It's amazing to me how fresh memories can be. If I let them.
It was early Sunday morning and my three-year-old got up at his normal six-ish something with his normal wake up call which is opening up our door and exclaiming, "I'm a fireman!" As if we didn't know, of course.
I'm guessing my husband was already kind of awake and just laying there like he sometimes does because he bounded cheerily out of bed saying, "Why don't we snuggle on the couch and watch Fireman Sam!" to which my son squeeled with delight.
I thought, Sweet. He's got it covered. I'm just gonna close my eyes then, for just a few minutes.
Two hours later...
At 8 o'clock, which is totally sleeping in these days, I wake up in my own homemade Folger's commerical, smelling that coffee that's been brewed (my elixer! Yay!) And my 22 month old Mini, who recently learned that not only can he now reach door knobs, his tiny hands are now capable of turning them and opening them (to my chagrin), flings the door open yelling, "Mama!!!" and runs toward the side of the bed where I could only see the top of his head and one hand reaching up at me.
I've still got the sleepies in my eyes and my hair is like Medusa but knowing I have the happiness that is a full cup of coffee in my future, I pull him up and he nestles his head into my armpit and snuggles me and for a moment I close my eyes and remember those very first days. The sleepless ones, where he would wake me up around 7 to nurse and afterward, he'd fall asleep on my chest and I'd struggle with whether to chance waking him up by putting him back down in the bassinet or snuggle until he woke up again to eat. On the weekend, when my husband would be home to watch the other one, I'd choose snuggle.
I would feel his tiny breaths on my chest, feel his chest moving up and down next to mine, the soft flutter of his heart and the softness of his babyskin. I'd lay there with my tiny son as the sun would start to creep in through the white curtains in my bedroom, the birds would begin their morning songs, and I'd gently rub one tiny foot that would poke out of his little sleeper gown.
On this morning, that memory was so fresh I could just feel the autumn upon me despite the still 90-degree Augustness that it really was. There was a stillness to those mornings, a peacefulness that was a new morning after a sleepless night, where for just a couple hours, there was a satisfied, sleepy baby with a full belly and a safe place next to his mama. Ahh. Heaven.
Those were wonderful mornings and I remember them so vividly that I actually feel like I am there, in that moment again fully, if I just close my eyes.
Later that very same day, as I was reading one of my very favorite blogs, a post stirred more memories of something entirely different. It was late and my husband had already gone to bed. I was about to shut down but I read her post about how she and her husband are going to help support parents with children in the NICU through an organization they founded.
I left my comment, and began to read the comments of the 200 others before me (yes, she is a very powerful writer and blogger who has found such meaning through tragedy and quite a following to say the least), most of them talking about their own experience in the NICU and for a few minutes, there I was, right back there myself. I hadn't gotten through but three comments of other mommies before the immediacy of everything, the terror of giving birth to a baby too early, the unknowing, the crying, the alarms, the rushing, and the panic, all set in.
I closed my eyes and decided I would let it sit in my mind for a minute because it was a memory that was mine and I should never rush to put them away. Then I thought about how wonderful everything turned out, how happy everyone is, how healthy my son is, and how the only real problem with my son being born early was how difficult it was for me. Physically, everything was fine. It was me who couldn't seem to get past it at the time. And with that, I put it away, logged off and went to bed.
But I lay awake, finding my mind cluttered and wandering and before long, I found myself in my bed, home without my baby, the one night I had decided to leave the hospital to get rest because I had been sleeping at the hospital even after I was discharged (they had let me pay each night to stay there if there was a room available). Oh the emptiness that is leaving the hospital without your baby. The failure. The sadness. It all rushed back and blanketed me. Just as if it were really happening. Three and a half years later, so vivid. So fresh. And overwhelming. Crocodile tears started flowing from my eyes, uncontrollably, silently overtaking me. Even though, across the house, a healthy three-year-old was asleep soundly in his bed.
Right at that moment, Mini, who never wakes up at night, started whimpering. His whimpers turned to cries, and I wiped my tears and checked the monitor. He was up for some reason, and really upset about something. So I went to his room to check on him and it was really much ado about nothing. He was bothered by something but I never did figure out what, so we snuggled for just a little while in the rocking chair until he fell asleep and I put him back in his crib.
Because how would he, how could he, know his mother was sad, thinking about what was once, right at that moment? How did he know that his needing comfort was really the comfort his mother needed right then?
But it was. It was perfect. His timing, really was impeccable.
Sigh.
So many memories are put away, tightly wrapped, zipped up and locked only to resurface when we least expect it, aren't they? Some of them we try to forget, others just fade away like the seasons. I am sad to think they could be lost if I let them. What if nothing comes along to open the safe? They might always stay there right where I put them.
Even the pain of a memory is sometimes a good memory, to me. It reminds me to feel or that I once felt. It reminds me of who I am today and why. It reminds me of how blessed I am in every way, even if it's just knowing that I am able to feel. Because to feel something, anything, is so much more than feeling nothing. And I think, despite how painful some of my memories are, I'd so much rather feel something.
Monday
Fresh
Friday
In the Weeds
Oh it just wouldn't be me if I didn't have some sort of a breakdown before a big event. That's my M.O.
No worries. I'm almost one with it. Learning to roll with the punches here.
What normally happens the week before any event, any event whatsoever, is that unplanned events occur. Illness. Sickness. A new aversion to the kiddie care at the gym. Oh any of those fun things like that. Happens literally every time. Every week of every year could be boring and uneventful except for the week we have something going on. And inevitably I have a period of about, oh 20 minutes, when I am reduced to a pile of grown woman-tears. (Yes, I'm a crier. Sue me.)
Anyway whatever decides to happen ends up piling up on top of whatever it is I am already inner panicking about and it feels like when I used to wait tables. We called it, "in the weeds"...
It all started with the throw up.
Tuesday night there was a sick Poops. Losing guts. No idea why. Yada yada yada, for a few hours, until it stops and then it's done.
Weird.
So the next day, for him, we decide no camp. We don't know the cause of said affliction and/or if it is indeed gone, so we stay home. It's a movie day. Which also means, there is no workout for me -- one of two final swim/slash/runs before the tri. Which is ok, because in my head I've moved it to Thursday. I still have Thursday, Friday and kind of Saturday but not really Saturday because you're not supposed to do much the day before. But I'm flexible. I'm Mommy first. Anything else, second.
So Wednesday was an entire day of not throwing up which is always good. A good day in fact. And the man has his appetite back. His only request? Pizza. I don't know about you, but when special requests come on sick days, I will pretty much give him a (reasonable) free pass. So pizza you want? Pizza you get. A small price to pay for losing everything in your body for a couple hours nonstop while a mommy stands by helplessly holding the bucket.
So I turn to the internet. Because, oh, yes, ordering pizza is soooo easy now!! You just order it online! One click! Yippety do!
You just plug in all your information and VOILA! PIZZA is at your front door. Is the way it's supposed to go.
But when, for some reason, and you know that it is NOT YOU, your card does not go through online, did you know that someone from Tennessee contacts you??? Instead of, say, the pizza place right down the block?
So I get the call from Tennessee that my card did not go through and of course I refuse to reorder over the phone because, well, it's someone in Tennessee and how do I know that this is a Pizza Schmut call center and not someone who has hacked into my computer somehow? So I call my local pizza place and order it over the phone and say I'll pay cash. Whatever. The kid wants pizza.So I load up the car with the kids and go get cash with the very same card that did not go through, by the way. And don't you just hate it when cards don't go through and they look at you or talk to you like you're some sort of pauper who's beneath them? I'm sorry ma'am, (says their tone of voice) but it appears you can't afford pizza tonight. Now, why don't you go away so I can help other people who can pay?
Oh sure. Because it HAS to be me. It cannot possibly be your machine.
So I pay for the pizza and of course, GUESS WHAT?? I check my balance the very next day and it appears that my card magically went through!
Oh really.
So now I've paid twice for this damn pain in the ass pizza. (Sigh. But still worth it I guess darn it because of the "Mommy, this is the best bread ever!" that I got from a little boy who ate - and held down - the pizza. So I just say -- finger wagging here -- You are very, very lucky, Pizza place!) But yes, I did call them and give them the business.
Then Thursday starts off nicely, everyone's dressed and ready to go and I realize I cannot find said ATM card. I search my car. My bags. My wallet. The floor. The toys. Pockets. Nothing.
And it occurs to me that I actually don't remember taking it back out of the ATM after I got the cash. Or do I? I can't think! I was frazzled by the pizza thing so there is a good chance I might have left it! So I report that "missing" and now I am without. Which kind of stinks. Because now I have to be "cash or check girl." For 5 to 7 business days. But that's ok, because Thursday is a gym day and the kids are all healthy. One goes to camp, one goes to Kid Kare at the gym.
I get about 20 minutes into workout when I hear:
ATTENTION FITNESS MEMBERS! ATTENTION FITNESS MEMBERS! WOULD RYAN'S MOTHER PLEASE COME TO KID KARE! I REPEAT, COULD RYAN'S MOTHER PLEASE COME TO KID KARE!People are snickering. I hear one lady say, "I'm not Ryan's mommy!" And I think, "I am, so shut it lady."
So I head on over and there is a little tiny someone, standing at the door, crying. Inconsolably. Red faced, big fat tears streaming, mouth open, hiccupping from crying.
OK OK, there there honey, we'll go. It's ok! The lady is apologizing, saying she really tried to keep him busy but he just wouldn't have it. And I know she tried, it's not her fault, it's ok, he's just having an off day I guess.
So instead, now the panic is beginning to set in that I'm scrapping this workout too, but I breathe in deeply and think, that's ok, I have two workouts left before Sunday but I still have Friday at least. We'll scrap Thursday, but I will still be able to get something else done that I really need to do which is, take our snack over to the bike shop so I can get something to wear for the tri, (if I can't work out).
Because, at present, I have no idea what I am going to wear. I know what I won't do. I won't throw on bike shorts after the swim because they cut off my circulation at the waist. And plus you can't run in them because of that massive padding in the butt. And plus mine take me about 10 minutes to put on. So the race will be over when I get them on.
And sure, some people do the whole thing in their bathing suit, but, uh uh, THAT'S NOT ME. My thighs still believe they are, indeed, one thigh, and not two. They probably always will no matter how much weight I ever lose. The chafing would be unbearable.
The one piece tri-suits help with that (see all this stuff I've learned??? I never thought about any of this before!). Anyway, trisuits, it's like a spandex tank and bottoms that are fused together at the middle and without the cutoff in circulation, so you can swim, then bike, then run in it, it's like a bathing suit type of running and cycling dream! It dries quickly and there's no changing! Oh. But they're $175 you say?
OK so I'll try to find one on clearance. Oh. But the ones on clearance seem to be on clearance for a reason i.e. stain, hole, etc...
And no one else has them. Hmm. (Dream temporarily shattered.) Ok I'll try on two pieces then (spandex top and spandex bottom). And this process becomes all very eerily remniscent of when I was in the larger sizes trying to stuff myself into regular clothing -- the sweating, the near-crying... And as suspected, two pieces won't work either. This sucks. Circulation being cut off everywhere. Baby is crying again. The dressing room is becoming very stressful. Oh and plus guess what?? That's right. No ATM card. Ugh. We're leaving anyway.
So not only do I not have anything to wear (I want my mommy!), I am also panicking that I still don't know how to change a bike tire should the opportunity present itself on the ride because no one is allowed to help you if you get a flat. And by now I realize I can't go to the store to try on tri clothing because somewhere between the time that I got money out and the time of well, now, my ATM card has disappeared. Meantime, going to the store is a fruitless venture anyway because my normally level-headed and pleasant 19 month old for some reason cannot seem to hold it together in any type of store (or daycare) whatsoever, so I am just sweating and panicking on the inside the whole time anyway. Not to mention two days of workouts are gone. TIME IS RUNNING OUT!!!!!!!!!
And this is where I really start to lose it.It's about lunchtime by this time, I have really tried to roll with the punches but now I am really starting to panic. And heeeeeeere come the water works!
I really am at the end of my rope for the day. I have my little cry. And we head out the door to pick up the other one and I leave myself enough time to get my most favorite comfort food of all, the light caramel frappuccino at Starbucks (130 calories fyi).
World is looking better. I decide to go to the bike shop when husband comes home, the heavens open and I find an outfit (husband came home bearing gift of cash for ATM card-less wife). I decide I will wear my bathing suit for the swim, throw on Tri shorts over it (which are like bike shorts but with lesser padding) then toss on a light blue, very light bike jersey (which is super cute and I am excited now because it matches my helmet) and that will be it.
I found a quickie free bike maintenance class at the bike shop, I skip on over there, and now I am somewhat versed on changing a tire although I am not sure I'll actually remember all the steps but I'll just pray for no flat at all, mkay?
World looking much better now.
So on to Friday's workout at the gym but the kid just won't do the kidcare again. Crying and madness ensues before we even step foot into the gym this time. And this is all becoming very very super inconvenient.
But life will go on. I'll just have to go now when the husband comes home. And I guess I'll have to live with the fact that I'll only have one more workout instead of two and pray that I will just be ready on Sunday.
Right?
It's really almost funny now. (Almost.) Because of course why is it that one would get sick and the other would go on strike from the daycare the WEEK before the triathlon when I feel like there is so much left to be done? How? Why? Really???
Murphy's Law. Well at least I have something to wear now. If I get a flat or can't finish the race, at least I'll look good! Right?
The Week In Review, Followed by an Open Letter
I feel like it's been a busy week so I feel the need to review if only for my own records. Because here it's more than a blog, it's record-keeping.
This week I appropriately repeated (as necessary) the mantra, "Serenity Now!" from the inaugural Mantra Monday, which came especially handy when the little one somehow wrestled free an entire piece of floor molding and the older one followed suit by swinging it around like a giant lightsaber and coming dangerously close to hitting everything in an 8 foot radius (it was quite perplexing: from the stove I see this giant piece of flange flying around and could only identify it by moving closer...) or when I saw my little one trying to drink out of the cat bowl or putting all of his fridge magnets in it. Or when the older one almost knocked over the booster chair WITH THE LITTLE ONE STRAPPED INSIDE OF IT (heart attack. heart attack. heart attack. Motherhood is made up of a string of tiny little heart attacks.) You know, normal things like this.
But we ate corned beef and cabbage because it was St. Patrick's day, and we drank green beer, and I made green shamrock jello jigglers (that actually came out right! but they're smothered with green whipped cream so they don't look like it in this picture) with the older one's class,
and we saw the shuttle Discovery lift off from our backyard, 
and I came dangerously close to neglecting my beautiful new plants (I was going to take pictures, but instead, I used the time it would have taken to take the pictures to actually water them this time. Oh and before I forget, Happy First Day of Spring, everyone!!) And I performed all of my scheduled triathlon workouts ("the fly" was out in full force) and I ended the winter softball season with two flyouts (better luck next time!). Oh, and he's just shy of 16-months old, but you can just call him "Business Giver." Because the little one has hit several developmental milestones recently that I thought would best be described in a monologue.
So, in closing, I leave you with what can only be called a fictional work, entitled:
Hello, Brother. Remember me?
Your little brother? The punished, the tortured, the victim, the baby? The one you hit, knocked down, pushed over, ran over with your motorcycle, car and train, bit, slapped, kicked, poked and punched?
Yeah, him. Well guess what? I've got one word on my mind and it's this: revenge.
Because sometime over the last week or two I found my voice and doggone it, I'm using it!
Sure, I'm short. Sure, I am still bald. And sure I speak only a few words that the human ear can recognize. Like "Peesh" (please), "Gank Goo" (thank you), "Ay-uh" (princess leia), "Kee Ka" (kitty cat), "I Loo" (I love you) "Num Num" (yummy) and the normal baby rubbish like "Mama" and "Dada"...
And sure, I look all cutesy when I do things like sit around in my diaper wearing your fireman hat.
But don't let my baby cuteness fool you. Like it fooled the lady at Panera Bread who saw me grab two fistfuls of your hair with my tiny angry hands and refuse to let go. I heard her; She told you I didn't mean it. But we all know better.
This baby facade I got goin' on is perfect and I'm going to ride this as long as I can. And don't think I won't.
Because I may not speak words (that you understand), but I have a voice now. And I stand over you (while you're sitting down) and I yell, "RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH RAH!!!!!!" while standing 2 inches from your face. And I follow it up with some angry-looking babypointing with my tiny finger and yell some more "RAH RAH! RAH! RAH! RAH!!" in my angriest raspy babyvoice and you hear me. Finally. And you give me back that toy you just took.
Victim? I take it no more.
Now I follow you around the house yelling in what could only be described by others as baby expletives as you run off carrying my truck. And I have the slightest bit of satisfaction when I see that you now "get it". Because you turn right around and hand it back.
Oh yes, I have a voice.
And when you're sitting there silently, watching Curious George or some other pre-school drivel that mommy puts on the tv for us while she blogs, I sneak up behind you and hit you in the head with your Bob the Builder hammer. Or I stand there smiling at you and then nail you in the face with the remote.
It's payback time.
Because no one thinks I am quite capable of this. Maybe you don't even think I'm capable of this.
Oh, no. So just remember, whatever you can do, I can do now. And probably even better. Like use a fork (what was that display last night with the fistfuls of spagetti? What are you, one?!) or use a straw or put your big boots on my tiny feet or wear your backpack as I follow you out the door to school.
I will no longer be bullied. Yes, Big Brother, it's officially on!
ps. I'm coming for you!
Wednesday
Being Present
Sometimes I just feel so selfish.
I (secretly) get angry when potty training goes bad, when one of the boys pushes down the other one, when there are dishes left in the sink overnight, when the house gets messy 5 minutes after I clean it...
I mean, things really get my goat. Stupid things. Inconsequential things. My face gets hot, my head starts to hurt, and I feel the steam building like Frankenstein and the bolts want to burst free from my neck.
And sometimes they do. I completely lose it. And I yell. And maybe a time or two, I've caught msyelf throwing things. We have three cordless phone bases and yada yada yada...only two phones.
Then when all is quiet, I sit down and I think, what for? Why do I let these stupid little petty things bother me? Isn't it ridiculous? I've been thinking (again) a lot about my life as I so often do. How I should worry less and cherish more. And about how things could always be worse. But how I'm not even in a bad place, I'm actually in a wonderful place! The most wonderful place I have ever been in my life! And with each annoyance, each sarcastic remark, I'm letting it all pass by me and losing these moments forever.
I think about things like watching my little boy standing at the sliding glass door making hand prints all over it while watching the airplanes go by overhead and how it's something I want to paste in my memory forever. Because it only lasts one second. And even quicker if I am jerk enough to mutter something like, "Stop that, don't mess up the glass..." and ruin it. (Which I don't, by the way. And I'm thankful I didn't because he just smiled at me while his hands made the squeaky sounds on the glass and then ran away in that toddler sprint to go get his cup of crackers.)
And so what if there's screaming and the house sounds like complete lunacy around 5 o'clock every night because that's when the system seems to break down (like clockwork)? The kind of madness that when someone calls, they sound distracted hearing all of it in the background, forcing them to ask, "Did I catch you at a bad time?" while I respond, "Nope, these are just the sounds of my house! Go on! (Put HIM down!) Sorry. What were we talking about?"
And when it's one in the morning and one of them wakes up crying, out of nowhere, because normally they sleep through the night. I remember there was a time when I wished they both would sleep through the night, but now I know a time where I miss rocking them to sleep and cuddling with them and having a reason to watch terrible infomercials at 3 in the morning. When time seemed to stop and clocks meant nothing to anyone. Oddly, I miss that.
It's not annoying. It's my life. And it all goes so quickly that it makes tears form instantly in my eyes and makes my chest so heavy and tight to think about just how quickly it really all goes. And how selfish I am to want it all to go even quicker sometimes. How could I?? To not stop and relish each moment as a memory, each waking, wonderful moment as something to be gripped on to tightly and held close to me. How could I?!
And the dishes? If I spend the 20 minutes doing them before the kids go to bed because I hate leaving them, then I miss bath time. Where my husband sits there sudsing up the kids in his underwear (because they always splash him when he's wearing his clothes) and they sing songs that make no sense and build things and splash each other and try to drink the dirty bathwater. And who's the winner there? (Not me...)
My house isn't a complete sty. But it's not immaculate. I have three bins of laundry (at any given moment) that need folding right now. But if I sat there folding it this morning, I would have missed out on reading an entire library of Einstein books with my little boy who brought them all out to the living room to read. Every.single.one. Or missed building a "crane" with them, which was really a giant wall of blocks. (And by the way the crane was a crane first, then a castle because of the giant block on top, then a birthday cake because of the way all the single blocks looked on top of the building.)
And then everything inevitably ends up scattered all over the house, the blocks and the books, everywhere. And at one point, I remember thinking, "No one needs this many toys." And almost being annoyed. But why?
Why!
My house shows signs of "family" in it. It's not a model home. It's not four stark white walls with glass tables and furniture with the plastic on it. My walls are painted pretty colors, but they're chipped where the cars have crashed into them a million times (and where I bumped it with the vaccuum...) My couch has crumbled Goldfish in the cushions and a few stains where the sippy cups that aren't supposed to leak, leaked. My floors are constantly covered in crumbs and macaroni despite constant sweeping and mopping, and the bathroom floor, the latest victim of my toddler's accident, needs cleaning. Again.
I'm not going to wish I had someone else's home, because that would be like wishing I had someone else's life. And I happen to like mine. Very much. I realize that life, my life, anyone's life, is just too short to waste on the small things. That getting angry about them really just makes me lose sight of the bigger things. And who can afford to do that? I like my life. Chipped paint, dirty floors, unfinished projects and all.
So if I could just bookmark this piece of very valuable piece of information to read over and over again when I forget as I seem to so often do... No, wait! I have a brilliant idea! I'll print it out, then put it in a little glass box on the wall with the words, "In Emergency, Break Glass!"
Then, it's like killing two birds with one stone! The next time I get mad, not only do I get to break something, I get a zen moment inside! Brilliant!
Then again, I'll have to clean that up. And glass really is quite dangerous for little feet. So nevermind. I'll just bookmark. It's safer for everyone. And in the meantime, I'll just try as much as I can to stop the inner madness for Pete's sake. And be present.
Thursday
He's just not that into me.
Well it looks like I'm weaning.
It wasn't really my decision. For a couple of weeks now, Mini has been so distracted and bitey and claw-ey and just overall not that into me. Anymore.
He's 10 1/2 months. There was a time when he wouldn't accept anything but me. It was kind of frustrating, but secretly I liked it. I was the only one in his life. He didn't want a bottle, he wanted mommy.
And I was hoping to go the whole year, and we may still make one year with one lonely feeding a day, but I'm not sure. The morning feeding is the only one he seems to care about. Beyond that, it's gotten so that every other feeding is a struggle. He seems frustrated half the time to the point where I wonder if there is anything left in there or not. Maybe it's that he's just not as into the process anymore. I don't know. But when I give him a bottle, he is happy as a clam. And he doesn't get distracted in the slightest.
I'm not quite sure what happened.
And then I was ready to give up a couple of the feeds, I started by giving up the one after the morning nap. Then a few days later, I gave up the one after the afternoon nap. Then, as I gave up the one mid-day (he eats 5 times), he got so mad at the feeding at bedtime and just wouldn't eat that much and would wake up a couple hours later, that I gave that one up too since what he really wanted at that time was the bottle. Now, I feel like he's rushing me! He's outta here! He wants no part of me! He's like, "Maaaaaaaa! I'm not a babyyyyy anymore!"
Did I read the signs right? Is this what it's like when your child self-weans? I wasn't quite ready to give up all these feedings, I was really just hoping to keep the morning and nighttime one until he turned one-ish. Now it looks like I'll be able to keep just the morning. I guess that's still ok. I weaned my first one around 6 months and it was completely my decision, so this is all new to me. Is this what happens? I wish he could answer me so I could know if I'm doing the right thing. Watch, he'll wake up tomorrow and want his coffee and his newspaper.
Tuesday
Choices
For clarification, I just want to say, I love staying home.
I wouldn't have had it any other way. I could not physically bring myself to drop my son off at daycare and go to work. I had the option. But I couldn't. I don't judge other women for doing it, I think staying home versus not staying home is an extremely personal choice and everyone should decide what is good for them and their family. I am on everyone's side when it comes to making personal decisions for family. Just to make that known.
Two of my very favorite friends in the world had monumental news for me this week. I had worked with both of them in tv news as grunts. The very bottom rung on the career ladder. Making zilch. Eating, breathing, sleeping work. We were the single, climbing the corporate ladder-20-somethings, passionate, obsessed, go-getter career-women. Able to move or travel anywhere in a single bound should the opportunity present itself. Late nights? Ok! Holidays? Sure! Work through lunch? Of course! No days off? It's necessary! Breaking news? Vacation postponed? Done!
Then, the longer were were in, all of us who started together were really starting to get somewhere. Things had started taking off for me, too, when I got a job as a writer at a bureau at one of the biggest news agencies. I was making it happen. Finally getting somewhere. Gettin' a little respect.
Then I got engaged, left that job, moved back to Florida to be with my husband-then-fiance, and popped out a couple of kids. On the career front, I put things on hold. I decided to stay home. I tried to picture going back to work, but when it came time to make the ultimate decision, I just couldn't do it. Maybe it was because the first one came at 34 weeks and I felt the need to stay with him as long as I could. Then when he was 10 months old and just starting to even think about working again, I found out I was pregnant.
So this week, both of my friends were offered their dream jobs. All that hard work, finally paying off. One works in entertainment and will be paid (and paid well) to travel and cover entertainment news. The other is becoming an actual management big-wig at one of the cable networks. I saw the title. It's unbelieveably fantastic. I can hardly believe it had it not been for her new shiny business card she presented to me, but it's true and they both so deserve it.
And I am doubled over with happiness for them! I mean, this is what it's all been for! Finally! I feel so honored to have been there with them at the beginning. All that thankless work for crap pay is turning into something out of a dream!!
After all of the excitement over the weekend and talking about it and congratulating them and giddy girly-ness and squealing, when it all settled down and I got a few minutes to myself, after loading the groceries into the car and sitting down at the steering wheel to turn the car on, I just broke down.
And cried. 9 o'clock at night in a grocery store parking lot by myself. Apparently this bothered me in some way.
I was completely overcome and I didn't know why. I wouldn't change a thing in the world about staying home. But I guess I couldn't help but wonder, what if?
Where would I be had I not taken a time-out? What stories would I have covered? What honors would I have had? What amazing people would I have worked for and with? What contacts would I have made? What stories would I have to tell? Which job would have been next? How much closer to my dreams would I be now?
Instead, now I wonder, "What is my dream?"
I'm not that 20-something jet-setter anymore. I don't even know if I have that in me anymore. I thought to myself this hurricane season about offering myself up to freelance in the field should a hurricane hit, but then thought, duh, I'm still nursing, it's not like I can pump in the middle of a satellite truck in the middle of a bunch of old tv guys looming around.
When I calmed down a little after being sideswiped by these emotions I didn't even know I had, I thought about choices. How interesting that choosing a seemingly-simple path like getting
married could take someone down such another, completely unpredictable path. How choosing to get married would parlay so quickly into 30-something, home ownership and having children. And a whole different person of "me" entirely. These were things we chose. I chose. I didn't even think too much about it, come to think of it. I just went with the current of my life. I drifted along, naturally doing what came to me, leaving career for another day, another time. I never asked myself what the options were, I just knew what the options weren't. Like, for reasons very important to me, not marrying this man: not an option. Not moving home where my family was: not an option. Waiting to have kids: not an option.
I did so little thinking about where I was headed that I don't think I prepared myself for how I'd feel once I got there. I didn't foresee how I would feel when I saw what happened to all my friends who chose "Option A", while I chose "Option B".
I didn't think that far ahead.
My only consolation, which is a pretty big one, is that when I look back, I don't see "Option A" as an option. Yes, me. Go-getter-career-girl. I wouldn't change a thing. I wouldn't have chosen "Option A" because that would have meant choosing something other than my husband, who is my absolute, well, absolute. That's really the only way I can put it.
It must follow, too, that somewhere along the way, my career took a backseat. Literally, without telling me, it got out of the driver's seat, closed the door, and sat itself in the back. One day, I woke up and bam! I deemed this man and my family my number one priority. So I guess if we're talking about choices and having it all, I should be so proud that I had pictured my life a certain way and I made that happen. I always pictured marrying the type of man I married. I always pictured having children. I always pictured staying home with them. And I did that.
So what's the problem then? If I wouldn't change a thing, then what's the problem?
Maybe I think it'd have been nice to see how far I could go. Because choosing an entirely different path usually means new forks, and the new forks lead to new places and you can't go back to choose a different first path which would have led to the first set of forks because those are all closed now. But had I chosen that first path, what dream jobs would have been offered to me had I just kept on? What would I have been capable of? I guess, though, that I only need look as far as my front door for that.
I'm capable of raising two loving and hysterically funny children, one of which makes "bandaids" out of turkey slices and plasters them all over his face and the table on their fake "wounds". Of being a wife and on occasion, an understanding one. Of actually cooking a meal without sending anyone to the emergency room. And for that matter, actually being able to "throw something together" and having it taste (dare I say) good. Of coming up with creative ways to teach my children, like "Crazy Carrot Man" for the Letter C. Of reading the same book over and over and over again at bedtime without getting annoyed. Of being able to not exist on Ramen noodles and bologna alone. These are things I wouldn't have known about myself had I not chosen this path. Who knew I'd love being a mother so much? That this path would have chosen me, really, more than I have chosen it?
So I put my career on hold for a while. So it appears I won't be some big manager at a news network anytime soon. That means I have more time to dream up something else, right? To construct a new, maybe even better evil plan. Mwahahaaaaa!
After all, I wouldn't be a woman if I didn't ponder, cry, and/or obsess over this age-old inner conflict about career versus family, right? Because that's what we do.
Now.... back to the Batcave!
Thursday
Thursday Thirteen #11: Milestones, Moments and Madness
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Saturday
Decisions, Decisions
Being a mom is difficult sometimes.
I know. That's the understatement of the year.
But I'm serious. There are times when I really want to be selfish. There is an opportunity that you really want to take and you find yourself at that decision-crossroad staring down the road of each choice.
And the one road is beautiful. I mean, beautiful. It has beautiful scenery and serenity and FUN! With no bumps and no hills and it stretches on forever with a beautiful sunset at the end. But as you stare down that road, you realize that if you go down that road, then there will be tremendous sacrifice involved that really doesn't impact you as much as it does other people, and you try and figure out if that proverbial price is worth it. I mean, it WOULD BE SO MUCH FUN!
And today I had one of those decisions to make (kind of). The kind when you realize that a decision is bigger than you.
There is a list of places that I've always told my husband that if he has to travel there for work, that I want to go and to please please please take the wife. The short list is as follows: Italy, Belgium, Denmark, Germany, Ireland and Scotland. OK, so it's not so short. But sometimes he gets to go these places, but more often than not, it is somewhere like China or Taiwan and as much as I do kind of want to go there, I'd rather go to one of those other places first.
Well sometime soon, husband may have to go to Germany.
I don't think you understand. That's like my mother ship.
I know some German, having studied it in high school and college, and I took my sister with me on a overseas study/backpack across Germany in college. It is one of my favorite places ever. Ever. I dream about going back. Nightly.
So when he mentioned that he may be going (in a by-the-way I may be going to Berlin type of way), my heart lifted, I got all giddy and excited and my butt came off the seat and my arm shot in the air like there was a team captain standing in front of me looking for a team of great players (Pick me! Pick me! Ooh ooh! Pick me!!). The skies literally opened and sang to me from the heavens and the sunlight peeked through the clouds and shined on me.
It was magical.
And then there were the "poo poo" moments when husband said mean deterring things like "Flights are outrageous though" and "Who will watch the kids" and crazytalk like that.
Then I secretly check flight costs when he's in the bathroom see that they're not actually that bad, I mean, actually they're quite doable. And I think about the week, ok, I can have the kids go here for half the week, then they can go here..." and the plan becomes more clear and visible and doable in my head, and I really start to get giddy and I think WOOHOOO THIS CAN REALLLY HAPPEN WEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Because I so love to travel. I lurve it. Lurrrve it. And I don't do it nearly enough. Hardly ever, really. I mean, sure, I take short trips. And those are fun. But I don't travel. And I'm getting that itch. Bigtime.
Then I go to bed and there is one unresolved "issue" that I have not reconciled yet and it is looming over me and keeping me from sleeping because all I can think about is how to solve this one little eensy weensy issue.
I'm still nursing.
So. I can go to Germany and pump the whole time, but there is the little issue of the actual flight which is something like 7 hours, not including the stopovers at two different airports. And where do you pump at the airport? Or on the plane, for that matter? You just can't. And I would bust! So that's not really an option.
So then I could bring the baby, but let's face it, there's all that gear involved...naps, and I don't know if that would really be worth the trip either. So that's not really an option. I mean it could be. But not really.
Which brings me to the only other possible option: Weaning. He'll be almost 9 months, he is teething, which means there is biting involved right now (but I know that will pass) and sometimes I don't know if he's getting enough milk or if I'm making enough milk and I get frustrated, but still I trudge on. Because I know deep down that it's really ok and not an issue. I think.
So there it is. The crossroad.
And I didn't even have to make the decision, really. It made itself. This morning.
I was nursing Mini before his morning nap and there he was. That little head. He'd fallen asleep while nursing and it was like a picture out of a magazine. The perfect silhouette of his face with his perfect baby head in the crook of my arm. So peaceful, so loving. So trusting.
And then there were tears in my eyes. Because I'm not ready to end this perfectness. Not yet. Not for a trip. Not because of my selfishness.
And I realized that some decisions, even like a (dream) trip to Germany, are actually decisions that are bigger than me. With other people involved. And there's no way I can rationalize going, no matter how much fun and wonderfulness I know that I would experience. It's just not worth it. In the grand scheme of things, it's just not that important.
I mean, there's plenty of time in life to do all that, right? I hope so.
Thursday
First Kiss
My two-year-old isn't the snuggly type. At least not anymore. He's so over snuggling. It was soo last year. It makes me sad.
Gone are the days when he'd lay on my chest and fall asleep with his thumb in his mouth and his legs tucked under him with his butt in the air. Or sit quietly on the couch with his blankie snuggled up in a mommy or a daddy.
He's independent now. He's got people. He's got things to do. A truck to play with. A cat tail to grab and twist. About 26 laps to run around the house. A snack to beg for and devour. You know the type. Busy.
So we've had to take our snuggles when we can get them. And lately, they are few and far between.
When we were on vacation last week, my husband and I reminisced about the "good ol' days". About the constant cuddling and holding and snuggling. And about how one day it all just ended and how much we missed it now that those days have come and gone. And oddly enough, the very next day, the little man woke us up early and since it was still kind of dark out and we were all sleeping in one room, my husband took him out of the pack 'n play and sat him on the bed and agreed to put on Cars for a little bit while everyone was still kind of sleeping. And there he was, my little boy, snuggling up against my husband with his blankie and sleepy eyes, and my husband turned to me and mouthed so proudly, "I got my snuggle."
It was such a sweet moment. But I won't lie. I was jealous.
There is something to those late night cuddles and overnights with a newborn. Despite all that lack of sleep, there's a piece of me that wants to turn back the clock so I can sit in the rocker with him just a few more nights. Where he's content to just close his eyes and breathe softly into my neck while I sing "My Favorite Things" over and over and over again. A time when he wasn't so quick to jump up and run away and find something funner than this old mommy.
Every once in a while, I still try to coax a snuggle out of him, but mostly he just says no -- his new favorite word -- or wriggles away after giving me about 30 seconds of his busy two-year-old schedule.
A few days after we got back from vacation, I was laying on the couch, exhausted from our trip, with the swirls in my eyes and the birdies circling around my head like in the cartoons. A to-do list forming in my mind a mile long. And my little boy started playing on me, climbing all over me, the painful kind of climbing -- a knee in the kidney, a knee in the back -- but the kind you just sit through because he's having the best time climbing all over you and loving you in the way that two-year-old boys do (and remember, I'll take the lovin' any way I can, even if there are charlie horses happening because of it). And he'd stick his big head right in my sleepy face and wait for me to turn and laugh at him because he thinks he's the funniest thing in the world. And of course I would, because, tired as I was, it was so stinkin cute and I am never too tired for that.
But then, there it was. As if out of nowhere.
He just puckered up and planted the biggest two-year-old kiss right on my cheek. A kiss for mommy. Unsolicited. Unplanned.
Just for me.
And I melted all over the couch. I mean, this was unprecedented! Sure, one can hope for the elusive snuggle, but the uninitiated kiss? And his idea? All on his own? Without me having to beg and/or pinch his cheeks or grab his face or run after him or anything?
Wow. This was certainly a first.
I've had a first kiss or two in my life. But I'll take a wet, sloppy, honest, loving kiss on the cheek from my two-year-old over any of those, any day.
ps. I think maybe he likes me after all.
Sunday
The Race is On
Everything just moves so quickly in a baby's life.
I always promised myself that I wouldn't hold my children back because I wasn't ready to move on. But man it's hard. Ridiculously hard.
Especially when, instead of years, a baby's life is measured in months. Just a few small chunks of months at a time. And not only do the months move quickly, the changes and the milestones just go whipping by like you're on one of those high-speed rail cars in China. Or Japan. Or whereever those are in the Far East.
The way I see it, their whole personality develops and changes, literally, right along with the size of their clothes.
Like buying something in 0-to-three months. This is what I call, the "nub" phase. Where mainly they eat and sleep and cry and just plain old exist. Sure they look around and maybe begin to recognize you, but mainly it's a one-way street. You're sitting there "itchy-gitchy-gooing" away at them and they're looking at you like you're nuts. But however sleepless and shredded you are, nub phase is cute and cuddly and yummy nonetheless.
But then they grow out of "nub". And they're smiling and laughing and sleeping through the night and by golly me, the three-to-six clothes are on. But this one goes by so fast you almost completely miss it. I seriously almost did! By the time I pulled out three-to-six he was already in almost six-to-twelve. It's like nub to six months in 6 seconds.
The more I think about it, the parallels between their clothing sizes and their personality development is uncanny, really. Because as we changed sizes at three months, he had grown up more than just physically. He was sleeping through the night. Time didn't seem to drag on anymore because everyone was sleeping. And I say drag on because when you're not getting any sleep it seems like it's forever at the time, but then all of a sudden you're at three months and you get mad at yourself for being angry and bitter for not enjoying every second of that non-sleep.
Anyway, after nub phase is over and there's sleeping going on, then you're on solids (and subsequently) here come the 'stinky' poops and bam! He's sitting up and doing that military crawl across the room. And as fast as I pulled out those three-to-six clothes, I put them away and said bye-bye onesies.
Six-to-twelve felt like it was going to last longer because it is a six-month span, after all. But we're already close to 8 months now and I have no idea where the past two months went. I was cleaning out the older Poops' closet, and there was still a straggler shirt in there labeled "12 months" which went directly over into Mini's closet. Any day now, he'll fit that.
Zip zip.
For Poops, we're into the 2T phase. And up until 2T it moved quite quickly. The early months, of course, then the 12-to-18 where he started walking and using a big boy cup and wearing cute big boy clothes and kicking the soccer ball around and talking and understanding everything we're saying and eating with a fork and spoon.
Sigh.
18-to-24 months, his vocabulary quadruplified. He's actually joking around with me. He knows what's funny. He's serious. And he's hilarious. His personality is my husband. I know now, after so many phases and so many months, who he is. Because he's telling me.
This year is big for him. He is older. His clothes are bigger. There will be sentences, and counting, and letters and potty, and school starting next month and the purging of 18-24 month clothes out of his closet (see?) and as of today, a big boy bed with a real pillow and covers and responsibility! At the ripe old age of 2. (Pictures of this to come! They're awesome! I documented every moment of it, but I left the camera in his room and after lots of excitement followed by crying at the realization that this really is his new bed and he has to sleep in it and after lots of mommy and daddy coaxing and story reading because I've found that he already doesn't accept change well, I will not dare go in to get it. He finally is napping soundly in his new big boy bed.)
Anyway, I think it was the great Ferris Bueller who said it best. "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."
Sometimes I wish that for just a few minutes, my life could be a DVR. And I could just hit pause.
***
This week's Summer of Me Winner of the $30 Giftcard to TitleNine sponsored by Janeen at Our Story (thank you Janeen!) and a teeshirt from One More Mile goes to a non-blogger! Clairanne!! Congratulations!
And the winner of the DirtyRed tee is: Dena at SunEGrl Loves to Shop! Congrats to you!!
Wednesday
Poop (scroll for WW Grandma Edition)
It was inevitable. A post about poo.
After all, my last blog was called The Mis-Adventures of Captain Poopy.
There is a lot of poop in my life right now. There is a lot of poop in my life before 7:30 in the morning.
Before coffee.
I won't get into specifics, I am sure poo all on its own is barely -- if ever -- worthy of a post. But when you're exposed to a magnitude of poo and that's pretty much all you've got going on in your life right now, well, that's what happens.
Now I understand the saying, "Poop Happens."
Sunday
Bloody Brilliant
My husband and I both have college degrees. Too bad they're not in child psych. It might have come in handy this weekend.
It's a big weekend for Poops. We're painting his room and converting his crib to a toddler bed. It's going to be cars and trucks, including some of the characters from the movie Cars, of which he has recently discovered a passion for.
So yesterday, we had a brilliant idea. I'd take him to Home Depot to get the paint and get him his own special paint brush so he can help us. 
Home Depot was having a block party, and there was face painting for kids and I had another brilliant idea, let's get him a special little red car that looked like his favorite Lightning McQueen painted on his hand! This is so much fun! I'm the best mom ever!
Our Home Depot trip took a while but I figured, hey, we're out, let's go to Target and pick up the sheets real quick for his bed oh and hey, Michael's is right there, we'll just run in and grab the paints to paint the road I'm painting on his wall! Brilliant idea! (Man I'm good. Can anyone say "Mom of the year?")
Well, by now we're on our way home and it's about 12:30 (Wow -- where did the time go?!) and we're hungry so we run for the border and swing through Taco Bell (my day off) and head home. (Tacos! How much fun are tacos!! What a treat! I really am a fun and hip mom.)
We walk in the house and in preparation for painting, Poops' entire bedroom is now in the living room.
Well you can just imagine what happened next. You can literally see the panic wash over Poops. Then it starts. The slow cry, followed by the uncontrollable wailing, the can't-breathe-tears-streaming-open-mouth kind. He's running from the living room to his room and back and forth, (my heart is breaking at this point watching this little head in a state of utter panic) wondering what the heck is happening and what he did to deserve this. And because of mommy's brilliant mind, he's overtired (naptime is at 1), starving, he now has red and black paint all over his forehead because he wiped his face with his car-hand, and he's somehow lost his room.
This is not good.
We sit him down to eat tacos (it's crackers with cheese and meat inside! want some applesauce? Here, try mommy's soft taco, yum! OOh this is so good, aren't you hungry?).
But all there is is wailing.
Wanna take a nap?
More wailing.
Wanna watch the Cars?
Wailing. (I'm now developing my own inner panic over how we're gonna get out of this.)
So husband decides to fix up his crib again, put all his "friends" back in and after calming him down a little, he takes him inside to lay down. About an hour later (after more wailing and at least one climb out of the crib) the poor thing tuckers himself out and falls asleep. We get started painting, oh let's see, around 5?
So, as it turns out, our failed experiments are good lessons for everyone else on how not to do things. Lessons learned:
-Do as much preparation in advance, like getting the paint and sheets ON A DIFFERENT DAY!
-If we must have him involved in the process, also include him in moving stuff out of his room so he doesn't FREAK OUT AND GO BALLISTIC. However -- I might recommend having him do an over-nighter at the Grandma's house while you do all of it. (I should be writing this down. Please remind me about this in about two years when we're doing this again for Mini.)
-Finally, the best tip ever: START EARLY. After being well-rested and with full-belly.
Yes, we are the brilliant minds of today. Lessons learned. But it wasn't all bad. He eventually woke up refreshed and did get to help us after all.
And so did Mini.
So today, we're almost there. We'll hopefully be finished by tonight and I'll publish the grand before and after.
Monday
Blog Poll
I didn't nurse Poops for all that long. We made it just about six months. But this time around it is going so much better and I hope to go the full year. There is only one problem: he bites. He has two bottom teeth, and well, ouch is all I can say but I won't lie. Expletives come to mind when it happens. (It's a little better now--I've done all the things the books and the internets say to do and it is rarer than it was. I still plan on going the full year.)
So my question is, did you nurse? And if you did, for how long? And why did you stop?
Tuesday
The days of milk and cereal
Have you ever seen a person so happy about to have a meal?
It's like he's never eaten a meal in his life! (And I can tell you from experience that is entirely not true re: nursing marathons.)
We tried cereal a couple weeks ago and he completely poo-pooed that idea. He spit up the whole thing. So I waited a few weeks, and after noticing him looking at us longingly while we eat and making chomping faces, I tried it again.
I could not get this stuff into his face fast enough.
He was shoving my arm with the spoon into his mouth, which of course was too fast and all of the cereal would go sliding off -- which meant less cereal in mouth -- the opposite effect than what he was hoping for.
Now he's an eating champ and I am excited because this means making babyfood again! I loved doing this with Poops. I steamed and pureed all his vegetables and poured it into an ice tray and froze them. Each little cube makes one serving so steaming just a few vegetables would make 12 servings that would last forever! If you're interested in this type a thing... try this book: 
Super Baby Food. She gives you a few more tips than you really need (like how to load a dishwasher or pack your trunk) but the food information is so super useful. This was my "bible" for babyfood the first time around. There are recipes and tips, even schedules to help you figure out when to feed your baby what when you're starting solids (and I forgot how confusing this can actually be until I picked it up again!) Of course, whatever your pediatrician says is more important than the book -- so use that first, but this is a great guide.
Thursday
Some Fodder and some NEWS
Whine whine whine.
Mommmmmy my leg hurts!!
Nope. That's not my two-year-old whining. It's just me.
I got the surrounding part of my mole punched out on my left thigh today and it kills! Yes, I have pushed out two babies and have had stitches in places I won't mention and I'm being a big baby. So sue me. But I can't seem to get my leg in a comfortable position. The stitches are right smack in the middle of my thigh so when it's bent, it hurts, when it's straight it hurts. I'm lame.
My biggest worry wasn't the possibility of melanoma, no. (I find out the results of this biopsy in about 2 weeks). It was the fact that I was afraid my running schedule would be disrupted.
You see, I have a very strict schedule to adhere to prepare for the 5K and I hadn't left any room to pause. I planned the 5k at exactly 9 weeks from when I was starting to train -- and that's exactly how long the program is. So if I miss a day, I don't have any wiggle room to make it up. Fortunately and by accident, I don't run again until Sunday anyway, and the doctor said the stitches will be on their way to healing so she doesn't mind if I run. Hopefully I will not pop a stitch. It's a good thing too because now is about the halfway mark and when the runs are getting longer and a little tougher for my out-of-shape self. I just can't do "legs" at the gym for two weeks--which does stink, but oh well. (Wear sunscreen, people! Or one day you, too, will have stitches in your leg and won't be able to do leg presses for 2 weeks!)
Enough about me: HAVE I MENTIONED THAT MY SISTER IS PREGNANT?
Way back in the Captain Poopy days, there were the Old Man Hancock days -- when my sister blogged about her husband's deployment. Now she's given birth to a new blog -- (and it looks just like her!!) and she's blogging about her pregnancy and married life, now that the old man is home. (Boy they've been busy!)
Hop over and visit her at A Blog and a Baby -- I can't believe my baby sister is having a baby! I'm busting!
And here are some pictures of my little ham. I can't believe how big he's getting. The high chair is officially back out in the kitchen so we can start solids any day now. He was five months yesterday. Still not really taking a bottle -- sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't --but he's a total mama's boy. We haven't had to buy a single can of formula yet, so I guess the bottle-thing hasn't been too bad with all the money we're saving.
Man! Time goes by fast. It feels like just yesterday when I was a crying-every-day-riding-the-crazy-train-no-sleep-complete-and-utter-mess. So glad that was just a phase! This part is cake. Isn't he delicious?
ps. Don't forget to sign linky tomorrow! Fat Ticker Friday!
Monday
My boobs are toast
It is not uncommon for me to sit in this black recliner that we nicknamed "Fred" for hours at a time. Not watching tv. Not stuffing my pie hole with Cheetos. But nursing. For. E. Ver. I used to hate this chair. I inherited it from my husband's single days. I have grown to love it.
I was going to post pictures of Poops' party - which was so much fun - but it is almost 9 o'clock and all I have been doing since 6:30 is feeding Mini. He is beside himself today because we are getting teeth. Yes, teeth already!! I guess it's not already, he is 4 1/2 months old now and Poops had his full set in before he was a year old. I was wondering why Mini slept until almost 9 this morning (straight since 8 the night before!) and took extra long naps all day and then had a small fever this afternoon and then screamed bloody murder for about an hour around dinnertime. I peeked in at his little gums during one of his scream-a-thons and saw another little white nugget poking through, so now there are two! He screamed until I gave him those wonderful miracle Humphrey's teething pellets and he nursed a little longer then fell asleep a minute later. That stuff is magic. I didn't dare wake him up since it was the first time he had been calm, so there I was, stuck in the chair. Really having to pee. But he woke up about 20 minutes later, I got to get up for a second, only to return to Fred to nurse until, oh just about 10 minutes ago.
Pain.
But he is out like a light now.
I'm starving. I am going to eat one of my little Body For Life low-calorie Myoplex bars for my 6th meal then turn in so I can get up at the buttcrack of dawn and work out before husband goes to work. Tomorrow is Tuesday's Tips, so if you have any, come back tomorrow and share them with all of us!
