Orange Rhino Challenge, 2 Week Update

Two weeks ago, I committed to trying the Rhino Challenge.

Believe it or not, things have actually been going pretty well.

I've been able to stay in the 0-3 range 90% of the time, with the occasional "oopsie" snap. I think I've had one or two that might be considered the nasty snap, but I was able to calm myself down and redirect before reaching the yell. (Explanation of yells types here)

For me, just decided that "it is not okay" to yell and then vowing to report if I do, seems to be pretty effective. Committing to keep accountable by writing it up in my blog adds that layer of being watched (even if only virtually and only by the 2 or 3 people that actually read this thing), and I would never yell around most people because of the "they would think I was a horrible mom" complex.

Bad Mom Confession

The morning started out fine.

A typical Monday morning, no one wanted to get up after two days of sleeping in.

Mommy Dearest

Thing 2, usually the more difficult of the two to get up, got up and going with just a little resistance. I smartly got him motivated to get ready by reminding him that it was his sharing day at school (basically show and tell, but the teacher gives them a theme of what to bring in).

Thing 1, usually the easier to rouse of the two, kept trying to crawl back under the sheets. I had to physically dress him myself with him pulling against me. Once he was dressed, I sent him off to brush his teeth, while Thing 2 and I headed to the basement to find a sphere, a cube, a cylinder, and a cone. (Yes, I really should have taken care of this this weekend, but I forgot. Bad mom move #1.)

When we came upstairs, we put Thing 2's items in his book bag and I quickly got on his coat, hat, and gloves (of course it was freezing this morning!). Again, he is usually the harder of the two to do these tasks, so I was pleased it was going so quickly.

But then all hell broke loose! Thing 1 was crying hysterically in the bathroom "But I didn't brush my teeth yet." (P.S. I had left him in the bathroom with instructions to brush his teeth BEFORE we had headed downstairs on our shapes' scavenger hunt.)

I snapped! "Why didn't you brush your teeth? Fine, I'll brush your teeth for you. I dressed you like a baby. Now I'll brush your teeth like your a baby. Are you a baby or a big boy? You should be doing this stuff for yourself."

Of course then he is crying. (Bad mom move #2.)

We leave the bathroom and I am fervently trying to get his coat and hat and gloves on him. Of course I'm having to put them on for him, because he is crying because I basically called him a baby. :(

Then just as we are heading to the door, we see the school bus...drive by.  Grrr!

So, me, worst mom ever turns to Thing 1 and says "Great! Now you made us miss the bus!" So his sniffling cry turns into FULL BLOWN HYSTERICS!

GOD, I'M A TERRIBLE PERSON!

I go out and start the car. (Which at this point he is sobbing uncontrollably because he thinks I'm leaving him.)

Then I come back in and tear around the house getting the rest of my stuff together for work, so I can drop them at school on my way to work.

With my jacket on, purse on my arm, lunch box in my hand, I look over at my son and think "My god, what have I done?"

I sit down on the couch and ask him to come to me. We hug and I say "I'm so sorry I hurt your feelings. Of course you aren't a baby. And it's not your fault we missed the bus. It's mommy's fault because I should have gotten you up earlier. I am just frustrated and I'm taking it out on you. But I'm not really frustrated with you. Do you understand." He nods his head, but of course he doesn't.

"I love you so much. And I'm so sorry I was being mean. Sometimes mommy gets frustrated and loses her temper and can be mean. I really hate that about myself. Do you forgive me." He nods his head and hugs me tighter.

And I feel like the worst person ever because I KNOW what I do. I know I have a temper. I know I handled the situation badly and even though I've apologized, I can't erase what I've already said. I can't erase that he (and my other son) saw my behavior. I don't want them to learn to act that way. I don't want them to inherit my temper and my ability to fly off the handle.

But, I guess the silver lining (to me at least) is that I am big enough to see my faults and #1 apologize for them and #2 admit them to my sons. I hope that I am teaching them that you have to apologize when you hurt someone and you have to own up to your bad behavior. I just hope that rubs off on them more than my actual bad behavior.

I should clarify

Regarding my last blog:  Do Unto Others



I should clarify, because I don't think this was made clear the way I wrote it (based on some feedback)...

I was not upset DURING my pregnancy/post-pregnancy.  Honestly, I'm very independent, so I really just assumed we'd be doing everything ourselves without help.  It was only after my pregnancy/had the boys and that I noticed all of these request for other people that I started to think Why do I need to make a casserole for someone just because they had a baby...no one made casseroles for us, and we still managed to eat.  And then before I knew it, it seemed like everyone I knew was getting meal trains for everything.  THAT is when I started feeling jealous and wondering why it seemed like everyone in the world got them but me.

And with the baby showers, again, I just assumed we'd be getting the things our kids needed, so I didn't care at the time that I wasn't thrown a shower.  (And for the record, I did have a registry online and I had lots of friends and family send us gifts either from the registry or hand me downs of things they had on the registry, I just didn't get the joyous party with cake part).  It wasn't until long after, seeing most everyone else not only getting one shower, but showers with every baby.  When I would go to showers, I just get jealous that I never had that special experience.

(Oh, and I maintain not liking showers for subsequent babies, except of course in cases like a big gap between children, or oops pregnancies after you thought you were done and had gotten rid of your baby stuff.  But just because I don't like them doesn't mean I judge you if you've had one.  And, p.s. I always give my friends presents for the subsequent babies too...I just don't like the idea of showering them with all new expensive equipment and stuff just because they want a different color, etc. It just seems like wasteful and unnecessary to me.  But that is obviously just my opinion.  And opinions are like assholes. )

The only thing I wished differently DURING the actual process was that more people would come visit...but that was just because I was crazy lonely.  Like almost literally going crazy from laying in the bed all day.  Superman even wrote a blog post (that he wisely did not show me until much later) that he was becoming concerned for my mental health.  The RATIONAL part of me understood why my friends and family who lived hundreds miles away didn't come visit but instead supported me through countless phone calls, emails, cards, care packages, sending flowers, etc...  But it was that other side.  The poor-me, selfish, ungrateful side that wanted them there in the flesh, regardless of the cost or inconvenience.  I can sit here and rationally understand why they didn't...but that doesn't mean I wanted it any less.  Or that I love them any less because they didn't.

I guess the point of my blog is that we all have demons.  Just a few of mine are these terrible thoughts I have (I have used this blog to openly discuss others in the past also)...but it's what we DO with them.  Instead of letting those evil thoughts take hold and not doing anything for others because I'm jealous those things weren't done for me...I still GLADLY make the casseroles or attend the baby showers, etc.  I don't do it out of obligation or because I feel like I owe it to anyone for any reason, I do it because I genuinely want to help and support them, and I know that anyone in their same situation would appreciate it.

So, in closing:  I love my friends.  They are wonderful and were wonderfully supportive of me the best way they could be at the time (especially the ones who were themselves pregnant at the time).  But it doesn't mean I don't have the occasional pity party that I had had all of the things that I now see other women having.  I'm only human.

But the main take away I was trying to leave was this: Don't be a jerk.  Just because something wasn't done for you, don't begrudge other people for it.  Don't NOT do something for someone just because no one did it for you.  Make sure to do it because you know its the right thing to do, and you know it would make them happy, as you know it would have made you.

Don't get mad at people for having what you didn't have.  Especially if you call them a friend.  You should just be happy for them that they have (at least one thing) easier than you did!! :)

Do unto others

Sometimes I astound myself with my selfish and ungrateful thoughts.

Whenever I get an email asking for volunteers to help someone in a time of need, my first thought is “I should help.”  Then my second thought is usually: “Actually why should I?  No one helped me when I was in the similar situation.”  Then my next thought is “You are a terrible person! You should do onto others as you would have liked others to do onto you.

It like when I was on bedrest… I was on bedrest for 4 months.  That is 16 weeks.  115 days to be precise.  I couldn’t get up to make myself a sandwich.  Heck I was barely allowed to use the bathroom.  Yet do you know how many visitors I got?  8.  (Well, 14 if you count spouses and children.)

1. Superman of course was there for the 4 weeks I was at home, and came to the hospital every day.  (Although he never once stayed the night with me…not even on the weekends) 
2. My aunt and uncle came to stay with me for a weekend when I was still at home while Superman had to go out of town. 
3. My friend from college came to visit me at home when she was in town for business. 
4. My MIL and FIL visited once at home and three times when I was in the hospital.
5.  A friend from grad school/colleague came to the hospital twice, each time she brought one of the following women with her: 
6. A friend/colleague 
7. A friend/colleague
8.  My cousin and his wife and their three kids (including their set of twin boys) showed up as a surprise on Easter day, because they were in town visiting her family.

I get that people are busy and that travel is expensive and time consuming, but I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was really disappointed that over a course of 16 weeks laid up in bed, not being able to go anywhere or do anything, that I only had 8 visitors.

So now whenever I hear of someone going on bedrest for a pregnancy, even if I don’t know them.  I try to help some way.  If they live far away, I send them a message of support (with ideas of things I did to help pass the time and keep from going crazy).  But if they live nearby, I offer to come visit them.  In fact, last year someone I knew on facebook set up a meal delivery calendar for her friend, and I signed up to bring them a meal.  I signed up to bring a perfect stranger a meal, and I ended up sitting and talking with her for about an hour.  Because rather than give into my selfish feelings of “no one made any meals for us when I was on bedrest” I decided to do unto others as I would have liked them to do unto me.

Once I had my babies, it didn’t get any better.  I had even less visitors!  Visitors I had when/after the baby was born:

1.  My parents and brother came for the birth
2.  MIL and FIL came for the birth and about came about once a month for the next 6 months or so
3. My aunt came for the birth
4.  My sister came for a week when they were 6 weeks old

That’s it.  Forget people dropping by with casseroles or presents.  That was it.

So again, when I hear of someone organizing a meal train for a friend or acquaintance that just had a baby, I think: “Are you kidding me?!?! I had TWINS and no one ever brought us dinner over.” But then I have to silence that little selfish voice and remember that I have to do onto others as I would have liked others to do unto me.

And I have to remind myself to quit being ungrateful, and instead of focusing on who didn’t come…focus instead on who did!  Really appreciate them and let them know I appreciated them.

Oh, and don’t get me started on baby showers.  Never had one.  No one even offered.  Now, most of the time, this doesn't bother me, because honestly I was extremely blessed with hand-me downs (special thanks to my cousin and his wife who had twins two years before us) and have a shop-aholic and yard sale crazy MIL who was more than happy to buy every matching outfits she came across. And really, I preferred receiving hand me downs on baby items that you only use for a few weeks/months over anyone (even if it isn’t me) spending $100s of dollars on them new.  But it’s not the thought of the actual presents so much as the fact that NO ONE OFFERED.

A friend of mine from college had a baby a few years after Thing 1 and Thing 2 were born.  Like me, she lived in an area far away from friends and family…so her friends threw her a virtual baby shower online.  It was very unique and definitely incredibly thoughtful.  I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been jealous no one had offered to do something similar for me.

So when I see women being super picky on their baby shower registries.  Must be this brand.  Must be this color. Must be this theme.  Blah blah blah. I’m like “Bitch, just be happy I’m buying you ANYTHING because lord knows you didn’t buy me jack-shit when I had my TWO babies.”  (Sorry, cursing is necessary, because this is what goes through my head.)

And don’t get me started on second baby showers.  The whole point of showers is to shower new parents with things to get them ready for a baby…you’ve never had a baby before so you don’t have a crib, or a high chair, or diapers, etc.  But once you’ve had one baby…you don’t need another shower.  You got your shower.  You had people buy you hundreds of dollars’ worth of new (because you are too good for used) baby shit.  USE THAT!  Yes, you can use that same crib.  Yes, you can put your baby girl into a blue car seat/highchair/stroller…if you are worried about people “not being able to tell it’s a girl” how about #1 covering her head to toe with pink or #2 not giving a fuck (do you think little Susie will be scarred for life if people mistakenly say “he is such a pretty baby” when she is less than 1 years old and can’t even talk yet?  Hint: she won’t be, because she #1 Doesn't understand English and #2 WON’T REMEMBER IT!

So obviously I still have these feelings of selfishness, ungratefulness, and being judgmental.  I’m dealing with them.  And I’m also dealing with the question of “Am I just a sucky friend/person that my friends and family don’t care enough to offer to do things for me the way that other people do for their friends and family?”  Maybe that’s it.  Maybe the problem is me...

Meanwhile, I keep trying to suppress these unhealthy feelings and focus on not doing to others as was done to me, but instead doing unto others as I would have liked have been done for me.  Maybe in the end it will make me a better person and friend.  Maybe it will encourage others to pass on kindness shown to them.  Or maybe it won’t do anything, except make me feel better helping someone else out during their time of need.  I'd be okay with that.

Bring you brat to work day

I had an incredibly bad morning.

I'm not naming names, but one of my sons was being so grouchy and grumpy this morning that I wanted to drop kick him off the back porch.

All I could think of was I can't wait to drop this kid off at preschool and get him away from me.

Instead, I filled his back pack with books and crayons and said "You are going to work with me today."

The other one immediately said "Hey, I wanna go to work with you."  But I told him that he was going to school, and only his brother would be coming with me.

I don't know if this is the answer to an overly grumpy child.  But I'm doing what my intuition as a mom told me to do.  I feel like part of this kid's issue is that maybe he just wants some attention.  One problem with having twins is that they almost always do everything together.  Usually when I give their dad a break, I do something with BOTH of them.  And vice versa.  It's much more rare for us to set aside specific one on one time.  It usually only happens in the form of grocery shopping.

Okay, so bringing him to work is not the most fun one on one time.  But I'm trying to make it fun for him.

On the way in, we stopped at the convenience store and I let him pick out a Hostess snack and a jug of milk (of course he picked strawberry).  Now he's sitting and "reading" while I work.  Later on just the two of us will go eat lunch where ever he wants.  And this afternoon I'll probably let him put some quarters in the junk food machine. (Which I've never let him do before).

I'm disappointed at myself for losing my temper with him this morning.  But I'm proud of myself for deciding to handle this situation by not punishing him, but trying to figure out what the real problem is (his need for attention) and fixing it by giving him something he is needing.

My name is Amber

There are few things more precious in the world to me than hearing my sons call for me.  Thing 1 calls me "Mom".  Thing 2 calls me "Mommy".

But for 27+ years, I was not "Mom" or "Mommy" or "Ma-ma" or "Thing 1 & Thing 2's mom", I was just Amber.

For the first few years of my sons' lives, I think I was fairly typical of many of today's parents, allowing my whole life to be consumed by loving my kids.  I worked full time, but when I wasn't at work, I was at home with my kids. Taking care of my kids.  Loving my kids. Playing with my kids.

My scrapbooking supplies went untouched.  My sewing machine gathered dust.  My softball mitt languished somewhere in a box in the garage.  Forgotten.  Probably more than 75% of my Facebook posts had something to do with my kids or parenting.  (Much to the annoyance of I'm sure about 99% of my Facebook friends.)

It makes sense in many ways really.  Becoming a parent truly changes your life.  The who you were before becomes transformed.  Suddenly things that seemed important before no longer seem important.  You have new priorities.  A new identity.  New prerogatives.  Add that to a hearty dose of working mother's guilt, and you have a recipe for a woman who begins to spend every spare moment with or about her children, not feeling she deserves any time for herself.

But now my boys are older.  They will be 5 soon.  They attend preschool.  They have friends.  They are incredibly more independent.  I can see that they are slowly developing lives outside of me, outside of my husband, and our little family.

And this is a good thing.  Watching their independence reassures to me that they deserve their little lives away from me, away from being the sons.  And that I deserve some time away from them, away from being the mom.

Over the last year, I have started scrapbooking again.  I have started sewing again.  I have gone to crafting workshops on a Saturday.  I've even looked into weekend long scrapbook retreats.  I joined a co-ed softball team.  I have un-apologetically been getting involved with activities that are just for me. Me.

And on a sunny afternoon when Superman takes the boys over to the baseball game, and he calls and asks if I want to meet them there on my way home from work.  And then he tries to guilty me into saying yes by putting Thing 2 on the phone and saying "Please mommy, we want you to come watch baseball with us."  I feel perfectly fine saying "No thanks.  Maybe next time honey." And maybe next time I will go.  But this time, I will use that free time to do something I want to do instead.

Because while I'm still Thing 1's "Mom" and Thing 2's "Mommy", I'm also Amber. And I can't forget about her.

The Process of Becoming a Mom (Guest Blogger)

A few weeks ago, I asked one of my best friends if she would be willing to write a guest blog. She'd never written a blog before, and didn't really know what to write about. I said "Just write about a hard aspect of parenting. Something you think another mother in your shoes could relate to."  I suggested she tackle what it was like to be a Navy wife. Or why she longs for a big family (she is currently a mom of three and she wants one more!)  But she felt something else in her heart, and I think you'll love the topic she picked.  Even if you can't exactly relate, it's a touching, inspiring, and moving story.  Let's welcome Christie...


“Wow! That guy is hot!”  That is what I thought when I first saw my husband.

There was definitely an instant physical attraction, but there was also great conversation. His ability to make me laugh was unstoppable. We were practically inseparable from the moment we met.

From very early on, I knew in my heart he was my future, no matter what my friends said or the warnings from my parents.

My friends thought we argued too much, but I saw it as our passion for each other.

My parents said to stay away from Navy guys, because they leave you for months at a time.  But I knew I could handle it, since I had grown up watching my mom go through it with my dad always being deployed as a naval captain.

And it turned out that none of those things were what I struggled with. No, I struggled with the fact that I wasn’t the only girl in his life...and never would be.

She was beautiful, sweet, and at 2 years old, already very determined.  Zoë was his daughter, and I adored her the moment I met her.

Phil had just separated from his wife of two years and was moving to Virginia to stay. Zoë would be joining him as soon as he was settled in, and she would be living with him the majority of the time.

I was only 24, and still used to being a carefree party girl.  It was going to be a major adjustment.  And fast.  But I knew in my heart that my future was with Phil.  And I knew that if my future was with him, then it was also with her, and I needed to find a way to make it work.

It wasn’t easy.

And not only did I have an instant daughter, but I also now had an ex-wife to deal with. I put my mind to it to make it work, and decided the only thing to do was make nice with his ex. I figured the least I could do was be friendly and compassionate towards her.  Because she wasn't just Phil's ex, she was also Zoë's mother.  I tried putting myself in her shoes. I tried to imagine what she was probably going through. I knew losing her husband and her baby girl must have been devastating.

Making the effort to be nice and understanding with Zoë's mother one of the best decisions I ever made.  It really does make things so much easier for Zoë, and she is the one who matters. We continue to have a very friendly relationship to this day. I really do like who she is and respect her for what she has been through and persevered.

Nearly a year and a half after we met, Phil proposed to me on Christmas Day. I didn't have to pause for even 1 second.  I immediately said Yes! I had known for a good while that he was the one, I was just waiting patiently for him to figure it out, too! Luckily, he didn’t make me too wait long.

We married 8 months later and moved into our first place together. Less than a month after our wedding, he left for his first deployment of our marriage. He also left behind Zoë. She only stayed with me a short while before she left to stay with her mom for the rest of the deployment. I went from a family of three to being a single woman again. I couldn't believe how much I missed them both, and anxiously awaited their return.

It seemed like an eternity, but after a few months they both came back and I fell right back into my roles as wife and mother.

It wasn't easy.  I often struggled, to say the least, and questioned myself many times. But I realized that I struggled most because I was jealous of her. She got all of his attention, and I had to fight for a simple moment alone with my newly wed husband. I felt cheated that here I was wanting to be a normal newlywed, but my role as mom took precedence. I started to resent her and take it out on her.

Looking back now, I am sorry that in those days I was too quick to anger, yelled a lot, and forgot how to just have fun and love her. I was hard on her to eat perfectly, clean up after herself, behave in daycare, etc. I know now that I was being very unrealistic.

I didn't have that maternal bond with her, and I desperately wanted it. I prayed every night that I could let my frustration go and just love her. I couldn’t vent about my feelings to my husband either because it seemed he always defended her, and I needed his support. He couldn’t understand what I was going through.  He had never been a stepparent. I felt love for her, but knew I’d never be able to love her like he did.

Or so I thought at the time.

As the years went by, I found that with time and lots of patience that I did indeed grow to love her more than anything.

I now have two of my own biological children, two little boys. And I can say with certainty that my love for my daughter is no different than my love for my sons.

And I'm so thankful to Zoë.  Because she taught me more than I could have ever learned on my own about patience and unconditional love. She helped me learn when to put my foot down and when I needed to stop and just enjoy the moment. She helped me loosen up about the house. Helped me see that it's okay to let it be messy sometimes, because it can always be cleaned up later. In fact, she will help. She really is an amazing little person and I feel so blessed to have her in my life.

Zoë taught me how to be a mom.

And be a better person in general.

I can't even express how much I LOVE being a mom.  I feel like it's been my true calling all along. And I credit a lot of the kind of mom I am now to this little girl. Even though we struggled at first, and she didn’t deserve my short comings in those early years, she still loved me back unconditionally.

And I have realized that she didn’t ask for me either, but she made the most of it as well. She grew with me as I did with her. She makes my life complete and I wouldn’t want to imagine my life without her in it.

Now that my oldest son is 3 years old, I can remember back to many of the struggles I had when she was 3, and I am having the same struggles with him today. I see so clearly now that it's just the way 3 year olds are, and I was the one setting unrealistic demands on her.

But thanks to her, and the amazing relationship we now have, I know that this too shall pass and that these struggles are all worth it!


Can I just add that I am so glad Phil brought this little girl into our lives!!

I need some Spring Fever

So, you can probably tell by yesterday's post that I was a little cranky.  Some days I just feel like a time bomb about to explode with anger and sadness. Yesterday was just one of those days. I felt on the verge of tears almost all late morning and afternoon.

But I felt much better after going home and talking with Superman. He really is my rock. He really can make me feel better like no one else can.

I think that a large part of my problem is stress at work. I just wish I could force myself to not let my work stress and worry affect my interactions with my kids. Because I hate my job and I love my kids.

A common problem

Thing 1 and Thing 2 have been completely potty trained for about a year now.  In fact, last year we got them big boy beds for their 4th birthday to celebrate the achievement.  We had made a conscious decision to wait to get the big boy beds until after they were nighttime trained, because we didn't want them ruining the new linens and mattresses with accidents.  Just to be on the safe side though, we did buy vinyl mattress covers for that occasional accident.

And for months, we had what seemed like no accidents.

Then, Thing 2 began having the occasional nighttime accident.

Then it became 2-3 times a week.

Then it became almost every other night.  Around this time, I actually put a post on Facebook asking for some advice.  I got a lot of "make sure he empties his bladder before bedtime", "don't let him drinking anything for two hours before bedtime", and "layer a mattress cover and a sheet, then another mattress cover and sheet to pull off at night."  But the accidents continued.

Then, around Christmas time, it seemed like the accidents were getting less frequent again. 

But after the new year, they came back, and more frequent than ever.  In fact, for a little over a month now, Thing 2 has wet the bed every single night.  Every night between 2 am and 4 am I hear the crying "Mommy!  Mommy!" and I go in to find him standing by his bed crying "my pajamas are wet".  And I help him peel off the soaked clothes, then bring him into bed with us.

Exhausted (both from the amount of sleep I was losing and the extra loads of laundry I was doing), I decided to turn to the internet for some help.  I put up a plea on Facebook, asking any of my friends for serious advice.  One mom suggested I check out GoodNites® Underwear, which she said were designed for older kids who had night time accidents.  So I began doing some research on them, and what I found out was that my son was exhibiting textbook symptoms of nocturnal enuresis, also known as bed wetting.

Bedwetting is common.  In fact, according to some research, as many as 1 in 10 children ages 4-11 experience chronic bed wetting.  And the vast majority of these are boys.  Moreover, bedwetting typically starts just as it did with Thing 2.  They are completely potty trained (even at night) and then they slowly start having accidents.  Then often seem to get better.  Then the accidents get more and more frequent.

I won't go into lots of detail here about the facts about bed wetting, and how to deal with it, because there are already tons of great resources out there (especially on Goodnights.com), so I don't feel the need to reinvent the wheel.  I'll just end the blog on these last notes.

1. If your child is having night accidents, I strong urge you to check out Goodnights.com for more information on bedwetting.  They have lots of wonderful resources and articles to read.
2. Don't be afraid to put your child back into training pants.  We invested in some GoodNites® Underwear this weekend, and I am so glad we did.  First, they are specially made for kids 4 and up (are very absorbent!) and specifically designed for being used while lying down.  I was skeptical that they could keep Thing 2's pajamas and bedclothes completely dry at night, but two nights in a row they have!  That pull-up is saturated, but everything else was dry.  And the pull-up didn't feel wet to the touch either (sorry, I know that is gross, but I had to...it is on my baby boy's skin, I had to make sure he isn't going to develop rashes from the moisture).
3. Don't make your child feel bad for his bedwetting!  This is a physical issue, not one of obstinance or laziness.  It was hard to show Thing 2 a lot of sympathy at 3 am in the morning, but I tried very hard to remember that he wasn't doing it on purpose.  I tried to use sympathetic tones and tell him it was okay, that we had plenty of clean and dry pajamas to put on.
   I was afraid that he would be resistant to the pull ups, and say "those are for babies".  But I explained to him before I went to buy them that I was going to get him some underwear that would help him not make his pajamas wet.  He seemed fine with this.  Then, when we were getting ready for bed, I again talked to him about how these would help keep his pajamas and bed dry all night.  But I didn't have to do much explaining, because he put them on with no reservations. In fact, he seemed very happy about the idea.  I had to remind myself that I'm sure he doesn't enjoy waking up in a puddle of his own urine anymore than I enjoy waking up at 2 am and changing him out of urine soaked clothes.
4. YOU (and your child) ARE NOT ALONE!  I will say that ever since I found that Goodnights.com site, I feel so much better.  Just knowing that my child is not the only "potty-trained" 4 year old having this problem, I am just, I don't know...relieved.  Also, it makes me less afraid to talk about the issue.  I just wish I hadn't waited so long to ask for help.

As a parent, I have already faced many things that haven't gone as planned: not having a normal pregnancy, when the boys wouldn't/couldn't nurse, their speech delays, etc.  Now my child bedwetting.  It's disappointing and frustrating, because we just want our parenting and our children to be "normal."  But I have never been one to sit back and pretend like if I don't deal with it, it will go away.  So my child is a bedwetter.  That does not define him.  And one day he will outgrow this and probably will barely even remember it. In the meanwhile, we will just love him, and be supportive, and reassuring, and let him know that this is natural and nothing to be ashamed of.

Just one of those days...

I guarantee you G.C. did not hate his job.

I hate my job.

I know people say "everyone hates their job."  But that is just not true.  First of all, I know plenty of people who love their jobs.  Second of all, I have had several jobs that I loved.

For instance, I loved my old job.  Were there things about it that I didn't like?  Sure, it could be a bit isolating for example.  But overall, it was a great job, very flexible, great benefits and compensation, and something very important to me: colleagues that I liked and respected and that liked and respected me.  It was just a pretty sweet gig.  And I hardly to never dreaded getting up and going to work in the morning.  Sure, I would rather have stayed home with Superman and the boys, but that can't be helped.

Why did I leave that job that I loved?  Well, as much as I loved it, and actually really liked the town we lived in in NW Ohio, we did not like being so geographically far from any family.  We moved there pre-kids, but once Thing 1 and Thing 2 came along, we knew we wanted to be closer to one of our sets of parents.  So, I started looking for a new job.

I won't go into specifics about why I don't like my job.  Dude, this is the internet, and although I highly doubt anyone from my job would ever stumble onto my blog...it could happen.

Here is my problem though.  I'm 32 years old.  I'm well educated.  I'm happily married.  I have two great kids.  But I spend 40 hours a week, wishing I was somewhere else, doing something else.  I feel like that is a problem.  If I'm going to spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week NOT being with my kids, I want to at least enjoy what I'm doing, feel like I'm making a difference in the world, be productive and creative, and enjoy the people with whom I'm working.  Is that really too much to ask?

Life is short y'all.  We never know how many days we have left.  Or our loved ones have left.  Shouldn't we ENJOY our days as best we can?

I love crafting.  I love being creative.  I really, really, really need to figure out a way to turn my love and passion for making things into a way to make a living.  Because I'm slowly dying an emotional death in this job.  In the three years I've worked here, I've be come an unhappier person.  A more pessimistic person.  Frustrated.  Grouchy.

No wonder I'm having a hard time making friends.  I wouldn't want to be friends with someone whose always in a bad mood either!  I miss the me who used to be happy and upbeat.  Sure, I was no Pollyanna, but I was a lot more joyful once upon a time.

How do I solve this problem?  Part of my issue is that I just don't know.  I can't just quit my job, because we need the income.  I've applied for job after job after job in this area, but in three years I've only had three job interviews and not one offer.  (But even then, I worry what if I hate that job even more than this one!?!)

Part of me is pissed that I can't find a job because I know I'm a rockstar, but the longer I stay in this job and don't get interviews and job offers, the more my self-esteem and confidence diminish.  Why don't the want me?  Maybe I'm just not as awesome as I think I am.

I wish this blog was ending with a resolution of how I'm going to fix things.  But it's not.  It's going to end with a frowny face.  And me feeling sorry for myself.  And sad.  And confused.  And wishing I was at home, in front of my sewing machine, instead of at my desk wishing I was anywhere but here.

Something has to give.  And soon.  Because I refuse to be this unhappy every day.

:(

Jinya Beach

When Thing 1 and Thing 2 were just little bean sprouts in my belly, Superman and I had to decide where we were going to raise these little beings.  At the time, we were living in Buckeye Country, not anywhere near either of our families, and we knew that we didn't want to stay there.  But the question was, would we go back to the Hoosier state to be closer to his family, or back to the Old Dominion to be near mine?

I was raised a military brat, so I never lived near any of my grandparents, aunts, uncles, or cousins.  In fact, being that my dad was in the Navy (meaning we were always stationed in a coastal city), and my parents were both born and raised in the midwest, we were lucky when we got to see those relatives more than once a year.  We usually did a summer trip out, and occasionally got to go during the winter holidays.  Growing up, I desperately envied my friends who were close (geographically and emotionally) with their extended relatives, and that is always something I wanted for my kids.

So, in the end, we decided to move back to the Hoosier state for a few reasons:

• Superman's parents are retired.  Mine still work full time
• Superman has a huge extended family (his dad is one of 9 and his mom is one of 8), with lots of cousins.  And his two brothers, who both have kids around Thing 1 and Thing 2's age, also live here.  My sister has two kids, but they are in their late teens (and she lives 600 miles from my parents anyway) and my brother doesn't have any kids (or is even married yet).  And obviously I have no cousins or extended family there.
• Where he is from in the midwest is MUCH cheaper to live than where I'm from on the east coast.  We were able to buy a 4 bedroom house with a full basement for what we would have gotten a two bedroom condo for where I grew up.

But, life isn't black and white, and our choice is still sometimes hard to deal with.

I miss my friends and their kids terribly.  And they are all so close in age to my boys...they'd be perfect to grow up with.  Their un-cousins.  Superman only has one friend here that even has kids.

Their first year we made it home four times.  But since then, we are finding ourselves only able to visit about twice a year, because of time, work, money, etc.  My kids started referring to my parents as the "other grandma" and the "other grandpa".

This past Thanksgiving, after an 11 month absence, we were able to take a short visit back and see the other grandparents, my brother, my sister and her family, and most of my friends and their kids.  But the visit, like always, felt so rushed.  I felt like I had 100 people to visit in 72 hours.  I felt pulled in so many different directions, and felt like I was disappointing everyone and wasn't spending quality time with anyone.

After being guilted by one of my good friends, who bless her heart just wanted some time with me, I turned to Superman in tears and told him that I hated the emotional blackmail part of the trip so much that it makes me never want to come back for visits.  Since I know I'm invariable going to let someone (often multiple someones) down by not giving them the time they feel they deserve.  I left that trip relieved to be heading home and seriously dreading going back.

But Thing 1 and Thing 2 don't know about all of that.  They just knew that they loved being with their other grandma and grandpa, and taking their pack of dogs on long walks.  They loved playing with their aunt and uncles and cousins.  And loved playing with mommy's friends' kids.  They loved going to the beach.  Almost weekly since Thanksgiving, they have asked when we were going to "go far away again to Jinya Beach."  They have stopped calling my parents the other grandma and grandpa.  And I often overhear them playing with stuffed doggies, calling them my parents' dogs names.

On Sunday, I decided to surprise the boys by taking them to visit the dog shelter.  When they asked where we were going and I said it was a surprise, they asked "Are we going far away to Jinya Beach?"  When I said no, Thing 2 bursted into tears asking me why we couldn't go.  And it reminded me of those times as a child when I would literally cry from missing my midwest grandparents so much.  And it was almost as if I could feel all of those bitter and anxious feelings melting away from Thanksgiving, as I comforted my little boy and heard myself saying that maybe we can plan a trip to Jinya Beach for Spring Break.

Maybe I'm too sensitive

Maybe I'm too sensitive, but man I get tired of all of the breast-feeding nazis out there.  Every day I feel like I see something about how my children are going to be dumber, fatter, sicker, slower, uglier, and more cancer ridden because they were formula fed.  Actually, I'm just surprised they didn't die from SIDS since I was so uncaring enough not to breast feed them until they were old enough to chew filet mignon.

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating.  A little.

But c'mon you breast feeding proponents.  Enough already.  We get it.  Breast is best.

Really, do you think there is a person out there that still doesn't understand that breast milk is the optimum choice for a baby's nutrition?  That it is biologically engineered to feed that baby.  We get it.  We all get it.

Do you think people who smoke really don't know it will cause lung cancer?

People who don't breastfeed don't not do it because they don't understand those facts...  They don't do it because their milk doesn't come in, or the baby doesn't latch right, or how about this: they just don't want to.

I have a good friend who didn't breast feed because she just thought it sounded gross.  She is very private about her body and her personal parts and didn't want a) a baby sucking on it or b) to have to breastfeed in public etc.  So she chose to bottle feed with formula.  She didn't put her baby to the breast even once.  Not even to try.  Immediately after labor she began working to dry up her swollen breasts.

Meanwhile, my milk never fully came in.  Try as I might.  I drank Mother's Milk tea.  I took Fenugeek supplements.  I drank liters and liters of water.  I did kangaroo care.  I pumped every 2 hours, on the dot.  I barely made enough to feed one baby, let alone two.  I wanted to breast feed so bad it hurt.  Literally.

I had planned to do it for a year.  We even moved within a mile of my work so that I could go home to nurse once I went back to work.  

But my children would have starved if it hadn't been for formula.  In more ways than one.  Because not only did my milk never fully come in (I never once had "let down" or "engorgement"), but also, my boys never learned to latch on.  Lactation consultant after lactation consultant, even one that specialized in preemies, couldn't help me get those boys to successfully hook up to the tap.

But I was so adamant to give my boys "the best" that I kept trying.  I was like the Little Engine That Could trying so hard to climb that mountain.  Being weighed down by weak breasts, lazy feeding babies,  post-bedrest recovery, and post-partum feelings of failure because I couldn't do this simple thing that nature had designed for my body to do.

After weeks and weeks of torturing myself...  pumping every 2-3 hours, losing sleep, crying rivers of tears each time my babies wouldn't latch or I pumped just 2 ounces, I finally considered giving up.  Superman was beyond relieved when I mentioned it.  He had been wanting me to stop trying weeks ago, but knew he couldn't suggest it.

I called a cousin of mine who I knew had gone through the same thing and eventually given up.  She's a great mom to two beautiful healthy kids.  She had quit after her breasts had failed her with her son, and had such a bad experience that she decided not to try with her daughter.  After several phone calls and hours of consoling, I knew she was right when she told me that I wasn't a bad mother for wanting to quit, that in fact, I would become a better mother after quitting because I would be able to enjoy my babies more.  Feeding time would become joyful, rather than dreaded.  I would hold my babies and smile and laugh while they ate, instead of live in constant anxiety and sadness each time feeding didn't go well.

The final straw was the morning I had pumped and pumped for 40 minutes and gotten less than an ounce.  While cleaning my pump, I accidentally spilled my milk.  And oh did I cry over spilled milk.  I had a full blown hysterical collapse.  My milk was more precious than gold to me at that point.  I was working so hard to produce even the slightest drops for my pre-mature infants...and now it was just a tiny whitish puddle on my kitchen floor.

As I was sitting on the floor sobbing and wiping my eyes, I knew.  My phone calls to my cousin weren't about looking for advice.  They were about looking for permission.  Asking permission from someone I knew to be a good mom that it was okay to quit.  I wanted to quit.

So I did.

I called the hospital and arranged for them to come get my rented hospital grade pump.

Then I called my husband and asked him to bring me home a bottle of wine.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 were 8 weeks old.

And guess what?  They didn't didn't die.  Niether did my friend's who chose not to try.  They aren't dumber, fatter, sicker, slower, or uglier than my breast fed friends' kids.  In fact, all three of the kids are incredibly bright, healthy, perfect size for their ages, and good-looking four year olds.  And we are both great moms, if I may say so myself.  We both make the best choices possible for our kids.  We put our childrens' health and happiness first.

I wonder if all of the breast-feeding propaganda bothers her like it does me.  Maybe I'm overly sensitive because I did try so hard and still failed.  To me, even four years later, it still feels like having salt rubbed over my wounds.  Like I'm being judged by people who don't even know me or my story.  Like I'm being marked as a bad mom by some imaginary Scarlett F.

It's funny, because I don't feel this way about my c-section.  Not in the least.  Would I have preferred a traditional delivery?  Sure.  But once my doctor said the c-section would be best having twins, I trusted her, accepted it, and moved on.

I don't know if it's because the c-sections vs. vaginal delivery rhetoric isn't as prevalent, or if I just don't notice it because I've never had one ounce of remorse, regret, or guilt, like I have known some other c-section mothers to have.  My babies needed to be born, and my doctor and I made an educated decision on the safest way to bring them into the world.  End of story.

Maybe it's because I feel like with my c-section I was in control.  I made the ultimate decision.  Where with the breast feeding, it seems like the decision was made for me (by my body).

So if you are a breast-feeding mommy.  Good for you!  I hope you feel lucky and blessed that you are being honored with the ability to provide and bond with your baby this way.  And if you are a struggling breast-feeding mommy, know that you have to follow your heart.  Maybe the answer is to stick with it and it will get better, but if you need to stop, it will be okay too.  I promise there are many more factors to having great kids than whether or not you breast feed.  And if you chose not to breast feed, while I may not understand it, I can respect that it is your choice.  And I'm sure your children will turn out great too.  'Cause like Superman always says "Some of my favorite people in the world were formula fed babies."  (That would be him and me. :)

Grateful

It's amazing what we stumble on while surfing the internet.  Today I clicked on a link on CNN.com on the story of a Toledo woman who was implanted with the wrong embryos and some where along the way ended up on a website called Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, which is an organization that provides free photography services to woman who have lost a baby.

I read a few of these incredibly touching and sad stories, and was overwhelmed with feelings.  Sadness.  Sympathy.  Anger.  Guilt.

But most of all, I kept thinking how lucky I was to have somehow ended up with not just one, but two healthy children.

And while I cursed so much of the process at the time, I can look back now and appreciate how many wonderful things aligned just right to make their life possible.

It was an unplanned pregnancy.  I wasn't taking any vitamins or supplements or folic acid.  But luckily I discovered I was pregnant very early on and was able to immediately be put under a doctor's care.

I had recently moved to Ohio and hadn't even found an OBGYN yet.  I picked Dr. Miracle out of an insurance directory.  I believe I owe my sons lives to this amazing doctor.

We discovered it was twins very early on (7 weeks).  Dr. Miracle scheduled an ultrasound right away "just in case," even though most woman I know don't have their first ultrasound until 12 weeks.

Dr. Miracle just so happened to have completed a residency with a Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist who specialized in multiple pregnancies.  So the first thing she did was begin monitoring me for incompetent cervix, which she knew I was at higher risk for carrying multiples, by ordering a vaginal ultra sound every two weeks.

When the MFM in Toledo saw the initial "funneling" (first signs of an incompetent cervix) he was actually willing to wait another week to see if we needed to operate.  Dr. Miracle was more aggressive.  She called me at work that afternoon and I'll never forget her words: "He is the specialist. But I'm telling you, if it was my babies and my body, I'd be in the hospital having that cerclage done tonight."  And I was.  And I did.

From there, I did everything she told me to do.  Everything.  She told me to stay on bedrest for one week.  Lay in bed all day.  Only get up to go to the bathroom and for one short 5 minute shower a night.  Have Superman time me.

After one week, I went in for my check up and there was more bad news.  The cerclage was holding, but the funneling was worse, my cervix was opened all the way down to the sutures now.  Instead of going back to work and continuing the rest of my pregnancy normally, I would be on bedrest (or what I like to call "bed arrest") for the remainder of my pregnancy.  I was 20 weeks along.

Everyday before leaving for work, Superman would fix up a cooler of meals and snacks for me and put it on my bedside.  I watched a lot of tv, surfed a lot of internet, did a lot of crossword puzzles, cross stitching, crocheting, reading...you name it.  We were new to the area, so during four weeks of bed arrest I had six non-Superman visitors.  My in-laws came once, my aunt and uncle from Indiana came once, one work colleague came, and one of my friends from home who was traveling through NW Ohio on a business trip.  I was bored out of mind.  But I stayed in that bed.

After three weeks of weekly check ups, the prognosis wasn't good.  My cervix was dangerously thin and open.  Dr. Miracle said it could no longer take the pressure of traveling 10 minutes for my weekly check ups.  She was concerned the cerclage would rip (I could have hemorrhaged) and/or that the amniotic sac would break (pre-mature delivery).  She wanted me in the hospital for the remainder of my pregnancy.  I was 23 weeks along

I was still allowed up to go to the bathroom, but my daily showers which had been changed to every other day showers were now changed again to weekly showers.  I would be a button press and five feet away from emergency medical care.  My room was the closest to the nurses' station on the maternity ward.  I was ordered to spend my days lying in the trendelenburg position, with my feet up and head down.  I was put on medication to hold off contractions, since they would have an averse affect on my cervix.  I was given a steroid shot to help develop the boys lungs in the likely case they were born pre-mature.

Once a week, I was wheeled down to the ultrasound tech (not in a wheelchair mind you, in my bed).  Every week my cervix measurements got smaller and smaller.  Every week we held our breath, crossed our fingers, and said our prayers that my cervix could hold out just one more week.

As my cervix continued to shrink, my restrictions grew.  Soon there were no more showers.  Soon I was on a bedpan.

Right around 28 weeks, what the medical community deems "viability," I had a brief resurgence in my cervical measurements.  We were elated.  Until I got the letter from my insurance company saying it no longer considered my hospital stay to be necessary medical treatment.  They argued that because my cervix was getting better, I didn't need to be in the hospital.  Dr. Miracle told us not to worry.  She explained to the bureaucrats that my cervix was getting better because the treatment WAS WORKING.  Then, in language they understood she asked if they'd rather pay for an extended minimally invasive stay of the mother or for the extended intensive care stay of two incredibly premature babies.  They decided my care, being considerably less expensive was the better investment.

Unfortunately, the resurgence didn't last long.  And soon I was back to agonizing over premature delivery and what possible long term complications my sons would have if they beat the odds and survived.

At 30 weeks, Dr. Miracle told me if I made it to 35 weeks and the boys measured at least 5 lbs each, she'd plan the cesarean.  (Any thoughts I'd had about trying a vaginal delivery were by this point long gone out the window.  I'd have been much too weak.)

The nurses made me a tear off countdown clock.  We started a "birthdate" pool.

My cervix was shrinking.  I was put on an IV for dehydration.  I was depressed.  I was lonely (my only regular vistor was Superman, but even he worked, so my time with him was limited to 6 pm -10 pm during the week).  I was pale.  I was weak.  I slept a lot.

At 33 weeks, the boys were both measuring almost 5 lbs by ultrasound, so Dr. Miracle, Superman, and I set a delivery date: June 11.  We called our parents and friends.

(Sidenote: My sister wanted me to change the date to June 13, so they'd share her birthday.  I told her she was crazy after 16 weeks of bedrest to ask me to wait even one more day.  In hindsight, though I haven't told her, I wish I'd waited.  But at the time I was not mentally or emotionally prepared to do that.)

All of the days in the birthdate pool passed....33 weeks and 5 days, 34 weeks and 1 day, 34 weeks and 3 days...  my stubborn little cervix literally beat every single date that anyone had guessed.  Including Superman's.  Including mine.

My parents came.

Superman's parents came.

June 11th came.

And at 11 am, I was wheeled into the Operating Room.

At 11:36 am, Thing 1 was born weighing 5lbs 13 oz and 18.5 inches long.  Scoring a perfect 10 on the Apgar scale.

At 11:38 am, Thing 2 was born weighting 5 lbs 7 oz and 18.25 inches long.  Scoring a 10 on the Apgar scale.

16 weeks filled with worry, anxiety, tears, and uncertainty.  Every second worth it.  I felt, and still feel, like the luckiest woman in the world.

Six weeks later, during my final post-delivery check up with Dr. Miracle, she admitted that even she didn't think I'd make it to 35 weeks.  She thought when I was admitted to the hospital, I'd be lucky to make it another 2 or 3 weeks tops.

I don't know why fate smiled down on me and my boys, but I'm really really grateful.

A Mother's Intuition

I really need to learn to trust my mother's intuition.

Monday afternoon, right before lunch time, I got a call from the boys' school that Thing 2 was running a fever.  So, I left work to go pick him up and spend the rest of the day at home with him.  He was definitely feverish (hovering around 102 all night) and moaning and groaning and whimpering the most pitiful "nope" to just about every question I asked.  Around 11 pm, he started vomiting, and continued vomiting over the next few hours. Then, around 3 am, he finally fell into a deep, yet still fitful sleep.

Some things are going on at work right now that make me really anxious about taking too many days off and Superman doesn't have any sick days right now (long story), so I arranged for Grandma Train to come over on Tuesday and stay with him.  These boys tend to bounce back really quickly from sicknesses, so I didn't have too much guilt about abandoning him while he was ill.  I figured he'd be running around like normal in no time.  Besides, I was planning on going home to check on him around lunch time.

Well, Superman beat me to it.  He stopped by on his lunch break to help take Thing 2's temperature and help administer the next dose of pain killer (Grandma Train has a bad back, so while she can read to, play with, and comfort the boys, she can't lift our 36-lb sack of sick potatoes or have the strength to fight him to take his medicine or temperature.).  Around  11:30 or so, I get a phone call, Thing 2's temperature is 104.1.  At this point, I still wasn't positive I was taking him to the doctor's but I knew that a kid this sick needed his mom and Grandma Train needed some relief.

When I got home, it was 45 minutes after a cool bath and a dose of Ibuprofen, and he was still burning up.  I took his temp again (103.5) and called the doctor's office.  My mother's intuition said that my kid was really sick.  I'd never seen him so whiny and moany and miserable.  But, the nurse on the other end said based on his symptoms, and as long as the pain reliever was bringing the fever down some (even if just 1 degree), wait for 3 days and if his fever still didn't subside, to bring him in.

Later that afternoon, you could add diarrhea to the symptoms.

All that night he was feverish (pain killers only brought it down 1/.5 degree or so), lethargic, and all around not feeling good.  Superman slept in the guest room.  While I barely slept with Thing 2 in our bed.

The next day was more of the same.  More high temps.  More moody, whiny, needy boy who didn't know what he wanted, uncomfortable, and couldn't be satisfied.  Papaw Train did come buy with treats.  And he seemed to perk up enough to go downstairs and play trains.  But he fell asleep while playing, and Papaw left.  When he woke up, his temp was back up to 104 and he was as miserable as ever.

Later that afternoon, he started complaining about his belly hurting, rubbing down in his lower abdomen.  All along he has been barely eating, so I figured it must be an empty tummy.  Superman came home and got worried it was appendicitis.  We were on the verge of calling the doctor again when out of nowhere Thing 2 started acting better.  So much better in fact, he was walking around saying his "sick is broken now" and ready to go back to school.  He even ate a fair amount of dinner.  I was thrilled.  It definitely seemed he was on the mend.  And I was telling myself that that nurse had been right...that I just had to wait out the symptoms and they'd disappear on their own.

Bed time came and Thing 2 was whiny and threw a fit that we weren't letting him sleep in our bed yet again.  I explained that sick boys get to sleep in mommy and daddy's bed and well boys sleep in their own bed.

After missing half a day on Monday, half a day on Tuesday, and a full day on Wednesday, I was preparing for a good night sleep to go back to work on Thursday.

Wrong.

At about 1:30 am, our bed was invaded yet again by my whiny feverish hot box.  103.8 and as moany and miserable as ever. I guess his sick wasn't broken after all.

When asking Thing 2 what was hurting, he kept rubbing his lower abdomen and saying his tummy.  Superman gave me the look.  He was really worried about appendicitis.  He had just had his taken out 3 years ago when the boys were babies, and hadn't experienced the typical textbook symptoms.  So he was very convinced it was possible Thing 2's symptoms didn't have to follow the book either.  I wasn't as convinced (or at all), but I was up losing sleep over how to make my baby feel better and why I'd waited so long to take him to the doctor.  Now it was 3:30 am and I was counting down the minutes until 8 am when I could take him to see his doctor.

I guess I finally fell asleep, because around 7 am I woke up.  The first thing I did was feel Thing 2's forehead.  No fever.  But this time, when he woke up, he was not acting fine.  He might not have had a fever, but he was still whiny and moany with sick eyes.  He was still the sick version of himself.  I went ahead and called and make the appointment.  Then we got his brother dressed and dropped him off at school.

Thing 2 at first was upset he couldn't stay at school (mostly because he wanted to do the morning activity), but then perked up when we went to the donut shop.  Here is where I start doubting myself again...in the car to and while at the donut shop he was acting fine again.  Chatty.  Sweet.  Inquisitive.  And he seemed to have an appetite.  He ate 3/4 of his "white donut" (powdered sugar) and 1/4 of his "brown milk".

I'm thinking: Great, I'm taking him in to the doctor's with no fever and acting fine.  A waste of money and time.

But we press on.  At the doctor's office, his temperature is 98.7.  Perfectly normal.  But, he is acting weird again.  Lots of "nope" answers.  When I tell the doctor about the abdomen, she asked him if his belly hurts and he says a pitiful "yea".  Then she asks if his hair hurts and he says a pitiful "yea".  Then she points out that it's hard to diagnose children this age because of their lack of ability to effectively communicate.

One look at his throat with her little doctor light though, and the need for communication went out the window.  "Looks pretty red back there.  Let's get a strep test done."

My big boy opened wide and said "ahh" and about 5 minutes later, it was official...he has his first case of strep throat.  Fifteen minutes later, he had his first dose of amoxicillin.

Five hours later, he is feeling much better.  But I feel awful.  How could I have made him suffer through 3 days of aches and fevers when he had a legitimate illness?  When I get strep, I am at the doctor's within hours and getting my antibiotics.  No way I would suffer through without my drugs.  But I didn't want to be that mom bringing her kid to the doctor for some virus that would pass and there was nothing they could give them anyway.  Yet, on Tuesday and Wednesday both I had the nagging doubt of "should I go ahead and just take him in?" and didn't.

I still don't want to be that parent who takes her kid into the doctor for every cough and sneeze, but next time I'll know that if I know my kid is feeling miserable and really not himself, that I'll follow my mother's intuition on when to take him to see the doctor.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

Rule number one is, don't sweat the small stuff. Rule number two is, it's all small stuff. ~Robert Eliot

Last Wednesday was like any other evening in our household.  Moments after I got home from work, Superman was out the door for a run, leaving me to deal with Thing 1 and Thing 2 running around rambunctiously and wreaking havoc around the house while I was trying to cook dinner.  They were alternating between trying to "help" me and just helping themselves to anything that would drive me crazy (using a pen to write on the couch, drawing on my table with crayons, spilling an entire tube of go-gurt on the rug).  Needless to say, by the time bedtime came, my last thought as I was shutting out their light was "THANK GOD!"  They were going to bed and I'd have some peace and quiet.

Superman brought some laundry up for us to fold, we turned on the tv to watch our shows, and I popped open my laptop to check my email one last time.   But what I found in my inbox was devastating.  A friend of mine, one of my best childhood friends, had sent me a message letting me know that her son had passed away that afternoon.  I must have re-read the email five times, because I kept thinking I was misunderstanding it.  It wasn't until Superman came and sat next to me did I realize I was crying and quietly saying "oh my god" over and over.  A beautiful, healthy, 16 month old child had suddenly and unexplainably aspirated in his sleep during his afternoon nap.  That poor child.  That poor mother.  That poor family.

Around that time, Thing 1 comes plodding down the hallway crying that his brother had hit him.  Usually my rule is that if you aren't bleeding and nothing is broken, you go back to your room.  But instead I grabbed my child and hugged him and held him while I cried.  Cursing myself for getting angry about spilled yogurt.  Cursing myself for thinking "Thank God" as I put them to bed that night.  Because really, all of the clean carpets and neatly folded laundry in the world isn't worth even one less second with my child.  Yet, in the hum-drum of everyday life, we often forget this.  Death of a child, especially a healthy one, is so unimaginable, unfathomable, that we often take our every days with them for granted.  At least I know I'm guilty of it.

Of all of the poignant and heartfelt things my friend has written about her son since his passing, the thing that made me cry the hardest was this line from a poem she wrote for him:

Next came a bath, where you soaked the whole entire floor,
What I would give right now to clean it up once more.

I don't really subscribe to the everything happens for a reason philosophy.  I can't think of any good reason to take this young child from his loving and doting family.  However, I do believe that good things can come out of even the most terrible of situations.  For my friend and her family, I can't imagine what good will come out of this event for them, however, I'm confident something will.  Eventually.

For me, I know that over the past week as I've dealt with some upsetting news at work and some other bad news (because when it rains it pours), I just keep reminding myself that none of those things really matter in the end.  It's all just small stuff.  Stained carpets and couches and broken lamps can be replaced.  ACs can be repaired.  New jobs can be found.  But you can never, ever, ever, replace your child.

As I sit beside Thing 2, laying in his pajamas in mommy and daddy's bed with sick eyes and a fever of 103<, moaning and groaning, and telling me his head hurts; my heart aches because I can't magically make him feel better.  But, I feel so unbelievably lucky and undeservedly blessed that my baby boy is only momentarily ill.  That overall he is a happy and healthy child.  They both are.  That I have been lucky enough to be their mother for almost 4 years.  And I pray with all of my might that I will be lucky and undeservedly blessed to be their mother for 40 more.

I hate mornings

I hate mornings.  But not for the same reason most people probably hate mornings.

I've always considered myself a morning person.  I'm like my dad in that way.  And it turns out that Thing 1 and Thing 2 follow in our footsteps, because those little guys wake up in amazing moods 99% of the time.  Most mornings, they don't even wake up groggy.  They just seem to pop up excited and ready to play.

But that is the problem.  They want to play.  They are happy, sweet, and playful...  and mommy is all business, trying to get ready for work and school.

It breaks my heart, because mornings are the most one-on-two time I get with them.  Superman leaves for work at about 7:15, which means it's just me and my boys until it's time to take them to school.  I want to just lay in bed and cuddle with them while they tell me about their dreams (which they always seem so excited to tell you about), or get down on the ground and play trains, or play endless scenarios of "doggy", but I can't because I'm racing the clock.

Over and over again, my meanest mommy moments (which are also the most disappointed in myself parenting moments) always happen in the morning, while trying to get them ready for school.  At the time that my kids are perhaps at their sweetest and best, I turn into Momzilla.

They don't want to get dressed (because they want to stay in their pajamas and play) so I find myself physically restraining them to put their clothes on.  They want to play, but I get angry when I walk in the living room and find that they've pushed the coffee table over to the front closet and are standing on it to get their Candy Land game off of the top shelf, spilling dozens of other games in the process.  No matter how many times I promise myself I won't lose my tempter, I invariably end up yelling at some-Thing in the morning for something.  And I hate myself for it.

Some mornings I give in to the desire to just be mommy with them and enjoy their morning mood.  Like this morning.  I had just gotten out of the shower, when I heard Thing 2's soft whispering.  He was sitting in mommy and daddy's bed, next to Thing 1 (who was still sleeping) and saying "Time to get up brother."  Within minutes, both were giggling and laughing under my covers.  So, I abandoned the urge to use the time to blow dry my hair and put on my makeup, and I hopped in bed next to them.  We played tickle monster.  Thing 2 played puppy.  Thing 1 and I took turns giving puppy commands.  We gave lots of sweet kisses.  It was heaven.

But then at some point, I thought "Ugh, we are going to be so late."  So I got up and got back to getting ready.  The rest of the morning included a Thing 2 not wanting to get dressed fit.  A Thing 1 not wanting the breakfast Superman had set out for them.  And me walking into the coffee table incident described above after I finished blow drying my hair.

Our utopic morning in bed was long forgotten as my frustration and irritation grew.

I don't know what the solution is.  Some people say "wake them up earlier so you don't feel so rushed"  However... 1. when you wake them up, they wake up grumpy, 2. we'd have to put them to bed earlier, and I already feel like I barely get any time with them in the evening.

I need a different job.  I need to be a free-lance something or other, working from home.  Or a professor, where I could set my teaching time for afternoons.  Something where I didn't have to push my happy children out of bed and into the arms of others at 8:30 am every morning.

Sometimes I really miss Superman being a stay at home dad.  The boys could stay in their pajamas as long as they wanted!  Often, I'd come home for lunch and the three of them would still be in their pajamas with disheveled hair and in the happiest of moods.

Greetings from Madison, WI

Madison, WI.

What comes to mind when you think of Madison, WI?  For most people who've never been here, I'm sure it would be cheese curds, cheese heads, giant foam cheese hats, Green Bay Packers.  The college football nuts out there might think Badgers. Or most recently, probably protests and teachers unions.

I think State Street.  Ethnic restaurants for miles and miles (at least it seems like miles and miles).  Napalese.  Tibetan.  Ethiopian.  Turkish.  Afghani.  Indian.  Thai.  Yum.  Yum.  Yum.

My first trip to Madison WI was last April (2010), for a conference for work.  The conference itself was kind of a bust for me.  I seemed to regularly pick the most uninteresting and uninspiring sessions to attend.  But the food.  Oh man, the food!

This year, I've so far been a lot luckier in my session choices (knock on wood) and am overall feeling like I'm getting more out of the conference because of it.  But still, it's the food.  Oh man, the food!

The day we arrived, we went to a Tibetan restaurant and I had Gingered Yak Meatballs (yes, that is meatballs made out of yak meat) along with steamed bread.  Yesterday night we went to an Indian restaurant where we feasted on Murgh Saag, Fish Tikka Masala, Lamb Curry, and a Tandoori feast that included chicken, lamb, and shrimp.  Plus garlic naan, onion naan, and basmatti rice.  After dinner, we walked around campus, enjoying the views and sliding down a few banisters.  Then, found ourselves at the University of Wisconsin-Madison student union where we had some delicious Babcock Dairy ice cream.

Superman and I both love ethnic food.  And we used to love to go out to eat.  But since Thing 1 and Thing 2 came along, we don't go out to eat even a fraction of what we used to.  First and foremost because it is not financially prudent.  (We have to be all grown up with the way we spend money now that we are parents.)  Second, because it is harder to go out with the boys now more than ever.  They can't be confined to high chairs anymore, yet they don't really have the patience for staying seated for more than about 10 minutes either.  And finally, because we can just cook healthier at home.  Since we started cooking only Weight Watcher meals about 2.5 years ago, Superman has lost 30 lbs, runs half marathons, and is now a crazy health nut.  I, on the other hand, am yo-yo-ing the same 20 lbs and still can barely force myself to do my 30 min workout 3-5 times a week.  But right now I'm on a down swing, so I'm trying to keep the momentum going!  I really want to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight some day before I die.

Before my trip, I went to the grocery store and bought a bunch of fresh fruit and veggies to bring to the hotel, so that I'd have something to eat for breakfast and snack other than muffins and cookies.  And I packed my workout clothes and tennis shoes so that I could hit the workout center in the mornings before my conference sessions.  So far, I've eaten the fruit.  In addition to the baked goods (they just look and smell so good, and they are FREE!).  And I haven't gone to the workout center even once.  I don't even know what floor it is on.  But, I have strolled up and down State Street.  And thanks to the generosity of my paycheck place, I get to enjoy (read: over indulge in) the food.  Oh man, the food!

Update:  For lunch today, I had a gyro.  Then, for a late afternoon snack I enjoyed some more ice cream!  Shhh!  Don't tell Superman!


P.S. I loved the sign at the ice cream shop: