These are the days?

Do I see a push coming on?

I’ve had the relatively same experience a few times recently. It goes something like this:

Me out and about with my kids, usually holding one, chasing another. One might be crying, or screaming, or kicking; most definitely someone is running. I am probably trying to do something totally unreasonable like feed them a meal in public or run an errand to Staples. A kind middle-adged mother, whose kids are now starting college, looks at me and smiles. Then she says with empathy,

“I remember those days.”

I wasn’t sure what to think about these comments at first. Sure, she looks empathetic, but what is she really thinking? Is she wishing for “those days” again? (Impossible!) Is she so relieved that they are over? What prompted her to say that? (Oh yeah, the scene we are making.) What is she thinking about me? Is she judging my “motherhood” skills? Are my kids that out of control? Do I look that stressed? (I probably do.)

But after all the conjecturing and worrying about how this little statement might reflect on my capability as a mother, I’ve come to this conclusion:

How could you not remember these days?

I spend three quarters of my day chasing kids, making PBJs, wiping dirty body parts, picking up cars, puzzle pieces, books, zoo animals…you get the idea. My most used lines lately are: “If you don’t (obey mommy) on the count of three…,” “No hitting,” “No pushing,” “No tackling,” “If he’s crying that means he doesn’t like it,” “Now it’s Landon’s (Jacob’s) turn,” and others.

But then there are the good moments. The times when we snuggle up and “get cosy,” as Jacob says, and he “reads” a book to me. The times when Jacob actually does share, or he tries to boss Landon around by repeating my exact words. Or the times when Landon gives me the biggest smile, or wettest kiss, or says the absolute most polite “peeese” I’ve ever heard from a 17 month old.

These days may be a little sour at times, but they are also very sweet. And very, very memorable.

Someday, I am going to miss this face so much.

If I ever had a mojo, I think I’ve lost it

Britney, not at her finest moment.

Groove, mojo—whatever you want to call it, I fear I’ve lost it.

Perhaps forever, because I am not so sure I will be as lucky as Stella and get mine back. After all, how exactly does one go about getting their mojo back?

Does it require highlights, tanning beds, shopping sprees, Botox, and trips to the spa? If so, then my fate it sealed. My groove is gone. Forever.

For when you have two under two who has time to shop, soak, tan, and spend energy getting pretty. I’m in good shape if I get a shower everyday and remember to brush my teeth.

Not that long ago, I too was once a sprightly vogue youth full of vim and vigor. I look back with fondness on those days.

Now when I look in the mirror I find myself asking one question: “Am I losing it?”

I fear it’s more than a bad hair day. Well, it is that too.

I am in desperate need of a haircut, but sadly that won’t solve my problem. Thanks to pregnancy hormones I have new hair growing in place of the gobs I lost a few months ago. These sprouts on my crown would make Justin Beiber jealous. Oh, if only I were a seventeen year old boy.

And the ever-present dark circles I have lived with all these years seem to be expanding and taking over my face, which thanks to winter is currently pale and dry.

Furthermore, much to my dismay I have realized (now that I have started running a little) that I jiggle when I run. And although my clothes fit again, they don’t fit quite the same way. I guess muffintops follow the muffin… in the oven, that is.

All right, so I’m being slightly melodramatic.

I know, I know, I am my worst critic. That is unless you are a celebrity. In that case, everyone else is your worst critic. Good thing I’m just a stay at home mom and pictures of me in my pjs with makeup under my eyes and a ponytail will never surface.

Thankfully, these images will only be gingerly loved and cherished every morning by those closest to me.

So in struggling with my own mommy image crisis I find a glimmer of hope in none other than Britney Spears. If she can recover from a head-shaving weight-gaining marijuana-using multi-year gap in the music industry then surely, surely, I, like Stella, and so many before her, can get my groove back.

Well, maybe. If I can win a $5,000 shopping spree and hire a babysitter.

Not so dirty diapers…

Somehow, I knew this post was coming. I just didn’t know when.

It saddens me a little because I really wanted to write about my pleasant grocery shopping experience this morning. (I usually loathe grocery shopping.) I wanted to write about the fact that I spent $99 on our groceries for the week, which, included our Thanksgiving meal, bird and all, and about how I even managed to save $8 in coupons on things I actually needed, of which I was very proud.

By the way, I don’t know what you all normally spend on groceries, but it seems I can barely make it out of the store these days without spending close to $100 if not more—and I go shopping every week!! Am I doing something wrong, or is that normal? So to make it out of Wal-Mart sane and only spending $99 for Thanksgiving PLUS, I felt good.

I also wanted to write about how this will be a Thanksgiving of firsts, the first time I will cook a Thanksgiving meal all by myself, and our first Thanksgiving just the four of us. (Okay five, a friend of ours is coming over. :))

But instead, I find myself writing about poop. Please excuse me. But if this blog is an outlet where I can  spill my guts and get some sort of comic relief, then unfortunately, I have to write this. And those of you with kids will, if not appreciate it, then relate to it. At least I hope so.

Let me preface this by saying that as a mother for almost two years now, poop is something I’ve become accustomed to. Wiping dirty bottoms, washing soiled clothes is all part of the deal and I barely notice it anymore. This afternoon, however, was a little different.

When I went in to get Jacob up from his nap I immediately noticed three things. One, he was not wearing any pants, not even a diaper. Two, there was a wad of poop in the corner. And three, his diaper was lying next to the wad of poop. On further examination, I noticed poop on the sheets, the side of the pack n play, the wall, and yes… fingers and toes. Disgusting.

After wiping what I could off his chubby buns, fingers, and toes, it was straight to the bath for him and to the washer for everything else.

I know the children’s book is true. Everybody poops. But not everybody touches it and then proceeds to wipe it on the walls. Do we need some education here??

Well, the good news is we survived. I survived. And now my boys are in bed and I can relax and write and find the humor in it.

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