The Reward Junkie

Goldenrod flanks the roads, candy corn lines grocery shelves, and Boss has skipped through the doors of his first classroom. Fall has arrived.

It took a few steps to get here, though. Summer's big project was potty training, and we were off to a great start two weeks in with pooh in the pot and all. But soon after, Boss had mastered the task and decided to resign. For two long weeks. Been there, done that, got all the stickers he needed, thank you very much.

And the parents? Well, we fretted since preschool lurked sternly around the corner and toilet talent was a must. So we did what most parents (we assured ourselves) would do in our shoes: stepped up the enticements. Good-bye yogurt raisins and stickers; hello toys!

Oh, who's kidding who—along with loads of toys (hand-me-downs for the most part), we still bestowed the stickers and treats, not to mention our wacky dance of praise, making even Elaine Benes look good. We were a little desperate.

Happily, it worked. We offered Boss several more-than-you-should-probably-get toys for pee and poo in the pot, and we got payoff. In fact, he started camping out in the bathroom to earn as many rewards as possible. One day he pooped FIVE times in ONE hour, pushing out baby Tootsie Roll poops, each time demanding a “wonderful surprise.” I was afraid veins would burst with all the grunting. Plus,we were zipping through the pile of Shake 'n Go race cars faster than diarrhea flies through small intestine. (Yes, I did need that nasty visual to make my point.) Our trash bag full of loot was quickly diminishing. We were creating a reward monster!

Our thoughts quickly turned to dollar store crap, I mean treats, to replenish the stash. Then Hot Wheels. Now, a month or two later, we've whittled it down to a fruit treat for pee (if he remembers to ask), and a candy corn/pumpkin for number 2. We've effectively traded good toileting for rotting teeth. I'm not proud.

But all said, I shouldn't complain because we're off to preschool with potty prowess and big boy underpants. We haven't addressed wiping yet (Shhh, don't tell the teacher)—that's up next. That, and keeping the trousers, shoes and socks on while using the loo. For some reason, Boss likes a naked lower half when on the hopper.

For now, I guess the motivations (ha, bribes!) will continue as he whips the finer points of potty time—and other life skills. The definition of “now,” by the way, is “years.” Guess we'll be parking a Pod in the driveway for all the rewards. Wait, that's worse than that diarrhea image. Nooooooooo!

Seriously, though, as Boss learns new abilities, we're learning as well. Mainly, we're reminding ourselves that WE are in control, not Boss, and that removing privileges is as good a motivator as toys.

Hell, it's better! No trip to the junk store, and no batteries required.

Toilet Training Goes to Hell in a Storage Basket

After two great weeks of potty training, somehow, somewhere, something shifted and all has gone to ... pot? I wish. Nothing is going to pot right now, except the towel Boss has thrown in it, and an occasional matchbox car or Lincoln Log (haha, yes a little irony).

I don't know what happened. The sticker chart was bursting with smiling trains, construction rigs and hot rods. The raisin treats were chomped with fervor. And when Boss went number 1 or 2, we all clapped and hooted like drunks at a square dance. In fact, we had four poops on the potty in the first two weeks. We were jubilant; perhaps even smug, since going 2 is notoriously more challenging than 1. Then little by little, the pee stream dried up and the poop plopped only in the pants. Sigh.

Maybe the turd factor is to blame, who knows. Instead of Boss's “normal” mudslides, potty training quickly turned his scat into those firm brown torpedoes most people have. It was a welcome change, but a result of him withholding a movement for a day. (A tradeoff I was willing to live with.) Then, when he had to go, he'd crouch over like Igor, scrunch his brow in concentration, and run circles around the family room like a dog bedding down for the night. It was video-worthy, but I was too busy sweating about the impending poop to film it. (Plus, me use the video camera? Hahahaha!) 

I considered chasing him around with the potty, but that may have pressured him just a little. A few times we headed outside when poop was imminent, and decorated our beautiful new pavers with “pine cones.” I'm sure that's what the mailman thought they were anyway.

Soon after poop in the pot ceased, the pee ended, too. Were pull-ups to blame? Maybe they contributed, but when I switched back to big boy pants (what we started with), the pee streamed out again and again, down his leg and onto the carpet. Then he began withholding that as well, demanding to go to his “big-boy bed” where he knew he'd nap with a diaper. Oh he's a sly one, that Boss. 

Now nap times are dangerously close to ending since he holds his pee AND poop until hitting the hay, and who wants to sleep on a wet dung heap? The boy has standards, you know.

I'm doing my best to swallow all signs of frustration as we figure out what to do next—and not to do. One expert says it could be a privacy thing and to move the potty to the bathroom. Another says let him pee his pants, but make sure he does it next to or in the potty and then helps to clean up and put fresh underwear on. I'm looking for another who says take a break. But truthfully, while I relish that thought, I also want to forge on and get him going (ahem) before preschool starts.

The countdown to mid-September continues, as does Boss's resistance ... Now what was that about no pressure?!

(Little disclaimer: Boss didn't really poop in that basket, thank God. Can you imagine?!)

Potty on! When crap is good.

I'll admit I had lots of excuses for putting off potty training with Boss. None of them were any good, mind you, except maybe one: His poop is like a mud puddle. Mushy, wet, messy, and a lovely shade of UPS brown. Would you want that splatting all over the rug? No thanks!

Truthfully, though, I guess it was fear that kept me from loading up on training pants, carpet cleaner and stickers. Not fear of poop-smeared walls and furniture, but fear of the unknown.

What I did know was:

1. You watch for the readiness signs, like developmental maturity (check), dry diapers for a few hours at a time (check), and interest in using the hopper (check). Heck, Boss outright asked to use the potty a month ago when we were vacationing with friends and their boys, but my chicken-self pretended it was a ploy to avoid bedtime. Sigh.
2. You buy the gear—a potty or seat attachment, the treats, the big-boy pants/pull-ups.
3. Well, 3 is where I got stuck. Now what? There was no universal method of learning to pee and poop, and I didn't know what direction to take with all the options out there. So I circled back to nowhere over and over.

Finally, I realized we were getting dangerously close to starting preschool, where potty proficiency is a must. Plus, I was feeling like a doofus for announcing to friends and family over and over that I was diving in, only to take no action. So Hubbo and I got serious. He had read about—and liked—the Boot Camp approach in which you train your tot in one day or weekend. I responded with a “Pfffffft,” a loud snort and a dismissive hair flip. But I had no ideas of my own to offer. How was I supposed to know which strategy was best?! I just wanted a detailed list of what to do, preferably in bullet points—and it didn't exist!

Eventually, I did what my cheap self didn't want to do: I bought a book. It at least narrowed things down to two choices: the Boot Camp plan and going at it slow and steady. With Boss's third birthday recently behind us, and him being (possibly more than) ready, I was starting to like the crazy camp idea.

As part of our prep, we watched videos with Boss, which he viewed with hands over his eyes—not exactly fueling our confidence. We also reintroduced his potty book, dusted of his Elmo toilet that we bought about a year ago, got a Baby Alive doll that makes turds and tinklies, crafted a sticker chart, and bought Cars books for big victories like pooping. The night before the Big Weekend, we reviewed key points, gave Boss a pep talk, drank some wine and hit the hay.

The next day, Hubbo and I got up, ignored the elephant in the room that was our plan, and made pancakes instead. We confessed that the Boot Camp method seemed … a little out of our reach, being that Boss had never even pulled his pants down by himself. We lowered our goals and decided to still try it but with a slightly relaxed outlook. Instead of Boot Camp, we went a little more cushy—maybe a Sandal Camp or Bootie Hike. We'd allow the TV and radio on a few times during the day, for instance, and bend other rules as needed. We also didn't bank on success by Sunday, but rather a strong foundation of toileting to hopefully get us on a fast track.

A little later, Baby Alive gave her demo, and soon we commenced with big boy pants, Raisinets on the ready, a Cars and Thomas the Tank Engine sticker stash, and sitting (on the pot) and waiting. We did the Boot method on Saturday and Sunday, and on Monday we switched to pull-ups and semi-regular (vs. constant) reminders to use the potty. Here's how it went down:

Day 1: Peeing in the pot while Boss was in enforced-sit mode.

Day 2: More of the above, plus pulling his pants up and down on his own.

Day 3: Peeing without prompting. A poop trail on the floor.

Day 4. A poop without prompting! Another poop on the floor.

Day 5: More peeing without prompting, no poop.

Day 6: TBA

We're thrilled with the progress, but have also learned that human feces is much more difficult to scrub off carpeting than cat doodie. Which reminds me: Training pants leak!!! At least they did for Boss and his mud pies.

We also realized that Boss gets really jazzed with positive feedback, and the best motivator for him seems to be clapping, jumping up and down, and yelling “Hip, hip, hooray!” Even Stinker gets into it and screeches his happy face off to cheer on big brother. The stickers, books and treats help, too, but it's great to see how much he thrives on our praise.

While I still have fears about what's next, like running errands with a tot in training and figuring out when to do the stand-up routine (look out Cheerios!), I'm gaining confidence in … well, going with the flow. I still wouldn't mind bullet points. But each success for Boss feels like one for me, too.

Raisinet? Don't mind if I do.

Love Me Some Summer

Mosquitoes. Sunburn. Hairy backs. The AC-infused electric bill. Sure, summer has a dark side. But no one's perfect. Even Johnny Depp gets morning stink breath that could wilt your morning glories in a single exhale.

The truth is, summer is THE season to celebrate much like Mr. Depp is ... oh, never mind. I'm talking about summer! How can you argue with all of that daylight? Cannonballs in the pool? Those colorful perennials? Hummingbirds! Butterflies! The ice cream man! Plastic baby pools as cheap as Happy Meals!

Yeah, I know car seats in July feel like mobile skillets, and summer grass can brown faster than a bowl of guacamole. But admit it, hot buns cool fast, and that gauc is still delicious. Summer is just a love.

Here are 15 reasons you should mop your brow, pucker up and give June-July-August a big, sweaty smooch.

Summer's Sweet 15

1. Unless you're a vampire, there's no such thing as cabin fever in summer.
2. Going anywhere is easier with tots. No mittens, hats or shoes (for baby) to get on. No Michelin Man parkas that turn car seat buckling into a wrestling match. Just get in the car and go, go, GO!
3. Al fresco dining.
4. Smashing puddles and dancing in the rain without freezing your piggies off. Goes for your kids, too.
5. Throwing a blanket down in the backyard at night and doing some star-gazing. (Yep, that's what they're calling it these days.)
6. It's light out when you rise and shine, and it's light out after dinner for an evening chase about the block.
7. Fresh tomatoes, peaches, strawberries, watermelon, corn on the cob. And that's just appetizers.
8. Cul de sac happy hours with cool neighbors. 
9. Clothes are cheaper. It's the law: Tank tops cannot cost as much as a hand-knit sweater. (Bathing suits, however, are exempt from this logic.)
10. The magic of lightning bugs.
11. The hose. No more carting Stinker or Boss to the tub with mud-caked arms or sand-filled bottoms.
12. Pedicures in boot season are harder to justify.
13. Popsicles and ice cream cones (outside, of course). Hit #11 if needed.
14. Potty training is much easier in the Great Outdoors.
15. Buying a Slip 'n Slide for an adult party.

Frito Dogs and 13 Other Summer Bummers

Don't get me wrong—summer is my favorite season.* I love fresh air, extra daylight, beefsteak tomatoes off the vine, the smell of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass, my blue hydrangea, the great stink bug retreat out of my house into the Great Outdoors. But summer has a few pests, as well. A tiny swarm of gnats, if you will. Nothing some DEET and a frozen poolside margarita can't take care of, though. So, spray your body, salt that rim and read on unafraid!

(Well, maybe just a little afraid.)

14 Summer Stinkers

1. Must the debut of the greatest season of the year bear the name of a certain vaginal cleanser? C'mon now. We can do better.
2. When Popsicle juice meets sand/dirt/clothes. Boss looked like True Blood's Bill after his wild berry ice treat today--blood-covered and dangerous (but not nearly as smoldering).
3. An average of three outfits a day for Boss (see above). Laundry is for losers, I keep telling myself. That mountain of T-shirts and shorts? It's better than leaves for human dive bombing.
4. The screaming bunny clawing a chalkboard in the yard at midnight during a cat fight. What?? Oh wait. I mean the sound of a @#&@*#&@! fox below our window looking to score. Get a room, Red. We've got a nice shed out back. See FatAss, the resident groundhog underneath, for keys.
5. Freckles … that move? Much worse. Deer ticks!
6. Turning my flailing-arm, bug-be-gone moves into a silly dance so as not to feed Boss's fear of insects. Video clips strictly forbidden.
7. Humidity hair. Or, Richard Simmons meets Cher. Hell, just Richard Simmons without a trim.
8. Later bed times for the kids. I blame it on extra sunlight. It's not because I'm a spineless Wimp or anything like that. Especially not when Boss pleads, “One more Thomas!” baring dimples while poking the air with his Lincoln Log-sized finger.
9. Outdoor chores—pool duty, weed hell, fountain scrubbing, shrub trimming, flower watering, curse-word bellowing. Your choice: A clean inside or a clean outside. I don't go both ways.
10. Fear of neighbors hearing me shriek at the kids when the windows are open. Just kidding. I'd NEVER do that. That's the crazy lady down the street, making a jackhole of herself. Nooooho-ho-ha-ha-ha. Never moi, silly!**
11. The neighbor's cats plucking our screen door, clamoring for vittles. Dudes, the restaurant is CLOSED! No more mooching from momster! (See #8. Wimpy left the premises.)
12. Sweat. It's my body crying.
13. Swimsuit shopping with new stretch marks. Thank you polyhydramnios! You should be pleased with your award for most fluid ever when Stinker was in utero. My ob/gyns were floored. And the floor in my delivery room—soaked.
14. Corn chip feet. Pass the dip, people! As in, dip those dogs in some bubble bath! Unless you want hungry cats, randy foxes and a chubby little groundhog licking your toes.

*Next up: what to love about sumsum.

**Psssst, Fox! We'll call it even. No charge for the shed.

Stay-at-home vs. working moms—still a battle or just a crappy sandwich?

The debate between working and stay-at-home moms seems to have gone the way of cloth diapers vs. disposables. It still exists, but diplomacy has (thankfully) quelled the attacks, throwing sand on the fire instead of in each other's eyes—at least when no one is looking. I'm no fool to think it's gone completely, mostly for two reasons—the grass is-always-greener factor and that pesky thing called our insecurity.

As a stay-at-home mom who once worked while Stinker and Boss were in day care, I've seen both sides of the picket fence. As expected, each has pros and cons, with new information popping up regularly to validate or worry moms like me. Recently, for instance, I read that children in day care are significantly less likely to fall behind in language development than stay-at-home kids, thanks to more socializing with peers. Day care kids also get sick more often, but the trade-off is a more robust immune system once they're skipping off to the school bus.

Happily, I've seen enough information on the benefits of working with or without a paycheck (i.e., employed vs. at home with tots) to not fret much one way or the other. And often, there's no choice in the matter. Some stay-at-home moms who want to work can't find a job in this economy to save their sanity. Others would give their right ovary to chuck the briefcase out of the minivan and be home with the kids.

I did once think the latter was the dream life and, don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled to have this chance to bond more with the boys after the Big Layoff—especially after struggling to have kids for six crazy years. But as I posted on Facebook today for 3 minutes before deleting my whine: “Some days are hell, with no pretty little hand basket in sight.” It was nothing too out-of-the ordinary, either: Boss left the screen door open and the cat escaped, then he frolicked in a stagnant fountain, ingesting brackish water and delicious mosquito eggs. Next, he mastered the gate latch in the yard, practiced the general art of fits and defiance, and tormented Stinker A LOT—causing Stinker to shriek A LOT. Oh, and also, I ate four doughnuts.

I wished I was back in the office editing articles about radiology equipment and hunting down docs too busy saving lives to get their promised submissions in by deadline. (I mean really.)

But truth be told, while life with a 1- and 2-year-old can be exasperating, life at work was challenging, too, with a mile-long to-do list, never-ending stress and 4 a.m. insomnia routinely knocking on my pillow. Yep, both pastures have their dandelions—no surprise there.

The thing that does surprise me a little is when people tell me, now that I'm unemployed, that being home is better. Not saying it is or isn't (again, pros and cons), but wouldn't they be a tad embarrassed if I went back to work tomorrow? It's like telling a ditched spouse that she's better off without her husband, only to see them smooching in the driveway a month later. (Foot and egg sandwich, anyone?) I learned that lesson in 7^th grade, when boyfriends lasted four days on average, and circles of friends all dated each other.

Honestly, though, most people mean well. Of course, some are just chomping on that sandwich, oblivious to the egg and toenails decorating their beards and eyebrows. But hey, no worries—that's why we have mirrors and napkins. And more importantly, a sense of humor. Because toenails in eyebrows? All you can do is laugh.

Penis Envy and Playing Favorites

I'm not sure whether it's a blessing or a curse to be the favorite parent. Oh wait—sure I do; the correct answer is curse. To which I add: “Bahahahahaha!” That's the prize of being loved best, Hubbo!

I don't let it hurt my ego (much) that my husband has been Boss' favorite since almost the beginning. At least I had the edge during my maternity leave when Boss and I were home all day together for three months, taking walks, nuzzling and becoming bosom buddies, so to speak. In fact, I may have kept the lead even longer since I nursed for eight months. And let's not forget pumping, whipping out the udders twice a day at my desk, e-mailing single-handed while holding those cozy plastic funnels in place. True, Boss didn't know about that, although I did my best to tell him via a few loud nursery songs and stick figure diagrams.

Anyway, whatever status I had as tops faded fast when I got pregnant with Stinker. The fertility docs banned me from picking Boss up for three long months, and told me to limit heavy lifting until Stinker arrived. While I threw in extra cuddles and only cheated as needed (which was a lot; I mean c'mon—not pick up my kid?), Hubbo ramped up his parenting duty. He was already very hands-on, and Boss lapped up the added dad time like an eager little puppy. I didn't sulk or pout—any more than any normal stressed-out, bloated pregnant lady would have. Ahem.

Once Stinker joined our family, I was nursing again and, well, Hubbo and Boss may as well have been immersed in poker games, Fantasy Football and testicle scratching with all the male bonding going on. But for each sliver of my envy, I was a thousand times more grateful. After giving birth, it was a rough stretch with Stinker—he was losing weight, crying nonstop, and the effects of his shoulder dystocia (he got stuck coming out) weren't clear. Without dad, I would have tripped over my own toenails and limped back to the hospital to check MYSELF in. On purpose!

That's the back story. The current story is: During the weekdays, Boss, Stinker and I enjoy our own brand of bonding—blowing bubbles, playing tug-o-towel, reading books, licking sandy Popsicles, enduring time-outs, grocery shopping, finding a “venture” outside the house, and searching for other fun stuff to fill our time. Life is like a lollipop—wonderfully sweet (candy in mouth), and only rarely a sticky mess (candy in hair).

Then come nights and weekends when it's DAD time! Because DADDY's home. Marcia! Marcia! Marcia! I mean, DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!

I say that with a grin, though, as it also means break time for momster! Who cares if Boss's first words every SINGLE morning are: “Where's Daddy?” I get to snicker at Hubbo when I try putting “Bob the Builder” on, and Boss yells, “No, DADDY have ma-mote!” Or I try pushing the stroller, and he shouts: “DADDY do it!” During dinner, it's Hubbo's “yap” he wants to sit on, not mine. (Tee hee hee.) And tonight when I tried horning in on tuck-in time, I got blasted out of the room with some mattress kicking and a, “Noooo, DADDY tickle back!”

Oh, fine, fine, fine, my sweet little nutball. I'll take the extra “me” time quite happily. Because when I hear you inadvertently call Hubbo “Mommy,” which happens to be about three or more times a day, I know where I really stand.

Ramen Noodles in My Veins

I've been known to be frugal at times—OK, downright cheap. During my first job after college, I commuted to Philly from Delaware and parked for free in the middle of Broad Street, about 15 blocks from work. I don't know if it was legal, but I figured if BMWs and Mercedes were taking the risk, then I could wedge my old dented Honda in, too. Mr. Car and I survived just fine, although when it started getting dark at 5 in December, hauling A through the sketchy areas of the city wasn't for me. Plus, brr!

Soon afterward I found another parking steal—Enoch's Garage for $40 a month. It was an odd place run by Father Divine followers. I remember a sign on the wall listing various rules, including, “No excessive talking with people of the opposite sex.” It was good while it lasted, but still a hike to my office, and the garage closed at 11 p.m. One time I arrived just after “curfew” and the doors were locked. Thankfully, someone was there to let me in, but it was too risky for happy hours. Plus, I didn't want my tires slashed if they caught me flirting.

During that job, I remember making peanut shells after taxes—I don't know how I survived. Oh yeah, my cheapness! I'd sneak a brown bag out to restaurants so I could order a side salad and still be social. Or, I'd get a $3 pint (boss gave the nod) and $2.75 cheese fries at The Irish Pub. A fulfilling lunch and kind to the wallet.

You could possibly credit (blame?) college for polishing my penny-pinching skills. Like many resourceful students, I survived just fine on the traditional menu of mac n' cheese, hot dogs, The Beast, an occasional pantry raid from home and, of course, the acclaimed Ramen noodles--getting my lifetime supply of sodium in just five lunches.

But the truth is, I was thrifty long before dorm life and all-nighters. As a tween, my grandma would treat us to a fancy dinner every year when she was up for the holidays. All I could think was, “How about cash instead of this overpriced chicken? I could eat Salisbury steak at home with Gilligan and the Skipper, and score $20 for a new Aigner belt.”

To this day, I still spend as much time ogling menu prices as I do the fare. I don't know how I got this way. Maybe it's so I could save on the little stuff to buy something expensive once in a while.

Since I was laid off in November, I've been embracing my frugality even more. But it's a challenge, especially when you hit the grocery store for muffins and spend $100. Who put all that crap in my cart anyway? Those damn grocery gnomes get you every time!

As much as I try to ignore the allure of catalogs and ads for things I'll never need like designer toilet paper holders, it's tough when you like to shop. It's a conflict I'm working on. In high school, I listed the following quote in the yearbook as my fave: “What's money for if you don't spend it?” Yet, the other day I pored through five cookbooks in search of a muffin recipe so I wouldn't have to fork over $5 at the market. (As you can see from the above, that didn't work out.)

More recently, in efforts to be budget-savvy, I've started wondering if all this scrimping really matters. So what if we croak with less money under the mattress? As long as we don't swim in debt, how about I pay to have the mulch blasted around the yard, rather than lug the wheelbarrow to and fro for hours and hours?

Something in me resists, though. Right now, I'm painting the basement, a few strokes at a time when my mom is up to watch the kids. Yesterday, I stuffed my pockets with coupons for groceries, and earlier this week I bolted straight to the sale rack at the shoe store. Sixty bucks for toddler sneakers? I don't think so.

Meanwhile, I'm fantasizing about wallpaper for the stairwell, new bar stools, a bistro set for the deck, new tile—the list is as long as ... well, the ways that I am cheap.

Me Time, Gourmet Meals and Other Myths of Motherhood

A lot of how I pictured stay-at-home motherhood is spot on. I spend tons of time with the kids, do more chores than a monkey flings dung, and am much less stressed than I have been in years. But even more of how I imagined being Henrietta Homemaker is way off the mark—for better and worse.

Myth 1: I'd have more “me” time. Ha! In my “child-free” years, I remember when a good pal of mine traded in her dress flats for flip-flops after having a baby. I asked her about nap times and she said the baby slept two hours in the morning and one more in the afternoon. “So, three hours of spare time!” I concluded, trying not to purse my lips in envy. “Nice!”

That's right; guffaw goes here. There is no “free time.”

While technically nap times are spent alone (at least for me), it's incredibly hard to grab a book and cozy up on the couch unless you have a live-in maid, on-call handyman, personal chef and and part-time back-scratcher. I've actually been jealous of Caillou's mom for pleasure reading—and she's a CARTOON character! In another episode she lies down because she has a cold—slacker!

Honestly, even the most Type B momma would have trouble soaking in bubbles or painting her toenails during every snooze-fest if she wanted to get anything done—even the most mundane things like fetching the mail, eating a sandwich or using the hopper. Little tasks add up, and the next thing you know the great time-suck machine has swooped down from the sky and vacuumed an hour away with an evil roar. Before you can tighten your ponytail and wipe crumbs off your lips, baby is clamoring for some luvin.

In my case, the kids' nap time (if they have one together) is often spent on still-mundane-but-a-step-above-crapping things like unloading the dishwasher, stuffing laundry in drawers, calling a tree service guy (or other home repairman to haul away money one pillowcase full at a time), paying bills, emptying the trash/cat litter/recycle can and exciting stuff like that. Glamorous, I know. Am I complaining? No. Spoken like a true elf: I love chores. Chores are my favorite!

But, really, let's not be a martyr. I make time for blogging (thank you, television), get exercise in during walks, check e-mails and Facebook when I can, see a friend now and then, and most of all, I'm eternally grateful to have this time with my stinky, adorable, demanding, amazing little honey buns.

And don't hate me for this: I also have an ANGEL of a mom who comes up once a week, driving an hour each way, to watch the boys while I do whatever I want. So yep, I need to shut it.

Myth 2: I'd cook home-made feasts all the time, complete with garnishes and candlelight. (Bahahaha!) But you know what? Mashing Play-doh or hitting the park with the boys is more important to me than candying walnuts and zesting limes for a kick-ass recipe. Once in awhile, yes, but a ball of pizza dough with a few toppings goes a long way. Pasta, too. Also: bag o' salad is king! Add some grape tomatoes, Newman's dressing and it's yum-easy-cheap-nutritious!

Now that the weather is nice, I wouldn't mind eating on the deck a few times a week (month, even), but don't let me get carried away. One fantasy at a time.

Myth 3: Everything would be easier (than it actually is). In my naive little mind, I pictured motherhood like life in Pleasantville before knowledge knocked on the door and colored the town red, black and blue. Everything was peaceful, fun and easy-going, and then BAM! Paint explodes all over the walls, the streets, the cat, my muffins.

With two little ones, it's impossible to avoid tantrums, sudden tears at 2 a.m., and big brother sitting on little brother's head now and then. It's gross getting poop under your nails when checking a diaper. It's hard to haul both kids off to an early doc appointment and arrive on time. It's tough getting enough sleep.

So, easy? No, not really. Frustrating? On occasion. But worth it?

Does the diaper pail stink like rotten eggs and vomit? Is a giggling baby not the best sound on earth? Is an unsolicited toddler hug even better than coffee?

Well, that last one is a tie, but you get where I'm going.

It's the trip of a lifetime.

A Mother's Day Roll in the Grass

The other day, Boss was trying out his new finger paints, which are colorless until smeared on special paper. He dipped his fingers in the containers, then wiped them around into a beautiful (IMHO) pastel blob. As he watched the colors take form, he exclaimed in a Tinkerbell voice: “It's just like magic!”

Any Grinch's heart would have grown three sizes that day—I know mine did.

As I'm writing this blog, Boss is practicing more cuteness. He's at his train table, scooting little engines around in a precious world of make-believe.

“Guys, what're you doin' down dere?” he asks the choo-choos, playing on the once-complicated track reduced to scattered bridges and stations with a sweep of his arm. “Percy and Rosie, go back to work,” he orders, muttering something about an 'an-mal' shelter. “BUST MYYYYYY BUFFERS!”

Next, he's singing the Thomas the Tank Engine song in da's and dum's. Then: “Stop dat Toby, you can't come wif me!” accompanied by a derailment and some good old-fashioned train smashing.

Ahhhh, these are the days, just like that Natalie Merchant song. The sun is bright, a breeze is tickling the wind chimes, birds are chirping, my son is adorable, we had reasonably good grocery store outing--and I'm not even going to say it won't last.

I'm grateful to be a mother on days like these, but who am I kidding? I'm grateful to be a mom any day. After six years of infertility fun to finally hatch Boss in 2008, that's one of many lessons I vowed to remember. Throughout that time, I also remember thinking that if I ever had a baby, I'd never (or seldom) complain about being a mom--that somehow I wasn't even allowed to groan after wanting it so bad for so long. 

Those notions lasted about two hours into delivery. Boss was 2 feet long and nearly 10 lbs.; I could only take so much.

I confess that for a while I was indignant about breeders who complained about their kids. “How DARE they whine about being tired?!” I'd scoff. “They should be KISSING the ground that baby crawls on! FRENCH kissing!”

I remember once shopping at a clothing store in a failed-IVF stupor when a frazzled mom was gathering items near me. She was trying to navigate a double stroller while holding clothes and keeping her kids from fondling a display of sunglasses and jewelry. I don't know who was grumpier—her or me. We both needed a box of kittens or a stiff drink.

A little while later when she was behind me in the check-out line, she ran out of patience, slapped her items on the counter and took off. I was ready for her to screech, “Thanks for letting me go first, jerk! Couldn't you see that my hands were full with these kids, and I was about ready to explode?!”

To which I was ready to shout back, “At least you HAVE kids, so shut your cake hole, and be grateful, you beeeeeeoooooocccchhhhh!”

I'm not proud to say that I had regular conversations like that with myself during the hard years. I even got to muttering under my breath, a dangerous habit. At least I didn't run down any grumps at the grocery store with my cart. Well, OK, I did that once. But only once, and I did apologize for my “accident.” Poor lady, her Kotex pad was probably yanking her pubes. Or, I dunno, maybe she just blew $8,000 on a botched IVF cycle!

Now, several years later, I'm on the breeders' side of the fence and the grass is definitely greener. A beautiful shade of shamrock, actually. Of course, I'll huff at weeds now and then, but that's OK, I've given myself permission.

Speaking of grass, Mother's Day was yesterday and one of the best parts was one of the simplest—rollicking on a blanket in the yard with Hubbo, Stinker and Boss. I learned a lot during my infertility saga, chief of which was to enjoy the moment and life's little things. Blooming azaleas, children laughing, fresh bread, a kiss under the dogwood tree.

And maybe just one big thing: being a mom.

I Inherited My Grandma's Butt

Every year while growing up, my grandma would come up from Florida to spend a week with us during the Christmas holiday. Along with her giant green suitcase on roller-skate wheels (an innovation long before its time), she'd bring bourbon balls and boxes of home-made cookies. It was heaven. Mostly.

She also packed up plans—lots and lots of plans. The shoe-shopping plan was fantastic. My brothers and I loved the day-after-Christmas excursion to the mall for our annual footwear spree. Sneakers for the brothers, something girly for me--unless it was the '80s when Sebago campsides or docksiders were big. (Well, we all had to experiment.)

But the other plans ... suuuuuuuucked. Day two after Christmas was cleaning out the garage. Day three was the basement. Day four, the refrigerator. Day five, we may as well have been beating wool rugs with wooden spoons—or so it felt at the time. Our next-door neighbor even labeled her “the Drill Sargent.”

Let me clarify that we ADORED Grandma L, but to say she was a little Type A was like saying a shark was a little bit fish. She didn't sit still, and she bit those who did--with about 3,000 teeth.

One year, back when today's video was yesterday's cassette tape, we recorded some post-holiday activity. You heard laughter, silly banter about the latest Charlie's Angels' episode, and Grandma counting silverware.

“One, two ... J.J.! I mean Stephen! Shawn? Shawn! I'm trying to count, please. Please, honey, please … sigh … One, two, three, four … sigh ... J.J.! Steve! Stephen! Quiet! Shut that thing off for a minute. I'll give you a quarter, honey, please … One, two, three … sigh ...”

We were as hysterical in listening to that scratchy contraption as she was hellbent on ensuring no forks were accidentally chucked in the trash. She had her mission (Get work done!); we had ours (Have silly fun!).

It may have been the same Christmas that I recall seeing her round butt in the air as she bent over the orange family room rug that matched her curly hair. “I've been so busy I haven't had time to go to the bathroom!” she huffed, before bending back down to pick more fuzz off the carpet.

“What?!” I wanted to yell, but didn't dare speak out against the Sargent. “Who was telling her not to pee?! No one had a gun to her head making her pluck cat fur off the floor. Didn't she see she was her own worst enemy?!”

The answer was no. In her eyes, the perpetrator was the dirty floor, the messy garage, the pile of mending, the never-ending list of stuff that would continuously assault her sensibilities. But somehow, she stayed on top of it all, reminding everyone in the process: “Everything HAS a place, everything IN its place!”

And, 25 or so years later, my place, I've found, was in grandma's shadow. Yes, I had become my mother's mother. And I loved her little adage. I mean, I hated it. Loved it. Hated it. Loved it. Hated it. Who knows where I really stood on the issue, but I've been trying to live it ever since, butt in the air and all. In fact, I think of her every time I go up the steps and see fuzzies dotting the cream-colored carpet that was supposed to be beige to CAMOUFLAGE THE DIRT, PEOPLE!

So, yes, my confession, in case I haven't mentioned it before, is that I'm a little Type A trying to get my B on. But the trouble is that A is in my blood. Be it Nurture or Nature (probably both), I'm compelled to put things away until they're all in the right place. And with Stinker and Boss, things are never in their right place for more than 2 seconds.

Sometimes when they're napping together, a 50-50 shot, I lie to myself and bargain: “Fifteen minutes of cleaning, no more!” I chug some coffee, wind myself up and GO! I put toys in baskets, take the trash out, pick up leaves in the garage on the way out, scoop the cat litter on the way back in, decide to do laundry, head to the basement, forget why I was going to the basement, get annoyed, go back upstairs, realize I'm hungry, wonder what I can shovel in my cakehole in the next 2 minutes, pay bills while I'm shoveling, hear Stinker wake up, and marvel at why I'm tired all the time—and how Grandma managed to do it all before they even had TiVo!

And then it becomes clear when I think of her and her never-ending scurry mode: It must have been those bourbon balls!

Or, perhaps it was a little sweeter than that. Maybe it was all those boxes of home-made cookies.

Got Booger and Other Misfit Milestones

Most parents are familiar with the usual childhood landmarks: Baby rolls over by 4 months, sits by 6 months and walks by 12 to 14 months. Most breeders also know not to sweat it if their kid is a few months off—Boss, for instance, took his sweet time putting one foot in front of the other, finally toddling at 16-and-a-half months. We were almost ready to start sucking our thumbs, but knew he was close. Now he zooms around like a carpenter bee, bumping into into walls on his search for anything sweet or dirty to get his hands into.

But what about the OTHER accomplishments—you know, the ones that are best sequestered on their own Island of Misfit Milestones? Here are a few to beware of:

• Tossing objects from perches on high. Actually, this milestone is pretty cute—until it happens for the 7th time in a row. At 10 months, Stinker discovered the joy of jettisoning items over various edges—high chairs, couches, the like. It first happened at the grocery store in his basket seat when I gave him a box of macaroni to shake so he'd stop screeching. (I hadn't showered in three days; I didn't want the extra stares.) Oh, the glee when he heard the noodles hit the floor and saw me squat. The third time I crouched, it all came back to me—the drop-stop-and-grab-it games had begun. I smiled, chucked the box in the cart, and wondered if he was too young for lollipops.
• Diaper inspecting. Boss began examining doodie around 2-and-a-half. “Want see dirty diaper, Mommy,” he'd suggest. I'd oblige, figuring it was a sign he was nearing the joys of potty training, and that somehow seeing poop would help. Trying to avoid my walnut face, I'd unwrap the diaper as if it were a deli package (liverwurst anyone?), hoping the soiled wipes, or worse, turd mush, wouldn't fall on the rug. “See, there's your poop!” I'd say, forcing enthusiasm. “Everyone poops, and someday you'll poop in the potty!” Let's just say, it can't happen soon enough!
• Nostril fondling. Better known as nose picking. Eventually, around the 2-and-a-half mark, as toddlers continue exploring their bodies, the index finger will find the sniffer. In, out, examine booger, insert in mouth. I know, ew! But to kids, it's like scratching an itch. They have no idea how nasty it is; it's just a way to remove an irritant. Or so I keep telling myself. Boss recently went on his first dig when he had a cold and thought he could unplug his honker with some pipe-cleaning action. I'm not sure how many times a parent must plead, “Use a tissue, please!” before it works. My guess is 1,278.

Scads of other notorious events will pop up and pass—much like a fleet of pimples in adolescence, and even into our 20s, 30s and 40s to make us feel young again. If we're lucky, they'll arrive and part with nary a scar. You may even get a pained chuckle out of the madness; think third-eye zit square above the nose. It's not a milestone, but who can't laugh and cry at that?

Germs for Breakfast

A crawling baby is cuter than a puppy kissing a kitten. When Stinker crawls, I love the way his tiny hands slap the ground as he scoots his knees across the tile. Every few seconds, he sits up, scans the sights, then ventures off for five more feet. It makes me smile even before my morning coffee … as long as I don't think about the floor. Each time his hand smacks the ground, it's a high five to millions of microscopic monsters.

If adults crawled on the floor, we'd be a bunch of whiners, complaining about sore knees and the indignity of it all. But the first thing we'd do after getting up and cracking our backs? Sprint to the sink and scrub our hands like a surgeon.

Babies, however, love germs. Their hands enter their mouths the first chance they get, whether to gnaw on piggies and suck off grime, or insert dead carpenter ants using their exciting new pincer grasp. Babies hands are on the floor constantly—just like our dirty shoes. We may as well give them Clarks to chew on.

It's all pretty nasty, and that's from someone who's far from a germaphobe. Proof: Once as a teenager, I bought ice cream at the boardwalk. As I headed back toward the beach, my perfect round scoop flew off the cone and toppled to the ground. Splat! I swung down for the ice cream quicker than Serena Williams swats a tennis ball, placing it back on its throne. Then I licked furiously, eyes down (afraid of gasps and evil stares), until it was gone.

More proof: I was once told I treated Boss like a second child for violating the new-mom germ code. I forget my crime, but it probably involved a fallen binky, swipe on the pants and plugging the paci back in his pie hole.

More recently, we were grocery shopping, humming along in the race car cart that steers like a Zamboni, when out flew Boss's lollipop. That lollipop is my ticket to 15 minutes of peaceful shopping; no one messes with the lollipop. I picked it up, checked for witnesses, then passed it back to Boss, feeling only a twinge of guilt. Some goddess invented the five-second rule, and whoever you are, I love you for it. (And before you judge me too harshly, I did wipe the race car and basket seat with a germ-zapping towelette before we started shopping. So, five points for me there.)

I realize I'm hypocritical about germs. Yes, I open doors with my shirt sleeve, but share spoons and sometimes a toothbrush. I have antibacterial lotion in my car, in the diaper bag and next to the sink, but I let Boss play with street gravel. I'm plagued by dreams about dirty toilet stalls, but I don't rinse home-grown herbs before using them.

Whatever the case, it's probably a matter of split-second prioritizing with me and germs. Sometimes “Eh!” wins; sometimes “Whoa!” does. I do know one thing, though: My immune system rocks. I could suck on pocket change and not get sick. I'm sure genetics plays a part, as does luck. But the secret ingredient? A few immunity-building germs for breakfast.

I hear the floor serves up some tasty bites.

Cat's in the Cradle (Stroller, Too)

Not long after Boss was born, I told a friend I was taking the baby to the vet. “Pediatrician” wasn't a regular part of my vocabulary yet; I was used to cats--which had been a part of my life for nearly 40 years--not kids.

But babies and pets have lots in common. They roam on all fours, need us for food, and sleep a lot. Sure, they may chew on furniture behind our backs, pee on the floor, barf on the bed and make a lot of noise, but they're also great to cuddle with and we love them to death. They bring us chuck wagons full of joy.

Lately, I haven't had much luck with disciplinary action for Boss, and I've had a strong urge to try a pet owner's approach to better behavior. No, no, no, not shmooshing the nose in pooh or a waving a rolled-up-newspaper around; nothing like that. The squirt bottle! It's great for cats--why not kids?

I could have used the bottle several times today, actually: when Boss was picking Cheerios out of his bowl with his tongue (Squirt!), redecorating the lawn with river rocks (Squirt!), pushing Stinker over for the fifth time (Squirt! Squirt! Squirt! Squirt! Squirt!), throwing toys down the cat door into the basement (Squirt!), screaming at the cat (Squirt!), chasing the neighbor's cat under the deck (Squirt!), refusing a diaper change (Squirt!), and clearing the coffee table with his notorious arm swipe (Squirrrrrrrt!). The water bill may spike, but I bet it would work. I could even hang the container around my neck like a hostess wearing a wine glass on a black band. You're right, it IS ridiculous, but I've witnessed such a contraption.

Another absurd item that appealed to me once: a cat stroller. During my infertility woes when baby carriages made me weep, I vowed I'd get a pussum pram, complete with a zipped-in screen to prevent untimely escapes into traffic. I'd put my hair in a ponytail, get some elastic-wasted jeans, darken the circles under my eyes and strut around the neighborhood with … yeah, my cat. Maybe I could even get a bonnet on him, if I didn't mind getting my eyes scratched out in the process.

I guess if I have a point with all this, it's that people love their pets like children, and some love their children like pets (I mean this in a good way). That's not to say pets and peeps are equal--I wouldn't give my kids a litter box, now c'mon!--but the love comes from the same place.

It's also worth noting that Stinker's name started out as Stinker Dog; that I refer to his hands as paws; that our Alpha Cat, Harriett, stalked and bit me when she thought I was an incompetent mom with a crying babe in my arms; and that Boss's first word was--I kid you not--“meow.”

Love Me Do List

The first thing on my “do list” after I was laid off was to get rid of my do list. And for four months I did just that. I kept Post-its and any paper the size of index cards away from my twitching hands. Pens and notepads were separated as well, lest they taunt me with their seductive antics. Instead, I kept a mental journal of anything I needed to do, and it worked pretty well … for a while.

I needed the break. Do lists--at home and work--were ruling my life, and there was no escape. The bulleted items started off nice and neat, below a well-centered, underlined and appropriately commanding “DO.” But soon arrows and marginalia would appear, junking up the page—a reflection of my cluttered mind. Not! Enough! Room! For! It! All!

Sometimes the same demand even showed up twice, a few rows apart, in slightly different language--my list was getting passive-aggressive on me. Oh, she drove me crazy, but I needed her. And I admit, I played games, too. Occasionally, I'd accomplish a list-worthy task only to find it MIA on my thin little paper boss.

“What?!!” I'd gasp, toes curling, jaw clenched. “'Oil changed isn't ON here! Well it IS now!”

(Insert dilated pupils and maniacal chuckle.)

I wasn't about to skip the satisfaction of crossing off an overlooked item, so yeah, youbetcherass I scribbled it on there so I could relish in the glory of scratching it off two seconds later. Ahhhh, those sweet horizontal strokes of joy. I'm not alone in my mania, either; I've heard others admit to this, and, fellow freaks, I got your back.

Day in and day out, I reported to my list, checking in dutifully, a slave to my own orders. “Do this, do that, do more, do it with less, do it faster, do it now, do it yesterday, do it again, do it all!” My list was whacking my skull with Nike sneakers fit for Bozo: JUST (Thump.)! DO (Thump.)! It (Thump.)! Or was it me doing the smacking? I don't know. My head just hurt.

On lay-off day, I made one more do list for those tying up my loose ends, and then I stopped. I was done with the Post-it Dictator. I was FREE. And it was liberating! Visions of rolling around naked in a field of crumpled paper balls was almost appealing--but not really. The risk of paper cuts was too daunting. (A field of marshmallows, though? Now we're talking.)

Over time, I have to admit, I started to miss my list. Beneath her smooth Draconian exterior, she had a good side. She watched out for me (“Mammogram!” she'd holler). She kept me on top at work (“Conference call!” she'd bark). She reminded me about birthdays (“Gift/card for Gabriella!” she'd order). She didn't want to drive me crazy; she wanted to keep me … satisfied. Happy even.

Now she's back and we're getting along well. We've loosened our hold on each other, checking in a few times a week, not several times an hour. She's not as bossy, I'm not as crazed. I don't constantly toss her out and write her up all over again. She lets there be a higher crossed-out to not-accomplished-yet ratio.

On occasion, she still plays tricks, but it's all good. Recently, when I wasn't looking, she penned in, “Buy Stay-Pufts.”

Guess I must. It's on the list.

She's Let Herself Go … to a Better Place

“Letting (it) go” can be good or bad, depending on the “it.” Said about a grudge, that's a good thing, of course. About a woman—not so good; she's flushed her primping tools down the hopper and wears stained sweats that are two sizes too small. (Yes, it can happen to men, too.) Hanging from a bridge? The worst possible case; sorry to get dark. Releasing a rescued hawk into the wild—we're back to wonderful.

I've been letting go of various things, for better or worse. I used to have a motto—my house should be neat enough that an old chum could drop by and I'd be content with how things looked—no scurrying around and throwing stuff in a grocery bag to toss out in the garage. The bag-stashing came with a price anyway—it would stay out with the cars and shovels for a week and inevitably some bill would be late. So my new (ideal) motto? Pick up toys once a day after Boss and Stinker are down. Otherwise, I spend five minutes raking miniature trains off the rug only to have the bucket toppled two seconds later. Say it with me: “Arrrrgghhh!” 

Actually, the house should consider itself lucky if it gets weekly straightening, much less daily. Selfish ingrate! And it can forget about that roaming herd of dust buffalo! Let the cats get 'em.

I've tried not to let myself go, but I haven't exactly been curling my eyelashes. My former exercise class was at 7 p.m. three times a week—not great timing with dinner, bed times, and a tired Hubbo with a long commute. I may be close to my prepregnancy weight, but I don't know since I can't work the scale. My clothes fit, although my belly is mushier (good for belly dancing, though, eh?). As for my hair, I haven't seen my stylist since November (she probably thinks I'm cheating on her), but I received a beautiful clip for Christmas so I can at least venture beyond the ponytail; I need simple, especially on days when the boys wake up before I do.

What I'd really like to let go of more is worry, but with motherhood comes nail-biting. It's like cookies and milk; they're a package deal. I worried when Boss was pulling out his hair for six months and looked like a mangy cocker spaniel. I worried when he stuttered—normal for his age, but what if it lasted? I worried when he face-planted in gravel and looked like he was slapped with sand paper—would his feelings be hurt if other kids pointed and wondered what happened? I worry that he'll fall in the pool, get hit by a car or be abducted at the mall. With Stinker, the worry began before he was born thanks to polyhydramnios (too much amniotic fluid), soared during his NICU stay and has been yo-yoing ever since. Yes, welcome to motherhood!

I could also stand to let go of caring what people think. I'm getting there. A tree guy was over to assess some mangled branches and came in to the pigsty (house) to crunch numbers. The floor was splattered with toys. The couches were hidden by makeshift stain protectors (blankets). The counters were cluttered with piles of crap. And I didn't care ... all that much. He knew the drill; he had kids. Plus, it's rule No. 1 in the parenting manual: Floor time with kids is much more rewarding than floor time with a vacuum cleaner.

Stroller Wars, Old Yeller and Horse Turds

I was so proud of myself the other week when I finally learned to open and collapse our double stroller. It was the Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card I needed--I could whisk the boys to the mall, park, anywhere!

And then there was today.

It was a “lovely” rainy day. We'd been cooped up for a while and in need of an outing. Boss pleaded for the 17^th time in two days: “I wanna go on venture!” I agreed; I could use one, too. We'd hit the mall playground and water fountain for a little splashing.

I pack the boys up, make sure they're fed and sporting fresh Pampers, review the diaper bag, grab my purse, put on earrings and stuff everything in the car--except for the double stroller. That was next and it shouldn't be a problem given my new-found skills. Just one caveat: The lower canopy was on this time.

So I try to remove the canopy, promptly fail, shrug and fold the stroller anyway. In the trunk it ... won't fit. The battle begins. I shove it a bit, trying to wiggle it in, sigh in defeat and yank it out. “Godblastedfarginthing!,” I mutter.

“OK, I will try again to remove the canopy,” I vow to myself. “It can't be that hard.”

It is.

Meanwhile, the kids, trapped in their car seats, are getting antsy. Stinker begins screaming. I run in the house, head for the phone to call Hubbo at work, then decide, “No. I can do this. Self-sufficiency, remember goofus?!”

I grab the stroller instructions, run back to the car, study the diagram, get annoyed because I can't find the part they are describing, and begin randomly pushing knobs. No luck. Stinker is bawling louder and I'm getting really flustered.

I remove Stinker from the car and put him in the house, return to my nemesis, yank it to the driveway (and into the drizzle), flip the jerk on its side like an amateur wrestler, and look under the armrests for the right doohickey to push. I push everything there every which way. Nothing. This self-sufficiency idea? It's crap!

I dial Hubbo and he patiently tells me what to do. With renewed hope, I put the phone down and attack.

FAIL!

I yell a bit and threaten to go to the mall with the trunk open, stroller hanging out, like toilet paper from pants. It happened to me twice, and I survived. What's the big deal? Hubbo politely suggests a different plan, like not going at all.

Ha! I put on earrings! I AM going! I thank Hubbo anyway, hang up, try some more.

More fail!

FAIL! FAIL! FAIL!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Deep breath.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

It was the kind of yell that leaves you exhausted and zaps your pride. The kind where your uvula vibrates. The kind where people think you're crazy--because you are. And there it is: I was a loser, many ways over.

After a failed attempt to go lid open (I couldn't even fold the stroller now, I was so spent), I wrangle the metal beast back into the garage and grab the single stroller, which folds and fits ever so sweetly, like a cotton napkin into a drawer. “My trusty old buddy,” I whimper, wanting to stroke it. “If only you had two seats, I'd love you even more.”

Off we go, finally. We arrive and it's tough. Boss wants in the stroller—impossible with Stinker in it, of course. I carry him football-style through the parking lot, shifting positions every few minutes. “This sucks,” I mutter under my breath.

“It would be a big help if you could walk,” I tell Boss, who's perfectly capable, just not interested.

Eventually, though, he walks. A lollipop may have had something to do with it. We have fun at the playground and fountain, and he even enjoys darting around the mall, thankfully not into any of the ill-placed china as we zigzag through Macy's.

I had failures today, yes. But victories, too. I guess I'm learning (slowly) that no day is all Snow White and her cadre of magical birds; at times I'll also trip over the dwarfs and faceplant into a pile of horse doodie. Yes, each day is a blend of birds and turds, and that's OK. It's life, not a fairy tale.

Well, it's part fairly tale. My evil step-mom is the double stroller. We WILL have a rematch. And I WILL triumph--even if my own Prince Charming must show me how.

Old Wives' Tails, Heads and Lumps in Between

I didn't plan on being “elderly gravida” (pregnant at 35 or older) when the stork finally flew my way. We began trying when I was 32, and finally hatched Boss when I was in spitting distance of 40. Two years later Stinker came along as I neared fortybleepingtwo, walker in tow.

Not that the 40s are THAT old, she sighed indignantly, scoffing at an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. She flicked the page. Why are those hoodie things STILL around? Didn't the Unabomber send them right down the style drain? Oh wait, today's youngsters probably don't know that reference...

In truth, I don't really feel old (much). I've always needed more sleep than the average bear, so that's no different. I may go to bed in the 10s, but that's because I get up earlier; the boys crow at the crack of dawn after all. I can still hold my booze and boogie 'til 3 in heels--I just don't want to. But that's not being old, it's just a priority change.

Yes it is.

No, YOU'RE wrong.

I know you are but what am I?

I'm rubber, you're glue ... Oh, never mind! Call it what you will.

OK, so I don't feel old physically (Although, what IS that weird pain shooting down my jaw that happens every so often? It's freaky! And why are my toes numb and tingly in the morning?).

I don't think I look all that old, either, but I guess I look my age.

No, it's true.

Oh, you're a darling. But I do.

Anywho, story for you: A few months ago, I clicked a video link my brother posted on Facebook. A bunch of middle-aged folks were flapping their elbows and staggering around a dance floor. “Who ARE these people?” I wondered; it looked like a PTA after party in full swing. Where were their mock turtlenecks and docksiders to match that hair?

Oops, gulp. It was bro's 25^th high school reunion. “Damn, they look OLD!” I thought. Oops, again. They're just one year older than ME.

[Rude knock on my head]

Do I look like that? (Worse, do I DANCE like that?)

Sigh, probably and probably.

But you know what? As many wise brethren will attest, what you add on in years, you take off in giving a shhh. Perhaps the brain needs space for more memories, so out goes the worry of how you look, what you say, who you are.

It's liberating, really. And it's better than all the happy hours, smooth skin, taut buns and hoodie fashions you'd ever want.

Just one thing. … I wouldn't mind trading in this gray hair. … OK, two: I am NOT getting those bifocals.

Am not.

Am not.

That's cuz you are.

[Wet raspberry here]

Well, OK. Maybe next year. 

If I must.

Dr. Sparkle and Mr. Hide-My-Nasty-Self

I know the Terrible Twos are so-named for a reason, but sometimes I wonder if Boss's behavior pushes the boundaries into the farmost depths of, say, Ffarquhar Quarry. Is he a normal rambunctious boy simply testing his limits, or did we end up with a Macaulay Culkin from "The Good Son"?

As I write this, Boss is protesting his nap, banging his feet against the back of his crib and growling rather loudly in his devil voice. I can't make out what he's saying because earlier today he chucked the monitor over the balcony, and it no longer appears to be working. This morning, he also had two time-outs before 8:30 for the usual--smash 'n bash sessions with the brother. We were not off to a good start.

A few hours of survival later we headed off to see gramma, paw-paw and Aunt K. When we arrived, I brought him inside the house, went back to the car to get Stinker, and held my breath. There was a good chance he'd greet the family with tears, while zooming around yelling, "Wheeeeeerrrre's Mommmmmy?"

But instead, he slipped into Dr. Sparkle mode. He issued hugs, entertained everyone with stiff-legged dancing, and said "please/dank you/'scuse me." He flaunted his knowledge of scarecrows and seeds (Thanks "Caillou"!), kept vehicles out of his food, even ate some food, and showed off the world's greatest dimples with a semi-constant smile. He stayed off of his brother (for the most part), AND he actually coughed into his ELBOW--a milestone I've only preached but never, until this day, witnessed! I adore this sweet, kissable cherub!

Plus, bonus: I'm looking kinda good as a mom. It's a wonderful day! The world is fabulous! Maybe I'll even go to church sometime!

We pack up before the spell breaks and head home. I drive grinning, not speeding for a change, and relive a few of the day's scenes in my head. As we meander along, I point out a variety of trucks to Boss. He stares out the window and drops his juice cup. I reach behind the passenger seat, pick it up and two seconds later it flies out of his hand; I give him a cup from the front seat instead. "NAAAAAAOOOOOHHHHH!," he screams.

Dr. Sparkle has left the premises.

Then within a few minutes, Boss is looking at his brother, shrieking mischievously and laughing. Shriek, laugh, shriek, laugh, shriek, laugh. Stinker cries. Shriek, laugh, Stinker cries, mom yells; shriek, laugh, Stinker cries, mom yells. Sigh, mumble-curse, sigh.

The good news, though? Along with having a great afternoon, I'm (more) convinced that Boss is normal. He can behave outside of the house! Hell, he can even exude some charm (especially if he's competing with his brother for attention). Granted, it's Human Behavior 101--but he passed the test.

Screamers Anonymous

Yelling is the new spanking, or so I've read recently in parenting magazines. It's no longer socially acceptable, and hasn't been for awhile; instead, time-outs, calm-but-firm instructions, distractions and praise for good behavior have taken their place. Also, saying "no" should be limited lest kids build up resistance and the word loses its punch. And don't even think of using, "Because I said so!" That's gone the way of tube socks.

The response to all this? My guess is that most parents have stopped yelling ... out in public, anyway. Of course, some were never screamers and some don't care--they'll shout their way through the check-out line in any grocery store where long waits and off-limit candy racks bring out the best in every child. (Ha!)

I'll admit it, sometimes I raise my voice a peep. Ok, I can howl like a blood-thirsty werewolf if I'm tired, hungry and provoked. Oh all right, ya got me. I've been known to screech even on a full stomach. I'm not proud of it. And the "new rules of parenting behavior," make me feel guiltier. I don't want to scream. I try to hold back. But then ... siiiiiggghhhh ... out it erupts like the fiery hot lava from Mt. Vesuvius.

The main trigger these days is refereeing Boss and Stinker. Mostly, it's blowing the whistle on Boss who is yanking toys out of Stinker's hands, throwing Lincoln Logs at his head, lying too close to him with flailing legs that could take out a tooth, pushing him over--sweet and gentle little things like that. In other words, he's acting like a 2-year-old. In the worst way. Stinker, who for about three short weeks, didn't care much about these infractions, now gives a rodent bum and lets out his trademark pterodactyl scream in protest.

Usually, I intervene somewhat calmly at first: "Please don't take toys from your brother. It's not nice and it makes him sad. You need to ask for that nicely or give him something else to play with."

Boss: "No, dat's MIIIIINNNNEEEE!," he squeals. He's not convinced, not even a little.

Stinker looks at me and cries. I give him another toy. Boss rips it away.

I'm now in devil voice mode--growling through gritted teeth. "Did you hear what I said? We DON'T take toys from other people! You wouldn't like it if someone did that to you. Don't do it again or you get a TIME! OUT!"

I move Stinker 3 feet away from Boss and give him a third toy, which is promptly stolen again. Boss tries, unsuccessfully to juggle all three items in his arms. I'd laugh if I wasn't so annoyed. Stinker goes reptile, I get madder, Boss remains a jerk.

"That's it! TIME OUT! " I roar. "Get on the couch! NOOWWW!"

I calm Stinker down, set the timer, turn off the toddler tunes, explain to Boss why he's in the penalty box, mutter some choice words under my breath, and get some tea. I feel lousy. We all feel lousy.

I think about my yelling and find myself grateful that Hubbo has allergies so we can keep the windows shut in the summer. Some lovely next-door neighbors just moved in with their toddler and I'm excited for a future friendship between all of us. But what if they hear me? Will they think I'm crazy? Do other moms do this? Am I the only closet yeller?

I'm guessing I'm not, and that makes me feel a little better. The thing is, it's not really affirmation that I'm after; I just wish I could be Mary Poppins and insert sugary spoonfuls of sweetness into difficult situations.

When that doesn't work, I'll guess I'll remind myself that Mary Poppins is fiction--a cheerful yet ridiculous bunch of bull hockey. Or I'll try yelling "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" at the top of my lungs. It's hard to say that in the devil voice--much less a scream.