Foreshadowing

It's been a parenting challenge in our house lately. Peanut has been showing age three the door with a bang that I can only hope will keep that bad attitude out when four arrives...but I'm not so sure yet. Power struggles, taking out aggression on the little brother, defiance, deaf ears, we've got it all. And it hasn't been pretty.

Activity, and lots of it, tend to be our behavior savior around here. Unfortunately, it was to the detriment of Pumpkin's naps. I scaled back the activity meter a little bit, made a few timing adjustments and naps have gotten back on track. I've been sucking up the repercussions each afternoon about 4pm when Peanut gets bored or frustrated about sharing time. And by sucking it up, I mean counting down the minutes until the hubby gets home to help balance the adult to child ratio.

Today, however, was a good day. A really good day. We met up with some friends at an area train museum. Okay, so it was 100 degrees out - not the best environment for climbing in and out of trains. Outside. But the kids had a great time checking out all the different cars and engines and buses and models and signals and lights and whistles. We had a few moments of Peanut turning a deaf ear, but brief moments that didn't mar our adventures, moments more a product of excited distraction than intentional defiance.

I braced myself, however, for the onslaught of bad behavior the afternoon would bring. We were all hot and tired. It was destined. And then. It didn't happen. We played a few games. We did some puzzles. He cleaned up the blocks after he was done with them (what?!). He crashed cars on his train table to the sheer delight of his baby brother who just stood on my legs, watching, squealing in that delicious, uncontrollable baby belly laugh way at every hit, bang and car flip.

Later, as we "spied" for the hubby to come home, I spotted two brothers that live up the street as they walked home from a friends house. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but they walked close to each other. Sharing stories of their day, perhaps, or planning the evening's games or discussing whose favorite superhero was superior. It was the closeness that got me. The nearness of their swaying arms, the almost imperceptible tilt of their heads towards each other as they trudged home from another busy summer day of play, sun, freedom.

And there it was. In the depth of the laughter, in the sway of those brothers' arms, in the pressure of Pumpkin's little feet on my thigh, was a promise of the future. A future that isn't so distant. I felt that moment stand still and etch itself into my memory to be recalled on those afternoons that aren't so perfect. I relaxed into it. I smiled.

Correction. I smile.

The Evolution of the Fourth

The Fourth of July holiday has always been special to me. Growing up, we often spent the 4th celebrating America's independence in the cradle of the Revolution - at either my grandparents' in Rhode Island or my aunt's in Massachusetts. Clam boils, tubing, swimming, the Boston Pops, pop-up thunderstorms, cousins, hide and seek, coffee ice cream, red, white and blue, we had it all. And it was good.

As I got older, work, moves, my grandparents' passing all made these fourths less frequent. I realized today just how different the 4ths of my recent past have been from the 4ths of my youth.

Six years ago this 4th, the hubby and I were in Atlanta from DC to go house hunting before our big move. I spent the morning before meeting with the real estate agent kneeling on the cold tile floor of the Omni Hotel bathroom convinced I was going to hurl at any moment. I was excited about the move. Confident on the outside to the point where I think I was starting to believe it. In the moments before meeting a total stranger who would soon show us possible homes in a city I knew very little about, the reality of uprooting our lives hit me like a ton of bricks.

Somewhere in our agent's car while looking at houses in neighborhoods as different from each other as Buckhead and Candler Park, I fell in love with this diverse new city of ours. By the end of the weekend, we had a contract on a house and the real fun began.

Four years ago this 4th, I was 8 months pregnant and went to a Braves game with the hubby. What was I thinking? It was hot. I was swollen. It was hot. I couldn't drink beer. It was hot. There was a huge thunderstorm that sent us scurrying to the sweltering safety of the concourse where no one offered the swollen, sweaty, gigantic pregnant lady a seat. I sat on the ground until it stopped raining enough for us to call it a night and head back to the car in relative dryness, at which point the poor hubby had to hoist me in a very ungraceful way off of the floor. We made it home in time to watch the remainder of the game with my swollen ankles up on the sofa and a gallon of ice cream perched on my belly.

A year ago this Fourth, I was pregnant again and somehow decided that since I was sick with some horrible respiratory thing and not going anywhere anyway that I'd commence potty training boot camp. That weekend was the last time this house saw a diaper until Pumpkin arrived. Gives new meaning to Independence Day, huh?

This year, there are four of us. How appropriate.

When I think of the Fourth of July, I am instantly transported to the 4ths of my youth, yet here I am with significant events marking my adult 4ths. And now, as we move into yet another phase of life, we will begin to formulate memories of the 4th for our children.

It might be time to schedule a clam boil for next year. Guess I better start calling the cousins.

Wondering if I Should be Insulted

I'm in the midst of Camp Peanut over here. The one thing I've noticed since Peanut's been out of school is that he does much better when he's busy. The more outings, adventures, activities we have, the better behaved he is and the happier we all are.

The problem with this, is that I can hardly keep up. There are only so many at home activities I can brainstorm in a day after I've exhausted offering puzzles, games, Play-Doh, water paints, inflatable pools, stories... Most of the time my efforts are shot down with an "I want to play trains" or "I want to watch TV" (that one kills me a little more each time).

In order to diversify his interests, we've been taking advantage of all our Atlanta-area memberships. Last week, we hit up two different playgrounds, the pool, Fernbank, the Children's Museum and Target (hey, it's next to a busy train track so that totally counts as a field trip). The problem with this is I have completely succeeded in ruining Pumpkin's nap time schedule. He doesn't know when he needs to sleep or catches a nap in the car seat and as a result, spends much of his day overtired and cranky refusing crib naps when he most needs them. This week, as a result, I'm trying to slow the schedule down a bit and see if we can get Pumpkin back on the nap track.

Instead, I've been working really hard to keep Peanut occupied and interested in a variety of activities at home. But two days in a row now, Peanut has thrown an absolute fit. Why? Because he can't go to his friends' house. Yesterday, we had our normal workout and post-workout play date at the playground. As we were leaving, I had to drag Peanut away from D's stroller. He wanted to go to D's house desperately. I tried talking up all the fun things we could do at home. D's mama tried boring him with the list of things she needed to do: grocery shopping, laundry, chores. Peanut replied he loved the grocery store and would help D with his chores (if only Peanut would do the ones I ask of him at home with such enthusiasm). Today, Peanut's friend J was over for a play date. Peanut insisted he was going to go home with J. I told him that no, we had things we needed to do here and J and his mommy had things to do this afternoon, too. Again, another scene. This one complete with "It's booooooring here."

My kid is basically telling me I'm no fun. Great. Either I stink as a cruise director or his teenage years are really gonna kill me.

Either way, we're in for another long afternoon.

Stealing Time

Life with two kids who don't regularly nap/rest/calm down means I rarely have a moment to think in complete sentences not to mention spend it doing something that truly energizes or restores me. Sure, I can grab a quick peek at Twitter or maybe read a magazine article while nursing, but settle into a comfy chair with a cup of (decaf) coffee and a book or find a quiet space to work on that writing project? Eh, not so much.

Every once in awhile, though, you come across a gift of a moment. An unexpected place or time is suddenly opportunity for solitude.

Today? The doctor's office. Who knew waiting to have a mole removed would be so restful? This is why I never travel anywhere without a book. While waiting in a quiet room, I was transported, absorbed in someone else's words without the demand of a preschooler to help build the (fifth of the day) train track or the cry of an infant who desperately needs but adamantly refuses a nap or the pull of sleep when I finally crack the spine at bedtime.

Ah, a moment. A stolen moment just for me.

Although I could have used a more comfy chair.

Happy Father's Day

I met the hubby when I was 15. He was 18. Oh, it was scandalous.

I had no idea then that he would be the amazing man, loving father and patient husband that he is today (let's be honest, he was cute, he was funny, he was a senior and that was reason enough to date him). He's probably going to be surprised to read this since I've been a total nitpicker lately.

Two kids has put much more of a strain on our marriage than one did. We were married eight years when Peanut entered our lives and I am thankful for every last one of those child-free years we spent together. We traveled. We went out. We took risks. We knew each other inside and out so that when those first sleep-deprived days descended and we both were acting like crazed new parent lunatics, we could slough it off knowing that the "real" person was underneath the hormones, the spit up and the puffy eyes.

Pumpkin's arrival has been a whole different ball of wax. Nothing and everything changed. Peanut's routines are still Peanut's routines, we simply have a whole other human being to care for on top of it. I've been having a harder time adjusting to that than anyone else in the house and, unfortunately, the hubby gets the brunt of my frustration whether he deserves it at that moment or not.

Although this time around has been harder and more challenging, I wouldn't trade a day of it (okay, maybe I'd trade my trip to the ER or Pumpkin's milk allergy, but two days out of a couple of hundred isn't bad). The hubby is an involved dad. He's not afraid to take on the stinky diapers, the nighttime sleep training, the solo trips to Florida with a newly potty trained toddler. He's in charge of bedtime every night. He's even taken two kids to the grocery store while I was getting a massage. I don't think that will ever happen again, but he did it. Voluntarily. Without complaint.

He's a partner, not a babysitter. He's involved in parenting decisions, reading as much parenting lit as I do, offering suggestions, trying techniques, providing perspective when I can't see the forest for the trees. His priority each and every day is my and the boy's happiness. He's a patient, patient man and much more than I deserve.

I feel a lot of pressure to raise good men. Men who respect women. Men who make good choices. Men who contribute. Men who will make worthy partners in the future. Then I take a look at the man they see most often and relax. I could not have asked for a better man to be a role model for my boys.

For all this and much, much more, I am so thankful for him on this Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day, honey.

Zero, Zip, Zilch

I got nothing.

I just spent 45 minutes drafting a post that's turning into some sort of self-flagellation at my inability to get my seven month old to nap and my three year old to stop hitting. I was beginning to bore myself.

Instead of that dribble, here I am, admitting that I'm stuck. Stuck in the parenting weeds. Mired down in the mundane. Running from task to task, feeling like no one is getting the best of me and so tired at the end of the day that I'm not even sure what the best of me is anymore.

So bear with me. I'm working on a few things, sorting a few things out, tapping into some creative resources that hopefully will remind me of, well, me. And then I can sit down here and string together some words that are more interesting than the wasted ones I spent the last 45 minutes typing.

I promise.

Same Shoes, Different Day

Last week, during a workout, a new mom was lamenting stiffness in her Achilles, complaining she could barely walk each morning when she first gets out of bed. Another mother of a newborn, joined in the conversation asking if she used to wear heels a lot for work.

"It really can take awhile for your legs to get used to flats."

I chuckled.

Three years ago today I started writing in this little corner of the Internet. Peanut was nearly 10 months old. I was finally leaving that fog of infant upheaval and settling into a fairly predictable routine. As a result, I was finally realizing that I had really and truly left my job. Although I didn't want to go back to my job, I started missing some of what it offered: intellectual challenge, adult conversation, personal success, and, you know, a daily excuse to wear fabulous shoes. This space became my place to explore those feelings and, maybe, just maybe, provide a little of that stimulation and camaraderie I was missing.

Three years later, I am so thankful for this space. Thankful for the venting it allows me to do; the opportunity it provides for me to take a step back and analyze a challenge I'm facing - whether that's potty training or guilt about living far away from family; the conversations I've had as a result of a post. Three years later, however, I am still struggling with what I want to be when I grow up, how I'm going to on-ramp, and when my kids and I will be ready to take that route.

Three years later, my legs are certainly much more acclimated to flats than heels, but the mama? Although I may wear the heels only on the rare occasion now, I think it's safe to say, I'm still just a high heeled girl adjusting to a life in flats.