Cohabitation

I always write about my babies, but today I want to write about my husband. Because he's the most awesome guy that I've ever known and sometimes as a young mother, it's easy to be so enamored with your babies that you forget to brag about the wonderful guy who helped make your babies happen in the first place.

So, in between checking in with NPR, I've been listening to Jack and Ron on KISS FM lately on my drive home from dropping Jude off at school in the mornings. I used to listen to them when I would get ready for work, way back when I was managing Sunglass Hut in Sooner Mall in Norman. I first heard of the first plane that hit the first Tower on 9/11 from Jack and Ron. I picked out work outfits in styles that you couldn't pay me to wear now while listening to Jack and Ron. I nursed too many hangovers while cursing the mall in my head when brushing my teeth in the mornings before work, listening to Jack and Ron. They were part of a soundtrack to an entirely differently existence that was very significant in my young adult life.

But over the years I lost touch with Jack and Ron, replacing them with NPR entirely as I've gotten older.

I've kind of come full circle I guess- needing breaks from the news and NPR. Maybe it's my age, and the country and world's issues weigh heavier on my mind- whereas before I couldn't have really given a half a shit about much beyond what I would be doing after being released from the prison of my full-time job and out into my life as a single 21 year-old. I don't know- but it's nostalgic and kind of refreshing to hear those jackasses voices again. Old familiarity is nice to help keep you feeling ageless.

This morning Jack and Ron were discussing some of the posts that listeners had put on their Facebook page, responding to a cue of, "What makes your marriage successful?" Some of the responses were hilarious. Some were thought-provoking. Some made me gag, they were so cheesy. They collectively made me think about my relationship with Taylor Hines- because how can you hear such things without reflecting on your own situation?

As I was running through some of our strong points (best friends! great team! make each other laugh!) and not so strong points (overkill on the bantering! overkill on the dominant "who's the boss?"issues! arguing about stupid shit!)- I realized that this week being Spring Break and all, marks the 10 year anniversary of our making the abrupt decision to move in together and see what the future would hold for us as a couple.

10 years! It just seems crazy to me. It's as monumental to me as a wedding anniversary, because we lived together for so long as just a co-habitating couple that being married hasn't seemed a whole lot different. Just an extension of what we had already been doing. But with kids and a family house and stuff.

After 3 months of dating, we made the decision to live together. I was 22, he was two months short of turning 21. He still had a fake i.d. I smoked a pack of Dunhill menthol lights a day. He had long hair and earrings. I had a belly button ring and 10 holes punctured in my ears. He was at OU, a year out of graduating with a finance degree (with honors. One of the most admirable things about him, to this day, has always been his big sexy brain). I was managing Sunglass Hut in the mall and was prolonging a return to college to finish my degree.

When you move in with someone at such a young age, during that early-twenty phase in life- you have no idea if it's going to work. But when you are young and in that "OMG I'm so in love!" retarded-over each other, think about you all the time can't get enough of one another, we hardly know one another but we're going to get along and be happy for forever because we are so happy together crazy in love- do you care? Of course not.

The odds are against you in my opinion. You have skeptical parents wondering what in the hell you are thinking- whether they voice their concerns or choose to keep it to themselves, whether their your parents or your girlfriend's/boyfriend's. You have friends in all sorts of different places in their own lives who are skeptical or happy for you or jealous or doubtful or whatever. You have opinions and judgement coming at you from all directions. You have two separate lifestyles that you are accustomed to that suddenly have to fuse and mesh and co-mingle. You know where you'd like to see things go, but who knows if it will really go that way? Especially once you pass the point where your dating "representatives" bow out and the real people move in.

You know, the real people that you are. The ones with faults. The people who either make or break it for you. The people who either make the decision to break up and go separate ways, or stay together for the long haul.

Long haul, right here! (raising my hand!)

I called Taylor when I realized that this Spring Break is our 10-year-move-in-iversary (I love insert-special occasion-iversaries. I make them up all the time for us because it's important to celebrate US!), and told him that moving in with "Iced-T" (the nickname my friends came up with to tease my then-new boyfriend behind his back... which he knows about and thinks is funny... now) is the best thing I ever did.

It was a sweet, make you want to gag it was so cheesy exchange. We don't have those moments often- because we aren't that kind of couple- but when they happen, it's super nice.

We mused briefly over that first Spring Break, when I moved in to the house he shared with his best friend Dustin. How exciting it was to get all my stuff in there. How my then-kitten Niles had to live in our bedroom for the first few months because Dustin was allergic to cats (then shortly after, how Niles just came to be the 4th roommate who went where he wanted... usually straight to Dustin on the couch, of course). How after Taylor and Dustin left that week to go snowboarding in Tahoe, I came home from work to find a dead cat in our driveway and how freaked out I was about it. How my dad had helped me move in, but Taylor had not yet told his parents about us living together because he was scared (which is funny now but at the time hurt my feelings! *sad face*). How I had to get used to sharing my boyfriend with seemingly endless marathon video game sessions. The homie traffic that comes with living with college guys that would run through our household at all hours of the day. How he had to get used to me going out and partying with my friends without him on the often-occasion that he didn't feel like leaving the house. Our first big fight, when we first realized that living together means that fighting while living in the same house means that sometimes someone sleeps in the other room.

I think that living together was great training for being married, to a certain degree of course. For Taylor and I. I can't speak for anyone else. Would I recommend it to my kids, should they come to me someday and say, "Mom! This girl/guy I've been dating for 5 minutes and I are going to move into together!"?

Yes. I would. My parents have always been supportive of me and (most of) my choices in life- without raining their judgement down on me- and that's what I want to do. They've always encouraged me in experiencing life for myself- getting beat up and bruised along the way, paying consequences but also enjoying the benefits and rewards of sticking my neck out and taking risks- allowing me to reap what I choose to sow.

I can only hope that by doing the same, I can help my kids find the same kind of happiness and security and friendship and love that I found with that long-haired, earring-having 20-year old finance major who bumped rap music way too loud in his jacked up Tahoe.

Friday Fast Thoughts

Friday Fast Thoughts:

1.) Ready for a trip to Vegas in late May to do a "re do" for Taylor's 30th birthday, which was last year. We were unable to celebrate in our typical style then because Vivienne had just been born. Taylor and I are planning now, and I am both excited and sad at the same time, because the trip will mark the end of nursing Vivienne, after she turns 1 year old on May 15. We jetted off to Vegas right after Jude turned one year old on Jan. 5, 2010, ending our one year of nursing and celebrating my 30th birthday. I guess running off to Vegas to get a whole lot of partying out of my system right after I am done nursing my babies has become my thing. You can't really run off on any kind of wild vacation- or vacation at all really- when you devote the first year of your baby's life to breastfeeding- and that's totally OK with me. I've gone a year without really being able to be away from Vivienne for more than a couple of hours, and that's the only way I'd ever have it. I don't want to be away from her. A mother's babies are a part of her and, I personally physically feel the need to be near them and with them when I am away, so, that being said, I welcome the almost 2 straight years I've spent nursing my children. I wouldn't do it any other way. It goes by so fast- it's really just a blip of time that is so precious that it's worth the sacrifice of my quote unquote "freedom." 

I am super excited for a Vegas trip though, I'm not going to lie. Taylor and I get to go out and be ageless and be the couple that we've always been, and were before we had our kids. I just freakin' love Vegas. I love the energy.

2.) Speaking of pregnancy-mother-baby-related things. I saw the cover of ELLE magazine with a naked pregnant Jessica Simpson on it. I've read some pretty hateful and shitty comments that people- on FACEBOOK and off- have had to say about it. The most rude and crass have been from other women who have never been pregnant, who are grossed out about it and think her body looks sick. I personally think it's tasteless for any woman, pregnant or not, to pose nude on or in any kind of publication- with the exception of what's sometimes done tastefully in the name of art (and no, Playboy and MAXIM and spreads with celebrities like Jennifer Aniston in all but a tie are not art). 

My distaste has nothing to do with how they look, and everything to do with the pointlessness of doing it in the first place. Call me modest- I just don't see the point. 

Having been pregnant now in the past, I also can't help but take it a little personally when I read other women saying mean things about another woman's pregnant body. Pregnancy gives you stretch marks and allows gravity to kill your boobs. Your body is never the same. But guess what, self-righteous women who say mean things about being grossed out by a pregnant woman's body? TIME is going to do similar damage to your body eventually, so you're not safe from damage either. None of us are- so females should really get off their high horses and be a little bit fucking nicer... because we're all doomed in the end. 

HOWEVER- Jessica Simpson- did you really need to pose naked for a magazine? I mean, good for you for being confident enough to do it, and for feeling so amazing and happy for being pregnant that you want to share it with the world, but come on. Demi Moore did it years ago- first. You're not doing anything new, so what's the point? Do you really need the attention? Enjoy your billions of dollars from your fashion line and put your clothes back on. 

3.) Put bluntly, I can't stand Rick Santorum. I think he's a hateful, awful disgrace of a man. I personally believe he is a lunatic and he frightens me. I may not be impressed with Obama and what he has done, but I also don't want to have a fanatical lunatic running the country either. 

I can only hope that Mitt Romney kicks his ass and becomes the Republican nominee. I only say this about Romney because he's not Newt and unfortunately, Ron Paul isn't going to get it (he's the lesser of the evils I guess). Santorum's signs are all over my neighborhood and it makes me want to move. I think a lot of people around here don't like Mitt Romney because of his Mormanism or whatever, but since I strongly believe in a separation of Church and State, I could care less about any of their religious preferences- just stay out of my business and try to fix our economy. Make my grocery bill smaller. And let gay people get married- because straight people have done a fine job of screwing up the sanctity of it for years, so why not let them take a crack at it too? 

I don't pretend to have the answers to fix anything going wrong-  but I do know this: Most people I personally know are living quite nicely despite all of the "hell breaking loose" in our country these days- hating Obama and all. I've been seeing things that say, "We survived Bush, You will survive Obama," and I don't think it could be more true. Whoever is in office is always going to be perceived to be ruining the country by the team who didn't win the election. If a Republican gets in office next go around, Democrats will complain about them. Everyone always has something to complain about- but like I said, most people I know are doing just fine and living quite nicely. I know I am- and I'm fortunate and grateful for that. So I try not to complain too much. It's so easy to get carried away with politics, I've learned, so I can avoid a headache by avoiding engaging in it (too much). And avoiding people who engage too much in it too. So if you're posting a bunch of political stuff and anything hateful, I'm going to utilize the "hide" option on my Facebook newsfeed. 

I recently discovered how quickly this can eliminate a sick feeling in my stomach when someone posts something disgustingly hateful about politics. HIDE or UNFRIEND. No one is entitled to take a verbal dump all over your day on a social network. Free speech? Great. Do it all you want. Not on my feed though, if I can control it. 

I'm a registered independent, and I see faults on both sides, which keeps me from ever picking a "team," but the longer I live in Oklahoma, the more to socially to the left I find myself going. I'm embarrassed by my home state most of the time when it comes to politics. 

It just doesn't represent me. Where conservatives stand on social issues make me want to puke. My husband and I are on opposite sides of the fence when it comes to politics- which makes for an awesome time of arguing during election times. I'm totally kidding. It sucks. I respect his opinion though, as I expect him to respect mine. I just have to put the lid on hateful talk. Have I mentioned I don't like hateful talk? I have my theories about why I believe so many people are so ADAMANT about their hate for Obama, but I'll just keep that to myself.

We all know what the elephant in the room is there- and I think it's ridiculous. 

I can't wait until this election year is over. I don't give a shit who wins. 

OK, what number was I on?

Oh yeah,

4.) Rush Limbaugh. Oh, Rush. You stupid bastard. And Sarah Palin, for endorsing and supporting his right for free speech to refer to women as "sluts," you are an embarrassment to your gender. 

That's all I really have to say about that. 

5.) I got to see Radiohead in Dallas this week with my friend Kristen. They were incredible. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to spend that much time- a whole 24 hours- with another adult woman. Without children. Without husband. Without cooking or picking up toys or refereeing little children... 24 hours without domesticity did me well. Girlfriend time is so therapeutic. Kristen and I talked for pretty much the entire 24 hours of our road trip/concert and it felt super good- but I missed my baby the whole time. I even thought about her at the concert. I thought the beer would help, but it really only enhanced the thoughts. It's funny how that happens. I'd also almost forgotten how much I love live music and have decided to make a conscious effort to start treating myself to it more often with Taylor. 

6.) I have a sick baby girl. It's hard to tell how she's feeling, although I know she has a tummy bug because of the puking, because she doesn't really cry or fuss. Ever. She's so low key and easy that it can be deceiving. Unlike her brother, who has always been dramatic and vocal when it comes to not feeling well, Vivienne is very chill about it so I have to keep an eye on her. Jude also woke up with the grossies today, but out the other end. This is when cloth diapering is a pain in the ass. He is potty trained but sleeps in cloth pull-ups at night- which is fine because he doesn't crap his pants- but today he must have some version of the tummy bug that Viv has because crap he did.

I've developed a pretty tough stomach for the grossies since becoming a mom, but there are times like this morning when I just throw my hands up and say, "Oh hell no!" And that's when you throw a cloth underpant away, rather than attempting to wash and rinse and handle sick poop. 

7.) Between the excitement for Vegas, the apprehension and anxiety about Viv turning one and no longer nursing, the political ranting and washing of baby puke off of things, I'll add that I'm happy to see that spring is here- I've enjoyed the rain, I want more, I'm looking forward to doing lots of stuff outside with the kids, getting a tan, cooking out, opening our pool, and seeing flowers all over the damn place.

Happy Friday! 

Happenings

No one is sick anymore- finally! After Jude's round of strep then viral infection, and Taylor's terrible cold, and Mochi's cold that turned into RSV, I finally got sick last weekend and wound up with strep all week.

It's been a rough past month, so we have all been enjoying our good health this weekend! I haven't been to hot yoga in a week and I'm dying to go. I probably could have gone back Friday, but I didn't want to be that asshole that jumps the gun and goes to yoga and gets anyone sick because I'm obsessed with working out or my ego needs the lift. The yoga studio is a mecca to pay tribute to your health and body and well-being. Sick- and even barely recovered sick- people keep their distance. 

My body feels stiff and I just want to go in there and stretch and sweat out all the toxins and get the blood flowing. Monday afternoon I'm back on the mat!

*Happy Dance*

Last night Jude went to his first Thunder game with Taylor and Dustin (ABOVE). I'm kind of jealous that I missed that, but our little dude needed some guy time. That's what he calls it: "Guy Time." Anything with just him and dad, or dad and dad's friends, is guy time. Jude told me the other day when I asked him if he was excited for "Guy Time" Friday, that "Mommy, you don't have a wee wee." 

Well said, Sir. This means that mommies don't partake in "Guy Time," but we have "Mommy and Pookie Time." 

He added, just in case I forgot and needed a reminder: "Mommy and Mochi have 'baginas." 

(Vaginas)

Very good! Needless to say, I beam with pride as I recap this conversation. He can differentiate our parts. He's been paying attention!

While Jude and Daddy and their wee wees were at the Thunder game, my brother and I took our dad to dinner and to see the Beatles tribute band, 1964- which was our Christmas gift to him. We decided that our hoarding-tendencied parents didn't need anymore stuff (at least this year), so we got them each something to do to share quality time with them. 

Our old man loves his beer, so BJs was a good choice. He enjoyed a beer sampler and jambalaya. Chris and I had water and fancy salads- trying to stick with our diets somewhat- but ultimately wound up finishing our dad's jambalaya. 

Here we are at dinner. This picture isn't an accurate photo of my brother and dad's personalities. 

This picture is more accurate. My brother and dad always have to make faces like this or do something weird or goofy in pictures. It's been like this since my brother was a baby and it has never stopped. My dad looks like a pirate. I wish he'd get his recently removed tooth replaced with something that made him look less like Captain Barbosa, but what fun would that be? 

Dad and his beer. Merry Christmas Old Man! 

1964. They were pretty good. I liked Beatlemania, which we saw in Tulsa a few years back, better, but it was fun. I have a weakness for Beatles tribute bands and shows. I feel gipped most of the time because I honestly believe I was born in the wrong era for music. My brother and I were probably 2 of maybe a dozen people under the age of 50 at the show. When "John" encouraged the crowd to get up for "Twist and Shout," my dad said he felt like he was at a retirement home- and after looking around- we staged scenarios about some of the older ones busting out their medicinal marijuana that they carry around for their glaucoma and died laughing about it. 

My brother and dad and I have always been a trio of buddies. We share the same interests and attitudes about most things. We appreciate one another's passions, overtly unapologetic opinions and perspectives on how we see and experience the world around us.

All three of us are oddballs. Chris and I have our Old Man to thank for that- since he is the one of the weirdest people I'll ever know. 

Spending the evening cutting up and enjoying the company of the two original guys in my life was a breath of fresh air.

No one gets you like your blood.

We had a big "send off" get together with my extended family today, for my cousin Robert and his wife Gabby and little boy Brayden who got stationed in Virginia and are leaving Tuesday, and for my brother, who will be leaving for officer training in Alabama next week. My cousin Andrea is already in Europe for a few years, and I miss her a lot. That's the thing with military families- people are always coming and going and getting stationed here and there. It's part of the package though. Without the reassigning of location due to military, most of my family (myself included) wouldn't even exist. 

The yummy plate of food above is how my family rolls. You should have seen the spread. It's insane how amazing the food is. You won't find better home cooked Japanese food on the planet. Seriously. My grandma and Uncle Chosei are from Okinawa and this is how they throw down. Tempura. Gyoza. Stir fried noodles. Fried rice. Teriyaki chicken.

Taylor and I pretty much fast all day to make sure we have plenty of room to gorge when we know we are going to be eating this food. 

My Great Uncle Chosei- the tempura master. He has a black belt in Japanese cuisine.

Chris and Jude hogging out on dessert- what they do best. 

Mochi with Mimi and my kick ass aunties

Jude will pummel you with his gigantic fists.

The kids fell asleep on the drive home. Taylor and I have started prolonging our trips home when this happens, because we know as soon as we get in the garage, they'll wake up- usually groggy and cranky if they don't get a sufficient cat nap- and they won't go back to sleep. So we get coffee. From Starbucks. Which up until recently I had always refused to do- get coffee from Starbucks- but since they have put all of the other conveniently located coffee shops out of business in our area, that's really our only option.

I refuse to order Starbucks in their fancy named sizes. We aren't in Italy. We live in America, and in America we have SMALL, MEDIUM, and LARGE.

Venti. Grande. I can't remember the other name. It confuses me. I want a medium coffee. That's it.

It's funny hearing men order fancy named froo-froo coffees.

There's something emasculating about a man who orders a venti green tea chai latte with coconut and whipped cream- like the guy in front of me in line did today. I like to think that men should take their coffee black. Taylor doesn't take his coffee black, but he also doesn't order venti green tea chai lattes with coconut and whipped cream. That's enough for me.

So we get coffee and drive around and talk. That's what you do with kids. You create and squeeze in grown up time when you can and let them sleep when they'll sleep.

Jude after we got home. Family time with the relatives and cousin wore him out. It's a beautiful sight to see this kid this worn out. It doesn't happen often. 

Mochi finally has enough hair to wake up with bed head. 

Sleepy-faced babies with bed head are one of life's best kept secret treats. 

Holy crap it's 12:30 a.m. and I am still on the computer. This is going to hurt in 5 hours when Mochi wakes up and decides she'd rather be in bed with Taylor and I. Why isn't husband back from Dustin's house yet? Why is it so easy to get annoyed with husbands when they really aren't doing anything wrong? 

Oh well.

Good Night! 

Hoarder

Hoarding. What an interesting disease. So American, wouldn't you say? To have access to so much stuff that you are literally sick and drowning in all of your material possessions. There are starving people in the world who have nothing- and then you turn on "Hoarders" and see the flip side to having little or nothing.

The husband doesn't like the show "Hoarders." He also doesn't like the commercials during "Hoarders," which is always for more depressing, shockingly horrific programs like "My Strange Addiction," "Intervention," or "My 600 Lb. Life." What is it about A&E and their niche with the depressing real life shit that no one really wants to know about?

Well, I guess people do want to know about it, or people wouldn't watch it. That channel digs up all the freakiest freaks hidden in society, unEarthing them so that we normal people may feel more normal. I honestly think that the audience for these shows has been born with the birth of the shows themselves- the interest is sparked once you get a taste of the highlights (lowlights?) when one of those shows flashes across your television screen. Like, "What is that craziness I just saw? I must check that out..."

Follow the trail of crying, disheveled societal rejects to gag-worthy utopia.

Jersey Shore? The Bachelor? Young people getting drunk, having threesomes in hot tubs and fighting and using "BLEEP" words? Cat fights, whiney and crying dingbat chicks competing for the attention of some douche bag guy?

Weak.

Let's see a guy who has an emotional and sexual relationship with his "male" car that he has named Chase. Or an old lady who has so much garbage and junk and cat feces in her house that she can't even make it through the bathroom door- so she just relieves herself in diapers that she leaves lying around all over the house, and THEN when the house is cleaned out, she finds dead cats under the mountains of dirty adult diapers piled up around the house.

They say people like the shocking, dirty laundry aspect of reality television.

Now that's just about as shocking and dirty as it gets. Unbelievable. It's hard to fathom the idea that it's real. It's mind blowing. There are some pretty sick tickets in this world ("sick tickets..." Steel Magnolias? Anyone catch that? I can't take credit for that great play on words...)

I don't really keep up with any television that's not HBO (with a recent exception of The Voice, because that guy from Maroon 5 just won't let me change the channel...)- and although I don't blame Taylor for disliking "Hoarders," from time to time I catch an episode or two just for the thrill of feeling disgusted for 60 minutes.

It's so disturbing- yet it's the disturbing factor that keeps me glued to the TV for back to back episodes, clutching my pillow with eyes open wide and nose crinkled in horror and fascination when I get the chance to watch it in syndication. By the time I'm done watching and turn the channel, I'm mentally going through my home thinking of all the crap I need to gather and drop off at Goodwill.

Ultimately, the show inspires me to have less stuff and "cleanse" my house of junk and clutter and things that I have no use for.

On those nights that I watch "Hoarders," after the babies are tucked into their beds sleeping and I have some time to kill all for myself, I settle down in bed with my cat Niles and the husband is laying on his stomach next to us, farting around on his tablet, occasionally looking up to catch a few minutes of the show when I gasp and exclaim, "Holy shit!" before he turns his attention back to web surfing, muttering something along the lines of:

"What the hell is wrong with these people?"
"Omigod."
or my favorite,
"They don't have a disease. They're just fucking lazy."

I remember being on the phone with my mother one night while watching Hoarders, and we were discussing whatever episode was on. Although I've gotten better, I've yet to learn to keep my damn mouth shut sometimes when talking with my mother. Do I get under her skin on purpose? Maybe a little- but for the most part I pretty much just say whatever is on my mind, her feelings often unspared. The woman makes no quams about sparing my feelings when sharing with me what she really thinks about things, so in turn, the apple doesn't fall too short from the tree.

I wouldn't call my parents Hoarders, but they may be some kind of distant, related by marriage cousin of Hoarders. I told her that and she got really defensive- so jokingly I told her that the first symptom of Hoardism is denial. She got PISSED. I then talked myself into a corner, trying to explain the rationale behind my theory of her hoarding tendencies- citing specific examples and assuring her that it was endearing and I could understand how she and my dad have come to have so much stuff.

It didn't do any good. No sense of humor there- she all but hung up on me- which makes me seriously consider the idea that she may very well have some distant mild case of hoarding disorder. I won't get into details, but my parents have so much random stuff it's kind of ridiculous. Not like, scary filthy obscenely hoarded out or anything- but definitely a clean, organized, much less severe version maybe.

There is no clear space on any surface of their home, no drawer unstuffed, no cabinet unpacked to the max, no closet unstuffed to capacity. Expect for my dad- who keeps his bathroom drawer and closet neat and uncluttered. I suppose that as a man, those are the two spaces all for himself that my mom can't fill with stuff, and he's very territorial about it.

I don't think it's uncommon though- hoarding tendencies in our country. Look how much crap we have, compared to what, 30 years ago? How much crap did people have back then? My mother grew up very poor and had very little. This is why I think that once she became a successful adult with a healthy income, she started buying things that she wanted because she could. And bless her, her heart is so big that she looks for things to buy and gift to family because she's so incredibly generous.

I've learned in the past not to have a gather and collect for donation days when she's at my house. She'll rummage through my bags and pull things out and find ways to justify keeping things. She'll find things that she may have given me or the kids that we no longer have use for, then get all huffy and act upset like I don't appreciate her. This is how people wind up with tons and tons of... dare I say it... junk?

JUNK: Old or discarded articles that are considered useless or of little value.

Think about it- I don't know how any of your moms are, but if I kept every little item of clothing or trinket or whatever, I'd wind up on Hoarders and we'd be eating dinner atop a massive pile of clothing and trinkets and whatever.

Over time, slowly but surely, bits and pieces of the past are making their way to the donation piles. Items and accessories and clothing from past "lives" that are momentarily hard to let go of. In the past ten years, Taylor and I moved 4 times and have lived in 5 different houses- and with that, we've moved around a ton of stuff that we should've gotten rid of along the way.

We're also both the oldest children in our families, so over the years, relatives have always pawned their junk off on to us. When we didn't have much, that was helpful and useful, but now that we are "grown ups," we have bought our own stuff, but are still in the process of getting rid of the years worth of hand me downs we accumulated. We've almost succeeded. It feels good.

I've said in the past that I'm a nostalgia whore- so letting go of stuff isn't always so easy for me. But then I think back to episodes of "Hoarders"- like the one with the woman who had over 600 pots and pans that she never used but got all emotional over getting rid of- and it helps me to rifle through things much quicker, with less thought and less sentimentality.

It's especially difficult with the babies clothing. Oh God, the babies clothing... but I'm getting better.

Of course I keep and save things that I have grown attached to- things that are significant and particularly special- but I find it so necessary and important to CLEANSE my living space of junk. Because there is always going to be more junk. More clothes. More trinkets. More books. I've learned after the past few Christmases, since we had children, that there has to be room in the house to put stuff- otherwise, you wind up wandering around with a gigantic collection of stuff that you have no idea what to do with. That makes me feel like a crazy person.

Plus- I want my kids to grow up seeing us rid ourselves of junk by the means of donation. Pass the buck along. Hopefully someone else will find new purpose and use and meaning in any one item. One person's junk is another person's treasure. Forget a garage sale. Who has the time and patience to go through all that? OK, a lot of people. But I don't. I want it out of sight out of mind.

Go through the house, at least once a season, and collect things that are taking up space and are serving no purpose.

Load up my car and drop it all off at Goodwill.

Get a receipt for tax purposes.

Go on with my life.

Anticipate the inevitable return of future crap to replace the old crap in the temporarily emptied space.

And the Beat Goes On...

I'm sooooooooo tired. Wait a sec. Is this a blog I've already written? Am I having deja vu? Nope. It's a new day. And I'm still soooooooo tired.

I am going to need to have a sit down with my soon-to-be 9 month old Mochi Cakes and explain to her that she was born into a household of Night Owls, therefore, there is no room for Early Birds in this nest. She's taken to waking up at about 4:45 a..m., all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to rock for the day. I've always been able to nurse her back to sleep in my bed with me until about 7:30, but now she wants to roll around and climb on me and pull my hair and shriek and chatter away in my ear, therefore forcing me out of bed at a most unGodly hour.

9 months old and still not sleeping through the night. Fantastic. She started to go in that direction for awhile there- there was a light at the end of the tunnel! Then both she and Jude got sick for like 2 weeks and fucked it all up. So here we are again starting over and I'm tired like I was the first couple of months after she was born.

C'est la vie with a child.

I forgot how when babies start doing new things- like crawling or sitting up- it can disrupt their sleep cycle. They'll sit up in the night and not know what to do, or crawl into a crib corner and be too sleep induced to know how to get back out. It's gotta be rough being a tiny human being learning how to function in the night- when it's dark and you wake up all disoriented. A lot of us never even manage to master the ability to sleep soundly through the night into adulthood- so I empathize with babies.

Once babies have discovered their mobility, they are up and ready to get moving before roosters have even gotten out of their beds. They have sights to see and places to crawl to and things to pull up on- and older brothers to piss off.

5 a.m.? The day is a-wasting! As tired and disheartening as it can be to realize when you are stupid sleepy that, "Yes. This is happening. We are getting up now," I'll open my eyes and look at her lying next to me, with her round happy face right up next to mine, patting my cheek with her chubby little hand, smiling her two toothed grin, and I turn all melty and light as a feather.

Ooooo-K. You win.

Jude too hit this up and at 'em stage at Mochi's age. You'd think that as a now more seasoned mother of two, I'd be more prepared for it, but I'm still all but retarded in the mornings. I just am not wired to be up that early.

If you aren't my babies, don't talk to me before 8 a.m. I might punch you in the face.

I don't understand how Early Bird people do it.

I will say that I have gotten better at maintaining a more cheerful-if-not-still-drunk off lack of sleep mood- but my cheerful face is only for my babies. My husband need not apply. This is because it's difficult to be cheerful with someone who has been snoring like a God damn bear all night in our bed while I get up to tend to the baby in the middle of the night, then again before sunrise to collect the baby and later to wrangle our grumpy 3 year-old boy who has the attitude of a 14 year-old boy when he wakes up and is forced to get ready for school.

Husband will often wake up, emerge from our room after getting ready for work and proclaim how tired he is, recalling,

"Man, Mochi just didn't want to sleep last night. I hardly got any sleep at all!"

I wonder how many other wives/mothers have heard this lamenting and felt appalled at the audacity of their husbands for even musing over the restlessness of their infants, after they have YES been woken up, but rolled over and went back to sleep, completely unfazed and oblivious to any obligation to get up and comfort the baby back into their own sleep?

Tired? You're not tired. I'M tired. He'll argue that it's not a contest- but I beg to differ. Oh yes it is, buddy. It is most definitely a contest of who is more tired- and I WIN.

Anyways. This complaint is nothing. Sometimes it feels good to get it off my chest- release it out into the universe and set it free. Then the beat goes on and another day marches forward. Husbands and wives getting on one another's nerves over child related incidence? We're not alone. That's a comforting thought.

So Mochi is on the Go. It's a lot of fun. She's in my very favorite baby stage. I learned with Jude that this crawling era in a baby's life is very short and very precious- because the next era is the toddling era, when they get up and on their feet and transition into the "I suddenly have an opinion and will run away from you" era. They're still babies, but not BABY babies anymore. It happens so quickly. When they are  in this crawling stage, they are still baby babies, but mobile- and their little tushies are so cute when they scoot around the house. The only thing that isn't cute about this stage is listening to Jude freak out about his baby sister going after his things- which is CONSTANT.

Never dealt with this with him of course, because as the first and only, he never wanted for anything. Everything (well, almost everything) he had full access to. No jealous or territorial siblings to get in his way. Little siblings don't have this luxury. I think it will make Mochi a tough little cookie, growing up with a big brother like Jude.

I got my fireball child first and my easy going child second. I'm pretty happy that I have had the opportunity build a tough skin with Jude, because every day with Mochi (Vivienne) is a little slice of strawberry cake.

I can't tell you what a relief it is to hold this mild-tempered baby- particularly on Jude's more emotionally explosive days. It's just a part of his nature- and a part of his age I'm sure, but sometimes I think my little boy is crazy. I think, "Omigod- you have got to be crazy. What did I do to make you so fucking crazy? I don't even know what to do with you right now, Crazy!"

Jude's stuff is the only stuff Mochi wants to play with. Baby toys, what? She wants Thomas the Train. She wants Hot Wheels. She wants big colorful preschool Legos. Whatever Jude is playing with- that's what she wants. Of course, Jude is thrilled about this, you know, since sharing toys with a tiny creature who has come into your life and stolen a lion's share of mommy and daddy's attention isn't enough change to deal with. 3 year-olds are super open to change and sharing. Didn't you know?

One of my biggest pieces of advice to a new mother-to-be would be not to waste too much money on baby toys- because the first baby only wants to play with tupperware, pots and pans and other household objects. Then the second baby also only wants to play with those household items, and even more so, their older siblings possessions- and they will all but raise an eyebrow at you as if to say, "Are you serious? What in the hell am I supposed to do with this crap?" when you dork out attempting to entice them with the baby toys that the first one never really played with either.

I hear shrill, "That's MINE!" cries at least 100 times a day. Jude is a bipolar teddy bear. One minute cute and cuddly and huggy and lovey and doting on his baby sister whom he calls, "Wittle Moe" (short for Little Mochi), bringing her things to play with and begging to hang out with her in her pack and play. Then the next minute he's trying to push her arms out from under her while she's crawling, getting in her face shrieking about a laundry list of different things that she's doing to annoy him, climbing on top of and over her, or snatching toys out of her hand and angrily declaring them to be his no matter what the objects are, be them kitchen spatulas or rubber baby blocks he hasn't touched since he was 6 months old.

Mochi is resilient. She gets an iron kung fu grip on whatever she gets her hands on, and Jude often has to fight her to pry it out of her hands (when we're not intervening of course). She doesn't cry or fuss- and almost seems amused and pleased with herself for getting her brother all worked up. Then she'll willingly give it up and move on to the next thing.

Some days everything she does gets on his nerves.

"No Wittle Moe- you can't sit there. That's mine!" in reference to sitting on the living room floor. The floor is his.

"Stop it Wittle Moe- don't wook at Gretchen bear! That's mine dog!" in reference to our dog. The dog is his.

"No Mochi- no eating. Don't eat! STOP EATING!!!!"

Taylor wondered aloud the other day when this kind of behavior will stop. He has two younger sisters and he still pesters the shit out of them when we all get together. I reminded him of this and his face fell. I'm pretty convinced that it's going to be an ongoing thing for a very long time- to lesser and more severe degrees as the years go by.

But you know what's crazy? When I get even just a tiny window of time when the two of them are getting along and playing harmoniously- and I get to watch them learn together how to cooperate and share and get along and communicate in their own teeny tiny person way- the feeling of peace that washes over me makes all of the frustrating other behavior and challenges worthwhile. I enjoy every second of it because those moments don't last very long before the "That's MINE!" song and dance starts again.

It's a circus- but I love my family circus. I love my cute husband and my crazy little monkey and my sweet little pink elephant. In my circus, I think I would totally be the ringmaster, but I think that Husband would say that he is the ringmaster.

I say that the person who best and most efficiently tames the circus animals is the ringmaster... and that would be ME. Mom!

22 verses 32

A 32nd birthday feels a lot like a 31st birthday- another year older, another year wiser, and freakishly more tired and busy with an even slower metabolism than I had last year. I haven't had the time to blog lately- the desire and inspiration comes and goes, as does my free time.

But on my 32nd birthday, I have my dear mother at my house to help accommodate some "me time," so all of these thoughts that have accumulated in my head lately can be purged. Mental dump? Kind of. More reflecting and musing.

I used to be one of those "birthday people," who would proclaim from atop a mountain that it was not only my DAY, but pretty much my week before and after my birthday.

Now since my 30th birthday blowout in Las Vegas, every one since then has turned into, "Eehhhh. It's another day. I'm 31. I'm 32. Whoopie." I've heard that this happens. Older and wiser people will attest- as I'm sure I do to the younger and less experienced than I on the matters of aging. The former keep me feeling young, and the latter make me feel old. Ying and yang, with me somewhere in the middle (as we all are I suppose... since although there is always someone around to make us feel old, there is also always someone around to keep us feeling young!)

I actually forgot how old I was turning a couple of weeks ago.

I told my mom, "Damn. I can't believe I'm turning 31!"

She said, "No babe. You're turning 32."

Where did the past 10 years go? My 22nd birthday seems like two seconds ago. I'm more happy and settled and comfortable in my life than I have ever been. It's kind of jarring sometimes to feel this... complete. It boggles my mind and makes me grateful when I think of where I was and who I was 10 years ago, at 22.

Here are some of the differences in my life and birthdays (to me) as a 22 year old and a now 32 year old:

22: 10 birthdays ago was my first with my then-boyfriend Taylor, whom I discovered pretty early on wasn't that great with birthdays. This quirk, amongst an endless list of much more wonderful and spectacular character traits, was one of many that I've learned about him over the years since we've been together.
32: 10 birthdays later, my now-husband Taylor is still not great with birthdays. Have I accepted this by now? Kind of. Although this still is something I work at accepting about him, what I have accepted the most is the necessity of acceptance itself. To spend your life with your partner is to constantly be learning to pick and choose what you make an issue and what you accept and let go of. Not so great with birthdays? Annoying, but not important. Good to me and makes me feel loved and appreciated the other 364 days of the year? What really matters.

22: 10 years ago was my first birthday with my then-kitten Niles. I have a picture of him with a party hat on, celebrating and hanging out with my friends and I at my apartment on my 22nd birthday, zooming through the house and tearing things up, being the kind of psycho kitten that only cat lovers can appreciate.
32: On my 32nd birthday he hasn't made it out of bed yet at 10 a.m., and will probably snooze for the majority of the day before gracing us with his presence later to eat and waltz through the room for some brief attention before finding a new place to hide before Jude gets home from school. The significance of including the progression and aging of my cat? We've aged together in similar ways over the years, since he came into my life, and it's very endearing and comforting to me.

22: Coordinating and planning an evening of all-night birthday partying with a bunch of friends whose friendships at the time (little to my knowledge) were fleeting and flighty and in all reality based on the very unstable foundation of partying that we were rallying around.
32: Grateful for the birthday wishes that I get from friends both old (who have stuck around over the past 10 years) and new; satisfied with a simple phone conversation, text or FB message from the few who actually matter any more.

22: Anticipating sleeping in the next day, because I scheduled myself at work to have the next day off.
32: Sleep? Day off? What are these things you speak of?

22: Inhaling an entire pizza at 2 a.m. if it so pleased me after a night of drinking with my friends
32: Feeling naughty and being stupidly excited when treating myself to a slice or two of pizza every blue moon, but only early in the evening to avoid waking in the night with killer heartburn and indigestion.

22: Excited to rock a new sexy dress later that evening to commemorate the day of my birth
32: Scheduling in a time later in the day to return a sexy dress that I didn't have the balls to wear on New Years Eve, to exchange for something more practical and less baring.

22: Drinking like the cure is at the bottle of a pint glass and smoking like a chimney all night long amidst celebrating, then waking up the next morning unfazed, curing a hangover with yet more smokes and a simple cup of coffee.
32: Pacing myself with the drinks and sneaking cigarettes in rare but valuable social situations, then waking up to a toddler and infant, feeling like and smelling like shit the next morning, spending the next two days nursing a hangover that won't go away and wondering why I was such an idiot to think I could party like I was 22.

22: Burning the midnight oil watching movies, hanging out, farting around with crafts and projects, writing etc.
32: Can't stay awake through a movie past 9:30 at night and wind up passed out snoring on the couch within 20 minutes of starting one when I try.

22: Focusing on the now and what's going on with me, myself and I; in a hurry to get past the present and closer to an unknown future of happiness and life that I couldn't even wrap my head around because it was too far up my own ass to see the forest through the trees.
32: Forgetting about myself most of the time and focusing on making sure my children and my husband are happy and taken care of. Enjoying every moment of the present for what it is and all that it encompasses, excited and anticipating what the future has in store, but in no hurry to get there because the here and now feels so good I almost get a little sad to see every day go by.

Thank you to my friends and family who have wished me a happy day! Simple words and salutations go a long way. Getting older isn't bad when you have people in your life who show they care- all that love brings peace and keeps the spirit young and vibrant.

Love to all!

Grinchy

The holidays are here. Yay! There was a very long period of time in my early adulthood when I swore off the holidays completely. I HATED the holidays. I DREADED the holidays. I LOATHED the holidays. I think about this every year and reflect on my past- which ultimately makes me more grateful for my present.

Working in malls from the age of 16 through 25 really did a number on me, I guess you could say. Maybe not all former mall employees wind up as disgruntled as I did for a long time, but I think it's safe to say that any kind of career retail employee can attest to the fact that working Christmas in a mall does something to your psyche and you are forever changed somehow. You see a whole different, distorted, gross side of people and Christmas lore and it puts things into a whole new perspective.

I remember one particularly stressful Saturday afternoon of working in retail during the Christmas rush when I was probably about 23. I was managing a Sunglass Hut kiosk at that point in time, out in the middle of the mall like being on an island in the middle of crazy town.

It was almost Christmas, just a few days before, when a lot of customers turn into real assholes to deal with because they've waited until the last minute to shop, they're running out of money or are overspending and know it, and don't really want to be there.

Those people colliding with tired, overworked mall employees who have to eat shit with a smile from customers like that makes for some interesting conflicts and interactions throughout the span of an afternoon (or from open to close, as many of us in retail have had to do). When it gets busy in retail during Christmas, you often have to sacrifice your lunch and work through it, which makes for even more holiday cheer.

Christmas to me had become nothing but long, drawn out minutes measured and counted down as windows of time endured to get me through to my next cigarette break. How's that for holiday spirit? 

The mall muzak had been on repeat for weeks, forcing all of us who worked in kiosks to endure the same songs over and over and over and over. This can quickly ruin any bit of endearing sentiments you have about Christmas music and make even the first few notes of these kinds of classics cause your stomach to churn. It was driving me nuts. It was getting to the point where I was so distracted by how much the music was annoying me that I couldn't concentrate on anything else.

I remember blowing a fuse and escaping to the public restroom (since being in a kiosk, we had no bathroom of our own) to grab a few moments to collect my shit. Splashing cold water on my face to cool my hot head, I looked up at my reflection in the mirror remember thinking, "If I have to listen to 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,' one more time I am going to fucking kill someone. Kill someone!"

Then what do you know? Right at that moment, right on cue, I was bitched slapped by irony and "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" came on overhead, echoing through the noisy, overcrowded, smelly public women's restroom. And I started laughing and crying at the same time.

I must have looked like a crazy person, standing there laughing and bawling my eyes out, make up running down my face and shaking in my crisp, clean cut black Express slacks and button up executive blouse and high heeled black boots- a type of manager "uniform" that I wore back in that era of my life and a style that when I see it on someone else, I am reminded of working in a mall (and I shudder).

Oh yes- Christmas can make you crazy when you work in retail. It can get pretty obnoxious. You don't even want to know some of the things that mall employees have said about you once you've left their store- even if you haven't done anything particularly interesting: every one is a potential victim for shit talking and razzing. It's open season and you're all helpless little bunnies.

Case in point- an old friend of mine and I, while working one of many Christmas seasons together in a mall, dreamed up our own Christmas musical, complete with dance numbers and songs about pissed off customers, long hours on our feet and hearing the words, "Just looking!" a hundred thousand times a day. We called it, "Have a Cock and Balls Christmas!" the musical.

It's awful and completely inappropriate I know, but when all the burners on the stove get cranked up during the Christmas rush while working in retail, you do what you can to keep yourselves entertained and short of strangling customers with your bare hands.

It's amazing what life can do to you over the years- wear you out, beat you up and tarnish even the most joyful things that you looked forward to as a child- like Christmas- spitting you out as a bitter, tired adult with Christmas budgets and responsibilities and pleasing family members expectations of you and your time.

Then just the same, life can pick you up and dust you off, pat you on the butt like a child and send you on your way again with a fresh start. "Run along now! Do over!"

Children are magical in this way during the holidays- I attest to this as a former Grade A Grinch. Santa ceases to exist as just that guy in a costume that that noisy long line of families is waiting to get their picture taken with in the mall.

He gets to be real again!

I now voluntarily play Christmas music because Jude likes it (and I like it too). During his first Christmas season in 2009, I went out on a limb and bought a Christmas soundtrack (ELF Soundtrack), aspiring to turn a new leaf and start Christmas over again in my life as something happy and fun and wonderful. After all, kids are a clean slate- immune to disgruntling woes of retail life, being pulled in half like a wish bone on holidays and spending too much or not enough on gifts for everyone.

So we listen to the ELF soundtrack during the month of December while we do Christmas things. We read Christmas stories- like the "Grinch Who Stole Christmas" which is Jude's favorite and always reminds me of my super bad attitude back in the day during this time of year. I always tell him that I used to be a Grinch and he thinks it's funny. He doesn't realize how serious I am, but that's OK- because it's probably a good thing.

I would rather he only know me as Mommy who gives him Christmas treats for breakfast and dances and sings like a dork and twirls and throws him around during Christmas music to make him laugh, and puts up Christmas lights and makes Christmas crafts with him.

I will be the mom that discourages him from getting a seasonal job in a mall during Christmas when he gets into high school so that he always likes Christmas and is never forced to have a nervous breakdown in a stinky public mall restroom because he's that sick of Christmas music. That's just not right!

CHRISTMAS COOKIE MONSTER

We hear, "I need a cookie!" at least 20 times a day now. Insistently. Like, him following us around the house repeating it over and over and over again, tugging on our pants and shirt bottoms. It's as funny as it is irritating, because I'm usually thinking the same thing. 

I need a cookie too. 

JUDE AND NILES ENTERTAINING ONE ANOTHER WITH HOLIDAY STRING

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