My dream job(s)

I decided at a young age that I wanted to be a writer. And then a second later I realized the chances of being to make a decent living as a writer were pretty slim.

My sophomore year in high school, I found journalism and have been on that path since (despite my parents repeated attempts to gently nudge me into PR. My mother still has an email from when I was in college where she sent me a job listing for a PR position at a state agency and I replied with a long diatribe about why journalism is so important and how I could tell people's stories and maybe even uncover wrongdoing. I had probably watched "All the President's Men" one too many times at that point.)

Anyway, I went from being a reporter to an editor fairly early in my career. It is more interesting than you might imagine and yet, is a desk job, something I vowed I never would do in my young, idealistic days.

All that to say, a co-worker and I were talking about our dream jobs the other day. Here is a list of mine:

Owning a chi-chi children's clothing boutique where I sell my own creations and other locally-produced things. I'd have to learn to use my sewing machine first, learn some business stuff and get over my fear of taking an unconventional career path but other that, it would be awesome.

Party planner mainly for kid's parties, baby showers and bridal showers. Besides learning all that business stuff I'd have to deal with following other people's visions and not my own but I could spend my days making awesome diaper cake centerpieces and coming up with not lame games while enjoying other people's special moments.

Naming other people's babies. How cool would that be? I love naming babies. I would have a hundred babies just to name them (if I didn't have to be pregnant, go through labor and sleepless baby nights).

Reading books. What? It could be a job. Of some sort.

Decorating kids rooms. I love whimsical things and think every kids room should have a touch of whimsy. Plus I could be creative, paint canvases, and do all the cool things I have on Pinterest that I can't fit into my own girls' rooms.

What would be your dream job?

His

The Boy has headaches. I had them, too, as a kid -- still do, actually -- so when he tells me his head hurts, I take him seriously. We've taken him to the doctor, who thinks it might be allergies. It could be something he outgrows. Or headaches might just be a part of his life, as they are mine. Most days, his headaches are no big thing. They don't stop him from running around the playground til his hair is sweaty and his knees are brown with bruises and dirt. They don't stop him from singing silly songs or showing me how he's learned to hop on one foot. They don't, unfortunately, stop him from fighting with his brother.

But yesterday, his head hurt really bad. I knew even before he told me. His eyes were heavy as he ate his lunch and he kept stopping to rub his forehead before he slowly speared another piece of bug-shaped macaroni. We told him to drink some water, eat his lunch and take a nap. If he still felt bad after, we would talk about some medicine. He gets headaches so often, I hate to give him ibuprofen or acetaminophen unless we really have to. We had kept the boys up late two nights in a row, so I also thought lack of sleep might be causing this particular headache. The Boy is a kid who needs his rest.

A few hours later, The Boy woke up in tears.

"My head still hurts." His face, which has been looking so much thinner and older lately, crumpled. He looked like my baby, the squally little boy who made me a momma.

I picked him up, all 45 pounds of him, and carried him into the kitchen. His legs dangled down to my knees, but his head rested on my shoulder, just like it used to when he was a baby and the colicky screams finally stopped. I gave him some medicine and fixed a snack. All he really wanted to do was lie on the couch with his head in my lap. I stroked his head, sweaty from the blankets, and told him I was pulling the hurt out with my fingers. We stayed like that for a bit, but then he tossed and flopped and sighed a bit.

"What do you need, sweetie?"

"I just wanna snuggle with you, Momma, in my bed."

So, I carried him to his room and laid down on his bed, stroking his forehead as he sucked his blanky. I was reading my book for awhile, but then he rolled over into me. His eyes closed, his hands grabbed each side of my neck and his breathing slowed. I just lay there. His face, in sleep and hurt, was just the same it always has been since the nurses handed him to me for the very first time. His ears are the same perfect whorled half circles. His hair line still is low over his forehead. His mouth and chin still full and stubborn. I lay there with his breath on my face and his hands on my neck. This is what parenthood is for me. Possession. I am his and he is mine.

 I know that sounds terrible and someday, The Boy's significant other is going to read this and say, "SEE! I told you your mother is crazy!"

But it is true. My boys are part of me in a way that I can't even explain. They are mine, even as I see them going away from me, because I am theirs. They will get bigger than me. They will have hurts I can't fix with a snuggle. They will leave me. They will, I hope, start families of their own. But they will always hold onto me, hold onto the best part of me.

OK seriously, be cool 2012

As I have mentioned, the husband has been in Vegas. The girls went to hang out with the in-laws Thursday night though Saturday afternoon so that I could focus on work and have some quiet time.

Friday night, my wonderful mother-in-law called to saw Gizmo's eyes weren't looking right. A bit crusty. We chalked it up to a possible bout with allergies. But then Saturday dawned and the goop started. That's right, the pink eye goop. (For those of you playing along at home, this is our second round of pink eye. We've also had colds from hell, vertigo and a broken foot this year.)

I made arrangements to get the girls halfway between our house and the in-laws, which is about an hour away for each of us. I found the nearest open urgent care, of which there weren't many options given it was after 5 p.m. on a Saturday. They thankfully agreed to see her even though she isn't 18 months and then we waited. And waited. And waited. Trying to entertain two small people in a place crawling with germs is my seventh level of hell.

They finally called us back. The doctor didn't think it was pink eye at first and then agreed, that yes it was. He then gave me a lecture of things that should make me concerned - no tears, fever, problems urinating, etc. Dude, this isn't my first time at the rodeo. Hand over the damn presciption so I can get out of here.

We walked out 2 hours after we went in. I should mention that during this time, my right eye continued to water and hurt a wee bit. I didn't think much of it, trying to keep goopy-eyed Gizmo from licking every germ-infested surface in the place.

With prescription in hand, I went to four pharmacies. None were open. I googled 24-hour pharmacies. It gave some options. It lied. None were open. I was in a fairly bustling part of the state. It made no sense that I couldn't find one freaking pharmacy. After an hour of driving around, I decided to head home, thinking there was no way that if the state capital couldn't produce a 24-hour pharmacy, my teeny town wouldn't have one either.

I checked two places as we drove into town, four hours after I picked the girls up. The second place was open and even had a drive through. I told the pharmacist I loved him and had a fleeting thought of offering to make out with him but decided that would just be weird. Ten minutes later, we were on our way.

When we got home, I realized I too had the goop (as Peanut calls it) and quickly swiped some gel from Gizmo's tube and applied it.

Twenty-four hours later, my eye is clearing but Gizmo still looks a hot mess. I think she is teething on top of the goop. Here eyes are better but she is not a happy camper. God love her.

On the bright side, the husband made it back from Vegas safely. I didn't cry during the ordeal.

But seriously 2012, how about you cool it for awhile.

Another Brucie post (with pictures)

When I pull into the garage every night, Brucie immediately starts barking inside her crate in the house. I can hear her shrill little barks as I hustle the kids out of the car and fetch the mail. One night, there was no barking. I noticed it and foolishly thought maybe she was outgrowing the excessive excitement upon homecomings. I'm an eternal optimist. 

Brucie was at the door to greet us. Not in her crate, bouncing up and down so hard she's moving it. At the door, wriggling her whole body and licking The Lad's face. 

All I could think about was my freshly recovered chair. I was terrified she had spent the day, having escaped from the crate, ripping out the stuffing of my beautiful chair.

As I walked into the house, I saw fuzzies scattered across the floor, I held my breath and felt the rage building in my chest. I saw the chair, cushions dented from being slept in but whole, and breathed out. It all seemed a bit funny then. 

Except The Boy was crying. 

"SNOOPY! She got my Snoopy! She ripped his face off!"

She had. Poor Snoop had his face tore off completely. 

I tried not to laugh at him, but look at this stuffed animal massacre. Is it not funny? 

"At least it was just the little Snoopy," I said. "And look, here's Charlotte (his spider) she's ... well, she's missing a leg, but look, she's OK. It's just part of a leg gone." 

The Boy, laughing at Charlotte's gimpy leg as I flopped it around but still half-wailing, ran into his room to check on his 5,000 other stuffed animals. I followed behind, picking up fuzz. I stepped on something. 

"What the heck is this?"

"IT'S AN EYEBALL! It's an eyeball, Momma! Brucie ate Beastie's pink frog."

He triumphantly held up a one-eyed pink frog. And we both collapsed into giggles. 

"My frog!" The Lad cried, but before he could wail, he noticed we were giggling. And he started giggling, too. 

And then Brucie came bouncing in, covering us all in puppy kisses. 

That, that moment with all of us giggling and covered in dog slobber on a floor strewn with stuffed animal guts, is why we have a dog. 

This is not that moment. But this is the same kind of moment. The Boy is on the other side of the yard, bat on his shoulder, waiting for the husband's pitch. Brucie is fetching a missed ball back to the husband. I put this one in because K was asking for photos and this is the only other Brucie picture I have. Puppies, like toddlers, appear in pictures mostly as blurs. 

Also, cute, self-indulgent side story: Right after this picture was taken, The Lad said, "I wearing diapers and shoes outside. That's crazy."

Umbrella, Gorilla, Whatever.

"I have uncovered one of the great unsolved mysteries of Beastie!" the husband declared, coming in from taking The Lad to the potty.*

"What?"

"Remember when the umbrella bit him? ... It turns out, he meant GORILLA."

Apparently, The Lad saw a toy gorilla we have and kept saying, over and over, "umbrella, my umbrella!" The husband gave it to him and asked what it was. "UMBRELLA!" "You mean gorilla?"

"YEAH! MY UMBRELLA!"

"Is that like the gorilla that bit you in your dreams?"

"Umbrella chase me."

Things make so much more sense.



*Don't get excited. Nothing happened on the potty break. It's all propaganda and practice right now. 

Lone wolf

When I was about three years old, my dad went to another state for training for about six weeks. My sister would have been about seven at the time. I don't remember much except bringing my mom tissues while she cried on the phone. I'm sure she missed my dad and having someone help her with the daily duties of keeping two children alive.

Thinking of this makes me feel like a wuss for being apprehensive about the rest of the week. The husband is going on his annual mancation to Vegas (or Begas as Peanut keeps calling it. She wants to know if he will bring her a stuffed animal from Begas if she is good for momma.) He's around this morning and then I'm on my own until Sunday morning. Lone wolfing it.

Actually, that's not true. I'm on my own until Thursday night when my wonderful mother-in-law is taking the girls until Saturday evening, which is a huge, huge help to me since Fridays are always busy for me and I have a hard time getting out of work on time - something I have to do when it is my responsibility to pick up the girls. (Plus my alma mater Ohio University is playing in the Sweet 16 Friday night and I get to go out with some friends to watch it.)

So I have Wednesday evening and Thursday on my own and I'm still a bit worried. Our household is set up by 50-50 share of the load. I drop the girls off, the husband picks them up with an occasional switch. We split housework and childcare. When one person is gone, the other one has to pick up the other work and is out numbered by an opinionated preschooler and active toddler who has recently figured out how to climb onto kitchen chairs and get down the stairs on her own.

My expectations are low. Keep everyone out of the emergency room and dressed somewhat appropriately. I don't even care if they match.

In years past, I took time off and just stayed home. Last year, my mother-in-law (who did my laundry a few weeks ago when she watched the girls. Really. She's awesome) came and stayed with us because I had just returned from maternity leave. These year, I can't take time off so this is what we are doing.

I have to be honest. I didn't understand the husband's desire to do this every year. Was it really necessary? Couldn't we spend the money better? But then I realized, yes, it is necessary. He works his ass off every day both at work and home. He absolutely deserves a few days off to do whatever he wants. Plus, now I feel justified in taking a girls weekend too.

Brucie updates

With boys two years apart, the line I always hear when people ask about my children is, "Wow. You have your hands full."

And since October, my response has been, "Yeah, and then we were stupid and got a dog." 

Most times, it's meant as a self-deprecating joke. But there have been a few times -- the day the dog got sick in the crate while we were at work, the mornings she's goosing me with her nose before I'm even out of bed, the nights she's knocked over The Lad a dozen times before dinner -- when I've meant exactly what I said. Getting a dog, a puppy, now, when the boys are this small, was stupid. 

"It'll be great in a year," I add. "When the boys are bigger and Brucie's not a puppy ...." 

People without pets or those who have never raised a puppy just look at me with sympathy. But people with older dogs they've had since their rotten, furniture-chewing puppyhood assure me it'll be better sooner than I think. I looked at them askance ... until about a week ago. I hesitate to say this, but I think I might be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Brucie at about 8 months old is about 30 pounds, nearly full grown. Her weight is an estimate because she wriggles so much at the vet, ecstatic to see new people, that we can't get an exact number from the scale. 

Brucie and Beastie, our little Lad, are best buds. We think she thinks he's her litter mate. If she takes his toy, he'll smack her nose and she tolerates it without so much as a whimper. She knocks him down when they play and mouths at his ears while he giggles. We try to discipline both of them for these bad behaviors, but the two of them egg each other on. Case in point: We yell at Brucie for even looking at the table when we're eating, however, when our back is turned, The Lad is letting Brucie lick his food-covered hands from his highchair. She follows him around while he plays, content to chew on her toy while he races his cars. 

Brucie and The Boy have had a rockier relationship. He wanted her, but was scared of her. The feeling was mutual. Both have gotten over that and she actually is starting to listen to commands from him. They have bonded over a mutual love of chase. 

Brucie does what we call the cannon-ball run when she gets excited. She runs so fast, her back legs seem to go faster than her front ones so that her butt tucks in and makes her look like a cannon ball careening around our house. The boys love to chase her when this happens. 

Brucie is learning to snag baseballs and fetch them back to the husband when he pitches to The Boy in the backyard. 

Brucie likes to dig in the sandbox with The Lad. 

One of the lingering problems with Brucie is actually one of the things I love most about her. She desperately loves our family. She gets so very excited to see us when we come home from school and work -- and even when we wake up in the morning -- that she can't seem to contain herself from jumping and licking and cannon-ball running. Sometimes she's so excited, she pees herself. While I appreciate the love, I would appreciate more not having to clean up pee. 

So, that's Brucie. She's not a good dog quite yet. But she's getting there. 

On the other side

I've been stressed. I've been tired and annoyed and frustrated.

Sickness. Life decisions. Working. Raising kids. All of it has contributed to my bad mood the past few weeks.

But this week seems to want to cure me. Or maybe I'm just tired of myself and have decided to be happy and stop worrying so much.

A friend posted this link to a blog entry titled "I don't want to raise a good kid." Basically this mother stressed when her toddler daughter wasn't the little angel like every other kid she knew. But then that toddler who pushed the limits and wasn't normal grew up to be an extraordinary teen who continued to push the limits and do her own thing but in amazing, transforming ways. It spoke to me with my recent battles with Peanut.

I don't want my kid to be a jerk (she's not and I won't let her be). But perhaps I should appreciate her more for who she is. Independent. Strong willed. Loving and sweet. She still has to be respectful but I can let her be independent too.

It was an a-ha moment for me.

A couple hours later, I got home, went to our mailbox and found a package from Hillary. She had a perfectly timed phone call last week and let me unload my stresses. It was at a time that neither one of us would normally be able to talk but just when I needed my best friend most, she was there.

After our chat, I started to feel better. Then I opened the package today and found this T-shirt. We've been passing it back and forth since college. We send it to each other when we think the other one needs it. Weddings. Moves. Pregnancies. I think I last gave it to her at The Blathering mainly because I had it for awhile and they had just gotten Brucie. Along with it, she sent an early birthday present - a journal so I could keep track of all my "young adult dystopian" that Hillary likes to mock me for liking so much.

And then the icing on the cake: I found this song today and had a family dance party in the kitchen after dinner. Nothing is better at chasing the crankiness away than a great song and dancing as a family.



Life isn't always sunshine and lollipops. But it's good to have moments that help you find the happiness.

Thoughts on aging (and who people say I look like)

My sister is a hairstylist and nearly every time she sees me she tells me I need to color my hair to cover up the gray. She was shocked -- like as shocked as a church lady watching a sex tape -- the day I forgot to wear makeup to work. The texts I got went something like this: "WHAT?! HOW DOES THAT EVEN HAPPEN? ... There's no excuse."

But I kind of like my gray hair. And the laugh lines showing up around my eyes. I could live without the forehead furrow some days, and I have given some consideration to whether it might be worth gaining some weight and dealing with a larger ass in exchange for a more filled out face. But mostly, I like the what I see in the mirror more now than I ever did when I was younger.

This is not what I see in the mirror. But it pertains, I swear.

Years ago, when I worked at the grocery store, this hippy couple would come in every weekend to pick up produce. They drove all the way from Cleveland because they said we had the best produce, some of which was, in fact, grown on the farms around the store. I never had the heart to tell them, though, that at least half of what they bought was shipped in every week from a bulk produce market in Cleveland. Anyway, this couple was always chatty and cheerful and every week, they would tell me, as I weighed their bananas and tomatoes, that I looked JUST LIKE Marisa Tomei. I don't. But when you hear enough times that you look like a pretty woman, it sticks with you and I have a soft spot for Marisa Tomei. I like her even more now that I'm older, for all the reasons listed in this post at Tom & Lorenzo. (Do you know them? They started out as Blogging Project Rungay, and I love them. They are the only celebrity site I visit any more.)

I loved what they had to say about Marisa:

But what really allows her to wear this is her confidence. She exudes it every time she’s dressed up. ... She’s an actress in her 40s who doesn’t seem to have had any major work done on her face. She’s essentially aging like a normal person and that’s exceedingly rare in Hollywood. ...  It’s a “I’m sexy and gorgeous without fucking up my face” message and it seems to be serving her pretty well.

That's how I felt today, in just a regular old work outfit. It was just a plain white button down with a swishy skirt, but everything fit me and everything was something I liked and felt good in. I've been cleaning out my closets and replacing clothes -- with things that fit me! what a concept! -- over the last year and it's amazing to me how much I actually like getting dressed in the morning.

I still have days when all I can see are the stretch marks on my ass and the nonexistent boobs and the deepening brow furrow that reminds me so much of my biological father. But even on those days, having clothes that I actually like and fit and a haircut that feels like me makes so much of a difference.

Anyway, enough deep thoughts.

In addition to Ms. Tomei, I've also been compared to Jenna Elfman in her Dharma & Greg years (it was my haircut at the time, I think) and the husband, who obviously has been watching too much Sons of Anarchy, told me I look like Maggie Siff (I don't, but the husband does not look like Jax either). He also, God love him, compared me to Alyssa Milano (obviously, not the body).

What celebrity do you look like?

Battle of strong wills

Guess what happens when a mother and her daughter both like to be in control?

Battles. Lots and lots of battles. Over shoes. Over how the shoes are put on. Over clothes and when to put them on. Over breakfast, lunch and dinner and whether any and all of those meals should include Doritos. Over who gets to do things for her - daddy or mommy. Pacifiers. Nap times. Doctor's office visits. Anything and everything can turn into a head-butting battle.

That is what has happened in our house between Peanut and me. And she isn't even 4 years old yet.

I wanted to raise strong-willed daughters but I also wanted them to listen to me.

I let my frustration boil over this weekend. After arguing with Peanut all morning over every little thing, she cried about how I was putting her shoes on. I tossed them to her father and walked out of the room. It wasn't the most productive way to handle the situation but I knew removing myself was the best thing I could accomplish at the time.

The husband asked me if I was OK. I wasn't. I was frustrated. I can't seem to do anything right for this kid. She complains about a lot of what I do and prefers to let her father do things. I then was mad at myself for letting a preschooler get into my head. I'm the adult. I'm the parent. I should know how to handle this.

But I didn't. I don't.

Welcome to parenthood.

I've tried compromising with her. I've tried picking my battles and letting her have her way on things that don't matter. I've tried the "I hear you" approach when she is upset. I've tried comforting her when she is sad. I've tried ignoring her tantrums. Sending her to her room for quiet time when she can't pull it together. Taking away privileges like TV or the iPad when she can't listen.

Some of that works some of the time. Nothing works all of the time. We seem to be fine for weeks and then she starts digging her heels in and becoming upset about things.

She isn't a bad kid. She tells us unprompted numerous times a day that she loves us. At the end of each day, when I ask her what made her happy, she says "Gizmo made me happy today." She is sweet and loving and stubborn as can be.

I want to help her. I want us to have a good relationship. I want her to listen to me but feel like she still has a say in her daily routine. I just don't know how to get there.

Any tips for raising a strong-willed child?

Let me entertain you

"Look at me!" 

I turn around in the passenger seat (we were two hours into a four-hour roadtrip) to see The Lad wearing a huge grin and a his dad's baseball glove on his head. 

"Look at me! Look at me! This funny!"

---

I don't know what I did to piss off the woman in the SUV behind us on the way home from work, but she certainly was angry. She rode my bumper all the way down the parkway and flashed her lights at me, I guessed, when we pulled off into our neighborhood. I pulled over, expecting to get screamed at, but also not wanting to get run off the road. She squealed her tires and went around me, speeding on our residential road. 

"What's the matter, Momma?"

"Oh that woman is just angry." 

"Her car broken?" The Lad wanted to know. 

"No. She's just angry, kiddo." 

"I make her funny."

"I bet you would make her laugh, Beastie." 

"Yeah, I make her funny."

---

The Boy loves sweatbands. He's had two, both from the dollar bins at Target. One disintegrated, so the other one has been much cherished lately. They are a toy and a fashion statement for him. He throws them and wears them, flings them and shows them off. 

He made the mistake of taking it with him to the toilet tonight. 

"Momma, can you help me wipe? And my sweatband fell in."

It was not pretty. I found my oldest, most disposable mixing spoon and went fishing, then threw everything away. (Observation: Parenting is gross.) The Boy was heartbroken and wailing through all of this. For 30 minutes all we heard were moans and cries and gnashing of teeth. Tears streamed down his face as he yelled, "SWEATY! MY SWEATBAND! I WANT MY SWEATBAND!" 

In the midst of all this, The Lad was supposed to be cleaning up his cars. He stopped to follow his brother's wails. 

"Rhys-y sad. I make him funny. Hey Rhys-y!"

--- 

This kid. 

I try not to think about what my boys will be do when they grow up. They're going to change so much between now and then, it's anyone's guess what careers will attract them. But lordy, this Lad. If my little Beastie Beast doesn't entertain people somehow, some way,  I will be shocked. He's such a natural little comedian. He loves to make people laugh. And he's good at it. He's silly and his sense of timing is perfect. He pratfalls and tells jokes (though right now they consist mostly of his shouting nonsense words or "POOPY!"). And then he flashes that dimple and sparkles his eyes and you can't help but laugh with him. 

It is always something

Last week during a meeting with two very important people at work, I got a text from my husband.

"I'm having a vertigo attack."

This is the third time in about four years this has happened. The first time I was 8-months pregnant with Peanut driving my very sick and disoriented husband to the emergency room thinking something awful was happening and that I was going to have to raise this baby on my own. After hours in the ER, the doctor diagnosed vertigo and sent us on our way.

This time, the husband had to convince his bosses not to call 911, explaining that it wasn't that big of a deal. He called my dad to drive him the hour home, leaving our car two counties away. When he got home, he realized he couldn't get in the house because the garage door was in the car, two counties away. I left work, driving 40 minutes home, to let him in.

****

Yesterday, the babysitter sent me a text saying Peanut had a 101 fever, felt nauseous and wasn't acting like herself. After giving her some Tylenol, the fever came down but she still wasn't better.

She was playful enough at home but we could see it in her eyes that she wasn't well. This morning, she got sick but never had a fever. Still, not completely better, we sent her up to my parents' house for the night. The husband and I both had to work tonight since it is Super Tuesday and kind of a big deal news-wise. 

While waiting for results to come in, my mother text me to say that Peanut's eye was goopy and pink.

Cue ominous music. I'm guessing she has pink eye, which you know is not serious but more of a pain in the butt. I have feared two things more than anything as a parent: pink eye and lice.

****

This all comes not even a month after the husband, Peanut and I were struck down with the cold from hell. The husband was out for two days. I stayed home for one although, it probably should have been two.

A month before that, I had to take two days off for a broken foot.

I feel anxious when I have to take off work for these kinds of things so much. My family (and their health) is my priority but my work pays for the insurance that helps us when we get sick. I know days off are part of my benefits and I have a very understanding boss. But still, I can't help feeling bad about the last minute days off.

And then I start to feel like a whiner because in the grand scheme of things, these are minor inconveniences. My children are healthy - normal children illnesses aside. My husband and I are healthy for the most part.

But I'm still not looking forward to taking my daughter to the doctor tomorrow, where they will tell me what I already know. She has pink eye and I have to stay home from work. Again.

UPDATE:
According to the doctor, she has a cold, that caused an ear infection that caused pink eye. Oy. No daycare or school until Friday. And most likely, Gizmo will end up with pink eye too. Awesome.

Guilty pleasures

I've read the Twilight series three times. I watched the first movie twice in a 24 hour period. I went to the movie theater to see the second one. When the husband rented the third movie for me last week, I was giddy like a teen girl who had just seen Robert Pattison on the street. While watching it, I realized just how awesomely bad this franchise is. Cheeeeeestastic. And yet, I can't wait for the final movie to come out.

I love Nerd jelly beans. Love. Them. They are killing my "get my midsection into shape so people don't think I am pregnant again" project. I have no will power when it comes to jelly beans but Nerd jelly beans are my kryponite.

Have you see the show Storage Wars? I fear telling you about this because I don't feel right getting anyone else hooked on it. I really don't watch a lot of television but for some reason, I can't not watch this show about people who go to auctions of abandoned storage lockers and bid on them. Who would have thought this would make for riveting television? Not me but I love it. They make it so fabulously melodramatic. So while everyone and their mother is watching Downton Abbey, I'm watching Storage Wars.

I'm almost ashamed to admit this next one. I downloaded two Danity Kane songs the other day and I've been rocking out to them in the car. You know the Mtv and P. Diddy created girl band/reality show? I love some of their songs. Show Stopper. Damaged. Cheesy and yet so very catchy.


Fess up. What are your guilty pleasures?

Marriage

I don't know whether it was the dog or the kids or the family visits or job stuff or the fleas or hormones or the realization that we've been together 10 years -- probably all of the above -- but the husband and I went through a rough patch recently. That sounds so stupid, but how else to describe it? We weren't contemplating divorce, but we weren't really working together.

This is the detail that sums it up: Kissing me wasn't the first -- or even the second or third -- thing he did when he came home. And I was no better. Some nights, that welcome home kiss didn't even happen.

So.

Eventually, I yelled. There were long talks. There were slamming doors. There were fights. There were huffs and sarcastic comments. And finally, there were real conversations.

You guys don't need to know details and honestly, I don't want to share them. My point here is the ground-breaking thought that marriage is hard. My mom says, and I agree, that marriage is harder than parenthood, that it's the hardest thing. Parenting my kids isn't easy, but it's natural. I want to take care of them. Even when I don't want to put them first, I do. I love the husband and most days, I like him a lot, however, some days, I don't want to do what's best for US. I want to do what's best for ME. Making sure our lives change together, that we don't take each other for granted, and that we make our life together a priority takes effort. It's effort I'm willing to put in and often pleasant and worthwhile, but it's effort nonetheless.

(And, as the husband adds, the marriage part wouldn't be as hard without the parenthood part.)

I don't know. Maybe you'll read this and think the husband and I don't love each other enough if we're having to work at our marriage. Maybe for you being married is as natural as parenthood is for me. But for us, marriage means putting in a little work, for lack of a better term. It means paying attention to what's not working and speaking up if you're not happy. It means saying thank you for simple chores and encouraging each other to do things alone. It means finding something to do together. It means shouting sometimes and being meaner than necessary -- but then apologizing when you realize you've been a shit.

I sometimes wonder what the boys are learning about relationships from our marriage. I'm a yeller, if you haven't picked that up, and they certainly have heard us fight. But they also see us make up. It's a family rule: If we fight in front of the kids, we apologize in front of them, too.

The husband and I, as I mentioned, are better. Kissing me is again high on the priority list when he comes in the door each night, though often the dog or the kids are waylaying him before he gets to it. And when that happens, he kisses me over their heads.

The boys giggle.

"That's funny, Mo-om," The Lad says.

"What's funny?"

"Daddyman kiss you. That's funny." Both the boys giggle. "Do it again."

We'll all be fine, I think.

What the boys are listening to

We're old school around here and still make mix CDs. (Well, I should say the husband does. I just listen to whatever he creates, for the most part. I like music, but I'm more passive about it. I don't seek out new music as he does. Anyway ...) We're taking a little road trip soon, so the husband decided to make a couple new ones: a California mix to celebrate The Boy's love of all things West Coast and a mix of all the songs that make Beastie rock out in the car.

Here are the playlists:

 

The California Mix

It's easy to tell the ever-inquisitive Boy what the name of the song is.

The Beastie Mix

The husband says it's the most random playlist he's ever created. 

It ranges from Bert and Ernie to House of Pain. 

The Lad actually requested the order of the first three songs on his mix: "Wagon Wheel! Choo-choo song! THEN Die Die Die." The husband finished up the list tonight with the help of the boys. He said they went through probably 25 songs so Beastie could pick out the last five they needed. 

Both of the boys are a little obsessed with the Avett Brothers. They've almost burnt me out of them, and I love that group. They also really like Ryan Adams' Rock N Roll -- "This is rocking, Momma!" -- however, I realized in a hurry the other day that I should probably skip the song that drops the F-bomb every other word. In related news, we're trying to encourage The Boy to like Weezer songs OTHER than Hashpipe. I realize not every family would think this stuff is kid-appropriate, but I just can't drive around listening to Elmo all the time, and I was raised on The Doors and Lynyrd Skynyrd, etc and survived. I figure they'll be OK, too. 

What do your kids listen to? Anybody besides the husband still burning mix CDs?