A Long Night's Journey into the Day

Today, I am tired. Not just kinda tired, but the brand of tired that makes it feel like there's sand in your eyes. And you sort of float through the day on coffee because if you stop drinking it, the show's over.

Bobby turns six months old today, and to mark the occasion, he came down with a cold. His first. Let's just say it hasn't been a pleasant experience for anyone. He was up all night last night because he was too snuffly and uncomfortable to sleep. We've all been there, but when you're a grown up, you mix up your cold medicine cocktail of choice and sleep it off. When you've only been on the planet half a year, your choices are limited. Much more limited. As in, "pediatricians do not like to medicate kids under two years old." I completely agree with this idea; however, when you're walking a wailing baby around the bedroom at 4am you desperately wish some pharmaceutical research team would come up with SOMETHING for an infant to take.

So, today, after a quick visit to the pediatrician for an ear/throat check (Note to self: buy an otoscope and cut down "check the ears" visits to the doctor.) I tried to get a few things done around my desk and the house in general. But what to do with Bobby? Still somewhat uncomfortable and cranky Bobby.

Solution:

Yes. I went there. I put the baby in his rocking-seat and planted him in front of the television. At least I chose Noggin, because ... "It's like preschool on TV." (Hello, sarcasm.) But you know what? To a baby? That's just lots of neat colors moving all over the place, and some fun songs to listen to.

After a few minutes, I came in to check on him. He was quiet. He was mezmerized by whatever was going on in that big, magical box. Then I really took a look at the program that was on.

What the...?!

Ummm. Hello, visually disturbing images for children.

And who the heck is THIS guy?!

Seriously. He's, like, "Superfly" meets "Revenge of the Nerds."

So, yes, I went there. But trust me... we're NOT going back. The only thing we're going back to is bed. Goodnight!

Happy Birthday, Jack and Charlie

It's the end of an era. The era of single digits. Tonight, at precisely 9:02 and 9:03, my first "babies" turned 10. Ten. Years. Old.

I'd sigh and say, "Where did the time go?" but I know very well where it went. It passed with daily fights and arguments; with baseball seasons and hockey seasons; with school, spelling tests, reading and enrichment programs; with holidays and vacations; more fights and arguments; with video games and countless pick-up games of basketball, football, baseball, soccer, etc.

And it passed so quickly.

Each year, since the boys turned a year old, I have taken a photo of them at the time of their birth. Lucky for me it spans about two full minutes because it usually takes them that long to get situated and for me to beg them to smile a "nice" smile. Just one. Then I have to promise to take a "crazy" picture. Tonight, we had the family out for a birthday round of mini golf. As 9pm drew near, the boys were obsessed with the time. "What time is it?! What time is it?!" they asked about every 15 seconds. Then it was time. I snapped the photo, then took individual shots for a change of pace. (Photos to post later -- camera battery charging, and I am just too tired to stay up much longer!)

Jack and Charlie are growing into such wonderful individuals -- although others might see just a pair of (sometimes obnoxious) brothers who tend to fight (a lot!) and are highly competitive with each other and seem to be on the losing end of the fight to remember manners and appropriate behavior. What I see are my two babies. The two babies who got me as their mom, and who had to endure all my "first-time-mommy" moments. Many times I felt like I was failing them, but they not only survived -- they thrived.

Not many people remember where they were, or what they were doing 10 years ago on any given date. I do. Ten years ago tonight, I was wheeled into an operating room, scared out of my mind at the thought of having the doctor cut into my abdomen and pull out two babies. And when the doctor got Jack out and I heard his gurgly cry for the first time, I am not ashamed to admit my first thought was, "I am so not ready for this." Then came Charlie just one minute later, and I knew this was no time for doubt. God gave me the gift of two babies at once. He wouldn't have bestowed the blessing if He didn't know I could handle it. I have often said, in the years that followed, that God proved he has a fantastic sense of humor when he looked at me and said, "Give her two."

It's 11:40pm, and I know 10 years ago right now I was laying in my hospital bed, cradling two newborns. Early the next morning, a nurse would bring in Jack, fresh from a bath. He was swaddled tightly in his blanket, and the nurse had slicked his shock of black hair down to his head. He was the most beautiful baby I'd ever seen. (Charlie was kept in the nursery for most of that first day because he was having trouble regulating his temperature. But he joined us soon after.)

Like any devoted parent, I love my children. Fiercely. Sure, we have many moments throughout the days when we go head-to-head. Strong-willed and stubborn kids being royal pains in the butt to their equally strong-willed and stubborn mom. But that's us. That's how we are now. It's how we have been in the past, and how I'm sure we'll be far into the future. They make me crazy with their arguing, competitiveness and fighting. But they also make me proud -- proud enough to feel my eyes well up with tears and have my breath catch in my throat when they excel at the sports they love, bring home a stellar report card or make a good decision. Some of my most favorite moments are when one of them will stop as he walks past me in the house, throw his arms around my waist and say,"I love you, Mom." Just because.

So, with all of these random thoughts, I want to wish a very happy and special birthday to Jack and Charlie. You were my first babies, and you will always BE my babies. :) I love you both from here to the moon and back a million times. And welcome to the double-digits.

You're doing it wrong.

This is the pick up line at my sons' school. It is what is commonly known as a "circle drive." The procedure is simple -- you drive in and follow the curve. When you reach the front of the school, your kids hop in. You drive away.

How hard can it be?

Apparently agonizingly difficult for some parents. Parents who have no clue how to drive in, pick up kids and drive away. See the guy standing in the circle? Yeah... he does the whole arm wave thing at us as we drive up. Like, if he wasn't standing there, we'd all just sit dumbly in our cars and wonder how we'd ever reach our kids. I asked my boys the other day who he was... thinking maybe he's a teacher who volunteers to be "Traffic Control." They have no idea who he is. This makes me pretty sure he's actually from the school transportation office. Whether or not he was hired specifically to herd parents through a circle drive is unclear. I only know right about now, even I would like to have his job.

Regardless, each and every day since the first day of school... every time I drop off or pick up the kids I see the scene from "Mr. Mom" in my head. When Michael Keaton has to do the school drop off and fails miserably.

"You're doing it wrong."

Embrace the chaos...

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Let me begin by admitting and owning the fact that I don't do chaos well. Not. At. All. I am a planner by nature, and prefer things neat, orderly and in their respective places. I like to have a solid grasp on a situation before plunging head-first into it. That being said, I do appreciate spontaneity every once in a while. As in, "Hey, let's go get frozen yogurt." Or deciding to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the evening, before the kids' bedtime.

Lately, our entire home seems to have spun into a chaotic whirlwind of remodeling. This? I absolutely love -- especially when I am able to help. (Read: I am an HGTV junkie.) But after swapping the boys' bedrooms a couple of days ago, I'm finding stuffed animals in the strangest places. And young boys' underwear strewn from room to room... to bathroom. And socks. Oh, the socks. They're everywhere. If it were the middle of summer, and the kids had nothing to do but step into swim shorts and go to the pool, that would be one thing. But school has begun. That means each morning we have a limited amount of time to locate shirts, shorts, socks -- CLEAN socks -- and shoes. And book bags that may or may not have been eaten by something crawling through their bedroom during the night.

I have taken to deep breathing to get me through the anxiety of not knowing where something may have been placed. Or looking around and seeing that things are, clearly, not in their respective places. But you know what? This chaos in which I currently find myself treading water would have put me over the edge not long ago. Now, I can take it... for whatever reason... however it happened, I can take it.

I know that when all is said and done, when the last of the remodeling and spiffing up is done -- when the last displaced item is back in its respective place, it's totally going to be worth it. Our home is wonderful. We love it, and we are working to put our personal style front and center. And even though I am using "we," I have to admit, it's all pretty much Jeff. He has shown he goes far beyond simply being "handy." He is awesome. The things he knows and the experience he's had are serving this home of ours well. And I couldn't be more proud. So, even on days like today, when he's back-and-forth between ongoing projects... and some turn out to be a bit more involved or complicated than at first glance, I love him even more for what he's doing here; for putting forth all his extra effort and energy to make our house into OUR HOME, when neither one of us really has much extra effort and energy to give. He is a perfectionist and likes to see a project completed -- and not just completed, but done to his specifications and standards.

So, for him doing the best he can on his part, I am doing the best I can on my part. Embracing the chaos. Deep breath in. Deep breath out...

The Princes of Charming

So, last week sometime, we were driving and I happened to turn on the radio. We usually don't have it on. I like to keep the air open for conversation with the boys. Until they begin bickering and fighting. Then the radio comes on as a diversion. And to drown out the bickering.

When I hit the button, Miley Cyrus came blaring out of the speakers, and my fingers couldn't hit the "seek" button fast enough. As the station changed, Charlie piped up, "Hey, Mom... could you turn that back please?"

I cringed. It isn't that the song is bad; I've just had enough Miley Cyrus. I hadn't realized the boys were all that current on music, so I asked if he was serious or being sarcastic. These are MY kids, you know. He was, indeed, serious, so I got the station back.

Me: So, you guys like Miley Cyrus now?

Charlie (grinning): Yeah. She's sexy! (Of course, given his personality and knack for cutting up, he pronounced it "sassy.")

When I recovered from hearing my nearly-10-year-old use the word "sexy" correctly in a sentence, I couldn't help but laugh.

Then Jack chimed in with, "Yeah, and Selena Gomez is HHHHHOT!" (For those of you out of the DisneyChannel loop, she is a young actress starring on "The Wizards of Waverly Place." Cute show. Cute girl. It's all good.)

It took a minute for it to sink in, but Jack and Charlie seem to have officially left behind the "girls have cooties" phase. They clearly recognize female beauty -- although I took issue with use of "sexy" and "hot" at this age. I asked that they use "cute" or "pretty." Is that too much? Am I overreacting?

I began thinking of them as teenagers in a few years, becoming way involved in the girlfriend thing. I hope (when the time comes) they will have been listening to what Jeff and I teach them about being thoughtful, respectful and considerate when it comes to relating to the opposite sex.

Then one of them probably burped or farted, which was followed by gales of laughter. Yes, there are my two charming boys.

Stand back, girls, and form a line.

What I want to be when I grow up

Regardless of my educational background, apparently CareerBuilder.com feels I am qualified to sell cars, rent cars or take care of patients in the ICU.

What...?!

Just received an email from CareerBuilder.com in which they match me with jobs I may want to pursue. According to the job search yentas they employ, I not only have the automotive gig down, as well as caring for Code Blue patients but being a nursing supervisor, physical therapist or a dental assistant instructor.

Wow. And with just a little ol' degree in public/corporate communications. They must assume the Liberal Arts program at Butler was way liberal. As in "choose-your-own-career-despite-proper-education" liberal.

And, if the education I received in college isn't suiting me, apparently there are plenty of opportunities for training through the U.S. Army.

No wonder I can't find a job. I have grossly neglected pursuing a career in the medical profession of my choice AND missed out on valuable Army training.

The Blessings of Do-Overs

When I began this little blog adventure, I mulled forever over a name. Probably as long as it took us to choose a name for Bobby following his birth. (Um, hello precious four-day-old baby boy. What is your name? The nurse won't let us leave the hospital without one.)

Figuring Jeff and I were starting a new life and blended-family together, then having a baby, "Back to Square One" seemed perfect. Then 2009 reared its head with a slew of various surprises -- some good, others not so good -- with the capper being let go from my writing gig with a local monthly magazine.

Good times, folks. Gooooooood times indeed.

Seems like many areas of my life have returned to the starting point: marriage, children, career... even running. Yep, put that on hold during pregnancy for precautionary reasons. Now, however, despite living a hectic daily schedule, I really want to get back in running shape again. If not merely for the sake of it, perhaps the best reason is because Jeff and I (and Lindy and Ryan) have a half-marathon staring at us next month.

It's like when you were a kid and got a bad roll in kickball -- "I want a do over," you'd say.

Only now as a grown-up, many things have happened. LIFE has happened. And I never really asked for any do-overs. But God, apparently, felt I needed/deserved a do-over or two.

And for that? I am so grateful.

While I have written about the family/baby do-over, this whole career do-over is, well... it's kicking my ass. I've done a layoff once. I even drove downtown to register for unemployment once. As fate would have it, I found a job (a.k.a., my DREAM job, with the best co-workers ever) before they even processed me in the system. That, my friends, is a job that was meant to be mine. Now, however, there was no "miracle job" waiting for me before unemployment processed me. In fact, I had to log onto the state website yesterday to submit my weekly voucher so I can receive benefits. Yes, I am officially IN the system.

In an effort to bring money into the house, I have also raided my own closet for clothes to take to consignment. Twice. I have surrendered designer bags to consignment. (Unlike one of my favorite writers, Jen Lancaster, who chose poorly in schlepping a Prada bag to the unemployment office. And I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't thinking of her book the entire time I was at said unemployment office. It was probably the lone thought that kept me from bursting into tears.) It may provide a few bucks now, but I may be screwed for work clothes if I do find a professional job. Unless they overlook employees wearing shorts, tanks and Adidas on a daily basis. And you DON'T work at a gym, the YMCA or a running store.

I have applied for many jobs in the past month. Want to know how many I've been called for? Zero. Why? I have no idea. Maybe I'm overqualified to be an administrative assistant. Or development officer. Or adjunct faculty at Ivy Tech. Maybe I'm underqualified. Maybe no one is interested in a writer with mad grammar skillz. Who knows. What I do know is that I. Am. Trying.

Granted, there are freelance writing projects on my desk, and I am thankful for that. (See? Starting the freelance business again. Another do-over!) But as much as I love to write about the local Parade of Homes, it ain't gonna pay the bills forever, you know?

I think my do-overs are a little sign from God. Maybe I need to take the hint with all these external jumps back to square one and look inside myself. The place where I am continually running a million miles an hour, trying to do what I can for everyone and (a lot of the time) feeling like I am no help at all or completely spinning my wheels, going nowhere. Maybe I need to slow down in my head. Take each day as it comes and stop worrying about tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.

Maybe it's time I allow myself a do-over.