Housewifery Reformation

I started a new house cleaning program. One that is guaranteed to easily move me from clutter and chaos to organization of my time, home, and life. Easily, huh? The program is outlined in a book entitled, "Sidetracked Home Executives" written by the self proclaimed "slob sisters."

I've read the book. Cover to cover. I've implemented their ideas with a computer program that will tell me daily what my chores are. Everything from making the bed to cleaning the oven is plugged into my program. Nothing is too mundane or habitual for my glorified to do list, let me tell ya. It all but tells me when to take a potty break and which bathroom to use.

My day begins at 6:20 am with the two year old bounding into my room with literally an arm load of toys. She dumps half the contents of her toy box on my bedroom floor and joins me and her brother in bed. Fortunately, Roman is already awake and squeals with delight at the sight of his beloved sister. I get out of bed and find the floor cluttered with the toys she's strewn all around. I clear a path for myself to the bathroom, where I put my to do list the night before. As if I'm a gypsy fortune teller, I see my entire day laid out before me. In plain black and white, inkjet ink.

First on the list: situps (it's either do 'em or look forever 5 months pregnant). I'm mid crunch when it hits me... or rather she hits me. Full force. All her weight. Onto my crunched, flabby baby belly. Ugh, that hurt. "I love you, Mom," says Reilly obviously craving attention at an early hour. "I love you, too, Mom," she replies to herself (or was that to me she was replying?). "And I love brother and I love Daddy and I love GG and Papa..."

She doesn't quit talking again until 7:04 pm when she falls sound asleep in my arms. For those of you keeping track, that's over 12 straight hours of nonstop, ceaseless talking. I have so much two year old running around in my brain that I'm starting to develop a crush on Bob the Builder. Can he fix me? Yes, he can!

By 7:45 am I had made Reilly's breakfast, changed the baby's diaper twice, run a mile and a half, planned our dinner menu, and was in the midst of doing two loads of laundry. And I hadn't even made a dent in that damn to do list.

According the reformed slob sisters, to succeed in this cleaner, more organized and time efficient lifestyle, one must finish the to do list before leaving the house. If I were to keep to this rule, I might never leave the house again. I would be a prisoner of my warden -- the to do list. So if days go by and you haven't seen me, you know I'm trapped inside with two small offspring and a sheet of paper ordering me around.

On the list was instructions to clean the bathroom and sweep and mop the whole downstairs. This would take a normal person about 20 minutes at the most. But I am not normal. Neither are my children. I set about my tasks, however, neglecting this fact.

I was about five minutes into my sweeping when Reilly takes a tennis ball from Truman (our miniature dachshund) and shoves it into a slot in Roman's exersaucer. I look over and poor Tru is up on his hind legs with his long snout pushed into a plastic toy barn attached to the exersaucer. He is trying to pull the ball out but he's only managed to get it wedged into the barn loft. Roman thinks this is high comedy and giggles to show his approval.

Reilly Kate has moved on to better things at this point. She is now running the length of our couch and leaping from the arm rest of the couch onto our rocking recliner. Run run run... leap... Land!!! And each time she lands she says, "Be careful, Mom. Be careful! Just be careful." What the heck to I have to be careful about? I keep my distance from her just to be safe. She seems to know what she's doing. I don't interfere.

To finish the floor with interruptions like this every five minutes or so, it takes me three hours. It's 11 am before I'm done with the floor and on to the bathroom. This is a little powder room off of our living room. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes. And it wouldn't have, if I hadn't let the dogs outside.

We live in a fairly new house and the grass in our yard hasn't fully grown in yet. It can get pretty muddy out there. But I didn't pay attention and I let the dogs back in without washing their feet first. All over my newly washed floor were bright red, Hawaiian mud prints. I get out my trusty mop (the one I had become so attached to earlier in the morning) and damp mopped the spots up. I also stain treat the carpet. Not, of course, before I get out a bowl and stoop down to wash each dog's foot. If you would have told me five years ago that I would be crouched down with a bowl of warm soapy water washing the feet of two mangy mongrels, I would have told you that George W was gonna be president, too. I must be a gypsy psychic.

By the time I get back to the bathroom, Reilly has already used her little potty and was swishing the pee around in the bowl before pouring it into the big potty. The pee went spinning out of the bowl and all over the bathroom. Fortunately, I wasn't completely done with the bathroom so I didn't feel like it was a total loss. Just a setback. Minor setback at that.

The day progressed like that. Two steps forward, one and a half steps back. I finally finished my to do list at 9:30 this evening. All but one thing: Pick up trash by the computer. I wonder, does that "trash" include tomorrow's to do list?

This Ain't Bay Watch, Baby

We went to the beach today. Beach days are always fun. Well, after you discount the fact that I have to put my big, flabby postpartum ass in a suit and then be surrounded by firm bods of steel attached to 18 year old, wrinkle-free faces. Blech. Oh, and you have to discount too the nagging fear of getting a clogged duct from smashing my enormous 40-I cup breasts into a tight bathing suit designed to perk me up a bit. And the nursing on the beach. That's always a bummer. What with the sand and the salt water and the beach towel blowing off my shoulder revealing to all those bods of steel my mama juice udders.

But it was fun. Fun for the two year old. She had a blast. The poor baby got the short end of the stick. I forgot to pack his UV protection suit. My kids are like their daddy in that they are the whitest people you've ever seen. They really are in the wrong geographic area for their skin tone. People that fair should never venture farther south than Dubuque, Iowa. Not only for their skin's protection, but for the occular protection of others. That white skin really glares in the hot, hot sun. If you're not prepared for my husband to take his shirt off and you look directly at him, you could burn out a retina. No kidding.

Anyway, so the baby didn't have his suit and I had to slather him top to bottom with an SPF50 and then keep him covered by towels and hats and the like. He was hot and cranky. I actually brought a little sun tent with us. My mom gave it to us for the kids. I took it out of its little carrying bag and instantly the thing sprang open. At that very instant a nice gust of trade wind swooped upon us and the damn tent took flight. I had to run after it to catch it. Me. In a bathing suit. Running. This was no Bay Watch scene. Trust me. In fact, all I could hear in my head was that Jello commercial "Watch it wiggle. See it jiggle."

After several feeble attempts at getting the tent to stay put and serve its purpose, I resigned myself to holding it in place. This lasted till Mike and Reilly came up out of the water and Mike took over the holding duties as I attempted to nurse the baby. In Mike's words, we looked like "The Swiss Family Losers."

Reilly Kate had a blast, though. She really dug the sand. In fact, she discovered she likes to eat sand, throw it at others, and even dump whole buckets of it in her own face. Sand. I am quite certain I will be brushing it out of her hair for weeks. Perhaps we might even have enough to make our own beach, in the back yard. Minus, of course, the bods of steel.

Motherhood -- An Army of One

Nobody tells you motherhood is going to be this hard. Nobody. You hear about the sleepless nights and the stretchmarks, the "terrible twos" and teenager hell. But it is always counter balanced by some amazingly drippy drivel about children being the light in what was previously a very dark and gloomy life.

I'll tell you right now, my children absolutely ARE the light of my life. They are the most precious things I have ever been blessed to behold. The love I feel for them is overpowering. There are times, when I watch them sleeping peacefully after a full day, I can hardly believe such beauty has touched my life.

But I'm here to tell you right now, let there be no question, motherhood is DAMN hard work. I've never worked so hard before and I doubt I ever will. Those that claim otherwise are either childless, brainless, or memory-less. Most older women I know are the latter.

I was walking through the commissary the other day and a woman came up to me and said, "Oh, your children are so cute. I miss when my kids were that little. My kids are off in college now."

My reply took her off guard. I said, "I cannot wait for the day when I miss my kids being this little." She was shocked, almost horrified that I would say something like that. She walked off to check the ripeness of pineapple muttering, "You need to appreciate all those little cuddles. They'll be too old to cuddle before you know it."

The thing is, I'm sure she's right. They will be too old to cuddle before I know it. I will look at them while they are sleeping and wonder where my babies went. I already have that twinge of longing when Reilly Kate pushes me away to go and play with her friends. And she is only two!

Yet, what that lady is forgetting, what we all forget as our children get older and more independent of us, is how hard it is, how much work it is, how much stress it is to be solely responsible for little ones too young to do a thing for themselves. Quite frankly, it is probably the hardest job in the world. You are constantly "on." There is never a coffee break, let alone a decent night's sleep. I cannot even remember the last time I was able to go the bathroom alone. I shower now with the curtain open. I cannot wait for a chance to go get away for an hour, but as soon as I am, all I can think of is "my babies" and then I rush home to get back to them.

It's like having the most stressful job with driven, sometimes difficult bosses. All week long all you think of is the weekend. If you could just get away, you think, then you could relax and recharge. If you could only have a vacation, then you'd come back to your job with renewed energy. Then on the weekend, all you can think of is getting back to work. Only this is worse. You love your bosses more than anything. Your bosses are like the air you breathe. You need them. They need you. A perfect match made in... HOMEMAKER HELL!!!

Saying stuff like this is very unpopular. I remember once when Reilly was about 8 months old, Oprah did a show on it. The whole show was dedicated to how difficult being a mother is. There were many women on that show from all walks of life, all saying the same thing: This is stinking' hard. Each had her own story of woe. While they all agreed that they loved their children and would never trade them in (who is willing to do a trade for kids anyway? Could I, say, trade my kids in for a new car or something?), they still needed to let people know how very, very hard it is. Something no one ever told them.

The negative response from viewers, men and women alike, was enough to warrant a second show. A few weeks later they brought both sides together on the show. I was shocked to hear how many older women were really angry with the younger moms for revealing the god awful truth about motherhood. It was as if they were all June Cleaver and never had a bad day when their children were small. The looked at the young mothers with dumbfounded looks on their faces. Just could literally not understand what was so hard about motherhood.

Anyone who reads about my typical days around here knows exactly what I find so hard. And I know I'm not alone. Today I spent a great deal of time comforting, consoling, sharing, and supporting some fellow mother friends. No two are alike in circumstance or personality and yet they all shared the same story. Motherhood is hard. It is isolating. It is overwhelming. There is a loss of self: self worth, self esteem, physical self, spiritual self, emotional self. All the while you are losing these, you are expected to do it with a smile, a clean house, and flat tummy.

There is a lot of judgment on mothers today. More so than any generation before us. It is not something that our mothers shared or will ever understand. Back when I was an infant, formula was encouraged which took a lot of pressure off the new mom. If a two week old wasn't sleeping through the night, you gave them some rice cereal. If that didn't work, it was suggested you let them cry it out, "it stretches their lungs." Napping was vital and television a good, educational babysitter. There were no carseats to research, buy, and install. Inoculations weren't questioned. Cheese in a can was modern food, packed full of enriched nutrients. Anyone remember Tang?

The modern new mother is breastfeeding her baby every two to three hours or more if the baby is fussy while squeezing fresh oranges in a juicer and making breastmilk yogurt for her toddler. We don't let our babies wail in the bassinet. We strap them to our bodies and "wear" them the way Dr. Sears told us to. The television is monitored and controlled and when it is employed as a babysitter is the source of massive amounts of heavy laden guilt. There are playdates and baby school, toddler dance class and gymnastics, Kindermusik, Gymboree, and the all important midday Le Leche League meetings. All of which involve the necessary car rides in car seats which need to buckled up and unbuckled and buckled back up (it takes me ten minutes just to run into Blockbuster to return movies). There's no time for naps. Naps are done in the carseats while driving to the next activity.

It's different world today. It'll be a different world tomorrow. I just hope that when my daughter has children, she is well prepared for it to be this hard. I hope I don't forget. I have my video camera on a lot, trying to capture the difficult times as much as the fun times. I want to remember all the times.

I want to long for a time when my kids were this little. I want to long for a time when sleep wasn't an option. I want to play those videos and long for the days. But right now, those days are really, really LONG.

How do I take her batteries out?

I love to talk. Talking is my game. And there is no one I like better to talk with than a fellow talker. The more you talk, the more I talk, the more we talk together. It's a love fest.

But, my daughter takes talking to a whole new level. The child does not shut up. Not even for a minute. Let alone five. When I beg her to shut her trap for just a few minutes, just to relieve the pressure, just for a few, blissfully silent minutes, I am treated to a mouth noise similar to high pitched trills of Arab women in celebration. She can keep this up for about three minutes before she then has to go back to the spoken word.

This ceaseless talking begins before the break of dawn. Take this morning for example. At precisely 5:49 am I hear her tramping through my room saying, "It's morning. I'm aWAKE!!! [with the stress on the 'WAKE' part, of course] Still dark outside. Mama, wake UP. Mama, wake UP. Where's my book? I wanna read my book. Wake UP!!!"

With only one eye opened halfway, I groan out to her, "Still dark means still sleep. Come in here and go to sleep."

"I'm not sleeping. I'm aWAKE!!! I want my book. I want to see brother. Where is brother. Touch him. Touch him."

Now, this is serious. There should be no touching of the baby prior to seven o'clock in the morning. He needs to sleep. And if I am going to be forced awake while it is still dark outside, I'll be damned if I'm going to be awake and juggling a cranky, woke-up-too-soon, four month old. I intervene quickly just before she is about to lay on top of him.

"Here!!! Your book is here!!!" I reach for the book left on the night stand and hand it to her. "Please read it quietly. Do not talk. Do not wake your brother. It is still sleeping time." And then my eyes slammed shut.

If only ears had lids. And why the hell don't they? Perhaps not all people need lids on their ears, but by God MOTHERS do. They should magically appear after your first child is born. Kind of like that flap that used to be your abdomen just suddenly appears after you give birth. A belly flap is useless. But ear lids... that would be heaven.

Anyway, no sooner did my eyes slam shut then the baby starts screaming out in pain. Reilly has dropped the book on his head while he was sleeping. Not only is he awake, but now he is hurt and pretty pissed off about it. I reach out to move the book and soothe his aching head.

"I'm sorry Brother. Brother, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I dropped the book. I'm sorry. It's an accident. Accident." Sure, she's apologetic now. It gives her something else to talk about. But now I'm mad and tired and cranky and a bit hungry (postpartum dieting, ya know) and in my sternest not-even-6am-tone tell her to go back to her room.

As she sadly drags her feet back to her room, I feel a twinge of guilt. She is still talking, apologizing profusely. And talking about her book, it's whereabouts her main concern. Her cute pink jammies and her ringlets of red were too much for my soft, mushy heart. I tell her not to go. It was afterall an accident and I shouldn't have been upset with her.

Just as she is about to exit the doorway, she turns back, reaches out to the light switch and out from the ceiling pours the most blinding light I've ever seen. "Read my book to me?" she asks. "I wanna read my book. I turned the lights on to read my book. I hit brother with the book. It is an accident. I'm sorry brother. Read my book now, Mama?"

I beg her to turn the light off. "Brother is trying to sleep."

"No, Mama, Brother's awake. He's aWAKE." And with that she crawls into bed and lies on top of him, her entire two year old body on his slight four month old frame. Over her shoulder, through her locks of bed head, I see his big toothless grin beaming ear to flapless ear with love and adoration.

"Yep. He's awake now. Brother certainly is awake." With that, I climbed out of bed and we began our day... even though it was still dark outside.

I need therapy for my retail therapy

Grocery shopping has become a weekly chore. I hate it. I absolutely hate it. I used to love to grocery shop. Aisles and aisles of food. Recipes swirling through my head. Coupons neatly cut and sorted. Dewy fruits and vegetables enticing me in the produce section. Juicy thick steaks calling my name. Chocolate. Loaves of fresh baked bread screaming for butter which I would gladly add to my cart. Oh, and the cleaning supplies aisle. That was my favorite. I am a god awful housekeeper, but I have every single cleaning solution ever invented. In fact, I have three boxes of Swiffer pads and yet my floors haven't been mopped in well over a month. I used to spend a half hour dwelling amongst the cleaners each time I went to the store.

Not anymore, though. Now, I hate the grocery store. It is all about zipping in and out of lanes as quickly as my little feet can carry my big load. It is finding a place to nurse the baby and sitting next to a retired Drill sergeant none too keen on the advantages of breastfeeding. It's finding that happy medium between keeping the toddler happy with fruity snacks and lollipops and having her so sugared up she leaps out of the cart and rampages through the store shrieking, "Captain Crunch. Captain Crunch. Where are you, my Captain Crunch?" It's all about multi-tasking and I suck at multi-tasking. When I multi-task the dogs get oil changes, the minivan gets a flu shot, and the I drop the kids off at the groomers.

Hence, grocery shopping as become a weekend chore to be done with my husband. He can be a great help. When he is in the mood. Today he rocked. We picked up a few things here and there, all the while he entertained the toddler and cooed at the baby. We were in and out and ready to go home in a little over a half an hour.

Before our long car ride home, I wanted Reilly Kate to go potty. She was potty trained. But when the baby was born, she backslid severely. We are now back to the training. So off we go, Reilly Kate, Mama, and baby brother. We get in and I get Reilly on the toilet. As we are awaiting the poo poo she assures me is on its way out, she is rambling about the benefits of going poo poo on the potty. "I go to school. I get M&Ms. I get MONIES!!! Gimme monies, please. Monies, Mama...." On and on she rambles; when she'll stop, nobody knows.

As she announced the arrival of her poop, she began gesticulating excitedly and out of her hand flew a Lego piece that she had been holding onto all day. Wouldn't you know, that damn thing flew all the way over the wall and into the stall next to us. This is my luck. This is how things go for me.

Immediately, Reilly Kate begins asking about her toy's whereabouts. "What happened to my toy? Where is it?" I told her it was in the stall next to us and then she demanded, "Get it. Get it, please, Mama."

What exactly is the protocol on something like that? I mean, do you knock on the dividing wall and say, "Excuse me. Could you had me that toy that landed on the dirty floor behind the toilet you are sitting on? My two year old is in desperate need of it." Do you wait until the person is finished with the stall and then hop in and retrieve the toy? Or do you simply leave the toy there? This isn't the kind of thing that is addressed in Miss Manners column, although I think that things of this nature should be. It would make life a lot less stressful for the likes of me.

Since Reilly was getting really worked up about her toy, I decided to knock softly and ask politely about the toy. But the woman in the stall next to us was obviously doing some serious business in there and wasn't interested in through-the-wall conversation. I knocked, but heard nothing in return. I decided the best thing was to wait.

Reilly, however, didn't agree with my decision. After I got her off the toilet, she bent over and proceeded to duck under the stall to retrieve her toy herself. I had to drag her back and try to explain to her that we needed to wait. Two year olds just don't think privacy is of any importance when in the bathroom.

Then as we are exiting our stall, a woman who was waiting to use the toilet, steps forward and Reilly Kate storms up to her and in a very accusatory tone of voice asks, "Where is my toy? Where is it? Where is my toy, lady?" The woman, fortunately, thinks Reilly is a doll and doesn't take offense. Really, who can resist a curly haired, red head with pink bows and a flowered dress accusing you of stealing a treasured blue Lego?

I tried to explain to Reilly that this was the wrong lady, that the toy was still in the stall, and that we had to wait. She wasn't having any of it. "Get my toy, please." The woman laughed and went into our stall, closing the door.

"No, no. The toy is in here, Reilly." And I pointed. Then, as I tried to get Reilly to come wash her hands, she began knocking on the door. "Where's my toy? Where's my toy?" Knock, knock, knock. And with that, out of her other hand flew the teddy bear she had also been dragging around all day. The bear did a nose dive right into the sink, bounced and landed in the trash bin.

Now, I am digging in piles of damp, used paper towels, searching for her bear to the whine of Reilly Kate chanting, "Where's my bear? Where's my toy? Get it. Where's my bear? Mama gets it. Where's my toy? Lady has my toy." Over and over and over.

Then the door opened and out came a little old Japanese lady. Reilly went running up to her and again demanded, "Where's my toy?" The lady looked at her, smiled and patted her on the head, saying, "How are you? I am fine." Reilly repeated her question, "Where's my toy?" To which the little old Japanese lady repeated hers, "How are you? I am fine." She apparently spoke no English.

As these two were engaged in what one would think to be riveting dialogue, I went crawling into the stall to retrieve the toy. After giving the Lego a good lick and a promise washing, I grabbed Reilly with one hand and the stroller with the other and out of the bathroom we went. Of course, Reilly was now saying, "I got my toy. Mama got my toy for me. I got toy." And the little old Japanese lady was right behind us saying, "How are you? I am fine."

Ya know the best part of that trip the bathroom? The baby didn't cry once. Reilly went poo poo and the baby didn't cry. Success.

The shopping trip, however, wasn't such a success. I forgot to get carpet cleaner. Actually, I didn't even walk down the cleaning supplies aisle. To hell with it. I probably wouldn't have cleaned my carpet anyway.

Tax Cuts for Mothers

Last night I attempted to sleep smashed in between two very small children who seem to take up three quarters of a queen sized bed. "Attempted" would be the key word in that sentence. And my king-sized husband slept on about three inches of space on the very edge of the bed. Poor guy. Yet he did in fact sleep. His snoring added to my insomnia.

The worst part of the night was being hit in the face with my own boobs. Yep. That's right. You read it. I said it. I get hit in the face with my very own mammary glands. They are just that big and out of control. Imagine it for yourself: Sleeping with hardly any wiggle room. You don't want to move a slumbering child for fear of awakening their inner beast. So you just inch a little to your right and ::WHAM:: the left boob hits you square in the face. It's not pleasant.

After this happened several times, I started thinking of a nice comfortable sleeping bra that wouldn't clog my ducts but would be gently supportive. And breathable. A brushed cotton, perhaps. Heaven, thinks I. But at a price. A high price. Bras in my size (a 40-I cup) don't come cheap. They range between $35 and $80 and must be ordered online. It's a serious, royal pain in the ass.

Then the thought hit me. No, I am not thinking of making my own bras. I'm thinking that bras and the like should be tax deductible for me. My occupation is lactator, right? Okay. I'm a mother. But a big part of my role as mother is lactator. So just like an astronomer can deduct his telescope from his taxes, so should I be able to deduct my bras from my taxes. And the cost difference between a queen sized bed and a king sized bed. That should be tax deductible. And nursing shirts (which, if you don't know, cost twice as much as normal shirts -- why? It's a conspiracy between the textile workers and the formula makers, I'm quite sure). And chocolate.

Yep. All this should be tax deductible.

I just hope that I get a better night's sleep tonight. Brainstorms like that can really take a lot out of a person. Especially a lactator. With the breastmilk goes one's brain cells. This is fact. Ya see, DHA is a fatty acid that helps build and maintain one's brain. Breastmilk is high in DHA. So if a lot of DHA is leaving my body, but I'm not taking more in, I must be losing brain cells. My kids are making me dense. That too should be a tax deduction.

Moooo...

Potty Mouth Peet Spiwak

Everyone keeps telling me that I should start a blog. So tonight, blurry eyed and half asleep, I signed up. And here it is. I haven't a thing to type for today. We stayed home. No misadventure there. Although...

...there was the lunch incident. Reilly Kate, my darling 27 month old daughter, and I were eating lunch. With a very thoughtful look on her face, she places her fork down next to her plate and folds up her napkin. She then looks at me and says, "What the f*%k, Mom? What the f#*k?"

I told her that she is not allowed to say that. Only Mama and Daddy can say that to which she replies, "I'm saying it for you." And with that she pees her panties, picks up her fork, and continues eating.

What the f&%k, indeed, Reilly Kate.