Less or More?

People often comment on my stamina. I won't deny it. I have a hefty schedule and I feel that I accomplish most of what is necessary with a bit of grace, but without the craziness, in the middle of the quiet, there is often a lot of time to think. When I was just a mother of one, when Isaiah was an only, I felt that I didn't have any time. I was busy learning how to be a wife and mother, I organized a meetup group, I spent much of my time reading books about preschool and kindergarten. I was often alone, without cable, for what seemed like days. I didn't quite know where I fit in. The friends I had from my old life didn't understand me as much as they once did and the friends that were from my mommy group were fresh and new. I was in between finding a new identity.

Then, when Josiah came along, I felt I knew who I was. I had done the breastfeeding, the spit up, the night time feedings. All there was left to do was to figure out where Josiah fit in with Isaiah. The only thing left about my identity as a mother was finding out the balance, the juggle. That act came quicker than I thought. In fact, it was almost instantly that I found the two baby knack of things. The identity as mother was complete. I can do one, so I must be able to do two, and therefore three won't be such a problem.

Then, my sister had another baby. Just as I found my stiletto wearing footing at a college campus my sister found that she may have lost some of her own identity while becoming a mother of two. It made me think about what the second baby signifies. Josiah, to me, meant less of me more of them. More ice cream, more birthday parties, more presents under the tree. He meant less time to shower, less time to schedule a hair cut, less time to cuddle with Robert. But Josiah also signified something else...more love. More love for him. More love for Isaiah. Much love for Robert. Most of all, he meant more love for me. He meant more effort to find time to love on me. It's true, my family has made more sacrifices to help tend to the new baby and the more independent mommy, but I have found that it is only me that can say when I need more love.

Last week, while emailing a woman about a possible lactation consultant position I may be interviewing for, we discussed how important it is for mothers to be kind to ourselves. We're often lost in the shuffle. We forget about ourselves because we're too busy tending to everyone else. It is ok to be selfish. It is ok to need. It is ok to put your Uggs wearing foot down, because often, two really is enough.

One Husband, Two Children, & 15 Credits! Oh my!

It is true. There have been a number of missing blogs from my "daily blog." I often wonder where the black hole with all my time is. If I find it, I'll be sure to find all the time in which I'm able to boink my husband, educate my children, shave my legs, and create a research paper that is well...researched. Alas, I have yet to find the chasm that has swallowed up my sliver of Father Time.

Lately, in the Lindsey household, the house is much messier than it usually is. The holiday season is creeping on us and soon the 11 foot Christmas tree that I squeeze into our tiny apartment will be looming over our useless fireplace. There will be pine needles, pumpkin pie, presents, and shiny glass ornaments. We'll hang stockings, and make prime rib, and we'll drink and be merry. Usually, I'm very excited about this, but this year, there is a sincere dread that has manifested itself into what seems to be the dreaded heartburn! Where will I find time to pick a tree, stuff the stockings, bake Santa's chewy cookies, and sing songs that are all jingly and crap?!

In fact, the only thing I've been singing lately are Disney songs off of youtube. And you ask, "Alicia, why the hell are you looking up Disney songs on youtube?!" The answer is simple. I have a research paper due at the end of this month about the Disney Corporation. Have you listened to the lyrics of a Disney song lately? Ursula, from, The Little Mermaid, sings to this impressionable young woman, "You've got your looks, your pretty face, and don't underestimate the power of BODY LANGUAGE! The men up there don't like a lot of blabber. They think a woman who gossips is a bore. On land its much preferred for women not to say a word. And, after all dear, what is idle blabber for? Come on they're not all that impressed with conversation. True gentlemen avoid it when they can. But they dote and swoon and fawn on a woman who's withdrawn. It's she who holds her tongue that gets her man."

What. The. Beep?! So we can see that Disney is obsessed with gender differences. They insist on keeping women quiet which is so fantastically animated when Ariel gives up her voice to get her beloved Prince Eric. Don't get me started with the racism in Pochahontas, or the seduction in Aladdin, or even the horror of losing a parent in The Lion King. And, did you know that the Disney Corporation often hires pedophiles?! That's right! So, when you're standing there with your fully charged Nikon D90 realize that your unsuspecting child is being lifted onto a pony by a sexual deviant. Know that when you're standing there, holding your two thousand dollar camera, and yelling for her to smile, a disgusting sexual predator is saddling her onto an overworked horse.

And, if you're wondering how my kids are...well two just might be enough.

I'm Too Old For This Crap...

But the greatest love, the love above all loves...even greater than that of a mother is the tender, passionate, undying love of one beer drunken slob for another.

- Irish love ballad

Robert and I are blessed with incredible friends and family. These people, these wonderful individuals, are people we call on to celebrate in the good and share in the bad. They are much like ourselves. Young. Restless. Exuberant. They are authentically funny.

Recently, family and friends came to spend some time at our home. We baptised our Josiah and then spent the week showing off the Great Northwest.

Day 1 started at 11pm. I don't normally wake up with a wine hangover, but thanks to Day 1 I did. I am officially too old to get drunk with my friends and family. I laughed uncontrollably. My face hurt. I woke up to beer bottles and wine glasses and half-naked men on my couch. (They're family, but that is not the point.)

Day 2-7 are filled with more drinks. Lots of drinks at all hours of the day and in a seemingly acceptable fashion. These days, these wine and beer filled days, are days where I watch a couple of best friends laugh with a couple of Lindsey men and we laugh and laugh and some of us throw up. Not me. I don't throw up.

I hear stories of peeping Tom's while masturbating, women's faces having stretch marks, people repeating themselves while saying, "You were whacking off and a woman was peeping through the window?", and mostly I hear, "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!" coming from my own mouth. We watch homemade videos where men are drunk and laughing and this happens to make my husband laugh then they all laugh. And I laugh more. And the girls laugh. And we laugh and laugh and laugh. It has been a couple of weeks and I want to laugh now.

In the mix we lost a wine bottle in the parking lot, two wine glasses came home with us from a restaurant, one spit can may have spilled all over a truck, someone threw up milk, and we must not forget flatulence. Farting is inevitable.

If I have learned one thing from that little vacation it is that I am much too old for that crap. I can't stay up past 1pm without paying for it the next day. My kids demand too much. I need to breastfeed. Isaiah's activities are still scheduled. I love a clean house. I love the friends/family, but I love my privacy. And, how I love my bedroom with the private master bath.

There is something to say about that drunken mess. These people, these incredible people, are home to me. They are people who I am allowed to be completely myself in front of. I can cuss out my husband in front of them without judgement. I don't have to be a hostess with them. I can go to sleep knowing everything is taken care of. They don't require much from me. They ask for nothing but beer, wine, an air mattress, and several blankets. They're family. How I miss them.

Do It In Stilettos

You can do anything you put your mind to and you can do it in stilettos.

-Kimora Lee Simmons

I registered at Clark College a few weeks ago. I took my placement tests, and scored pretty high I admit, and my dad generously agreed to pay tuition for me. (Thanks, dad!)

It has been a long while since I've studied for something. The last test I took was for the Oregon Construction Contractor's Board and I passed--of course, but it was open book and, if I must say so, easy. My CCB license is proof that you can do anything in stilettos--even build a house if you want. (Or supervise, at the very least.)

I love my accessories. I LOVE THEM. I wake up in the morning out-numbered by penises. 4 to 1. Every day. Every day I wake up to feed, cloth, work around and with, my boys. And, when I cleaned out my closet I am reminded of exactly how much girls rock. I love my shoes. I love my purses. I love my dresses. I LOVE IT ALL!!! I am not ashamed of who I am. In fact, I will be the first to say that I am an intelligent, beautiful, hell--hot, mama who makes no apologies for being out-spoken, bold, and tough.

My point is, I will do whatever it takes and I will do it while looking good. Bring it. I can take it. Thank you Kimora. I heart you.

PS: Next goal--Rock stilettos while learning to shoot my 9mm. (Thanks, honey!!!)

Ummm....Hello???

Picture it. My office phone rings. The baby is about 2 months old. I am just back after maternity leave. I am highly emotional. I am a mess. Yes, this conversation brings me a good laugh--one much needed due to laundry overload.

Phone Rings. 808 Number.
Me: Good Morning, Corporate Woods Apartments, this is Alicia.
Inquiry: Uh. Hello? You get one apartment 'fo rent?
Me: Yes. I do. What are you looking for?
Inquiry: Well, I stay looking 'fo my kids. They stay living on Maui and they like move ova hea.
Me: Oh yeah?! I'm from Maui!
Inquiry: You?! You is from Maui?! Brah. I neva wen Maui long time! Why what is your last name?
Me: My last name is Lindsey.
Inquiry: You is one LINDSEY!!
Me: Well, my husband is a Lindsey. I married into the Lindsey...
Inquiry: I wen skoo wit one Lindsey! Anyway, I stay living right now in Hazeldell--you know dats like Happy Valley, bu.
Me: Umm. Well, I've never actually been to Hazeldell. I think I drove past once.
Inquiry: Why? You go down to da valley.
Me: Uh. Yes. I occasionally have gone to the valley.
Inquiry: Why? Where your apartments stay? Fisher's Landing...Orchards?
Me: Corporate Woods is located in Orchards. We're a 47 unit...
Inquiry: Oh Ok. Cause they no like live in Fisher's Landing...Fisher's landing is like Kula 200 or Maui Meadows or Makena.
Me: Umm...yes. I suppose you could say that they are a bit...
Inquiry: brah...dey is stuck up.
Me: Umm...Well. I wouldn't say that. I like to go to Whole Foods on Mill Plain.
Inquiry: Dey no like live ova dea.
Me: Yes, that's why you called Corporate Woods...in Orchards.
Inquiry: Well how much is your two bedroom?
Me: The two bedroom rents at...
Inquiry: Is it like the valley? Why...your apartments...they expensive?
Me: well, they're in market range if that's what you're asking and we pay water, sewer,...
Inquiry: Why what utilities is included.
Me: well...we pay water, sewer, and garbage.
Inquiry: You know how much one pineapple?
Me: I don't really care for pineapple.
Inquiry: WHAT! Not even the hybrid kine?
Me: Uh. No. I don't care for the pokies in my mouth.
Inquiry: 'Fo real?!
Me: anyway, I can mail them the application packet since they're still on Maui.
Inquiry: Ok. I goin' have the grandmada co-sign. Why can?
Me: Umm, well how the process works is..
Inquiry: Can or no can?!
Me: Umm, I was just trying to say that the grandma can sign, but they need to go through the application process first.
Inquiry: Ok. I call you back. Kden.
Phone Disconnects.

Welcome to my world. I had a good laugh..and an urge to buy a pineapple.

Sleeping On The Couch Sucks Ass...

I've been up for days it seems. I get an hour or two worth of rest and then it starts all over again. I've neglected my blog because I can't think strait, I'm constantly irritated, and I want to slap someone so hard that it makes their head spin backwards.

What I don't understand, what I think that is bothering me the most, is that Robert can sleep through it all! Then, if I wake him up he acts as if he's been up with me. And, I know it isn't just him. I know other dads do it too, so I shouldn't feel irritated. I am sleep deprived, hungry, and very irritable.

There is no real blog except to say...if I sleep on the couch one more time I might lose it.

It's Off To Church We Go...

Today's blog isn't funny, just FYI.

Today we are going to try out a new church. When we moved out of the truck and into our first apartment I thought it was important to find a church. Robert and I were raised Catholic and we felt that it was important to give our children, then it was just Isaiah, a sense of belonging. In fact, we'd attend "Trucker's Church" when we lived in the truck. It was a 40-foot trailer that had been converted into a non-denominational worshipping center.

Personally, I like a small, quaint church. The church we went to out in Sandy is beautiful--especially in the winter. The community was small and everyone was very, very nice. I felt surrounded by extended family there. The church we're going to today is not that sort of church. It has three Sunday masses and a school! I am sort of nervous. On the other hand, it has day care and it has a children's choir. Very cute.

My hope is to find a place, near to our home, where my children can flourish and where they can learn to know a higher power. I am excited for them. I'd love Isaiah to go to the Sunday School and I would like nothing better than to volunteer in the nursery. YAY!

The People I Meet...

First of all, I apologize for blog lackage. Who knew that two kids, a husband, a job, and a shower would take up so much time?

When I work, I often have both my children. I think at some point during the day, I have two children in my office and usually Josiah is with me every minute of every day. Constantly with me. I take the boys with me when I'm doing turnovers--except when they're dubbed "urine throughout" or "excessive smoke damage"--and sometimes vendors pop in to do some turnover work.

The boys and I met the most interesting man from MP Plumbing. He came here to snake a toilet and then to snake a tub. Day 1 seemed interesting in itself. His assessment of Job 1 was as follows: There is a POOP load of toilet paper in there. I never seen so much toilet paper. So, I yanked off the toilet and now you'll need a new one. So, not only am I shocked that he yanked off the toilet, but I am irate because I'm late for Kumon and my appointment at Verizon. He explains to me that the wholesale depot is closed and that he'll never make it there in time. I explain that I don't give a shit and that he needs to snake the pipe and reinstall the toilet. People need to pee and poop you know--everyone does and he's a plumber. You'd think that's what they teach at plumber college. I give him a vote of confidence before I pull out of our driveway at an entirely unacceptable speed.

Day 2: He is at the door of a newlywed couple at 9am. It is rainy out. The wind is blowing and it is perfect cuddling weather for a newlywed couple. The plumber dude is knocking on the door, and knocking, and knocking. Then, he's calling me to tell me that they're not answering and that the people aren't there. I tell him I start at 9:30 and I'll be down in 15 minutes.

Fast forward 15 minutes. I make the call to the resident. I know they're home because I see their car. I call and the new husband is huffing and puffing and says, "Hello?!" And I say, "Hi. This is Alicia--resident manager. The plumber is here to fix your tub. Are you home or should I just let him in?" And he replies, "He can come here. I will put my clothes on." Honesty is the best policy.

So, because I have respect I give them 15 minutes. I tell the plumber to wait and I explain why. After all, it'll be a short couple of years when they can have sex whenever and where ever it is they want. Sooner or later they'll be counting happy faces on the calendar. So, the plumber tells me his whole life story. I know that his fiancee is crazy. That he threw out some chicken. That he believes in giving the smack down. That he dated a half black and half Filipino girl and she was 'fine.' I know that he is from Minnesota, that he moved here, that moving is hard. He lives in Beaverton and his best friend's name is Jacob. I also know that his ex-wife would like to take him back, but "he don't want none of her crazy anymore." Oh, and he speaks of Martin, as in Lawrence, as if they were brothers--"yeah, I'mma see Martin tonight--he is FUUNNNY!"

What the hell. I have work to do. I know you're not blind. You see I have two kids in an office. Clearly, I have my day cut out for me. Get out. I friended him on Facebook then I deleted his ass. I felt I had that sort of power.

I Love To Eat, But I Like Skinny Jeans, Too!

I read an article this morning, while treadmilling-it at LA Fitness, about childhood obesity. It said that the first "solid" food that children get, I'm sure outside of the pureed crap we feed them, is french fries. It depicted a picture of parents sitting in a fast food restaurant thinking about how soft those fries are and concluding that it's soft enough for their "baby" to chow down on.

I'm deeply disturbed by this statement. Isaiah's, and Josiah's, first food was organic baby cereal mixed in mama-milk. Isaiah ate through pureed vegetables, all organic, and moved his way to pureed fruit, all organic, and followed that with fresh mangoes, avocados, and bananas from family property on Maui--organic enough and grown in rich, volcanic soil. Josiah will follow the same pattern. In fact, I'm excited to take him to the UPick farms this year. Oregon's produce is prime in the summer and the fall and I intend to attack the farmer's market with the gusto my husband exudes at The Home Depot.

Isaiah won't drink a soda. I don't think he's ever drank Coke or Pepsi. His first trip to McDonald's only took place because of my parents. And, Josiah will follow Isaiah's exceptional example. Isaiah understands what sugar does and he knows what exercise does, too. He knows why we go to the gym and he knows why we eat our mushrooms, salad, and beans.

I'm not one to judge someone else about their health issues. Let the person who doesn't eat soft, succulent white bread throw the first Snickers bar. I love donut dates with my boys. In fact, I cherish them. Not to mention, I am from HAWAII--land of the white rice and Aloha Shoyu. And, I sometimes I give-in and buy Isaiah pancakes from McDonald's. I'm not perfect, I'm fun.

But, clearly America is fat. We're fat and lazy and we think it's ok. We give up after working out for a while, yet we save our clothes that we wore ten years ago. We shop at Whole Foods and the Farmer's Market, but we down alcohol the way we should be downing water. We don't eat enough fish, but we love huge buckets of popcorn shrimp. And, we believe in quick fix diets that don't work--they don't even sound like the would work.

My kids won't be apart of Generation XXL. Dust off the bikes. Run to the office. Eat that apple. No Cheetos. Carry your own bag. Turn off that tv. Drop that candy bar--it is only decoration for the check out stand. Let's go to Whole Foods. Pass mommy the salad. Change our habits and stick together--we're stronger in numbers.

He's Personal To Me

Isaiah is having a bit of a hard time in school. He's intelligent and talented in his own way, but processes things a little bit differently. I won't get in complete detail because I don't think it's fair to say to the world what I can't really say to my five year old. So, without getting in too far I'd like to share his current story.

Isaiah has been diagnosed with a learning disability. It doesn't affect his IQ, but is affecting his ability to hear sounds and write words. If I can learn to teach him the way he learns best then things will get easier. It will take some time, but I'm watching and we're learning.

I had a parent teacher conference yesterday. I cried. I'm sure I'm not the first mother to cry in a P/T conference. I didn't sob, but I did tear up when I explained that my anger isn't because I'm necessarily angry at a particular person, but because I'm frustrated and though I know it's just business and that it isn't personal, ISAIAH (AND JOSIAH) IS PERSONAL, DEEPLY PERSONAL, TO ME.

Isaiah's entire life has been one small hurdle after another. I strongly use the word "small" here as his conditions aren't extreme by any measure. These issues aren't anything I can not handle. They aren't anything he can't handle.

Though, I can't help but find that I feel rattled right now. I feel a big fight coming on and not one that will end any time soon. I feel like I need, now more than ever, to hone my research skills and sharpen my vocabulary. I'll need to advocate for him and to him about where his education needs to go.

He's personal to me, but he's literally my business. I lack a flashy business card. I lack a formal education. I lack a high-powered career. Isaiah is what I do. Josiah is what I do. They are my business. And, like in The Lorax, BUSINESS IS BUSINESS AND BUSINESS MUST GROW. Yet, I feel the sense that there will be people standing in the way of that. There will be laws standing in the way of that. So yes, he's business, but he is still very personal to me. If I were outside staring in, I'd rather be up against Business Alicia than Mommy Alicia. He'll get what he needs. I'll make sure of it.

Moms Are Important, Too!

I need a pedicure. I need a manicure. I need a haircut. I need a nap. I need some serious antibiotics for this raging urinary tract infection. My eyebrows resemble two fuzzy catapillars and my ass needs stairs like the desert needs the rain. There isn't enough time.

I think, as mothers, we often forget to put ourselves in front of everyone else...even if it's just for a while. I had a conversation with a friend yesterday about feeling guilty when I put my needs in front of the boys'. I rarely buy myself something really good and when I do, I feel the need to return the item or make up for the lost time. Alicia is often lost in the shuffle.

Robert rarely complains about the things we lack, but he doesn't seem to feel guilty about his new truck box, his new headache rack, or his recently tinted windows. He doesn't feel guilty when he calls in sick to work. He simply says, "If I'm sick, I'm sick." So easy going.

I'd like my blog to become a source of goodness for mothers. One where converstations are had and where we can come for advice. So, comment about the mommy-guilt. How do you deal with it? How do we feel less guilty? Meet eachother through the blog. Make friends that understand what you're going through. And, welcome the new moms of two! They'll need us!

I'm All Messed Up

Robert & I are the average American couple. We drive Fords. We believe in the justice system. We have 2, someday 2.5, kids. We are all American. And, like any other red-blooded, American couple, we often get stuck in a rut.

It's the tired rut. The I have a headache rut. I've been working all day rut. The kids are driving my completely insane rut. The my ass is sagging, my breasts are leaking, I haven't washed my hair in two days rut.

Robert and I are the average American couple. Generally, we boink, excuse me--"make love" once every week and a half. It isn't insane. Where do you find two working genitals? Where you do not find two screaming children. It's true. Our kids are spaced years apart, but they require different things. They have different bedtimes. And, honestly, sometimes Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy gets in the way.

We've done the creative thing--i.e did it in the walk-in, the shower. Never my office, but now that the idea has popped up we'll see. And, we've tried getting the kids to bed sooner. Yeah, right. And, we've tried to stay up later, but we're getting older and there is work in the morning.

So, we challenged each other. I told Robert that we need to "fuck more." It's true. I said this. He agreed. Ahhh...the power of communication. So, I told him we should mark it on the calendar. He said he would mark the days that I say no on the calendar, too. Fine with me. Cause I say yes more than I say no, anyway.

Three happy faces in a row on our calendar. This is, in no way, an easy feat. Good thing we started on the weekend. This started about the same time my hip started to hurt. By the way, you can't say, "Rub my hip." to your husband without him attempting at touching you elsewhere. I have found this out the hard way. (Get it? The hard way?)

So, first my hip hurts.

Then Monday, I feel a raging bladder infection coming on.

Tuesday, I have a clogged milk duct. No one wants to have sex with a clogged milk duct. It hurts to walk. There is no way you can be swinging the girls about in an awkward and embarrassing rhythmic motion.

Today, Wednesday, I have realized that I'm not a pullet anymore. I am a hen. I've laid two eggs. Of course my hip is falling apart. Of course, I'm tired. It's a given that my boob would leak. Still, I am determined to have four happy faces this week. Even if it KILLS ME!

You Drive Me Crazy!!!

The more children I give birth to the more my husband gets on my nerves. Don't get me wrong, we are totally and completely in love. I really, really believe that he's the most important person in my life. I believe that he believes I come before the children. The feeling is reciprocated. I believe he is smart and strong and will work until his hands bleed to feed his family. I believe I married a good man.

I also believe he is sometimes a jerk. He doesn't always understand me even though he usually tries. He is not mushy. He will not write me a love song or recite sonnets. (Which, I probably would not want anyway so we're good.) He doesn't cook me three course dinners--he barbeques. He brings home roses. I hate roses...I much prefer sunflowers and daises and lilies. He leaves his stuff all over the house. I can't stand when he leaves his heavy coats on the furniture as if the couch is a coat rack. I hate picking up socks.

The children, the boys, are our one common goal. We do not over-ride eachother's decisions. If I say no it's no. And if he says yes...well I will try my hardest to keep my mouth shut. I really, really believe that it is his responsibility to teach the boys how to act like grown men. It is Robert's responsibility to teach them that the toilet seat stays down, the shoes come off before you reach the carpet, that Mama needs to walk in the door before them. Penises in the back. Vaginas in the front.

Robert does all of this. He teaches the boys all the good things. But, he is still sometimes an asshole. But, I'm sometimes a bitch so I guess we're even.

Should I Pencil You In?

I'm like a race horse coming out of their shoot things when the alarm sounds. There is very little wiggle room in my day. Everything is planned. My routine is meticulous. There is no room for error. My schedule is as follows:

6am-alarm sounds. Nurse Josiah. Creep out of bed. Make some coffee. Strong coffee. Put in a load of laundry.
6:30--send Robert to work. Say goodbye, drive safe. Get in the shower. 15 soothing quiet minutes.
6:45--Listen while Isaiah flushes the toilet. Ask him what he wants for breakfast.
6:50--argue about what there isn't for breakfast. While making breakfast.
7am--breakfast and Curious George.
7:30am--Josiah wakes up. Shove the rest of my food down my throat like a pelican. Change the dirty diaper. Brush Isaiah's teeth. Put Josiah in his jumpy or bumbo. Make the bed.
8am-Put the wet laundry in the dryer. Fold last night's laundry.
8:15-Makeup. Sorta. Blog sorta.
8:30am--Rock Josiah to sleep. Beg Isaiah to find his coat, put his shoes on, and get his backpack. Load the dishwasher. Don't forget to start it.
9am-out the door to Orchards.
9:10am--Say goodbye to Isaiah. Do not forget to kiss him.
9:15am--bank.
9:30am--work. work work work. talk to dad. work. talk to sister. work work work. chat with Terri. work work work.
12pm-Lunch. Nurse Josiah while shoving food down my throat.
12:30pm-work work work. answer the phone. work. talk to dad. talk to sister. yes, i like that doula. no, i do not like that stroller. yes, you need a bopppy. text the husband. no response. work.
3:15pm-get Isaiah from orchards. do not be late.
4pm-bank. work work work.
4:30pm. walk home. fold laundry. start dinner. somedays groceries.
5:30pm--kiss Robert. He's home.
6pm--dinner. from scratch.
7pm--bath time. story time. brush your teeth. dishes.
8pm--bedtime.
8pm--facebook. more facebook. skype.
9pm--bedtime-Josiah's. nurse nurse nurse. what did you say honey?
9:15 plan tomorrow.
10pm-bedtime. mine.
Repeat.

This schedule only works if there are't any appointments. There is at least one appointment weekly. There is grocery shopping weekly. Just. Keep. Trudging.

Robert's schedule:
6am--alarm. make coffee.
7am--work work work
7pm dinner.
10pm bedtime.

So, my question is...where do you fit? Should I pencil you in? Should I pencil me in?

Squirt & Work

I have two things that are always with me. They often cause backache. They are often stared at. I'm sure they're ridiculed. And, they give me no rest. They often drip unexpectedly. I discuss them often. They're usually covered in spit up and my husband can't keep his hands off them. They are not the children. No. They're these gigantic, heaving, working breasts.

Now, before children they were fantastic. They were stared at, not ridiculed, I'm sure they were discussed. I could walk into a fast food place with just my bathing suit top on. Shoulders back. Heels on. Ass out. I'm not ashamed. I'll admit it. I have gotten free lunches and dinners with these breasts.

But alas, those days are gone. It is almost as if they never existed. Instead of breasts that stop men in their tracks, I have these saggy, misunderstood, nursing bra wearing, breasts. Their only wonder now is whether or not the right or the left has enough milk to feed Josiah. I am more cow-like than human-like these days. I am not ashamed. I breastfeed. I enjoy it.

What I do not enjoy is when I get out of the shower in the morning and clear the mirror only to see what happens after years of nursing. Whoever said nursing was beautiful is clearly blind. They are blind or delusional. Nursing is not beautiful. Of course, we can't dispute it's health benefits or the fact that it is considered "liquid gold," but I will be the first to say that the wear and tear on the girls is indescribable--and not in a "stop a random guy at Jack In The Box" kind of way.

I admit that on occasion I have gotten retribution by shooting someone in the face with my breast milk. I can shoot milk clear across the bedroom. It will shoot out like a broken pipe when the let-down happens. It is not yucky, even if Anaiyah claims otherwise. It is like a World War II weapon--classic with the ability to make someone run in the other direction.

Though, I can't help but sigh when I pass Victoria Secret. They do not make nursing bras there. I am doomed, for at least another six months, to these ugly, hook-bearing bras that come in shades of black, gray, white, and neutral. Don't laugh. These are working boobs.

I'm Off My Game...

I'm completely off my game these days. I think that when something goes wrong, rather when something isn't right with your child, you can't concentrate on anything but that child. You can't concentrate on anything but solving that problem. You're stuck in a place that has you so upset, so petrified, that you can't give any thing to anywhere else because you're giving 100% to your baby. The size of the problem is relative. It doesn't matter what others think and whether or not you're obsessed with solutions is irrelevant.

I'm sort of obsessive on a regular day, so when I'm forced with being mama-bear like I'm shocked that the issue has gotten this far. I'm still friends with people from high school, people who knew me before children, and they aren't the least shocked when I need to flip my bitch switch.

Isaiah is particularly small for his age. He's boisterous and full of personality, but his size is sometimes a bit of a worry for me. He deals with things like the average child, but in some places he has a bit of difficulty. The day before he was born the OBGYN said he'd be a small baby. She said five pounds. (Yeah, right.)

Isaiah was born so small, and so frail-looking, that my heart hurt when I seen him. He came out quiet, not crying, barely awake, and was taken immediately to somewhere else. I seen him for just a minute. My vow to him was, and still is, I WILL PROTECT YOU ON THE OUTSIDE IF I CAN'T PROTECT YOU ON THE INSIDE.

So when I'm forced with a crazy predicament where people think I've lost my mind or people want to argue with me about what he is or isn't I get a little insane. I lose balance. I forget the little things like work and dinner and I absorb the details of whats happening with my baby.

I apologize for the lack of the blog. I was too focused, too crazy to write. I'm ok now. Until the next time.

Teach The Real Stuff...

Since the beginning of kindergarten, I've been trying, almost demanding, a few things for Isaiah. I've tried to get him the things he needs. I've put my time, energy, resources (the fancy word for money) into getting him what he requires to succeed. After the births of both boys I advocated to keep them off of formula. I practice the little things with Josiah. I balance my checkbook. I try to be responsible with my dollars. I pay my bills. I do the laundry. I cook dinner from scratch 95% of the time. I am a good mom. I'm a good person. I am good, but I am tired.

I don't remember learning anything practical in school. I remember math and reading and lunch. I remember my friends. I remember graduation. I don't remember learning how to balance my checkbook, or how to do the laundry, or how to navigate doctor's offices and school officials. The last time I checked bribery wasn't technically legal. Extortion is certainly not. I don't think I can blackmail anyone.

Often, applicants come in to explain themselves to me. You'd be surprised to know that 8 out of 10 high school graduates that come in to see my have a misdemeanor from a little less than five days after their 18th birthday. They didn't know that it would be on their record for at least seven years and they didn't know that marijuana would get them in that much trouble.

What I'm saying is...why don't they teach these things in school?! Why didn't they say that the washing machine only needs one scoop of soap, that your checkbook is linked to your social security number and bouncing checks does not mean throwing your checkbook across the parking lot to see if it literally bounces, or that the pimentos are found next to the sherry?! They never actually said that childbirth hurts. They never said sex feels good. They never said you should use condoms or you will get chlamydia and that sucks, too. They tell you not to smoke, but never give you a visual. They never tell you that when your children are born you are forced to walk with your insides on the outside. They never say if you pay your rent late just three times you will be denied from any other apartment. They never said that marriage is hard. They never said that people skills are more important than literature. They never said history repeats itself.

Why don't we teach this practical stuff?! It will start with me. I will teach my sons this important information. Please do the same. It will help them in real life.

Say Uncle, Bitch!

Robert and I have been going back and forth on an important subject for some time. It's a subject that I'm not ready to share with the world, but one that I think parents deal with often. We've been arguing, rather discussing, a health issue about one of our children. I am opinionated, passionate, almost berserk when it comes to my boys. I have a simple warning: Don't mess with my boys, even the big one, because I will take you out and/or make you feel so small, so worthless about yourself that you will never forget the look on my face for the rest of your entire life. You will remember me because I will belittle you until your insides are on your outsides and you are completely exposed. I use my vocabulary, and my over-confidence, as a protective mechanism.

I feel this way about my children particularly, but my acute insane-ness goes well for Robert, my sister, her kid, my parents. But, my boys, my Isaiah & Josiah, are reasons for my sometimes-rage.

Robert and I are very different in many ways. I'm crazy, he's not. Although, like his farts, his temper is silent, but deadly. That dude is crazy. He parents are boys differently. It is often hard for me to sit back and let him parent. I am not over-protective, my boys are loved and I'm often not right in my head. He believes that the boys need time to grow, I believe in trusting my mother-instinct. He believes they will grow at their own pace, and while I believe that too, I know when things aren't right.

I finally got his attention last week. Thankfully, he is completely on board with my said subject, and I am happy for it. We are a fantastic team. Robert & I are inside each other's heads. We are one when we agree. But we are both Capricorns, so when we don't agree we butt heads until one of cries imaginary, "UNCLE!!!"

My question is though...why does it take men so long to see our way??? Why can't they learn to trust our mother-instinct the way we do so that we're not fighting ourselves, doctors, and our husbands? Why can't he see things when I see them so that when we both start at one and I end up at seven, I don't have to wait for Robert to catch up from four?

I'm sure he wonders why I'm still at four often. Like when I ask him how to use my over-drive button on my truck. I just know that I must turn the light off at 40mph. Who knows what it's for. I certainly don't. What is an over-drive anyway?!

All I know is, I win. I win on this particular subject and I am grateful that my husband cried out the imaginary, "UNCLE!" This just means he is on my side now. He can see my way now. He knows that I need his full attention, and his wallet, and now I have his permission to fight like a crazy person for our kid. Not his permission in an authoritative way, but a permission that simply states that he will fight until the world ends to complete what I've started. Now, we can act like one. Now, we're a team. And, I can't even begin to express how thankful I am.

Survival Of The Fittest

Most of my friends have children that are school-aged. Our children are about the same ages. Most of them were involved in the same mommy-group. This means our children entered kindergarten at the same time. Much of us are on our 2nd or 3rd child. Life has taken us to the same phases at once, so I'm sure we're all trying to survive something.

Preschool is training for the real fight. In preschool, you're warming up. They're playing and learning social skills. They learn to share. They learn to wipe. They learn to be without. In preschool they are babies.

Kindergarten is different. Now, you're racing. You're in the Olympics. They teach reading and writing and arithmetic. They teach life. They teach this to the parents not the children.

I have wanted to fight a number of people on Isaiah's behalf. It takes a strong mother not to run someone over in the parking lot, not to smack the office ladies, not to take offense when your child can't get the attention that he needs. Kindergarten is survival of the fittest parent--not child.

There is no Parenting 101 class. You don't know when enough is enough. You have to learn these things. You have to learn to forgive--forgive yourself. You have to learn when to let go and when to fight.

Josiah isn't in that stage yet. I haven't had the opportunity to fight for him the way I've been presented with the opportunity to fight for Isaiah. Isaiah is my guinea pig, he is my first for everything. I have to learn to navigate the waters of the education system while fighting the insurance system. Only the fittest survive. Isaiah is ready. So, I must prepare.

Do I Look Like Daddy To You???

Robert and Isaiah share a tiny little ritual. On hot summer days they will walk across a busy, four lane road to buy themselves a small treat. Robert will usually want ice to go with a drink and Isaiah will come running home with a "bug juice" and a package of Peanut M&M's to share. I, for one, do not really care for peanut M&M's, and I hate walking to that little store. I do not partake in their father/son ritual.

It rained yesterday and the wind was abnormally strong. It has been a crazy week. Isaiah's been sick. Josiah thinks he can change his sleeping habits. Robert is recovering from pneumonia. My body is doing something strange--it wakes me up in the night until, according to my husband, I flop around like a fish out of water. Hmm. Sexy.

I forgot one item in our weekly grocery adventure--tomato paste. So, I set out to get it after work yesterday. Isaiah, Josiah, and I walked into Safeway, head strait to our desired merchandise, and stand in the express line that is lined with chocolate candies and magazines. Oh impulse shopping.

I've cut back on our impulse shopping considerably. I enjoy a good smut magazine. I love me some Dove Milk Chocolate. And, oh the Odwalla Juice. Delish. We usually start the mini-spree because Robert wants a beer. He is the impulse instigator. (Everyone point and gasp.)

I'm standing in line and Isaiah spots the yellow package from behind me. I'm reading a Portland Magazine that is featuring schools. (I didn't buy it. See. Progress.) Isaiah says, "Mama, Daddy buys me these." He holds up the M&M's and shakes it in my face. I say, "Do I look like daddy to you?" He shakes his head no. "But Mama, Daddy buys these." My turn to shake my head. "I am not Daddy. I am a mommy. What do mommy's buy?" He sighs. "Mama buys oranges and tomato paste." And everyone in line laughs, including Josiah. Isaiah puts down the package and smiles. We check out and I say, "Marcus, push Lucas." And, he laughs. (Get it? Isaiah and Josiah. Marcus and Lucas. haha.)

I load the boys in the truck. I buckle them up. I check my cell phone. I wonder where my sister is. I think about the boys and their laughter in the line. I chuckle to myself. I need more moments like these. They replenish me. They remind me why I set out to have two. We go home. We make dinner. I ask for the tomato paste. Isaiah says, "I think you forgot it cause I can't find it." Hmm.

Oh Maui...

We planned to use some of our tax return money to take the children to Hawaii. Okay, we planned to use some of our tax return money to take US to Hawaii. Maui to be exact. Every time I decide to go home for a vacation it doesn't feel like a vacation at all. It feels like WORK. We are required to visit family. In Hawaii, family isn't just your immediate family. Family is the entire island. Word spreads quickly that you're there. Someone who knows someone who has a cousin who knows your dad spots you at the airport and it is no longer a vacation, but a family reunion. You visit immediate family first, uncles and aunts and cousins next, there is a myriad of parties you must attend, a luau of course, there are phone calls to be made, dinners to attend, and lots of conversations to be had. Only after those things are through are you allowed to go to the beach. Oh, the beach.

There is something so soothing about sand in places you never had. You jump off rocks to remember that the real thrill isn't the ocean below, but the fact that you're able to keep your top on. No one wants to see working breasts from above. Gravity does exist.

Before Robert and I became parents we spent payday Fridays doing anything we wanted. Late night shows. (Matinee? What is that?) Sushi at 10pm at 1/2 price. (Delish.) Sneaking into the Grand Wailea for a quick swim. (Then, being chased by security guards.) Night trips to the bamboo forest to find some prawns. (Then, taking the long way home through Hana.) And, Sunday mornings going to Kapalua. (Taking the other way, of course.)

We moved shortly after Isaiah was born to seek adventure. We moved to become our own family...away from family. We moved to discover ourselves while discovering America. Eventually, we settled in the northwest, but for those few months that we were in the truck we still lived on an island.

I got pregnant with Josiah in Sunriver, OR. I found out I was pregnant in Vancouver, WA. I spent my 1st trimester on Maui, Hawaii. Now that Josiah is here I want so badly to take him to Hawaii. I want to show him off. I want to show Isaiah off. Robert's cousins LOVE Isaiah and I want them to see Josiah in all of his baby-ness.

I think that the problem with raising children away from your home-home is that when you have more children the feelings of home-home grow stronger. When you are from Hawaii, when the ocean courses through your veins like your own blood, you feel a strange connection to it. It calls to you when you are not expecting. You hear the waves in the middle of the winter. You smell salt water when you're in the tub. You see palm trees when you're staring at pine. You imagine things when you miss it most. I want so badly to give my children memories of home-home. Washington, Oregon, the mainland...these places don't really belong to them. They eat local food. Isaiah browns like me. I want to feed Josiah fresh mangoes and bananas and avocados from my dad's property in misty Haiku. I want them to ride their horses in damp Kula air. I want to take them home.

Box Tops Are...

So, I missed the PTA meeting that happened earlier this week. I hate the PTA. It is boring and ridiculous. The first time I went, I paid my $8 dues. Dues are $16 if you're husband wants to go. If he does go, you're welcome to to vote 2x. Whatever that means. What does that mean?!

My first PTA meeting went ok. I got to hang out with a friend. It is not a coincidence that I got to hang out there. She is partly to blame for that horrible night.

I grew up in Hawaii. I remember only a few fundraisers. I remember those hole punchie things at Ooka's. I remember the girl scout cookies. Oh, I remember Campbell Noodle Soup labels, too. I do not, however, remember box tops.

Just FYI...never say you don't know what a boxtop is. The PTA people will look at you like you're crazy. They will gaze in your direction and attempt to fill you in while they stare at you in disgust. I was shocked by this. I should know these things. I am, after all, a mom! Cassey, my friend, later took pictures to show me what a boxtop is. Thanks to her I am no longer PTA freak.

I have two kids. I should take advantage of these boxtop meals. I think my life would be easier. I think dinner would come together in a less rushed fashion. We might be given the chance to eat at a decent time.

The truth is that I enjoy cooking. I enjoy putting the energy into making my family a home cooked supper. I like that slow cooked taste. I enjoy putting a meal together from a group of ingredients. I love fresh vegetables.

Oh well. Lesson learned. I like that I found out what a box top is. Now I can nod my head and act like I know what people are talking about.

You'll Miss The First Born...

I had five blissful years with Isaiah. Ok, not all of it was blissful, but these five years were years that were dedicated to just Isaiah. People often ask me why I spaced the children so far apart. There are a lot of reasons. First, I was terrified of dying. My pregnancy with Isaiah had difficulties and I was afraid of the same things happening again. Second, I didn't think we were financially ready to have another child. I wanted to be in such a different place before I got pregnant. I wanted a house. I wanted some land. I wanted a cow. I wanted all of these things before I got pregnant. Last, I relish time with Isaiah. I didn't know if there was enough love. How could there be more love?

Then, when Josiah came, I realized that all of those fears were ridiculous. They were. I wasn't so doped up when I had Josiah. This time I could think clearly...see clearly. I realized that Josiah fits perfectly in my family and that my family would remain the same, plus one. The books are right. There will be a time of adjustment, but it will work out. So they say.

They're right. There is a time of adjustment, but what they don't say, what they keep a secret, is how much you will miss the first born. I miss Isaiah and I can tell that Isaiah misses being an only child. This isn't to say that he hates his new sibling. Isaiah loves Josiah, but he has taken a few steps backward. Isaiah is whiny and is absorbed in his DS. He still does five year old things, but he started pooing and peeing in his pants again. This is frustrating beyond belief. He wants to sleep in my bed. (Who wouldn't? It is a memory foam bed. It is wonderful.)

Isaiah is equally frustrated with this unfortunate turn of events. He is shamed when this happens. I tell him how much we love him. I tell him that he's a big boy. I tell him he doesn't need diapers. I tell him he has his own bathroom. I tell him all of these things in hopes of him realizing how much of a big boy he really is. Still, he shit his pants twice last week. Once, yesterday. Finally, I put a diaper on his nightstand. I told him that if he needed to poop in his pants then he could put this diaper on like his little brother. I left it there so he could think about it. All day he said, "Mama, I don't need a diaper. I'm a big boy. I need underpants." And, I kept saying, "I know you're a big boy. I know you don't need a diaper, but I wanted to give you that option. We all need options." We kept up this stupid cycle for hours. This morning Isaiah said, "Mama. I shit in the toilet." Haha. "That's great son, but don't say shit. High Five!" Then, we put the diaper back in brother's drawer. I hope it worked.

I miss Isaiah so much. Getting in some quality time with him is like extracting blood from a rock. I changed my schedule in hopes of getting more time with him. I start at 9:30am now. This will give me more time to make him breakfast, to watch a cartoon with him. I won't need to rush him anymore. I want so much not to be "monster mommy."

I am ok with the mess in the house. I am ok with the adjustment. I am ok with the learning curve. What is not ok is how much I miss Isaiah. What is not ok is us not spending enough time together. I need a plan. Something needs to change. My heart hurts. Clearly Isaiah's heart hurts. We will get there. We just need a plan.

Dear Bluetooth...F You.

The problem with having more than one child is that I do not have more than two hands/arms. I am constantly shifting between Isaiah and Josiah. My arms are never empty. I've learned to type with just one hand--a feat for someone who has typed with two hands since the 1st grade. I can hip Josiah while I wipe Isaiah's nose. I can do homework while I nurse. I can do these things, but anything that makes another arm accessible is a modern marvel.

Take the Moby Wrap for instance. It is a wonderful tool for mothers who prefer to have their baby attached to their chest. You can nurse. You can type. You can entertain a five year old with play dough. Most importantly, you can cook/bake. Both arms are willing and ready. You can rule the world with the Moby Wrap and it is only a piece of stretchy cloth.

The Bumbo is another fantastic invention. Your baby is sitting up, entertained, while you type or stuff your face or maybe...shower! The baby looks around while you put on makeup or, on occasion, kiss your husband for longer than a few seconds.

The Hip Hammock, though I do not have one, looks promising. I'm going to rock that thing when the time comes.

And the most important invention of all...the BLUETOOTH. This device, this tiny piece of technology, is made specifically for use of both hands. That is the exact reason why it is dubbed 'hands free.' The problem with my bluetooth is that it doesn't work with my new phone. I charged it. I turned the phone onto 'bluetooth' mode and I clicked 'search.' I tried numerous amounts of times. Still nothing. I need help. I want to talk to people while I drive. I want to talk to people while I nurse. I do not want to spend more money on a new blutooth. I need help.

Humans Need Touch

Josiah has been awake for most of the day. He's grumpy and impatient. Mostly he is tired. I am desperate to have him be himself. He is usually smiley and calm. His cry is always surprising because I rarely hear it. On a regular basis he merely emits a small whine. He is surprisingly self-contained.

Isaiah was not that way at all. I felt like Isaiah required my constant attention. Though he slept through the night, I constantly felt like Isaiah needed me. He needed milk or he needed comfort or he just needed extra love. Isaiah needed someone touching him all of the time.

Baby massage is so important in my house. Everyone likes a good massage. I love a good massage. Isaiah let me massage him until he was three years old. He still lets me massage his face and his hands. His legs are so long now that a baby leg massage is out of the question.

Today, Josiah got his first baby massage. We bought him this fantastic massage oil from Whole Foods and he instantly calmed down. His demeanor is up. He is quiet. He is hungry and he looks calmed and ready for bed. Oh the goodness. He is munching his milk with such force that I have to end this blog.

Touch is important. It shows love. This is why hugs are so popular.

To Work Or Not To Work

I am in a very convenient situation. I work where I live. My rent is free. I get a small salary on top of it. Isaiah is with me before and after school and Josiah never, ever leaves my side. I have been very blessed.

Though, I often wonder what it is like to work-work. How would my life be different? How would the boys get by without me? I often think about the trade-off. If I work now I will be working to merely pay for gas and day care. If I stay at home-home I will be stuck in a mommy-rut. A sweatpants-wearing, comb-misplacing, makeup-forgetting, mommy-rut. I hate the mommy rut.

And what if something happens to my husband? He occasionally comes home with stories about men being crushed by steel. Men being run down by steel. He's been stuck on train tracks. He hauls in the rain, in the snow, in the hail. He is often home later than the sun. He is out more than in. He is not, ever, in the safest environment. If something happened to him, I'd be left to grieve alone with the children. I'd be left to pick up the children and get on with our lives...alone. How would I provide for them? How would I feed them, clothe them, be both mom and dad to them?

I must work. I must be good at something. The boys can not be my only profession. They need me to prepare. They need me to be there in the event that I need to be there.

I know there are others who feel that pain. There are others who feel that they need to career it up and there are more who feel they need to mom it up. Tell me what to do. The plan is to get my property manager's license, my brokerage license, WA State CCB license. Thank goodness I already have my driver's license. I can check that off. I have a plan. Do you? I am eager to hear it.

If I Had A Girl...

I don't anticipate ever giving birth to a girl. When I got pregnant with Josiah I felt, for sure, that this baby, this incredible blessing, would be a girl. Yet, the ultrasound technician exclaimed, "THERE, I SEE A PENIS." Oh no. ( At least that's what Robert said. lol.)

My life is coated, dripping with testosterone. I wake up to it every morning. My choice in truck screams it. My clothes are prepared for it. I feed them meat and potatoes. I attempt at not babying them when they fall. I choose bold, bright colors for their clothes. I never wipe them front to back. Ever. They shake, not wipe. Well, they wipe their ass, but Isaiah's old enough to do that himself.

I spent almost three weeks with my sister and my niece and for once my house was coated, dripping in estrogen. Girl conversations. Girl movies. Girl clothes. Estrogen to go on for months. Anaiyah, my niece, is a fantastic conversationalist. She is a leader. A demander. She is blunt, bossy, boisterous. If I had a daughter, I imagine she would be much like my niece, who is so much like myself.

My hope, however, is not to give birth to a daughter. Although, that alone is something that I pray for often. My hope is to raise the boys that I have to be good, honest, men who will know how to lead and to humor. My hope is to have them, coated in all their testosterone glory, be real men to their wives. My hope is that they understand women, are able to juggle schedules, pull their loads as fathers.

How jealous I am that my sister is raising such an amazing daughter. Anaiyah is following in a long line of strong women who are as much, or more, blunt and opinionated as she. I hope my boys will one day recognize these qualities in woman as attributes rather than flaws. I hope Anaiyah recognizes that, too.

Eat & Sleep & Eat & Sleep

My sister and my dad are here. This isn't common. My dad lives on Maui and my sister lives in California. It is a rare treat to have them here. I love that they are here. I love the company, but I really, really LOVE THE FOOD.

My sister graduated from California Culinary Academy. Her food is delicious. It is the love that goes into the recipes that makes it so delectable. She is, my favorite cook. Eating her food is like having a conversation with her. Eating her food is knowing her soul.

As I said, my dad lives in Hawaii. Hawaii's culinary flair is unique. It is filled with culture and comes from both land and sea. Hawaii is the reason why my kind of comfort food is all kinds of comfort food.

Dad brought a cooler of delicious ingredients. Adobo, turkey tails, sausages, tako, laulau, prine rib, and lobster. Mmm Mmm good. I am in Heaven. The smells are familiar. The taste is indescribable.

The real treat, the real fun, is what the food does. The kitchen is the epicenter. The kitchen is throbbing with delicious-ness. The children, I mean us, are happy. We are happy to share the yummy-ness with our own children. When I was young, my dad would sit us on chairs. He would prepare the sea food, that he caught fresh from the Pacific, and feed us in the kitchen. He would pick off our plates when we were done. He would save the lobster head and the fish head for himself. We later found out that he was hoarding those parts, parts we would not eat, because they are the best parts. The heads are the best parts. You'll see.

My head spins. My mouth waters. I am happy beyond belief. I am happy and full.

Green, Pink, Orange & Yellow

Most of my day is spent at the office. I spend most of the day talking on the phone to friends and family, but occasionally I do work. I have a lot on my plate. I manage 47 units and hear a lot of complaints. It is not always fun. It is sometimes boring.

The other parts of the day are spent juggling the children. Isaiah goes to kindergarten at 9am and Josiah's naps are meticulously scheduled. I depend on those quiet hours to get things done. Between the phone ringing and the boys' daily schedules, I am in charge of coordinating my family. This is easier said than did.

After having two children your brain happens to resemble your stomach more than it should. It is mushy. It is flabby. It has held more than it should. This is an unfortunate turn of events since before you had these children you could function like a normal adult. A normal human being.

I recommend formulating a system. The importance of a system is underrated. It is so important. Vital, even. Without the system you will fall apart. There is not question about. You will.

Every morning, when my family isn't in town, I take out my laptop. I devise the week. My PDA window opens and I type out work, school, doctor's appointments, bills, and miscellaneous. Then, I write it on the wall calendar so it is stuck in my brain and no one else in the house, like Robert, can complain about not knowing the when, why, and where. The brain on the wall organizes the brain in my head and it is IMPORTANT.

Each family member is color coordinated. Robert is green. I am pink. Isaiah is yellow. Josiah is orange. Yellow fills the calendar often--more often than any other color. Occasionally yellow and orange are on the same day--usually a doctor's appointment. Pink, honestly, needs more attention. Green is always important because Robert hardly has anything scheduled. Even family-time is written in. It is a good foundation for when the boys are older.

Find your system. Work the system. Or the system will work you.

On a side note, I am just as crazy as the calendar. The boys have color coordinated car seats. Isaiah's is yellow. Josiah's is orange. I did this without even noticing it. I am crazy. I admit it.

Admit It...You Have Road Rage, Too!

I do not normally have road rage. In fact, I am usually happy to sit back and listen to the radio or discuss the day with Isaiah. I rarely drive my own car, actually. Whenever I'm with Robert he drives. I have very little chances to collect enough pent up aggression to yell at someone. I usually give the one finger salute to idiots on the road. Isaiah says, "Is that your signal, mom?" Yes. It is my signal, son.

Sunday was our 5th wedding anniversary. I was mad. Robert was mad. It was bound to happen sooner or later. We are sharing our home with family. Though I am happy to have them here we are crowded. I do not live in a mansion. Although, I have been eating like a rich person lately.

So, we're yelling and yelling. I'm yelling. Robert is talking. I'm yelling. More yelling. Then, I'm crying out of anger. And, Robert is staring at me in disbelief. Then he's yelling and I'm yelling. And then silence. We walk into Winco and we buy our groceries. We get back to the car and there is more yelling. And yelling. I am driving behind a young couple driving a Lexus SUV. I am yelling and listening to music. And I am driving in the far right lane. Yelling. Robert is silent. Usually silent.

I'm yelling and all of a sudden the Lexus swerves into my lane cutting me off and nearly wreaking both cars. Josiah is in the car. He's asleep. Clearly, my yelling is soothing. Suddenly I am filled with complete rage. Rage so deep I want to follow this woman home and bitch her out. Then, I do.

I follow her into a neighborhood. I follow her past a school bus stop. I follow her through two stop signs. Three turns. Lots of trees. Dozens of mailboxes. I follow her. I put my blinker on at all the appropriate spots. I do not tail her. I just follow. I follow while Jason Mraz plays LUCKY. Man, am I lucky to be in love with my best friend. Before marriage ask yourself this: IS THIS PERSON, THIS INDIVIDUAL THE PERSON YOU WANT TO IRRITATE FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE? We're lucky. I am still following. Still yelling.

Then, Robert says, "Umm...honey? What are you doing?" I look at him in disbelief. What does he mean what am I doing? Clearly, I am following. DUH. What kind of question is this. I tell him that this woman needs to know that it is not acceptable to be driving that way. There are children on the road. There are children in my car.

The Lexus pulls into a small duplex thing. I pull up behind her. I roll down my window and I silently pray she gets out of the car and bitches me out. I can't wait. My heart is pounding, but I am so angry, so irritated I feel the need to take it out on someone other than my husband who is now looking at me in complete astonishment. I'm sure he doesn't recognize this person--his wife.

The passenger door to the Lexus opens and a Russian man says, "We are so sorry. We apologize." I cuss him out. I yell at him. I yell at Robert. I am so mad that I can't think. I have an urge to pull my baby out and introduce him to these people. These people should know that their driving isn't acceptable. They should know that you can't be running people off the road. They should know that mama bears are not to be messed with. Mama bears will take you out.

Then, I drive away as I flip them off. And, I continue yelling at Robert who is still staring at me. Then, I feel better. And, it is over. I drive home in silence. I make a mojito. I take a nap. I feel better.

Pull It One More Mile

Today Robert and I celebrated our 5th wedding anniversary. It has been a trying five years, for sure. Not all marriages survive the things we've been though. Two babies. 7 months in a semi. Three moves. One death. These are events that can make or break a marriage.

Five years seems big to me. To me, five years is triumphant. I wanted my gift to Robert to be memorable. I wanted him to really know that I am in it. In it to win it. Robert and I have a magic number. We say 70/77 or See you at 70, see you at 77. We will be those ages when we celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary. So, I wanted a gift that would depict that worthy goal.

Pull It One More Mile is a print of a Morgan horse that is blind due to a "lifetime of darkness." Ross Taylor says he looks at it when he is despondent to remind him to pull it another mile because it is the American way. My husband lives and breaths the American way. Not only is he Republican to a fault, he is a hard working entrepreneur who shifts between employee and employer often to feed his family.

To me, the print says more. I don't know what struggles we are to face, but I know who we are and I know we can handle it. I have seen my husband at his very best and his very worst. I know what it takes to be his wife and I know where we stand today more than ever before. I purchased the print not only to remind us to be hard working entrepreneurs, but to remind us that often in our marriage we must pull it one more mile.

Isaiah is sick today. Josiah is too young to leave my side. We have family in town visiting. Though I had road rage (I will explain in a later blog) and Robert and I fought like two crazies, it was a perfect anniversary. It reminded me that we are the couple we are because our whole life together has been one more mile. Here's to my husband...may there be many more miles. Happy anniversary!

If You Have Nothing Nice To Say...

I have a few friends who don't have children. I have a few friends who only understand the single life. Who are great "aunties," but have no idea what it takes to be the mother. They never feel the heartbreak. They don't understand "tough love." They are opinionated and have a lot to say about a lot of things that they don't know about.

The best thing about single, non-mother friends, is that they are willing to listen to a mother. They are able to listen for hours about things they don't understand. They listen to what seems to be nonsense. Then, they often judge.

Opinions are simply that. There is no right way or wrong way to raise a child. We do what we do based on how our children will react. We make decisions based on what we think is best for our child at the time. There are a lot of debatable conversations.

My all time debatable conversation is circumcision. Why do we circumcise? Is it merely for aesthetics? Do we want our sons to feel "normal?" Do we do it for health reasons? Are we too lazy to clean the area? Are we just following what others have told us?

My sons are both circumcised. Isaiah was circumcised in Hawaii where we found that he has very, very mild hypospadius. (Not the type of hypospadius where the penis is bent.) Josiah, also has very, very mild hypospadius and was circumcised by the Chief Of Urology at Sunnyside Medical Center.

I did not decide to do this surgery to my boys. I don't have a penis. I have no idea how it would feel to have the penis cut surgically. So, I left it up to my husband. He said to do it. He claimed health issues. (He had a family story to tell. I will save you details.) Of course, I cried when the surgeries were done. I cry whenever the boys are hurt physically and/or emotionally.

The surgery, however, is debatable. It doesn't have to be done. We didn't need to "claim health issues." But, I don't feel that someone who doesn't have a child should talk to me about my right to circumcise my sons. It is up for debate. You can choose to leave your son's penis intact, whole, but I chose otherwise. It is my right to do so and anyone who is not a parent should not judge my decision. It is simply up for debate.

Dads...More Than Just A Type of Babysitter

The first pregnancy, and the first baby, are usually very easy. He eats. He sleeps. He poos. There is no competition. No sibling rivalry. All your attention is focused on that one and only baby. You don't require too much from the husband. You don't require his constant attention. Your hands aren't that full. You tend to cling to your husband for just your emotional well-being and a quick shower.

The second baby is harder. Sure, he is more independent. He doesn't seem to mind waiting for you. The baby seems to understand that he is not the only person in the house. He is content to stare while you work on homework.

No one talks about the dad's part until the second baby. When you are almost out-numbered. When you are older and won't put up with laziness and stupidity. This time the dad knows things. He knows how to put clothes on the baby without breaking an arm. He knows how to change a diaper. He knows how to comfort. He knows how to put the Snugli on himself and can do more than install the car seat. He is dad...more than a frequent babysitter.

Robert isn't perfect. He did not drive me to the hospital either time. He doesn't know how to make a bottle because I breastfeed. He can barely change a poopie diaper without throwing up. He enjoys his sleep at night and on Sunday mornings. He is the dad.

When Josiah was born, he had to take on a ton of responsibility with Isaiah. I take my even, predictable schedule for granted. I know my start time, I know my finish time, I know what time I need to drop Isaiah off at school. Robert doesn't have a schedule like that. He is tired. His work is mentally exhausting. One wrong move on his part could kill a number of people. It could kill himself. He must sleep because if he doesn't he is hazardous on the road. He must be alert because if he isn't it can do more damage than the average vehicle.

The second doesn't care about his sleep. The mom of two babies doesn't care about his sleep either. We are tired ourselves. So, the dad takes on those early responsibilities when we can't do it ourselves. During those first few weeks when we are just mom...not super mom. We can barely walk. A shower is taxing. The older child(ren) require more than usual. So suddenly, the dad is more important.

If you're a dad and you're reading this blog and you're expecting your second child, remember that you're more than the babysitter. We need help. We need to sleep. We need you to understand that we need more emotional support than usual. We can't think strait. We miss our first child terribly. We miss being held by you. We miss being the GIRLFRIEND, though we love being the wife.

Bring home flowers. Put on cologne. Smile when we want to cry. Hug us when we aren't huggable. Be responsible. Be dependable. Be smart. Be alert. Listen. Be who you were when we met you plus be the father that we need you to be for the children. Be more because after two more is necessary.

Marry This One!!!

I have incredible friends. I have friends that I've known for my entire life, or what seems to be, and friends that are new, but fit in perfectly. My newest friends, Stephanie and Jan, have only been around for a short while. They became instant family. We've been through a lot more in our short friendship than most people do in years.

Going on. Stephanie was, and so was Jan, Isaiah's preschool teacher. I'm sure you don't generally adopt the preschool teachers as family, but we did. Quickly, Stephanie's youngest daughter and my oldest son developed their 1st crushes. Cute, little crushes. We are determined to marry them off. We laugh about the funny things they do. The way they laugh. The way they fight. The way they push each other and call each other names.

We laugh about their childish chemistry. We smile at the way they ask for each other. We say, "Marry this one. " And, we giggle. We is simply Stephanie and I. (Lol)

Today's blog isn't really about our kids loving each other. It is about the way we love each other. Friendships are incredibly important when you have a bunch of kids. Stephanie has 3+1 kids. (Long story.) I have two boys. The most important part of being a woman is wife/mother, but FRIEND keeps the sanity. FRIEND soothes your soul. FRIEND, be it email or live, is just as important as that first cup of coffee in the morning, that evening glass of wine, and that deep, deep pillow.

Our friends are important. We often don't remember exactly how much they mean to us. We call on them in our darkest hours and depend on them to celebrate the very best ones. They remind us that we are not alone when we often think we are. They are soldiers in the same fight. Allies in our everyday battles.

Mister Laryngitis aka The Idiot

Josiah is sick. I've had little experience with two children being sick at once, but I know when my children need to be seen. I know when they're sick. I know why. I know them inside and out.

We get there and the receptionist says, "You'll be seeing Mister Garcia today. Is that ok?" I said yes because...well why not? Then, I get to the tiny room and the nurse says, "Mr. Garcia will be right with you." So, I had to ask why they were calling him mister and not doctor. She said, "Let there be no confusion. He is a PA not a doctor."

First of all, what is a PA? And, if I have to pay a copay why can't I see a doctor?

Mister looked at Josiah. Mister examined his ears. Mister said that Josiah has a slight fever and some laryngitis. Mister said that Josiah needs rest and if Josiah has a higher fever we need to bring Josiah back. So, I ask Mister, "What is a fever? Because my first son, Isaiah gets fevers of a 107 and I need to know when to bring Josiah in." Mister said that Isaiah should be in the Guinness Book of World Records because he'd been "doing this for 20 years and he's never seen any fever that high before."

I got flustered. I felt like he was accusing me of lying. I felt like he was judging my parenting style. I felt like crying. Kinda. When he left, my sister asked Anaiyah to close the door. Then she said, "That is why he's a mister." She's funny. You can always trust that your sister will back you up against the mister. Sisters before misters.

Robert said, "You can't trust someone who has been doing something for 20 years because they don't know shit." Tomorrow, I'm tattling on Mister. I'm going to stick up for mothers who are subjected to the misters of the world. They judge us and seem to not care that we feel a certain way about how they say the things that they say. They're rude. They think they know our children more than we do. They think that because they're "misters" they know everything. Mister didn't know shit. Mister is an asshole.

Will You Just Shut Your Mouth??

Several people have sent me messages about the random things people will say to them while they are out in the community. I often hear surprising things out of the mouths of strangers. I'm unsure why they feel obliged to talk to me, to us, about some things. I hate to be interrupted with a stupid comment. It is in my nature to use my words to fight back.

Once, when I was just Isaiah's mother, my mother took us to San Francisco to celebrate the upcoming arrival of my niece. This was a joyous occasion because Anaiyah would be the first girl in our family of her generation. Not only is she the first girl, but she is my sister's daughter. Anyone who knows my sister knows that she needed to have a little girl. She is a fashion-forward, beautiful, strong woman. Anaiyah is lucky to have Ashley as her mother. Moving on.

As it goes with most family vacations we fought with eachother. Constantly fighting. Constantly bickering. The squabbles only stop for the shopping. Constantly shopping. Except, San Fransisco isn't easily accessible to gigantic jogging strollers. The trolley is the worst. We're standing in line for the trolley and Isaiah is screaming bloody murder. That kid had been subjected to shop after shop. I don't blame him for crying like that. Except, this woman was staring at him. Staring at me. So, I cussed her ass out good.

If my kids are screaming at the top of thier lungs, don't talk to me. Don't talk to either of them. If you care about their age difference, keep your opinion to yourself. If you have some parenting advice, I probably don't need it. I could care less about your "experiences." I don't want to know about bottle-feeding. I don't care if your nipples are inverted. I certainly do not want to entertain your questions. What you think about my kids don't matter to me or to them. And, do not look at me with pitiful, self-indulgent, "My kid would not behave that way" eyes...unless you want me to cuss you out and tell you exactly whats up. And, if you comment on my cussing you out you will hear another earful about your big, fat mouth. So shut it unless you have anything nice to say.

People just don't understand. They think it is acceptable to say things to us. Often, we're caught with two screaming kids, a cart full of groceries, our cell phone up to our ear on a call from the doctor, and standing in the middle of the longest line at the super market. We can't hear ourselves think, to use our planning time effectively, with the words that are coming out of their mouth. We end up flustered and angry and it doesn't benefit not one person. Especially the one person that thought they were doing good by talking in the first place.

Three Might Be Insane

I know I'm not the 1st woman to wonder about her body. What is my stomach doing? What is my uterus doing? Where is my period? There are common breastfeeding myths--you can't get pregnant while breastfeeding. (Yeah, right.) You can't get pregnant if you use a condom. (Give me a break.) Birth control works. (Really? What is that boy's name? Isaiah.)

A few weeks ago, right around Christmas, I completely believed that I was pregnant. I had a terrible pain in my side, constant nausea, and a nagging sensation. I really, really felt pregnant. I took three pregnancy tests. Each negative. Each a feeling of relief. Each a worry disappearing.

Robert is VERY Catholic. I know, for a fact, that he would NEVER cheat on me. I believe that infidelity is not in his nature. Not only is he religious, but he is a cowboy. Cowboys don't cheat. They love animals. They love trucks. They love dirt. Above all, they LOVE THEIR WIVES.

So, when I had that nagging pregnancy feeling I felt that I had to hide it from my husband. I thought, for sure, that he wouldn't condone an abortion. Which is what I thought I'd need. I don't believe in abortion. I don't care if other people do, I just don't. I worry that God will judge me. I worry that my husband will judge me. I worry most that I will judge myself. Will I even be myself if I did that?

I couldn't hide it from Robert. I had to tell him. But, I was so scared. And, he agreed. I may have had to have an abortion. Could my body even support another child? It had been cut deep and Josiah was so big that he ripped open Isaiah's incision. Josiah had a good possibility of crushing his own umbilical cord. So, an abortion seemed like what would happen. Oh no.

Luckily, it was just a sore stomach. I was sick, not pregnant. And, I felt better after pooing like a goose. I am now on birth control, but it is important to note that THREE would be hard. I am not woman enough yet. How would that have been fair to Josiah? How would that have been fair to me???

The Fantastic Intrusion

My family is in town. It feels like I've had someone else in my house for WEEKS on end. I guess in a way, I have. My brother visited during Christmas, my sister and my niece are here now, and soon my dad will be here. The house is a mess. The TV is super loud. The kitchen is constantly buzzing. One mojito down--two more to go.

Isaiah threw a tantrum at Portland's Children's Museum today. It isn't that he doesn't throw tantrums. He is five. Of course Isaiah throws tantrums. Though since my parents have moved to town, Isaiah's tantrums have been considerably worse. When we visit in Hawaii, it was ok for the grandparents to baby the children. In fact, it was wanted. Since they've moved to town, however, it is a different story. Their intrusion is awkward. They baby Isaiah. They hold him when I scold him. They call me mean mommy. Clearly, some boundaries need to be set.

It is a different story when my sister is in town. We share the same parenting beliefs. We believe in discipline. We strive for manners. Throughout the house you'll hear, "Say please. Say thank you. Repeat after me. Yes Mommy. Yes Aunty. Don't tell me to calm down. Time out!." We say them numerous times a day. We will not be outnumbered by the children. Though, we are.

Grandparents are meant to spoil. They are the official NO SPANKING ZONE. They comfort. They talk. They stick up for the little ones. They are the biggest, most annoying intrusion. Hands down. No comparison. They tell you how to parent. They "advise." They criticise. They are not always right, but they beg to differ.

Though I complain. Though I feel intruded upon. Though I know I am the parent and even though I am the boss, I should feel loved. I know how they feel about our children--my children. I know my boys, my niece, are safe in the event that I/we take the long journey alone. I know they are loved.

The house is a mess. The TV is loud. They intrude. They cross boundaries. They are irritating and everyone will agree. But, they are a fantastic intrusion. They are wonderful. They are family.

Did You Just Compare Your Dog To My Baby???

I have a dog. He's alright. I like him a lot. He occasionally steals my sandwiches and often gets into the trash, but he LOVES my children (children is still odd to me) and would probably give his life for them. He is loyal. He is full of energy. He helped me off the toilet when I was pregnant with Josiah. He chases cats away from my truck and he's NEVER lifted his leg to the Christmas tree. He is a GOOD dog, but he is NOT family.

I have several friends, who may be offended when reading this blog, that love their dogs. They love them like family. They said, "My dog is a part of my family and having a dog is like having a baby."

Did you just compare your dog to my baby???

I'm deeply concerned by this insane statement. I firmly believe that the dog is NOT family. In fact, these words have came out of my own mouth. Trooper, my 60lbs boxer, has a concrete place in my house. He is the dog. He is not my child. He did not come out of me. I like him, but he is not my family. People often ask me why he's so well-behaved. I kennel him. I occasionally show him whats up. I do not baby him. He is a dog. His purpose in my home is to protect me and the children. In the event that he doesn't perform his said purpose, I will have no problem trading up. He doesn't need to live in my house if he can't pull his own weight. If my house is burglarized and my dog isn't lying on the ground dead, he will be put up for adoption to another family who likes sissy dogs.

Now, I have no problem saying this because my dog would go the distance for my family. Once, Robert came in our house wearing his motorcycle helmet. The dog had never seen the helmet before and he quickly went into his best "sick 'em" position and let out a deep, defending growl. He got down ready to attack just as I walked around the corner and I had to quickly give the command to have him back up out of fear that I'd have to rush Robert to the emergency room.

Trooper walked me to the toilet and helped me off of it all through my pregnancy. He sits next to Isaiah's side when Isaiah has a 107.8 degree fever. He entertains Josiah and has stood guard next to him. He has stood, with his hair up, while I took an application of a sexual predator. When the applicant asked if the dog will bite I simply said, "Yes."

Trooper is a good dog. He is a keeper. But, he is not my family. Human food always before dog food. The heater is turned on for babies, not dogs. If he bites one of my children, I'll take his ass out myself.

I needed to write this blog because dogs are not like babies. They are animals. I would give my life, sell my body, starve, to feed/cloth/protect my sons. There is no comparison. I would not do that for my dog.

If I'm Grown-Up Why Do I Feel Grounded???

When I got pregnant with Isaiah my mother was, naturally, pissed off. I was nineteen years old, I wasn't married, I should have been going to college. Any good mother would be upset. Any great mother would throw a bitch fit. (Right, mom?)

Of course, everything works itself out. We lived with my parents for a while before moving away and living in an 18-wheeler. (That is a whole other story.) Isaiah is healthy and happy and thriving. He is humorous and charming and generous. I am clearly doing a good job.

Getting pregnant with Josiah is a different story altogether. I was happily married, 25 years old, and usually financially stable. Josiah is a planned baby. Robert and I went to Sunriver, OR, left Isaiah with his Godmother, and went about the baby making process! That is, after all, the most fun part.

I had every intention of getting pregnant that weekend. In fact, I did. I started feeling nauseous while in Hawaii. It was not fun. My boob, just one boob, hurt like hell and certain smells would insult me. Robert was particularly irritating and everything made me overly emotional.

Here is the real kicker. I was afraid of my mother! What the hell. She is, as I said before, the epitome of working mother. She is corporate climber--not to be messed with. My brother in law said to my sister, "I would never want to cross your mom." Not only is he a grown person he is a BIG grown person. One would not want to cross him. That is how scary she can be! (No offense, mother.)

My hands started sweating. My heart starting racing. My intestines knotted and I felt moths start creeping all over my body. I felt like I did something wrong. I felt like she was going to ground me. Which is awkward in itself because at the time SHE LIVED UNDER MY ROOF! At any moment I knew she'd start saying, "No TV! No phone! No allowance! Not until you know the consequences of your actions!"

I asked myself over and over again, "If I am a grown up, if I pay my own rent, and I buy my own groceries, and I already have a child, then WHY DO I FEEL LIKE SHE'S GOING TO GROUND ME???"

This is a confusing time for any young mother. Why do we feel obligated to do what our parents want us to do when we, hopefully, have been living on our own for years? Why do I clean the house like a mad person before my parents visit? Why, when Robert is on his way home, do I feel the need to dust or put the dishes away? Isn't it my right, my right as a housewife, to live however it is that I want to live? Why do I care about what they think???

There is no real answer for this. I must be psychologically unbalanced. It must be the old-school Filipino way that has brought upon this wretched guilt. I am guilty of not living up to certain standards. I am guilty of not vacuuming and dusting. I am guilty of feeling like a child when my mother comes to call. That is whack. I should only be guilty of not giving a shit.

Parenting 101--Good Personal Hygiene

With the H1N1 outbreak spreading like wild fire I should have been wise enough to put money into hand sanitizer stocks. I should have put my life savings into this "medical marvel" that kills 99.9% of germs on contact. Alas, I did not.

I got to thinking, yesterday, about the unspoken/not-written rules of parenting. Things we inadvertently do without thinking and the words that come out of our mouth while we're performing our daily tasks. Much of my day is spent wiping up spit up and drool, busting out a boob, cleaning up poop, bathing, dishwashing, and of course, the dreaded laundry.

Now, in the middle of all of that I teach good personal hygiene. We don't think much about this tiny act, but imagine if we didn't say the things we say to our children about their personal space, about their body parts, about their eating habits. I am disgusted imagining it.

My sister says the world's most interesting things when she's teaching personal hygiene. Yesterday she yelled, "Anaiyah, WIPE YOUR VAGINA AND WASH THOSE STINKY HANDS!" This, although loud and slighty obnoxious, is worthy advice. You need to wipe. Its a part of life.

I've had my fair share of embarassing sentences. They include: Isaiah, wipe your ass. There is shit on it. Isaiah, brush your teeth your breath stinks. Josiah, you pissed on me and I don't like that. I never said I was perfect. I cuss like a sailor and my oldest repeats. I've heard him say, "Mama, Josiah shit his pants and it stinks." I've asked Isaiah where his dad is and without thinking he'll say, "Daddy is in the bathroom taking a shit." Honesty is the best policy.

Both of my children have gotten the infamous pink eye shortly after birth. When Isaiah got it, I asked my grandmother for advice. She is an old-fashioned Filipino women. She is filled with "worldly" advice in regards to homeopathic remedies. She simply said, "Touch the eye to the penis." What do you suppose that means? Her theory, if I remember correctly, was to cure the eye with the penis. I'm still unsure of this. Pink eye will usually heal on its own, however, to speed up the process, I do recommend spraying some breastmilk in the eye. Breastmilk is filled with wonderful antioxidants and it heals almost overnight. I do not recommend "touching the penis to the eye" especially if your baby is a girl.

Yesterday, while picking up Isaiah, I let the office lady hold Josiah. The problem with more than one child is that you only have two hands. Sometimes, someone else needs to hold the baby. There are many baby rules, but above all you must sanitize before you hold the baby. When another woman started touching Josiah, I tapped her on the shoulder and politely asked, "Have you sanitized yet?" She looked at me like I was crazy and I said, "Only those who have santized are allowed to associate with the baby."

We are not crazy. The things we say, even the strange and unnerving things, are for the well-being of our children. We need to say them to protect them. Wipe your vagina, flush the toilet, brush your teeth--all very important. And, if you're reading this blog and no longer take care of your own children remember these things. You can not visit the babies if you are sick. You can not hold the babies if you haven't sanitized. And, if you come over and I ask where you are when I can't find you, Isaiah will probably say, "He's taking a shit."

The Appearance Of Thing Two

My first son, Isaiah, was born at a staggering 3lbs and 14oz. He was small, but incredibly mighty. He was, at that moment in time, the best thing that ever happened to me. He taught me extraordinary lessons about myself. These lessons can only be taught by your first child. Am I healthy enough? Am I old enough? Am I mature enough? Is my relationship stable? Do I have to be married? Do I have enough money.

I was probably not healthy enough. I definately was not old enough. I learned to be mature enough. My relationship is stable, but there will always be issues to deal with. I did not have to be married. There will NEVER be enough money.

Only your first child, your first true responsibility, can teach you these things. You learn new things about human-beings, you take appropriate actions to mold this new life into the makings of a worthy adult, but most importantly, you learn exactly what you are made of. You learn your strength, your endurance, your stamina.

Your second child gets the seasoned parent. The one that works in an organized chaos. Your second child gets the parent that is often distracted, often annoyed, usually tired, and completely overwhelmed.

The mere appearance of a "+" on that pee stick poses questions. Some of them, like "Is there enough money?", are already answered. (No, there isn't enough money.) The questions that don't have anwers are the scariest.

How will Isaiah react? Is there enough time? Is there enough love? These questions are the hardest. The plus sign on the pregnancy test can't predict what is coming. It only tells you that a baby is on its way. That you will be responsible for another life, another human being.

Josiah, my second son, was born via c-section. I drove myself to the hospital. (For the second time in a row.) Robert got to Southwest Washington Medical Center with just 20 minutes to spare. Josiah came 10 days earlier than our planned surgery date.

When I dropped Isaiah off that morning I remember seeing my baby, my small kindergartener, my first born, and when he came to visit a few days later he was no longer the smallest, the most frail. Yet, in the moments that lead to the operating room, I could only think of him. He is my first born, my first responsibilty, he was my first duty as a mother, and I cried for him because I didn't tell him goodbye. All I could think about was dying on that operating table and never seeing him again. In my head, I knew Josiah needed to come out. (He had no amniotic fluid and could have crushed his umbilical cord.) Yet, in my heart I could only see Isaiah. I had invested so much time, so much of myself, in this tiny person, that at that moment he held my entire heart and didn't even know it.

And, that all faded, when the doctor said, "Its a boy!" Isaiah's place in my heart, in my head, somehow grew enough to hold his 6lb, 14oz baby brother, Josiah. There is enough love, there always has been. There isn't always enough time, never enough money, but there is always enough love.

Two is scary. It is hard. It is emotionally draining. Two is also joyous and exhilirating and hopeful. You have new hopes, new dreams, for these two incredible beings. These two tiny hearts, who hold so much of yourself, learn to interact and play and they talk and they laugh and all of a sudden you know where the love is. It is now, and fifty years from now, when the laughter at the dining room table is amplified and the Christmas tree is brighter.