Killing us with kindness

You never know, when you have two kids close in age, what their relationship is going to be like.

Sawyer and Sage are 21 months apart. Yes, okay, I'll save you the math. I admit that we did it when Sawyer turned a year. I am sure that that will be a topic of discussion for them one day, as it was for me and my siblings. And I'm also sure that the idea of their parents Doing the Deed will disgust them as it did us as kids. But, as my father liked to say, "What, did you think you were made with a finger?" followed by a maniacle cackle.

Before Sage was born, I'd heard horror stories from friends who couldn't leave their older child alone with their newborn for a minute, otherwise the baby would get kicked, hit or otherwise tortured.

Our kids' relationship, however, got off to an excellent start.



Sawyer really didn't really have all that much interest once the novelty wore off. That, and the fact that Sage cried until the linings of our ears bled. I'm sure the constant racket bugged him as much as it irritated us.

Then, after he turned two, he discovered hitting. Me, mostly. But he did enjoy, when Sage was sleeping in her infant car seat, slamming her in the face with one of his metal planes.

Good times, people!

Sage became mobile at 5 1/2 months, and then it was Game On. Especially once she started walking. Before she was a year, she figured out how to grab his toys and run.

Time went on, and her inability to speak hampered some of their play. Sawyer became the Sage Whisperer, learning how to interpret her jargon.

Sage has, in turn, been looking out for Big Bro. On her last day of speech therapy, the teachers gave her a card with a bunch of stickers on it. When we were leaving, she asked "What about Sawyer? Stickers?" She wasn't satisfied until Sawyer got some stickers, too.

And in the past few days, I've noticed something even more remarkable.

Sawyer is going out of his way to help her. Today she was wearing her EllieBellieKids cape and racing around, thumb raised, and shouting SUPER SAGE! But her whirling and twirling caused the cape to fall off, and she started crying.

"I'll help you, Sage," he said, while securing the cape around her neck.

When she wanted to the bucket he was playing with, he took all his toys out of it to give it her.

All this is without my prompting. He even gets off the couch, from where he's watching Little Einsteins or WorldWorld or Ratatouille, to help her with whatever tragedy has befallen her, like her Hello Kitty pillow falling off the other couch where she's sitting.

I'm not sure if the huge amount of snot in his head is affecting his brain. But I've definitely seen a kinder, gentler little boy.

They still squabble. But mostly, I really think they love each other. Which is the most I can hope for. If they are the only kids we have, I want them to know they can always count on each other.

Even when it comes to chocolate. I doled out a Hershey's kiss for each child after dinner (yes, I know, the Devil Sugar) and Sage kept saying, "One for Sawyer too?" She refused to eat hers until she was sure he was also getting one.

Earlier today, David wanted to take a picture of them. Sage hadn't quite gotten to her seat and Sawyer put up his hand like he was holding off the paparazzi.

He was waiting for his sister.



The best of friends.

Get your priorities straight, missy!

Me: Sawyer, your crayons are over there, by the stairs. Over there!
Mom: It's VERY distracting when you talk to your kids when we're on the phone.
Me: Sorry. I can't ignore them when they're asking me something. It's kind of my job.
Mom: Well, it's VERY. RUDE. R-U-D-E.
Me: Yeah, well, my priority is my kids. Maybe we shouldn't talk now then.
Mom: That's right. Bye-bye.

Click.

Ugh.

Hap-da Birday To You! (cha-cha-cha)

No, in answer to your question. It is not Sage's birthday again. Having her once was quite enough, thank you very much.

She and Sawyer have been playing Birthday. They put party hats on themselves or other assorted creatures (a bear, a stuffed bat ray, a tricycle). They gather "gifts" which are usually Sage's Hello Kitty case and some matchbox containers filled with whatever they can cram in.

There can be guests: Her Cabbage Patch doll, Sawyer's stuffed Little Einstein's Rocket.

Sage makes a "cake:" a small tupperware container with play food corn, a strawberry, a chicken leg, and a block or two. Then she will bring it to you, sing "Hap-da Birday to Mommy" and then she will blow out the "candles."

Or, more likely, she'll sing "Hap-da Birday to meeeeee. Cha-cha-cha!"

This can go on for an hour. I'm amazed, watching their little minds come up with the whole scenario. Sawyer says he's having a Monster Truck part. Sage has, of course, a Hello Kitty theme.

They are so close, these kids. I love that they involve each other in this game. Tonight, when Sawyer said the party was over, Sage asked him to PLEASE come back. And he was all "Alright, we can still have our party."

Think of all the time and money I could save if this would REALLY satisfy them when there actual birthday comes around again.

Yeah, I don't think so either.

I Was Mugged!

By my own son.

In the wee hours of the morning.

At least, that's how it felt.

Sawyer has this annoyingadorable habit of coming into bed with us in the middle of the night. He climbs over David, gets under the covers, and falls asleep.

Usually I am so dead to the world that I don't even notice until I hear him tell David that he's ready to go back to Racecar Bed.

Once in awhile, he'll stiffen out his legs like a dog and poke me in the back.

He doesn't appear every night, but it's becoming a little more regular. I have talks with him before bed, telling him NO VISITING. And when he wakes up after spending the whole night in his bed, he's pretty proud of himself.

This has not stopped him from helping himself to our slumber.

Last night - it was actually 4:30 in the morning - was Exhibit A as to why I could never do a family bed.

There I was, soundly sleeping, enjoying the last half-hour before my 5 a.m. alarm went off, when all of a sudden there were arms flailing about my face. Legs kicking me.

INTRUDER! A smallish one, but still.

My little boy. When I peered through the dark to his head on my pillow, what did I see but his beatific face, with his dark and impossibly long eyelashes resting against his soft cheek.

So I rolled over. But he wasn't done yet.

He gave me several smacks upside my head, kicks in my side - and he was STILL ASLEEP!

Unlike me. I picked him up - he was completely out - and deposited him in his bed. Then I slept seven more blissful minutes before the alarm went off.

Good f'in' morning.

Um...wha?

I'm not even sure what to say about what was going on in the sandbox. Sawyer's get-up is a tad Michael Myers. But really, he was having a blast.

Making do

We don't have Fall in SoCal. It's the season I miss most.

When the baseball playoffs are going on in Boston, I REALLY miss being there - the crisp air, the fuzzy sweaters, and, of course, leaves crunchy under some really hot boots.

There are, contrary to popular belief, seasons out here. There really are. They are:

Hot
Hotter
Rainy
Windy
Gloomy
Cold in the Morning

I'm aware that's six. But hey, I didn't even include Earthquake, Mudslide or Fires of Hell.

We have a tree in our front yard which likes to shed its leaves. In January.

So even though my kids have yet to experience the boundless joy of leaping into a leaf pile and burying themselves under the musty, scratchy splendor, they made do with what they had.





I really have no idea what's going on with this last one, other than Sawyer looks just a bit frightened..



It was a happy day.

Perhaps a bit too cocky?

My new orthotics were firmly in my shoes, my hydration belt was full, and I was ready - finally - to run again.

It's been awhile.

My foot got so bad from my neuroma and tendinitis that my podiatrist shut me down. I also conveniently had the flu, so I could barely move off the couch, nevermind pound the pavement.

I braved two spin classes this week and felt good. I got my orthotics and had no issues at all. They were actually quite comfy.

The alarm went off at 6 this morning and I was excited.

I was going to run!

I cranked the music in my car and headed off to meet Torrey and Cindy. Cindy was waiting when I pulled into the parking lot, and we brought some sexy back as we jammed out to Justin T.

Then Torrey arrived and it was showtime.

The plan was to run eight miles. Yes, I realize I haven't run for almost a month, but eight miles isn't so bad. Really! And everything was going really well, aside from the winds that kicked up and the wind I was sucking.

But I was content to trot behind my girls, as I really was just happy to be here.

We stopped at mile 4 to Gu and I noticed a twinge in the ball of my foot. Then, once we started running again, we had to go up a hill, over the 405, then down.

My foot no likey. The tendon in my big toe was shouting STOP, YOU ASSHOLE! I tried to run through the knifing pain, but it was impossible, and I had to stop and walk. I was so bummed. I told Cindy and Torrey to keep going, but they decided to walk with me.

Once we got back to the flat area, I tested out my foot. It was still uncomfortable, but doable.

We made it back.

Well, I made it back and felt relatively strong. My foot, on the other hand, was clearly annoyed and decided to throb all day. I'm sure it was wondering what the HELL I was doing going that far on my first run after an injury.

Probably not the smartest move. I just can't imagine running three. It's so...short.

I was anxious to get back out there: running with Torrey and Cindy reminded me of what I've been missing. The conversations about everything and nothing. The discussions on, of course, bodily functions. Kids. Work. Life.

The miles go by.

On this particular day, running in shorts and a tee, I could look in front of me and see blue sky and bright sun and, in the distance, snow-capped mountains.

A beautiful morning. Spent with these wonderful women.

Which makes this whole thing with my foot that much more frustrating. It isn't about running a certain distance just to say I can. It's that the distance allows me more time to bond, to laugh, to think.

Without running, without Torrey and Cindy and the pavement and the miles, my life gets a little smaller.

Is that a giant RAT?

It was all going so well. Too well.

We went to a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese this morning. Sawyer was very excited about it because Daddy was coming - which meant he was going to get to play all the race car games that Mommy doesn't understand.

This was Sage's first time as a mobile child (she spent some time as an infant snoozing in her car seat while I chased Sawyer around), though I have been thinking of taking her. It's a relatively cheap way to kill an hour or two, and kids love it.

Or so I thought.

And yes, I realize that I might as well just skip the entire place and instead have my kids go ahead and get barfed on directly, but hey, at least they have fun before they get contaminated by every germ in the known universe. UpChuck. E. Cheese is more like it.

Anyway, armed with a gallon jug of hand sanitizer in lieu of a hazmat suit, off we went.

Sawyer raced off immediately with his friend J. Sage was very interested in all the rides. First she got on the three horse merry-go-round. Then she bounced on a trolley car and a Bob the Builder tractor. She was all set to get on a train, until she noticed a large purple dinosaur sitting in the passenger seat.

No thank you, Barney. She got down and slowly backed away.

She was having a great time putting the "money" in the slots. Everything was going great.

Until that creepy, oversized rat decided he had to walk around and wave at my kids.

Sage was terrified. She jumped off a moving Teletubbies saucer and leapt into my arms, burying her face in my shoulder. Luckily, Chuck E. Cheese went on his way. Sage and I moved over to the table where pizza was beginning to be served.

Then the curtains parted. And Giant Rat #2 came out and started singing. This is a motorized freak show. Horribly scary.

The curtains closed, and Sage was relieved. She was all set to eat her pizza. Then they opened again.

She was done.

The poor thing was so out of her mind that she was actually shaking, certain that this creature would hop off the stage and start chewing off her right leg with its sharp rodent teeth.

I'm guessing Disneyland, then, is not in our near future plans.

David had to remove her from the place. They went to Target. She got a Hello Kitty bag. All was right with the world.

Sawyer slowly got over his fear of the robot one. But he was still afraid of the whole "guy wearing a mouse costume" thing. Which he explained thusly:

"I didn't like him because I didn't KNOW him, Mommy."

Words to live by.

It's not MY fault

I keep waiting for my kids to do something funny. Embarrassing would be even better. At this point, I'd settle for cute.

Cause I got nothin'. I love to post about the sidesplitting or adorable things my two cherubs do, because who doesn't want to read all about them? (cue crickets)

At any rate, I'm at the point where I must shout "DO SOMETHING ALREADY! MY BLOG IS WILTING!"

So I apologize that I don't have anything for you, my loyal readers. But don't look at me. Blame THEM!

And what did I get? Blank stares before they returned to counting the dog hair on the rug.

Okay, maybe if I wasn't spending so much time playing Scrabalous on Facebook I'd have more brain power to work on creating something interesting here. Or at least, surfing the web for the latest celebrity gossip.

Or at the very least, I could dig up a picture to post. But instead, I'm heading off to bed. With the promise to do better next time!

My Fake Baby

Okay, this is all a bit...weird. Have any of you seen this video? It's about these British women who buy these very lifelike newborns and then do stuff like put them in a pram for an outing to the aquarium.

The newborns can come with little cuts on their face, baby acne, the ability to "breathe" or squirm around - everything but the projectile spitup and poops that explode up their backs.

Creepy.

As one woman who has several said, "People think I'm nutters." Gee, ya think?

The video on youtube is kinda long, like 10 minutes, and David got so irritated from the 2.7 seconds he actually watched that he stormed off yelling "Can you comment that these people are f*cking crazy?!?!"

We're not afraid to pyschoanalyze in this house, nosiree.

Mostly, it's kind of sad. One couple said they don't want children because of the "noise" but prefer to pick one off the shelf. The woman claimed she does realize it's not alive (suuuuuure) and that's it's - shockingly - not giving any feedback, but she really enjoys washing its hair.

Wha?

I'm not clear who is in the market for these dolls, other than maybe tween girls. If you're a woman who desperately wants a child but can't have one, I'm not clear this would substitute for the real thing. Actually, I KNOW it's not a substitute.

Motherhood in the newborn phase IS actually about the mess and the noise, while knowing that they won't be in that phase forever - and, in my case, being happy about it.

Anyway, beecause I'm a moron and can't figure out how to post the actual youtube video on the blog like everyone else, here's the link.

I found myself not able to look away, kind of like a trainwreck. I'd love to hear what you all think. You don't have to watch the whole thing to get an idea for what this is all about.

My Fake Baby

Senorita Bossy Pants

No, Mommy, I BOO IT!!!

This is what I hear all day. Every day.

I have a little dictator in pink sneakers.

The weather was kind of chilly and damp today so I decided we would just stay home and play. I've been feeling a bit guilty about spending more time on my laptop than I do interacting with the small people who inhabit my airspace.

I convinced Sage that it would be more fun to play with Mommy and Sawyer in the garage (that's OUR playroom, you horrible people with huge houses!) than it would be to watch her astonishingly awful Hello Kitty DVD. After a small hissy fit, she graciously deigned to join us.

Sawyer was involved playing with his Geotrax. I enticed Sage with some playdoh.

But Sage, I discovered, really isn't the play WITH type. She's the I BOO IT type. As in, she did not want Mommy's help. SHE wanted to roll the playdoh. SHE wanted to cut it with her pizza cutter. SHE wanted to put it back in the container.

I was not just irrelevant. I was a giant pain in her ass.

If I try to sing one of "her" songs, she will shout. Because, well, "I BOO IT!"

I'm all for independence, but she takes it to an extreme. No idea where she gets it from...

In fact, she's shouting I BOO IT right now, as David is trying to get her ready for her bath.

I really do admire her will. It's just that at this age it makes everything so much more difficult. I have to run her down and then physically restrain her just to comb her hair and, if I'm lucky, slap a bow in it.

She insists on buckling herself into her carseat, usually when we're running late to take Sawyer to preschool. It just postpones the inevitable, which is me booing doing it because she can't quite maneuver the smaller buckles yet.

When she has to poop, she runs out of the room. If you ask where she is, she yells "Priiiivadee!" which she learned from her brother, who likes his privacy when he's pooping. Then it's another footrace to swoop her up and drop her on the couch to change her. Don't even get me started on the actual removing the diaper/wiping the butt part. I am looking forward to when she I BOO IT on the potty.

She and Sawyer played outside for a little bit right before lunch. Sawyer kept shoving the front of her tricycle. Sage responded by bopping him over the head with a metal dog brush.

Today, when I wouldn't get her Rocket because she had Stinky Poop #2 in her diaper and was instead carrying her down the stairs, she bit me. Luckily, I was wearing a thick sweater, so all she got a mouthful of fleece. And then she went to timeout. A couple hours later, at dinner, she said "I forry Mommy for bite you."

So she does have a conscience. It just takes awhile for it to surface.

She can be a very snuggly baby. Except not before bed. Shockingly, she wants to read her bedtime story. By herself. In her own chair. Without Mommy.

I am sure there will come a time when her I BOO IT's fill me with pride. She has a lot of those moment ahead of her: learning to read, to ride a bike, to jump off the high dive.

Every nce in awhile, I do see a glimmer that she is open to help from others.

Like when her milk is across the room. And she is too comfy on the couch to retrieve it.

"YOU did it, Mommy!"

One more time!

Holy Crap! And do I mean crap!

Okay, not "crap" as in "poop," unless a patch of dried smoothie on the floor qualifies.

David and I decided to rearrange our "living room" furniture tonight. This was not as crazy as a job as it might seem. Because our furniture consists of exactly one couch.

One. Couch.

When you walk into our house, there's one large room, with vaulted ceilings, that encompasses the dining area and the living area. We have a decent sized rectangular table with chairs for the dining area.

We used to have glass coffee tables in the living area, but we got rid of those child-maimers-waiting-to-happen and never replaced them. We also had a huge chair that we later sold at a garage sale. We moved the sleeper couch into what is now David's office.

And bought one couch. It's got a chaise attached to it. The idea was that one of us could lie one way, and the other could lie across the chaise part so we'd be comfortable watching TV. What can I say - I was pregnant at the time.

The reality is the dogs took over the chaise part, so they could have a clear view out of the window to protect us from all manner of cats, birds, neighborhood children and the occasional UPS truck.

I learned this evening that the chaise actually comes off from the sofa part. The problem is that this leaves the couch with only one arm. But we were willing to see what we could do to make two pieces work.

First issue was to move the couch. We have not moved this thing since we bought it almost five years ago. I know, ew, but I never claimed to be Molly Maid.

Imagine our surprise when David lifted it to find, underneath, an eye-popping assortment of books, matchbox cars, cheerios, play food (several french fries, a waffle, a bottom half of a hamburger bun, a mound of peas), doodads David collected for the kids at trade shows, a toy wrench, half a flashlight, the two missing wood alphabet blocks, the letter "X" from Sage's puzzle, automoblox tires, a AA battery, a box of Dots candy, a small Thomas train, a receipt from my half marathon almost a year ago, and the aforementioned dried puddle of smoothie. Strawberry, I believe.

Perhaps we need to move our couch more often?

We hadn't even moved the chaise part yet. That removal revealed a few random puzzle pieces, a matchbox car, two toy airplanes, a pack of Smarties, three missing plastic snack bowls, and more books. And more cheerios.

I felt like the Very Hungry Caterpillar. All I wanted now was a nice green leaf to make me feel much better.

And clearly I would not do well as the Princess and the Pea. I had no clue how much stuff was under there. It has certainly motivated us to, you know, clean under there a little more often.

We're not overly enthused with our new furniture arrangement. But Sawyer is thrilled with his "new" toys (and Smarties). I'm excited the floor is clean.

I sense a new couch in our not-so-distant future. Which will require us to once again move our current couch.

Don't even think about asking me to look under the cushions.

The One

The rustle of taffeta and silk and netting.

A wedding dress, going up and over.

No other sound like it in the world.

One of my friends, Wendy, asked me to go wedding dress shopping with her, her mom and her future mother-in-law.

I was very honored to be asked, because to me, it's a pretty darn special time. Her mom was a bit frosted that it wasn't just going to be her and Wendy, but she loves me, so she got over it. Wendy's future MIL was a lot of fun - luckily for Wendy!

Bringing me along served two purposes for Wendy - I'm unfailingly honest, especially when it comes to clothes, and I can easily tolerate - and distract - her mom.

This is Wendy's second marriage. Her first mercifully ended not even a year after it began. I like to think I had a small part in getting her the hell away from that controlling, misogynistic a-hole who liked to use the Bible to justify why he was In Charge.

He was mean. Horribly, viciously mean.

Wendy and I had a lunch while she was debating what to do. She cried through the entire thing. She was in her mid-20s. She struggled with the stigma of having a failed marriage, of being divorced so young - despite her husband's propensity of making her feel smaller than a dust mote and just about as useful.

This is a woman who had more self-esteem and joy in her little finger than most people have in their entire beings.

And it is tough for her - at 6 feet tall - to feel small. But she did. I was sad for her. But also optimistic.

I told her that I would support her no matter what her decision was. I also pointed out that she could either be divorced and likely happy again. Or she could stay married and be freakin' miserable. Forever.

She later told me (she moved out shortly after) that knowing I'd support her no matter what made a huge difference. That made me feel good. I was paying it forward in a sense, as a good friend told me the same thing when I was debating whether to break up with a particularly damaging boyfriend.

So it makes me thrilled to see Wendy so happy now. And so proud of how brave she was and how far she's come.

Walking around the bridal shops definitely took me back. I remember the excitement, the endless racks of possibility, and also the mountains of hideousness that hung side-by-side with The Dress, wherever it might be.

I watched brides-to-be trying on all manner of dresses, from a mermaid style to a pouffy creme puff to a fitted sheath to a beaded monstrosity.

It was tough not to smile at the women. They turned this way and that in front of the mirror, no doubt imagining if this was it, the Perfect Dress to wear down the aisle, the one to make her latent Princess dream come true.

We waited for Wendy to find hers.

And then she did. It was very simple. Ivory. Heavy silk. Strapless with a smooth bodice before the skirt fell in folds.

It wasn't the dress that made her beautiful. It was the way she floated out of the dressing room. Of the smile of expectation that lit her face.

She knew.

We knew.

She found The One.

She deserves it. She's worked hard.

She's already found herself.

It's my birthday, it's my birthday

I'm still in my 30s, I'm still in my 30s...

Since it's the last year I can say that, I'm saying it LOUD and I'm saying it PROUD.

Thirty-nine.

39.

Does that sound old or what?

Thanks to my lovely head cold, 39 feels like the new 59.

I can't really complain, though. Thirty-eight was pretty good to me.

I ran my first 10ks, half-marathons and one Big Honkin' Marathon.

I got down to a size 6.

I didn't murder accidentally maim or otherwise injure either of my kids or dogs.

My husband still loves me. I think.

My snoring and recent affair with my box of Kleenex might send him over the edge.

I killed a ginormous mutant spider in my son's room. All by myself. Because David wasn't home, leaving me to fend for myself.

I made great new friends.

I said goodbye to my father.

I hosted my mother - twice - for five days. And survived.

I raised $5,000 for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and delivered an SUV-full of baby stuff to a very needy family.

I bought into a business and hosted my first home workshop.

I got some freelance gigs.

I ran 12 - or was it 14? - miles with a severe sinus infection.

I listened to my "mommy gut" and got Sage speech therapy.

I got new boots. Today. Wanna see?


I took risks.

I did something for myself.

I'm 39.

The Plague

Sage has this incredibly annoying habit of sticking her fingers in her mouth.

I have tried everything to stop her, but of course she thinks it's hilarious and will smirk at me as she's putting her Digits of Death into her mouth.

I am constantly pouring the hand sanitizer on her and washing her hands. But you can only do so much.

So it really wasn't that shocking that she got a runny nose and spiked a fever out of nowhere - especially when earlier in the day I watched her run her hands over EVERYTHING in the bathroom at the pool while I was getting Sawyer changed after swimming lessons.

WHY DON'T YOU JUST LICK THE TOILET AND GET IT OVER WITH ALREADY???

Luckily she's fine now, but not before giving her Superpower Germs to me. In all fairness, I can't give her all the blame. Sawyer was sneezing his head off for a couple days earlier this week, so it was probably just a Cocktail of Snot that did me in.

But why am I always sicker than the kids? I allegedly have an immune system, people! I spent last night with a box of Kleenex, shivering under my comforter despite wearing flannel pj bottoms, a long sleeve shirt AND a fleece - while moaning over my splitting headache.

Sage decided that she wanted to come in and snuggle at 2 a.m., but upon realizing Mommy was making some kind of funny snoring/snot gurgling noise, she quickly retreated to the safety of her crib.

If only I had a Quiet Place I could go.

A girl can dream...

FACIAL!

Remember when that was the cool thing to say? Like when someone got totally burned on something, you'd be all, "That was SUCH a FACIAL!" Like a noun version of "in your face!"

Or was that just something only said by someone attending a small high school in suburban Connecticut in the 80s?

Yeah, like you didn't have a mullet or wear legwarmers, either.

Anyway, today I had a facial with a small "f." My mother-in-law gave me a gift certificate to a local salon. I had originally had an appointment for today for a little thing I like to call Torture By Way of Hot Wax.

Instead, I decided to use the certificate for a facial. Running has not been kind to my skin. I have a small army of oil wells marching across my face, courtesy of rivers of sweat that have graced my face during and after every run.

And, in keeping with my tradition of excrutiating spa experiences - I LOVE me some deep tissue massage! - I made sure the facial was as painful as possible. I knew about the "extraction" but I was ever so over-the-moon when she put the flesh-eating mask on me!

Seriously. It was this pumpkin thingy that had some kind of dead-skin disolving enzymes that made it feel like tiny needles were pricking my skin. For about 10 minutes. I went to my Happy Place while she gave me a hand and foot massage, but I couldn't help snickering at how ridiculous I am.

RELAX! my inner voice shouted.

But no. Impossible.

So in essence, the Facial (capital 'F') was, in fact, on me!

To three or not to three

I was late.

Eight days worth of late.

Three pregnancy tests peed on kind of late.

And guess what? I'm not pregnant!

I know this because, well, the gears starting creaking and things started, you know, flowing.

But not before David and I had to contemplate what it would mean if I had been pregnant.

We have two healthy, perfect kids (and when I say perfect, I mean in the "all their limbs and organs are functioning normally and they seem reasonably intelligent and well-adjusted" type of way). It is tough enough to manage Sawyer's peanut allergy. I can't imagine dealing with something that affects quality of life every moment.

I have one child out of diapers (the other one will NEVER be out, just to spite me). I removed high chairs, bouncers and other large baby things from my house. I don't worry about toys with small parts becoming lodged in a windpipe anymore.

I don't remember the last time I used a stroller.

Why rock the boat by adding a third?

I'm clutching on to my 30s with my fingernails. Who knows what my eggs are doing, especially after this past Cycle of Craziness. David is in his 40s. We're already old, in parenting terms. I met a woman today who is pregnant with her third - and she's only 28!

There's also the issue of being outnumbered, of not having enough hands to help everybody at once. More snot to wipe. The stomach flu times three. Diapers. Clothes. Toys. Cars. College.

A third would also be at least three years younger than Sage and five younger than Sawyer. Would s/he feel left out, with the first two being so close?

When we thought I might in fact be knocked up, David's attitude was "Bring it. We can have a third, no problem." He was totally up for it.

In a way, it would have been a relief to have an oops. It would take the decision making of should-we-or-shouldn't-we out of our hands. Meant to be, right?

Hmm..

Now we need to, like, make an intelligent, adult decision. Am I done? It seems so...final.

To me, having children is what makes living worthwhile. I can't think of anything more important than bringing a life into the world. Raising kids.

Two is cool. Two is manageable.

Three?

Three.

Stay tuned..

Christmas Hangover

That must be it. What else could explain my mood, other than the downslope result of a massive two-day sugar high?

I tried to buy some screaming deals on Gymboree today. I put all this stuff in my basket, then got distracted. By the time I sat down to buy them, all the items were gone. I mean, GONE. Which would've have been so bad if I wasn't also buying my friend some stuff. Now both of us are getting nothing for our kids. Which is pretty much exactly what they need.

The only store around here I wanted to go to today was Pier One to pick up some Christmas ornaments. I got some cute ones. And a bread mix.

Then I sat in my car. And pondered. And listened. Amazingly, I couldn't hear the siren call of my favorite Bullseye of Love, my beloved Target. It was, literally, right across the street. Right there! How could this be? What is wrong with me that I had absolutely no desire to go?

Medic!

I instead bopped over to Starbuck's to get David and eggnog latte, then motored home.

Bleh.

I'm feeling as tired as our Christmas tree, which is dropping needles faster than Sawyer opened his gifts.

Christmas Eve, he was very eager to make sure we left cookies for Santa and oatmeal (?) for the reindeer. He was more interested Christmas morning in watching SuperWhy and his new favorite, Fireman Sam (oy is it bad!). In his defense, he does have a bad cold, but still. It's Christmas! Where is the greed magic?

He finally figured out that there were Gifts. He walked down the stairs, slowed, and, bent over with the sheer weight of amazement, yelled:

"SANTA! BROUGHT! ME! A! BIIIIIKE!"

Then he ripped through his gifts and started crying when he realized there were No More and his sister was still slowly opening hers (she was actually LOOKING at what she got).

We also forgot to take one still shot of them amid the rubble.

We'll have to get on that before our tree is naked.

'Tis the season

My girl just does not like Santa. She had the same reaction last year. She was all for it this time - until we actually got there and she saw the Big Guy.

She then clutched me with a death grip and yelled "NO SANTA, MOMMY! NO SANTA!"

Even attempting to bribe her with a candy cane did nothing.

I'm not clear why she gets so upset, when all we're asking is that she sits on the lap of some stranger with an overabundance of facial hair and wearing more red than ANY man should in a lifetime.

It is kind of a sick thing we do, putting our kids in a situation where they're terrified just for the sake of a photo. Not that this has stopped me. I figure she'll just add it to the list of parenting blunders she'll discuss in therapy one day.

So now I will bring you some kinder, gentler pics of the post-Santa trauma, complete with her working on the candy cane.

Worst. Wrapper. Ever.

That's me, folks. I cannot wrap gifts. Unless they are perfectly rectangular. And small. Otherwise, I cut them off too short, so the sides are showing, which means I have to McGuyver it by taking a smaller piece and taping it over the part of the box that shows.

Today, while wrapping a Transformer, I literally had to crumple up paper on one side and then tape it down into submission. It looked like Sawyer had wrapped it himself. Come to think of it, he'd have done a MUCH better job.

The area under the Christmas tree should be considered a natural disaster.

What's really interesting is, with all the gifts piled up, my kids have not shown one bit of interest. This morning Sawyer did wake up and say "Is it Christmas today?" but he wasn't devastated to learn that it was not.

The other day we were in...wait for it...TARGET, and I tried to surreptiously purchase the Transformer he'd been asking for. He spied it under my arm and asked why I had it. When I told him it was a surprise, he was satisfied - and hasn't asked about it since.

This is the same kid who once asked for a "blue Hot Wheels with the silver fin" at Sears almost two months ago and, when asked a couple weeks ago what he wanted from Santa, yep, he asked for that specific car. Thing is, David went back to Sears and it was gone. We haven't been able to locate it. So I told him he wasn't going to be getting it.

Just yesterday he said, out of nowhere: "I guess I have to take the blue Hot Wheels with the silver fin off my list!"

So the fact he's not bugging me for the Transformer, that he shows only cursory interest in the growing mountain of gifts under the tree, is really quite amazing.

And disturbing. Maybe he didn't inherit the greed curiosity gene from me. I would ALWAYS find where my parents hid our Chanukah gifts. And I would always peel back the paper or look in the bags to see what I was getting.

Then there was the one year when I knew absolutely everything I was getting. So there were no surprises. And I was actually disappointed. That halted my pre-holiday explorations.

I found that I did enjoy being surprised. Even now, David has two gifts for me under the tree, and I'm not even tempted to feel them up or shake them.

Maybe this is the last Christmas where I can "hide" things for him in bags in the front hall closet, then feel confident about putting them under the tree. Maybe next year he'll be beside himself with wondering what he's getting, bugging me every other second.

I might even have to actually put the gifts somewhere where he can't look.

Or maybe he's a freak.

Either way, I'm looking forward to his face when he looks downstairs Christmas morning to see his new Big Boy bike.

I'm going to enjoy this day as I do every other. It will be full of surprises for all of us.

They're so giving...

Sawyer? What do you think Sage would like for Christmas?

I think she'd like a toy spider.

Hmmm...that sounds like something YOU would like. Well, what do you think we should get for Daddy?

Nothing! Daddy doesn't need presents.

No presents for Daddy?

Umm..Maybe a big boy bike.

Sage? What should we get for Daddy?

A yellow horsie!

Oops they did it again!

I'm sure by now you've all heard the wonderful news that yet another Baby Spears is going to enter the world, courtesy of 16 year-old Jamie Lynn.

"It was a shock for both of us, so unexpected," she said. "I was in complete and total shock and so was he."

Sorry, but she's Not. That. Innocent.

Okay, enough with the song references. But seriously, how sad is THIS? I'm not clear on the "shocked" part unless there was no sex involved, but the fact she took a home pregnancy test kinda shows she did Do the Deed and therefore knew what could happen.

A pregnant 16 year-old is never a good thing. JL is fortunate in that she has tons of money (aside from being the star of some show called Zoey 101, she happens to have a very famous sister. Perhaps you've heard of her?).

What she lacks is any sort of guidance. It is not a coincidence that Britney is wading through a Load of Crazy. I find it hard to believe that the senior Mommy Spears has nothing to do with the fact that her eldest daughter is so lost.

Shockingly, Lynne Spears' book on parenting - one Publishers' Weekly described as "Lynne Spears's personal story of raising high-profile children while coming from a low-profile Louisiana community" - has been put on hold. Indefinitely.

Yeah. A shame. It was exactly the how-to parenting tome I was looking for.

But maybe JL has learned from watching Britney go from a sweet, somewhat normal teenager to a head-shaving, chain-smoking, K-Fed marrying, baby-birthing, panty-less, non-carseat using, rehab-busting woman.

She wants to raise the baby at home, in Tennessee, not out in LA. Of course, "at home" means with her mother, but that's probably when her mom isn't out in LA taking care of Brit's kids.

Sixteen.

Remember 16? The most exciting thing that happened to me was I got my driver's license. Of course, I know some of my friends were doing the Spears, but not one of them was mature enough to raise a child. Luckily, none of them had to.

Having a baby bump has become the latest accessory of the stars. I just saw some website rank the "10 Sexiest Bumps." Halle Berry, Christina Aquilara, JLo, etc. I think it's great that being pregnant is no longer something to hide under a gingham frock with a peter pan collar.

JL is about to become hip. And hip-pier. Thing is, there's an acutal BABY growing under the bump. Those other stars are at least grownups. Chronologically, if nothing else.

This pregnancy, this child, will be scrutinized just like any celebrity's. But with this one comes enough baggage to fill LAX.

At 16.

JL is no ordinary 16 year-old, of course, even before this happened.

Now she's going to have to grow up overnight. Hopefully, there will be someone there to help her make the transition.

It's 5:21. Do you know where your dinner is?

Because I sure as hell don't. My kids are currently sitting on the couch watching Word World. My husband is upstairs ironing his clothes for his business lunch tomorrow. My dogs are outside barking like jackals.

And here I sit.

With no idea what my darling family will be eating in approximately 40 minutes.

I should be in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator - or, more likely, the freezer - looking for inspiration. But I can't. If I ignore this issue, maybe it will go away. Pretzels contain at least one food group, right? And they're WHOLE GRAIN!

I'm paralyzed by my inefficiency.

I want to be one of those moms who plans out their menu for the week. They go to the grocery store and spend an hour or two each Sunday chopping and mixing and getting things organized.

I sit on my ass and watch football.

Cooking in my house is always a challenge. I don't eat red meat. David doesn't eat fish. Sawyer will try most things, but if I try to serve him lasagne or any pasta with sauce on it, he asks me to please remove the "dip" from it. Sage eats nothing. Except mac and cheese from a box (it's ORGANIC, people, calm down!).

It sucks when you spend time creating something you're sure your kids will down like it'll explode if not consumed within 10 seconds, only to have the Princess shove it across the table like she's playing pool and my lap is the corner pocket.

I would be happy eating peanutbutter out of the jar with my fingers a spoon, but since that could send Sawyer into anaphalactic shock, we don't have any of that particular substance in our house.

At the moment, I'm thinking the kids will get chicken nuggets (no trans fat! less breading!), broccoli and...?

Really gets the tastebuds jumping!

If anyone has some good ideas to help me please advise. Unless I'm the only one mired in Dinner Dread.

This cracks me up

I'm not a big Walmart fan. For some reason I always feel like I need to shower immediately after visiting the three or so times my husband has dragged me in there. I realize this must make me a snob, but I own that label proudly as I carry my shopping bags from Target.

Anyway, my friend Kris sent me this today. It was allegedly made at Walmart (who knew they did cakes?)



Can you imagine the phone call that went with this? Let's see what you come up with - and if you "get" what happened!Post in my comments section, you crazy posters!

Okay, Leslie wants a hint, so here it is: Pretend you are the person ordering the cake, what you might have said to the person taking the order...

Who says romance is dead?

David and I had a rare and much-needed "date night" tonight. We went to our favorite Thai place, where I always order the chicken wokked with snow peas. It is SO YUMMY. The only problem is the food literally comes out before the waitress has even made it to the kitchen to give them the order. And I've been so hungry today (Torrey and I ran 10 miles in 41 degree weather, which is ass cold for us wimpy SoCal girls, regardless of the fact I grew up in New England) that I finished my dinner before the rice soaked up any of the sauce.

So what did we do next?

Pier One. TJ Maxx. Barnes & Noble. Got in the car. Went to Target. Got back in the car. Drove to Vons.

Came home at 9:05.

This is my life.

Maybe on our next night out we can get REALLY wild and go to...the MALL!

Wait - I am creative after all!

This is the dirt cake I made for Sawyer's birthday, during which we had a visit from this woman who brings lizards, turtles, snakes and other assorted creepy-crawlies.

So we had a reptile party which was screaming for dirt cake. And yes - I ground the oreos MYSELF to make this cake! It actually came out yummy. The parents were all fascinated by what was really in it, and kids loved finding the gummy worms layered into it.

Check out the recipe below! It's from Martha Stewart, natch!

I did it!

A little too creepy...

As regular readers of this blog know, I talk about some personal stuff on here. Maybe it's my background in journalism, because I know what makes a good story. Or maybe it's because I'm kind of a what-you-see is what-you-get type of girl without much to hide.

I also think it's pretty common with people who write, or who are artists, that your work is an expression of you - even if it's about someone else's life. So you're used to having "you" out there for public consumption on a daily basis. It's natural.

But when it comes to my kids, I have to be more protective. I don't post a lot of pics of them on here because, well, you never know. I already regret using their names, but it's kind of too late to go back on that.

I honestly believe the best writing is honest writing. I try to do that here. Not so much for all of your kind words (though they mean the world to me), but to give me an outlet, and in turn, to hopefully give you something to think about as I put my own spin on Mommyhood.

Even though I no longer write for a living, this blog is a wonderful thing for me, and helps keep me in touch with my creative side (cause Lord knows I'm not creative in any other way, just ask every one of my friends, ask my kids, my reputation precedes me).

That's why it's disturbing when someone finds a personal post about my child and posts the link on a somewhat odd message board, and then all of a sudden I'm getting hits from, literally, all over the world from people who want to read about poop.

I wonder why. It's not a parenting site. I have no clue how they found it. Or why they think it's of interest.

But it's forced me to delete the post. I just wasn't comfortable. I know that I can't control who reads my blog unless I make it private, but then I think that you just never know who might happen upon this blog and find something to make them smile, or laugh, or relate to - someone I don't know, but might like to.

I am a regular reader of a blog or three where I don't know the person, but I love the writing. So I lurk. And think. And laugh. Sometimes cry.

That is why we write, and why I will continue to do so, but perhaps with a more careful view.

How did THIS happen?

Last night, before you went to bed, I told you that when you woke up this morning, you would be 4.

This was a thrilling thought for you. I watched it take hold, the very IDEA that you could go to sleep as one thing and wake up something completely different.
And maybe you won't want to give me hugs anymore, since you won't be 3, I told him.

Don't worry, Mommy, I will still give you hugs when I'm 4. But no kisses.

I'll take what I can get.

I don't know why I'm having such a hard time with this particular birthday. Maybe it's because when you turned 1, I was just so relieved we'd survived the first year. When you turned 2, we already had Sage, so I didn't have much energy to think about it. Then last year, we were so DONE with you being 2, I couldn't wait for 3.

But now, suddenly, you're 4. FOUR! I remember being four. I remember parts of being three, too, but definitely four. There are things that will happen this year that will stay with you the rest of your life.

I hope I don't mess up too badly.

There have already been signs that things are changing.

It started a couple weeks ago at swimming lessons, when you figured out how to flip over on your back and breath, and how to keep you head in the water while on your stomach so you don't sink. It was like something just clicked, and you went from being scared and unsure to supremely confident, like you knew how to do it all along but just wanted to stress out your Mom a bit first.

It continued with you finally showing interest in reading and knowing your letters, instead of refusing to try because it was Too Hard.

But the other day, when we went to the bike shop after swimming lessons, is when it really, truly sunk in that you are no longer my baby.

You jumped on a tricycle to tear around the store while I was busy talking to a sales person. Then, I saw a flash of orange go by, and heard you yell "MOMMY! LOOK!" and there you were, zipping around on a big-boy bike.

By yourself.

On a bike.

And the look on your face was like you'd just had your first taste of sugar and knew it would change your life forever.

We continue to marvel over you. Your preschool teacher said you have "feelings," something she doesn't see much in boys your age. You have a bouyant spirit and are, generally, easy-going.

You aim to please. Most of the time, it's a good thing. But we are waiting for you to come into your own as an independent thinker. You are a fabulous kid with a limitless imagination (what other kid can make "robots" and "airplanes" out of half of a paper plate?) and you can entertain yourself - and us - for hours.

That being said, you enjoy testing limits. You don't want to hold my hand in the parking lot anymore because you are a Big Boy. You don't even use a booster chair at a restaurant.

You're sassy. My heart cracked just a bit when you said "You're a Bad Mommy" until, after you emerged from your stint in time out, you threw your arms around me with an urgent "I love you, Mommy!"

I love you too, Buns. You are my light. Happy Birthday, big boy!

For dog or nature lovers

This site is absolutely amazing, and visiting it always lifts my mood.

A woman lives in a one-room cabin in Wyoming with her cat and a coyote orphan she rescued when he was 10 days old.

She is an INCREDIBLE photographer and has captured Charlie, the coyote, in breathtaking ways.

But as I look at the pictures, which are four months behind - she didn't start the blog til September when Charlie was four months old, so the blog is not in "real time" - I worry about what will happen to Charlie.

Is it possible to keep a coyote as a pet and not have it eat your cat? At the moment, the cat rules the roost, but...

She does have a calendar with recent pics of Charlie, and you can subscribe to a daily real-time picture of him, so I know she still has him.

What a life experience for this woman, who rode a Vespa from San Francisco to New York, then basically turned around and moved to Wyoming where she'd previously spent just one day.

Check it out!

Daily Coyote

FREE AT LAST!

That is what my husband said when he called me after dropping off my mother - bless her heart - at the airport this morning after her five-day visit.

We had flown her in for Sawyer's fourth birthday party, which we had Saturday. Now that my father is gone, I think it's important for her not to be alone too much. My brother and his family live relatively close to her, but she doesn't get along well with my SIL and she doesn't see them a lot.

The party was first-thing Saturday morning, so we ran errands on Friday and things seemed to be going okay. She was helpful in getting stuff ready, including making this ginormous dirt cake which required us doubling a recipe. That contained fractions. Tricky ones, like 4 3/4. Let's just say my mother had her calculator out and we STILL couldn't figure it out.

We are the stupidest people on the planet.

Somehow, it came out fabulously and the party was great. She enjoyed talking to my friends. She even helped clean up.

Then it was all downhill, people. DOWN. HILL.

We know the ground-rules going in. She doesn't sit on the floor with the kids. She hates our couch, because, you know, it's like, squishy, so she parks herself on the dining room chair. And knits socks. Or plays Suduko. Or eats.

Notice there is nothing in there about playing with the kids? There's a reason for this. It's because she doesn't.

Sawyer started off the visit by wanting to sit in her lap and saying "I love you Grandma" many times. Let's just say that when she left this morning, he gave her a hug and ran off. I asked him later if he had fun with her, and he was basically like "meh."

Why? Because most of her interactions with him involved her repeating my discipline "Mommy just told you NOT to do that so you need to STOP IT!" while poor Sawyer's face fell.

He got a new train set and excitedly yelled "Grandma! Grandma! Come see!" after he'd set it up in the garage. She would answer "After I finish.." lunch, the paper, watching me do the dishes - anything but going in and celebrating with him.

It didn't stop with him, though.

She wanted to buy me a Chanukah gift, so off we went to the mall. For 2 1/2 hours. And I found nothing that either fit or wasn't too expensive, which completely pissed her off because I'm "impossible to buy for." On the way home, I could see some snow-covered mountains, which is always a thrilling sight when you live in SoCal.

Her response? "I have mountains all around me at home. Snowcovered mountains do not impress me." Ooooookay....

The funniest part of that was she used the same line on David this morning when they were driving to the airport.

Apparently, our parenting skills also did not impress her. And because she has raised THREE CHILDREN and is the VOICE OF EXPERIENCE, she felt it necessary to impart her myriad parenting tips on us.

And boy, there were some gems.

My favorite one came last night. After dinner, the kids were playing with the light switches in the dining area. We were sitting at the table and had a clear view of them, as they were about three feet away from us.

My mother actually stood up - I know! - and went over and told them to stop and physically moved Sage's hand away from the switch.

When we told her to knock it off, her reply was "When it COMES to SAFETY, I HAVE to step IN" as if David and I are a bunch of crackheads who're letting our kids practice lighting the pipe. Not on HER watch. Nosiree.

I mean, if they were sticking a fork in the outlet and we just sat there, that's one thing, but a light switch? Dangerous?

Maybe she still sees me as a kid. She's letting me play Mommy, but only until I've chopped my doll's hair off or put my stuffed puppy in the oven.

I was not sorry when she left. And judging from how fast she ran out of the house, she wasn't sorry to leave. I asked Sage to give her a hug, and Sage, being 2, said "No. No hug!"

My mother's response?

"If you're not going to hug me, then I'm not going to hug YOU. I'll just say "bye-bye."

Well, she learned HER.

And off she went. No thank-you, no nothing. No hug for me either.

I know you'll be shocked to hear me say that I know my mother is not the warm-and-fuzzy type. But it's unfortunate that she can't relax and just enjoy the energy and exuberant happiness and even the tears that little kids are made of.

At one point she told me that she knows that this time, with active little kids, must seem really long to me, but that it really goes by quickly.

And I had to disagree. I love this age, Sawyer at a few days short of 4 and Sage a few months past 2. Sure, there are frustrations (like when someone pooped on the floor today) and stress and exhaustion, but it is more than made up for by how much they make us laugh and learning that you can, in fact, love them even more than you did yesterday.

I wonder if she missed that when she was a mother. I know she's missing it as a grandmother.

And that's just sad.

To run, or not to run..

I have been feeling less than motivated lately when it comes to training for my next marathon. It might have started the two weekends I had to do my long runs by myself. Even though I had my iPod cranking, it just wasn't as enjoyable as when I'm slogging along with my Running Girls. Misery loves company, after all.

Sunday I was to run about 2.5 miles by myself, then meet up with Cindy and Torrey. They were going to run 10, and I was hoping to do 16.

I knew I was in trouble when, the night before, I'd had an anxiety dream: I'd started on the run, but forgot my hydration belt. I panicked because I knew I couldn't run 16 miles without water. And then I woke up to my alarm clock.

So I was about a mile into my run Sunday when I realized that although I did in fact have my water, I hadn't packed any Gu. It was still in my car. When I met Cindy and Torrey, I informed them they'd have to run the 2.5 miles back to my car, then run 2.5 miles back to their starting point, then another five after that.

All was working according to plan until, after I'd run just over 5, I felt a horrible jolting pain going from my big toe up to my ankle. It was bad enough that I had to sit down on the sidewalk, take off my shoe and rub my foot.

I was able to half-run, half-hobble back to our starting spot, which just happens to be a coffee shop. Since Cindy's knees were barking and Torrey was recovering from a hideous infection, sitting down and having a coffee sounded a lot more appealing. That, and Cindy offered to treat.

We spent a fabulous hour chatting away. It was by far the best part of our "run." And really, that's what's been missing this past month or so. The fun.

Not that running long distances can ever really be labeled as fun for those of us who aren't exactly naturally gifted runners (David has pointed out on various occasions that perhaps I should try something else, since my talent must surely reside elsewhere).

But it's always been less horrible because of the conversations we've shared - which are, I've discovered, MUCH more enjoyable when my ass is firmly planted on a chair (wow - didn't think I'd ever use "my ass" and "firm" in the same sentence) instead of bouncing along some mind-numbingly boring path.

Today I called my podiatrist, who said I either have a stress fracture (NO!!!) or some irritation in the small bones in the ball of my foot (MUCH BETTER!!). I'm supposed to test it out tomorrow and then let her know. I'm doing a spin class, so we'll see.

The real issue, however, is that I'm starting to think my bones need a break. I'm tired. Not just the kind of tired a good night's sleep would take care of. Not that I know what that is, but I'm just sayin'.

I need rest. To not get up and run before most normal (sane) people are awake.

I know this, but I'm not ready. I'm too scared. I've been training for a marathon for eight months. Almost long enough to have a baby. And since I feel like I didn't really run a marathon, it's always hanging over my head like that kid in high school who reminded you that you weren't quite good enough to hang with the in crowd.

If I stop running now, I don't know if I'll ever do a "real" marathon. I know I'll regret it.

That's not all, though. I like being in shape. I like fitting into my jeans. I'm worried I'll balloon and not move off the couch. Like, ever.

My foot might make the decision for me.

We'll see.

Just who is the Biggest Loser?

Is it so WRONG to eat a huge vat small bowl of Peppermint Stick ice cream while watching a group of overweight people work out?

There they are, sweating it out on the treadmill as Jillian shouts obscenities at them, and I'm sitting there with my butt on the couch, dipping into my dish o' fat.

I did feel guilty. Not guilty enough to stop spooning it in, mind you, but I did have a pang or two.

I imagine what I'd look like on that regimen. Nothing to do but work out four hours a day, with a great trainer who is clearly really good at what she does (and Bob looks awesome, too). And the nutrition. That's my big issue (clearly).

The working out part isn't where I struggle.

Hello. My name is Cheryl. And I'm a sugar addict.

I. Love. It.

I can't go through a day without something sweet. And since I don't really like fruit (it has to be just so or I won't eat it, like no bruise on the banana, the orange has to be sweet and juicy, the grapes firm, etc) this means I'm eating the processed white stuff, otherwise known as Satan's Spell.

I'm under it. All the way.

What I need is a Jillian to stand in my kitchen and when I'm reaching into the back of the cupboard for those tootsie rolls, she could scream "WHAT are you DOING? COME ON! DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!"



Or something like that. I'm pretty sure she could kick my ass in about 9 seconds, so I'd have to listen.

Because sometimes I feel like, if I don't watch it, you're going to see my butt not on the couch, but on TV. As a contestant.

Thank goodness I'M so perfect..

Who'd have thought there'd be this much chatter over a little bit of cottage cheese.

It is quite sad. Pathetic, really.

For those of you who actually have a life and don't spend every waking moment a minute perusing the latest Hollywood gossip, here's the deal.

I happened upon a picture on TMZ of someone's not-so-toned butt in a black bikini. Since I was already on the site, I figured I MAY as WELL see who the butt belonged to.

It was Jennifer Love Hewitt, who I first saw on one of my favorite shows back in the day, Party of Five.

You would think she just shot Bailey (played by short but cute Scott Wolf, although I always liked Charlie better, who of course is now Jack on Lost) the way the nastiness is flying.

The blogbloids talk about her "waddling around Hawaii" and how the pictures make them "ill" and then there's my personal fave, this delightful missive from some clearly intellectual website called The Superficial: "What the hell are those ghosts whispering to her? That cake fights cancer?"

She decided to respond via her blog (she's SO 2007!) to say stuff such as "Like all women out there should, I love my body." And "A size 2 is not fat! Nor will it ever be. And being a size 0 doesn't make you beautiful." And "I'm not upset for me, but for all of the girls out there that are struggling with their body image." And "To all girls with butts, boobs, hips and a waist, put on a bikini – put it on and stay strong."

SHE HAD TO DEFEND HER ASS - am I'm not just talking like the kids do. She literally had to stand up to say that she's fine with how she looks (and with HER boobs, who wouldn't be?). And jeez, she was on vacation celebrating her engagement, so that made her vacation shots that much more "special."

The thing is, she looks like most women in America. Hell, she looks BETTER than most women in America.

And, like most women in America, she's not perfect. Which must make some men people feel uncomfortable. Angry, even. Like how DARE she have a flaw? She's gorgeous, has amazing knockers, her own TV show, doesn't drink (or drive)like LiLo or party like Paris.

She doesn't have questionable parenting skills like Britney and hasn't spent a moment in prison.

But she does have CELLULITE! Oh, the humanity!

Get off her ass. Seriously.

I think I'd much rather have my daughter see the picture of JLH's butt than that of say, Paris Hilton, so I could say "This is what a REAL woman looks like, and she's beautiful and happy and successful."

Then I'd order her off the computer and out into the world. No matter what might jiggle along the way.

The Ugly Face

Children, even as infants, love to model their parents. It starts as cooing contests back and forth. Then it moves to copying sounds, mamama, dadada, and then, eventually, words.

Then they REALLY learn to talk and you might have your 2 year-old yell "SHIT!" in exactly the appropriate situation - just like Mommy.

Sawyer has recently started saying "Soooo...what are we doing today?" or "Sooo.....where are you going?" etc. I couldn't figure out where he was getting that "Soooo" from. Until I realized it was me. No clue I did it (for those of you who might have noticed this problem, stop snickering).

They are constantly watching, processing, reacting. This is mostly a good thing. You try to model not only good language, but good behavior. You say "please" and "thank you." You try to eat healthy food (at least in front of them, the Ben & Jerry's is for after they're in bed) and exercise.

You try to be kind and friendly to others. You look both ways before crossing the street.

This is why what I saw the other day made me so upset. Sawyer has been rather "challenging" lately. He is getting quite sassy and will not stop obnoxious behaviors - such as smacking his sister or using his "outside" voice in the car -unless I yell. And after the fifth time of asking him to stop nicely, that is what it comes to: me snapping at him.

And there, in the rear view mirror, I saw what my kids see: I saw my Ugly Face.

Eyes squinted. Mouth twisted.

Ugly.

Ugly.

Ugly.

And not the "I'm feeling fat/pimply/frizzy-haired" kind of ugly.

We're talking Scary Ugly.

I did not like what I saw. Not at all. I'm sure they don't like it much either.

I don't want to be that kind of Mom. I don't want my children to think it's okay to be that angry over simple rebellion. And I sure as hell don't want them to be scared of me.

I feel like Other Moms don't have this face. Well, maybe Joan Crawford or someone like that, but not normal, non beating-my-child-with-a-iron type mothers. I have no idea where mine comes from, but I'm working on banishing it to the dark place where it must have grown.

I want my kids to remember their childhood as happy, with a mom who was firm but fun. Not scary. Not angry.

And definitely, definitely not Ugly.

Rain, rain, DON'T go away..

Despite the overpowering aroma of wet ashtray that is permeating this area, I have thoroughly enjoyed our Day of Rain. Living in Southern California has made me long for a change - ANY change - in the weather. So when Sawyer arrived on my pillow at precisely 6:17 this morning, I could hear the rain above the monster roaring noises he likes to make.

The house got a little chilly while the kids were napping this afternoon, and it almost made me get up and bake something, just to have a warm, yummy smell in the house. Note, I said ALMOST.

It sounded like a good idea but I just didn't feel like cleaning the kitchen, then messing it up, then having to clean it again. By the time I calculated how much work I would have to do around the actual baking, it lost its attraction.

So instead I helped myself to some mini tootsie rolls left over from Halloween. Not exactly the same allure as a hunk of homemade chocolate chip pumpkin bread, but at least I could dispose of the wrappers easily.

The fog rolled in about an hour ago, and now it's dark. Really dark, because half of our "holiday" lights did not go on in the front yard. No animated reindeer. No snowman. No penguin. Just dark.

I went to the side of the house where the timer is supposed to be operating said creatures. I had to navigate through mud and a large puddle to get there. The rain-drop covered timer didn't look like it was alive. I called David.

He said I had to unplug it, then plug it in again.

Hmm.. Dark vs. Electrocution.

Sorry, Mr. Snowman!

This is hilarious!

I watched this twice and laughed so hard I cried! Make sure you play it with the sound on! Totally makes me wish we had done something like this...

I'm CRYING!

Our new camera

David's first day with his new camera. He particularly likes this shot of his little mini-me.

He's the Barf Man

Poop on me. Bleed on me. Bloody poop on me.

But Do. Not. Barf. On. Me.

Seriously.

David is the Barf Man in our house. He has been known on several occasions to catch the projectiled mass in his hands as skillfully as Torii Hunter makes a diving basket catch out in center field. He's saved the carpet, the couch, etc.

I, on the other hand, race out of the room at any sign of regurgitation, leaving my poor child to barf on Daddy.

Today, my little girl spiked a 103 degree fever. Her face was really flushed and she kept crying and saying that her head hurt. I called the phone nurse, who suggested we bring her to KidsDoc when they opened at 5 since our regular pediatrician's office was completely booked.

I "planned" to take her, but secretly was hoping David would volunteer.

Why?

Because I'm a terrible Mommy who has a severe aversion to vomit. And I just knew it was coming. That, and Sage is in a Daddy phase now anyway and totally prefers him. Maybe it's because she knows I run from puke and would leave her there like a plate of yesterday's brussel sprouts.

Anyway, he offered. I accepted. He luckily was first in line, when they finally deigned to take a patient half an hour after they were supposed to open. They then tested for strep.

You know where this is heading. Ever had a strep test, where they stick a ginormous swab down your throat? Sage didn't like it so much. So she gagged and barfed. All over Daddy! But hey - he made a nice catch before it hit the floor!

Meanwhile, I was snuggled on the couch at home, nice and dry, watching Meet the Robinsons with Sawyer.

Hey - I DID take off her pukey clothes when she got home and put them in the wash!

And, in my defense, I have been spit up on by both kids when they were babies several times a day for months, including the awesome yurks that splat on the floor behind you, but not before leaving a trail of delight down your back, legs and socks.

The good news is the strep test was negative, and after David OD'd her on Motrin, she was acting almost normal (she tried to hit Sawyer over the head with one of those popper toys that you push around by the handle)
and was nice and cool.

(While I'm thinking of it, what is up with pediatricians and their diagnosis of "virus"? Why don't they just say "We have no effing clue what's wrong with your child" and spare us this catchall thing that tells us nothing.)

Here's hoping for an uneventful night's sleep for all - and that my next post will be about something other than bodily functions!

Blaaaaahg

So, like, where have I been, you ask?

I wish I had all kinds of thrilling tales of wild adventures, but clearly that's not possible. I don't even have mundane stories about ordinary places.

I guess I've just been overwhelmed lately with mommyhood stuff. Like screeching at the head of Sawyer's preschool about why it's necessary to serve honey nut cheerios in his classroom when he's allergic to nuts, forcing him to be segregated to another table. Or checking out another preschool that is nut-free, but is a 20-minute schlep away.

And, might I add, Sage produced a poop of such immense proportions that it not only came out the top of her diaper and partway up her back, but it came out the bottom, too. We're talking a blowout not usually seen from a child who is not under 3 months old. This was as we were getting into the car in the parking lot of the new preschool so we could hustle to swimming lessons. I tried to carefully remove her shirt so as not to get any poop in her hair - which I succeeded in, but instead the poop smeared up to her neck and on her arm. But at least her hair was clean! Ten minutes and about 47 wipes later, as she stood in the back of our SUV, I finally got her (mostly) cleaned up. We went to the pool, so I was able to soap her down in the sink while Sawyer had his lesson. This is when I noticed the big blob of poop on the arm of my shirt.

Ick.

Perhaps you'd all rather that I just didn't post?

Fear Factor

Sawyer has always been a cautious child (First-child syndrome of an overparenting mom. Discuss.). But now that he has a huge imagination and the words to describe everything in minute detail, he has become terrified of some very specific things.

Examples, you say? Fine. Here we go. Hopefully I haven't posted this before, but I'm too lazy to search my blog. Skip this one if you must!

Months ago, during a trip to the mall, Sawyer spotted a poster that featured a frightening-looking woman on it. I can't remember if it was an ad for a movie or what. I don't even think I glanced at it for more than a millisecond.

Sawyer, however, used it as a launching pad for an incredible scenario that is still going strong.

He named her the "Dragon Lady."

She lives in the Black Forest.

When our dogs bark, he asks if they're waking up the Dragon Ladies.

He makes David drive him to this canyon, er, I mean, Black Forest, near our house, where David parks, rolls down the window, and they scream at the top of their lungs before high-tailing it out of there with the Dragon Ladies in hot pursuit.

THANKfully, the DLs cannot keep up with the car. So Sawyer is safe.

After the recent fires burned the trees in the canyon, we told Sawyer the DLs had to leave. They went so far away they had to take a plane and a boat to get there - there, being the Green Forest.

"I want to take a plane and a boat!"

Sorry. You can't.

So pretty much every night, Sawyer asks about the Dragon Ladies. And the Green Forest.

But wait. There's more.

The doors to David's office must be closed once the sun goes down. He will cry until one of us shuts them. He's even got Sage in on the act. She'll put her hands over her eyes and shriek "Daddy's office! Door!"

Any tiny little noise sets him off. The wind. One of the dogs knocking over something. Last night it was "Mommy, what's that sound of someone walking up the stairs?" Since we were all upstairs, it was likely the footsteps of my sanity - which was actually fleeing down the stairs, searching for a more reputable host.

We try to explain to him that he's always safe in the house, especially since we have two large dogs who will bark like there's a gazelle on the front porch if, say, something as threatening as a neighborhood child walks past our house - on the other side of the street.

Sawyer's not buying it. He eyes those dogs with suspicion, as if they're in cahoots with the Bad Guys. Or the DLs, as the case may be.

He was interested, though, when I told him that when I was Little Girl Mommy I also used to be afraid of scary things like the dark. Unlike when he is a teenager and I will not POSSIBLY be able to relate to ANYTHING that he might experience because I am SO OLD, he took a little comfort from hearing that Mommies can also be scared.

And I was scared, but not at his age, as he is clearly more precocious than I ever was. I think I was probably 10. We lived in a house with a long staircase that led to the upstairs bedrooms. There was a hallway at the top and my room was at the far end. I remember standing at the bottom and being afraid to go up because the light was on in the hallway, and since I didn't turn it on, it was probably those crazy murderers who like to SEE what they're doing before the kill.

As an adult, the fears are different. I'm the one who locks the doors when David is away, as he's been for much of the past two weeks. I don't start at every little noise (remember my dogs?). Instead, I worry about whether I wasn't patient enough with Sawyer, or if Sage's recent bout of hives spell a dairy problem.

When I lie in bed, in the dark, I can fill my head with a vertible Momapalooza of horrifying images of someone snatching one of my children, or of them getting a deadly illness, or of losing my husband in an accident, until the tears flow.

Then there's the dread that gets my heart sinking into my stomach. My own mortality. The unthinkable fear that I might not be there to watch my children grow.

Grown-up fears that I'd trade in an instant for the pure childhood fear of the dark.

And the Dragon Ladies.

Ever have a day like this?

Free things aren't necessarily the best things in life

Sawyer has been going to swimming lessons twice a week since this summer. He loves the water and has no fear of it, so we wanted him to be safe. We take him to a small indoor pool that has a pirate theme.

We figured it would be less intimidating than the place he went the summer before last. It was an Olympic-sized pool with a big tent over it. He did okay the first lesson, but at the second, the other child decided he didn't want to share the teacher and he went ape shit. He was so hysterical that he set Sawyer off.

The next time we tried going to a lesson, Sawyer cried so hard in the car in the parking lot he almost threw up. He then refused to get in the pool. So we decided to wait another year.

It's made a huge difference. He was doing really, really well and advancing pretty quickly. Until last month. Suddenly he started telling the teacher that he was scared. He didn't want to roll over from his back to his front. It got to the point that we decided to go once a week for the month of November, and then take a few months off.

I was actually looking forward to no more trips to the pool.

His lesson is on Thursday, so we went today. His regular teacher is away for a few weeks. His new instructor is the director of several programs and is supposed to be fantastic. I asked a guy standing at the front, who I through was another director, what the new instructor's name was.

We got into a conversation about how Sawyer is regressing, how he just fools around now and that we went to once a week because it was, frankly, a waste of money.

The guys says, "Oh, no, if they regress, you have to go twice a week. I'm the owner. I'll give you a free second day for this month and see how he does."

Then he looks at Sage, who is standing next to me. He asks when she's getting in the pool. I told him I'm waiting til the summer, when she's close to 3.

"Oh, no, the sooner you start the better. If you can get her to learn to hold her breath, and Sawyer to be safe in the pool, then you can just take the summer off from lessons."

He proceeded to give me free twice-weekly lessons for Sage for the rest of the month.

So I go from one lesson a week to four in the span of about 10 minutes.

Why is it so tough to turn down free stuff?

I think Sage is going to HATE being in the pool (thankfully it is NOT a mommy-and-me type deal where I would actually have to get into a suit and into the water with her). Plus it's a bit of a PITA to do the whole swim diaper thing.

Sawyer has been saying that he wants to stop swimming lessons and try something else. He has no clue he's back to twice a week, poor guy.

I could have turned it down. But that would've been, like, un-American or something. Four lessons for the price of one is a fabulous deal. If I found a bargain like that at, say, Nordstrom's shoe department, you can bet your Prada pumps I'd be all over it!

I figure it's only for a few weeks. Then I can gracefully slither off into the land of "December is SUCH a busy month!"

Unless, of course, there's more free lessons!

The best news

I was in Target the other day (I know, as if there's a day when I'm NOT in Target) because when your kids are snotty and playdates/preschool are out, where else is there to go than the wonderland that is Target?

We were looking at all the "holiday" decorations (although props to Target, they're carrying Chanukah stuff this year), and for some reason I thought about the Coble Family.

They were the local couple whose three kids, all under the age of 5, were killed when their minivan was rear-ended by a semi.



Today I got an email from my friend Maria. And this is what it said:

The Ladera Times has learned that Chris and Lori Coble, of Ladera Ranch, who tragically lost their three children last May in a horrific accident on the I-5 near the OSO Exit, are having triplets.

"Yes, it is true. I am six weeks along and they expect me to deliver in early to mid-May," Lori told the Ladera Times. "We had to do it by�in vitro fertilization and it worked the first month. They extracted 14 eggs from me and out of all of those after all sorts of genetics testing, three eggs were good, two girls and one boy. We took that as a sign and we put all three in."

The odds of all three eggs attaching were only 10 percent, according to Lori who added, "It turned out, we are one of the lucky 10 percent."

Although the Coble family is very excited about the pending birth, Lori said it is a bittersweet blessing. "These children will never take the place of Kyle, Emma and Katie, but it does give us some hope for happier times in the future."

Goosebumps.

I have thought of this family often over the past six months, wondering how they were holding up, trying to imagine... but I'm sure nothing I could conjure would even come close to the horror of losing not just one, but all of your children.

I've pondered whether they smile, or if they do, are the overcome with guilt? When does the grief become slightly less smothering?

As over-the-top thrilled for them as I am for their news, I'm also nervous. Triplets are high-risk. If heaven forbid something happened, could they cope? Pregnancy in general is such a crazy time, with so much worry even under the best of circumstances. I remember when I was over 22 weeks and hadn't felt Sawyer kick yet. I became convinced that he was being strangled by his umbilical cord. He was, of course, fine.

That they are having a boy and two girls, is, from someone who is not religious, surely more than just coincidence. I don't have the answer to why, anymore than I had an answer to why the unthinkable happened in the first place.

Then I think about the "new" Cobles, who I'm sure will know from birth about their brother and sisters in heaven. Quite a legacy to live up to. They will know they exist solely because their siblings no longer do.

Will they be labeled? This one laughs like Emma, that one smiles like Kyle, and she's a daredevil just like Katie.

How will Lori Coble ever feel safe about strapping them into their carseats in the back of a minivan, something thousands of moms do every day without a second thought? Will they ever feel good about letting these babies out of their sight?

I have no doubt how much the Cobles will love them. They know better than most the sacredness of life. I can't see them taking for granted that they'll hear their children's voices again.

They learned first-hand the lessons the death of Kyle, Emma and Katie taught us.

BEAT KATIE

Yes, I have stolen this picture from my friend Torrey's blog. Why? Because Torrey has made a very astute observation about Katie Holmes Cruise, everyone's favorite Celebrebot.

Yo! Can't you afford a SPORTS BRA?!?! They, like, sell them. In stores. I'm sure your nanny or anyone of your herd of servants could have picked one up for you. Because running in a camisole is really not okay.

How can anyone run with their saggy baggies hanging around? I, for one, would have to tuck mine into my hydration belt. That is, if I didn't wear a SPORTS BRA!

Maybe there's something in Scientology that says The Girls must breathe? I'm just hoping she Glided them up, because the chafing - oh my!

But I digress. Not really, as this entire blog is one big digression, but let's move on.

So KHC did the New York City Marathon in a time of 5:29:58. Clearly faster than me, but then again, she didn't walk half of it. More irritating is that her time was better than my girl Torrey's.

And, seriously, I can't believe how crazy the media (Yes, that just came out of my mouth. How the mighty have fallen!) is over KHC wearing heels a few hours after the marathon. BFD! It's not like she cured cancer. People! That's not that big of an accomplishment! First of all, according to Torrey's blog, she's 17. Second, I'm sure Tom simply turned the key on her back, winded (wound?)her up and she just starting walking. No biggie!

Yes, she had a baby just over 18 months ago. So? My friend Randi ran a 4:05 marathon at Nike - and her SECOND child is 9 months old! And Randi is still nursing her baby! Now THAT is amazing. As is, of course, NYC Marathon winner and my hero Paula Radcliffe, who busted out a 2:23 (um, yeah, one minute slower than my best 1/2 marathon), has a nine-month old and KICKED ASS!

I am impressed by anyone who finishes a marathon. Seriously. Just spare me the wide-eyed amazement that KHC's accomplishment somehow means more than, for example, that of my friends Alida and Leticia, who are both over 40 and who finished together in 5:31.

Maybe it's good to have another little thing spurring us on. Torrey is running Carlsbad in part because she wants me to have a "good" marathon. My contribution? To motivate us to Beat Katie.

If I don't have a knife in my side, and Torrey doesn't have to stop at every portapotty, then this is a VERY doable goal.

Beat Katie.

Two little words.

BEAT KATIE!

Ketchup is a vegetable, too..

This morning I went running - yes, running! - with my friends Torrey and Maria. We are officially training for the Carlsbad marathon. I say "we" because Maria was on the fence, but now she's in. YIPPEE!!

We ran eight miles and though I had a little stitch in my side for a bit, it was different than my Marathon Knife of Death and actually went away. The final mile or so felt great, actually. It was such a relief to run pain-free!

I arrived home at about 8:30 a.m. I had called David on the way and he told me that Sawyer and Sage had pancakes for breakfast. When I opened the door, I found two very happy kids each holding a little fun-size bag of kissables, which are like M&Ms.

I stifled by immediate response, which was to question Dear Husband why the kids were eating chocolate before noon. (Yes, it's like alchohol. None before noon! They will get completely high. Every mom knows that! But apparently not the dads, to whom it must always be noon somewhere.)

Then I got closer.

That's when I noticed a suspicious looking orange crust clinging to the area surrounding Sage's mouth.

"David? What is that on Sage's face?"

"Oh, she had some Sun Chips with her pancakes."

"WHAT?!?!"

"Yeah, it's like having hash browns."

At least they weren't washing it all down with a Slurpee!

From the Signs You are a Bad Mommy files..

Is it bad that I'm counting the minutes (66) until my kids go to bed so I can eat their chocolate without having to duck down behind the kitchen counter?