Grateful

Every morning before I push myself out of bed and each night before drifting off to sleep, I try to come to terms with my new routine.  It's been a harsh reality, this whole concept of giving your children (especially your baby) to someone else for 40 hours a week.  It's been hard to accept the fact that from Monday through Friday, I get only 3 awake hours each day with Ryan. I try to cherish those hours as much as I can. But I know it will be hard for a while.

As I struggle with this new routine, I am both sad and extremely grateful. Every time I turn on the radio, it seems, I hear a story about loss. When I scan news websites, I don't have to go too far before I come across a tragic headline.  People all over the world are prematurely having to say goodbye to those that they love. But the stories that make me stop and think twice involve the tragic loss of a child. Since becoming a parent, this is my greatest and most consuming fear.

So, I'm stuck between two feelings. One is a feeling of sadness and self-pity at having to spend so much time away from my kids. The other is a feeling of uneasy relief and thankfullness for each day that I get to spend with them, no matter how little that time is.

While we don't always get to live the life that we want, we should always be thankful for the life that we have. For each precious

and not-so-precious moment.

Blood & Other Stuff

Humor me, please. Let's play this little game called "Choose Your Own Adventure."

It's 5:03pm and you're peeling out of the office driveway. You roll down the windows in your 97 Subaru Legacy, slide your shades on, and crank up the news radios (it's so hip). You've got one hand on the wheel and you slink down, low into your seat. For the 35 minutes it takes you to get from the office to "Grandma's house," you are a free woman. No kids. No job. Just you, the road, and a thousand other drivers sitting in sweltering traffic.

You pass the farm-themed mattress store and nod at a 7-foot cardboard cut-out of a smiling holstein cow. From there you A) turn down a side street and park at the nearest happy hour advertisement or B) stay on the road and keep your appointment to pick up the kids.

If you chose Option A, this is what awaits you: An hour and a half of sitting in a cool, cushiony booth with your heels kicked off, slinging back $3 margaritas, and turning every verticle structure into a dancing pole.

If you chose Option B, your evening looks like this: holding a screaming, poopy baby, in the middle of a kitchen strewn with the contents of 5 empty grocery bags, using one hand to apply pressure to a geyser of blood coming out of your hysterical son's finger, and using the other hand to tend to dinner which has just burned to a freaking crisp.

Guess what I chose?

When I walked into the house tonight, I was greeted by a wonderful smell coming from my crock pot. I had filled it before I left this morning, anxious to try a new recipe and to experience the magic of the crock pot. (i.e. "I'm too lazy to actually cook, so I'll throw a bunch of randon crap into a pot and let it simmer all day.")

I picked a screaming, unhappy Ryan out of his carseat and walked into the kitchen to investigate. With much anticipation, I pried the lid of the crock pot and discovered this:

Can food BURN in a slow cooker? Is that even possible?

At that point, Ryan was ready for a bottle and a nap. When he realized I was not complying with his wishes in a timley fashion, his screaming started up again. Right at that moment, I heard a shrill cry from the living room. I assumed it was Jacob, being horribly frightened by a tiny lady bug. Jacob ran into the kitchen, warm tears streaming down his face, and pushed an index finger towards me. As he did so, droplets of liquid landed against my arm and cheek.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

His index finger was covered with the stuff. It oozed and bubbled from a gash on his finger and dripped all over the floor. Jacob was absolutely hysterical. This made Ryan more hysterical. With the baby on my hip, I rushed to grab a paper towel and apply pressure.

The entire time I was doing this, I consoled Jacob, "It's OK. It's just a tiny owie. There's barely any blood." Meanwhile, I'm said to myself. "OMG, look at all the blood. Is his finger going to fall off? Do I need to go to the emergency room? Try not to faint!"

We walked to the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood behind us. I washed up his finger to discover that all that blood was really just coming from one cut on his finger. And, despite the oozing blood, it didn't look deep or all that serious. I convinced Jacob to let me put a bandaid on it. Then I set him down on the couch to calm down.

"WAAAAH," he cried, "It still HURTS mommy! It HURTS REALLY BAD!"

"How did you hurt yourself?"

"WAAAAAH. I [sniffle] DONT [sniffle] KNOOOOOOW! IT HURTS!"

"What did you do?"

"WAAAAAAH. I CAN'T REMEMBER [sob]"

"Where were you when it started to hurt?"

"I [sniffle] WASN'T [sniffle] PLAYING WITH THE FAN" He threw his head back and howled some more.

I looked over at the fan and saw that two of the protective grates had been pried apart just enough to slip a 3 year old finger through.

"Jacob, did you stick your finger in the fan?"

"[sob] YEEEEEE-AAAAAH [sniffle]. WAAAH, IT STILL HURTS."

I tried so hard not to laugh or look amused. "Jacob, you know you're not supposed to play with the fan!"

"SO-RRRRY. WAAAAH"

"Will a popsicle make you feel better?" I asked. The hysterical crying stopoed and was replaced with silence. Jacob was thinking.

"Oh sure." He said happily. "But I want a blue one please. Only the blue kind can make me feel better."

The healing power of the popsicle. Who knew?

After Jacob calmed down, I finally got around to feeding Ryan. Poor guy, it's not like he can compete with blood and hysterics.

Before I knew it, it was 7pm and I was starving. It finally sunk in that my dinner was a big pile of char. I thought about throwing in the towel and making a run for Slurpees at the 7-11 or hitting up the McDonald's drive-thru. Instead, I dug through my groceries and decided to make the dinner that was on the menu for tomorrow night.

And it was fabulous. Well worth the blood and char.

Cedar Planked Salmon

And now, after putting the kids to bed, washing the dishes, and doing a load of laundry, I'm too tired to even care that I just found dried blood all over my Boppy pillow. And on my elbow. And on the bathroom floor.

Tomorrow, I'm choosing Option A.

The Mommy Hangover

We still haven't settled into our new routine. It's so hard to keep the house clean now that time is scarce and we're always rushing out the door in the mornings. By the time we get home, eat dinner, and get the kids to bed, we're too exhausted to do much of anything else.

I'm rusty. I can't remember how people work 8 hours a day, commute, cook dinner, mother two children AND have a clean house. It doesn't help that I've started running again. I figured out I can squeeze a run in between the time the kids go to bed and the gym closes. So far, my goal of running 4 days a week is working. And I'm already up to 4 miles at 8:15 minute pace! Maybe that's why the house is a mess...I, without hesitation, choose running over cleaning! But I'm such a happier person when I'm running, so I think it's for everyone's benefit....

On a different note, I got to have a girls' night out the other day. It was unexpected and fantastic. After just one truffle-tini, I was ready to hit the dance floor. So we did!

Now, I don't have many talents BUT I am very talented at looking like a fool and not caring one single bit! So we strutted onto that empty dance floor and got the party started. People should pay me to go around to different clubs and warm up the dance floors. Everyone will want to dance next to me because, in comparison, I can make anyone look good. Even the awkward old man dancing like a diva all by himself.

I felt like such a mom. There I was in my jeans, ratty Toms, and conservative top, doing the Duck Lips and jumpimg in the air. Meanwhile, the other girls were wearing mini skirts and grinding low on their awkward-looking boyfriends. Hah! Guys actually DANCING! I had a strong urge to warn those women to enjoy the dancing as much as possible, because inevitably, over the years, every man develops a severe dancing allergy. I managed to contain myself, however.

I got home just as the clock struck midnight- and didn't turn into a pumpkin. My exhausted self drifted to sleep right away. Then, at 2am, I was rudely awaken by a crabby Ryan. He was stuffy and congested and not a happy camper. I gave him a bottle and tucked him into bed next to me.

At 5am, I woke up to the sound of Darth Vader breathing into my ear. At first I thought my erotic Spiderman dreams were being replaced by erotic Star Wars dream (just my luck, my dreams WOULD be about Darth Vader rather than Han Solo...). But nope, it was just Ryan. Poor guy was having such a hard time. He started fussing and crying but he was too uncomfortable to sleep. I picked him up and held him against my chest. He cried pathetic little cries before falling asleep. Being vertical must have helped his congestion.

Each time I tried to put Ryan back down or even lay with him on my chest, he woke up miserable again. So I spent from 5 to 6 walking him around the room so that he could sleep. I finally took him out into the living room and sat down with him propped up against my shoulder. Just as I was finally falling asleep, Jacob popped out of his room, unusually early. He immediately asked for breakfast, then juice, then a popsicle, and then to watch TV. After I complied with some of those requests, it took me a full 3 minutes before I realized I had Jacob watching the Spanish Channel.

By then, I had completely given up on trying to go back to sleep.  Instead, I focused on making breakfast burritos- with homemade tortillas, of course!

I was so exhausted all day; I was a walking mummy. Funny how that works when you become a mom.  You have an awesome girls' night out and enjoy a drink or two. Before you leave the bar, you pound shots of WATER.  And the next day, while you have all the symptoms of a hangover, those symptoms are merely child-inflicted rather than alcohol-induced. And they don't even come with a post-party high or the benefit of not remembering how much of a fool you made of yourself on the dance floor.

Tired though I was, we still enjoyed the 90+ degree weather.

It looks like Ryan is doing the boogie here. LOVE IT!

TGIF

This is what I'd been waiting for since I woke up this morning:

Cuddles during the Olympics.

When I'm holding my two babies, I feel like I'm holding the world.

During the Olympics coverage tonight, Jacob informed me that when the three of us grow big, we're going to swim in the Olympics and we will all earn gold "badges." Then, we're going to watch as daddy jumps on the diving board.

I think that's a solid plan. Although, I think my children's names are more suited for baseball and football players.

Oh and I know this is blurry, but I just have to share it. Here is Ryan wearing a bib that I used to wear when I was a baby (my dad is a lawyer). Who would have known that this bib would acurately depict my future? Maybe it will work on Ryan?

Spoke Too Soon

Today was hard. Hard.

I woke up 15 minutes before my husband had to leave the house with the boys. I got to cuddle Ryan for 7 of those minutes before they left. As I put him in his carseat, I started to cry. It was my first cry since going back to work (I say that as if I didn't cry Sunday night, or Monday night).  After they left, I went back to my room to pick out an outfit.

I saw Ryan's empty bassinet and the tears welled up again.

I popped into the shower and saw his baby bathtub. I remembered how much fun we had at bathtime last night. More tears.

I arrived at work and sadness just kind of hung over me. I dove straight into work and didn't lift my head up until about 10:30 when I found my mind wandering. It wanted me to feel sorry for myself. I blink some tears away and powered through until lunch.

I had to completely shut off the normal part of my brain while I was at my desk. I had to act like a robot. I completed an entire demand letter in 3 hours. I think that's my new personal record.

Every little thought triggered tears. I was so worried someone would ask me if I was ok. I knew that if I started to talk about it, the dam would break. At one point, I couldn't stop the tears. They rolled down my cheeks in hot, uncontrollable trails. I quickly stepped in the bathroom and just let them fall. After a couple minutes (which seemed like forever), I pulled myself together, fanned my face with a paper towel and rushed back to my desk, hoping no one would stop me and notice my puffy, red eyes.

"Ryan's fine." I repeated over and over.

"I'M FINE." I repeated even more.

"I'm fine! This will get easier! It will!"

Then I put my head back down and plowed through another demand letter.

Fast forward a couple hours and everything was right again:

You know he likes you when he tries his best to eat you :)

I Guess I'll Survive Afterall

Today went pretty well. But I have a few thoughts:

(1) I need DRUGS! Tomorrow, my caffeine strike is officially ending. It's just not possible to be a productive office-dweller and cater to two small children in one day without it. Short of getting more sleep (HA! Like that's going to happen) It's the only way to make sure I don't fall asleep in medical records. Who wants to wake up from a nap to a picture of someone's colonoscopy?! Ew.

(2) Idle hands are a mom's worst enemy. I was doing so well when I got to work. I hadn't shed a single tear! I dove enthusiastically into the pile of work on my desk. I slowly cleared the cobwebs from my mind by remembering cases and my own computer password.... then lunch happened. I usually look forward to lunch. But today, it was my first opportunity to think about the kids. "Had Ryan pooped yet? Was it wet or chunky?" I looked out at the sunny weather and I could just imagine Jacob, pantsless and in his bright green crocs, combing my parents' beach for "treasures." I had to work hard to keep the tears at bay and to keep from feeling sorry for myself that I was stuck in an office and not out exploring the world with them.

(3) Shaping underwear is my new best friend. Should I eat another chocolate? Sure! Why not! My shaping underwear will hide it so it's basically like it never happened. Right? On a related note, how many butt clenches does it take to burn off a handful of M&M's?

(4)  I swear that since I've been gone, the eight hour work day has gotten loooooooonger. People really actually sit at a desk for 8 hours? REALLY?! I miss naptime!

(4) (edited: obviously there are still some cobwebs as I haven't regained my ability to count) I was spoiled to have a 4 month maternity leave. Those 4 months were such an amazing time in my life. I would happily relive any moment from the past 4 months- even the ones where I had poop splatters all over my arms or where I was doing damage control during one a very persistent and stubborn 3.5 year old's tantrum.

(5) Today, I didn't have a lot of time with the kids. In fact, we only got 4 awake hours together. BUT the quality of that time greatly surpassed any 4 hour chunk in a pre-work day.

(6) Although I had a good day, my heart felt a little teeny bit like it was breaking at some points. I know this will eventually ease up but maybe I don't want it to. I don't WANT to get used to being apart. I don't want to be desensitized (I know, I know, I'm so DRAMATIC!).

(7) Although it can be hard to be apart, there is nothing better in the world than reuniting with my adorable, tired, crabby, dirt-covered children at the end of the day. When I met my mom at our pick-up and drop off location, this is the scene that was awaiting me:

Grandma tired them out!

And then after we got home:

Trying so hard to sit up on his own

My goofy guy

Monster butt! Finally, butt embellishments for boys!

First Day

Not thrilled about swapping our morning cartoons for a harshly beeping alarm clock. Not thrilled about dropping off the kids and walking out the door. Not thrilled that by 10am, I will be wondering if Ryan is crying, asking to be soothed into his morning nap.

I don't feel good on the inside.

At least I kind of feel good on the outside.

Especially considering that on my last day of work, I looked like this:

Please don't cry, please don't cry, please don't cr.....AP......