Why does everyone feel compelled to give my kids junk food!?

It drives me frakking insane. It feels likes everyone everywhere has a vendetta against my babes' little bellies and love to stuff them with sugar, HFC, and nasty preservatives I cannot even pronounce.

Okay, so maybe that's a bit exaggerated. Maybe. Possbily. Not likely.

When we go to playdates there is usually junk. When they visit family or friends. Junk. Strangers in the park feel compelled to inquire if they may have a "treat". Hell, we even go to storytime and they get free cookies. It's crazily frustrating!

My kids don't NOT eat junk. They do. Miss H got a bag of potato chips from Menards last week...she and baby B both ate chips with their dinner last night and she had a bite of a cookie with me like 2 minutes ago. In fact, we make "treats" on a semi-regular basis. I have a crazy sweet tooth myself.

But the stuff we make isn't loaded in sugar or with other ingredients I can't pronounce. I know every single thing that goes into them (and they are werid things according to J like raw honey and date...not "real" food, ha ha...).

I also buy her "treats." We have fruit leather on hand pretty much always. And she loooooves raw nuts, but I will occassionally buy her some yoghurt covered almonds. She drinks dark chocolate almond milk at least once a week. She eats plenty of junk. I mean, "treats."

Of course, you can't tell your child she cannot eat something when everyone else is. Well, you can. And on occassion ,I must. Like if the cookies they give at storytime have M&M's. Luckily she gets that colors make her belly hurt. But then I end up having to go get her a cookie from Starbucks. So yeah...she still gets one. Because you cannot deprive a 2 year old of cookies when every other person is chowing down on them unless you are prepared for the epic meltdown that is for sure gonna ensue, and of course, you'll have like 20 moms looking at you like you're a crazy psycho who won't give her that delicious, albeit toxic, cookie. (You think the word "toxic" is me exaggerating...maybe I am. But probably I am not.)

I'm not really too crazy about what my kids eat, even though I'm sure it may not seem like that to some. I've been allowing Miss H to eat cookies since she was about 11 months old. So the same age baby B is now (but he's not had any yet...). I feel pretty strongly that if I am eating something and she's around, she can have it, too. (So I may or may not only eat ice cream at night...)Pretty much if we are outside the home and someone else offers it to her, she can have it (allergies aside, of course.). I'm not so anal and uptight that I'd say no. But it doesn't mean that it doesn't drive me insane.  Because no one needs this much crap running through their bodies.

And of course, when I do happen to offer her a more healthy option (which she often agrees to, woo hoo!), I'm accused of only giving her "healthy treats" which is an oxymoron in itself.

But what is wrong with that anyway?

Why as a society do we feel the need to pump our kids, and more importantly OTHER people's children, full of sugar?

No more babies

I never cry. Like ever. Since J and I have known each other he has only witnessed one full-blown, cry-fest from me, and that was when I thought we were miscarrying Miss H. So it was a big deal.

But there have been a handful of times when I've got all teary-eyed, just never actually cried. That's when J laughs and tells me that I really do have a heart. Because, you know, I'm heartless...

Like last night. J was watching a re-run of "Bones" and I was filling out baby B's 1st birthday invitations (how the frak is that possible!?) and the spouse of one of the characters who was pregnant makes the comment about finding out she's pregnant being the best news he's ever received.

Yeah, I got teary-eyed then.

J's all, "what's wrong?" and I'm like, "His baby is the best news he's ever heard and I'm filling out OUR baby's 1st birthday invitations. Our baby isn't a baby and we're done with babies!"

J looks at me with those big brown saucers he has for eyes and says, "You just told me last week after I said, 'Okay, let's have another for real.' that you were done and didn't really want another. So now you want another?"

"Hell no!" I answered. "I AM done. I'm just hormonal and emotional and want time to slow down. I don't remember being this sad when Miss H turned a year old."

"Well, you knew she wasn't last," he replied.

And that's true. I guess it's just different when you know that you'll never have another baby again. It's all so definitive.

But, let's be honest. Babies are so freaking romanticized. They have to be. Or else no one would ever have them.

Although I love my babies. And even love other peoples babies, I like the 1+ crowd better. I like when they can communicate and verbalize and just in general are less needy. Maybe that makes me selfish, but I'm okay with that. I'm still getting up 2-4 times a night with my 2 year old. I know the day they both sleep through the night consistently (they do that by 12, right?) I won't be sleep deprived enough any longer to even fantasize about another baby.

I think there will be a part of me that will always love the idea of being pregnant again. Of, call me crazy, birthing again. There is something about birth that fascinates and amazes me. That empowers me. And I wouldn't mind the experience again.

I wouldn't even mind another baby. So if something went crazy with the plumbing and we did have another, I'd be totally cool with that.

But I'm fairly confident that we will not make any decisions to actively have another child. Two is it. And we're both more than okay with that.

But it's still fun to say to J randomly, "Don't you want another baby?" just to see his face light up at the thought, because he cannot get enough of H and B, and then watch him shake his head and say, "No, we'd lose our minds."

What a funny man who thinks we still have our minds...

How are all parents not drunks?

After the kind of day I've had I could really use a glass of wine. Or six. But I'm not having any, because I refuse to drink alone.

Someone once told me that alcoholics are those who drink alone. While I don't believe this, like at all (I drank alone before I had kids and was never close to being an alcoholic), it has really stuck, and since having kids I have this deep fear of even having a sip of alcohol and no one else being here if something were to happen. So yeah, it doesn't happen.

But...really, how are all parents not drunks? How do people survive without losing their minds? And those that still have their minds…do they really want them?

My 2 year old managed to sharpie the rocking lounge chair, pour a whole bottle of hand soap on the bathroom walls and floor while she was "cleaning" and cut a dress I was in the process of making into shreds. Literally. And before you sit there wondering what the hell I was doing while she ran amuck, I will tell you. I was peeing, nursing baby B, and then making dinner during each of those scenarios. Not eating bon bons and watching soap operas (though it does sound like a lovely idea!).

It took her all of like 45 seconds to ruin my chair with a sharpie. That's extreme talent. That means she got the marker off of her papa's desk in the library, went to the living room and then created her grand masterpiece. In 45 seconds. I'm pretty sure someone is slipping her amphetamines and forgot to tell me.

But I never even yelled at her. For any of it. I just told her about a million times how much I loved her - mostly for my sake.

And then when baby B was napping on me, I made sure to inhale his awesome baby scent and watch him all sweet and peaceful and force myself to remember how precious and sweet he is. Because he'll be 2 someday, too. And I'll need a reminder.

Or some alcohol. Either will do.

As much as it sucks for us, it sucks for him more.

Whenever J has to go on travel, I always feel bad for the kids. They miss him. It messes up their schedule and daily rhythm. I feel bad for me because, you know, I have to do it all on my own.

But mostly, I feel overwhelmingly bad for J. It truly does just suck the most for him.

He's the one leaving. So our kids are connecting him with absence, and that's hard. And although he is ever-present when he's here, I'm afraid our children will always have this thread of connection that papa leaves and momma stays. And it is one thing for me to realize this, but J sees it too. And it tears him to pieces.

He misses out on so much. Seriously. Especially since baby B has been born. So much happens when children are babies. Even 48 hours can make a whopping difference. I never tell him when the kids start something new. When they cut their first tooth. Sat up unassisted on their own. Started crawling. Cruising. Took their first steps. Said their first words. I never, ever, ever once told him that they had happened until after he saw these things himself. Until he said to me, "You know what…!?" Because that way, he always has their "firsts". And that's important. To both of us.

He doesn't get baby love while he's gone. And anyone with children knows that there is nothing better than some good ol' hugs, kisses, and snuggles from your babes after a long, stressful day. He gets all the stress and none of the love.

So although I know it's hard for us when he leaves, the kids I get by just fine. We go to the zoo and we try four different pancake recipes in one day and we typically have a grand ol' time. J just has to work like a dog and then sleeps in a hotel by himself, without a baby to stick his feet in his face or randomly wake him at 2 am pretending to be a monkey (this really happens....). It's way harder for J. And he never complains; he just does it because he loves us and it has to be done.

And I love him so much for it.

Yes, I'm a huge hypocrite. So flame me.

J and I both happened to read the same parenting article over the weekend. When we were discussing it, because, yes, we're lame like that, and are always educating, learning, and re-evaluating our parenting methods/choices/decisions and we talk like crazy about this stuff, I could not help but point out to him what hypocrites we are.

Okay, okay. I shouldn't point fingers and drag J into this. Really, it's me. Only him a tiny wee bit.

I believe very, very strongly in peaceful parenting. I don't really believe in punishments in general, though I realize that there is a time and place for them. I think yelling and screaming at your kids is wrong. Anyone who knows me knows that I find spanking to be pretty appalling. I believe in bodily integrity. I don't believe in allowing your kids to cry. I don't really believe in television. Yeah...and this is all just the tip of the iceberg.

Yet, I pretty much violate all my beliefs in one way or another.

Have I ever punished Miss H? You betcha! She is familiar with time-out. I try really hard to remember that she doesn't really "get" time-out. She's not really sitting and thinking about her poor choice. She's just thinking she has to sit and she really hates mommy for this and it just makes her madder. I get it. I totally do. And yet I've had times when I've just been so overwhelmed I've put her there. Wrong or right, doesn't matter. Sometimes it's the only way to make her behave. Which that alone is probably a bad statement. The use of the word "make" isn't really likeable. But it is what it is and sometimes talking and reasoning and understanding her point of view still doesn't make me feel like she doesn't need a time-out. Or that I do.

Yelling is a no-no around here. I mean, what kind of person actually yells at a child? Well, I do. I mean, not every day. Or even every week. But I have my moments. When I'm on my last straw and I've told Miss H to stop pulling on her brother's neck because it hurts him about a million times, when I finally just end up shouting, "H, stop it!" Is it right? Nope. Does it get the point across? You betcha! Does she stop? Yes. Thank goodness!

I don't agree with spanking. It doesn't make sense to me how a child who hits a child, a child who hits an adult or an adult who hits an adult is called aggressive. Their actions are labeled as assault. And yet an adult who hits a child and is said to just be disciplining their child and it's not aggressive or assault. In fact, it's perfectly acceptable. Have I ever spanked Miss H? Yes. I hate admitting that. It makes me want to vomit and bury my head in the sand like an ostrich. But I have. Twice in fact. Yes, yes, let the flaming begin. Me. I spanked H. Not J. But me. Twice. I could give you all the excuses - I was suffering from post partum depression, I was going on a month of single mommyhood, I was overwhelmed and sleep-deprived. But they don't make my actions right. I still hit my child.

Bodily integrity is a big one for me. I don't believe that anyone has the right to alter another's body for cosmetic reasons other than the person to whom the body belongs. I don't own my children. Their bodies do not belong to me. And yet I allowed my son the bodily integrity that I feel very passionately about, and took that from my daughter at 5 weeks old when I chose to pierce her ears because it was "cute."

I don't believe in "cry it out." I couldn't imagine leaving my baby alone in a dark room to cry herself to sleep. In fact, just thinking about it makes my stomach hurt. Especially now as a mom, I don't know how anyone can listen to their baby scream and not immediately comfort them. How is that not their instinct, you know? That being said, I've let my babies cry. I've been frustrated and exhausted and at times both Miss H and baby B have been left alone in their rooms while Mommy re-cooped for a few minutes. Yes, they screamed. Yes, there were some serious tears. And yes, I still just walked away. But I didn't leave them for prolonged periods. I didn't expect them to fall asleep sobbing. I always returned after a few minutes and loved on and comforted them. Miss H has woken at night and cried out for me. Sometimes I haven't gone to her. I've waited a few minutes, and when she doesn't yell again, I go back to sleep. And sometimes, when she's just throwing a major fit and crying, I have to walk away and let her cry because I'm frustrated. And letting her cry seems like a better alternative than yelling at her for being two. So I do. And that might all be wrong. I don't know.

Really, for all the above, the only "good thing" I can take from it is that those experiences humble me. I apologize. I have told my daughter, more than once obviously, that it is not okay for mommy to yell. That yelling isn't nice and I'm sorry, and so forth. They also help me when I get frustrated with my children to remind me how royally I mess up too. And I've got a lot more life experience under my belt than they do. They are suppose to mess up and not listen and you know, act their ages in general.

Don't worry. I didn't forget about the TV. I really do not believe in TV for children. Like, at all. And not under the age of two. Ever. At the end of my pregnancy I was anemic and exhausted. Miss H woke up at 5am as if she had a job to get to. So I laid on the couch and put Spanish cartoons on for her. Sometimes for hours. There is 17 months between her and baby B. It doesn't take a genius to realize that she wasn't even almost two yet. There is a DVD player in our car. It gets used religiously. I can honestly say she does not watch television every day. But she does watch it more often than I'd prefer. I'm still pretty militant about what she's allowed to watch, but even so. It's not a perfect arrangement.

So you see, I'm a hypocrite. I’m a mother. A human being. I am not perfect. And regardless of my many failings, I'm still a really kick-ass mom with even more kick-ass kids. So flame me.

I guess I don't like pedicures and alone time isn't as relaxing as I thought it'd be.

Since I have had children I haven't really had any "alone time." I consider peeing alone a success and the most alone time I've had in, oh, 2 years, 3 months, 20 days, 12 hours, and 25 minutes. Not that I've been counting or anything.

Sure, there is the very occasional ten minutes alone when I run two blocks to the grocery store for a much needed dinner item. But nine times out of ten, someone comes along with. J and I have been out a handful of times, but then I'm not alone am I? I'm with J. Whom I love and adore, but it's still different.

So today, realizing that I'm about to burst at my seams because this past week may very well have been the most stressful week I've had as a mom yet, J told me to go do something while he kept the kids. So I did. Because I needed to.

I decided I was going to get a pedicure first; a fun, relaxing ritual I used to partake in nearly every other week before I had kids. Well, I learned something about myself today. I no longer like pedicures.

As soon as I walked into the salon I immediately started to inhale cancer. I swear that's what I was inhaling. Tiny little green and orange microscopic cancer balls with fuzz and googly eyes penetrating my lungs. Then as I put my feet into the tub I was immediately being attacked by someone’s leftover fungus. A man who is not my husband had his hands all over my feet and legs, rubbing and caressing. I was totally skeeved out. He poured acetone over my toes, which I'm pretty sure ate my flesh. And then he suffocated my toenails with nail polish that was filled with more cancer.

You might think I'm crazy, I think I'm crazy. But this is totally how it was happening.

So after I finally got my shoes back on and fled (after overhearing a great conversation where a lady who is getting married tomorrow said to her friend, "Well, it's my wedding and it will be the best day of my life!" and the friend said, "Uh huh. That's what you told me before your last wedding."...) and was off to Starbucks for a Frappacino. I walked through the mall, noticing like a million and two new stores because I never make it past Target when I "go to the mall." Since I really didn't know what to do with my free time, I waltzed into all the kid clothes stores, of course.

When I finally made it to Starbucks I order a ginormous Frappacino and sipped every glorious drop of it, thrilled not to have a two year old to share with, and then lamenting that I didn't have a two year old to share with because she would have loved it so much. Aye carumba!

Since I'd only killed a half hour, I figured I should do something else. So off to the grocery store. A whole trip with no kids. What's this? I had never done real grocery shopping without kids in tow since Miss H's birth. So I had a grand ol’ time perusing the aisles and just having fun looking at all the things I never get to see.

But then of course, when I passed the deli section all I could think of was how Miss H loves getting her free cheese and baby B his free lunch meat. Ridiculous, I missed them at the grocery store.

On the upside, I didn't worry about them while I was gone. Which I used to do. Even if I was gone for ten minutes. Never once did I wonder "Are they crying?". I don't know if it's just because they were with J, and obviously I trust him like I trust myself with ou kids, maybe even more, because he is a waaaay better parent than me, or if it is just because I'm learning to relax and realize that they are just fine without me.

It was so weird to be without them though. And to be without J. To just be completely on my own. I'm never on my own. I used to relish my alone time. I needed it. I went to the movies every Friday by myself before I had kids just so I could zone out and not focus on anything.

I spent a lot of time on my own before babies were a part of the picture. Even after J and I were married. I simply like it. Or did.

Though alone time is nice. And maybe it is something I will try to incorporate occasionally into my life now, but much like pedicures, I realize it's something I had really thought I wanted and needed and missed because I loved so much. Now, not so much. I built it up to be something way better than what it really was. Sure, a shower by myself would be fantastic. Even a Frappacino of my own. But two hours alone isn't as needed as I thought.

And that probably makes me crazy.

Seriously, love your body!

It seems that not a single day passes by without hearing someone lament about their body.

I get it. We're all human. We all have flaws. And sometimes, we just don't particularly feel the love towards our flaws.

But love them. Just do it. You'll feel better for it.

I'll never be a tiny person. I'm cool with that. I wasn't tiny before I had two babies, so I didn't have any ideas of being small after I had them. And that's okay. I still adore my body.

Is my body perfect?

Hell no!

My thighs jiggle, I have cellulite on my ass, and there are stretch marks in places I didn't even know you could get stretch marks! My tummy is squishy and pudgy, my boobs hang down to my knees and are larger than a newborns head (this is not attractive). My hair is a crazy mess of frizz and longness down my back. Even J, who prefers long hair, asked me if I was going Pentecost because my hair hasn't been cut since Miss H was a baby. Oh, and those pimple that adults magically don't get. I do. It's like my face didn't realize I'm not still 13.

Do I love and adore all of these things? No, not particularly.

Could I change them all if I really wanted?

Sure, I could. With an extreme diet and exercise regime, and some laser therapy and plastic surgery, I could “fix” of all of it probably.

But I won't.

I wouldn't.

I mean, I like to eat. So I accept what that entails. I don't particularly enjoy leaving my children and going to the gym. So I accept that, too. And I have a lot of better things to spend my money on than plastic surgery.

And at the end of the day, my kids could care less what I look like and my husband still thinks I'm as beautiful as the day we met, so what else really matters?

So I embrace my flaws. I don't dwell on them. They are what they are. And they make up some pretty big parts of me.

And all together. They're awfully beautiful.

I am beautiful.

And you, my dear, are a damn rock star! So love your body. It's the only one you get.

Is it enough?

So baby B is down for a nap and Miss H is watching a television show, which I reluctantly agreed to since she has given up naps. (I have a weird aversion to TV, which is funny for those who really know me, because I used to be a mega junkie! But more my aversion is for her, not me).

So, of course, I plopped down on the computer to send an email to our photographer about getting some unedited photos. While doing so, I looked around at my very messy library and could only think, "Shit. This needs cleaned so badly...and I have zero motivation to do it."

I don't really get much time to just sit, so I relish the time that I do. Most of my internet access is done on my non-smart phone while on the go. At the park, outside while the kids are more fascinated with something that isn't me. In the car (when J is driving of course!).

And yet most days I still feel like I'm probably not doing enough. Which, of course, begs the question, what is enough?

I made the kids eggs for breakfast; we played and read books, got ready for our day, and then went to the Wonderlab for two hours. When we got home baby B had fallen asleep so I fed Miss H lunch and now she's watching a show. We'll spend the rest of the afternoon playing. I might sew for 20-30 mins, but I avoid doing much that takes "time" away from the kids.

I do clean like a majillion times during the day. I sweep the floors about five bazillion times. I clean toilets every. single. day. I'm weird like that. I typically do dishes as we go, though some days I say screw it and just let J do them when he gets home, or we take care of it together after the kids are in bed.

The kids get involved doing laundry with me. They help me cook. Mostly, everything I do involves little people. And yet I still find myself wondering if I do enough with them. For them.

Enough of what, exactly? That I don't know.

And then I wonder if I do enough around the house? J doesn't complain. He never would. As long as the kiddos are fed and happy and well-taken care of, nothing else really matters. And I adore that he has his priorities straight.

That being said, I do clean. I'm kind of a clean freak, though you'd never know if you saw how messy my house is. I mean, I wash our baseboards on a regular basis. That's not normal. I do pick up, like every two seconds, but these kids are just quicker than me. And it's exhausting.

To be honest, most of the time I feel very confident that I do more than enough. I mean, I cook (mostly), I clean, I take care of two happy, healthy, well adjusted babes using gentle parenting methods (and you have no freaking idea how much sometimes I just want to scream and yell and throw up my hands and say to frak with it all, I'm just frustrated with them! But then I don't because it seems that when I get to that point we have a major break through and Miss H starts doing something that we've been patiently working on, like sharing with her brother and I don't have to prompt her or praise her or bribe her, she just does it because she genuinely likes to see how happy it makes him and I'm like "whoa! It really does work!" Okay...that was a tangent). I do "preschool" with Miss H, which right now is just focusing on our letters, because she gets so mad that she can't really read, even though I assure her that it's okay and she will eventually. We have a beautiful garden that I work in, but truthfully, J does all the hard stuff. I mostly just pick food.

And, I mean, that's all more than enough. Right?

But then I can't help but wonder what other stay at home moms do, because seriously, they always seem so much busier than me.

I guess, though, that "enough" is one of those words like "successful" where there is just a different definition for everyone. And for me, this is enough.

Okay, who are we kidding? This is MORE than enough!

Who needs their own beds anyway?

You know that saying "Don't rock the boat"? Yeah, well, I never abide by it.

It seems that whenever something is smooth sailing, I find a good way to mess it up.

Take sleep for instance. Our kiddos have been sleeping with us all our lives. But after we got back from New Mexico I got this brilliant idea - why not see if they'll sleep in their own rooms?

We put up a new bed for Miss H (again...), took one of the mattresses out of our room and stuck it in their room for baby B. They both went to bed without a hitch the first night.

I nursed baby B to sleep and H fell alseep on her own since I was in the same room.

And then clock struck midnight. And all hell broke loose!

Baby B woke up screaming, H woke up screaming. Everyone was mostly incoherent. I'd litterally just fallen asleep (try falling to sleep without a baby next to you when you've done so for the past two years. Not as easy as I had been fantasizing!). J woke up in a panic. So we played musical beds and H ended up in bed with J and I fell asleep in bed with Baby B.

What's that? We were sleeping just like we typically do? Only now J and I were in seperate rooms?

Yeah. I didn't realize that...

But we tried and tried again, and now we're mostly down to H and B sleeping on the mattress together, and I end up in there around 4am for some tumultutous sleep until they rise at 6am. But that's better than our first night, right?

Mostly, if this doesn't get better in another week I'm calling it quits. I don't know how real people do this; how they get their kids into their own beds. It's exhausting. And co-sleeping just isn't. And I miss my sleep.

All right, Miss H, let's talk about nursing

A lot of people think that once a baby/child can "ask for it" they shouldn't be allowed to nurse anymore. They'd be really appalled to meet my daughter. Not only can she "ask for it" but we often have conversations while she nurses (yeah, yeah, totally defeats teaching her not to talk with her mouth full).

Well, today while she was nursing I asked her why she likes to nurse. Her immediate response was, "I love Bucky!" (My little sister...)

I laughed at this and told her, "Bucky has nothing to do with you nursing."

She had that big grin on her face and said, "Mouses nurse, too!"

"Mice might nurse," I told her (they do, right?). "But why do you like to nurse?"

"Because...because..." she said in between milk, "It's yummy!"

Okay, I thought, fair enough. And decided to let it go. A few moments later she said, "Baby's nurse. Evelyn (her friend) nurses!"

I shook my head. "No, Evelyn doesn't nurse anymore. She's all done. Do you want to be all done?"

"Well, L and baby Lana nurse!" she declared, ignoring my question altogether.

"Yes, they do. They're both babies. Are you still a baby?"

"No, I'm a big girl," she quickly informed me.

"So you want to stop nursing then?" I asked. I'm not trying to wean her, just was going along with her train of thought.

"No!" she said emphatically. "I'm your baby!"

And she's right. She is. Who can argue with that? So I just smiled and cuddled her.

And a few minutes later she looked up at me and said, "Thank you."

Sometimes I don't want to kill the bees with honey, I just want to blast them with a blow-torch

I totally believe in that saying "it's easier to kill bees with honey". But I just can't do it. Not when it comes to things that I'm passionate about. It's like I go into all-out attack mode, and I just can't be nice and sweet, even though I realize that people are far more receptacle to listening when you're not attacking them. I just can't do it.

I mean, how in the world can you be sweet and nice to just plain stupidity? I don't think it's in my DNA make-up to do so. I've tried. On rare occasions, I've succeeded.

But I've realized that it's just not me. I mean, of all the things I've ever been accused of being in my entire life, "nice" certainly isn't one of them. And I'm okay with that. The people who know me the best, know that I can be nice.

But I'm a "know-it-all". I get that. I'm that super annoying person who is so full of the most random information and you want to strangle them because you'll say something totally out there and I have a decent comeback or can supply you with an endless barrage of information on something you didn't even know that anyone had ever even heard of before. I get it. I do. It's super annoying.

I tried for a while to be that super sweet, nice to everyone person. And I can do it. I completely can. But I don't like it. I like to be able to say things and not have to censor myself. I enjoy that I have friends who love me for my faults. Who can 100% disagree with me and get into a heated debate, but at the end of the day it doesn't matter.

I love that I have friends that are the exact opposite of me in every way, even those who parents drastically differently from me, and they can still say, "Wow, you're like a crazy-freak passionate about not leaving your babies to cry it out alone in their cribs. But just because you disagree with what I have chosen, I totally get that you don't have an issue with me, nor are you even judging me for having done it. You just believe that babies should not be left alone to cry and aside from your mommy-instinct, you've done a lot of research that supports your decision. But you also realize that people read the exact same information but come to a different conclusion. I get it. You don't dislike me or have a problem with me, you just find it a slight bit annoying that I don't supposedly "get" it, but that's okay. At the end of day, you'd still walk over hot coals for me and my child, and that's all that matters." Yes. Thank goodness for friends like that! Who just get me.

Because a world without people who can appreciate a bit of heated passion is a sorry one for sure! I'm so glad and thankful for all the lovely friends I have that can happily disagree with me, and not hold my views against me, and also realize that I'm not holding theirs against them. You rock!

"...and I turned out okay."

One of my greatest (parenting) pet peeves is when people use the excuse "Well, it happened to me and I turned out just fine" in order to justify a choice or action they make. As in, "I was spanked and turned out okay, so it's okay to spank my kid" or "I (my spouse) was circumcised and turned out fine, so it's okay to do to my kid."

Really? Really!?

So how is it that as parents we can justify doing things that we know is not in our children's best interest, even things where there is scientific proof that shows they are damaging  to our kids, and then try to justify it with the old adage that it was done to us and we're okay.

I don't know about you, but I want more than "okay" for my kids. I want them to be frakking great! But maybe that's just me. Maybe I've a few loose screws because I want my kids to grow up listening to me because they respect me, not because they are afraid I'll hit them. I want them to grow up with their whole bodies, with the ability to make their own choices if they want to alter them (and yes, I pierced my daughter's ears, and yes, I deeply regret it, and yes, I know it is was wrong of me).

The more I learn. the better I do for my kids. I'm not perfect. I would never pretend to be. There was a time in my life when spanking a child would not have been something I would have thought twice about. I mean, everyone does it, right? For the most part, we all turn out just fine. But there is just too much proof out there to show how damaging it is to kids. Sorry, but just because it happened to me and I turned out okay, does not mean I'm okay with it happening to my kids.

And it's not just spanking, or circumcision, or whatever. It's the entire attitude that many people have. Like why bother even trying for their kids, when they can half-ass it all and the likelihood is that they'll still end up with kids who go to the same college as the kids whose parents gave it their all, and their kids will likely have a job that pays enough to feed them. And what else even matters, right?

Yeah, it drives me insane. No, I'm not perfect. I make mistakes all the time with my kids. I've actually screamed at them before, and I certainly know that is wrong. But I only did it once, and the look on their faces was enough to make me physically bite my tongue and take a breath when things got to the point that I wanted to scream ever again.

No one taught me how to control my anger. Or how to deal with my emotions in general, so it's something I constantly have to check myself with. I'm ever so careful as to make sure my children always know that it's okay to express their emotions, and I help them find appropriate ways to do so when needed. Sure, I turned out okay not knowing how to express how I feel, but I want better than that for my kids.

At the end of the day, I turned out pretty a-okay. I love my parents, I recieved a double-major college diploma where I attended on full scholarship, I have a fantastic husband and two phenomenal children. What could be better? But you better believe that I will never defend the choices that others made for me when I was too young or the actions that others took, simply because I turned out well. Maybe no real ill-harm came from me being spanked or yelled at or fed hormone-filled milk and meat (though puberty at 10 may disagree on that one...), but I do know better now, so you bet your arse I'll do better for my kids.

And the times that I screw up, because I will, I know I will. I am only human after all, I will apologize to my children, because I am big enough of a person to admit when I am wrong.

And I don't want my kids to turn out okay. I want them to turn out bloody fantastic.

There is always a reason

Many people tend to get very defensive. And oftentimes I feel it is very misplaced.

For instance, when a good momma friend of mine, who I met after the birth of Miss H, first learned that I'd given birth at home, her immediate reaction was "Oh, so you hate doctors and all Western medicine, huh?" Seriously, all I could think was WTF? I could not wrap my brain around how she would even infer that. It wasn't until much later, and after I had gotten to know her better, that I realized her husband being a doctor made her automatically feel defensive. Okay, I get that. But there really was no need.

I have come to the conclusion that most people make their parenting choices based on their own childhoods. Those who felt happy, safe, and secure throughout their childhoods tend to replicate them with their children. This doesn't mean they do everything the exact same, of course they don't. We all have our own "style." But something as simple as leaving your child in order to go out with your spouse just doesn't seem like a big deal, because it wasn't a big deal for you as a child.

Then there are some of us who, although we had parents who loved us, did not generally feel safe and secure as children, or even happy, and so we try to do everything different.

I can vividly remember being left frequently as a small child with one of my ex-stepfathers parents. His mother was not kind to me. Oftentimes I would spend what felt like hours outside crying, begging God to let my mom come back and get me. I even broke my elbow at these people's house and they didn't call my mother. For several, several hours I waited, being physically ill several times from the pain, until my mother came for me late at night. It is because of these memories I have extreme anxiety when it comes to leaving my own children.

I don't think leaving your children is bad or wrong. Not for a second. I wish I was one of those people who could. But anytime I do, even if it is just for an hour, I think of that small little Ki, crying all by herself for her momma on a metal swing set. And feeling like no one in the world cared about me or loved me because why else would I have to be there? Maybe it's irrational. In fact, I'm sure it is. But when you're 4 you're not rational.

So yeah, it's the little things that make me the crazy parent I am. And I'm okay with that.

A part of me feels like if I can do things as differently as possible, then my kids will be happier, safer, and more secure. It's silly, I get that. There are people who raise their children the complete opposite as I, who have the same outcome (whatever it may be). I just think that for me it's what works best. It feels like I am actively making decisions as a parent, instead of passively choosing the same path that others did (and that path isn't bad, please, please, do not think that I believe that). I just need something different so that I feel like I have a chance at all of this.

Nothing in the world could have prepared me for the feelings I had the first time I held Miss H. The overwhelming amount of love. This deep desire to want better for her. Better than I had. Better than J had. Better even, than we knew.

And right now anyway, the only way I know how to give her and baby B better, is by giving them different.

The thing is, different isn't better for everyone. Different may not even be better for us in the long run. I'll learn as I go, I'm sure.

But please don't feel defensive when I do something differently. I'm not saying you're wrong. I don't believe that for a second. And please don't just assume you know how I actually feel about anything. Chances are you are wrong about that.

Everything right down to the shoes that goes on my babes' feet I've put some serious thought, and typically research into. Give me a little credit. Because I know you've done the same. But because we're humans, we've come to different conclusions. And you know what, we're both right. And neither one of us has any idea why the other does or thinks what they do. Unless we ask.

So here's to asking next time, instead of just assuming!

I'm not spontaneous

I'm pretty much the least spontaneous person I know. I make pro/con lists for nearly every major, and many minor, decisions and plans in my life. I even plan out my day each morning, or the night before. Xyz are going to take place, and I rarely stray from the plan. Needless to say, spontaneity is not my forte.

While J was on travel for 2 weeks, one of his good friends' father passed away. This really had no impact on me as I did not know this guy's father, and to be honest, I don't know this particular friend very well.

But, I've been doing some major re-evaluations on my life and my relationships with people. And, by default, my children's relationships with people.

And the more and more I thought about this friends recently departed father, the more and more I thought about my children and their paternal family.

J and I have submersed ourselves into Dave Ramsey's get out of debt plan. It's hard. Like really, really hard. But that's mostly because we are currently carrying three mortgages, and one of those was never in our budget. And really, until we are able to get rid of it, we will be floating. And that's okay. We are still more fortunate than many, so I cannot complain. But because of this, we've also put a stop to all non-essential travel.

This is hard. Like, really, really hard. For me, anyway. I like to go. Whenever I want. I'm used to being able to just go with J on his travels whenever I feel like it. I'm used to being able to take mini-vacays whenever I choose.

But we're not doing that. And it's 100% my choice. I'm the one who wanted to go all Dave Ramsey.

But the more I thought about how quickly our friend lost his father, the more I thought about the last time we'd been out to visit J's family.

It was last November. For baby B's baptism. That was a loooong time ago. And, quite frankly, a miserable experience for me. Not because of J's dear family or friends; no, they are all amazing. But because of where I was mentally and emotionally at the time.

The idea of J's father passing and our children having not seen him in so long really bothered me. The idea of our children having family that love them so very much, but whom we choose not to go out of our way to visit due to monetary reasons, bothered me more.

I mean, how in the world do you put a price on your family? Especially family that truly cares about your children - not those who pretend to because it's "the right thing to do."

After the babes were in bed last Friday, I was unloading the dishwasher and this really just kept eating at me. I really needed to get those kids out to visit their grandparents. It just couldn't wait.

J got home late that evening from his travels, and one of the first things I told him was that we had to go visit his family. And pronto.

"How soon? When?" he questioned.

"Let's go tomorrow," I told him.

"For real?"

"Yes, for real."

And so we did. It's roughly a 24 hour drive, and the kids did amazing. We drove through the night, we stopped frequently, and we used that DVD player like it was going out of style.

We arrived in New Mexico on Sunday. We departed on Thursday. It was a short trip. But incredibly important. For my children. For my husband. And for myself.

I'm not a spontaneous person, but without a doubt, a 24 hour drive across the country with two babies for a relatively short trip, planned less than 24 hours before departure, is without a doubt the most spontaneous thing I've ever done.

And now I'm starting to think I need to add some more spontaneity into my life. It definitely is good for the soul!