Orientation

by Patti

Today we received in the mail a document that caused S to squeal and jump 6 feet in the air. I wondered if the Lottery Department had written me a letter informing me that, even though I hadn't purchased a ticket, I had somehow magically hit the jackpot of the century and would I please come down to headquarters and pick up my winnings?

I soon found out that equivalent to this in a 13-year girl's mind is her High School Orientation letter. She immediately ran to the refrigerator and slapped the letter under a magnet, singing joyfully to herself. "I can't believe it! DON'T FORGET!" she eyed me sternly.

But oh, how I want to forget.

How is this possible? Certainly the sudden lines that have appeared on my face - lines that no longer disappear by noon - have been trying to tell me about this passage of time, but I've been ignoring them. Because the passage of time is not something I'm handling very gracefully.

Aside from the "aging" part of it, what has gripped me most is the permanence of this passage of time. No. Matter. What. We can never get it back. And the last 13 years with my daughter, since the first earthly cries of my one and only child, are suddenly a dream-like patchwork of moments and memories, the only tangible evidence they ever happened the coltish, beautiful teenager standing in my kitchen, singing about high school.

It's strange, because I'm okay with her growing up. I love the "she" she has become; I love that we are friends and that she tells me most everything; I love that she is a hilarious companion and a quirky sidekick. I love her and all that she is. Yet, I find myself mourning the "she" she will never again be. Not because I don't adore who she is becoming, but because I will never get back who she was.

As I mark my calendar lest I DARE FORGET, I am cautiously looking forward to experiencing the energy I will no doubt absorb from all the other vibrating 13-year olds on High School Orientation Night. I will sense the jittery anticipation of all things new; I will take in the shine of young eyes as they dream about what will be. And I will look at my daughter and do my best to be present because, yes, even THIS moment, the one in which I am lamenting how she has grown up so fast, will one day be part of that dream-like patchwork of moments and memories. And I will never get it back.

Therein lies the difference

by Patti

My “lady parts” doctor’s office is located in an outdoor mall. That sounds wrong, doesn’t it? It sounds like I’m getting my pap smears done at a kiosk. But no – fortunately for all the shoppers, the office is actually in a building, neatly and discreetly tucked away in the corner of the third floor. But I digress. The cool thing about having an appointment is I get to hit the Starbucks right across the way, or go to TCBY and eat a $9 yogurt, or window shop at Macy’s. Look – when you’ve had a stranger’s hand up your hoo-ha, a little retail therapy is in order, don’t you think? Yes, I think.

The other day, I had a little extra time before a scheduled appointment, and decided to stroll around the breezeways a bit. There was Table de la Sur, with its Martha Stewart-esque kitchen gadgets to make one feel like a complete domestic failure; there was Forever 21, teeming with middle-aged mothers and their gum-smacking, eye-rolling teen-aged daughters, both feeling horrified for entirely separate reasons; there was Vera Bradley, with its North Shore paisley prints splashed on Every! Single! Item! Even! Their! $20! Pens!

I realized the time, and decided to start heading to the kiosk doctor’s office for my appointment. As I walked, I noticed a man walking with his little boy. The boy was around two years old, and he did his best to keep up with this rushed dad.  As the boy hurried to catch up, he started to hobble. And that’s when I realized that the kid’s pants were sliding right off of him. Down over his diapered butt they went until they were circling his ankles and catching his every step. But the little dude muscled up and still tried to keep up. The dad? Totally oblivious. At that very moment, another lady who had been walking near me and I both piped up at the same time, pointing to the boy. “Uh, sir? His pants fell down.”

That’s when the man finally turned around, and when he saw the predicament his poor son was in, he swiftly hitched the pants right back up. “Buddy! You’re supposed to tell me when your pants fall down!”

After the man hurried away with his now clothed son, the other lady and I looked at one another and burst out laughing. We both knew that had the boy been with his mother, her motherly spidey-senses would have sensed the pants’ plan to fall long before they even fell, and the kid would have been spared diaper-flashing the shoppers.

This reminded me of when my friend, mother to three young girls at the time, left for her first vacation ever sans her children and husband. She reported to me that when she got back, her husband lovingly shared with her photos of some of the things he had done with the girls in her absence. My friend nearly fainted when she realized that most of the pictures included an outing to the top of a mountain, where he posed the girls by themselves in front of THE EDGE OF A CLIFF so he could snap a souvenir photo. Later, her older daughter told my friend that “Daddy dressed Rachel in shorts and Rachel couldn’t walk!” When my friend questioned her husband, he had no choice but to admit that he had dressed their youngest daughter for the day in shorts, and noticed throughout the day that she was walking “funny”.  It wasn’t until the end of the day that he realized he had forced both of her legs into ONE opening.  Of course, once the horror of thinking her children could have fallen to their deaths had passed, we both laughed and laughed and laughed, because, really?

Let’s face it: Fathers love their children just as much as mothers do. They love them fiercely, wholly, protectively. They love them to the moon and back and around the world three times. But that doesn’t mean they won’t shove two legs into one pant leg and not notice, or allow a child to streak naked through a mall, or forget to feed them breakfast because what’s wrong with marshmallows? Why? Because they’re not mothers. It’s as simple as that.

Summer Fun(k)

by Patti

When S was little and I had the luxury of being able to stay home with her, I never understood the complaints of those mothers who couldn't wait for school to start so they could get the kids out of the house. While I certainly respected their points of view, for me, there was something about the unscheduled ease of our lives during that time; the ability to come and go, and see and do, and experience and experiment. As cheesy as it sounds, being home with my daughter simply felt like a blessing to me.

As S grew into her elementary school years, I went back to work part-time, and - in the past two years - as she morphed from a still-clinging fourth grader to a, as of today, freshly-out-of-sixth grader, I went back to work full-time. Working full-time is not a new thing for me; I did it all my adult life until I had my kid. But going back to working full-time after your life has been altered by family? It's different. There is a whole new set of feelings that go along with being financially independent and feeling intellectually fulfilled. These days, even though my child is now 12 years old and most certainly does not need to hold my hand or have me pinned to her side every second of every day, I know she still needs me in even more complex ways than ever before. And most of all? I find I still need her.

Yesterday was S's last day as a sixth grader. Last night I asked her what her dreams were for this summer. "Dance, spend time with friends, and go to Jamaica." I can grant two of those wishes. My wish? Spend with her the last summer before she becomes a teenager. Do things with her. Watch her grow. Know her dreams and grant them. Cherish the moments she might still need me.  Alas, I have to work. So, with the exception of some planned vacation days, I will still have to hustle to find those days with her. And because of that, I now find myself selfishly wishing the summer away. After all, how can summer happen for her and not me? How can it not happen for us together?

The truth is? She will be fine. She will dance and spend time with her friends and her dog and have full days with her papi. She will eat ice cream and swim and spend some time with her grandmother, and she will flourish. She might even grow an inch or two. Because here is the other truth: my baby is no longer a baby. And all those summers I did have with her have made her who she is and who we are together, and as much as I might pine for those days, I now live in these days. And these days are wonderful in their own way.

Mugs

by Cathy

If you've given birth to a baby, remember this word: Mugs.

This has now become the code word used to describe the hormonal peaks and valleys, coined by me and a dear friend of mine who had her first baby about a year ago. We got together the other day and I asked her how things were going.

"I'm a little better now. Not as bad as in the beginning."

Ah.....the beginning. That was hormonal highway hell. I shared with her just one of my many stories revolving around my post-baby, real-world shock.

For the first time in a year since getting pregnant with my second, I attempted to try to shop for my post-baby body. I had no idea what size I was. I had no idea what women were wearing these days. I had completely forgotten how to put a stylish outfit (or any presentable outfit) together. Stretch had become my best friend.

I halfheartedly approached the women's section at my local Target. I walked around, pulling at a skirt here, skimming a top there, completely whizzing by the jeans as if they were the devil - who was going to squeeze into those now? I realized after about 10 minutes of this, I was walking in circles. Then I stopped. I stood in the middle of the women's section, frantically trying to spot large ads showing me what to wear, what to pair up, how to style, what to choose. I couldn't find any, so I panicked. I stood there frozen, looking like a serene ocean on the outside, while a hurricane was wreaking havoc on the inside. I think I stood there for about 20 minutes, motionless, eyes glazed over, confused and helpless. Then I left and went home with nothing.

"Oh! OH!" my friend replied. "You remember my story, don't you? About how I went into Marshall's after having the baby to try to shop for myself?"
I looked at her quizically.
"Tim suggested I go in and shop for myself. He said, 'I got the baby, just go in and buy something for yourself.' In five minutes flat, I was back outside with mugs."
"MUGS?!?"
"That's what Tim said. I said, 'Yeah, mugs. Let's go.' So he asked me again. 'MUGS?! We don't need mugs.' So I said, 'YES. WE. DO. Now let's go!' And we never talked about the mugs again.I don't even know where I put them."
I was laughing so hard at this point I couldn't breathe.

"Oh, you think that's funny?!?" she continued. "It's still happening!"
"What do you meeeaaannn?" I asked in a high-pitch howl of laughter.
"I was in Ulta the other day because I really need a new curling iron and found this one I really liked among some sale items so I took it to the front desk and asked if this was on sale. And when she told me it wasn't, I started crying."

"Bwhahahahahahahahahahaa!" I howled. "You had another Mugs Moment!"
"I'm glad you think this is so funny."
"Girrrll...girrrlll..you know why I'm laughing?!?! Because I can totally GET IT! This is how it gets! This is how WE get!! Hahahahahahaha!!!"

Yes, motherhood makes you cray cray in many ways - both bad and good, both cute and ugly - and it can strike at any time, no matter how old your kids are. So I am here to say that Mugs Moments will happen. And it's okay. Because who couldn't always use another mug or two?

Never did a message ring any truer

Happy Mother's Day!

Congratulations! It's a...Tampon?!?

by Cathy

*****TMI Alert!*****

 Here at TWWW, we pride ourselves on putting life out there like it is. We are self-proclaimed TMI queens in the interest of keeping it real. As such, this post contains copious amounts of TMI as it relates to women. 
* If you are pregnant or thinking of becoming pregnant, we apologize in advance for the healthy dose of truth and reality you are about to be served. 
* If you are a man, unless you want in on what women don't tell you (and trust me, you'll gladly like to keep it that way), close this page now and never look back. 
You will all thank me later.

I was out a few weeks ago having some well-deserved drinks with a friend of mine who had just had her first baby in the past year.  Naturally, our conversation drifted over and crossed into some pretty private yet universal territory: what happens to a woman's body after childbirth.

"I went and got a proper bra fitting recently because, you know," this friend leaned in and whispered. "They sag now. They just...sag!"

I briefly scanned her tiny A-cup figure and thought, really?!

"No one tells you!" she continued. "No one tells you what it's gonna be like after you push that baby out! Everything changes! I'm convinced my vagina was crooked for months afterwards."
"What?" I sputtered out a laugh.
"Don't worry," she assured me, as if I was worried that would really happen. "My gyno told me all was back in its place, but my GOD I am peeing on myself all the time!"
"Ah, I see." I tilted my head back and let it slowly fall forward into a reassuring, commiserating nod.
"How come no one talks about this?!"
"Oh, they do." I reassured her. "It's just that you never paid attention to those conversations before because they didn't relate to you until now."
"You mean it's happened to you?"
"OF COURSE!" I practically shrieked. "Me and any other woman out there who has pushed a baby out of her hooha."

Clearly, this girl needs to spend more time with a TMI queen.

"While I was sick," she went on, "I went through, like, four panties a day with all that coughing!" (She had just gotten over a three-week long upper respiratory infection which had caused her to cough consistently and continuously at all hours of the day and night.) "That is ridiculous!"

"Welcome to your post-childbirth body."

On I went to tell her about how she will probably pee a little not only when she coughs, but when she laughs, sneezes, jogs, runs, walks briskly, turns her head too suddenly, picks up something remotely heavy or even picks up the remote. I told her what my gyno told me and I remember it to this day: "Once you've pushed a baby out, you need to do kegels every single day for the rest of your life." Congratulations! You're a mom!

Little does this friend of mine know what else is in store for her.

It's been six years since I've given birth - to a child, that is.  A few days ago, as I was mid-poop, it happened: I gave birth to a tampon. PLOP! Into the toilet it fell despite my superhuman, super-kegeled efforts to keep it in. In fact, the more I clenched my pelvic muscles, the more it slid out. It was past the point of no return and I was birthing it along. In my defense, it was one of those lite, super-slim numbers.

After I got over my mortification, I did what any other woman would do. I immediately texted a friend. Patti, would surely not judge my body's lack of proper function, and maybe, just maybe, she could even relate?

Me: So, today my tampon slid out my hooch while I was trying to poop. Yet another post-childbirth side effect.  I am doing kegels as I type this.

Patti: Girl! That has totes happened to me! Congratulations! It's a TAMPON!

Me: Oh my gawd!! I was just thinking that I can't possibly be this only one this has happened to. But no one talks about it! It's because of shame, I'm sure. It's a deep, dark secret mothers carry.

Patti: And only mothers. Who the hell else would ever get it? I am just surprised it only just happened to you. My hooch must be more stretched out than yours. And I only had one kid. It was meant to be. Had I birthed two, my uterus would fall out while pooping.

Now it was my turn to wonder why does no one tell you? I, too, wondered why I hadn't heard of this happening to other women until it happened to me. Surely, I would have remembered hearing about this despite whether I was a victim of it or not, right? But I hadn't! That's why I am here to tell you today.

Listen. If we moms can work our way back from post-childbirth hemorrhoids, crooked vaginas, blubbery bellies, sagging tits and loosey gooseys, we can work on preventing our tampons from falling out willy-nilly. Just add it to the list of basic body maintenance required along with what comes of standard old age: sagging, wrinkles, stiff joints, gray hair, diminishing eyesight (both far and near) and memory loss.

Have no fear, ladies. We got this. We'll just push through it.

Preoccpoopied

by Patti

When S was born, I was somewhat amazed by the level of poop that suddenly came into my life. Not only was I amazed by the level of poop, I was also amazed at how it didn't gross me out. Instead, I was actually fascinated by the many colors and consistencies, shapes and sizes. I was completely and totally preoccpoopied by poop.

Now? Those days are long gone. I am no longer fascinated by my kid's poop, as my kid is now 11 years old and her poop has lost its glow. I'm back to being disgusted by poop, in general, and I feel like that is 100% totally normal and expected and okay. Because let's face it: poop is disgusting. Which is why what I am about to tell you deserves a little warning. What? You say I should have warned you earlier? You say that it is too early to be discussing poop, and that poop should pretty much not ever be discussed, like, ever? Well, sorry - but if you come here, there's gonna be poop. Consider yourself warned.

Last week I was traveling for work and was waiting to board my fight in Indianapolis. First of all, I have to say: Indianoplis? You're cuter than I expected. And your airport is quite lovely. So, here I was at the airport, and I decided to hit the bathroom. The moment I entered, I was hit by a wall of poop. The smell was unbearable; it was as if somebody had taken a poop on the floor instead of in the toilet. Which made no sense because just a few hours before, I had been in that very bathroom on my way into Indy, and the bathroom was so clean and sparkly and fresh. So why the smell? That's when I saw this young girl, about 19 years old, on the floor with a baby, about 6 months old. The baby was as naked as if he had just been born right then and there, and the girl was trying to lay him on the hard, cold floor, as he wiggled furiously under her hands. She was surrounded by about 5,689 baby wipes, all used and crumpled up, and another 9,431 paper towels. I eyed her quietly as I washed my hands, and wondered why she was trying to change the baby on the floor instead of the changing table. That's when I noticed the changing table directly above her. It was COVERED in poop. It was a Picasso of poop. It was a poopsplosion of poop! It was - okay, okay, I'll stop.

It was clear there had been an accident of outstanding pooportions, and though every fiber of my being told me to RUN RUN out of the bacteria-infested bathroom, the mother's heart in me made me ask, "Do you need help?"
The girl looked up at me, her eyes wide. She was perspiring and red as she attempted to juggle her baby, the wipes, the diapers, the POOP. "My baby's got a tummy bug. I was changing him and it went everywhere. I feel so bad - it got on the changing table, all over the floor, all over...." she gestured around her desperately as her baby continued to wiggle wildly.

I immediately began to pull paper towels from the dispenser, wetting them with warm water, then handed them to her. "First, let's get your baby off the floor. Clean him with these and I'll take care of the changing table." She looked at me in disbelief, as if to say, Really? You're willing to touch my kid's POOP? Which. Yeah. I actually was.

As she wiped down her baby, I began the task of wiping down the changing table. She wasn't kidding. The kid had gone to town. That's right: he had painted the town brown. Amazingly, I didn't gag or even flinch. I simply got down to the business of doing what needed to be done. Several thousand paper towels and a bionic dosing of sanitzer later, I presented the clean table to her. "I can't believe you did this for me. THANK YOU SO MUCH!"
"I'm a mom, too," I told her, "I would hope that if I needed the help, somebody would offer it to me."

And then I washed my hands for about nine hours and left the bathroom, smiling. It really does take a village, I thought to myself. And a few thousand paper towels.

Mom, the Magic Fairy

by Cathy

The other night as the girls were getting ready for bed, placing stuffed animals just so, fluffing and propping up pillows, blowing their noses, sipping their water and finding their eye masks (you heard right), Bella verbally stumbled upon something pretty life-changing for her.

"Mommy, when you were out of town, there was no magical fairy that put my eye mask in its place or made my bed or hung my clothes."

"Yes, honey. That's what moms are," I came to realize for myself. "Magical fairies that flitter and flutter around the house taking care of all the little things."

We stealthily put out the million little fires before they become full blown blazes and we busily bustle about and invisibly handle the million little thoughtful conveniences that make everyone else's lives easier - like replacing rolls of toilet paper (remembering to buy the toilet paper), having the fridge stocked, making sure clothes are freshly washed and folded away, cleaning off desks so homework can be done and packing backpacks and lunches just to name a few.

"And," I continued, "because I do all of these little things for you, when I am not around, they can become bigger things and you learn to appreciate what I do for you. Riiiiight?"

""MmmmHmmm," she sighed as she hunkered down into the breezy mountain air sheets and comforters that the magical fairy washed for her.

She doesn't really get it. (And that's okay).

Just like I didn't get and appreciate everything my mom did for my sister and I until I moved out. And even moreso? When I had kids. Boy, have there been countless little moments - and big moments alike - when I think about my mom and what she went through, and why she said what she said the countless times she said it, and how she handled things and how she got through things with us, with herself, with the family.

My daughters don't realize it now because they are the wallflowers just watching the dance. But wait until they start dancing. After I got married, my mom would tell me, "Now that you're in the dance, you gotta keep on dancing." She might as well have said "Blue porcupines converse with aliens on rooftops" because I just didn't GET it then. Oh, but I do now.

So, I will be Mom, the Magic Fairy and I will keep on dancing, because it's my turn to do so. And until it's my kids' turn, if I can make the music seem a little less loud and let them enjoy sitting this one out, I will.

Super Powers

by Patti

Last night I attended a book club meeting. The book club is through work, and it's been fun chatting about non-work related things with my coworkers over wine and words. Yes, there is wine. Why? Your book club is wine-free? How sorry I am for you.

Anyway.

So there I am in the throes of the book club meeting, debating whether or not I'd turn my kid in if I thought she had murdered somebody (for the record - I would. Even though I was met with "you are a monster" glares at such a proclomation), when my phone rang. Upon a quick glance, I saw that, speak of the devil! It was my kid! As I was right in the middle if this very important discussion about murder, I slid away the call, making a quick note to self to call her right back. Then: BZZZ! A text. I looked down at my phone and saw the words race across the screen. MOM! HURRY UP AND COME HOME! WE'RE HUNGRY!

Within seconds, my phone rang again. This time I picked it up, more than a little irritated. "Yes, honey?"
"Mom! When are you coming home? Papi and I are hungry and there is nothing to eat here!" I pictured her and my husband staring blankly into the freezer, the one stuffed with frozen pizza, chicken and ravioli, and at that moment I thought perhaps I'd be the one doing time for murder.
"I'm almost done with book club; you guys can figure it out."
"But, MO-OM!"

Click.

Yes. I hung up on my STARVING child. Because, really? I was once again, for the millionth time, awed to pieces at the sheer depth with which my child seemed to be rendered helpless when I wasn't around. It also astounds me how my husband, who is for the most part a true partner in every sense of the word, is suddenly rendered magically invisible when I'm not home. Somehow, only I can manage to rustle up a meal and serve it steaming hot in Chicago when I'm actually in Florida. Somehow, only I can find the left shoe, know what side goes best with a tuna sandwich, brush her hair, and remind her to feed the dog when I am sitting at my desk at work. Most importantly, clearly it is only I that can kiss her good night - right here, on this cheek, mom - when I'm clicking my wineglass against a friend's over the long-ago reserved table at Yolo.

The phenonemon of my amazing super powers continues to stump me. Is it a gift? Or is it a curse?

Something tells me my super powers, instilled in me the day the stick turned blue, the ones who have gotten progressively stronger over the years, will slowly begin to wear away. And, as often as these super powers feel like more of a burden than anything, I have to wonder: Their eventual disappearance - is that a gift? Or a curse?

When Mom Is Away, Confusion Is at Play

by Cathy

I was recently away for five days (much more on this coming soon). This meant that I left the girls in the care of my husband. Aside from the hours they were at school, he had to handle the A-Z of everything that involves them, school, food, homework, activities, baths, and basic home upkeep so that the rooms and hallways are walkable - essentially, everything I normally tackle while present.

Now before I go on, I must be honest here and say that my husband helps out A LOT. His work schedule is extremely flexible and for this, I am very thankful. We are respectful of each other's time and schedules and pitch in accordingly when the other cannot. His main tasks are preparing breakfast, shuttling the kids to school and back and forth from activities and pitching in around the house with homework and basic household upkeep.

I have been away once before for several days this year to Mexico. Upon my return, I didn't have time to assess how things went down here since I was saddled with a bout of the stomach flu and was out for a couple of days. By then, the follow up got lost in the shuffle. This time, 'twas a different story.

I knew things were going to be a little tough when I received a text from him while I was about to board my flight out of Chicago, around 7:30am. "What do I pack for lunch? PBJ?" It would be a long several days for him. Here are a few of the highlights:

- "Papi got my snack bag all mixed up," my six-year old offered up at breakfast the morning after my arrival. "What do you mean?"
He gave me the wrong snack bag and I got confused and forgot what it looked like so I think I lost it at school."
"So you didn't have your snack on that day?"
"No and I still can't find it!"

- As I busily fell back into my routine by preparing lunches during breakfast, I opened the fridge to find my reflection staring back at me. There was nothing in there except a loaf of sliced bread, a carton of eggs, some random yogurt drinks, a gallon of milk and some other odds and ends.
"You didn't go to the grocery store at all while I was gone?"
"Yeah," Joe mentioned smoothly. "We got bread and milk. The basics."

Our refrigerator now doubles as a mirror.

- I opened my kitchen cabinets to reach for a plate and noticed that my entire cupboard had been rearranged. No one apparently knew the storage system I've had in place for the last 15 years in those cabinets so stuff was stacked upon other random, breakable stuff and completely out of place. Whose house was I in?

- That same evening I announced that I was going to take a quick shower before bedtime. Upon entering my bathroom, I tripped on a giant, plastic, pink hula hoop that had taken residence in there during my absence. Just then, I hear my husband say, "Ari needs a bath too. She's pretty funky."
"Didn't she take a bath while I was gone?!"
"I tried, but she just wouldn't listen so I said, 'Forget it.' I had so much to do with work."
I verified this after I forced Ari into the bathtub and scrubbed her scalp and body raw.
"Honey, why didn't you take a bath while I was gone?"
"Papi didn't give me one!!"

- I unpacked my suitcase and opened the washing machine to throw in my vacay load and saw that there was a load, already washed and wrung, still sitting in there. Crossing my fingers that it hadn't been in there too long, (it didn't smell bad at the time), I threw the clothes into the dryer and hoped for the best. The next night, while looking for her PJs, Bella screams down the hall, "MOM! Our dryer smells like butt! And so do all of our clothes in it. Everything smells like butt!"
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"Smell this!" she said, and practically shoved her pants up my nose. "This is from the dryer."
"Ewww," I said, twitching my nose. "Yeah, papi forgot the load in the machine and I thought it would be okay but I guess it's not. I have to re-wash the whole load."
"Lemme smell it," countered Joe. "It doesn't smell. I don't smell butt. I don't smell anything," said the man who cringes at every towel he dries himself with, convinced they all smell like mold. Maybe it's because loads need to be immediately put in the dryer rather than chilling out in the washing machine for a day or two?

- The day after my arrival, the girls were dropped off at home after school by my neighbor as I was busily preparing food.
"Mmmmm," said Bella taking off her coat. "Smells good! I'm starving!"
"What did you guys eat when I was gone?" I found an opportunity to ask without Joe around.
"Frozen chicken nuggets, frozen fish sticks, frozen pizza, frozen potatoes..." Bella rattled off exasperated. "I want some real food!"

I smiled an ear to ear grin, knowing that there is nothing like a woman's/mother's touch. Although fathers may provide the basics necessary to live and get to places on time, mothers provide the little creature comforts that make a house a home.

Sweetly, Come Undone

by Cathy

I have the sweetest, most thoughtful girls on the planet. They are both kind, respectful and generous.

Last night, my six-year old, Ari, wanted to surprise my husband and I with what she called a "romantic dinner". The thought popped into her head two nights ago while I was tucking her into bed - although I have no idea what prompted that thought. Either way, she had it stuck in her head and insisted on doing it, and after some coaxing and savvy explaining, I got her to hold off until last night. And boy, did she ever remember.

She got home from school, ate, did her homework, rushed off to her bedroom, shut the door and began her planning preparations for our "date night in". She staked her claim in the living room and posted some signs (backed up by verbal warnings) that we should not, under any circumstance, enter or peek into that living room until she invited us in. After what seemed like hours of scurrying to and fro, sliding around some chairs, requesting step stools, carrying bins, writing out menus, digging up pink aprons and covering the coffee table in a fuzzy, teddy bear blanket/tablecloth, we were summoned to be seated.

My husband and I sat across from each other, literally on the edges of our seats due to fluffy couch pillows placed lovingly against the dining room chair seatbacks for comfort. No matter that our knees were crouched up against the sharp edges of the coffee table - we were on a romantic date and nothing was going to spoil this fun. Pretend tea was served to us in Ari's plastic, princess Disney tea set as we perused our hand-written menus, courtesy of Ari's Cafaye.

My menu had Brecfist and Dusrte as such:
wofols
eggs
meteu (meat)
spgedey
cack
SunDay
ice screme
cokese

Joe's had Lunch and Dinnr as such:
eggs
Hot Dogs
chiginugit
friyse
spgedye
brede
meteu
salide

Ari dutifully stood guard, decked up in an adult-sized pink apron which was tied all the way up under her underarms and mentally took note of our orders. She set up some tunes on a keyboard and for full effect, we unsealed the plastic film from around our fireplace for the first time since they were toddlers and fired that baby up. Ari even entertained us with a puppet show from behind our couch called "The Frog Who Won't Leave the Puppy Alone," complete with intermissions where she allowed us our "privaseat" and "funny talk".

Towards the end of our hot date, I asked if I could personally thank the owner of Ari's Cafaye and she shyly said, "That's me!" So I grabbed her, tickled her and plopped her on my lap, whereupon I smothered her with millions of thankful mommy hugs and kisses. Worried as to her father's potential jealousy, she looked over her shoulder mid-tickle and gestured to him that she will come to him next.

Later that night, once we had tucked both girls into bed, I cleaned up the living room and collected the menus and signs posted outside the living room. Then my eye caught a welcome sign that I missed on my way in:

The sentiment; the spelling; the innocence. I've come undone.

And that, my dear friends, is when I lost it. I don't even know where all of this emotion was coming from and was baffled that all it took was to read this sign, the catalyst in my mommy meltdown. I began sobbing - the type of sobbing where your body is racked with heaving sighs and multiple attempts at catching your breath. I was drowning in tears and my face was so contorted with wails that I now know why they call it the "ugly cry". And it just kept coming. My eyes became puffy, my nose filled up with snot and I was wailing like a baby.

My husband shuffles into our bedroom half-asleep. "Are you okay? What's wrong?!"
And there I stood, hand wrist-deep in a tissue box, face beet-red, puffy and smeared in makeup-infused tears, and replied, "My babies are growing up!!!!"
"Of course they're growing up," he says, totally unhelpful and setting himself up to be punched by his lunatic wife/mother of his kids.
"Pretty soon she's gonna grow up and figure out how to spell and we'll be done with this phase of our kids! Look!" I said, shoving the sign under his nose. "It's the cutest most innocent thing and that is going to come to an end. SOOOONNN!!" I fell apart again.
What was wrong with me?!?! Why was this hitting me so hard? It's not like I haven't seen this writing before; I must have looked insane.
"Yes, but when they do, we'll still get written letters, just of a different kind," he tried hard to reassure me.
"But I like these!!" I cried back, slamming her hand-written note down on the bed.
After a long pause filled with lots of sniffing, nose-blowing and heaved sighs, I turned back to Joe.
"Just wait. You'll experience this too. For me, it was this letter. For you, it will be something else very seemingly insignificant yet monumental in some way and it will hit you out of nowhere. Just wait," I taunted. "You'll see."

And with that, I drifted off to sleep with sweet thoughts of my sweet girls in sweet, unforgettable moments that I hold onto with the tenacity that only a mother could take in, hold dear and never let go of.

Chips Ahoy!

by Patti

There are many things about motherhood veteran moms try to warn you about before you become a mother for the first time. "Get sleep before the baby comes!" "Sleep when the baby sleeps!" "Prepare to die during childbirth!" I mean, really, the list goes on and on, and it's a wonder any woman ever decides to get pregnant and have a kid at all.

But we do. And we inevitably find out for ourselves what they so desperately tried to tell us - times a million. One of things I was sure I wanted to do once I found out I was pregnant was breastfeed. I had heard the stories about how my boobs would swell into horrifyingly huge, hard, round aliens with minds of their own - tethered to my chest, I heard about the circles of doom that would appear without warning on my shirt by simply thinking about my baby - or even hearing another baby cry. I heard about the cracked, bloody nipples and the searing pain of trying to get a baby to latch on. Oh yes, the veterans made sure I heard it all. Yet, being the stubborn, "let me see for myself" kind of person I am, I still wanted to do it.

And I did. After S was born, I faced many of the things I had been warned about while learning the ropes of nursing a newborn. That coupled with sleep deprivation brought to me courtesy of HELL and the hair that fell out in clumps until I was certain I needed to order a wig STAT and the jello-y mess that had been left of my once taut stomach... well, the mixed bag of torture was not so surprising thanks to the countless warnings - though let me just say that the level of crazy is one that can never be properly explained. Nope. You simply cannot understand it until it happens to you.

One of the things the veterans forgot to mention when it comes to breastfeeding was the "holy crap, where'd that come from?" effect. After a while, the boobs work out a rather intricate, miraculous schedule around demand, and once this schedule is set, you are "booby" trapped into trusting it. Ha. Ha. HA HA HA. Picture this: There you are, in bed with your husband, getting all snuggly and, uh, intimate, which - after the miracle of childbirth - we all know is another miracle to behold, when suddenly? Your morph from MILF to MILK. That's right - you become Bessie in da Bed.

Oops! Did I do that?

Suddenly, there is milk everywhere and it's just so not sexy. Or romantic. Or hot. Unless you count fresh off the farm milk. Because it is surprisingly hot - as in, literally.

Fortunately, though my dignity had flown out the window, my sense of humor remained intact. As did M's. Because as the baby shrieks in the background and milk drips down your chest onto your husband's face, what can you do but laugh?

Not too long after that first dairy debacle, I shuffled into our bedroom one night after putting S down in her crib. M was waiting for me in bed with a big grin on his face. In his hands? A big box of cookies.

Can I join the party?

Hey, no use in crying over spilled milk.

Separating Dogs

by Patti

I just spent 4 days and nights separating dogs.

We took in Gaucho's brother Bento while his owners vacationed, and the two dogs' brotherly love bordered on Fatal Attraction. If they weren't rolling around in circles on top of each other, they were pawing at each other's faces; if they weren't pawing each other's faces, they were stealing each other's food; if they weren't stealing each other's food, they were chasing each other and skidding headfirst into walls; if they weren't chasing each other and skidding headfirst into walls, they were humping each other. Brokeback Brothers.

Needless to say, the fear that Gaucho's heft would crush Bento, or that Bento's playful yet aggressive nips would leave a hole in the side of Gaucho's face, meant that I spent 4 days and nights playing referee, and all I did all the time was separate them. Exhausting, I tell you!

One night, after a long day at work and then an entire rest-of-the-day spent separating the shit out of those dogs, M came home from work in a lively mood. I was laying on the couch, the dogs snoring in their respective crates (at last!), and M began clanking around in the kitchen, heating up the dinner I had left for him. Suddenly I heard salsa music bouncing out of the kitchen, and I rose frantically from the couch. "SHHHHH!"
M looked at me, surprised. "Why, SHHHHH?"
I gestured desperately to the crates, shout-whispering. "The dogs are ASLEEP!"
M paused, a look of complete disbelief sliding slowly across his face. "Are you kidding me?"
"NO, I'M NOT!" I knew I sounded ridiculous, but my biggest fear at that moment was that dogs would wake up and start their annoying quest to Must! Hump! Each! Other! NOW!

M simply stared at me, wondering who this crazyperson was and what had she, with her crazy eyes and flailing arms and shout-whisper, done with his wife? But HE hadn't been the one that had taken the dogs out one at a time at 6:30 a.m. that morning in work heels, hefting them back and forth, obsessively careful not to let the other dog know that I was holding his brother, otherwise a symphony of whines and barks and snorts would commence, and the whole house would be woken up and I was TRYING TO BE CONSIDERATE, OKAY? And then? HE hadn't been the one who had come home from work and had to help with homework and after-school snacks and engage in constant Brokeback Brothers break-ups while doing all of that.

And that's when I realized: I'm not sure I would have been cut out for raising siblings. Because siblings? Argue. And though they might not hump each other with the shameless glee of the canine variety of siblings - or: at all, even - they bicker and take things from each other and complain that "she won't stop TOUCHING ME!", and the whole idea of that is just stressful to me. And when they do argue, fuss and fight, you can't necessarily lock human siblings in separate crates and leave the house for a couple of hours. So there's that.

I also know this: in the moments when Gaucho and Bento forgot to annoy each other (and me in the process), there was this amazing sense of unity that sang from their bodies. From behind, they were the same shape, the same color, with the same curve of spine and cock of head. They lay together under the shade of the bright yellow bench in our backyard, their noses touching, their paws joined. It was clear: They weren't just friends - they were brothers. And that's when I knew that though the mothers I had inwardly tipped my hat to may spend their days "separating dogs", they also had the privilege of  witnessing the magic of heads joined over a board game, hands held running through sprinklers, locks of hair falling the same way over matching eyes.

I'll never see that with S - her head bent in conspiracy with a sister or brother; her arm consoling, her laugh knowing. And though sometimes, when I have little revelations like this, it makes me just a little sad, I also know that we have something incredibly special, too. Something that days spent separating dogs might just take away from. So, in reverence of that, I am careful not to wish for what never will be, and to hold fast and gratefully to what is.

The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

by Patti

I have mastered the art of embarrassing my child. After all, isn't that what all mothers work so hard for? We don't lose sleep, hair and sanity for nothing, you know. And finally, after 11 years, I have honed my craft. I am officially The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

I was talking to a neighbor one day - her daughter is S's good friend - and she told me that her children had nearly died from embarrassment when she dared to sing along to a song on the radio that day. She admitted that she may have thrown me under the bus to save face. "I said, but Mrs. P is WAY more embarrassing than I am, isn't she?" Apparently, I have a reputation, because not only did she think to use me as  an embarrassment scapegoat - her kids? Agreed. I guess the baby talk I do with my dog in public, or the fact I regularly break out into song, or the cross-eyed monkey imitation I am prone to do with absolutely no warning might have something to do with that.

But I understood my neighbor's act of desperation. She was already in big trouble with her daughter because of that time she ran out to greet the school bus in sweat pants and an evening gown. You see, she had been trying on a new dress for an upcoming event when she realized the bus would be there any second. So she simply ran outside, the dress partially unzipped, her sweat pants the imperfect accessory. Her daughter, after dying a few thousand deaths, simply ran by her, turned inside out with mortification. She still hadn't forgiven her, so that day, when my friend foolishly sang along to the radio, she knew she had to do something. Enter: The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!

Can you believe there's actually a book? 

The other day I went for a run in the park across the street from our house. S was rollerblading with that same friend, and as I ran in endless circles trying to burn off the 45 lbs of kettle corn I had just consumed, I kept an eye on the girls as they skated and gossiped. As I rounded a corner, I saw them skating toward me, and I couldn't help myself - I shimmied. Yes, I shimmied as I ran and made a crazy face. S turned bright purple and her friend giggled fiercely into her hands, probably thrilled that I was much, much more embarrassing than her own mother - the Sweatpants and Evening Gown Monster. That night, S approached me. "Mom? Why did you do that today?"
"I don't know - I felt like it."
"But... your boobs were flopping around. It was SO embarrassing." Her eyes rolled so fiercely she may have hurt herself.
"I was wearing a sports bra - how could they be flopping?"
"THEY WERE."
The next day, once dressed for another run, I did a test shimmy in the mirror. My boobs SO did NOT flop.

But I guess that's beside the point. The point, apparently, is that I am simply too embarrassing to exist. And I have to admit: now that I know this with certainty, I am liberated. This means I can pretty much do anything I want. After all, I am ALREADY embarrassing; it can't possibly get worse. So I'll just go with it.

Oh, the delicious plans I have. 

1-800-MOTHERS

by Patti

S "forgets" a lot of things. She "forgets" to brush her teeth, take a shower, comb her hair, use deodorant. She "forgets" to clear her plate, put her cup in the sink, put away the milk. She "forgets" to feed the dog, where she put her glasses, where that library book went. But the one thing she never, ever forgets? MY NUMBER. My cell phone number is permanently programmed on speed dial in her brain, and she uses it frequently and without pause. I'll admit: I've "screened" my kid. It's just that, after the fourth phone call to tell me that her pants are too short, or that Gaucho won't stop licking her, or that she is bored, well....

The best is when I'm at work, surrounded by co-workers, and she calls me to ask me where her left shoe is. Never mind that her father is home. Apparently his shoe-finding skills pale in comparison to mine, especially since, you know, he's RIGHT THERE, and I am 20 minutes away AT WORK.
"Honey, I don't know. You wore them last, not me."
"But, Mo-OM! Where ARE they? I KNOW I put them in my closet."
That right there I know is a lie since she puts NOTHING in her closet except for things that are not supposed to go into her closet, like scraps of paper and thumb tacks and stuffed animals that are coming un-stuffed.
"Honey, I don't know because I'm not there and I can't help you look for them. Ask Papi to help you."
I hear the blender in the backround, and I know M is making a smoothie and so not helping her, and I feel a slice of white hot rage go through  me because, really? Then, as if my white hot rage somehow found his neck and choked it a little, I hear him tell S to "deja mama que trabaje" (let mommy work), and then I hear S's whines grow to outstanding proportions, and then, I can't help it: I hang up on her.

But because my number is on speed dial in her brain, my phone rings again almost instantly, and I, with a stab of guilt in my gut, simply slide away her call.

When my brother and I were young, we were latch-key kids for three hours a day after school. I remember loudly tumbling into the house, tossing our bags and books haphazardly here and there, and immediately calling my mom at work to let her know we'd made it home. Then we'd get to preparing ourselves after-school snacks, so we'd call my mom again to ask where the mayonnaise was. Then we'd eat and get into some sort of fight, so we'd call her to tattle on one another. Then we'd be fine and then call her to ask her to bring home ice cream or maybe a puppy, PLEASE? Then we'd call her to ask her a question about our homework.  Back then they didn't have the lovely "ignore" feature on phones; they didn't have caller ID; they most certainly did not have cell phones, so, since we were calling her at work and she had no way of knowing whether or not it was a Real Person or just her annoying kids, she had to answer the phone. Honestly, I'm surpised she was never booted.

What amazes me is that we never thought to call my dad. I mean, like M is to S, he was a hands-on dad to us. So why, when we needed something or wanted to vent or were bored, did we only think to call my mom? Much like S has my number imprinted in her brain, my brother and I had our mother's imprinted in ours. Hers was the only number that provided results, and, it appears, S feels the same about my number.

But now? Ah, yes! I have technology on my side. And I can press ignore; I can slide away that call; I can choose not to answer.

But I do. Almost every time.

The thought of dying is killing me

by Patti

I have to leave in a few days for a work trip, and that ol' friend Anxiety has already started poking at my insides. Well, actually, Anxiety has been poking at my insides long before today; it is a faithful companion when it comes to having to fly, never failing to do its job just right by me. Oh, Anxiety. You and your willingness to succeed.

Yes, I'm afraid to fly. I never was before I had S. I have had the lucky opportunity to travel to many places in the world, and before I became a mother, I never gave packing my bags and boarding a plane a second thought. After S? Why would I do that? I COULD DIE. And although I'm not too keen on dying just yet - especially in a fiery crash that might have me knowing I'm going to die for many, many torturous minutes as I hurtle mercilessly through the air in a metal tube with 200 other screaming passengers - my main fear of flying is not necessarily dying - though, I have to admit that would suck; it's dying and leaving S motherless.

And it's not just flying. Before I had S, I have to admit: I did alot of crazy things. Things I did without regard to consequence. Like the time M and I went skydiving, for example. I mean, REALLY? Would I REALLY strap on some fabric fashioned into a supposed life-saving parachute and jump out of a perfectly good plane when my daughter needs a mother to take her shopping for a prom dress? I mean, M has good taste and all, but I need to stay alive for that someday purchase of coquettish chiffon and a boutonniere. If he takes her shopping for a prom dress, S will likely end up going to her prom in this:

I'm too sexy for my habit

So, yeah: The mere thought of skydiving now sends my stomach into a mile-high skydive of its own - sans parachute.

I have to give my mind credit: It is pretty adept at coming up with every possible way to die. Aside from the usual culprtis like cancer and other assorted 21st century diseases (ebola, anyone?), my creative little mind has convinced me that going for a stroll in the park will leave me stabbed; driving will leave me decapitated; eating a burger will leave me all Mad Cow; swimming in the ocean will leave me either sucked under by a rip tide or legless-by-shark; running on the treadmill will cause my heart to stop, causing me to collapse onto the rapidly moving surface so that my head gets sucked into the machine; walking to the mailbox will leave me kidnapped - and depending on what kind of mood M is in, I may or may not be rescued by the resulting ransom....

Oh, I could go on (and on),  but the point is: However and whenver the great big clock in the sky points to my Time to Go, I don't want it to be when S still needs me. Dying on its own is some scary shit; dying and leaving behind my daughter when she still doesn't know the difference between long-wearing and thickening mascaras; when she still hasn't gotten her first period; when she still hasn't had her heart broken in the ways that make a girl a woman; when she still hasn't known the fear that motherhood instills in a woman's heart - I simply can't leave. Not yet.

But the mystery of "when" remains, and so the possibility that my brain will explode as I am innocently falling asleep does too. Let's just hope that by then, S is leaning on her cane, her grandchildren around her, her husband's arm circling her waist. What a way to go.

Mother's Day Melee

by Cathy

Aaaahhhh, Mother's Day.

This holiday is by no means excluded from the expectations of every other holiday - that things will go swimmingly, that there will be no disappointments, fights or general not-getting-alongness. But these expectations are once again proven to have been set too high when reality kicks in.

I was looking forward to a wondrous Mother's Day, alone with my two beautiful girls since Joe was out of town. The plan was to get up, make them pancakes, spend some quality time, then go see my own mother and have my sister (a recent first-time mommy) meet us there with her new bundle of joy.

After we had pancakes, shared some laughs and all of my gifts had been presented, opened and appreciated via the usual slew of hugs and kisses, my kids set out to do their own thing while I took care of some things before we set out to grandma's house. Of course, whenever my two kids are put in the same room together without a game plan and are left to their own devices, fights will ensue, voices will be raised, tattling will be dished and an overall uneasiness will take over the moment. I could deal with all of that. But what I didn't expect, on this glorious Mother's Day, a day of "rest" and "relaxation" and "pampering" and "free time" and "my day" celebrations, was the following:

- Bella running into the kitchen, panting, holding half a broken light bulb (you know, the new ones that are supposedly toxic if broken) and apologizing profusely. Then, an "Owwwwww!" from Ari, who apparently had stepped on one of the million pieces shattered onto the carpet in their room from the broken bulb - the other half of which was still stuck inside Bella's desk lamp. Apparently, the bouncy ball (which is the size of the moon) she was volleying around the room, bounced off the desk lamp, infracting the bulb and sending the series of events into motion. It also set me into motion:
"Why can't you guys just sit still?"
"I told you no ball playing in your room!"
"Can't you just sit down and read a book?"
"This is suppose to be MY day! Now I have to do this!"
Out came the vacuum. I swept their entire room, hearing the crunching of the glass being sucked into the Hoover. Since I was on a roll, what the heck!?! I did the runners in the hallway and my bedroom, cussing under my breath the whole time, while Bella was sulking in the living room and Ari was crying at the little pin-sized cut on her foot.

- If that wasn't enough, somehow Bella managed to spill Liquid Paper on the cozy, plum-colored fabric chair in her room. Walking past and catching her scrubbing her little heart away in the hopes of avoiding a confrontation with me, I noticed her efforts were futile. I attempted more of the same fruitless scrubbing, but to no avail. Now there were three large splatters of white Liquid Paper front and center on her chair.
"Just cover it up!" said Ari, honing her resourceful skills at the ripe age of five.
"I don't understand why this is all happening today! Today of all days! I've told you many times to be careful about your stuff! This all costs money and we can't replace things that easily and besides, you need to start learning to appreciate and take better care of your things!" More sulking followed.

- Then Ari wanted to play with Bella and in order to get her attention, she decided to come running into the room and whack her with the dress she just took off. The only problem (the only?) was that a button on the dress ended up hitting Bella in the eye, causing her to break down into tears and Ari to get a reprimanding from me. Yet more crying.

- If all this wasn't enough? I cracked my back tooth. While eating a Snickers mini. Serves me right. I had to endure almost two days of that jagged edge cutting into the inside of my cheek until I got to the dentist, who told me I now need a crown that apparently will cost a bazillion dollars. F.M.L.

However, despite all of these extraordinary, unpleasant events, I thoroughly enjoyed the best parts of my day which outnumbered and outweighed the bad overall:

- I received a homemade scrapbook from Bella filled with pictures of the two of us.

Isn't it cute that Bella purposely spells 'Mommy' like she did when she was four?

- I got a beautiful silver pendant that said MOM with a tiny flower and diamond. I added it to my charm bracelet.
- I got a paper mache flower pot complete with homemade flowers made out of construction paper.
- I received several homemade notes and cards.
- I was attributed not one but TWO window drawings wishing me a Happy Mother's Day.

- I got to read each of them a book at bedtime.
- And I got plenty of sweet hugs and kisses and cuddles as they slept in my king sized bed that night.


In short, my day was filled with memorable ups and annoying downs.

A pretty fitting tribute to motherhood in general, wouldn't you say?

Gone to Heaven in a Handbag

by Patti

S has been working her way through the money and gift cards she received for her birthday last month. She is 11 now - that magical age where not only do your eyeballs practically fall out of their sockets from rolling them so fiercely at the sheer audacity of those others around you to even exist, but also the age where you prefer cha-ching! over Polly Pockets as a gift.

So yesterday, as part of the pretty wonderful Mother's Day that I had, I hit Target with S and my mom. My mom and I needed boring things like toilet paper and snacks for the week, but S had a plan: SPEND THOSE GIFTCARDS.  I'll admit: S is a lucky kid. She's got everything a kid could ever need, plus a lot of things a kid could ever hope for. I know this because whenever she's got a gift card or cash to blow, she kind of stands there and suffers. "I don't know what to BUY!" Oh, the world problems. But this time around, she had her heart set on a purse. Not a sparkly, kid-ish one, either; a real, live, cool, grown-up purse.

I remember when I got my first real, live purse. My aunt bought it for me when I was 12. It was the "in" purse of the moment -- a "Jet" bag with zillions of zippers, parachute-like material, and a rough, canvas strap. I loved that purse more than I loved Shaun Cassidy. I still recall the feeling of hearing the zipper unzip, and how I constantly found an excuse to rummage through the crap I wrangled up to throw in there in order to make that purse feel "official". This is how I knew how excited S was to have that same experience.

When we walked into Target, we immediately happened upon the purse area. S browsed through the aisles, lovingly stroking the diffirent types of leather, pleather, fabric and various faux materials that made up the many types of bags. She finally found one that made her squeal, and slung it over her shoulder. It was a slouchy brown pleather number with panels of Native American Indian designs on each side of the bag. "I LOVE this! It looks really hippy-ish!" She strode up and down the aisle, the bag swallowing her up whole. "I just wish it was a different color." She wore it as she browsed the other available purses, hoping to find one that made her squeal again. My mom and I took turns fruitlessly holding up alternatives, but she just rolled her eyes at them. Clearly, we had no taste. I finally found one buried among the "ugly" options that caught my eye. It was fabric and had funky designs all over it. It looked very "S". Slouchy? Check. Hippy-ish? Check. Long strap? Check.  "How about this one?" S let out an "ooooh" of approval, and I handed it to her. She was now more confused than ever.
"I love them BOTH!"
"Ah, but you can only get one."
"What do I do?"
My mom suggested that she walk up and down the aisle past the mirror, and glance at herself as she strode by so that she could see how each purse looked in action. So she did. Many, many times. And she still couldn't decide

Fully aware that we actually had real things to buy, I suggested that she walk around the store with both purses on, and get a feel for them in the real world. We pushed the cart around, my mom buying her things, me buying mine, all while S struggled out loud about her looming decision. In the soup aisle, I saw a woman with a funky sense of style -- the kind I knew S would respect -- so I approached her. "My daughter is buying her first real purse today, and she is having trouble deciding between two. May I ask your opinion?" The woman analyzed S, a gleam in her eye, and then quickly pointed at the one I had chosen.
"Love that one! I mean, they're both cute, but that one is just more... playful." S immediately nodded, relieved to be done with the choice.
"Thank you!" S smiled widely at the woman as she removed the brown purse from her shoulder.
"You're welcome. And... congratulations!" The woman smiled back at her, then looked at me and winked as she continued down the aisle, her job done.
S tore the tag off of the chosen purse and handed it to me, then placed her gift card in the bag, christening it with new weight. She then proceeded to float the rest of her way through Target, the purse grazing her thigh.

Last night, as I gave her her nightly good-night kiss, she asked me to sit with her for two minutes so that she could tell me what she had put in her purse. "....chapstick, my glasses case, lip gloss, my phone, a notebook with a pen - cuz you know how you're always telling me stuff I forget - my wallet, some suckers and some gum....I just wish I could sleep with my purse!" I congratulated her again on her new score, and tucked her in.  She rolled over and closed her eyes, the smile on her face carrying her into her dreams.

Delicate Veins

by Patti

S has been in life for 4,049 days. And of those 4,049 days, it seems that 3,832 have consisted of her waking up in the night screaming for me for one reason or another.  The other night was one of those nights. "MO-OM! MY NOSE IS BLEEDING!"

Bleary-eyed and feeling rather put-upon, I shuffled to the bathroom and fumbled with the toilet paper dispenser. I knew she would need a whole roll. She has this thing about blowing her nose more than once into a tissue. That child has murdered a million trees during her short time on earth  -- all in the name of snot.

S is prone to nosebleeds.  The doctor says she has "delicate veins". I imagine them in her nose, fanning themselves with lacey victorian fans, coping with the vapors that inevitably come with being so delicate.

Those delicate veins? Are most inconsiderate. With the change of the weather always come the nosebleeds: In the car when I am fresh out of napkins and going 70 miles per hour on the highway. At school where the nurse fawns over her, "tsk"ing away those inconsiderate veins. And most often of all, at night, deep into the night, between the hours of 2-4 am. Nice goin', veins.

And it is always I that gets up (because it is always me she yells for) to comfort her, to tame those veins, to keep handing to her yet another fresh piece of toilet paper because god forbid she should have to blow into one more than once. And as she lays back, her eyes beady from exhaustion, to try to stop the blood, I notice the smoothness of her forehead, and I remember....

I remember studying that same forehead between the hours of 2 and 4 am when she was new to me. She woke me every night for milk, and I would cradle her while she nursed and study the tiny little veins that were so exquisitely scrawled across her forehead and temples. They were so... perfect. They work, I would whisper to myself in full wonder. This little creature that came out of me actually worked. Life was running through her, and it just blew me away.

And on this 3,832nd night that I was awake when I shouldn't be, I handed my daughter another piece of toilet paper and knew that I was doing so because life is running through her, and because of her, through me.

Happy Mother's Day to all the put-upon mothers in this world. 

You know you wouldn't have it any other way.

Secretly relieved that you're secretly relieved....

by Patti

My friends Kristin and Traci and I decided enough was enough -- we needed to plan a night out after work. So we somehow magically found a date that worked for all of us ( - we all work+we all have kids = Never Afreakingvailable. Traci, bless her insane little heart, has THREE kids -) and wrote that date into our respective calendars.

Truthfully, the date was a stretch for me. The day we picked is the day I normally take S to ballet, and S has this "thing" about changes in her routine. But I figured M could take her and she'd just have to get over it, even if meant the earth would start spinning in reverse and then fly right off its axis and go floating off into space totally untethered.

The day finally arrived. I made sure to wear my "drinking" pants, and went into work. And then... the text. The one from M that meant my plans would have to change because "something came up". That "something" was unfortunately a little more important than my doing shots after work, but it still annoyed me unto no end. Why? BECAUSE THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS, ALWAYS. Every single time I, or any of my other friends for that matter, make a plan to do something that means no kids? The kids get sick, the husband has a meeting, the babysitter gets hit by a car...the combination of disasters is endless.

I remember once when Cathy and I had exuberant plans for a night out, and after a series of canceled plans, we had what we thought was a full-proof plan. That is, until her husband Joe's plane got DELAYED OVERNIGHT IN MIAMI. Of COURSE it did. Because we had plans!

So on this day, when M put a dent in my plans with Kristin and Traci - I got nervous. Poor Kristin and Traci, frazzled working mothers that they are. I was about to ruin their plans. I was about to be a plan buster. I shot off an email to both of them, hoping they would understand; encouraging them both to still go and "tie one on" without me. Within moments, my phone rang. It was Kristin. "Hi..." I said sheepishly, fully expecting the guilt her disappointment would make me feel.
"Ohmygod, I am so secretly relieved!" she blurted out breathlessly.
"What? You ARE?"
"Because!" she told me, "Mallorie had a total meltdown this morning when I dropped her off at my mom's. I felt AWFUL knowing I was going to go out tonight instead of seeing her after work!"
"Awwww..."
"Yeah... my mom even told me she couldn't believe I was going to still go out after the way Mallorie cried. I felt so bad. But I didn't want to cancel on you guys."
I found the silver lining. "See? It all worked out for the best!"
"Plus!" she continued. "Rob and I were totally trying to figure out the logistics of how it would work if I went out."
The more she talked, the more I realized I was saving her life. I silently thanked M for ruining my plans.

And then I realized: Traci. She comes into work later than Kristin and I, and her disappointment still awaited her. "She wasn't feeling good yesterday," Kristin offered hopefully. "Maybe she'll feel like crap today!"
How sad. To save ourselves and our friend disappointment, we wished her ill. "She's here!" Kristin whispered. And then we hung up.

Five minutes later, I got an email from Traci, "No worries, guys. I feel like total crap today anyway. I was still going to go out because I really need a drink, but...." So SHE was secretly relieved, too!

In the end, it seems the whole disintegration of plans ended up oddly working in our favor: Kristin because her baby guilted the need for fun right of her; Traci because she was feeling like crap, and besides, hey! She could use that window of "alone time" to shop for her son's birthday; me because I felt bad for being the plan buster. Plus, I had been a little worried about making the earth fly off its axis with my inconsiderate ways.
And my keeping the earth from floating off into space totally untethered? For that, I'm sure we are all secretly relieved.

She can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell! (My bell! Ding-a-ling-a-ling!)

by Patti


S has been sick the past few days, lounging in bed with a sore throat and a cold and recovering from a conk to the head that left her with a bump on the back of her head the size of, well, a head.

The first day of her sickness, she stayed home from school and I stayed home from work. In an attempt to make being sick fun, I set her up in our bed with fluffed-up pillows, her Kindle, some movies, and a bell. Yes, I gave her a bell - the kind you see dainty ladies in dainty sleeping gowns ring daintily from their dainty, frilly beds to call for their tea. "What's this?" S's eyes lit up.
"It's a bell. Since your throat hurts, instead of calling for me, you can just ring it when you need me."
"COOL!" She took the bell from me and gave it a test drive. "I LOVE THIS!"

I left the room and headed for the kitchen to do dishes. BY HAND. Because, you know, we still don't have a new dishwasher. Mid-pot scrub, I heard it. "Jingle, jingle, jingle!" I ran to the bedroom dramatically, slid in on my socks and bowed deeply. "Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?" S laughed with delight. She couldn't believe her good fortune and the power of the bell.
"I'm thirsty. Can I have some water?"
"Sure, honey!"
I went back to the kitchen and filled a water bottle with ice and water and lots of love, and took it right back to her. "Here you go, ma'am."
"Thanks, mommy."
"You're welcome, moodge."

I headed back to the kitchen to finish the dishes, and within moments..."Jingle, jingle, jingle!" I once again shut off the water, peeled off my neon green Glam Gloves (yes, that is what they are called. Don't believe me? You can see them right here.), and went back to my bedroom. "Hi, sweetie. What is it?"
"Mommy? Can you find me 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding' on YouTube?"
"Don't you want to watch something different? You've seen it, like, nine times."
"No, I love that movie, especially when I'm sick." And then she coughed for good effect.
"Okay..." I bent over her Kindle and expertly surfed YouTube until I found the movie. "Here you go!"
"Thanks, Mommy!"

Back at the sink again, the bell rang within minutes. This time I walked only half way to the bedroom. "What is it, sweetheart?"
"Mommy, that was only part one. I can't find part two."
I shuffled back into the bedroom, feeling a slight twinge of annoyance. I once again did my YouTube magic and managed to find the entire movie, set it up for her, and left the room. Again.
When I got back to the kitchen, M came home from running errands. "How is she?"
"She's - " Before I had the chance to answer, the familiar ringing filled the air.
"What's that?" M cocked his head towards the sound, his eyes searching the air.
"Oh. That. I gave her a bell."
M rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding me?"
"I thought it would be fun." The bell continued to ring in the distance, it's once delightful chime now mocking my decision. This time M went into the room, and I heard her giggle as he no doubt tickled her.

He was back within minutes and I had finally finished the dishes. "Jingle, jingle, jingle!" Not wanting to admit I had made a mistake, I sailed past M, an eager smile pasted on my face. "Fun! See?"
"Mommy? I'm hungry. But for something good." Because, you know, we normally crave something disgusting when we are hungry.
"What do you want?"
"Something...cozy."
Oh, brother. I went back into the kitchen and toasted some cinnamon bread, slathered it with butter and cinnamon, and cut up some fruit in a little bowl, then put it all on a tray. "How's this?" I set the tray onto the bed with flourish as she propped herself up and gave me a nod of approval.

I joined M in the kitchen where we started going over some bills. "Jingle, jingle, jingle!"  I decided to pretend I didn't hear the bell, but the more M and I tried to talk over it, the louder it seemed to get. I didn't understand just how her SUPPOSEDLY SICK LITTLE HAND managed to ring that thing with such fervor and stamina. Finally; I snapped. "WHAT?" I yelled from the kitchen. The bell stopped suddenly, as if hurt by my tone. And then, it started ringing again, this time with more persistence.

I ran into the room, "WHAT IS IT, HONEEEEEEY?"
S looked all tiny and pale, propped up against the pillows, surrounded by Kleenex and stuffed animals, the movie's now all-too-familiar dialogue in the background. "I need tea. With cream. Please?"

Suddenly overcome with crazy love for this little pain-in-the-ass with a bell that was my daughter, I leaped onto the bed and gathered her into my arms. "Do you KNOW how much I love you? DO YOU?"
She nodded and laughed a muffled laugh into my chest. "Yesth."
And then I got up and went to make her that damned tea. With bells on.