It's OK to cry in front of them

I had an emotional breakdown today in front of my 3-year-old and it's OK.

Mommy cries sometimes. And the holidays are hard. Being a big kid, an adult, is hard, I told her.

And I wept while hanging onto her youthfulness, shrouded in the shadows of our upstairs hallway.

"It's OK, Mommy."

It is hard, and despite how much I adore the season, every year for the last seven Christmases (this would be the eighth) I've found myself feeling sad. And three years ago that sadness turned to an emptiness.

First, when my grandma, Nana, passed away in 2006 it was difficult to get through the holidays, but making her Rum Cake recipe in her kitchen with my then boyfriend helped me through it. It made it bearable to mix and bake and taste and drink and love because I was doing it in her home. And the years after that just got ... easier.

Breakfast is served!

It's no secret I regularly have a love affair with my slow cooker. Some weeks, we meet every day. And then after that hot, steamy, delicious rendezvous we take a break and I give the oven or stove some attention.

Just last night I perused the Interwebs in search of another tasty treat I could create in my crock. I was in the mood for breakfast.

At 9:30 p.m. my husband joined me at the counter cutting apples while I concocted what, this morning, was possibly the most delicious oatmeal I have ever eaten. Slow cooker overnight apple pie oatmeal.

I'll give you a moment to collect yourselves and wipe the drool from your chin.

30 reasons this relationship works

The Boy and I have been married for five and a half years this month, and while it's not that long in the grand scheme of things (my parents have been married 38 years next July) it's an accomplishment in this day and age. That's not to say I haven't learned a few things in our nearly 11 years together, because the lessons are there on a daily basis.

Things marriage has taught me:

Adulthood cancelled: Mommy's taking a snow day

There are things from my childhood that will forever be ingrained in my memory.

• Kindergarten graduation and getting picked on for wearing a gingham check print dress (I loved that dress).
• Holding Greg's hand under the table (also in kindergarten) because he was picked on by the same kids.
• Making myself feverish and ill every day I had Physical Education until my dad went to school and fixed the problem - again, with the picking on!
• The sixth grade spelling bee ... and almost winning. I will never forget how to spell pennant. Ever.
• Summers by the pool.
• Winters sledding down Dates' Hill, shoveling the driveway and staying outside until I couldn't feel my toes.

No, not all my memories of growing up in that small town include getting picked on for one thing or another. After all, kids are mean and I'm an adult now. I can look past that. What I can't look past is the fun I had, sometimes with the very children who made fun of that cute little dress and that cute little boy.

Difficult nights, fresh starts

"There are a lot of days I just want to crawl into bed and cry because nothing has gotten done, or I've gotten stressed too easily and scolded too many times, or the TV was a better parent than me ... but we'll only be given what we can handle, even if there are ups, downs and compromises along the way."

I hate when I say something and it comes back at me four-fold. I wrote the words above sometime last week in response to a conversation I was part of with other moms about having a third child and the fear of already being overwhelmed with two.

Last night I was short with the girls. Josie got a spanking. I was close to unplugging the TV and hauling it out to the side of the road. In truth, I wanted to pack a bag, get in the car and leave it all for my husband to deal with until morning. He frequently gets the easy part of parenting. I'm the enforcer, he's the playmate - that's usually how it goes, but more because I'm home with the kids and have to be the seat of discipline.

All I wanted to do last night was have a nice family evening together, make some popcorn and watch "The Little Mermaid" with the girls and I couldn't keep it together long enough to even give that to my kids.

Do more this holiday season

It's a quiet morning in our home, so far. Only one mini me is awake, and she's snuggled up in a chair watching "Sofia the First."

The coffee in my cup is fresh. I just brewed it.

There are two pies in the oven I made last night and a dish of squash in the refrigerator to go with dinner later. I've picked out a few bottles of wine to enjoy with family on this Thanksgiving.

We aren't hosting the holiday, but I love food and I love to cook and bake, so I offered to do as much as I could.

I wish I could do more.

Because I have a warm house, and others do not.

Social experiments: The spiritual cup

After a week of whatever the heck virus kicked my 3-year-old's tush, I think Josie is finally on the way to good health.

Now Charlie has it. We're on day four of vomit, though she might have skipped a day and I just don't remember. Sleeping (if you can call it that) sitting up with a trash can next to your bed for your 2-year-old to puke into tends to blur time and days.

I'm hoping this isn't going to be the beginning of a repeat of Winter 2012-13.

I refuse to panic about this. We're back to popsicles, Pedialyte and watered down juice. Charlie refuses to eat solid food, I think more out of fear of how much it will hurt if she throws up again. At the very least, I need to try every trick in the book to get fluids into her.

But all this trying to get them healthy is exhausting, and I hate to complain about my babies because they can't help what's happening, so on Sunday the kids stayed home with the Boy and off to church I went. I had a pie fundraiser to help button up so we could start baking on Monday. And my spiritual cup needed a refill.

No less a rock star

Sick kids are the worst.

It sucks.

It's not just sucky because they're sick, though. Sadly, it's more because the problem can't always be fixed and as a parent it makes you feel helpless. You spend all your time guiding, teaching, snuggling, kissing away the ouchies.

But then along comes a virus that wreaks havoc on your preschooler's intestinal tract and leaves in its wake little hands and little feet and, in our case, even a little nose covered in hives.

The magic of Christmas

It's right around the corner. I know it's coming and I'm just not ready for it yet. Not one bit. No ounce of me is prepared, with the exception of having picked up on some clearance sales.

It's Christmas.

No, I don't want to think about it yet. We haven't even gotten through Thanksgiving yet. I refuse - REFUSE, I tell you - to get the tree up or pull my Dickens village houses out before Nov. 29. I did break down and hang some jingle bells on the front door. I probably have broken my own rules just with that one smooth move.

It's hard. So, so hard.

In the moment ... but not really

I'm really bad about writing things in the moment. You know, something spectacular happens and then I don't write about it right away and two days later I try to ... and it all sounds like shit. This is because of my kids. I blame them. They're so needy and I, like, never get time to do things I want to do like pour out my soul in one shot.

So, jump into my time machine. I'm taking you back to Tuesday Nov. 12, 2013. Are you there? Good. Because this is going to be written like it all happened today.

*que funky time machine wavy mirage visual effects*

My hope filled VBAC: She's almost 2

Somewhere in the vicinity of two years ago this week, I stared at my very pregnant belly wondering when the little goober was going to give up the hostage situation in my uterus and wave its white flag. I was three days past my due date, still working full-time and went to bed every night praying God would give my body the ability to birth my child as He intended.

I've told the story of how Josephine had been forced out before she was ready. Devastated doesn't even begin to describe how I felt, and though I tried part of me still can't even put into words the full range of emotions I felt over the course of my healing - both physical and emotional.

And then eight months later I was pregnant again. I was "late" and tested. Negative. Tested again a few days later. Negative. Spent my birthday attempting to have fun hanging out with my family ... could hardly stomach the beer in my hand and though I so very badly wanted a cigarette, the smell nearly made me vomit. On March 8, I had a biopsy done on my thyroid and went home scared to death of the results of that test. To clear my head, I peed on another stick figuring if it was negative this time, I was going to stop worrying. My body was probably just getting back on track after Josie had stopped breastfeeding.

Acquired fire hazards (aka: shit people give you)

There are a lot of things I didn't do before packing up and moving.

• That giant box of old papers I wanted to go through? Sitting in the front room.
• Clothes that should have been sorted and sent to the Rescue Mission? Scattered throughout three rooms.
• Old computer monitors/printers/cables I wanted him to find new homes for? Currently surrounding me in the basement office area.
• The Popular Science mags I begged him to sort and toss 16 months ago? Still in the same box they sat in at the other house, only now at this house. And still pissing me off.
• The filing cabinet that holds next to no important papers because they're all in the box upstairs in the front room? Still haven't sorted through the junk we're keeping in there.

 It's an epidemic.

Strategic plans of attack

Things have been quiet around here.

Well, if you can call the ear piercing screaming that has replaced my 3-year-old's beautiful little voice "quiet" that would be a fairly accurate statement.

By "quiet" I'm hoping you've read between the lines. The kids haven't gone totally berzerk and started climbing the walls again like they did when my husband was out of town for the better part of two weeks at the beginning of October. Yeah, they're less crazy (ie: quiet) lately, which makes me wonder what they're secretly plotting.

All Hallow's Eve ... eve

My child refused to dress up for her dance class Halloween thing yesterday.

I'm not going to lie; this doesn't upset me at all. She was adamant we wouldn't even deviate from her normal outfit, though I did sneak in a pair of My Little Legs to keep her warm (which made her look like a less sweaty version of the chick from "Flashdance"). Know why this is awesome to me? My kid was being herself and going against the grain. At least that's what I'm telling myself after last year's meltdown about putting on a damn costume for class.

Before anyone can call me out and say I'm stealing part of their childhood by not enforcing a dress up policy, please just stop. I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm allowing my child a choice, which I actually think is fairly responsible parenting since I don't want to be the first form of peer pressure they encounter.

Sleep begets sleep and all that

I talk a lot about my kids' sleep habits. At least, I feel like I talk about them a lot.

Charlie loves sleep and only fights bedtimes when she's overtired, which means then she's going to be awake at the ass crack of dawn trying to break down the gate to Cereal Land where she can wreak havoc and mayhem. I'm not usually griping up a storm about the Goober, and really haven't done so since I put my foot down when she was 15 or so months old and forced her to learn how to self-soothe (which is my nice way of saying I broke down from exhaustion and gave into a modified "cry it out" method).

So, when I mention sleep habits these days, usually it's how shitty the sleep habits are and that I'm tired of being held captive in my own bed by the one and only Josie. That kid likes to stay up late no matter how tired she is, and then I'm forced to listen to her rant and rave when I leave the room, or I sit there with her waiting for sleep to take over.

Homeowner logic, the new oxymoron

Sometimes, as a homeowner, you just feel like an idiot.

I think that's actually part of the deed process - you need to sign over your rights to common sense and logic until you've lived at the deeded property for a while.

Heating, cooling, what light switch goes with which outlet, etc. These things can leave you in a daze of new homeowner WTFs.

For instance, today I present to you a lesson in heating your home.

Pies worthy of a crazed baker

Our church is holding its annual Harvest Ham Dinner today. My apologies to anyone who eats the pies I've made and donated to the cause. One top crust is overworked and the other pie is missing apples because Charlotte decided to help herself. 

By the time I was done, I was ready to tear my hair out. It was too early to start drinking

Oh, and headache day No. 6 was well underway. Seriously, I'm now a full week into waking up with a dull headache, which eventually will work itself into a splitting headache by bedtime. If I'm lucky, I'll go to bed with the beginning of a migraine like I did last night.

But let's not think about that. Let's talk about baking ... with our kids.

Desperately seeking wine and a closet

What's the protocol for a kid who attempts to brush her teeth with Softsoap Lavender and Chamomile hand soap?

Please don't say call Poison Control. Please don't say call Poison Control.

Shit. I knew someone would suggest it. Oh well. She hasn't thrown up and she told me she didn't swallow any. Not to mention, I'm fairly certain Charlie learned a valuable lesson here: soap doesn't taste as good as it smells.

I'm a bedtime hostage

I cooked half the day today, but the kids and I had leftovers for dinner.

Most of it probably didn't fit in the "healthier than thou" category, and as I told my mother on the phone, I felt bad. She laughed at me and asked why. Well, because it's not the "hey I tried to make you a gourmet toddler meal" approach to motherhood I was envisioning while my husband was out of town for the week. It was more the, "we're poor and I didn't go to the store for lasagna noodles and milk" version.

Meh. My one bowl of chili and the peas/corn combo, even in the freshest state, weren't on the gourmet list either. Since I was starving (or I like to tell myself I was), I just housed a bologna and cheese sandwich at 11:30 p.m. to try warding off a headache that really won't go away unless I drag my ass to bed. And the headache is likely because of a lack of caffeine, reading in the dark and begging my eldest to just go the fuck to sleep already. Here, listen to Samuel L. Jackson tell this bedtime story, which basically is every single night in my house.

Clutter bug adjustment period

It's done, mostly.

We've been living in the new house for a little more than a week and it's been an adjustment. The kids have been fine going from sharing a room to having their separate corners to fight from. My husband has been fine coming back to the home he spent his adolescence in. I'm the one still trying to adjust, despite calling this house home.

It's me. It's always me.

But this time I know what's holding me back and it's the clutter.

In a diaperless society

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Repeat.

I should be packing up clothes, taking drawers out of emptied dressers, figuring out if that box of papers can be burned or if we need that stuff and making a grocery list of foods to fill my new, heart-stopping awesome refrigerator with because I'm so in love with it and feel it deserves more gifts that a pack of Juicy Juice juice boxes. Poor thing probably feels neglected being all the way over there without anything to chill and freeze yet. Soon, sweet machine, soon.

The preschool (non)dilemma

It's really taking its toll on me this morning. I just need to know. Am I a shitty mom for not sending Josie to preschool?

Please tell me, I'm not the only one with a 3-year-old who's just chilling out watching Dinosaur Train while she has her morning quota of milk and after-breakfast snacks. I'm only panicking over this because I feel like most of my social network feeds are filled with pictures of kids going off to first days of preschool - they're all dressed up cute and have little backpacks and fancy shoes.

And my kid is curled up in jammies still at 10 a.m. while Dr. Scott talks about the stegosaurus and the Pteranodon family goes on another adventure.

We have our reasons for not doing preschool this year, and possibly not doing it next year either when she'll be 4, and like us everyone chooses to send a child to preschool or not for their own reasons.

Tooth Fairy: On strike

Since when does the Tooth Fairy recognize inflation in her payouts? All these years (all three my oldest has been alive) I thought she was more like the newspaper industry - constant wage freeze or in a state of furlough.

That's apparently not the case and the good ol' Associated Press showed me the truth with this gem they posted Aug. 30. (I was going to write about this on Friday, but was too busy worrying about my kids acting like kids to focus on something way above my grade level).

Nearly $4 a tooth? I remember being thrilled beyond my wildest dreams when I found a dollar once for a lost molar. A MOLAR! Here I've very honestly been figuring about $.50 per tooth when we start popping them out of our kids' heads like Pez candy ... This Tooth Fairy, though, is ready to hang up her wings over this newest report.

An itch I'm trying not to scratch

I look like I got into a hardcore wrasslin' match with a poison ivy plant.

Oh wait ... I did.

Never in my life have I had to endure this ridiculousness. Ever. All my years of wandering through wooded areas with friends, going horseback riding through thick grasses and playing in areas you'd think poison ivy would grow, and where do I pick up this itchy, scratchy rash?

The flower bed at Future Home.

The desk has left the building

Trying to stay organized while gradually moving into one house and out of another while also trying to keep the house we're moving out of in some sort of livable fashion and the new house from melting into a puddle of chaos is challenging.

You follow that? We're talking full-on shaking with frustration over everything kind of challenge over here in Naked Baby Land. 

But maybe that frustration is a sign of making headway? Or I'm just an asshole who wants everyone to check my list before they touch/move/breathe on anything in their personal space.

WTF! She knows her ABCs

Somehow Josie knows her ABCs.

It's absolutely horrible, but I'm not even sure where she learned them. These are bad habits to break.

Next thing you know she'll know how to spell and my life will forever be destroyed. I will never be allowed to plan a surprise trip to get I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M again and forget going to the P-L-A-Y-G-R-O-U-N-D.

Sure, it's entirely possible that my incessant singing of the little ditty drilled it into the ever-changing landscape of grey matter inside her noggin. Or it could have been any one of the LeapFrog toys she plays with in conjunction with the LeapFrog videos on Netflix she's obsessed with. It could even be my mad immersion techniques where I have forced my kids to go to the Y and have fun (I know! I'm such a bad parent) and the amazing childcare staff has given a push in the preschool education department. Someone should buy them cookies.

We're flippin' carseat crazy. Emphasis on 'crazy.'

A minivan officially sits in our driveway with my license plates on it. My truck ... well, I loved it and we had some good times, but in the end she just wasn't living up to my expectations.

We lost another binky. They are all missing. Charlie is borrowing one from her sister's godfather's son who likely never would have a clue it was missing if I weren't mentioning it now. Sorry 'bout your luck, Liam, it's got girl germs on it now.

After the recent nephew/niece trading, Boy went through our Netflix "recently watched" list ... interesting. Someone needs to clue that younger boy into how not appropriate it is to attempt to watch anime on my TV. Or any TV. Especially mine and particularly when I assume my children were in the room. In fact, I think he and I and his mother may have to chat. At first, I thought it was hilarious that it was listed in the watched list, until my husband said, "I think it's time someone gets the talk."

Refrigerator, van ... it's all the same

It's after 2 p.m. and I'm close to mainlining the cup of coffee I reheated ... again.

The again is in reference to reheating the coffee, not mainlining it. I've never actually done that, but taking my caffeine intravenously is definitely an idea that's been tossed around. *yawn*

The last two weeks have kind of been a blur of kids coming and going and things changing. My 10-year-old nephew came and spent a week with us and then I switched him out for his sister, who is 14. I think having them here was more exhausting than keeping up with the Mini Me Duo. If nothing else, it was more mentally exhausting.

Clean freak chronicles: In a Lysol haze

I've been kind of secretive about plans to move. Or at least, after some careful thought and a strategically made Facebook post, that's the way it may appear to some.

Truthfully, I just haven't turned to social media with all my joy/panic moments over the decision because we (Boy Wonder and I) never sat down and did a serious house hunt.

But here it is — after almost five years in this house, we're moving on. It's happening slowly, because if I make a big move and do it too quickly I'll fall apart, and I can't afford to do that all over again. Moving into our current home was almost too much to bear and the clutter utterly consumed me. A lot of days it still does, but that's primarily because we don't have enough space for the amount of things we have. I've been making great strides to cut back on the material things here that are just pure crap we don't need to hold onto, but I can only do so much when we only get 24 hours each day to accomplish what's on my list. And that list is long.

Weighing the problem

Weight is just a number on a scale. Isn't it?

As an obsessive compulsive weight checker, I can say that isn't always the case. Yesterday, I weighed myself seven times. Seven. It's not always that bad. Some days it's only three. And when I skip a day, I worry more about eating a sandwich with bread than any one person should. I don't, by any means, starve myself, but I do watch closely what goes in my mouth with a reward and reprimand mentality.

For a lot of women, being "fat" is in their heads. For those of us who have battled the weight monster for years, we look in the mirror and see a giant even if our clothes have become ill-fitting from weight loss and the number on the scale reflects something we're pleased with.

The scale isn't the issue, though. The body mass index charts, the skinnier than thou actresses, the weight loss supplements advertised everywhere ... those are the issues. As a society, we — women and men — have religiously opened ourselves up for criticisms where weight is concerned. For most people I know, the BMI would call them overweight; actresses who put on a few pounds because they had a bad breakup and ate a loaf of bread and some Ben & Jerry's are flaunted as baby bump suspects; directly related are the too-skinny rich and famous who are called out as bulimic or anorexic; I'm not even going to tell you what advertisements, the grocery store and pharmacy do to a chunky girl with low self esteem.

What I am going to do is get to the point. Eventually. I think there's a point to this. Maybe.

Zombie eating beetles for the win

My dog tried to eat that yesterday. Toddler-in-training attempted to touch it and screamed like a baby when it took flight. Yeah, I know, she is a baby, but that's beside the point.

I post this photo to Facebook asking what the eff it is because I was clueless and have never seen a beetle like it in my life. That's a total of like 30 years of bug catching, frog saving, tadpole fishing, night crawler hunting interactions with the wild ... and never had one of these crossed my path. I was aware enough to know it was a beetle of some sort, obviously, because I'm not an idiot.

Responding with lightning speed, a friend posted in awesome yelling-at-me caps that it's a carrion beetle. Excuse me. *clears throat* CARRION BEETLE.

Laundry mishaps

I could totally be a good housewife if I really tried. But, I get distracted.

Or multitask.

Or both.

Usually, it's both and that's why I have four loads of laundry that need to be taken care of, dinner is kind of thought about most days and my kids tend to run naked and wild for a couples hours ... every day.

Things just get crazier when glitter is involved.

We be jammin'

I'm getting closer and closer to being a Flower Child. At least in my head that's where I'm headed.

In reality — because let's face it, I rarely live in the real world even though it's nice to visit — I'm following in my mom footsteps. Where am I headed with this? Preservation.

No, not preserving mankind or anything like that, but, like, actual preserves. Jams. Jellies. Home canned make-my-mouth-water salsa and stewed tomatoes. Growing up we did stewed tomatoes every year for as long as I can remember. We worked all summer in the garden growing a variety of tomato species — roma, beefsteak, whatever — along with bell peppers and onions so we'd have enough for stewed tomatoes and fresh eating.

When the baby starts growing up

"I can do it myself!"

Well, OK then.

Toddler-in-training has got a mouth on her and an attitude to boot. She's also been working tirelessly on her sideways glare — you all know the one. The kid in question doesn't want to listen but can't help but look your way after being scolded, so without turning their head to give you the full-on stink eye they just turn their eyes like pissed off little cherubs. Yeah. She's getting really good at that.

Saturday morning was just icing on the "my baby is growing up" cupcakes for this Mommy. So much for my holding her hand to come down the stairs after she put me in my place; I couldn't even hold my hand out for her to grab in case she started to tumble because she pushed it away! I got the "myself" talk and then the glare and I decided I simply needed a caffeine IV to get through the day.

Worth the break

Ten weeks away. This is like starting over.

And man, have I been busy not folding laundry while stepping away from my Internet addiction. I have been busy doing other things though, you know, because I have two kids both going through their own version of the Terrible Two's. Josie's trying to catch up on all the temper tantrums she didn't throw over the last year and Charlotte is keeping pace in order to be done with this nonsense by the time she actually reaches 2.

I can't complain much because compared to other kids, mine are relatively low-key and easily calmed. Like last night. We got ready to sit down for dinner and, as is my norm, I refilled the girl's milk cups. Josie insisted she didn't want more, so I just put a splash in to make sure she'd have enough for dinner. Oh the tears! You'd think I tore the head off her favorite stuffed animal and laughed about it in front of her. The fight was on, and I really didn't have much fight left in me (and what parent does at 6:30 p.m.). She was angry enough about it she refused to eat. She didn't want any macaroni salad, not even the eggs — which, as everyone knows, is every child's favorite part of any cold salad.

Superhero Mom took over, swooped down and guzzled that splash of milk and all was forgiven in the land of Temper Tantrumville. Seriously. I drank the little bit of extra I gave her and she was happier than a dog with a new bone, ate her dinner and went on for a fairly calm night. The whole incident lasted maybe three minutes.

Even the Boy shook his head, amazed that the only thing she wanted was no extra milk. I don't know where she gets this strong willed thing from ... nope, not a clue.

All I want for Mother's Day is ...

My life right now is all about scheduling. And I'm sucking at it. Badly.

The only thing I have set in stone every week is the Bean's creative movement class on Tuesdays, but soon enough that will come to an end and we'll be doing the summer thing. I assume the "summer thing" will be much like our "spring" and "fall" and "winter" things ... a whole lot of what the eff are we doing today.

At least we're finally getting bedtime back. Forget prime time television with the Boy — I'm stuck sitting on the stairs outside the girls' bedroom usually from 8 to 9 p.m. At least they're in their own beds and sleeping most of the night again. Though the normal bedtime for them means an earlier wake up call. I suppose I can handle getting up at 6:30 some mornings if it means an hour or two of quiet at night to collect my thoughts. I usually don't get to do that during the day unless it's in three-minute increments interrupted by screaming because someone turned the TV off, took a toy or dumped Bailey's water dish.

Living better? Challenge accepted

Did you know there's something called referring spam? I don't understand the whole of it, but from my experience so far it makes it look like you have a ton of pageviews when really NO ONE is looking at it. My ego burst when I realized that, no, it's very unlikely that so many people in Russia and Germany would give a shit what I'm writing about and all these "pageviews" I was suddenly getting were probably due to this random website that kept showing up as a traffic source.

Fuck you referring spam. Instead of 600-plus pageviews, I probably have something closer to like 300. I'm guessing. I hope it's more than that, but truly have no idea because there are rarely comments and I have a grand total of three public followers.

I'm done letting something as ridiculous as pageviews get me down, because that's exactly what happened. Considering my livelihood once came from a byline, I have a tendency to thrive on and feed off of the knowledge someone is reading what I write.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I feel better.

In search of positivity and space

I took a break — from here, from the gym, from feeling like a useful member of society.

In all honesty, I needed it. The morning after my last entry, I packed the kids in the car and took off for my parents house about two hours away. We only stayed a couple days, but it was enough to make me realize things weren't going as planned around here. I was truly beginning to feel overwhelmed again. If you've been keeping up with me and my stories, you know this feeling started a while ago and I've been trying to get back on track. Bad weather and bad attitudes (mine and Josie's, which has likely been caused by mine) have been blamed.

So has the furniture, the dog, the car, the money ... You get the picture.

I decided earlier this week to nip it in the bud. We've been talking about what we need to do to fix the house up and potentially sell it and that has put me in full on "show ready" homeowner mode. I sent an unused television stand home with my parents on a recent visit and then took the baker's rack down — we used it to hold bath towels and toiletries in the bathroom — and repurposed a basket already in the bathroom for the newly homeless towels.

My cesarean revisited

She's almost 3 years old and I still mourn my birth experience.

Every time I see or hear a friend or family member is being induced, I cringe. When an induction of a loved one fails, I weep inside because I know what that feels like. And when they're taken back for the ultimate sacrifice to meet their child, I pray ... that they heal quickly, are able to handle the pain and cope with the emotional turmoil many, like I, have encountered on the path to postpartum new mommy bliss.

Recently I linked a blog post from 2011 that a few of my friends had also linked to on Facebook. I tagged other c-section moms because I wanted them to know we all are courageous to have undergone major abdominal surgery to get our babies out. We are awesome because we risked everything to meet our children.

I didn't expect I would get so emotional after posting it and then reading their responses and what they wrote when relinking to the same blog post. Rarely do I open up in an open format to express, in part, a condensed version of my five-day hospital stay when Josephine was born. I often feel like the past should be just that; the past.

Crazy lady with a green thumb

Composter- 1, Gardener- 0

I was so excited about my new composter. Who am I kidding? I'm still excited despite having to shovel decomposing vegetable matter off the concrete slab we call a porch when the door flew open and popped off spewing the contents. I'm slightly surprised the neighbors didn't call over to ask what that smell was — because it was wretched.

So now the goal is going to be to move this mammoth tumbler from where it is to somewhere else once the weather breaks and the ground is a little less spongy.

My spring time "to do" list is slowly growing. As I write this, I can think of at least three things I want to be doing outside. First and foremost, playing with the kids. A close, very close, second is getting the garden tilled and expanded. Third, I want go crazy fixing the flower bed out front, but I'm not nearly as excited about that because I'm self conscious about people seeing my gardening tactics. They're fairly stealthy and not an exact science, and on occasion naughty words fly out of my face and I hear my older child repeating them later in the day. It's not a pretty sight.

Compost this! And that. And everything else.

Why, yes, I am sitting down with my feet up, drinking a mug of tea and kind of watching Camp Rock.

The house is a disaster and has been in a constant state of disarray for  nearly two weeks.

Tonight, I'm giving myself permission to not let it put me in a bad mood. The husband is off at some nerdy computer geek thing for the evening so it was me, my girls and the bad dog — she's been stripped of good dog status for the night because she stole food from the kids and then ate hard boiled eggs off my plate while I was away from the table during dinner.

After pissing and moaning about the dog and throwing a tantrum because the kids splashed half the bath water onto the floor, I said the hell with it. If I had any energy left, I would get off the couch and reward myself with a bottle of wine ... maybe even a glass to go with it. Maybe.

You see, I was productive for the first time in at least a week, and it feels good to sit down and really think about what I got done.

Check your jealousy at the door

"Opting to stay home when Charlotte was born was the best decision I ever made."

That's what I tell everyone who asks me about staying home with my kids.

It's a partial truth. I can't call it a lie because then I would be openly admitting I don't think it was the right choice, and that's not the truth. Simply put, some days are a lot harder than others. Before the working parents get all in an uproar, you have to understand stay-at-home parents are jealous of you because you get some much needed time apart from your babies.

The winds of change are blowing in a meltdown

Sometime in the wee hours of todayness, I turned 31.

I've been legally allowed to purchase and drink alcohol for a decade, and have known my husband just as long.

Damn, I feel kind of old.

It doesn't help much that my uterus feels lonely and the baby fever is spiking. The kids tearing the hell out of the house this morning, Charlie falling and bruising her face and Josie refusing to put real clothes on until nearly 1 p.m. isn't even swaying the want of another squish.

No worries, though. Despite wanting another, I think I need to wait a little longer before we travel that road again. Like, when I'm 31 and a half we can talk about it.

Hopefully I'm out of my funk by then.

The last week I've been in shut down mode — I haven't touched my list, I keep seeing things that need to be done and not doing them, I've lost my temper more times than I can count and I just want to curl up in a ball and watch "Sleepless in Seattle" on repeat.

CIO: No thank you. On second thought ...

I hate cry it out. You know, the forced method of getting your child to self-soothe.

Let me reiterate: I hate cry it out.

The thought of it makes me cringe. When Josie was younger, and I was running really low on sleep and, as a consequence, patience ... we tried. I couldn't do it. I made my husband do it and then I still couldn't handle it.

Like a lot of other parents, I'm of the mindset that babies cry for a reason, the most common being they're hungry, tired or have a soiled diaper. We all know babies cry for more reasons than those, though, and some kids just like to snuggle. Not getting that snuggle time is reason enough, still, for my 2-year-old to cry if I try to get her into her bed before she's ready

I have the snugglers who tend to end up in my bed night after night. I love bedsharing, but not nearly as much now as I used to. Charlotte, at 15 months, is the same size now as Josie was at her 2-year well visit. The child is a giant compared to her big sister; I'll likely be buying them the same size clothes by Christmas.

Looking for love?

"love your life"

I don't know if that was the entire quote or not, but they are the words I saw scrawled across the shoulders of a woman at the gym earlier this week. They struck a chord. They hit me deep.

I have enjoyed my life for the most part. Many times, though, I have found myself resenting moving away from my family and friends, or hating that we don't have a six-digit income. I've gotten angry because I can't keep up with the dog hair or the toys that overrun the first level of our home. And while those things seem like negatives, I have mostly enjoyed my life.

Enjoyed. Not loved.

I have frequently failed to understand that loving my life doesn't mean I am supposed to enjoy every aspect of it, but rather as a whole love it for all of the experiences, the joys as well as the trials and tribulations, that have come my way.

As far as I'm concerned — and I'm merely one person and one opinion — loving something means you are passionate about it, and I am definitely passionate about my life. I'm finally starting to understand that as I've had a chance to reflect on the things I truly am "passionate" about. The things I live for and love. Naturally, my top two are my babies and my husband. Then coffee.

Well ... some days coffee is the very top of the list. OK. A lot of days. Man, I love coffee!

Dear June, a little inspiration please

June Cleaver, I am not.

But, damn it, I try real hard.

Since making the decision to stay home and focus on raising our babies, things have been less than perfect in my mind, though. I seem to apologize to Boy Wonder on an almost daily basis. Envision this scenario:

He walks through the front door and is immediately met with, "I didn't get a chance to pick up the living room. Dinner is cold. I kicked the dog and drank all the beer. Today SUCKS!" (OK, I didn't actually drink the beer, but some days it definitely crosses my mind ... a lot.) And then I stomp off because he says, "It's OK. You think I'm worried about it and I'm not," instead of commiserating with me or getting upset.

My husband is freaking amazing and ridiculously laid back a majority of the time. He gives me the time I need to be pissed off at my lack of organization, letting me rant and rave about all the things on my "to do" list that haven't gotten done and then when the kids are in bed we pick up the house together, he sets up the coffee maker and I get a few hours of restless sleep.

Calmed by the chaos

"Please don't hit the dog with your carrot!"

As parents, we often utter — and overhear — phrases that are totally off the wall when not in context of certain situations. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would say those words in that order in one breath. Ever. But, I said it this morning thanks to the current youngest goober in the family.

Charlotte has been trying for 10 months to cut teeth, only succeeding so far to have two bottom pearly whites pop through. Since she likes to chew on anything she can to ease the pain, I washed up a carrot while making soup and handed it to her to gnaw on. She started off nibbling gently. Then promptly chomped down on it, got pissed off because her face hurt and started beating our Lab mix, Bailey, in the head with said carrot. Naturally, she was screaming and the tears started flowing as though the dog had been the one hitting her instead of the opposite.

Things like this are always happening in our house. Josie tries to ride on her sister like a pony, or climb on Bailey in an attempt to further her chances of being a professional bull rider later in life, and in an attempt to stop someone from getting hurt we catch ourselves saying the most ridiculous things. The only surefire result is a fit of laughter in most cases. Unless, of course, someone actually has gotten hurt.

The "to do" conundrum

My "to do" list is never ending. Literally.

Each time I cross something off I seem to add two more things. Excluding the usual chores — vacuum, dust, dishes, etc. — there are probably a dozen other things I wanted to get done this week alone and yet they haven't been crossed off.

It's a horrible affliction, this list of mine, and I've fallen into a rut. The list is getting so long it overwhelms me some days and then nothing gets done other than diaper changes and meals.

So, I added "drink wine" at the bottom; it's something I should have done weeks ago. I figured including alcohol would make it easier for me to get things done around the house, use it as an incentive to bust my ass and feel a little more accomplished in my new-ish role of stay-at-home mom and housewife.

Accidental bedsharers

Most mornings I wake up with a pair of feet in my face. It's like I went to a raging party the night before and don't remember how I got to my bed or, better yet, why there are feet in my face.

I'm usually grumpy when I first wake up, so having a toe shoved into my sinus cavity makes mornings even less pleasurable. This, of course, is not how we planned to spend our first waking moments most days of the week when we welcomed our babies to the world.

In June 2010, Josie joined our little family and at that time, like so many other first-time parents, we tried to follow some of the rules — you know, things like rest when the baby rests and always put them to sleep on their backs.

That's laughable. Looking back on our first few weeks as parents, I didn't listen to a damn thing anyone told me. Oh, the baby is sleeping! Time to scrub the bathtub and do nine loads of laundry and run up and down the stairs. My brain did not shut off. By the time bedtime and those middle of the night feedings came at the end of the day, I could barely keep myself awake to get her to latch on properly. Instead of sitting in the rocking chair in her bedroom at 2 a.m., I tried propping myself up on pillows in bed and promptly fell asleep despite my husband's incessant pleas to keep me awake.

The cold from hell

This cold will go down in history as the most irritating thing to happen in my house. I swear it's a virus spawned from the devil himself.

Both girls have been a boogery, coughing, slimy mess for two weeks. The pediatrician said, "Lungs are clear. Looks like it's just a bad cold." That was 12 days ago.

That same day I realized they charged my insurance for two upper respiratory infections. It hit me that doctors, or the billing department, play the system as badly as some patients and it kills me. If my child has what you're going to tell my insurance company she's been diagnosed with, then I want an antibiotic for her. I'm not going to argue about what's ethical or not, but if a parent is going to see on the printout from the office staff that a diagnosis is an infection, then use the handy-dandy prescription pad you've been licensed to carry as it was meant to be used! Or, at the very least, use a different billing code.

Instead, we've gone through doses upon doses of pain reliever, cough medicine for my big girl, warm showers, gallons of water in the humidifier, sleepless nights and when all of that seemed to stop helping, I stopped caring if they drank my green tea and had popsicles for breakfast. At least they're getting fluids.

Breastfeeding's bittersweet end

I'm pretty sure my 14-month-old daughter is a 15-year-old boy in disguise. She is absolutely obsessed with my breasts.

Breasts. Boobies. Tatas. The girls. Second base.

We all call them a variety of names and they seem to help sell a lot of magazines and whatnot, but in reality they serve a single purpose — to feed our young — and the purpose of mine is quickly coming to an end for the second time. I know not every mother is able to successfully breastfeed, and some simply have no desire to nurse, but for us it's been the right choice.

When I was pregnant with our first baby, I had high hopes of being able to breastfeed and went so far as to order my $300 breast pump before talking to my endocrinologist about the thyroid medication I take and if I would be able to breastfeed while taking it. The long and short of that conversation was I could and I did.

Josephine was breastfed for the first six months of her life. I was proud as a first time mom to be able to nourish her for that long considering the numerous weight checks and the talks of formula and the eventual supplementing with formula that led to the end of our breastfeeding relationship. It was sad and heart wrenching, but the only thing that mattered in the end was she was eating and healthy. Despite my efforts, I simply didn't take good enough care of myself to be able to continue feeding her exclusively from me after that point. A word to moms out there who want to and are able to successfully nurse — make sure you eat and stay hydrated. Those are the two things I failed to do. I was ecstatic when the pregnancy weight melted off and my swelling (and boy did I swell) went away, but at what cost?

Here goes ... everything

It's 1 a.m. and after weeks, maybe even months, of considering this, I've made the decision to jump head first into an irrational sea teeming with thousands of others throwing caution to the wind and giving the virtual public a look into their deeper selves.

Like so many other writers out there looking for their own corner of the Internet, I'm a stay-at-home mom. It wasn't always this way. I had a career, and still do to a degree, in community journalism.

Tough choices needed to be made when our family grew and I opted to try my best to contribute to the bills by freelancing for my colleagues. Instead of spending bath time at board meetings and breakfast with my nose in my email, I opted for motherhood — the morning fight to get our 2-year-old to wear anything but her pajamas, a daily wrestling match with our 14-month-old that others call "diaper changes" and wondering why the house is a disaster at the end of the day despite my marathon cleaning efforts.