And I'm the Beast...

I've been holding in a lot of emotion for the last few weeks. I thought I was doing okay until I hurled a handful of plastic blocks from their perch on the stairs -- thankfully not AT anyone. But they made a hella racket.

That's not all.

There was lots of yelling, mostly by me. The yelling was followed by threats, and then one day I stomped away from Will, locked the gate at the bottom of the stairs and told him not to bother me for 30 minutes OR ELSE. [Note: our enforcement of the no-nap "quiet time" was not going well.]

He didn't bother me, and I did get to finish reading one article and a cup of coffee. But I felt like crap smeared on the bottom of someone's shoe. I really did. I was so utterly, horribly ashamed. And then I baked one of these, ate a slice, and felt somewhat more calm...

Damn those blueberries were good.

Anyway, the point is that I thought I was SO handling the stay-at-home mom thing. So on top of groceries and chores and playdates. But this lasted for about, oh, almost one month to the day since my last post here. Then an odd thing happened. I lost control. It was Lord of the Flies over here. And then I got anxious. Reaaalllyy anxious. And snippy. And kind of depressed because I was like, "OMG, this is freakin' snowballing! I'll never get out from under the chaos!"

When this happens, I tend to go into fight or flight mode. I try, try, try harder. I feel worse. I am the typical overachiever in every silly thing. Can I make the bed better than I did yesterday? Yes! I can! Can I have dinner prepped, have an educational but fun morning with the kids, and the laundry done? Yes! I can, dammit!

But here's the thing. All the DOING makes me such a serious bitch who gets annoyed at her kids for just being kids. Cause, you know, kids sometimes get in the way of all that doing. Duh. When I get like that, I even bore myself. Honestly. It makes me want to hit a Cornell frat party on the way home from swim lessons at the Y and just LET LOOSE.

And the worse part is that I stop enjoying my time home with the boys. I'm almost positive they stop enjoying their time home with me... However, the lesson here for me is NOT to do nothing, or lower my expectations (though, yeah, I need to). The lesson is that I need to find a way to make time in the day, or the week, for only caring about or doing something for ME. At the end of the week, after all that DOING, I am a mess. I need my books, my writing, my something. I need to have no one touching, or asking, or wanting from me. I need space.

Yes, this kind of space... I know for all you experienced SAHMs, this may be another "duh." But riddle me this. How the hell does one do it?*

*And not feel like crap smeared on the bottom of a shoe.

Home Economy 101

I'm the one on the far left...

It's funny how time sometimes feels like it's moving at warp speed, and then will suddenly and arbitrarily slow down to a snail's pace. Of course, this is an illusion, but it gets me every time. For example, watching the boys ride their bikes together, climb on the monkey bars together, cut paper together. Time stands still and I tear up remembering them both as soft, blubbering babies who counted on me for every need. I fantasize about scooping them up and nestling their heads into the crook of my left arm like I did a million times at a 2 AM nursing. I even, for a moment, miss it. I miss the lack of sleep and the utter simplicity of our existence. Feed, sleep, cuddle, change, feed, cuddle, bathe, sleep.

And then I take off my rose colored glasses, and laugh out loud.

Because if you'd asked me if I wanted to stay home full time with my soft, mewling newborns--and then three and six and ten month olds--the answer would have been a resounding "No." This is for several reasons. First, it is hard. Not hard like a day at work with back to back meetings, annoying clients and a parking ticket. Hard like walking 15 miles each way to school in 2 feet of snow, and then making your own steel cut oatmeal from scratch, and then hand-paving a new 6-lane highway. At least this is how it felt to me. Second, I was scared. Postpartum depression and anxiety (it's evil twin?) had made me even more unable to make decisions than normal--and this was before I got help for it with my second. I felt deep down that this 24-7 childrearing thing needed a professional's touch. I was also deathly afraid of screwing them up by yelling, or not feeding them homemade meals, or by having a messy house.

So I skipped off back to work full time after Will was born, content to know he was in good hands at daycare and happy to be with me after work and on the weekends. It was fine. But I had twinges of doubt. I pushed them down. I had worked so hard to get where I was. Wasn't it just as important as raising my kids? Didn't I deserve to have a career, a life outside of children? So I proposed and got a two day a week telecommute option to help ease our hectic morning/evening routine--which stressed me to no end.

Fast forward (as life does), to Baby #2 and another round of PPD and anxiety. Big time. But this time I started back to work part-time, to ease back into things. Even then, I felt I needed to cherish this time (but really didn't know how), since Ian would be our last child. I hemmed and hawed. Searching for more balance, I eventually negotiated a part-time schedule. This is when things came to a head.

You know when people wag their fingers and tell you 'the grass is always greener...'? Well, those people are annoying because they are right.

Working part-time, much to my surprise, was worse (how could that be possible?) than working full-time. Worse for me mentally, worse for the kids and their schedule. Worse for my husband who picked up the slack. There are a lot of reasons this was the case for me, and I acknowledge that this isn't true for many others who work a part-time schedule. I'm not big on blaming right now, so I won't go into details. Suffice to say, after almost 8 months of a 20 hr week from home (yes, I had it that good), I upped my hours to 24, all from the office. I figured the answer was to work MORE, not less. I also had something to prove--that I was a worthy, smart, effective employee.

Almost five years after my first son was born, I finally decided to quit my "other job," and stay home with my boys. I'm an outlier, for sure. Most mothers I know do the exact opposite. Stay home while their kids are infants and until preschool, then slowly start edging back into the workforce. Not me. I'm the one who takes 5 years to make a freakin' decision. Two weeks in, I don't feel the fear I thought I would. It's hard, but hard like running a marathon each day. Not like running two. The hardest part for me is losing my "identity." And then I remember, I have no identity. I am not me. I am not who I think I am. I am a collection of parts. Move on [thank you Sarah Napthali].

So, what to call my new  job. A stay-at-home mom? A full-time, stay-at-home mom? These don't ring true to me. After all, was the choice between staying with my children and leaving them, abandoning them? Not for me. And wasn't I a full-time mom before, when I left the house to work and then put in "my hours" at home? Plus, many women and men work from home these days. Like my husband. What is he? A work-inside-the-home dad? Sheesh.

I'm leaning toward some old-fashioned monikers. Like homemaker. Or home economist. These names at least capture the essence of what's going on. Women who work outside the home can make a damn good home for their families. I know this. But I also know that for me and my family, my being at home with our kids full-time--and frankly, managing the bajillions of details of our home lives for the family--will make OUR home a slightly less stressful, chaotic place. And I like that. I also like cooking meals from scratch but hate cleaning and grocery shopping.

As the one who manages those bajillion details, my new role does impact the economy of our home. I don't mean financial economy, like savings from me not drycleaning my suits and buying new high heels every fall (ha!). I mean the other definition: "sparing or careful use of something." That something is the time that my husband and I have on this planet with our children and each other. For us, the financial economics allow me to make this decision. If this weren't the case, I would use my time carefully to support our family. It's not either/or. It just is. For now.

I baked a mean apple pie in 9th grade Home Ec class. And I was proud of it. I should have known.

A memory

Baby #1: trial and error...

I'm sitting on the examination table at my doctor's office, crinkly paper under my legs. My wonderful midwife is asking me questions about the baby. I'm nodding. I'm saying things.

"And is he eating okay, having wet diapers?" she asked, hopefully.

"Oh yes, he's gained almost 8 pounds already! He's doing great..." I flashed what I hoped looked like a smile.

Then I looked in her eyes. Her sweet, all-knowing eyes, and my own started to tear up.

I blurted out, "But I'm not doing so good..." I was crying now. I couldn't help it anymore than I could help breathing.

She looked at me again and asked softly for me to tell her what had been going on. I let it out like the waters pouring over a levee, cresting over the earth. I told her about how I wasn't sleeping, and how the baby still refused to latch on. How I was pumping every 3 hours around the clock. He was only six weeks old but I felt like I had been doing this for a hundred years. I was anxious and tired and not eating and not sleeping and angry and guilt-ridden.

And it felt so good to tell someone that. I waited on the table expectantly. Waited for the suggestions and the "try this" and "try thats." But mostly, I waited for my midwife to finally crack the code on WHAT WAS WRONG. She had experience, after all.

"You know," she said, leaning in conspiratorially,"I hear way more stories like yours than the opposite." I stared at her. Was she putting me on?

"Women just don't want to talk about it, so everyone thinks it's usually easy and comes naturally," she continued. I nodded, Yes, I know.

"You gave it your best try. You worked hard," she said, holding my gaze. "And you have a healthy, thriving baby. Now you have choices. You can continue pumping exclusively, you can pump occasionally, you can quit altogether."

And this is why I'd really come. My mother could say it, my husband could say it; my best friend, sister-in-law, and even my father, could say it. But until my midwife said it -- until she gave me permission to stop trying at all costs -- I couldn't hear it. She gave me permission to choose a direction that would make my life easier, not harder. Make my nights easier, not worse. And she reminded me that all of my decisions, all of those choices, were the best for my baby--no matter what others might say.

Fast forward six more weeks. Six more weeks of pumping exclusively. I made a choice I could live with, but it cost me. And then the weekend before I went back to work full-time, that 12 week old baby latched on just to show me who was really in charge. My first lesson as a new mother, writ large on my body.

Here we go...

Hold up, wait a minute...

Ian just turned 2 years old!

So happy about the storebought Go Diego Go cake.

Are you shocked that I'm just getting around to posting the fond, icing-coated memories and reminisces? Not I. Let's say, for the sake of simplicity, that things have been a wee bit busy on our end lately. But who am I kidding? The second child pretty much always gets the shaft (gasp!).

UNLESS ...

His parents finally plopped down mucho bucks for a much better, faster camera last Christmas in order to catch the whirling dervishes that are their sons -- in SPORTS MODE.

What, you don't know it? Sports mode is how sports photographers catch the world's greatest feats of physical prowess and showmanship with an expertly-timed click of the shutter. It's also how we catch our children doing things like: smiling at the camera without snot trickling down their noses, being cute and angelic, and other similarly impressive -- and fleeting -- feats of physical prowess.

Observe ...

Ian: pre-flight routine

Will: mid-flight!

Or, for example ...

Watch the golf ball -- IN FLIGHT, heading toward C's head

But maybe the most fun are those silly moments caught in sports mode that deserve a closer look. Like Ian very seriously trying on my winter hat (Rastafari!), or Will caught in mid-kick while jamming out to some guitar rock on Rhapsody.

So, as Ian turns the corner into his second year, I really only have one lingering, burning question.



Question Authority Boy

How did we go from here ...

To here ...





In only two years?

Thank God for sports mode, that's all I can say. Without it, I might have blinked and missed it.

The Limit

I've finally reached my limit on being cooped up indoors with several feet of snow outside and several feet of dirty laundry inside. The nasty stomach bug is on the wane--what did we do wrong, God?--and I repeat to myself over and over how lucky I am NOT to be a single parent. What would I do if I had no one to help? I shudder to think.

And once this limit has been reached, I approach near insanity with rapid-fire thoughts about what to clean first, cook first, organize first, throw away first. Of course, because EVERYTHING MUST GET DONE NOW!

Whatever. Truth is, nothing will get done today except some snow shoveling, bathroom cleaning (we've reached critical proportions), and perhaps coffee / hot cocoa drinking at the local coffee shop. For if I create a swirling mass of intensity around myself for the next two days, I will continue screaming at my preschooler for no reason ("How much tape does one person need??!!!"), and telling my poor toddler with a chapped bottom to "Come on, stop whining."

Who is this person? A shadow of my former self. And I blame it all on Old Man Winter and his minions.

And now, as Jon Stewart would say, here is your TBurg Thompsons moment of zen...

Snow on twigs.

Snow leaves.

Ian on top of the world.

Will snarfing snow.

Our lovely abode.

The sun is back there, I swear!

Ian snarfing snow.

Um, maybe they were hungry?!

To Be a Child...

Ah, to be a toddler. The endless curiousity, boundless energy, passionate activity. Complete lack of self-consciousness. Not feeling the need to hold in your feelings. Hugging a lot. Snuggling. Playing...

"Say Freeeezzzzeeee!"

Taking a nap wherever you happen to be, even if it's in the middle of a frozen glacial lake face up on a plastic sled. Yes, that's Ian SLEEPING on the sled. Apparently Nina was pulling him along as Will and she tromped on the ice, chatting up several ice fishermen. Ian started whining, telling her he wanted to "go night night," so she told him he could just rest on the sled. And voila. Amazing.

But at first glance, he does kind of look dead... It was a brutal expedition.

In case you're wondering, this is what we do up here in the frigid north. Take our small children for long walks on frozen lakes when it's a balmy 20 degrees. Hey, the sun's shining, isn't it?

Come on spring, come on.......

Meet the Meat Muffins

What do you do if you want your toddler and preschooler to eat something?

Make it into the shape of a muffin! (Or a pie slice -- more on that in another post.)

Since I'm on a recipe roll, I thought I'd post my (in)famous Turkey Meatloaf Muffin recipe. Or, as we call them in our house, Meat Muffins. Frankly, the best part of this recipe is that I can tweak here and there for a different dish. And it's stupid easy and fast. Also, this recipe started as a bulk recipe for the scratch cafe I used to work at, using 10 lbs of ground turkey. Obviously, I've modified a bit -- but you can still make this into a loaf. It just takes longer to cook.

So without further ado, the recipe:

Turkey Meatloaf Muffins

1 lb ground turkey (80/20 -- pls, don't use the fat-free version. It's no good.)
1 small onion (or ~ 1/2 cup), very small dice
1 garlic clove, minced
1 egg
1/4 cup plain bread crumbs
~ 1 TB Worchestershire sauce
2 TB ketchup
2 tsp salt (I use Kosher salt)*
1/4 tsp black pepper
1/2 to 1 tsp poultry seasoning

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Saute the onion and garlic in a small amount of olive oil until they're soft and translucent. Cool slightly.
3. In a bowl, combine turkey, breadcrumbs, egg, ketchup, Worchestershire, salt, pepper and poultry seasoning. Add onions and garlic, and mix until just combined (don't overmix).
4. Spray the bottoms of a 12 cup muffin pan with Pam spray (precautionary). Plop blobs of meatloaf into cups, trying to evenly distribute. Flatten tops slightly.
5. Cook muffins in oven for 25-30 mins, or until instant read thermometer reads 170 inside a muffin. (In my experience, 25 mins. really does it, since these are pretty small muffins. You'll only fill each cup halfway, if that.)
6. Cool slightly, then remove from cups and rest on paper-towel covered plate to soak up excess liquid (water, fat). Serve with more ketchup and enjoy.

In a hurry: Skip the sauteing and use onion and garlic powder instead. But easy on the garlic powder -- it's got a fake garlicky taste if you use too much. I'd use maybe 1-2 tsp onion powder, and no more than 1/2 tsp garlic powder.

Italian Meatballs: You can sub ground chicken if you want, but not necessary...

• Increase ketchup to 3 TB.
• Leave out the poultry seasoning. Instead, use Italian seasoning, or just dried basil and oregano (easy on the oregano), or basil and parsley.
• Add about 1/4 to 1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese or Romano.
• Grate the onion using a box grater or food processor.
• Increase garlic up to 3 cloves.
• Form small meat balls with your hands (yes, your hands). Brown the meatballs in olive oil on all sides, then finish in the oven for ~ 20 mins. until done.
• Plop meatballs in your favorite pasta sauce and heat through.

* Ok, I'm admitting I have a salt thing. This amount is conservative, folks. I like well-seasoned food, and after working in a restaurant kitchen I like it even more. That said, I've found that the key to cooking ground meat concoctions (e.g. meatloaf, meatballs, hamburgers) is salt -- and sometimes a shockingly large amount of it. With raw meats, you COULD cook a small amount to test and then adjust. Or, you could just do like me, and err on the side of hypertension...

Warm Up

Holy crud -- almost three months and no new posts! It's not that nothing has happened.

It's just that I'm lazy. And freakin' cold.

So, instead of mustering up the energy to write some deep thoughts, I'll post a recipe I made last night for dinner. C and I ate it with some Bisquick drop biscuits -- but I would have loved some chapati instead. Maybe in my next lifetime...

Side note: I'm always trying to find decent recipes for my crock pot. And by decent, I mean "does not taste like cardboard mixed with broth and vegetables." I find most crock pot recipes are not, IMO, decent. And, it's because the ONE step required for decent, tasty soups/stews is generally omitted from crock pot recipes because, well -- it adds an extra step to what's supposed to be an easy, one-pot meal. Sheesh. A double-bind if I ever saw one. What's that ONE step, you ask? Browning your meat (if using) and sauteeing all your veggies and aromatics and spices together in a pan BEFORE adding to the crock pot. Anyhoo, if you wanna be really efficient, just go ahead and drop $400 on the All-Clad Deluxe Slow Cooker. You know you want it. I do. Every. Single. Day.

Lunch ... finally.

Bastard* Mulligatawny Soup in the Crock Pot

2 TB butter
1 med onion, small dice
1 med carrot, diced
1 large sweet potato, peeled and diced
1 apple (any firm variety), peeled and diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
~ 1 TB curry powder [less spice = less hot, so vary amounts for the kiddos or whatever]
~ 1 TB garam masala
1/8 tsp ground cloves
~ 2 TB flour

Salt and pepper to taste
1, 15 oz. can diced tomatoes (with liquid)
3 cups chicken broth
~ 2 cups chopped or shredded cooked chicken (I used rotisserie chicken, white and dark meat, with skin removed).

1. Melt butter in a saute pan, then add onion and garlic. Cook until soft (don't let garlic burn).
2. Add other veggies, cooking for a few minutes into starting to soften. Season a bit with salt and pepper.
3. Sprinkle spices and flour over veggies, cook for a few minutes until raw flour smell is gone.
4. Add canned tomatoes and their liquid, stirring pan to scrape up all spice bits. Taste, and season again with salt if needed. Turn off heat.
5. Dump veggies and tomatoes into crock pot, then add chicken and broth.
6. Crank pot to High and let cook for about 4 hours. Serve over basmati rice (yum), or eat alone.

Have to say, this was the perfect dinner for a cold January night in the 'Burg. Leftovers for lunch, here we come...

* I call it "Bastard" because I cobbled this together from two different recipes, one specifically for the crock pot, the other using traditional stovetop methods. Plus, I couldn't seem to find any two recipes that are alike for this soup. Oh yeah, and the whole "No Soup for You!" thing...

Into the Dark

When I chose the title for this post (a month ago!), I certainly didn't anticipate slipping on the stairs and hurting my back. However, it was a fitting way to cap off a banner month.

The accident was preceeded by: finding ticks and fleas on our cat, leading to a massive all-hands "Project Clean Sweep"; breaking a full half-gallon glass milk bottle in my car and weeks of cleaning, pulling apart, and more cleaning to remove the gag-inducing smell of rancid dairy; Ian getting a cold and ensuing eye infection requiring antibiotics; and the beginning of daylight savings, our country's evil joke on parents.

And we thought that last one was the icing on the cake...

The funny thing is that someone (other than the "Continue Daylight Savings At All Costs" lobbyists) must be having fun with The Thompsons. Because soon after, we started a NEW month that then ended with Will getting sick on Thanksgiving eve (cutting our visit short) followed by a midnight trip to the ER with Ian.

Whoa. Not cool...

Did I mention that I'm sick too? Of course I am.

But really, if I think hard about it (which is not easy to do right now with a head completely jam-packed with snot)--I have a lot to be thankful for.

Like the fact that I didn't break my back in two places or become paralyzed when I fell on the stairs.

Or that we HAVE two cars that run reliably to shuttle around our little family hither and yon.

Or that our cat (usually) doesn't pee all over the house and doesn't beg me for walks.

Or that we have enough money to buy local, hormone-free milk in glass bottles.

Or that Will isn't wheezing right now even though he has a nasty chest cold.

Or that Ian is alive and well. Maybe a bit too lively right now because he's hopped up on oral steroids, but that is a small price.

Or that Will turned four years old this month and had his first "real" party with friends, and not a tear was shed (by any preschoolers, that is).

I'm trying very hard to get a hang of this "being thankful" on a daily basis thing. I struggle with it. I've always been a glass-half-empty kind of gal. And like my yoga teacher said recently (geez, actually a month ago now), if you don't have darkness, you can't appreciate the light. This was in the context of the colder weather, short days, and very long dark northern nights. But it spoke to me more about darkness in general. My darkness. I've always been afraid of it, 'cause frankly, I've got a lot hanging around.

So, this winter, I'm going over to the dark side. I know this already. But I like the idea of having something to look forward too--a greater appreciation of the light, however much is available.

Me Time

Ok, so I don't go out quite THAT much...

You'd think after last week -- with my THREE (read it again), I said, THREE -- nights off, by myself sans kids or husband, that I'd be more relaxed this week. But you'd be wrong. Of course, it wasn't a typical week. I don't usually have that much "me time." But the cards just fell that way, and I played them, folks. Tues night = yoga class gets cancelled cause we're locked out of the studio. I dutifully show up, wait intently to see whether we can break in, then head to the Rongo for a few beers with a class mate after all hope is gone. Mind you, I was back home at the normal time -- but still. There goes Night #1.

Thurs night = head to my make-up yoga class, because I won't be in town for my next regular Saturday class. Spend longer out than normal, cause class is yoga for meditation. I stretch, I meditate. I get home after one child is already in bed (Ba-da-bing!). Night #2 done.

Fri night = Drag the husband and kids to our in-laws house about an hour away so I can make a womens' wine tasting night in their town. In-laws are NOT actually in town that night, so DH once again does the whole nighttime thing.

Lest you think I live in a fantasy world, karma came calling Friday night as I arrive home from Night Out #3. Ian had woken up from bed (after crying for a half hour to go down for the night -- not normal), in a fit, and it was now my job to take over and get him back to bed. About an hour later, he was down. Then up again around 2 AM. Then, up again an hour and a half later. Then, awake at 6 AM for good. Ugh.

By Friday, I really didn't feel much like getting out again. I think I'd had enough "me time." The reason is that none of those nights out were really "me times." There was a lot of hanging with friends and socializing. Which is fun, and necessary. Don't get me wrong. But did I spend any time on myself? Not really. I didn't get more into reading my latest book (The Ask), I didn't spend any time updating pictures, or this blog, or trying to finish a guest post for a friend. I didn't even go for a walk alone. And I could tell by the end of the week. I was depleted. But maybe that's the introvert in me talking. The one who prefers curling up with a book to party hopping. Who knows.

All I know is that I'm willing to give up nights out for nights in -- as long as I get some time alone to do whatever floats my boat.

Notes on Life

Ian can "dress" himself too.

As summer fades into fall (yes, already fall up here in the Great White North), I can't help but get that excited first-day-of-school feeling. That new beginnings vibe...

The summer was good, but very busy. With all our recent transitions, things were finally sort of settling down. Until this month, when Will starts preschool and I change my work days -- yet again.

And during that long, warm summer, Ian has changed from a baby to a full-fledged toddler. I don't know when it happened, but it did. He's 17 months now, and is running like crazy, talking and quickly mastering the temper tantrum.

Some highlights:

• Fang-a-licious -- Ian has finally gotten in his canine teeth, and I think he might be getting in his 2 year molars (??) already. He had some rough teething patches, but things seem better now.
• That said, Ian is still not capable (it seems) of taking single bites of any food. If it's a large chunk, he shoves it in. If I cut it into toddler-sized pieces, he shoves them ALL in. If I hand him one piece at a time to eat, he grabs the other pieces from my open hand and shoves them in... *Sigh*
• Apparently for Ian, eating and drinking is like patting his head and rubbing his tummy. Too much coordination required... He will spit out an entire wad of chewed food if offered a beverage to wash it down. Ditto if you offer him something else (better) to eat while he's chewing food. Very gross and rating right up there with "most annoying toddler habits."
• Ian is talking! Some words he says a lot right now: Mommy, Daddy, ball, big, truck (pronounced F*!*k), dog, bunny, puppy, pancake, milk, car (as in "cool car"), motorcycle (believe it or not), bike, golf ball, golf club, barn, ride, stroller, night night, bye, Hi, Nina, Pop pop, No, mine, Mouse, snack, banana, up, down, bagel, Will, etc. Wow! That's a lot of words, now that I write them down..
• And those words are becoming sentences:
• "Go night night"
• "Big ball/barn/book/truck/dog."
• "Don't like it."
• "Want milk."
• "Let's roll!"
• "We made it!"
• "Read book."
• "Cool car."
• Favorite activities: Hitting golf balls; pushing his Radio Flyer wagon; throwing himself off the sofa/stairs/out of the wagon; swinging; chasing our cat, Mouse (he even managed to wedge himself under our bed the other day trying to get him); puddle jumping; playing cars with Will; "reading" books; drawing (i.e. pulling the marker tops on/off many times); climbing anything dangerous; wrestling on the floor, WWF-style, with dad and big bro; giving kisses and hugs and high-fives.
• What he can do: Climb up stairs (working on climbing down); golf!; make silly noises with his mouth; run; dance; clap his hands; use a fork and spoon (sort of); drink out of a non-sippy cup (although messy); throw food with amazing aim and dexterity...
• Fears: Getting his hair cut (note to self, haircuts and screaming toddlers and lollipops DO NOT mix); the vacuum cleaner; brushing his teeth (ok, he's not scared, just doesn't like it).
• Things he loves: His lovey, Moomsy Cow (aka Moo-ey); fruit of all kinds; icecream; bananas; bagels; big board books with pictures/words of tons of stuff  (e.g. My First 100 Words, etc.); throwing things.

I don't have much to report on the growth side of things, since he won't have his next check-up until early October (18 months). But, suffice to say, he's wearing some 18 month clothes that didn't fit Will until he was about 2, and is into a size 5 shoe now (maybe 5.5 soon). He's still small (whatever that means), and much too busy to care about eating sometimes. So he's a slender guy -- but incredibly strong. Strong enough to hold on by both hands to the railing when he steps off the top stair and misses the next two (because we forgot to latch the gate). Thank god.

Ian (right) and his buddy Eutaw. Attitude, dude.

But his personality -- wow -- that is something else altogether. Maybe it's a second child thing, but he is a wild and free creature for sure. Not afraid of strangers (maybe just a little shy), has no fear, and loves other kids. And unlike Will at this age, Ian is more "typical" in his attention span. Will has always been able to really focus on whatever he's doing--to the point where he sometimes gets mad at us for interrupting his "projects." Ian is more apt to move from thing to thing, mostly doing whatever the big kids are doing that looks fun!

Overall though, he's a happy kid who loves to smile, be silly, kiss, hug, and tell you what he wants. Loudly. He is fiercely independent, to the point where I get a little sad that it's all happening so fast. Will is the one starting preschool, but Ian firmly believes he should be going too.

Summer Whine-Down

By luaparrish

It has been a while, dear blog. You have suffered. I have suffered. Not sure anyone else has suffered, except maybe my own family.

It's been about a month since I started my new work schedule, and we are STILL trying to get all the pieces into place. I am working in my garage (fixed up as a work-out room, where no actual working out seems to take place), at a small table with laptop and that's about it. Not so ergonomically correct, but it will do for now. Our childcare situation is in flux yet again, with our wonderful high school sitter starting pre-season soccer practice already (two weeks of practice, twice a day?? gotta be kidding me). And before all this, there was a (very nice) vacation and schedules changing and our house in complete disarray and Ian getting his last teeth in (those canines -- now he truly IS a wild little beast). So it's been sort of stressful for me lately. Putting it mildly.

Ah, stress. Here is the thing ... When things get stressful for me, I completely lose myself.

For example, under extreme whining conditions. Yes, it is the dawn of the whining age. Will has been practicing, and now at almost four, he is quite accomplished.

"Eeee-aaaan, that's MY car!"

"Mooooooo-ooom, I wanna drink toooooooo."

"I wanna peanutbutterandjelly now, Moooooooomm. Peanutbutterandjell-eeeeeeeee...."

It's like nails on a chalk board. Especially during that "arsenic hour" while I'm trying to get dinner ready and Ian is clinging to my leg, screaming.

So yeah, I get a little stressed.

But yoga is helping. Did I mention yoga? I started going to a local studio once a week when Ian was maybe 4 months old. It was therapy, really. I was *told* by my counselor to get out of the house and do something for myself, by myself, at least once a week. I chose yoga. I could walk to class so it was easy. Had to be, cause at that point I had such little energy for much of anything.

I know some folks get turned off by the non-physical aspects of yoga. The Hindu traditions, the language of opening your heart, inner spirals and what not. But not me. I think they are now becoming the reason I show up at yoga twice a week.

Those mantras, the traditions, have been slowly teaching me how to handle the whining. Their whining -- my own whining. Oh, because I do whine a lot. To be sure.

If it's one thing you can't really do on a yoga mat very well, it's forgetting yourself. Losing yourself. Very hard to do when you're contorting yourself into a pretzel and "softening" your heart at the same time. Believe me, I've tried... And yoga has also pushed me face to face with THE FACTS. And those are:

1. We all suffer.
2. Suffering sucks.
3. We all want to be free from suffering.
4. We forget that we already know how to be free from suffering.
5. Let's do something so we can remember.
6. Let's do that something more often, so we don't forget as much, and maybe
7. We won't suffer as much as well.

Simple, to the point. Hard as hell...

Week 2: Update

First day of week 2, and so far I am still mostly sane and the children are safe. Ka-chow! I can't help but feel that the kids are kind of bored, but oh well. I managed to vacuum once, clean two bathrooms, do a million loads of laundry, cook dinner several nights and go to yoga class twice.

Also: forgot to pick-up our meat CSA share this weekend, still have no one to watch our kids the other day per week I'm working, have spent more money on stuff than I usually do in a a month, and have not yet put away said million loads of laundry....

Sigh.

But, we spent a great day yesterday at the park. Hiked to the falls, lunch by the boat launch, and finally Will RAN into the swimming area at the lake. And Ian cracked a grin when we dipped him in a few times. Both kids crashed for a 2+ hour nap at 4:00 PM when we got home -- and we knew we were in trouble. Ah well, can't have it both ways I guess.

Gotta run -- banana muffins ready to come out of the oven. Holy domesticity!! I have arrived....

Lost In Transition

Some things are just really hard for me. Transitions are one of the those things. You know, like from high school to college, or college to real-world, single to married. DINK (double-income, no kids) to two kids, a mortgage, and two jobs that no one really wants.

After Ian was born I started thinking again (seriously) about quitting my full-time job to stay at home with the kids. It was working okay -- the commuting, daycare, pick-up, drop-off, 20 min meals. But I was tired. Sooo tired. And so was Christian. And the kids seemed to be sick ALL THE TIME. And then we both missed work. And I missed milestones, seeing them grow. And did I mention I was tired?

So finally, about 16 months later, I've just moved to a part-time position working from home. I have two days of work per week, and three for my boys and the house. Or whatever... The kicker here is that I have an amazingly flexible department and director who is willing to work with me. And at my current status, I still can get all of my benefits. Say what? You heard me... It's killer.

I kind of took the easy way out though, I guess. Cause I'll be brutally honest. I was scared as hell at the thought of staying home full time with my kids. Scared. Of a preschooler and a toddler. Out of my mind. What exactly I was scared of, I don't know. Scared of the kids getting bored, or becoming "un-socialized." Scared that I wouldn't be able to handle it, and I'd go off the deep-end again into some crazy post-POST partum depression. Scared that I would be bored into a catatonic state. My brain start to slowly liquefy into a Jello-like mass.

Scared I would LOSE FOREVER the career capital I'd built up over the past 12 years in the workforce. That my college degree and work experience was going down the tubes forever.

Scared of so many things, I lose count.

Oh yeah, did I mention being scared of not being able to LOVE staying at home, like I imagined all my SAH friends/acquaintances do? Because really, all you ever hear is how much those moms love it, and how much the working moms are missing out on. Or vice versa. Where did I fit? I had no idea, and that scared me.

Because the truth is, on that first day back to working full-time after my first son was born, I dropped him off at daycare -- wishing I could cry -- and drove away toward my office with a fluttery heart, feeling like the weight of ten elephants had been temporarily lifted off my shoulders.

I was damn near giddy, my friends.

Does this make me a bad mother? Unfit? Surely to stay at home full-time, right? I dunno, but I do know that that is how the transition to motherhood felt to me for those first six months. Like the weight of ten elephants. And frankly, I was slightly suffocating underneath all that weight. Going back to work was MY time. I could eat and pee and drink coffee whenever I wanted! I could take a shower! People listened to me and talked back! I could take a walk by myself! It was a daily retreat for which I got paid. Amen. Don't get me wrong, I love my children beyond reason -- but amen.

And wouldn't you know, almost two and a half years later, I would feel that suffocating weight again when I transitioned from mother of one, to mother of two....

But this time, work didn't seem like a cure-all. It started to seem sort of like part of the problem. Was it all that odd that I was having trouble focusing on anything? For goodness sake, how can it be possible to nurse, pump, change diapers, get dressed, commute, work, pump, commute, cook dinner, clean up, give baths, nurse, laundry, sleep, wake and do it all over again the next day? Again and again? For me, I needed a light at the end of that tunnel. And I wanted to regain some focus -- on my children.

So here I sit, on the cusp of yet another transition. Could go either way, folks. But at least this time I know the transition is the hardest part. From there, it can only get better.

** Photo credits: Migrant mother Florence Thompson & children photographed by Dorothea Lange. Location: Nipomo, CA, US, Date taken: 1936. LIFE magazine Google photo archives.

Cold Hard B**tch

So, two posts in one day is pretty crazy. But Christian told me this tidbit last night, and I had to get it down.

I was at yoga Tuesday night, and Christian was home alone with the boys for dinner and the evening routine. Apparently, the radio was on while they were eating dinner (Christian has this thing for dinner music. Always has to have something.) A song comes on. Not just any song. This song by Jet.

And Will -- who always listens so intently to music of any kind -- listens. Then he says:

"Dad, is it okay if I get down and dance?"

And he proceeds to get out of his seat, rock out (air guitar style), and then get back up to finish eating his dinner.

We may be in for one of these when Will grows up:

Thar she blows!, or Sad Day

I lost it Monday night. It was shades of my post-partum madness, and it scared me a little. Sometimes you just know that you don't have any reserves left at that moment to gracefully handle a horrible, trying situation.

I thought I had moved past this -- I really did. Shows how naive I can be. Both kids just screaming and nothing working to calm them down.

I told Will, "Mommy needs a time-out right now," as Ian wimpered in his crib upstairs for a few minutes.
"Why Mom?" said Will.
"Because I need time to cool off, honey. To calm down. That's what a time out is for, right? When we get really upset or frustrated and need to be alone to calm down."

I sat on the big red chair and breathed a little. Got really angry with myself for feeling this way. Will waited patiently for me to be done.

And slowly, I regained a little perspective. I was tired, after all. I was wanting to sit down and eat a normal dinner, dammit. I wanted someone -- anyone! -- to appreciate the meal I'd cooked after a day at work and not much sleep the past week or so. I wanted so many things...

But I realized, once I got Ian out of his crib and we were all playing nicely on the floor of their room, and I'd stopped worrying about how neither child had eaten anything for dinner (again) -- weren't they going to starve?? -- that sometimes you can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need.

And what I needed last night was some perspective. I needed to stop worrying and just enjoy my crazy kids for who they are. I needed to give myself a giant break. I am doing the best I can.

We are all doing the best we can.

Slice of Heaven

 

I love lunch. Sandwiches for lunch, to be exact. Neither of my kids has inherited this trait yet (I don't count PB&J) -- but there's still time. Time to make them wonderful, perfectly-balanced meals lovingly placed between two pieces of tasty bread. Ask my husband, I am incapable of "just making a sandwich." He hates it. But, he loves my sandwiches...

When I worked in a from-scratch bakery and cafe in VA, we had tons of fun coming up with new sandwich combos. We used fresh bread made on-site, and every time we needed to change the menu I got so excited. These sandwiches were, um, gourmet (if you can excuse the term). But all were just good.

On our honeymoon in the south of France, my hands-down favorite meal was a picnic lunch we had on the outskirts of Bonne, in Bourgogne. We bought sandwiches in town before we went (and before the wine). Oh, these sandwiches. I still dream of them:

Fresh, perfect chewy crusty baguette, enclosing fresh sliced local ham on a creamy pillow of real salted butter, and topped with Emmentaler cheese.

GASP! Butter on a sandwich?? My life was never the same... Sip a cool, balanced white Burgundy with that and just let everything else melt away.

So the other day, I made a sandwich for myself for lunch. Toasted wheat bread, deli ham, NY state cheddar cheese, vine tomatoes (OK, these are out of season, but they're better than the mushy bland alternative), green leaf lettuce from my garden, and a slather of mayo and Dijon mustard. Oh yeah, and some S&P on the tomatoes.

And then, folks -- I took a picture of it for posterity, 'cause that's how I do.

The Spice Road

Turns out to be the road less traveled in this house. Last night's dinner was something I was craving. This is usually when I enjoy cooking the most:

Chicken Curry with Tomatoes (Murgha Kari)

This dish from the Punjab takes only 30 minutes to prepare. [Did you read that? Only 30 mins!! Well, ahem. My chicken took a bit longer than 15 mins to cook to doneness. I guess chickens in the Punjab are much smaller than U.S. birds.] In India fresh tomatoes would be used in this dish.


4 medium onions, chopped [I only used 1.5 large ones, Vidalia]
2 tablespoons curry powder
1/2 cup butter or cooking oil [I used about 2 TB butter and 1/4 cup peanut oil.]
1 cup or 1 can (8 ounces) tomato sauce [I used chopped fresh tomatoes, cause I had 'em.]
2 teaspoons salt [or to taste. My opinion was it was a bit too salty.]
1 frying chicken (2 to 3 pounds) [I buy whole organic and cut up myself. Much cheaper...]
3/4 cup hot water

Use a casserole or large skillet with lid. Cook onions and curry powder in butter for 10 to 15 minutes. Add tomato sauce and salt. Disjoint and skin chicken, and place in sauce. Cook, uncovered, over medium heat, turning frequently until sauce becomes quite dry and chicken tests done with fork, about 15 minutes. Add hot water, cover pot, and cook over low heat for 5 minutes. Makes 4 servings.


Fresh local, organic spinach (yum!), sauteed with 3 cloves garic, sliced, in some olive oil

Basmati rice

Both Christian and I really liked this meal. Ian ate some of it (maybe some chicken?), and then had loads of fun throwing his spinach everywhere. Will took one bite of his drumstick (the only chicken part he eats with relish -- just like me when I was a kid), and almost burst into tears. "I don't like this kind of chicken!!" It wasn't even a spicy curry, for heaven's sake.

Sigh.

In the end, Will ate two hot dogs, some corn on the cob and a popsicle for dinner. No spinach.

Oh well, all I can do is expose them to different foods, right? And, frankly, I totally enjoyed my dinner that night. Screaming tantrums, flying food and all.

 

Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64...

Today is my eighth wedding anniversary. Eight years ago right now,I was probably getting my hair done in a Burke, VA salon (what? you don't know where that is?), freaking about what the Virginia humidity would do to my up-do. Possibly doo-doo. I may have already carefully self-applied my makeup, or maybe not. I was very concerned with looking "normal," not overdone. Here's what I promise I was NOT doing right now on that day eight years ago: thinking about what it would be like to yoke my life forever to this kind, young man I met at a fraternity date function in 1994. Who at the time had long hair. And smoked Marlboro Reds. No joke.

Now that I write it, that is very odd that we don't really think much about marriage when we take the plunge. We just know what we want when we want it. How very childish of us. Then again, I did look pretty awesome in that dress. And the tiara. And the hair. Did I mention the hair? Think Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Almost. [Would post pics if we had any digital ones. But folks, that was way back in 2002. Who had digital cameras then??]

The fact remains that eight years later--no tiara in sight--I am still sleeping next to this guy. I'm raising kids with him. I'm dreaming with him about our future (in fact, I think we may have actually started dreaming in unison--about the same things). I'm getting really, very pissed at him for leaving dirty dishes in the sink when the dishwasher is empty, and for being more interested in the latest PGA Tour stats than what I was talking about.

But I digress.

In the end, the dishes don't matter and I can deal with the PGA. Here's when those things fall away, completely.

Raising A Winner

Will is very much into "being first" these days. First at getting his shoes on, first at going to the bathroom, first at everything. He gets very upset if he thinks he's been slighted out of his rights to first-ness -- especially if it's for the sake of fairness on our part. I'm hoping this is a stage, because it's very annoying. Just being honest here.

Also, C and I wonder if this obsession with being first is healthy for Will. So, being the good parents we are (chuckles from the peanut gallery aside), we decided to try to insert our own logic into Will's preschooler brain and wait ever so patiently for it to take hold.

And then we had this conversation in the car the other day after a friend's BBQ where a T-ball game was played and a friend Will's age got very upset about not winning, or getting struck out:

Will: "F was really mad about not winning today."
Me: "Well, you know Will, winning isn't everything. It's about having fun with your friends too."
Long, pregnant pause from the backseat.
Will: "No, Mom. You're wrong. It is everything."

Schooled again by a 3 year old in the ways of the world. Because really, he's right. In our society, in his world when he grows up -- it is all about winning. C and I looked at each other and laughed, but inside I was a little sad. Sad that even at 3, Will was already learning the logic of being best, competing for glory, bragging rights.

Maybe it's just gonna take a little more time, and a lot more work, for our other logic to sink in. Maybe.