Drop and Give Me Twenty

Let me rephrase that: Run 20 miles inside your oven - on broil - and then drop.

Because that's how hot it was today. When we had our longest training run so far. It might not have been quite as warm as it was two weeks ago, when we ran 18. It might only have been incredibly unbearable today as opposed to completely unbearable.

Making it even more enjoyable was the unrelenting sun that beat on us like a Top Chef flattening a chicken breast.

It. Was. Brutal.

We walked a couple miles toward the end. And we were fine with it. Because it was hot. In case I hadn't mentioned. At one point we even stopped in a Starbucks were a nice young Barristaman gave us large cups of ice and water.

We poured lots of it over our heads and put ice cubes in our sports bras. We live on the edge, people!!

The other thing is 20 miles is far. Think about it. Get in your car. Drive 20 miles away. Get out. Run back.

Yeah.

I'm actually starting to psyche myself out. I haven't trained like I did for my first marathon, mostly because of my foot injury. I cross-train but I don't strength train. The physical therapy I started Friday pointed out how weak my legs and hips are. I have a month to work on that.

There are women out there who appear to be, how shall I put it, a tad fluffier than my training partners and me. And yet they are faster. And no one seems to be struggling like us (although we did run two miles longer than everybody else).

I am worried. I'm hoping to have a good marathon. At least, if I start getting tired, I can think back on today and what I endured - and survived. I even managed to run the final mile or so. Even though, by then, the water in our bottles had reached the same temperature as our bodies.

"It's like piss," I said. Which is, incidentally, just what your friends want to hear as they're taking some nice big swigs.

And then Torrey made an excellent point. Who says piss? Pissed off, yes. But piss? I'm not even sure when the last time was I actually said that word by itself. Heat and sun and sweat to crazy things to the brain (including earlier, when I managed to insult two of Cindy's favorite sports and her heritage. Sometimes diarrhea of the mouth is not so much better than the other kind).

Overall, though, I enjoyed spending time with Cindy and Torrey. And no offense to them, but I'm looking forward to spending less time with them on next week's run, which we think will be about 15 - before we go up to 20+ the following week.

Here's hoping for cloud cover!

Too Much Time With Daddy

"Sawyer, we're going to go over to Target. Mommy has to pee."

"Are you going to pee in the bushes?"

The Gift that Keeps on Giving

I was always a guy's girl. I was the one who talked sports with them, listened to rock while their girlfriends had pop music on the dial. I chugged beer, smoked dope (of COURSE I didn't inhale! Not once! Not even now, on the rare occasion that I smell it in the air, I NEVER take a deeper breath than necessary!) and listened to all their boy talk.

My senior year of college I started hanging out more with the girls. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe I realized the way to, you know, meet new guys was not to always be going out to the bars with large groups of them. These girls were an awful bunch, looking back on it. They were all gorgeous and one, in particular, knew it. There really is nothing good about five women living in a two bedroom apartment. I was not sad when that semester ended.

The career I chose all but guaranteed I'd be surrounded by all men, all the time. At one point, there were only two women covering Major League Baseball in the country.

So I didn't exactly pal around with women on a daily basis, although I did make some amazing women friends all over the country.

Then I had Sawyer.

I joined a new mom's support group at the hospital where I delivered. And found some wonderful women who I still rely upon for advice, venting, confession.

But Sawyer's four. It's been awhile since I've made another friend.

I meet plenty of moms every day, at the park, different classes Sage takes, Sawyer's preschool. But I haven't really clicked that much with anyone. Or maybe I like the mom but the kid is a nightmare. Whatever.

A month or so ago, I had a brief "right on, sister!" moment at a local park. Sage was playing with this little girl. So I chatted with the mom. We were talking about preschool, because she also has a son who is a week older than Sawyer.

That subject turned to religion and how there are more religious preschools around here than secular ones. But she, like me, wanted her kids at a secular one. We discussed the often bizarre experience of living in the Bible Belt that is South Orange County - Saddleback Church, one of those megachurches (the pastor is Rick Warren who wrote the bestseller Purpose Driven Life), is about two miles from my house.

It could be worse. We could live in Florida, which thinks it's okay for the government to make this:


We both have met many people claiming to be Christians but whose actions are anything but (obviously there are those who walk the talk. But it seems there are equal numbers of those who are shtupping the neighbor on Saturday night and then are front row center at church Sunday morning - and who make sure everyone knows they are regular churchgoers).

The meeting of the minds went on for maybe 20 minutes. Then she left. And I was left thinking "Wow, someone who thinks just like I do. In Orange County. Shocking!"

So imagine my surprise when, a couple weeks ago, a mom tapped me on the shoulder at Sage's gym class and said "Remember me? We talked religion at the park."

Turns out her daughter, H, is in Sage's gym class. And then they randomly came to our closest park last week.

This week, we decided to have a playdate. We were to meet at the park and stay for lunch. Only, Sawyer had this weird fever with no other symptoms - except for this spot on his lip that he likes to pick.

I decided to go ahead with the playdate because Sawyer was SO excited to meet H's brother, G. Off we went. After a slow start, where Sawyer just sat in the sand and stared into space, the kids started pretending they were pterodactyls and went flying all over the park.

And K and I got to sit and talk. She said:

"You're not from here, are you."

Because she's not either. Like me, she's from New England. Us East Coasters have a way of finding each other out here in the wilderness.

The kids had a great time, and Sawyer cried when we left. Then he went home and took a nap. For the second day in a row. He hasn't napped in months. He woke up with a fever.

Yesterday I noticed the blisters on his feet.

Yegads. Cocksackie, better known as Hand, Foot and Mouth disease. HIGHLY contagious.

I'm hoping K's kids only left the park with sand on their feet, and not a nasty case of HFM.

The good news is K laughed at my email and is not concerned. She wants to do another playdate.

After all, a good friend is hard to find.

The "ON MY LAST NERVE" button

I know I must have that button, because my kids have located it lately with no trouble whatsover.

A sampling of a recent conversation between them:

"Sage. Sage. Sage. Saaaage. SAAAGE!"

"Don't yook at me!"

"You don't look at ME!"

"You're yooking at me. DON'T YOOK AT ME!"

And so on. Just replace "look" for "follow me." The only thing we haven't heard yet is "stop touching me!"

This goes on at least 17 bazillion times a day. At home. In the car. With whoever is the instigator being completely relentless about looking - or yooking - at the other.

I can't just ignore it, because inevitably they come over to me to get away from the looker, and both end up leaning on me - until one starts shoving and then they start bitch-slapping each other.

Can't we all just get along?

Let's just say by 8 a.m. yesterday - they hadn't even been up for an entire hour yet - both were sent to their rooms.

I went to the bathroom. And locked the door.

That way, I was sure no one could yook at me.

Getting dressed

"Mommy, I see your booboos."

"Yes. But they are Mommy's private parts."

"But Mommy. Look, I have booboos too."

"Yes you do. Boys booboos aren't private though. Just on girls. When girls grow up their booboos get bigger and they are private."

"My booboos will get bigger too."

"Your booboos will be small. They'll look just like Daddy's."

"Mine will be small like Daddy's. And mine will be small like yours, too, Mommy."

"Yes, Sawyer. Mommy's booboos are small. That's called genetics."

Dooce Rules

Okay, it's not like we needed the confirmation. For those of us who read mom blog Dooce on a regular basis know how incredibly talented Heather Armstrong is.

I didn't know that she's also raking in the cash. From a blog!

I'm excited when I have 40+ hits on my blog on a particular day. Check out some or her posts - she gets over 1,000 comments at times!!!

Here's a link to a Wall Street Journal story on her.

I ran in to tell David about it. THAT much money! For writing a BLOG! I might just be slightly jealous. Actually, I'm most jealous about her talent. And how she strikes a nerve with so many people.

Ah, well, a girl can dream...

I'm in love

I took Sage to the mall the other day to get her a pair of sandals, preferably Keens. The weather here has been unseasonably cool. But this weekend it could hit 90. I don't want the poor girl's feet to sweat. So off we went to Nordy's.

I wanted to get her feet measured. And her paddles turned out to be a size 9. Which is ginormous for a 2 1/2 year old. To put it in perspective, her brother wears a 10 1/2 at age 4.

Soon she will be borrowing my shoes. Until she outgrows them. And I wear a 10.

The problem with the Keens was the 8's fit exactly and the 9's were way too big. They are pricey enough where I didn't want to get the 8's only to have to buy another pair in late summer. The shoes are SO great because 1) they're waterproof 2) they're incredibly durable and 3) they're closed-toed, so they are acceptable to wear at preschool (they're not allowed to wear Crocs at school).

I then found a cute pair of Geox sandals, but where they fit her in length, they were way too wide for her. Sage was starting to take every sparkly, sequined shoe off the rack and was completely done trying on stuff.

So off we went to Heaven, aka the womens' shoe department.

Aaaaaaah.

While Sage amused herself by crouching down and looking in those small mirrors, I browsed.

And that's when I saw them.




A very nice salesperson came over and talked to me about my discovery: Naot. They are Israeli shoes, basically a poor man's Mefisto. But not really THAT poor. These puppies were $125.

I tried on the patent leather loveliness. My feet were cushioned, supported, transported to a new echelon of comfort. Oh yes.

Clearly, we were meant to be solemates.

But wait. Perhaps I should just TRY the Mephistos. You know, just to SEE.



They were cute and definitely comfortable. But at $100 more, I just couldn't do it.

Now, I realize these shoes aren't exactly sexy. They are cute, though, and most important, functional - and I don't mean in a white nursing shoe sort of way.

I got the results of my MRI yesterday. The good news is there's no fracture or tear and I can continue training as long as I can tolerate the discomfort in my foot. The not-so-good news is I have a bunch of scar tissue and some fibroid-type things and lots and lots of swelling under my first three toes.

Considering the amount of time I spend on my feet during an average day - aside from running and spin class, I'm watching the kids at the park, keeping an eye on both kids at swimming lessons, supervising them playing in the cul-de-sac, walking around Target, etc. - I really need a shoe that supports my foot.

These Naots? More comfy then my fuzzy Uggs.

There was, of course, a fair amount of Mommy Guilt. I mean, $125 dollars could get a lot of stuff for the kids: a bike for Sage, art classes for her, a month and a half of swimming lessons Sawyer, and the list goes on.

I never spend a lot of money on shoes, no matter what my husband will tell you. HE bought me my most expensive pair, which are my Uggs, and that was a few years ago.

I can't even remember the last time I bought sandals (although it might have been before I was pg with Sawyer, which would be more than five years ago). So I do get my money's worth out of them.

I look at it this way. At least while I'm standing there, watching Sawyer and Sage bicker over a shovel at the park, I can do it with a smile on my face.

Cause there is NOTHING better than a great new pair of shoes!

The Ugly Duckling

Last night, since David was out of town, I decided I needed to get the kids to bed early before American Idol so they could get a good night's sleep. I told Sawyer he could pick a book to read.

He chose The Ugly Duckling. We've never read it before, but for some reason he knew that's what the book was called. I'd like to think he, you know, read the title, but he must've heard me mention that book before. Either that, or he's a GENIUS!

So we read the book, omitting the part about the hunters shooting and killing the geese. Can you imagine stuff like that in a children's book written today? Like Pinkalicious reaches for her 23rd pink cupcake and BLAM she gets her fingers shot off by a 9mm.

I'm sure you all know the story, but to sum up, the "duckling" is bigger and uglier than all the other ducks. He gets picked on, pecked, yelled at, and even his own mother tells him she wishes he'd live somewhere else (I guess I will have to hand over my Mom of the Year award to her).

He flies away, and for a time lives in a shed with an old lady and a nasty cat and hen. Then he leaves and spends his first winter alone. He sees swans for the first time and has a certain connection with them as he watches them fly away.

At one point, the ice freezes around his feet and he is basically dead, but a farmer saves him and brings him home - where the kids chase him and the wife throws a poker at him. Good times!

Then spring comes, and the swans return, and the poor ugly duckling realizes he is, in fact a beautiful swan. Sniffle, sniffle!

Sawyer really seemed into the story. So we had a little talk about how sometimes kids are different but you shouldn't pick on them because remember how sad the ugly duckling was?

There's a kid in his preschool class, J, who clearly has some social issues. He doesn't quite understand boundaries and I know he causes a lot of problems in the class (along with some other unpleasant little people, but that's another post). When J got dropped off the other day, he was excitedly telling the teacher something. I heard this from three other boys:

"We don't care what he has to say."
"Don't let J play with us."
"We don't want him over here."

Nice, huh? These kids are FOUR!

Anyway, Sawyer told me that J has been knocking down the sand "volcanoes" that Sawyer and another little boy, L, like to build. So I said, "Maybe instead of yelling at J, maybe you could ask him to play with you. Maybe he just doesn't know how to say he wants to play."

I could tell that Sawyer was really processing this info.

Today, when I picked him up, he told me that J was knocking down the sand volcanoes. So Sawyer said he and L told him to stop - and then asked if he'd like to play with them instead!

I was SO PROUD! Because my little boy learned something about trying to be a good human being.

Thing is, J didn't stop knocking it down. So I had to explain that trying to be a good friend was the most important thing, and that it doesn't always work out.

Still, a good Mommy Moment for me.

And something to remember next time Sawyer's being a complete a-hole to his sister.

Yeah. That's right.

One minute I'm standing in the clubhouse of Yankee Stadium interviewing Derek Jeter. The next I've become a soccer mom.

A SOCCER MOM!!!

How did this happen?

Actually, it was quite simple. I got married and had Sawyer and Sage and then "retired" from the newspaper business. Sawyer turned four and that opened up some new athletic opportunities for him. And how can you live in the OC without at least attempting soccer?

I wanted my kids to play sports. I just didn't count on this particular fringe benefit.

It became official this past weekend when I sent David over to the community center to sign Sawyer up for AYSO, starting in the fall. No idea why I had to sign him up five months early. Apparently our "region" is in the top ten for participation in the country(over 3,000vkids), so they need all that time to process the paperwork. Because I guess they haven't quite entered the computer age.

Sawyer is also going to play in a rec league that starts in a couple weeks. I had to buy him shorts, socks and shin guards, which practically come up to mid-thigh. We're still working on getting him cleats. Cleats! Thank the lord I don't have to buy him a cup yet.

I never played soccer. It wasn't really big yet when I was growing up. Our high school only had a varsity team since there weren't enough girls who played. I was interested in it, but I had a lot of pain in my knees back then so I never tried.

Some of my college friends played and I got to see first-hand what the sport can do to a pedicure. Yeouch.

As a sportswriter, I covered tons of soccer, from the high school to the NCAA Division I tournament level. I get the game. I know the rules. I understand the strategy. I know what a nutmeg is. I know when to yell "good ball!".

What I didn't know is that soccer balls come in different sizes. It never even occured to me! Basketballs are basketballs! Though come to think of it, is the girls ball still smaller than the boys ball? Anyway. Baseballs are baseballs, softballs are softballs..you get the picture.

I went to Target to get Sawyer some shorts, and decided to get him a ball. He needed size three (five being the biggest). How cute is that?

Pretty soon, I'm going to be hanging around the soccer field. An official Soccer Mom, which to me, means we're going to have to go out and get a minivan to fit in.

I really do think of a Soccer Mom as a not-so-young woman schlepping her kids around to practices and games and weekend tournaments. She's kind of frumpy. She has goldfish cracker crumbs permanently embedded on her butt.

She is SO not sexy.

Aren't I too young for this?

Maybe not.

But you know, I've promised myself I won't be one of "those" parents, who humiliate their children by making complete asses of themselves, screaming at the refs, the coaches, other players, whatever, like their kid is freakin' David Beckham.

So I'll haul my kids to wherever they need to go. And I'll cheer them on. Because unlike those moms (and dads) who are pushy stage parents of the pitch, I know it's not about me. Or my label.

I'm saying it loud and saying it proud: I'm a Soccer Mom.

Who says silence is golden?

My foot doctor wants me to have an MRI done to rule out a stress fracture or tear in my foot, as it's still not getting better after six months.

It of course took me three weeks to schedule it. David's been away a lot for work and Sawyer does not nap anymore, which means when David is home I can't sneak away while the kids are sleeping.

I'm supposed to be running a marathon in less than two months, and I haven't trained the way I need to because I'm babying my foot. I'm only running twice instead of three times during the week (I spin the other two days). I do my long run on Saturdays.

My foot pain is getting to the point where I can't chase around the kids as much as I'd like to while we're playing outside. I need this foot thing to be figured out.

I finally had my MRI today. When I left, Sage was about to go down for her nap. I figured David would plop Sawyer in front of a movie.

It was freezing in the waiting room. They were running a little behind, which made me a little anxious because I knew I had to get back home ASAP to relieve David, who was attempting to work. I was also freezing, in case I didn't mention that.

Luckily they had a current issue of People for me to read to take my mind off how freezing I was. They finally moved me to another - warmer - waiting room. There, they taped a little marker to the top and bottom of my foot to indicate where the pain is.

Then it was time for the MRI. Ever had an MRI? I have not. I had no idea what to expect. I didn't have to go all the way in the tube thingy because it was just for my foot, so claustrophobia wasn't an issue.

There was this weird sound, which I thought was like techno music, playing in the room. I immediately started doing the Robot. Then the tech told me that it's not music, it's something to do with the machinery. Who knew?

I layed (lied?) on my stomach. She gave me a pair of earplugs because she said I'd hear some loud knocking. I was all, Okay, I'm sure it can't be as bad as Sage crying directly into my eardrum, right?

The tech leaves the room. All I hear is the techno beat. Then there's a noise like a microphone being turned on, and BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM! OMG, this wasn't just a little knocking! This was like someone implanted an alarm clock on my frontal lobe and I couldn't reach in to turn it off.

It would stop, then I'd hear that microphone sound, and WAAAWAAAWAAAWAAA ENENENENEN.

Jeebus.

So, you know, I worked around it. Because despite the jackhammering inside my skull, I still dozed off. Oh yes. As every mom knows, if you are lying down, and there is no child to watch to make sure he doesn't stab his sister in the eye, no one asking for one more cup of milk or another game of Roll the Ball, NO ONE ASKING FOR ANYTHING, well, then, it's nighty-night.

At least I didn't drool on the pillow.

I was almost sad when the whole thing was over. I had to, you know, get up.

Back home, both kids were awake and ready to go. Made me long for the "quiet" of that MRI. At least for another five minutes.

Drama Queen

Sage comes running, screaming and crying. My mommy adrenaline kicks into overdrive. My baby was clearly injured. Did she get stung by a bee? Bit by a spider? She flapped her arms in a panic before finally holding out her hand, her voice in a pitch usually reserved for stuff like one of her fingers getting chopped off.

But all five were there. There was no visible mark on her hand at all.

And then I deciphered some words through the shrieking.

It was, well, stunning. Because my daughter, who is not afraid to climb to the top of the highest ladders or go down the tallest slides at the park, has finally met the most terrifying object on the planet.

A piece of lint.

That's right. All the hysteria was over a small bit of fuzz that had stuck to her hand.

Apparently, Lint has the ability to mortally wound her. At least, that's what she thinks.

We have no shortage of lint, dog hair or my hair floating around this house. Why this has become an issue for her I cannot imagine.

We also apparently have no limit on drama around here, either.

Now Sawyer is getting into the act, waving his hand around and sounding the alarm if he gets something on him. Only homie don't play that. I just tell him to get it off, and he when he realizes he's not going to get any attention, he removes it.

Sage was at it again this morning, sobbing because of a PIECE OF LINT, MOMMY! A PIECE OF LIIIIIIIIIIIINT on her hand. After I removed the horrific, evil, vile, injurious hair, Sage calmed down. Then she summed it all up thusly:

"I'm just being silly, Mommy."

VERY important questions!

Why is Calliou bald? And while we're on that topic, does he in fact possess a Big Boy voice? Rooooooosie! Oy!

Where are Max and Ruby's parents?

Why do Charlie and Lola each only have three fingers?

When Cookie Monster "eats" cookies, how come they fly all over and never actually end up in his mouth?

What does Rocket do for fuel? And aren't the Little Einstein's freezing in their little outfits - until they magically appear in snowgear?

Where did Ketzel the Dragon learn to speak Spanish?

Is the Man with the Yellow Hat getting it on with Professor Wiseman? And why isn't she Professor Wisewoman?

Sugar and spice and...super glue?

Can someone tell me exactly what Little Kid Snot is made of? Because I'm about to break out the power tools. Oh, yes I am!

Sage has had a runny nose for about a week now. It's the thick, green STICKY variety. So it's not really traveling down her face, just loitering right around her nostrils. Which she then wipes.

She ends up with a lovely crust on her nose. And her cheek. And above her eye - wherever the gooey gunk landed and then dried for all eternity.

I can't get this stuff off. I soak a washcloth in warm water, add soap, and scrub (insert sound of cat being poked in the eye with a pin and you will have a teeny idea of what Sage sounds like during this procedure). The offending crust seems like it's gone, but within a few minutes, it reappears. I swear I could use the stuff to grout the tile in the bathroom.

Or maybe I could sell it to NASA. They'd never have to worry about those pesky tiles falling off. A little Sage snot will hold 'em through re-entry. And Lord knows she makes enough of it.

I'm pondering revving up the sander. Cause seriously, there's nothing more appealing than a child will dried snot of their face. Especially when you throw a little playground dirt on it too, or perhaps a couple orange goldfish crumbs.

Luckily, I have a nice green barette that she can wear during this unforunate illness. You might as well accessorize!

Loose Lips

It is a scientifically proven fact that children are completely incapable of keeping a secret. Especially if you tell them "Don't say anything to Daddy because it's a surprise."

Asking a young child to hold in information is like drinking two gallons of water and not being able to pee.

MUST. SPILL. IT. NOW.

Or they will, physically, burst.

And so, despite this knowledge, I took Sawyer with me yesterday to pick out a birthday gift for Daddy. I was hoping to get one of those cool mortar and pestle bowls for him to make guacamole.

We headed to Williams-Sonoma at the mall. They had a really cool one made of lava rock, but David would flip if I spent $50 on a bowl, even if they had to repel down into Mauna Loa to carve out the material.



I decided to go to the Nike store to buy a new sports bra. I literally have just one I use for running, which means I wash it constantly. Then I figured David needs some running shorts to add to his collection - all of which I'm sure were purchased circa 1987.

Sawyer was VERY excited and proud to carry the bag to the car. And he mentioned how he couldn't WAIT to tell Daddy. So we had the whole talk about how it's a SURPRISE and that Daddy's birthday isn't til TOMORROW.

He agreed to keep it a secret.

And hey - we were home for 4.3 seconds before he raced over to tell David "DADDY, WE GOT YOU RUNNING PANTS FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY!"

Doh.

Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

Happy Birthday, David!

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

David and I escaped from prison went away overnight - sans kids - for the first time in forever.

That time, while pregnant with Sage, I took David on a surprise trip to Vegas for his 40th birthday. Three years almost to the day, we were on our way to Vegas again.

We were both pretty amped about it. Then Sawyer came down with an awful cold and was up all Friday night. We thought, for about half a second, about staying home.

But this trip was too important. This time, it was for my friend W's wedding. There was no way I was going to miss it.

Even though it was in Vegas. Cause the thing is, I DETEST that place. The cigarette smoke alone is enough to choke a herd of cattle. ANd that's just in one small casino. I'm not into gambling, and my drinking, staying-up-all-night partying life is long gone.

But I heart my friend, and we were excited for her and for us to leave our children have some much-needed alone time.

We drove and stopped at the outlet malls along the way. My first store? Gymboree! I couldn't help myself. I mean, a Gymboree Outlet shop! You girls know what I'm talking about!

I did manage to stop in Banana Republic and found an adorable casual dress. For $35! And yet, I found myself having to completely justify spending money on something not 1) for the kids or 2) not a necessity.

We finally arrived in Vegas with an hour to spare. My friend C loaned me her cool curling iron that makes spiral curls. So I whipped that baby out and did my hair. David LOVED it and W kept complimenting me on it, so I'm going to grab one on eBay.

I had to get there early for pictures. W had asked a bunch of us to wear black, and then gave out Tiffany-blue pashminas. The effect was gorgeous!I'm third from the left in both pictures, which are tough to see but at least you get the idea. Isn't W GORGEOUS?




David took some of just me and W but somehow our camera erased them. Grrrr...

I was incredibly thrilled to meet W's birth mom (who is at the end on the far right), P. It was a bit disconcerting to speak to her, as W looks just like her. They even make the same facial expressions, which is so amazing since W was given up for adoption at birth and they didn't meet again for 24 years. And this weekend, P got to watch her daughter get married. I can't even begin to imagine her emotions.

David and I thought about our kids a lot. Of course. We missed them and talked to them on the phone quite a bit. He and I laughed discussing how Sage does a crazy dance that is a carbon copy of her brother's silly, finger-pointing, booty-shaking moves.

I was thinking how lucky we are that we have two children who are so full of personality and are so much fun to be around.

Then we arrived home.

And the whining was in full force. As was the not listening to Mommy, bickering with your sibling, and generally being little jerks. Did I also mention Sage's faucet of a nose?

Talk about a buzz-kill.

We couldn't WAIT to get them to bed. Which is sad, because we missed them so much. Apparently we just missed the cute stuff. What's also sad is that my tension level was immediately ratcheted up, and David and I fell into our sniper mode with each other - something that was absent in Vegas.

David has also caught whatever virus the kids have.

Not the best welcome home.

It could be worse, though.

It could be Vegas.

Princess and the P

P, as in pigtails, that is.

Sage's hair is just a flyaway mess of baby fluff. I can't quite bring myself to cut it again. I am willing her hair to be thick and long and am refusing to acknowledge the aforementioned fluff.

I decided that the only way to contain the monster was to put it in pigtails. Her hair seems to want to fly out to the side anyway (kinda like my boobs after having two kids, but that's another post)so I figured I'd help it.

Pigtails!

I sat her down, and with my hands, gathered her strands on one side. This was accompanied by SHRIEKING. You'd have thought I was sticking a pencil down her ear canal. The screaming. The crying. My neighbors who live across the street AND up a house heard her.

Of course, this makes the process even more enjoyable. She puts her hands up to stop me from touching her hair. Mind you, I haven't even started with the elastics yet - which just brought the caterwallering to a whole other level.

Finally, I got the piggies in.

And you know what she did? Ran into the bathroom to admire herself! She even posed for a picture (this, apparently, is her "smile for the camera" grin).



I have gotten a bit better at getting them in. The crowning glory was last night, when David took her to pick up dinner. He had rolled her window down, and at a stoplight, a woman in another car rolled down her window to get David's attention.

"I just have to tell you your daughter is SOOO cute!"

That's right, folks. My baby stops traffic!

Hello?

So when you have a blog, and things are humming along perfectly in tune, the words are flowing, the ideas are stacking up, it's a symphony. And then you take a day off because maybe you're busy or tired, and then that one day turns into two, then three, then a week, and suddenly your unposted blog becomes its own entity.

It is there, in the back of your mind. You are aware that writers need to write, and so since you are clearly not writing, you are now not a writer.

The blog takes on a life of its own. It is lurking. Empty. Tormenting you. It is a living, breathing THING that knows that you are, obviously, NOT writing. Loser!

Then you notice that you are purposely NOT writing. You have nothing interesting to say (as if). You know no one cares of your daughter gets pigtails for the first time, and is SO pleased with herself she ACTUALLY POSES FOR PICTURES! Or that your son's favorite thing to do is, when you give him a kiss, he wipes it off because he is too BIG for kisses.

You understand that you are as boring as the piece of lint or your shirt.

You start feeling bad because you know you have people who actually check this blog. If there's never anything new, these people will go away. Your blog will die a slow death.

So you are recommitted! Re-energized! You won't play seven hours straight of Scramble, even though you were 17th out of 289 players last night!!

Oy.

Thanks for all who have hung with me.

I'm back!

First Crush

My good friend JenC started a great post on MommiesWithStyle about first crushes.

Do you remember yours?

Mine was in preschool. His name was David Snyder (it was a Jewish preschool, of course) and all I remember is he had brown hair. I'm not sure why he was so dreamy, but there it is.

Then in first grade, there was a boy - I kid you not - whose name was Shaun Cassidy! He really liked another girl better, I think, but he kissed me on the nose when we were on some kind of rocking chair thing and, you know, it rocked my world. I guess. I mean, it must have, right? I don't really remember much else.

Sawyer already had his first girlfriend, but her mom went a little cuckoo on me and now they don't see each other anymore. Just today he asked when he was going to have a playdate with her. I feel bad, but I need to spare him from future MIL drama!

Sage hangs with the twins up the street, who are a year older than her. But I wouldn't call it love. Yet. We're hopeful. They're going to be very athletic, they're cute, have great parents, and they also have a little brother in case she's looking to rob the cradle.



I took this picture at the beach the other day. These two aren't crushing on each other, but hey - Sawyer could do a lot worse! This is the same girl who was reading books with him on his Race Car Bed back in the day.



Of course, while boyfriends and girlfriends may come and go, their hearts will break, but Sawyer and Sage will always have their true best friends: each other.

What was the word again? I don't think we got it the first time

Snacktime conversation

Sawyer: "God is a bad word."

Ms. S, Sawyer's preschool teacher: "God isn't a bad word!"

Sawyer: "Yeah, but God Dammit is."

L (another classmate): "Yes, God Dammit IS a bad word."

Sawyer: "Yeah, Mommy and Daddy told me God Dammit is a bad word."

L: "You're not supposed to say God Dammit."

Sawyer: "Because God Dammit is a bad word."

Other kids were speechless.

But I bet they had a good story to tell THEIR Mommy and Daddy about what they learned in school today.

We're so proud!

Redshirting aka Holding Them Back

You know, considering that I spent the majority of my professional career covering sports, I just assumed redshirting is what college athletes do in their first year, especially if they're injured.

Which just shows you what I know.

It seems that redshirting refers not to 17 or 18-year olds, but to FIVE year olds. It's the term used when you hold your kindergarten-eligible child, usually a boy, back a year.

This, despite research that shows that it makes absolutely no difference academically. Because it's not about no learnin'. Nope, it's about social readiness. Meaning, boys usually mature slower in that area (NO!) and can use an extra year of preschool.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that they'll be a year older than many of their peers and perhaps bigger, stronger and better athletically.

But what's frightening is that my daughter, as a high school freshman, could conceivably date a 20 year-old senior (over my husband's dead body, obviously).

I never realized what a common thing it is to hold your child back. When I started school, in Connecticut, the cutoff date was Dec. 31st. Which is also my birthday. So I started kindergarten when I was 4.

Being held back was for the dumbasses. I remember when a kid in our class got held back in fifth grade. All us big-time sixth graders were riding the bus when we saw him walking to the elementary school. Using our new-found maturity, we opened the windows and shouted "LAKE STREET SUCKS", to which he responded with a raised middle finger.

Good times. And yes, Lake Street was the name of our elementary school.

I graduated from high school at 17 - which is also how old I was when I started college.

Luckily, the fake ID I got turned me 21 a year ahead of my scheduled birthday, so all was not lost.

I am glad I didn't have a choice with Sawyer. He missed the cutoff date by 11 days. What if his birthday fell 11 days before it? There is a lot of pressure out here to hold your child. I have enough angst about where to send him to preschool. Deciding if he was ready for kindergarten (am I rushing him? is he ready? will he hate me later if I send him/don't send him?) would make my head pop off and helicopter around the room.

Today I took him to check out a new preschool. It's a pre-k program run by the local school system and is a quick walk right across the street. It's five days a week, for three hours a day, and costs exactly the same as what we will pay to send Sage two days a week at the preschool where Sawyer is now.

I THOUGHT the most important question I had was what their policy is on peanuts in the classroom. Frankly, that's one of the reasons I want to move Sawyer (aside from the expense). The school he attends now allows peanuts on campus. There aren't supposed to ever be any in his classroom, but there have been three occasions when this was ignored.

I am tired of worrying about it. I'm no longer up for screaming at the director until a third eye pops out of my head.

So while he checked out the room, I interrogated the teacher about their policy. I was elated to find that not only are they nut-free, but she and her two assistants are all trained in the use of an epi pen. In fact, they probably are more qualified to use it than I am.

That lifted a HUGE weight off me. Unless you've ever sent your child off to school every day wondering if he was going to die because of someone's oversight, you can't comprehend what a relief this is.

There was another mother there checking out the school with her daughter, who will turn 5 in November and so would be eligible to go to kindergarten in the fall. But she's holding her back.

The teacher said that kindergarten is much more academically stringent (thanks to the ridiculous No Child Left Behind bullshit). Parents might want their child to have an extra year of play. Because heaven forbid we try to make kindergarten just a tad bit less militant.

The preschool also has its own cutoff date. You have to be 5 by February to attend. Sawyer won't be the youngest nor the oldest in his class. I think he'll do well there. He's #1 on the waiting list (which, incidentally, is 75 pages long. I put the kids on it when Sage turned 9 months). We find out in May.

Sage won't be able to go there. She has a September birthday, so at 5, she should be starting kindergarten. My neighbor has twin boys almost exactly a year older than her (I gave birth to her on my couch while the twins had their first birthday party going on up the street). And she's holding them a year, so they will be in the same grade as Sage.

After listening to the teacher, I'm starting to think. Sage's tall for her age. She's tough. Her speech should be much better by then.

Why wouldn't she be ready?

But could she be MORE ready if she waits another year?

I have two years to think about it.

To hold or not to hold...at this moment, I'm letting her go.

Is she... DANCING??!?!?!

Sawyer knew from a very early age the dangers of stepping into the street. The first time he tried it, I screamed and acted incredibly terrified so he'd associate it with something that was dangerous and not something fun to do to get a rise out of Mommy.

I never worried about him going off the sidewalk after that. I could leave him sitting on a curb at the park while loading Sage into the car and knew he wouldn't budge.

Just recently he's been fighting me a bit about holding my hand in the parking lot, because he's a Big Boy. He knows his choices are 1) hold my hand 2) be carried 3) sit on the curb and not go anywhere.

Generally he's good and I really don't worry.

His sister, on the other hand (notice she is his sister and not my daughter when the occasion merits), is an entirely different matter. She either tries to dash into the street or, if holding my hand, decideds to go all jelly-legged so I'm practically dragging her.

It makes me crazy.

It makes her smile.

Today I took the kids to the park. It went great. Sage had a fabulous time climbing everything and going down the highest slide. Sawyer did not whine to go on the baby swings and instead got on a big kid swing and practiced pumping his legs.

No one argued when it was time to leave. We got to the end of the sidewalk, and Sawyer took one hand and Sage the other to cross the parking lot. That's when Sage decided to do her little spaghetti routine.

So I made her go back and sit on the sidewalk while I got Sawyer into the car. As soon as we got to the car, she stood up and hopped into the parking lot. I yelled at her to get back, and she did, but she just stood there.

I ran back over and sat her firmly on her butt. And as soon as I got back over to the car...there she was, back on the blacktop. I chased her back again.

She sat down. I walked over like I meant business.

And you know what she did?

She stood up. Stuck out her booty. And started shaking it, complete with Wild and Crazy Guy finger pointing. Grinning from ear to ear.

I kept a straight face. Somehow. How could I not admire her moxie? Meanwhile, my thought bubble was shouting "ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME? YOU'RE DANCING IN MY FACE!"

This time, she came along with me nicely. I put her in her seat.

She'd already put me in my place.

I'm (not) effing Matt Damon

Movie stars never really moved me. I never got all atwitter over the new hot thing that was up on the silver screen. In fact, I was quite faithful to one for years. But then, he got kinda weird and things just weren't working out. So I had to move on.

Let's start from the beginning, though: my very first love.

I had an oversize poster of Shaun Cassidy's face in my room in fourth grade, but that was because this girl Tracey in my class had one too. And, just like her, I HAD to kiss his ginormous poster lips each night before bed. Da do ron ron ron, da do ron ron (what the hell does that even MEAN?). But since the cool paper didn't smooch back, I gave it up shortly. Hey, I was 9!

Wait - he wasn't a movie star. So I probably didn't need to share that particular gem from my childhood.

Now, when I was in high school, I met my first true love. Risky Business came out. Followed soon thereafter by All the Right Moves. I LOVED that movie, with my boy all muddy in his football uni. My friend's dad owned a video store and got me the poster. And so Tom Cruise was my first Hollywood crush. And it went on for years. Until, you know, he went all Scientolocrazy on me. The couch-jumping, Matt Lauer-insulting, L. Ron Hubbard-loving man simply forced me to dump him. I mean, what's a girl to do?

Luckily, I found someone new to heart. If truth be told, I think I had feelings for him even when I was still kinda involved with Tom. It started the first moment I saw Good Will Hunting. If you haven't seen this movie, slap yourself, then go get it. Why? Two words: Matt Damon.

He then of course went on to the Bourne movies and was voted Sexiest Man of the Year by People (They're so, like five years ago. I could've told them that!). Now, his manlove Ben Affleck is TALLER, which is appealing, but he just can't do the crooked smile like my Matt.

And so, when I saw this video for the first time, I about died.



I want to be Sarah Silverman!!!

So Jimmy Kimmel did a nice response, which is equally as hilarious. I hope you all laugh as much as I did. And I didn't even RECOGNIZE Brad Pitt!



Oh, and don't be surprised to find yourself singing these at odd times!

Oh, she did

Sage is, shall we say, unimpressed. She laughs at yelling. Giggles at timeout. Nothing phases this girl (altho, throwing her into her crib instead of on the naughty step tonight did suprise her, so score one for Mommy!).

We were reading books on the couch, and, as Sage refuses to let me actually read to her (I do it, Mommy!), she was crawling off and on me as Sawyer listened to me read Mike and the Steam Shovel (anyone read that one? anyone find it kind of weird that this grown man's best friend is a steam shovel named Maryanne? Discuss.).

Then, she decided I was paying too much attention to her brother. So she took a shot at my face.

Sawyer looked at her, leaned in and said "OH NO YOU DI-N'T!"

All that was missing was a head bob and snapping fingers.

Last shootout at the OK Corral

The weather is getting warmer. And the sun is back. So I called my friend Ciaran and demanded she and her son meet me and the kids at her local park.

See, Ciaran is pregnant and is having her c-section Friday. But she's just come off bedrest, hasn't slept in, oh, maybe eight weeks, and is in constant pain from a baby that's all but hanging out at this point.

Otherwise, she's doing great. Her hair is just fab, long, blonde and flat-ironed. I have been rocking the 80's big hair look, but I contained it in a ponytail so as not to frighten her into early delivery (she's already in preterm labor) or scare her innocent son.

Everyone was having a lovely time. The park is small and the entire thing is shaded. I will now go off on a small rant about how all the parks in MY town were recently redone. While still in the planning stages, the head of the parks department met with local moms to get recommendations of what we'd like. The NUMBER ONE thing we all requested was that the parks have a shade structure. Guess how many have it? That's right. A big fat NONE. Not a one. And it's hot here. A lot. REALLY HOT. Africa hot. Tarzan couldn't take this hot (you get bonus points if you can identify what movie the last two sentences come from).

So for most of the summer, no one uses these gleaming, spanking-new play structures. Because if you touch them, you don't leave a fingerprints. You leave the first three layers of your skin.

Okay. Back on task. It got time for the kids to have their snack. They ate nicely, and even shared their grapes with Ciaran's son. Then everyone went off to play again.

Suddenly I hear Sage calling for me in her distress whine (which is different from her normal whine, in that it's a little higher pitched and more urgent). I look over, and notice a stain spreading down the right leg of her light purple pants. The same purple pants that, the only other time she's worn them, became soaked with contaminated ocean when she got a little too close to the surf.

Now, I could not figure out how this happened. She's still in diapers. So I call her over. And her walk...oh, her walk...think old-time westerns. Think cowboys. After a few days of riding in the saddle. I could almost hear her spurs clanking. Or do they jingle?

She seriously tried to walk without having to touch her pants. Go ahead, try it! It took her about 45 minutes to reach the spot where I waited, about 10 feet away. Just kidding. It was only 25 minutes. I went and got her, and we went off to the side. Where I pulled down her pants. To find a completely dry diaper. On a completely soaked child.

One of the sides had come undone. So now it was off to the parking lot. She was naked from the waist down but still was walking like she was trying to avoid inner thigh chafe.

Until we got to the parking lot, that is. Then she bolted. The exhibitionist! I grabbed her and rummaged around in the car to find a pair of Sawyer's old red sweat pants.

She was happy. And dry.

Back to the park she ran, ready to play.

I'm thinking it just might be time for pull-ups.

Well, dang, I must've done growed up!

David and I dropped the kids of an mother-in-laws mid-morning and left to do all kinds of romantic things. First stop? Ikea. I mean, how can we exchange meaningful looks over storage bins with our children running all over the place?

So we're at a stoplight after exiting the highway, and David looks at the car next to us and says, "Are they smoking a BONG in there?"

I glance over, and to my amazement, I see the driver taking a hit off not a bong (although I was amazed my never-even-looked-at-a-joint-nevermind-smoked-one husband even came up with the word 'bong') but a pipe.

I was shocked. I mean, they were DRIVING! And they weren't, like, 16. They were probably 20.

I got VERY agitated, much to David's surprise. He thinks that because, back in the day, and I mean REALLY back in the day, I might have partaken of the sweet weed (not that I inhaled, mind you!) from time to time that I'd be totally chill about it.

But NO! They clearly saw us looking at them as they chased their hits with a swig of Starbucks. Apparently the sight of my eyes bulging out of my head didn't register. They didn't even break into uncontrollable giggles.

I made David go slow once the light changed so I could write down their license plate, and then insisted he call his friend who's a cop in the town. Of course, he didn't answer his phone.

Did I let this drop? Oh no no no, my friends. Once we got to Ikea a few moments later, I made him call another friend who's a reserve Orange County sheriff. I got on the phone and asked what we could've done.

He said we should've called 911, and then possibly followed the car for a bit to let the cops know where they were. AND that they had a fatality last week when some guy who was totally stoned crashed into a car with a family in it.

MY POINT EXACTLY!

I'm not sure when it happened. I was not a poster child for safe driving with some of the stupid shit I did as a teenager. I drank and drove. I smoked and drove (but only once, because I got lost in my own neighborhood and that scared the bejeebus out of me). I feel VERY lucky that nothing ever happened, that I didn't kill someone else or myself.

It must be the mom thing. All I could think of today was what if they hit a car with a child in it? I was really angry. Because what they were doing was astonishingly stupid. And selfish.

I'm sorry we didn't call 911 and get those suckers pulled over. Hopefully, they got to wherever they were going safely. The bad news is, they won't have learned their lesson.

The End of an Era

We moved Sawyer into his Race Car Bed when he was 19 months old. We made the change not because he crawled out of his crib (he still won't climb out after he's climbed in to visit Sage), but because we evicted him.

Sage was on the way. Our pediatrician advised us to move him a few months before her arrival, so he wouldn't feel like he was being replaced. Even though he was. Cribwise, that is.

We figured, since he was so young, the transition would be a bit easier if we put him into something he loved. So we found Race Car Bed, and it was indeed love at first sight for him. He got to SLEEP IN A RACE CAR!

We also loved it because for the first few months he was in it, he DIDN'T REALIZE HE COULD ACTUALLY GET OUT OF IT ON HIS OWN! He'd just call for us when he woke up, just like he did in his crib.

This is from his first day in it.



There were no nighttime wanderings to worry about. For awhile, anyway.

He even liked to entertain the ladies in there.



He did really well in it. But over the past six months, he started coming into our bed for a few hours in the middle of the night. We began thinking that maybe he was waking up because he wasn't comfortable.

A crib mattress isn't exactly big on support. So we started looking for furniture. Then life happened, and we stopped for awhile. We finally, finally decided it was time.

We went. We decided. We went back. We changed our minds.

But today, David and Sawyer drove away in the empty SUV and returned with a bed, dresser, night stand and under-bed drawers.

Meanwhile, I dismantled Race Car Bed. And like a moron, totally forgot to take one last picture of him in it. DOH!

Then Sawyer and I went to Target. We bought shark camflauge sheets. And a waterproof mattress pad.

Now he wants me to, like, actually paint the room. He's tired of that babyish animals mural. He's a big boy in a Big Boy Bed. He wants fighter jets (cue theme to Top Gun).

And right this moment, he is sleeping in his new bed. Right next to pillows that I piled up on one side so that he doesn't roll off and crack his head open on the dresser that's next to it.

Seems like so long ago when he spent his first night in Race Car Bed and I covered every inch of the floor with pillows - even though it was like two inches off the ground AND the edges of the bed were higher than the mattress.

I was teary then. My baby was no longer a baby. I'm teary now (nitrous, anyone?)

I figure I'm entitled. Every milestone should be celebrated with a sniffle or two.

Mommy needs the nitrous!

This morning, my easy going guy was very excited. He was going to the dentist. The last time he went, he got to meet Mr. Thirsty (the suction) and Mr. Squirty (the water thing). He was decked out in a big recliner and got to watch Ratatouille on the TV on the ceiling.

Best of all, when he was done, he got to select a toy from the treasure box.

So when he knew he was going again, and was getting a filling, he wasn't phased.The boy had no clue.

But I did. Cause I knew exactly what was about to happen to him. I've got 16 fillings in my own teeth. Not a pretty sight.

I blame my parents.

Duh.

I don't remember going to the dentist much as a kid. Maybe twice? I loved me my sugar. I brushed, but didn't know about flossing.

When I was out of college and had dental insurance, I went on my own. The dentist had his practice in his house. His wife was the hygenist. And most of the people from our department went there.

The best was when I had to tell them that I had broken up with the first guy I went with there and now was dating a new guy - both who worked in the same department. I wanted to make sure they kept everyone straight.

This dentist was great. Very low key. Which was a good thing, since I need basically every tooth in my face filled. He even gave me the choice of filling my wisdom teeth or yanking them out. I opted to keep all body parts.

Then I moved. And moved again. And again, all the way across the country. TEN years had passed, and no trips to the dentist. Finally, last year, I went to a new dentist, who went to dental school with David's brother.

I braced myself. Could my cavities now have cavities?

HaHA! Not a one! But I must say, I am now a militant flosser, brusher and whitener, and go in for my cleaning every six months.

That's why I started to feel guilty that my kids had not yet been to see a dentist. I kept meaning to do it, but that list is long and the days short. Thing is, both of them were early and often teethers. Sage cut her first at 4 1/2 months. Sawyer was a little later, at 6 months, but both had 16 teeth by age 1.

So by ages 4 and almost 2 1/2, their baby teeth had already been around the block a few times. Not to mention some juice and, occasionally, some candy.

I finally brought them in last month, only to find that Sawyer has a cavity. Which is what brought us to the dentist today. Usually, David is in charge of all things procedural, but he'd left at 6:30 a.m. for a business meeting in LA.

I dropped Sage off at a neighbor's and off we went. By the time we got there, I was a nervous wreck.

Sawyer was to get nitrous oxide, otherwise known as laughing gas. Possible side affect? Nausea and vomiting! I DON'T DO BARF!

I was also worried about how he'd react in general. He was in a room with no doors. I was sitting in the doorway, but couldn't reach him. They reclined him in the chair, put on the sunglasses to help shield him from the bright lights, and placed the little pink mask on his nose.

He was watching Madagascar. He soon started to giggle.

The dentist - who is 7 months pregnant - talked to him about everything she was doing. And he was fine. Until the drilling started. They had to put some stuff in his mouth to keep it open so he wouldn't bite the drill and he got really scared.

He started crying. I could hear him over the buzz of the drill. Luckily, he couldn't see my tears.

I've seen my boy cry a gazillion times. Usually, it's because he's gotten in trouble or didn't get his own way. That doesn't move me.

But this. My little guy, who is always so brave when it comes to going to the doctor, was terrified. It got me. I cried for him and with him.

And then it was over. And he was back to making his crazy growling noises which he thinks are funny.

He hopped off the chair. Picked out his toy. Was totally excited to go get a milkshake.

Later that afternoon, after a solid three hour nap and some crying over his swollen tongue - he'd been biting it before the novicaine wore off - he said "Mommy, I had fun at the dentist today."

Wha?

At his core, he's tough.

The best part is he's already forgiven me for putting him through it.

I know this, because while I was in the kitchen about to get dinner ready, he told me.

"I love you with all my heart, Mommy."

Well, I USED to be in shape

I was supposed to run with one of my training partners this weekend, but she was not feeling well and cancelled. I really, really needed to run.

These past few weeks have been rather stressful, as you might imagine. My biggest stress reliever has been running. But with the pregnancy/miscarriage, I had some forced time off. Plus, David has been out of town, so I haven't even been able to go to spin.

I figured the silver lining would be I'd given my foot plenty of time to chill out. So I decided to do an easy run on my own. I was hoping for five miles, but as soon as I started, I knew three was more reasonable.

I huffed. I watched a woman zip right by me, only to see her stretching later and notice that she is pregant. And faster than me.

I soon discovered that a) my foot still hurts and b) being out of shape sucks.

Add this to the fact that I have been a carbo load without a race.

I'm surprised I can fit into any of my pants.

This blows.

To top it off, I have a pain in my side exactly like I had after doing my marathon.

I am calling my podiatrist tomorrow and starting on a series of shots in my foot ASAP. I'm supposed to be training for another marathon, which is in June. Hear that, neuroma? I need you OUT of my FOOT!

I want my miles back.

No No? NO!

I tried. I really did. And though I was not successful at eliminating that ugly word from my vocabulary (or theirs, either, I might add), there were a couple of surprises.

1) I don't say it as indiscriminantly as I thought.
2) There are times when I blurt it out before Sawyer even finishes his sentence and
3) Sage hears it a lot more than Sawyer.

The first one came at 8:32 a.m., when Sawyer was sitting on the toilet and claimed he was done doing his poopy. I replied "No, you're not done." But you know, this was true. He was not done. And he needed to be done because we were leaving for the aquarium within the hour.

Next came at 8:56 a.m. It was issued to Sage. "If you don't eat your breakfast, than no aquarium." Wait - is that techinically a No?

There were three No's at the aquarium. All directed at Sage. One was shouted when she insisted on running behind a building where I couldn't see her. Another came when she continued to splash water in the touch pools despite my repeatedly asking her to stop. And the third was...actually, I don't remember. I have written down on my notepaper that there were three. Rest assured, she deserved it!

The next two came when Sage, who fell asleep 10 minutes from our house and then did not transfer, refused to take her nap. She kept asking for things that she threw out of her crib. Then, finally, I heard her say "PRIVACY in my bed" which meant she'd done a big poop. So she got what she wanted, which was for me to come get her.

Sawyer did not nap either, so now I have to napless kids. Imagine! They decided to ride their rocking horse together. They were laughing and having a fabulous time. But Mean Mommy didn't like the way it was tilting and told them NO, it was dangerous, only one at a time. They looked at me like I had just grown a third eye in the middle of my head. In retrospect, they were probably fine and my Wet Blanket NO was unecessary. Ugh.

The final one came when Sawyer started to ask me for a treat and I cut him off with a stern NO before he got the words out. I felt bad about that one, as it was pure reaction. I believe I actually clamped by hands over my mouth but it was too late. That crazy NO was already out and filling the air of the living room.

I did wonder, upon review, how I could've handled each situation differently. What other words could I have used to stop certain unpleasant or unsafe behaviors?

I think No is just easier than trying to be more diplomatic. It's short. To the point. But it's not always effective.

So my next act is to find different words. I'd like to be more positive. Sometimes it does seem like saying No is just a very bad habit. I don't want them to feel shut down by the No Backhand.

The point of the project was for me to become more aware. And now I can work on it.

Unless they do something REALLY egregious, like try to steal my Cadbury Mini Eggs (yes, it's the season again!).

Any thoughts? I'm dying to hear if anyone else tried it!

A quick break

I will try to update all of you tomorrow on my No No project, and am eager to hear how you all did! But David is FINALLY coming home from four days in Hawaii (yes, including on Valentine's Day, when it was 47 degrees, rainy and windy here) and I'm too tired from having to, you know, take care of the kids and all that.

So I will just post a pic from Monday, when it was warm and sunny enough to have an awesome beach day. In February, people! Enjoy!

The no No project

So have you ever collapsed on the couch after putting your kids to bed and wondered if they both think their names are now "NO!"? Because you find yourself saying that word a lot. Maybe too much. Somehow it just flies out of your mouth the second they ask you for something. Or even just look at you.

You could just be grumpy. Or tired of the constant whining. Demanding. So unreasonable, these kids! First they want to be fed. Then they want their butts wiped. What next - they'll want us to, like, play with them too? The nerve!

I started to wonder if it would be possible to go through an entire day without saying "No" to them. Unless their life was in danger or something. There must be a better way to handle their requests or redirect their behavior.

Right?

I'm going to find out. Tomorrow, I'm going to attempt to go the entire day without uttering that two-letter word. Think it's possible? It'll be a challenge.

I will report back on how it goes. Anyone else want to give it a try? And no fair asking anyone else to yell "NO!" for you!

NONONONONONONONONONONO!!!

Sorry. Just had to get that out of my system. Let the kinder, gentler Mommyhood begin.

Thank you...

Thank you, thank you, thank you. To everyone who took a moment out of their day to offer me words of sympathy and encouragement.

It is simply amazing to me that I have the support of so many wonderful women - most of whom I've never met. It means more than I can say.

I am now a member of a club that I supported but hoped never to join. The membership requirement is one of the most heartwrenching experiences a woman can have. I know I have a lot of company there. And that is sad.

For those of you who've asked, I'm doing pretty well. I'm almost back to normal physically. Emotionally...it comes and goes. Sometimes it's difficult to see pregnant women, especially at the park. I can't help remembering being pregnant with Sage while spending hours at the park with Sawyer, pushing him in a swing.

I think about how that should be me again. But it's not. And I'm slowly accepting it.

I'm reminded every day how lucky I am to have two healthy, beautiful children. Maybe I'm greedy for asking for just one more.

We don't know whether we'll try again.

Either way, I'll be okay.

Sort of pregnant

I learned over the past week that you can, in fact, be sort of pregnant.

It happens when you get a positive pregnancy test, but a blood test shows your hormone levels are not where they should be. So you have to get tested again. And you're still pregnant, but not enough pregnant. So back you go to get yet another test.

The adventure starts when you pee in the dark onto a stick and you actually see a second distinct pink line appearing right next to the first pink line.

You stare at the line for a bit. You let it sink in. You tell your husband. But not anyone else. It's a delicious secret, one to be savored in private.

Soon you're off to the races as you ride an amazingly rapid acceleration of the imagination.

You figure out your due date. You look at your two children and imagine a third snuggled right in with them. You wonder how it will all work out. You think boy. No, girl. Should you even find out? And NAMES! Juliet, maybe, after your aunt. Your husband loves Kingston for a boy. How can you fit your Dad's name, Gerald, into all this?

Where will you put the child can your kids share a room are you doing the right thing adding another child areyoureadyforthebabythingalloveragain

and then

Oh.

It all

comes

to a screeching

halt.

Two days later you are told that your numbers show you are only a week or two pregnant, not the almost six weeks the calendar says you should be. You spend the entire weekend wondering why your breasts are no longer tender. You poke them enough and they, you know, sort of feel sore but maybe it's from all that jabbing you're doing.

But you're not spotting anymore so this is a good sign, right? You have stopped going down the Three Kids Road and enter a nebulous zone known as Limbo.

I've always loved the limbo. Back in the day I was actually quite good at it. For some reason I could really get low under that stick. One time, in my early 20s, I was at a wedding and when I shimmied under that really low stick, my hair practically brushing the floor, I noticed my boyfriend at the time wildly waving at me.

Wow, I thought. He must be REALLY impressed with my flexibility! Not so much, as it turns out. He was trying to tell me that I was successfully flashing the entire dancefloor. So much for that short dress.

This Limbo, however? Not fun. At all. You can't be excited about a potential life because you're too terrified that it's over. But you don't know. So you go along in equal doses of optimism and devestation.

Then comes time for your next test. Which is when you find out that your numbers are rising, but they've only doubled while they should have quadrupled. So that while you are, in fact, pregnant, you are told that you should be incredibly cautious.

Who knew hope was such a grey area.

Then you start bleeding. And you know. If you're honest with yourself you knew as soon as you had that first blood test, as soon as your pregnancy symptoms vanished like they were never there.

You take a shower and mix your tears with hot, hot water. You wonder if maybe it's happening because this embaby somehow knew that you're not a great mother; that sometimes you yell or don't pay attention and who wants any part of that?

You tell it it is loved. You will it go grow.

But it doesn't.

The third test confirms it.

It's over.

You look at your two healthy children and feel incredibly lucky. You feel guilty for being so astonishingly sad.

Still, your grief colors you.

You were a little bit, gloriously pregnant.

And now you're not.

You hug your children.

Because you can.

In summation...

I HEART this woman's blog. She's an amazing writer. I want to be like her when I grow up. And, she has a daughter named Sage, so she obviously has great taste in names!

Anyway, her post from yesterday sums up my feelings about Super Tuesday. Except she can actually, you know, write it REALLY well and hilariously.

Mom101

Talk to me Goose

Sawyer loves planes. LOVES them. He spends hours playing with his toy planes, flying them around and making his airplane noises - which involves a lot of spraying spit.

He lands them on his aircraft carrier. He flies them in the car. He takes them to sleep at night.

He loves them so much, that when he was not yet even two, his father decided it was time for Sawyer to be indoctrinated into that sacred club. You know, the Members Only one that consists of those of you who can recite, word for word, every line of Top Gun (admit it, you're now humming, "You've Lost That Loving Feeling").

Nevermind that there are lots of swears in it. No f-bombs, but plenty of Jesus Christs, son of a bitches and shits.

Sawyer was a hyperverbal child. He spoke relatively early and often. So he had no trouble learning the lines to this movie. He especially enjoyed climbing into his car seat while exclaiming "G-d dammit!"

That was pretty much it for me. No more Top Gun for Sawyer. He soon forgot about The Airplane Movie (he only wanted to watch those scenes). For well over a year and a half, at least.

Then David decided the other day to show him a video of him riding his scooter when he was 2 1/2. It was achingly cute to see our little guy zipping around the lake so fast when he was so small. Except for one problem. The soundtrack David put to the video was Highway to the Danger Zone (or, as Sage now sings it, the Danger Goan).

Like waving a crackpipe in front of a recovering addict, Top Gun was back with a vengeance. Turn and burn. Take me to bed or lose me forever. I feel the need. The need, for speed, OW!

Sawyer knows all of these.

David tiVoed the movie when it was shown on AMC so Sawyer could watch the clean version. Yeah. He just went right on reciting the lines, filling in the shits as needed. And did you know it's okay to say bitch on TV? Altho he did assure me that it was okay to say "Some of a bench."

So then David edited the movie to have just Sawyer's favorite scenes. The swears are now all gone. Maybe eventually Sawyer will forget about his favorite expletives when he doesn't hear them four times a day (from the movie, that is. Mommy is a whole other story).

I'm thinking this is all going to work perfectly. Then earlier this evening, Sage was upstairs. She put her little face inbetween the rails and yelled "Mommy! Yook at me!" She proceeded to jump as she yelled "Dammit!"

Then she laughed.

"Sawyer said it, Mommy."

18 and WHA?????

I'd love to come up with a witty post, but...my Patriots lost today. How could this be? They were going to go 19-0. Complete their perfect season. I was going to get another chance to gloat celebrate.

So I will now be observing a moment of silence for my boys. And then I'll be back to my regular blogging.

If I can ever recover...sigh...

It's (S)Not Enough

I'm doing it anymore. I'm so done.

Those are the words I said to David the other day when, after four blissful snot-free days, Sage's nose started running. Again.

HAHAHAHAHAHA!

That is the sound of David laughing when I uttered that proclamation.

He's right, of course. I mean, I guess I could let the snot run down and dry on her face like an old man's goatee. But even typing that made me throw up a little in my mouth.

So it's back to the mad dashes across the room with the kleenex after a particularly powerful sneeze.

Oh, but wait - there's more.

This morning Sawyer woke up sneezing and sniffling. Again.

I'M NOT DOING IT ANYMORE!

Now Sawyer, stop using your sleeve and come over here and grab a kleenex.

And so it goes. Again.

Slapped with the Bad Mommy label

I took Sawyer and Sage to the dentist for the first time today. Sawyer's visit was long overdue, to say the least. He's had those teeth for a long time (had 16 by a year). Who knew what was going on in there.

I have to say that Sawyer was a champ. No crying at all. He actually had a pretty good time. They have TV screens on the ceiling, so he could watch when he was lying back.

Sage, not surprisingly, did not cooperate. The only thing she complied with was having the dentist look at her teeth - while Sage was lying with her body on me and her head in the dentist's lap.

Not that it was easy, of course. Sage cried the entire time. The look on a little boy's face as he came into the room for his exam and heard her was priceless. Kinda reminds me of that scene in Nemo when the dentist is fighting off the bird and the kid is watching from the next room.

Our next trip for Sawyer might not be as fun for him. He has a cavity. A CAVITY! The dentist explained that because a lot of his baby teeth touch (look at your kids' baby teeth. They are probably nicely spaced!), a lot of gunk can get stuck in there.

Not that my kid ever drinks juice or eats sweets, of course. GAH! Now he gets to rinse with a flouride wash and we will floss his teeth. That should be enjoyable for all...

So in a few weeks, he is getting a tooth filled. The horror! Seriously. I feel really bad. Because essentially it's my fault. And I had 12 (count 'em, TWELVE) fillings as young adult. That led me to a tremendous fear of dentists that kept me away for a very long time.

Now I go every six months and floss religiously.

I'm hoping he won't ever want to go again after the filling. They'll give him laughing gas to make him more "comfortable."

I'm already scared for him. Which is why I'm sending David.

That, and the possible side affect of nausea or vomiting.

Poor little guy!

Potty (not)Training

I was prepared for Sawyer to be potty trained when he was about three. I'd heard boys were later and tougher than girls. Still, it was like nails on a chalkboard at times listening to all my friends' stories about potty training when we were nowhere close. He was the last of the kids in my moms group to still be in diapers.

He finally asked to wear his big boy underwear right after Christmas of 2006, a couple weeks after his 3rd birthday. He was basically trained in a few hellacious days. He has never worn a pullup or anything at night. In fact, I knew he was ready to train because he was dry when he woke up in the morning.

I was very hopeful with Sage that she would be early. Girls are supposed to be easier, right? And second children like to train themselves so they can be like their older sibling.

Sage was very aware when we were going through the whole thing with Sawyer. She knew something exciting was going on in the bathroom. She liked to "help" by handing us toilet paper.

So here we are, at 2 years, four months, and...nothing. She likes to sit on the potty. But she has yet to go. The past two nights she has said "Mommy! Pee-pee!" and proceeded to take off her pants and her diaper and head off to the bathroom, where she sits on the potty.

And sits.

And does nothing.

I even turned on the faucet to give her the hint.

She has been hiding and yelling "privacy!" when she poops. But she refuses to do it on the potty.

My friend's daughter, who will turn two in March, is already practically potty trained.

I don't get it.

What's with my kid?

We don't make a big deal out of it. My pediatrican firmly believes potty training is a spectator sport. We're supposed to basically ignore it.

I also know that forcing the issue can totally backfire. I have a friend whose son trained earlier than Sawyer - except he still will only poop in a pull-up - after they tried to make him go in the potty, prompting him to hold his poop for a week and become physically ill. Another friend's son trained MUCH earlier than Sawyer and wore a pull-up at night until about six months ago.

I try to be patient. I know I should cut her a break. She just learned how to talk, for cripes sake! But frankly, I've been changing diapers for over four years. I'd like a break!

The problem, I believe, lies in the fact that Sage is incredibly stubborn. If she even THINKS for a MOMENT that I might like it if she'd use the potty, she'll put on the brakes.

It has to be HER idea.

Anytime now...

Couldn't resist..

Sorry, guys, but I just had to post more pics of snow! These were taken on the way out, mostly from the car. The kids are still talking about what a great time they had. If only it were always this easy to amuse them!

I still can't get over how blue the sky was. And yes, that's snow on some cactus-looking plants!

SNOW DAY!

My husband says Southern California is the best place to live because where else can you surf in the morning and ski in the afternoon? Or maybe it's ski in the morning and surf in the afternoon.

Not that we do either, mind you. But we could. And that is enough to prevent me ever luring him to the much better place to live, aka the East Coast.

But there are days like today that make me really love where we live. We've had some pretty crazy weather lately. It's been chilly. Rainy. And yesterday morning, I spotted some snow on the mountain that we can see from our back yard.

You might have seen news accounts of the avalanche that killed a few people the other day in SoCal. In a town called Wrightwood. It's obviously a terrible tragedy and I don't mean to make light of it in any way. The news video of them giving CPR to one of the victims is haunting.

But my husband and I also noticed how much snow was up there. It's only an hour and 15 minutes away from our house.

We haven't been to the snow for two years. Sawyer loved it then. Sage was non-commital. Then again, she was only five months old.

We decided to head to Wrightwood this morning. Thus began the frantic search for appropriate clothes for the kids. I bought Sage fake Uggs at Target yesterday and David waterproofed them. Sawyer has boots from last year, so we "thought" we were all set - until he tried them on right before we left and discovered they're too small. Poor kid had to wear his sneakers.

I also could not find any gloves for him, so he wore my liners, which I wear for running and which, besides being ginormous on him, are as waterproof as a sieve.

We finally got on the road, only an hour behind schedule. The roads were clear. There was not a cloud in the sky. When we exited the highway, we had just five miles to go to reach our little spot.

I was thrilled when we started seeing snow piled up on the side of the highway. Sawyer looked out at a pristine patch glistening in the sun and yelled "Mommy, somebody poured glitter on the snow!"

Then, we hit traffic. Fourty-five minutes and 450 profanities later - Sawyer whining "I want to get out in the snow" and Sage whining "I"m ready to go home" - we finally emerged from stop-and-go to pull into the parking lot. Right down the street is a cute little playground and a gentle slope. It's the perfect spot for little ones.

It was 42 degrees and as we played in the glorious whiteness, I actually had to take off my coat. It also meant that poor Sawyer, despite soaking feet and hands, didn't even feel the cold for a couple hours.

We had snowball fights. Sage discovered that, when she haughtily discarded her mittens like they were for WIMPS, that snow is actually Cold. Back on went the mittens.

We built the kids' first snowman. And yes, we rolled the snowball to make the body parts. I'm from Connecticut, for cripe's sake! I KNOW how to build a snowman!

Someone let us borrow a sled, and both kids got their first sled rides. Sage, who had to be convinced, loved it! When we got to the bottom of the tiny hill she shouted "Boo it again! Boo it again!"

Watching the kids have so much fun doing something that I grew up doing was a joy, even for just a short time. They'll never know what it's like to wake up for school and huddle around the radio (altho I'm sure it's done by internet now), straining to hear the name of their town as the announcer reads off the list of school closings for snow.

They'll never go to sleep with not a flake on the ground and wake up to a world that's astonishingly covered in frosting like a giant, wondrous cake.

Living out here, we have to take days like today and savor it. For my guys, today WAS a snow day.

You play, you pay

I was talking to my friend, John, at spin class Thursday morning. He mentioned this movie he was going to see that night and asked if I was going (no, this was not a date, you bunch of crazies!).

It was called the Spirit of the Marathon. It's a documentary about the 2005 Chicago Marathon. It followed six people: two elite runners, two experienced marathoners, and two first-timers.

The movie told the story about why they were running and followed them through training and the race. The message was that running a marathon will change you forever.

I was pretty excited about it and even bought my ticket in advance on Fandango (mostly because then David couldn't invent an excuse as to why I needed to stay home and watch him play XBox). The movie was being shown just on this one night, nationwide, one showing per theater. How cool is that?

When I was leaving, Sage, who usually wouldn't care if a UFO sucked me up into its bowels and flew off as long as she had DADDY, threw a semi-fit. She cried and said "What about ME?" and I tried to explain that it was a grown-up movie and that she couldn't go. I heard her crying as I shut the door.

I forgot all about that as soon as I got to the packed theater (good thing I did buy the tickets in advance!). I saw John and his lovely wife and went to sit with them.

The moment the movie began, I was engrossed. It was so familiar to me. The novices, that is. When they started talking about the elite men running 4:40 (GAH!) miles they kinda lost me (yeah, that's four minutes, 40 seconds per mile, which is faster than running 12 mph).

We got to learn about Deena Kastor, who won an Olympic bronze in the marathon but had never actually won a race. Right at the end of the Chicago Marathon, you could tell her body was giving out. Another woman was gaining on her, but Deena held her off. The entire theater went nuts when she won - it was so cool!

The movie reminded me why I love being out there, especially as I watched a single mom bond with her running partners. It also reminded me that 26.2 miles is REALLY far. And that it's really an accomplishment to go the distance, as it were.

I am hopefully going to be healthy enough foot-wise to run a marathon with Cindy, Torrey and John in June. We'll see.

I miss it. Stunningly. Because you know, those miles hurt. But as my favorite runner from the movie, a senior citizen named Jerry, said (and I paraphrase): Even the novice runners follow in the elite runner's footsteps during a marathon.

We're all running the same path. Some just faster - HOURS faster - than others!

I left feeling inspired and proud to be part of this amazing group. I am a marathoner.

But you know, Sage wasn't all that impressed. David went to get her this morning and when he brought her into bed with us, she very clearly did not want to see me. She made David put the comforter over my head so that she didn't have to look at me - much to David's amusement. She literally cried if I came up for air.

So I'm thinking that this is, well, odd, even for her. Then it hit me.

"Sage? Are you mad because Mommy went to the movies last night?"
"Yes. Mommy all gone."
"Well, Mommy came back, didn't I?"

She thought about that for awhile. And then she demanded her milk and cereal. And her Little Einsteins.

No matter how long - or short - the journey, Mommy will always come back. Sometimes, I come back a little better than when I left.

You know you're a Mommy when..

You look over at your sleeve and you notice there's a fresh string of snot on it, almost like a snail trail. And it's not yours.

If you know your son falling asleep on the couch 20 minutes before dinner is NOT a good thing.

Your daughter thinks you are always in pajamas...because lately, you are.

Anybody else got any?