A beautiful rut

Sometimes I get stuck in a rut. You know, where I wonder how in the world I ended up here because it’s not as glamorous as I fantasized.

These days typically occur when my babes are having especially difficult days, or Miss H pulls out the photos of my life post-high school but pre-J and kids (all 3 years!).

It should go without saying that I adore my children and husband and the life we have together. I honestly would not change a single thing. I wouldn’t do anything sooner or later or not at all or differently or anything. I am exactly at the place in my beautiful life where I should be and I want to be.  

But it doesn’t mean that some days, I’m not just like “WTF?”

Before kids and J I did live a glamorous, adventurous life there for a short bit. I attended university on full scholarship, which allowed me to put my hard earned money toward traveling the world and creating memorable life experiences. I have been places, seen things, done things that most people will only ever read about in books and magazines or see on television, and that’s if they’re lucky.

I’ve been incredibly fortunate.

Even that brief time together that J and I had pre-baby we were constantly doing without worrying about anything or anyone else. We backpacked through Spain, spent weekends in Maine eating lobster and in Sicily devouring canoli. We went parasailing in Aruba and spent too much time in Paris drinking. We wandered through the streets of Dublin and London. We had the luxury of eating without anyone else demanding our food. We could spend hours in a restaurant talking about everything and nothing without small people whining and needing entertainment, or having to rush home before their bedtimes. Quite frankly, we could have sex wherever and whenever we wanted instead of having to schedule it strategically during naptime or after small people were in bed, hoping that they didn’t wake up and, of course, actually having the energy to do it.

During those years I envisioned a wholly different life. My application was filled out and just one click away from being submitted to join the Peace Corps only weeks before J got down on one knee. I was going to change the world. Save it, maybe.

I was going to be “successful.” You know, I was going to have a real career and make lots of money and continue on with the same “me me me” lifestyle I had fallen into greedily with the freedom of being a young adult who, for the first time in her life, had no other responsibilities other than herself and the ones she had chosen on her own.

And then things changed. I learned that a thing called “love” was real, not just in fairy tales and romantic comedies, but in real life too. And despite all my preconceived beliefs, I allowed myself to succumb to it. And I found myself romantically planning a little family. And changing gears from academia and career to wife and momma. With the real kicker being when I held the acceptance letters to two Law Schools in my hands and then very confidently said, “No.”

And despite choosing this all, and loving it, I sometimes fantasize and recollect those very brief years my life was centered on me. Where I could do what I want when I wanted. And there were no repercussions for anyone but myself.

But I am so thankful for that time. It allowed for me to grow and blossom as a human being. It allowed me to expand in ways I didn’t know were possible or even necessary. I spent my childhood learning how to be responsible. How to cook and clean and care for children and myself. And it turns out it was, in fact, preparing me for my life. But I got to spend those few years on my own learning what it means to be responsible only for yourself. Not having anyone tell you what to do. No one chastising you to load the dishwasher or put your shoes away. And it was phenomenal.

Of course, no one tells me what to do now, either. But I’m a wife. A mother. I have responsibilities. Responsibilities far greater than just taking care of myself. And yet, taking care of myself may be the greatest responsibility of all.

You cannot properly raise children in a healthy manner if you don’t first care for yourself. And getting that time to focus on myself taught me that. You can’t be a good wife if you aren’t good to yourself.

So when my babes are screaming at me, or fighting, or it’s been a week or more since I last saw my husband and I feel like things are just too much, I let myself think of those sweet memories that allowed me to be ready for this. All that time that allowed me to figure out who I am and what I want from my life, not who others expect me to be or what they wanted for my life.

And it’s a beautiful thing. I licked Roman ruins which gives me the strength to just turn away when my son picks up a straw from the bathroom floor and starts licking it. I peed all over myself in Pisa while a train passed by so I know I can handle my toddler’s warm urine running down the side of my shirt in Target. I scuba dived with giant sea turtles in Hawaii, so swimming with two babies solo is a piece of pie. I spent a week eating nothing but cheese and nutella, so I know that if we just eat smoothies and nachos two days in a row, we’ll survive.

I have a lot of life experiences. Good. Bad. Beautiful. Ugly. They’ve all brought me right here. Right now.

So when I get in a rut I just remember it all. I'm thankful for it all.

And I remind myself that though it was all amazing, none of it was half as amazing as the family I have. Not one thing in my life has ever happened that was more phenomenal than hearing two beautiful children say “Momma” and knowing that they think I’m the greatest thing in the world (for now) or having a husband who loves me unconditionally and is always on my team.

Yeah, sometimes I get in a rut. And then I remember a beautiful life I once had. And the life I have now, that is more beautiful than words could ever describe.

Connected?

While driving home from the Y yesterday we drove passed a video rental store.

You know what I'm talking about. One of those stores, where as a kid, you'd eagerly walk down row after row of VHS tapes, prudently choosing what brand new (to you anyway) movie you would take home with you. What movie would magically become yours for 5 whole days.

You'd eat popcorn and zebra cakes (do those even still exist??) while huddled under blankets in the living room, watching the video that you so carefully chose. And when it was over, you always followed the instructions plastered to the case of the VHS that read: Be kind, rewind.

I haven't thought about a video rental store, well, in my entire adult life, I suppose. Netflix, red box, sure. But actually going to a store and renting a movie? No.

It's something that is certainly dying in our extremely connected, Internet-loving society these days.

I suppose it's far more convenient to rent a movie with the swift click of your remote control and instantly have it on your screen, but man, I have some pretty good memories from renting movies.

Mostly because I've always been a movie junkie. If they're B level movies, even better. If I never heard of them. Score!

To realize that this is an experience my kids will likely never have is a bit sad. Silly, I know, to be sad that they'll never rent a video from a video rental store, but still. Sometimes I forget how far removed we've come in just a few short years to actual human interaction.

I mean, before, you had to go to a store to rent a movie. You had to interact with the person working the register. I think it was nearly impossible to not run into someone who you knew while renting a video. It was a big event. A social event, even.

And yet slowly but surely with seemingly harmless, and for the most part "better" technology, we are cutting these things out of our lives.

The more technology advances, the more "connected" we all are; the less connected we are.

I mean, when is the last time you had a real phone conversation with a friend? Like, a real conversation? And texts don't count. I couldn't tell you, to be honest. When I was younger I could talk to my friends on the phones for hours. Even after having spent all day at school with them.

Now everything is through facebook or text messages, even email seems to be going out the window these days. No one sends emails anymore.

Then again, we have more "friends" these days too. Once upon a time my friends were all people who I knew and spoke to on a regular basis. Now that doesn't necessarily constitute a friend. I've got friends on facebook who have THOUSANDS of "friends." I'm not even sure if I know thousands of people.

I see all the benefits of technology and being connected and what not, but at the same time. I don't. I just don't.

I feel more isolated than I did as a kid. More disconnected. Maybe it's age. Maybe it's just me. Likely it's just me.

I love that my children are growing up in a techno-filled world. I love that Peek-a-boo Barn is always to my rescue when I need to wrangle B for a diaper change, and allowing H to watch home movies on my iPhone gives me those last 2 minutes I need to get dinner on the table. But I don't love that they will likely never have their friends phone numbers memorized. That they won't really know that snail mail used to exist outside of birthday cards, and it was freaking amazing.

We are just so connected.

But we're not.

Toys, toys, and more toys!

H and B have a ridiculous amount of toys. And it's crazy, because 3 months ago we literally got rid of pretty much everything, with the exception of wooden blocks, puzzles, and few other miscellaneous things. And in the three months since, we've managed to accumulate even more than what they previous had.

Certainly the holidays and amazing well-loving family and friends have helped. And it's, of course, greatly appreciated. But J and I also have a problem buying our kids things.

To the extreme.

We're not big holiday gift-givers. For some reason it just seems to not be our thing. We buy gifts for our friends and families, but not really for each other or the kids.

But we do buy year round. We haven't yet gotten to the ages where our kids really ask for things. But we still buy them things.

All the time.

When we feel like it.

When we see something we like.

When we see something we think they would like.

When it's appropriate and a decent price.

All the time.

A huge part of it is simply from our childhoods. J grew up poor. He basically had no toys.

I certainly had toys, but not to the same extent as a lot of kids, and not when I was really small.

Neither one of us begrudge our childhoods for their lack of toys.

And yet we want to give, give, give to our kids. We give them incredible amounts of time and attention, too, which we weren't terribly privy to as kids. So it's not like we just buy them things and expect them to go away. I spend the majority of my day playing with our kids. Other than when B takes his 45 minute nap which currently = quiet TV time for H (she loves that TV is being allowed inside during this time instead of solely in the car) when I take time to do chores and blog, as well as the hour I spend at the gym each day while the kids play at the play 'n learn center (which they love), I'm playing with them all. day. long. So trust me, they're not deprived of attention.

And pretty much every awake moment that J is home for is dedicated to the kids. He's playing with them from the second he gets home, before he has a chance to put down his bags or take off his shoes.

And logically, even academically, I know this all that they need. In fact, it's probably a bit too much and we should encourage them to play more on their own. But we like playing with them. It's why we had them, we say.

The toys, they are all just extra.

A lot of times I think they would be better off with fewer toys. That they don't really need our entire dining room turned play room, as well as our living room, full of stuff. But then when I think, "What would I get rid?" I just can't. In my defense, they really do play with it all.

I read the book "Simplicity Parenting" about a year ago and I really love it. Mostly because I would love to be a minimalist, and the book is about minimalist parenting. Love it.

But it will never happen. I'm great at getting rid of my stuff, but not the kids. I've done a lot of purging this past year. I condensed my books to two bookshelves when it was once three overflowing bookshelves. So now one book case holds the kids' games and "educational" materials.

I have less clothes than my husband! How many women can say that? My clothes take up about 1/4 of our closet space. But I really only have about 7 "fall/winter" tops. And 3 pairs of jeans. I have quite a few other shirts floating in there, many that I should pitch still, as I haven't worn them despite thinking I would. Last summer I had two pairs of shorts.

Now you want to talk swim suits it's a different ball game. It's pretty much the only thing I have more than J of. Because I have a weird obsession with them. But even there I've purged a lot.

Although they have way more clothes than me, I easily get rid of the kids' clothes as they outgrow them.

But toys. Oh, no! I just cannot part with those.

So I'm just going to hope that having so many toys isn't somehow damaging. I mean, I've read plenty of things that say with so many toys babes don't play with them all. They don't use their imaginations as much. They don't have the "gift of boredom."

But they do play with them. They do have amazing imaginations. And they even do tell me they're bored on occasion.

Or maybe that's just me justifying my own need to give, give, give to them.

When the age gap is apparent

J is 17 years older than me. I pretty much never think about it to be honest. We're on the same level. It works.

Until tonight.

Tonight he asked what I wanted to do to bring in the New Year. Half jokingly...okay, I wasn't joking at all, I told him we should have a netflix marathon of Dawson's Creek. He looked at me like I was Ted Bundy. As if he truly had no idea who the woman he married is.

"No one wants to watch Dawson's Creek more than once. That isn't natural," he finally said.

"Well," I started. "I was like 10 when it started. So it'd technically be my first time. At least for the high school years."

Yeah, I'm pretty sure he had a coronary just then.

13 New Years Resolutions for 2013

Somehow it's going to be New Years Day tomorrow. I didn't even realize that today was New Years Eve until I saw it on a friends status last night. Yep. I'm so on top of things these days!

In my defense I'm night weaning B (you thought I did that back in May, right? I did. For one night. After that he went all ape shit crazy and I had a lot of guilt still from when H was a baby so I said fuck it.) He's actually pretty unphased, but he's also cutting 6 teeth, so pretty terrible timing of me. So now he thinks 4am is a great wake up time. But I can't really complain, since he's been super amenable to the night weaning with no tears or fussing...

Anyway, I've never been one for New Years resolutions, but I figure it can't hurt. Maybe actually putting it down to visibly see will motivate my bum to actually do all this. Maybe...

So here are my 13 New Years Resolutions:

1.)    The obligatory get my ass in shape by 25 and eat healthier (I know some of you are rolling your eyes at this one, but seriously, I can always do better)

2.)    Be a better parent.

3.) Upcycle more clothes for the kidlets.

4.)    DIY projects:

a.)    wedding song lyrics on canvases

b.)    H’s duvet

c.)    Paint fridge

d.)   And other things that float my boat

5.)    Coffee bar

6.)    H and B’s rooms set up and completed – waaaay too many details to list, but also includes a LOT of DIY

7.)    Picture frame wall in bathroom

8.)    Write people letters/postcards, and get the kids involved, too!

9.)    More random acts of kindness – it makes all of us happier filling buckets.

10.)                        Meal plan, meal plan, meal plan!

11.)                        Finish project S&S

12.)                        Organize and print photos from past three years…

13.)                        Keep calm and carry on

Forgotten Birthdays

I love birthdays. Adore them. Always have.

Though it makes no reasonable sense. And for such a typically reasonable girl, I still can't figure out why I love birthdays so much.

My birthday. My husband's. My kids'. Everyones'.

And yet, my birthday has never been a "big deal." I didn't have big birthday parties as a kid, other than for my 9th birthday. In fact, more often than not I was handed a gift while my folks headed out to something bigger and better.

My 14th birthday was completely forgotten.

My 18th birthday I ordered my own cake. And picked it up. And ate it alone.

My babes birthday track record has only been slightly better. And they've only gotten three under their belts between them. At least for Miss H's first birthday pretty much all of our family acknowledged it, even though not many people celebrated with us. There were people there of course, both of her paternal grandpa's, her Grandma T, and her Aunt C. Plus friends. So it wasn't a fail by any means, even though there were also people who chose not to come for the most ridiculously petty reasons.

Then her second birthday rolled around. More friends, less family. And more family didn't acknowledge it.

And then poor baby B. I'm just glad he's too young to have known or noticed much about his birthday.

Though I shouldn't have expected much, since most of my family didn't even meet him until he was closing in on 9 months old! We did plan his party on a Tuesday, but since most of our family hadn't bothered for H's weekend parties, I figured it didn't matter. His friends would still be there. And they were. And it was lovely.

But most of his family didn't even send him a birthday card. Or a text or a phone call. I don't expect people to buy my children gifts. It's not needed, and not expected. But some sort of an acknowledgement is always nice. Especially when you're family.

So H has a box of all her 1st birthday cards which is in great surplus. And B has a box...which has very few.

Don't get me wrong. I loved their birthdays. We had fun. People we love and care about showed up to celebrate and the kids had marvelous times.

But I have this hang up with forgetting birthdays.

Probably because as a kid mine was easily forgotten.

So now I've taken my issues and put them on my kids.

Because that's how it goes.

I know I need to be sure they're not even aware of those who don't acknowledge their awesome days of birth. They need to celebrate in their own glory, and be extremely happy and thankful for those who do acknowledge and celebrate with them, whether it be in person or in spirit.

Because regardless as to whether or not other people remember the miraculous days my children entered this world, the day each year that they've come full circle and are now a year older, their momma will never forget.

No matter how busy or stressed or tired or whatever, I could never forget their birthdays. And I would never leave them to celebrate alone or to bake their own cake (unless they wanted).

So really, everyone and everything else is just icing on the cake, right?

The least expected hardest and easiest of 2012

2012 is coming to end here shortly (and not because of the end of the world, I managed to survive that one! Now onto Zombie Apocalypse survival...I hope you can sense my extreme sarcasm here).

I can't believe it's almost over. A whole year has come and gone. A whole year of my babies growing, growing, growing. I'm fairly certain Miss H woke up 3 inches taller just today. So you can only imagine what a whole year has added up to (you know...she's like 73 feet tall at this point, of course!).

The year has had it's ups and downs, as have all years.

Instead of saying, "These were the hardest things this year" or "These were the easiest things this year" I'm going to tell you my top twelve least expected hardest/easiest parts of this past year.

We'll start with top 12 least expected hardest things this past year:

1.) Accepting that I am enough. I never realized how difficult this would be.
2.) Finding clothes that fit. Again, who'd have though that by getting skinnier, clothes would actually be harder to find. I assumed it would get easier.
3.) Finding cute boy shoes. Girl shoes are so easy to find. I figured boy shoes would be the same. I figured wrong.
4.) Disconnecting myself from the people I have unhealthy relationship with. One would think that realizing and accepting unhealthy relationships would be the challenge, and once you managed that, it'd be easy to throw in the towel. No such luck, my friends. No such luck.
5.) Getting my butt to the gym. Before I had kids I loved going to the gym. And I did so religiously. Getting back into that groove has been more difficult than I anticipated, though I'm getting there.
6.) Surviving the aftermath (my own emotional repercussions) of cutting all of my hair off. 'Nuff said on that one.
7.) Taking a decent photograph. Good camera does NOT equal good photo. But we're working on it.
8.) Surviving months 3-6 of "the 2's". Nothing could have prepared me. Nothing.
9.) Staying on top of laundry. Why is this so hard?
10.) Dealing with the babes growth spurts/growing pains. I had no idea growing pains were real. And they're fierce.
11.) Accepting that there will be no more babies. Once I was clear headed from the PPD, my first revelation and regret was that we were done having children. Accepting that was one of the most difficult things I've ever done.
12.) Finding BBQ sauce that does not contain high fructose corn syrup. Dude, read the labels of all the BBQ sauces next time you are in the grocery store. You will know what I mean.

And on to the top 12 least expected easy parts of 2012.

1.) Finding artificial food coloring free candy canes. It's been so difficult to find AFC free treats when I want to get something particular. But the candy canes, they were just sitting there on the end shelf in the Co-op, patiently waiting for me. Bliss.
2.) Leaving H at preschool the second go around. The first time we tried preschool I was an emotional mess. I expected to be the same way when we tried in October. Not so much. At all.
3.) Overcoming post partum depression. I thought for sure that this one would be difficult. But once I had the right resources and tools, it was relatively easy to kick.
4.) Taking a 24 hour car ride with both kids (more than once!). My kids hate the car. Yet it was relatively painless.
5.) Moving H into her own bed. I was expecting tears and all around just a no-go. But she took to it like a pro. Sure, she still doesn't sleep through the night and ends up with us half way through, but the starting out in her own bed was too easy.
6.) Blogging. Apparently it's just really easy to say whatever I feel like without a censor. Who knew?
7.) Ridiculous amounts of purging. I learned how incredibly easy it is for me to pitch things. I have no sentimental value to anything with the exception of a few baby things from the kids. I have virtually nothing in storage anymore other than a few photo albums because it's been good willed if I don't use it or display it.
8.) Still being in the lovey-dovey stage of marriage despite having two toddlers. I have been warned since before our first was born that once you bring children into the relationship, your marriage changes. You no longer have time for cutes and cuddles with your spouse and your sex life goes downhill. But, our relationship is virtually unchanged with the exception of less exotic travels.
9.) Remaining calm when B knocked himself unconscious. Once, a 6 foot garter snake was within inches of me. I screamed like a banshee until someone rescued me. So I assumed I was a "freaker outer" but it turns out I'm not. I'm a freaking ray of calmness on a natural disaster day.
10.) Doing activities (park, library, pool, etc.) sans J, with two walking toddlers. Everyone had me prepared for hell and impossibility. But I say poo poo on that. Two is a piece of pie. Mostly.
11.) Dropping 25 pounds before even stepping foot in the gym. It's all in the food, baby. It's all in the food.
12.) Accepting help. I still cannot ask for it, but accepting it when offered proved incredibly easy. Who knew?

And there you have it folks. My 2012 in a nutshell with a pretty bow on top.

I believe in a form of eugenics

I'm snuggled in bed between two perfect babies. I'm at my step dad's house while J re-does the stairs in our home. It will be a relief when they're done. Until then I'm single parenting it up in someone else's home. Far more difficult than doing it in my own house, but that's okay. I have some pretty awesome kids who make it worth it.

Which gets me to the point of this blog post.

From the day I got two little signs on that pee stick, every single decision I have made has been with my children's best interest put first. Some would say that I put my children first to a fault. Maybe so.

But I know I could never imagine treating them like some mothers treat their children. I'm not talking about time-outs or spankings, not a healthful diet or such. I'm talking about the mental, emotional, and verbal abuse that happens all too frequently. Those scars aren't visible, so they are often overlooked.

But at the end of the day, they're probably the most damaging.

There should be a test you must pass before becoming a parent. Not one that states you must be a certain age or have a certain income or even parent a certain way, but one that proves that you are in fact mentally stable. Sure, it's a form of eugenics, but whatever. Sure, I wouldn't exist, but nonetheless. I still believe in it.

Being able to tell a 3 year old her daddy threatened to kill her, and then sending her off to spend the summer with him, giving her your warmest regards, should be illegal.

Telling your 13 year old that she is fat and ugly should not be legal. Telling her she is crazy, she's beautiful, when she finally accepts it, should not be legal.

When your child has just birthed a perfect human being, telling her that she can have another baby that is the "better" gender next, but until then she's thrown her life away to be a mom, should not be legal.

Constant degrading, malicious words, and so much more, should not be legal.

Choosing to love one child, but not another, is just sick and should not be legal.

Withholding your motherly love should not be legal.

But it is.

It all is.

And it's even acceptable if you can hide it all in a fancy house and a few over glorified college degrees. If you can hide it under expensive clothes and make up and lots of smiles and words of praise when in front of others.

Yes, I believe in a form of eugenics. A form that would never allow this to happen to children because narcissistic individuals would not be allowed to reproduce.

Because children deserve to be loved. At 4. At 24. At 74. They should be loved by their parents.

When I look at my children, I could never imagine treating them in such a mentally and emotionally abusive way. It never crosses my mind. Sure, when they're absolutely crazy I want to yell or confine them to their rooms. Occasionally I want to spank them. Of course I don't, I know better.

But never have I thought about or even had the slightest desire to degrade my beautiful children. To torment them with disgusting, vile, hurtful words. To control them with my love.

Phrases such as, "What's the matter with you?" Or "Grow up!" aren't appropriate, so obviously words such as, "Are you sure you're going to eat that, you're looking kinda chunky" and so much worse are far from okay to say to your child.

I just don't get it.

Not even a little bit.

And yet it's more common than many would ever suspect.

The damage from words lasts far longer than the damage of bruises. The pain much deeper.

So hold your babies. Love them. Do not be guilty of harming your children with words. Because words can never be unsaid. The damage never undone.

Oh how I believe in a form of eugenics that would prevent this kind of abuse from ever having to be endured by another child. I believe in it deeply.

It could have been my sister

This Connecticut shooting has me an emotional mess. I won’t lie. I just don’t deal well with this kind of stuff. That’s why I’m usually not “in the loop” with the news, because I’m just emotionally healthier not knowing, even if that’s maybe wrong.

Obviously it screwed me up because they’re kids. They’re young and little and innocent. Not all that much older than my own babes in the grand scheme of things. It’s terrifying to think of such a thing happening to my own littles.

And the absolute lack of support and attachment that that young man had to have had with both his parents and the rest of the world makes me sad and sick. To think our society has allowed for someone to feel so unloved and sad that they could do such a heinous thing. I do think parenting plays a huge part in this. Because murderers aren’t the people who had parents who loved them unconditionally and supported them and raised them attached. They just don’t. It’s proven. So that makes me sad.

But what has screwed me up the most is thinking that it could have been my sister.

I saw a photo floating around facebook before the names and ages of victims had been released.

It was of a girl. A teacher. She was young and smiling. Immediately I thought, “She can’t be much older than me.” The picture told the story of that teacher's last few moments on this earth. Upon hearing the gunshots she hid her students away in the cabinets and the closet of her classroom. When the shooter came in, she told him her students were in the gym. He shot her.

My sister is a teacher. I never thought of her teaching a class full of 4^th graders as something potentially dangerous. Crazy, sure. But dangerous, no.

I worry about my brothers. 3 out 4 of them are members of the military (the other is still far too young). One of them was a part of the last troop to leave Iraq. The potential danger in their jobs is obvious. They carry guns. They have to go to war zones when told.

But my older sister M is a teacher. She goes to school and deals with a gaggle of 9 year olds who talk back and forget to raise their hands and don’t know how to stand still in line (and I don’t blame them for that!). She spends her days teaching kids.

Kids she loves.

Kids who, if she were in the same position, I know she’d hide away in closets and cabinets.

And that scares me.

Because until Friday, I didn’t think to ever be scared. I didn’t know that that could even ever be something she’d be called to do.

I found out that teachers name was Victoria. She was 27.

The same age as my sister.

I’m sad about the children. My heart literally breaks for the parents because it’s something I could never fathom.

And I’m sad for those courageous, heroic teachers.

I’m especially sad for Victoria.

Because she could have been my sister.

"50 Shades" is glorified abuse

When trying to explain my disgust with what seems to be the best-selling book this past year, 50 Shades of Grey, J was able to pinpoint my feelings exactly: It is glorified abuse.

To be honest, I had zero interest in reading the book anyway, so I’m sure I have some serious biasness against it. But a friend pressed it into my hands and begged me to, saying, “I bet you’ll love it. And if not, blog about it!” Well, here’s the blog…

The whole thing made me sick. I have no freaking idea how anyone can find this to be good literature, much less a turn-on.

Every time Mr. Grey gets annoyed with Ana her first instinctual response is, “Please don’t hit me.” Um…ABUSE. If that were my first comment anytime I annoyed J I think anyone would agree that it would not be a healthy relationship. Yet, apparently it’s romantic in this book.

Maybe I don’t get it because I have a healthy, happy sex life. J and I are still pretty much in the “honeymoon phase” in all aspects of our relationship, even after two kids: we still talk non-stop about anything and everything, we hold hands, we cuddle, we spend time together and are constantly around each other when we’re both home, we never really fight and of course, we still have sex. All the time. So I don’t need to read about someone else’s twisted and abusive sex life to get my fill.

And it’s not just sex. It’s abuse. I mean, he freaking spanks her. As punishment. Not as just part of some kinky sex. Dear Lord, I’d be frakking PISSED if Jaime spanked our kids, especially for rolling their eyes! I’d be saying sayonara! if he thought he’d do it to me. That’s sick and disgusting and wrong.

I don’t believe in causing anyone physical harm. Much less someone whom you have a genuine relationship with.

And the contract. Dear God, the contract. Yeah, yeah, she doesn’t sign it. But the fact that she doesn’t run for the hills as soon as she sees it (or sooner, when she sees the Red Room of Pain) is insane. I want to shake Ana. I want to tell her that she seemed like such a good, sensible girl for the whole first three pages of the book. What happened!?

And I don’t get S&M. So maybe that’s my problem with the whole book. I don’t find it sexy or alluring. I would never be okay with it. I don’t even think it’s sexy to fantasize about. So I don’t get it. Pain does NOT equal pleasure or love or whatever for me. A creepy man wanting to hurt me just doesn’t put me in the mood. Even if he is worth billions of dollars.

I won’t even get into the fact that this book is clearly a blatant rip-off of another sensational book (that’s also a rip-off of another book…), this one just doesn’t have vampires and includes some (not so) awesome sexual abuse. But whatever.

I’m sure I’m in the minority; since this book is everywhere you look. All over the media. In all of my much-loved friends’ hands. Plastered all over the shelves in the library and Barnes and Noble. Apparently there are groups springing up all over the nation of grown woman who get together and discuss this book and all that it entails in order to get their kicks and jollies.

I don’t get it.

At all.

To me, it’s glorified abuse.

And that’s just downright creepy that people find it okay.

But that’s just me.

Let me explain, sorry and all that

So, I have had wonderful backlash from my last post (and it’s certainly not the first post I’ve ever gotten backlash from, haha). It’s okay, I don’t write to make anyone happy. I’ve never been accused of being “nice,” that’s for sure!

But I can also take a step back and say yes, my “health” thoughts are a bit extreme (possibly). Especially to anyone who hasn’t researched much about health, it’s even more irrational and ridiculous.

I am not trying to say, at all, that people who are not as paranoid about their health – the food they put into their bodies, the chemicals in their soaps or couches, etc., etc., - do not care about themselves, their children, etc.

Basically, I’m saying I am this crazy paranoid due to my absolute fear (it may be rational, it may not be) of dying and leaving my children all alone. And dying from something I directly could have prevented like I bought the cancer couch or I ate the whole bag of type 2 diabetes cookies or whatever. That scare the bejeezus out of me.

So just because someone eats Oreos (I do!) or buys their kid a happy meal, it does not mean they don’t care. Maybe they don’t know better. Maybe they do know better but they are on a time crunch (been there), or they are sick of hearing their kids whine (done that), or they just know that eating it occasionally probably isn’t going to do a ton of damage in the long run (that, too!). Or maybe they legitimately don’t believe there is anything wrong with it. Or maybe they can’t afford to buy all in season organic produce and free range chicken and grass-fed beef, etc., etc (I can’t).

I get it. I really do. If I’m being honest, if I couldn’t feel the “bad” foods I eat (I get nausea, headaches, and moodiness) I probably wouldn’t care half as much as I do. I could rationalize to myself that it doesn’t make a difference if H gets her period at 8 or 14. It doesn’t matter if B gets diagnosed with food-induced ADD (there are meds for that!). It doesn’t matter if I have a few extra rolls to love, my husbands will love me in any shape and size. It doesn’t matter if I die at 80 completely healthy or with cancer. Either way I’m dead.

But that’s the kicker for me. That fear of dying. The idea of leaving my children all alone terrifies me. The possibility of dying at 35 from cancer or complication to type 2 diabetes or heart disease freaks me the hell out. Sure, those things could happen no matter how healthy I am. No matter if I only eat certified USDA organic, non-processed foods or nothing but McDonalds. It could happen whether I sleep on a regular mattress or an organic one. Etc., etc.

The possibility, however, of dying at a young age from something directly linked to what I’ve put into my body, on my body, or in my house, scares me. So yes, I’m paranoid.

I graduated with approximately 170 students from high school (though this includes all 3 high schools I attended, the other 2 were smaller). Before I graduated high school one good friend of mine lost his father one morning to a heart attack. Another friend lost her mother to brain cancer three weeks after she was diagnosed. Another lost her mother to complications from type 2 diabetes. And three other kids lost their mothers to heart disease. All before we ever turned 18. Count them. That’s six parents. Five of them moms. Those odds don’t make we want to take my chances. Not that I’ve ever been a gambling woman anyway.

Honestly, though. I wish I didn’t feel the foods. I wish sometimes that I wasn’t even equipped with the knowledge I am. It’d be easier. It’d be a helluva lot cheaper. It’d save me a lot of time and energy.

But it is what it is, I suppose. I don’t figure I will ever not be afraid of dying young and leaving my babes until they’re well grown. Maybe then I won’t be as crazy. Or maybe by then everyone else will be as crazy as me. ;-) We’ll see.

So I don’t mean to rude or insensitive. I don’t mean to imply that every time you hand your child a cookie you’re trying to kill them or you’re a monster or you just don’t care. I know you do. I know you care. I know you care about your health. I know you care about the health of your babes. Just as much as I do. I really, truly know that.

And I’m not judging you. I’m judging myself. I’m judging my paranoia and my fears.

I have very few fears in life. But dying young is one of them. And it’s as legit as they come.

And because I’m afraid, very afraid, I am also very cautious in the only ways I know how. And because it is very natural to cast our fears and insecurities on to other people, I’m casting them onto you. So as to rationalize my fears a bit. So as to better understand them.

So I am deeply sorry if I come off as insensitive. That is not my motive or goal. I respect each and every person out there. And I love that we are all so different. And I know we all have our different crazies. Mine is dying young and I cope with that through health paranoia. Or legitimate health fears. It’s up to us each to decide.

Anyway, happy tidings and have a glass of wine and curse my name a few times. You’ll feel better and be all that much happier!

Not the Thanksgiving from yesteryear

When I was small, I spent my Thanksgivings with my mom. When I was old enough to have a say, I spent them with my dad. Not because I preferred one parent over another, but because holidays were always just more homey with my dad. They were the way they were supposed to be. At least according to all the movies I've ever seen.

My older sister M and I would sit at the bar helping to make appetizers, eating as much as we made nearly. We would chop and slice and mix and stir on command from my step mom who would be preparing our Thanksgiving feast. My dad and brothers would watch football and there would usually be some marathon for a show on that we all enjoyed so we would watch that too while we just all hung out and ate until it was time for our proper meal.

Then we would stuff ourselves into a turkey coma and finish it off with a pie death. My siblings and I would usually fall asleep in the living room watching movies and talking.

Those were good times. Looking back, they were almost magical times. Other than my little sister C, I don't really talk to any of my siblings anymore. Certainly don't hang out.

Needless to say, Thanksgiving is kind of hard for me to stomach anymore. Our last three Turkey Days have been spent with J's family. The first was a lot of Turkey hopping from his parents to his friends. It was different, but enjoyable enough as I really enjoy being around his friends. Then last year baby B was baptized on Thanksgiving and H had a UTI and I was dealing with PPD. In my head, it was a miserable fiasco, though likely not half as bad as I felt it was at the time.

And this year. Well, I'm sitting in our deserted house that has been on the market for a year while J works on getting it into renting conditions. The babes are playing in appliance boxes. Eventually we will go back to his parents house for a turkey meal. It will be chaotic. But they don't do a meal time, it's eat when you please.

All of J's friends are out of town.

The babes have no idea it's Thanksgiving.

I feel like Debbie Downer, even though I don't want to be. This past week has been rough on me.

But I have so much to be thankful for. First and foremost, my beautiful nuclear family. I could not imagine my life without J and H and B. And to think that I had spent most of my life never even able to imagine them.

So maybe I lost a certain kind of Thanksgiving. Something beautiful even. But what I've gained is better by tenfold. Because it is perfect. And it's mine.

Passionate about....

I always hated when you had to tell people your interests, or more specifically, your passions while in grade school. Mainly because I never really had any. Other than maybe writing, but that always seemed too dorky to admit. But it seems I was destined for dorkiness (my phone auto corrected dorkiness to surliness...it's probably a sign...).

Because now I would say I am pretty damn passionate about parenting. And most would say that's incredibly dorky. I mean, how can you be passionate about something that seemingly everyone does?

But I am.

And maybe that makes sense. Why there was never a career I could see myself doing for the rest of my life.

I know a lot of people can have a career and be a steller parent at the same time.

I'm just not one if those people. I'm a perfectionist. I have to do everything 200%. There is not enough me, time, or energy, to do both.

But I can at least do one thing and do it awesomely. And for me, that's being a parent. It's my "career" and though I didn't even know it was what I was truly passionate about until it fell into my lap, I am.

I love my job. I'm passionate about my job.

I fucking rock at my job.

And that's enough.

When mortality comes knocking at your door and makes you shape up

I've been kind of pissed off at the world lately. Mostly for things that are no one's fault but my own. I thought those kinds of crazy emotions were supposed to become non-existent after the high school years. Apparently not.

Anyway, I was picking up the kids playroom while J was playing with the kids in the living room. Suddenly he asked me, "Okay, what's going on?"

Trying to deflect, not sure how to answer, because although I wasn't in a stellar mood, I'd been normal because I'm too big to throw fits in front of my own children, I replied with, "Um, where?"

After a few seconds J said, "Whoa, something is going on." He peered further out the front window and then announced he was going outside. Of course, the babes and I followed.

When we walked to the end of our porch my 2.5 year old promptly said, "Holy shit!" She took the words right out of my mouth.

In front of our neighbor’s house, in the street, a red car was stopped dead in its tracks. A 30+ ft tree having fallen on top of it. The entire passenger’s side was smashed, pretty close to the ground. The driver’s side was badly damaged, but not quite as badly. But by "not quite as badly", I still mean, "holy shit!"

I stood holding my baby boy, my girl at my side, and I had to choke back tears. Because although I know better, although I never should let my mind go there, it did.

Immediately I thought of how easily that could have been me. Us. We drive right there every single day. Several times a day, oftentimes. It could have been us. My babies. And if it had been, if we’d been in our own car, on the same side of the street, in that exact same spot, I wouldn’t have a little girl anymore.

And that’s something I can hardly even think about; it nearly kills me.

I could deal with a lot of devastations or tragedies. If J lost his job. If, God forbid, he left me. All the inevitable deaths of those I love some day down the road.

But my children. Their mortality. It is something I cannot let enter my brain without hyperventilating. They are amazing. They are everything. But they are mortal.

And that terrifies me.

Fortunately for them, I haven’t wrapped them in bubble wrap and forced them to live in a padded cell, though I’ve been tempted. I’ve always let them do crazy brave things at insanely early ages, trusting that they know better than me what they are capable of.

Mostly, I know how to deal with those fears. If they fall off the slide, if they nearly cut their thumbs off, or maybe knock themselves unconscious from falling off of a table (not that those have happened before…). Those are things I am more or less prepared for. Afraid of, but prepared for.

I’ve never thought to be afraid of a 30 foot tree falling on my car while driving. Never in my entire life has that thought crossed my mind. And I bet it hadn’t crossed the couple’s whose car got smashed today either.

And it always seems to be the things that we don’t know to fear that kick us in the ass. Kind of like the reasons that have been giving me such a negative attitude lately.

But you know what? I have two amazing children. They are happy. They are healthy. And nothing else matters at the end of the day.

Nothing.

Everything else is so minute and unimportant it doesn’t deserve my negative energy. So instead, I’m going to focus on those awesome babies that I do have, and just be happy. Because life is too short. There are too many unknowns.

And when my own mortality comes knocking one day, I don’t want to have spent so much time with the “woulda, coulda, shouldas.” I just want to have spent a lot of happy, good times, with my amazing little family.

Time for an "update"

J is constantly trying to get me to “update” my life.

“Your computer is too old,” he says. “We can get you a new one. Faster, more updated.”

“My computer works,” I tell him. “After it’s fallen out of a window a few times, we’ll talk.” (Some of you get that!)

“How about a new phone?” he asks. “At least a smart phone. We can start small.”

“My phone works,” I tell him. “Why would I mess up a good thing? I see how much trouble you have with yours. Mine is no trouble at all.”

“How about a kindle and you can condense your library and read on the go?” he suggests.

“How about not and we’ll pretend you never suggested it,” I reply.

It’s not that I’m against technology (though I may have not given in to CD’s until high school or owned an iPod until college…way after they’d been the “norm”). I just really hate screwing up a good thing. I don’t believe in fixing something that isn’t broken.

But if it’s broken – I say, okay! Let’s update. Let’s fix it. Let’s see what’s newer and better out there. But I’m not going to do it if I have something good and functioning.

Take my eyes for instance. I just “updated” them. They sucked. They were blurry and couldn’t even read the freaking alarm clock without contacts or glasses.

So, I was all for it. A super quick procedure later, and I can see. Like perfectly. Without glasses. Or contacts. And it’s amazing.

So sure, when my computer has seen better days (or fallen out of a window) we’ll talk about it. Until then, I’m not in the market to fix something that isn’t broken. Even if there is “newer and better” out there.

Maybe I’m set in my ways.

Maybe.

People are miracles, too

I remember when Miss H was still a brand new person to this huge, mysterious world, wondering to myself if, or better yet, when - as it seemed inevitable - I would someday look at her and not immediately view her as the miracle she truly is. At what point in a person's life, do we start to forget that they are this wonderful miracle?

To some deree, it's happened. I can't tell you the first time I looked at my amazing firstborn child and didn't immediately think "Wow, she's a miracle." I do remember the first time I realized I wasn't always viewing her as so.

I was a bit crushed. How could I not look at this beautiful, perfect, blatant symbol of mine and J's love and see her as anything other than the miracle she is?

Because she's a person. Because she cries when I'm all ready about to go nuts. Because she does things like sharpie my windowsills and kicks me when she's mad and tired, and then of course, I'm not thinking that she's wonderful at those moments.

So when I've had a particularly long day, and know that I haven't appreciated Miss H the way I should, I make myself remember the amazing day she came into this world. Those precious seconds when she left my body and became an entire person that was separate from me. A perfect, screaming, feisty person. A miracle.

It's so easy to look at a fresh babe and realize what a miracle they are. It's not so easy sometimes to do so with a  toddler. Or an older child, or even an adult. But all people are miracles. We just have to stop and remember that, and see the beauty in the every day moments of their lives. Because it's such a sad thing when we stop viewing our children as the miracles that God gave us (or Mother Nature...or whatever you believe in).

People are miracles, too. Not just newborns.