Did I Ever Tell You About the Time...

When I was pregnant with Lizzy, I was sick. And I do mean SICK. So when I started preterm labor six weeks before my due date, I was scared but not surprised. I knew something was wrong the entire time. I just knew it. [My lame medical care will be the topic of blogs to come, as will Lizzy's negligent medical care (can't call hers lame, they almost killed her, for Christ's sake.)] So I went to the hospital six weeks before my due date in full-blown labor and was given a series of Terbutaline shots and sent home on strict bedrest, with instructions to take that evil Terbutaline shit every four hours. Holy hell, if that isn't Satan in pill form then I don't know what is. Bedrest lasted a week, until I was up every hour or so one Wednesday night into Thursday morning with a sick, but not sure what was wrong with her, Meghan and noticed that every time I got out of bed, I was considerably "leakier" than usual. But at eight months pregnant, you really have no standards left, particularly if you are eight months pregnant for the third time. Nothing works like it's supposed to. So when the leakiness kept up into Thursday morning, I called my girlfriends, because God knows you call your girlfriends about this kind of stuff first. Not the doctor.

Needless to say, after finally submitting to girlfriend advice that I seek medical advice, I went to the hospital on Thursday, December 20, 2007. I told Pete (who was working full-time, taking care of me on bedrest and playing Mr. Mom - hence my constant "He's a Prince" characterizations) that I'd drive myself to the hospital to see if my water had broken. I was certain it had not, so I would just come home afterward and everything would go back to normal. He could take the girls to school for their holiday parties, I'd be fine, yadda yadda yadda. He told me to put down the crack pipe and all of us piled into the minivan. Off we went, all of us, to Labor & Delivery, because remember we were in Maryland and didn't really have anyone with whom we could leave the girls. Plus we really thought we would be in and out. So there we are, and they do the whole ferning test and the doctor comes back in and says, "Yep, your water broke. You're stayin' here 'til the baby comes. We won't help things along because you're not 36 weeks yet, but we won't stop things either."

May I please remind you of the date: December 20th. 5 days until Christmas. This was not part of the plan. The nurses then started my IV, complete with fluids and antibiotics because of my broken water, and while they are putting the IV in, my Erin is there and she starts bawling, saying, "Mommy's dying! Mommy's dying!" She was totally traumatized, and by then my last pill of Terbutaline is wearing off and here come the contractions. Lordy. I'm panting and grunting and starting to call in the reinforcements from New Jersey to get their asses in their cars and get down here because we have a situation. It was sometime around now in the story that I look over at my two children and realize that they are totally glassy-eyed, flushed and really messed-up looking. I happened to have a "kid bag" with me that had a digital thermometer in it. Don't ask. I don't know why. So I asked Meg to come over to me and I took her temperature and then I took Erin's temperature and there we were, lo and behold, in L&D with two children who had 102 degree fevers. Yep. We were THOSE people.

So obviously they needed to go to the doctor because what the hell is wrong with them? But Pete had never been to the pediatrician in Maryland, he had no idea where it was, and in his (at that time) 5+ years of fatherhood he had NEVER taken two children to the doctor alone. So I'm on the cell, in labor mind you, making appointments for him to take them to the peds and then writing directions to the doctor on the back of a Color Wonder coloring book so he can try to find it. (Before our purchase of a GPS. How we lived without that thing I'll never know.)

They leave and I'm in L&D and I'm a mess. I'm one of those idiots who knows I'm going to get an epidural at some point but I like to wait as long as possible as to not "slow down" the natural labor process. Plus, they didn't know how quickly I would progress because I was preterm, and it's not like they can hook me up to an epi for a week. And that's what the doctor was predicting - that it could take a week to have her. Yeah, lame.

So I was panting and crying and all alone and my cell phone rang and it was Pete. He was finishing up at the doctor with the kids. And guess what? They had strep throat. Both of them. Strep. Freaking. Throat.

My mind immediately starts reeling because OH. MY.GOD. They were in Labor and Delivery and touched God knows what and they had strep throat. But then I had to switch gears to start directing Pete through Frederick, Maryland, to get to the pharmacy, to take the kids home, to feed them (because the day was shot by then), to put them back in the car to pick up their antibiotics, to take them back home to wait for the grandparents to arrive to come back to the hospital to be with me because we were having a baby. Remember?

Good times.

Next installment...lame medical care. Buckle up...

Feeble-Minded

So remember last Friday when my mom and I took three cracked-out kids to Wegmans? We went and it was like the Mothership from the planet 'Free Samples' had landed in the middle of the store with people literally stuffing their faces every five feet with some other fabulous offering, seducing each of us suckers to believe that we suddenly needed to add that extra $20 worth of "so easy to prepare" food to our already astronomical food bill. Oh, the crack in that store. It's everywhere.

I'm in the door two minutes and the crowd and sampling opportunities, to which my children are succumbing, are so overwhelming, I'm ready to turn tail and leave. With that, I hear a kind woman telling Erin, "They're giving out free slices of pizza! Over there! Whole slices!" She has her own slice folded in on itself and she's delighting in its cheese and free-ness.

So I say, "Oh that's great! Thanks!"
Erin says, "Thanks, Ms. Kathy!"

Puzzled, I quietly ask Erin as we are walking toward the free-pizza bounty, "Does she work at your school?"

To which my six-year-old responds, with a look of disgust and disdain reserved only for children to give to their idiot parents, "No, Mom. She's our neighbor. She lives across the street from us."

Feeble. Freakin' feeble.

Improvements and Ironies

Yesterday did improve a bit. No, I mean, it improved a lot, and my mental state did, too. I got the job that I interviewed for last week and am elated and excited and ecstatic and all of those 'e' adjectives. I think I am going to be much happier having a professional life to juggle. Not that I'm not happy now...but obviously, something feels lacking or open if I went to the interview and got my hopes up the way that I did. So I'm going to do it.

I went to Boot Camp last night, too, and that was an awesome frustration-blaster. I was struck by something ironic, or something, though, when I pulled into the gym parking lot. It's a parking lot jointly shared between the gym and Fuddruckers. While I'm not a huge fan of Fuddruckers, there's something absolutely torturous about getting out of my car to go inflict pain upon my body while smelling greasy burger smell wafting through the humid summer air. It pissed me off and made me think of french fries and that kind of motivation just doesn't help.

I came out of Boot Camp totally burned, having kicked the classes ass, only to set my eyes upon the Fuddruckers and it's little cutesy outdoor cabana-bar area. And what do my eyes behold? Three guys, wearing black tee-shirts claiming "TRAINER" on their backs, pounding beers and feasting on Fuddrucker grub.

Really?? Couldn't they have at least changed shirts? What are their clients, for whom they are a source of motivation and models of behavior, to think? I mean, it's the same parking lot! We fitness-wannabies ARE RIGHT HERE! I'M RIGHT HERE!

Anyway, my new job begins Thursday and I'm looking forward to it. Starting to think "Back to School" and crayons and folders and new shoes and clothes, and then thinking it's a good thing I have a new job to pay for all that stuff. The girls want to do dance lessons and gymnastics and piano and violin...the list goes on and on. It's terrible to be listening to the creative interests blossoming from your children's cores only to be thinking, "Who the hell is gonna pay for that?" So Mommy is gonna pay for it. And that is so fab.

Never, in the history of mankind, has a couple sucked at weekends worse than me and Pete. Every few months we have to have a Call to Jesus meeting of sorts where we fight, then talk, then revamp our plan of attack on life. This weekend, our time was up and it was time for the fight. Only we didn't start the week on a high note the way we usually do when the meeting is over. Instead, I am relieved that he's back to work and frankly, am dreading another weekend at the end of this week.

Here's the fundamental problem: He wants weekends to be time where he does what he needs/wants to do with no notice. He wants to be able to just pick up and go without a care or a thought or a plan. I, on the other hand, need to have things somewhat planned. Not scheduled to a tee, not pinned down hour by bloody hour. But I need to have a general sense of what is going on and what's coming next. Because if I don't, I lose my mind, and therefore, so do the kids.

So that's what the fight was about this weekend. Him being generally dissatisfied with how imprisoned he feels and me simply wanting to have a five-minute conversation on Friday night loosely planning what's to come for the weekend. He refuses to talk, I get bent and pissy, and we get nowhere. Fast.

Here's the glitch (I've pinpointed it, which is helpful now that it's Monday and he's in Long Island and I'm here, back to the grind): He schedules his work days and tasks with great organization and rigid planning. He "doesn't feel like it" on Saturday and Sunday, because those aren't work days. Therefore, he just resists or altogether skips any conversations involving planning.

I, on the other hand, am still in the throes of my work week. All seven days, I need to know what's doing because it is up to me to keep everyone on schedule and on task when we go places, need meals, arrange outings, etc. It never ends. So if I have a slight clue about what he needs to do, I can add that to my agenda and form a plan.

No dice. He won't do it.

Am I alone? Is it my anal-retention that is bringing us here? Am I really asking for too much? Because if I am, I just want to know so that my expectations can be adjusted and we can begin to have happier times on the weekends.

I'm completely, utterly mentally exhausted by all of this today, so much so that I'm cranky and irritable, I have no patience with the kids, and I still feel that I want to beat him. Ugh. Must snap out of it. Thank God Bootcamp is tonight and I can go and beat his phantom ass with my little 2-lb. dumbbells in my hot little hands. Great frustration buster!

South Jersey Pediatric Dentist Makes Cleanings a Breeze

South Jersey Pediatric Dentist Makes Cleanings a Breeze

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All in a year...

Well the proverbial band-aid has been ripped and Jaclyn is officially Florida-bound. We all got together for one last sushi and sake dinner on Thursday night and video-taped all the kids bouncing around, for posterity's sake, of course. Saying farewell was difficult, but lucky for me, my oldest is more dramatic than I could ever hope to be, so her sobbing and carrying on was a wonderful distraction from my own heartbreak.

I was in such a funk yesterday knowing that it was all coming to a close, and realized something in the midst of my funk: it was exactly one year ago, yesterday, that we closed on the sale of our house in Maryland. We were at Jac's house during the actual settlement so we could use Brian's fax machine to finalize the HUD sheets, and then we grilled and boozed and celebrated that we were all back together again.

How much things can change in a year.

On happier notes, I was contacted by the potential employer with whom I interviewed on Thursday for work references. I am hopeful that this means something good and that I didn't sound like a total idiot when we spoke. I thought the interview went well and I know that I really, really want the job. Fingers crossed. And it was my fab mom's birthday yesterday and the girls and I were able to spend the afternoon with her. It was primarily spent trying to navigate our way through Wegmans with three cracked-out kids who love samples, but it was spent together, nonetheless.

I drove home from her house, realizing that it had been exactly a year since we moved back, since we were staying in Pete's parents' house for the week between selling and buying, since Lizzy was teeny-tiny, sleeping in a pack -n- play and eating only from baby bottles and jars of food and baby cereal. A year since Erin and Meghan had felt settled, since none of their earlobes were jeweled and they both had training wheels on their bikes. A year since Pete had started his new job, and since I was able to really put the pieces together to start building a professional life of my own. During my drive, I was feeling sadness and a sense of loss, but did feel a slight perk upon feeling all this other stuff. My family is settled here, my kids are thriving and growing and we are exactly where we want to be. It's so hard to say good-bye. But who knows where we'll be this time next year. They could be back. We could be gone. You just never know where it's all gonna take you.

Today will begin with a run (if I could find my freaking iPod. And I'm sure that when I do, the battery will be dead and that will suck.) But yes, it will start with a run. Then weights, abs, legs. And then I will hope that all that sweating and endorphin-boosting will shake these friggin' grumpies out once and for all so I can be the young, fun, (1-lb. lighter! the scale finally moved!) mom I know I am.

This Weekend: Family Fun In and Around South Jersey

This Weekend: Family Fun In and Around South Jersey

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My Day Friday, Part II

My Day Friday, Part II
Take some time today to let the people you love and value know just how much you do. No regrets.

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The Shift

I have not made much of a mention about this, because it's so roller-coaster of me that I've almost been rolling my own eyes at myself. But if I take the time to lay my thoughts out, it just might make some sense.

A few weeks back, I sent my resume and writing samples to a local magazine in the hopes of getting a shot to freelance for them. I got an interview, instead, to be an account executive, i.e., sell advertising, for them. I responded with appreciation for the opportunity, and accepted the interview, although I was a little confused. But I came to find out the following about the opportunity: It is very flexible, can be done while the kids are in school, mostly work from home, and I'm able to work out a babysitting exchange, much like I recently suggested for my Examiner column, with a friend of mine. So I decided to take the interview and give it all I've got. It's something that could earn us money, pad our savings, give the kids gymnastics or dance lessons and allow us to pay for Christmas without putting it on a credit card. In these times, being so tight, I can't turn down the chance to be able to do these things for my family. And it's still a connection to a local magazine. The opportunity for networking and learning could prove to be invaluable.

Plus, I might need to finally upgrade my phone to an iPhone for this. OOOOOOOOOH! I absolutely love the thought of an iPhone!

I found a professional-looking black dress. "Where?" you may be asking. "Hanging in my closet!" I respond with glee. I have shoes (remember my jaunt to DSW last fall?), understated jewelry, and tweezers to pluck my brows into shape. I have lots of questions about how the job works and decent answers about why I want to do it. I have directions, a car with a GPS and gas in the tank.

I don't have panty hose. I hate panty hose. I probably need to stop and grab a cheap pair on my way.

Other than that, I think I'm ready.

It has been a long time since I went on an interview. A really long time. I've been shuffling around in jeans and sweatpants for almost seven years, and sometimes I get angry at my choice. As the time is coming for me to return, no, enter, the work force, I have to ask my Facebook friends what to wear to an interview. I don't have answers to these very basic questions because it has not been my life. But then I look at the faces of my kids. And I realize that my choice to stay home was made out of love and I am blessed to have had the option. Truly blessed. My days of being home with them are far from over. But my days of having some room to incorporate a job that will make their lives better are beginning. And I'm still writing, to boot, which is in me. It's just a part of me. It's kind of fun to have stayed on this crazy path and actually be able to see why I've gone where I have and enjoy where I am at this moment.

It really is the journey, isn't it?

The Great Divide

So our project this past weekend was to separate the big girls out of the Pit of Despair and into their own rooms. Pete managed to move his office down into the basement and get Erin and Meghan into their own spaces. Why did we do this?

Oh, I'll tell you why.

Because bedtime had turned into a siege every single night, with both of them fighting and crawling so deeply beneath each others' skin in the same room, that we decided to give up the fight. I recognized right away (again) how fortunate we are to be in this home that has given us the ability to spread out and make the spaces work for us in the best way possible.

I'm thrilled to report that they are basking in their separate spaces, going to bed with nary a peep and we have our peaceful evenings back. Viva la quiet!

Manageable Summer Day Trips Around South Jersey

Manageable Summer Day Trips Around South Jersey

Please check out my latest post to Examiner. com using the link above.

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Good thing I disclaimed this blog as being a roller coaster from the gitgo. If you've been reading, you've probably noticed my tornado-esque mind spinning. Am I going to remain home full-time? And I going to try to go back to work full-time? Am I going to school? Am I going to try to actually get this whole writing thing off the ground?

This is very much "me." Always has been. I have noticed, through years of self-examination (in lieu of therapy) that I have a tough time settling down and being content with my life as it is in any one moment. Much of that probably comes from years of events occurring, many of which were out of my control, that would catch me off-guard and require me to jump and deal. So now, when things are calm for any length of time, it doesn't sit all that well with me. I am constantly looking for the "next big thing." A move, a new job, school, a new baby. Something on which to focus my attention.

Recently, I wanted to try to submit some pieces of work to publications on a freelance basis after I had been blogging for awhile and received good feedback. But I didn't. Fear of rejection and feeling arrogant. I have felt arrogant since I started blogging. And then, when I was faced with the thought of actually sending something in to a magazine for consideration...well, let's just say I froze.

So I started to think about nursing school. I still hold great interest in it, but really, who am I kidding? Just because I can let my kid cover me in puke and intestinal worms without flinching does not a nursing candidate make. And the truth is, I found myself looking for ways and reasons to avoid achieving what I really wanted. I thought I could abandon my love for writing by throwing myself into something completely different.

It didn't work.

I just started thinking about this whole thing from my readers' perspectives and thought, "I must seem like a total kook! I change my mind about everything constantly!" And all I can say to that is, yeah, I do and I am a total kook. But I'm getting better. Just applying for this whole Examiner thing and then doing it has been a step toward unkookiness. I'm trying. Trying to sort it all out and figure out how I can be the best mom and wife to my family, and the best person to myself.

This is a long-winded way of saying thanks for staying on the roller coaster with me. It would be so boring if I were just a set in my ways, sure of myself carousel rider. Enjoy the kookiness. We're never in short supply here.

So Many Hats

I have never been to a reading or book signing before. But the star-struck fan in me could not resist the chance to go to Jennifer Weiner's Philly stop on her book tour last night. So I took Erin with me to the reading of her latest release, Best Friends Forever, and then we waited to have my copy of the book (and her autograph book) signed. She was the only six-soon-to-be-seven-year-old there, and I probably should have known then that I had made a poor judgment call. But my daughter, despite having an ear infection, was charming. And we were genuinely happy to have the evening together. I had also given Meghan the option to come with me, and when given the choice between spending more time with Erin and me or staying home with Daddy, she picked Daddy before the sentence had finished its escape from my mouth.

My thought in taking Erin with me was one of educational motivation, as well as wanting some Mother-Daughter bonding time. And this was the type of thing that my parents would have involved me in and exposed me to as a child. Erin loves to read, she loves to write and she has seen Ms. Weiner's name on the spines of books on our bookshelves for years. We had a lovely discussion on the way to the event about different authors that each of us love. ("Mommy, the only way this would be more exciting is if we were going to see Barbara Park. Do you know who Barbara Park is? She's the author of the Junie B. Jones books," she said.)

We found the auditorium and claimed seats off to the side, in the front row, and we waited. Erin was happy and excited and very mature, and I proudly thought, "Ah! Great idea! You're such a good mommy!" Here was an evening where I was a writer, a mother, a fan. I could do it all.

Ms. Weiner took the stage and immediately began her shtick, which more resembled a stand-up comedy show than what I assumed would be a demure book reading in the basement of a library. (Despite having read her FB statuses that there had been use of some adult language at her NYC engagement the evening before, I thought, "Ah, a little profanity never hurt anybody." Me, the all-time-most-sheltering-mother-ever decided to loosen up in the name of education, bonding and whatnot.) Anyway, the truth was that she was incredibly funny, but I sat with my stomach caught in my throat as she let loose obscenities and sexual references the likes of which I simply did not expect. This coming from someone who utters, both silently and aloud, the "F" word to herself at least four hundred times a day. It was unexpected.

Was I put off and surprised because it was truly shocking? Or because I was there with my child? Would I have thought it was just plain funny or another feather in her cap to be so brazen and brave as a woman, uninhibited by convention, had I not been accompanied by my young, impressionable daughter? Or would it have seemed like a misplaced routine, given our setting and the audience, regardless of the company I happened to be keeping?

One fact resonated with me as I digested this evening...you can't wear all the hats at the same time. I am finally finding my niche. I am finally settling my brain into a realization that I DO want a career, however small it may be right now. I am a writer. And that's what I want to do with myself outside of being a Wife and Mommy. Last night, I went as an aspiring writer, having just had my first article published, going to hear and meet an author of some of the most entertaining work I have ever read. So there you have two hats: star-struck fan and inspired newbie. But then that wasn't enough...I had to put the Mommy hat back on, too. So rather than be able to have an evening among adults, where I basked a little bit, I sat, breathless and frightened, about having made a huge Mommy-blunder.

You can't have it all. And you can't wear them all.

I want to be a superwoman. I want to have healthy, well-adjusted, loved children, a strong, happy marriage, a clean house, a blossoming career, great, well-tended-to friendships. I want to do it all. And I can't.

So does that make me defeatist? Or does it make me a realist? Someone who realizes my limitations, or at very least acknowledges that I have them at all, and then works from there? I'm just not sure of the answers yet.

During the Q&A segment of her speaking last night, Ms. Weiner gave a bit of a shout out to SAHMs, saying that she just couldn't be home doing it all the time and had respect for those of us who did. She has fixed her life, she says, so that she cares for her kids and works at her writing. Those are her hats. And she rarely, if at all, wears them at the same time.

So while her language was shocking, it sailed over Little One's head. And even in the midst of me scrutinizing my judgment for having brought my daughter with me last night, Jennifer Weiner taught me something important: It's OK to only be able to wear one hat at a time.

It's always good to have a really, really bad day, because you can usually count on a really, really fabulous one lurking not too far behind.

I went live on examiner.com today with my first article. I'm beyond excited, at a loss for words, and full of ideas. The key is to spread the word and build an audience. That's how I will increase my exposure and eventually branch out into more opportunities to do what I love. So as my readers, friends, followers and obligated family, I ask you to visit the my examiner site daily. Just make it part of your morning routine. Shower. Email. Facebook. All That Mama Drama. Click on big, blue button on top right.

Switching gears, but sticking to writing-talk, it is no secret that I love the work of author Jennifer Weiner. Perhaps the quintessential chick-lit penner, her books (and blogs, for that matter) never cease to amaze me. She writes like no one else, and she's so damn funny. Her newest release, Best Friends Forever, went on sale yesterday and her book tour launched in NYC last night. Well, tonight she's in Philly and my oldest and I are going. I bought the book (a hardcopy splurge...only for her) and I will stand in line endlessly to have her sign it.

I'm so easily star-struck.

Isn't it eerily cosmic that on the day that I have my first little article out there for public consumption on a site other than my own, I will also be meeting my inspiration and favorite author? Me thinks yes.

Cheers.

Baby Steps

After I blogged, yesterday continued to stink like one of those diapers I find myself always changing...but rather than go through the litany of reasons why it was so stinky or let you know all the itty bitty things that went wrong, I'll tell you about how it got better.

I went to the gym.

For some reason, when I am exercising, my moods are in check. I don't get manic. I am calm, tranquil and rational. But in order for that to be the case, I need to exercise 6 times a week. No less. Doing something. A little bitta something. 6 days a week. Sometimes twice a day. I missed my run on Saturday and wasn't able to wake up early enough on Sunday to really get my workout in. So by yesterday my endorphins were in the toilet, I felt like poop, and my motivation to stay on track with eating healthy had gone right out the window. No reserves.

After I emotionally grazed and munched my way through any and all junk food I could find in my cupboards, I decided to go to the 6:30 pm "Cardio-Kickboxing Boot Camp" class at the gym. I needed to be hazed. Bad Mommy needed a good ass-kicking.

I went. I worked it. I sweat like a man. I had a salad for dinner when I came home. I went to bed. I was able to send Bad Mommy away.

I am working, every day, on changing these bad habits and destructive behaviors. I am a serious emotional eater. Particularly when Lizzy was sick, I hit an all-time low. I ate and drank my way through her NICU experience, and that's how I continued to deal with the pain and stress after she came home. PTSD is a bitch...but chocolate and wine can quiet it down in a big hurry. For a little while, anyway.

Now it's 19 months (almost) since she arrived, she's healthy as a horse, my other two are setting the world on fire...what do I have to be stressed about? I know real stress and fear. And even on days like yesterday, I can stand back and say, "This is nothing." There is really no excuse for not working out and there is absolutely no excuse for abusing my body by dumping sugar and carbs and crap into it.

My baby-step for today: Sugar Purge. Ridding the house of any and all cupboard-crutches. Out. They. Go. Not to be bought again.

Bad Mommy

Today is not my favorite. I'm battling with my husband, have not worked out in three days and am mothering children who more resemble caged animals than little girls. It being Monday and all, I do understand the grains of salt one must hold onto in order to survive these kinds of days. But all that salt seems to be doing is finding its way into the scratches, scrapes and claw marks left behind by my family.

I pose this question: Do they treat us badly because we truly are as insignificant as they can make us feel on any given day? Or is it just because we are always here, and haven't packed a bag and taken off yet, so they think there's a better chance than not that we'll be staying no matter what they say or do to make us want to do otherwise?

I now understand why certain moms go on strike. I'm seriously contemplating one here. Because nothing else is getting my point across. The proverbial straw? As follows:

Meghan: "Can we go somewhere with rides today?"
Mom: "No."
Meghan: (storming away, stomping feet) "I hate mommy."

Yep. I'm thinking going on strike is just what is in order.

With all of the surgeries, replacements, transplants and reconstruction options available to people in this crazy day and age, why has some brilliant neurosurgeon not figured out how to surgically implant a conscience into a person? Or even tinker with the part of the brain that feels remorse, or compassion, or just urges one to not be completely irritating to those around them? Because if that brilliant neurosurgeon of my dreams had done such a thing, I would be first in line asking them to drill into my firstborn's head to do just that.

I sound harsh for sure. I admit that. But it comes from nearly seven years of mental exhaustion and being beaten into submission on a daily basis about...well, you name it. My oldest is very, very smart. And with that intelligence comes an uncanny knack for button-pushing. She pushes and she pushes and she pushes...and if she would just be this kind of nudge at school, someone would probably tell us to seek mental help. But she's an angel at school or in any other group setting where she's away from her parents, sisters, and usually, grandparents, because she makes them cuckoo, too. So no one wants to help when kids are just a pain in the rear at home. Family dynamic is blamed. Competition for attention. Boredom. Anxiety. And the famous excuse, which is becoming surprising valid the more and more kids I meet...She's a Leo.

I could go on and on with a littany of examples, but that's a bore. Suffice it to say that I hope I live to see that day that she is:
a) able to appreciate how hard I worked to not only raise and care for her, but to not kill her in the process and
b) (wait for it...you know it's coming) is attempting to deal with a child just like her.

I am off to run, get the big girls ready for a two-hour drive to Pennsylvania to attend my cousin's wedding, then a two-hour drive back home to have our friends to bring their children to our house so we can watch them through Sunday evening while they do the American Cancer Society's City to Shore Bike Race. Please visit the hyperlink to make any donations to them. We all know someone touched by this awful disease, and Bill and Tiff's efforts in this race are admirable. And I get to host my first sleepover! We're thinking Smores and fireflies tonight and tie-dyeing tee shirts tomorrow? Can't wait! Busy busy busy...

Sneak Peek => First examiner.com article topic: Navigating motherhood in the digital age.

Yesterday, from beginning to end, was a hoot.

I woke up early, went for my run, and got myself and the kids ready to start a busy Wednesday. We were going over to PA to see my good friend (another Kate), but I wanted to get my filthy car washed first. I unwittingly chose a place that has "Ladies' Day Wednesdays" and it cost me less than $10 bucks to get the funk-mobile washed. But get this...they brought it out and the top was still dirty and the bird doody stains hadn't come off. So they put it through again for a scrub and re-wash. And didn't charge me! Despite my being embarrassed and mortified that my vehicle was that dirty, I was psyched. An under-$10-double-wash? You can't beat that with a stick.

So off we went to see Kate and her beautiful daughter, Anna. We have had such a great time reconnecting over the past few months (another shout-out to Facebook for bringing us together), and looking around a room filled with our daughters is a hoot. The low-point occurred, of course, when Liz picked up a blue, plastic maraca and bludgeoned Anna in the head with it. Anna sobbed, she was taken so by surprise as The Silent Assassin came out of nowhere and made her her next victim.

We got ourselves together, walked into Narberth (cutest darn town) and had lunch, walked some more to a playground, walked some more to Maggie Moo's and then walked some more back to Kate's. My older daughters were amazing! I have no idea how many miles we walked, but they hoofed it every step of the way and didn't complain once. It was awesome. Naturally, my hopes were high that this would be enough to wear them out and make them go to bed on time. I was wrong.

I digress...I arrived back home and found an email waiting for me inviting me to join Examiner.com as their "Stay-at-Home Mom" Examiner. Meaning, I will be writing several articles a week about what I do and where I go with my kids and will be promoting them on Facebook and Tweeter and StumbleUpon.com in order to get peeps to read, just like I do for Mama Drama. But the difference is that they'll throw some money at me for my writing. First. Time. Ever!

Excitement is high. Ideas are brewing. New chapters are beginning. No pun intended.

A Little Nugget to Ponder.

Today, I bought new shampoo and conditioner for myself and Pete. Each bottle cost .79 cents. On sale. It smells good. Like coconuts. I was psyched. What a deal! Why do we need anything expensive in the shower?

Then I searched high and low to buy Lizzy her baby shampoo/bath gel. Because it too smells good. And is easier on her oh-so-sensitive-skin.

It costs $6.99. Plus tax. Not on sale.

You do the math and let me know how, in the name of all that is holy, that makes any damn sense at all.

The Sweet Spot

Let me first start by saying the Philly is the best city on Earth, and I am so so so so so so so happy to be back home for the Fourth this year. There is NO place like home.






Last night was ridiculous...we went to the Phillies game on what had to be one of the top ten greatest nights of all-time to watch a game in a ballpark. The weather was perfect, our seats were way up high and gave us a glorious view of sunset and the skyline. We drank beers and laughed together the entire time. We did a lot of hand-holding, too, which I liked a lot.

I started really thinking last night about how lucky I am. I am still stupid-in-love with my husband. Like the way we were when we were kids. He has the kindest heart, is a great person, he makes me laugh and he works so hard to take care of me and my kids. We've been through some ridiculously hard times together, which I can now look back upon and love because those are the times that not only make our knowledge and understanding of each other deeper and more real, but they are also the only reasons I can tell when we're in the Sweet Spot. I'm not sure what I did to deserve this life of mine, but I'm so grateful for every piece of it. And all of the pieces begin with my finding him, hanging on tight, and us never letting go of each other.

I'm shmoopy, I know. And this peak will eventually drop off into a trough out of which we will have to climb. But when you're in the Sweet Spot, you have to say it and be grateful for it. Because you never know when it's gonna come back around again.

What an amazing weekend so far. Yesterday was so wonderful...spent the day together as a family and the evening with friends and new neighbors. The only bad part about the day was when we went to the pool, I allowed Pete to peek into my days and he promptly said to me, "Well, you have no room to complain ever, ever again about anything!" And he's right. Being at the pool with two parents is different, and when I'm there alone, I never sit in a chair and allow the sun to deliberately freckle my face as I caught him doing several times yesterday. But I gotta day, it ain't bad. Lizzy zooms around, occasionally gets into the pool, and then looks for people to hit. And the other two frolic like gazelles from one activity to another, only coming to me for a towel to warm up or quarters for the snack bar. It occurred to me to truly feel guilty at the thought of me getting to spend my summer days like that while he's working his tail off. But such are the perks of being a stay-at-home mommy. Some days you're covered in puke. Other days, you're chillin' poolside. Either way, there are still diapers that will need changing.

Today will be another great time...we are driving up to meet my brother and his fiance to look at a potential place for their wedding that is slated to happen in early September. I can't wait to see the two of them and to have lunch at this restaurant, Rat's. My mom and I went last weekend to check it out and it has to be one of the coolest places I've ever seen. So to be with them, my mother, grandmother, and with my hubby and kids in this great place will be a blast. Then my super-duper mother has bestowed Phillies tickets upon us tonight and offered babysitting services, to boot! I think they're playing the Mets, but honestly, I could care less who they are playing. I am just thrilled to be able to go out tonight, do something so fun with Pete and be outside. The weather's been gorgeous and I have been soaking up every moment of it! And there will be fireworks!!

Life is fairly freakin' fantastic right now.

A Few Things

~Bad Mommy takes picture of baby doing naughty tricks and wonders why she keeps on doing it. But seriously, how can you not take a picture of this cuteness? Yes, she's standing on my island.



~My kids are delightful lately. Yesterday was the unthinkable second day in a row of bliss, and while I have no delusions that it will last forever, they are doing a number on me. I can feel that honeymoon, newborn, heart-melting gushy loving going on with all of them and it makes me want to freeze time. I love phases like this. No matter how long they last.

~I have overhauled myself and am in Week 4 of this transformation. It's the first time in a long time that I can honestly say that I feel healthier, through and through, and can look in the mirror and be proud of my choices. I feel like I'm setting a healthy example for my daughters, and that has always been a goal of mine that's been really hard to acheive. At least in the past two years. I am considering starting a new blog space just for "me" and my fitness/nutrition endeavors...something free of both the Mama and the Drama.

~Lizzy is starting to show interest again in the potty. This thrills me for obvious reasons.

~Erin is riding a two-wheeler...free of training wheels. Dear God.

~Meghan is swimming like a fish, sticking her whole face in the water and letting her whole head get wet. Massive step.

~Pete is off tomorrow and Friday for the holiday weekend and you would think, by my excitement level, that it was a six-month sebaticle. I am just so looking forward to time together. I miss him during the week, even when he's working upstairs, so to not have to share him with The Man is righteous.

~Fingers crossed for another beautiful, blissful day in the Garden of Motherhood. And best wishes to you for the same in your Garden of ________.