L'homme a la chemise idiote

Thirteen years ago, today, I met the absolute love of my life. It's kind of absurd how it came about, but my goodness, am I happy that it did. My beautiful Howie, walked into my tiny apartment in France, on a icy cold morning, wearing a rather loud, and rather out of place, Hawaiian shirt and simply made me smile. This isn't a story of that crazy weekend, most people have heard that story before, three French bouncers, a black eye, etc. This is instead just a little story about a girl making the best decision of her life. Let me back up a little first.


I spent the first 18 years of my life with my crazy family, in the strict confines of Southern California. We never took vacations and never left town. We used to go camping but that stopped by the time I was four. We didn't take weekends away, day trips, anything. My grandparents took me two hours away to San Diego when I was 12. My senior year in high school I went to San Francisco with my boyfriend, but that was it on my traveling resume. By the time college came around, I couldn't wait to escape and get as far away from LA as I could. And I did. I picked the snowy, sooty paradise of Central NY. I was THRILLED! I loved how different everything was! My junior year came and I wanted more. I chose Strasbourg, France and had an absolute blast. I met one of my closest friends there and she is now the aunt to my children. It was a fun semester away. A few weeks before the semester was to end, my roommate insisted that I move up an upcoming weekend trip I had planned for Dijon, so that I could meet her friend. She had no romantic intentions for the two of us, she just said that he was such a character, a great guy and I had to meet him. I listened to her, maybe I was meant to. Let me just say, that I had no romantic ideas either. I was just getting out of a long college relationship and was ready to just be 20 years-old and not be attached. I was "that girl" that was never, ever single. I had not been single for even one day since I hit 16 and I needed a break. I intended on a long one.

I went out the night before and got very little sleep. I came out of my bedroom early in the morning because I wanted to finish the book I was reading, Franny and Zoey. I had a major case of bed head and I can still remember that I was wearing my favorite light pink, Petite Bateau shirt. My roommate had gone to the airport to pick up her friend at the airport. He was flying into town for 48 hours only, from Chicago. He had forgotten his passport at home and was supposed to get in the night before. If he had remembered it, I wouldn't have met him when he came in. (I sometimes curse his forgetfulness but I should remember not to do that sometimes.) My roommate and I shared a little apartment which had two bedrooms and one shared bathroom. As I walked out of my room, in came my roommate and her friend, Howie. Standing in front of me was this guy with a friendly smile and a truly ridiculous shirt. It was December in France and he was wearing a really loud, Hawaiian shirt, raver pants and CLOGS. Yep, you read that right, clogs. I still cannot wrap my head around why a 24 year-old man would be wearing clogs. He had shaggy hair and was carrying a Phish mix tape. All I was thinking was, "Is this dude for real?". If you had told me, just the day before I would be falling in love with a frat boy in clogs from Staten Island, I would have called you a horse's ass.

In those first few minutes of conversation, I just kept thinking, "where did this guy come from?" He was really nice, uncommonly nice but also a real goof. He had spent the last few years working, traveling the world and just being crazy. Howie was young and he was fun. He made sure everyone around him had fun too. We talked for a few minutes, he gave me a few packs of cigarettes (seems like an odd gift now, but to a poor, smoking, college student, it was like winning a mini-lottery. A really unhealthy lottery, but a mini one, nonetheless.) He wanted to take a shower after his long plane trip. He didn't yet realize the horrid shower situation in that part of the world. Our bath time routine consisted of a bath tub and a long hose inside of it to hose yourself down with. It sucked. Howie asked for a tape player (yes, a tape player, this was 13 years ago, after all) so that he could listen to Phish while he took a bath. What? Listening to jam bands while you hosed yourself off? My roommate and I giggled thinking about him naked, long guitar riffs and that hose. Oy, that hose! No matter what you did, you felt like an animal getting a spray down in that wretched bath tub. I think I may have heard him singing too...

That weekend was pure nuttiness and with each passing moment with him, I was completely drawn in. I don't need to tell the story of three bouncers jumping him, or the crazy lady that I lived with screaming in a drunken rage that we were dogs, in the street no less. That story has been told many times. It was an absurd weekend but at the end of it, I knew that I had never in my life met someone like him before. He was special. He had this happiness, this goofiness, this goodness about him. As he sat there and told me about his mother dying just the 2 years prior, I was moved by his view on it all. He didn't dwell of the pain, the loss or the missing her. He did miss her, immensely (and still does). She was his best friend and this is what he decided to think about. I can still remember him saying, "I had the best mom in the world, for 22 years of my life. Don't feel sorry for me for losing her, feel happy for me that I had her as my mom, at all." He still holds on to this unique perspective on so many things in life. As the hours flew by and I knew he would be flying thousands of miles away from me, I didn't have any notion of a relationship, I just knew that I wanted him in my life. I wanted to learn from him, laugh with him and say that he was my friend. Just 48 hours after meeting him, I said goodbye to him at his taxi and didn't stop thinking about him for even a day since then.

I flew back to California for Winter Break and he went to NYC for New Year's Eve. He called me from NY and we started. We have talked every single day since that phone call. I went back to college and he would fly and see me every other weekend. My brain fought hard against it. I was just 20 years-old and I truly thought I should spend some time alone and not in a relationship. My heart didn't listen to that. My heart felt safe with Howie. My heart kept pulling me in. I didn't want to listen, but thank the world that I did. I think that most people who call Howie a friend would say their life is better because he is in it. People just truly like him. There isn't a lot bad to say about him. How many people can you really say that about?

We have had 13 fun years together. We have lived all across the country and seven years ago decided to settle in the PNW. We have three awesome boys and as cliche as it may sound, I can't imagine my heart with anyone else. He isn't just a "nice guy", he's a good, good man. I have learned to be a good person, too. I'm not so convinced that I was one while in college. He is kind, he is funny and he is my heart. He makes me laugh. Doesn't everyone want someone who makes them laugh? I know that he really loves me and I also know that if I went out tomorrow and bought him an ugly pair of birkenstock clogs, he would wear the damn things.

My oldest son asked me today if I kissed his Daddy in France, and when I said yes, he blushed and smiled. I went to France to learn more about myself and planned to pick up some fun stories and souvenirs along the away. I also picked up the perfect partner for a fun and sometimes crazy (we do have three boys, ya know) life.

A few months ago, I gave birth to our third, beautiful son. He is such a sweet, sweet baby. Unfortunately, it was an intense birth. I wished that it had been a calmer day for him to enter the world and for us to meet him. During my unplanned c-section, I hemorrhaged and lost over half of my blood supply, among other complications. I was barely coherent after he was born and was shaking quite intensely from a reaction to my anesthesia. Neither Howie nor myself had slept in 48 hours and were barely holding it together. In the five minutes before they wheeled me in for another surgery to attempt to stop the bleeding, I looked over and saw my husband holding our newborn son. They were looking at each other and saying hello for the first time. I was filled with immense love for the both of them. I was thanking the world for that little baby and thanking the world for my husband. There could be no better man by my side. 13 years ago, I was a silly 20 year-old girl who was impulsive and short-sighted but I made the best decision of my life. I opened my heart to that goofy boy in the Hawaiian shirt and the rest is history.

Brother, Can You Spare a Dime (or make that a quarter)?

My first mistake was thinking that just one day after returning from vacation, it would be wise to haul my giant pregnant belly and two boys through Ikea on a warm, sunny day. I'd like to say that I won't be so bone-headed again, but you and I both know I will. And so the story begins...

One day after returning from vacation, I started to have wave #1 (of about 400..) of "Oh my gosh, this baby is coming and we are not prepared!" panic attacks. What else would drive me to be such a masochist and lug my belly and two small children through a store the size of a small country? My abs are so weak, they are almost transparent and I grow babies that could pass as sumo wrestlers, so carrying this massive belly around ceases to be a thing of comfort. But as many a woman will tell you, when this panic sets in, so does biological forces beyond our control that super cede any logic. Guys have these moments too, but they don't involve preparing for babies, it involves making babies...

So I loaded the kids up convinced that I had to cross a few items and chores off my lengthy to do list and well, I would try and make it fun along the way. Ice cream after check-out was promised. Don't even judge, every parent HAS to use bribery at some point. Everything in life involves getting some benefit out of some unwanted task, it's what makes the world work. So, everything was going well. I grabbed my purse and we were on our way. Everything was going very well, until we hit the food area.

My boys were being great, not asking for anything (major score) and didn't mind keeping my mind-numbingly slow pace (I was actually trying to speed walk us through the store, but my speed walk nowadays is more like the speed of paint drying). I grabbed us some grub and we were enjoying a nice lunch together. My sons have two completely different taste palates, and my younger son is much like my husband in his total carnivore nature. He was enjoying some Swedish meatballs when I noticed a glob of gravy on his pants. He said, "Uh oh, mommy." "No big deal, T, it's just gravy, let me wipe it up." "No, mommy is die-uh-ee-ah". "Oh no, T, it's just gravy." I dismissed his comment because he had been calling everything poop since our neighbor started letting their nasty dog defecate over anything not moving. "Here, T, let me wipe that up." I tried to use my napkin but noticed that stain wasn't on TOP of the pants, but seeping up from UNDERNEATH it." "Um, T, I think you're right, this isn't gravy." "No momma, this is die-uh-ee-ah". Oh shit.

So I think, no problem, I've dealt with public poopings a millions times with my boys and I can handle the runny stuff. As my son starting to walk towards the bathrooms, I saw a lovely sight. There was poop running out of his pant legs and onto his shoes. I was in some trouble. To put it nicely. We went over to the family restroom so that I could have access to a changing table and some space. I opened the door to find a woman changing her newborns diaper. So, I waited politely by the door. Five minutes passed. My son was starting to whine that the poop "was going everywhere!" and my older son was whining that "T smells like a sewer mom, come on!" I opened the door to see what the hold up was, and the woman was STILL changing the damn diaper. Five more minutes passed. Lady, this is a newborn who isn't eating solids yet, this isn't a difficult task, if it takes you this long to change an itty bitty diaper, you are in TROUBLE as the years roll on. Move it! I opened the door again to let her know I had a crisis on my hands and kept saying loudly, "Hold on, T, I know you're COVERED IN POOP but as soon as this nice lady is done we can clean you up." Five more long, agonizing minutes passed before she came out. She had that "new mom" look that told me she had yet to experience a crisis with a child that can walk and talk. So we entered the bathroom...

I thought, okay, no biggie, lets get in, change the diaper, change his clothes and be on our way. I opened up my bag and noticed the first of my Major Fail Trinity. I didn't pack any diapers. Fudge. Okay, no biggie again, I can get him cleaned up and them put on pants and we can just get out of here because I knew I had diapers in the car. Let me just grab the wipes... Um, nope. Okay, I will use wet paper towels, as long as I have some pants or shorts, we will be okay. Of course, that would be a negative because I was sucking in the mom department that day. F**K!!!!!! At this point, my son was on the table, and he had diarrhea all the way down his legs, soaked into his pants, covering his shoes and up his BACK! And I didn't have a single diaper, wipe or change of clothes. Okay, I had to think fast. First, I wet a mountain of paper towels and gave this kid the worst sponge bath of his life. Every article of clothing was covered in feces so these were removed. I found a diaper dispensing machine and thought, woohoo! Only problem is that it required $1 in quarters and I only had THREE QUARTERS! I don't carry cash and I was hating myself and my ATM laziness and this moment. I keep all my change in the car for tips and the like in drive-thrus. Okay, no diaper and no clothes and a walk the length of seven football fields to my car... I had my older son watch T and I ran out to get help. I needed it.

I found the janitor who gave me a garbage bag for my son's toxic clothing, awesome. I went to the children's play area and asked if they happened to have diapers. Nope. Next question, can I borrow a quarter for the diaper machine? Nope. I was frantic. I approached four different parents asking if they had an extra diaper or a quarter. I felt humbled and they made me feel even worse. Each one responded no. Really? A parent can't help another parent out? I'm asking for a diaper, not a cigarette and tequila shot to soothe my pregnant nerves! Okay, I was screwed. I returned back to the room with no real solution. I could feel the judgement of a dozen moms thinking, "Really, you already have two kids and you can't even pack a damn diaper? You think you're qualified for a third?" Ugh.

My only option was to leave my kid bare bottomed and dress him in my black zip-up, hooded fleece. I had no options! So as my son asked me, "why I wear a dress, mommy?" (my fleece was huge on him), the only thing I could do was laugh. He was clean and at least his butt was covered to get us out the door. Now, a sane woman would abandon her cart and head for the door, but as we already established, I was preggo-crazed so I grabbed my cart and was determined to check-out.

T walked along. My older son and I kept giggling because he looked like a little Harry Potter in my black fleece, "cloak". He was darn cute. He looked like Harry Potter, but with an incredible flatulence problem. The diarrhea was caused by some intestinal warfare his body was battling and the farts that followed were some of the aftermath. As we were walking, he was ripping out insanely LOUD farts. Without a diaper or clothes to muffle his butt, it truly sounded like I had stuck a microphone between his cheeks to amplify his toots. And after each fart, he would giggle and ask, "who burnt the cookies?". People around us, didn't find this so cute. His farts weren't cute, they were loud, gross, and frat-boy quality.

To add to this mess, each time he cut one, he lifted the "cloak" and said, "gotta air out my tushy and penis!" Can you imagine? People were looking at me, #1, wondering why my son was wearing a hooded dress (20 sizes too big)#2 why his ass was so loud and #2 why he kept flashing his bits and pieces. The only option I had was to carry him and push the cart and lug my belly at the same time. We got to the check-out, I put T standing up in the main section of the cart and thought we were in the clear. That is until, his farts returned and he starting yelling, "More die-uh-ee-ahh is coming MOM!". He had no diaper or pants to contain the upcoming slosh and was standing over the metal grates of the cart. Holy Moly. I sat him down and grabbed my older son by the hand, whispered a prayer to the constipation Gods and ran like hell. My belly was bouncing so hard I'm surprised that it didn't bounce up and knock me out. We made it just back to the car in time for a new diaper for the second wave of the trots to unleash. JUST IN TIME. Of course, in our mad dash out of the door, we didn't get the ice cream, like I promised. But no ice-cream is better than cleaning up the runs off the concrete floor of the food court.

I felt awful. I forgot the basics as a mom of a toddler, diaper, wipes and a change of clothes. Ugh, I was feeling low. Felt low that is, until I cranked the music and we sang and bopped around silly our whole way home. At the stop light off the freeway, we saw a man looking for some money for food. My older son asked, "Mommy, he looks hungry. Do you think other people make him feel bad like those people made you feel when you asked for a quarter?" Hmm, good question, let's help him out. We emptied out all of the change we had, rolled down the window and son asked if he could give it to him. He even wished the guy, "Good luck, Mister, I hope people are being nice to you. " As as we drove away, I knew I wasn't such a bad mom. My kids are good kids and so what if we have to walk through a chain store half naked with a belly full of gas every now and then?

You Certainly Have That...Um...Glow?

I'm not the same pregnant woman that I used to be. See, this isn't my first time at the baby-growing rodeo. It's my third and it shows. There is a huge difference between being 27-28, fit, thin, energetic and WELL-RESTED with just an adorable little baby bump and being well, what I am now. A creature that looks like they just hauled themselves out of the sewer. Being pregnant before, my first two trimesters looked amazing! I just had a cute little belly, adorable maternity clothes and my skin looked flawless. I looked better in those first trimesters than I did before I got pregnant! Looking back at those early pregnancy photos, I just looked great. People would say, "Wow, you are just looking so awesome! You wear pregnancy well." The only pictures that looked better of me were of my wedding and I credit that to the miraculous Hawaiian sun. I no longer wear pregnancy well, I make it look like shit.

Being 27, my life consisted of going to work (which included a relaxing lunch at a local cafe with my book), coming home from work, maybe going to dinner with my husband, watching a movie and then crawling into bed for 8 blissful hours of sleep. My life in no way resembles that now. I am lugging around a saggy, frumpy, tired blob of a body and chasing after two little boys all day long. I knew what I was getting myself into with this pregnancy. We wanted a third and I totally embrace the craziness that is coming, and I am thrilled for the new bundle of love that we will welcome to our family. I knew I would be tired and that the idea afternoon pregnancy naps, prenatal massages and prenatal yoga was laughable. I just didn't expect for people to look at me like a walking birth-control ad.

Let me give you an idea. In the third trimester of both of my boys (BIG boys, 9lbs and 9 and 1/2 lbs) my stomach grew to comic proportions. I looked like a caricature of a pregnant woman, and believe me I had to endure all the "Are there twins in there?" comments, as well. Due to this, my abs are as strong as wet toilet paper and couldn't hold in two grains of rice. It's beyond sad. I swear I started showing this time around before I even saw that double pink line. When people ask me how far along I am and I say 11 weeks, I get the Larry David look from Curb Your Enthusiasm like , "Lady, who you think you're kidding? Quit with the fuzzy math and fess up". Yes, I look 5 -6 months along but I'm not. By the time I really get to six months, I'm going to have to haul my belly around in a wheelbarrow to prevent it from creating sparks from dragging on ground.

My husband and I joke that we decided to have a third baby because we hate the idea of sleep. Both of our kids are not great sleepers and continue to wake up many times a night, at different times, of course. I made the decision years ago that sleep was for wussies and I wouldn't complain. Now I am. I am so damn tired that I want to crawl in the corner, suck my thumb and cry for my mommy. I am beaten down. I am used to 4 hours of sleep a night, but throw on pregnancy fatigue and I am a puddle on the floor. While volunteering at my younger son's preschool this morning, I truly contemplated closing my eyes for a teeny, tiny second. No one would notice right? I toughed it out, though. And last night was a good night too, I got to sleep from 1 am to 6:30 am! Woohoo! Score! My husband and I were so stoked that the boys slept that long that we texted each other a congratulatory message this morning. Desperate times call for pathetic attempts at looking at the bright side. I think we may have convinced ourselves, too. People don't remark on my pregnancy glow anymore, instead they say, "Wow, you sure look tired. You need a break." They're right, but please stop telling me that I look like a dried turd, I know, I have a mirror at home. I really do.

I miss my old body, immensely, but I don't miss my old life. Sure, I had plenty of "me" time and dates with my husband and luxurious vacations, but I didn't have the giggle of boys in the morning as they tickle my feet to wake me up or the kisses me on the face accompanied by "Morning Mama!" I love my kids and the chaos and happiness that goes along with it. But this pregnancy thing? Well, I'm not representing it so well anymore.

More Embarrassing Than an Accidental Fart on a First Date

I, like everyone else, have my own personal list of humiliating moments in my life. I was hoping that at my age, I could stop revising it and adding new events, especially in the number 1 position. Unfortunately, this isn't the case. Particularly for someone like me, who gets embarrassed, oh so easily. Side note, I cannot explain the anomaly of my college years. I am usually a follow-the-rules, don't draw attention to yourself kind of girl. Four years spent in the frozen tundra of Syracuse proved otherwise. I can't even think of some of the mortifying and downright wrong attention that my friend, Adam, and I would draw upon ourselves. But, back on topic...

So, just recently, a new incident may have taken over the number 1 slot on my own personal hell list. It took place at our local Science Museum with my husband and both our sons. Take in mind, that this event was so bad, that it has blown past the time in San Francisco when I failed to realize that my husband had our next-door neighbor in the kitchen (I thought he was talking on the phone) and I proceeded to sing "Purple Rain' by Prince with a country-twang twist and dance around the the living room like a complete moron (My inspiration for such ridiculousness? Who knows.) I only found out when I heard the kitchen go "hear a pin-drop" quiet, the crickets begin to chirp and my husband then escort this neighbor out the door. I never made eye contact with that dude again. Ever. Or while on vacation with my parents in DC , my mom puking in the bushes at the Lincoln Memorial in front of CROWDS of people while I was pushing her wheelchair. (Don't ever get that lady drunk. She's rowdy and can't hold her margaritas.... I KID, MOM!)

As a Kindergarten teacher, I was standing with my students in the morning Pledge of Allegiance line when the most petite little girl in my class, cut the nastiest of all farts. Lucky me was standing right behind her and had parents on either side of me. I couldn't point out to the class and other parents that it was the girl and not me. That would be wrong! It definitely didn't help me when this said girl leaned over, giggled and said, "Teacher has icky farts!" The nerve! Why did I cover for her again? Speaking of farts, one night I was pregnant with my second boy and was feeling rather bloated. (Gross, I know, but what could a pregnant lady do?) Our friends were coming over for dinner that night and I thought I would tuck away and remedy my ills before they arrived. Of course, thinking I had the house to myself, I let the booms loose...only to hear my friend's husband cough politely in my living room. That stunk. In more ways than one.

I have so many stories, but I need to get to the point here, as we don't have all day, I know. Okay, so we're at the Science Center, enjoying a family day out. We were planning on heading right from the museum to an overnight trip out of town. I tried to simplify things and pack my clothes in my purse, trying to pack lightly. For years, I have been hassled by everyone for over packing. (I'm looking at you, Jennet) So, I packed one outfit, my tooth brush/paste and some face lotion and threw it in my bag. Look at me! I'm so low-maintenance and spontaneous! Time to backfire.

So we're having fun, blah, blah blah, when we find ourselves in the middle of the toddler play area. I'm watching T and my husband is with our older son. Boys are having fun, when I see this random dad staring at me. Yes, like in a creepy, crazy way. And I'm thinking, "WTF dude, what?" When I look up, he doesn't break eye contact and deliberately looks down at my feet. Because what should be laying there? My panties. My PANTIES. In the middle of the toddler play area. My panties had fallen out of my purse and were laying by the rocket ship climber. Why couldn't it have been my toothbrush? Or socks?! He's staring. His stare was a challenge to say, "Lady, you're weird, that's wrong and what are you going to do about it?" I could have done the easy thing and grabbed them quickly, stuffed them back in my bag, and high tailed it out of there. But no, that's requires a little common sense.

I looked down and the shame and embarrassment shot up my face like a blow torch on my skin. (Tangent alert: What happened to shame and embarrassment in this country? I'm starting to think they're on the endangered list as 80% of the population has an inability to feel them anymore. Exhibit A: Any show on VH1) I started to hyperventilate. I looked back at him, kicked the panties across the room and said, 'Gross! Who's are those?" Who does that?! Who kicks undies across a museum? Even if they hadn't been mine, why would I kick them and talk like a 12 year-old? And it was so OBVIOUS that they were mine, to make matters infinitely worse. So I grabbed my husband and told him;



Me: "You have to go retrieve my underwear".
Husband: "What? I have to WHAT?"
Me: "My panties! I dropped them by the rocket ship, you have to grab them.'
Husband: "Why did you take them off?"
Me: "No! They're for tomorrow, my packed clothes!"
Husband: 'Why did you bring your clothes in here and not leave them in the car?"
Me: "No time for logical questions NOW! "
Husband: 'So why am I stuck with this job?"
Me: "If I grab them, it will confirm they're mine.'
Husband : "And it won't if your husband does?"

In the end I convinced him (that poor man). How? I don't remember, but what matters is that I was in the clear. At this point, the Dad who first saw me, had found his wife and they were pointing at the undies, pointing at me and talking loudly for others to hear. I couldn't blame them of course, it was bizarre, but how could I explain myself now? "Listen, Random Dad at Museum, my overnight clothes fell out of my bag. Yes, they're mine and I'm going to go pick them up. No, I cannot explain why I kicked them." Fortunately, no kids has found them yet. I devised a plan to make it look like I just happened upon these chonies, just like the other dude. The plan was that my husband would pick them up and throw them in the trash. I couldn't have him do this barehanded, naturally, because, who would pick up "unknown" panties with their bare hands? So my husband, being the amazing actor that he is (THANK YOU Penn State Drama 101!), picked them up with a piece of paper, grimaced and threw them away while saying, "nasty". We took a deep breath and ran out of there, as fast as we could.


I felt better thinking, 'Okay, we dodged a bullet. That husband just thinks we did a good deed and NOT that I was a weirdo pretending that my undies were not my undies. Sigh of relief! I am so clever!". When in fact I bet the husband and wife were thinking, "Okay, so what exactly is going on with that woman where she kicks her own undies in disgust and her husband has to pick them up with a protective barrier?" Good question.

The Sweet Life of Little Ones

I was reading my friend Kristen's blog, and her post today, "Things I Will Miss Someday" and it inspired me to write my own. You can read her blog here http://chinacat.dnsalias.org/roller/sunfrog/

So here is my own list of things that I love more than anything now and that I know will not always be. My little guys are growing up. One day they will fall in love, explore the world and make their way. I want my boys to grow up feeling safe, loved and happy. I want them to have confidence in themselves, adventure in their hearts and the strength to put themselves out there and take risks. I know that I will always be important to them, but I will not always be the center of their little world. Here are some things that I will most definitely miss.

I will miss the cuddles that I get while breastfeeding. That snuggle time is the best. The whole world seems to stop while your little one is craddled in your arms, happily eating and reaching up to grab your face. Pure contentment.

Warm, little bare feet in my bed. We have co-slept with both of our little guys. Little Man is off in his own room, in his own "big boy bed", but Baby Boy still spends the second half of his night cuddled up next to me. I will miss waking up, leaning over and hearing his soft breathing while sound asleep. Oh and those cute little morning smiles when we both wake up.

My boys adorable little voices. I know their voices are only going to get deeper and more grown-up, so I try to remember all of their cute little giggles and songs now.

Mixed-up little toddler/preschooler sayings. I crack up at all of my son's little "translations". For example he calls taxi cabs, "cabbage cars", and deodorant, "deodor-ade".

Sleepy face rubs. I will miss seeing Baby Boy ball up his little fists and run his eyes when fatigue sets in.

Naps with my boys. Nothing beats snuggling up with them on a rainy day, reading some books and taking a snooze.

Silly Dance Time. On a weekly basis, we put on some music, each grab a musical instrument and sing and dance ourselves silly. This is my older son's favorite time in the world, mine too. I know one day they will think this is beyond lame, but for now it is nothing but pure happiness and glee.

The un-jaded heart of a little one. I LOVE how my little guy will get excited for just about everything. You can tell him you're going to the library and he will jump for joy (even though we go 1-2 times a week...) A three year-old still gets so excited about an extra book before bed or making pancakes with mom on a lazy Sunday morning. A 16 year-old? Not so much.

Matchbox cars/Hot Wheels in every room and cabinet in the house.

Messy morning bed head.

The joy on my son's face when he sees me pick him up from school and the first big bear hug that I get when he sees me.

Baby giggles in a bubble bath. And all of the happy splashing that goes with it.

Cute little baby butts crawling across the floor after a bath. (And the mad dash he makes, FULL of giggles when he see me chasing after him).

Running through the sprinkler, with shrieks of joy, on a hot summer day. Followed by an ice cream cone, naturally.

I will miss my older son as a three year-old and my younger boy as a 12 month-old. Next year, they will be different little people, and so on for each year after that. Only now can I enjoy them at this age and all of the adorable quirks and joys that go with it. I embrace and love it all. Why can't we bottle some up to enjoy later? Ten to twenty years from now, I could go, grab that bottle from January 30, 2010, dust it off and enjoy Little Man splashing in his bath, getting into train flannel PJ's and telling me that he can't eat kale because "it is meant for rabbits not boys". I'd get to hear Baby Boy giggle with delight whenever I smell his stinky feet, sweet kisses on my face, his entire face red with tomato sauce from dinner and a head full of blond, bouncy curls.

I will miss it all, absolutely all of it. I love my life, I love my boys and I get teary-eyed just thinking about them growing up. This is just the perfect age for them to be. I can love them and they think Mommy and Daddy are just the coolest. Who can beat that? I will truly miss every beautiful, crazy thing about our life right now. I love it and I hope they grow up knowing how much I love my life with them. I love being their mommy and not a moment of my life goes un-appreciated. A mother's love just may be the most powerful thing there is or ever was.

Oh, and I'll also miss the little pitter-pat of footie pajamas running to my bedroom door each morning to say, "Wake Up, Mommy! It's a brand new day!". It certainly is, my beautiful boy.

*Get inspired and write your list,too. If you do post, share your address in the comments. If you don't have a blog, just share some here anyway. :) *

What Am I Teaching This Kid?

I have the utter inability to contain my laughter, even in the most inappropriate of situations. I have a long history of laughing at the worst times during a lecture or reinforcing naughty behavior in my kids. I truly cannot help it. Try as I might, I cannot build an inner dam strong enough to hold back my giggles. My husband says that there is no hope for me and he's right . Our son is a really sweet, empathetic, well-behaved kid (like his mom, he's not a rule-breaker) but he has had some moments at school where he has been the "silly kid" or shall we say, "class clown". I think some responsibility for that lays directly on my shoulders. A little on my history...

As far back as I can remember, I was always getting in trouble for laughing in class. I was never a rule-breaker (still to this day), but I did get disciplined for fighting the laughs. I would try everything to stop myself, biting the insides of my cheeks, stabbing my pencil into my leg, thinking about something sad and dire, but nothing worked. I can still laugh today thinking back to my Freshman year in high school. One day, my language arts teacher decided to spice things up in class a bit and wake us up from our boredom by acting out a fight scene from Romeo and Juliet. With great fervor, he attacked a chair with a ruler. In doing so, he slipped, fell, and farted. Come on, how could I possibly NOT laugh? Here's the thing though. I nicknamed him "Mr Butterbuns" and laughed about it every single day for the rest of the year. Everyday, I walked into class and swore that I wouldn't laugh, and I failed, BIG TIME. Fast forward 10 years when I am in class, as a 24-year old, getting my teaching credential (oh, the irony!). I am in class when my friend starts making some lame jokes about farting on my toothbrush (unfortunately, you read that right). Oh no, the tidal wave of laughs was unleashed. Yes, I have a very sophisticated sense of humor. I know it's a total dud of a joke now, but for some reason, it hit me that day. Here's the worst part, the next day our professor approaches us, very upset. Of course, she addresses me as the main part of her problem. "I know you were laughing in class yesterday and I think it's wrong and inappropriate to laugh at my accent. English is my second language." Oh no, do I really have to explain this? I'd rather by known as a girl with a base-level sense of humor than what she was suggesting. I had to come clean (it was mortifying). "Listen, I would never laugh at someones accent. I am telling you the truth when I say that I was laughing at a very childish, crude joke." She pushed me further and I had to admit that I laughed at the idea of flatulence of a dental hygiene device. She looked at me with such disgust. Not only did she think I was a liar but was that really the best that I could come up with?

I got in trouble so many times over the years. I would fight back my giggles during meetings with my boss, who was the VP of the company (it was only the two us in the meeting, too, I'm pathetic). To this day, I laugh during every massage that I get because I think back to a story that my friend told to me. During a rubdown, his masseuse bent his knees to his stomach, causing him to cut the cheese on the table. HA! I will laugh at the weirdest times during a massage just thinking about it and have to awkwardly say, "Sorry, I am just ticklish". Even when they are like 6 feet away...

I can't control my responses when I am the student and I even have trouble even when I am the teacher. I had a group of 4th graders that named their team, "Cheetah's Anus". I told them to try again and to be more appropriate. Their next attempt was "Rings Around UrANUS". I bolted from the table and pretended to reorganize a cabinet while I pulled myself together. I really am the worst! Don't get me started about the time a kindergartner dropped an F-bomb in class.

With Little Man, I have to pull in my husband when my son says something funny but not something we want him to repeat. I found out this summer that my problem is genetic (it's not my fault! right?). My Dad was sitting at the dinner table with us when Little Man said something hilarious (but not acceptable). As I was explaining to my son why he couldn't say that, I look to my dad, laughing quietly with a dish towel over his head to hide his reaction. I was doomed from birth, really. When out to dinner one night, my son farted (accidentally) at the dinner table in front of our waiter. I said, "what do you say?" which is my prompt for him to say "excuse me". Instead he said, "Mommy, it's not nice to blame your farts on me." HA HA HA! That is funny stuff! But it's not nice to lie, and I couldn't encourage that. Especially with the waiter looking at me like I was the lowest of the low, blaming my gas on my son. Cue my exit to the bathroom while my husband stepped in. I'm worthless in these situations. If you're funny, mommy cannot tell you no without a suppressed grin on her face. Last summer, my son walked into school and told his teacher that his brother "Likes to cut the Babybels"! I was dying! Get it? Babybels, like mini-cheeses because he's a baby and his farts are tiny? Too funny. My son's teachers had to stop him from rhyming kid's names into nicknames after he came up with "Tuna" for one girl in class. The poor girl! The worst part is that the first time his teacher told me about it, you can only guess my reaction...

Ralph and Chuck: Our Unwanted House Guests

The dreaded rotavirus struck our house again. Just the mere mention of nausea or puking will give me the sweats and send me into a state of panic. I loathe the stomach flu (who doesn't?). Not only do I loathe puking, but I am practically phobic of the act. Some people fear spiders, some fear heights, I fear puking. In college, many friends of mine were puking on a weekly basis from over-consumption of booze. I made sure to always keep myself just shy of that debauchery because I was so terrified of throwing up. Everything about it is misery. Those few hours of feeling "off", and then the slow and steady build-up to ralphing. Ugh. I am a person who has the pain drawn out particularly long (or maybe I am that much of a drama queen to believe that it is drawn out especially long, just for me). I am laying on the bathroom tiles, begging for the contents of my stomach to explode forth, but my stomach just teases me with gags, on agonizing end, until I finally get the pleasure of getting the act over with. Yuck.



My phobia of gastroenteritis never affects my parenting. I am always there to soothe our children when they get a tummy bug, always. But the moment they first puke, I am in a full-blown state of hysteria on the inside. I am a calm, caring mommy on the outside and a total basket case on the inside. I purell and wash my hands like crazy and do everything I can to avoid the dreaded germs, but it's inevitable. There is not much you can do when your kids manage to puke on your body multiple times, each and every time they get sick. And like clockwork, a few days after their first upchuck appearance, mine soon follows. Never my husband, just me.



So, as a preface to this little tale of our fluid-filled house this week, I was a terrible, terrible mother. Just awful! A week and a half ago, Baby Boy celebrated his very first birthday. I stayed up late the night before to make him a yellow cake with chocolate frosting, from scratch (even the delicious frosting). I was excited because the tradition in our house is cake for breakfast on the day of one's birthday. Baby Boy woke up and we slowly got ourselves and Grandpa (who was in town visiting for the week) up to see our little baby dig into his very first cake. Little Man, his older brother, was in a bad mood from the moment he woke up that day. He told me that he didn't feel like celebrating his brother's birthday, at all, and did not want to sing, eat cake nor go to the Children's Museum. I was sure this was just a case of jealousy. Afterall, this was his first time of having to celebrate another kid's birthday in his own house. He told me that he had a stomach ache and I just didn't believe him. Everytime that I cuddled with Baby Boy and wished him a Happy 1st, Little Man would push him aside and try to get onto my lap. I reminded him about sharing attention and days and that one day soon he, too, would get a big birthday. He would mention again his tummy, and I brushed it aside. I am truly wretched (oy my mommy guilt!). Fast forward to all of us dressed and ready to go when Grandpa says "Little Man is not feeling well, maybe we should cancel" to which I replied, "No, it's a birthday jealousy-ache not a tummy ache". Not ten seconds later and Little Man was heard puking on his bed. OH MAN. I felt like the WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD. I am the queen mum when it comes to comforting my kids in time of illness. I hold them and let them sleep in my arms at night when they have a tummy bug because I know how awful they feel. I go without sleep and comfort to help them and this time I failed. Big time. He had told me all morning about his sick tummy and I ignored him. I really didn't know! Oh gosh, don't judge me too harshly! I made up for it after the fact. I promise that I did. The whole day got changed around and now Baby Boy can hold this over his brother's head for years to come, "You know, I got robbed of my first birthday because of you..."



Grandpa was here and helped a lot. He continued to drink from Little Man's cup and share his food the entire time that Little Man was sick. I thought it was absolute lunacy, but my father-in-law assured me, "Nah, I won't get sick." I practically bathed in bleach and this guy was sharing drinks with my son. Guess who got sick and who didn't? So this week, all the rest of us got sick (except Grandpa) and it sucked. Baby Boy handled his first tummy bug like a champ. Not a minute after puking all over his bed and he was back to giggling and being his cheerful self. This was at 3am, too. We're out of the woods now and I am hoping that ralph and chuck don't show up for, at least, another year. Oh stomach flu karma, be kind to me! Okay that sounded incredibly selfish. Let's try this again, oh stomach flu karma be kind to my family!



And on a side note, if you have littles ones in your house and want a nice bonding moment to share with them, dance to Justin Roberts, "In the Car". It's truly special. Hold them tight, let the world rest and enjoy the time together.