Pre-Mother's Day thoughts

I can hardly stand this cuteness... without sharing it. 

You'd say these boys look happy and healthy, right? Alive, well and thriving, too?

Yes of course they are because not only have I not accidentally or purposefully psychologically twisted, physically killed or emotionally ruined them yet, (((thank god, thank god, thank god))) but I think I've actually mothered them well. Nothing, and I mean nothing could make me any prouder to list on my personal resume. 

As Mother Day approaches this year I am in tremendous awe that I've accomplished this precarious task thus far... with a generous side dish of gratitude for all the stolen smiles and hugs we share regularly. 

the butts that rule my life

Since I am a slave to the functions of these butts right now, I thought I'd post a tribute to their cuteness. (freshly steamed and cleaned from the bath) G's new way of alerting me to a recent dump is to come meandering over waving his right index finger smeared with poop for me to see. 

happy bath time boys

Just a picture to make you smile :)

Noah's One

My little cuddle bunny boy turned one yesterday. His snuggly hugs give me the warmest fuzzies and his smiles send twinkle lights asparkle through my heart.

I am knock down, drag out mad crazy in love with him, can't stop staring adoringly at him and am a slave to the snot factory that is his nose right now.

One year ago yesterday I arrived at the hospital 9cm dialated, was rushed to delivery and unmedicatedly pushed him out so fast the doctor nearly missed the delivery. She came running in as nurses shimmied her into gown and gloves and said "Let's have a baby." And I did approximately 4 pushes (and 2 poops) later.  It was the most powerful moment of my life as woman and so warranted my involuntary "Fuck yeah!" triumphant Call of the Wild. I let another one of those bad boys rip just after they pushed out my placenta. Is that not the best feeling in the whole wide world?!

Anyway, today we've officially moved into the post-first-year supposedly "getting easier" part of having two boys this close in age. Hmmmm... so far today's been just as silly exhausting as ever. But there's a helluva lot more smiling and laughing going on between the three of us. We've become quite the little trio - G, N & I - and I like it this way. I wouldn't go back to my life alone, lonely and without them for the world. I feel an enhanced sense of purpose and service each and every day we are together. 

I am honored to be the one who cares for, nurtures and protects them. I am exhilarated by their growth and thrilled by their thriving souls. Now all I need is my cute, curly, pre-baby hair back and everything will be perfect. :)

got body issues?

got body issues? 

duuuuuude. me too.

get on over to my new other blog devoted to loving our bodies NOW, dammit!:

http://www.imbeautifuldammit.blogspot.com

Blechy Doodah Body Image Blog

I'm so sorry I'm writing this. I really really wish I didn't have to. But I've got to.

Is it me, or is there a grisly hiss of jealousy stewing just under the surface of every mommy gathering hole? A covetous glancing of eyes at other mothers' midsections while simultaneously scouting out her youngest child and calculating how long since she popped that last sucker out and got so fucking skinny? 

Body image is a bitch.

It's still up for me, if only in my most hidden and silenced judgmental thoughts.

I'm 40 now.

I thought this was so my 20's and 30's.

I wrote a book on it.

I travelled nationally speaking to girls about it. 

I broke through archaic layers of my own psychic sludge to supposedly free my poor body from my maniacal mind's reign of terror.

And yet here I am on the playground day after day finding at least one other mother's cute little flat belly to covet. Compare and despair. Such a useless pastime. I'm so embarrassed to admit this petty crap in writing, using the 'publish' button as my confessional/spittoon/outhouse. But this is the only way I know to rid myself of the torment and shame: out myself. 

FACT: I weighed a fit and muscular 150 pounds before pregnancy at age 37. I gained only 26 pounds the first time, lost it all immediately while breast feeding, then a repeat cycle for my last pregnancy a year later going down to 138 due to my skyrocketing metabolism ala one voracious nurser and one heinous case of PPD. 

FACT: Everyone commented on how thin I got with praise and envy. 

FACT: This made me even sicker in the head, obsessing about the inevitability of weight gain once N stopped nursing.

FACT: N stopped nursing and I am indeed gaining back the weight.

Moral of the story?: Hmmmm, is there a moral to this story? How about I'll make some up:

 

FIRST MORAL: Never ever comment praisingly on a woman's weight loss. You may very well be reinforcing an extremely negative behavior/thought pattern. They may be puking their guts out, starving themselves, over exercising, undergoing chemo, or in severe physical or mental pain.

SECOND MORAL: Other women's body sizes are not our business. Period. You can say she looks 'beautiful' or 'healthy' or 'glowing'. But please do not use the words 'thin' or 'skinny' or any of their derivatives. They just feed our society's obsession with thinness and our own volatile and highly conditional relationships with our bodies. 

THIRD MORAL: My own body size is not my business. If I make it my business, I'm fucked. Sure as that. My life will become as small, isolated, pathetic and insular as it was when I made both a professional and mental career out of taming and whipping it into shape. 

Sorry such a downer. But I feel my truth's got to be told in it's rawness or else I'm doomed to more of the same ole' same ole'. 

getting into it

Okay, the following admission is most likely due to the fact that I'm coming into the final stretch of year one with baby and toddler. (((!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!))) Or perhaps due to 5 solid months of lexapro firmly kicking my seratonin into gear. Or maybe because N is weaned and my boobs are mine again. Or it could very well be because orgasms (mine that is) have appeared back on the marital menu. 

Anyway, for some or all of these reasons, I admit I'm getting into this full-time motherhood thing. I've ceased incessantly denying this is what I've done to myself and have finally gotten full throttle into it. Our primary mission is to find bliss and wonder daily exploring San Diego's incredible plethora of kid-centric adventures. I've become one with playgrounds, play dates, and play groups. And fantastically enough, am finding it suits me well. That is as long as I did my job correctly and tired the crap outta my guys so I get my well-deserved daily reprieve while they snooze away the afternoon.  

A big part of accepting my wonderfully enhanced lot in life is realizing that I am a Challenge Junky (among many other less desirable addictions). Every single day of mommying these guys presents me with a myriad of extenuating circumstances to navigate, negotiate and conquer. G & N have a knack for setting up increasingly difficult obstacle courses each successive day, inherently testing my agility and creativity in problem solving. How do I get the gas tank filled, the overdue library books returned, those few extra ingredients for tonight's dinner and our play date in without overtiring N and/or surrendering G's full at-home nap time to a shitty 15 minute snooze on the way home? How do I keep N from grabbing G's poopy & sandy penis while changing a smash poo at the beach with all hands busily trying to secure diaper, wipes, changing pad and blanket from the roaring ocean wind? How do I stop N from instantaneously throwing any and everything into the open toilet bowl while quickly hoisting G off the potty? These and many other confounding scenarios grace my career regularly. And I have to admit, I get off when I maneuver stealthily enough to avoid seemingly imminent disaster.

Finally on an amusing note, just as women who live together begin menstruating together and isolated heart cells in a petrie dish begin beating together; my boyz have begun pooping together. Isn't that so considerate of them? Just when I'm knee deep in shit from one sloppy joe diaper mess, the other one shoots out a good one. Mommy just keeps her sleeves rolled up and the wipies comin', knockin' 'em both out at one time - doesn't get much better than that. Kinda makes your heart sing, don't it?