The Santa Clause

The holiday season. All joy and madness. Presents and prayers for peace. The house is warm and noisy. Sweetness hangs in the air with the scent of freshly baked cookies and scentsy. Laughter and giggles and guessing what Santa will bring keeps tiny minds busy. Anticipation and excitement. Christmas eve is here. The culmination of month long festivities that will all come together in the form of neatly wrapped packages adorned with matching ribbons and bows.

In the midst of these festivities I can not ignore that feeling. That can't quite put your finger on it but something is missing... feeling. Is it the absence of family celebrating with angels? The unsettled world in general? My longing for the presence of a God I can feel? I don't know. Enjoying delicious home cooked food and wonderful company I watched the clock tick torn between relaxing with family and a full belly or getting in the car and driving to the Christmas Eve service at the church I had attended the week before. Was that even the answer? I had not found God there while attending the previous service. I wouldn't know if I didn't go.

At the last minute. I decided that church was where I needed to be. After all we are celebrating the birth of Jesus. Aidan asked if he could come. The two of use left the happy chaos of a full house and got into my quiet car. We arrived at church... early which is somewhat a Christmas miracle. Families began to pour in and fill the pews. O' Come All Ye Faithful played on the organ until all were seated. The lights were turned down and candles were lit all around. The soft glow of just candle light as the choir joined in the hymn brought me to tears. A first for me. To be so moved. At church,

The readings of the Christmas story paired with hymns sung at a perfect pitch enraptured even my easily distracted Aiden. The pastor began his sermon "The Christmas Message" and I felt as if he was were speaking only to me. "Do you find yourself looking for signs from God? That he exists? Do you ask him for something concrete in times of trouble and uncertainty?" He went on to explain that the signs that God is present are everywhere and in everything. In the face our children, the smile from a stranger in the street, in every act of kindness. But the biggest sign of all was that he gave to us his son. He finished up with the thought that maybe God is also looking for a signs from us. That we see his miracles. Feel his love. All we need to do to show Him is be good to one another. Live with virtue. Honesty. Kindness. Not just during the holiday season but to keep that message and sentiment with you all year long.

The service ended with "Silent Night". As the words left my lips I felt that void no longer. What ever I had been missing was filled. I am not even sure what with. We snuck out a minute before the service was over cause my husband had been texting me for the last 30 minutes asking how much longer we would be. His exact words. These two are done. They need to go to bed. I can't take another meltdown.

We arrived home. Tracked Santa on NORAD. According to them he was only 45 minutes away. The kids flew up their beds. Got settled  and forced their eyes closed. I went downstairs to make breakfast and get it in the crock pot for the morning. Put the presents under the tree. Peel the oranges that Aiden insist we leave for the reindeer. Dump the (sour) milk that we left out for Santa. Pick up the cookies. Leaving just one with a bite taken out of it. Write a personalized note from Santa for the kids. And finally sit down to watch just a little bit of a Christmas movie. Exhausted as I was I just couldn't unwind.

I sat there staring at our tree. All the pretty packages. The lights. The mostly broken ornaments. And thought about the kids how excited they would be in the morning. And how tired I would be. I thought about church and how beautiful it was. I thought about Santa wondered why Aiden was pretending to believe. Was it because he wanted to still be among the believers or because he didn't want to disappoint me. The kids had already stumbled upon their present while wrestling when one got thrown into the closet door... breaking the hinge and exposing  the stash. I thought about all the upset and angry parents posting about how some shitful kid had disillusioned theirs and told them the truth about Santa. All reiterating that same sentiment... if you don't believe you don't receive! Why? Why is everyone so hell bent on squeezing every single drop out of the mystical Santa magic? Or that god awful elf on the shelf. Why did they all seem to think that learning the truth meant the end of Christmas. I haven't believed in Santa for almost as long as I can remember and I still enjoy Christmas. After all it isn't about Santa. Or even the presents. What does it say when we go to further lengths to push the realness of a fat man in a red suit than to explain the real reason for the season.

At some point I drifted off to sleep only to be woken what felt like moments later. "MOM CAN WE GO DOWN STAIRS?! MOM CAN WE OPEN OUR PRESENTS?! That was the voice of Aiden. The only one wake! Seark was so tired he had to be carried to the presents. All my hard work torn to shreds in 10 minutes! Wrapping paper covered the living room floors as smiles spread across their faces. More excited about each gift. Rylan more excited about the paper and boxes than anything else. All the presents were opened and the kids were happily playing with their new treasures. Me  and my husband sat down at the dining room table for some coffee and our traditional crock pot Christmas breakfast. We watched the kids with such joy and I thought well maybe it is a little bit about the presents. Aiden walked over and whispered in my ear "thank you for my presents mom. You got me more than I asked for." I said I am glad that you like them but they were from Santa... he said "it's okay I know that Santa is you... and I think that's even better than a fat guy in a red suit". He ran back into the living room to continue playing but not before he stopped. Turned around. And said "don't worry I won't tell Seark."

Are you there... God?

I am not a big church goer. Translation... I don't really go to church... like ever. At all. I am not even a two timer. You know the devout Christians that feel compelled to go to the Easter and Christmas Eve services. Not me. I mean I have been to  church. Growing up we went every Sunday. I made my communion and confirmation and all. Then my church going just kind of tapered off until it came to an end. I got married in a church. My children all baptized. And beyond that... masses for funerals and other weddings is really the only time I attend. And reluctantly at that.

I want to be one of those holy rollers that feels some sort of divine connection when I attend a service. That I don't makes me feel guilty. In the last few years church has only made me feel... sleepy. I know terrible. But true. So rather than go and fight the urge to snooze I stay home. Sleep in. And preach to my husband about how we need to start going to church... next week. I want the kids to have some exposure to religion even if it is minimal. I want them to grow with some sort of faith even if they find it lacking as they get older.

In this season of peace of joy I always feel quite the opposite. Anxiety and unrest. The holidays are stressful and busy. The shopping and wrapping. Cooking and cleaning. There is never enough money or time to get everything done. By the time Christmas gets here I am spent... mentally, physically, and financially.

My Facebook news feed is filled with pictures of crying babies on Santa's lap and the latest antics of that creepy little Elf that does everything but sit on a shelf. And although I'd normally scroll right past the 900th over posed holiday photo they are a much welcomed break from this world blinded by hate and overwhelmed with sadness. Which leaves me questioning almost daily... Are you there.... God?

A believer that you don't need to go to church to find God I can not discount seemingly divine interventions that are pointing me to a place of worship. So when I randomly ran into a member of my former congregation who excitedly told me about the new church she was attending I took it as a sign. And maybe... just maybe I would get an answer to my question.

All week I was excited to attend this new church. Maybe it was her enthusiasm or just my longing to feel some peace... whatever the case I was patiently waiting for Sunday. Until Sunday came and it was dark. And dreary. And cold. I lay in my soft. Warm. Comfortable bed debating whether or not God could wait another week. And yes God could wait another week for me but could I wait another week for Him?

I laid in bed for another 45 minutes. Because procrastinating is what I do best and who doesn't love rushing around like a nut? Then I got up. Got dressed. Tamed my roosteresque hair. Threw a cute outfit on Ry and ran out the door while my husband cooked breakfast with the boys. We arrived at church with out a minute to spare. I pulled up parked the car and ran around the back to get the stroller out. I hit the trunk button and as the back flew open I reach in to grab the... when I heard a snap! and the back door came crashing down as I narrowly escaped being beheaded! I stood there for a second staring at the car wondering if I could have actually been decapitated and if I should just get back in the car and go home. I mean really God what kind of shit is this?! I could have still been in bed!

Okay no stroller since the trunk is out to kill me. I grab Ry and make the long walk to the front of the church... up too many stairs, and finally arrive at the door. Of course the service has already started. Sometimes I think I must subconsciously like to make a grand entrance as I am always the LAST one in. The very last. Extremely discombobulated person in the door. An attractive middle aged woman hands me a program and points me in the direction of an empty seat. Ry is wide eyed looking on in awe. There is a choir singing and beautiful bells being rung. Color is flooding in each painted window. Its breath taking and beautiful and instantly I feel... this is where I belong. What I have been longing for. The first song wraps up. The pastor begins to speak and the look of awe slowly leaves Ry's sweet face. With in a matter of minutes he is getting fidgety. Ornery. Whiney. LOUD.

Oh Jesus... don't let mine be the only crying baby. I put Ry down and he wobbles over to the little girl sitting at the other end of the pew. He reaches over and takes her toy with an incredibly smug look on his face and as she stretches her hand out to get it back he runs away! I take the toy from my fleeing little fugitive and he lets out a cry. No a shrill. A freakin ear piercing awful noise. He abruptly stops and quiets down. The pencil and envelope holder caught his eye. He looked right at me as if to say... I dare you to stop me I will scream like a banshee again. His tiny hands grasp for the pencils just out his reach. The other takes hold of a handful of envelopes. He inspects them momentarily and then tosses them like confetti. As I bend over to pick it all up he makes a mad dash for the alter. I stuff the envelopes back in their place and rush down the aisle to grab this 32 inch terror.

A song starts to play and Ry stands... still. Then he sways and claps with a smile from ear to ear. I think okay, I got this. That hymn gave me just enough time to regroup and get him settled. I would liken this few minutes to the calm before the storm. The organ struck its last chord and no sooner was my child once again wreaking havoc. I spent the next 45 minutes shushing, chasing, picking up, apologizing, attempting to distract... to no avail. Maybe God was there and I just couldn't focus long enough to find him. I put Ry's coat on and got my stuff together. As I was about to walk out the same woman that had handed me the program came over and said "you know that door right there is the children's room, right? Don't leave." She opened the door to a sound proof room. A speaker streaming the words of the pastor and toys all around. If I were not such a germaphobe this would have been the perfect solution. I took one look at the buckets of toys and thought what a great germ infested idea this is. My fear of the flu trumped my longing for peace. We left.

I stopped at Starbucks to ensure the morning was not a total waste. I enjoyed my peppermint latte as Ry drifted off to sleep in the back seat. I sat there in the quiet of my car. Peacefully sleeping babe in tow. Christmas Canon in D came on the radio and I found myself in silent prayer. A sense of calm came over me. Which totally confirmed what I had been longing to feel... God is everywhere. Even in the parking lot of Starbucks on route 17. And although I can find Him outside of church I may just go back next week... to get some exercise... as I chase Ry while he disrupts the service.

Sweet Baby Jesus... The first Christmas casualty

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. For a number of reasons. Ummmm I love presents... just kidding. But seriously who doesn't? And giving someone that one thing you know they will love... priceless. Especially if it is your kid. Having children seems to drastically change your gift giving practices... or at least ours. Before kids you buy for everyone. EVERYONE. You get married and then you have twice as many people to buy for so you cut back on gift exchanging with friends. Then you have a baby and you cut back on everything. The holidays become strictly for the kids. Yours and others under a certain age with in the family. Before kids my husband and I would exchange extravagant gifts. After we started buying one big household item that we both wanted like a new TV or something super cool like a stainless steel fridge with an ice maker. Three kids later we... say Merry Christmas and watch the kids tear into their gifts from "Santa". The mythological fat guy that gets all the credit for your hard work and hard earned money.

I used to love decorating for Christmas. I would transform our house into a winter wonderland. Everything from shower curtains and bathmats, comforters and curtains, to villages with hundreds of pieces, lights that would blink and sing, even fake snow. I had stocking hung in every room and Christmas music obnoxiously blaring through out the house from the day after Halloween until weeks after New Year's. I loved all the vibrant colors and... glitter! Everything had to be doused with glitter.

After I had kids Christmas decorating was much more of a task. Even finding the time to do it felt like a chore. But once it wasdone I would fall in love with all of it all over again. And then I had a miscarriage on Christmas morning two years ago... And I wanted nothing more than for Christmas to just GO AWAY. After the longest day ever I put the kids to bed. Poured myself a glass of vodka and started to dismantle the décor. I went to the closet and started to pull out all of the Styrofoam lined boxes that I would normally place each ornament so carefully in....  when I felt this overwhelming tightness in my chest. I was about to have a panic attack... I opened the front door and as the icy air rushed in the only thought that I had was to not pack this crap up. I wanted Christmas to be over. Now. I didn't want to take hours undecorating the tree. I wanted it gone. Out of my sight. So I slipped the door stopper over and pushed the tree right out of the house. It went crashing down our front steps. The sound of shattering glass filled the air. Tiny shards flew in every direction. Covering our front yard in sharp slivers of broken memories. Aidan's Christmas ornament... shattered. The years of ornaments we had exchanged for our anniversaries in smithereens.  And oddly enough it made me feel better.

I took one look around the living room and got out the biggest box I could find. House after house I threw them in the box haphazardly listening to each one break. I had never in my life understood how someone could get angry or upset enough to break their own stuff. It's illogical. But that night it made perfect sense.  All in all it took about 30 minutes to take down what took me days to put up. I shoved all of the boxes carelessly in the closet. Mopped floor, changed the curtains and bed sets. I dusted and put all of the non holiday stuff back in its place... and exhausted went to bed. The next morning I woke up and let the dog out. As I walked down the steps with Chachi I felt the glass crunch underneath my slippers and immediately regretted my impulsive Christmas slaughter.

I regretted it that much more the next year when I took out box after box of broken glass. We barely had anything to hang on the tree. We didn't even have a tree. The one I kicked down the flight of front steps last year and tossed in the trash... was a fake tree... that cost hundreds of dollars. (sigh)
But there is always an upside. I have already given birth to Rylan who is only two months old at this point. I am exhausted and still a little bitter about Christmas and with not many salvageable decorations left there really wasn't much to do. Which was a bit of a relief. I sifted through and hot glued back together what I could. I even put some of the broken ornaments back on the new fake tree. Not quite the winter wonderland it had been in years prior but definitely a step up from the previous year.

So the holidays came and went and before I knew it they were back. This year I decorated while the kids were asleep. I watched Elf and drank hot chocolate and apparently got so caught up in what I was doing I forgot I have a very curious, very active toddler. I was quickly reminded first thing in the morning when his tiny hands began to grab for any shiny, glass, or glittery object within reach. Grab and run. That seemed to be the name of the game we were playing. And then it happened. Rylan grabbed the baby Jesus. Stole him right out the manger (where he isn't supposed to be placed until Christmas) .  Grab and run was getting old... the game changer? Grab and toss! And there he went.... sweet baby Jesus. Flying high. Crashing hard. In less than hour we had our first Christmas casualty. Since then the ornaments have moved further up the tree and most of the villages have been packed back up... it's a shameful half assed job... Oh well there is always next year.

friendless and fine

There are a few things that I know with a fair amount of certainty... I am good at. Big things. I am good at being a mom. My kids watch TV, eat inorganic foods, occasionally drink soda, and have a favorite curse word or two... yet I don't question my parenting. I am a good mom.

Little things... I can draw really well. If you ask my son I am the best at making bubble letters and cartoon super heroes. I am good at face paint. If you want to be red skull next Halloween I am you girl. Not to mention I don't suck at writing. Although I know how to I refuse to use proper grammar especially for my blog posts because I just feel like text book punctuation does not suit me. But grammar aside I can tell a good story and funny... I have got funny nailed. When I am in the mood I can be a riot.

So there they are... my strong points. So what am I not good at? Money. That's a big one. I live in a state of perpetual broke-ness. Not because my husband doesn't make good money. He actually does really well. I just have a habit of spending it. I am a shameless label whore that can not comprehend the meaning of a budget. Well that is not true... I know what a budget is just not how it should apply to me. The number attached to our bank account rarely influences my decision to purchase something and that seems to be a problem.

My other down fall (and the one that is bothering me most lately)... friendships. I have a really hard time maintaining them. Which some what defies logic. I have all the qualities of a good friend. I am honest. Which when I am friends with someone it is the one thing that they adore, even admire about me... until I am honest with them. I am not that girl that can pretend that something is okay with me when it is not. And as it turns out honesty is not the best quality. In fact most people like being liked lied to... especially when the question is something like "Are you mad at me?" or "did I do something wrong?" First of all I firmly believe that if you are even asking those questions than you already know that the answer is yes... to both. But no one wants to hear that. Those kinds of questions are asked with the hope that you will suck it up and lie for the sake of skipping a really uncomfortable conversation. Two unfortunate things for my friends I will be honest with you... no matter what... and two I don't mind awkward conversations. I actually prefer them over fake friendships.

I am loyal. Loyal to a fault. I will stand by even if you are wrong or what you are doing doesn't make any sense to me. If you believe in it and need someone there for you... well than you can count on me. I will even make excuses for you so that I can remain loyal... until you do something so entirely shitful that I can't overlook it, ignore it, or explain it away. And in that case I am the very opposite of loyal.

I am kind and generous. I will go the extra mile for a stranger so you can just imagine what I would do for a friend... the problem with that? Not even that I expect the same in return but I do expect people at the very least to be decent and thoughtful which is apparently an impossibly high standard. I am constantly disappointed by the actions of others.

But I think my inability to maintain meaningful friendships stems from two things my very low tolerance for bullshit and my zero tolerance for lies... even little white ones. And so I have a very small ever dwindling circle of friends which recently got much smaller. Admittedly there are times that  it makes me sad. I don't fit in and for the most part I don't want to but I do wish in part that I could let things go for my own sake. Maybe life would be easier if I didn't get so invested. But for me there is no in between... I am either 100% in or completely out. In the end I would rather be real all alone than choking on the fakeness in a group of girls that just don't get me.

The magic continues... sorta

So day one of vacation was a wash... more like a bitter cold shower. Nonetheless it is over and today is the first official day of vacation. There is no more traveling... well almost none. The kids are exhausted from the trip the day before and slept in which was a nice treat. We sat down to a nice breakfast and when I ask the kids what they want to do first I get an answer I didn't quite expect. "We want to go to the Lego store!"

What the what?! The Lego store? We have one of those in New Jersey! However if that is what they want to do then that is what we will do. To get to the Lego store we have to take a ferry to Downtown Disney. The weather is beautiful. A sunny 70 degrees. The boat ride is short and pleasant. We arrive in Downtown Disney and stop at the "Sweet Shop". The kids enjoy some chocolate Mickey ears as we walk a good mile or so to the Lego store when the bright sky turns grey. And before we can find shelter it starts to rain. No I take that back... it starts to pour! I run with two kids in the double stroller as Aidan trails behind with his dad. We make it to the Lego store... wet... with children looking like pigs that just enjoyed a mud bath. Yes wet children covered in melted chocolate squealing with excitement resemble pigs that just enjoyed a good roll in the mud. They may be shamefully messy but they are happy... so who cares? A handful of people that gave me sideways glances that's who.

The boys get their Lego's and finally we are going to The Magic Kingdom. But not before we take yet another magical bus. And then a magical monorail. All of that was exhausting... so exhausting Seark has fallen asleep. It is at this time I will note that we specifically took this trip to Disney World because Seark has been begging to come here. Every. Single. Time. A commercial for Disney World has come on TV (which is a lot when all you watch is the Disney Channel) Seark would get wide eyed and say "You gonna take me there right mama? Please take Searkie to the Mickey castle!" I mean really who could resist that?

So finally here we are at Mickey's castle and my Searkie is conked out. Can not be woken. I tried. So I figure we will walk around for a little while and surely Seark will wake up. Maybe this will even work out well. Aidan will have time to go on the rides that he wants to and do something's that Seark is not big enough for yet while Seark takes this little cat nap. That little cat nap lasted about 5 hours. We spent the entire day at The Magic Kingdom while Seark slept soundly in the stroller.  As we left the park for our dinner reservations I had to wake Seark so that we could fold the stroller before we got on the bus.

"Come on Searkie you have to get up. Mommy will hold you."

Seark stretches and yawns and barely opens his eyes. I lift him out of the stroller and he finally wakes up.

"Are you hungry buddy we are going to get dinner now."

"And then we are going to Disney World?!"

"Yes baby and then we are going to Disney World."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that we had been there all day while he slept. Thankfully we had tickets to the Mickey's Christmas Party that night and we were actually going back to the park after dinner.

Dinner... dinner at Disney is kind of like eating Burger King every night but in a fancy place with a very slow waiter. The food is crappy but your seated at a lovely table with a waiter that's name tag might as well read "my name is: I HATE MY JOB"  that moves as if there are no screaming children with you. We all take turns staying in the lobby with Rylan who turns into a tiny beast when he sees a high chair. After 2 stressful hours with my 13 month old exorcist dinner is done and we leave for Mickey's Christmas Party. We get to the park just as the light show on the castle is beginning. Seark is lost in this spectacle of lights... but not for long. Aidan has seen this all before and apparently a time too many and is already complaining that he doesn't want to watch the light show or the fireworks or the Christmas Parade. He just wants to go on the rides. I hold Seark who is unaffected by his brothers foul mood on my hip while my arms begin to burn and my back aches. Seark is a lot heavier than I thought and holding for 20 minutes is starting to feel impossible. I hand him off to his dad as I glance over at misery sitting on the curb. Rylan is also getting restless at this point so I decide to take him out of the stroller. As I do this the stroller flips over as the back is being weighted down by all the crap we have with us... baby bag, legos, extra clothes and jackets.... the list goes on!

After the Christmas festivities are over we take Aidan over to the rides he has been sulking about for the last half hour. As we walk we come upon Minnie Mouse. Seark entire face lit up! There it was... his magic moment.. the reason you endure this kind of torture... the priceless look on the face of your three year old that absolutely makes your heart melt. We get on the surprisingly not so long to get Seark's picture taken with Minnie Mouse. In about 20 minutes time we are at the front of the line. Seark is next to meet the mouse and he is just bursting with excitement. He takes one step toward her when a Disney employee cuts him off.

"Sorry guys it is time for Minnie to go back her cookies. She will be back for more pictures shortly."
Are you fucking kidding me... I did not say it out loud although I certainly contemplated dropping the f bomb in a line full of toddlers... but I did ask...

How long does it take for Minnie to bake her cookies?
Not too long. But remember she needs enough for everyone in the park tonight and there are thousands of people here.
Ball park it.
Not long at all.

Awesome. So we wait some more while Minnie goes to "bake her cookies". Seark is looking confused but not terribly disappointed. After about 10 minutes Minnie returns and we are first in line to see her. It was one of my favorite vacation moments. Seeing Seark approach Minnie was like spying on a teenager on a very awkward first date. He hesitantly went to hug her or feel her up I am not sure... then he decided to just go for it and kissed her. He stood there holding Minnie Mouse as if they were the only two in the park... and it was just about the cutest thing I had ever witnessed. Of course I got plenty of pictures to black mail him with when he is older and not so into Minnie Mouse anymore.

All in all it was a great day and there are still 4 more to come.

MAGICAL EXPRESS

Finally the day had arrived, The one we had been talking about and anticipating since the day we booked this trip 6 months ago. Of course after not catching a single cold in almost 2 years I would wake up with a sore throat and stuffy nose. Sick or not today is the day we start our vacation. A week long visit in the sunshine state... more specifically the most magical place... the happiest place on earth... Walt Disney World.

Of course we live in New Jersey so this first day of vacation will not really be vacation like at all. More like hell. Today will be the day of travel. The day I take three small children on a plane... accompanied by plenty of zanax. I am already resigned to the fact that this day will be a waste. I am ready for it. Ready for a torturous hour or two at the air port while the word Ebola repeats over and over in my head like a broken record and I wrestle kids to keep them from sticking their fingers in their mouths and licking the chairs in the waiting area. I know that sounds ridiculous but its true... between the ages if 1 and 3 they tend to do weird, irrational, disgusting things that make you wonder where they came from.

As a bonus the plane is delayed and the terminal where we are "in holding" feels like it is a thousand degrees. I came to the airport looking casual comfortable. After three hours with my kids and my inherited anxiety combined with the extreme temperatures I board the plane stripped down to the bare minimum. Make up melting and running down my face. On the upside the zanax have kicked in and I don't really care. The kids may have even eaten a cookie or two off the floor while I was not looking and that is okay too. We are finally boarding and that is all that matters. There is an end in sight.

I booked a later flight and purposely did not let Rylan nap in the hopes he would be exhausted and just sleep the entire three hour flight in the dark quiet plane. The plane takes off and Ry drifts off to sleep just I had planned. I settle in and close my eyes as I too am exhausted. My eyes get heavy and I am just about to doze off as Rylan startles. And that's that. The next 2 hours and 45 minutes will be spent with an over tired. Seriously crabby. Disgruntled lap passenger.

Alas we land. Later than we were supposed to but the worst is over. Or is it? The time is 9 pm. All of the restaurants at the hotel close at 11pm. No one has eaten dinner. But we have plenty of time right? Two hours. We have 2 hours to get to the hotel that is about 25 minutes from where we are. We retrieve our luggage quickly and race to the "Magical Express". If you are not familiar the Magical Express is the bus provided by Disney that take you to and from the hotel and airport. We race... only to wait. And wait some more. 20 minutes. We wait for the Magical Express for 20 minutes. Finally it is here and we board. And we wait. Wait for all of the luggage to be carefully placed on the bus. While we wait we get an over rehearsed tutorial about how to safely get out of the bus should it crash from our senior driver Merl. The time is now 9:30 pm. Merl concludes by saying sit back and relax... enjoy the 75 minute ride.

What?! What the fuck is Merl talking about?! 75 minutes??? He must joking! He must! There is no way that this ride can be that long... how could it be that long?! He's totally joking... unless of course he is not.

How could a 25 minute ride possibly take 75 minutes? It can when we are the last stop on this 3 hour tour

"Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a fateful trip
That started from this tropic port
Aboard this tiny ship.

The mate was a mighty sailing man,
The skipper brave and sure.
Five passengers set sail that day
For a three hour tour, a three hour tour. "

Yes that song played in my head several times as we stopped at every resort on the way to ours. Arriving at our resort at exactly 11:15 pm. 15 minutes after the last restaurant closed. 15 minutes!!! 15 minutes too late with three tired. hungry. irritated children. Not to worry the clerk checking us in assures us that the local dominos is as magical as the shitty extended bus ride we were just subject to. In any case it is the only thing available so I order as we make our way to our room.

A two bedroom villa in Saratoga Springs... sounds wonderful. And it is. Except that the walk from the check in to said villa is about a mile long. And once in the room I see the pack n play that will be Rylan's bed for the next week looks as if the previous tiny tot that had a restful night's sleep in it... also took a hearty shit... all over it! Brown stains and smears everywhere!

Thankfully although no acceptable food available at this hour... housekeeping is and the pack n play can be replaced... with a less dirty only slightly ripped one. So far not the magic I was expecting but tomorrow is another day and it will be full of magic... if it kills me!

Happy Freakin' Halloween!... a little late

Halloween... why do I hate it sooo much? I have since I am a kid. I don't like anything remotely scary, creepy, or gory so clearly that doesn't help. And I am slightly bothered by the fact that my neighbors that seem perfectly normal all of a sudden drag out crates and containers of fake severed heads, bloody hands, and poorly rhyming card board head stones. Like really you deemed those things worthy of your time to carefully pack and store for a whole year! And then there are the ones that I feel cross the decorating line and veer0 over to secret fetish ... you know the ones I am talking about. The house that has the real coffin in front and the the absurdly real looking bloody mannequin dressed like a dead hooker inside. The one that makes you go hmmmmm Halloween scary or scary that you think it is okay to own that? Either way I don't think I want to live in such close proximity to you anymore!

Then there are all of the poorly run town festivities. Spooky woods. Haunted high school. Trunk or treat. The frigging ragamuffin parade followed by pick your own pumpkin... otherwise known as watch greedy parents trample small children for free pumpkins. I. Can't. Deal. And yet I am forced to attend at least one of these shit shows where I will inevitably run into some "townie" that I'd rather not while one of my kids has a melt down because the lines are too long or its too cold. Dark. Scary. Whatever the case I will be in the middle of pealing a child off the floor as I run into someone I graduated middle school with and honestly bobbing for apples in a germ infested bucket seems like a better option than the monotonous conversation I am about to partake in about the weather. Their kids. And what so and so is up to.

Then there is the torture of going to "Halloween Adventure" or something of the likes to pick out an over priced costume that no one will want to wear when the day finally arrives. Why would they not want to wear their $60 costume? Why? Because they have been wearing it since the day we bought it and losing a piece of it everyday until it is down to just a black leotard and you might as well through skates over their shoulder and say they are part of the men's figure skating performance team. I know your thinking why not just wait to buy the costume then? Because the closer it gets to Halloween the more chaotic those stores get. Looking like they were ransacked by ghouls or cross dressers. Rainbow wigs and Freddy hands strewn about the store and not one decent costume left in any reasonable size. Been there. Done that. I'll make them wear the black leotard of Halloween shame I purchased for too much money before I go to that store anywhere close to October 31st.

Then comes the actual day. Halloween. Now they need some elaborate face paint because they don't really have a costume anymore unless they are cat burglars or male figure skaters... face paint that they will smudge and cry about 5 minutes after you are done perfecting. The tears streaming down their chubby little cheeks furthering the damage to the already fucked up make up... I find myself dragging out three miserable little people begging to go beg strangers for candy. Every year I try to bribe them with movies and popcorn and baking cookies or better yet a trip to Toys R Us... none of which are sufficient offers. We must go trick or treating.... MUST! Because... EVERYONE ELSE IS GOING. So starting on the 29th of every October for the last 5 years I begin to pray to the rain gods to just wash out the whole thing and pray the people of my town are smart enough to not reschedule the festivities! Which has actually happened. But no such luck... may prayers were heard but the rain was sent too late. Around 7 pm to be exact... when we were already headed home with a bag full of candy that I will make them part with for fear that my neighbor with the very realistic dead hooker in the coffin maybe handing out questionable goods. Alas we are home. Safe and sound with another 364 days until I have to endure this misery again.

Happy Freakin' Halloween!

Superheroes arent stupid

Mom... When you were little what did you want to be when you grew up?

A teacher.

Why aren't you one then?

Hmmmm... I don't know. Good question. I went to college and got my degree so that I could teach. But then I got pregnant with you and decided I wanted to be a mom more than a teacher. Besides I get to teach you guys new things all the time so I guess in some ways I am. What do you want to be when you grow up?

A super hero.

Like Spiderman? Or Batman?

No. I don't want to be somebody else. I want to be me. But a super hero. What do you think? You think I could really be a super hero?

Yes. Of course I do.

Like a real super hero?

I think you can be anything you want to be.

A few days later Aidan comes home from school and says my friend told his dad that we are going to be super heroes when we grow up and his dad told him "that's stupid". Aidan looked genuinely crushed.

Stupid? You know what is stupid? Discouraging anyone from becoming a super hero! Aidan looked confused. Why is that stupid mom?

Why?! What do you mean why?! What kind of world would this be if there were no super heroes?! Hold on lets look up what a super hero is...
noun.                   

1. a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.

2. a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal:

 

So... your friends dad thinks that it is STUPID to be a man of courage?!  STUPID to be admired for brave deeds and noble qualities?! STUPID to want to be a man who has heroic qualities and performs heroic acts??? I don't see anything stupid about any of that.

 

So maybe you won't sling webs or crawl the walls. You won't wear a cape and tights... which is a good thing anyway because you don't like to wear underwear and a grown man in spandex with no underwear is never a good thing. But you don't have to do any of those things to be a super hero. Super heroes are firefighters who run into burning buildings to save strangers. Super heroes are cops that fight crime. Our service men and women... they are superheroes.  Superheroes are guys like your dad that sacrifice everyday to make sure their family is taken care of. You walk past everyday superheroes all the time and you don't even know it because they don't have a giant S on their chest. Sometimes its the guy that holds the door open for you in the rain, or the...

 

Or the mom that comes to your rescue when you have a bad dream....

 

Yes. Or the mom that will come to your rescue... whether its a bad dream or a bad day... I will always come to your rescue....

 

So don't let anyone tell you that being a superhero is stupid... It's stupid that not everyone wants to be one. I would hate it if it wasn't what you wanted to be. The world will never have enough superheroes... I hope as you get older you remember that. I hope when you are thirty you still just want to be a superhero. A superhero that holds down a paying job with benefits... but a superhero no less.

I am a liar...

Tonight I took Aidan to Barnes and Noble to buy a Halloween book for his book report that is due in 2 days. Yes 2 days and we just bought the book tonight. Then came home and didn't even read it. But before I get to that... while we were at the book store I came across these adorable Anne Geddes baby's first year books. I never filled one out for Seark let alone Rylan. The books were in the bargain bin. They were so cute and at $7.00 who could pass them up. Clearly not me.

Of course after we get home the first thing I need to do is start filling out these books. Seark is 3 1/2 it really could wait another day. But no. Now I have these books and there they are sitting there staring at me. Making me feel like a bad mom for not having filled one out yet. So I put the kids to bed and begin to fill out the book for Seark first.

The first few pages are easy. Moms name. Dads name. Who did you tell first that you were expecting me? Where was I born? On what day? Time? Weight? Easy Peasy. The first time you saw me smile? hmmmm I remember it. Clear as day. It was early in the morning. Seark was laying in bed with me. I was talking to him and tickled just under his chubby little chin and there it was like a ray sunshine his first purposeful beautiful gummy little smile. But how old was he? a few weeks? A month? Gosh I can not remember. So I break out the photos that I just recently got printed and there it is... Seark's first smile. Well his second one.... but the picture was taken only seconds after his first smile so.... close enough. But of course there is no date on the picture and I no longer have the phone or memory card that I took it with but he looks I'd say a month old. So I go back to the book. Fairly confident that Seark was a month old and go to write that... 1 month. But no... the book is asking for a date. I know for sure it was a Saturday morning because Jason was home. Or maybe a Sunday. Definitely a weekend day. Around the one month mark. Break out the calendar... yup must have been June.... Oh my god... am I really making shit up for the sake of filling out this book? Yes. Yes I am. Because who writes guesstimates in there baby's first year book. The only year that you are required to keep a record of dates.... and I didn't do it.

But who cares. I mean in the end the book is really for me. I doubt Seark is ever going to ask for it and be disappointed that it is not entirely accurate. Right? Right. Or wrong. And if wrong will he feel slighted by the lack of information. Oh screw it... June 5, 2011. Moving on.... first laugh? first time I rolled over? First tooth? First time I had food? Shit. Well they must be asking them in somewhat chronological order that these things typically happen... so lets go from there. I turn the page... first bath? What?! He definitely had a bath before his first laugh. And for sure long before he could roll over! What kind of book is this?! Not even a ball park time line?! I skip to the last page. Now that I am one (or 3 1/2) what were the most memorable things about this year... well not the dates. And damn it I feel bad about that. Not tonight but inevitably I will fill out this book even if I have to make it up. And that's what it comes down to... I am a liar.

But why... does the fact that I can not remember the dates make me a bad mom? No. Or at least I hope not. No. No. It doesn't. I sit staring at the blank pages for a few more minutes and decide to put Seark's book on hold for now... maybe some of it will come to me at a later date... unlikely but hey... here's to hoping.

I open Ry's book and get through the first few pages as easily I did Seark's. Then there it is... first smile? First smile. When did Rylan first smile? Oh my god I have to remember this one... it was not even that long ago! I go to my phone. Scroll through 2,793 pictures and aaaaaah there it is. Rylan's first smile. Time stamped October 27, 2013. Well at least I don't have to lie about that one but it's not looking promising for the rest of this book. And so again I might have to be liar...

But a liar is not who am I ... is it? It would be easier and less stressful to just write down the details that I remember about those events instead of the dates. And what is with all the dates anyway?! Who cares the date as long as I do remember that it happened. Whoever made this damn adorable Anne Geddes book... that's who. Well thank god these books were only $7.00 because the anxiety they are causing me may land them in the trash. I will just have to make my own book of baby's first... one that only asks... to the best of your memory!

Why fight it?

You know that feeling.... you are so tired... so so tired... all you can muster up is the ability to stumbling around crying. Falling into the furniture. Wiping snot and tears on the couch cushions with out a care. Grasping for anything with in your reach so you can just scream and throw it on the floor! To then just sit there. Staring in despair at the crap all around you wondering how u find the energy and coordination to step over it. Defeated knowing you just can't, you drag your exhausted body over blocks and cheerios...

You don't know what that feels like? Come to my house around 10 am. That is the time that the daily drama parade begins. When I turn into a complete mess and... oh wait not me... Rylan! Clearly the child is exhausted. Close to passing out. So tired he is delirious. Laughing through tears. I scoop him up as he arches his back and kicks his legs. Arms flailing. He looks at me as if he has been possessed. Mouth wide open ready to chomp down on any exposed flesh. So frustrated with no real way to communicate biting the hand that rocks the cradle seems like a reasonable manner to express yourself. I cautiously rock him while waiting for his head to spin and fire to spontaneously shoot from his bloodshot eyes.

Once he is calm-er and no longer trying to claw my face we settle into his favorite rocking chair. I silently pray that he doesn't tear my nipple off and nurse him as he drifts off to sleep. Aaaaah and there he goes. His rigid limbs go limp. His beautiful blue eyes roll as he tries to keep them open. I rub his soft baby hair and wonder if it is normal that I can still feel his soft spot pulse. How old was Seark when I could no longer feel it?  I will have to google it when I put him down. Or maybe just text his pediatrician. Lost in soft spot uncertainty I don't even notice my precious babe has already nodded off.

The room is 69 degrees. Dark. There is soft classical music playing. I lay him down so gently  on soft sweet smelling muslin Aden & Anais sheets. Cover him in an even softer equally sweet smelling organic bamboo dream blanket that has been freshly sprayed with mommy's bliss lavender mist. The definition of my sleep deprived Heaven.

He looks so content and angelic. I stare for a minute envious of his sleeping situation. Before I even turn to walk away his eye lids fly open. As if he just stuck his finger in a socket he springs up. Shocked. Screaming. Grabbing the bars of the crib and violently shaking them like an angry inmate. I turn and dash towards to the nearest exit. Never making eye contact... knowing if I do I will lose the nap time negotiation.

Rylan always falls back asleep within minutes. Well almost always. For the life of me I will never understand the protest to rest. If at any point someone offers to rock me while stroking my hair in an effort to fall asleep... I will happily take them up on it. I would even pay them to then wrap me in a bamboo blanket. Kill the lights and shut the door. And just leave me alone. I actually spend a good portion of my day fantasizing about that scenario. Often nodding off at the mere possibility.

Ulta-mate fix

If there is one thing that I love aside from my children it would have to be make up... oh yeah and my husband. But I am not writing about him. I love make up. Like crack heads love crack... I love make up. If I were to appear on the show my strange addiction for anything it would be my obsession with eye shadow. So where do make up junkies go to get their fix? The crack house of color other wise known as Ulta.

For weeks I have been meaning to make a trip out to Ulta and have just not had the chance. Finally the day has arrived that I must go. I am out of eye liner... I know... Out?! How could that be?! Thank God my husband is home and I can go alone... although in an emergency such as this I would have dragged all three boys to this high end crack house with me. My boys love Ulta. There are cool little testers to smell just about everywhere you look. They love to spray those tiny pieces of paper until they are dripping with fragrance. And I do actually mean saturated. So they might as well just skip the paper cut out and spray it directly into their eyes. Because that is where it winds up. Aidan has allergies and is always rubbing his eyes. Even after he has doused his hands with perfume. The base of which is alcohol.

If they aren't into the fragrance testers they are painting each other's faces and knocking over carefully placed displays. The girls at Ulta really love children or I am guessing that if any of their pretty painted faces ever has one that they will love it... my kids... not so much. But today I get to go alone. No monster make up faces or freakin fragrance spray fights. Alone. Just me. A quick stop at Starbucks. And Ulta.

I came here for eyeliner. Just eyeliner. One brown eyeliner by Smashbox. And there it is conveniently next to the prettiest shades of lip liner. But I am only here for eyeliner. Just eyeliner. But I am running low on lip liner... so. Okay eyeliner and just one lip liner. I draw little red, pink, and pale lines all over my hand. Debating which color I love. Ruby it is. Which is so odd cause I never wear red but this is the perfect shade. I am not passing it up. There is a little voice in my head saying go pay for this stuff. Just get on line and go pay. Get out of here with these two things. I can't. Because on the way to the register I have to pass the glorious isle of eye shadow. I have all three Urban Decay Naked palettes. I have Benefits Two Faced. More than half a dozen from Clinique. Some Lancome. A little Bobby Brown. I do not actually need eye shadow but Stila has new fall colors in the display case illuminated by florescent light and like a mosquito about to get zapped I am strangely drawn to this  magnetic yet deadly light. I gravitate towards the case prepared to kill the max on my credit card. The colors are quite exquisite and nothing like any of the Naked's. I have to have them. Even at $50 I can not talk myself out of it.

My phone rings.
Hello?
Mommy?
Yes buddy. What's up?
Mommy can you get me modeling clay?
Oh I don't know. It's late. You need to get to bed and I am not at the toy store.
Please.
You just got a toy yesterday. We don't have the money to buy you new things every other day!

Standing there with $40 worth of eye and lip liner in hand and a $50 eye shadow palette I felt like quite the hypocrite. For a brief moment I contemplated putting something back. But what could I part with. I came here for the eye liner so I can not leave with out that. This shade of red is just to die for. Ugh that only leaves Stila. I lean over to place it back on the shelf when my phone rings again. And suddenly I snap out of my mommy guilt.  Why am I putting anything back?! I am at Ulta... alone... for the first time in I can't remember how long! My kids are well fed. Well dressed. Spoiled with toys. Why shouldn't I be a little spoiled too? God I am selfish.

Funny how that works right. Moms do everything and I mean everything for everyone else. I spend my days from the minute I open my eyes not just doing for everyone else but putting them first in everything I do. And never once do I question that. They deserve the best and that is what I want to give them. 100% of my time. 100% of my attention. After giving 100% to everyone else I don't have much left for me. Not even time to sleep. So why do I question whether or not I deserve this or anything for that matter?

And so I left Ulta that night with $200 worth of new make up. Quite the fix. I came home and the kids were already in bed. I washed my face and like a kid with new crayons spent the rest of the night coloring my lips, eyes, cheeks. Almost an hour later I felt like a junkie coming down from my high. Buyers remorse was about to set in. But not tonight... I took one more look in the mirror and decided that it was worth every penny. Good thing I don't get out often alone or we would be living in a card board box with my perfectly painted face.

schizophrenic lesbian

At this point in my life I feel quite schizophrenic at best. I look in the mirror and see this 30 ish year old girl who could still pass for 20 something. Granted later 20 something but still... It's funny when I was young (very young) and wanted to be older I was annoyed by all the "god you look so much younger" comments. At 18 getting carded for cigarettes was seen as a major inconvenience. Now it's disappointing if I walk into a liquor store for wine and they don't want to see my I.D. Well by now me and the guy at the Wine Factory are practically on a first name basis so I guess it would be weird if he kept asking. Anyway although I could pass for younger the fact is I am not. And my 30's seem to be this weird contemplative age for me. I mean not too long ago I was in my 20's. Somehow in your 20's you don't think about becoming 30 or much of anything. In my 20's I still felt very much like I had my whole life ahead of me and 30 which was 10 years in the distance seemed like light years away. Until it was here.

So far my 30's have been good to me. I am fortunate and beyond blessed in too many ways to count. I live in a home I love. With a man that still has my heart. And 3 little people that we have made. The things I dreamed of and planned for are all here. Although I could not be happier that scares me a little. Or a lot. Because what's next? I remember the holidays as a kid. Spending them at my grandparents house with all my cousins. My cousins have all grown up... and apart. Most of them I don't know and for the most part choose not too. My grandparents except for my grandmother on my mother's side have all passed away. Each year there is another face absent for Christmas dinner. The older generation is now my parents who no longer seem old. At all. The circle of life gets clearer and ever more present as the years slip by. And here in my 30's I feel myself longing for the ignorance of my 20's and dreading the arrival of my 40's. Age is indeed just a number. It is the awareness of the ticking clock that changes. As we sit around the table at my house for holiday dinners I realize that we are next in line for being the oldest generation and holy shit is that a scary thought?!

So looking in the mirror at this 30 something year old face with my blondish bob that screams "mom in her 30's" I suddenly had the urge to cut it all off. Cutting my hair was not going to turn back the hands of time or make me younger but that boring blah blonde hair that suddenly made me feel like Kate Gosselin was making me anxious. I mean is this is it?! Am I resigned to dressing. Looking. Acting my age. What the shit does that mean anyway?! As we age are we just to maintain the status quo because we have surpassed the time to live out side the box. Is this blonde bob the last haircut stop on the way to having a standing appointment at the beauty parlor once a week so I can get my thinning hair set in rollers by someone who dreads my appointment because I am an old bitter particular pain in the ass that talks about the weather and my grandkids?! Fuck I need this hair off my head... yesterday! So I call my sister in law in the midst of my quarter life crisis because she is the answer to all hair prayers. I assume she can sense the urgency in my cracking voice as she tells me to come over in 15 minutes. I left her house 3 hours later with an espresso colored faux hawk. And never felt better.

I looked in the mirror when I got home and there it was... the change I needed. A new person looking back at me. Feeling refreshed and slightly less panicked about the future I decided to go out enjoy the rest of this beautiful day. I could not have anticipated the amount of attention this new look would get. To everyone else I looked not just like a new person but.... a gay one. If you did not know cutting your hair short... boy short... is synonymous with being a lesbian. Which quite honestly I don't mind. I like lesbians but it makes for awkward conversation when person after person is calling you one in front of your kids who have no idea what a lesbian is. And over all just an odd thing to tell someone.

The next day I go to pick Aidan up from school and while I got a lot of compliments on the new do I knew there would be at least one of the you look like a lesbian commentators lurking around. And I was right. One of the grandmother's that regularly drops off and pick ups her grandkids. The type that is nosey and gossipy and knows everything about everyone in town... comes up to me and says "Why would you do that to your hair?! You look like a lesbian!!". Funny coming from a 70 year old woman with hair as short as mine which I guess is acceptable for only her. Apparently once you pass ab certain age short hair loses its lesbian-ness and is just understood as the hair cut that says... I'm fuckin old. I can't deal with that shit anymore".  Knowing this I should have just smiled and walked away. Taken the high road. But no. No high road. Not even the road less traveled. I took the low road and told her she looked like a lesbian too. Her 70 something year old grandma friend broke out into riotous laughter like a hyena. The one I called a lesbian... not so much. She was strangely offended by hearing back the same exact thing that she just said to me.

Oh jeez this new hair cut was making me look like a lesbian and act like a teenager. Which is some strange way felt good. I decided to tone down the attitude and update my wardrobe before I became public enemy number one amongst the senior clique in the school yard.

30+ is definitely a strange age... for me anyway. One second I find myself contemplating another baby and the next wondering if I could ever go through with a tummy tuck and some major boob work since we are done having kids. I get dressed and think am I too old for this kinda shirt? Take it off and realize those are the only kind of things I own. I go shopping for a more sophisticated wardrobe and after putting on 10 floral print 3 quarter sleeve flowing tops  think I am not quite that old yet and go back to the stuff I already have. On a rare occasion I long for my 20's. On those nights I will call a friend to go out for a drink. Once at the bar I realize how incredibly annoying 20 year olds are and want to go home. One day I am sporting the typical mom blonde bob and the next posing as a lesbian with an espresso faux hawk. 30... the age of schizophrenia.

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled life...

September. It used to be my favorite time of year. The end of summer. Cooler weather. Jeans. Boots. Maybe mother nature hasn't gotten the memo this year but the last official day of summer has come and gone... cut the shit with the hot weather already! I want to wear my uggs and sip pumpkin spice lattes in a cooler climate. This 85 degree nonsense is totally killing my fall buzz. But that is not the only thing that now sucks about September. Can you guess what the other fall buzz kill is? Yup... the beginning of yet another torturous school year!

The equally dreaded and highly anticipated welcome back to school letter arrives. Literally the weekend before the first day of school. Why? Why does the school withhold this coveted letter until the 11th hour? My best guess is so that parents don't have time to call and ask to have their child moved to another class room once they finally find out who is going to have the privilege of educating their little pumpkin this year. That letter feels to me more like a PSA "We now interrupt your regularly scheduled life to bring you 185 days packed with notes from the teacher, homework, more homework, requests for money for the nine thousand fundraisers that start on day one, and last but not least, all the bullshit and aggravation you can possibly stomach. Not to mention early mornings. Erratic nap schedules. The nightly bedtime, brush your teeth, wash your face struggle! Oh dear God how is it September already?!

Well when I started writing this it was September... now October. And after three full weeks of school I can say it... School. Still. Sucks! And the later it gets into the fall despite this humid disgusting could be summer weather... it is most definitely fall. How do I know? There is no sun when I have to get out of bed. Which just feels wrong. Rylan who was getting up at 5:30 am has now started sleeping later because even he is out to make my morning just a little harder. There is nothing worse than waking up to a dark quiet house only to turn on the godforsaken lights and even worse... wake a sleeping baby! Normally I would kill someone if they heaven forbid WOKE. THE. BABY! And now I must. I know you are probably thinking so wait 15 minutes . Have a cup of coffee. Enjoy the dark quiet for a brief peaceful much appreciated rare moment. No. Not possible. For a few reasons. I have already hit the snooze button 39 times and we are now late-r than we would be anyway. At the moment there is a coffee ban in my house since I read an article about the disgustingness that may be lurking inside my Kuerig. So now we have no sun. No coffee. And a baby that I have woken up. The definition of hell.

And then it gets worse. I have to wake Aidan up. Pillow throwing. Whining. Moaning. GET MY CLOTHES! GET AWAY FROM ME! I HATE SCHOOL AND I HATE YOU FOR WAKING ME AND TAKING ME... Aidan. He's pure joy at 7 am. After singing  "Get up get out of bed. Don't be a sleepy ahead. Open up your eyes" Obnoxiously 900 times to him (which he just loves) we head downstairs. The dogs race to the door usually knocking Rylan over. Aidan and Seark fight over who wins the race to the couch as I yell "NO ONE WON! WE DON'T RACE DOWN THE STAIRS UNLESS THERE IS A FIRE OR BURGLER!" Which they ignore and argue about who's ass hit the cushion first until I just about shove toast down there little throats to make them stop.

We usually wind up rushing out of the house like we are fleeing the scene of a crime. Not everyone is fully dressed. I am yelling HURRY... HURRY.... LET'S GO... HURRY! We make the mad dash around the block only to sit in dead stopped traffic. A long line of disastrous last minute moms shoving their kids out of the car as they pass the school. Blowing kisses to their bed head hot mess disheveled little loves as they yell "Have a good day honey". Let's face it... no one is having a good day if that is the start they are off to.

Yet I shove Aidan out of the car. Flatten his uncombed hair with spit on my hand and yell "have a good day honey"   as he mopes away. Every morning he waves when he gets to his door and I half expect him to give me the finger. And I wouldn't even blame him if he did.

I head back home with Seark and Rylan to clean the morning shit storm of crumbs and spilled juice. It isn't even 9 am and I am already defeated and exhausted. After a small quiet lull in the morning and a cup of dunkin donuts the day starts to look up. We go to a park or the zoo and enjoy the afternoon until school gets out.

Two things that I hate about this. One is that if Aidan were with us we could spend the entire day out. Not rush anywhere. Go down the shore or anywhere we want and just enjoy. Now we can only do very local things. I hate the limitations and time constraints that having to be back by 3 pm causes. And two I have to lie to Aidan and make sure that Seark does too. If Aidan thought that we were having even an ounce of fun with out him there would be literal hell to pay. So everyday when Aidan asks what we did I tell him. Nothing. We just waited for you. And I don't feel so bad about that because he lies to me to. Every. Single. Day. Since kindergarten I ask him how his day was and he says fine. Then I ask him what he did that day in school. Everyday I get the same answer.... nothing. Surely he did something. He just spent the last 7 hours at school. Maybe nothing that he loved but he did do something. But you will never get more out of him than "nothing"... well maybe the occasional eye roll.

From 3-6 is the absolute worst part of the day. Worse than the morning?! What in God's name could be worse than the morning?! Homework. Homework is far worse than any other thing associated with school. I think homework is really a test of the parents. I think it is teachers way of saying... I did this shit all day now its your turn to see what its like. Don't get me wrong I don't mind helping. Sitting with Aidan while he weeps and sobs over writing words three times each. I hear his plight. His hand hurts. His brain hurts. Just barely though as you can just about hear yourself think at this point because "Here comes the mail! It never fails! It make me want to wag my tail and wail... MAILS HERE!" I swear I hear that song in my head everyday as the mail truck parks smack in front of my house sending my senior dog into a frenzy. The little dog just follows suit. He has no idea the reason for the riot act but if Chachi who never moves unless he thinks cheese is involved is so worked up there must be a reason. Barking reaches ear piercing heights which in turn causes the already ornery Crylan to go into full blown melt down mode. Seark at some point will join in just to show solidarity in this insanely miserable situation. At this point I should just cry too. But I don't. I focus on the Blues Clues song circling my brain because... well because I have been up since before the crack of dawn with little to no sleep. All three kids are crying. The dogs are barking. The little one probably peeing on my floor because his bladder fails him when excitement hits. I have no happy thoughts of my own because my mind is in sensory overload. So I look at the clock and know if I can just keep my shit together for 3 more hours... just 3 more... hours. Oh. my. God. "Herecomesthemailitneverfailsitmakesmewannawagmytailandwail....MAILS HERE!" You just can't be upset while silently singing that song. And by the point the mail is here. Which I don't even bother to go and check because it's most likely just more bills. But the dogs have settled down. Or passed out. Either way they are quiet. In turn Seark and Rylan quiet down too. Aidan not so much because he still has more homework to do.

I bring Rylan in the kitchen with me. Put him with great protest in his exersaucer. And by great protest I mean I try to unbend his crunched frog legs while he claws at my face. I start dinner while tossing him cheerios one at a time and putting Neosporin on my fresh scratches. I yell into Aidan who is a pile of sarcasm and snot by now ... "just leave it I'll finish it for you." Don't judge. So what I finish the homework to save my sanity. It is what it is. The only things that bothers me is Aidan has the audacity to complain that I am not writing neat enough. Then I remind him I am writing as if I am him and he says "oh yeah. good job."

Finally 6 pm! Homework is done. Dinner is done. I only have to wrestle these filthy little I don't wanna wash my hair today monkeys into the tub. Get them to brush their teeth and then hand them off to my husband who puts them to bed. And just in the nick of time because I am ready to drop. But I don't. I clear the table and clean the dishes. Get snacks and lunch packed for tomorrow because I refuse to add even one more thing to the morning to do list. I pick up all the toys and scour the floor for Lego's so I don't have to scream "FUCK MY FOOT" in front of my little darlings in the morning. If I am lucky I have just enough time to sneak a shower before the littlest babe gets up to eat... again. And by then I get my second wind and no matter what I do I just can't settle down. So I stay up way too late just because it is quiet and dark and I am alone. Whoever said "silence is golden" definitely had children. Besides when else would I get to watch poignant adult TV like Real Housewives of New Jersey and Dance Moms.  But before I know it the morning will be here and it will feel like groundhog's day all over again! Damn it.... BEEEEEEEEEEP (my alarm goes off) WE NOW INTERRUPT YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULE LIFE TO BRING YOU 185 DAYS OF THIS SHIT...

Why Hayden's Heart...

Two years ago or I guess more already I came across a Facebook page called Prayer Page for Baby Hayden. It showed up in my news feed often because friends of mine had already liked the page. I skimmed past it probably a dozen times or more before ever actually clicking on it to see what exactly it was about. I rarely ever "liked" pages but this one was different. The profile picture was the sweetest orange haired baby I had ever seen. Knowing it was a prayer page I was hesitant to find out more because I knew the story behind that beautiful babe was probably a heart breaking one. But he was oh so beautiful and even in a picture his eyes were magnetic. His smile... pure joy. And so I had to know why was this precious little one in need of prayers.

This was June 2012. I clicked the link. Read the most current post and then read backwards to the very beginning.  The journey of Hayden Jeter Dorsett and his family. Born with Hypoblastic Left Heart Syndrome. A rare congenital heart defect where the left ventricle of the heart is  severely underdeveloped. This sweet baby living with only half a heart.

"Prayer Page for Baby Hayden" was started before Hayden was here. Diagnosed with this rare condition while still safe in his mama's belly... Ady, Hayden's mother made this page for the only thing she knew would help other than modern medicine and a miracle... the power of prayer. Never asking for more than anything than prayer. And there were plenty of people praying for this babe. Hayden's page has over 20,000 followers.

I read all the posts. Hundreds of them. Happy ones. Sad ones. Hopeful posts. Disheartened posts. Always ever asking for one thing "Please pray for Hayden". And so I did. I found myself thinking about and praying for Hayden and his family often. We included Hayden's name in the nightly prayers that my oldest son said. Hayden quickly became a household name. I was so invested in his story. Felt in someway connected to his mother even though we had never met. Our lives were so similar. Me and her are about the same age. Living only minutes away from one another. Both had two little boys close in age. The only thing that separated us was that her baby had half a heart. That one thing made a world of difference. A difference that I could not begin to imagine. And so I did the only thing I could I kept Hayden in our thoughts and prayers and through that he made his way into our hearts.

I kept up with his page. Always looking for updates. Always hopeful. For days there was nothing. I prayed that meant there was nothing to report. Still nothing... and then "Hayden Jeter Dorsett 3/12/12 - 8/16/12". I read that and literally gasped. I stared at the screen with tears rolling down my cheeks. Weeping for a baby I never met. I felt a pain deep in my chest and couldn't even bear to think of what state his mother must be in. I know from tragedy with in my own family that there are somethings that change you forever. Change the dynamic of your family. The course of your life. Some things are so sad there are no words for them.

For days, weeks, I could not stop thinking about Hayden and his mom. Could not stop thinking about how similar our lives were and how different they would now forever be. I was plagued by the thought that there was nothing that made our circumstances so different but random misguided chance. I could have easily been her.

I racked my brain for some reasonable gesture, some sort of kindness or comfort that I could offer her grieving heart. But what? I knew there was nothing that I could ever do. But doing nothing wasn't an option. One day in the mall I came across a necklace in the shape of a heart with a tiny pearl just sitting in the middle. I bought it and decided that even though I could not make things better I could let this heartbroken mom know she wasn't alone. Let her know that her baby wouldn't be forgotten. Let her know that Hayden would always been in our heart. His life had touched ours and I know thousands of others.

It is said that no one is truly gone until the last person has spoken their name. If that is true Ady has no need to worry about her sweet Hayden being forgotten. Since Hayden's passing his family has set up a foundation in his name called "Hayden's Heart". It is a non profit 501c3 charity dedicated to keeping Hayden's memory alive. Raising CHD awareness. And helping other heart families with their medical and travel expenses.

I told my husband about the necklace and that I was going to stop by Ady's house to give it to her. He looked at me like I had completely lost my mind. "Go to her house?! Are you nuts? You don't know them! You can't just ring her bell and be like here's a necklace for you!" But that is kinda what I did. I felt like I needed to meet her. In person. Hear about her beautiful babe first hand. After all he had a significant impact on my life. In so many ways... she needed to know that.  Of course I had been reading their story for months and as much as I felt like I knew them she had no idea who I was. Nonetheless she opened her door. And invited me in. I don't know if it was the mom bond or what but I felt like we were instantly friends... and have been since.

I can not say enough good things about the Dorsett family. They have done so much good for so many others. Touched so many lives. Simply because Hayden lived. I know that more than anything Ady wishes Hayden was just like every other baby with a whole heart known only by his family and friends... and while if I could grant anyone just one wish it would for sure be just that... but Hayden, he wasn't like every other baby. Hayden was a angel among us with big big plans. Bigger than anyone could imagine and his mom. Well she isn't just any mom. She is simply amazing. I know she doesn't see herself as a strong person... rather just doing the only thing she can to get through this new life... but she is a hero to so many. Hayden being her number one fan. She and her husband have done so much good in his name I wouldn't even know where to begin... so check them out for yourself at haydensheart.org or on facebook at Hayden's Heart. Read Hayden's story and fall in love with the baby that continues to change the world at Prayer Page for Baby Hayden also on facebook.

If you would like to make a difference you can make a one time donation Hayden's Heart or keep up with them and participate in any of their fabulous events. In an effort to spread more CHD awareness they are on a mission to get featured on #theellenshow so if you feel so inclined send her an email and help them get there.

Maternity ward horror stories

For every "I had the most wonderful birthing experience" you will hear a "I had the delivery from hell" story. I found that when I was pregnant everyone wanted share with me their maternity ward horror story. Tales of endless labor. Fractured hips. Broken tail bones. Torn assholes. Hemorrhoids the size of grape fruits. Failed epidurals. Bitchy nurses. Careless doctors. Insensitive husbands. Blinding contractions. Shitting on the table. Cone head babies. Broken Vaginas.

With a baby rapidly growing inside my belly I was starting to panic. I like my asshole in tact. My unstretched lady parts. Which honestly I hadn't seen in months but still I wanted them to remain in the state in which I had known them my whole life. Shit on the table... I'd die. Convinced that these mama's must be exaggerating I had talked myself into the fact that I would be one of the lucky ones with amazing orgasmic birth story. Not so much... I was added to the list of wounded warriors. I now had my own maternity ward horror stories.

However I have enough common sense to not scare the crap out of every mama to be that I come across. I become the crypt keeper when asked about my experience. I don't spew out the gory details. One because it is not necessary. Two because I know that no matter what happens her story will not be my story and there is no reason for anyone to worry about the possibilities.

Shortly before my due date with my second baby I was given the option of having an elective c section because of a medical condition. Contrary to popular opinion I jumped on the chance to not push another human out of my vagina. 40 hours of Pitocin induced labor. Stiches up my ass. And nearly bleeding to death made my decision an easier one.

After choosing to have a c section I learned how frowned upon that is amongst members of the mommyhood. Emergency c sections... well those are okay because you have no choice. But ELECTING to bring a child into the world this way is just unacceptable. Friends, close ones at that aired their opinion on my decision in hopes of getting me to change my mind. And although having a c section is not ideal... lets face it... there is no good way to get a 9.5 pound human out of your body!

Most women that have had a c section will tell you how horrible it was. Worst experience of their life. And then there are the women like me that have had both vaginal deliver and a c section and I know with  fair amount of certainty the c section was far from the worst experience of my life. In fact it was not bad at all. Considering that it is major surgery that you are wide awake for it is not nearly as bad you would think. Or as it looks on you tube which strongly recommend you do not watch the night before.

Yes it is uncomfortable.   But so is labor. And labor has no clear end in sight. You could be in labor 2 hours or 2 days. Both of my c sections were over with in an hour. And my beautiful oversized babies were here. There heads not misshapen.

Everyone always talks about the shocking pain at the incision sight. And yes the day after the pain is shocking. Not as shocking as natural delivery. And after the first day every day after gets better and better. Plus I totally prefer stitches across my stomach than up my ass because you know what the ones that I had after Aidan were not so pleasant either.

Another common complaint is that during the c section you feel lots of pressure. Some say tugging/ pushing. For sure an odd feeling that you could live with out ever enduring. Quite honestly compared to a human tearing its way out of your body I'll take the intestinal massage any day of the week.

I hear women that have only had a c section say often that they feel they have been robbed of the birthing experience... to that I can only say the whole "natural birth" experience is OVER RATED! And it the end it does not matter what means brought your baby here safely.

I personally take offense when I hear moms putting down moms that have chosen to go with a c section. It is such a personal decision made with only health and safety at the forefront. I did not have a c section for convenience. But I was able to keep an open mind and make the best decision for me and my babies.

Whether you are a well-vetted member of the mommyhood with tons of experience under your belt  (which I think I qualify for with three kids) or a new comer try to remember the tie that binds is our shared loved for our little ones not our ideas about how they should be brought into the world. The next time you run into an expectant mom... even if she asks spare her the agonizing details of your maternity horror story there will be plenty of time to commiserate and relate after she has her own to tell.

Sweet September

This time last year I was pacing the floors of this house. Breathing through contractions that had started 2 days prior. Wondering when I should leave for the hospital. Cursing Dr. Douchebag for sending me home in the first place. Rubbing my belly that was stretched to the max. Saying silent prayers and talking to the baby I affectionately called September. Asking him to hold off. Stay put. Just for one more day. Anxious as I was to meet him I was twice as anxious about how he would make his way into this world. I knew that my doctor was not available until Monday. And according to him despite the fact that I was bleeding and contracting at 6:30 am on Friday morning if I just went home and stayed in bed and didn't lift a finger I would be fine until he had time to deliver my baby on Monday.

Just go home and stay in bed. Don't lift a finger. Yeah. No problem. Said a mother of two small boys... NEVER. I begged him not to send me home. Terrified that I would go into full blown labor on my own and not have enough time to get to the hospital or worse have a repeat or some similar situation as I had 7 years before with Aidan. A birth experience that brought me closer to death than I care to remember. The delivery that almost sent me home with out a baby. Surely the doctor that had been obnoxiously thorough the last 9 months... sending me for every test under the sun. Monitoring me so closely that I was sure baby September was going to come out glowing after all the sonograms I had.... was not going to let that happen. My high risk, sought after, top notch doctor, that I adored must have a plan that was more involved than telling me to keep my legs crossed and pray until his weekend off was over.

Nope. As it turns out that was the plan. So when I showed up at the hospital Sunday morning literally about to have September it should have been no surprise that no one knew about my blood disorder. No one knew how it should be treated. And my wonderful doctor... oh he was too busy at his sons soccer game to answer the phone. At 8 1/2 centimeters....  a point where the baby could practically stick his arm out and wave I was left on a gurney. Told to "hang tight" while they figured out what needed to be done. The hematologist on call... the one familiar with all blood disorders readily admitted she had no idea how to treat mine. Asked me if I remembered the name and dosage of the medicine I was given when I had my last c section because they would just go with that. Me! She asked me! The girl having contractions so strong that I could not see straight. I didn't even know my fucking name never mind the dosage of the medicine that was given three years ago. And why would I be a reliable source any way. I am not a doctor. Or a nurse. I am a mom of two... about to be three. Currently trying to keep a baby from sliding out my vagina. Are you really asking me?!

At more than 9 centimeters it was all figured out and I was heading in for my c section. Which I was really pissed about. To go through that many hours of labor with no medication or epidural and get a c section literally minutes before the baby could have been born naturally is just senseless torture if you ask me. Nonetheless that is how it happened. More importantly September arrived safely. And good God was he perfect?! And big! Just like at I had felt with his brothers... it was instalove.

Completely consumed in this new love I almost forgot that September needed an official name. Everyone thought we were just with holding what we had picked. Some even thought that we had actually named the baby September. Seark is a hard one to follow. I mean after a name like Seark you can't just go with Joe for the next one. Besides we can't leave Seark out there all alone in the strange name club. But honestly you can't out do Seark with out getting a little crazy. And I had already given Seark, Rylan for a middle name which was my next favorite boy name. So we were stumped. Until they informed us that we could not leave the hospital with out filling out the birth certificate. At that point we decided we could totally use Rylan again. So we did.

The sight, smell, feel of a newborn baby is intoxicating. To hold this tiny being so fresh from heaven there is no denying a higher being and the occurrence of modern day miracles. I spent the next few days just gazing at flawless little September. Breathing him in. Touching his warm, soft skin. Running my fingers through is baby fine hair. Wishing to freeze this time knowing how fast goes. I studied the sweet perfection of his face. Aware that it will change in the blink of an eye. And it did. Everyday. He changed and although subtle... noticeable. To me. Every night I would rock him to sleep and before I put him down for the night I'd trace the lines of his face so gently trying to etch them in memory. Afraid the he was changing so fast I would forget what he looked like on any particular night. Because that is what happens. I miss the days of being a blissfully ignorant first time mom that didn't know just how fast this time passes you by. Or that no matter how much you try not to you will forget.

And so a week turned into a month. And a month into two, then three and so on. My little newbie was growing at warp speed. Smiling and cooing at his brothers. A little personality was just beginning to form. The dark hair that he had a birth was long gone and little blonde fuzz was beginning to grow in its place. His dark grey eyes were beginning to turn blue. With each passing day my love grew. And not just for Rylan but for all my boys and the love that they have for each other.

Months four, five, and six were spent snuggling on the couch as snow fell out side. We celebrated Aidan's birthday, Christmas, small and big milestones. Smiles and coos were turning into belly laughs and babbling. And before I knew it my tiny babe was off to explore all on his own. He mastered crawling and then there was no stopping him. His baby soft knees started to feel like sandpaper as he made his way around on all fours. Until the day he discovered that he could pull himself up and cruise the furniture. Curious hands found their way into everything. And though his ambition out weighs his ability to balance his unsteady legs he never stop trying.

With seven months came a first tooth and a cranky teething baby. By the beginning of month eight three more teeth had made their way through those lumpy red gums for  a total of four. Then six and now eight. A baby with 8 teeth makes nursing feel like a danger.   All these new teeth also opened the door to a whole new tasty world of food we had previously not explored. With every new flavor Ry found a funny new face to express the message his taste buds were sending.

As pages of the calendar turned I started to feel the clock tick. September was fast approaching. Our days in the sun were numbered and so was the time until my Ry James turned one. My heart was starting to ache. This bitter sweet joy of yet another year that had filled me with so much more love than I knew I could hold had my heart so full the only thing it could do was grow. But growing pains are still pain. And a heart ache even if caused by joy still hurts. September is here and in more ways than one. So I baked a cake and stuck a candle in the middle. Sung happy birthday with sweet September on my lap and held back the tears of a mom not ready for next chapter just yet. But ready or not your growing as babies tend to do.

So my Ry I won't hold you back or slow you down. I will watch you grow and let you go while I cheer you on. I will hold my breath while you take your first unsteady steps and hold your hand whenever you need it. Your first words have yet to be said but I can not wait to hear them. I will fight for you and be in your corner no matter what while I fight back these tears because I know my heart isn't breaking... just growing. You are only one, you have only just begun... the best is yet to come! Happy Birthday my sweet boy!