School's In - Time for a Trip to a Little Place Called Guilt-ville

The pile has finally been sorted. You know that pile that accumulates on your counter this time of year - a virtual forest of reminders for things that I HAVE to be aware of:

School Supplies - not wanting to seem "ghetto" I nixed my original idea to ziploc baggy up dozens of the hundreds of crayons we have and took the easy way out, bought a shiny new box along with every other requested item. I plan to unload some of those loose crayons on the school later this year under the label - generous donation.

Fundraiser notices - my daughter has been at school 42 minutes and they are already imploring me to write that "no pressure" email to friends and family to pony up some cash. At least I have a deal with my neighbor, I buy from her kids, she buys from mine - we're good.

Then there's the soccer schedules, snack schedules, volunteer sign ups, "friendly reminders" (code for - we know you didn't write this down the first time) and my personal favorite...
Notice of no school - seriously?
They just got there and already there's a day off coming down the pipe?

This school year marks my third year not working outside my house. I used to be one of those teachers sending out the reminders and the supply list and collecting all that money for the fundraiser (note to moms - it's as big a pain in the muffin top for teachers as it is for you, trust me!)

This year also marks the beginning of a new schedule for my two year old, who will now be someone else's oiled pig to wrestle with for 3 1/2 hours a day, three days a week. That first Monday after I dropped him off, I had visions of sunbathing poolside, mojito in hand, not a care in the world for just 90 minutes.
Clearly, the universe decided to send me a little reality post it as I returned home to find a disposal backed up and in serious need of attention.
Okay, fine universe, I'll show you, I'll get the disposal cleaned AND I'll raise you a few loads of laundry done! Ha! Yeah, I'm crazy wild that way.

I did manage to get to the pool for an hour his second day of school. My relaxation buzz was slightly muted by the nagging worry that I may loose track of time and be late picking him up, which resulted in me getting to school almost 15 minutes early.

By his third day, I found myself outside his classroom, having a very familiar conversation with a couple other moms. To go back to work, or to not go back to work? I know, I know, moms work 24/7, no time off - it's a full time job - I TOTALLY get that. For clarification, I'm speaking of the out of the house, wear concealer so you don't scare your co-workers kind of job.

This is where the turn on the guilt trip merry go round comes in...
I love my kids. They are smart, creative and really cute (that cuteness has saved my toddler's life quite a few times.) I love being able to be at home and see them off to school, volunteer in the classroom, go on the occasional field trip. I didn't get to do that with my daughter and I was always really envious of my girlfriends who were able to.
However, I really miss my job too. I loved teaching. I loved having a (somewhat) attentive audience of 5th graders who thought I was hilarious (or at least pretended to think I was hilarious.) I miss the camaraderie with the other teachers (yes parents, we DO talk about you in the lounge!) and I miss working in such a creative environment.
I do not miss the schedule, the stress or the less than fun paperwork associated with my job.

It's the age old question of - am I a less than perfect mom if I work somewhere where people are over 4 feet tall? Am I a less than perfect "grown up" if I spend the majority of my time with people under 4 feet tall?

Speaking as someone who has done both and now works from home (meaning I have an "out of the home" job I can actually do in the home, no 900 numbers involved, not that there's anything wrong with that) - I can honestly say to anyone wrestling with this question - stop wrestling!

It's inevitable. If you work, you feel guilty for having your kids in daycare (even though they're having a great time with their friends and will probably not be one of those kids who won't let go of your leg in public.) If you stay at home, you feel guilty for occasionally yearning to have a desk that's littered with memos and reports and not Dora stickers and sippy cups.

Here's what I think, take it or leave it. If you're happy and fulfilled, you feel better about yourself and therefore you're a better person and a better parent. If you get that feeling from balancing working out of the home and taking care of your home - great. If you get that feeling from working full time as the CEO of your household - great. If you're like me and trying to figure out how to work from home and still keep your house in order -great, send me a 12 step program on how to do that, will you?

Mommies of the world, take a breath, take a sip of your favorite adult beverage and relax. No matter what you choose to do - you'll find a way to get your kids from kindergarten to college, and no matter what, you'll be able to give them plenty of material for their shrink. ;)

The *^%$ Has Really Hit the Fan

If there's a Mom Badge for Gastoenterology, I so earned it today.
I get it. Everybody Poops. There's even a book about it
(http://www.amazon.com/Everyone-Poops-My-Body-Science/dp/0916291456)

What I never imagined was the amount of time I would spend talking about, cleaning up and generally dealing with "it."

The first time your newborn leaves you that little present, you just about bronze and shadow box it. Then, a few months later, they start eating baby food and those little newborn treasures aren't so cute anymore.

Eventually, your cute little baby turns into a toddler who, somehow, shares the bowels of a trucker but the inability to use the toilet, thus leaving nothing close to a gift for you to take care of - each time silently repeating the mantra "I will get this child potty trained, I will get this child potty trained."

Sometimes, you get an extra bonus like I did this morning.
Walk with me, won't you?

I woke up very early and immediately jumped up to let my dogs out as soon as I could possibly manage in my "no coffee yet" stupor.
Too late. Someone, either one of my geriatric dogs or my puppy, had decided that they couldn't wait to go out this morning and left me a little "present." That euphemism doesn't come close to making it less gross.
At least the slightly gnarly smell of the carpet cleaner did its best to wake me up, although I still very much prefer the wafting aroma of freshly ground coffee; or even better, the tickling bubbles of a Mimosa.

With the carpet cleaned (including the big wet spot my 14 year old lab laid down for me right when I started cleaning - I'm chalking that up to doggie senility, she doesn't usually do that and she is nearly 100 years old "technically") I headed downstairs for my morning cocktail of coffee and Excedrin Migraine. I woke up with a headache already and the HazMat clean up didn't help the situation.

At this point, I am trying as hard as I can to be a bottle's half full kind of gal (screw the glass, half a glass isn't going to help me) and I sipped my coffee, thinking of how the day can only get better from here on out. Everyone who agrees with me take one step forward - AH! Not so fast!

I look down to discover my son, who's two (see toddler entry above) grabbing a wipe from the pop up dispenser. Not too unusual, as he likes to wipe off his hands and face himself, and sometimes the couch or the table (who am I to judge, if he wants to help clean, go for it - after he's potty trained, I'm thinking of just putting Pledge dusting wipes in that dispenser and he can go to town on the woodwork.)
This time, however, does not look like the typical self sponge bath - and I say that because there is a print resembling pudding on the dispenser. It's 7:00 am. There's no pudding in the house. That jigsaw puzzle picture pretty clear now?
Yeah. We just hit Gross-Com level 4.
He's never stuck his hand in his diaper before, and I pray to the Pampers Gods he doesn't do it again. Got that cleaned up, sanitized, Purell-ed and all but hosed everything down.
(Even my seven year old, who was not involved in the clean up at all felt compelled to use the Purell, frankly I don't blame her. Gross by association!)

So, here I sit. Sipping my second cup of coffee. Thinking, again, that the day has no where to go but up from here, since it literally was in the s*^%%#* this morning.

I just keep thinking, when is that guy who hosts "Dirty Jobs" ever going to just follow a mom around for the day?
THAT would be messy on a whole new level - and mom's don't have all that protective gear to wear either. Just send us in with a ponytail and some Lysol and we're all over it.

Move Over Muffin Top!

This document will serve as the last will as testament to parts of my body that are wiggly, jiggly and quite honestly, not sore in the least bit.
In a matter of mere hours, I will begin my new weight loss/fitness adventure.
This time, the only way that has ever proven to work for me - with someone telling me what to do and yelling at me when I don't.

The last time I was in great shape was in high school. I spent two hours everyday after school with multiple coaches running me through sprints, drills and all levels of training hell. Once I graduated, those coaches with whistles disappeared and the buffet line of cereal in my college dining hall appeared. Moving into my mid-thirties, I find myself at a crossroads. This particular crossroads seemed to be paved with peanut butter candy from Easter.
A few weeks after this candy-palooza holiday, I weighed myself and found I had crept back up in the "are you overweight or 4 months pregnant" area. This is a bad, bad place to be and in my case, the final straw.
So, I will make this rather drastic move and lug my out of shape self to my neighbor, who is a Cross Fit trainer.
Yeah. Me + military style boot camp work outs = whimpering, quivering mess.

So, after today all those wiggly jiggly parts will be sore. Very sore.
Hence the double pack of ibuprofen I purchased today.

My hope is that in a few weeks, I'll be able to say - yeah, I'm sore, but I feel like I am finally getting back into shape and I've already lost a few pounds.
I have never, NEVER been one of those "I love to exercise" freaks.
I am very competitive and I love to play sports, but just running?
Not so much.
If I were in a horror movie, I would be killed off first, because I hate running so much I'd just hide in the closet, let the psycho killer find me and be done with it. No running through dark alleys for me.

So, my friends, once the muscles in my "Mom Arms" become so sore they are numb, I may be able to blog once again, virtually shouting my accomplishments from the rooftops - or at least letting everyone (by that I mean the three people that read this) that I am still alive, even if I am in a body cast.

Never Forget When It's Time to Saddle Up!

I committed one of the cardinal sins of womanhood today.
I was supposed to get my pap smeared, and I forgot. Well, it's quite possible that I blocked it out. After all, when you make an appointment, a YEAR in advance no less, and it's not exactly a home massage with Clooney - it stands to reason that it slipped my mind.
Knew it was approaching. I figured it had to be sometime this or next month. I love my doctor, but she runs a very small office and they don't do the reminder call thing. So there was no, "We can't wait for you to come in, drop trow and lay there while we have a random conversation with you about the Oscars as we excavate your va jay jay - see you tomorrow at 11:00!"
Dialing it back twelve months, I recall having a premonition that I would not remember this next appointment. Yes, I remember thinking I would forget.
It's kinda like ESP only way less helpful.
The lovely nurse handed me my appointment card, and I thought, "Yeah, I'll be able to hold onto this for a year without losing it." All I had to do was keep it safe for nine months till the new calendars came out, then I could write it in myself. Are you piecing together how well that worked out for me?
I blame my body. No, not the obvious faltering memory excuse. Not even the whole, girl parts are so much more complicated than boy parts, what a pain excuse.
Nope, I blame my thyroid.
Fueled by the constant urging of my mother, I had my thyroid checked last year. I was exhausted. I was trying to lose weight but was stuck at a plateau. Unfortunately, my plateau was not pool side with a great view of the beach. My plateau is a few mesas up, in the land of yoga pants and stretch tees.
So there I sat, ready to hear my doctor tell me that my thyroid was outta whack and prescribe the perfect solution.
Yeah, no so much.
Turns out my thyroid's fine. Good news.
Bad news is that I'm apparently slightly overweight because I'm lazy and I don't eat right. Damn. Thought surely this was my medical loophole to a whole new me!
So yeah, after all that great news, the appointment card went into the side pocket of my wallet - you know, the one that is there but you're really not sure what for? The same one you find a random receipt for a gift you bought someone three years ago. There it stayed until I switched from my summer purse to my fall/winter purse. I do recall it making the switch. I only have one wallet, so that little card had no choice.
Is it still in my wallet? Honestly, I am a bit chicken to go check. It very well may be. Or, it may have lost its way during one of my two year old's rounds of take-everything-out-of-Mommy's-wallet-then-put-it-back-wherever games. Those are fun for the whole family.
I really just feel bad for missing the appointment. Spa pedicure it's not, but I am one of those people who likes to get to the movies before the lights dim and I'm generally early for fear of keeping someone waiting. It doesn't help that this doctor is one of my mother's best friend's, so I feel doubly bad because she did me a favor by adding me to her already full patient roster.
But, as most problems turn out to be, this one is easily solved.
I just received an email, and my doctor has an opening in two weeks. My mom is going to get her a bottle of her favorite wine "from me" as a
Thanks for Dealing with my Dumb Ass Daughter Gift.
So, now I have two weeks to look forward to every woman's favorite few minutes a year. But hey, it gives me two weeks to think of another random test to ask them to run or fourteen days to fad diet my way down to a better weight - it goes on your permanent record there for Pete's sake!

Life Under the Big Top

Observing people navigating their way through relationships is a lot like going to the circus. New couples, in their blinded state of bliss gaze at the brilliantly colored tents. They breath in the sweet aromas wafting through the air (they are obviously standing near the funnel cake tent, not the elephant tent.)
Couples, married or not, that have been together awhile appreciate the grandeur, but aren't so blinded by it that they don't see the piles left behind by the parade horses, and are mindful to keep their soles clear. And then there are those who are getting out of those relationships that stepped in too many piles – those are the people in the stands with cracker jack-daniels, looking up at the high wire act, wondering how they managed to balance on such a thin rope for so long before they realized all they had to do was let themselves fall into a safety net and start over.
Are you getting the sense that I have more than a few friends who have teetered on this rope?
I've put on my ring leader's top hat and whirled around to find several friends at the circus.
Some of them had to tame lions, some of them had to ditch a clown, but all of them have a few things in common. The first of which is, with no “inner whip to crack”, they lacked the ability to say no. Important lesson to learn. Putting yourself first and saying no once in awhile will help you avoid feeling like the first one squished into the clown car. Like Nancy Reagan said, “Just Say No.” Or, if the situation calls for more of a Whitney-Diva response, “Hell to the NO!”
The second is, being the one who guesses everyone's weight at the circus is not a fun job. Granted, couples don't go around speculating weight changes much, but these women I speak of spent A LOT of their time and energy trying to read their partner's mood. Trying to guess the actual meaning behind the body language and the sarcastic comments was exhausting. I think they would agree they'd rather be shot out of the circus cannon then spend more time playing Kreskin with a moody clown.
When couples say they want open and honest communication they both have to mean it. If some clown hears honesty, but then roars defensively and spends the next three ring act telling you how negative you are – it's time to move on to another attraction.
Maybe a virtual reality booth where, instead of undressing someone with your eyes, you duct tape their mouth shut? At least long enough for you to finish a complete sentence without being interrupted or argued with.
I think the hardest lesson these women had to learn was, just like at the circus, the performing monkeys don't always want to perform. Maybe they have a monkey migraine. Maybe they ate one too many bananas the night before. Point being, monkeys have bad days too; and that's okay.
One of my dearest friends had this problem. She'd put on a whole three ring production to try and make her sad clown a happy clown. She'd all but sing, dance and make balloon animals to pull the clown out of his funk. It took her a long time to figure out that he painted that sad, pouty expression on his face, and he was the only one who could change it. (Currently, this particular clown is at clown school, learning how to paint his own smiles on, as my friend has washed her hands of his clown makeup.)
So here's the thing. Life under the big top is not always confetti and trumpets. Sometimes it's messy and confusing. Sometimes you feel like you've seen the same act a hundred times. Most of the time you're in a juggling act. But, if you find someone who makes sure you don't get squished in the clown car and helps you watch out for those piles – it makes it the greatest show on Earth. Oh, and don't forget about the funnel cakes!

Mommy's Christmas Carol

Twas the week of Christmas
The holiday was drawing near
Mom just finished cleaning
But Dad already drank the last beer

The laundry was washed, the groceries bought
The random fruitcake from a neighbor
Was beginning to rot

The children were wrestled, finally, in bed
While threats of "Santa's watching"
Still rang in their head

More wrapping! More baking!
More parties to go!
More mittens, more hats!
Who's gonna shovel that snow?

Alas, Christmas morning arrives
Brimming with holiday cheer
Thank your lucky candy canes
This only comes once a year!

Happy Holidays!

Sprinkles Anyone?

As I wade my way through what is probably the most difficult week of my life to date, I am amazed at the simplicity of what can make an otherwise tidal wave of grief ebb back a bit.
I started with a way past necessary grocery run (we're talking almost out of diapers, milk so sour it was on the verge of walking out of the fridge itself and if I didn't get lunch meat, my daughter would have been forced to take a can of garbanzo beans in her lunchbox.)
I weave my way past the pedometer wearing, fast walking moms on a mission drinking their half caff/non fat/soy/no whip fake coffee and ordered my full fat/peppermint/highly caffeinated happy thought, complete with whipped cream. Because sometimes, you just got to have whipped cream.

Later that day, I was begrudgingly mixing the sugar cookie dough for the holiday cookies I had promised my kids we make; I kept thinking of excuses I could make up to get out of decorating.
The cookies burned (no good, would stink up the house and possibly set the fire alarm off.)
The dough's no good (feasible, believable, and relatively easy to pull off.)
Spatula in hand, I debated the cookie con with myself and decided that my own funk was not my kids' funk to bear and decided that 7-9 minute baking time wouldn't infringe on my funk too much. I could be funky later.

Then something miraculous happened. Two year old perched atop a stool, frosting spread (however unevenly) on the cookies (some that looked more like internal organs that ornaments), we started shaking on the sprinkles.
Red sprinkles, green sprinkles, gingerbread man sprinkles, confetti sprinkles...
The squeals of glee from my kids combined with the unsolicited compliments on my frosting abilities multiplied by the explosion of sprinkles on my counter top and suddenly...
I was smiling.

So, even when if you're feeling so blue, you're nearly "Smurfy" - you don't necessarily need a weekend in San Diego or an all day spa appointment (although, if my husband ever reads this, those things are great too.)
All you may need is a little whipped cream, maybe a few sprinkles, and I dare you not to grin.