So where do you put your butt?

"Want to know what I don't like," asks Big Dog, but he doesn't wait for an answer before he launches into his list. "I don't like bugs. Or poop. Or smelly things. Or cups. Or chairs."
"Wait," I say, "You don't like chairs? Since when?"
"Mommy," he says with a healthy dose of keep-up-old-woman in his voice. " I don't like to eat chairs."
"Oh, I see. I thought you said you didn't like them."
"That's right, I don't like to eat them. Or shoes. Or lights...." and the list went on.
Glad we got that settled.

Under my skin

This Memorial Day weekend I took on a little memorial of my own. On Saturday, I spent several hours grinding my teeth in pain while an artistic sadist punched ink into my skin. In other words, I got a tattoo. It is not my first. I have a dragonfly on my left ankle that I had done June 6th, 1998 (don't ask why this is marked in Auntie Chihuahua's Palm to this day, but it is). That was more of a "I like dragonflies and I want a tattoo decision" than a real emotional process. This time was different.
Last year I lost Mao and just a few days later I discovered that despite my searching Terry had already been lost for years. These two voids hit me with such unexpected force I was left reeling. In an attempt to reconcile with how much I was changed by the loss, I decided I would mark my body with a symbolic connection to those pieces of my life. I have reasons for the choice of design, some can be easily put into words and others are more internal. The more obvious reasons have to do with established symbolism. Koi represent those who go against the grain, they symbolize those who are struggling against their own challenges, they also symbolize those who have overcome their struggles. As I read more about the symbolism of fish, they srepresent the emotions at the foundations of our character, they represent possibility and potential riches. Once I chose the idea, it seemed to flexible enough to expand and grow, covering all of the amorphous emotional "goo" that I wanted to have wrapped up in there.

While these losses may have motivated the decision, other things have driven the action. Symbolism aside, I also got the tattoo for me. In addition to creating a lasting physical connection to those I have lost, I am also reclaiming myself. A while back someone brought it to my attention that I had been pregnant or nursing constantly for the past 5 years. It has been a heady thing to make people and nourish them with this body of mine. Yet at the same time I has been providing life and comfort to others for all this time and in some ways I feel oddly disconnected from my body as my own home. It is time for me to reclaim my body for me, so I've marked it with my chosen design. I don't really care what other people think about it. It means something to me, and it is mine.
But can I help it if it also makes me look bad ass? I think not.

The big secret.

Big dog is a smart, lively boy. When he is on his game he is a complete charmer and can be as coordinated as any 4 year old could ever want to be. That said, most of the time he is going a million miles a second and leaves a path of destruction in his wake. This weekend we've spent a good portion of our days staying out of Mr. Dog's way while he builds a new fence around our soon to be clean, safe and tidy play area for the boys. Maybe we've been confined too long. Maybe familiarity breeds something less than contempt, maybe just annoyance. So tonight when he sloshes his overfilled cup of chocolate milk on the carpet moments after I say, "take a big swig off the cup, Big Dog, it is way too full!" I lose it. I shout a bad mommy "Goddamn it, why can't you listen to me" and immediately feel like a crappy mom, the kind of mom I work so hard not to be. You know the type, the kind of mom who lets her children play with pretend guns and eat transfats. Moments later I apologize. "Big Dog, sometimes I get frustrated and I know even when I'm frustrated I shouldn't yell."
"That's ok mommy," he says patiently. "Mom, I'm going to tell you something, sometimes I don't watch what I'm doing." And with that simple explanation out there, he returns to slurping chocolate milk and Jack's Big Music Show completely unflustered.

Snap!

There are days when I feel like there is not nearly enough of me to go around. Not literally, like if you served me up by the pound, in that case there would be more than enough to go around, but that’s a whole other story. What I’m trying to say is that I have too many demands upon my attention. Right now my normal “feel the burn” stretch has been extended to a “feel the painful tearing” type strain.

Between work, family and home I am more than used up. Yes, I left “self” off that list. I seem to have mostly left that one aside for a while now. I actually feel guilty when I get a free moment. Even my relaxation time is more relaxing to me if I fill it with tasks that benefit the entire family. I feel like a selfish person if I take time off to pull myself together. My mom reminds me that I need to make myself “whole” to really be able to give to others, but that required making time for me, and I’m not so good at that. It just seems like I need more time in my day to keep the fundamental stuff in order.

Just the day to day is exhausting. My demands at work are heating up. I have a conflict with a close co-worker that is adding more tension to an already stressful job. I’m getting support from other co-workers, but it is tough to feel like you can’t trust someone you need to be able to rely upon. In fact, there is a growing suspicion, and not just in my own mind, that this person is actually trying to sink my battleship so to speak. Not at all reassuring.

At home, the boys are doing great, but being smart, lively and active can be tiring for your caregiver. I am in no way complaining that they are the most charming and brilliant children ever to walk the planet, just that when they insist on being charming and brilliant until the wee hours then not sleeping soundly through the night, well, it just adds some pain to my life.

Top that off with the house stuff. I love this house, it will be amazing when it is done, but sometimes I feel like my wonderful husband is having an affair with his house/mistress since she gets more of his time and attention that I do. She is showered with gifts and I am, sob, neglected. Ok, not neglected, but damn I want some of his prime time again.

The hardest part is that even the good stuff adds to my ever growing “who owns a piece of me” list. My manager has identified me as someone he wants to develop for bigger roles in our organization. Fantastic! But that means more travel. We’re making progress on the foundation. Amazing! But that means more of Mr. Dog’s time will be spent digging and I’ll be a house widow a bit more over the summer. The kids are bright and active and need new challenges! Wow! But that means I’m making more changes for Big Dog with school and classes and I have to keep lining up activities for Little Dog and his nannyshare friends.

I’m trying to make it all work. And at times, it sings, really sings. I have days that I look at my life and wouldn’t have things any other way. And then there are times I feel like I’m in a triathlon, poorly equipped but striving hard to place. What I have found is that blogging is a great outlet. And so I continue to put my life out there for the amusement of all, but the sheer pleasure of me and only me. Well, except when I get all caught up in the comments and big world of bloggers…damn, even that can become all consuming.

Panic in the Disco

What did I think would happen? Do I not know my own children by this time? Maybe I was fooled by the clever advertising, or maybe I just wasn't really thinking. I'm talking about Baby Loves Disco, the kid oriented dance party. Unfortunately, it turns out that my babies do not love disco. Not much at all.
Little dog, my dance machine, had no interest in dancing. It might have been the heat, or the fact that he had skipped nap, but he was in a punk rock state of mind and wanted no part of this "disco" stuff. Instead he decided to explore the scene. He discovered an inflatable palm tree decoration in one corner of the dance floor and it became his target. Not sure how it offended, but he decided it must be attacked. He ran at it full speed and grabbed it. But as inflatable palm trees sometimes do, it bounced and knocked him on his bum. Surprised but undaunted, he launched a second attack. A mommy sitting near by laughed. Bad choice. The last thing a pissed off pint-sized punk rock toddler wants is to have his thwarted attacks on the decorations be considered comic. The look he gave her was near fatal.
About this time, Big Dog decided he was ready to dance. I swapped charges with my Mommy-Papa tag team mate and headed off to rock out with Big Dog. Unfortunately for me, his version of "dancing" was some kind of modified child slam dance that involved beaning me repeatedly with one of the small beach balls they had scattered around. Nice decision there "Seattle Moms" whoever you may be, what did they think was going to happen with tons logo emblazoned beach balls in a crowd of kids. But that's another story.
While I was sustaining minor head injuries on the dance floor, Mr. Dog took on Little Dog. A few minutes later, Mr. Dog walks past up on the dance floor to let me know they're off to find the "Chill Out Room". Turns out, after attacking the palm tree a few more times, the laughing got to Little Dog. He picked up a shoe and tossed it at the offending mom. Oops! Bad Daddy, time to restrain the little beast.
We only stayed a few more minutes. Got our free cupcakes and headed back to the car.
I guess these babies loathe disco, but they sure did like the cupcakes. Good thing those tickets were free, if you blinked, you'd have missed us there. Well, unless you were laughing at a tree attacking toddler, then you just wish you had.

He's all about hygene and class.

In the last year Big Dog has made big strides toward being a big boy. He's 100% reliably potty trained, even at night. He dresses himself, writes his won name, sight reads a long list of words. And lately, his big point of pride is taking over washing himself in the tub. I believe Method products have played a part in this new skill.
As a Method advocate, I received a trial of their new children's line. They have designed packaging for their bath and body wash that looks like a kitten and when you squeeze it, the body wash shoots out of its, well, nether regions. I'm sure they didn't intend for this to look as though the kitty had digestive issues, but I can't help but think this poor cat needs a specialist of some sort. Maybe they're on to something though. Big Dog is enamored of his IBS kitty soap, and frankly it smells so good I can look beyond the disturbing delivery system. So, as I as saying, Big Dog has decided he is man enough to thoroughly soap and rinse himself in the bath. He slathers himself with kitty bum goo, lathers himself up then rinses off. Not only does he love the process he thrills at the result. He loves being clean.
Lately after baths he insists that he be smelled.
While Auntie Chihuahua was visiting, he had her smell his various parts. His hair, his cheek, his leg, his arm, his foot. When I came into the room, he insisted I smell his other foot.
Uh, ok. sniff! "wow, you smell great!!!"
Auntie Chihuahua explained, "He smells so nice and clean, his hair, his face, his hands, his feet, he smells great!"
Big Dog piped in "Yeah, even my bum and privates!"
I told him I'd just have to take his word on that.
See, he's all about class.

Weaning: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Just last week I took the final step in weaning Little Dog. Sure, for some people I nursed too long, he's over 2. He gets plenty of nutrition from other sources and he really didn't need to nurse anymore. That's all well and good, but for us it was working. Until it wasn't. And then I decided it would be a good time to wean.
Frankly, I'd planned to wean at 2, he was just a bit more stubborn about hanging on than I'd expected. As much as he didn't need the nutrition, he seemed to really need the comfort and closeness of our nightly ritual. And to be completely honest, I did too. There is something that can't even be described about the connection between a mother and a child who have a solid compatible nursing relationship. No, it doesn't work for every mom, and I respect that, but for those of us who are fortunate (or stubborn) enough to work through the kinks, it can be strangely addictive and reassuring.
Well, it has been about a week since he last nursed. He has asked, and bristled at my refusal. I just plainly say that "mama's milk is all gone" and offer a drink of some other source. He's mostly been ok with that, but he still asks. And every time he does my heart breaks a little bit.
Little Dog is likely my last baby. As much as my heart cries for another one, Mr. Dog seems to have decided that our baby-making partnership has been fruitful enough. I may disagree, but this is a partnership, so I may just have to resign myself to carrying this little heartache. sniffle
It has been slightly freeing to no longer have nursing as one of my set duties. It has given some flexibility to our nighttime routine. Mr. Dog is now slightly more acceptable as the good night go-to guy. I will no longer be forced to grill the doctor and the pharmacist about the safety of every prescribed medication and compatibility with breastfeeding. That will be nice.
Eventually my breasts will hopefully return to a more practical size and I will no longer be forced to size up in shirts to keep the girls from straining at the buttons! That will be nice too.
Now if only they'd return to their formerly firm and pert selves, you know back when they high up on my chest even without a bra. Unfortunately, I think that would require some professional assistance. Anyone wanna sponsor a boob lift? No, then I guess I'll have to get some really good bras.

Ah, the sweet nothings

Saturday morning I was complaining that I feel and look old because, well, sometimes I do. Mr. Dog cheerfully offered "I'm going to start calling you grandma"
I replied with equal cheer "And I'll start calling you my ex-husband"
And that put an end to that.

It's the poop.

"Yook mama, it's poop!" says an excited Little Dog.
He's been obsessed with potty talk lately, so I glance up from my laptop to remind him that it isn't nice to call things poop. Well, unless it is poop. And in this case that is just what my darling toddler had smeared on his finger he was excitedly extending in my direction.
Sometimes even a toddler can be that literal.

I pledge allegance to I have no idea what

Last night before we went to bed, Big Dog and I had a little talk. We agreed that we love each other, and while we love each other, there are times that we say or do things that hurt feelings. Big Dog proposed that we make a promise. Silly me, I thought it would have something to do with not hurting our feelings.

"Mommy, raise your hand up like this, and repeat after me."
I have no idea where he has seen this kind of oath, but I'll play along.

"I mama, promise never to touch my blanket."
His blanket? I thought this was about hurt feelings. I wonder where this is going.

"in case it breaks. And if all of the outer space tings fall down I really really promise to take them all up to school to pick me up. And after school."
Outer space things? What?

"And I mama promise to bring my favorite favorite toy and not to beak it. Be very really gentle.
And if a friend you don't know says you are a star, and a car, see they rhyme then....or a walking sock goes into a walking shoe."
Ok this is now officially the strangest oath I have ever taken, but he seems adamant, so I'll repeat it.

"Or a walking penguin says "I love you so much."...
Ok, it's done."
mommy is confused, what penguin?

And with that he rolled over and went to sleep.
I'm not sure exactly what I have pledged, but I am beginning to suspect Big Dog may be taking some sort of hallucinogen.

Every so often a mommy needs a new "do"

Last time I made a big haircut transition, I went from long layers to a exaggerated a-line bob. I've had this cut before, back when I was young and stylish, and I liked the way it felt. It looks finished with very little work and it helps me to overcome my tendency to pull my hair back into a lazy woman ponytail six or seven days a week. So I've been rockin' my bob for about a year, maybe longer and most days I'm really happy with it. Until tragedy struck.

I was sitting in the kiddie hair salon with the boys while they were getting their shaggy mops trimmed into presentable form, and I picked up the store's copy of Parenting magazine. Quick aside, I hate this magazine but somehow, through some online purchase that was delivered to my office, I now receive a free subscription. I'm sure people wonder just what is wrong with me when I swear at my inbox and chuck the magazine into the recycle heap as soon as it arrives. Now back to the story. I'm skimming the magazine and come across an article on the "Hot New Mommy Cuts!" and they've listed my current cut as the top new mommy cut! And they say it like it's a good thing! For the love of all that is good and holy, I got this cut to look less like a mommy, not to top the style charts for mommy hair. And if the editors of Parenting magazine happen to come across this blog, you should know that labeling any haircut a mommy cut is cruel. No one wants a mommy cut, well, maybe Mrs. Duggar, but I don't look to her for fashion advice.

So now I'm stuck trying to think of my next big non-mommy cut. Thanks a lot Parenting, you've ruined my good thing.

That's it, I'm done

I'm taking a day off. A day off from being a grown up. It is too much work with too little pay off. I'm tired of being responsible and driving the decisions at home and at work. I'm just plain wiped out.

Tomorrow I'm going make someone else roust me out of bed. Then, I'll drag my feet when it is time to get dressed, refuse to brush my hair and maybe, instead of getting dressed at all, I'll throw a towel around my shoulders like a cape, right over my jammies! I'm going to go straight to dessert when it is time for lunch and hide the veggies under my sandwich crusts.

I'm not going to clean up after myself, and I'm going to talk back. If someone makes me do something I don't like, I'll stick out my tongue when they aren't looking. I may even call them a poopy head. Instead of my normal meetings I'm going to find a tumbling class. I won't finish my status report, I'll make playdoh snakes. And I'm going to fingerpaint with absolutely no regard for my clothing!

I'm going to run down the aisles in the supermarket and play hopscotch instead of taking out the trash. If someone farts, I'm going to laugh and point it out to anyone who will listen. I'm going to splash in the tub, demand lots of bubbles and tons of bath toys. Then I'll stay in until my fingers and toes are wrinkled and pruney.

And then, just before 7:00, I'll go back to being a grown up. Because that's the only way you are really allowed to decide to eat nothing but ice cream for dinner.

Two's a Charm.

Our friends Her Bad Mother, Mrs. Chicky, and Mrs. Chicken are expanding their families from child to children and we're here to honour that transition from pseudo-sanity to total and utter madness with a virtual baby shower.

I made the jump from one to two shortly after we moved to Seattle. I got lots of advice. Some of it good some of it really really terrible. Only a few things really seemed to apply.

1. When someone offers help, take it. Don't be shy, don't second guess it and think they are just trying to be nice, if help is offered, take it. Even if they were just saying it to be nice, you'll be teaching them a valuable lesson about only saying what you really mean.

2. Let your standards for personal hygiene and household cleanliness slide. Yeah, it is great to be up and dressed when you have guests, but hell, you've just pushed a little person our of a part of your body that will continue to remind you of that for quite some time. I liked to dress in PJs that didn't look like PJs. Yoga pants are your friend. As are oversized knit tops. I also had to become much more OK with a messy kitchen and, unfolded laundry. Sure some people may say I've taken it too far by continuing to allow my laundry to pile up clean but heaped in a messy pile for the past two years. I say bah, I'm a mother of two. We're still just happy to have clean clothes!

3. Make time for your 1st child. Even if it is a short few minutes of one on one mommy time, they need it. You need it too. I also went a little more lax on discipline for the first few weeks. Ok, maybe that was because I was too damn tired to stay really on top of things, but I think it was a good, if not completely planned, method to help Big Dog adjust. A little more leniency isn't going to turn a normal child into the anti-Christ in a few weeks, but it may save you all a lot of drama.

4. No matter how hard it is, you are going to be ok. Big dog had a hard adjustment. I frequently thought I was going to die of sleep deprivation. I never thought I'd want to have sex again. And the diapers....oh man those hourly diapers. Well, I look back now and it has more than paid off. My kids rock. watching them play together is both funny and heart warming. Sure they fight, but they also give each other long hugs after they finish beating one another to a pulp. And I get to be the mother of the two most adorable children on the planet.

5. A serious bit of advice. If you suspect PPD is an issue, RUN to your doctor and get help. I wallowed for 3 months before I took action then I put off taking medication for another month because I felt like I was a bad person and a weak failure as a mother if I had to get help. Now I realize all I did was cheat myself out of the first 3 months with my second son because I was too busy beating myself up for every little mistake or frustration.

6. Coffee, chocolate and red wine. Yes. All of them. Every day. Coffee in the morning. If you aren't sleeping, this is the next best thing. Chocolate. Do I need to explain? Red wine. You've been booze free for 9 months. Even our first pediatrician told me to have 1 or 2 glasses of wine every night with dinner to help me with my milk supply when I was struggling with Big Dog. If I needed it then, boy did I ever need it once I had two little people I had to care for. Man did I love that doctor, such a wise man.

7. Laugh. Laugh a lot. Things are going to take some adjustment. It isn't always going to be smooth and easy. There are times you are going to wonder what the hell happened to make you think having a second child was a good idea, but those times pass. And they pass more quickly if you focus on the good, the goofy and the downright funny side of parenting. And with two, you'll have twice as many jesters in your life.

8. Don't get too busy to live in the moment. Life with two moves fast. Much faster than it did with one, or at least it did for me. It felt like mere weeks after Little Dog was born, he was walking. Now he's talking, running and generally hamming it up. Sometimes I feel as though he's aged a month by the time I get home from work. I'm sure next time I go away for a weekend, I'll come back and he'll be driving! They grow so fast, they're only small once and those other cliches really apply here. So...take time and smell the roses, or the soft baby heads, hell, even the diapers from time to time.

9. Finally, feel free to ignore any or all advice. Heck, you've gone from 0 to 1 kid and survived it. Adding the second isn't all that hard by comparison. Once you have the hang of that, it is like adding more weight to your normal workout routine, it is hard, even painful at first but your muscles adjust and soon you're stronger and it feels like anything less was child's play.

Congratulations, and best of luck!

I got nuthin.

Really. I can't think of a single thing I feel compelled to share with the world. Well, apart from the fact that I have nothing to share. And that's not really news. Anyone have any suggestions for blog topics? Feel free to leave your contribution in your comments. If not, I'll just get back to drinking coffee.