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.

We Are All Working Moms

I grew up in Lahaina, Hawaii. Well, kinda. We moved to the other side of the island when I was 10-ish. My parents divorced and my dad moved our family to Paia. He had full-custody of my siblings and I and my mother lived with her boyfriend, now husband, in various towns on the island. (Boyfriend sounds strange as he's my "other dad.")This isn't about my dads.

My mother, Rose, has always been a working woman. She went back to work, I'm assuming, a few years after I was born. She's always worked in the banking industry. She was, before recently, a corporate high mickey muck muck. She rolls with the big dogs. She is as intimidating as she is beautiful. Her business card reads: BOSS. Yet, she juggled her family life with her work life the way a clown would juggle random objects. She could keep all of the balls in the air at the same time and when one would fall, if that ever happened, she handled the problem at hand with diplomacy and tact. Usually.

She wasn't always corporate high roller, banker extraordinaire. She started as a teller in a small bank and then worked her way up. While she climbed her ladder she also commanded the "mommy ship." Her mornings, I'm sure she remembers, were scattered. There was yelling--especially when it came time to brush our hair. She never whipped up baked goods in pearls and business suits like Bree Vandecamp. Instead, she'd whip through Safeway in a hurry. Often, I'd forget to put lotion on my legs and she'd steal some from the cosmetics aisle on the way to checkout. Illegal as it may be, you can't help but laugh.

When she moved out, and we moved to Paia, she'd make the one and a half hour trip to see us during the week. She would bring us McDonalds in her beater car and would hold us while we cried. As a mother now, I can see how that would have broken her heart.

What my mother taught me is even without her job, that road that would lead to her home, her huge move, her cute clothes, her "modern-Nana-esqe", her Mustang, she would have still been a "working mother."

The world wants us to participate in industries. They want us to keep up with our equal counterparts--the men. The world expects things of mothers, all mothers, not just the mothers of children. They expect us to work, to climb, to drive, to learn, to continue, at the same time that we cook, clean, educate, raise the future, be the wife, the household glue. Where is the time?

And, if we choose to stay at home exclusively with the children, we are often judged, looked-down upon, and ridiculed because we haven't started our careers or shown tangible goods of contribution. We hold back on our own needs, our own desires like clothes and spa days, because we simply can not afford them. We put the needs of our children before our own and we often pay by our own embarrassment or by the overwhelming excess closet space.

So, I ask, where is the medium? Where are we happy enough with who we are, where we live, and how much money we make? Why are we torn constantly between home and work and work and home? When I stay home from work, or call in sick, why do I regret it? And, why if I am contributing to the financial aspects of our home, do I feel like I am not doing the best for my children when I can't whip up home made sweets and treats? The most important question of all...why wasn't I born a man so I could go to work, come home, go to sleep, repeat?

Sundays Are Of Utmost Importance

It is 11am on Sunday morning. Sunday is, for many people, a day of rest. It is the day where Americans watch football and ESPN and when we make foods that will lead us to a lifetime of Type 2 Diabetes and heart disease. For many, it is the best day of the week. Not for me.

True, I often take part in the food making, but I also accomplish laundry and grocery shopping. It is the day of car cleaning, homework doing, vacuuming, floor steaming, bathroom scrubbing, sometimes dog washing, and the most important duty of all, Desperate Housewives watching.

Currently, I have my scrapbooking material scattered across my kitchen table. My Cricut Cutter is armed and ready for action, there is a hot pot of coffee waiting, and the boys are watching Mighty Machines on the new DVD player. I shouldn't be writing this blog. I should be scrapbooking and folding laundry.

However, I wanted to note how important Sundays are to all mothers, but especially mothers of two (or more.) Sunday is not the day of rest. Sunday should be dubbed "Day of Preparation." You see, tomorrow is the beginning of the work/school week. Without Sunday, today, I wouldn't be able to accomplish the rest of week without pulling out my hair and/or crying while driving to work and/or from school.

I start work at 10am tomorrow, but will be up at 5am. (Which is 3am to my Hawaii friends.) I will start the day by taking a quick, but effective, shower. Then, I'll turn on the news and drink my coffee. I will soak in Andy Carson's weather report and that bald guy's traffic update. Then, the ground will start shaking and I will be swallowed up in the chaos. Translation: THE BOYS WILL WAKE UP!

There will be an unusual amount of whining. Josiah will probably be twice as hungry. The linens on the bed will, for some odd reason, be pulled completely off. The eggs will crack in the bowl. We will run out of coffee creamer. I will forget to sign the homework. Isaiah won't know where his backpack is. Josiah will shit his pants, his crap will escape his diaper and then it will run up his back. It will be MONDAY!

So, to keep all of that unwanted-ness as far away as possible, I need to prepare. Today is preparation day. Today, I will wash the towels so I have clean ones for tomorrow. I will make sure there is enough creamer. I will tuck the sheets in extra tight. I will find the backpack. I will watch the new Desperate Housewives because I like it and it will remind me that I can't stop the shit from running out of Josiah's diaper and to be grateful that I am not having twins like Lynette, or Windy, my Super-mom friend.

Most people, like Nana's or Dad's, don't know how important Sundays are. People want you to do things. They want you to visit people. Some people, *gasp* want to come over!!! (By the way, I hate hate hate an unexpected knock at the door. Not only do I think you are a religious solicitor, it will usually end with me slamming the door in your face while you are still talking.) I don't play that game. Do not visit me on a Sunday and do not demand that I go somewhere. I am busy. It is the day of PREPARATION, not the day to do what other people want you to do. Today, is the day that I do what NEEDS to be done, SO DON'T BOTHER ME, especially when Desperate Housewives is on.

You Can't Just Leave The Baby

Today was the 1st dry day in about a week. It has been raining huge drops day in and day out. That is the beauty of living in Washington. In fact, it snowed this week as well.

I spoke, rather chatted, with a friend of my sister's about her upcoming baby shower. She questioned me about the stroller she chose and I asked about the car she drives. In turns out, we both drive a Ford Sport Trac. In Washington, it is almost ridiculous to have two children and a Sport Trac. There is barely enough room for another child let alone his gigantic stroller. So, I told her that it wouldn't work, not remembering that this is her FIRST child not her second and that she lives in Hawaii not the Northwest. The Sport Trac works perfectly for one child. Hawaii is the land of rugged parenting. Children keep an eye on children. Children probably won't drown. People yell and spank in public and it is perfectly acceptable.

The first day I picked Isaiah up from school after having Josiah was a rainy day. It was horrible and wet and some asshole parked too close to the side of the truck that I had to pull Josiah out of. I held my umbrella, the baby in his carrier, and had the incredible urge to just kick in that car's door. Isaiah stood, and cried, in the rain. (He had been afraid of the rain since a rain storm in Hawaii.) That night I cried in the shower. I cried tears as big as the drops that rained down that afternoon. I thought seriously about what I could and could not do as a parent of two.

My mom would leave my brother at home, while he napped, to pick up my sister and I from school. She said she didn't want to disturb his slumber. Really? What is that about? You can't leave a baby!!! I've wanted to on a number of occasions, but my brain says I shouldn't. My mind goes to all sorts of places. How easy would it be to leave Josiah, sleeping peacefully in his playpen, while I ran to get his brother? How simple my life would be if I just did that one crazy act of desperation? Simple, until Isaiah's school realized that I was leaving Josiah alone in my office. (Five year olds let people know whats going on at home. They can't control their word diarehha.)

You can't leave the baby. It is taboo to spank your children. You can't teach a child to swim by throwing him into the ocean. You can't take a nap while your five year old watches a movie. You shouldn't co-sleep. Yelling is damaging to your child's well-being. There are so many things we can do, can't do, and shouldn't do that we get confused. We're lost in the shuffle of some new doctor's idea of how we should raise our children. And, I can't help but ask, "How many children does this doctor, this expert, have? Probably just one.

Gotta Get My Groove Back

I have a specific routine in the morning. Before I had Josiah, I would wake up every day at 6am. I would shower, then make myself some coffee, make the breakfast, then wake Isaiah. Josiah has interfered with my leisurely system. Now, I wake at 5am on the dot--even on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays when I don't start until 10am. You see, the problem with having two children is that "mommy work" requires twice the time the first one did. True, they start to entertain eachother when Thing Two rounds 3 months. They smile and laugh and participate with eachother. Isaiah is an entire five years older than his peeing and pooping little brother and it makes my life a little easier. I use Isaiah to fetch things and to play peek a boo while I put a load of laundry in. (There is at least 4x the amount of laundry there was before.)

Anyhoo, in the midst of all of the morning chaos, there is that one stickler--GETTING MYSELF READY. I am a confident woman. I am smart and funny and I can hold a decent conversation. I am beautiful and I think I look good, until I put my glasses on. Now, some mothers, mothers like Sarah Jessica Parker or Angelina Jolie, probably get out of bed much later and still look red-carpet ready. I am not one of those mothers. I am the mother that has a huge cup of coffee in the morning, blow dries quickly, and rubs tinted moisturizer on her face. I do my eyebrows one a month and I pluck them one time a week--if I am very lucky. Since having Josiah, I have shaved my legs twice. It is winter time, but that is no excuse. I am not a man. I should not have hair like one.

It being the new year, I thought I'd make some resolutions. Here they are:

1. Shave your legs at least once a month. Do yourself, and your poor husband, a favor and pull out that old Venus Razor. Dust it off. Buy some smelly shaving creme. Rub it on and get to work.
2. Get out of your granny panties. You are a mother not a granny. Get on it so that Robert will get on you.
3. Get to the gym. Climb those stairs. Work that ass.

Day one. I think I did pretty good. I shaved my legs and I put on a thong. I didn't make it to the gym, but I think that my c-section incision has more to do with it than anything else. That being said, it is time to get back to LA Fitness. I should probably run there because my body is big and I hate it and cardio is the only way to shed that extra weight from the baby. It is true, the second baby's weight is harder to lose than the first. What the hell. My stomach resembles a deflated balloon and my ass is unmentionable.

The gym, though my love for it is real and strong, seems distant. I can't take Josiah to the gym yet. I am very afraid of the H1N1. I hate germs in general and I have enough hand sanitizer to get the Jolly Green Giant drunk, but I can't take my baby there. Children are disgusting and they are experts at sharing their germs. Gross. So, my plan, I always have a plan, is to wait for Robert to come home so that I can sneak away and sweat my ass off on the treadmill. Wish me luck.

But today, I am happy. I fit my pre-2nd-baby thongs and though my ass looks saggy in them my heart is rejoicing. Alicia is under there--somewhere. It gives me hope that I will soon be in stilettos and tight jeans. My husband, though he still can't take his hands off me, will attack my body with as much passion as a teenager, or we will at least sleep deeper because my body doesn't take up so much of the bed.