Happy New Year

Our new Christmas tradition: The Gratitude Tree

Cathy:

2011 has been one heck of a year. For some, it was better than the year before. For others, it was quite worse. No matter what it brought for you, it hopefully made you realize that it's important to be grateful for the things in life you have. And these things, as we all know quite well, are the things that can't be bought: good health, the love of your family, and if you're lucky - a job.

This year at our Christmas Eve dinner at my in-laws' house (we spend Christmas day with my family) we started a new holiday tradition: The Gratitude Tree. This couldn't have been more timely for me, personally. It's nothing fancy or big - but what it signifies is big. Bella created little ornament tags, topped them off with red ribbon and hung them on this decorative tree for us to partake in the new tradition.

Everyone participated - even Ari. She dictated to her sister what she was happy for (the movie theater, for one) and we each placed our personal thoughts and thanks on paper to be read aloud after dinner.

"Shouldn't we have done this on Thanksgiving?" asked my father-in-law.
"It doesn't really matter when you do it," replied my mother-in-law. "It's just important that you do it."

I must say, seeing these things written out, by each one of us, there in black and white for all to see, and then reading these most personal items out loud, really does something to you. It did for me - not only for what I wrote but also what my husband and children wrote. These will be kept until next year on the Gratitude Tree and revisited along with what we will be grateful for this coming year.

As with any new year, we hope to wipe the slate clean and start fresh. It's a relief to know that we can start anew and create different and bigger goals for ourselves once every 12 months. I don't know what 2012 will bring - more jobs, less jobs, the end of the world, or a new and better world - but what I do know is that we have the opportunity to start it renewed, hopeful, optimistic and...grateful.

Patti:

When I was a child, I remember time being this tricky little thing that inched along ever-so-excruciatingly slowly. When will school end? When will Summer come? When will the weekend come? When can I wear make-up? When can I date? When can I drive? When will I be a grown-up?

Yes, that. I was in such a hurry to grow up, but time and its take-its-time ways seemed to taunt me and also pretty much promise me it would never happen. I would stay stuck a miserable kid forever.

But I grew up. And I wore makeup. And I drove. And I dated. And I got married. And I had a baby. And now time? Oh, how I only wish I had more of it.

I had my daughter and time was suddenly measured by a whole new time system. It simply seemed to go so much faster, and no matter how much I ached from willing it to slow down, it just didn't.  And it still doesn't. I see her becoming something that she wasn't even just a few months ago. I see her limbs lengthening, her spirit deepening, her eyes widening to more and more. And in seeing all of this, I see pages and pages and pages of time simply fly by me, and I'm powerless to stop it.

After my dad died a few months before that "fresh start" of last year's New Year 2011, I realized that time does stop.  And so all we can do is simply cherish it.  Because, for all that childhood wishing that time would just hurry up, and for all our grown-up wishing that time would just slow down, we just never know when our time will simply run out.

And that is why, this New Year, all fresh and shiny and full of promise, is the year I will let time be. I won't wish it away, I won't wish it to stay, I'll simply live in it, and be grateful for each moment that I'm allowed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2011 will always be an historic year for us in the sense that it brought this blog to us, and us to you. We have enjoyed writing, ruminating, observing, bitching, crying, whining and wine-ing along with all of you - those we know, those we've met and those still yet to meet. 

Let's raise a glass to friends, for they are everything.

May 2012 bring health, prosperity, happiness and peace to you and your families. 

LOVE

CATHY & PATTI

Homemade Technology

by Cathy

Women are nothing if not resourceful.

There have been many posts written here about how Patti and I have made the best out of disappointing or crappy situations. That's what we do, we women, because it's in our nature. We have so much to handle, do and live up to that we find ways to accommodate and satisfy at every turn - even if we have to MacGayver our way through it. So when I see traces of this resourcefulness start cropping up in my daughters, I'm proud enough to brag about it.

Some history...

We have been loyal Mac users and lovers for the last 15 years - way before the "i" revolution in forms of clouds, phones, pads and pods.  We have owned a series of Mac-designed products - the MamaJamaJumboBox computer monitor with an equally large tower, the less bulky but still boxy version of the Mac desktop and even the colorful bubble Mac desktop.

We still have and use our nearly decade old iPod shuffle and Joe still uses his mini 13" Mac Powerbook laptop. I don't know if it's because that thing is old or compact or because it's discontinued, but when other Mac-ites see it they always stop and ooh! and aah! over it. Never mind that it's not wireless; Joe is very proud of that little engine that could (and still is). And our one home desktop, located in a central point in our home for the whole family to use, is aesthetically beautiful with its white, sleek, large monitor. But alas, we don't have wi-fi (GASP!) or wireless anything in our house (DOUBLE GASP!). In fact, Joe and I just bought smartphones this year (TRIPLE GASP!). Before that, we flipped our phones open and rarely texted. How did we communicate?

Since all of these Mac products have served us well and continue to do so (damn you, Apple) there is no reason, really, to buy a new laptop. Or another desktop. And we really don't need an iPad. I have my iPhone and Joe has his phone. Our kids? Bella has the 4th generation iPod bought last year and Ari always plays with my phone or her sister's DS. They don't have a Wii. They don't have an xBox. They don't have a Playstation. They don't have a computer in their room.

The only thing Bella, my 10-year old, is really obsessing after, is the ability to download music on her iPod. She can't do that because you need the latest version of iTunes on your computer. And to have that, you need the recent/newer OS for your computer. And since we have an older OS on our computer, apparently, one that can't be upgraded, we were told we need to buy a NEW laptop/computer, which......drumroll, please.......we really don't need.

So what does my resourceful, apple of my tree, do? She uses her will and finds a way. Music? She records it on her iPod straight from the car speakers, CD player or from the television or radio. Voila...homemade iTunes! Disney shows? Movies? She records her favorite snippets straight off the television and watches them back on her iPod. Voila...homemade YouTube!

Would she rather be able to download and view the real stuff from the real apps? OF COURSE. Does  she really need to? NO. But will we probably cave and have to keep up with the Jonesing of technology? Probably.

Puppy Love

by Patti


This past holiday weekend, M brought home a puppy.

Yes, I fainted, too.

M is the Grinch of the Universe; he is the only human being alive that is completely unmoved by fluffy white puppies.  So when he miraculously agreed over last Labor Day weekend that S could finally! FINALLY! have a dog for her birthday in April, S and I had seizures and then hugged and then promptly began daydreaming about what kind of dog we would get. We have both been eyeing puppies online pretty much non-stop, researching different breeds, and excitedly coming up with names.

The plan was to wait until April, when S turns 11 (ELEVEN!), because by then she will magically shift from child to a dependable, practical adult, and will be able to handle all of the responsibilities that come with owning a dog. That, and also: M was hoping to buy time. You see, even though he agreed to let S have a dog, I know him well enough to know that he was also secretly hoping she would just "forget" about that longed-for dog. We are now 3.5 months away from "D" (as in Dog) Day, and nope, she hasn't forgotten. Not at all.

So M went to Plan B. He brought home a dog. He called me last Thursday at work and asked me if it would be okay if we could take care of his co-worker's French Bulldog for 4 days. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? OF COURSE IT WOULD BE OKAY! He asked me to keep it a secret from S, and I nearly died from secret-holding induced implosion until he finally showed up. S heard M at the back door, and she turned to find him standing there with a creamy-colored alien that rode a magical spaceship from Planet Adorable and landed on our back deck.  M slid open the door and S was completely freaked out. I could tell she thought she was hallucinating, but she wasn't! There was a real! Live dog! Standing! In our house! And he was so cute it hurt! "This is Homie", said M. Homie wiggled and snorted towards us, and we fell in love. Like, right then and there.

And this is where M's Plan B began to unravel. You see, I also know M well enough to know that he was hoping that by bringing this dog home, S and I would both realize just how hard it is to have a dog. After all, owning a dog means taking him out all the time to pee and poop, it means getting up earlier than you want to because the dog is hungry, or has to pee, or wants to play, or feels lonely; it means giving up certain freedom and making certain sacrifices. But M's ploy was useless. We already knew this, and have been planning for this, and preparing for this. What M didn't plan for was falling in love.

That Grinch, the one who abhors shaky, white, fluffy puppies and might just serve them up as hors d' oeuvres, fell in love with a dog for the first time in his life. That dog sat by him on our couch and watched TV with him. That dog brought M his "tug-o-war" rope and plopped it into his lap, and M played with him. That dog snorted, snored, farted, and tracked dirt into the house, and M didn't have a thousand heart attacks.

We returned Homie to his owner yesterday, and the house already feels more empty. But I get the feeling it won't be for long. Thank you, Homie. You don't realize it, but you opened a heart that thought it was closed.

The 12 Whines of Christmas

by Cathy and Patti

By this point you are undoubtedly DONE with Christmas music. And it's not even Christmas yet! But since Walgreen's has had its Christmas decorations out since before the Halloween pumpkins even had the chance to shrivel up, and you, completely and totally against your will, know all the lyrics to all the Christmas songs ever, AND, even though you can't stand those songs, you inevitably find yourself humming those damned songs whether you want to or not, it's no wonder you have had it, Had It, HAD IT with All Things Christmas.

So, we have taken the liberty of cramming yet another song down your throat. Come on; what's a little more merriment? Shoot back that gingerbread Schnapps and sing along with us, won't you?

The first thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine... is the swollen glands I got from my husband!


The second thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine...is obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!

The third thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine...is circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!

The fourth thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine...is Poinsettia overload, circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!

The fifth thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine...is GETTING SHOVED AT TARGET!

...Poinsettia overload, circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!

The sixth thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine... is Jose Feliciano, GETTING SHOVED AT TARGET!
...Poinsettia overload, circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!




The seventh thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine...is urine-smelling wreaths, Jose Feliciano, GETTING SHOVED AT TARGET!
...Poinsettia overload, circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!


The eighth thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine...is pulling kids crafts out my ass, urine-smelling wreaths, Jose Feliciano, GETTING SHOVED AT TARGET!
...Poinsettia overload, circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!


The ninth thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine...is recycling colds and flus, pulling kids crafts out my ass, urine-smelling wreaths, Jose Feliciano,  GETTING SHOVED AT TARGET!
...Poinsettia overload, circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!

The tenth thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine...is stressing over shopping, recycling colds and flus, pulling kids crafts out my ass, urine-smelling wreaths, Jose Feliciano, GETTING SHOVED AT TARGET!
...Poinsettia overload, circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!

The eleventh thing 'bout Christmas that makes me wanna whine...is hauling decoration storage bins, stressing over shopping, recycling colds and flus, pulling kids crafts out my ass, urine-smelling wreaths, Jose Feliciano, GETTING SHOVED AT TARGET!
...Poinsettia overload, circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!

The twelfth thing 'bout Christmas that makes us wanna whine...is going flat broke, hauling decoration storage bins, stressing over shopping, recycling colds and flus, pulling kids crafts out my ass, urine-smelling wreaths, Jose Feliciano, GETTING SHOVED AT TARGET!
...Poinsettia overload, circling mall parking lots, obligatory gifts and the swollen glands I got from my husband!

....

Now that we've whined...it's time to wine.

We all know that a good whine needs a chance to breathe, right? So it's done; our whine has been popped open and aired out. Now it's time for the good part: It's time to drink up the velvety taste of Christmas and all the good it has to offer. Because, despite our whining, we know that with the bad there is always the good. And for that? We are merry.

Happy Holidays! Merry Christmas! Happy Hannukah, Festivus for the Rest of Us!

Love,

Cathy & Patti

Side-Targeted

by Cathy

'Tis the season to be jolly, Fa la la la la, la la la la!'

Whoever came up with that lively little ditty didn't have to shop at Target with their kids during the holidays, did they.

Going to Target on a regular, non-holiday day with the kids is crazy enough, but throw in the hustle and bustle of the holiday shoppers, the sales, the glitter, tinsel and sparkle and toy endcap displays, and it becomes the ultimate money-and-time-suck.

Without fail, upon entering Target, my kids all of a sudden, are starving. Since I try to avoid taking them to Target because of the reasons explained in this post, when I do, I indulge them in one of their favorite foods - Pizza Hut pizza. So we go straight to the counter, order their pizzas and they eat while I usually catch up on emails and mentally go through my shopping list. When they're done, I wait for the next Target side-track.

"Mommy, I have to go kaka," says Ari.
"Me too" chimes in Bella.

And there it is.

So we all head off to the bathroom. There I stand, listening to Ari recite school poems or sing Christmas carols or tell me the drama that occurred during recess that day at school while she is doing her business and I lean against the door to keep it from opening whenever someone else opens or closes their stall door. And God forbid someone uses those turbo XLERATOR jets to dry their hands; then we are literally screaming to be heard until they stop abruptly and we're still found screaming with our hands covering our ears.

[Allow me to vent: Those things are the loudest and most annoying thing EVER and whoever invented them should be subjected to sit in a bathroom for hours having to listen to those thing run non-stop. It's like a helicopter is landing in the middle of the bathroom to help you dry your hands. Really? (Here's a little tip, people: If you don't place your hands close to the nozzle, they won't be as loud. In fact, try to go as low as you can go without it shutting off and the noise level reduces by a few decibels.)]

Once my hand has dipped into the low toilets with the high water levels at least once during Ari's wiping session and the toilet has flushed on its own at least three times in the process (again, way to be green, people) then we wash our hands, avoid the XLERATOR like the plague and let our hands air dry as we finally head out to get a cart.

Actual cart; child actors

Enter the cart drama. Ari wants the cart with the separate double-seater section in front, which is not only as long as a bus but also feels like I'm maneuvering one as I do complete 180 degree turns every time I want to go anywhere. I feel like I'm plowing the aisles of Target with that contraption.

What actual cart feels like; again, actor

 If I'm lucky, some other poor parents are stuck with them all and I can get a normal, nimble cart. Once my girls have each argued about who will walk, who will sit in the cart, which part of the cart they want to sit or stand in, who's going to hang off the front or the side, we start strolling. By this point, I can't remember for the life of me what it was I came here to buy.



At about the same time, we are walking past the dollar bins, where I inevitably get side-Targeted once again by being forced to "Look!" and "Ooh!" and "Isn't this cute!" and "Can we get this?" over silly little doodads and other non-useful items that are presented to me with big brown eyes and pouty, puppy dog faces.

I mind-muscle them away by distracting them with questions about what we have to buy. But in the end, it doesn't matter what we have to buy - it's what we end up buying. And battling over. And negotiating over.

But I will be honest: the good thing about shopping during the holidays with the kids, is that anything they ask for can be answered with, "Oh, that's cute! Put that on your list for Santa!" And let's not forget the go-to lifesaver of the season: "Remember...Santa's watching you!!"

Until the post-season trips to Target, where upon I'll have to come up with new side-Targeted avoidance tactics.

Mommyonette

by Patti

From the moment I come home from work, S is glued to my hip all the way up until bedtime. There is the after-schook snack chat, homework, dinner, couch cuddles, next-day preparation chores.... M works weeknights, and, since S is an "only", she has no siblings to keep her busy. This means it's all Me-n-the-Kid all the time, and by the time 9 pm rolls around I am des. per. ate. for her to Go! To! Sleep! Already! By this point I have been pleasing people pretty much all day long, and I am ready to plop on the couch, cover myself up with my zebra blanket, stick a warm laptop on my lap, and mindlessly browse the 'net while my little Anderson Cooper talks wittily to me from the flickering TV.  Yes, I love multi-tasking my loafing, and WHY NOT; I multi-task everything else,

Although I eagerly look forward to bedtime, I also kind of have a love-hate relationship with it because bedtime means that we have to do the "routine".  S is a creature of habit. She needs these routines to feel safe and satisfied, and given her history of bedtime blues, I indulge her need for these little routines because I'd rather spend 10 minutes getting her to sleep then 10 hours NOT sleeping. However, at the end of the day, after a veritable cornucopia of routines, I just feel so DONE with routines that I admit I grow impatient with having to do yet another one. But we do it anyway. It starts with my telling her no less than 9 times to brush her teeth and get her pajamas on. Once she is finally in bed, I check her alarm clock and set her radio to soft music on a 20 minute sleep timer, then we do the Advent calendar, we read a story, I re-fill her water glass and hand it to her so she can take a sip, and then, once the lights are out, I sit with her for 2 minutes. That's it: just 2 minutes. And as long as I do all of these things in the right order, I can safely leave the room.

And the moment I settle myself onto the couch, my blanket perfectly tucked around my body, the laptop fired up, Anderson on, it happens.
"Mommy!" S, calling me from bed.
Me, from couch: "What?"
S, from bed: "Can I pee?"

I have told S thousands of times that she doesn't need to ask me permission to pee; that she is welcome to GET UP AND GO TO THE BATHROOM. But she asks me every. single. time. I have figured out that it is not really her asking my permission, or even having to pee, really; it is more her way of maintaining that connection with me so she doesn't have to go to sleep. So, even though I know she doesn't have to pee at all, I  tell her to go pee and get back in bed. I hear her shuffle to the bathroom, flush the toilet for effect, and shuffle back to bed, all as sloooooooooooowly as possible.

"Mommy!" S, back in bed, after her faux pee.
Me, from couch: "WHAT?"
"Uh... Good night!"
"Good night."
Silence. Then...
"Mommy!" There she goes again.
At this point I am VERY annoyed and feeling kind of stabby. "WHHAAAAT?"
S, tiny-voiced: "I love you."
Me, knowing I am being totally manipulated but falling for it anyway. "Love you, too, bean."
Then she goes quiet, and I giddily snuggle down into my blanket for some couch time.
"Mommy?" S, from bed AGAIN.
Me: "Oh, honey, WHAT?????"
S: "The radio turned off. I can't sleep without it."
Me: "GO TO SLEEP!"
S: "But I can't sleep without it!"

I huffily get out of my cocoon and stomp my way to her bedroom. Feeling like a marionette being manipulated by a master puppeteer, I angrily reset her radio and start stomping out.
"Mommy?"
I see her, laying there, her eyes blinking in the glow of the nightlight.
"What?"
"Thank you."

That is when I go to her bed, my marionette strings tangled, and I stroke her face; the face that will one day turn away from me, the face that will one day hold secrets, the face that will no longer call for me in the night. And I kiss that face.

And then I go back to the couch and sit in the quiet that has finally come.

All of the Lights

by Cathy

Obsessed with lights

I may be obsessed with lights; either that, or lights and their issues seem to be obsessed with finding me.

I wrote about how our car turn-signal headlight was randomly popping out of the front corner and literally hanging down low off the side of our car like the tongue of a parched dog on a hot summer day. Then I wrote about how we had to reinstall a new light fixture in our bedroom because a piece of the bulb broke off in the socket, and not even the old potato trick could remove it.

And now, the worst part about Christmas? You guessed it. I was dreading putting those lights on the tree. Then I had my mom, the Greek Martha Stewart, telling me that she read somewhere (probably in Martha Stewart's Living) that for a seven-foot tree, you need 800 lights. 800!! But my mom's tree always looks amazing so I decided to follow that advice and made sure I had a total of eight strings of 100 mini lights a piece, connected them all together before I started, plugged them in - and then proceeded to light the tree. Backwards. From the bottom up. And you know what? For the first time ever, it was a breeze! I was able to avoid black holes and light clusters alike. And my tree, too, looked like Martha Stewart rigged it up.

Now, it seems this obsession with lights has filtered down to my kids in a different way. Any time of day or night, morning, afternoon or evening, the lights get flipped on for everything in our house. Walking through the hall to get to the living room? Lights on. (This turns on eight lights down the length of our hallway, lighting it up like an airport runway.) In the living room? Even now with the Christmas tree lights on, the twinkling lights around our windows on and the lights entwined around the garland running across my mantle on, they turn the room lights on. Going to the bathroom? In order to get to their preferred bathroom they walk through their bedroom, turn on that light, then the bathroom light. Their room closet light is on 24/7. And the kitchen? Might as well be a 24-hour diner.

Maybe I'm turning into my parents. Just like they did, I am always on my kids' backs about turning off the lights in the house. (It's not just a money saving tactic anymore, it's also an energy saving measure as well.) In fact, I've gotten so tired of saying it that now, I just go ahead and turn them off myself. The other day, with every gift Bella wrapped for her friends, she would walk to the living room to put it under the tree and every time she would flip on the hallway/runway lights and then the lights in the living room - which remember - is already ablaze with twinkling Christmas lights. This must have happened about seven times - once every five minutes. She'd turn them on. I would turn them off. On. Off. On. Off. If someone was watching our house from the street, it would look we were hosting the Oscars right there in our little condo - a paparazzi light show extravaganza!

Perhaps one day when my kids have kids - or when electricity has to be rationed out because of the large carbon footprint we are leaving now - they will recall my words, and tell their kids to turn off the lights. Or perhaps they'll be so frustrated with installing light fixtures due to broken off bulbs or decorating Christmas trees, wreaths and windows, that they will willingly keep them turned off.

Finding the Fun

by Cathy and Patti

This summer, we got an opportunity to have a girls weekend at the infamous Kohler spa up in Wisconsin. When we think back to that glorious, luxurious, utterly heavenly weekend, all we can do is siiiiiigggggghhhh.

We knew it was going to be one hell of a It's-All-Been-Taken-Care-Of-Weekend when we were handed a glass of chilled champagne upon check-in. Once we got settled into our our spacious room and plopped ourselves down for a luxuriously long while on the plush beds made of puffy clouds and beams of warm sunlight, we took it upon ourselves to take a tour of the building.

A workout room! A two-floor spa! An indoor swimming pool with a waterfall! Hot tubs in the locker rooms! Fresh, crisp beverages with slices of lemon! Homemade (and healthy!) granola bars from heaven! A rooftop sundeck with enclosed pool and hot tub! A beauty salon! A bistro seating area complete with spa-goers, flush faced and tranquil, eating clad in only their velvety robes and comfy slippers!

As we hurriedly shuffled from one delightful discovery to the next, our frenetic excitement seemed to jar the relaxed patrons out of their tranquility trances - disrupting the atmosphere of calm and serenity. But the spa-goers knowingly glanced at one another; they knew that soon, we too would be like them....

Cathy:
By the time we had dinner and got back to our room that first night, it was about nine o'clock. We were full on gourmet food and rich libations. We began to excitedly review the menu of spa services we were to receive the next day, while reveling at the onset of our new state of contentment.

Then it hit us: Hey! Let's go up and take advantage of that rooftop indoor pool and hot tub! Yeah! So we hurriedly donned our bathing suits, slipped into our our robes and slippers, grabbed some towels, and headed to the special 007 elevator that took you to the top floor. We pressed the button and waited. And waited. And waited. NOTHING. Are there stairs? A fire escape? Another secret elevator? We have to get up there!

After much waitin' and hopin' and prayin' we finally found the sign of doom that told us that the rooftop deck closes at 9pm each night. 'Now what?' we sat there asking each other, gussied up like we were ready to hit a Mexican beach. So, we decided to do what we do best: be resourceful and tackle the issue MacGyver style.

I mean, we were at Kohler Spa for God's sake! We could find something to do! Sure enough, the answer was right under our noses. Our room was a veritable spa within a spa. Two sinks with fancy Kohler-style fixtures and a deep, rectangular hot tub big enough to sit two comfortably. Hallelujah! Since our resourcefulness knows no limits, we grabbed the bottle of champagne that was chilling in the mini-bar and cranked the iPod Bose player - both brought from home - filled the giant tub, revved up the jets and we were a 'spa-in' in the tub!

We sat in there for almost two hours - laughing, singing, gossiping, drinking, laughing, storytelling, reminiscing, laughing, and maybe...even crying. The stress was escaping our pruned up bodies by the minute...

Patti:
When we first climbed into that tub, it felt a little porny. But we have been known to embrace the whole Moms Gone Wild attitude with shameless zest, and this weekend? Away from our children and style- crampin' husbands? Was not the time to change that. Now don't go gettin' all dirty in the mind; it was not like that. When we say, "Moms Gone Wild", we mean that we are willing and able to step outside of our roles as wives and mothers and, if even for just one weekend like this, be who we once were -- before becoming a wife. Before becoming a mother. Before becoming responsible and practical. To reconcile your old self with your present self is such a delicious feeling, and boy do I ever highly recommend it.

Once in the tub, we each settled our heads back, cranked the music and the jets to "eleven", and sank into the liquid beauty of that warm, bubbly water. In our hands, of course, was a another type of liquid bubbly beauty: champagne! We marveled at how clever we were, able to make our own fun when the fun was nowhere to be found. As we water danced to Madonna, Cathy snapped a pic of us in the tub, champagne in hands, and texted it to her husband. He can be one of those frustrating "takes too long to respond" texters, but this time? When he saw his wife and wife's friend in bikinis in a hot tub? He immediately responded. "More, please!"

We spent the next 2 hours sipping on champagne in our makeshift spa, splashing like 2-year olds, behaving like teenagers, talking like women. The symphony of people, past and present, in that homemade hot tub in a hotel bathroom reminded me that it's never too late to have fun; that, no matter what, fun is where you to find it, and who you find it with.

My cell phone was flashing on the bathroom counter; a reminder of home. I considered checking it; maybe it was S, missing me. But for the moment, I poured myself another glass of champagne and sank deeper into the water.
.......

Family Secrets

by Patti

When S was in preschool, she began spilling family secrets.

During the first parent-teacher conference I learned that S, who had suffered from a bad case of separation anxiety when she first started preschool, was finally becoming adjusted to the whole being-away-from-home deal, but that she still needed to play with the kids her own age. According to the teacher, Monday mornings would find S hanging out in teachers’ lounge, asking them how their weekends went.

As she grew more and more comfortable, our parent-teacher conferences grew more and more UNcomfortable. “So, I heard you were moving,” the teacher would tell us. We were? They seemed to know things before we even did. “So you know, your daughter offered us the chance to buy your house for $10 – she told us you were desperate to sell it.”

The teachers also heard about how S’s papi “found all of our furniture in the garbage”. Yes, M is a master at finding gems in the alleys of Chicago, and refurbishing them into beautiful pieces of furniture, but to hear it from S’s precocious little mouth, one would think we were sleeping on flea-riddled mattresses and watching a television with a foil-wrapped antenna from couches with cigarette holes burned into them.

I began to dread facing the teachers. What else was S sharing with them that we didn’t know about? Did she tell them about the argument M and I had had the night before? Did she tell them about how her papi walks around in 15-year old boxers with holes in them, did she mention how I say the "F" word far more than any mother should? I was terrified of what they might know; I began to feel that S was a tiny traitor to our family; an enemy giving away top secret information; one who simply could not be trusted.

One day, I couldn't take it anymore, and I plainly asked the teacher to tell me what kinds of things S had been telling her. I don't know why I was so worried; after all, it's not as if we had dead bodies in our closets or headless cats hung over the fireplace mantel. Our lives were pretty clean and open. Yet, the idea that S might have taken something totally innocent and somehow twisted it into M and I being swingers who bathed with the neighbors freaked me out. The teacher, seeing my concern, chuckled and patted me on the arm. "Oh, if you only knew the things I hear being a preschool teacher. Trust me: I have learned to take it all in with a grain of salt."

Although I was now certain that the teacher knew far more than I wanted her to know, in a way, it was liberating. This meant we could pretty much dance naked with dressed-up pigs in our living room, and if S told her teacher we danced naked with dressed-up pigs in our living room, the teacher would just laugh and take it "all in with a grain of salt". Oh, the possibilities! We were free!

These days, S has gotten a little more selective about what she shares with her teachers, but I do wonder about the sheer volume of twisted scenarios these teachers must carry in their heads. I imagine their minds are an endless Fellini film, replete with hapless mothers and fathers hurtling through the space of their brains, weaving and tumbling through their memories, doing some crazy-assed things. And thanks to S, her papi and I without a doubt have leading roles in some of those films.

Latin Pinball Machine

by Cathy

Being married to a Latino, I've done my fair share of salsa dancing. I have to admit that when we met, I hadn't really ventured into cha-cha territory. But when you have the right partner - someone who knows just how to get your rhythm going, your hips swaying and your skirt twirling - whoooo! - vamos a bailar!

To me, all Latin music sounded the same -gasp! - but I quickly found out there are differences. There's salsa, cumbia, merengue, bachata, samba and the country/western-type ranchero music for starters. Dancing moves range from moseying, kicking up your boot heels and letting out a good long howling "aye, aye, ayyyyyeeeee" to the frenetic, wind-up-toy mode.

I admit that I've learned a lot just by watching other Latinos dance. I can sit and watch them for hours - the varying types of dances, how people move together and separately, the expressions on their face.  Every now and then you'll get your Dancing with the Stars couple out there showing everyone else how it's done, but for the most part, it's a bunch of couples out there having fun while shedding all inhibitions.

But what amazes me the most is how truly uninhibited Latin women are. They can don what they feel is the slinkiest mamacita outfit they own, pair it with some caliente heels - or even barefoot if need be - and check all self-consciousness and body images issues at the door; when it comes to dancing, these chicas are doin' it for themselves! It doesn't matter how big or small they are or how old they are, once those beats start beating and trumpets start trumpeting, the electric energy in their tappin' toes shoots up through their bodies and off they go! Bailar! And as a woman, I not only envy their unbridled confidence, but I applaud it.

However, as a "white girl" (i.e. non-Latina) getting caught up in all of this unrestrained liberation on the dance floor can be rough. With all those hips out there on the crowded dance floor, just bumpin' and gyratin' and swingin' and poppin' I feel like a ball in a pinball machine - just getting bounced around from hip to ass to hip to ass. The more I get bounced around, the less I can focus on my quasi-salsa moves.

The crowning point comes when the music gets so fast (and don't ask me which type of dance this is, I just know that there is only one speed - Insanely Fast) that I feel it's humanly impossible to move that quickly. The faster it gets, the more stressed I get that I can't keep up! I thought dancing was supposed to be fun! Why do I feel so stressed?? I'm moving so fast I feel like my legs will break off at the hips as I dislocate them from the sockets. 'Who invented this?' I think to myself as I watch everyone else jiggle and wiggle to keep up. What sadistic lunatic sat there and said, "Let's see how fast we can play these instruments and let's see how fast they can dance without falling over!" It's like watching a video being fast-forwarded, but only in real time!

Is this really dancing? If so, this isn't for me, hombre. I'll sit my "white" ass out on this one, sip on my tequila, enjoy la musica, and admire the people who do it best. Ole!

For Better or for Worse

by Patti


I have a confession to make: I complain about my husband more than I should. Truth of the matter is, he is actually a pretty good guy. Yes, he is a Grinch during the holidays, he acts like snow freezes his very soul, he is quick with a judgment and slow with a compliment, he is a perfectionist, and he can quite easily be a total pain in the ass.

He also takes care of his family, he makes me laugh, he loves our daughter fiercely, he is responsible and smart and resourceful; he is highly independent and confident and without a doubt follows his own rules and nobody else's. For all these reasons, I love him.

I also love the fact that, as masculine and macho as he is, he can iron the shit out of a shirt, he knows how to sew, he cleans better than I do times a thousand, and, whenever he is from off work and I am not, I come home to something like this:

Why am I saying all of this? Because, having been with M for 22 (Twenty! Two!) years -- 12 of those married -- I can easily fall into a state of forgetting to appreciate. Yes, he may be guilty of the same, but I can only speak for myself here -- and I will.

This weekend, after M and S had already gone to bed, I was relishing my late-night alone time, watching bad television all by myself, when suddenly my left foot started acting possessed. My toes started doing that crazy, uncontrolled "spread out" kind of thing, where they get really straight and start moving apart, and, if it wasn't so damned painful, you might just simply stare at those toes and enjoy the show. This has happened before; it usually happens after a particularly intense workout and not enough water, and, having worked out that day, I figured that's what it was.

But then I saw this giant lump form on the top of my foot, and no matter how I stretched that foot, or bent my toes backward and forward, my foot felt more and more stuck and painful, and that lump started looking kind of... black. That's when I accepted that I was probably thisclose to death; that that lump was a blood clot that was moments from dislodging and making its speedy journey towards my lungs, or better yet! My brain! And I hastily limped my way to our bedroom, snapped on the light and woke M from a deep slumber to make him promise that, if I died, he was to celebrate Christmas with our daughter in a non-Grinchy way.

M sat up in bed and humored me. He studied the offending black lump, he poked at it, massaged it, and made me put my feet up on the wall and stretch my calves. He also reminded me I hadn't worked out in a couple of weeks and had probably overdone it at the gym. He also pointed out that I always sat in my special "deformed" manner that meant my foot was suffocated by my ass for far longer than was appropriate for a foot be suffocated by an ass, and that, like it or not, that ugly black lump was actually on both of my feet... see? Right there! I studied my feet and saw that he was right: I had some pretty ugly feet. My toes started to calm down and the lump relaxed. For the moment, I was spared.

Relieved, I kissed him good night and headed back for the living room to turn off the lights and the television and Dr. Google The Lump, and I thought about it: For 22 years this man has been by my side. He's made my cry, he's made me laugh, he's disappointed me, he's surprised me, he's taken care of me and I've taken care of him. I've loved him, I've hated him, I've needed him, I couldn't stand him. Because of it, despite it, we made a family, we are a family, and no matter how often I kind of want to kill him, this remains the one constant: We're in it together, for better or for worse.

The Night Justin Timberlake Crashed Our Playdate

by Cathy & Patti


Before our babies are even born, we wonder about their futures: Will they be happy, will they be successful, will they get married, will they have friends? Indeed, worrying about their social lives is a surprisingly heavy concern. Of course we want our kids to be liked, to have friends - so the moment they are capable of acknowledging there is another human being in the room, we start hooking them up on play dates.

At first those play dates are accompanied by us, which can sometimes be torturous when your kid's new friend has a mother with the personality of a plant. But as they grow older and more self-sufficient, the playdates become of the "dump and run" variety, and we take advantage of that sudden glorious free-time while our kids develop friendships. Win-win!

But once in a while, you hit the social jackpot: Not only is your kid making a new friend, you also happen to really like that friend's mom. Suddenly, these play dates become a total 2-for-1! The kids play with the kids! The moms play with the .... wait. That sounds a bit porny and Moms Gone Wild.

But you know what? Moms sometimes DO go wild.

Patti:
When S was about seven years old, her friendship with Bella, Cathy's daughter and S's bestie, was in full bloom. We had recently started a fun Friday night play date tradition, which entailed pizza and the girls playing "school" and "fashion show", and other various girly games, while Cathy and I would catch up on our respective weeks and swig wine. Yes, we drink wine. IN FRONT OF OUR CHILDREN, CALL THE POLICE. These Friday night play dates (FNPD) usually began around 6 pm, and would end around 10 pm. But as the Friday nights came and went, our FNPDs began to go later and later. We figured, "Eh. She's Greek. She's Latin. It's what we do." And so we did.

One night, Cathy and I got into a discussion about music. Cathy is a very B96 kind of girl. Me? Give me a guitar and I'll sing you some songs I wrote. So we got into a bit of a debate about Justin Timberlake, who, at the time, I considered to be strictly B96 material. As the girls ran screaming up and down the long hallway in Cathy's condo, and circled the couch chasing each other in poofy, sparkly princess things, we discussed the pros and cons of Justin Timberlake.
"I just think he is sexy..." Cathy sighed.
"Eeeew, no. He is... just not. Plus: I hate his music."
"You HATE his MUSIC?" Cathy looked at me, horrified, reconsidering our friendship. "You can't hate his music..."
Seeing my unmoving face, Cathy popped up from the couch. "Okay, look, I'm gonna show you something of his that there is no way you can not like!" She turned on the television as the girls, spent from running around, flung themselves onto Cathy's futon. She searched through her DVR'd shows, and came upon a frozen-on-the-screen Justin Timberlake, wearing a fedora and all decked out in white. "Look. At. THIS." She pressed play, and Justin began to gyrate ever-so-slightly. He seemed to look right at me and sang, "Hey girl, is he everything you wanted in a man? You know I gave you my world. You had me in the palm of your hand..."

Although turned off by the "palm of your hand" lyric - even Cathy knows my aversion to all things cliche -  I found myself strangely turned ON by the haunting melody and Justin's sure gaze. I moved closer to the edge of the couch and, against my very will, suddenly found myself standing up, dancing along to Justin's words, "Don't want to talk about it. Don't want to think about it. I'm just so sick about it." What was WRONG with me? Did everything I ever held to be true suddenly blow up?

As soon as the song ended, I felt something inside of me had shifted. But Cathy didn't stop her immersion-to-conversion therapy there, no. She pulled out her iPod and some headphones, stuck one bud into her ear, and the other into mine, and suddenly Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" was caressing my ear. I looked at Cathy and she smiled slyly at me; she knew her plan was working. The next thing we knew, we were bumping hips and gyrating, our arms in the air, singing out loud as Justin Timberlake seduced each one of us, together and separately, song by song.

That is, until I saw it. Or, should I say, them. We had totally forgotten about our kids. Our exhausted, up-since 7am-and-gone-to-school kids. There they were, both face-planted into the futon, completely knocked out. I looked at the clock. It was 1 o'clock in the morning! Who has play dates that last until 1 o'clock in the morning?!?

Thanks to Justin, we did.

Cathy:
Oooh, those FNPDs. Like Patti mentioned, it was the best of both worlds; girls occupied and playing, moms having a girls night out (GNO) in the comfort of their own home. We often cranked up the iTunes on my Mac, conveniently located in the kitchen, where all the creature comforts of a GNO would be - food and wine.

And when ABBA's Mamma Mia soundtrack came on - look out! The girls would run in squealing and whirling while Patti and I spun them and swung them, all of us singing at the top of our lungs (much to the chagrin of my neighbors) while Patti videotaped the whole lively fiasco on her phone.  So when the party moved into the living room and J.T. was singing and swaying right to us through the television (I had his Madison Square Gardens concert recorded live on cable! Hours and hours of entertainment!), the party was taken to a whole other level. Well, for us big girls, at least.

Our daughters, (Ari was three at the time) would be running in and out of the living room, dodging and darting between us as Patti and I busted the clubbiest dance moves we could muster from our back-in-the-day nights. Our legs were sore for days afterward.

In the midst of all this hoopla but before the kids tumbled over all around us in a heap of exhaustion, my husband came home. His look - a combination of intrigue, laughter, shock and bewilderment - said it all. After the obligatory greetings and questions were exchanged, before he knew it, he got over the fact that the kids weren't in bed and since he couldn't beat us, he decided to join us. He grabbed a glass of wine and crashed our J.T. play date.

Perhaps the most memorable scenario of the night - as if what was ensuing was not memorable enough - was when Ari decided she wanted some of what us big people were drinking. So without any warning and quick as lightning, she stuck her little finger in Joe's glass and darted it back into her mouth. I lunged towards Joe. "Don't let her have any of that! She's on antibiotics!" Really?

That night - the night J.T. gave a private, command performance just for us Dancing Queens in my living room - was better than any concert or club we could have gone to. It was a spontaneous, memorable time that we got to share with our children and still talk and laugh about.
...........

Now, when we hear one of his songs play on the radio, we're immediately transported back to the night that Justin Timberlake crashed our daughters' play date. And then we smile and turn up the radio.

Can You Effing Cool It??

by Cathy

The other day, I took the bus home from work.
I normally don't mind this; it gives me a chance to sit back, relax and take a quiet break in my day before I get home and the after school madness ensues. However, this time, that madness was ensuing on the bus.

I just so happened to leave work when the high school up the street was letting out for the day. Lucky for me, I was trapped on snail-paced public transportation, teeming with loud, boisterous, energetic, hormonally overloaded teenagers. The smell of Doritos and sweaty P.E. uniforms filled the once breathable air. Conversations and greetings were being had and exchanged across the length of the bus and the tingy, annoying sounds of every music genre out there was blaring through iPods and iTunes-heavy phones cranked to the hilt.

As if that weren't bad enough, I was sitting across the aisle from two teenage boys, sitting next to each other having, what at first seemed like a normal conversation at a normal decibel. As it went on, I could overhear bits and pieces, mostly expletives. These expletives were starting to pepper the conversation considerably more, until it felt like the F word was being showered down upon me. "Fuckin'" began every sentence, filled every pause within sentences and ended each sentence. 'Why can't they just have a regular conversation?' I thought. 'Was it out of habit or do they think they sound cooler to their friends?'

What made this whole thing even worse, was that just a few seats away, sat a mom and her young kids - one boy around age four and one girl around age six. They clearly could hear the conversation these effin' boys were having. That's what troubled me. It didn't seem like the mother was phased, however, my guess is that she didn't understand English very well, and probably, neither did her children. But 'fuck' is a pretty universal term - no translation needed in any language.

Then I thought, 'What if I had my kids with me?'

If that were the case, I can tell you this: They would have been asked to effing stop.  I find that many times, kids that age aren't aware that they are in an environment other than their own, and for the most part, they respect it when it's brought to their attention that there are small children around. I know this firsthand because I've asked people to refrain from cursing when my kids are around and mostly, they get it.

Of course I've gotten the ignorant road rager, who is so blinded by rage that he/she sees nothing except the giant middle finger they are holding triumphantly out their window for everyone (my kids included) to see, or focuses on nothing but the most appropriate curse word to call me at that particular time, not seeing that my kids are in the back seat and my window is open. Yeah, real nice. Real mature. It takes a big man/woman to put me in my place with such vulgar words and animated expressions in front of my kids.

Next time, people need to effing cool it, look around and think before they effing lose it. There are kids present.

My Papi Needs a Little Miami

by Patti

There's no denying it: In his former life, M swung from the vines in a jungle in the Amazon. I have mentioned before how tropical that man is; how much he hates the cold and needs, but NEEDS, to feel the sun on his skin. And not just any sun, no; it has to be that fierce, tropical sun that calls for linen Cabana Boy shirts and a little salsa and merengue in the background. So, naturally, we live in Chicago, where your nose hairs freeze into tiny crystals of ice every time you dare take a breath for 6 months of out every year, and the only background music is "FUCK, it's FREEZING out der, youz guyz!"

This means that M? Is a Winter Monster. The minute October hits, he starts getting "irritated". By December and its wistful 4:00 pm darkness, he is full-on psychotic. By February, he is catatonic with misery, robotically shoveling snow and then returning to the comfort of the couch to wait for the sun... someday. Around late May, although there is still a chill in the air, he starts to shed the Winter Monster and the life begins to return to his eyes. The motorcycle might even get dusted off for a few afternoon spins around the city, and suddenly, the lake is sparkling and there are thousands of "released-from-prison" joggers along the bike path, and the scowl on his face might even be replaced from time-to-time with a genuine smile.

But here's the thing: I am the one who has to live with this Winter Monster. M is so unbearably miserable the whole winter long, I am tempted to grab the shovel out of his hands and conk him over the head to put him out of his misery. Alright, let's be honest: I am tempted to conk him over the head and put MYSELF out of MY misery.

Sadly, I know the cure: My papi? Needs a little Miami. "What do you mean, 'sadly'?" you may be asking. "What is wrong with Miami?" Well, technically, there's nothing wrong with Miami. It has beaches and good food and it's always warm,and I like visiting there.  But M, being the surpreme latino that he is, thinks Miami is the perfect alternative to Argentina and doesn't want to just visit there; he wants to LIVE there. "We're still in the U.S.! They speak Spanish!" he tries to convince me. But Miami has pink houses and flying bugs the sizes of Volkswagens and hurricanes and, well, it's Florida. I'm sorry, but there is no reason to go to Florida other than to die. Plus! A humid Christmas? No more turtlenecks? No more buttery leather boots? I cannot live in flip flops alone. I need cute patterned tights and skinny vanilla lattes and the smell of autumn. Real autumn, not the manufactured kind.

At the same time, I need M to not be miserable. So I guess when the sun disappears and the snow starts to fly, my papi's gonna have to get himself a little Miami. And then he better come home and get himself a little mami.

Reading Between the Routines

by Cathy

The other night as I was hurrying my older daughter Bella along with wrapping up homework and cleaning her desk, Ari made a startling 'life observation' that was way beyond her five years.

I said: "Hurry up, Bella. It's time for bed. Don't forget to cap the gluestick."

Ari, who was sitting up in bed, mothering her little stuffed doggie, Marshmallow, and his injured leg wrapped in a sparkly pink headband, blurted out: "Yes. Put the cap on the glue, put your stuff away, put your pajamas on, go to sleep, wake up tomorrow, put on your uniform, go to school, come back home, do homework again..."

Laughing, yet amazed, I said, "Do you know what that's called? All that?"
"No," she smiled back innocently.
"A routine," Bella droned.
"Yes, a routine!" I half-assed pepped up to make it sound appealing. Well, she was learning a new word so it had to have some element of fun!

 I was flabbergasted that at age five, she already understood the concept of a routine.What did I realize at five years old? Then again, we are talking about a five-year old that recognizes neighborhoods well enough to know when we are driving near her grandmother's house, her ballet studio, her school, Target - and she knows when we're not driving down the street we're supposed to be going, based on our destination.

This observation was such an adult observation; is she already bored with her life? Because once you get the concept of a routine - and perhaps your feelings on this change as you get older - it's kind of a sad revelation. I can vouch for this because that same night, after I tucked them both in and sat on Ari's bed so she can fall asleep, my mind drifted to how mundane life can become. How in fact our lives are just a series of routines - I mean, for a five-year old to grasp that concept, made it all the more telling at how blatantly predictable our lives can be. My thoughts were tailspinning me into a sadness as I lay there watching my girls sleep.

And then it hit me.
Where does life fall within all of these routines? Right smack dab in the middle of 'em.

It's what happens between and within our routines that make each day special. For our kids, it could be a funny joke mentioned at breakfast, the 'what happened at school today' stories at pick-up, watching them develop and excel at their after school activities, the goofy song that was made up during bathtime, the loss of a tooth during dinnertime, or the feelings shared in secrecy at bedtime. For us, it could be the promotion at work, the loss of a job, carrying the burden of a friend or family member's problems, meeting up with a friend for drinks, booking that trip, starting that novel or even just signing up to finally take that class.

All of these things, these moments that happen while we are shuffling through school schedules and grinding through work routines  - are what really make up our lives. We just need to learn to find these little diamonds in the coal mine of life, recognize them and appreciate them for what they are worth.

Old School Gift Wrap

by Patti


S has a Pavlovian response to bags. Anytime anybody walks through the door with a bag in their hand, whether it be a plastic grocery bag or a sparkly gift bag, she automatically assumes it is a gift, and that it is for her. Her eyes immediately start to glimmer and she coyly asks, "for me?"

So I was surprised the other night when M walked through the door with a perfectly gift-y looking bag and she did not immediately run up to him and pretend to love on him while strategically craning her neck to get a gander into the bag. M placed the bag in front of her, the pastel gift tissue seductively swishing, and she looked at it rather plainly. "What's the matter?" I asked her.
"I just miss real wrapping paper. Everything always comes in bags now, and you just take the present out. It's not as fun."

I thought about what she said and realized she was absolutely right. Growing up, all of our gifts came, well, wrapped. Layer after layer of crinkly, colorful paper would make the unwrapping process a delicious torture. Some kids would just tear into the paper mercilessly, eager to get to the goods. Others, aware of the care that went into the intricate wrapping of the gift, lingered, slowly peeling of the scotch tape, folding the paper gingerly, torturing their audience as they waited for the gem to be revealed. The point is, we had a choice on how to open our gifts, and the surprise always lay underneath - waiting to be discovered. Now? The gift is stuffed into a bag with some tissue wrapped around it for "effect", and all a kid has to do is put his hand in the bag and BOOM! The surprise is over.

Are gift bags a sign of the times? Has even gift-giving become a HURRYUPHURRYUPHURRYUP 
endeavor that we just want to get over with as quickly as possible? Or have we become such an instant gratification society that we can't even take a moment to wrap something up and top it with a bow, and then take even longer to unwrap it? Instead, we must shove gift in and pull gift out with minimal pomp and circumstance. Has gift giving and opening become microwavable?

I was touched and also a little afraid by S's observation -- touched because, wow, how cool is that my kid, who has only ever known instant gratification, wants to slow things down; afraid, because wow, my kid has only ever known instant gratification and what if it just spins out of control to the point that nothing ever again will be worth the wait for her?

This year, all of her Christmas gifts will  be wrapped in candy cane-laced paper and leaping reindeer and winking Santas, topped with red and green bows, and double-taped. And I can't wait to watch her eager fingers trace the cartoon reindeer and undo the satiny bows - even if it takes forever.

Musical Beds

by Cathy and Patti

There was once a time when our things were ours. When our bedroom was ours. When our bed was ours.  This is not the case any longer now that our lovable kids have put quite the dent in the way we live - and the way we sleep.

Since they were born, most of us kept our babies in our bedrooms - so they can be easily breastfed, so they can be easily heard, so that we can ensure they are breathing. Eventually, we transition them off to their own rooms, but alas, those rooms are not as appealing as the parents' room. You would think our walls were made of chocolate! Our duvet covers were made of warm, gooey caramel! The pillows were fluffy, giant marshmallows! And there are glittery fairies that light up only our rooms at night and sprinkle rainbow-colored sugar over us while we sleep! Surely, this can be the only reason that our kids continue to want to lay with us in our beds or sneak in between us and our spouses in the middle of the night.

However, it's what ensues as a result of this bed-hopping that wreaks the most havoc on the way we look and feel after a night of having slept on pretty much every sleepable surface of our house - except, probably, our own bed.

Cathy:
Our king size bed (a.k.a. the Big Bed to my kids) measures about six and-a-half feet wide. Do you know where I slept the other night? In that half-foot of space. Let me explain...

Over Thanksgiving break, of course, the girls' sleep schedule got off whack. It was 10:30 at night and they were doing the Greek bellydance jig to the tune of "I like 'em big! I like 'em chunky!" from Madagascar 2. So I purposely woke them up 'early' on Sunday morning, so they could fall face-first tired into their beds that night and wake up bright and early for school on Monday. Instead, Sunday night, Ari was roaming around the hallway with her little pillow, begging me to lay with her at 10pm. After she fell asleep, Bella eventually wandered into my bedroom at 11:30 practically in tears because she was just so overtired and couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep. So I let her sleep in the Big Bed with me since Joe was snoring up to high heaven on the living room couch anyway.

All was fine until about 4:30 in the morning, when I heard, "Mama! Mama!" Bella and I were jarred from our sleep to find Ari standing on the bed over Bella's head. I thought I was having one of those delusional mirages like the parched desert trekkers have with water. Was this for real? I reached over Bella with one eye open and sure enough, Ari was standing there. She had apparently startled awake and realized that I was no longer laying with her so she came to seek me out. She was about to leap half asleep over her sister to come and settle between us. The only problem was that Bella was so far over on my side that I had to scooch over practically to the edge of the massive bed. I asked Bella to move over the other way, where she had about four feet of open space. She just shifted her knees before she exhaustingly fell back asleep.

So for the next few hours before the alarm went off at 7am, I was drifting in and out of sleep, tossing like a salad in a spinner, being kneed in the tailbone, face, boobs and the small part of my back that is so ticklish, I found myself jerking almost headfirst into my nightstand with every little fist and foot nudge.

Naturally, Joe at this point had settled into one of the girls' beds after almost unknowingly laying on Bella as he groggily came to bed. I thought over and over again about getting up and going to lay in the other twin bed, surrendering the spacious Big Bed to the two tiniest people in the house, while the biggest people slept in the tiniest beds. Makes sense, right? But I knew from past experience that I either wouldn't be able to fall back asleep in the other room or like clockwork, Ari would awaken from her sleep stupor - because she can just smell these things, even in her sleep - and want to follow me back to her bed.

Instead, I lay there half asleep, startling awake every time Ari would kick off her covers or toss uncomfortably. It was clear no one - not even she - was getting any good sleep that night.

Patti:
As I have mentioned before, S didn't sleep through the night until she was 18 months old, and even then, she had periods of torturous regression where she simply would. not. sleep. unless one of us was laying with her.  She didn't care where we were laying with her, as long as we were. This meant that, in order to ensure that S would not be exhausted the next day, one or both us fools (a.k.a. parents) would end up sleeplessly uncomfortable, uncomfortably sleepless -- and, surprise! Exhausted!

S is now a solid 10 years old, and guess what? She still has those nights. Except for she is now, like, 4 times bigger than she used to be, and slotting her in between M and me isn't as easy as it used to be. Yes, we have a king bed, but we could have 9 king beds lined up side-by-side, and it still wouldn't be big enough. Because the kid will inevitably find her way to the nearest back -- usually mine -- and stick herself smack-dab against it. All. Night.

Because of this, and M's "delicate" sleep cycles,  he has declared our bed a kid-free zone. Still, there are nights where he will cave and allow S to indulge in what she likes to call 'Family Cuddle". She always promises it will be for "just 10 minutes" - even though she brings the entire contents of her bed to ours and is clearly moving in  - and inevitably we will all fall asleep during this "just 10 minutes". And then, at 2 am, I will wake up in a tunnel of kid and husband, dying of heat stroke, an ass or two in my face, and an inch of sleep space.

The other night S didn't even bother with the "Family Cuddle" ruse; she flat-out asked if she could sleep with us. M was going to stay up later to watch a movie, so he said she could fall asleep with me, and that he would carry her to her bed later. I woke up at 2 am to find S spiraled around me, and M shoved far into the corner of the bed. Annoyed that he had flaked out on his "transfer the kid" promise, I huffily got out of bed and went to S's room to prepare her bed so that I could carry her into it without waking her up. S has a low bunk bed, and she has a cozy little "fort" bed on the bottom with a curtain. When I walked in, I was confused to find a makeshift bed on the floor? I couldn't understand why, when there are 2 whole beds to sleep on in S's room, there was one on the floor? Too tired to solve mysteries, I went back to my room and lugged 58 lbs of kid back to her room, then went back to my bed. Of course, S woke up and got freaked out and started calling my name. I went back to her room, my mind knowing I had to get up in what felt like 5 minutes for work, and shushed her, but she must have had a bad dream because she was afraid. So I climbed onto her top bunk, telling myself I would only lay there for 5 minutes as she fell back asleep, and promptly fell asleep.

I woke up a billion times that night, kicking the top of the floor lamp, scratching my hand on the white eraser board S had shoved under her pillow, hearing stuffed animals hurtle through space from the bed to the floor... In short: I slept like shit. Meanwhile, M had an entire king bed to himself.

The next day, I found out that M had come to bed and attempted to take S to her own bed, but she woke up and he didn't feel like dealing with the whole "transfer" drama, so he decided to sleep in her room. He tried the top bunk, but it felt "dangerous", so then he squeezed himself into the "fort" bed underneath, and it felt "too short". So Mr. Goldilocks made a bed on the FLOOR next to two perfectly good beds, but guess what? THE FLOOR WAS TOO HARD. Ya think? So he finally came back to our bed, and rather than just carry the kid to her bed, just dealt with being shoved into a corner, probably knowing I would wake up and take care of it all.

And I did. As usual.
....

The 9pm Nap

by Cathy

Nine o'clock is usually when I have my girls in bed these days - well, Ari at least. Bella still thinks it's too early for bed. Naturally, I have to lay with Ari on her bed (or at least sit there with her) until she falls asleep. (For the record, we are slowly working on breaking this habit with her. And by 'we' I mean ME. I am the one who usually ends up having to lay with her to fall asleep.) The only problem is that I end up on the brink of sleep myself.

I desperately try to refrain from falling asleep by sitting up on her bed. But occasionally, she asks me to lay next to her and squeeze-hug her. For this, I happily oblige; there's nothing like taking in the sweet smell of your child's neck as they fall asleep. Before I know it, however, I have drifted off right along with them. Despite my best efforts to stay awake! so I can accomplish the list of things that are already accumulating in my head, sleep sometimes takes over my body and brain.

Some time later, I startle awake and it takes me a good minute to figure out where I am. Once that's established, I purposely try to walk to my bedroom with my eyes closed, so that I can keep the momentum of sleep going. Don't wake up...don't wake up...

I realize I have to get my pajamas on. There are people who can sleep in their clothes. I'm not one of them. Don't wake up... Then I realize I have to pee. Don't wake up... Then I realize I didn't brush my teeth. Don't wake up... Then I realize I have to check to make sure doors and windows are locked. Don't wake up... Then I realize I forgot to defrost the chicken for tomorrow's dinner. Digging around in the freezer, I'm starting to wake up... Then I realize I forgot to put the washed clothes in the dryer. I'm slowly reaching full on awake mode... Then I realize I haven't removed my makeup. By the time I splash on water to wash off the apricot foaming gel, I'M UP.

By now it's well past 11pm and I am fully awake.

I could make tomorrow's lunches for the kids! I could go through my stack of work papers/coupons/catalogs/bills/kids drawings/recipes! I could clean out my purse! I could catch up on watching DVR'd shows I don't get a chance to watch during non-vampire hours! I could catch up with Facebook! Twitter! LinkedIn! The world is my oyster!

And tomorrow morning, the alarm clock is my worst enemy.