he did NOT, would not, would not EVER use the term stylist. I'm adding this as my own embellishment because I fear the word 'haircutter' would kill the overall gestalt of the conversation.

And here is where it gets funny.

"I know, but I just feel kind of bad, you know, going to someone else."

YES! It's the truth. I don't want to cheat on Margaret. I don't want her to see me in 6 months and realize that I've been with someone else. She'll know, too. They always know!

"You have some new layers in here. I thought we were just growing it out..."

"Um...yeah. I, um...got a trim. Because I was in New Hampshire. And it was really shaggy and it was in my face and everything." And the haircutters came out of the deep dark woods, threw a black sheet over my head and clipped me against my will. I'm not sure why I needed to toss New Hampshire in the mix, but maybe she won't be as hurt then. When I really got it cut in the next town over.

"Huh."
And then you know what comes next.
"Wow, they really did a number on your hair."
Dammit! It's bad enough that you feel like crap for cheating, now they have to rub it in your face that your hair is now a hot mess and that really, they'll need to do some serious 'reshaping' to save it.

And so it goes. After you apologize and baaaah like a sheep for 20 minutes, it's all back to normal. No, sorry...after you apologize, baaah like a sheep and spend $42 on a guilt purchase of a new shampoo and conditioner, it's all back to normal.

After a few days, when your hair starts to feel like it's yours again, you fall back into the routine. You figure out how to work with it, what to put in it, and most importantly, where the ponytail sits. Just right.

WORK

Work has taken on a whole new meaning for me lately. I've made the transition, you see, between working in the workplace to working IN the home. I love that phrase, 'I work in the home' versus 'I work outside the home'.

I'm not sure which frustrated woman started this, but if I could thank her I would. I remember hearing this phrase a lifetime ago, and I must admit I probably chuckled a little bit. 'Oh here we go, this woman doesn't want ANYONE to dare think she's not working hard so she has to use that friggin' phrase. God forbid someone doesn't give her credit for changing diapers and washing dishes.'

I'm really sorry. I was 23. I couldn't help it.

So, I have a whole new appreciation for the phrase now. Because it IS work. Lordy lordy, is it ever. I've never multi-tasked like this. I've never balanced and managed quite like this. And I've never been so friggin' tired. Ever. My husband, bless his heart, knows how hard it is. Or at least he pretends to know. He even says, 'I have it easy, going to work everyday. It's like a vacation compared to what you do here all day long.' See? So smart. I don't even care if he's buttering me up. I don't even care if he's saying to ensure that he'll get some lovin' now and again. I really don't. I just like hearing it.

I actually thought about my OLD workday, as a school teacher. Rigorous, absolutely. Days included working in classrooms, small group instruction, departmental meetings, team meetings, administrative meetings, after school meetings, writing education plans, collaboration with other teachers, lunch duty, cafeteria duty, bus duty, parent meetings, and progress report writing. I'm forgetting many things, I'm sure, but that's ballpark. It was work, but it was fun! I got to work with great children and great adults, and my day was peppered with many laughs and many opportunities to go potty on my own, have a snack when I wanted, and strolls down the hall to think about my next step, my next meeting, my after-school plans.

Here's how it went today: 2:30 am, nurse the baby, bottle feed to top her off. 5:30 am, ditto. 8:30 (I know, it seems super late but I'll take sleep in pretty much any form these days) the whole house is awake, and diaper duty starts. Breakfast prepared for toddler with finicky desires and Celiac Disease (started out as gluten free cocoa krispies with soy milk, quickly de-escalated to a Hebrew National hotdog and sauteed potatoes and broccoli from the night before), I eat (shovel) and baby gets her favorite boob/bottle combo. Pack small diaper bag for 'Mother Goose is on the Loose' story hour, planning for toddler snacks, bottles for infant, water for me. Manage hungry toddler through aforementioned story hour (especially when she has full-bodied tantrum because I dare put her snack away so she can bang on the drum, or wave the scarf or pretend to be a monkey), manage further another child who is obsessed with the buckle of my youngest daughter's seat, apologize to other mothers because I have snacks and they don't and their kids want some, and then pile children back into car. And that's all before 11:30. I'll stop there. You get the picture.

Don't misunderstand; it's the best job I've ever had. Highest job satisfaction rate I can imagine. Bonus hugs aplenty. And then perks I could never have envisioned before, like riding back from a story hour and seeing that my two girls are looking at each other and smiling, the oldest one reaching over to her baby sister.

So yes, I miss the hustle and bustle of work life, and the different identity it gave me. But this? I wouldn't miss this for the world, and I'm lucky I don't have to.

Torque

Many of you know my family spent some time at Children's last week while our daughter was being evaluated. She was diagnosed, thankfully, with Celiac Disease, an intolerance to gluten. With a proper gluten-free diet, her intestines will heal and she will lead a normal life. We are beyond grateful that a diet change is the only course of action we need. We know how lucky we are, especially after spending even a few moments in the lobby.

I went for a follow-up visit this week, to see a nutritionist. I rolled into the parking lot 20 minutes early, knowing that with stroller set-up and pedestrian walking greens, I would be to my appointment right on time. I have a double stroller, natch, because I have two small children. I love this stroller, if you can love a stroller. Check it out here. Well, upon set-up, I realized that with all of my walks with the girls, the top part of the handle had come unscrewed. The screw was there, and I knew that a few quick twists with one of those thingy dingy Phillips head would do the trick. Would I have that in the car? Yes, I would. Why? Because my stepfather Frank, makes it a point to scare the hell out of us and force us into having an emergency kit. I have to admit, we've laughed a few times at the Rubbermaid tub in my trunk, filled with flares, spark plugs, anti-freeze, oil, a poncho (you know, in case it's wet or you have to pee on a boat) and yes, a small tool kit.

I knew I had no chance hefting around a 23 pound toddler and a growing infant in her car seat WITH a diaper bag (filled to the brim with two sets of diaper sizes, clothing 'just in case' and 97 snacks for my fussy and now gluten-free toddler) and my purse. I was a few minutes late due to my last minute stroller-project, but I was thrilled I didn't have to reschedule.

This reminded me of my driver's ed days. Frank was always even keeled and even toned in our driving time together. "Regulate your speed." "Turn on your high beams." "Turn off your high beams." "Jen, turn off your high beams." and on and on. He likened driving a standard to having the proper amount of, you guessed it, torque. (I'm still not sure to this day what it means.) So, despite my eye-rolling (not me!), huffing and puffing, and arguing about your 'good intentions', I know I'll eat a little crow on this one, and I don't mind a bit.

Does crow have gluten?

Poop

Poop. It's the new black. It starts of course when you're a new parent and you analyze every single diaper to ensure that you're giving your baby enough milk (or formula or a hybrid). Did she do two poops today? Check. Did she wet 10 diapers today? Check. Sigh. Okay, we're not starving her...fabulous. You then start to shove your face into your baby's shorts with wild abandon...no shame at all. If you can't tell, you'll peek. It's all part of becoming a parent, and poopspeak becomes part of your everyday vernacular. Example:

"Hey baby...how's the day going so far?"

"It's good. She went down for about 45 minutes and ate like a banshee when she got up."

"Cool. How are her poops?"

"Well, the first one was like a rocket. I had to do the laundry and give her a bath because it was up her back and in the folds of her neck. Smelled kinda sweet though. The second one was like a huge lump...really stinky. It took like 3 wipes to clean that up....it was stuck to her bum, must have been her formula poop."

"Good, good. What do you want for dinner?"

And so it goes. You can easily differentiate those who know poop and those that only know their own poop. If they get a wiff of your kid, their nose looks scrunched up and you can tell they're offended and horrified and wish the hell you'd just clean it up, and fast. I will say, for the record, that this very idea was squashed when my singleton New Yorker friend not only woke up with my toddler (I was sleeping with the newborn), but cleaned her VERY poopy morning bum. And you know how those can be. Fragrant and mushy. Niiiiice. (Thanks Kathryn).

So lately, our oldest has a bit of a thing. She's been sick, you see, and although she's on the mend, it's been all about her poop. We talk about her poop ad naseum, and for good reason. It's really all about the texture. Too much liquid means she could be getting dehydrated. Too little liquid and I feel the need to trick her into drinking Pedialyte. It's an interesting twist on pillow talk.

"How many poops today? I mean, I got three so were there any more?"

"Yeah, she had that doozy after dinner. Remember? We had to give her a bath right away. We had to do two rinses."

"Oh right. It's funny...she made that face at the dinner table...you know, her face got all red and her eyes watered. She was holding on to her little booster seat, I think her knuckles were white."

"Haaaa. So, eh....you look pretty nice tonight..."

Or something like that.

I know this is temporary. But the poopspeak will continue, I mean..we have potty training right around the corner! I can imagine after that, too, we'll keep talking about it. "Did you do a poop in the potty?", and the like.

So for now I'll stay in the moment, and enjoy my times with my girls on the changing table...making funny faces and singing poopy songs. Before I know it, they'll be wearing big girl underpants and wanting time alone in the bathroom.

Hold on...I smell something.

Networked

I have so much to say. It's been an interesting month, and thankfully the computer is back and hooked up. Sadly, I've lost all private documents and all the personal pictures that I didn't upload to a photo sharing site. Don't even get me started because I've cried too much about that already. Thankfully, I've burned them into my brain, my heart. And, although I'd love to dash something more substantial off into cyberspace, there are dueling Red Sox and Patriot's games on...and hubby needs help with his outfit for tomorrow. So the broken computer was a blessing and a curse. Write about life, but get off the computer to have one.

Safe

I don't trust people. It's not that I don't trust my family or good friends, you know. Just other people. I was raised in a home that was locked at night, as my husband would say, 'tighter than a cow's ass at fly-time'. We did NOT leave our door open/unlocked when we went out, and we certainly locked our cars at night. I grew up, mind you, in an incredibly safe area of Cape Cod. Leaving your cars and homes unlocked at night was the norm for our neighbors. My stepfather, a Marine, did not believe in this as it invited trouble into your home. To this day, I don't open my door up if someone knocks unless I'm expecting company. I know, too paranoid, you may say. But, too many 48 Hours and 20/20 Mystery shows have me convinced; it's just better to be safe and paranoid than sorry and regretful.

So, on the way home from a NH trip this week, I could feel my car sputtering. The sputter you feel when you know the car has had some shady gasoline (no wonder it was less than $2.90 a gallon!) or perhaps because we had cranked the AC for about 4 hours. Whatever the case, I knew there was a problem and put on my big girl shorts to get the hell off the expressway as fast as I could without crying or freaking out. With two babies in the back in the middle of rush hour traffic, that was no small feat.

We pulled off at Bryant Ave, near Quincy. But, I was in a tricky spot because I still had an on-ramp coming up behind me and anxious commuters zooming towards us. My husband waved people off and I had on my hazards, and after a few frantic minutes, we were able to get the car going and get me onto a residential street. So there we sat and pondered; what do we do? A tow truck won't have the room for car seats, our friends are all commuting home, and our parents are too far away to be of immediate assistance. The police couldn't escort us (we asked) and I certainly wasn't going back on the expressway. I didn't know a back road, either. So, we sat still and weighed our options.

Someone drives up, asks us if we are okay. My immediate reaction was fear, not relief. I gave my hubby the 'look', and he jumped in, saying we were fine, help was on the way. This guy didn't really buy it, he mentioned something about letting us wait at his house, with his wife. I felt myself getting more and more anxious. And a bottle of wine. Oh dear lord he's going to chop all of us into pieces. And his kids were at camp. Crap crap crap. He's a stalker or a hopeful swinger and we needed to think fast on our feet. He got out of the car. Little guy, hubby could have handled him. I ran a few scenarios through my head. Had my hand on the cell phone, windows up 75% and doors locked. It sounds crazy, doesn't it? I sound insane.

And then he mentioned a back road that would take us to Randolph. He'd lead us there. Randolph? I know my way home from there. And so, he did. Turns out, he was just a nice guy that saw a couple and probably could relate to car troubles at 8pm on a Thursday evening. He wasn't trying to liquor us up or hurt our kids, he was just trying to be a nice guy, another fellow parent who was looking forward to a night with his wife, with the kids away at camp.

He was a Southie boy, born and raised, and he lived in Quincy. Went out of his way for us, restored our faith. For a minute anyway. So, although it stinks that fear is my first reflex-emotion, it's okay. I'll stay vigilant. And paranoid, and I'll let experiences like that surprise me, instead of just assuming they'll always be like that. And yes, Mom, I'll expect you to speak to me about this, as you read this with your fingers white-knuckled at the computer. (Because I guess you always do worry about those babies in the backseat, dontcha?)

Boyfriend

Yes, I have one. It's the most twisted relationship I've ever been in, and that's saying something. We've been on and off again for years, and I just can't seem to shake him. Half the time I want to write 'I love ______ 4eva' on my notebooks and my jeans, the other half of the time I want to kick him in the nuts as hard as I can. When it's good, it's so good. I can talk about him all the time and delight in his tricks and witty comebacks. I can tell my friends how great things are and how I can't believe I ever strayed. But when it's bad, I want to trash him all night long over a bottle of wine and a bag of tostitos.

My boyfriend, you see, is Weight Watchers.

I've counted more points than I care to admit, and I can probably quote food points to you in my sleep. I can tell you what a core food is and isn't, and can tell you that you can have two slices of light wheat bread for one point, and four slices for three. I've been on the roller coaster of the plan and I've enthused over laughing cow cheese spread (1 point per triangle), egg beaters (1 point for a half-cup), wasa bread (points vary per type), and everything in between. I've also sat through ridonculous meetings where newbies marveled over these food discoveries like they were the lost ark, and have seemed utterly befuddled by the powers of Balsamic Vinegar.

"I tried this awesome recipe, it's balsamic vinegar over strawberries. It's incredible."

(this is a recipe?)

"Really? What do you do with the balsamic vinegar?"

You pour it on your feet and then mash the strawberries before picking the pieces out of your toes and deciding not to eat it, thereby resulting in weight loss.

"You, like..marinate the strawberries in the vinegar, but only a few tablespoons and for only like 30 minutes."

"What kind of balsamic vinegar? Is there a special flavor?"

"No, just regular balsamic vinegar."

"Where can I find balsamic vinegar?"

I swear I'm not making one bit of this up.

In the vinegar section. Next to the other vinegars for the love of God.

"Oh, I haven't seen it before."

...and on and on it goes. And each week I try to declare my love for WW, pushing through my bratty feelings of self-pity. See, he's the best boyfriend for me. He's got my best interest at heart, and when I'm a good girlfriend, things go really well. But there are moments when I'm out with friends and wish, too, to dive into the bucket of guacamole and into the pool of margaritas, without thinking about it. Without tracking it in my head or doing geeksquad calculations to see if I have room, points.

But here's what I've realized over the many (many) years of attending meetings and paying someone to weigh me: it's really hard to do Weight Watchers. It's really hard to count and track and be constantly aware and vigilant. BUT, it's much harder, for me.....to be overweight. To constantly pull and push and tug at clothing so that I feel it fits me right. To strategically camoflauge parts of my body with articles of clothing. To only buy handbags and shoes when I go shopping because they are a sure thing. They will fit.

So despite all my kvetching, I'll go back to him. I'll tape his picture to my locker and I'll remember that with all of his flaws, being with him is much better than being without.

Graduate

I've been flying high lately. Two healthy babies, a good strong marriage, great friends and a summer of get togethers and warm evenings on my back deck. Yesterday I attended a graduation party for a good friend's sister. Family and friends flanked the sideyard, catching up on old times and congratulating the new grad. Kids jumped in the large inflated 'jumpy' and sported that red and sweaty face of childhood. Our friend's husband (okay, he's our friend too, check out his awesome music site, so talented) played tunes for the crowd and the whole afternoon just drifted by like those nights on our back deck, smooth and effortless. Well, not effortless I guess. We have a toddler who loved running around, and an infant who took naps between feedings. Our hands were full but we didn't even notice it, we had such a good time. At one point in the afternoon, my hubby took the 17 month old for a walk around the yard and the grad took my baby to snuggle. She's one of those people that you can give a baby to and trust her completely...she loves babies and she KNOWS babies. So I sat alone for a minute, under that crowded tent. And I watched. I watched my husband dancing with my toddler and the smile on her face that showed every tooth, even the ones not in yet. I watched our friend's sister show off my baby and keep her close to her chest, marveling at her little eyelashes just like a mommy would. And that's when it hit me.

I didn't miss out.

After a long, failed relationship, I drifted for awhile. I sat and watched my good friends enjoy the life I thought I was headed toward; healthy marriages and the blessing of children. I was sincere in my happiness for them. I was elated when I heard of engagements and pregnancies. There was no bitterness in my heart. But I was sad too, because I wanted to have those moments, and I was afraid that maybe I wouldn't. I'm always so grateful for the people in my life. It isn't lost on me. But it occurred to me yesterday that I was not on the sidelines, cheering for those around me. I was on the field, I was running. I was in the game.

I graduated too, I guess.

Tag

Apparently tagging is something that bloggers do. Being tagged means that someone has listed your blog on their blog and that others (who normally wouldn't) can view it. I've been tagged by Ruth, see the link for her blog below (she's a fantastic writer and I'm not just saying that). So, I've been tagged and asked to write 8 things that few would know about me, so here she goes:
1) I'm a southpaw and I defend my left handedness vigorously. I won't try and make my kiddos righties. I like that I'm a leftie and I think all that 'lefties die sooner' is a bunch of hooey. I just wish there were more notebooks for lefties so I didn't always have spiral marks all the way down my arm after writing. I'm just saying.
2) I really really really wanted to be a performer of some kind. Like a lounge singer who belted out Billie Holiday tunes or some sort of Edie Brickell/Liz Phair-ish singer who wailed on her guitar and made people in the audience say, 'Wow, that white girl can sing the blues and she's gnarly with the slide' or something like that. I'd then pepper some funnies in between songs, perhaps. I have two beautiful guitars and have started and stopped lessons so many times. When the babies are older, I keep telling myself...
3) I hate talking politics. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm not sure if it's because I feel like I'm not up to date enough or if it's because I feel like it's a personal thing...like religion or where people stand on the pro-choice or pro-life issue. My parents always voted and they made it a huge priority, and they would discuss any ballot issue or any other political issue with me. But who they voted for was personal and their private decision. I always thought that was interesting and kind of cool....like it was theirs, and they didn't have to share that part of themselves. Their bidness.
4) I used to be really funny about bathroom privacy. Like don't even walk past the bathroom and talk to me kind of weird. Don't ask me what I want to drink with dinner, 'I'll be out in a moment'. Don't tell me about some cool mail that just came in for me, 'I'll be out in a moment'. Don't tell me that my phone is ringing, 'I'll be out in a moment'. It used to crack my husband up, where I would get so ticked about it. I remember in my grandparents house there was a hard and fast rule....don't even WALK through the hallway unless you were going to the loo. It's about privacy, for goodness sake. Then I had kids, and it all flew out the window. I have no more moments, and I'm constantly on the watch for my toddler shaking the Excedrin bottle or putting my husband's shaving cream cap in her mouth. But I don't get irked anymore, it's just one of those things of my life as a singleton that I've kissed bye-bye to.

Eight things are a lot, I concur RD.

5) I have funky toenails. One big toenail that I swear to God I am having lasered off as soon as I'm done nursing. Take it right the hell off, blast the root o' podiatrist. It gets ingrown (time and time and time again) and I've had it removed (like with horrible, evil clippers that I think have horns and laugh at me and are far worse than some of the gadgets at the OB) a few times and the darn thing just won't die. The last time I had it 'trimmed down' I was pregnant with #2 and was nursing the first one, so the doc couldn't give me anything other than some 'cold shots' of air for the pain. He may as well have blown on it, because those shots didn't do a damn thing. It was ugly. He KISSED my toe when it was over, no joke. And said, 'I can't believe you let me do that to you'. Yes, he really said that.
6) A jellyfish stung my naughty bits. Summer of 1985, Ocean City Maryland. The place where sweet childhood memories were born, including a boardwalk that was a festival of lights and fried dough and thick cut french fries with peanut oil (I'll get to my food thing some other time). You could ride a wave with no boogie board, surfboard nonsense. Just body wave. I would be up to my armpit's in water, see a wave cresting and 30 seconds later have a mouthful of sand at the shoreline. It was fantastic and exhilirating and more fun than I can ever describe here. The kind of fun you have when you're not thinking about it, when it's just what 11 year olds do...they do and they don't think. A blessing and a curse there, I say. Anyway, there were some issues with jellyfish that summer, and I remember feeling something funny on the inside of my suit, on my left torso. I reached in and felt it, and it wormed it's way out. Down. And out. Yep, my cash and prizes, all stung. If that ain't a bitch, I don't know what is. I remember lying down spread-eagle on a bed with some sort of balm or salve or spray on it. Then I was afraid to go into the water. See? I got scared, so I stopped doing. Blessing and a curse.
7) I freak OUT around anything that can sting me (which I imagine could be rooted to the above sitch). I don't mean kind of scared or a little bothered, I mean I grab my hair and I run and dart and do all the things you should NEVER do when confronted with a stinging insect. It's totally embarassing, and I only hope that I'll knock it off when I remember that my little ones watch me and will undoubtedly follow suit. Did I mention that I got stung once on my privacy?
8) I'm a makeup artist. It's a bit of a shameless plug, too (do you know anyone getting married, going to prom? I give good face...) but I'll run with it. I started about 10 years ago, just putzing around and it's become a little business. I love it. Maybe it's that creative part of me that I didn't pursue with #2 somehow eeking it's way out?
Okay, phew. Here are some sites that I'm tagging, please check them out.
Ruth's blog, Weight loss/funny women blog, Funny chick blog, Drop the fork blog, similarly-named blog, and funny scrapbooking pal blog.

Smack

Good lord, I love coffee. I love pushing the on button of my coffeemaker. I love hearing the sound of it percolating or whatever it's doing. I love that first pour, knowing really the first cup is the best. The second will be okay, but it's the runner-up always to that first taste. I even love watching the cream swirl around in it followed by the twist of my spoon.

I've tried too many times to stop, but I just can't. It's not even the caffeine, so don't worry about shaking hands or DT's. I have been caffeine free for the most part for over two years now. Back to back babies and nursing will do that. I'm not even sure what the lure of it is, but it's been there for about 15 years. I remember drinking coffee in high school, but I'm not sure if that was an attempt at being a grown up or some other half-assed, poorly thought-out diet attempt.

I came back to it when I first started teaching, but it was more about the culture then the cup. Every morning while working in downtown Boston (tales from teaching there is a blog/book/movie in itself!), the teachers would hurry across Stuart Street to the Au Bon Pain in the Park Plaza Hotel. I loved all of it. The seductive aroma of the coffee, the air a bit thick from the freshly-baked scones, the French that the employees spoke to one another, but mostly the newly found camaraderie. We were teachers, we were sleep-deprived, but we were young and ready to hit the classrooms, a cup of brew in tow. The lines for joe and danish hadn't started yet because we were there so darn early, so it was a quick in and out....a rich French roast with a splash of cream and I was rarin' to go.

My idea of a good road trip is a full car and a Dunkin' Donuts decaf hazelnut with milk and one Splenda. Sunday mornings are all about The Boston Globe and a hot mug. Having company always includes making a fresh pot. And sometimes, like this morning, when I'm up before the rest of the brood, I have a few zen minutes by myself. To make some notes, to organize some coupons, to write here...all with my first cup du jour.

Do I need to stop? Nah. Not today anyway. I'll tap the vein for as long as I have filters in the cupboard and cream in the fridge.

LINGO

Context, some say, is everything. Take the language of your childhood home, for example. I'm always interested in hearing how things or events get their names in homes, especially those with children. I had a stuffed dog named 'Footsie' that I slept with for many a year. I loved this dog and showed it through the gradual gnawing of all of his facial features. What's funny is that this dog never had feet nor did he see (but that was probably b/c I ripped his eyes out with my teeth when I was 6). So, why the name 'Footsie'? I have no idea, but it was completely appropriate within the confines of my house (my girl is holding Footsie in the pic and is surrounded by Footsie II and Footsie III who were purchased when my kids were born, thanks Beth!).

In our house we have the Easter Monkey. A blue, satiny Easter Monkey. We all know who he is and the magical sleep-inducing powers he has over our toddler. But who on the 'outside' would know what the heck an Easter Monkey is? Truth told, we named him this because he's a monkey, natch, that was given to our daughter on Easter. That's it, no secret, no fancy lineage of ancient Easter Monkeys of the past. We also have the 'nappy noo-noo' which of course stands for 'nap'. I'm not sure about this one, it just kind of happened. But in someone else's house it could be 'sleepy sleep' (my mom likes this one) or 'snoozy time' or 'resties' or something of the like.

Maybe today we'll put our girl to bed for her nappy noo-noo with Easter Monkey and her new favorite friend, my old ratty Footsie.

Splash

Today was one of those incredibly warm days. Suffocating to some, exhilirating to others. The kind when you walk outside and your shoulders are already cringing from the sunshine, your freckles rallying for position. I loved basking in it, but there was no time for that. I had a mission; get the pool filled before the babies woke up. That way it would be like bathwater by the time my toddler and I ventured in.

I filled 'er up and went back in to the cool shade of the kitchen, only to hear that she was awake and calling for me. She isn't one to ponder in her crib after a nap; she wants out and she wants out fast. So, off we went to do the perfunctory bum change and book read. She was thrilled to hear that the pool was filled up, and pointed to the outside window so that I certainly, absolutely, knew that she was interested.

In the pool we both went, sunscreen slathered on and hats affixed. It was, of course, much cooler because the sun hadn't had the time to do it's thing. But, we pushed on and in. Both my husband and I have introduced splashing to her, and she seems a bit unsure...you can almost read her mind: 'This feels kind of naughty, am I supposed to be doing this?'. For me, I want her to splash like crazy. Even in the tub. What fun is a splashless bath or romp in the pool? I don't want her to be the overly-sensitive kid at the pool party that can't handle a good splashing and needs to get out of the pool because she's ticked off. Then embarassed that she made such a fuss. I remember those moments, whether it was me or something I saw, I don't recall. But it left a taste in my mouth that some buggy pool water and the sound of her giggles, will surely wash away.

After New Hampshire....

I seem to be a bit calmer after a trip up North. Maybe it's the crisp air or the lush trees. Perhaps it's the calm of a three hour drive with my husband (and two sleeping babies...hurrah!) and lots of conversation. We don't do that as much anymore...can you imagine three hours to talk about 'stuff'? Three hours to hash out the weekly plan, to laugh about the stuff your kids did, to hold hands a little too.

Let's not forget the singing, though. That IPOD car adapter was a fine gift indeed....I do call my husband BBC for Bar Before Curtis. He gets so excited (or doesn't know musical timing, not sure which) that he belts out the lyric about 3-4 beats before he 'should'. It used to aggravate me, especially with a favorite song. But not yesterday. It was cute, with him singing and babies sleeping and windows down.

Thanks, New Hampshire.....