I’m feeling so melancholic this weekend and I don’t know why it is exactly (although I hope it means my period is coming) but I’ve been thinking about my children a lot. I mean, of course I think about them all the time but I’ve been thinking about them in a different way.

I get this way from time to time and it’s always epiphany-like, as I suddenly see them so clearly, as these pure little beings that practically emanate light. But I also see them as distinct and unique and absolutely perfect just as they are. It’s almost like I’m seeing them the way God (insert divine creator of your choice) sees them.

It’s truly a gift and for this brief period in time, I feel no frustrations, no impatience. Rather, I feel myself trying to soak up the essence of who they are RIGHT NOW and trying in vain to commit it to some kind of sense memory because I know that it’s something that can’t be recorded on videotape or captured in a still photograph.

My husband surely thinks I’m a sucker because when my son, who isn’t tired because he took a late nap, calls me into his room for the umpteenth time, I get him out of his crib and he jumps from my arms onto the big bed and gets under the covers, giggling. I join him and simply enjoy being in this moment where nothing else matters but us having a few minutes of illegal post-bedtime fun grabbing each other’s noses and playing with a flashlight.

When my daughter, who went to an evening birthday party and came home well past her bedtime gets out of bed to tell us she’s too excited about school on Monday (amongst other things) to go to sleep, I feel nothing but understanding. I’m not compelled to usher her back to her bed right away but instead I engage her for a few minutes as she tells me what’s on her mind, treasuring this moment instead of wishing for silence.

As I listen to her, I study her profile and I’m struck by how big she suddenly is and subsequently, how beautiful she is in an untamed, lust-for-life kind of way.

My heart melts in bursts of pride and pain. She’s all mine. For now. In a few years she will think I’m stupid and hopelessly uncool and that I couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of her tween/pre-teen life. Then high school, college and beyond. *shiver*

At least once a month, I playfully implore her not to get any older and she playfully agrees, though I know she loves every second of being newly seven. She’s suddenly so mature and it scares me because I don’t even know when it happened. I also remind her not to try and grow up too fast because being a grown up is a drag and again she promises me she won’t because she loves being a kid so much.

Oh, how I wish that could really be. How I wish I could keep them little forever. How I wish I could freeze moments in time and revisit them whenever I wanted. How I wish I could always see my children the way I do today.

We usually keep my daughter’s bedroom door closed and secured with one of those babyproofing thingamajigs that you have to pinch to turn the door knob because my son, cute as he may be, is a wrecking machine. And a very FAST one at that. He can destroy a clean room in about five minutes on a good day.

Unfortunately, my daughter frequently forgets to close her door and the other day my son got in there and made a pretty big mess. I was totally not in the mood to pick it all up (because I pick up their crap ALL DAY LONG) and left it, intending to deal with it the following day.

Well, that was about 4 days ago and now the room looks like it was in an earthquake. You can hardly walk around in there and it’s just painful to look at, let alone think about cleaning.

So last night I said to my daughter, who seems relatively unmoved by the disaster her room has become, “Do you like your room like this?”

And she replies, with no snark whatsoever, “Yes, I love tripping over all this stuff”

“Excellent use of sarcasm!!!” I exclaim, beaming!

I’m so proud of her *dabs at misty eyes*

But I still have to address that room tomorrow.

Oy.

BONUS: For anyone who attended BlogHer that didn’t stay at the W Lakeshore (or did and harbors any ill will toward the W) you may be interested in what you missed out on (or doing a little venting of your own in the comments).

My house today ~ 1pm to 1:20pm…

Me to demanding two year old:  You’ll have to wait a minute. I’m going to the bathroom

Me to demanding two year old 5 seconds later:  P, please…I’ll be done in a minute and then I’ll get it for you.

Me to  demanding two year old 5 seconds after that: I’M POOPING!!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

Older Child: Mommeeeeee! Help me! I went poop and it’s all smearish. I need a baby wipe!

••••••••

Me to  two year old: NO! No, no no! Do NOT put the Little People in the potty! There was poop in there a second ago!!!

I’m trying. I’m really, really trying to get motivated to write some sort of recap about BlogHer 07 but so far, no luck. It’s just not coming to me. At least not in the colorful and engaging way that I’d hoped it would.

And my son has strep, I just found out this morning. He’s been fussy and frankly, a giant pain in the ass since I returned home on Sunday and I thought it was maybe two year molars but when he stopped wanting to eat anything, I knew it had to be something else. Apparently one of his tonsils looked “funny” to the pediatrician so he cultured it and sure enough, it was strep. Always listen to your motherly intuition.

And my daughter, bless her heart, doesn’t stop talking to me from the moment she wakes up in the morning until we close the door after tucking her in at night. For real.

So, between my fussy, miserable son and my ultra-chatty daughter, I’ve been completely mentally wiped out by the time they go to bed and haven’t done any work or written any posts or folded any laundry or done anything except poke around some blogs and look at people’s Flickrs and nap.

I vaguely recall feeling like this after last BlogHer. Kind of deflated…like the biggest event of the year in my apparently somewhat lacking life was over and it’s back to reality. Bleh.

I’m just trying to get back in the groove of regular life while going around mumbling little prayers here and there to please, please, please let me not be pregnant (yes, we were sort of uncareful again; merely going by the calendar which we all know is what? About 12% effective?) I’ve just been sooo unbelievably tired that I have to consider the possibility, no matter how terrifying it is. I know, I know, children are a blessing…but I’m just not ready for that particular blessing right now.

I finally uploaded my photos to Flickr but I have to weed through them and get the duds out before I make them public. Nonetheless, there are some fabulous pictures of some mighty fine ladies in there and a couple pix that I totally stole from other people’s Flickrs without permission and as soon as I can remember who I stole them from, I will ask if I can have them. I’m very courteous like that…stealing and then asking.

One last thing… Myself and about 30 other women have expressed interest in having a mid-year get together, unofficially named January MommyCon. (Apparently, it’s necessary to point out that the name Mommycon is a tongue-in-cheek kinda thing) It’s like a conference without the conference, if you will. And you don’t have to be a mom to participate, although it looks like we moms will be representin’ heavily.

Anyone who is interested and isn’t a serial killer (or any other kind of killer) is welcome to join the Yahoo Group that I set up to start planning it. It will be in a warm locale, most likely in the south central or southeastern US and will be happening in mid-January if we can get our sh!t together in time.

If you’re interested, you can join the January MommyCon group here :)

EDITED TO ADD: Over 130 BlogHer photos now up in my Flickr!!!!

Note to Self #1:

The next time you think of trying on your pre-preggers jeans to see if you’ve made any progress (because while you have not lost ONE SINGLE POUND, they ARE getting looser) you might want to check the calendar and make sure it’s not the day before your period.

It will save you vast amounts of frustration and perhaps a little brain damage via headbanging, as well, and NOT the recreational “I heart Metallica” kind either, but more of the “WHY THE EVER LOVING HELL CAN I NOT LOSE ONE MOTHERFARKING POUND? while your forehead bleeds profusely” kind.

You’ll get a pass this time because the ruiner-of-all-underwear and bringer-of-many zits DID come a few days early but please, pay attention next month.

And lucky you, this year you won’t have your period at BlogHer and have to hit up the maids for some super plus tampons from their private stash because you didn’t want to leave a quarter mile trail of blood to and from those crazy ass vending machines where you could buy cell phones and ENTIRE BAGS of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies.

Now thank the baby Jesus one more time for nice maids with heavy periods.

Note to Self #2:

The next time you’re goofing off on your computer when you should be doing something educational or horizon-broadening with your toddler, look at him very closely when he climbs up on your desk for the seventh time in 15 minutes.

Had you done that today, you might have noticed that he had removed his diaper (because you were too lazy to put shorts on him after changing him) and you might have been better prepared for him to pee ALL OVER YOUR DESK, mouse, mouspad, camera USB cable and God knows what else.

And right after you finished cleaning the first massive pee tsunami, it was really awesome the way you caught shower number two with a Guinness glass full of ice. Pee. On the rocks!

But the point is that even though you caught it the second time, you should have been diapering him instead of skimming yet another forwarded email extolling the virtues of George Bush from you know who. She knows you’re not a fan but she still sends them which is really just obnoxious and maybe even a little passive-aggressive?

Next time just hit delete because it’s only going to be more of the same anyway and put a damn diaper on your son instead.

Note to Self #3:

The next time you think it might be fun and kind of a special treat to take the kids out solo to eat dinner (because you’re still mad at your huz from this morning) and decide Pizza Hut will be a good kid-friendly choice, stop thinking that thought immediately because it will NOT be a good choice.

Sure, it was nearly empty in Pizza Hut but they have one of those stupid ass crane machines where it costs $100 in quarters to win one crappy stuffed animal that was probably made in some Chinese sweat shop by a four year old and is probably filled with lead shavings and little balls of mercury instead of little white balls of polystyrene and of course, it’s like a ginormous and totally irresistible magnet to both of your kids.

So while you stand around watching them molest this machine in every conceivable way and listen to a medley of eighties gems by New Order, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and OMD while waiting for your food, you spy a girl playing air guitar to a song that clearly and rather curiously has no guitars in it and it occurs to you that for one brief moment this feels like a G-rated David Lynch film and you halfway believe that at any moment a midget in a pink tutu sporting a ZZ-Top-like beard will come rollerskating out with your food.

Then you snap out of it because your son, age 25 months and way cuter than a speckled pup, decides he’d rather go behind the counter of Pizza Hut and then kicks it up one more notch and runs into the little alcove where the drive through window is. And then he’s laying on the floor laughing at you. And then he decides to run from you into the bathroom except he can’t open the door.

On and on the circus continues and suddenly, being at home with your husband doesn’t seem so bad and you might even accept his previously offered apology after all. You tell the nice lady your order is now “TO GO!!!” and she nods in total appreciation of this capitol idea!

The point? Eating out with the kids during the witching hour (5-8pm), even at Pizza Hut, is a bad, bad idea.

NEVER, EVER have that idea again.

••••••••

Once again, there’s booty to be scored over at Props and Pans. We’re giving away one of those ultra-cool SATees for a baby, toddler or child — YOUR CHOICE!

All you have to do is leave a comment telling us which one you want if you’re the winner. It’s a total no-brainer and even if you don’t have kids, they make a great gift!

It seems that once or twice a year, my daughter is seized by an obsession with something that she just HAS to have. The year before last it was an American Girl doll. You know, the one’s that cost eighty-seven dollars?

Yes, they’re really wholesome and not even remotely skeevy like, you know..those other skank ass dolls that we all (well, almost all) love to hate. However, at $87 a pop they’re out of reach for a lot of kids and thus, dare I say, a bit elitist? But apparently stinking elitists we are, because we DO have one, now don’t we?

Yes, Grandma was more than willing to plunk down nearly a hundred bucks for a doll. I have my theories as to why, but we shan’t delve into extended family politics right now. The point is…TQ got the ridiculously overpriced doll she so desperately wanted.

Between then and now, many more mini-obsessions have developed and most likely been quelled either by time or occasionally by acquisition of the object of said obsession.

But now, it seems the mother of ALL obsessions has descended upon our house like a pox. A plush, secret code-bearing pox. Yes. I’m talking about Webkinz.

It seems that every girl in her group at camp has a Webkinz plush toy and thus, the secret code that allows you the privilege of accessing the Webkinz web site to care for a virtual version of your particular toy. I think that’s how it works but I wouldn’t really know for sure because you have to have the stupid, frackin’ secret code to get in there and check it out.

Luckily (NOT), her friend (the same one who sparked the American Girl doll fixation) has numerous Webkinz and let TQ use her password to access the site from camp. But when her friend isn’t there or when TQ is at home, she can’t play on the Webkinz site . Of course, TQ’s her goal all along has been for her to have her OWN Webkinz plush toy, which would solve ALL her problems and maybe even world hunger, too, to hear her tell it.

Thus far (two weeks) I haven’t given in because part of me wants her to not follow the crowd, to be her own person, to not always crave what all the spoiled rich girls have. But the other part of me remembers how important it is to fit in with your peers when you’re little.

In fact, my BFF, who I’ve known since second grade (and who STILL doesn’t have a blog!) were talking about all the must-have things we remembered from elementary school and so I’m not completely unsympathetic to TQ’s plight, if I can call it that, but I just hate giving in to every trend that comes along, every craze that sweeps the nation.

Today it’s a $20 plush toy but down the road it will be triple digit jeans and useless, micro-teeny designer handbags or whatever.

Where we’re at right now…

TQ refused to take the swim test at camp because it’s a competition pool with no shallow end. Never mind that she KNOWS how to swim and had three months of DAILY swim lessons a few years ago, paid for by my dearly departed dad. She just doesn’t like that she can’t touch the bottom and thus, she has to wear a life vest.

You have no idea how much this irritates me. I know I should just let her be but this is Florida. You HAVE to know how to swim and swim well and it drives me nuts that her little phobia, which is characteristically irrational, has her swimming with a life jacket. Grrrrr… If my father were actually in a grave, he’s be turning in it; spinning and whirring and spinning and whirring!

So…I told her that if she would swim in the deep end at the pool this weekend and then take another swim test on Monday, I would buy her a Webkinz. If she doesn’t, she’ll have to save for one with her own money. I hate to even allow this silly gotta-have-a-special-code nonsense into our lives but this opportunity for bribery was too perfect to pass up. How do you think I potty trained her? That’s right. I bribed her with milkshakes and french fries.

Anyway, we’re supposed to be at the pool right now but she back-talked to me this afternoon in a major way so I called it off and it’s been a big, dramatic sobfest ever since and I’m actually blogging to keep myself from going in to her room and yelling at her. In case you didn’t know, my tolerance for drama and sobbing is about as high as my tolerance for incessant whining…which is to say practically NON-EXISTENT.

I’l let you know how it goes. IF it goes.

Oh, and the next obsession on the horizon?

God help us… It’s Crocs.

I don’t really care for them but one time I made the mistake of mentioning that the Mary Jane-style crocs were somewhat less ugly than the clog ones, and maybe even kind of cute for little girls, and she’s been on about them ever since.

So like a dumbass, I let her try them on at the mall but she’s between sizes so the guy said to come back in a few months to see if she’s at the next size and now she’s bugging me to go back and try them on. But I can assure you I’m not paying $33 for plastic shoes.

NOT. DOING. IT.

Well, for now anyway…

Because who knows when I may need to resort to bribery again???

••••••••

I wanted to give a little link love to four mighty nice ladies that both bestowed up me the Rockin’ Girl Blogger designation. Thanks, ya’ll :)

On many occasions both before my son was born and when he was a baby, I mused aloud about how twisted it is that we give children, frequently boys, toy guns and other toys weapons to PLAY with.

And of course, other mothers have consistently assured me that even when you shield your little boys from violence and guns etc. they will still find a way to turn normally benign items into weapons.

It’s just in their nature, they would say.

I would politely nod my head but on the inside, I was rolling my eyes at the stereotype.

Well, today I’m here to say that my son P, who just had his second birthday on Sunday, may be living up to said stereotype.

See, when on numerous occasions he has taken long stick-like objects like a toy broom or a roll of wrapping paper and gone around the house whacking everything in sight, I pshawed and continued to scoff at those moms.

When he took the padded Wacky Stick and bonked the cat, I scolded him appropriately and took it away, chalking it up to his age.

But when he playfully pointed a can of hair mousse at me this morning like it was some kind of ray gun and went “Psssssssssshhhhh! Psssssssshhhhhh!” I had to humbly concede.

Does he actually intend us harm? Of course not. Is he a mean child? Not at all. To the contrary, he’s actually a very sweet and affectionate little guy (who happens to like bonking and whacking stuff and firing mousse can ray guns.)

I can only conclude that he’s acting on his baser instincts, which apparently haven’t been tamed by evolution.

So, to all the moms I eyerolled, I apologize. You were right.

Here are some photos of my little caveman from his birthday party on Saturday. They just grow up so damn fast *sigh*

Blowing out his candles!


Tasting the cake!

Want some?


Feeding Daddy!

I know I’m not a perfect mom. Far from it, in fact.

I yell at my kids sometimes; sometimes more than sometimes. I let them eat cereal and yogurt for dinner the other night. I let them watch plenty o’ TV. I look forward to bedtime with a fervor that is shameful and some days, despite my desire to be fully engaged, I feel like I’m just phoning it in. As I said, I’m far from perfect.

But sometimes… I stand back and I look at what I’ve done for the past seven (almost) years and I’m fucking amazed. I amaze myself. I have birthed two children, raised one for nearly seven years and another for nearly two and I haven’t lost them, killed them or (to my knowledge) psychologically scarred them thus far.

They make it to all their scheduled pediatric check-ups, my daughter has been to the dentist for checkups and cleanings (with no cavities!) and they always have clean clothes and mostly healthy food to eat, all thanks to me.

They both get plenty of rest and I try my damnedest to give them plenty of experiences and fun things to do, even if it’s just in our own backyard, and I try to create as many good memories for them as I can without driving myself nuts.

I’ve tried to instill in them good citizenship and to be better than I am (i.e. don’t swear like a sailor or curse at people in traffic) and I try to minimize other negative influences as much as I realistically can.

I know that none of these are earth shattering things. People do this stuff every day and sometimes with way more kids than I have. I guess I’m just in awe of it all because when I was younger I never pictured myself raising kids OR doing all these domestic things that I admittedly don’t like that much.

I never thought I was the kind of person who would want to care for little beings that don’t have tails or that I would be any good at it. But I do and I am. And I have to admit that I’m really proud of myself.

But let me clarify…I’m not proud because my kids are such stellar human beings. I mean they are but they’re little. There’s still a lot of time for me to mess them up.

I’m proud because even though I don’t always love this job, I still get up and do it every day and I still look at each new day as another chance to get it right and leave everything that didn’t go right the day before in the past, which I think is critical to my sanity.

And my kids are happy. Even though I get impatient sometimes with my daughter’s penchant for drama or with my son for dumping the cat food into the cat water again, they KNOW I love them.

They KNOW I care about them and want the absolute best for them in life. They KNOW that I accept them as they are. They KNOW I’m CRAZY about them.

In conclusion…even though I’m not perfect, I’m a damn sight better at this than I ever thought I would be. So I walk a line between motherly self-recrimination for all the things I do wrong and self-congratulation for even being able to do it at all, let alone really well. And I think that’s okay to say out loud. Or on a blog.

I want to hear you brag. Tell me what makes you proud of yourself as a parent; tell me what you’re doing right, or what you’ve accomplished that you never thought you could do.

Go on. Toot your own horns either here or on your own blog (and let me know about it). You surely deserve it and if YOU don’t do it, who will?

Imperfectly Perfect Moms Linking to this Post:

Tracy of Random Thoughts of the Neverending Mind

Chris of Serendipity Mine

˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚

And FWIW…because everyone in the flippin’ universe is complaining about truncated RSS feeds (aka “summary” feeds), I’m going to take a chance that my content won’t be ripped off again and stop truncating my feeds and see how it goes. If you’re strictly a feed reader, this should please you. Here’s to hoping you’ll still visit and show me some love every now and then :)