I forgot to take my Zoloft over the weekend – three days in a row total – and I started to feel pretty lousy. Not losing-my-mind crazy but irritable and anxious and unfocused. I thought maybe I was overreacting but decided it (probably) wouldn’t kill me to take an extra pill to get back on track. So on Monday I took one at noon and one at bedtime – which is when I usually take it. Oddly, if I take it in the mornings I have really vivid crazy house on fire naked Christmas farm animal Barry Manilow pregnant high school war opening night Hunger Games dreams. And that’s even if I DON’T read dystopian fantasy novels while I fall asleep. So I took two and hoped I wasn’t over medicating myself into a coma or a heart attack or something.

INSTEAD, I did ALL THE THINGS in the past two days. And in a good way, not a “I’M BORED, LETS CUT BANGS” way.  I finally dealt with the mountain of baby clothes in Caroline’s room and organized her summer wardrobe (because yeah, girl has too many outfits). I bought plastic totes and put away craft supplies and decorations from Evan’s birthday party that happened *ahem* more than a month ago. I steam mopped all the floors. But not only is the house clean, I’m competing in an imaginary contest for Mother of the Year Week. We did puzzles (I HATE puzzles) and put on boots to splash outside and blew a billion bubbles and went to the library and read the same books over and over and over and over and over and tracked down all the balls to all the toys and let the kids them jump all over me and sang songs loudly and let them ride the elevators even though we didn’t need to and let them eat the last giant marshmallow. Even when I was annoyed I calmly explained to Evan he needed to listen better or I would have to use my angry voice – and I KNOW, saying stuff like that sounds RIDICULOUS but when my 3 year old says “Mommy, I can’t want you use your angry voice and I can’t want use my angry voice so let’s have hugs and kisses” I dies of cuteness so I don’t care how ridiculous it sounds. Plus, it worked. He now recognizes my angry voice AND his angry voice and knows how to stop them.

(Extra bonus cuteness: Evan had to have a blood draw for his anemia test an he was REALLY sad – although again, I handled it a zillion times better than I normally would have – and afterwards I asked if he wanted a Happy Meal and he said “No Mommy, I need a Sad Meal”.)

(Double extra bonus cuteness: Evan has stopped calling Caroline “Baby Sister” and started calling her “Stinky Pants”…which, oops, but when he yells “COME BACK STINKY PANTS!” across Target I can’t stop laughing long enough to breathe let alone feel bad about the nickname.)

ANDPLUSALSO I gave myself an at-home hair treatment – honey and olive oil, which sounds like a crazy mistake but actually did wash out and made my ends softer – and finally tried no heat curls (my hair says “MEH”) and I’m feeling pretty good about myself in general, despite eating too many ice cream sandwiches.

So now I’m wondering if I should call my doctor and ask to raise my Zoloft dose or just blame my sudden productivity on the domino effect of accomplishment – you know, where you get that happy buzz from seeing an empty kitchen sink so you decide to wipe down the cabinets and then the floors and then BAM you’re suddenly hoping the UPS guy shows up just so you can be proud of your super clean house when you open the door. I don’t think two days is long enough to definitely say my medication is why I’m doing so well but with everything else still as stressful as it was last week (E hasn’t seen the kids since Sunday because he’s working such long hours, rainy days, Evan is still three) I am desperate to keep it up. I LIKE being productive and happy. It’s definitely preferable to anxious, grumpy, shouty and tired.

WHAT SHOULD I DO, INTERNETS? Please come over to discuss, so I can show you my spotless kitchen counters.

p.s. Anyone still interested in a home tour link-up/blog hop/whatever? I should show off this place before it all goes to crap again.

I’m writing this while willfully ignoring my children, who are running in circles throwing raisins at each other and vying for the title of “Loudest Noise Ever Made By Someone Who Weighs Less Than 35 Pounds”.  I am torn between feeling extremely guilty for not being a more active parent at this moment and knowing my sanity cannot take another minute of being used as a human jungle gym.

Evan and Caroline are going through a phase in their relationship – God, I HOPE it’s only a phase – where they are constantly trying to kill each other. Evan sits on Caroline’s head, Caroline shoves Evan off the couch, they both attempt to stand up on the ride-on fire truck. And when I shout at them to KNOCK IT OFF ALREADY they hug and make up…although the hug turns into a squeeze and then into a pushing match and then they’re rolling on the floor squealing again. I don’t think any of it is meant with malice, but damn is it exhausting. I need to record myself saying “Use your words” and “Hands are for hugs and high fives” and “Be gentle” and “Make wise choices!” so I can just play it on an endless loop.

It’s been one of those weeks where being a stay-at-home-mom doesn’t really feel like a privilege anymore. It feels like an endless, hopeless, pointless chore that is destined to drive me over the edge long before these kids become fully self-sufficient. We had an incredibly fun playdate on Monday with one of my very favorite mom friends and we started talking about preschools. We got a little giddy thinking about how next year we could both be child-free a few hours a week if we sent our youngest to under-2 programs, but then she said “I kind of feel bad though. I mean, this is why I stayed home – to be home with them.” And that is SO TRUE – although slightly less true for me (who quit working in a real estate office) than her (who had a really fancy job working to cure cancer). But I am home because I want to spend these years with the kids. Evan is more than half way to kindergarten. Kindergarten is full time school! He will take a bus! I will have hours and hours five days a week without him! And Caroline is only 20 months behind him. I’ll have 13 years of free time during the day to go to Target or unload the dishwasher or weed the garden or eat bonbons and read blogs.

But it’s hard to see beyond the next day of full time momming when my kids are hungry and cranky and sunburned and screaming and my husband calls to say he won’t be home before 9 pm. And it’s hard to stay positive when it rains for four days straight and I go to bed and wake up with a headache. And it’s hard to remember how lucky I am when Caroline smashes me in the face so hard with her head I see stars. And it’s really really hard not to beat myself up when I use my shouty voice practically every time I open my mouth even though I KNOW I’m using my shouty voice and I hate my shouty voice. I bet good moms who really appreciate how privileged they are to be home with their kids don’t even HAVE a shouty voice. I feel even though I recognized I was struggling and did what I was supposed to do and got help and I take my pill like a good 1950’s housewife I still fail, daily, to be the mother my kids deserve.

I know I am not the only mom who feels like this. Probably. I just have to remember that one bad afternoon (or day or week) doesn’t mean tomorrow can’t be better. Or hell, today can be better. After nap time we braved the crazy New England weather – rain! sunshine! wind! heat! cold! all at once! – and worked in the garden. Evan thought planting seeds was the most amazing thing ever and he can’t wait until we have a bean stalk that goes all the way up to the sky. Caroline carried her little pink watering can around like a baby. We talked about how our tomatoes need sun and water and food so they can grow and I forced the metaphor down my own throat so hard I practically choked. But I needed that moment in the dirt to remind me WHY I am so lucky to be here, even if Caroline did just throw a plastic cell phone at her brother’s head while he tried to ride the cat.

Funny, I don’t feel any more ancient than I did yesterday even though I’m officially now at an age kids, teenagers and college students alike would all agree might as well be a bazillion. Hey kids, let me tell you about the time I walked to school barefoot in the snow uphill both ways! While fighting off dinosaurs! With a stick! Now get off my lawn!

My big plans for the day include Stroller Strides, Target, writing a blog post and not cooking dinner – so, basically, a regular Tuesday. But no one’s allowed to complain I didn’t make dinner, so that will be special.

I have a bad habit of starting in on the “It’s for my birthday!” excuse way too early so I don’t actually get anything special ON my birthday. Like that ring E bought me on vacation or the day-trip to the lighthouse we bought at the charity auction or the laser hair removal I bought myself (and am obscenely excited about). “It can be my 30th birthday present!” sounded SO GOOD at the time but now I won’t be getting any real presents and I’m a little sad. Because even though I’m a bazillion I still act like a spoiled 10 year old on my birthday. I guess my real gift is that E has put up with me for the last 10 years.

I was trying to find pictures of my last “big” birthday – my 21st – because it was the first one E and I celebrated as a couple. He rented a limo and took my best friend (the same best friend who was just here for Little Evan’s birthday!) and I out to dinner and to a club where we drank too much and danced and I fell down the stairs and injured myself pretty badly. It was everything a 21st birthday should be (I still can’t drink vanilla vodka)…but I have no pictures. It wasn’t the healthiest or most stable time in my life and I threw out most of the photos because I hated looking at them. I was so very hard on myself at that age. I wish I could go back and give that poor sad, hungry girl a hug and say “It’s ok! You’re beautiful! You’re allowed to be happy!” But that’s the problem with hindsight – I know my 21 year old self wouldn’t have listened. I needed practically every day of my 20’s to learn to give myself a break.

But I did learn and thank GOD because perfection in motherhood is impossible and the me that could stare at the pores on my nose for an hour could NOT handle kids. And I couldn’t even imagine my life now without them. I hate this kind of statement enormous amounts coming out of almost anyone else’s mouth but truly, I am so so blessed.

I was going to make a list of stuff I’ve done in the last 30 years and stuff I want to do in the next 30, but all I really want to do is hang out with the two little humans I grew inside my body and watch them grow up. Any maybe have some wine.

Happy birthday to me!

I know I promised birthday pictures but for the first time ever I managed to actually enjoy a party without a camera glued to my face, so I have to wait until my super awesome BFF sends me the ones she took. I mean, I paid her absolutely nothing and ignored her the whole day and made her help prep all the food and didn’t let her drive home with her toddler until the middle of the night but GEEZE, how come she hasn’t uploaded the 1,000 pictures she took in the 12 hours she’s been home? Obviously I need a new best friend. Or maybe she needs a new best friend.

So until I can get all the dinosaurific details together, I thought I’d put up a quick post. Something light. Something fluffy. Like how I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I enjoy having 2 toddlers and no babies and maybe babies are kind of a lot of work and wouldn’t it be nice if I didn’t have to go through the tiny helpless infant stage anymore so maybe I don’t want any more babies?

Even saying that to myself seems kind of insane – I’ve ALWAYS wanted more than 2 kids. When I was little I imagined having a huge family. E and I have always planned to have at least 3, maybe 4, maybe more if we talking about it after a few glasses of wine. We already have names picked out – not a list, mind you, but actual names that are set for future kids.

But having 2 toddlers is fantastic. I am in love with these two kids at these two ages, both as individuals and as siblings. They love each other a heart-breaking amount. And they play together! Independent of me! I can get stuff done even when they are both awake! They eat food and sleep through the night (mostly) and can communicate their needs and help me with toddler-appropriate chores and sit still when I read them books. I like all those things. They’re getting to an age where we could go on a vacation as a family and it would actually feel like a vacation instead of a series of disasters interspersed with forced fun. And as cliché as it sounds, having a boy and a girl somehow feels kind of…complete. It’s a matched set! (So so so kidding.)

Luckily, I’m allowed to feel like this for a little while before I have to decide if I REALLY feel like this or if I’m just drunk with sleep and freedom. When I think about what not having any more kids means – never being pregnant again, never nursing again, never having all those baby firsts again – I’m definitely not ready to be done. But maybe I’m done for now. The problem is defining “for now” – 6 months? 12 months? Until Caroline goes to preschool? Until Little Evan is old enough to babysit? That’s a big range of “for now”. Which is OK! I have time to think Deep Thoughts about babies and toddlers and family size and what my life would be like with 2 kids or 3 kids or 10 kids. It’s just been on my mind a lot lately because I’m coming up on one of those big life events where you waste a bunch of energy thinking about all the stuff you haven’t done yet in life and realize you never will be a ballerina or a professional furniture restorer or a chef or a supermodel or a writer for SNL or best friends with Britney Spears and maybe that’s making me a little sad.

Yep, tomorrow I turn 30.

We’re standing in front of the dairy case when Evan starts coughing. “Cover your mouth” I say sharply. I can feel the eyes of the other shoppers boring into my back and I know they’re thinking “Ugh, kids and their GERMS.”

And then he throws up. On me. On himself. On the cart. On the floor. It’s awful and smelly and EVERYWHERE and all those people who were watching us just a few seconds before have suddenly disappeared. Evan looks up at me with huge eyes and said “I spit up. Spit up on you Mommy. Spit up on Evan. I sick.”

I think “No crap, Kid” but I say “I’m so sorry buddy! It’s ok! Let’s clean you up!” I use a handful of baby wipes to clean off his face and hands and hair and neck and ohmigod how did he get puke in his EAR?! I pull of his sweatshirt and throw it over the mess on the floor. I grab the extra pair of pants from my diaper bag (thank goodness I restocked it this morning) and lickety-split change him right there in the aisle.

A few shoppers slink past, avoiding eye contact.

I use his dirty clothes to wipe everything down but we both still stink. Or maybe it’s just me. I grapple with my desire to abandon the cart and flee with the kids but I hate to waste our shopping trip so I suck it up. By the time we’re in the next aisle Evan is running around like crazy, bouncing off the walls, getting in the way, shouting and laughing. I guess he wasn’t so sick after all.

I think for a minute about how this sums up motherhood – surprising and messy and gross and horrifying but you DEAL WITH IT because there’s no one else who will and seeing your kids happy makes it all worth it. But that doesn’t make me smell any better, so we head home to shower.