DC Metro Mom

The laundry is piling up, dishes have to be done, your 2 year old needs a diaper change, your 4 year old is demanding your attention and you just realized your 8 year old has been watching TV for over an hour - you are OVERWHELMED, feeling GUILTY, and just want to take shower!  What can you do to remain the "eye of the hurricane" - calm, tranquil, and in-control while NOT neglecting your own needs? This is a never-ending challenge in the world of motherhood.

I would like to know, O dear readers, if there is anyone among us who can truthfully claim a childhood free of bribery, intended either to ward off some outlandish behavior or be the proverbial "carrot" on the arduous stick of our lives. (I would also like to know if you think that would be a terrific name for a soap opera, because I do). I ask this, in part, to uncover our vast similarities and join together as friends, but mostly to make myself feel way better about those few times I extorted silence out of my raging toddler with a threat to skip the visit to Cold Stone.

Realizing that this post and several others (okay, fine, ALL of them) effectively kill my chances at winning Mother Of The Year, I throw my hands up and admit defeat after all those lame promises I made before my children were actually born. Moms, please back me up here...you're huge and pregnant with Baby Number One, tucking away onesies and getting the nursery ready, and silently repeating a vow that you never turn into that wild-eyed vision of your own mother, with a corded phone jammed between ear and shoulder and one hand making a violent pointing motion at you and your siblings to "shut your traps while I'm talking to Aunt Janet, for the love of sweet merciful Jesus," and the other hand on a glass of whatever was chilled enough to drink. Not ringing a bell? No? Fine, you're excused. Go finish your scrapbooks while you enjoy a refreshing Shirley Temple. The rest of you, please join me in my shame. I have turned into my mother (and her mother, and so on, etc.). How does it happen?

Gradually, as I've found out. I was able to keep up the Mary Poppins bit for quite a while, leaning heavily on babysitting skills and a stint at a Montessori school (and for those of you who care, twenty grand a year for your 3-month old DOES NOT guarantee either Harvard admittance or a lenient hand when they set fire to your neighbor's garage. Just an FYI.) I think it started sneaking up on me when I realized I produced a child just like me: sensitive and intuitive, perhaps to a fault. My firstborn can talk up a storm and charm people out of large sums of cash (we hope...Mama needs a new pair of shoes! Roll 'em!), but is unable, at this point in time, to take anything with a grain of salt. He sees and feels everything, and it's personal, all the time. The whining and tantrums are so often that of course I wonder whether it's my fault for giving in just this once (of course it is, you dummy), and now I've essentially had to compensate by becoming a drill sergeant with ovaries which leads us FULL CIRCLE back to our own childhoods (please refer back to above visual, "Mother With Borderline Personality Disorder").

Ahhh. Having little inmates of your own certainly does wonders for your hindsight, if not your ability to learn what responsible parenting choices will come back to bite you in ass. Next time I will not give in! I will have the courage to say "No!" I will thwart all attempts to beg and plead for "just one more cookie!" Next time he's getting a Shirley Temple.

By Anne

I have this theory that for each child you have, your body (and that of your mate) will age about ten years in the span of just one. Since I suck at equations (leave it to the person that majored in their own native language), I will assume that with my oldest being nearly three and youngest about one and a half, let's see.......umm......two kids times so many years........I am roughly twenty-two thousand and four years old right now. Translated into square footage, my ass might be about the same size around too, if I ever worked up the courage to let thine eye wander in a dressing room. Or that horrendous funhouse mirror from hell on What Not To Wear.

Ahem. Back to this awesome theory of mine that everyone else already knows when they have kids. I swear it's the most uncanny thing, but I should start keeping a log with "Before" and "After" pics to prove it because it's gotten worse recently. At first, with my oldest, it wasn't so bad.......you're sapped after a pregnancy, and maybe your mate is a little plump after those sympathy donuts (and beer), but it's not too bad. Then the kid starts walking. And climbing. And poking. And then you have another one. And even if they make you tweak out seventeen times a day and cause several heart attacks in a row when they dash out into the road to chase a flying hairball (apparently I need to vacuum my front lawn), you love these kids to pieces and keep an eagle eye on them every moment to ensure their safety. In fact, I read a while back that your brain chemistry actually changes when you have children, resulting in lesser productivity from the higher-functioning areas that control, say, speech or ability to calculate an appropriate tip for your hairstylist. Apparently those qualities that make us intelligent beings are sacrificed in the name of honing our most primitive instincts to keep the little ones from killing themselves. I would add the link to said article, but that information was stored in the "trash bin" section of my brain and was tossed in favor of my new Spiderman Leap that I acquired after the little guy decided that a flaming hot oven would be the perfect place to crawl into and relax.

Let me preface the following paragraph by stating yet again that I love my kids wholly and to the point that I want to give them belly zorberts until they laugh themselves into a coma...HOWEVER.....I have noticed that the end result of such devotion and aforementioned "primitive tunnel vision" is an extreme version of putting all of one's eggs in a single basket; in short, I have turned into that manic hovering mother. Case in point, my hair began to turn gray last year. At 27. Oh, and that pesky "blood pressure" thing? Mine's bad enough but my husband's is something like three thousand and six over five hundred, thanks also to his stressful job and our dietary habits that should realistically have us talking to Dr. Phil via satellite since we can't fit through the goddamn doorway.

The best thing about my theory is that it's applicable across the generations (and may explain why my father suddenly started losing hair pigment very quickly about the time my sister and I entered middle school). A while back, one of my favorite bloggers, Metrodad, posted a request for people to send in embarrassing childhood memories. Here's what I wrote him:

Hi Metrodad!

I loved reading your post/comments regarding terrible moments from childhood. Very amusing...and although this is kind of a delayed reaction, I have one to add if you decided to do a new post about "Things We Did To Our Parents To Get Them thisclose To Being Arrested":

I was about 10, coming back from my soccer game with a friend in the back of the family van. My dad was driving, and back in the day he did a lot of carpentry, so he had on some scrubby clothes and hadn't really shaved, and the van had a bunch of his tools and equipment in the back. A pretty picture.

So we're coming up to a toll booth on the highway, and he stops to hand the cashier money. All of a sudden, she looks towards the back of the car and her eyes go wide, face aghast with horror. He looks at her like,"what's the problem", and turns around towards us in the backseat........there we were, two little ten year-old girls in soccer uniforms, with our hands behind our backs and duct tape over our mouths, banging our heads against the back window........

He laughs about it now, only because I have two kids of my own and he can't wait for revenge......

My only hope is that my own little angels will spare me the heart-stopping foolishness that I regularly thrust upon my poor parents. Considering I was such an asshat, though, I'd say the best we can do is stock up on Tums and hide the matches. Or, in the very least, the duct tape.

By Anne

I am sure all of us can look at moments over the years that still make us want to just die from embarrassment.  Most of these moments happen when are we are younger, not quite as self assured as we are today.  I am not sure if it maturity, confidence or not just not giving a hoot (by hoot I mean something else) about what other people think but the novelty of "dying" from embarrassment seems to go away as we age.  This is a good thing for most women as pride and any general sense of humiliation must be checked at door when you enter the maternity ward.

Anyway, I have learned to roll with the punches.  I don't cringe when my daughter decides to show her bloomers to 200 people at the Town Green during a concert.  I don't get crazy when my daughter needs to be tackled by my husband or myself before she reaches either the priest or the Eucharist at Sunday Mass.  Stuff happens (and by stuff I mean something else).  So with all this new found calm, I gladly welcomed the opportunity to travel with my husband and daughter to Florida.  The trip down was a little crazy but hey...I HAVE BEEN STUCK NEXT TO ENOUGH SCREAMING CHILDREN that I wasn't too concerned when my daughter fussed for 20 minutes of the flight.  I was also ready for the return trip.  As with our trip down, I was loaded for bear.  I had toys, puzzles and DVDs.  I also had coloring books for the frightful moments when you are required to turn off all electronic devices.  Damn national security and the FAA...my daughter is a lunatic who must watch the Wiggles if we have any chance of getting of the runway without a meltdown!!!  As I was saying, I had everything.  Sort of...

We made it to our seats, buckled in our little darling and even got off the runway without incident.  Just when I was popping the champagne cork in my head...I started to smell something.  Yep, my daughter had picked this moment in time to go #2, poop, etc.  Whatever you opt to call it; it was not a fragrant aroma for Rows 7 to 12.  I rolled my eyes as I was confident I would be making the trip to the bathroom with our daughter.  Then it hit us...neither my husband nor I had packed the diapers in the carry on bag.  ARE YOU FREAKIN KIDDING ME??  I packed 22,000 toys in a backpack, I had 16 Ziploc bags for each 2 oz item and I had my People magazine but NO DAMN DIAPER!   My husband was no help.  He just shrugged his shoulders.  A hello....men can leads armies into battle but you can't come up with one good idea at this moment.  I told him to "COME WITH ME".  By Row 20 I still had no idea what I was going to do without a diaper but this child had to be changed.  I quickly scanned the plane to look for another toddler but there were only small infants...rats no diaper love from other passengers.

As I entered the bathroom, I rummaged in my bag and tried to make a Ziploc bag and some toilet paper suffice.  Note to file MacGyver, a small Ziploc bag doesn't fit around a 2.5 year old (I should have potty trained earlier!!!).  I peaked out at the flight attendant, awkwardly smiled and asked if she had a trash bag.  At this point, my husband had told her what was going on.  She smiled and said she could help.  Success!

So in Kindergarten, K was somewhat isolated from older kids. They didn't eat in the cafeteria with the older ones and separated them in extended day. But K started day camp last week. The kids are more mixed K-5. On the second day, K lost a tooth. When she was putting under her pillow at bedtime she says to me "Mom, do you give me Christmas presents?" I said of course. She says "But does Santa give me presents - or is it just you?" I was so sad. I thought we would have more time!!! I said, "why are you asking that?" She said "A boy in my camp says he doesn't get presents from Santa, they are all from his Mom and Dad. He says Santa isn't real" I said, "well maybe he isn't a very good boy, and that's why Santa doesn't bring him presents." She thought about that and said, "he seems ok". I asked her what she thought. She said "I think Santa is real" and I said, "well, there you go".

I think she is ok for now..but I was so sad that it happened so quick. And its summer -what were these kids doing talking about Santa anyway???? Sheesh!

we are off to the beach for a few days....will try and post....

Cross posted on http://www.threetimemommy.blogspot.com/

So it is blogging tradition to post 100 things about you when you make your 100th post. I did not even notice when I made my 100th post way back here. So now, as my 200th post, I will post 100 things about me. I don't think I'm close to deep enough to have 200 things about me.

1. I have been married for almost 12 years.

2. I am allergic to nearly all living things - animals, plants, flowers, etc. Even formerly living like fur coats!

3. I have only lived in 6 places in my life - and 2 of them were dorm rooms.

4. I LOVE 80s music. I can't tell you how many times I have seen Huey Lewis and the News in concert (and the most recent time was like 2 years ago!!!)

5. Despite having been addicted to Diet Coke for much of my teens and all of my twenties, I haven't drunk caffeine for 7 years (except for the occasional caffeinated root beer and tea at Chinese food restaurants).

6. I wear a size 8.5 wide shoe.

7. I lost nearly 70 pounds in 2000 in preparation of trying to get pregnant with #1.

8. I am working on losing that same 70 lbs now!

9. Despite being from an Irish Catholic family, I do not have any first cousins.

10. I have only one brother and no sisters.

11. My mother was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when she was 4...and lived with it for over 58 years!

12. Although I have had a cell phone since the late 90s, I am only on my third actual phone.

13. Purple is my favorite color.

14. I love polka dots.

15. I am a really good parallel parker.

16. My favorite movie is Ever After with Drew Barrymore.

17. My favorite number is 17.

18. I am an Amazing Race fanatic!

19. I have only lived in two states - and both are Commonwealths.

20. Despite never had any gynecological issues, I experienced infertility with my 2 daughters.

21. I have mild asthma.

22. I love nuts, but am severely allergic to pine nuts - but no other tree nuts.

23. I broke lots of bones as a kid, but never had stitches until I was in my thirties.

24. I never ran a day in my life before last year, and now I run 3x a week.

25. Big Man was a completely unplanned (un-medicated, unexpected) miracle. And is weirdly spaced equally with his sisters (26 months behind #2, who is 26 months behind #1).

26. My favorite winter drink is hot chocolate with Bailey's.

27. I wear high heels nearly all the time- ever since I was in high school.

28. I used to do stained glass.

29. I kill all plants.

30. I have only owned 3 cars in my life and two of those I have currently.

31. My friends used to call me the "cruise director"

32. I have worn contact lenses virtually every day since the 10th grade.

33. I have been in 10 weddings, not counting my own.

34. As a kid, I took lessons in piano, guitar, violin, trumpet and french horn.

35. I am a Boston Red Sox fan.

36. I have season tickets to the Washington Nationals.

37. I made nearly everything for my wedding - my veil (with the help of my MIL), my shoes, the invitations, the favors, the centerpieces, and the programs.

39. I love magazines.

40. I used to sing alto in high school and college.

41. I'm a Delta Gamma (yes I ama)

42. I had a 4.0 in graduate school (after like a 2.75 in undergrad).

43. I miss Cape Cod summers.

44. I'm a little addicted to Purell.

45. I am seriously addicted to chocolate.

46. I love Cool Whip.

47. I love all fruits - except I'm not crazy about oranges.

48. I was a radio DJ in college.

49. I once operated a studio camera for CNN.

50. I know how to Chisanbop.

51. I once worked as a lifeguard.

52. I love playing card games.

53. I love board games.

54. When I was a kid I would roller skate every day on my paper route.

55. I once bought 25 cents worth of gas.

56. I make an awesome blueberry pie.

57. My eyes are a cool light blue color.

58. When I am pregnant, my blood pressure goes down.

59. I make a great appetizer that involves kielbasa and Kahlua (actually that is the recipe) - and it is soo good.

60. I can't draw or paint to save my life.

61. My mom died only 4 days after the birth of my second child.

62. I really really really wanted to get married outside, but chickened out.

62. I can't speak foreign languages - i have taken lessons in French, Spanish and Japanese but I really suck at them.


63. I love Chinese food.

64. When I was pregnant with #1, the only thing that could keep me from throwing up was Orange Juice - which I used to hate.

65. I am a really fast reader.

66. I am a wimp when it comes to spicy foods.

67. I used to knit. I miss it.

68. I am very crafty.

69. I have no willpower over ice cream (unless it is plain vanilla or a gross flavor like mint chocolate chip).

70. I don't like mushrooms - but love Veal Marsala (i pick the mushrooms out).

71. A giant beefsteak tomato with salt (and maybe some balsamic vinegar) makes an awesome summer lunch.

72. My hands are made of asbestos - actually probably my whole body. I take really hot showers, and have been known to touch hot pans straight from the oven.

73. I used to bite my fingernails. Now I peel them.

74. My eyes are REALLY sensitive to light. Going in the sun without sun glasses really hurts.

75. I have really high arches in my feet.

76. I scare some people with my driving.

77. I like peanut butter and bacon sandwiches (although I haven't had one in probably 10 years!)

78. My DH taught me to drive a stick shift. My MIL was afraid we would break up over it, but it was fine.

79. I have ridden a segway.

80. I love scented candles and candlelight.

81. Prior to this year, I hadn't been to a dentist in more than 10 years!


82. I have ridden in a glider plane...way up high...and was TERRIFIED.

83. I love roller coasters - but more the old-fashioned ones than the crazy death-defying ones now out there!

84. I love a crackling fire.

85. I don't have my tonsils anymore, but I still have my appendix.

86. I love to drink water - I probably have more than 65 oz per day.

87. I used to know how to program in Basic.

88. All my kids have the same middle name (my maiden name).

89. Someday I really really want to own a house on the water (or close to the water).

90. I have taken a bartending course and worked as a bartender for over a year.

91. My blood is type O-negative, and I try to donate whenever I can.

92. I was a music/drama geek in high school.

93. I never rode a bus to school. I was a "walker" for elementary, jr high, and high school.

94. I applied to something like 9 colleges, and my parents sent in a deposit to 2 different universities before I decided where I would go.

95. I used to be prone to migraines, now I only get them occasionally (thank God!)

96. I am a sucker for cute office supplies.

97. I used to remove my own braces with pliers.

98. I refused to drink beer in college - only fruity liquor drinks and those awful 2-liter bottles of wine coolers!

99. I am a bit of a television addict. I blame my parents, up through high school I could only watch 1 hour a day of tv (even on weekends!)

100. I found it very hard to come up with 100 things about me!

Cross posted on http://www.threetimemommy.blogspot.com/.

Ok seriously. I'm so pregnant right now it's not funny. I'm gi-mongous, hot, heavy, achy, exhausted, and cranky. I think it's about that time! Plus my belly is so tight right now that it's uncomfortable. And don't get me started on the Braxton-Hicks.

So it could be any day now! I just need the little guy to give me the weekend so that we can wash his clothes; pick up and assemble the furniture; and pack my hospital bag.

Oh and, it would be nice if I could get my hair and toes done. Call me vain if you want to, but it's before the baby comes or not for another 2 months!

Oh and I need gifts "from the baby" for Chatterbox and Giggles. I heard that goes over big time.

Alright baby, give Mommy until Monday, m'kay?

Some random questions I've been pondering lately as I attempt to pack up our many mounds of junk for an impending move:

Where did all of this stuff come from?

Seriously.

We have so much crap.

Why the hell would we have ever moved across state lines with junk mail from 2004, old Halloween candy and a fold-out poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger from Muscle & Fitness Magazine especially now that my husband and I have neither muscles or a commitment to fitness? (see crusty candy stash reference above.)

Scene:
This morning in the elevator on the way to my office floor, Starbucks cup in hand.

Heard:
Woman: "What are you doing drinking coffee?" Flashes fake smile.

Me: "Actually it's not coffee - it's decaf tea." Flashes fake smile.

Woman: "Actually, tea is just as bad as coffee." Flashes fake smile.

Me: "Not if it's decaffeinated." Flashes fake smile. [Thinking: Why are you all up in my cup??]

Woman: "Good luck with your pregnancy, dear!" Flashes fake smile and waves.

Maybe I need to start looking mean. Apparently my demeanor gives people the idea that I'm approachable and they can just tell me whatever they want!

Cross posted on http://mamalaw.blogspot.com/

Yesterday I was leaving church and (of course) had to make a pit stop in the ladies' room. My church is relatively small and I pretty much know everyone, but there was an older lady in there that I hadn't seen before. She smiled and asked if this was going to be my first child and I told her that it was actually going to be my third. She was congratulatory and all the rest, and then started asking how I was feeling, etc. Anyway, somehow I ended up telling her that I worked full time and that's where the conversation went down hill...

She immediately said "OH. You work." And that's when I knew where the conversation was headed. She then went on to say "People usually get angry with me for saying this but, I don't understand why women who work have children. It doesn't make any sense that you would leave your child with a stranger. My husband and I were married 14 years, until he passed, and I am proud to say that my children never spent a day in anyone else's care." And on. And on. Of course I'm paraphrasing based on what I remember, but you get the gist. She even went on to say that she knew of a woman who had a baby and returned to work after 6 months. She told the woman "Well, what was the point of having a baby if you were going to leave her after 6 months?" She also said that "if every woman did what the Bible said and took care of the home like she is supposed to, she would not need to work."

Yup. She did.

So at this point I'm deciding whether it's worth defending my position, or if I should just be polite, smile and leave. It was odd because on the one hand I don't necessarily disagree with her. On the other hand, I wanted to explain to her that all women don't always have the luxury of not working outside of the home (not to mention those who just choose to). So I basically told her that, while she was blessed to have been able to stay home with her children, not everyone can afford to do that and that just because a woman must work doesn't mean that she should not experience the blessing of having children. I didn't want to be rude (even though I thought that she was rude), and I left it at that. She said that she would "pray for me" that one day I could stay at home with my children. I thanked her and got out of dodge.

Sheesh. Next time I'll just hold it until I get home.

Cross posted on http://mamalaw.blogspot.com/.

Ok, so I expected to run into the drama and misery of my daughters' teenage years sooner or later...just not when she was 3 1/2 years old. Lately, Chatterbox is unhappy about, well, everything. I noticed that it began a week or so ago when she started insisting on wearing the same pair of jeans every.single.day. Also, I bought a brand new pair of adorable shoes and she absolutely refuses to wear them, but only wantes to put on her broken down old shoes from last fall. So getting dressed in the mornings became a battle. Then came Alexa.

Alexa is an older girl in Chatterbox's class that had "big ties" (meaning braids) in her hair. Oh and Alexa wears flip flops to school. Well, between those two fashion statements, Alexa has quickly become Chatterbox's fashion muse. She was upset (and I mean UPSET) everyday last week when I did her hair and it did not look like Alexa's. And she was further upset by the fact that I wouldn't let her wear flip flops to school. I mean, not only are they impractical for running on the playground, etc., but I believe that there is a time and place for flip flops and school isn't one of them. So on Friday I had the woman who braids their hair on occasion come over to see if we couldn't hook Chatterbox up with some "ties." She was excited and I was relieved. Only to find out that the braids the woman gave her were not "BIG!" "LIKE ALEXA'S!" And so we were back to the sour face. Then she kicked and screamed when we were getting ready to go to brunch for Mother's Day yesterday because she didn't want me to put any bows in her hair. Nor did she want to wear the outfit that I had picked out. And of course, she wanted to wear flip flops too, but aside from the fact that she would have looked nuts, it was cold and rainy and that wouldn't have made any sense. Really, it was so bad that my morning was almost ruined. Hubby had to have a talk with her to calm her down like only he can.

And don't get me started on the regular meltdowns we have in the kitchen over what she does and doesn't want to eat.

Just what on earth is going on with her? I spoke to my mom and a couple of friends about it and they all seem shocked that she is so opinionated and looks-conscious at such a young age. I'm going try spending some more one-on-one time with her and maybe talking to her teacher to make sure nothing out of the ordinary is going on at school. I'm hoping it's a (short) phase, because Lord only knows I can't be going through this for the next 12 years.

Maybe I can move in with Alexa.



Cross posted on http://mamalaw.blogspot.com/

We had Big Man's evaluation for speech therapy last week. Actually, they evaluate you for all development - motor skills, speech, emotion, cognitive, etc. The ladies who came to do it were great, and it was fascinating finding out what they read into my son's actions. Basically they played with him for 45- 1hour and then wrote up some basic findings. When they were done they went through them with me. At one point one of the ladies was playing catch with Sam. Then Sam turned and threw the ball to the other lady. They were happy to say this demonstrated "initiative play". Okey dokey. He scored at or above age level for all the motor skills and cognitive skills, emotional, relationship, etc. Basically, he just doesn't seem to want to speak English. So he qualifies for once a week speech therapy. Yay! Now I am working with insurance and the like to work out all the pay-fors.

But the funniest thing that came out of the session was when one of the women asked if I had started him on potty training. I started laughing and pointed out that we don't even let him in the bathroom because he drinks from the toilet. She did not laugh and said she thinks he is ready (based on WHAT??) and we should start working on that. She even put it in the formal written report.

Is she high? Seriously. He is 21 months (ok, 22 now). I easily potty-trained each of my girls at 2 1/2. You expect me to start earlier for my caveman-like son? It still cracks me up every time I think about it.

Cross posted from http://www.threetimemommy.blogspot.com/

My liver has officially put in for disability benefits and is calling it quits. Most likely, this is not because it's put in a lot of work lately, with what it's required to do filtering out the occasional glass of wine or bag of Milanos. (Did I say bag? I meant, um, "serving size"). I'm pretty sure, though, that after all the time and effort and damage exerted during my younger years, poor old Bessie has had enough. Or, at least, she's looking to move into the body of someone without two small children, someone who could handle a shot of booze if there were an active champagne cork aimed at her head, unlike yours truly.

Let's be honest, though...like this is a HUGE surprise. You hear it from anybody who's had kids and is not currently sporting an arrest record or hanging with Britney Spears: once those charming spawn come hither, you can kiss your old life goodbye. Hell, once the line on the test stick turns pink, that's your Bat-signal to put on your big girl panties and grow up. (Your mate, however, is still allowed a probationary drinking period and can reap the benefits of having a designated driver for nine months straight, given his ability to maintain a constant flow of ice cream in your house).

In truth, I love my kids to pieces. My husband does, too. But if you had sat us down three years ago and presented us with a picture of our lives today, we would have laughed heartily before inviting you to come along to Happy Hour for cocktails and free jalapeno poppers. Life was different then, you see. We spent a lot of time at the bar. We met in a bar. We expected a certain amount of upheaval after having kids, but it was always assumed that our Sid and Nancy alter-egos would return once we got a handle on the whole "baby" thing. (Mind you, this idea was hatched before Irish Twin #2 showed up on the scene.) So much for best-laid plans, eh? (Bada-bum-bum-bum).

Most of our recent attempts at not being lame have proven fruitless debacles. Take, for instance, one weekend recently when my "fun cousin" was visiting and we were meeting up with friends in the city. Everyone was feeling great, plus, we had an actual babysitter that didn't show any outward signs of bipolar disorder. All the ingredients for a good time, right? Naturally, we all ended up stinking drunk with a $500 bar tab and a Hall Of Fame hangover that made me want to peel the scalp off my head if only it would have dulled the throbbing pain. Our boys were gracious enough, however, to wake us for the 6AM shows on Nickelodeon lest we miss the fun of Blue's Clues (except this particular morning Blue had developed a freaky doppelganger since my eyes were unable to focus as they pulsed out of their sockets and onto the area rug). My husband came through like a champ, however, getting up right away and giving the baby his bottle. That morning, I came to see him with even more respect and almost felt sorry for my friends who complained that their husbands were not quite as "with it" as mine....that is, until I found that he had snuck off, baby in swing, and was curled up in a cozy ball sleeping on the kitchen floor. Face-down. I wish I were kidding.

I've decided, though, that being a total pansy is a blessing in disguise. It's not like any of us old married farts are out to flirt anymore, and the binge-drink aftermath is almost as bad as being in labor: it's painful, you want to throw up the whole time and it lasts for HOURS. And then, just when you're certain you can't take any more and swear up and down your pledge to recoil in the face of liquor from here on in....somebody poops. A lot. And it will be green. And assuming your husband is not the culprit, you will finally resolve that it's just way too much work to have that kind of fun anymore when there are small people depending on you. And you may find that actually, it's okay to move on and find new ways of amusing yourself. I certainly have. My liver will thank me, once it returns.

I realized the other day that perhaps my flair in the kitchen has taken a nosedive, and I don't doubt that it's the inevitable result of the "customers" that take up residence at the table. My house is basically a humorous short-order diner that serves wee little patrons with finicky appetites and anger management issues. All this is well and good as my former weekend gig as a bar wench in Boston has me well-equipped for this kind of madness and drink-throwing, but despite my endearing nostalgia for drunk Irish guys (we all love 'em), I can't shake the conviction that we really are what we eat, and eventually all four of us will turn into semi-burned chicken nuggets and buttered noodles. Not a picture the in-laws would appreciate on next year's Christmas cards, mind you.

When I had my first baby I swore up and down that I would try to be one of those moms they feature in those do-gooder parenting magazines that make you feel like you suck at your job if you don't make cute animal-shaped carrot shavings (with little grape feet and peas for eyes) with lunch. Disregarding the ungodly amount of time and patience those things would require (either of which I would sell a kidney for nowadays), I still aspire to feed my family the good stuff. I ATTEMPT to do so. I think a lot of parents do. And I still make an effort now and again to weasel a few chunks of some fetid organic thing into the mac and cheese, when I'm feeling especially sprightly. This is the same woman who, in pre-baby times, planned an elaborate Valentine's Day dinner for my (now) husband featuring a reduced sauce cooked over many hours, hand-julienned vegetables and big ol' sea scallops fashioned into heart shapes. Seriously.

And I actually still enjoy cooking....well, here I should specify WITHOUT at least one kid clinging to my pant leg, moaning wistfully, and another rummaging through the utensil drawer for a cheese grater to drag over his brother's forehead like a monkey with a paintbrush. Somehow (and stop me if this sounds crazy), all this action underfoot makes it a little difficult to swing several gallons of boiling hot pasta water from the stove over to the sink. It certainly makes it all the more dreadful an experience as far as creating something, as opposed to throwing together as much of the food pyramid as you can, topped, of course, with ketchup. And yes, it counts as a vegetable. Maybe a fruit, too, if you consider that whole "tomato" argument. (Which is so silly. Any well-informed food critic who's had a Bloody Mary will tell you, with the utmost certainty, that they don't give a rat's ass one way or another. Generally this happens after consumption of said beverage, sized large.)

At the risk of earning a rep as Sloth Mom of the Year (or just simply sounding bitter), I would like to admit that I do indeed take shortcuts preparing my kids' food sometimes. I give them chicken nuggets with lunch. They get chocolate Teddy Grahams for a snack, on occasion. And holy hell, if I could count the times my one year-old has vacuumed stray Cheerios off the floor with his mouth...

But come on, people. All of you who are responsible for feeding your darling rugrats. All of you who, like myself, actually do go out of their way to include a good spread of healthy stuff, and who absolutely do care about their kid's health. All of you who have to prioritize what time they have during the day, sometimes at the expense of the "little things." And especially those of you who've faced the onslaught of the Munchie Police, who cause you to question whether you're being a good enough parent judged solely on the quality of your kid's snacks. You, above all, should copy and print the following paragraph to thrust at the vegan clown that gives you the stink eye next time you're at Chick Fil 'A at the mall:

Let me start by saying that I ADORE my Big Man. Really I do. But man, he is such a boy. My first two are girls. And while I will laugh at this 10 years from now, they are pretty easy going. Even as toddlers, they both listened, they could follow simple directions, they could talk. Big Man is completely different.

I knew it from about 3 months. He would happily sit in his car seat cooing and smiling - but at all times his toes and fingers were wiggling and jiggling. Like he had so much energy in there. Well, its out. At 17 months he is a maniac. No really, I mean its not like I expect him to be a gentleman, but it would be nice if he would be a member of the human species instead of some kind of rabid bear.

He climbs, he throws, he grunts, he whines, he hits, he eats. He is, basically, a cave man. He has words, but the only ones he chooses to use regularly are mama and dada. Other than that, you can hear a word one time and not again for 3 weeks. He said MILK on Saturday - a word I have been trying to get him to use for MONTHS. He said it because I apparently gave him a malfunctioning sippy cup. I handed it to him, he tried to drink, then banged on his tray, said Mama - MILK and thrust the cup at me. I was so excited! I was like, yes, Big Man, that is MILK! But he kept banging his tray and I finally figured it out. Its like he will only talk when he wants to. He said Bye Bye clear as a bell to his caregivers at school about 4 weeks ago - one time and never again. He said Blueberries on Saturday night - when he was demanding more. Mostly he grunts and points.

Except when he has a speech to give. Every once in a while he will stop what he is doing and with a lot of gestures and pointing will give a 2 minute oratory. Of course it is in Big Man-ese and completely unintelligible to the rest of us, but I am sure it is the next Gettysburg Address. I particularly enjoy it at 3am.

He climbs on everything. If he can't reach what he wants, he will pull and push furniture around til he can get enough stuff together to climb onto to get to what he wants. He got to a big carving knife around Christmas. And when we saw him with it he thought it was a game to see how far away he could run with it without us catching him.

So right now I am sitting at the computer typing away. It is 8:45 A.M. I have been up for three hours, plus or minus those several baby awakenings last night for A) nightmares, B) new teeth breaking through, C) bink recovery squad, D) hunger, or E) husband snoring, mouth agape a la Elephant Man. At this point I am resisting the temptation to grab a couple toothpicks from the kitchen and prop open my eyelids like flaps on a camping tent (or maybe just stab my eyes out completely to save for later practical jokes and cheap parlor tricks). Yes, folks, it's the starting gun at the Babies Who Get Up Way Too *&#@ Early Marathon! I am a superstar competitor, after about four cups of coffee.

Okay, yes, this comes with having children. I get it. I hereby state that now I KNOW, before someone who shall remain nameless decides to call and remind me that millions of people have had babies and I should have known this before I decided to get knocked up so I should shut my cakehole and do I remember what we had to do when you were young and your father was working three jobs.......*cough*. Ahem. The point is, yes, I realize now what kind of sleep you get with small kids (none), and believe me, I wouldn't trade my sweet, grubby-handed boys for anything. In fact, right now is not even as bad as when they were newborns. Despite how tiny and pink and harmless they looked, I have never come so close to setting my hair on fire and locking myself in the linen closet to cry on the dust ruffles. At least then I could have been admitted to the sanitarium with the rest of the dips and I wouldn't have to worry about what to make for dinner.

All this, as you can imagine, has led to some serious caffeine binging and only because I truly want to enjoy the time I have with the little darlings before they grow up and learn the applicable uses of profanity. It might be getting to the point where I will start mainlining the stuff and my husband will find me hiding in the bathroom, sweating and trying to hide the track marks. In fact, my doctor asked me the other day, during a physical, if I thought I drank too much coffee. After I stopped laughing, I answered "well....gee I don't know. I don't think so." Of course this was after his, uh, "internal" exam wherein I made some crude comment about him owing me "dinner and a movie after that glove comes off." Seeing as how this was the military care facility that the President himself attends, I think my credibility was a little shot after that so he probably didn't believe me anyway.

I have to imagine there are better ways to energize yourself than loading your bloodstream with caffeine. I know someone who has for years gotten up at some God-awful hour (maybe 3 A.M.) to run, every morning, more miles than I may have logged during my entire four years of high school in the wretched purgatory of Phys. Ed. Of course he's in astounding shape but there's no way I would be able to pull off that routine without ingesting something with a way higher street value (although a raspberry-mocha cocaine latte would be a HUGE hit at Starbucks. Perhaps a soy Methaccino? Note to self: formulate proposal).

As I have been told by those older and wiser, there will come a time when the children grow up and learn to fend for themselves, when we will be able to reclaim our former lives and savor that feeling of watching what responsible adults they have become. Just kidding...actually I don't remember exactly what was said...something about a driver's license and ulcers...or maybe the police and juvy hall. Hmm. It will come to me soon. In the meantime, I will plan to make another pot of coffee, enjoy the time I have with my little guys, and await that juicy check from Starbucks.

It occurred to me the other day that despite my wonderful marriage to a responsible, committed husband (who has been pre-beaten and molded by a military academy, for my convenience), I might be in imminent danger of losing him to a "girlfriend" on the side. And not some bar skank with a grown-out perm and numerous STDs that I could easily take in a fight with my Jersey heels and some large friends. Oh no...this one poses a real threat. She lives in my house, for Chrissakes. And I hate to admit it...but she's a pretty piece of you-know-what.

I speak, of course, of the 1971 Dodge Dart that's lying in the garage in pieces, like an autopsy. This is the second of what will no doubt be many cars into which my husband will pour his efforts. He's one of those muscle car junkies whose idea of heaven is a big stinky garage and a project car. Call me neurotic, but somehow I find it hard to muster excitement over the rusted metal parts and flat tires that take up the garage. Both sides. Every. Square. Inch. Of my parking spot. Note below (despite how pretty and shiny the engine looks) the complete lack of space to walk anywhere:

Not only does this whole project force me to cross the street in front of our house with two small kids to get to the visitor lot that holds my car, but it steals my husband away for hours at a time. He returns eventually, glowing with excitement and reeking of whatever it was he had been playing around with. The handyman's version of lipstick on the collar. And then there's me, watching House Hunters by myself with a glass of Pinot (and by the way, this is no fun whatsoever if there's nobody there to commiserate on how irritating it is that the women always make boneheaded complaints about paint color. How hard is it to pick up an effing roller? Seriously).

It's right around then that my personal Mope-a-palooza begins. I'm not a jealous person by any means, and I abhor needless drama in our house, but this personal hobby has started to morph and take on a life of its own, sucking time (and more importantly, money) out of our little "nest." My mother-in-law tells me similar stories about my husband's father and his golf addiction (insert witty comment here about "apples" and "falling from trees"). Thankfully I am able to glean from her many years of experience, and she is tremendously helpful despite the fact that I am complaining about her son.

Without even picking up my old college psych textbooks, I can tell you that if honesty prevailed, I would admit that a lot of this stems from the fact that right now I can't think of any passion that makes me twinkle the way he does when he works on his cars. Or at least not within the constraints we have to work with. Anybody with kids and a budget can tell you that. Given buckets of money and an au pair, I would be in a cooking class in Tuscany right now. But I'm NOT. I'm HERE, writing because my kids are both sleeping and this is free.