The Mommies Diaries…one blog at a time

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Kansas City, lived a greedy king. King Hallmark was a mighty monarch who ruled his land with excessive taxation and inflation of goods, pushing many of his people into poverty.

One day, the king decided that he wanted more treasure. He had taxed the people to the limits he knew; so he came up with another idea to extract waht little was left from the citizens of Kansas City.

He summoned his chief scribe to his palace.

“We will be having a new feast day, peasant, and you will have specific duties to perform.”

The little man twitched with his feather quill, “Whatever you deem, sire.”

“You and your fellow scribes must write out parchments with sappy love sayings and pithy phrases. We will then sell them to the villagers at 5 gold pieces each.” the king said.

“But, but, but, sire… Yesterday my writings only cost a pence, who will play such a price for my nonsense on this day?”

“I do not pay you to think! Just do as you are ordered!” The king roared.

As the scribe hurried off, the king summoned his chief gardener.

“Gardener, for my new feast day, you will sell your flowers at market. You will fetch 80 gold pieces for a dozen of your most mediocre roses,” the king ordered.

“Sire, are you certain of this decree? My flowers only fetched 9.99 gold peices yesterday, who will pay such a mark-up?” the gardener asked, his shears shaking.

“Be gone with you, Sir FTD!”

FTD hurried away.

Next, the king called for his chief cook. She hobbled in front of him shaking at his wrath.

“Cook, you will prepare confections for peasants. I want you to then place the confections into a golden box and sell them at market for 100 gold pieces.”

Not wanting to question the orders of the king, the cook replied, “What would you like these confections to be called, Your Highness?”

The king regarded her for a moment, and replied, “You shall name them after my crazy sister-in-law, Lady Godiva. Now, be gone with you.’

The cook scrambled away to her kitchen.

“Now that I have the market prepared for this feast, I will need my chief sorcerer to come before me.” the king reflected.

Moments later, the sorcerer appeared before the king in a cloud of blue smoke. “You summoned me, sire?”

“Yes, I need you to cast a spell over the entire kingdom. For on this one day in February, I wish for the ladies to become hyper-sensitive, nagging wenches. For the gentlemen, you must blanket them in a shroud of guilt, so that they release their satchel strings freely, just to get the wailing to stop. Are you up for such a task, sorcerer?”

“Indeed, sire. It shall be done.”

The next day, the king and the sorcerer watched the activity at the marketplace. Paupers, tradesman and noblemen all rushed the merchants,t throwing gold pieces at them like rain. Sir Zale the blacksmith was overwhelmed with orders. Sir Ty the toymaker could not believe that grown men were buying his wares. Even the seamstress Victoria was inundated with requests for petitions and corsets.

The sorcerer exclaimed, “Oh, Your Majesty, what a wonder lies before us My magic is not so powerful as to create all of this spending madness. However were you able to dictate love and romance by just the sun dial?”

King Hallmark smiled sheepishly, as he regarded his over-flowing treasure chest.

“Why Magician, don’t you know anything is possible when you wear the Gold Crown?”

The End.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.  I could literally feel the bad mood heavy upon my shoulders – and yet, it was a force that I couldn’t shake.  Sometimes, just being aware that something exists isn’t enough to chase it away.  And sometimes still, willing it to go away just isn’t enough either.  So, rather than expending energy that I didn’t have trying to chase something away that wouldn’t budge, I just decided to let it linger.

The brown sugar and cinnamon Pop-Tart that I’m eating while I write this, however, is making great strides in taking me to a happier place.

I am going to begin by blaming my Grumpy Pants on raging hormones.  I just read that in the third trimester, mood swings make an ugly reappearance.  This is a legitimate fact, straight from babycenter.com.  And now, I am going to hop off the passive, I-have-no-control train, and take some responsibility.  In between bouts of wanting to rip someone’s eyes out, and wanting to pull the covers tightly over my head where no one could witness me eat an entire box of cookies (which I don’t actually have in the house, and that’s really pissing me off!) – I have been analyzing why this mood might be.

Here’s the deal.  I’m tired, and I am carrying around a boatload of guilt about being tired.  I woke up exhausted this morning. I am no longer sleeping because my hips ache, my lower back is on fire, and my groin feels as though it’s been held in tact by a fraying fiber.  Tossing and turning all night doesn’t just mean moving from one side to the other – it means rearranging a fortress of pillows around me at each wriggle.  When the 7:00 am request for cartoons came blaring out of DJ’s mouth, I felt myself slither under the silent question, “REALLY?”  Really? Already? Cartoons again?  Caillou?  Caillou whose parents make me feel inferior in every episode due to the extreme patience they exhibit?

I wanted to wake up to silence.  I wanted to pour a cup of decaf, turn on something like the Today show, and totally veg out in my PJ’s until the smell of my own coffee breath finally forced me into the shower.  I wanted to be on my own agenda.  However, anyone with a toddler knows – it’s their agenda….all the time.  So, Caillou it was.  Did I mention that I loathe Caillou’s parents?

By 8:00 am, I got a burst of motivation and decided to do some cooking. I made a batch of mini-quiches, and hadn’t realized it in the moment – but that was my attempt to get some time alone, in a creative capacity, lost in my own thoughts over a cheese grater.  It lasted only briefly, until DJ insisted on dragging a chair to the kitchen sink (naked with just her rain boots on….which, I admit, provided some much-needed comic relief) to wash her plastic animal toys.  Oh, right, there is a two-year-old reigning queen in this house.

After cooking, I decided to spend some time on the computer.  I wanted to post a few recipes to my blog, order the wall decal for our nursery, update my Paypal account so there’d be nothing standing between me and my Etsy purchases, and maybe – just maybe, if there were time….check Facebook.

Just as I settled into my chair, and DJ was seemingly distracted by who knows what, she decided that I had to find her “little mouse.” After digging through her bottomless toy bins, followed by a search through both the cats’ and the dogs’ toy collections – I realized she was referring to a tchotchke my husband picked up a Design show.  Quite literally, a tiny computer mouse.  Once I found it and handed it over, DJ crawled up into my chair, plugged in the mouse and directed me as to what she wanted next…”Videos of baby me.”  And there we sat, watching baby videos for what seemed like an hour.  I somehow managed to order the decal, and update my Paypal account – but that was in between “Can I have some chocolate milk?” “Can I have some toast?” “Can you make it louder?” “Can we see that one again?” Up and down, up and down, filling orders and pressing my groin to it’s limit.

The remainder of the day has followed suit.  I took a shower while sweet little blue eyes peered at me from behind the curtain – sporadically being hit in the shins with launched toys.  I spent my lunchtime at DJ’s preschool (where I’d normally commiserate with other moms in a separate room) sitting beside her on a teeny tiny plastic, orange chair (which did wonders for my expanding butt complex).  I spent DJ’s otherwise independent outdoor playtime pushing her around a cement track in a plastic car.  And, I have spent the greater part of her nap lying beside her as she clutches my hair because, today, she just won’t allow space between us.  Of course, on a day, when I need nothing more than an independent, deep breath.

I am grumpy because I have one child literally growing inside of me, and I have another child clinging to my every appendage. Aside from this heavy thing sitting on top of my neck, called a head, I am pretty certain every ounce of me has been overtaken by kid’s needs.  Wait, I take that back – last night DJ got a comb stuck in my hair, ripping strands from my scalp.  Lord, even my head has been sacrificed in the name of Motherhood!!!  My poor husband…..after a long day at work, all he wants is a kiss hello when he walks through the front door – and all I want is to peel one person off of me, hand her over, and reclaim (if even for a moment) my own body (in between baby kicks inside my belly, of course).

I have not been carving out enough time for myself – and it’s become very apparent today that I need to.  I need to let go of the guilt that says my job is to be a stay-at-home mom, which means making every moment of every day about my kids.   I need to release the guilt that says another baby is on the way, and I must devote every second to loving DJ up before that adjustment occurs.  However, when you leave no time for refueling, there’s no means of giving left – there’s just no way to give your kids 100% when you’re running on fumes.  I am learning this, painfully.

Needing time away from my daughter certainly doesn’t mean that I love her any less. It just means that I’m important, too.  It means that I’m not just a shell of a person, but an individual – a woman. Not just a mom.  Not just a wife.  A woman.  I think it’s important for DJ to see me take time for myself, too.  She needs to understand that separation is only temporary – and that reunions are really, really sweet and special.

So, with that said – tomorrow morning I am dropping DJ off at her Noni and Papa’s house, and I am going to (in this particular order) get my eyebrows waxed, soak in a candle-lit and lavender bath at the spa for 25 minutes, enjoy a prenatal massage and then treat myself to some indulgent lunch which will likely include a shrimp cocktail.  Or an apple crisp with vanilla ice cream.  Or a giant burger topped with mushrooms and crispy onion strings.

And then, I will pick DJ up from her grandparents house, and will likely squeeze her too tight from having missed her all morning – and Mrs. Grumpy Pants will be held at bay for another several weeks while I coast on with renewed energy and an awakened sense of self.

Is it tomorrow yet?

The whole time I was pregnant with DJ, I prayed that no matter what her personality developed to be, that there’d be an element of unwavering sweetness and compassion underneath it all.  Well, we’ve truly been blessed because even on her most dreadful days, she’s still worried about the crying baby in the grocery store.

DJ is always the first kid to offer another child a kind pat on the back if she witnesses them fall down.  She’s the first kid to stop whatever she’s doing, follow the sounds of distress and quietly say “It’s OK,” while looking the upset person right in the eye.  She is drawn to kids who are smaller, who seem quieter, and who are a bit different.

Last week I took DJ to the park.  It was one of our warmer January days, and we hadn’t been out to play in what seemed like a really long time.  Once on the playground, DJ quickly observed a little boy who was about her age.  He had hearing aids, thick-rimmed glasses, and wasn’t as stable on his feet as other children his age might be.  His mom was keeping a watchful eye on him, and several times, acting very sweetly as an advocate for him.  “Well, he let you play with his chalk, it would be nice if you would allow him into your fort,” she’d say to the other kids who had already assembled themselves into cliques.

DJ of course, was drawn right to this little boy.  She asked to play with his chalk, and watched him carefully – not as if she noticed anything different about him, but more out of concern that he, too, was enjoying the park.  I made several attempts to spark up conversation with the boy’s mother, and arrogantly felt proud of my daughter for the ways she was naturally keeping him included in her play.  Unfortunately, the other mother just wasn’t interested in talking with me.  I immediately judged her.  With a killer body like that, she must be a real snob.

Anyhow, about an hour or so passed by and DJ had found some other area of interest, and the little boy was happily off blowing bubbles with his mom.  I noticed that his mom had warmed up to another playground mom.  The other mom had two small daughters – one about DJ’s age, and the other just learning how to walk.  I felt a twinge of jealousy.  What did this mom have that I didn’t?  What did her daughters have that DJ didn’t?  How come the boy’s mother got friendly with her, and not me?  Man, was I in high school again or what?

I eavesdropped only long enough to hear the two talking about some sort of testing.  I honed in because I am smack in the midst of hormonal, pregnancy-induced anxiety and I feel myself listening to any and all stories involving children’s health.  And then I heard, “Most all infertility issues are directly related to low sperm count.”  Oh, ok – they weren’t talking about anything I needed to know.  Clearly, my husband’s sperm is working just fine.

Then, BOOM – the most gut-wrenching line came spilling out of the boy’s mother’s mouth swith as much anger, sadness, and truth that she could express, “I’m sorry for venting, it’s just that I see all these pregnant bellies around me, and it is so frustrating.”

That was just it.  My husband’s sperm was fine.  And, what did that other mom have that I didn’t?  Regular jeans.  I was, for that discouraged woman, just another reminder of her struggles with infertility.  It’s not that she didn’t like me, or my compassionate child – it’s that my over-the-belly elastic pants struck a chord in her that provoked deep pain and palpable resentment.  She desperately wanted what I had.  My story didn’t matter much to her, all she knew is that the end result was a rotund tummy.

For a moment, I felt guilty and selfish.  I was immediately taken back to some of the hardest moments that I’ve had in friendship.  Some of my best girlfriends have experienced miscarriage and infertility, and while they’ve literally been doubled over in despair, I’ve heard myself make them promises like “It will all be ok.”  What a shallow bit of encouragement to offer to someone whose entire world feels bleak, robbed, and short of what’s meant to be.

I cannot pretend to understand the struggles of infertility, and no matter how hard I try to approach such issues with tenderness – I am still a reminder to some women of how unfair life can be.   This tears me up inside because it’s not a deliberate comparison, it’s not an illustration that I can control or temper.  It just is.  It is my life, in parallel with the lives of other women.

So, to the mother of the boy in glasses – and to all the women out there who can relate to her, you are heroic.  You are heroic for getting up every morning, and stepping out into a world where harsh reminders of what your soul cries out for, surround you every day.  You are heroic for choosing at least one person, be it a stranger in the park, or your best friend, whom you share your candid thoughts with.  You are heroic for blowing bubbles in a park, filled with children, when you want nothing more than your own babies.  You are even heroic for protecting your heart in ways that feel necessary – even if that means avoiding certain people just because they represent something that causes you pain.  You are heroic for not losing hope.  Don’t lose hope.

I am reminded that we all have something that someone else potentially longs for.  I have caught myself dreaming of what it would be like to be this person or that, to have so and so’s problems (or, in my mind, lack thereof).  I have spent too many moments thinking that if I just had this, or that, then I’d really be happy.  But, what I am learning is that we all struggle.  We all have broken hearts, and delayed dreams.  We’re all just trying to survive some days – and that they very things we seemingly take for granted, are the very things that can make or break relationships.

While we shouldn’t be ashamed of our blessings, we should always remember that everyone has a story.

So here’s the thing. I hate crowds. I really, really hate crowds. I hate crowds the way I hate sites like Groupon and Living Social. I like a bargain as much as the next person, but I hate the feeling of “OMG, I have to buy this oil change for my car and $20 worth of drinks at a bar that I have never been to rightthisveryminute before the deal passes me by!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG!!!!!!!!” It’s why I will never, ever be caught dead at a Black Friday or even a Cyber Monday sale. Crowds and the frenzy of people searching for DEALSOMGDEALS!!!!! is not for me.

Well friends, yet another chapter closes in this adventurous book called “Life.”  Last week I transitioned out of the part time position managing a Silicon Valley entrepreneur’s calendar, which I’ve had since April.  It was a bittersweet time – though admittedly, aired on the sweeter side.

The job was a great fit for me.  It’s an exciting start-up company, whose vision I truly believe in.  I was surrounded by really talented, and down-to-earth people.  Most importantly though, it served a great purpose in my life as it helped coach me through the identity crisis that I was having about becoming a stay-at-home mom.  It gave me an outlet – a place to be someone other than a mother, a place to think about things other than snacks, discipline, and potty training.  It gave me a place to be an adult.

However, it also helped me realize that my heart was at home.  As much as I thought I needed a place that was just mine, after several months of trying to fit working hours into my already full day, I realized that my special place was, in fact, found in motherhood.  I have often told people that when I decided to work part time, I hadn’t simultaneously decided to cut back on my hours of being a mom.  So, there was a constant conflict of interest – and conflict of the heart.  I never actually wanted to take time away from DJ, and slowly, I realized that my time with her was indeed slipping away.  It was time to make a change.  It was time to get back to the job I was really called to do.

On Thursday, after the final day of training my replacement, DJ and I went out for ice cream.  It was such a sweet time of celebration.  While she didn’t know what we were celebrating, I am certain that she felt my presence.  I was there, really there with her for the first time in several months.  I didn’t feel the need to pull out my iPhone and check my email as we were sitting there.  I wasn’t preoccupied with thoughts about which meetings I still needed to confirm.  I wasn’t in a hurry to get home to craft an email to someone before the end of the day.  I was just there.  Savoring every sticky bite, and hanging onto DJ’s every word.  Man, she’s a cool kid.

It was really important to me that I planned for alone time with DJ before our second baby girl comes along.  I always knew that I wanted at least one month of not working before my due date.  But, as the end of 2011 approached, I realized that one month just wasn’t long enough for me.  That’s when I pushed for a January transition.  And now, I am so, so grateful that I worked in a supportive enough environment that this request was honored.

As my due date gets closer…..less than 3 months away, I am sitting in the midst of the most precious season.  I am totally and completely committed to giving DJ 100% of my attention, while also earnestly awaiting the arrival of her sister.  I am teetering between a love that I know intimately well, and a love that I can only imagine.  I am realizing that this is an extraordinary and significant time of my life.  In another 3 months, I will be a mom of two.  I will be sharing my time, my heart, my patience, my strength, my dedication.  I will be raising two lovely girls – and I will, inevitably, wonder where I’ve gone at some point.  Sooner or later, I will dream about a part time job.  I will dream about a place that belongs to just me.

And then, I will remember this week.

I will remember the freedom that I have felt in leaving a job that I appreciated.  I will remember the look in DJ’s eyes as we sat and ate ice cream cones until her very last bite.  I will remember the weight lifted off my shoulders as I closed my laptop and didn’t feel the need to reopen it after dinnertime.  I will remember what it felt like this morning, to sit and watch the full 75 minutes of Milo and Otis with DJ without once checking email.

As I get more and more excited to meet this baby girl, I am also feeling more and more protective of my time with DJ.  I am realizing that the sacrifices of parenting never cease….that even when you’re blessed to be a stay-at-home mom, you still struggle to create more time with your children.  You still fight the distractions of every day life, the temptations that you’re somehow missing out on something, or that you could be happier if you were just doing more for yourself.

Last night, as I tucked DJ in and lied down next to her (yes, I still lay beside her every single night until she falls asleep despite all of the experts who tell me not to), she said “I want to go in your arms, mommy.”   So, I took her tightly in my arms, and she said “Keep me safe, mommy.”  I whispered back, “Always.”  In that moment, I knew that keeping her safe simply meant being present with her.  Whether holding her in my arms, or playing along with whatever her imagination conjures up, or listening – really, really listening when she talks….it is my job, and more importantly, my privilege to be present with her.

I am fortunate to get to be with her day in and day out.  I know that not everyone has this opportunity, and I certainly don’t take it for granted.  I am not claiming to be a better mom because I have more time with her.  What does make me a better mom (for DJ, not in comparison to others), however, is the ability and courage to end one chapter because I can see that the beginning of the next is so much more beautiful.

Celebrating New Year’s Eve can be a bit of a challenge for parents. Family-fying a traditionally adult event isn’t always easy.

There are parents who have special adult-only evenings planned with dining, dancing and a toast at midnight. I envy those who have a reservation at a restaurant that doesn’t have paper placemats and crayons. But there are some others who have reservations of a different sort, and prefer to spend New Year’s Eve at home, or with friends close by rather than venturing too far or too long on the roads. And it is we who will begin the challenging task of kid=proofing the evening for the Baby New Year.

Some will host or attend gatherings with friends in which we serve sparkling cider. I know of some parents who move their clocks ahead for those little ones who can’t make it to the real midnight. If you hear the banging of pots and pans at 9pm, you’ll know why. Still others will gather around the TV playing board games and waiting for the ball to drop in Time Square. We’ll tell our kids that we used to watch Dick Clark just like they are now, and we won’t be surprised if their children do the same. We’ll laugh, have a family dance party to Pit Bull, eat dad’s famous burgers, watch endless Best and Worst Lists of 2011.  Our children will Google “Auld Lang Syne,” and we’ll pretend we know all of the words.

The kids will no doubt be figuring out how half the world straddles one year while the other remains in the past. While we adults make resolutions, they will be calculating their new ages, and try to convince us of the math with new entitlements. While they fast forward in anticipation of their upcoming milestones, we will briefly wish for that pause-button — slowing down time rather than drinking a toast to it. Because this is the moment when celebrating is markedly different between parent and child. Not in the choice of bubbly to ring in the New Year, but the pace in which we march to it.

Because as parents, celebrating the passage of time is a bittersweet occasion. Watching them grow up so quickly, we don’t need pots and pans signaling the passing of the years — we’ve got fireworks every day. And so while we parental types welcome in the New Year with all of its hopes and promises, we can’t help but mourn just a little for the last one. Father Time’s arrival can be a little rough on a mother. For me, family-fying New Year’s means holding on to mine a little tighter.

Chocolate cake, or homemade peanut butter cookies, or candy canes, or gummy worms…..whatever, really.  Whatever stops the crying, gives me a moment of peace, and makes DJ like me, rather than revolt against me with her entire being.  I’m talking about breakfast, and my worn out gauge on what’s appropriate. I’m talking about feeling like a failing mother. I’m talking about being exhausted.

Two weeks ago, I was totally down for the count.  I was the most sick that I can remember being.  I had a double dose of the blahs – sinusitis and either tonsillitis or strep throat.  Because I had already started taking antibiotics when I went in for a throat culture, the lab couldn’t get an accurate reading.  The diagnosis isn’t nearly as important though as the impact that this had on my life.  For one week, I had to depend on others.  For one week, DJ’s schedule went completely out the window.  For one week, I couldn’t bring myself to cook for my family – to do laundry or dishes or even vacuum.

And then, one week turned into two weeks.

As I began feeling better, I lost another week of life just catching up on the life that I had lost the week before.  I spent all of last week catching up on emails, paying bills, doing piles upon piles of laundry and cooking things like steamed swiss chard to try to make up for the many meals of string cheese, strawberries and crackers that I served to DJ while I was sick.  Well into last week, I realized that I was still just trying to keep the peace in our home, and I was pressing the “Easy Button,” over and over and over again.

I don’t know about your toddler, but mine is a creature of habit.  She thrives on routine – right down to the order of the four books we read every single night.  Having mommy in bed for a week totally threw her off.  She was bored, frustrated and I’m certain – disappointed in me.  It was hard enough that I had gone from an aspiring Super Mom with fun outings and activities planned daily, to pregnant mom – exhausted and, well, exhausted.  But now, now I was exhausted pregnant and sick mom.  I am sure she hardly recognized the woman who was making daily promises to turn it all around soon.  She began acting out.  And I began acting lazy.

What will make you happy this morning?  One of the homemade cookies we baked last night?  For breakfast?  Sure, why not.  You’d like to watch Tangled five times today?  Of course we can do that.  Oh, what’s that?  You’d like to open one of your Christmas presents a few weeks early?  Alright.

Yuck – I feel so dirty just admitting to all of that.  But, I have always vowed to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth through my blog.  And, the truth is – I probably pretty fairly earned the “Bad Mom” award these past two weeks.  However, in my quest to get back on track and analyze just how everything went so wrong – I am also going to cut myself a little slack.  I was trying to survive.

A really dear friend was kind enough to text me pretty regularly while I was sick.  She just wanted to check in, offer her help if I needed it, and shower me with lovely words of support.  In one of our exchanges, I told her that I really just wanted to cry as I began thinking about how on earth I was going to raise two children.  I freaked out.  I had a lapse in confidence.  I had an “OH CRAP” moment.

She reminded me that I was going to be a great mom.  She reminded me that just as I had adjusted to life with one child, I would naturally adjust to life with two.  Then she wrote a line that I keep repeating over and over in my little brain….”You’ll look back on this time of being pregnant while trying to raise a toddler, and you’ll realize how freakin hard it was.”  Brilliant.  Insightful.  Wise.  This is freakin hard.

Just like no one tells you that you’re going to poop during labor, or that you’ll need to wear an ice pack in your granny panties, or that your boobs will leak milk when you’re out grocery shopping and hear another baby cry – no one tells you that being pregnant while chasing a two year old from sunrise to sunset is HARD.  Really, really hard.

So, when I got sick, there was a definite interruption in my auto-pilot mode.  While I would have preferred not having a fever for 5 days and feeling like I had jelly beans stuck up my nostrils and razor blades in my throat – it did force me to stop and realize that I needed a break.  I needed to ask for help.  I needed to hang up the Super Mom cape for a little bit.  I needed to just be a worn-out mom.

And while I didn’t necessarily need to feed DJ chocolate cake for breakfast, I did need a few days without tantrums.  I did what I had to do.  Am I paying the price now?  Absolutely.  She’s wondering where her Willy Wonka mom went – but, now I have the perspective and energy to deal with the ever-changing tides of my two year old’s moods.

Long live bribery and the price we pay for resorting to such measures.  And may we cut even good moms the slack they need to feed their kids breakfast cookies without judgment.

P.S. If you’ve never seen this sketch by Bill Cosby, you must watch it!  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JcVcRMS4ejQ

In the bizarre world of holiday shopping, there is the infamous “Black Friday.” Soon after arrives “Cyber Monday.” Eventually the “Day After Christmas,” is upon us.  But I think retailers are still missing the majority of the shopping population with these minor sales events.

What about “Freak Out Friday?” That day when you realize that you are turning the calendar page to December and you haven’t purchased one gift, decorated nary a bough nor baked a single Snickerdoodle? You can hear the collective scream of panic in every household in America. They say it’s one of the few sounds heard from space.

And don’t tell me you’ve never hear of “At Least Twice Thursday?” That’s the day where you go to the same store you’ve been to at least twice using twice as much gas to scour the same items in the same aisles only to find nothing new but you pay double the original price because you’ve waited so long. I usually end this day with two aspirins and a double shot of eggnog.

And no where do I see ‘Waste a Whole Sunday Afternoon Perusing Outdated Catalogs” day advertised. This is the weekend in which I will leaf through the six foot high stack of catalogs in my bedroom wondering why I’ve dog-eared page 112 in Hammacher Schlemmer in July when I vowed to do this early. Since I will never reconstruct who was supposed to receive the cashmere earmuffs with the LED lit covers or the electric granita maker, I will abandon the exercise after four hours and then mourn those lost minutes when I could have been working on The World’s Largest Wall Crossword Puzzle.

Neimen Marcus should hold a Midnight Madness sale on “What Were you Thinking?” Wednesday. This is that self-deluding day when we attempt outlandish holiday crafts knowing full well we have to time, talent or enough glue sticks for even a fraction of the homespun activities we have planned. I like to pretend to stamp the homemade wrapping paper from raw pulp that I’ll never make, string popcorn garland from the corn I’ve never harvested from the non-existent window box, and not decorate the Gingerbread house that is so far from being a “house” that the building inspector has already condemned it to a dilapidated bread box and evicted the Lollypop Kids. To bring it up to confectionary code would require enough royal icing to frost five hundred wedding cakes. So at 11:45pm at night when all of this has failed miserably into a tear-stained moan of frustrated remorse cried to the tune of “Blue Christmas,” I will eventually find myself at an over-priced department store buying a Duraflame log, white pine scented candles and a can of spray snow.

Shockingly, no one has figured out how to cater to these holiday shopping habits. So unless a traveling salesman stops by bearing squirrel proof bird feeders and monogrammed weather thermometers, I’ll see you all at the Magic shop on “Too Late Tuesday.” Because a magic wand and sleight of hand are the only things that can help me get my shopping done on time and under budget.

I am so sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve last written.  My only excuse….life.  I always find myself slightly overwhelmed for no apparent reason around the holidays.  This year has been no exception.  Plus, we’ve been hunkered down a bit, soaking in the idea of our expanding family.  We found out we’re having another girl – and I just have to share this video of DJ announcing it to our friends and family:

“Sister”

As I sit down to write tonight, I am feeling really, really sentimental about the thought of my daughters having a sister in one another.  While I have a step-sister, she is 8 years older than me.  We grew up in different households.  So, for all intents and purposes, I consider myself an only child.  The thought of having a sibling, yet alone a sister, totally overwhelms me with emotion.  When we made our announcement, those family and friends who have a sister(s), all commented that we gave DJ the greatest gift in the world.

Rather than writing on and on about all of these complex feelings that I can’t yet fully put into words, I have decided to make a list of my hopes for DJ and her sister-to-be.

• DJ, I hope you never feel a moment of divided love from your parents between your new baby sister and yourself.
• I hope you never feel a lapse in our attention to you, to your incredible compassion and creativity and brilliance.
• I hope you see your sister as a gift to our family from the moment she is born, and I hope that your eyes are among the very first she sees.
• I hope that mommy and daddy are wise enough to see the differences between the two of you so that we can foster your individuality and encourage your interests and talents.
• I hope that you never feel compared to one another – and that you always, without fail, feel celebrated for your uniqueness.
• I hope you never ever wonder if mommy and daddy love one of you more than the other, and if you do, I hope that you will crawl into our laps and let us tenderly wrap our arms around you for assurance that you are, indeed, cherished.
• I hope that more than just relationship, the two of you have friendship.
• I hope that that friendship is enough to prevent “Do not enter” signs from being posted on either of your bedroom doors.
• I hope to hear countless nights of midnight giggling coming from your bedroom.
• I hope for ridiculously fun family vacations where having one another is enough to make a long car ride part of the memory of the trip.
• I hope that you keep each other’s secrets, and that you defend one another – and I also hope you always encourage the other to do the right thing.
• I hope that your arguments are centered around sharing toys, clothes, the last cookie….I hope they are never fueled by jealousy, insecurity or boys.
• I hope that I always serve as a superb example of what it means to be a strong woman – strong in my faith, my convictions, my marriage, my involvement in your lives.
• I hope that daddy shows you what it means to be a man, and that you never settle for anything less once you’re allowed to date.
• I hope that you feel beautiful inside and out, and that the harsh words from others never ever scathe you.
• I hope that you are confident enough to be yourselves – always.
• I hope that you refuse to change for anyone.
• I hope that you draw strength from one another, never forgetting the roots from which you were grown.
• I hope that the things you have in common bind you together, rather than tear you apart.
• I hope that you are different enough to get along, but similar enough to understand one another without ever having to explain yourselves.
• I hope you are there for one another, through good times and bad – and that you always think of one another before anyone else when you really need a shoulder to lean on.
• I hope that you are always honest with one another, and that you’ll hurt when the other hurts – just as you’ll feel joy when the other triumphs.
• I hope you celebrate each other.
• I hope you adore one another.
• I hope that the example of love and respect that we live by under our roof is the thread that stitches you two together for a lifetime.
• I hope that when mommy and daddy are old and gray, you still think we’re really awesome.
• I hope that you don’t ever come to dread spending the holidays with us.
• I hope that you know how loved, appreciated, and wanted each of you are – and how blessed we feel to have two beautiful ladies to call our daughters.
• I hope your sisterhood is the greatest gift of your life
• I hope, my dear DJ and sweet baby girl, that all of my hopes for you both come true – for I can’t imagine two people more worthy of my earnest desires.

Monday:

• Put something other than “turkey” and “Reddi-Whip” on your shopping list.
• Make sure your table linens are freshly laundered and pressed.
• Buy an iron.
• In the iron aisle, see that they have brand new table cloths and matching napkins which will be the closest you ever come to finding 8 in your linen closet that match, so buy it.
• Realize you forgot your coupon at home and sales don’t start until Friday, so pay three times the regular price for new Thanksgiving linens.
• Come home and realize your new tablecloth is the exact same pattern as the two you already have.
• Spread on the table and hope the pre-fold creases smooth themselves out by Thursday

Tuesday:

• Wake up early to beat the crowds at the grocery store.
• Circle the parking lost at 8am a dozen times searching for a spot because every other patron in the metropolitan area had the same thought of coming early.
• Fight your way through produce. By now there will only be one cranberry left on the floor. It’ll have to serve 10, it’s a miracle food.
• Try to find a turkey over 4 milligrams. You wont’ be able to, as they’ve all been picked over by now. Substitute 12 Jenny-O turkey breasts and some kitchen twine.
• Come home with every intention of beginning food preparations early, but fall asleep watching Food Network instead.
• Try not to read too much into the dream about Alton Brown.

Wednesday:

• Wake up early and start cooking! Bake pies, chop vegetables and keep checking to see if the turkey is going to be defrosted by tomorrow.
• Program the turkey hotline into your cell phone.
• Program the poison control hotline into your cell phone.
• See if you can use the still-frozen-solid turkey to smooth out the tablecloth wrinkles.

Thursday:

• Wake up early and start cooking!
• With fear and trepidation, check to see if the turkey has defrosted.
• Google “trichinosis”
• Try to fit turkey, sweet potatoes, stuffing, vegetables and apple pie into the oven at the same time.
• Roast yams over open-pit fire.
• Repeat the annual culinary debate with Brother-In-Law on the merits of chunky cranberry sauce versus jellied cans. And the difference between a yam and a sweet potato. And dressing and stuffing. And that mincemeat pie as a pie filling is just sick and wrong.
• Program the family counselor’s hotline into your cell phone.
• Try to time all of the 45 dishes to be placed down on the table precisely at halftime of the first football game.
• Stop swearing at your husband.
• Gather around a wrinkled and unevenly cooked table and give thanks. The turkey still isn’t done, so plan on serving it with dessert.
• Pretend you planned it that way.
• Say that turkey is bad for you anyway, and it’s filled with nebulous hormones that make you sleep and urinate blood. It also causes erectile dysfunction.
• Tell your Brother-in-Law that you read it on someone’s blog.
• Tell him you don’t remember the exact URL, but you’ll email him the link.
• Unfriend your Brother-In-Law on Facebook.
• While the men go in and watch football and unsnap their pants, you and the x-chromosome types get busy on those dishes. You forgot to put dish soap on the store list, so rub them with a healthy dose of hand sanitizer and Dora the Explorer Bubble Bath.
• Serve pumpkin pie and turkey meringues at 10pm.
• Make leftover turkey sandwiches at 10:04pm.