I’ve been without a full-length mirror since May. 

Also, I am tired of hearing about Chik-Fil-A. So they don’t support gay marriage. SO WHAT. It’s called free speech, and I exercise it every time I write a blog post.

That is all.

Yesterday Husband and I were talking and I realized, we fight a lot less than we used to. We both credit the fact that I’m at home full time and not trying to juggle housework, children, and a high stress career. Just thinking about that makes me want to punch someone in the face. 

It’s working for our relationship. I am so proud of Husband and grateful to him for allowing me to grab life by the balls and quit my job, something extremely risky in this economy. I have been home for approximately one year. And finally, FINALLY, this is where we are now: my children can finally play together like normal children.

We have come so far.

If ever I get discouraged, all I have to do is browse through the year’s worth of pictures on my cell phone. I find things like this:

And this:

I am so happy these days are behind us. 

That’s a weird thing to say, I realize. It seems like a lot of mothers pine for the days when their children were tiny. Not this mother. I was so stressed out all. the. time.

 Life is much easier now. Now I can finally say …

(deep breath)

WE MADE IT. I let both of my children watch way too much TV. I allowed ONE to eat way too much candy. I drank too much wine. I was on and off medication. I thought more than once that I couldn’t do it. I wanted to go back to work. I wanted to give up. I cried. And cried. I wondered if my marriage would make it. I wondered if ONE was psychologically damaged. I wondered if TWO would ever stop crying.

Making it through this year is to date my greatest accomplishment. I couldn’t have done it without my man. Thank you so much, my meat-eating, messy, lint-making, scatterbrained, SWEET Husband.

Behind every sane mother is a wonderful man.

Our next-door neighbor is extremely obsessive about her lawn. I keep accidentally running into her grass when I back out of the driveway. At first I thought it was accidental, like you know … part of my charm. But now I’m thinking it might be accidentally on purpose.

Husband and I have been talking about modesty for awhile. I don’t want my sons to have any embarrassing memories of their mother, so I’ve been trying to be more mindful of what I wear around the house.

This can be a problem, though, when you have more than one child. They all have to come with me to the bathroom, to the dressing room, etc. I can’t exactly leave a three-year-old and a 10-month-old unsupervised. Combine this with the fact that ONE is extremely inquisitive, has an excellent memory, and notices everything. Every. Thing.

Last week, ONE asked me, yet again, how babies are made. The kid is three. I wanted to yell “STOP ASKING ME THAT DAMMIT!” but instead I gave him a vague reply about mommies and daddies that love each other have babies sometimes. He totally wasn’t satisfied with this. He said in an exasperated tone, “No, Mommy. HOW. HOW are they made.” 

I steered off that topic thank God and then he said that he wished he had been allowed to go to the hospital with me when TWO was born. He wanted to see how he came out of my tummy. And then he flat-out asked me, “HOW did TWO get out of your tummy?” So … I told him. 

Me: Out of my vagina.

ONE: Whaaaaaaat? (starts laughing hysterically)

Me: Yep.

ONE: How? That’s where you pee! That’s a tiny hole! HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN MOMMY??

Ugh. At this juncture I said we’ll talk about it when he’s older and then I said a silent prayer that he’d forget about it — and if he remembered, he’d ask his daddy.

Fast forward several days. We found ourselves at the library. I had to pee so we went to this teeny tiny bathroom located right smack in the middle of the Children’s Section. It was cramped in there with the stroller, and before I could stop him ONE exclaimed in his very loud voice, “MOMMY! Is that where Asher came out? Wow! That’s so tiny! And he’s so big! HOW DID YOU DO THAT MOMMY??” 

As the three of us made our way out of the bathroom, I did my best to look dignified while at the same time wishing for the Curious George section to swallow me up. And if you’re thinking no one heard, think again. That bathroom is like an echoing canyon and there is no fan to hush the sound.

Apparently this is the price you pay for trying to be age-appropriate honest with your children. But I can’t lie to my son, and I can’t hide things from him. That boy asks questions, and I mean a lot of them. Maybe he’ll be a loud-mouthed doctor one day.
 

I’ve been in a bitchy funk because we have absolutely no money and it’s really stressful. It’s no one’s fault, really. Just life. Moving is expensive, and it’s going to take us awhile to catch up. Thank goodness TWO will stop drinking formula in approximately 6 weeks, which will save us about $100 a month. Whenever  I wonder to myself, where is our money going?!?!? all I have to do is look at TWO’s little mouth. That’s where it’s going.

Sometimes I get really discouraged about it all and I all I want to do is whine and wallow in self-pity. It’s obnoxious. And childish. And then I have to remind myself that I am 32, I need to get it together, and I get to stay home with my children. I am very, very lucky to have a Husband who works so hard for us. And being obnoxious is no way to say thank you.

So thank you, Husband, for allowing me to raise our children. We have nothing but each other, and pretty soon I’m going to be sitting on my hair because it’s getting so long. We may or may not lose power before your next paycheck. All in all, we’re becoming more like the Amish every day.

 

Dear Martha, of Martha Stewart Collection,

My son broke my egg timer while he was pretending it was part of his “airplane,” which was actually an empty diaper box:

This saddened me deeply, not because I used my timer that much, but because it was shiny and looked nice in my kitchen. My mother thoughtfully bought me a new one, shown here. It’s your 60 Minute Timer, purchased from Macy’s.

I had a little trouble … you see, I first tried prying open the plastic case with my hands. This was hopeless. So then I got after it with a pair of kitchen scissors.

Eventually I got desperate and angry and used my teeth, as you can see. Not my most lady like moment, but I did manage to pry off everything but the top part. 

It was at this point that I almost gave up and asked my husband for help.

But then, I looked at that tiny, smug, picture of you on the front of the package, next to that picture of a perfectly iced cupcake, and I ripped the rest of that crap off.

It nearly took me 60 minutes to open, so I want you to know that you have done a fantastic job of naming this product. It is indeed the 60 Minute Timer. WELL DONE. So far I dislike it very much.

Sincerely,
Harmony

Miley Cyrus is a blonde now. Her newly-lightened hair makes me realize just how bad mine really looks. Of course, she had a highly-paid professional do hers and did not use a box dye like I did. And of course, there are some clear differences between Miley and I. She is over a decade younger. She’s about 70 pounds lighter. She’s rich. Oh, and her hair is actually blonde.

My hair is not only orange, but it’s a lot like having a wooly blanket on my head. It’s big and bushy and orange. Overall, I feel like I am beginning to resemble a lion.

Our neighbor came over yesterday to bring us some food from her garden. It was 9:30 in the morning. I was wearing my kimono robe, and ONE was wearing this.

Later, he wore this.

I’ve decided this is one of my all-time favorite pictures of ONE. It really captures his personality: exuberant, bright, bossy, and way-over-the-top fun.

Admittedly, ONE exhausts and frustrates the hell out of me. Parenting him is tricky business. You’d have to spend some time with him to understand. However, I don’t say often enough how special he is; how caring and thoughtful and astoundingly smart. He is outgoing and funny and talks to everyone. When we order pizza, he runs to the door in his underwear and says “HI, PIZZA MAN! WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG? LOST?! YOU GOT LOST?! HOW?? YOU’RE A PIZZA MAN!” 

When we go for a bike ride, he yells “HOWDY, PARTNER!” to a man who happens to be mowing his yard in a cowboy hat. Never, ever a dull moment.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that he was given to us —  given to US. I was chosen to be his mother. That makes me feel special. Like maybe I can do something to make the world better … just maybe, if I raise this boy right, he can DO things. 

Thinking about this kind of stuff helps me keep on washing clothes and putting them away even though I know they will just get dirty again, and washing dishes and putting them away even though I know those exact same dishes are going to be back in the sink tomorrow, and continuing to remind ONE to wash his hands. Again.