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.