Julie & Julia & Me

This weekend I saw the movie Julie & Julia for the first time. I LOVED IT. An inspiring film--one that confirms, among other things, my belief that butter is bliss. (I always feel safe and secure when I possess plenty of butter--a sheet of cookies is never far when butter is near.) Not only did the movie confirm that is butter bliss, but also...things take time. And marriage goes down and hopefully, back up again. This movie resonated not only because I enjoy cooking (with butter), but because I love to write. In the movie, Julie starts a blog detailing her daily cooking journey through Julia Child's cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. In the end, Julie does what she loves and as a result, writes a wildly successful book that becomes a wildly successful movie. Love that for her and aspire to these same writing successes myself.

The movie delivered more than just an identifiable story line--it gave me a gift. A gift I will forever store in my heart and reexamine like a beautiful piece of sea glass. Just in case you, like me, wait years to watch popular movies, here's a quick background: Julia Child married the love of her life when she was 40 but never had children. In a brief yet powerful scene, Julia learns of her sister's pregnancy. Through aching tears, she tells her husband the news and tries to convince of her joy, despite her grief, for her sister. As I watched, I held my breath. I cried, too. Because when I was 19, doctors told me to procreate by the time I was 25 and maybe I'd get lucky (no pun intended). I didn't meet hubby until I was 28 (no pressure) and we married just a month after my 30th birthday. I'm gratefully on the other side of this story and I've given birth to two, healthy miracles. The gift of perspective this movie afforded holds me captive, reminding me, through Julia Child's pain, what might not have been.

Now, I reflect on my last week with my children. Last week, the sound of their constant chatter and screams exhausted me. Last week my children physically accosted each other. At one point I hid on the floor, behind the kitchen island, so they wouldn't see me and ask for everything with a side of juice. Last week the only sound that exited my daughter's mouth seeped with sarcasm and sass (see No Answers). Last week sucked. Last week I sucked. After watching Julie & Julia, this numbing perspective descended: How would I feel if I didn't get to experience this life as a mother? What if I'd never met Abby and Henry...and what if they weren't my children?

My children inspire me to write. To learn. To swear. To remember myself in this motherhood madness. To ask forgiveness. To tout my strengths and learn from my weaknesses. To reexamine the beauty of a slushy mud puddle. The days are long and arduous, but I am a mother. Humbled, daily, by what I've yet to learn and grateful for the exquisite opportunity to travel this bumpy, potholey, emotional, joyous path with them, my children.

No Answers

I am a mother of a daughter. I realize, with the passing of each day, that this is one HARD job. She's just six. She delights in one moment and fumes in the next. She seems annoyed a lot, about a lot of things. She sighs. She slumps. She cries about happenings I would describe as small and insignificant. When I inquire about her feelings, asking why she feels the way she does, she gives age-appropriate answers but not emotionally insightful ones, i.e., I don't think she's acquired the vocabulary to give her own articulate, state-of-the-emotional-union.

Do I push too hard? Do I not motivate enough? Am I too harsh? Am I squelching her spirit? I have many questions. But for now, the biggest help comes from this admission: I don't know. I don't have the right answer, the right words, the right strategy.

My words, which used to calm like a salve, now seem to incite like a red flag to a bull. My patience, of which very little remains, seems to offer no reprieve. Maybe, if I could remember what it what felt like to be six, and in first grade, I could reflect and find some answers. Even if I could rely on my memory, I doubt it would offer much insight because Abby and I, we're different. Same last name, same gene pool, same face. However, she's on her own unique journey and I'm on mine. We're lucky enough to meet here, now, to travel together.

Tonight, her pouty, whiney mood escalated to a grand crescendo. After I read her a great new book (another attempt to guide her on her journey), we snuggled, as we always do. She started fake crying (again) and whimpering (again) about how uncomfortable she was. (This came after two hours of the same sighing, whining and groaning.) I grabbed her shoulders and said, very sternly,

"If you are uncomfortable, then get yourself comfy. NOW. These things are NOT worth crying about. A broken arm, worth a cry. No clothes, no house, no money to go to the doctor or eat, all worth a tear. But not this. STOP!"

I tried to shake her out of it. I wanted to slap her out of it--but fortunately, patience paid a visit again and I did not. Instead, I pulled her body on top of mine. Her ear lay suctioned on my chest. If she chose to listen, she would've heard my heart beat. Hopefully she deciphered its Morse code message:

"I love you."
"I am here."
"I support you."
"You are intelligent, special and gifted."

I took her back to our beginnings. Tranquil. Warm. Heat beat. Peaceful. Her breaths lengthened, her body heavy. She slept. I stayed still, soaking up the moment.

I still have no answers. But tonight, Abby and I broke through to a peaceful end. Goodnight, Abby. I love you.

Thoughts About Poop

I didn't ever think that so much of my time as a parent would involve actions, thoughts and strategies surrounding poop. When I reached the blissful plateau of parenthood, the part where neither of my kids wore diapers anymore (except for Henry, who still wears one at night, but doesn't poop in there), I thought I'd pass from poopville to pleasantville.

No such luck.

You see, my daughter, Abby, suffers from self-imposed constipation. She's six. In order to get her to poop, we deployed a stringent poop plan. Three-times-a-day for five minutes each, she's got to sit on the pot. We set a timer. She's got to relax, read and hopefully, yes, poop. And for some reason, she bellows for me when the event commences with poop so I can wipe her. Hubby asked me the other day,

"Why are you wiping her?"

Great question, dear. And I'll spare you the nasty details of my answer. But the point here is that I shouldn't be wiping her! Next time she bellows, I think I'll bellow back,

"You're six! Wipe your own ass!"

Onto Henry. He's three. He poops brilliantly. With regularity and ease. And I, my dear friends, still wipe him. (I'm beginning to see the roots of my problem.) I wipe him because I'm a clean-freak and on the occasions he's attempted to wipe himself, he's been a little bit less than neat. (Again, sparing you the gross visuals.)

There are several occurrences which always act as laxatives for my children:

1. Mommy sits down to a warm meal. Time to poop.
2. Mommy reads Peggy Noonan's article in the Weekend Wall Street Journal. Gotta go.
3. Mommy herself uses the throne. (Even though we have more than one toilet, Henry has a favorite potty. And his pick-of-the-day is ALWAYS the toilet that I'm using, right at that EXACT moment.)

And since I've gone down this disgusting road of writing about poop, I'll share one last thought: why is it an impossibility for me to poop privately? By myself? With no commentary, interruptions or loud house-shaking thuds on the bathroom door? My kids can be happily playing in the furthest corner of the house. I glance cautiously over my shoulders...I tiptoe into the bathroom. I hesitantly, quietly close the door. Before my buns even make it to sitting, they've found me. They're desperate for food, mitigation, hugs or answers. And to prove the pervasiveness of this phenomenon, I'll close with an example.

My mom visited us (just last month, when I was, like I still am, 37-years-old). I decided it was time to start cooking. I started calling for her. "Mom!" Pause. "Mom???" Pause. "MOOOOMMMMM??? Where ARE you?" I escalated and frantically started searching for her. "Where could she be?" I murmured to myself. Louder now, I yelled, "MOM???". I heard a faint voice, rising up from under the bathroom door. "In here honey", the voice said. I profusely apologized to my mother. I sank to the floor, defeated. Apparently this phenomenon spans generations and perseveres through the ages. I'm never going to the bathroom by myself, without interruption, for the rest of my life.

Charles's Muses

I've been watching my children. I feel like they're futuristic muses in Darwin's lab, helping the old chap solidify his research. Abby physically dominates her brother so she can deploy the elevator button first. I see Henry wallop his sister when she kiboshes his plans. If Abby is mid-sentence, Henry will start talking more loudly, at the exact same time, to make sure I address his immediate needs.

I've been listening, too. These phrases repeat frequently at my house:

"I won!"
"I did it better!"
"You're slowing me down!"
"I'm hungry I'm hungry I'm hungry I'm hungry."
"Do it my way."
"I didn't get my waaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy!"

Everyday, these Darwinian beings illustrate the Survival of the Fittest theory. They kick, scream, yell and posture to ensure they rise above the rubble of the moment and persevere, securing their spots on the evolutionary train.

Time Out Thursday

So I've been fortunate to learn about this great blog, Theta Mom (www.thetamom.com). Heather (the founder) hosts a Time Out Thursday once a month. The goal? To get all mothers to take one hour for themselves, once a month. Then we share our experiences, motivating others to do the same. Bravo, Theta Mom! So this month, I gladly participated in Time Out Thursday. Here's what happened:

I took the kids to school. I came home, skipped in my kitchen and let out a big "wahoooo!" because I was alone. Then, through the quiet, I started to write...

Snow falling falling falling like bits of sugared lace, whitening my world and warming my soul. Snow tickles my heart and makes me jump with glee. It makes me want to sing. Cold gray days are some of my very favorites (yes, even when I’m out in them). I just took the kids to school and luxuriated in my warm, dry car interior while Mother Nature whipped it all around outside. Cocoon-like in our warmth. Cozy, safe, together. The soundlessness of snow lulls me into a winter trance, wishing that it keeps dumping the white stuff so I can stay transfixed in my winter coma. Delight in the cold, frigid climate. Delicate snowflakes, falling, drifting, cavorting through the air. “We’re here!” they seem to say. They have a quiet confidence I find admirable. Each falling haphazardly yet with intention. The grace of the snow, the chill of the air, the warmth of my home echoing in a harmonic beat. When each of these events align, I am home. Exactly where I should be. Taking in the amazing wonder that the weather delivered to me that day.

The red fire hydrant standing proudly in the white fluff. The trees, ahh the trees, always stoic, always tall. Noble in their strong winter pursuit. I wonder if their roots know that it’s snowing? The branches reach up and softly cradle millions of snowflakes, building a colony. The fabulous intricacy of the elements soothes and amazes me. We all exist together. We each feel singular yet in truth, the symbiotic relationship of each part is what makes us whole.

Sometimes the downpour of snow sifts off to a slight sprinkle and the flakes lazily descend from their origins. Then, without warning, the deluge restarts, reclaiming its control. The beginning of a promising snow storm has always been, and will continue to be, one of my favorite times. The promise of the coming of all the things I love. The anticipation of stripping off boots, hanging coats, donning slippers, warming soup, layering under downy blankets – it stirs my cells. Retreating within, with the promise of the extremes outside. The storm unfolds outside my windows and I remain hypnotized. The flakes become rounder, fatter, more robust. They speak to me in hushed tones. They glide in on the wings of the wind. Sometimes they seem suspended in air, time stopped, so I can examine their beauty. I resonate. The heat of my home wicks comfort around me as the wind becomes boss of the outside elements. My molecules sing and skip, heralding the joy of the storm.

Wednesday Wishes

When I'm submerged in my life, as I always am, I find it difficult to truly see my life. Some days, I wish I could leave my body and view my life from outside of me. What would I covet about my life? What would I edit?

Today, Henry and I patronized one of my favorite destinations in the world, Target. Ahhh, Target, like a siren beckoning me home. A popcorn combo and we're in stride, perusing the aisles, sipping Diet Coke and hunting for the perfect tidbit on the 75% off clearance rack. Spidey PJ bottoms for $2.50! The softest t-shirt imaginable for $1.79!

We paid for our finds and left. After buckling Henry into his car seat, I returned our shopping cart (buggy to my southern pals) to the cart return. As I walked back to my car, I stopped. I don't know if the wind changed, or if the cold steeped in my brain for too long, but everything (my minivan, my open door, my son in the backseat) looked new. I stared. I stared at those items (and that boy) as if they belonged to someone else. "Man," I whispered to myself, "I'd love it I if were going to that life."

The wind whipped again. A smile spread across my face and into my soul. Lucky me. Wish granted.

Frustrating? Motherhood? Nahhhh....

A dear, dear friend called today. (She's a mother to a four-month-old and a three-year-old, and she stays home with her kids AND runs a business out of her home. She's a rock star.) She's having a great day. Truly awesome. She might run stark-raving mad through the streets of her town.

She started our phone conversation like this:
"Do you ever get really, really angry and frustrated? With your kids, your husband?"

Because she is a dear, dear friend, she knew the answer before she even reached for the phone. But she dialed just the same because she needed to hear a resounding,

"HELL YES!"

Three years ago, Henry was just five-months-old and Abby was three. Hubby was MBA-bound and therefore not home-bound (I proudly took that role)**. As a result, I spent many solo days, nights, weeks and weekends with my children. Some of those endless stretches proved to be exceptionally maddening. One January evening, after sending Abby and Henry off to slumberland,I sunk into the couch with a rotund pour of Cabernet Sauvignon. The digital picture frame illuminated the dark room with happy photos of my children. As each photo flickered by, the tears began to pour down my very tired face. This thought train accompanied my tears:

"I don't even remember those smiling moments. I'm ruining my children. I am a horrible mother. I didn't enjoy them today. I circumvented and navigated and orchestrated...but I did not enjoy. Aren't I supposed to always enjoy them?" Then, the guilt started punching me around. LOTS of guilt. Lots of punching. Defeat snuck in there and had her hand with me. I realized with a nauseous jolt that I’d been wishing away minutes with these sweet (yet terrorizing, noise-producing, maddening, exhausting) children because I was tired. Done.

And here's the kicker: I thought my feelings were novel.

Then, through the haze of tears and wine, another thought throttled forward:

"Other mothers MUST share these feelings. I cannot be the first mother in all of motherhood to experience these raw frustrations."

Whew. During that epiphany, my voice materialized. I decided to regularly expose myself and my lovely imperfect messes here. And in so doing, I hoped to spare other moms from some personal lambasting, guilt and agony.

I try to stay buoyant in the ordinary extravagances that moments with my children present. Because I know, in a flash, I will throttle back and trip over Lego's, employ timeouts and referee screaming matches. It is from this precarious perch from which I parent.

**Hubby and I mutually decided that he should get his MBA. We both signed up for the rigors of an executive program. We mentally prepared, budgeted for babysitters, girls' nights out and the occasional bottle of wine. I continue to applaud both of us for allowing him to achieve his goal--and reaching it with our marriage stronger than when we started.

Heroes

Sickness descended on our healthy home. Henry's profile: sick with purple/blue bags under his eyes, a cough that makes him sound like he polishes off 2 packs a day, stomach troubles and a rising temp. Poor guy. He's absolutely pathetic but still amazingly resilient. So resilient, in fact, that he turned sickbay into the super heroes lounge. First, the Rescue Heroes abolished a boredom coup. A fireman donned his jacket and extinguished rising fevers. Then, Captain America chilled on the couch, signing along (cough cough) with the Backyardigans (wheeze wheeze). He even coordinated his cherry-red fever cheeks his uniform. Who knew the Captain was so fashion-forward and musically inclined?

After a dose of Motrin (which thankfully either contains caffeine, kid crack or a very strong placebo affect because H always feels better after a dose), we prepare for Day Three of Sickness. Here's hoping that Wonder Woman can spin (insert sound effects here) another day of super-human patience.

Gluttons of Sunday

Our downstairs currently registers a balmy 57 degrees Fahrenheit (relief and repair hopefully come tomorrow). We clad ourselves in scarves, fleece and many layers to no warm avail. To rescue our cold noses and toeses, hubby suggested warm refuge in Mommy & Daddy's bed. So we retreated upstairs to flannel-ville. Hubby read the paper. Abby and I watched whatever TBS threw our way (Cheaper by the Dozen entertained us while I salivated over the stay-at-home mom becoming a national bestselling author). Henry's imagination entertained him--my red flannel duvet became a boat, a ship and a helicopter carrying him to distant lands at the southern border of the bed.

Simplicity, warmth and laziness reigned. What started as a necessity for bodily warmth became a salve for our frenetic lives; our souls exhaled. We lay there, spent, the gluttons of Sunday.

Lungs

Tonight, I lie in bed with sweet Henry (and thankfully not his sinister alter-ego who still likes to visit). After we read a pre-negotiated three books, we snuggle down under the fresh sheets. His lashes grace the roundness of his cheeks and his forehead spoons with mine. I am there to put him to sleep but it is he who hypnotizes me. I still grasp to comprehend the miracle of his presence and my role in bringing him here. I remember his not-so-elegant but noble first breaths. And now I am here, absorbing him, his essence and his breath. In and out. Out and in. I time my inhalations with his exhalations so I can breathe him in -- forever folding him and this moment into my lungs.

I Believe

This might be the last Christmas that Abby believes in Santa. This saddens me because I vividly remember my own heart break when this cold realization fogged my brain. In a valiant effort to prolong the magical wonder for my daughter, I've employed the efforts of Santa's elves. I, too, have been Santa's helper. Surprise candy canes adorned the trees and whimsical elves mysteriously moved 'round the house, playfully relocating from room to room. After we got a beautiful nine inches of snow, Santa himself delivered an early Christmas present of sleds. Abby explained that Santa must've used the Christmas winds to send the sleds down to us. I breathed a sigh of blissful relief.

In December of 1979, I deduced that my parents had been parading as Santa. (That same Christmas Eve, I spent several hours in the ER getting stitches in my chin. I secretly wished they could sew my faith and belief in the magic of Christmas back in at the same time.) When I rebounded, I started to craft the same veil of wonder and joy for my much younger brother.

I now get to do the same with Abby and Henry. I've got time with Henry. But Abby's current inquisitive line of questioning indicates that her logic is getting ready to trump her beliefs. She might be ready for this but, alas, I am not. I hope that if her tangible belief in Santa begins to fade, she will fuel the magic and spirit of Christmas for herself and others. I still get goosebumps when Christmas magic occurs. When the kids are hypnotized by twinkly lights, when they act selflessly, when strangers think of others before themselves...all these form a Christmas knot in my throat. Tears filled my eyes when Santa wished me a Merry Christmas this year. I was transported to 1978, once again a little girl, filling my heart and mind with the wonderment of the season. I hope Abby keeps that center of her heart open so she continues to give and receive the gifts of the season. So she will always say, with conviction, I Believe.

As A Mother

I am my children's compass. My thoughts, actions, talents, responses, quirks, beliefs and flaws all act as a compass guiding Abby and Henry. I provide nudges this way and that. I teach through the filter of my personal beliefs. I accept the truth of this foundation but must admit that it terrifies me. I want Abby and Henry to derive their beliefs from their own personal truths--not mine. I strive for them to fold my tutelage into their own personal mix of them and us, and encourage them to always edit for their authenticity.

As a child, I initially lit my light by the thoughts and energy of my parents. Later I fueled my fire with ideas from others, including both the bad ("you're awkward and ugly") and the good ("you're a breath of fresh air"). I've realized that I still tightly grasped some of the mistruths others crafted for me along my path--and found it much easier to glom onto the negatives than the positives. Fortunately, I now fully embrace my fabulousness. It took me 37 years and counting to learn this--how do I instill my children with the self-confidence to do the same? Right now?

How do young children, so pure and absorbent, mitigate the intricacies of not only their parents' lives but also their own? Take, for instance, the recent media coverage of the tragic bullying cases--the insidiousness of other's cruelties shake me to my core. How do I teach my children to not just persevere but flourish?

In what ways do I misguide my children? (Although I don't yet know exactly how I've fumbled as a parent, I know that when Henry and Abby are in their 20's and 30's, they'll fill me in.) I hope that through the truthful sharing and celebration of my life, I will ground them. Ground them with the understanding that mistakes and missteps are all part of emerging into a strong, competent, positive young adult. They must be dutiful editors, only embracing their personal truth. Yes, they can spark their light by my belief in them but I'm just the fire starter. They must develop their own light and pilot their path with their own, truthful, wobbly compasses.

In a Small Hand

The last few days, Abby has been a bit, shall we say, sassy. She's sassafrassed her way through her time with hubby, Henry and me. Scratch that. She's admirably attempted to be the reigning queen of sass but we've thwarted her efforts.

Last night after hubby bathed both children (love you, hubby), Abby ran down the hall squealing with glee. After I finished putting Henry to bed, I joined Abby in her room.

(After four days of her sass, and five days of solo-parenting while hubby traveled on business, I was a bit, shall we say, done. But I took my deep breath and decided to attempt to enjoy our last minutes together.)

I bent down to help her with her footie jammies and Sassy Sue (a.k.a Abby) said,

"Why (sigh) didn't you turn the lights on (quivering lip) in my room?" (a nice, full-bodied whine accompanied this question.)

I replied, "Please tell me you are not getting sassy and upset about a simple light. You got to your room first--you should've turned on the light." (Pride trumped my frustration because I didn't once utter the four-letter words that begged to be released from my lips.)

"But moooooommmmmmmm, I didn't KNOW the lights were out in my room. It was daaaaaark." She expertly employed the furrowed-brow-big-bottom-lip-and-foot-stomp trio.

Huh.

"Abby, the darkness in your room should've given you a clue that it was indeed dark in your room. Now knock it off and go brush your teeth." (Calm? What calm. Frustration now reigned.)

Abby stomped off to the bathroom and slammed things** and thumped stuff. Henry slept on the other side of the bathroom.

"STOP IT.", I venomously spat.

She responded by bawling.

I left, gained composure and waited for her in her bed to read books. I didn't say another word. I (tried) to emulate peace and love. We read. We hugged. As I left her bed, Abby said,

"Mommy, I want to touch you one more time." I took her hand. Then I heard Abby quietly say, through the night-light lit darkness,

"I'm sorry Mommy. I'm sorry I was so sassy about just a light."

In her hand and from the depths of her sass-rejecting soul, Abby found the right way. Tears welled. Pride returned and our evening ended with the two of us, hand in hand.

**Gene pool alert: In Abby's defense, she comes from a long line of slammers. Her great grandmother slammed, her grandmother slams, her mother slams. So slam she will.

November's Eve

The darkened branches starkly etch the crisp November sky--they seem to reach for the possibility of snow, heralding its pending arrival. All the leaves have since swirled, cavorted and lay spent on the soon-to-freeze ground.

The warmth of home beckons us in--steam rising from hearty soups, candle's flames dancing on darkened edges. Pink noses and cherry cheeks thaw in the hearth's flickering fire. Bodies cuddle, feet are warmed. Fuzzy, footed pajamas cocoon the children for a warm slumber. Flannel and fleece keep us toasty through the long, black nights. We sleep. Warm and assured by the comfort of each other, four protective walls, down comforters and the promise of the pending winter. Dreams lingering from past nights reemerge in our sleepy minds, giving way to winter reverie.

Solo

Yesterday morning, Henry and I agreed to walk Abby into school, per her request. We'd made it from the minivan to the sidewalk when we stopped briefly to appreciate Henry's 217th fabulous piece of firewood. When I looked up to talk to Abby, she was gone. She'd walked herself into school. I found her in her hallway.

"Abby!", I called.
"What?", she replied.

("Heeeeellllllllllllllllllloooooooooooooooo?!?!?!?!?!?!?", I thought, "Why are we walking you into school, and why did I drag your brother out of his car seat, when you're walking yourself into school?")

But instead I said, "You asked us to walk you into school. Would you please walk with us?" She agreed. As we neared her classroom, with Henry and I trailing, I saw a group of her male classmates sitting in the hall awaiting entry to their room.

"Hey Abby!", one of them yelled.
"Watch this Abby, it's so silly!", another smiled.

Abby beamed and sat down to join the early morning festivities. "Goodbye, Abby..." I said. I got a distracted, "Bye Mom." and I started to depart.

Henry and I walked through the hallway to the exit. I was so glad she was happy and enjoying her friends. I was surprised, however, by the realization that hit next:

Abby is her own person.

An obvious epiphany but a poignant one. She forges her own way, all day, through learnings both educational and transformative. What to say, what to wear, how to interact, how to translate the intricacies of elementary school life. Her acquisitions occur publicly but are private to her. I do not partake. We talk after school--I ask questions, she shares, we recap. But I am not physically present.

I watched the hoards of young kids filing through that school. My naive realization resonated within--young children, on their paths, defining their futures with each step. Each choice. Independent and autonomous. With no parents in sight.

Abby is her own person.

Abby inherently understands this. Why don't I? Where have I been? Was a memo issued? "Abby does stuff by herself all the time now! She goes to school and makes decisions on her own!" My daughter is no longer merely an extension of me, of Hubby or our family. She, like all the other students I saw, is an individual, forging her own way each day.

I am simultaneously proud, dumbfounded and humbled.

Sharing a Few of My Favorite Things

A random list of little things that make me happy.

1. Tervis Tumblers. I use the 24 oz BigT in the car instead of water bottles. They keep your drink cold and they don't sweat AND they have a lifetime guarantee.
2. Max Factor 2000 Calorie mascara. I love this stuff. But come 2010, they won't sell it in the US anymore. So I'll be desperately searching for an equally cheap and fabulous replacement.
3. Origins Underwear for lashes. I'm totally addicted. You put this white stuff on like mascara before you apply mascara. Makes lashes long, thick and fabulous.
4. McDonald's Diet Coke. And a side of fries.
5. Neutrogena MoistureShine Lip Gloss in Dreamy. Smooth, not sticky. Looks great over all my lipsticks or solo.
6. Aunt Sadie's Tree in a Can candle. Capri Blue's Number 9 Volcano candle. Tyler Candle Company's Limelight candle. They all make my house smell warm and cozy and gooooood.
8. Medicated ChapStick. I've tried so many chapsticks from the cheapest to the priciest and this is my favorite.
7. Salt and Vinegar potato chips. The more sour the better.
8. Ben Heggy's (Canton, OH) buttercreams in dark chocolate. Like a spoonful of cookie dough.

(File the following under the "Irish-girl-with-pasty-skin-needs-help-not-blending-into-the-walls" category)
9. Jemma Kidd Mannequinn Skin Complexion Enhancer. I feel like I look dewy and well-rested when I use this stuff. Light must reflect off this magic stuff and makes me feel pretty.
10. Trish McEvoy Face Shine Malibu. It's a creamy bronzer you apply with your fingers...but yikes! I can't find it anymore...help!
11. Jane Blushtix in Shimmering Brown. Same idea as above. I look healthy and not peaked with this stuff.

Now come on and tell me yours...

Onnlaye Six

Sometimes, the biggest wallops of love come from the smallest moments. Today I was working and I asked the kids to draw some pictures to keep them entertained. (Amazingly, this worked and I worked quietly while they drew quietly!) When I was mid-thought, I peripherally saw Abby approach with a smile and a piece of paper.

She quietly handed it to me. Thankfully, I stopped writing and accepted her gift.

My six-year-old love wants to marry me. (I'm the one in blue plaid flannel pajama bottoms and green t-shirt; Abby is in the pink one-piece body suit.)

Time stopped. All noise subsided. The poignancy of her message grew lumps in my throat and formed tears in my eyes. Abby stood patiently while I read and reread her note, languishing in her and the depths of her love. I looked up at her, smiled and swallowed her in a hug.

Henry

Ah, the life of a mother of a three-year-old. 'Tis bittersweet. My days and emotions are intrinsically linked with his. Lucky me. He swings from docile and kind to violent and screaming on a proverbial dime.

I am frustrated, exhausted and without answers. I am trying to find the lesson in this madness. I realize that as much as I consider myself a patient person, I am currently without. I feel as if I have no control, no recourse. Henry's first episode of each day leaves me feeling flat and hopeless. Today I let him watch two hours of Mickey Mouse Club House to stave off some certain lowering of some looming boom. I let him eat as many Goldfish as desired, just to keep the peace.

This afternoon, after a delightful romp outside, I delivered the unfortunate news that it was time to go inside. The devil himself embodied Henry. He shrieked, thrashed, spit fire. He threw his shoes, his helmet and kicked his scooter. After I closed the garage door, he defiantly ran back out, under the door. The fear of him being smooshed by the door threw me into a tither. I was simultanteously grateful he was ok and ready to pummel him. My lungs hurt I was so angry. I truly don't recognize him at these times. How can this be my sweet-cheeked boy who tells me he "wuvs me"?

So I sit, spent. I must reach down into the depths of my waning patience and sit with the fact that I do not currently have the answers, and rest my tired laurels on the hope that some day soon, they will come.

Permanent Marker

Lately I've found myself trying to remember. I intently try to memorize certain aspects of my children's personalities, actions and words. As Abby and Henry are doing/saying/growing/learning, I pause and watch. Hoping, if I sit long enough and concentrate hard enough, that I will etch, with permanent force, the essence of that moment.

How can I capture Abby's budding sense of humor? Can I pull out my Sharpie and indelibly commit to memory the round chub of Henry's cheek which gives way to the innocent curve of his pink lips? How will I conjure the sunlight illuminating the white-blond hair that frames Abby's face and gives way to her cascading golden curls? The belly laughs? The bone-crushing, soul-lifting bear hugs that fill my heart with warmth and light?

I have already experienced, in six short years, memory loss. I cannot elicit certain funny phrases or the sweet smell of my baby's breath which is one of my all-time favorite scents. (I recall burying my nose into their mouths, inhaling the tender scent of their breath, promising myself I would be able to somehow recreate that smell in my mind. I also remember Hubby walking into the room whilst my nose was jammed into either Abby or Henry's mouth--Hubby thought I'd lost my marbles.)

I can't remember how it feels to rub the silky arms that yielded to chunky wrists. I can no longer summon the sound of coos and gurgles.

The passing of these perishable moments breaks my heart; I continue, nonetheless, to cherish them all. And even though I cannot remember each in all of its light and dimension, I remain hopeful. Still pausing, still waiting, still manically memorizing--with Sharpie in hand. Sketching the moments so I can pull them out, however faded, and use them like a salve for my yesterday-missing soul. I strive to simultaneously revel in the past, live in the now and prepare for the yet-unknown, Sharpie-worthy moments of the future.

SNL, Meet Henry

Henry loves caulk. If it's caulk-related, it's cool with Henry. He loves hubby's work shirt with caulk smudges all over it. He thinks a fun afternoon includes carrying around a tube of caulk. He adores the painters who prepared our house for painting because they got to apply lots of ... caulk.

He enjoys it when hubby gets all caulky (couldn't resist) when doing house repairs.

The caulk conversations and random caulk thoughts Henry shares range from humorous to slap-your-thigh-with-tears-running-down-your-face hysterical. Following are some of my favorites. If they aren't that funny when you read them, try saying them out loud. I dare you not to laugh.

1. "Daddy has a caulk on his head." (Hubby worked all day in the basement and had a little pile of dirt and caulk sitting on the top of his hair.)

2. Henry grabbed hubby's face just after waking up one morning. "Daddy? Do you like to eat caulk?" Somehow, hubby was able to answer this repeated question with a straight face.

3. Henry and I shopped at the grocery store. When I turned my head to concentrate on the bread ingredient lists, I peripherally heard Henry announce, "Yeah, we've got some sweaty caulks in here. Yup, some sweaty caulks."

??!?!?!!

The shock and crazy laughter I experienced doubled me over. I grabbed my phone to text hubby and friends. I could hardly see the letters on my phone through the tears. It was as if he was channeling two different Saturday Night Live skits--Alec Baldwin's "Schweaty Balls" and the more recent "DIY Caulk" skit with Jason Lee. (I love and highly recommend both; however, if you don't enjoy word puns about the male anatomy, I'd skip them.)

4. I took Henry upstairs for bedtime. He had been dutifully carrying his caulk tube around. When he realized he'd forgotten it downstairs he yelled, "Momma! I want to sleep with my caulk!"

I sarcastically thought, "No problem." I did retrieve his caulk for him while laughing myself silly. Freud would have a ball with this. Maybe two.