Man, I Miss Me

Holy blog deprivation, you guys. Since being home from my little hiatus I haven't been able to find my mommy mojo and get back into the routine of making time to write while also doing the 456, 732 other things necessary for oiling this family machine. Nothing like a break in your typical program to kink up your momentum and make you feel like the substitute teacher without hand-outs and teacher's key. I have lesson plans (if matching shoes and going to the pool count as lesson plans) but no "insider's knowledge" of how to get through them smoothly.

I think the real irony here is that time away from home usually makes other people in your family appreciate all you do but this time it made me realize all I do. And now I have no idea what kind of super human freak I was before I left because seriously there isn't any "leftover" time in the day to write. There isn't any kind of pocket of unused minutes I can dip into for uploading pictures, organizing thoughts, and posting some coherent story about our day. Did I once do this at 2am? Did I give the children bags of gum drops and looped cartoons around noon so I could blog? Was there a slow CO leak I didn't know about? Whatever the case, I once was crafty enough to find the time. Now? Two weeks later I am putting Abby in her brother's T-shirts because suddenly her own clothes don't fit. I am forgetting to make eye contact with Grayson who has a running dialogue with my thighs lately as I whir a blue streak around the house with Windex. I am cleaning up doughnuts that Sadie heisted in our absence, not because she loves sour cream cake, (mind you, this dog has been known to turn her snout away from steak if it's too gristly), but because she's bored as hell (or is assuming that I am bored as hell too and want to play hide-and-doughnut-seek when I return). And don't even get me started on that guy I haven't seen in going on three weeks now but whose aftershave leaves me breathless because my nose tricks me for one millisecond into thinking he's only in the next room. Seriously you guys, what the hell is going on around here? Where is my children's mother? Where is that dogwalker, cook, maid, nanny, split decision maker, multi-tasking gangster? Where is that girl who could whip everyone into shape by 10 am and have enough brain power to post relevant images and daily meanderings?

She must still be shopping in NY.

I just hope she remembers milk and eggs.

7 Days Ago

There were street signs in every direction















Yellow cabs lighting the way




















Pretty ladies waiting with gowns on














More fluorescent pretending it's day














Oranges, pinks, and hot spicy goldens




















Bags upon bags upon bags upon shoulders














Rooms with a view (this is my brother's!)




















Overexposures, layering lots














Currents of light wire this city














Buildings too far to see the top














Cupcakes that make you eat well past midnight




















Un peu mousse du chocolat to finish me off.

La Bonne Soupe: Day One & Two at BlogHer

I am a small group kind of girl who often chooses large group settings. Must be a Gemini thing.

This conference in NY was no different. It was H-U-G-E, you guys. At any given time you could count 15 lanyards (nametags: critical for stalking), 37 styles of leggings, 12 funky totes and that was only in the elevator. Hallways were bustling with meetups while ballrooms intimidated newbies under chandeliers. It was bigtime.

The beauty of things for me was that I purchased the Expo/Cocktail ticket. That is fancy talk for free shit and pretty vodka drinks. I had zero responsibility to be anywhere for anything. I didn't have to attend one conference, one session or even one keynote speaker. In theory that was fantastic planning on my part. Only go to the parties? Hells yeah. Give the free spirit some wide open city space to roam? Why not? The reality, however, is that I am not a party girl and the nerdly one inside really missed out on all education going on around me. Note to former teacher self: do no skip class.

That being said, I had one picnic of a time busying myself up. Upon arrival at the Hilton New York (think skyscraper with killer views) I met up with these two lovely ladies: The Traveling Circus & My Family Gossip. It didn't take long for the three of us to strike up a Trifecta of mutual respect and ease. Plus, we're all brunettes and (almost) the same shoe size so the possibilities for clothes swapping were endless.

After dolling ourselves up as much as an entire day of travel would allow, we clicked our way down to the lobby to see what was up. Checking the marquee is where I literally ran into my blogging (and now real life) friend, Jessica from This is Worthwhile. I introduced myself and I hugged the "I don't even care if our boobs touch" hug because that was all kinds of crazy to find her so early on. Later in the weekend, I joined her on an impromptu excursion to the Museum of Modern Art (which I KEEP on calling The Modern Art of Museum like I'm four. And like I didn't grow up 20 min. north of D.C.). We had a most amazing day eating, chatting, and gazing at art that she probably understood a lot better than I could. If there's one thing I learned about myself that weekend it's that I do not care for modern art. I'm a traditionalist when it comes to what I care to see in a museum. I'm sorry but I can totally string up some fishing wire on a blank wall in my house too but choose not to mar my walls with such an eyesore. And isn't the exact purpose of a frame negated by having absolutely nothing inside of it? Yowza. Clearly, I am becoming my grandfather.

So back to the first night. Our first night was spent with the four of us attending our first party or mixer. It was laid back. There were hors d'oeurves and one loner Canadian husband who experienced a table takeover by the likes of us. He was sweet, funny, and terribly confused as to why we chose to ruin his alone time. But we did and he kindly humored the female assault while the rest of us drank. Not a lot but vodka sinks to the pit of my stomach like a poisonous dart and it wasn't very long before I felt dizzy and sick.

Enter my innocent brother, Alex, who traveled from his apartment in Long Island City to meet me for dinner. Dinner was about as solid an option for me as was becoming a triathlete so we compromised over coffee and chicken strips. Let's just suffice it to say I never made it to the chicken strips. Dirty dog sick in the girl's bathroom. The world didn't stop spiralling until my head hit the pillow an hour or so later. (Oddly enough one of my roomies also got sick that night so we all think we got a touch of some 24 hour thing.) After that unfortunate turn of events and a peppy three hour sleep later, we all woke up at the painful light of dawn to run a 5k in Central Park. In tutus. And new shoes (for me b/c I forgot mine). I'm sure you can imagine the rest. Splotchy red faces, dry heaving, blisters, and a fine appreciation for runners who must at some freaking point in time break in their brand spanking new New Balance. But how?

Finally we could return to our rooms, lick our wounds, and pound Gatorade. I've never been so thrilled to see a pull-out couch in my life. Even the sweet aroma of lemon citrus bathroom cleaner leftover in the hallway aided and abetted my recovery to soberhood. After a quick check-in phonecall to my kids and a two hour power nap I felt rejuvenated and surprisingly hungry. Luckily for me, so did my roomie. While one scurried off to a conference for an hour, the other roommate and I hit the streets in search of a restaurant specializing in post queasy stomach fare. La Bonne Soupe Cafe sounded perfect with its promise of warm soup and crunchy baguette. I could really use a good soup and proper spooning right about now, I thought, both figuratively and literally. Bring on the good soup, little cafe. Little did I know the six years I spent in French class would not serve me well while ordering.

"Oooh, vichyssoise, what is that...broth?" I ask my lunch compadre.

"Um, it's potato and leek, I think," she responds giving me the benefit of the doubt with her upturned eyebrows.

"Yes, potato and leek. Exactly what I want. Done." I declare with authority and pomp.

You'd think as much as BRAVO's Top Chef glows brightly in this bedroom of mine I'd remember what vichyssoise actually is and not order it, SO not order it, because cold soup on an empty stomach (save two unenthusiastic bites of banana and enough Gatorade to film, edit, and produce) is begging for round two of horribly sick sister bathroom scene.

"Here," offered up my golden hearted friend, "eat some of my fries. They're warm." And they were. So crispy, lovingly unsalted, and warm. Things were definitely looking up.

Preamble

Please forgive my inability to update yesterday and probably not much today either. I have been having a hard time extracting myself from one little girl who thinks she can actually live inside my skin. She is keeping me close and I am loving it. Feeling overwhelmed and wanting space but am eating up the Mommy attention while it lasts. Grayson has a different tactic altogether. He is full of compliments, 30 second snuggling, and I love yous but he is physically more independent. My big boy suddenly seems even bigger and more mature. Leaving for six days was a blast but the homecoming has been just as sweet.

Which means for now, between Abby's raspberries on my legs and Grayson's pleas for playing a madeup Bakugan Spy Sunglasses game, I can cheat with this blogging shortcut. Here are a few bullets on my time at the BlogHer Conference with a vow to you that I will elaborate as soon as this house and its inhabitants allow. So without much more grappling, I give you...

My New York Preamble:

• arriving in hotel CLUELESS while managing to rock violently suitcase, bulky new box of tennis shoes and bag-o-blinking tutu into every passerby possible (nothing like making a great impression on 2,500 new people)

• meeting very funny Canadian who does not blog

• getting sick very first night while out on coffee date with brother

• "running" 5k (in that blinky tutu) at 6:30 am next morning

• enjoying lovely afternoon w/cold soup and roommate (new sisterfriend)

• tagging along with other lovely roommate to book signing in swanky bar with light up tables

• chatty in-between times in hotel room

• hanging out at Museum of Modern Art for grand afternoon w/fabulous new friend

• walking down 6th street at night, armed with Nikon in search of Magnolia cupcakes

• attending late night parties while realizing mute button still gets pressed involuntarily around groups of strangers numbering more than 2

• befriending really cool UK lady (w/whom I hope to keep in touch)

• so much more. so very much more

In light of yesterday's naptime never really happening, I am planning on updating this evening during dinner. Because writing about red velvet cake and vichyssoise is way better than consuming either.

To Sum it Up, I Can't.

Been sitting here staring at this empty screen at 11:32pm on Monday long enough for me to realize I still need time to think about what the hell just happened at BlogHer. There is no wrap up or summarizing or even last word because faces, voices, perfumes, cute shoes, and thousands of neon NYC images keep buzzing behind my eyes like fireflies dipped in Red Bull. This is the best kind of hallucination one can have without a debilitating hangover. New York was exactly right in every way. And my experience there was just like the city itself: alive, frenetic, confident, heated, dirty, angry, bi-polar, sweet, palpable, brazen, grungy, soothing and forward all at the same time.

I am going to need a minute to collect myself.

And pray my children take really long naps tomorrow so I can share this mental pirate trove. There's a lot.

Lost Already

Okay, it's official. I'm completely lost in a worried thought-frenzy about the next few days. Wound up like a plastic jumping frog at best about this BlogHer conference on Thursday. I'm completely teetering on the edge of traveler's remorse about finding my way to New York (By myself. In my car. With nothing but a GPS, some Starburst and a lot of homemade lopsidedly cut by hand calling cards.) I'm leaving tonight to get to New York so if you guys don't hear from me by, oh say Sunday, then please alert my McDonald's cashier buddies they may have to do without their best customer for a stint. And please let my husband know he can only get with Kate Beckinsale should I be lost for a long time. Then, whatever you do, do not come looking for me in Bulgaria. I will already be assimilated and probably blond.

Now go in peace, my friend, until I return to my cool, calm collected other mommy self. Hopefully before Sunday.

NYC Bound

So this little suburban mouse is about to go Big City hamster. I'm attending the big BlogHer Conference this year with a few Progressive Parties thrown in and I'll be honest with you, I have no idea what to expect. I blindly and naively signed myself up, whole hog, a few months back with passion, vigor , & enthusiasm of a new graduate. Now that it's a few days away I'm a shrinking dandelion who is overwhelmed with the schedule she created for herself. Especially since two nights involve staying awake and public well after 8pm, otherwise recognized as my unpublic pumpkin hour. BUTTT (and it's a big one helped along by Oreo Cakesters and all of Abby's rejected peanut butter crackers), I couldn't be more excited to attend this galactic affair and dig my ballet flats into what's in store for us fair bloggettas. And really, what could be so scary about imbibing in cocktails, dancing to real salsa music, and relaxing in a lounge with like-minded moms, dads, blogger enthusiasts in general? For someone who can't remember "hard" words like 'WordPress' and 'participatory' in the presence of people who aren't the pool lifeguards (love those Bulgarians) or my mom (hi, Mom!), it's a stretch. Well that and the intimidating idea that I may have to move my hips (instead of park a toddler on one) since my rhythm has a new gray streak and crow's feet. Other than that? It all sounds exhilarating.

Plus, I will have two very lovely and beautifully hilarious roommates for three nights and four days. It's college dorm girl giddiness all over again. Are you kidding me? Three full nights and four glorious days without my baggage, I mean amazing life that is my children, husband, dishes, bathtub grunge, dog, fish, laundry, sticky handprints on anything clean? That is the real attraction. (More on this to follow.) Yes, I will miss my family very much. No, I won't miss out on an opportunity to make memories that I will cherish and will certainly relive in writing on this blog.

So, in between and betwixt, I will jump online whenever feasible to update here on my NYC Blogging Conference shenanigans. Now, because I just wrote the word, "shenanigans" I have lost any allure to win you back and I will no doubt return to only crickets.

In that case, I will update for the crickets but entice the rest of you with definite Flickr slide shows of a post8pm me with cocktails aplenty.

Be back soon!
Let the embarrassment begin.

To Hold On

I

















Inflatable boat handles

Side of the pool

Plastic toy telescope

Small animal magnets (that keep getting lost)

Railings on stairways

My shirt

Or my pants

Or if not those two, always my hand

You hold on to these things because you need time. You need time to find out, to study, to watch what it all does before you let go. I understand because I'm your mom. I see how you love after the fact. I know you hear them when you repeat what they say. You ask all your questions when they're all gone. People make you turn away.

When you are ready you will let go. You will start conversations all by yourself.
You will shake hands and you will embrace.

But for now you hold on until you see what they do.

May they all surprise you in the end.

Right Hook, Left Hook

Last night my husband fell asleep before I did. This is how it always is. It's never been any different. Not one day in the history of our days or nights together have I ever been able to fall asleep first. And if I did it was most definitely Grigio related and/or I had just given birth but as I recall he was still sawing wood before I had a chance to brush my teeth for the night on those three occasions.

So he's asleep and I'm not. It's getting chilly and our thermostat was not an accounting major. I have to turn up the AC (oh the irony) and decide sneaking out of bed is best so as not to awaken the sleeping husband body. I achieve departure unnoticed and return feeling victorious. In one instant I am mentally high-fiving myself, in the next instant I am returning fire.

"What THE?!?!" I hiss.

"Garrr-dooo-bleee nyaaah," the sleeping husband groans as he springs sideways to grab me by right shoulder and hip bone.

"I'm fine. I'm not falling out of bed!" but my words are missed on the subconscious one. He slurs more protective jargon and claws at my arms with the kind of brute energy that makes me realize he is all Marine, and a scary one at that, if he ever wants or needs to be. I cannot not move. Even from the depths of REM he renders me immobile and still.

"Honey! Wake up! I'm fine, it's me and I'm not falling off the bed, there are no children, no dogs, no stray blankets or crackers falling off the bed either!! Get off mee!" I yell in the most hysterical attempt of mute ever imaginable to no avail. He continues to contain me in his sleep.

So there we are beating the sh*t out of one another in the middle of the night while the contestants of Top Chef figure out what to do with ostrich eggs and duck balls.

And I do mean beating the sh*t out of each other. He, with his over protective zombie punches and crazy slurs. Me, with my pissed off girl hooks and angry elbow jabs. It was quite the scene. I know it lasted for a while because I can hardly move my right arm today.

I wonder how his left side is doing. I wonder if he even remembers. I wonder what the hell I'm so mad at that I'd take offense to his trying to save me from the three foot drop off our bed into a fluffy embrace of clean laundry on my side.

Seriously, what kind of woman punches back when a man is trying to rescue her from danger?

Probably exactly the kind in need of some rescuing.

In the Middle of it All

What happens when you hand over your camera to a little person with a view from the middle of a big person's world? Magic, I tell you. Unposed, unpremeditated, unexpected silly faced magic.

Resurfacing

It is (mostly) true for me that things materialize if I will it, earn it, and am patient for it. This time, though, I lost faith. I really did not believe I would make new friends no matter how big I smiled, how long I lingered, how many granola bars I shared. I'd get close, exchange numbers and then things would fetter away like a pretty dust storm at dawn. We didn't click. It wasn't happening naturally. It wasn't happening artificially. I was not making the connection.

Then, just when I almost threw in the towel, Saturday threw me a bone. A very nice woman I met at the pool a few weeks ago was enjoying time in the shallow end with her boys and her husband. As always, we sent and received friendly smiles and chatted idly about the weather. Unwilling to eat more rejection dust, I stared at my toes and motioned toward the big pool where my family waited for me. Then it happened. This very nice woman gave me something I've been hoping for and pining for over a year. She asked me to be in her Book Club.

"Yes!" I probably shouted. "I'd love to be in your Book Club!" I definitely gestured way too emphatically.

"Do you meet every couple of weeks to talk about them?" I ask like a complete bonehead loser Book Club novice.

"Yes, and there's most certainly a wine requirement," the nice woman says.

"In that case, I'm most certainly in," I tell her and try to bite my tongue so I don't scare her away with too much joviality. A little dork goes a long way.

Obviously Saturday threw me bone. Now it's my job not to gnaw it to death with grateful praise and general happiness. I will do my best to be subtle but holy crap am I elated to have not only one new literary hungry friend but two of them to drink wine with while analyzing depth of character both on and off the page. I am so totally in and so very thankful for the life jacket showing up just when I was going under just a little bit too long.

Lies, All Lies

This doesn't make me want another baby.

















This does NOT make me want another tiny little teeny weeny sweet sighing little precious baby.

























And this? This does absolutely nothing for me.
























And neither does this? (Oh my GAWD- hold me.)



















And you're just crazy if you think I might covet huggable, kissable, squeezable, edible this.


Because as you know, that honeymoon phase passes quickly around here and this is what they turn into before my milk dries up:





















(Serving a time out for throwing something sharp.)



















(Behind bars and happy about it.)




Whew, that was a close one.

I think I heard my husband throw up all the way from the Pentagon.

Wordlessly Wednessly

Before Story Time with Daddy:















Abby brings her own stool. (Both literally and literally.)




After Story Time with Daddy:














Abby cleans up her stool (only literally so far for the kind outside her Pampers) while Daddy is lulled to sleep by his own make believe.

Night Night, Daddy.

Game Changers

We all know having children will impact our snuggle time with the spouse. I expected that. What I didn't expect was that my children would not only impact but impede my ability to make new friends easily at our new home (sure, blame it on the kids). I am finding it damn near impossible to carry on an adult conversation beyond, "Oh, how old is she? Four months? You look fabulous. Okay, bye!" because either new acquaintance had to tend to her baby or Abby was peeling off her swim diaper again in the shallow pool.

The thing I love most about being a stay-at-home mom is that I always have people to hang out with. The bad thing is that my people are under four, like to pour pee-pee water down my shirt, and refuse to wear a bathing suit top because her brother doesn't have to. Also, let's face it, my people are territorial. They do not share my attention so well. They love to have mine eyes on them and only them. For me to fraternize with another adult at the pool is an adulterous act and will be punished accordingly. Probably with an untimely meltdown or dramatic head butt to the hard concrete edge of the pool. Probably ending in me excusing myself from the only adult conversation I'll have that day to find where the hell I buried the band-aids (her) and Advil (me.).

Either way you look at it, kids are game changers and I must learn this new rulebook on how to make new friends and keep one or two so I'm not alone at Barnes & Noble perusing the 2 million piece 3-D puzzles of DC when my people have tired of me and graduated to painting easels and 2 million piece 3-D puzzles of their own.

My Blooming Regrets

I'm pretty lucky in general and can honestly say I don't have many regrets. There is one, however, and it is rather mundane but oddly bothersome when I look back at wedding pictures.

When Hubby and I were engaged in the summer of 2001, he was one of the many servicemen and women who were immediately deployed after 9/11. He was on an aircraft carrier and not able to maintain daily communication during those critical first few weeks. I knew he was okay in the beginning because he did call to let his family and me know he was already en route to an "undisclosed location" (yes, there.) and emails would be sporadic at first but eventually more commonplace. In the meantime we all prayed a lot, held each other together and wrote tons of letters to mail off in a fat Christmas mailer when the snowflakes began to fall.

Also in the meantime, to keep me distracted, I planned a wedding. Our wedding.

Through emails and short telephone calls when Hubby landed somewhere for a day or two leave we pulled off enough communication to decide the big things together. However, all these years later I can clearly see how distracted I must've been because some of the decisions I made single handedly now seem so unlike me, so out of my own character.

In one of our many emailing sessions, we chose to have an outdoor "garden" wedding. Easy breezy, no frills with very few flowers. To keep in line with our mutual decision, I chose to go light on the bridal flowers, bouquets, arrangements, etc. Great, save money and go green!

But, for some unknown reason I chose not to have blue or purple flowers. Somewhere along the way, in my hazy brain, I came to the ridiculous notion that blue and purple were synthetic and not organic enough to be included in our simple outdoor color palette. (Here is where I must say the bridesmaids dresses were literally "sky blue" and show themselves as teal in pictures (seriously, I question my own sanity back then) instead of powdery periwinkle).

To this day it was one of the poorest decisions I've ever made. To this day, I don't love our wedding pictures because the omission of those rich dark blues and purples is too depressing and incomplete for me to stomach. To this day I wish I could go back in time and ask the florist to do an entire bridal bouquet in nothing but magenta and royal blue flowers.

To this day, I feel very fortunate that it's one of my biggest regrets. While life isn't perfect or smooth or always lovely, it is damn good. It is blue and hot pink. It is rise and fall and rise again. It is simple, outdoors, garden variety beautiful and there is no room for regret if you play your cards right. Actually, what I'm finding is that there is no room for regret if you just play your cards. The right happens eventually.



My Blooming Regrets :)

Busy

While Grayson was having his swimming lesson this morning, Abby and I watched a few bees hover over lavender flowers by the baby pool. They hummed along busily while piling yellow nectar on their knees. They all looked like small roller derby racers with knee pads. It was amazing. It was also pretty insane to see where they had to store their groceries. Makes me feel extremely spoiled that I get a nice cart on wheels to schlep my wares to and from the car. Imagine how many fewer (how much less? how fewer? I'm no longer a student of the English language and it shows) calories we would all consume if we had to pack our soup cans and fruit cups on our hip flexors in order to get them home. I will remember that today when I have a hard time leaving the cookie dough in the store. Would I really want this if I had to wear it home?

Sadly, I'd probably still opt for cookie dough over soup cans.