You're gonna want this back

Trace Adkins released a song 3 years ago; you might have heard it if you're familiar at all with Country music. The song followed what you presume are the stages in his daughter's life, from teenager to young adult, and expresses the angst of always longing for the next step in life. The chorus says: "You're gonna miss this, you're gonna want this back. You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast. These are some good times, so take a good look around, you may not know it now, but you're gonna miss this." The first time I heard this song, I was naturally reminded of how I felt growing up. I think the story line is ubiquitous to us all, perhaps more especially for girls. Please forgive me if that's too broad of an assumption. Anyway, when he comes to one of the final verses, and sings "Five years later there's a plumber workin' on the water heater, Dog's barkin', phone's ringin', One kid's cryin', one kid's screamin'" I remember thinking "this is it, this is where he says 'I told you so. I told you you would miss it." Embarrassingly enough, I was mildly shocked when he went into "I know it's hard to believe, but you're going to miss this."
A lot of my patients at work ask about my children. I generally tell them I have two toddler boys, and it's a nice break to come to work (in an ICU.)
The boys and I had to stay home from church today, mostly because I can't put my contacts in and am too stubborn to get glasses, and chances are I would kill someone if I tried to drive as my blinded self. I felt really sick for a little while this morning, probably because I spent 16 hours at work yesterday after only 3 hours of sleep (I can't do that as well as I used to), so I laid back down for an hour while the boys watched a show. When I woke up there were cookies everywhere (with the frosting licked off), a loaf of bread I just baked was destroyed (not half-eaten, just destroyed), and Jonathan dumped an entire bottle of light corn syrup down the drain (I had plans to use it in a pecan pie for my beautiful little niece's party today.) Also, they laid ruin to a container of baby wipes. Thankfully, no harm came to the computer or the TV (color with Sharpies day was Friday).
Anyone who's known the joy of children knows that they are two steps forward and one step back. We all know you spend half of your time re-doing things you just did, whether it's re-folding the laundry they tossed out of their drawers, vacuuming the dining room because they just finished their snack, or putting their socks and shoes back on at the end of the car trip.
They do come, however, with the sweetest cuddles and kisses, the sweetest "I love you's" in the whole wide world. I suppose if it has to come as a package deal, it is incredibly worth it. And I suppose, some day, I will be recovering from surgery and tell my nurse that she's going to miss it more than she could possibly know.

Be a good mom... you've got to try a little harder.

I've always felt an enormous amount of pressure to be as good as everyone else. And in my mind, everyone else has always been ahead of me in everything. Somewhere around my sophomore year, I decided that I had basically failed at being popular or worthwhile during school, and if I wanted to be happy, I had better start learning what I needed to know to be a good wife and mother some day. I bought yeast and learned to make bread. I scoured tips from the Queen of Clean and cleaned my entire kitchen with Borax. I learned to sew buttons and do a simple ladder stitch. I made lemonade from fresh lemons and practiced piping frosting with the cute little tips. I studied a website on french braiding hair, because I figured that was important too. I remember someone showing this link to me, incredulously, and I thought it was perfect: http://www.j-walk.com/other/goodwife/index.htm.
Even with all of my dedication to preparing and planning and practicing, I've considered most of my performance to be sub par. I've never quite achieved the "put together" standard I've been striving for. I don't even have a cookie jar, let alone one that is always stocked. I have a hard time remembering to even refill our Brita pitcher, so having fresh slices of lemon and lime for it is out of the question. Dinner sneaks up on me 6 nights out of 7, and I consider laundry to be in a good place if my clean pile is bigger than my dirty pile.
The longer I live, the more I realize that my life is more ordinary than I give myself credit for. Expanding my social network, and watching a little TV, I've come to see that I'm not the only one who scrambles to throw clutter into laundry baskets and hide them before company comes over. I'm not the only one who uses breakfast food for lunch or puts the children to bed in mismatched pajamas. I'm not even the only one to send them out in public with mismatched socks. At first, I wasn't sure if this was more a relief ("at least I'm not so far behind") or more of a devastation ("I'll NEVER be a completely put together person, jut like everyone else isn't either"). But don't worry about me, I haven't given up. I still have every intention of buying a cookie jar.

Adventures in Marathon Training

A short while after Jonathan was born, James bought me a book to help me train for a marathon. It was a goal I'd always thought was fantastic, and horribly out of reach. The book gave me hope, and motivation. I decided to go out for a run that day. When my 1 month old little man was happily asleep, I put on my sneakers, probably made it 3/4 of a mile, and went home feeling excited to be running again. I retired my running shoes, just for for a couple of days, and put them back on early this July.
This time I was serious about running, and about committing to my first marathon. I've been running 4 days a week, and loving and hating every minute of it.
Yesterday, for my long run, I set my alarm for 4:30. That way I had plenty of time to get lost on the roundabout my route would take me through, and still make it to work for 7am. I didn't open my eyes until 6, and I spent most of the day wondering how on earth I would run 7 miles after working 12 hours in SICU.
When I got home, James and I decided to have the chicken Kiev we'd been craving for most of the week, along with fettuccine and an amazing cream cheese sauce. After dinner, and 2 full episodes of Cake Boss, I laced up my Asics and asked James to help me with my Ipod (last time I started it myself, I ended up listening to the same A.C. Newman song for 3 1/2 miles). I left at 11:20 wondering if I was taking crazy too far. It reminded me of the times my brother and I had gone out running late at night, when we were in high school and needed a break from the world. It was nice to be out, in the peaceful dark, even if I did throw up in several people's lawns. Sorry, neighbors.
When I got to the roundabout, I studied my directions and diagrams and ran in a complete circle before calling James. About the time he answered, a sheriff pulled over and turned on his lights. I was grateful I hadn't been speeding. He was actually quite helpful; I told him where I was trying to go and he pointed me in the right direction. I also noticed that he circled the roundabout a handful of times afterwords; I suppose he worried I would get lost again.
Finally, I got to the end of my run. And realized that a few wrong turns left a diner where my house ought to be. Before I got home, I ran close to 9 miles and hurt everywhere. Maybe it's time to retire my shoes again, just for a couple of days.

To each his own.

The little guys have created have some very definite ideas about how they like to spend their days. Some are funny, some irritating, some just make more work for us, and some are downright adorable. Jonathan, at 3 1/2, is starting to be less "toddler" and more "little boy." He likes to emulate his 2 favorite characters (Diego and Dora) by wearing a backpack around most of the time. By most of the time, I mean all of the time. He sleeps with it, even. Usually he keeps only the essentials inside-- a book on firetrucks and another one on animals, and several handfuls of cars.
He also likes to be the boss. When he thinks Ethan is misbehaving, we usually know because he gets out his sternest voice and exclaims, "baby, go sit a chair!" or, "baby- go bed!" He is very keen on the idea that everyone must obey the rules, including the grownups. "Mommy, get out of the refrigerator!" He even follows me into the bathroom sometimes, congratulates me on a job well done, then stands there and reminds me to flush the toilet and wash my hands. I don't know where I'd be without him.
Jonathan is fascinated with shapes, and wants to know what everything is. I've learned that giving him fruit snacks no longer buys me the few moments of silence that it used to. He studies every shape intently, then asks me what it is. He wants to make sure I get it right, and when I don't, he teaches me what it really is.
Jonathan is every bit as stubborn as mommy when it comes to his recollection of the facts. He is never wrong. He will not budge, for example, on the exact name of a napkin. He always asks for "my face," which is probably my fault ("here Jonathan, wash your face"). Speaking of which, the kid can't stand to be messy. When he is finger painting, he will dip one little finger in, and can't wait to wash it off when he's done. A little bit of milk spills and he loses composure. "What a mess! You spilled it!" He then runs to get "my face" and cleans up the floor. Gutting his pumpkin last night almost reduced him to tears. He reminds me of Danny Tanner, to the extent that I wouldn't be surprised if I saw him trying to vacuum the vacuum cleaner.
Ethan, while nothing like his older brother, is just as talented at making me laugh. His newest activities include pulling off his left sock and shoe as soon as we get in the car (the right one is left untouched), watching you watch him throw something on the floor, then adamantly proclaiming that it fell, dragging a gallon of milk to you as a way of asking for some, and occasionally using the potty chair (which he insists on emptying himself-- I wish he wouldn't). Ethan also has a talent for pretend-sleeping. He turns his head to the side, squeezes his little eyes shut, and snores obnoxiously. When he's certain he has your attention, he throws his hands in the air, opens his eyes so they are as wide as his smile, and shouts, "hooray! It's me!"
Sometimes I worry I'm going to forget all the silly things they do. Like when Ethan randomly bursts into song (I'm the MAP!!" or Twinkle Twinkle, little Tar) or does a silly rendition of Little Bunny Foo Foo. Or when I get all dressed up and Jonathan gives me his best compliment ("You handsome, mommy, you so handsome!") Or the way Ethan plays "teek-a-boo" and Jonathan calls everyone he meets "friends." Or the way they both call each other baby. I find some consolation in the firm belief that part of being a good mom is forgetting things. Because honestly, if we remembered everything they broke and every time they embarrassed us, we might somtimes forget to love them to pieces. And really, that's the only part that matters.

Adventures in escaping the heat.

A few weeks ago, when the temperature started climbing into the 90's inside, James and I spent a day taking the kids out and avoiding our apartment. We were in the middle of an adventure at Verizon when Ethan started repeating the phrase "yucky, yucky poopy." He says that whenever he needs a diaper change, regardless of the nature of said diaper. It had been so hot that we had been pushing fluids into them, and Ethan's diaper was a little worse for the wear. I got to the car and discovered there were no diapers in sight. Ethan and I trooped over to the neighboring gas station, where they stocked size 3 diapers and nothing else. That might have covered one of Ethan's butt cheeks. Maybe. We wandered over to Kmart, which was just a little further, and decided to call James. Except that his phone was being serviced. So here we are, hurrying through the store, over in the pharmacy section. We find all sorts of baby wipes, but no diapers. I did glance briefly at the small adult diapers, but only because I felt *so* bad for my little squishy butt. I can't even imagine how awful it would be to be swimming in your own pants.

We finally asked an employee, who directed us to the infant clothes section. Who'da thunk it.

I selected my little package of Luvs, and decided to tuck away into the back corner to change him there. When I crouched down and pulled off Ethan's little pants, I discovered his diaper had already fallen off. Seeing as we had walked through half of the store, and James was certainly worried about where we were, we had to forgo an extensive search. We did give it a half-hearted look-around, and vowed never to show our faces there again. I still feel bad for the poor person who ended up discovering the aftermath of 3 hours worth of forced beverages.

"Frump Girl."

I frequently find myself thinking of that scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, when Toula mentions her "frump girl" phase to Ian. She is referring to most of her entire life. I feel her pain. Like, the other day when we decided to take the boys to Kohl's. I was wearing some ugly T shirt, and a pair of khakis I've had for years, and feeling like a mighty frump girl myself. James suggested I buy some new clothes while we are at Kohl's. Usually, the boys interfere quite devastatingly with clothes shopping, but this time James kept them occupied in the toy aisle. We left the store a little while later in search of dinner. We decided on Uno, and I told James I was debating on changing into a new outfit in the bathroom. He suggested just changing quickly in the car. I tried to play a little game I like to call "Mirror mirror on the wall, which choice is most ghetto of all?" I pictured myself walking in and changing in the bathroom. Awkward, ghetto. Same thing for the car. Same thing for wearing said t shirt and khaki's. Once we pulled into the parking lot, I realized it was extremely dead. I changed my mind and decided that changing in the car was a fairly safe alternative. In the past, when I have done such costume changes, I've always screwed myself over trying to do it slowly, delicately, discretely. This time I decided to just do it quickly. As soon as I whipped my shirt off, a girl appeared out of nowhere. She of course owned the car next to mine. She stared right at me as I helplessly threw my t shirt back over the front of me. She wasn't leaving the restaurant; she just spent 3 minutes looking for something in her car before going back inside. I suspect she wanted to find her digital camera to take a picture for failblog. Anyway, she finally left (picture 3 minutes of sitting awkwardly in your car with your shirt hastily thrown over the front of you). Once I was decently covered, my first order of business was to send James a text. "WORST IDEA EVER."

Just desserts.

After dinner tonight, James started loading a game of Peggle. I informed him that I would not be interested in Peggling until we had some kind of dessert. He was amenable at first, until he saw me looking up the hours for Biscotti's. "You aren't going all the way to Biscotti's, are you?!" He informed me that what I think is a ten minute drive is really 20 minutes one way, plus 20 minutes of me gawking at desserts, and if i leave now I will be wanting to go to bed by the time I get home. I sighed and split the last slice of Carvel ice cream cake (I get the top half, he gets the bottom half), and we commenced in our Peggling adventures.

Hours later, someone commented on my buddy's wall that they have been filming Hell's Kitchen at Dinosaur BBQ today. Of course there was nothing along these lines on any Google search (I should have checked Twitter), and he persuaded me to go check it out. I was 400 feet away when James called to say that it is actually Man V. Food that has been filming all day. Not that either of us really thought Gordon Ramsay would really be in Syracuse, but it would have been cool.

"Should I still go in?"

James says I totally should, and please bring home some macaroni and cheese.

In my haste, I had taken James' cell phone instead of mine, and left my ipod charging at the computer desk. I wasn't really sure what to do with myself for 20 minutes while they prepared our food, so I made up an excuse to call James. "Hey, are you interested in a Boylan's soda?" Yeah, that was a dumb question.

He asks me a question of equal value, however. "Hey, did you get me some kind of meat too?"

"What are we, newlyweds? Would I seriously come home from Dinosaur with just a styrofoam cup of macaroni and cheeses?"

I also treated myself to a Dinosaur brownie. Total win. Even if I didn't get to share it with the most amazing British Chef ever.

Date Night!

A couple of weeks ago, my aunt and uncle offered to watch the boys one night while James and I went out for the evening. We thought they were just being polite, and figured it would never come to fruition. Then my aunt actually pulled out her planner and started talking about a day. I was floored. I pulled out my planner, we chatted and when Thursday night came, so did they. It was an almost surreal experience, made more real by Ethan's screaming, which we heard almost the entire to drive to Scotch & Sirloin.

We were shocked when we arrived home, and Aunt Sue already had her planner in hand. "What day works for next week?"

So, tonight was date night number 2. We finally settled on a restaurant (Bonefish Grill), and ordered salads. James opted for the anchovies on his caesar salad. I tried not to make a face. "Honey, you need to try one. They are delicious."

"No thanks."

"Have you ever tried one before?"

"Not yet. I decided my first anchovy experience will be when I make homemade caesar dressing."

"Here you go."

A moment later James informed me that he saw me move the anchovy under my plate. He placed it back on my salad. I grudgingly moved the anchovy to my fork, and a moment later was holding my most sour face. "Nice try, Danielle." He shifted my plate a little to the left. "Oh look, an anchovy." James put the anchovy on his bread plate as the waitress cleared it.

"You didn't have to do that, James, I was going to eat it."

"No, you weren't."

"I would have."

I should have known better. After 4 years of marriage, I KNOW he will always call my bluff. He offered a replacement, I was cornered. It turns out they are not so bad as I expected.

After dinner, and as we were leaving Kohl's, James spotted their version of the reusable bag. It is a perfect design, and even snaps up into a little square. It accompanied me this evening to Wegmans. I felt pretty cool, eco friendly bag carrying my organic berries, until I couldn't fit into my car--- my shopping basket was still slung over my arm. Trendy FAIL.

Adventures of Preggers Past

Two falls ago, James and I had a pretty perfect Tuesday/ Thursday routine. He got done with class at 2:15, I would meet him at LeMoyne with Jonathan, and the 3 1/2 of us would have lunch together before I left to go for my 3 o'clock shift. One such beautiful day, I took the Monkey outside, loaded him in the car, and turned the key in the ignition. Now, let's dial it back about 16 hours.

Jessica and I went to go on an evening of adventures (I think we exchanged something at the body shop and possibly bought socks-- something that is only fun because you are with an awesome friend), and I remember on my way home, I drove right past the gas station thinking, "I just don't wanna."

So, now as I am turning my key in the ignition, nothing happens. I quickly went through options in my head. (1) Hyundai roadside assistance (2) ask Jessica to drop what she is doing and help me out, or (3) toss Monkey in the umbrella stroller and book it for the nearest gas station. I decided, for some reason, that #3 was the easiest. I tried to guess which of the two nearby gas stations was the closest, and away we went. I can't imagine what I must have looked like, on the way there-- a pregger in scrubs racing with a scared kid in an umbrella stroller, or on the way back, with an added gas can. Anyway, after I reached home, having had some pretty intense activity-related contractions and feeling like a real winner, I decided I would never again cruise by a gas station on E.

Personal Growth.

When James came home from his mission, he talked a lot about setting and reaching goals. He taught me that if you aren't trying to accomplish a task or stretch yourself in some way, you just will not be fully satisfied with your life. After some time, I decided to take violin lessons again. I pick my violin up every year around Christmas, so James and I can play O Holy Night, and possibly a few other random times throughout the year. It's not exactly like riding a bike. Anyway, I finally decided it would be worth the effort and money to go back to being a student. A woman at our church teaches lessons, and I somehow got over the mortification of having "tapes" put back on my violin. Congratulations, Danielle, you are officially back in 4th grade. Over the next several weeks, she began re-molding my bow grip, adjusting my finger positioning, and teaching me 14 syncopations for Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I somehow found time to practice, and we got just to the point of learning more advanced things. I'm not sure what advanced things they would have been, but I'm thinking it might have possibly even been "Mary had a Little Lamb." About this time, she went on a month long vacation for Christmas. I was supposed to be practicing bowing my thigh to some special rhythm (I'm not sure why she wanted me to practice without the violin, except possibly to give my family a break of some sort), but never found the motivation the whole month long. I had just enough time for one hobby, and I decided I would rather bake than pretend my leg was a violin. As long as I make goals for myself (this week, a chocolate chocolate chip muffin that rivals Wegmans), I don't feel like a total slacker for giving up violin lessons. Again.

Adventures in Buying a Couch

When James and I were first married, we had a floral print couch that had been passed down from oldlyweds to newlyweds for several generations. We didn't want to spring for a slip cover, mostly because it seemed wrong when the couch was worth so much less than the cover. We did, however, have a huge white blanket that served almost as well for the year we lived in that apartment. When we moved, we decided there was no way the couch would accompany us. Some things just are not better than having nothing.

Luckily, James' great aunt and uncle had a couch they wanted to give us. It was a big improvement to the 70's style one we didn't miss at all. This "new" couch came to us well loved, and since then has become even more loved. There is a bar where the sectional/recliner part detaches, and if you lay across the couch the bar settles nicely into your shoulder blades. The other end of the couch is all but flat from missing fluff (Jonathan has spent the better part of his life ruining this section) and is hopelessly misshapen. Anyway, as I said before, some things just are not better than having nothing. This couch is almost to the point of being a perfect example. Every Monday night day James and I exchange knowing looks and try to talk each other out of bringing it out to the curb.

One morning we decided to go to the Scratch and Dent furniture store in Liverpool. We don't want to spend a lot on a couch right now, mostly because we don't want to take it with us when we eventually move, so it seemed like the perfect solution. We decided to leave first thing in the morning to capitalize on the small window of time when the boys are not hungry or tired. We arrived at the store 2 minutes after it opened. Great. Now we not only look desperate and poor, we also will be the ONLY people in the store, and look like we plan our lives around the exciting trip to a FURNITURE STORE! Like we sat all morning looking at the clock. "Is it open, is it open? Time to go yet? Please, please?" We sighed and piled our little guys into the double stroller. The boys looked pretty cute, minus the frizzy head of Ethan Spencer No-Haircut Gage (that will be a separate post) and Jonathan's sour expression at being confined to a stroller. Said stroller only lasted a couple of minutes, and we had to ask the man at the service desk if we could leave it there for a little while. I wish I could have captured his expression.

We wandered into the back room and went up and down aisles of couches, losing little boys and little boy shoes. In the course of our adventure, James and I discovered that we have entirely different tastes in living room furniture. I do remember that James stopped at one of the nicer couches, and turned to look at me. "What about this one?" "Really, James?! I love it!" His face soured. "How could you love it? It's hideous!"

It was about this time that Ethan decided to dive head first off the couch, just as the salesperson walked through the door to see how we were doing. He left just as a little stream began running down Jonathan's leg and onto the floor (Wegman's be thanked for the wet wipes I had in my purse). The boys were all but crying, mom and dad were trying not to scream, and when we finally piled into our warm car, the power windows stopped working. What a day for a daydream.

Which is why I probably should have entitled this post "Adventures in NOT buying a couch."

Bebbies.

During a quiet moment at work today, I commented to one of my co-workers that every time I see a stranger leaving St. Joe's with a newborn baby, my first thought is "ooh, how adorable!," and my second thought is "I'm glad it isn't mine." Not that I don't love babies. They are wonderful. Also, not that I don't plan on having another some day. It's just that they are so consuming. Time consuming, emotion consuming, sleep consuming, life consuming. The other nurse I was with commented that she always hopes the new mom or dad doesn't plan on sleeping for the next two years. I thought of how I still can't get through most nights without my big guy waking me up, and he is almost three.
It's a completely different experience waking up with him now, though. Referring to the experience in my previous blog post, Jonathan woke up one night and came out for a drink. I heard his little feet patter over to the heater vent (he loves to cuddle up there when it is on), but instead he climbed up on a chair and looked out the window. He noticed James' bumper on the lawn, and was very distraught. With furrowed eyebrows, he pushed his face to the glass. "Oh nos, car! Uh-oh Spaghettios, car! Mama, it's BROKEN!" He repeated this story several times. No words could calm him. My main goal became to control his volume, which continually escalated, and allow the rest of the neighborhood the joy of staying asleep. When I finally convinced him it would be OK to lay down, it took 2 rounds of the Hungry Hungry Caterpillar and one Baby Einstein Animal book adventure to calm him back to sleep.
Ethan also enjoys night-time adventures. He woke up early one morning (I know it was too early to let him up, but I was going to be at work all day and couldn't resist capitalizing on his awake time) and greeted me with "Hi! Hiii! Hiii!!!" He giggled and kissed my smiling face when I picked him up for a cuddle hug. I took him out to the kitchen with me, and held him while I unloaded the dishwasher. Being the helper that he is, Ethan grabbed out his whale plate and Jonathan's Cars fork, and used them to "feed me" while I put away the bowls and cups. He giggled with every pretend bite. Finally it was time to lay him back down, and all I could think of is how my cherished sleep took the backseat when I had my boys. I never thought I would be so OK with watching it go, but now that I have, I wouldn't change a thing.

Survival.

In my quest to prepare a week's worth of meal ideas, I came across a recipe for triple-dipped fried chicken. As always, I read through several reviews before deciding if it was save-worthy. One cook in particular had prepared this meal in anticipation of an approaching hurricane. They spoke of how good it was, even after sitting on the counter for several hours. They said the recipe would become one of their hurricane survival items, along with bottled water and flashlights. I saw that several others (and of course I followed their lead) had marked this review as "helpful." I doubt that many of us were truly looking for a chicken recipe that could be enjoyed at room temperature and by flashlight-light. I wonder if the other reviewers were just trying to give this person a high five for being so nonchalant and adaptable when discussing matters of hurricanes.

I thought back to last Friday, when 3 feet of snow in Syracuse side roads (not to mention driveways) sent many of us into a frenzy. I thought of the devastation I had felt when I got stuck half a block from home, and the entire neighborhood watched my front bumper get yanked off (no, I didn't hit a hydrant, or a person, or anything. I didn't run over a small tree, it was the SNOW) in my ultimately successful, but very frustrating 20 minute fight with the white stuff. As I put my bumper in the trunk (what else do you do with it?) I thought of how winter drifts to a distant memory during the summertime, when all we see is the gorgeous splendor of the NY scenery. The lakes, trees, and pristine state parks.

I grumbled to myself that this would not be the last day of winter this year, or even my last year of NY winter. However, for all of my struggles and frustrations related to our current locale, not once have I been forced to plan for hurricanes. Pre-planned meals, for me, have always been more out of convenience than necessity. I guess ideas of perfection had better be left to recipes, like triple dipped fried heart attack, and less sought after in living accommodations. After all, every place has its version of winter. And in the worst of it, there is always that feeling that you aren't alone. After all, I am sure I wasn't the only one doggy-digging the snow from behind my wheels. I'm also fairly certain I'm not the only person who has had a front bumper sticking out of their trunk. After all, the man in the little Ford, at the intersection of James and Teall, chiding that he "couldn't tell if [I] was coming or going" sounded as though he had used that joke before.

Mawwiage. And Wuv.

In the days just before my brother got married, we texted each other a series of lines from The Princess Bride. The minister performing the ceremony talks of, "wuv, twue wuv" and "mawwiage." "Mawwiage," he says, "is what bwings us togethew today." I think the words have more depth than just the congregation that joins for the wedding. Marriage is truly a uniting force, because its foundation is love. It isn't necessary to watch the Princess Bride in order to understand true love (although I would argue that it helps), or to understand that love is quite possibly the greatest force in our lives. Love guides us, molds us, motivates us, and in a way, love creates us. I remember reading a story* when I was a teenager, about a successful businesswoman who told her mother that she and her husband were deciding whether to have a baby. "It will change your life" her mother said, thoughtfully. The daughter began to name off the things that she already knew would change, like no more sleeping in on the weekends or last minute vacations. But her mother was thinking about all of the other changes, the ones you can never anticipate. Like "wishing for more years- not to accomplish [your] own dreams, but to watch [your] child accomplish theirs." When I was younger, I think I understood this force in some way or another. But my understanding has deepened as I have started a family with the wonderful man I married. Love makes you realize that life isn't just about you. Life is about supporting the people you love. Making decisions that might strain you, but that will give the most benefit to the ones you love. Like letting a child "help" you, when it really makes more work for you. Like putting aside all the things you really want to get done in order to color, or cuddle, or make a special treat. Like pulling the toy cars back out, after putting them away for the fourth time, beacuse he really wants to drive them around the rug. Like staying home full-time to raise your children, when working outside the home would be a lot less stress. Like hugging your son when he acts like a brat, because you love him and he is your brat. Like staying up to help your spouse study for a test, or write a paper. Like managing the household chores alone, so it looks nice when they come home. Like forgiving and forgetting and praying and begging Heavenly Father to make up the difference. One thing I have learned, is that there will always be a difference. No matter how good our intentions, no matter how much we want to be the perfect parent, and perfect companion, live the perfect life and have it all figured out, it isn't possible to succeed without help from above. Thankfully, it's always there when we ask.

*http://www.fullcircleparenting.com/dotnetnuke/YouWillNeverRegretIt/tabid/100/Default.aspx

"A snake!" The tale of a brave young boy.

Jonathan came running into the living room this afternoon, shouting that he had seen a snake. His eyes were wide, and he was clearly distraught. I carried him out to the dining room and he pointed to the wall. There was a teeny weeny, 2 or 3 centimeter caterpillar clinging to the wall. The now fearless Jonathan climbed up on the chair to get a closer look, as I picked the little fellow up and put him in my hand. "See, Jonathan?" I held my hand out to show him the cute caterpillar, and he promptly fell out of the chair.

Boys need their mamas.

I was finishing up some laundry (I know, right? How often does that happen?!) and heard Jonathan from the other room, calling for me. I came in and sat on the couch next to him, prompting him to sit on my lap. We watched his truck movie together for a little while, when I suddenly remembered something I needed to do. I heard him calling for me again a few minutes later, this time as he sprawled out on the couch with his head on the pillow. I thought he might be looking for sleepy time cuddles. As I came closer, his cries had turned from "mommy" to "tranket!" Yes, he indeed wanted cuddles, but not from me. What he needed was me to bring in his favorite blanket. At least he still needs me for something.

Resolutions.

I started off my new year making, what I thought, was a very good set of resolutions. Exercise every other day, or at least 3 days a week (that way if I stink all week I can make it up at the very end), do some laundry every other day, or at least 3 days a week (same idea), etc. I think I only had 4 total. Then life came back into the picture, and so far I have failed dismally in all regards. Somewhere in the middle of the month, I decided I would subscribe to "monthly resolutions" instead. For January, my goal was to stop "sucking at life" (sorry if the language is offensive to anyone, I just don't know how else to put it. Stinking does not do the condition justice). For any who may be unfamiliar with this condition, it is multifaceted. Sucking at life may include, but is not limited to: neglecting to plan for dinner before 5:30, forgetting to take the garbage out until you hear the garbage truck, getting at least 3 billing statements from the doctor's office before making your payment (especially if it is less than $10), leaving clothes in your washing machine until they have to be re-washed, repeatedly letting your cell phone battery die, etc. etc.
I couldn't believe how well I was doing with all of this. I even paid my Time Warner Cable bill, even though they are *impossible* to pay online without having all sorts of information, like the middle name of the first son of your neighbor's great grandmother. Danielle was getting the hang of life. Until this morning, when I had to chase the recyclables truck halfway up the road while my eldest was making a spinach and sun-dried tomato salad on the kitchen floor. Oh well, there's always February.

Bittersweet

A few weeks ago I watched from some silly chore as James played on the dining room floor with the boys. It's something he actually does quite often. I remember him looking over at me, calling my name, and suggesting that I put down the dishes in order to come sit with them. I wish I had his knack for knowing when to set aside my adult stresses, sit down with the boys, and just be a playmate. One day I came home from work, and the entire basket of laundry I had folded that morning was back to rumpled glory. He told me that by the time he saw the boys, they had already destroyed every bit of neatness that basket once held, and he had dismissed his first reaction in order to sit down with them and start a clothes fight. He told me they sat in the dining room for over an hour, laughing hysterically as they hurled socks and shirts to each other. They had a blast. This morning I went into the dining room after looking up a recipe for chocolate waffles, and found that the boys had taken their entire drawer of sippy cups and thrown them in a scattered mess on the floor. I got on my meanest mommy face and demanded that they put the cups all back in the drawer. Ethan toddled over and threw a cup in, Jonathan followed suit. I praised them for a tiny second, and went back to being drill sergeant. James, hearing the commotion, fueled by 4 hours of sleep, and faced with an 8-hour church day, came into the dining room and made the whole thing into a game. Before I knew it, the boys were laughing their heads off, dumping whole armfuls back in the drawer. I was amazed at what he can accomplish (and persuade them to accomplish) without so much as making a sour face. My husband is the one who excels at quickly cleaning a room, or a house or a child. He is the one that can figure out a quick lunch when there is nothing in the fridge or the cupboards. He is the one who knows when it's time for a treat, and when it's time to scold. He knows when it's naptime, and when it's time for a story. I remember one day when I was getting Ethan lunch, and James warned me about putting more than a mouthful in front of him at a time. If you put more than that, he throws the excess on the floor. He thought I was being sarcastic when I said, "I'm glad you're home, you know the best way to feed them." I wasn't.
One of my favorite jokes as a young mother (which can be easily found with a Google search of "I didn't do it!") casts a very humorous light on the truly taxing work a SAHM does every day. I always thought it was the mothers who were blessed with the gift of keeping a house in order, and the little ones tended to. I thought it was the mothers who always knew best. Turns out things are just a bit different in my house... but then again, when you are raising a Monkey and a Pickle, I guess it's to be expected that things won't always go according to plan.

Sunday Snacks

I nearly laughed myself to tears one day in the LDS bookstore. I had picked up some book written by another mother, who, like myself, felt some disconnect between actual motherhood and preconceived ideals. In comparison, she had 7x more children than I do (well, approximately; it might have been 8x), but I still felt a sense of camaraderie. She wrote of a Sunday morning where she scoured the cupboards for a snack. In desperation she grabbed a loaf of bread.
My mind revisited a time where my only church snack was banana chips. The boys hate banana chips. I knew that when I threw them in there, and so I spent the car trip developing some elaborate facial gesture to show my shock that the boys no longer loved their favorite banana chips. Another day I left the diaper bag home. We've had some fun ones for sure. Occasionally Jonathan will mooch snacks off surrounding mothers (he looks half-starved, so I think people feel they are doing a public service by feeding him), and Ethan mooches off his brother.
I've learned to spend time preparing snacks on Saturday. Last week, for example, Jonathan found some sort of treat in the ethnic aisle at Wegmans (some Japanese package with strawberry covered pretzel sticks-- Yan Yan?). I felt like such an attentive, prepared mother as I tucked it in the diaper bag with homemade rolls and the little organic veggie sticks Jonathan calls "snakes."
We were sitting in the pew when I saw all of my good intentions begin to unravel. Jonathan tired of eating the veggie snakes, and lunged from his seat in a mad dash for the hallway. I lured him back with the strawberry cracker things. I silently groaned as I opened the package, realizing that Yan Yan's have a strawberry dip, almost reminiscent of Handi-snacks. Before long, I was brushing up roll crumbs from the floor while Jonathan painted his shirt, hair, and seat with strawberry sugar.
I think I will be bringing banana chips next Sunday.

Sharpie!

Jonathan is definitely going through a phase where he enjoys sporting black ink (or any color, really), and matching surrounding decor to his semi-permanent skin designs. Several months ago, I ran out of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers (I know, something a good parent should never do) and spent 15 minutes Googling before I discovered a testimonial involving some hairspray trick someone else blogged about. I figured I had nothing to lose, except perhaps some momentos of my son's childhood, and I practiced being an invisible "graffiti artist" in my own hallway. When I was finished, I had a very sticky wall with dark gray squiggles, and a very confused husband. "But James," I explained, "they said it worked even better than a Magic Eraser." He looked from me to the wall and sadly shook his head.

Several weeks later, Jonathan wandered into the living room, where I had briefly drifted to nap-ville. I woke up to Jonathan attempting to recreate a black and white TV picture. I told him how naughty he was and sent him to time out, moments before discovering that every appliance or piece of furniture in the living room and dining room had also caught the Black plague.

Practically the only thing Jonathan hasn't artistically re-touched is his brother. Probably because he knows Ethan will scream.

Lullaby

Generally speaking, our little guys have made it a habit of sleeping through the night. We couldn't be happier. There is, of course, the occasion that Jonathan comes into our room in the wee morning hours, but we aren't convinced he wakes up. The only time we are sure he is awake is when mom accidentally rolls over and he makes an abrupt trip to the floor. He settles back down easily enough, and as long as he has "A cup, a cup! Dwink!!" he goes back to his own bed just fine.

Ethan has learned to love sleep as much as he loves food. OK, not quite that much, but nothing really compares there anyway. There are some nights, like last night, that he wakes up every couple of hours. I know there really is no substitute for a mother on these occasions. Someone to rock, cuddle, and sing; bundle them up and let them feel the comfort and security of their mother's arms. Even so, James and I generally take turns going in with a bottle, where it takes about 7 seconds to lay him down, cover him up, and tell him to go to sleep. Such was the case last night. Around 3 in the morning, I had the brilliant idea to change the little guy's diaper. We certainly got our money's worth from that one. Ethan, at this point, had kifed his bottle of sleep juice (relax, people, it's just milk. Promise) and was well on his way to meeting sugar plum fairies. As I zipped up his pajamas, I noticed some moisture on them. I was torn. I knew if I changed his pajamas, I would have an awake little Ethan for the next hour. Instead I sprinkled half a bottle of baby powder inside his blue footed star pajamas. Pat, pat. See you at 5.

A Cookie

Lately, the young Jonathan has a thing for "cookies." A cookie, in Jonathan's definition, is anything that tastes good, or he thinks will taste good, at a given time. Usually when he asks me for a cookie, I have to follow his little pointed finger to figure out his secret wish. Yesterday, it was a frozen waffle. The kid could care less for a fresh waffle, could care less for a toasted waffle; he likes them frozen from the L'eggo factory. Sometimes a cookie is a lolly pop, sometimes it's not even food. For example, my little scented, wax "tarts" for my tart burner. He smelled like Christmas for an entire evening after chowing one of those down last month.

Last night I found a recipe for chocolate chocolate chip cookies. Jonamonk begged for one from the time I first started mixing the ingredients. When they were finally ready, I gave him his Spiderman plate and a cookie. He promptly thanked me and brought it out to the living room for dinner and a movie (Cars, of course). Before he had even finished his first, he came back out to load up his little plate. Meanwhile, Ethan baby was enjoying finger and face painting with melted chocolate chips.

This made for the best bed time ever. Nothing washes down a cookie better than milk, so to bed they both went with little milk sippies. Score for babies, score for mom.