It's official, I registered!

I am runnng my first 5K on Saturday. I was going to run an 8K, but then my sanity returned.

Here is the course:

For those of you who are not familiar with UC Irvine, you see those circles in the middle?

Yeah, that would be uphill.

I'm going to throw up now.

Speechless...

My daughter has been pretty demanding lately. Well, more demanding than normal. Momma has to get her out of the car. Daddy has to take her shoes off. Momma has to make dinner. Daddy has to blow dry her hair. Momma has to get the pillows out of the closet. Daddy has to take care of brother.

And heaven help you if you try to mix it up and not follow her directions.

Today, my husband got the pillows for her out of the closet (they are kept there because of our incontinent cat who hates us). My daughter had told me to get the pillows, but I was in the bathroom when I got the demand, so my husband took care of it.

My daughter THREW. A. FIT. And the pillows. At her father. And then told him, enunciating perfectly:

"DAMMIT Daddy! Momma get the pillows."

I probably shouldn't have laughed. And I probably should start watching my mouth.

One of those days...

This morning was a nightmare.

I know I promised that my next blog would be about my cool little guy, and I promise to get there tomorrow or the next day. But today was just one of those morning... and I have to share my pain.

I am On. My. Own. in the mornings. My wonderful husband leaves for work at six in the morning, which means I have to get myself and two little kids ready and out the door by 7:15 so that we can get to work/school on time. He is great about either making lunches and giving the little guy his medicine, but last night was hell and my husband and I overslept.

This means that I had to make lunches on top of my normal routine, which involves getting up at 5, doing pilates (or sleeping in until 5:30 and skipping pilates), eating breakfast, showering and getting ready, getting my daughter up and fed before settling her down in front of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and then getting my son up and fed before strapping them into their seats and heading over to their school. However, there was a different plan in effect today...

5:30: crawling out of bed, being careful not to wake up my daughter who came into our bed at some point during the night.

5:31: First hit of coffee.

5:32: I'm wondering if I will be a bad mom if I send my kids to school with two pieces of bread and some green beans for lunch.

5:42: Lunches made and in the car. I have also loaded up my lunch, my work bag, the kids' diapers, blankets, and change of clothes. So far, I'm only 2 minutes late.

5:43: Second hit of coffee, make breakfast.

5:44: Eat breakfast, check my email

5:47: Boyo starts screaming, an hour before he normally gets up. I dump breakfast down the drain and rock him back to sleep. Kiss my husband good bye.

6: Hop in the shower 10 minutes late.

6:02: My daughter stumbles into the bathroom, up 30 minutes before usual, to tell me that the bees are going to eat her. Oh, and her brother's screaming again.

6:03: Start cursing as shampoo gets in my eyes.

6:05: Red eyed, out of the shower, trying to get ready with a 32 lb baby on my hip and a toddler hanging on my leg.

6:40: Finally all ready for work. In the past 35 minutes, I have gotten myself ready and dressed, slapped on make up, taken make up away from my 2 year old, blow dried and styled my hair, and stopped my boy from trying to turn on the bathroom sink (5 times). Running 15 minutes behind. Third hit of coffee.

6:41: Begging my daughter to eat breakfast.

6:42: Still begging.

6:43: I am considering prying my daughter's mouth open and pouring the oatmeal down her throat.

6:44: Boyo dumps yogurt on my lap. Need to change. Set my daughter up in the living room with MMC and a cereal bar. Stamp down the twinge of guilt because that is her breakfast.

6:45: Boyo poops while I am changing. Poop gets on my shirt. Need to change again.

6:53: Finally get boyo changed and ready to go. He starts screaming and will only stop if I am holding him. I am now 20 minutes late.

6:57: Chase the dog out of the kitchen, where she is licking up spilled yogurt. Reconsider and let the dog back in so that I don't have to clean it up.

6:58: Tell my daughter it's time to get dressed. She tells me no. Power struggle ensues. She wins.

6:59: Boyo poops again.

7:02: Get my daughter out of her pajamas, but now she won't put on clothes.

7:05: Finally get my daughter in clothes. Power struggle ensues over whether or not she needs to wear shoes. I win.

7:07: Boyo poops for the third time.

7:12: My daughter poops too.

7:17: I start to cry. I am now 25 minutes late. My daughter comes over and says: "Momma, why you crying?" I consider telling her because she and her brother are being difficult but thankfully sanity prevails and I tell her because we are late. Her response? "It'll be okay, Momma." Sure. She doesn't have to work for a living.

7:29: My daughter throws a temper tantrum because she doesn't want to get in the car. I offer her a mini marshmallow if she gets in the car. Run back into the house to get the marshmallow.

7:35: Finally pull out of my garage. Take the kids to daycare, carrying my son, a box of diapers, extra clothes, and blankets. I feel like a pack mule.

7:42: My daughter throws a temper tantrum because she doesn't want to go into her classroom. I literally have to drag her into the room.

7:52: Get in my car to go to work. 13 miles. In rush hour traffic. I have 8 minutes to get there on time, and 23 minutes to get there before class starts.

8: Hear about an accident on the 91. Reroute myself down Lincoln Ave.

8:14:30: Get to work with 30 seconds to spare.

Cool Little People, Part I

... as I write this, my little ones are tucked into their beds. Boyo is whimpering because he is getting THREE canine teeth and THREE back molars AT THE SAME TIME. Poor little bug. And poor mommy and daddy. The only thing that would make this better is alcohol.

Actually, I am wrong. Something else can make this better. And I am listening to her right now, tucked into bed with her Mickey Mouse books, reading to her pink little guy. As a matter of fact, she just opened up her door, shouted "I love you Mommy!!" and then slammed her door and went back to her reading. How can I not smile at that and feel better?

She is just such a cool little person with an awesome personality. She has the funniest smile and facial expressions -- whenever I tell her to smile for the camera, she gives me the cheesiest smiles. But the mischevious, real smile that she gives me when I catch her misbehaving is the best. It seems like she is always giggling, and she greets every day by shouting "Good morning Sun!" (Except for last week -- it was cloudy, so she turned to me an said very seriously, 'Momma, the sun is not home yet.')

She loves to play pretend. She puts her pants on her head and declares herself an "efelant." Or she runs around in circles, screaming "I'm a hippo, I'm a hippo." She hopped down the hallway at the airport, declaring herself a "froggie." She puts on my headbands and giggles, saying she is a "bunwy wabbit." And today, she curled up into a ball and told me she was an egg when I asked what was wrong.

She is so loving and protective of her family too. When she hugs and kisses you, she puts her whole being into it - to the point where there have been times where I have been knocked over because of her hugs. And every hug is accompanied with a "GOTCHA!"

Even though she is only two, she doesn't like anyone to push her brother around (except her, of course). At school, she stands between him and the other children, and won't let them touch her brother, declaring him "MY Bubba." And she loves to run into his room, reach between the bars of his crib, and tell him "It's okay Bubba. Momma's coming. Don't cry." (I just wish that the boyo wasn't asleep when she did this.) She comes into our room and curls up in bed next to me, and pets me until we both fall asleep. She cuddles up onto her daddy's lap and reads him stories - the most fantastic stories that she makes up while looking at the pictures in her books.

She is so smart too. I am blown away by the fact that I am having conversations with my two year old. And that she uses words like "Either," "Actually," and "Nonetheless" correctly. I love to ask her questions, because when she doesn't know the answer, she makes something up, which is hilarious. Today, I asked her why her brother was crying. She told me, "Um... because he's a lion." How can you not laugh at that?

But what I adore more than her loving actions, goofy smiles, and cheerful games is her inability to lie. And I know that is developmental, not her. I know that it is because she simply hasn't learned yet. And while I am hopeful that she never does learn how to lie, I am not holding my breathe. It's just so refreshing that when I ask her a question, I know I am going to get the truth. The two year old, make you fall over laughing, with tears coming from your eyes, version of the truth.

Stay tuned... boyo is the coolest little guy that I know, and that post is coming up soon!

Sometimes I wish...

... my two year old understood sarcasm.

... I could be as good at getting my kids to go to bed as I am at making them laugh.

... dirty diapers would change themselves.

... I could get by on 4 hours of sleep.

... my one year old's burning desire wasn't to climb up on whatever dangerous piece of furniture I have not yet nailed down.

... my daughter does not think veggies are the devil.

... my son was born with a full mouth of teeth.

... I could pay my bills with high fives.

... my bed was big enough to fit me, my husband, and my two year old.

... my one year old understood the concept of sleep.

... I could get paid for raising my children.

I'll have another?

It's no secret that I want another child.

I wanted four. I come from a family of four children. So does my husband. I love having a big family; there is always someone to talk to and someone to listen; there is always laughter and love.

But we have two and can barely afford those two. I'm not quite sure how we would afford a third. But I know that I am not done having children yet.

I don't know how I know this. One of my friends told me that when you are done, you just know it. Another one of my friends told me that she knew she wasn't done because she kept thinking of her second child as a middle child. And I know that I'm not done. And I have been known to refer to my boy-o as my middle child.

My husband and I see having a third child very differently. I can't wait. Want to get pregnant right now. He is a bit more hesitant....how will we afford a third? Where will we put a baby? What if the third child is like our son (who screamed non stop for 6 weeks after he was born and still has yet to sleep through the night...at 14 months.)?

The other day, in a moment of frustration, I looked to the heavens and asked God when this got easier. Okay, maybe I screamed it. And my husband laughed, gave me a hug, and said "When these two are 11 and 10 and the new one is 8 months old."

Now, you read that and think, wow, he wants to wait 10 years before having another child?!? But I heard it and immediately thought: "Woo-hoo!! He's willing to have a third!!"

I Just Don't See It

A budding Picasso?

My daughter painted me a picture at school today.

She told me it's a camel.

Now, I know the image resolution isn't the best, but I will give you a dollar if you can find the camel.

Notes from the Cracked Ceiling

I just finished reading Notes from the Cracked Ceiling: Hillary Clinton, Sarah Palin, and What it Will Take for a Woman to Win by Anne E. Kornblut. And I just had to comment on it; so please excuse the shift away from my normal blog topics of my children, my marriage, and myself as I discuss that one topic which makes many of us shudder: politics. (I promise to connect it to my life in the end.)

I am passionate about politics. I think I am one of the few people in the world who watches CSPAN. I write my congressperson, senators, and president monthly. I vote in every election, whether it is national, local, or statewide. I volunteer during presidential races. I teach American Government, and my main soap box issue with my students is the importance of voting. And I am a woman. So I was intrigued by Kornblut's argument.

Kornblut outlines the 2008 campaign by discussing Clinton and Palin, trying to answer the question of what it will take for a woman to reach the highest office in America. She then goes on to discuss happier endings for other women in politics. Now, I am not going to discuss my personal feelings on Clinton or Palin (that is the subject of an ENTIRELY different blog), but Kornblut's argument is that Clinton did not win because she is too mannish and didn't play to her gender, while Palin didn't win because she was too everything - too feminine, too pretty, too mothering.

Um, okay, then what will it take for a woman to win?

Kornblut argues that women tend to not like other women, and if the"other woman" is better looking or younger than you, then she is really not going to be liked. I went to an all girls high school. I teach at an all girls high school. I can see her point -- in teenagers. But don't women hit a point where we outgrow backstabbing clique-ness? Not according to Kornblut's research.

It's too hard for a woman to break into politics as president, VP, or governor, because in those roles, they stand alone. It's easier for a woman to break into Congress as a representative or senator, because there they are shielded by other congresspeople and senators. And, Kornblut seems to be arguing, if you have young children at home, your chances are next to impossible. The question: "But who is going to take care of the children?" can kill your shot if you are not prepared for it.

Kornbult argues that women can be effective in politics, if they run the right campaign for their locality. Women are typically seen as nurturing, at the agents of change. And it's the lioness/lion cub argument: if you want to bring down the wrath of hell, threaten a mother's child. Women in politics need to market themselves as the lioness, protecting their lion cub.


I'm not arguing with Kornblut's research, or her findings, or her hypotheses. On the whole, I think she is right. But I am a young mother of young children. And yet my representative is male, my senators, while female, are older, and my president is male. So who is representing me? (Told you I would connect it to my life)

My question is: where is my voice in politics?

Women need to run. They need to be encouraged to run. And women need to vote. I'm not saying that women need to vote for women -- they just need to vote. For the best candidate. For the issue that you can agree with (or if not agree with, at least live with). Our vote is our voice. And when women start using that voice, hopefully, eventually, we will encourage more women to run so that we have more women representing that voice.

After all, when I tell my daughter that she can be president one day, I don't want her to think I'm a liar.

Married With Children

I am learning how to be married with children.

Of the 7 years I have known my husband, we have been been married for 4 1/2 of them. Of those 4 1/2 years, we have had children for 2 1/2 of them. Of course, if you want to count gestational time, we have had children for 3 years and 3 months.

And it's freaking HARD.

We don't hold hands any more, we push strollers. Our kisses are quick ones stolen while one of children pulls on our legs screaming "Kiss too! Kiss too!" Time alone is often interrupted by a toddler crawling into bed with us. We are tired. We are cranky. And, I'll admit it, we are angry.

Angry that we are cranky and tired. Angry that we have very limited time for each other anymore, let alone time for ourselves. Angry that we don't get to sleep. Angry that we have to worry over things like bowel movements, veggie intake, and what a cough at 4 in the morning means.

Because we are angry, we are prone to see the weaknesses in the other and harbor resentment over the things that the other one doesn't do... you know, "The thing that if he just did, my life would be so much easier...." while we conveniently forget about the things we don't do.

So it takes work. It takes a lot of deep breathes, time outs (for the adults, not the children), and a lot discussions via text/email so the likelihood to yell isn't there. It takes date nights once a week (even if we don't leave the house), and taking turns at the more difficult child care tasks. It takes realizing that your partner isn't perfect, that happily ever after is F$%&ing LIE, and focusing on the big picture instead of the day to day garbage.

Don't get me wrong, I love my husband.

I loved the man I fell in love with, the single bachelor who didn't have a care in the world.

And I love the man who is a patient father, who gives hugs and kisses freely to his children, and who takes them on walks on the weekend so I can have 20 minutes to myself; the father who refused to cut their umbilical cords but gave them their first kisses.

Lastly, I love my husband who, while he may step over the basket of laundry that needs to be folded, cleans up the litter box while I shudder at the prospect. The man who brings me a flowering plant instead of cut flowers because he knows cut flowers make me sad (they die). The man who rubs my feet at the end of the day when he is just as tired as I am. The man who gets up with our son at 3 in the morning so I can sleep. The man who gives me a hug good morning even if it is 3 in the afternoon. The man who gives me a kiss every day, even when I'm mad at him for stepping over that laundry basket. The man who says "Go out with your friends, I'll watch the kids" without missing a beat. The man who makes me laugh when I want to cry.

I could go on, but I think that list is enough to remind me not to be so difficult the next time he ignores the dishes, laundry, or vacuuming.

SAHM vs. Working Mommy, Part II

So as most of you know, I have been struggling with the idea of staying home next year... putting aside the fact that my husband and I are as poor as church mice and can't see a way to make it without my salary, something else about staying home is bothering me.

I need structure. My organized, anal retentive soul gasps in pain if the spices in my spice rack are not in alphabetical order. I get frustrated if my husband doesn't hang his towel the way I like it hung. I took pictures of what toys go in what toy box/basket (and taped the picture to the box), so that cleaning up the playroom/living room takes the minimum amount of time. My bills are filed according to the day they are due and then filed again by amount. My budget and address book are on an Excel spread sheet; I have an online calendar; and I have separate internet folders for my emails - work, family, immediate family, friends, acquaintances, and ads or coupons that I am interested in. I could go on, but I don't want to scare anyone. My life is as orderly as I can make it with two children under 3.

I bring this up because my little ones have been sick and I spent a few days at home with them. I know that they were sick and required extra care, but we did nothing. I couldn't even load the dishwasher. My living room was a foot deep in toys and I was too tired to deal with it. One day, we stayed in our pjs all day. Another day, I didn't shower. And I'm pretty sure my children didn't eat any veggies for two days.

Now, before anyone says anything, I know they were sick. I know that everyone has those days where everything falls apart. I normally don't, but I am not going to kick myself because it happened.

Here is the point that I am meandering to: what if every day is like that if I stay home with my kids?

I think I would need to be fitted for a straight jacket.

Irish the Cat

I do not like cats.

I have two.

Their names are Irish and Pele.

To be fair, Pele is not my cat. My husband owned Pele before we got married. She is a step cat, if you will. And she is not too bad. Half feral, she stays away from me and the kids. She only tolerates my husband because he brings her food. So I don't have to worry about her too much.

I wish I could say the same for Irish.

Irish is about 8 years old. For the first 5 1/2 years, I didn't have have a problem with her. I got her because I was living in an apartment and wanted a pet, but you couldn't have dogs in my apartment complex. And it wasn't so bad. She was independent but would tolerate my loving administrations when I needed someone to love. And when she wanted to cuddle at night she could do so without waking me up. It was a win-win.

Then I had kids.

Irish does not like my children.

She shows me this by peeing on my bed. And their beds. And my couch. And my carpet. And anything else that is bloody difficult to clean.

At first I thought she was sick. $300 later, the vet told me that she is just temperamental, and offered to write her a prescription for Prozac, which would have been an additional $100. Putting a cat on antidepressants seemed extreme, so my husband and I didn't do it. I did think about it though.

It has gotten to the point where I can't handle it anymore. Every day I come home and there is a new urine spot on my bed and I SWEAR the cat is smirking at me. SEE?!?!

So my husband and I decided that we would try to find her a new home, one without children, where she will be happy. We don't want to drop her off at the pound because we are afraid she will be euthanized.

Yeah, no one wants an 8 year old cat who is purposely incontinent.

So my frustration has been building and my washing machine has been working overtime. It's gotten to the point where I can't even look at the cat without snarling under my breath.

Of course, recently I have had to reevaluate the whole Find The Cat A New Home Mission. See, my 2 1/2 year old has a tendency to climb into bed with my husband and me. And Irish normally sleeps between the two of us. Which means my daughter has been cuddling Irish every night. And she has decided she likes Irish.

No, she loves that damn cat.

My daughter sneaks into my room when she isn't supposed to in order to hug Irish and kiss her. She wants Irish to sleep with her. She cries when Irish runs away from her. She brings Irish food. And yesterday she told me, "Mommy, I love Iwish. Iwish is my kitty cat. I keep her."

So now we have to keep the damn cat.

Pretty All Day

It's funny how one small thing can alter your self image all day long.

I (for some ungodly reason) got up 20 minutes early today. Which means I had an extra 15 minutes to get ready. (I'm not quite sure where I lost the other 5 minutes.)

So I decided to deep condition my hair with that 15 minutes. Then I thought, hmmm... I should exfoliate while the conditioner is setting. Then, since I had done that, I decided to use my flowery anti stress body wash when I was in the shower. I took more time with my make up. And, even though it was raining today, I blew dry and styled my hair.

All day long, I felt more confident and cheerful. I have been more patient. I smiled more. I laughed alot. I felt pretty.

I had a great day.

Just because I decided to deep condition my hair.

The Other Child

I think, when you have two children, you spend about 50% of your life fretting that you are favoring one over the other. No, maybe 75%. Actually, I have never been good at math. Lets just say that it crosses my mind at least 10 times a day.

I want everything to be FAIR for my kidlets. Equal mommy time. Equal toys. Equal stories. Equal hugs and kisses and I love yous.

Maybe I'm just insane.

My daughter has been sick for the past four days. Which means that I have been home from work, cuddling, soothing, and watching endless episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. While my son, who is normally the little sickie in our small family, has gone to daycare.

Just typing that makes me wince and feel like an awful mother. After all, I'm home. Shouldn't both of my children be home with me?

I realized today that while I have not been neglecting my son, I have severely cut back on the amount of Mommy-Son time that he is used to while I deal with my daughter's-fever-induced- vomiting-at-the-worst-time-dictatorlike tendencies. The reason I realized this is because my normally fairly independent boy has become a leech and screams bloody murder if I am not carrying him. And I can't carry both of them at the same time... so my solution has been to lay on the floor and let them both crawl all over me so they are both getting "Mommy time." And I only shut my eyes for a minute. Or ten. I swear.

I mentioned to my friend (who has 3 kids) how guilty I was feeling for ignoring my son. She looked at me like I was crazy (which, after only 3 hours of sleep a night for the past 4 days, I will not argue with).

"Shannon," she said slowly, talking the way people talk when they want to smack you upside the head but know that is rude. "Have you not been feeding him? Changing his diaper? Reading his stories and going through the night time routine?"

"Of course I've been doing those things," I said. "I just feel bad that he is not home with me too."

"Hmm... yes, I can see how you would want the child with the health problems around the contagious child with the fever," she replied.

"Well, when you put it that way, I just sound stupid," I protested.

She shot me The Look. You know the one: the one that says "You're stupid."

"You can't do everything equally," she told me. "Good for you for trying, but it will not always work that way. Sometimes one child needs more than another one does."

I know she is right. And I'm certain that there will come a time when my son will need me more and he will get most of my attention while my daughter does not. It will all even out in the end, right?

Still, would it be wrong if I bought my son a pony to make up for these past 4 days?