Epic Mothering Fail

If ever I begin saying things like, “Oh. My kids NEVER get sick,” and “Oh. I don’t know what to even DO with sick kids,” like I did in this post. Please just slap me. Hard.

You remember that post? It was last week? My nephew—who is with the boys everyday—was sick last week, and I’m all whatever, my kids never catch these things. And in fairness, they may not have swapped germs at all, but what I do know is such assumptions make and ASS out of, well, just me. Should be Assme--there's no 'u' in this story.

Heh.

Liam started complaining that his tummy hurt and he didn’t feel good on Monday, and today he’s running a fever of 102.5 and complaining that the light is too bright and the noise is too loud, and (here’s where I know he’s REALLY sick) he’s been falling asleep ON THE COUCH. Whoa.

My poor baby.

Remember when I said I don’t know what to do with sick kids? It’s still true. I stayed home with him yesterday, so Daddy is taking a turn today, and meanwhile I’m at work about three seconds from bolting for the door because MAH BABEEE is sick. Also, even though I called the doctor and was told to wait it out a couple more days, I’m a nervous wreck and am convinced that they don’t know what they’re talking about. He needs to go in NOW. Right? He has a FEVER. I’m not quite sure he’s ever had a fever in his life. Clearly, something is terribly wrong.

Anyway. Point being. It’s all my fault for claiming such things as I did last week, and even though I said I’d be knocking on wood while I wrote it, I didn’t because I’m not superstitious, and therein lies the fact that I’m officially the worst mother ever.

Fail.

In The Mornings

In the mornings. This is the time of day that I feel so refreshed, so rejuvenated. I am quite certain that I can accomplish anything.

In the calm of my car, during my 45 minute commute to work, this is the time that I contemplate the future. It must be the sweet morning air, or the privilege of watching the sun rise over a land so beautiful that it takes my breath away (yes, Minnesota is good for some things). Maybe it’s the uplifting stories I hear over National Public Radio (you know, once I get past all the stories about war and car bombings and politics). Whatever it is, I get this electrical sense of confidence and excitement, elation and glee for what could be.

My chest feels like a balloon pumped full of possibilities. I’m going to be a writer. And why is it I always told myself I can’t teach? I could totally teach. One of these days, I’m going to move to the country and live in a home filled with sunny, warm colors and beautiful old antiques. Or maybe I’ll move my family to the beach somewhere. Won’t it be incredible to watch my children frolic on the beach every day? Also, I’m going to start a business and rule the world. Whatever happened to that children’s story I started writing? I really need to finish that.

I am so blindsided by my visions for the future, I can’t think past anything else.

Sure, sometimes these things turn into reality. Like, there was that thing that I couldn’t get out of my head about going back to school for a Master’s degree. Not all my morning dreams fade with the day.

But what happens to the other dreams? Where does my elation go?

I think it starts from the minute I exit the cool dawning of a new day and enter my stale cubicle walls. I lament the piles of everyday, ordinary work to be done and that balloon in my chest begins to deflate as if someone were pulling at either end of the opening and it was making that shrieking “no, no please don’t deflate me!” kind of noise.

I move about my day as if on auto-pilot. I forget about my early morning dreams and focus on the now. I take care of my job and sometimes I take care of all of that other, external stuff that needs to be taken care of: the setting of doctor’s appointments, the calling of the insurance agents, the paying of the bills, the…the…the…!

And then I leave my office, and that crisp new morning air is gone, replaced by a thick afternoon fog of frustration and traffic and headaches. And my 45 minute commute that this morning was full of potential and hope is now the most dreaded part of my day as I fight my way through the throngs of others, who may have been just as hopeful as I this morning, and are now equally as deflated.

Then I get home. And that balloon, now almost completely gone, is replaced by something equally as wonderful but wholly different: love. Because now, all that occupies that space where the balloon lived this morning is the desire to be with my children. My sweet, beautiful boys who are so amazing and full of wonder that I can’t take my eyes from them. I kiss their heads and give them more hugs than they can bear. I play trains with them, and dinosaur’s too. I whisper in their ears how very much I love them. I try my best to make up for not being with them all day. I try my best to make sure they know just exactly how much they are loved.

In the quiet of the evening, after the boys have gone to bed and I might actually have time to contemplate and plan my future, take action that might fulfill those dreams; my attention is diverted by the haze of exhaustion. The desire to spend just a minute with my husband. The need to accomplish that bit of homework. I am tired, and the balloon is deflated, and…, and…, and. The day is done.

I finish my work for today. I drag myself into bed and get lost in the chapters of a good book. I drift off to sleep having accomplished absolutely nothing and positively everything.

But I remind myself: Tomorrow is the dawning of a brand new day.

Busted

Easter-Eve of last year found Nate and I strategically hiding those multi-colored eggs when a then 2-(almost 3) year-old Liam came downstairs for water? A hug? I don't remember. I do know that we really thought he didn't know what we were up to, and had he known, he was only two. So. No harm done.

I had completely and totally forgotten about this event until tonight at bath time when I had a conversation with Liam that went like this:

Me: Hey Liam, did you know that the Easter Bunny is coming tonight?

Liam: I know. And then you're going to hide the Easter eggs.

Me: Well, I don't hide the Easter Eggs. The Easter Bunny does, remember?

Liam: (In a somewhat exasperated tone.) Mom. I saw you hiding the Easter eggs last year.

I couldn't recover. I hadn't remembered and therefore didn't have any excuse prepared. He knows the secret and there was nothing I could say to protect my cover. He just kept giving me this look that said, "I know what I saw, why are you lying?"

Notes to self: 1. Never assume your child is too young to remember. 2. Wait until your children are actually asleep before playing the part of pretend holiday creatures.

It's Alive

And now a break from my regularly scheduled ignoring of this blog for a brief, and highly coveted update, in which I will not tell you very much except share a story for which I have no other venue to share. (Whew. That must've been, like, the longest sentence on earth. Why am I still speaking in italics?)

Anyway.

A few weeks ago, I bought Liam a new quilt for his bed. It has dinosaurs on it and it is REALLY cool. However, it's not as thick as the comforter he had before, and being that we live in Antarctica Minnesota, this might pose a problem.

On the other hand, he seems to have inherited this strange gene from my Husband's side of the family which renders a person inexplicably hot at all times, no matter the temperature. Good when you live in Minnesota. Bad when you sleep next to this person who is like a gigantic, sweaty water bottle.

But I digress.

I asked Liam to tell me if we was cold at night, but of course he didn't tell me, he told Grandma. Grandma was kind enough to fill me in, and I subsequently asked Liam if I could add another blanket to his bed.

This was met with a vehement NO.

So, rather than fight that battle, I let it go opting instead to put another blanket on him while he is peacefully dreaming about Kung Fu Panda or Candy. This has gone on now for, I don't know, a week? Every morning he throws that blanket on the floor without a word. Nary a question spoken about this blanket until last night when he asked Daddy:

"Daddy, how does that blanket get on my bed every night?"

And Daddy ruefully responded, "I don't know, Liam. What do you think?"

"I think it's alive."

For my part, I nearly fell over with laughter when I heard this because, OF COURSE he would think the blanket was alive. WHAT was I thinking? Poor kid.

On the other hand, no one has told him it's not and I'd kind of like to see where this goes. MAYBE I can convince him that his Monkey is also alive and is making sure he is behaving ALL THE TIME.

Not really. Nevermind. That's creepy.

Burning The Candle

To answer some questions.

No - I didn't keep my promise to blog.

Yes - I am completely, 100% WORN OUT, as I knew I would be, trying to keep up with my job, my family, and my class.

Yes - I am burning the candle at both ends.

Yes - I love it. I am loving school. I got an A on my first mid-term in 5 years. Do you KNOW how good that makes me feel? I want to be in school forever.

Yes - My Husband nearly burned down our new house. (Didn't see THAT coming, did you?)

For as long as we've been together I've had an aversion to candles. Not because I don't like them, because I am terrified my sometimes space cadet of a Husband (love you, Nate), will leave them burning.

I have a habit of blowing out the candles he's lit before going to bed. This behavior is always met with an eye roll, but I don't care because I KNOW he will forget.

Tuesday night he lit a candle on the computer desk.

Wednesday evening, he beat me home by not very much. On my way there, I called him and had a conversation that went like this:

Me: Hi. You know, I'm thinking, I don't really want to cook tonight. Maybe we could go out to eat?

Him: (distracted) Yeah, um, that sounds really great.

Me: OK, could you get the diaper bag ready so we can just leave right after I get home.

Him: Yep. (pause) OK, now I have to tell you something, but don't be mad.

Let me just pause right there and tell you that if you're significant other begins a sentence like that, it is time to immediately GET MAD.

You don't have to be a genius to figure out that the candle never got blown out. We are fortunate because it was sitting on a ceramic candle tray-like thing and there was nothing flammable in the immediate area.

The candle did have a little twine tie that went around the middle, so when my Husband got home that piece of twine was on fire and the smoke detectors were going off. It couldn't have actually been on fire for very long, the house was not completely filled with smoke, and from what I understand that piece of twine had not completely burned (I never got to see the evidence--SOMEONE disposed of it before I got the chance).

So. Yeah. My new house almost burned down this week.

And my Husband? Now completely banned from burning candles.

I guess you could say I'm burning the candle at both ends--figuratively and literally.

Exposed

Moving.

I'm really not a fan.

It's not just the packing, and the loading, and the unloading, and the chaos, and the unpacking, and the stress. All of those things I'm not so much a fan of either.

But more than that? It's this feeling that my insides have been suddenly ripped apart, and until I get EVERY SINGLE blasted item that belongs to me back in it's proper place, I feel...exposed. I can't relax until my insides are neatly put back in place. Back to their proper closets, or cupboards or shelves. And because this process can take weeks, I have this constant nagging feeling that my whole life, all wrapped up in my things, is just hanging out there for the world to see.

More than that? I dislike figuring things out. Why doesn't the water dispenser work? How do we turn on the heat? Which freakin' switch turns on THAT light (because I've tried a dozen already)? Why doesn't the garage door go up? Where did that one very important item go? Who are my neighbors? Where are my children? How do I get to work? Where is the grocery store? And so on.

And then the arguments come. You know the ones. They come when Nate and I have just about had it with the trying to figure things out, and the feeling exposed, and the losing all of those important items. It's about at the boiling point of all those things that the arguments come and we're about to completely lose it on each other. And Liam is saying, "You guys, you have to be nice to each other!" And then we shut up and simmer.

Did I mention I hate moving?

But then, I take a step back. And I look at my beautiful new house. The house I have always wanted to be able to provide for my children. The neighborhood, full of children, I longed to live in growing up. I look at my big backyard, and my children who are so happy with all of their new found space to roam. I see how happy everyone is to be in this new and wonderful place.

And I remind myself that I DO NOT EVER intend to move again. I remember that this is the place our memories will be made. My children will take their first day of kindergarten pictures on those steps. We'll be putting our Christmas tree in that window. We'll share family dinner's in that dining room. And we'll undoubtedly throw numerous birthday parties in that backyard.

That's when I realize, everything is going to be just fine.

More than fine, perfect. I don't have enough fingers and toes to count all our blessings.

We're home. That is the best feeling of them all.

My Day, The Rundown

I really enjoy it when people tell me just exactly how their day goes. I think probably because I'm nosy, but also because it's just fun to consider someone else's day. Something different from my own.

I think I enjoy it just like I enjoy it when people leave their curtains open at night, and I'm out for a walk, and I can peer in and see how my neighbors decorated and what they're watching on TV. Am I the only creepy person who enjoys that? Yes? Okay, moving on.

My day is always different. It depends on whether or not I actually get up with my alarm, or hit the snooze five hundred times. It depends on whether or not daycare comes to me, or I take the kids to daycare. It depends on whether or not I am feeling ambitious about my morning routine, or really if I'd just rather skip it all together. BUT, okay, in general my day goes like this:

5:00 AM: My alarm goes off. This does NOT mean I get up at this time. Typically it means that I use my super find-the-snooze-button-in-the-dark-and-half-asleep skills. You have those skills too, right?

5:00 AM - 5:30 AM: Depending on how many times I found that snooze button, this is when I drag myself out of bed. The next 30-45 minutes is 'me' time. Or, the only time I have to make myself look somewhat presentable.

6:00 AM - This is when I'm supposed to be heading out the door with the kids, but typically it's when I'm doing my darnedest to drag Liam out of bed and get him to go potty for dang sake.

6:20 AM - I'm fortunate enough to be able to simply get the kids out of bed, find clothing and shoes, add a jacket and put them in the car. (Ha, as if that was simple!) This is typically the time we are actually pulling away from the house, a good 20 minutes late.

7:15 AM - Usually, this is when I make it to work. Something like 15 minutes late. Most people seem to just understand that when I say my start time is 7:00, what I mean is my start time is 7:15. (Note to self: I should maybe start setting my alarm for 4:30 AM).

3:15 PM - I don't take a lunch so that I can maximize my time at home with the kids. And since I showed up late, it seems only fair I should hang around that extra 15 minutes. This is when I'm doing all I can to escape the office. Sometimes I make it, sometimes I don't, because of course, it's in that 15 minutes that my phone will ring or I'll get called into an inpromptu meeting.

4:15 - 5:00 PM - Time for the kids to play while I make dinner. Or, while I call Domino's, or while Nate makes dinner. You know, one of those things. We do try to eat at 5:00 PM though, and amazingly enough, we usually make that mark.

5:30 - 7:00 PM - The best part of my day. My time with the kids. We play, or maybe go to the park, or maybe it's bath night, or maybe we're having complete melt downs, but whatever is going on, this is the fleeting time a working mother like myself gets to have with my kids during the week. This hour-and-a-half is the reason I try so hard to get to work early, and skip lunch, and do my best to leave on time, because otherwise I wouldn't have this time at all.

7:00 PM - There was a time that the kids stayed up until more like 8:00 PM, but then we figured out they weren't getting enough of this little thing called sleep, so we pushed bedtimes back. This is the time we are wrangling the kids into bed. I should say wrangling Liam to bed...Quin has always been, and continues to be, a superstar sleeper. (Note to Quin: Keep that up, please.)

8:00 PM - 9:30 or 10:00 PM - Time to catch up on a book, or my favorite show, or lately, homework. Yes, this is the bit of time I've reserved each day to complete my MBA.

And that's my day. Evangelical stay-at-home mothers everywhere have just said a silent prayer for me and my misguided ways, but you know what, I wouldn't change a thing. (Well, maybe that thing about the snooze button.)

Tough Questions

This morning, while driving my kids to daycare, Liam asked me a question.

"Mommy? Who builded the world?"










I paused, and immediately proceeded to panic. Recently, my tenacious 3-year-old has been asking me a lot of questions that I haven't prepared answers for yet. Prime example. A week or so ago he asked me, referring to his little brother, why we chose that baby. I explained that we didn't choose him, we made him. And, as you can imagine this led to more questions, ones I wasn't prepared to answer.

Many parents have their standard go-to answers for big questions such as these. I don't. I didn't realize I need to be prepared to answer them so soon.

But, back to the question at hand. Who builded the world? And my panic.

We're not religious. I don't associate with any one religion, but I DO believe in God. To put it simply, I don't believe any one person on this planet can claim to know the answers to all those questions most religions try to answer. So, I don't associate with any of them.

But, I do believe in God, so I could say that God builded the world and that wouldn't be disingenuous to the beliefs of our family.

On the other hand, I don't want to confuse my three-year-old too much. We don't go to church, and we haven't really brought up the religion questions yet. It'll come, just not yet. I don't want to open up a whole can of worms I'm not prepared to deal with. Especially on a morning when I'm completely sleep deprived (a whole other story), and I have a mere five minutes before arriving at our destination.

On the other hand (I have a lot of hands), what better answer could I possibly come up with? Well honey, you see there was this big bang at some point eons ago and it created the entire universe, along with earth. We're really just a star among many stars constantly spreading further and further away from the point of origin. I'm no astrophysicist, but I think that's the basic theory.

UGH, I can't even tell him, with certainty, the scientific answer to the question.

The pause I was taking to answer his question was growing too long, so finally I said with the most sincere and genuine voice I could muster, "I really don't know, Liam."

And he replies, "Did road workers builded the road?"

"OH! Who builded the road?! Yes, Liam, road workers built the road."

Sometimes, this parenting thing is not as hard as we make it out to be.

Chaos

Right now, my house mostly looks like this:

Because we're moving as you might recall. Which means packing up all of our stuff and realizing too late that half of the things we STILL NEED are already packed away, stacked in the garage and awaiting transfer. Which roughly translates to: we'll just have to do without.

In the mean time, there's a lot of this going on:

Which doesn't get old to watch, but does mean that we have to be that much more on our toes.

Also, do not forget that I START SCHOOL this coming Thursday. I'm still trying to wrap my head around this whole being a graduate student thing. But for better or worse, MBA here I come!

The good news? Liam didn't nap today and Quin only napped for 1-1/2 hours which equalled two boys completely asleep by 6:45 tonight. With my other half out on a man date, I am enjoying the sweetest of all luxuries: a quiet house. A week from today, that'll undoubtably mean homework time, but right now? Right now I'm just going to soak in the quiet. The calm in the middle of the storm.

Full

I think it should almost be my mantra that I tend to bite off more than I can chew. For the brief moments in my history when I have the "right amount" of things going on, I tend to feel really shifty and ready for my next big thing. Ready to get married, ready to buy a house, ready to have a baby, ready to change jobs, ready to move states, ready to have another baby. And so on AND SO FORTH.

I don't know why I have always been so restless, but it's just a fact of nature. So it should come as no surprise that in addition to working full time at my Advertising job, and raising my two beautiful boys I've decided to add in the start of graduate school and a big move to a new house within only a week of each other.

There was this article in the local newspaper this morning about this woman who is a Minnesota Vikings cheerleader, and though I didn't manage to read the entire article, the basic gist was something like: feel sorry for this poor, tired, overworked Target executive who somehow manages to also be a cheerleader and a wife. And all I can think is BIG WHOOP lady!

There are times when people ask me how I manage all that I do. My response to that is, I don't really know how I'd manage to not do all that I do. I'm compelled to do them. It makes me happy to be constantly striving for something more, it give me something to reach for. I like that.

I think that what I'm trying to say is that I can sense a change in where I'm heading with this blog. Because if a 30-something cheerleader who also has a job (GASP!) and a Husband (you mean, she manages to be a cheerleader and isn't single?!) is somehow a big feature article, then surly you, my loyal 5 blog readers, will find entertainment in me: the 20-something career woman, wife, mother-of-two, graduate student. Right?

Would you enjoy the latest details about what a nightmare it is to pack for the big move? And on that note, for some godforsaken reason we have kept every single bill we have received in, like, TWO YEARS. Do you know what a chore it was to go through each and every one to be sure that there isn't anything IMPORTANT in that pile? And also, do you know that U-Haul has the gall to charge nearly $400! for a set of boxes and markers needed for a move? No, I didn't pay $400! for boxes and markers, but for the love of all that's holy ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Would it interest you to know just how excited I am to go back to school? No, really. Like so freaking out kind of excited that I actually read the descriptions AND CUSTOMER REVIEWS attached to the textbooks I ordered from Amazon. Yeah, that excited. And I may be changing my tune when I'm up to my eyeballs in school work and can't even catch a glimpse of Grey's Anatomy because there is too much to be done, but, would you be interested to know about that when it happens, too?

Do you care to know that I sometimes lie awake at night wondering what I'm going to do with myself when my kids are grown up? This is because I am a young mom and I'll only be in my early to mid-forties when that happens and above every other thing I have going in my life, raising my kids is 100% number 1, and when that job is gone, then what?

I don't update this blog as often as I should, mostly because I often convince myself I don't have anything interesting to say. But you know what, this blog is as much about preserving this time in my life as it is trying to entertain other people, and in that respect I have A LOT to say. So say away I'm going to do. You know, until I am completely overwhelmed with my job as mother, wife, employee and graduate student.

Of Milestones and Memories

In about a month, I'll be living in this house:

And my kids will play in this backyard:

And we will eat in this kitchen:

And decorate this playroom:
And given where I've come from in my life, all of these facts make me feel pretty damn good.

And I am not moving. Ever again.

Jedi Quinlan

There is a secret my Husband kept from me until after our nuptials. He is completely and unequivocally a geek. G.E.E.K. He's probably read every Star Wars novel out there, he asked for (and got) a Luke Skywalker Lightsaber for Christmas and was totally serious about wanting it. He knows all manner of Star Trek trivia, and his latest foray into Geekdom would be an OBSESSION with World of Warcraft (oh yes, he is).

I didn't know is was so bad, or maybe I ignored the fact, until long after he'd captured me for good, so by then I was just stuck having to understand his quark and GET OVER IT.

This got harder when he started secretly inserting his Star Wars madness into our daily life, by oh so subtly making sure everything living creature in our home was somehow Star Wars themed. This is how he agreed to name our first dog together Maggie, because (wink, wink) there is a character named Maggie in one of the novels.

When he suggested the name Luke for our second dog, it DIDN'T EVEN OCCUR TO ME why he did, but I liked it so I agreed. That guffaw goes directly to me. How obvious.

He told me months after our first child was born that he liked the name we'd picked out together so much because, you guessed it, Liam Neeson played Qui-Gon Jinn in Phantom Menace, so it MUST be a good name.

Oh, and here's a picture of Daddy and Liam on Halloween one year:

Sigh.

I'll grant you that the Star Wars enterprise is so vast that it would almost be hard not to find a link, but this next one, oh it's a doozie. When naming our second son, we'd both decided that we liked 'Quinn,' but I wasn't sure that a one syllable name was sufficient enough. I'd come across the name 'Quinlan' in one of my baby name books and had determined that we'd name him Quinlan, though more often than not we would call him Quin. (Note: ONE 'N' because his name is NOT spelled Quinnlan.)

I really thought I'd won this time. Quinlan is such a unique name that there was NO WAY it could be Star Wars related. But I guess I'd never Googled the name, because I was wrong.

So wrong.

My friends, I give you Jedi Quinlan. Quite possibly the MOST Star Warsish name yet. And may I add that there are maybe three people out there who show up in Google with the first name Quinlan? ONE of them HAPPENS TO BE A FREAKIN' JEDI. In fact, I'll bet that a certain portion of the population, when hearing the name Quinlan, thinks to themselves, "Oh yeah, like the Jedi."

Nate denies any knowledge until this day of such a fantastic discovery, but I'm crying fowl. It's a conspiracy! Just when I think I've topped his game, he pulls me back in.

Oh, and P.S., Jedi Quinlan Vos carries a green lightsaber. Let me just tell you how tickled-pink my Husband is to discover such a glorious thing, because of course, so does Luke Skywalker.

And this is the point at which I say: Oh my dear lord, I live with three boys. And if genetics has anything to do with SciFi geekiness, I AM IN SO MUCH TROUBLE.

Wiggles and Giggles

A video to share. Why? Because there is nothing better on this blue planet than my two giggly boys. It's possible I am the teeniest, tiniest, little bittiest bit biased. But, whatever.

(And, don't worry, they're okay there at the end.)

Family of Fairies

The other day, while I was flipping through my Parents magazine, my eye caught the first paragraph of one of the articles because it started something like, "my son, Liam, was 3-1/2 when I figured out how to get him to pick up his toys." Obviously, my interest was piqued.

The author went on to describe how she invented the Pickup Fairy, who would swoop in and take away all of her Liam's toys for one week if he didn't pick them up at night. It seemed to work like a charm for him.

I stewed on this for a few days. My Liam would do little more than half-heartedly toss a toy here and there into his own bin at night, or any other time for that matter, so maybe there was something to this.

Opportunity presented itself a few days later, on a Friday evening, as we were headed home from the store. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Liam, when we get home we're going to need to take a bath.

Liam: I don't wanna! Whine, whine. whine.

Me: Well, Liam, you're going to have to take a bath or (pause) or the Bath Fairy is going to (long pause) um, take away you're bedtime snack!

Liam immediately stopped whining. I watched the wheels turning in his head through the rear view mirror, before he finally said: The Bath Fairy?

Me: Yes. The Bath Fairy is going to take away your bedtime snack if you don't take a bath.

Liam: Oh. OK. I will take a bath.

Me (seizing the opportunity): And Liam, the Pickup Fairy is going to take away your toys for one week if you don't pick them up before bedtime!

At this point Liam started asking a lot of questions. By the time we got home it had been established that the Bath Fairy and the Pickup Fairy lived in Wigiland. They are sisters, you see, and they live in a blue house together. They do not fly, but rather they disappear and reappear when they want to go somewhere, like say, my house to take away bedtime snacks or toys for one week.

Liam took his bath, and picked up his toys that night.

While I was shampooing my hair that night, I was congratulating myself on my victory and wondering: how could I parlay this into the dreaded potty training. Oh potty training, a sore subject in my house. Despite fully understanding the concept of using the potty, my son has had absolutely no interest in doing such a thing. Zip. Zero. Zilch. I had pretty much convinced myself that he'd be at least 16 before potty training could even begin.

I contemplated for a while. I didn't want the Potty Fairy to be a negative thing. She couldn't take anything away for not going potty, that would be counterproductive, I was sure. But what if, what if, she just got really happy whenever Liam uses the potty?

Yes! That's it!

First thing Saturday morning I took Liam's diaper off and explained to him that the Bath Fairy and the Pickup Fairy had a cousin: The Potty Fairy. (Who, if you must know, lives in a yellow house across the street. In Wigiland.) I told him that the Potty Fairy would just be really, really happy if Liam would go potty in the potty.

He had one accident first thing that morning. I told him that was OK, but next time he should try the potty, and the Potty Fairy would be SO HAPPY!

And that was it, that did the trick. He used the potty for the rest of the day. And the next day. And the following week, he had a few accidents here and there at Grandma's house during the day, but HE WAS USING THE POTTY!

This weekend was the real breakthrough. He doesn't want diapers anymore. He wears big boy underwear, no more looking back. Of course, it may have helped that about midway through the week I informed him that, as an added bonus, once he was completely done with diapers the Potty Fairy would come in the night to take all his diapers away, and would leave cookies behind. I can't be sure, but I think he's just in it for the cookies.

But that, my friends, is how I potty trained my 3 year old in one week. The Potty Fairy and I are new best friends. In fact, I think I'll take her out for a drink sometime soon, she really deserves it for all her hard work.

Identity Crisis

It occurred to me the other day, while I was shampooing my hair, that when my youngest son graduates from high school I will only be 43 years old.

Forty. Three. I started to panic. Forty-three is so young, and my children are my life. What am I going to do with myself when they no longer need me? I’ll have most of my life left to live and the most important thing I will ever do, raising children, will be over!

Then I started to hyperventilate. Have I really let my entire identity become so intertwined with my children that I no longer know who I am? Am I really panicking about something that will happen 17 years from now?

And this is where the motherhood conundrum gets messy. I love my kids so very, very much that I WANT them to be my world. My everything. But I also want to have my own identity. But I feel guilty about having an identity separate from my family. But I know I should have my own identity. But how could I do that, when they are my identity. But…you get the idea.

When I look at Liam, so often my mind pops right back to the very moment he was born. The tiny ball of baby placed on my chest, the collective gasp in the room when he let out his first cry. But here I am, 3 lightening-quick years later, and he’s not even close to that little baby anymore. I love 3-year-old Liam, but I’m STILL wondering whatever happened to my baby?

The other day I stared hard at Quinlan, cruising along the couch with those cubby little legs. He's beginning to say words! Actual english language words! He's feeding himself, seeking independence, rapidly moving toward his first birthday. All I can think is, Wait a minute! Wasn’t he just born, like, last month? I cannot fathom how almost a year has already gone by.

And before I know it, I’ll be 43. Setting up the cake and decorations for my youngest child’s high school graduation, and wondering, now what?

It's important to me that my kids see that I have my own life, my own identity apart from them. I want them to form their own opinions, seek their own passions, have their own unique and glorious identities. But I just can't shake this gut-wretching, heart-dropping feeling that when my job is no longer raising my children, I will no longer know what on earth my job is.

Forty. Three. Oh my god, what will I do?

The Week in Pictures

This past week, my family and I traveled back to my home state of Colorado for family, friends and a good 'ol (if not cold) time. Since this blog generally lacks pictures, here's a pictorial recap.

Loaded the kids on an airplane.

The boys played with Nana, while mommy...

...attended a bachelorette soiree.

Enjoyed some lunch.

Jetted to the Children's Museum for painting.

And mirrors.

And a forced picture brotherly love.

Quin thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Liam became an ant.

Quin took in the view at Nana's house.

And thought it was great.

Went to see some bugs at the Butterfly Pavilion.

And fish.

And butterfly's too.

Who probably weren't all that happy to see us.

Posed for more forced pictures family love.

Met up with some friends.

Liam made a new BFF.

And did everything she did.

Took in the sights at Red Rocks.

And found some dinosaur footprints.

Nate and I took in the view at Lost Gulch. (Nate closed his eyes in disbelief.)

Gave a speech.

Attended a wedding.

For one of my dearest friends.

Made some new friends.

And reunited with some old ones.

Loved up on my hubby.

And enjoyed some much needed good wine.

My Kid IS That Special

A few days ago, I read this article, erm opinion, titled "You're Kids Aren't That Special" on CNN. In it, a gentleman of mature age describes how he was never the greatest of parents, and was also an alcoholic, but he'd like to give his two cents about parents these days.

I've been mulling his opinion for a few days now, trying to decide if I agree, and I've decided: I'm pretty sure I'd like to punch him in the face (metaphorically speaking, of course).

To be clear, I've certainly encountered my share of parents that I'd like to grab by the shoulders and ask, "What the hell are you doing?" Children running amok in a department store, pushing and shoving other kids at the playground, generally raising havoc. It is true that some parents really do need a reality check.

However, raising kids today is nothing like raising kids 20, 30, 40+ years ago. Parents are absolutely bombarded with often conflicting messages about the best way to raise our children. Let them cry it out, don't let them cry it out, give them free expression, don't give them free expression, buy intelligence-enhancing toys, NO blocks are the way to go!

Along the way, more than a few of us have gotten confused. We all just want to do what is best, we're just not all sure what that is. One thing many of us cling to is the notion that our children should know that we think they are special. It gives them confidence in a scary world, something some of us wish we had more of.

And, by the way, my kid is that special. That's way he calls me Mom, it's my job to think he's that special. No, that doesn't give him license to act poorly in public, but young children can't be reasoned with and I don't know of a single parent who hasn't dealt with less-than-perfect children while glaring faces look on. There is nothing we fear more than a miserly old man scowling down our back when our child is throwing a fit at a restaurant, or on an airplane, or in print on CNN.

Maybe Mr. Cafferty forgot about the time his young children flung spaghetti at Grandma's or had a meltdown at Woolworth's. Or maybe, he's stuck on his own childhood memories, "I remember as a kid I was expected to behave myself out in public or suffer the wrath of one very angry father."

Perhaps that's why he's become an abject old man with a stick up his ass. Just sayin'.

Confession Session Wednesday

Aside from the radio contest for the best “I Spied” kind of story, I’ve never considered talking about it. And, I never called the radio station either. It was just too much. But my story is a cautionary tale, and I’m ready to spill the beans.

Nathan and I had been together for about a year and had decided that though we were young, we wanted to get married. He came to bed one night as asked me questions like, “If you got a ring, what would you want it to look like?” I tried to set up a “wish list” online, you know the kind where you can design your dream ring and share the design with that certain someone? He would have none of that.

That’s when I did the unthinkable. With my knowledge that he’d most likely been looking at rings on the computer, I accessed the internet files folder. Yes, the folder that, with a little finesse, will allow a person to track the browsing history on that computer. Shame, shame.

Turns out, he had most definitely been looking at rings. One ring in particular.

And, I didn’t like it.

I mulled my dilemma for several days. I tried to do this ring thing together, but he wanted to do it on his own. How could I blame him for that? On the other hand, if I caught him early enough, wouldn’t he rather get a ring he knew I loved? I talked to a few people; I can’t recall what their advice was. In the end, I decided that we were honest with each other about everything else, this should be no different.

I waited until he came home from work one night. And then, I tried to bring it up gently. Yes, I’d been spying. Yes, I’m a horrible person. But, maybe we should look together, I’m not sure I’m in love with the ring you picked.

I, however, was much too late. He’d bought the ring that very afternoon; it was sitting in the (locked!) console of his car.

I was more ashamed than I have ever been in my life. I tried to smooth it over, but it was just too late. Not only had I just told my future fiancé that I didn’t like the ring he bought (before he even had a chance to give it to me!), I’d also just ruined the surprise. I felt horrible. And more than six years later, I still feel horrible.

He proposed a couple of weeks later, and I obviously wasn’t surprised, but I was thrilled just the same. Elated, to be sure. The best part of the proposal was when he opened the ring box, and displayed a beautiful 3-stone diamond ring. It was more brilliant than any piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, and it was just for me. I instantly fell in love with the ring. Not just because it was beautiful (much more beautiful than displayed on a computer screen), but also because it came directly from his heart. That is really all that mattered.

Today, I’m just as in love with my ring as I was that day. And, my love for my husband has only grown since the day we met. I love him for everything about him, and he loves me for me, stalker tendencies and all.

***

I invite my blogger buddies to start their own Confession Sessions. I won't give out prizes for the best one, but I will have an awful lot of fun reading them!

Mommy Wars

There is this girl. I met her on craigstlist, after hastily deciding not to send my first born to the daycare I'd been planning on for months. She and I had many similarities. We lived in the same town, we got married and had kids at close to the same age, we both had one son. But that's exactly where the similarities ended, because everything else amplified my personal, daily conflict. The one where I chose to work.

I knew, almost instantly, that she would be the perfect person to watch after my newborn three days a week. He would get personal attention there. She was skilled at looking after young children, and she seemed to genuinely care not just for, but about him. I really couldn't ask for more. And he did do very well in her care.

I still consider her to be my friend, but I doubt she realizes just how much knowing her has put my own life's trajectory in question. Of two differences I don't question. She is devoutly religious, while I am anything but. I believe in God, but I'm just not sure what kind of God, and I'm pretty sure I'll never know. That's just fine by me. She is also very conservative, and I am quite liberal. This, too, is just fine by me.

But it's the final difference that I grapple with everyday. She is a stay at home Mom (SAHM). She is there for her kids every single day. No matter what the day holds, rain, shine, happy kids, sad kids, trips to the library, or snuggles on the couch, she is just simply there. Soaking in every detail of their upbringing, not missing a second. To be clear, she is not the bane of my existence. She is more the metaphor for the struggle that so many Moms like me have. The struggle that has inspired a fervor of emotion on both sides of the debate. But, I'm here to tell you that my emotion is as much directed at those who resent my decision to work as it is at those who applaud it.

I've reminded myself a hundred times over, being a working mother is as much for my benefit as it is for my family's. I've told myself that I'm not cut out to be a SAHM. Staying at home during two different layoffs had all but driven me to the brink. I considered my career ambitions to be a strong part of my identity. And I've always firmly believed that I really can "have it all."

But I also backpedal on my convictions, almost daily. How on earth do I manage convince myself that I'm not cut out to stay at home with my kids? I maintain a warm, loving, and mostly even demeanor when my preschooler is begging me not to leave in the morning. Only to climb into my car and let the tears fall freely on the way to work. I study my infant's sleeping face when I lay him in his crib at night, knowing that he'll still be sleeping when I leave in the morning and I won't get to see him until the following evening.

It's gut wrenching, this struggle. The hard facts are that, at the moment, I couldn't afford to stay at home if I wanted to. But, I'm not so sure that I would if I could, and does that make me a ground breaking American woman, or does it make me a bad mother? I'd be proud to raise boys who understand that the woman's place is not necessarily in the home, but I have to constantly convince myself that I'm not doing long term damage in the process.

I realize now that this term 'Mommy Wars' is not so much about two groups of women tongue lashing each other for their personal decisions, most of us are far too civilized for such banter. Rather, it's about a personal war that so many mommy's have. I know I'm not alone when I say that.

Walking around any office, it's easy to see which co-workers have kids at home. They're the ones whispering into the phone to the caregiver, grasping for minute details of the day that would otherwise be lost. They're the ones spending too much time uploading and arranging pictures for their computer screensaver. They're the ones found occasionally gazing into space, yearning to be home. They're the ones with that look of guilt that just can't be cleanly wiped away. And, occasionally, they're the ones sneaking off to their car just to cry a little bit.

I don't need a working mother to tell me I'm doing the right thing, nor do I need a SAHM to tell me I should be home with my kids. Because this war? It's far more nasty when it's fought with yourself.

Seven Years Ago Today

In May 2001, my beautiful sister got married. It was on this fateful night that I would meet my future husband and father of my children. I couldn't possibly have known that, however, because the guy I met had long curly hair, a dragon shirt, a leather jacket, and flames on his shoes.

I was an 18-year-old cheerleader who was about to graduate high school and my idea of being crazy was drinking too much soda. Leather jackets? Flame shoes? Long hair? These things did not define normal in my book. Nevermind the fact that I had a boyfriend.

Several months later, I would meet this strange guy again at, of all places, my grandparents house. It was August and I was about to go dorm accessory shopping with my mother. My sister and her eccentric friend were headed to the mountains for some camping and for whatever reason we all met in the middle. That day, I left my grandparents house knowing I was in trouble. This guy was charming, he had the brightest smile I'd ever seen, he was no longer sporting flame shoes. We clicked instantly. But, I still had a boyfriend.

After the candle blew out on my previous relationship, I let my sister know that I thought her friend was cute. I was shocked when he called, and after a few dates I was completely smitten.

One night I had a dream that I was in his apartment (which I'd never seen) and there were marshmallows everywhere. On the counter, the stove, covering the couch and the floor, positively everywhere. Now, I'm not much for astrology, dream interpretation, matters of the cosmic kind. But, I decided to research the meaning of "marshmallow" in a dream dictionary. The definition I received was something to the effect of meeting an unusual friend of the opposite sex. We both had a good laugh.

Which brings me to one year ago today. Thanksgiving 2001. I spent the holiday with my family while my future husband ate burnt turkey legs alone. Although in the previous couple of weeks he'd determined I lived too far away to pursue a relationship, we decided to get together that night.

My bright idea? To come bearing gifts. Marshmallows to be exact. The problem? Most stores prefer to give their employees Thanksgiving off. So, I went to the only open store I could find, K-Mart. They did not carry marshmallows. But, they did have the next best thing. Dinner mints.

That night, after enjoying a movie, good company, and some laughs over dinner mints, we both agreed to pursue the relationship, distance be damned. The rest is history. But that's how it started. A squeaky clean teenage girl diving in head first with a not-so-eccentric boy, dinner mints in hand.

And today, I give thanks for all that followed. And all that's to come.