Tornado

I think I've convinced Taylor to get a storm shelter put into the floor of our garage. I've always freaked out during tornado season, but now with the babies, my freakedoutedness is amplified by a billion watts. I remember being a little kid and hauling all of my favorite toys and hamsters and cats and clothes and prized possessions down into our family's basement and just sitting there terrified, waiting to be blown away by a tornado.

Not a whole lot has changed, except now I don't have basement to hide in, but I do now have a husband to drive a little crazy with my neurosis- although he's admitted to being pretty terrified of them himself, he hides it a whole lot better than I do.

Our house is pretty much terrible in regards to having any safe spaces if a tornado should come through. No interior closets- all rooms have exterior walls- and the only decent space in the closet within the closet under the staircase is directly adjacent to a giant Westward facing window- making it all but useless. I remember the first time I dealt with tornado sirens after becoming a mother, when Jude was about 4 months old. We were home alone, with Taylor working out in BFE Oklahoma at the time. Anxiety running a mile minute and my heart about to burst out of my chest, I packed Jude up in his car seat and all but buried him under pillows in the closet under the staircase, realizing in the process that the location of our "shelter" was worthless as the storm at hand blasted wind and rain and at the window across from us.

Since then, I've abandoned all hopes of finding refuge in that closet. Jude and I put together our tornado shelter in Taylor's closet in our room- stuffing it with pillows and a huge industrial flashlight- oh, and Hot Wheels and leftover Easter candy, should he get bored and need a snack while we are in hiding. 

I can feel myself giving my son a tornado complex more and more for every tornado season he experiences. He went to bed both Friday and Saturday chattering away about tornados, up until the lights were out and he was laying down, both hands tucked under the side of his cheek on his pillow, whispering, "We need to be quiet incase the 'nado sirens go off mommy."

After the kids were in bed, Taylor and I watched The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo- and it was not the best choice in late night movie vibes while the weather outside screamed potential for imminent disaster and danger. We later wound up staying up until 3 a.m. with the weather on, cracked out on Rick Mitchell, deliriously discussing what we would do if a tornado came through, ready to pluck our babies out of bed if we had to.

Of course, nothing wound up happening in the Metro, and we wound up exhausted the next morning when the kids woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed, unaware that their parents had lost valuable sleep that night over their safety. 

Storm shelter installation- definitely on our agenda. SOON.

Yesterday while in Norman, Taylor and I went to Andrew's Park, which got pummeled by Friday's tornado. Many of the beautiful trees that adorn the park looked to have been effortlessly ripped out of the ground by the tornado, like we would rip a band aid off of our arm. Both gigantic and old and younger and still maturing lay on their sides with their roots exposed and people walking around surveying the wreckage, taking pictures and marveling the damage.

I gotta admit- it broke my heart a little. I played under those trees as a kid down in Norman at Andrew's Park- as I know that countless children had before me and have since then. We've all brought our own children their to play under their shade- play chase, picnic, hide behind and enjoy their glory. 

They've witnessed generations of families and children at that park. Imagine the stories they could tell if they could talk? 

Not to sound like a total tree hugging hippie, but I swear I could feel their pain a little. If you held still long enough and listened, you could hear them groaning. 

Some people had their kids climbing all over some of the larger, older side-lying trees, and at first it pissed me off. How disrespectful! Can't you see they're dying? Can't you see they're in pain? 

Then I thought of The Giving Tree- a favorite book of mine and now Jude's- and it made me relax and be more positive (a skill that I'm getting better at with age, but still takes a conscious effort much of the time).

My irritation was such a grown up thing. Such an adult thing. Sometimes we need to all take a moment and go back to thinking more like children.

I switched gears and imagined that those trees were enjoying the children climbing all over their fallen trunks. They found joy in hearing the children's laughter and feeling the families congregating around them for what will be their last days- because all they've ever known is how to be a tree in a family park and won't be long before the trees are hauled away from their home to face their next phase in this life- hopefully turned into something cool like furniture for families to sit on? Fire to keep them warm? Who knows, but The Giving Tree keeps coming back to me and has me hoping that they'll be able to live on somehow!

A 'Lil Update

                                                                              JUDE

Since Jude has been in Montessori school, his language has really taken off. Last night while they were rough housing around before bed, he told Taylor that he was going to kick him in the nuts. Taylor immediately raised an eyebrow (after we did a really terrible job of stifling our laughter) and looked at ME.

WHAT? Must I pay for the "Asshole" incident for forever? Geez.

"I didn't teach him that!" I squeaked, but still had to run through my memory to check and see if I did say that in front of him in the past. I may have thought in my head that I'd like to kick Taylor in the nuts before (although HELLO- I would never actually do it! Tell me you've never been so annoyed with your spouse that you've briefly considered giving him a swift kick to his guys down South?), I know for a fact that I've never used the phrase "kick you in the nuts" in front of our son.

He asked Jude who taught him that, and Jude laughed and said, "Mommy!"

He lies! My son lies. I'm raising a liar. Just kidding- about the liar part. I don't think he's a liar. I think he's 3 and doesn't know what he's talking about. So I forgive him.

Where he learned about kicking people in the nuts is still a mystery- although we have clarified, after he told me that he was going to kick me in the nuts too, that mommies don't have nuts. Only boys have nuts.

You could almost see the lightbulb go off in his head. He nodded and said seriously,

"Mommies have baginas." (vaginas)

Yes!

"I'm gonna kick you in the bagina!" followed by hysterical laughing.

No, no, no.

~sigh~

I will admit to accidentally making reference to his "balls" one night last week when I was trying to explain to him why he needs to keep his hands out of his pants. He's gotten into the habit of not only sticking his hands down his pants to mess with himself, but sometimes he pulls out his junk and starts laughing, exclaiming,

"I'm grabbing mine wee-wee!" followed by hysterical laughter.

What is it with guys and their junk? I didn't realize the obsession starts so early. We're working on this. It doesn't help that I have now given him reason to think that saying the word "balls" is funny- because as soon as I said it (immediately thinking, "D'oh! Damn it! I shouldn't have said that!"), his face lit up and he started giggling- proclaiming,

"Balls!" followed by gut busting, cackle-laughter. How did he instinctively know how funny that one little word can be? And how did I not have the will power to NOT join him in gut busting laughter? Why is it so funny to hear the tiny little voices of children say such inappropriate things?

After what became a 15 minute ordeal of me pleading with him through giggles to stop saying the word "balls!"- which he only repeated and began to shout and laugh harder about- I finally put on my serious face and said,

"Ok- we don't say that anymore. And Shhhhh. You're going to wake baby Mochi!"

He shot me a wicked smile, leaned in close, right in my face and whispered, "BALLS."

Except when he says it, he says it with a slight lisp- making it sound more like, "Ballths."

This is "Pukes" the spider. "Pukes" as in like the vomit. Don't ask me where he got the name- I'm not quite sure. I'm guessing it may have come to be such a popular thing to say for two reasons: A.) I use it a lot. More than I should- in reference to gross things making me want to puke, politicians and Fox "news" casters who make me want to puke and feeling so full of food that I could puke. B.) Taylor and Jude have a new thing where they say funny words to each other and die laughing about it, like "pukes," "fart," "nipples" and, well, I guess we can add "balls" to the list, although we are working on weeding that one out of the vocabulary. 

"Pukes" joins Jude for all of his meals now, sitting on his place mat, seated on a little pink reuseable silicone cupcake holder and eats Mochi's baby puffs out of a sushi soy sauce ramekin. 

Jude has yet to have that traumatizing experience with an actual living spider that will make him terrified or squeamish of them for the rest of his life. For now, Pukes the tiny $10-in-tokens plastic spider that he won with his tickets after a strenuous go at skee-ball at Chuckie Cheese stays in Jude's car seat to wait for his return after I pick him up from school every day.

Here is Jude doing yoga while eating corn on the cobb. He likes to show me his yoga moves while he eats. This makes me very happy.

Here is the contract for his summer school session. He got ahold of it and let me know what he thinks of the idea of summer school. Red ink! I'm impressed with the color selection. Really drives the point, you know? I would've used red ink too.

Passed out from playing, 2 nights in a row over the weekend. This is documented because it really has only happened in the past when he wasn't feeling well. These two crashes were simply the result of hard core playing. I can't lie- Taylor and I were pretty pleased with this. We work hard to wear our little pistol out. It almost becomes a contest- who can wear who out first. Jude almost always wins. These two early evenings, he was passed out by 7 p.m. 

We finally won a couple of rounds.

Victory!

A little weekend bonus!

MOCHI

Vivienne is 10 months old. WTH? How can this be? Amber sent me this photo of Viv from our kick ass Friday at the zoo last week and it made my jaw drop when I realized how big she is getting. I see her every day, all day- so I don't notice her growth sometimes. Then you get a photo from someone else and it's like they capture this whole crazy new aspect of your baby and you are just floored.

She's growing- that's for sure. Crawling every where, pulling up on everything- up the stairs, around the house and straight towards everything she's not supposed to be messing with. She doesn't seem too interested in walking yet, and that's just fine with me. I'm trying to mentally prepare myself for what it's going to be like chasing two children who are on foot. With Jude, we were always encouraging him to "go go go," advance to the next level! With Mochi, I'm happy to let her take her time. 

I love shopping with a little girl. She's already much more tolerant and patient when it comes to letting me fart around in stores than Jude was. Even as just a baby, Jude would get whiney and antsy and annoyed when I would take too long to shop and look around. Unless a Hot Wheel or some toy vehicle was involved, he was ready to go A-Wall from the store. Typical guy. With Mochi, she's happy to look with me- touch things and check stuff out. Happy as can be. She also has taken a liking to jewelry. I've been letting her dig around in my costume jewelry box and take stuff out. She LOVES it. She gets all excited and will hold stuff up for me to look at and get excited about too.

I was gushing about this to Taylor one day, showing him our baby girl sitting in my closet, having a blast digging around in my jewelry box.

"Look babe! She loves jewelry!"

He smiled, then thought for a minute.

"Great. This is going to get expensive."

Ha! 

I have no shame...

in being that mom...

in the middle of a store...

who acts a fool to make her baby do cute things for me to take pictures of with my camera phone.

"How big is Mochi???? SO BIG!"

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! 

This teeny tiny pair of jellies... oh man. I just can't get enough of them. I never thought a tiny pair of baby shoes could make me so retarded giddy- but these sure do. I don't get retarded giddy often. I'm not really the retarded giddy type of girl. But of all my few retarded giddy moments, I'd have to say that slipping these tiny jellies onto Mochi's tiny baby feet for the first time, on one of our first real spring-like days this season, was definitely in the top 5- right up there with the day I got to pick out my very first kitten when I was 12, the first time the biggest crush of my life (up until that point at least) held my hand at a Bush concert when I was 16, and when Taylor busted out an engagement ring after a night of New Years Eve drinking and asked me to marry him.

Retarded giddy moments. Priceless.

She's gotten really expressive over the past week. She giggles all the time. I'm learning that baby girl giggles could solve all the world's problems if we could just put them all collectively in a jar and release them out into the atmosphere. Mochi and I play a game where I make a serious face at her and she cracks up, giggling at me. It's my new current most favorite thing ever, although I can't help but think that this game is not going to be so funny when she's 13 or 14 and my serious face isn't meant to make her laugh at me anymore.

RANDOM

I'v been seeing these super creepy headless, armless, Tim Burton-eque, demented Barbie-bodied jewelry holders all over the place. They kind of freak me out. What freaks me out even more, is that a lot of them are dressed in super cute fashions. I see them and start overanalyzing them to death and the sheer capacity of my thoughts overwhelm me.

What does this represent? What does the popularity of this kind of weirdness represent? 

Fashion and the slender form of the female figure minus the head (brains and face!) of the female...

Why not have a head and make the jewelry hooks like Medusa hair? Why cut off the head?

This says something to me about our culture's obsession with the shallow and superficial.

It makes me fear for my baby girl- thinking about the kind of culture she is going to grow up in as a female.

Yikes. All of my women's studies courses start to come back to me and I get really annoyed with those ridiculous jewelry holders.

I think these things and must push my baby in my shopping cart away in a hurry...

to the next aisle...

get out my camera phone...

"How big is Mochi? SO BIG!"

Yaaaaaaaay!

Sometimes baby brains are a blessing.

I'm considering turning my cat Niles into a catskin hat. I haven't thought about this since he puked on my bed awhile back, but he's been eating my fucking orchid and I could KILL the little shit. Notice how the pretty yellow centers of the bottom two flowers are missing.

My camera phone wouldn't pick up the tiny teeth marks punctured all over the petals, but they're there.

Needless to say, Niles and I currently are not on speaking terms. 

What an asshole.

Back on the Paleo diet- 70/30 at least. This leaves me room for Orange Leaf from time to time- where I am now a frequent-flyer card holding customer, thank you very much.

It's almost swim suit season! And even though I'm graduating to a "mom" bathing suit this year- AKA one piece that is small-child-clinging-to-me-in-a-pool friendly- that doesn't mean that I'm not concerned about how I fit into it. 

The photo above is one of my very favorite sides: Okinawan eggplant with green onions, mushrooms and spinach (from Peach Crest farms right here in Oklahoma, which makes it even yummier!). It's a dish my grandma makes, and my mom makes, and now I make, and I will teach Mochi to make.

We eat it with tuna sashimi and Nori  (seaweed paper)- minus the white rice.

Paleo pizza. I made this tonight and it was happy food dance good. Instead of the sausage version that I usually make, I used chicken thighs, artichoke hearts, kale, fresh diced garlic, diced tomatoes, diced yellow peppers and sun dried tomato pesto sauce. It's not PIZZA pizza by any means, but it's a very satisfying substitute for this diet. The crust is made of almond meal and is soooooo good.

Here are the loves of my life watching Little Einsteins. It's Jude's favorite show- and now Mochi's favorite show. Mochi doesn't really have much to go off of, in regards to favorite television shows, since I don't turn the TV on until the 6 o'clock news in the evenings on the weekdays and she doesn't get TV time until Jude gets home and he gets to watch his one show- but she already recognizes the intro music when Jude watches it, and already does a bouncy dance and claps her hands and gets all excited. 

Watching the 3 of them on the couch together, when Jude is actually holding still and being quiet for 20 minutes, is a little slice of happiness in my world. 

Makes me a little retarded giddy.

Which makes me think that maybe I've evolved into more of the retarded giddy type than I like to think I am...

And that's what's up!

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!