Santa Says

I had a new playing card to deal out to my two year old, Chops, this past month. It is the timely, spirited Santa card, replete with bribery and idle threats. A typical scenario would play out something like this...

"Chops, stop messing with the cat."

"NO! That's MY cat."

"Kitty cat scratches. Stop pulling on his tail."

Devious smile accompanies the gentle tugging of the cat's tail flicking with agitation.

"Chops, Santa is watching you right now and he doesn't like it when you don't listen to Mama. What is he going to do with all those toys the elves are making for you? He won't bring them to boys who don't listen to their mommies."

Head tilts in interest and he quickly withdraws the offending hand and moves on to scribbling wall with crayon.

Repeat previous conversation, inserting, "Drop the crayon!" for every "Leave kitty alone" remark.

I'm not proud I have to resort to bribery when it comes to my two year old. And, even blatant bribery using a figure of a religious holiday, began to lose its effects come mid-December. Threats of no toys or trains from the elusive Santa soon failed to register even a glancing acknowledgement from Chops.

Well, to shorten my long long trial that was December, I have resolved not to use that trick next year. Chops is on to me. After all the idle threats, hands on my hips, smoke billowing out of my ears... Chops still managed to get that train table and set from Santa. Instead of coal and dog food in his stocking, he found treats and hot wheels and a whole clutter of toys from the dutiful elves.

Maybe I should learn a thing or two from Santa. Tis the season for forgiveness. Santa is a symbol. He came through with the toys, but I have the power to take them away. Heh heh heh!

A Bunch of Bulls

Chops and I have been at it all week. I really didn't believe it was possible to be so at odds with my own flesh and blood son. Sure, he is smack in the middle of those terrible twos. It seems everything lately is preceded by a whine or a NO. I consider myself a fairly level, well educated woman who can certainly handle whatever a careening toddler chooses to deal me. But, I never banked on how deep he can sink those claws under my skin. I have been thinking about it all week, in between mostly one sided arguments with Chops, who miraculously loses his hearing if I ask him to do something as simple as sit in his carseat so I can strap him in before we get moving.

I finally have it figured out. The astros are closing in on us. Meaning, I think this might be an astrological symptom. He is a Taurus. I am a Taurus. Two of our strongest traits are stubbornness and bull headed tempers.

Ah Ha!

That combined with his particularly hideous age and stage, combined with my lack of sleep and mounting stress over the upcoming holidays...and we now have the whole reason why our quiet suburban house is in serious danger of erupting into toxic spouts of lava tears and shouts.

I'm really not being dramatic or overreacting. This week alone, Chops and I have probably averaged three epic battles every twenty minutes. That makes for a very long day when he refuses to nap, which is like every day.

Yes, I can take some measure of comfort in the fact that he will someday outgrow these devious days of toddlerhood. But Chops and I will never outgrow being stubborn bulls, always butting heads in our epic battle of wills. Who will win out? I'm really not sure at this point. All I know is that this bull needs a serious vacation.

OK, Just One More...

Here it was less than a week ago that I vowed to stay away from the time draining blog. And here I am now sitting in my dark office, all of my boys asleep in the house, and having all sorts of thoughts in my head. Why keep it to myself?

Chops is having issues with bedtime and naptime. The nap isn't there to be my afternoon crutch anymore. If he does happen to drift off, it is usually on the couch, after one too many Teletubbies, Boo Bahs, or other demented PBS shows. So even if he is napping, he is central in the household and any noise is bound to wake him up. Which brings me to my next problem.

The days Chops does succumb to the nap are the days when bedtime becomes a battle. He simply will not go down. Lately, I've been so exhausted by 8:00, that it doesn't even occur to me to let him stay up later to run out of steam. I can barely keep my eyes open to make sure he isn't torturing the cat or wiping diaper cream on the carpet (yep, that really happened). So we do the normal routine and march him to bed with a sippy cup of milk (don't alert the parenting police about the sippy cup in bed). Then I read him a few stories, always the same ones. It is to the point where I don't even need to look at the words anymore. In fact, one desperate night when we couldn't find one of his favorite books, I actually recited the whole thing to him...But I digress...

Usually, he would go right down without a fight. I knew this big boy bed thing was going a little too smoothly. I can handle giving up the nap, to some extent. But mess with the golden hour of bedtime? From 5:00pm on, I cast furtive glances at the clock in countdown for that moment of peace in the household when I can finally get my house back into order before the wrecking crew is up to their old tricks again the next morning. Or more likely, that moment when I can flop on the couch without a biting pre-toddler hanging all over me or Chops shouting MILK! PLEASE! The moment my butt hits the sofa.

Due to our recent exhaustion, Robbie and I have taken to lying in bed with Chops to help him calm down and fall asleep. Robbie started it. There, I said it. Although, I've taken up right where he left off. That is why I'm sitting here typing after 10:00. I've been lying with Chops for the past hour or so with a squirmy worm of a toddler and my own thoughts. And I really didn't feel so bad about lying there with him.

I read a lot of parenting magazines. It's part research for my own writing and part fascination with all the conflicting advice from the gazillion so called experts out there. There are the hippies sprawled out on the family bed against the tight asses who virtually crate train their babies in their cribs. I have always bounced between the two extremes and have managed really well. So I got to thinking about all those experts and how most would say I shouldn't give in and lay down with my son. I should march him back to his room over and over and over again. Don't give in! Don't lay down!

I know I'm being dramatic but blame it on the exhaustion. As I was laying there listening to Chops ramble on: "Cuddle Mama. Cuddle Sponge Bob pillow. Yogurt dinner." and on and on he rambled, I might add, I thought this. If I died tomorrow, would I want my last day with Chops posted on the outside of his door ordering him back into bed over and over frustrating the hell out of both of us? Or would I want that last night to be under his race car quilt, cuddled up next to him, rubbing his stubbly hair and soft skin, listening to his toddler speak until it finally slowed to a rhythmic snore?

Don't get me wrong though. This laying in bed with Chops for an hour or two every night simply isn't going to fly much longer. But the moments cuddled warm and safe in his pile of blankets are a sacrifice I'm willing to make every now and then. I don't think I'll let him nap tomorrow...

Blogging Break

I just wanted to thank all of you who have been reading and commenting on my crazy life with a household of boys. Luckily, all of the viruses/rashes have been remedied and all of us are healthy. Well, except for our Black Lab Sadie, who we just found out, will need an expensive surgery to repair a torn ligament. Things are already tight so it will take some creative budgeting and borrowing to pay the $2-3000 for her to be the same lively pup once again.

The online magazine (www.mommiesmagazine.com) I have been working on is steadily doing better, although it still is not a source of income yet. As of now, I'm viewing it as editing and publishing experience for me. Something will have to change soon with the income situation, because I just may have to go back to work if I don't start making money freelance writing. That isn't necessarily a bad thing. The break from the household would probably be good for my sanity, but it would also mean less time spent with Robbie, since I would have to work nights and/or weekends. Plus, it would also take time and energy away from my writing. The other startup magazine I wrote a feature article for Total180! is set to be published in November, and I'm really hoping it will take off as well. Look for it on the newsstands and if you are a stay at home mom and can spare $15 (believe me, I understand if you can't!), go to www.total180mag.com and subscribe to this fun and fresh magazine. The incredible ladies are fronting a lot of the expenses of publishing the first issue, so every little bit helps.

So what is the point of all these ramblings? I think it is time to take a break from the blogging for awhile because Chops isn't napping anymore and I only have a tiny window of freedom where I can write and clean and shower, etc. I'm sure I will pick it up again someday when things have settled and I get into a better writing routine.

Everyone pray for me. Pray that the boys don't drive me completely nuts, that Sadie will recover nicely from her surgery, and that I will make the big time with my writing in the next few years! It's been fun stepping on the blogging bandwagon and I'm sure I'll be back!

Always on Call

I remember when my stepfather used to work for a trucking company back when I was very young. There would always be those nights when he wore the beeper, meaning he was at the company's mercy, at all hours of the day and night. I remember thinking how unfair that was for him. He couldn't have too many drinks with dinner and it was inevitable that tiny pager would start blaring in the middle of his favorite show or mid-snore. But the beauty of his pager was that after his shift was over, he could finally turn the thing off.

Oh, if I could only be so lucky. I don't have a need for a pager. There are no annoying beeps to wake me in the middle of the night or to force me off the couch during a particularly juicy scene from "Desperate Housewives." I might as well have one, because it is during those times that the boys start in, needing a new diaper, more food, a fresh sippy cup, a toy repair, and on and on.

I am always under the radar. They have no qualms about waking me up from a deep sleep so I can stumble around a room and crawl under a crib in search of a binky. They don't care if the muse suddenly strikes me and I have to absolutely get something down on paper. Those are the moments they have a nasty diaper blow out or a conked head on the linoleum floor.

Even this past week, Robbie was on vacation and I was doing the happy dance. Finally! It won't be JUST MOMMY in the house all day. I had visions of sleeping in until 9:00, tapping away on the computer and sending off some stories...which of course would lead to riches and glory.

HA!

Monday morning I was all set to sleep in. Chops wasn't having it. He has no problem if Daddy is sleeping, but if Mommy dares to stay behind the closed bedroom door, he throws his full 35 pounds of boy into the door, screams, and whines until I completely give up on the stolen hours of sleep and stomp out to the kitchen for a pot of coffee. Ditto for a peaceful shower. Or for that story that will never be written.

Where is the off button on this Mommy pager? Can somebody please show me? I think the last time that it was truly off was during our girls trip to Tahoe back in May. There I could stay up as late as I wanted because no one would be waiting in my room to wake me up at dawn. There I could keep the shades closed and lounge in bed until 3 in the afternoon.

Oh, please take me there again!

A House Full of Sicklies

There is something about illness in a household of young children. Call it cruel fate and mass contagion. Cruel fate because we have our big camping trip planned for this weekend, which of course is now overshadowed by empty bottles of children's tylenol, cast off teething rings, and a lingering stench of vomit in Chops's room. Mass contagion, because what started as Bubba's feverish, listless weekend thought to be caused by hardcore teething, was actually a case of roseola...which he so lovingly passed to his brother, though Chops still hasn't broken out in the dreaded rash yet.

Not to mention our Black Lab Sadie is now nicknamed Tri-Pod, because she's only walking on three paws, with no apparent cause.

What's next? A nice case of chicken pox or a broken arm for Mommy or Daddy? The house burning down?

I know, I'm being morbid. You try being cooped up all week with two cranky, steaming hot kids who are only content when Boo-Bahs, Teletubbies, or Thomas the Train are on. You try sitting with your dog for half an our working over every inch of her toe pads, claws, ankles, and legs to solve the great tri-pod mystery.

This will be a short post because we are preparing to dash out of town to hopefully escape the madness. Unlikely, since we'll have the sicklies in tow with us. I'll probably return with tales of laughter and disaster from Lake Camanche next week.

No More Whining

My household was swelling with whines this week. Chops may very well be the most guilty, whining and screaming for everything from ice cream cones, to the truck Bubba was playing with, or the fact that I wouldn't let him sit in the drivers seat of my minivan on the way to the library. And once we got to the library...ooooooh boy, the whining escalated into a full blown tantrum, to where we were literally escorted out of the children's section by one of the librarians. She was only trying to be helpful, I admit. She shooed us outside and took my library card and pile of books and brought them back out to us. I still felt like the naughty school girl with the dunce cap on, even though she was very understanding.

Bubba is more of the night time whiner, of the midnight variety. Blame it on incoming teeth, that chipotle marinated pork he devoured for dinner...whatever. Several times over the week, his screams burst out from his room and seemed to crawl over my skin. I felt bad for the little guy, but I was so incredibly frustrated and needing him to sleep so I could have some semblance of sanity.

I was probably the biggest culprit of them all. Luckily for everyone else in the household, the whines mainly seethed and swirled in my own head. They went something like this: "Another *&#*## dirty diaper!" or "He cannot be awake AGAIN." or "Chops, if you open that fridge one more time I may have to grab the cordless screwdriver and drill it through my eye!"

I know, not my finest hours, but at least I internalized it and didn't subject the boys to my inward rants, raves, groans, and sighs. Of course, everyone could sense Mommy wasn't a happy camper and that I was a tad edgy (exaggeration of the year, there.) Suffice to say, I was feeling a bit sorry for myself and very ready to give Robbie my two weeks notice so he could begin searching for a new mommy.

Then came Katrina. The sick and sad news footage that never goes away. Images of the sick, the dying, the deceased broadcast on all the networks. Last night, I watched World News Tonight with Brian Williams and a photographer shared his account from the confines of New Orleans, where a crowd of thousands gathered at the convention center. Bodies of the starved and dehydrated lined the walls. A man held out a 3 week old baby with listless eyes, who hadn't had any milk in three days and would probably die. A mother cradled a toddler who she couldn't wake up, he was so dehydrated.

Well, there was my reality check and a big slap in the face. Here I had been, whining to myself all week. And in another part of the country, people are losing everything. My boys can be maddening and draining, but they are so full of life and energy and vibrance. As of now, we are the richest family in the world. And I promise, no more whining.

Now, if only Chops would make that same promise....

Milestones: A Pile Up of Memories

Bubba has been crawling for almost a month now. A milestone of all milestones. With a few reckless, flailing arm and knee movements, my household was propelled into one of two mobile, energy draining sons. No longer can I set one down and be guaranteed that I will find him in the same vicinity when I return from the laundry, the bathroom, or wherever I escape to. A mixture of sadness and pride fills my heart. Sadness, that the days of babyhood will soon be over and I will have another full blown toddler careening through the household, banging his head on various exposed corners and table edges. Pride in his ability to master a skill, his glee in finally being able to go after anything his heart desires, or at least anything he wishes to mouth.

All of these milestones my two sons reach. I feel they come and go faster than reckless tides, that come in and out of the ocean and wash away memories with the newer ones. Where once I always had a charged video camera within arms reach for Chops's victories, now I have none. I had every intention of capturing that steep learning curve of Bubba's new crawling career. How, at first, he just swam on the carpet, his chubby arms working front and back, like one of those killer whales that the trainer motions up to the side of the pool, head and tail in a perfect arch. From swimming to the constant rocking, on hands and knees, punctuated by cries of frustration for the toys just out of reach, of his older brother, teasing him, just out of reach. Then the baby yoga antics of last week. The downward dog, where Bubba's body made the perfect V: his hands planted firmly under his shoulders, knees straight and off the ground, only his tiptoes grazing the carpet.

First it was a feeble one, two, three baby crawls before he reached the elusive toy and collapsed back onto his stomach to investigate his find. Another milestone, also within this same week, was pulling himself up to sitting by himself. Which usually ended up with Bubba so excited and impressed with himself that he would fall straight back and smack his head on whatever was behind him...carpet, chair legs, Chops's dump trucks. The shrieks, the quick cuddle from mama, and he went right back to doing it again.

Last week Chops had his own major milestone. He suddenly decided he didn't need to sleep in the crib anymore and graduated to his monstrous race car bed that takes up half of his room. We've had both beds set up in his room since Bubba was born 10 months ago, convinced then that Chops was a big boy and ready to plan great escapes from behind the bars of his crib. He never quite escaped and the overflow of toys from his room seeped into our living room. But NOW, he is such the man cuddled in his hot wheels comforter, surrounded by his five blankies, his bucket of cars and a litter of books around the perimeter of his mattress. And he did it all on his own...one day actually staying in his race car bed during naptime instead of playing 'sneak up on Mommy when I'm supposed to be sleeping.'

Milestones. My video camera battery has been dead for months and I'm missing it all. The baby book collects dust on my shelf. I know Bubba is the last baby, yet I don't clutch to his babyhood as one would normally presume. I spend a lot of time living for the future, when the boys are finally out of diapers and we can use all that money we are saving for family camping trips, sports leagues, trips to amusement parks and baseball games. Meanwhile, the boys transform before my eyes. Each day, each moment, is some milestone. I woke up one day and realized Chops had gone from a babbling toddler, to a little boy that was actually stringing words together as on a carefully beaded pearl necklace. First, slowly and gingerly, but now, actually sounding like a real boy. What was once whines and finger points are now "Git white milk now, please..." I want to tie a recorder around his neck and record it for posterity.

It is a household of milestones occurring everyday. Bubba's first time wolfing down a chicken nugget. I foresee many hours of the boys begging for McDonald's in the future. Chops's first lefty pitch. Do we have a future major leaguer on our hands? Yet I get caught up in dreams of the future, where things will surely be easier than changing diapers and trying to reason with a tantrum-throwing two year old. Instead of marveling in the tidbits of everyday, I'm drowning in overflowing laundry baskets and kitchens always drained of food.

I gather up these most recent milestones and sit quietly with them in my mind. Soon there will be first words and first steps for Bubba. Soon there will be first days of school and first back-talking for Chops. In the now, the milestone is this: everyone is perfect and healthy. Everyone is developing at their perfect pace. And the love in my house is surely enough to crowd out the dropped dog hairs, overflowing diaper pails, and empty pantry.

Flipping Pancakes

This morning I was the perfect picture of motherhood. Padding around in my fuzzy slippers, leaving the newspaper in a heap on the couch, I was inspired to make the boys some pancakes. This is a big deal for me.

Reason #1- For whatever reason, I really hate cooking breakfast. I’m a cereal and toast kind of gal. Frying bacon, flipping pancakes, and scrambling eggs is just not on my agenda. This is usually my husband’s gig, but only on weekends. You can imagine Chop's excitement when I made the announcement, "Mama's making us pancakes for breakfast!" Treats like those are usually reserved for lazy Sunday mornings or overnights and Grammie and Grampy's.

Reason #2 I cannot cook pancakes. As simple as they may seem, I always manage to screw them up. Either they aren’t cooked on the inside but perfect on the outside, or the edges are burned in the sizzling scraps of butter.

But for whatever reason, I decided to whip up a batch. Maybe it was the fact that Chops is now what I like to call a serial snacker, especially since he’s gained the muscle to strong arm the fridge door open. All day long, he’s dragging out bits of food, taking a few bites, then chucking the remnants in the sink. Then, ten minutes later, it begins all over again with a new delicacy. Perhaps with pancakes for breakfast, his stomach would be effectively coated for the rest of the day. (By the way, it only lasted him about 45 minutes before he started ransacking the fridge again.)

Maybe it is because Bubba has crossed over into the realm of finger foods and he has never had a taste of a mushy sweet hot cake pass his lips. Everyday for this future linebacker is a journey into the joys of people food. More times then not, he shakes his head violently at the Gerber fare, in favor of whatever is on the dinner table. Let's just say the Chipotle Chicken we had for dinner last week didn't treat his poor tum too well at 3:00 am.

So, out comes the Bisquik, the eggs, the milk, and the dash of cinnamon. As I whisked, Bubba clutched my cotton pj bottoms and Chops sang about the yummy pancakes to come from the kitchen table.

As I was mixing the gloppy concoction and coating the pan, then pouring and flipping, an image came into my mind, vivid as the gleam of Bubba’s new baby teeth. One of sitting at my aunt’s counter, much like Chops was doing, and following her own motherly dance around her kitchen. She had decided on a whim to bake chocolate chip cookies. I wasn’t nearly as young as Chops, more like eight or nine. But I just remember being amazed because she mixed this seemingly elaborate recipe of butter, eggs, various powders, chips, etc...without even following a recipe. Each scoop of flour and sugar, spoonful of baking soda and vanilla extract, was dumped into the large bowl with a certain rhythmic confidence. In that moment, I wanted to grow up and be just like her.

So, I admit, the pancakes won’t win any gourmet chef acclaim. But the look on both of the boys’ faces as they devoured them, crumb after crumb, filled me with a sort of motherly, Betty Crocker-ish pride. Bubba moaned and squealed with each new mouthful. His eyes followed me around the kitchen, and he looked at me expectantly when his tray was cleared once again. The smell of butter and cinnamon and maple syrup stayed on Chops all morning. Every time he’d come near I’d beg him for a kiss, just to breath in his sweetness. So what if flipping pancakes only bought me 45 minutes of Chops forgetting about the contents of our fridge? That was just enough time to set up shop on the floor with the boys, and to play-fight with them for each section of the paper. The morning was a warm glow on an otherwise dull day.

Summer Books

NOTE: After wading through this brief intro, just know that I'll come and revisit this post as I finish another book and I'll share my measly two cents about them... So come back every once in awhile :)

My household is slowly disintegrating. An out of commission dishwasher, renegade ants in the kitchen, and a home that must be scrubbed top to bottom... Let's just say, I'll be lucky to get myself and my boys out of our pajamas today.

In lieu of another day in the life of Kelly rant (which I don't seem to have the energy, inspiration, or brain cells for today), I'm posting a list of books I've been reading this summer. The list is by no means extensive...I don't have many moments to steal away and lose myself in a great book. But, I've been trying to read more, just to be more inspired as a writer. I'm happy to say, I seem to have chosen my reading wisely, because I'd recommend any of these books to you.

So....

Down Came the Rain, Brooke Shields
Now, she isn't the most literary of authors, which I wasn't expecting. And anyone who hasn't been pregnant probably wouldn't appreciate this book. But, she has a lot of guts to come forward with her story of extreme postpartum depression. She calls it the big elephant in the room, that everyone sees but nobody wants to talk about. She lays it all on the table and the emotions are raw and disturbing and real. I have more respect for her as a person since reading it.

Gods in Alabama, Joshilyn Jackson
The author is a fellow momwriter (a writing group I belong to) and this is her first novel. I had no idea what I was getting into when I checked this out at the library. A magazine I edit is holding a meet with the author chat at the end of August, so I figured I should know my stuff.

I absolutely love this kind of book. Part mystery, part thriller. It's about a southern girl who flees her hometown for the big city to leave a dark secret behind. When she does finally return, all the truths she thinks she knows begin to unravel. I love books that keep me guessing until the very end. With twenty pages left, I was convinced I had it completely figured out. But, I didn't, and the author effectively toyed with my mind.

Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow-Lindbergh
This was a total accidental read. A friend of my husband's left it here and I happened to pick it up one day. It is a meditation on life and its many beautiful phases that she likens to the many shells she finds on her solitary vacation by the sea. According to her, I'm plunged in the oyster bed with my family.

She writes: "It is an oyster, with small shells clinging to its humped back. Sprawling and uneven, it has the irregularity of something growing. It looks rather like the house of a big family, pushing out one addition after another to hold its teeming life--here a sleeping porch for the children, and there a veranda for the play pen; here a garage for the extra car and there a shed for the bicycles. It amuses me because it seems so much like my life at the moment, like most women's lives in the middle years of marriage. It is untidy, spread out in all directions, heavily encrusted with accumulations and, in its living state--this one is empty and cast up by the sea--firmly embedded on its rock."

After absorbing this little book I had the aha! moment that I somehow didn't get until reading the author bio...she was married to Charles Lindbergh, the famous pilot, and their first son was tragically kidnapped when he was just a baby. Duh, Kelly.

Automatic Wealth, Michael Masterson
My quest continues to bring in some extra income for the family. This one took awhile to get through and I probably won't use a lot of his suggestions. But it was worth reading just for the first few chapters on goal setting and rethinking the way we view wealth and our spending habits.

Operating Instructions, Anne Lamott
Awesome, funny, sarcastic, and genuine writer. I'd been wanting to read this one for a long time now. It is basically her journal of her first year as a mother, a single mother at that, and she really captures the chaos, uncertainty, and wonders of motherhood.

Waiting for Birdy, Catherine Newman
One of my new writing heroes. This is another memoir type book of her second pregnancy and how her life is transformed when her daughter is born while her son is just a toddler. How she manages to crank out a first novel, have a weekly column for Babycenter.com and contribute several articles a month to Family Fun is beyond me.

I'll post more books to his page as I devour them. (Next one to come: Down Came the Rain, By Brooke Shields) Everyone have a fabulous week.

The Teeter Totter of Brotherly Love

(Note: Before I begin my newest rant, I must preempt it with this. Today’s world is a scary place and there are privacy issues, disturbed people lurking everywhere, and a resulting paranoia in every parent’s mind. Therefore, I won’t be using the boys’ real names in this space. I’m sure that if someone really wanted to do the legwork, dig up their names, and what town we live in, etc. it would be easy enough. My hopes are that it would never come to that. Instead I’ll use their family nicknames.

My two year old is called Chops. Since his first teeth started popping in when he was about four months old, one of his Aunties starting calling him that after a boy on Paris Hilton’s "The Simple Life" who had an incredible smile. Chops takes after my dad’s side of the family, with his notoriously big, gummy, Irish smile. To me, Chops has the purest, most joyful smile...even when he’s up to no good and that grin is dripping with mischief.

My second son earned his nickname while he was still kicking around in my belly. Since Chops couldn’t pronounce ‘Brother’ when he was that young, he started calling my belly ‘Bubba’ and the name has stuck ever since. Bubba is such a fitting name for my little man. I’ve always imagined someone called Bubba to be a somewhat hefty kind of guy, whose build rivals the most solid of linebackers. And that is exactly what he is, even at nine months old.

Well, this could have been an entry all by itself...but now that I have the whole situation of names cleared up...on to what I really want to talk about. Oh, and by the way, since my husband doesn’t really have a nickname and I’m not too concerned he’ll be abducted or otherwise harassed, I’ll just use his real name.)

Ahem. I called this the teeter totter of brotherly love. You probably know what is coming. Since Bubba is newly mobile, crawling circles around the house and beginning to pull himself onto furniture, the sibling rivalry in the household is escalating. I knew it was coming, and in fact, it was already well established. Before Bubba was physically able to chase down big brother and scam on his dump trucks and hot wheels, Chops was already snatching bottles and baby toys away from him, or trying to drag Mama away as well. The reason I haven’t gone completely gray (only partially between color touch-ups, thank you very much) is that these daily battles are balanced out by the moments of love and play too.

This is the nature of my days. A melting pot of delightful cackles and shrieks of frustration and fury from the wrestling rink. (I mean, from the floor) The boys clutching hands and cooing at each other one minute, then the sounds of skin slapping, heads crashing into piles of toys, brotherly punches, and then more shrieks. One morning Chops and Bubba actually took turns pushing trucks to each other across the room and I ran to grab my camera, only to return to catch Chops snatching the truck from Bubba’s chubby palms with his trademark brotherly war cry, reducing poor Bubba to tears.

One of the sweeter moments was when Chops begged me to let him play in Bubba’s crib. I laid the boys next to each other with their respective blankies. For close to fifteen minutes, the boys giggled, passed toys back and forth and actually HELD HANDS. I thought I would die of total adoration. Yet, I am well aware of the day, not too far off on the horizon, when Bubba will dare to fight back. Maybe it would by wise to have Robbie build a boxing rink in the middle of our front room, buy a couple sets of boxing gloves and a referee whistle, and just let them go at it. There is no way to prevent the inevitable. At least they would have the protective gear and there would be no permanent damage.

Their relationship is like the manic mood swings of a bipolar brain, right now tipped more towards the angry/depressed/crazy side. But then there will be these moments of total beauty, like when you see a patch of vivid purple wildflowers on a smoggy Bay Area highway. And it is those moments that get me through the day, that get me looking forward to more of the moments as they learn more words, learn sports and games, and generally become the best of friends (and the worst of enemies). Hopefully by that point, the scale will be tipped the other way where the brotherly love will outweigh the battles. Instead of a congested highway with small spots of beauty, their world will be an incredible garden with a few pesky weeds needing to be plucked now and then.

Mushy Mommy Brain

It seems that in virtually every parenting magazine I pick up these days, there is yet another article on ‘mommy brain’. You know, the general idea that somehow the act of reproducing and then living day in and day out as a mama zaps brain cells, any memory function, and the most basic form of common sense. A book was recently published with the latest studies of hormone levels, brain testing, and other scary thoughts. They all generally conclude that indeed, mommy brain is not a myth, but something no woman can escape.

Now, the first years of motherhood . . . fine. The extreme sleep deprivation, surging hormones, demands of nursing, of pressures to raise your baby a certain way, get your body back, maintain a welcoming home, all while trying to keep another being alive is enough to make any person a tad forgetful. I admit I’ve had my moments. Putting a box of cereal in the fridge and the milk in the pantry. Preparing an elaborate slow cooker dish then neglecting to turn the cooker on. Running my husband’s cell phone through the washer and the dryer. I am in the throes of the dreaded mommy brain syndrome.

Then the adventures in toddlerhood: the potty training, the big move out of the crib, the every day psychological warfare your pudgy, wild-eyed toddler wages against you. I even buy that.

But what about later on, when the kids are mercifully in school? The most recent article I read basically says mommy brain never really is cured. The stress, the extreme multitasking maneuvers, the parade of school lunches, permission slips, and slumber parties. Did the very moment I conceived my son doom me to a lifetime of brain mush with only fleeting moments of sanity and intelligence?

This is where the UC Santa Cruz feminist in me must chime in, if only in my head. Is mommy brain or the myth of it the reason for the dreaded glass ceiling that hangs over all of our ambitions, career goals and dreams? Maybe the glass ceiling isn’t some supreme conspiracy to keep women in the kitchen with the kids instead of as functioning workers in the free world. Or maybe the mommy brain ‘myth’ was created to justify the whole existence of the glass ceiling. Since no company can predict which of their aspiring women will procreate, they hold them all down, and move the men right up the promotional ladder. (I admit I exaggerate a tad.) Is this why we won’t have a woman president any time soon? If she is a mother, she has too much emotional baggage and her mind is dulled by the constant worrying, multitasking, and hormone fluctuations. If she isn’t a mother, well then, she is surely suspect and wouldn’t have a fighting chance anyway in an election.

What about the upside of mommy brain? Not the dying brain cells, lack of memory and good sense, but the incredible amount of patience and love we gain. The amazing talents of being able to break up sibling wrestling matches, while rescheduling a doctor visit, while attacking a mountain of laundry, and watching the morning news.

I really don’t know where I am going with this or what I should conclude. In a lot of ways, the whole concept of mommy brain pisses me off. (Or perhaps I just have a fresh batch of hormones circulating.) On the other hand, mommy brain lends itself well as a nice scapegoat.

"Sorry honey, I simply don’t understand how I managed to wash your cell phone. It must be that darn mommy brain at it again."

The Kelly State of Mind

Welcome to my newest baby, my little blog I hope to nourish into a thriving hotspot of insight.

OK, I'm a little dramatic about the whole thing, but very excited. A little about me and what my big plans are for this small space on the web. I'm Kelly, 26 years old. One day, I woke up and realized that I am the mother of not one, but TWO sons, who are so young that they still cannot use the potty, pour their own milk, or even play in the backyard by themselves. Young sons who will one day go to school, play on sports teams, get into fights, and even...have girlfriends! How did this happen?

Well, it all started back in my carefree days as a UC Santa Cruz student. While I was wading through the hefty upper division courseload for my American Studies degree, newly single, and slightly wild, I fell hard for a friend of my sister's I had known since my days of braces and junior high angst. Robbie and I had a whirlwind relationship that quickly culmulated into an elaborate marriage a month after I graduated. With a degree in one hand and my new hubby's hand in the other, I began to make my way into true 'adulthood'.

Not long after, I found out I was pregnant after a Point Reyes backpacking adventure with a few friends. Accidental pregnancy? Not exactly,although I was shocked just the same. Pregnancy was an incredible, tortuous time. I was a walking house of worry. But, ironically, I didn't really worry about the important things. Instead of thinking about how a new baby would rock the routine of our freedome-filled lives, I obsessed solely on the labor and delivery. My friends, I obsessed over the WRONG thing. While my labor and delivery torpedoed at lightening speed, the aftermath was somewhat stagnant and frightening. We had a helpless, albeit healthy, newborn son to care for. To feed, to keep relatively clean. To care for all day. Every day. Forever. I finally had to grow up.

The second pregnancy was planned in every possible sense. I had quit my job as an afterschool teacher to be a stay at home mom. The only logical thing to do was pop out another little guy to add to the madness. The boys are exactly 18 months apart, and the birth of my second son was even more life altering. Most days I feel like Gumby, stretched in all directions...to each of my sons' conflicting needs, to a household that is never brought fully into control, to our dog and cat, who always want something at some inopportune moment like when my toddler has dumped a box of cereal on the carpet or my 9 month old has smacked his head on a chair leg, to my husband who I wish I had more alone time with, and to my own dreams...to finally be a published writer.

And this is where my blog comes in. Marriage and birthing kind of crowded my writing to the back burner. Somehow, the fire has been relit and I am finally writing again. I'm ready to put MY stain on the world. I'm wading through stories I wrote back in college, outlining new ones, and generally trying to find the direction I want to move next. But first, Life, which is the kindling for the richest kind of writing of all.

Most of these posts will be raw, slices of life as a full time mother. My total adoration and awe of the man and two little men in my life. The everyday dramas of temper tantrums, whining, Thomas the Train overload, and injuries. The marvels of the everyday miracles of new words, new skills. Call it a diary. Call it future scenes for my novel "Mommy Mayhem and the Girl Who Lost her Mind", call it a small place in cyberspace for me to rant away.

This blog is my pre-website. It is an experiment. It is a tiny metal fishing boat floating in a stormy ocean. Down the road, I will create a site prettier, more varied than dirty diapers and curdled sippy cups. But for now, this will do. So come on by. I plan on posting once a week. Let me know what you think, what you want to hear about. I'll be tapping away on the keyboard as my two year old climbs all over me and my 9 month old figures out the whole crawling thing.