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.