five minute friday - tree

My dad and I about 6 or 7 years ago.

Go.

These are trees that surround our home. We have only two of our own, but these neighboring trees shade and cover and hug our property.

This is a hug from my dad, who passed away two years ago tomorrow from brain cancer. Too quick. Only weeks. Not even a sapling. Like a lightning strike and a fallen timber.

Here is a daughter who held his hand and relished his hugs for as long as she can remember (and recalls the bark on those hands, the hardworking years that showed) until the day he died.

There is the smile of a man who knew his love was strong enough to carry them through the worst of it, but was as scared as them while he was enduring it. When he wanted to say it out loud, he couldn't. He had lost his words. But we knew. We saw it in his eyes. Reaching like branches. The admiration, the pride, the generosity, the eagerness, the face of a man who loved passionately and experienced life so exuberantly it made you want to see it and live it through his eyes and heart and soul. The man who's mother says that I am her son. My eyes, my mannerisms, the way I speak and live and love. A gift to a granddaughter, those words.

I am a woman who was lucky enough to be raised independently, with the support and guidance of a solid foundation. A root system. Stand tall, be heard, share your abundance, show your colors, be free to be me.

As the seasons change and the leaves fade to brown, I feel secure. He is not here in person, but he is there in the very nature that he loved. Birds tweeting when I stand outside at night or run on an early morning. He's there. In towering pine trees and falling snow. Crystal clear nights and bright stars.

Memories like rings around me. My dad, my Wild Fig tree.

Stop.

Truth (FMF)

I am so glad I waited until today to post my off-the-cuff response to the Five-Minute Friday topic, 'Truth,' from last week. It's really interesting to take a step back and reflect on how you were feeling at any given moment, how you reacted and how you've learned from that experience...

Truth.

Go.

Avicii's song Wake Me Up was playing when I finally got to the car this morning. A perfect sound track and lyrics to a lopsided, imperfect start to the day.

The truth is that I'm still hung over from a mommy rage that occurred when in the very same morning, a canine could not hold it and used the full expanse of our mudroom as a potty, but did not spare the rug, and I stepped in it. Then, a little human had an accident on our bed while enraptured by cartoons; through the feather bed to the mattress. The feather bed that against my husband's better judgement, I stuffed into our washing machine anyway... the last time that chocolate milk was spilled or a night-time pull up did not hold its weight and it caused a little overflow. Oh, the irony.

There was a fellow blogger who set out not to yell for 365 days. I know that it would be like running a marathon but I want to try with all my being. I occasionally raise my voice, but when I really YELL, it has boiled and brewed unknowingly within for who knows how long, for any and many reasons and usually comes spewing out in seemingly the wrong-est situations. Like BAD WRONG. Which is a new slang term I learned yesterday and vowed to use it in a sentence. Truth is, I almost called hubbie and yelled at him for the whole thing. I wanted to share my displaced, ridiculous, decaffeinated fury with my betrothed.

My makeup was smeared after the drive in. I swerved in and out of severe mother's guilt mode where my inner voice admonished me for losing it. Recalling the episode and my 3 year-old wondering why his sweet mama (whom he calls flower princess) was acting like the evil stepmother. Daggers in my heart; leaving him at daycare was the ultimate piercing. Walking to the car, I pleaded with my heart, head and soul and asked why I couldn't be more free-spirited and easy going and calm like so many other moms I know??? WELL, WHY NOT???

I heard the truth loud and clear. Avicci was saying to wake him up when it's over. My tantrum, that is. I spoke back to him, amen. When he's wiser and he's older. I scoffed. I thought I was wiser and older. I thought that after the second child you make more 'informed' decisions. Rational ones. 'All this time I was finding myself and didn't even know I was lost,' he sings. Huh. I didn't even know it. And at this, I cursed my so-called waterproof mascara.

A dear friend spotted me when I arrived and read the look on my face. She soothed me with a similar story (well played - hers was worse) and it lightened me a tad. It's taken me half the day to forgive myself. I forget so quickly that I've counseled other friends in this very conversation. When I was able to play the knowledgeable one. The offerer of sage advice. I had to turn that inward and take a bit of my own today and let myself off the hook.

Here's hoping that he calls me flower when I pick him up and still wants to hold my hand and give  'super-duper' hugs to this hairy-scary, ranting mama who sprouted a Medusa head this morning.

Searching for grace, that is my Truth on this Friday, friends. I am not perfect and I need to quit trying to be. I didn't know I was lost. I'm going to get the Yoga mat out this weekend. And count to ten.

Stop. Exhale.

Bug was as happy to see me when I picked him up as the day before. We had a great weekend with lots of together time and hugs and a 4-1/2 hour birthday party with 15 children!!! I counted to ten (did not get the yoga matt out - oops) and didn't yell... only used inflection in my voice and expression on my face to get my point clearly across and it actually worked. I think my kids were dumbfounded as to why I was talking in a very controlled and neutral voice - at this point, they think mommy is just completely loco anyway!

FMF: Together

This season inevitably brings out the feelings of memories, closeness, spending time. A kaleidoscope of leaves like a painting, crunching under feet, making haphazard piles for jumping. Crisp air, carving pumpkins and little munchkins dressed up as their favorite character.

Trick or treat is a tradition that we always participated in when I was a little girl. October was a magical time and we spent lots of time outdoors, sharing adventures.

The cooler air, nostalgic smells and holiday fare bring up some very vivid and palpable memories. Sometimes so thick and present that I have to choke back tears, or else let them fall.

It's because autumn was the time of year my dad loved best. It is also bittersweet because 2 years ago during this very season is when we discovered he was ill and lost him a short five and half weeks later. That season when Adelle's 'Someone Like You' was hot on the charts and it seemed to follow me on those rainy October and November days back and forth to the hospital to visit my dad. Strange that this song affected me so, but in my head at that time the song was about my parents love story and the melody, words and her vivid voice cut through my heart like a knife.

I still can't listen to that song without taking pause. Remembering all of their good times, together times as a family growing up.

It makes me want to stop the clock and keep my boys sweet and innocent and little and allow them to experience the kind of togetherness my parents created for my sister and I all the time, but especially so wonderfully during the holiday months. It is picture perfect in my mind.

This one's for you Dad, and for teaching me what it meant to be together.

When Mickey Mouse Sounds Like a Smart-A**

So there I am mid-search for a preschooler's missing sock and I catch myself, mid-comment under my breath - in response to a comment Mickey Mouse has made to Daisy.

It was Beetle's current fav episode of MMCH called 'Super-Spy Daisy'. The group needed to cross a river and Daisy says, 'Good thing I brought THIS!' Mickey says (with a tone, I swear!), 'A big yellow bow?' and I say, from the next room, 'A bit of a smart-ass, aren't we Mickey.'

You know you've had a stressful couple of days weeks when you get combative with a cartoon character. I accused the Mr. Mouse of being snarky. Whoa - mama needs a break.

And so I took one. I ran in my third Akron Marathon relay this weekend with a gaggle of random friends and acquaintances, including a dude runner who filled in at the last minute to cover another team member's injury (his wife's), two generous co-workers and an old friend. Thank you, team, for assisting me in ridding the negative fog Saturday morning when we ran our best race yet. Mind you, this is for fun people, we are recreational runners, not official marathoners or anything. Just a bunch of folks who like to run for a variety of reasons. There were 17,000 people participating in the Marathon this year. We were around 800th place in 2011, in the 1100's in 2012 due to an injury and 600's this year. Movin' on up!!! We kicked that relay's butt. All with super-great paces and forced smiles on our faces (at least for the photographers, then they turned back to grimaces and cursing under our breath as to why we do this to ourselves every stinkin' year. Tee-hee.)

'Did you win?' Big Kid asks... 'It's never about winning, buddy, it's for fun." I always tell him.

'Because we are old', my friend reminded me - as we shared funky hip and knee problems on race morning. She had just come in and I was about to run the finish leg. We giggled and hugged about our running woes while much younger, more in-shape and definitely more hip guys and gals listened, probably Tweeting how there were a ton more old people, like 40's at least, in the crowd this year...

It's also why we try harder and train more and attempt to keep up with the 20-somethings coming up from behind. We're in that funny, young-but-old stage. Trying to stay stress-free in high-stress jobs. Fit into skinny jeans and hide dark circles. Maintain sanity while working and mothering and feeding friendships and marriages and form sentences that makes sense on a Monday morning before having any caffeine.

I run because it is my release from everyday challenges and stresses that seem to take a hold of your brain and over-analysis kicks in. Like putting a pair of socks on a three year-old who says that they hurt his toes (heh?). Or holding onto your composure and confidence with difficult situations and people (other than your three year-old). Because before you know it, you're eating an entire bag of Pepperidge Farm Dark Chocolate Milanos that you found at Target (which is also a coping mechanism) and are currently hiding in the popcorn box on the top shelf of the cabinet, but apparently someone found you out because there were two Milanos missing and the bag was ripped and the perpetrator did not even have the decency to throw away the little paper cup that they sit in... hmph! If I could emulate the 'I have my eyes on your gesture' that Robert Dinero made famous in Meet the Parents right now, I'd be doing that to my entire family.

I've said this before but the running and the organized event participation in which I pretend to be a real runner is such a release for me that I almost crave it like my coffee. Unlike the Starbucks SCMs I've been downing like water from a hose on hot summer day when I was five years old, the running balances me out. My brain, my heart, my soul, my mood and (as husband will attest) prevents me from going into full-blown 'monster mode.'

During which time, I apparently like to pick fights with helpless (yet sarcastic) Disney characters.

For everyone's sake, I'll keep up the running as long as my old, stressed out muscles can take it. I see it as a real win-win, as we marketing people are known for saying.

FMF - She

One of my new she-roes, LisaJo Baker, strikes a deep chord within my being every time she posts. Today was no different with her Five-Minute Friday post on 'She.'

Go.

There was no question who my she would be. Wise beyond her years, yet so much younger and hipper than me in many ways, she is my sail, my wing girl, the beacon by which I measure my sanity on any given day.

I can text, call, leave cryptic messages in any form and she knows what and how to diffuse, calm, commiserate or get me off the teetering ledge of crazy. We can be out-of-our minds silly like we are still 10 and 15 or 15 and 20 or 20 and 25. Pfffft, we wish!

As she comes into her own as a mama and a partner, her light shines brighter as a friend and daughter.

My eyes fill with puddles, ready to spill over as I type these words on my lunch break... (but chuckling thinking about where she's stopping today because she really craves Mexican ALL THE TIME and it doesn't make her gain weight. What???) because she is like my right arm... And how we recently cried together on the phone over a story about two siblings who were separated and we couldn't bear the thought.

We swear that we are twins born 5 years apart, but you wouldn't know it from our wee years with slamming doors and hurt feelings because it's not cool to let your little sister follow you around or even less cool to talk to your big sister who is like, OLD or something.

But then fast forward and all of a sudden you're both adults and how did this happen and being a grown up is hard and we need to stick together and send each other greeting cards with little girls playing dress up in pearls or little old ladies on a park bench with pocketbooks, or 1950s women on rotary telephones with beauty shop hair-dos saying snarky things. That's us. The ones who are usually dialing the other's number at the same time.

This is the she that knows what I'm thinking before I say it, listens with an open-mind and heart but tells me what I really should hear. The one who enters a car with me for a road trip and we turn into giggling, space-headed teenagers again.

The she who gave my sons another boy cousin to grow with and continues to amaze me daily on her God-given talents as a mother. Yet still humors me by asking my opinion even though they since recalled the baby stuff I bought for Big Kid over 9 years ago.

She is my sister and best friend.

Stop.

Happy Friday all, and weekend, we see you comin' and it's a beautiful site.'

Savor every moment!

Is That Your Kid or Mine?

As my eyes were leisurely sifting through birthday cards in the silent aisles of Target at 8:30 p.m. the other night, feeling guilty and strange that I was at the store on my own, I saw heard (before I even caught a glimpse of) a teeny little Tinkerbell traveling in her mama's cart.

She was making the most gallant effort at singing the best letter 'eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee'  that her pint-sized-self could attempt. It was shrill and pitchy and made me chuckle. My thought bubble said, 'Awh, cute kid.'

And then I shocked myself mid-smirk-and-head-tilt because I realized that 99.9% of the time, I am the one sweating and shushing and end up gently manhandling the Alabama alligators that my sweet and lovely boys morph into when I take them to Target. Is it the air that is pumped through the ventilation system? Are they contact-buzzing on Starbucks? Please tell me there is an answer.

For me, usually one of them is screaming 'e' because it's fun and annoying. And I start to lose my cool and say something like 'i' am 'so-ooooo' going to take away (fill in the blank) from 'u' and sometimes they respond, but 'y'?

I contemplated this while giving the mom one of those looks that I often get when my boys are mid-Britney Spears breakdown in the Skylanders aisle.

The look that says, 'IT'S OK. SHE'S CUTE AND YOU LOVE HER AND MY KIDS PULL THIS CRAP ALL THE TIME. AND IT'S ANNOYING AND YOU THINK THAT I AM JUDGING YOU, BUT I AM NOT, I AM JUST EMPATHIZING AND SORT OF REVELING IN THE FACT THAT I AM SANS-CHILDREN AT TARGET RIGHT NOW AND, WELL. I GET IT.'

When my guys go berserk in Match Box corner or Nerf kingdom, I do my very best to let the moment pass and meditate right there in the toy section, but really, nothing works and the monster mommy switch flips automatically. My sweet boys are not shoppers. They want to get in, bee line to the sports section and Wii games. Anything necessary for mommy to stop and look at in between is well, just pure, horrible and criminal agony that I force upon them. 'Not pillows again, mom - please, please don't make us do it.'
It is at that moment, that I recall this famous post from the hysterical, experienced and super hero writers behind the genious blog, Rants from Mommyland.

'Nuff said. Meaning that on my next attempt at taking aforementioned small humans to Target, I shall ask for back up. Calling all friends: let's tag-team it and take turns. We can still enjoy our Target time. I will even provide the chocolate milk and ridiculously-tiny Legos that clog up my vacuum. You provide the juice boxes and princess dolls and tiaras. I will so wear them. I don't expect you to play with the tiny Legos, but if you compliment the boys apt for putting them together, that is good enough. Ooooh, I think we have a solid strategic PLAN, here friends!

Back to mom a few aisles over with the singing angel in her Target buggy. Please know I was not mocking. I was merely enjoying a moment that told me - you are not alone.

Try-try-again next time. Trust me, you'll do it. They keep sending coupons and hanging new signs from the rafters and having mark-downs on cool stuff and asking designers to sell their fun clothes and accessories there for reasonable prices and making alluring commercials that make us all feel like stylish and savvy shoppers! What? Target doesn't do all of that for you? Well, there's obviously something wrong with you, then. Kidding. Kidding. (Sort of).

As for a more permanent solution: combination Starbuck's & Daycare stations in Target. And we pay at the same time. Out comes your SB card balance and right below it is the magical code to check your kid in for 1.5 hours while you shop/wander/do a yoga pose right there in the picture frame aisle.

I think we are on to something here, folks. Send me your ideas and I'll draft the petition to Target.

FMF - Last

Five Minute Friday - 'Last'

Go.

'Stay a wittle wonga, mommy' says Beetle. Oh the pang in my heart when he juts out his little chin and smiles and stretches his slender arms out as wide as they can possibly go and waits for a hug or a scoop up or a ride on my hip or a race with Matchbox cars or a scooter ride around the neighborhood. Sometimes just to snuggle and cuddle and be.

Make it last.

Or when Big Kid asks if he can sit with me and we'll turn on America's Got Talent, or if he can go on a run with me. That is new and unexpected and such meaningful, quality time. He rides his bike while I jog. Those have been some of the best runs of my life. He is so borderline kid and adult in those conversations that I just want to squeeze him and never let go but he's getting a bit too cool for that now, so I loosen my grip a tad and with a tear in my eye.  So I savor it. It wasn't long ago that I was the favorite, but it feels like a lifetime ago, really.

I am trying to make those moments in the car from school to home - all 6 minutes of them, precious, significant, real. I listen with my whole heart when they tells me about their day, even if their answers are always the same. You know as a mama how to read those quiet responses and hope that they will always be this transparent so that you can still be a decoder of kid speak when they are teens. Wish of all wishes.

Make it last.

The weekend is upon us and as a working mama, I want to inhale them and Instagram the images of their perfect, silly smiling little faces permanently in my memory and on my soul because that's the fuel I need to get up and leave them again on Monday morning.

Make the magical moments last.

Stop.

&*^%$# _ Out of the Potty Mouths of Babes

It happened. Like a 100% grape juice box dropped on your beige carpet (when you are in your work clothes and it splashes on your newly dry-cleaned skirt), just like that. Splat!

My sweet, lovey little 3 year-old did the unthinkable. He pulled a Ralphie and dropped the 'eff' bomb.

Go ahead. Take a minute. Gasp if you want: friends who don't swear in the house or around the kids. I applaud you and you know who you are and I love your kind souls for that, but in our house, it happens. What can I say? We tried using Disney-inspired terms like, 'Oh, chicken feathers.' Hubby just can't pull it off.

I say the 'D' word a lot. Mostly the traditional, compound (depending on the spelling; does Webster's include cuss words?) 'D-word' all of my adult life. That's the one that Big Kid decided to try out when he was still itty. Luckily we dodged the bullet and it was never in a questionable situation. His timing was impeccable and most of the time it was comical.

Now I prefer the other 'D' words. Especially if someone is very much portraying the characteristics or behavior common with a 'D' or a 'D', then I call 'em like I see 'em. Ahem.

Back to Beetle. He's been testing us with potty words lately. His favorite is butt head. In fact, his favorite term of endearment for me is mommy-princess-flower-butt head. This time, it wasn't his favorite bathroom word or D or GD - thank goodness. He goes to a church preschool for G's sake.

This was the next worse foul word you could say in church next to GD. The soap-in-the-mouth-if-he-was-old-enough, hot-sauce-on-the-tongue if our family traditions required that punishment... Word that would be completely inappropriate for not only church and church preschool but the dry cleaners, the post office, the pediatrician's office, the grocery store, in front of your boss or your pastor or your great-grandmother. Anywhere quiet and when you and your preschooler are trying to get in and out unnoticed. And surely not timely on the sidewalk in front of your house at dusk when all the other kids are playing outside and parents are lingering on porches and in driveways and chatting down the street.

It's really not my fault this time. Beetle was simply reacting to his father's bleeping reaction in a tiny moment of frustration over an insignificant conversation that we grown-ups were having. Yes. We have been married for 13 years and together for 19 years. We know how to push each other's buttons. Last night was one of those strange and exciting conversations where you think you must be speaking Huttese or pig Latin or Uncle Si slang to your spouse because they are completely misinterpreting what you are saying and looking at you like you have two heads. We get that about each other and always apologize later when we realize that the other one was just being a 'D.' Like Pink says in her new song and an old friend and I giggled about this past weekend, it must be True Love. Smooches, honey!!!

Here is how the blasphemy occurred: Husband shut the front door a little too hard and and the folksy Uncle Sam that I display between Memorial and Labor Day fell off and it was so loud that the dog across the street stood up from his spot in the drive way and gave us a look and his one ear went up (the other ear stays permanently down). I don't think that any standers-by realized what was said due to Beetle's three year-old accent that sometimes has a southern twang. Not sure where that comes from. Maybe the new preschool teacher, but probably residual Honey Boo Boo or Duck Dynasty.


Beetle should have put his hands on his hips for affect by the looks of his expression and the following phrase that fell out of his 3 year-old lips: 'Daddy broke that BLANKIN' door. That is a BAD daddy'.

The expression on my face (after I whipped my head from side-to-side to see if anyone heard/saw) was deer-in-the-headlights-dumbfounded-damn it! I gulped slowly and pretended that I did not hear what I just VERY clearly heard. We moms are masters of that, yes? And I decided to deflect, asking whether or not he wanted to help me put his scooter away in a very calm and unassuming voice. We walked to the backyard and I rocked in the chair and watched him organize beach toys.

I recalled that it was a full moon/blue moon this week and obviously this was what had lead me to three nights of restless sleep, hubby and I being royal 'D's' to each other and of course, our wee one to utter the number one swear word carved into park benches and rest stop bathroom stall doors all over America.

Wow, he really nailed the context, though. Way to go Beetle Bug. Just the other night you were schooling me on the Brontosaurus and its long neck (because they are cannibals, according to Beetle; you know, easier to bite each other) and now you are clearly demonstrating your gifted language development skills.

This is why granny calls you 'the little professor.'

More to come, I am certain of it.

Small

Five Minute Friday Monday. Better late than never! 

Go.

They started out like this...

and now, they are like this...

 

 

How I will try to hide my big feelings bursting out of my thumping heart when I drop him off on his first day of 3rd grade next week.

No minor detail that he's at least two inches taller than when he graced the halls last May. Oh. My. Gosh. He cares about his appearance and it's either all sporty all the time or maybe hipster jeans and high-tops and hoodies. I miss picking out my baby's outfits. 'No thanks' on doing his hair. Sigh.

A major accomplishment that he had a pretty darned good summer with no volcanic melt downs and still managed to pick up some books and read without a catastrophic argument.

A pang of guilt that starts building when I drive away, sunglasses hiding the tears welling up so he won't be embarrassed... and bitty turns to biting, stinging and urges make a u-turn. Aching to go back home and wait (or just sit on the bench outside with a coffee and a book so I can peek in to make sure everything is OK) then walk to school to grab and hug him when the doors swing open and his classmates come running out to their moms and dads and grandmas.

Huge props for mom and dad for packing his favorites that day, treating him to a new Indians backpack.

Enormous love felt when he lowers his voice to sound cool and tell you about the day, the teacher, football passing on recess and says, 'yeah, mom, I missed you too.'

Small moments that fill my soul and remind me that I am blessed to have such ginormous love from, no longer an infant but a little-almost-big boy.

At least that's how my tiny daydream starts as this mom anticipates the very big day next week.

Stop.

Cheers to the new school year. May your littles and bigs have a wonderful one!

Home is...

A new (dormant but revived) obsession has reared its ugly head and I am starting to feel a bit out of control: buying and selling. Property Brothers, stop making this look so damned exhilarating!

In trying to talk myself down from the Ikea bookshelf, into my caffeinated head pops a very wise woman. I have this old friend I could best describe as a free-faller, a willing nomad, a happening-maker, true-believer in fate and faith and in-the-moment-ness.

An Earth-loving, magical, grounded mama, she is everything I am NOT. I am strung-high, prone to let things drive me batty, type-A all the way. Just as the people who allow me to live with them.

On the outside (she wears her insides on the outside) Old Friend is never stressed. Even when she is experiencing stress in her life, she does not appear to break a sweat. Well, she is one of those that only perspires while running marathons. She is one of those easy-going, passionate, full of life, let's-watch-what-happens-next and if-that's-what-it-is-that's-what's-meant-to-be chicks.

OH, how I wish I could think, process and plan like her. I'm just not made up that way, and all the inspiring Real Simple and Oprah articles I scour cannot change that about moi. It's ok. She tells me that. It's ok that I am like this. It was meant to be, me.

She is one of those friends that I don't SEE in person often enough but I think about her and her yogi ways often. What would that calming soul, Old Friend, think of these silly home selling and buying challenges I am mulling over?

She'd tell me that it doesn't matter where you live or where you fold the clothes... they are always going to be there, in unruly piles, beckoning your name. It's not the lane/circle/street that is attached to your house number. Or if your hardwood floors are gleaming or paint-splattered and scuffed by Matchbox cars and dog nails. Can the kiddos play outside and can you go for a peaceful bike ride or run and plant flowers and do you have a window to see the sunrise/sunset and chair to sip coffee or a cocktail? She'd say that my worries about Big Kid and a new school will all work out, they always do... maybe not without challenges, but as G says over on Momastery, we can do hard things. And then in the midst of writing this post, I happened upon this little nugget of wisdom over on A Mom's View of ADHD. And I felt ok again... about the school stuff anyway.

Old Friend would ask are you healthy and laughing and breathing and living? No? Change it.

Such a simple way of framing (in a rustic white-washed wooden mirror framed-type of way) things. Hmmm. Therefore, I am fighting off stress-induced complex migraines pretending to meditate at my desk during lunch. Don't try to call me, people! And also channeling my inner ninja warrior by running as much as possible. Take that muffin top from gorging brownies while scouring Howard Hanna.com, take that T.J. Maxx and Homegoods and Target with your gorgeous baubles and trinkets that must fill my soon-to-be-staged house and my-soon-to-be-someday-new-house.

'WHATEVER!' says my brain and this vision enters:


You need this for your dining room, Jennifer, says my inner Jeff Lewis conscious.

The jogs work as a distraction half of the time. Too bad that I'm constantly running past all of the For Sale and Sale Pending and Sold and (my favorite) It's a Beauty signs... fueling my crazy.

For reals... this real estate has me all in a tizzy. Finally, it's booming, and inventory is short. Panicked, I find myself in the middle of this phrase to the husband: 'We need to catch this hot trend before we're left in the dust...' I fear that I am officially turning into a mad woman. Husband is prying the remote out of my sweaty little hand when House Hunters comes on. I'm stalking David Bromstad's blog for ideas.

The anxiety only stems from the fact that we need to replace the roof and fix old plaster and someone who shall remain nameless needs to organize his work/tool/wood shop junk area in the basement and garage (love you, honey!); That's really only a snippet from the beloved old house that is a never-ending producer of projects. And I told someone who shall remain nameless that it might just be kind of a decent idea to do the projects over time and not all at once because the deadline is looming and... I am not that kind of spouse who would bring that up at a time like this. Ahem.

Here's a start, anyway. New dining room. Those of you that had the opportunity to revel in the tea cozy that was our previous circa 1982 floral covering? Ta-da, no more! I think I scraped off at least four layers of wallpaper. Soothing slate blue makes for a much less dizzying dining experience.

Someone will soon enjoy a family meal in this room as we have made so many memories... birthday cake icing smeard on the chair spindle, fish crackers crushed into the rug, chocolate milk volcanoes into the crack of the table and, hmmm, how exactly am I getting that out?

The danged house might sell for what we think it's worth, or not. Quickly or not until the last second.  I really just need to child lock the vortex that is channel 656 from my viewing options. I am sucked in with every episode of Love it or List It! Damn, you, Canadian HGTV!

Will we find something in our desired area? Where is that, exactly??? Can we agree? The jury is out.

Big Kid says, 'well, you better have another yard sale because we can't take all that old stuff in the basement with us.' Thanks for observation, buddy. But BTW, that's all daddy's crap!

Beetle says of the basement/storage/too-many-toys situation, 'no, no, no - you've messed up my plan. You've got it all wrong, mom.' Well put.

In the meantime, I am doubling my used treasures donation to Goodwill. I am avoiding home improvement and decor shows as much as humanly possible. I am concentrating on being grateful. I am trying to allow the process to happen (managed by me and my spreadsheets and sticky notes and lists) and enjoy the little bits that I can. Because apparently, we are where we are supposed to be.

Here's to you, Old Friend, my northern star. Spreader of fairy dust. You know who you are. So help me, I am trying.

To be continued...

These Are the Days - A Recap

What a wonderful, whimsical week with old pals at the ocean. There is nothing like it, really. Long- ago stories weaved into updated ones, creating new memories, watching - giddy - as our kids play with each other, thinking back to when we were all just kids.

We study in awe as little ones (presto-chango-overnight) have turned into tweens and teens, thinking, I fed you a bottle, I held you when you were tiny and now you have your own Instagram; you're playing softball and acting in plays... Then there are the oohs and ahs over new bouncy, dimple-elbowed babies, thinking - oh. my. gosh. - in comparison, my kids are so BIG, so grown-up.

Meal time is a big, loud, chaotic gathering, each family feeding the crowd for a night. Hot dogs, nuggets and mac and cheese for the kiddos that don't dig the menu. 12 children simultaneously yelling for seconds of something from their mom. Dad's sneaking off during this lagging end of supper that calls for drinks and cigars on the deck.

By the end of the week, parents' patience are shot, kids are tired from sun, sugar and meltdowns and moms start packing a day early. Just when we think that we cannot lug another toddler on our back, shake sand out of something, find the last pair of swim trunks or towel... we think, that's OK. Why? Well, it was exciting and relaxing, fun and comical, breezy and quiet, wild and wet, sandy and soggy and we can't wait to do it again because:



Creating these precious memories is just too good to pass up.

 

Thanks for a reminder of why I love you all so much, friends.

These are the days and I am savoring them.

Cheers and here's to next time!

Rhythm - First Five-Minute Friday

Go.

How do you slow your roll, your timing, your pace?

As self-proclaimed type-A's, raising boys, (add the ADHD)... it's hard to lower it to simmer. We run, run, run all day long. Run to work. Run to lunch. To the Store. Run to get the kids. Run home.

Speed through cooking dinner. Dishes. Mow the lawn. Watch the big kid on his bike. Please don't go past the stop sign and don't stand on the seat.

Chase the little kid on his 'motorcycle' and scooter. Carry both back over your shoulder when he has a melt-down on the next street over. Speed walk, smiling, past the giggling neighbors (older, wiser and been there).

Run through the week, the meetings, the calls, the plans, the laundry, the crunchy floor, the laundry as my good pal puts it, that requires you to load it into not one but two receptacles manually with each and every tedious load. Fold, gets dumped, refold, leave for three days before putting away. Rifle through, can't find socks, underwear, anything.

Ahhh, the weekend. Now the rhythm can be restored. Slow down, savor a glass of wine, a toddler snuggling on your lap, a big kid, maybe, too if he'll agree... but he's too big now, says he.

Sleep in, run a few miles, restore what's yours.

Stop.

TGIM - Best Day Ever

Thank goodness it's me. It's me that is permitted to have this crazy kind of whacked-out morning month with two patient, wide-blue-eyed boys in the back-seat, trying to remember what they did to get stuck with such a bat-shit crazy mom. Thank goodness I am so lucky to get to be their mom.

Last Friday horrifically started to look a little something like this. No joke. Don't ask. I know.

The poor pup had an accident in the kennel Thursday night - yay! It was drying and she had to be gated in the mudroom - boo! She barked for an hour while makeup melted off of my face, trying to straighten fast-frizzing hair. I kept offering favorite chew toys. Don't bribe me, said her thought bubble. Her snugly bed was in there. She didn't care. She was a little mad at me, because well, she is my first-born and still has a little of that puppy separation anxiety. I've always said I should have taken a maternity leave with the sweet girl. Thank goodness we've been able to have her in our family for so long.

Lickety split, it was time to go. I had gotten up early, let the boys sleep late. It was 'donut' Friday. Or as Beetle Bug (he doesn't like that nick-name and sternly corrects me with his full title, all three names) calls it, Dundins DOHnuz. They get 2 chocolate munchkins each (wild and special treat for Big Kid, because this is not on his uschz all-natural menu) and sometimes I say screw it and get a donut too, trust me, last Friday, I could have had a dozen.

Sidebar: Hey - new guy at the drive-thru, please learn the difference between a chocolate cake iced and a chocolate glazed sour cream. Dozens of bug-eyed, wild-haired soccer moms are rolling up in your lane, counting on you, "Preston," or whatever your popular YouTube generation name is, to get the danged order right. Ahem. Thank goodness this place is not closer, because I'd #1 be getting donuts every morning and #2 I'd soon be asked not to return because of my attitude.

Back to the mudroom. Lieutenant Mommy started giving orders to the little soldiers. 'Dudes, look. Sophie is sad that she is not in her kennel and has to stay in the mudroom today. Hello, is everyone listening? PLEASE DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR, because she will run. Got it?  What did mommy say?'

"I dot it, mommy!" says Beetle Bug.

'OK, great. Wait for me...' 

Not, great and not OK at all, really.

Stepping forward, I held the dog back with my left leg. I reached my right hand out to open the door, held it with my right knee, in hopes of ushering the kids out quickly, while keeping the dog in. But to the boys, my 'OK' meant it was OK for them to open the door. The OK in my head meant that I was announcing the start of this process. We had a little miscommunication. Sophie took off like a bullet. Thank goodness it wasn't storming.

Mommy was thinking about peeling tires out of the summer day camp drive after drop-off and heading to the bar. Thank goodness they are not open yet.

Beetle Bug kept asking, 'Mommy, are you happy?' This kid's timing is impeccable. He was pacing from window to window looking for Sophie and saying, eek... 'G-Dang it.' I suggested that he say, 'fiddlesticks.'

"How about 'chicken feathers' like Pete on Mickey Mouse Club House?" I said. "Oh-tay, but I'm mad about it, mom." Thank goodness he didn't swear. Yet.

I grabbed the leash and did the quick sweep down the street and up again in full work clothes. Nothing. I guess she was serious about the mudroom.

All righty, then. To the car, everyone. Big Kid, a.k.a., 'big bwutha', asks if he can bring a mug of chocolate milk in the car. I advised him that I was leery, having had chocolate milk spilled, splashed and slowly dripped onto the back seat of my car so many times, but after making him triple-promise that he would-not-spill-it-no-way, I caved. 'Here's how to use the lid. See, click, click. Open-close. Got it?' "I'M NOT GOING TO SPILL IT, MOM, JEEZ!!!" 

Onward ho, we jogged to the car. I was perspiring (you're really letting me down, Dove), fuming about Sophie's timing. Not impeccable. She really needs to work on that. Big Kid jumps in the car. The lid was not clicked. Especially not click-clicked. Chocolate TruMoo hit everything in the backseat. Blue blankey had collateral damage, (Beetle Bug was not pleased, in fact, I think he may have sworn, but whatever he said, he used the deep, serious voice and pinched his lips together, talking through his teeth - cutest ever) as did the hoodie to be worn by Big Kid to the field trip... tasty, daily dose of calcium and perfect aim. It does a body good. A backseat? Not so much.

Dabbing with the original magic eraser, a baby wipe, I soaked up as much milk as possible. Can't wait to smell this in about a week. The guy at the detail shop is making a killing off of us and our spilled milk. Thank goodness it wasn't dog doo.

But that didn't matter much, because on the next street over, there was Soph, doing her business in someone's front yard. [Neighbor-who-lives-at-the-end-of-the-street following me -inappropriately close- as I went 15 miles per hour, sorry for stopping so quickly to make a right. Um, the dog got out again. And, well, there she was. That was me driving.] She jumped in, scratching Bug's leg in the meantime and lounging out as if on a chaise, across Big Kid. I glanced in the rear view mirror. She met my glance as if to say, 'nice, mom, where are we going now?' I had to laugh. Thank goodness she was OK.

We dropped the dog back home successfully, then picked up some chocolate donut holes. While in line, we played 'who can make the best rewind noise'? Since mommy needed to rewind the morning and apologize for yelling and being so grouchy after Sophie got out, and it was not their fault and she was not mad at them and she was so proud of how calm and collected they stayed during that moment. Thank goodness I get to tell them before dropping them off for the day.

Bug was settled at daycare. As we are exiting the car at day camp, Big Kid says to me, "And, mom, when you get to work, could you maybe clean off this seat, because it's covered in dog hair."  Hysterical. A dog hair and chocolate milk pesto, to be exact.

We ran into one of the day camp counselors on our way up the stairs and she pointed out that Big Kid did not have his camp shirt on. It was field trip day. Oh. Right. Should have guessed. I didn't.

I think she could tell from the look on my face that this was not impeccable timing. Before I could say anything, she offered to find an extra - she had a few in her office. "PERFECT!" I said. "Have a great day!" My mood had improved drastically by the time I reached the car. Thank goodness for kind people.

Thank goodness I took a few minutes to edit this post because the draft from Friday had a lot more curse words and exclamation points.

Happy Monday.

International House of Insanity (Er, Crabcakes and Pancakes)

All citizens of our town enjoying a delightful breakfast at IHOP Memorial Day morning: please let me officially apologize for the ruckus created by our table.

Restaurants proclaiming to be family-friendly: did your target audience matrix include the Toddler-Pre-Pre-Schooler? I'm sorry, but your place is not 2 or 3 year-old child-proof. Traits include lightning-quick reflexes, canine-cringing vocals, nerve-melting neediness, perspiration-causing whininess and full capacity for destroying your place of business when all the parents want is a break from making the pancakes themselves that morning (crepes, actually, I like the blueberry crepes.)

Naturally, if you stick a shiny stand displaying four different kinds of yummalicious maple syrup right on the table, it's going to get messed with. Convenient - maybe, but our 3 year old thought it was some sort of musical instrument, with it's fancy color-coded handles and tinny sounding sign (that's the noise it makes when you hit it; when yanked out of its holder, it's more like a frying pan falling to the floor.) Plus, could the surface area of the tables be any more 'efficient'? You see the crap we carrying into your eatery... with our purses and diaper bags and back-packs and sippy cooler-caddies and Thirty-One organizing totes full of crap to keep our kids quiet during coffee time??? Put a DS and a coloring book on that table and there is simply no room for re-fills of chocolate milk, OK. NO room. How are we supposed to accommodate four plates of grand, grinning griddle cakes?

We chose said eatery because of its many hints that it likes families and children. We'd surely be welcome and accepted. What with its chocolate chip and banana cream wonderments being enjoyed in the commercials by families of four like ours, smiling and laughing. What we did not realize is that number one - other people without excited, expressive children also frequent this establishment and number two - those people left the house, giddy, imagining a relaxing morning filled with delicious breakfast dreams, not a straw or half a crayon or a Skylander whizzing past their head. Sorry. I am truly sorry. When you get the sympathetic 'I get it smile' from parents with older children, you know it has happened. You officially look like you don't have your *stuff* together.

At this point, almost as if on cue, my husband mouths to me: 'Why do we do this?' I smiled and pretended that I had not understood his attempts at miming. Promptly I received payback when out of the corner of my eye, I saw our 3 year-old reach out and touch the behind of the server taking an order at another table... the organic reaction that I produced was one those half laughs/half cries/half gasps. It was not a slap (thank gawd) but more of a slow-motion, deliberate touch, as if to place one's hand on a window or glass at the zoo or mirror in fascination. When I tried to mouth (through laughter/embarrassment/who-knows-what) Hubbie decided that he did not understand my attempts at miming. I hear that there is a mime festival coming to Cleveland this month (Jennifer imitates the action of laughing with mouth open, toothy smile; holding side and slapping leg). Maybe they could help with our apparent lack of communication.

Why are our children the only lovely little wackadoo loonies in the place? We knew we were gambling, having just taken them out late Saturday night with family and then letting them play until they fell asleep sitting up on Sunday. We were sitting at my brother-in-law's favorite restaurant at around 8 p.m. Saturday evening. Barely having napped that day and high on sugar from his birthday party, the 3 year-old was on a roll in that goofy, talking-way-above-an-appropriate-decibel-level-kind-of-way. To be more specific, 'I. DON'T. WANT. DINN-UR! says he. And repeat.

I tried to avert my eyes from the stares we were getting from unassuming guests waiting on their meals. 'Free entertainment?' I fantasized about joking to the couple sitting most near our table. Diners at this joint are only looking to do one thing and one thing only, order the house special and not be disturbed while enjoying it. Oops.

This was our local, very low-key family-owned place that had been around for decades. The kind Guy Fieri would showcase on Triple D. It had a jukebox - light-up button nirvana to a 3 year-old. I was sure that our child would be the one who broke the 1960s gem and we'd get a bill for $2000. In chair, out of chair, in chair, out of chair. Pound. Pound. Pound on the buttons. Extra snugly hugs and rapid fire thoughts recalling his birthday party to keep him still and sitting.... yeah, we all know that does not work. It really only exacerbates the situation and draws this reaction. STOP! LET! GO. OF. ME! Sweating. Unattractive.

Some very helpful teen working as a bus-boy appeared with a high-chair and a booster seat. I laughed and thanked the sweet lad because while our little guy is about a year past fitting in a high-chair, the booster is almost catapulted to the level of dangerous on the restaurant safety meeting agenda. I pictured it being kicked out from beneath us and tripping some server just as she rounded the corner with clam chowder. But, alas grandma produced something very cool from her pocketbook and we were able to divert attention for a bit.

We were only saved but for the grace of a kind older cousin who walked our little man around and let him pretend to play grab-em games for a half an hour. Schwew. And then the food came. He ate one french fry and said, 'I'm gonna be done now, mom.' Exhausting. And sweaty. The stress-induced mommy-trying-to-contain-her-child hot flashes never fail. But the crab bisque was a bit spicy.

I could really benefit from the super-human stretching ability like the mom on The Incredibles. My arms are unusually long. Might save me some back pain from twisting and wrenching around in one swift movement to heft a kid back onto a restaurant chair, chase them through Target in heels and a skirt... how ridiculous must I have looked clomping across the kids section after a much-speedier toddler?

Sidebar: I cannot help it, dear, sweet Target, that my boy is a Houdini and your semi-tractor-trailer carts that he insists on riding in don't have strong enough shoulder straps to keep him in. Oy! Those were built for the Duggars or Kate and her 8 or some family who cannot comfortably fit into a conversion van. Target: you're my BFF and I love you. You get half of my paycheck. Please listen when I say that parents will NOT be upset if you require .50 cents and a minimum child count to use these carts. Think of how much touch-up paint you'll save on from me always banging into random end racks and corners and such... just a thought.

My children sound like animals, but they are truly polite and kind and lovely. They just really don't do well in stores or restaurants. We do much better camping, in the water, at parks, fairs, carnivals, zoos and... oh.

I have a good friend with kidders a few years ahead of mine in age. She'd always say, 'Yeah, my kids don't do shopping...' and I was aghast. She is a genius.

Flip-flop back to flap-jacks... just when I had asked our newly-minted 3 year-old to please stop making chocolate milk raspberries at his brother and breaking Crayolas, our angel server arrived with a huge, genuine smile and what seemed like 15 plates of food, asking if we needed anything else. Turns out she has three boys herself.

Perfect. Timing.

Never again is what we said the last time. Cheers!

Lost Dog, Found Faith Through Facebook

I am a professed tongue-and-cheek, high-expectation reader, elitist user of Facebook. I don't post often (twice today was ground-breaking!). I am a habitual 'liker.' I admit it - I curse at posters that say, 'just got a Starbuck's' or 'just got back from a run.' WHAT ELSE? I am naturally curious so I want to know more. People: I friended you for a reason. Entertain me, here. What happened at the coffee shop today? Did the person in front of you have the most high-maintenance, ridiculous coffee order ever and then trip and spill it down the front of their suit? On your practice 5k tonight, did you snap a photo of the most beautiful sunset ever, meet a very friendly tomcat who tried to keep up with your jogging pace? I know, I am a needy FB user. Plus, when I noticed comments like, 'wow, that was a thoughtful synopsis, Jen'... I realized that a blog would be a better way to for me: always verbose.

The allure was too much to pass up, and the prospect of reconnecting with all of my old high school pals was exciting. But once we all caught up, exchanged information, shared kid and pet photos, the shininess wore off a bit for me. I got bored. There are a few go-to posters for me. Mostly, the like-minded smart asses. They say what I am thinking and instead of posting it to FB, I usually write about it here. I've recently connected with a few colleagues and there are some goodies. Especially the litigators. Now, if you mix a litigator with mommy hood and ureka, you've got star-quality, to-the-point storytelling in organized little bites. Just beautiful, I tell you!

Last week I was able to see the beautiful caring hearts of tons of people I knew and didn't know from Adam through (of all the places): Facebook. I should not be surprised, I am in marketing after all. I know the power of social media, it's just never worked so quickly and powerfully... so personally. I'm always flabbergasted to tears how Momastery's fundraising phenoms work - where there is a fantastic cause and followers are asked to donate no more than $25. The response is 'stop-in-your-tracks, omg, that-is-the-coolest-thing-I've-ever-experienced.' 

Our old girl, Sophia Quicksilver (family name) Shankleton decided that 5:45 a.m. last Thursday morning was a nice time for a run. To our dismay, she wasn't just out smelling around for the other neighborhood dogs, cats, rabbits and squirrels, she was in the mood for a nice 4 or 5 mile run.

You see good old Soph is 13. She's in her golden years - Sophie with her crystal blue eyes and still shiny silver-gray coat. Even though she's up their in age, her attitude has gotten snappier. Isn't that what they say about us humans? Some of us get a little anxious for adventure, sharpen up our sarcasm skills and feel the right to be a little well, cantankerous? Sophie took full advantage of this concept. She must have been reading AARP. Don't laugh, I assure you there is a pet section in that publication.

Lately, she's been testing us. Like she's a puppy all over again. Looking us straight in the eye while we're calling her and slapping our legs and whistling and making smooching sounds and getting louder and louder, while she whips her sassy ears and head around and trots in the other direction. She practiced this scenario last Thursday morning with Jason (and she has only ran from him one other time) and decided to take her sweet time coming back. Between the moment she decided to sprint (crossed two major intersections, visited an assisted living center, spent the day on a friendly stranger's couch) and when we picked her up 20 minutes from our house, the details are sketchy (she's been very tight-lipped about it all), but it went a little something like this:

5:45 a.m.
Jason: Sophie ran. I'm going to look for her.
Me: Drabbit! I'll hurry and get downstairs to watch for her.
Jason: Cannot find her; gotta get to work. I'll be back after my meeting to look again.
Me: Nothing on the way to daycare, from daycare to school and school to home.
8 year-old: 'Mom, you know when Sophie curls up into a really tight ball when she sleeps and she looks like a rock? Well, I just saw a rock in that person's yard, and it really could be Sophie!'
Neighbor: I'll also look after I drop the kids at school.
10:00 a.m.
Jason: Still nothing.
Neighbor: Still nothing.
Me: CRAP.
Jason: DOUBLE CRAP.
Me: Calling the vet, pound, etc... making a pretty flyer for our Sophie.
Jason: Calling the warden, city, etc...
Me: Posting on Stark County Humane Society Facebook Page.
FB Community: SHARE... SHARE... SHARE...SHARE...SHARE... SHARE... SHARE... SHARE...
7:30 p.m.
Friend of Stark County Humane Society FB Page: 'I private messaged you, I think someone found your dog!'
Me: OMG.
Terrifically Kind Dog-Loving Person: I have your dog!
Us: Unbelievable!!! So thankul. Thank you!!!
9:15 p.m.
Sophie is back on her favorite blanket, in front of the chair, watching us, watching prime time TV.

That would have been a lot to recap on FB in its entirety. A little wordy, right? Through the amazingly helpful hearts of pet-lovers on FB, we were able to be reunited with Sophie. Collar permanently on, even though she drives us nuts with incessant the shaking of the ears and the chewing of the tags... she's back. In the words of our almost three year-old: 'I am so gwad dat Sophie is bat. When she wuns away, she dohs many pwaces.' And we are so lucky to have our Soph-the-most back in the place she belongs - home.

Ok, so let's go back to my snarky comments at the beginning of this story. Post whatever you want about whatever you're doing, I'm over being picky about posts ridiculous need for scintillating FB ponderings. I'm just jealous that you are getting a custom-made java in the middle of the day and I am not. Lazy latte drinkers...

A New Man in my Life

I didn't think it was possible for my heart to open up any further, to feel love for yet another man in my life at this moment.

But it broke open like a Cadbury egg. Love oozed out and butterflies burst through. A rainbow appeared. All because of this little itty bitty man, right here.

More pics of baby Xavier at Meghan G Photography.

My sister, soul-mate and best friend gave birth to this miracle of a monkey, Xavier Jeffery, two weeks ago. A blessing and a breath of fresh air (mmm, baby fresh, I definitely inhaled some major new baby scent from him ala Claire on Modern Family)...

He is the reason for the high hopes, toothier smiles, renewed faith in well, faith, life, love and future. Watching my sis blossom overnight into a meant-to-be mom was nothing short of an
aha! moment for me. It just fits her and she is perfect at it. I was a mess my first time around. I was watching her tend and love and morph into her momminess almost in slow motion. It was magic. Our family needed this squiggly little distraction to lull us into pure, unadulterated, enchantment. We've had enough reality over the last 18 months.

My mom took some new photos of the baby on her phone and showed them to me over the weekend. I gasped when one was so clearly my dad's face looking back at us. It's certainly surreal but it all feels right. My dad looking back at us to say that it's going to be ok, through this tiny baby's eyes.

Seeing my boys, Xavier's cousins grin and giggle and be awe-struck at this new little being is intoxicating. No' is geeked out that he is now the oldest cousin on my side of the family. Ro' wants to share 'his very best Skylanders' with Xavier and wonders if he can talk. My sister and I are thrilled that these cousins will grow up together. Three boys with a sprinkle of my dad's spirit and many new precious memories to make.

Xavier - I will print this post for your baby book and will someday tell you in person how you came to our family at just the right time. We loved you from the moment we found out you were a tadpole in your mommy's belly and now that you are here, little frog prince, we are beyond words, over the moon, bubbling over with joy to watch you grow. Thank you for opening our hearts again.

Love,

Your Aunt Ninny

Losing a Hero

I am not a total slacker! I actually wrote something in the month of February despite the assumption that I have been hibernating in a pile of Whatchmacallit wrappers...

Check out my guest blog post on EasytoLoveButHardtoRaise.com, called Losing a Hero.

Here's to the shortest, sweetest month of the year.

Smuggling Snacks in the Bathroom

We've had the altered food plan and have been eating healthily since we learned just how much artificial flavors, colors, dyes and sweeteners can affect Noah. The whole family adjusted and it took a while to get used to but it was worth it and everyone is better off for it... except, well, my sweet tooth and my dairy addiction. (I'm not even really supposed to be 'doing' dairy).

The holidays really threw me for a loop this year. I ate WAY more than my share of cookies, pie, cake, candy between Thanksgiving and New Year's. I was working out less because we scheduled ourselves crazy and the weather was crummy and I was lazy because of the crap I was eating and I think I know I gained five pounds. Ah - don't want to hear it! I thought it and then the sad, cold truth was confirmed when I went to the doctor during my recent bout with the bronchitis that could not be stopped by an entire army of antibiotics... got on the scale. Took off my coat, put my purse down, then the scarf and gloves. Considered taking off my shoes... yep, 5, almost 6 pounds. That pumpkin roll and chocolate drizzled Jenni's popcorn is GOOD and heavy, apparently. Then there were the amazing cut-outs that my mother-in-law made and I was a goner. There were lots of friend and family get tether's and events and holiday-warm-and-fuzzies and shopping that always went better with hot chocolate, cookies and Starbucks Salted Caramel Mochas (half-caf with soy).

And now it's almost the end of January and I've run and been to gym all of about 4 times in the last four weeks. First the baby was sick, then I was sick, that's two and a half weeks. Then my appetite came back and what happened. I felt guilty about all of the crud (yummy crud) I scarfed over the holidays so I succumbed to sneaking my kids Mott's all-natural gummy bears (love anything gummy). Boys: ''Whatcha got, mom?" Me: "muffink!"

Amazingly, I think I did drop a few again while dealing with the sinus infection and bronchitis from hell. An all-soup diet does wonders. But, when my appetite reappeared this weekend, it was ugly. I had cake and Baklava at my sister's baby shower, two Starbucks on Saturday and one on Sunday. During the work day, I am really well-behaved. I stopped making thrice-weekly trips to Insomnia Cookies (they deliver until 2 a.m. to the college dorms - genius!!) who caters to sugar-starved working schleps on Main Street like me. Warm. Cookies. They even have milk and ice cream cookie sandwiches. Can you imagine, during the day? Just sauntering on over to the old cookie shop and ordering up an ice cream cookie sandwich? Decadent and ridiculously delicious during the workday. Let me tell you, if they were open when I was pregnant, this would be a different conversation, and it would go something like this: "So I was in line to get my 3 o'clock chocolate chip and peanut butter cookie with chocolate ice cream sandwich, and some yahoo tried to cut in front of me, and I said..." you get the picture.

I pass up birthday donuts in the break room and avoid the vending machine. I even gave up my chocolate gift from a vendor this holidays season. Took it straight to the coffee station and did not look back. This is all progress. It's at home when we are trying to get dinner ready and the boys are starved because they had their last snack at 2-ish and we haven't eaten a thing since lunch that it all goes south. Seemingly innocent low-fat cheese and a few baked all-natural wheat crackers turns into a dinner before the dinner. I think if I have this, I won't eat the bad stuff (what little of it is actually in our house).

So here's the bad stuff. We bought some candy bars from our niece to support her class trip to D.C. in May. They have been put on top of our storage unit in the mudroom. I stared them down for weeks. I think we got them over Christmas. I wondered just what kind of stuff may be in there. But I didn't care much because I had the Christmas cookies and chocolate-drizzled popcorn and pumpkin roll to keep me occupied. And, like I said, over the last few days, my appetite came back, including my sweet tooth. Now, Noah scolded us for having those candy bars in the house at all. He wanted to know who's they were and why they were there and how long would they stay and it was a problem.

I tried to figure out a good way to get rid of them. But came up with nothing. Well. It's been a particularly stressful couple of weeks. The stress-induced sweet tooth craving must have been building up and it culminated in my husband calling for me and finding me in the downstairs powder room, with the door locked, eating one of these stinkin' (sorry Kerrigan, they don't stink, they are actually really tasty, especially the Crisp and the Caramel) candy bars. A friend was on my cell phone and my husband had just seen me and wondered where in the heck I disappeared to and where I was responding to his calls from and sure enough. I unlocked the door for him to see me sitting there, devouring the candy bar. He first said, 'no. are you kidding me?' Then he laughed hysterically and handed me the phone. I told him to shove it with my mouth shoved full of some amazingly fresh and delicious chocolate for fundraising candy. Well done, niece's school system. You picked a good candy vendor.

There, I put it out there. I smuggle candy and sweets into hidden caverns of my own home for fear of being caught by the rest of my family. Noah can't eat the stuff, we don't generally give Rowan 'candy' yet anyhow and hubby and I just should not be partaking anyhow. It's tough. When you don't buy the stuff on a regular basis and bake homemade on a pretty rare occasion, you just can't help yourself when it is staring you right in the face and calling your name. When you've been stressed. And not working out. And bored. And your DVR'd shows have all been watched. Humph.

I REALLY need to find somewhere, something to do with this candy before March. Because, I just remembered. We just ordered our annual lot of Girl Scout Cookies. I'm toast. (Mmmm, toasted coconut on the Samoas is delish!)