'Tis the Season!?!?

A college friend posted an interesting article on facebook today: http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/actually-you-cant-celebrate-hanukkah-and-christmas/

The premise of the article is best summed up with the following quote:

Specifically: the entire point of Hanukkah is to celebrate people who died rather than practice any religion other than Judaism. And to celebrate that AND a holiday that celebrates the birth of someone who Christians believe is the son of God does not make sense.

It didn't sit well with me, and I've been composing my thoughts on the subject all day. And here is where I feel the author gets it wrong: She is confusing "celebrate" and "observe."

My preggo brain is preventing me from really putting things together in any sort of succint manner, so I'm just going to muddle through my thoughts. Bear with me, please.

The subject has been on my mind over the last few weeks because, let's face it, Christmas is everywhere (and has been, commercially, since Novemeber 1st). I've mentioned before that we are part of an interfaith family. Although both my husband and I are Jewish and we are raising our children in a Jewish home, we have relatives who are Christian. In fact, since Irene destroyed our home, we have been living with Christian family members. We have chosen to be open about our differences in beliefs on a level that our children can understand. For instance, the Tatiman knows that he is Jewish so he can't eat pork--and that some people in his family are not Jewish, so he has to ask them if their food has pork before he takes a bite.

So, back to the Hanukkah/Christmas situation. The house we are living in is decorated for Christmas. My boys spent the better part of a weekend helping their grandparents decorate (and 're-decorate', ha!) with Santas and candy canes and gingerbread houses and lights and a tree. The boys loved it. The grandparents loved it. As the decorations came out, so did stories about the boys great grandparents, and great-great grandparents, travels, milestones, and family memories. The weekend spent decorating was full of celebrations.

A few nights later, I heard sobs coming from the back seat of my car. We were driving down a street in which every single home was decorated with beautiful lights for Christmas. The Tatiman was inconsolable because we cannot decorate our house for Christmas. I tried to explain to him that we can decorate our house for Hanukkah, but because we are Jewish and live in a Jewish home, he is right that we can not decorate for Christmas. He wanted no part of my explanation. I decided to rectify the situation by picking him up from school with a surprise trip to a store that I knew would be full of Hannukah decorations. We drove over an hour to the store, armed with my husband's credit card; I had no budget in mind, because I wanted the Tatiman to feel like his house could be the most beautiful for Hannukah. We arrived...and the Tatiman wanted none of it. Not a single decoration. More tears ensued because no matter what, his house would not be the most beautiful for Christmas. Honestly, it was heartbreaking. I did buy the tackiest string of light-up dreidels I could find in the hopes that once we are home, he will find some joy in seeing them light up his room each night.

I can understand what he feels like. I have a favorite pizza shop. Their pepperoni pizza smells amazing. Like more amazing than the most amazing smell you can imagine. Especially when I'm pregnant, which I tend to be most of the time. When we are there, my mouth waters for that pizza. It is truly intoxicating. Unfortunately, they don't have any vegan pepperoni to subsitute. That's life. Sometimes your convictions don't let you do something you might otherwise love doing. I believe those convictions make me a stronger person, and I believe it is important to raise my children with those same convictions. It's not always fun, but I do believe it is always worth it--and one day, my Tatiman will understand that.

The next day I ventured into the Tatiman's school-a small private school with kids from all different religions and cultural backrounds--to talk to his class about Hanukkah. His teacher pulled me aside to tell me that he had refused to take part in the St. Lucia day celebration because he "is Jewish, so he can't do Christian things" (in his own words). My heart broke again.

To me, a celebration is just that--a festive occasion that you share with friends and family. Celebrations make memories. Life is about memories. As much as I want my little guy to understand he is Jewish, I want him to see the beauty in other traditions, holidays, and beliefs.

An observance is a completely different event. An observance commemorates an event, in the case of Christmas, it is commemorating the birth of Jesus. An observance shows commitment to following a set of rules.

In our family, the Christmas celebration is all about Santa Claus, favorite foods, family time, and making memories. There is nothing un-Jewish about that--certainly nothing less Jewish than opening presents on Hanukkah, which has exactly zero to do with the Macabees or the miracle of the oil. Part of our celebration includes thinking of those less fortunate and giving (toys, money, trays of cookies) to the local homeless shelter, and delivering sweets to emergency personel that work on the holiday --a perfectly Jewish concept, if you ask me.

As a Jewish family, we cannot observe Christmas as the birth of Jesus. But I do believe we can celebrate the secular traditions of Christmas without compromising our Jewish beliefs (and hopefully without offending anyone with strongly held Christian beliefs). We can celebrate Christmas without practicing Christianity. We can celebrate a holiday with our family even though it is important to them for different reasons. We can honor their choice to observe the birth of Jesus without challenging our own beliefs. It may not always be easy, especially as my boys get older and ask more questions, but I truly believe we can, and always will, celebrate Hanukkah and Christmas.

Why My Children Sit in the Main Sanctuary

This time of year is quite busy for Jewish families. We celebrate the new year with two biggie holidays, Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur. Each holiday is rich with tradition—and filled with hours of reverent prayer services.

This year, we elected to skip the babysitting, skip most of the tot and family services, and bring our boys to the main sanctuary for the morning services. The morning services that last about five hours. Five hours in Hebrew, a language neither of my children speak.

We were not immune to some of the side eyes, glances, and outright glares. My boys are relatively well behaved, but they are 16 month and 3 year old boys. No amount of spiffy suits or shiny shoes (or pockets stuffed with snacks, transformers and books) can keep them from acting like two little guys.

My boys are the products of an interfaith family. They proudly don their Buchanan tartan for the Celtic festival, have strong Scottish names, and open presents from Santa Claus. We keep a kosher home, light candles for Shabbat, and listen to Hebrew songs in the car. As their parents, we feel it is very important that they understand and feel connected to their roots, as unique as their particular set of roots may be.

But on the most holy days of the year, the High Holidays, we feel that it is essential that they participate in the real deal. We want them to see the real Torah, and not a cloth stuffed version. We want them to hear the prayers sung in the same way they have been sung for over 4,000 years, not a cutesy toddler tune. We want them to hear the silence pierced by the sound of the shofar, a real ram's horn, and not a plastic toy. And yes, we even want them to feel that bit of discomfort that comes with sitting and standing and sitting and standing over and over again. Its not always easy to be part of 5,772 years of history.

So when the Tatiman asked if he could sit closer to the Torah, we marched up to the very front and sat on the floor with an unobstructed view. We noticed the whispers, but we didn't care. When he asked, “What do we do to celebrate Yom Kippur?” we did not shush him. And when the Tatiman cried, not because we were still in services, but because we had to leave early to feed the Finny Bo Binny, we knew we had done something right.

We can not guarantee that our children will pass on our traditions. We can not guarantee that they will see value in being part of an unbroken chain. But we will do everything in our power to make them feel that their presence matters. That their voices are part of the music of the service. Hopefully, one day, they will do the same with their children.

Lucky.

The last song we danced to at our wedding was “The Luckiest” by Ben Folds. It’s an awkward love song, but the simple chorus keeps playing through my head these past few days:

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

On Saturday night, Hurricane Irene (a mere category 1 storm!) ripped through our neighborhood, literally. The damage is like nothing I have ever seen before, and something I hope to never see again. A large tree fell on our house, causing significant structural and water damage to four out of our nine rooms.

But we are so, so, so very lucky.

The tree hit with a loud boom that shook our entire house. My boys were asleep in their rooms upstairs, and my husband said he doesn’t think my feet touched a single step while I ran up to find them. The Finny Bo Binny remained blissfully asleep and unaware until we plucked him from his bed and brought him downstairs. The Tatiman, however, was cowering in a tent in his room, afraid we had been hit by a firework. I grabbed him and took him down stairs where we all—all four point five of us—sat together on a single chair. Huddling together, taking in what had just happened. I told the Tatiman “We are ok, because we are together.” He believed me, even though I wasn’t so sure I believed myself.

In the days since, we have learned how lucky we really are. We are lucky that the tree did not hit one of the boys rooms. We are lucky that our strongly built home held the tree from doing even more damage. We are lucky that we have an insurance company that has worked very hard to line up a team to fix the damage. We are lucky that we have lost very little of sentimental value, and our house can be rebuilt. We are lucky to have friends and family offering us food, temporary shelter, warm showers, babysitting, and anything else we could possibly imagine.

We are lucky because we still have each other.

No doubt. I am the luckiest.

Tissues for Mommy

One week from tonight I will be tucking my PRESCHOOLER into bed for the first time. I can not think that, say that, or type that without tears streaming down my face.

Don’t get me wrong, I am beyond thrilled with the school we have chosen for the Tatiman. He is BEYOND excited to start school. He has been counting down the days since we visited back in March. We told him that he couldn’t start preschool until he turned three. The first words out of his mouth on the morning of his third birthday were “Can I go to preschool today?” He is ready.

I am not.

For the Tatiman, this is the beginning of everything. This is his first foray out into the real world. This is his first chance to make friends without my influence. This is his first exposure to Spanish and raising goats and sitting in a reading circle and on and on and on…

For me, this is an end. I won’t have my little guy to snuggle on slow rainy mornings, eating golden raisins while we plan our day. He won’t be my sous chef when I go on a baking binge, shaking our granola bar mixture, or stealing blueberries from my muffin mix. I won’t be able to protect him from mean kids. I can’t read every snack label to make sure there is no kiwi and on and on and on…

But just like I knew, with all of my heart, that I needed to stay home with him after he was born, I know now, with all of my heart, that I need to let him take this first big step toward independence.

Our school supply shopping list included one box of tissues for the teacher. I was stoked when I got a 2-for-1 deal; I figured a teacher can never have too many tissues. Well…I’m thinking that I might have to keep that tissue box in the car for me.

Love Multiplied.

Every now and then I read something that makes me nod my head in agreement, laugh along with the author, or in the case of this blog http://confessionsofaminivanlover.blogspot.com/ cry. And I'm not talking about a little tear rolling down my cheek combined with a little sniffle. I'm talking about full on sobbing, heaving for breaths, snot rolling out of my nose. Oh, P.S., I was sitting in my doctor's office waiting room while reading this.

I can remember so vividly my last day at home with just the Tatiman. We had big plans to spend the day with my sweet boy, take him to his favorite restaurant for lunch, and then drop him off at his grandparents house while we headed to the hospital. However, the Finny Bo didn't cooperate with that plan, and we ended up needed to drop the Tatiman off much earlier that day. I sobbed most of the way to the hospital because I didn't get my last lunch date with my sweet Tatiman. I spent hundreds of dollars on a "Big Brother" gift bag for the Tatiman to get when he came to the hospital to meet his new sibling. I was excited to meet our newest addition, but also filled with dread--yes, dread--that perhaps my greed to have more babies would ruin our family. Yes, "greed" and "ruin". Hormones obviously help me think clearly.

I don't think you can understand a mother's love until you become one. There is no way to describe it, but it is more powerful than any other emotion. I didn't think I could love anyone more than I loved my sweet Tatiman--until I met the Finny Bo Binny. In an instant, I realized that not only could I love him just as much--my love for the Tatiman could grow even more. Being a mom has taught me that it is ok to have different kinds of love.

I love my Tatiman with a sense of awe. He made me a mother. I got to experience so many firsts with him--first flutters in my belly, first time hearing his heartbeat, first time meeting the person I grew, first 1st birthday extravaganza...and even though I will repeat many of those experiences with his siblings, nothing will compare to the very first time.

I love my Finny Bo Binny with a fierce kind of love. The moment I laid eyes on him, I felt this intense need to protect him from the world, from others' expectations. And that was before reflux reared its ugly head. My Finny Bo Binny has made me a better mother. He has taught me patience, and to appreciate small changes, and to really, really, cherish the good times. He was the only one who could teach me these lessons, and I will forever be grateful to him.

We currently have Baby #3 on the way. This pregnancy is not filled with any dread. I don't feel greedy, just extra blessed. And I'm certainly not worried about ruining my family--I'm just so excited to watch our love multiply.

Oh, P.S., out of all the gifts that the Tatiman recieved on the day he met his baby brother...the Finny Bo is the only one he showed any interest in. This go 'round, the Big Brothers will get "Big Brother" T shirts and special lunch in the hospital cafeteria!!

Boys Will Be Boys

I've read a bunch of articles lately (courtesy of facebook, my source for news) about raising 'genderless' children, preschools that refer to all the children as 'friends' instead of boys and girls, and specific ways we should talk to little girls. I found myself getting increasingly annoyed with these articles, because I think that ignoring differences in gender is just about as bad as pigeon-holing a person because of their gender. I think it is OK to tell a little girl she looks pretty, just as long as you also tell her that math is awesome, and she can play football if she wants to. There is nothing wrong with exposing boys to lots of sports, as long as you also expose them to painting, and dolls, and cooking.

At not-quite 3 years old, the Tatiman has some very definite views on gender-roles. He currently has a boy baby in his tummy, because “only boys can grow boys.” And when he grows up to be a daddy, he must grow a beard. Makes perfect sense.

The Tatiman has had a 'Pincess' phase, and Finny Bo Binny happily pushes around a little pink shopping cart. The Tatiman loves Tinkerbell and princess stories, just as much as he loves Storm Troopers and Legos. I don't think of these as “girl” toys or “boy” toys. I think of them as 'toys', and by introducing my boys to a wide range of toys and imaginative play, I hope they will flock to whatever it is that they truly find interesting.

So, I thought those articles had no bearing on our lives. Until I got slapped in the face by a Happy Meal toy. We picked up a Happy Meal on our way out of town. The person at the counter didn't ask me if it was for a boy or a girl, and I didn't think to tell them. When I opened the box, I pulled out a Barbie head with long, flowing, blonde hair, and a pink comb. For some reason, I thought the Tatiman would be disappointed. The 'boy' toy would have been a Pokemon character (not that he knows who Pokemon is...but for some reason I thought he would like that better). Immediately, I said “Oh, this isn't a cool toy.” He asked me why...and I caught myself. I tried to rephrase and retract my statement as I handed him the toy. He thought it was SO cool. “It has hair just like when I have long hair just like Rapunzel has long hair!” Touche. I guess I need to pay a little bit more attention to what I say, and how it may play into my boys' senses of self, and thoughts on their place in the world.

I like to think of myself as a progressive mom. Although we have chosen a more traditional lifestyle with an at-home mom, and a working dad—I like to think it is because of the feminist movement that I was free to make this choice. I like to think that one day the Tatiman and Finny Bo Binny will have the same freedom of choice—and many more. To marry whomever they love, to have children that look just like them, or come from a world away. To stay home, or work outside the home, or do some combination that works for their families. To play sports, or dance ballet. To be scientists or fashion designers. I hope that my boys follow their dreams, whatever they may be. But, barring major surgery, they will always be my boys. Rough and tumble, sweet and sensitive, gentle, and stinky, and strong, and emotional...I love these little guys.

The Day I Became a Rocket Scientist

I went to a Top 20 Business school for my undergraduate degree. I went to a Tier 1 law school for my Juris Doctor. All of that education left me woefully unprepared for the morning my sweet Tatiman woke up in tears—because I had not purchased him “Rocket Jet Shoes” while he slept, and “How could [he] possibly fly now?”

The Tatiman is not much for distraction. When he says something, he is bound to repeat it. And not just once or twice; he has a card catalog filled with events from his short life, and he has no problem reminding you of every minute detail. When he was about 18 months old, I dared to open the door at his Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop's house before he was on the front porch. That was nearly 2 years ago...and he often reminds me of the time I almost ruined his life by opening that door before he got there.

So, I knew I was in for it. Big time. The Tatiman is the grandson of an actual rocket scientist. And the son of a man who designs flight simulators (who also happened to be away on a business trip during this entire saga). His expectations are high, to say the least. And I failed calculus, repeatedly.

I decided I needed to do something. I remembered seeing something in a Family Fun magazine about using tissue boxes to make dinosaur shoes. How different could Rocket Jet shoes be, really? I got to work during naptime—using construction paper, scissors, tape, and an entire glue stick. Forty-five minutes later I had some lovely Rocket Jet shoes, just waiting for the Tatiman to wake up from his nap. I worried, however, that my preschool quality Rocket Jet shoes would not live up to his MIT dreams.

After nap, I told the Tatiman that I had a surprise. When he came running down stairs I proudly held out the Rocket Jet shoes. They were green, just as he requested. He quickly put them on and hopped around oh so happily. I snapped pictures and posted them on facebook. The applause rolled in.

And then the Tatiman stopped jumping and said “These look a lot like tissue boxes.” Wah wah wah wahhhhhhh. “And they don't really work.” ….exhale. As much as I tried to convince him that he could use his imagination to fly, he wasn't buying my story. He did, however, humor me, and run around in his Rocket Jet shoes here and there for the next few days.

Tonight, on our drive home, the Tatiman was quiet for a moment. That is usually a sign that I should brace myself. This time was no different. “Mommy, I need you to build me a JET PACK because the Rocket Jet shoes did not really fly.”

Thankfully, Daddy came home tonight. Phew.

Why I chose cloth.

A lot of people wonder why I use cloth diapers on Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo. There is a short answer and a long answer.

The short answer: Because I can.

The long answer: I actually bought cloth dipes to use on the Tatiman. I bought them because I thought they were so cute. I wanted to be able to say I used cloth diapers. Neither environmental, nor financial considerations played into my decision tree. I used cloth on the Tatiman for a few months, and then he got ginormous. I really struggled to find pants that fit him well and looked cute. Remember, my initial decision was all about appearances…and it was not an option for my first born to be dressed in stretchy pants every day. So, the cloth dipes got packed away, and I resumed using our favorite brand of disposable dipes. No harm, no foul.

Then the Finny Bo Binny came along. We used ‘sposies from the start with him. When he was about six months old, I started to think about those cloth dipes again. We were throwing $60 a month down the drain in disposable diaper costs. The Tatiman was potty training, so I knew that diaper bill was about to cut in half—and the thought occurred to me that I could eliminate it entirely. We are fortunate that $60 does not make or break our monthly budget, but suddenly the idea of literally throwing it out, especially in this uncertain economy, just seemed ridiculous. Plus, the Finny Bo is a little peanut, so adding a little fluff to his tush actually helped his fashion cause! I figured it was a win-win situation.

The truth is I am not in love with cloth dipes. I’m not in love with any dipes, really. They contain poop and pee, and then I rinse and repeat. That’s it. They are, perhaps, slightly more difficult than disposable dipes—only because they require a smidgen more forethought and planning. But I do feel good about my decision. I’m saving money. I’m not putting chemicals against the sweetest little dimpled tushy in the world. And, I’ll admit…I think they look really, really cute.

Kid Fears.

I’ve come to realize that as a parent, I have three main fears. They are, in no particular order:

1. That something horrible will happen to my children
2. That something horrible will happen to me or my husband
3. That a sippy cup, filled with milk, will go missing in the playroom.

Just like Old Times…only Completely Different.

During my senior year in college, I lived in a tiny apartment with seven girls. We made up our own sorority, Sigma Gamma Gamma. We spent countless hours hanging out at home doing ridiculous things, like eating spaghetti with chopsticks, making paper rings to drape around the entire apartment counting down the days until graduation, and being filmed for a TLC show. You know, typical college stuff. It was one of the best years of my life.

I just got home from my trip to L.A. where I visited one of these former roommates. She happened to marry my cousin, but that is neither here nor there. (By the way, my boys survived and thrived while I was gone…just as I predicted!). She has a beautiful new baby girl, who is my 2nd cousin thrice removed (or something like that), and I was dying to see her.

While I was there, we decided to skype with one of our other former college roomies. She is also home on maternity leave, with an 11 week old son. We chatted for a while about random whatever kind of stuff. About the word for earthquake not being the same as the word for Vermont (you had to be there)…and then we started talking about boobs. Just like old times. I remember many conversations about boobs in the SGG house…who wanted them bigger, who wanted them smaller, who was showing too much to a guy, who wasn’t showing enough—you know, the usual. But this time, we were talking about breastfeeding. Oh, the trials and tribulations, and successes, of breastfeeding.

When we lived in our tiny apartment 10 years ago (gasp!), I can assure you I never imagined a day that this would come. Sure, I hoped I would maintain a friendship with these ladies for the rest of my life. But there was no way to even comprehend technology like skype, or that our boobs would one day serve a much higher purpose. Cheers to that.

I lost my cell phone in LA. I had to call my hubby from a payphone to let him know I landed safely. That part was totally just like old times.

For my Mudder.

My mom was my Brownie troop leader. My mom provided (the best) snacks for an entire neighborhood of kids. My mom painted sets for musical productions. My mom sat freezing her tuchus off in an ice skating rink. She brought oranges and water bottles to soccer games. She hand painted shirts for my elementary school teachers. She came on pumpkin picking field trips. My mom worked full time and somehow never missed a school concert, talent show, conference, class party…the list goes on. I used to think my mom was so amazing because she could do it all. But now that I’m an adult, and a mom in my own right, I realize that she couldn’t do it all—nobody can—she made countless sacrifices to make me feel like whatever was going on in my life at the time was the most important thing. That makes her even more amazing.

My mom made a home that wasn’t just comfortable for me and my brother, but was a second home for all of our friends. She was a surrogate mom to so many of our friends who really needed a place that they could come ‘home’ to.

My mom cooked meals from scratch, every night.

My mom taught me to make Shabbat.

My mom gave me the love of baking in mass quantities.

My mom showed me that it is ok to be afraid of something, but it is triumphant to
face that fear.

My mom taught me to bring hostess gifts.

My mom taught me to throw a party. Not just a little shin-dig, but a full blown fete.

My mom taught me that it is important to find reasons to have a celebration.

My mom always challenged my crazy ideas. I called it pessimism. She called it realism. Whatever you call it, it made me dig deep to get what I thought I wanted.

My mom threw me a wedding that was better than my wildest dreams.

My mom is an amazing grandmother. Her grandchildren have no idea that she is
constantly making sacrifices to make them feel like they are her number one priority. I know one day they will have that realization, and they will feel her love even more.

My mom isn’t perfect. But her flaws have shown me that there is beauty in being a real woman.

Happy Mothers Day to my Mommy. I love you to the ends of the earth. And I thank you today, and always. Even though some days I’m louder about other stuff, so it’s easy to miss that.

Daddy Daycare

I’m leeeeeaving on a jet plane!!! Mama is packing her suitcase (just one!) for a little 3 day getaway! More than one person has asked where my children will be. Sit down for this one. Are you ready?

With their father. *GASP*

I know, I know. Ca-razy. I actually trust the man I married, the man I chose to make these children with, to be fully responsible for their care. My husband is a pretty mild mannered man. But if you want to see him get riled up, suggest that he has to “babysit” his kids. Fair warning…step FAR away before making that suggestion. He has wanted to be a dad since long before he met me. In fact, I would bet he had second thoughts about me because I’m not endowed with birthing hips (hello, 44 hours of labor!). Our boys are 50% his (well, by looking at them you might guess they are closer to 98% his), and he takes at least that much responsibility as their dad. He changes diapers, he does middle of the night feedings, doctors appointments, bath time, meal time, and of course he rocks at playtime.

Does he do it differently than me? Probably. But here is a confession for ya: I forgot to patent my awesome and amazing parenting techniques. I know, shocker. But I fully understand that my way isn’t the only way. It isn’t even always the best way…ok, most of the time it is (I joke, I kid!).

So as I pack my suitcase today, I’m full of excitement for two reasons. 1. I get to visit dear friends and family, including our newest family member and 2. I know my boys, all of them, are going to have a rocking time at home without me.

A Graduation of sorts.

On February 8, 2002, I woke up with what looked like a golf ball lodged in the middle of my chest. I remember the date clearly—not because it was the start of a 9 year adventure—but because it was the morning of the Olympic Opening Ceremonies, and I was hosting a huge party complete with a 10x20 foot projection screen for watching the event. The party was awesome...and when I woke up the next morning, the lump was still there. By Monday morning, I was sure that lump wasn't a figment of my imagination, and because I knew I hadn't swallowed any golf balls, I decided it was time to go see a doctor. My doc saw me that same day, and sent me straight from her office to an ultrasound. The ultrasound tech uttered the words that changed my life, “It is a tumor.”

I was blessed to live close to one of only two doctors in the entire world that specialized in treatment of my type of tumor. He removed my pectoral muscle, some lymph nodes, and part of my rib cage—my body was clearly ravaged, but my spirit held strong. I relapsed in 2003, and again in 2004. Each time, my amazing doctor treated me with dignity, careful skill, and optimism. It is because of him that I have remained lump-free for the last 7 years.

Today, that same doctor uttered these words: “You've graduated.” No more trips to Hopkins. No more tearful nights before my trips to Hopkins worrying about whether the tumor has come back. No more worrying about 'what if' the tumor comes back. Of course, I know that there is a chance that I will relapse again. But I've beaten the odds by making it this far. I beat the odds when I stood under the chuppah on my wedding day. I beat the odds when my Tatiman was born, and again when Finny Bo Binny joined our world. I intend to continue beating the odds every day, for the rest of my life.

No graduation is complete without a speech. So here goes:

At my brother's wedding, I gave a toast that started with this saying: When you love some one, it gives you strength. And when you're loved by someone, it gives you courage. I want to thank my friends and family for supporting me all of these years—I haven't forgotten the 7-layer cookie tray, when you saw my butt through the hospital gown and laughed, or the times you picked me up for drives on sunny days. I especially want to thank my amazing husband and my two beautiful boys. You make every day I beat the odds worth it. You are my strength and my courage.

Bittersweet.

I just cleaned out Finny Bo Binny's closet so I can pull the Tatiman's old summer clothes out of storage and move them into Finny Bo's room. Finny is a slow-grower, so this is really the first time I've done a mass-exodus of the closet, and I found myself tearing up as I packed away some of my favorite outfits.

Things are so different this time around. The Tatiman grew and changed so quickly, I just had to grab on and enjoy the ride. There wasn't a whole lot of time for reflection before we were on to the next of everything—the next clothing size, the next milestone, the next adventure. But my sweet Finny Bo Binny is moving at is own, much more relaxed, pace. He hasn't grown into a new clothing size in over 5 months, he doesn't have any teeth yet, and he still wants me to hold him 99% of the time. I think marching to the beat of Finny's drum has kept me in denial. Denial that my baby is growing up, and before I know it, he will be a running, jumping, chattering (occasionally defiant) toddler.

Finny will be ONE in just over two weeks. When the Tatiman turned one, I was just weeks away from discovering that our little family of three was on its way to becoming a family of four.

It is different this time around because I don't know if Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo will be my last baby. With the Tatiman, I was so sure I was done having kids, that I just enjoyed every second. But this time, I really feel a longing for another child. I don't know when or if our lives will ever be ready for a third little person—and as I packed the clothes away this time it hit me hard that this may be the last time I see these outfits that I picked out with such excitement during the Tatiman's first years. So, while I still watch in awe as my babies are growing up—this first birthday will come with a little bittersweetness along with the cake and ice cream.

Boring is as Boring Does.

It has come to my attention that there is a website devoted to mocking parents that post facebook statuses about life with their children. The idea is that people should tattle on their friends who “used to be fun” but now have babies, by sending in copies of the offensive facebook statuses. Really? I mean REALLY?

If these contributors lives are so exciting, I wonder how they can find the time in their wild and crazy daily schedules to contribute to a website that's sole purpose is to make fun of proud parents? Here's a thought: if you can't comprehend that a child changes your life in the most amazing ways, just ignore the people who can. It's really that simple.

Is my life a barrel of monkeys at every given second? Nope. Was it ever? Nope. But, if anything, having children has brought more excitement into my life. Sure, I can't spend every Thurs-Sat night at a bar with the same six people talking about the same six other people while I pace my drinking to get enough of a buzz, but avoid a hangover. That was fun for a few years. Then I graduated from college.

There is nothing boring about my life these days. Different? Absolutely. Boring? Never. Sometimes I wish it was! Having a child changes everything. And the most exciting part is that it keeps changing. My boys prevent me from becoming stagnant. They grow and change and develop new interests faster than the tides change.

As for me, my autonomous self, I still have many of the same interests I had before becoming a mom. I'm always finding different ways to incorporate them into my life. But having my boys (husband included) has also broadened my interests. I've met people I never would have met without spending a little extra time at the playground. I've been challenged in ways no career could challenge me.

Yep, I'm guilty of posting way too many tidbits about our daily life on facebook. It is one way I can stay connected to my friends and family. I'm sure I've said a few things that seem like I'm a little obsessed with my kids. I make no apologies because, well, I am. I think they are the coolest things ever.

While I'm logged in, I oohhh and ahhhh at pictures of friends' cats, because I know they find their antics simply charming. And I would never go as far as to suggest that posting repeated status updates about your daily commute, or your gourmet dinner menus, makes you boring. Live and let live, people. Live and let live.

Cherish.

Tonight, I got to do something I haven't done in a long time—rocked my Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo until he fell asleep. I soaked up every sweet, warm, snuggly breath of it.

Finny LOVES his sleep (I never thought I would utter that statement about this little guy!). He plays hard, and then sleeps even harder to recharge his batteries. I used to nurse him, then snuggle and sing him to sleep. Now, he wants nothing to do with me at bedtime. He is very serious about his routine: Pjs, a quick kiss, and then PUTMEINBED. He will practically jump out of my arms into his crib if I don't move fast enough. There are no bedtime stories. No sweet snuggles. No extra kisses on his chubby little hands. He is usually face down, buried into his blankie, and snoring before I even close his bedroom door.

But not tonight. Tonight, we did our routine, and he started sobbing when I walked out of the room. I listened for a few minutes, and he didn't stop crying, so I decided to go in to check on him. The Finny Bo looked up at me with his big blue eyes and just sighed...so I picked him up, and we snuggled in a rocking chair until his full weight was resting on my chest, and his long soft breaths were in tune with mine. Pure Bliss. I would have held him all night if I could have. I know these moments are fleeting, and I know that in no time, my sweet baby boy is going to be a quirky little toddler...and on and on and on.

But I will hold on to tonight, and the smell of his sweaty little head, and his pudgy little fingers, and the sound of his balmy little breaths forever.

This is where I draw the line.

The Tatiman has a Star Wars obsession. He sits for hours every day pouring over the six Star Wars books we checked out of the library. He can pick Star Wars books out of of his daddy's book shelves. He hasn't seen the movies (but for a few bits and pieces), yet he just knows, deep inside his being, that he is a Jedi in training. Well, he was a young Jedi until this past weekend...he announced that he wants to be Darth Maul when he grows up.

I found this development quite shocking, especially since the Tatiman lives in a world of rainbows and unicorns. He doesn't like bad guys. In fact, he finds the mere hint of a bad guy to be terrifying. Since he only knows about Mr. Maul from looking at pictures in books, he doesn't have any clue that the red and black face staring at him is that of a bad guy. Today he asked if we could “do a project to make a red and black Darth Maul face and a light saber with two red blades.” So, we did. I was sure that the sight of himself with a scary red and black mask would end his Darth Maul obsession. I was wrong.

But here is where I draw the line...along with declaring himself a young Darth Maul, the Tatiman would like me to respond to “Jango”...or when he is really trying to butter me up “Jango Mommy.” I refuse. I can only indulge him so far, and Jango is just a few small steps over the line for this mommy. I hope he never brings this up in therapy.

Clothing Wars

Today, the Tatiman wore a brown shirt with a pug on it. This was a momentous occasion. “Why?” You ask. Well, because we're coming off a bender where the Tatiman wore his R2D2 shirt for 6 days straight. In the spirit of the upcoming Passover holiday, I'll go ahead and clarify. By “6 days straight” I mean the night times, too.

To be fair. Tati's grandmother was able to pry the shirt off of him once during the
6-day standoff. I'm told he sat shirtless, in protest and solidarity, waiting 45 minutes for the ding of he dryer.

This is one of those places where I have to walk the fine line between letting the Tatiman choose his uniform (after all, one shirt doesn't really count as a 'wardrobe'), and teaching lessons in hygiene and socially acceptable clothing traditions. And, I suppose, I'll just plan our weeks so we don't visit the same place twice.

Channeling my Inner Michelle Duggar

...and I'm not talking about her uterus.

Seriously. I don't know how she does it. She has 19 kids, most of them boys, and she never yells. NEVER. Like, not even at all. I'd like to know what she's smoking.

I don't believe in yelling. I don't like it when somebody yells at me, and I don't want to raise my boys to think that yelling is a proper way to speak to people.

Yet, every now and then I loose it. I'm not proud of it, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't happen. And it always over something ridiculous, like this exchange, which may or may not have happened today:

**kick, kick, kick**
“Tati, please stop kicking the back of my seat” (Said completely calmly, in my sweetest Mommy voice).
**kick, kick, kick**
“Tati, please stop kicking Mommy's seat” (Repeated, in my sweetest Mommy voice)
**kick, kick, kick**
“Tati, please stop kicking Mommy” (Repeated in my terse whispering voice. This is where I channel my inner Michelle Duggar...)
**kick, kick, kick**
“PLEASE STOP” (YELLING)

...and then I'm upset because I lost my cool. And because who YELLS “please”--it kinda loses it's polite-ness, doesn't it?!?!

So...wise readers...what do you do to keep your cool in times like these?

College Preparatory School.

The Tatiman will be three in August, which means I have spent the past few months touring preschools.

Yes. Touring. Yes. Preschools.

If you had asked me a few years ago if I would foresee myself touring a single preschool, much less multiple preschools over a 3 month period, my answer would have been a resounding NOPE. Heck, I only toured college campuses for an excuse to visit Boston and see cute college boys.

Yet, here we are. I find my actions shocking, yet shockingly necessary.

It's not that I feel like one school is going to give the Tatiman a better shot at being a world famous finger painter. I'm pretty sure that he will learn sandbox etiquette wherever he goes. And I know he already has snack time down pat, so I've got no concerns in that area.

It's just that becoming a parent changed me. Suddenly every decision seems so big, so important. When I see that driving past a water tower can spark a discussion about gravity—I feel like these years are so precious, and they play a huge role in forming the person that my Tatiman is growing into.

I know he has to leave the cocoon of my protection, but I want it to be in the environment where he will blossom. I want his love of learning to be nurtured. I want him to believe he can do anything. I want him to be encouraged to try things far outside his comfort zone. I want him to make friends. I want him to sing and dance and learn to make all the rocket ship noises that little boys learn to make.

And more than preparing the Tatiman for the outside world, preschool must prepare me—for all of those bigger decisions that I know are coming way too fast.

Grow down, little Tatiman. Grow down.

Everything Nice.

I have two baby boys. Two beautiful baby boys. They are everything I have ever dreamed of, and so much more.

Yet, people are always asking me “Are you going to try for a girl?” These people mean well, I'm sure. But I don't think they get it. Or maybe they just don't get me.

I have always wanted to have a son. When all the other little girls wanted their Cabbage Patch Kids to have the long corn silk hair...my mom was waiting in line all night to get me a bald baby boy.

We did not find out the gender of either of our children while I was pregnant, but I not-so-secretly hoped that the little people kicking me from within came with their own kickstand. And I was lucky. Not just once, but twice.

My boys are the perfect combination of sugar and spice and frogs and snails. They are cuddly and winsome and sensitive and mischievous. They are brothers. They are Mommy's little guys.

There are times when I think about the adult relationship I have with my mom, and I think that it would be nice to have that one day. I loved planning my wedding with my mom by my side. I love sharing a bond that I have with her, now that I am a mother myself. But having a daughter certainly doesn't guarantee that kind of relationship.

I don't feel cheated because I have closets full of overalls and polo shirts instead of patent leather shoes and pinafores. I don't feel like our family is incomplete because we don't have a Daddy's girl.

I have always dreamed of having a big family, and we may add to our little crew one day. But we won't be “trying” for anything other than a healthy baby. I'm sure that if we ever have a girl, we will feel like she is meant to be our daughter...but if we have a 3rd, or 4th, or 5th boy (my husband is having a heart attack as he reads this, ha!) it will be because we are filling our home with little people we love, and not because I have a pressing need to shop for tutus.

Hostage Situation.

So, I was held "hostage" in my bathroom for about 15 minutes today.

I went in just to pee. I left the door open because Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo was in the kitchen and I was (stupidly) thinking that with the door open I could just dash out if I heard a crash.

Instead, he followed me. No biggie, until he closed the door. No biggie...I'd just open it slowly. Until he put his finger ON THE HINGE. I could see it as I cracked the door, and I was worried that I would smash his little fingers if I opened it any more.

That little stinker thought I was hysterically funny talking to him from inside the bathroom door...but he would NOT move his had. Finally, he got bored of me, and crawled off.

I feel like I live with a pair of ferrets that are plotting my downfall.

Here is My Secret.

"Seriously, you amaze me!"
"You handle two kids so well"
"How do you pull it all together?"

...just a few comments I've received lately.

Here's the truth: My life is complete, total, and utter chaos. Let me repeat that: My life is complete, total, and utter chaos. Emphasis on the chaos.

I think it is hysterical that I (apparently) project this image of having it all together, when the truth is, I'm about as far from it as possible!!

My house is a disaster. My car has at least an inch of graham cracker crumb dust. My laundry is never done. My grocery bill is too high. My two-year old hits, kicks, pushes, and paints on windows with his drool. My 9 month old just came out of a 7 month long scream. Yes, one scream seemed to last the entire 7 months. My husband has to suffer through PB sammies 3 or 4 days a week for lunch, and act like he loves that I pack his lunch. I carry around a ginormous diaper bag, yet I often leave the house for a day trip without a single diaper.

But, to steal a line from Oprah, here is what I know for sure: None of that 'stuff' matters.

And THAT's my real secret. Very little matters. It is just that simple. We have our health, and we have eachother. And those are the only things that are truly important to me.

Today I made glitter pictures with the Tatiman. I pushed Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo on a swing. We walked down a wooded path collecting at least 37 sticks. We ate lunch together.

A day full of chaos. A day full of perfection.

Confession Time.

I've been thinking about changing the name of the blog for a while. I don't confess much, and I'm really just an amateur mom. But, I haven't come up with anything better yet, so for now, the name sticks. In the meantime, I offer you these confessions:

1. My family room looks like this:


2. My boys have been napping for two hours. Rather than spending even a second straightening the family room, I sat quietly on the couch, working on a photo album.

3. The album is for the year 2009.

4. We spent the morning outside and had a lovely picnic lunch: PB & J, veggies, fruit, figs (yes, I know they are a fruit. The Tatiman thinks they are candy, shhhhhhhh!), tofu, crackers, cheese. A real mish mash. When we got home, I put the bag with the leftovers in the fridge. I'm contemplating taking the boys back out to play when they wake up. I'm contemplating just grabbing that bag, and taking it with us for dinner. And if, by chance, there is not enough food left in the bag for dinner, I'm contemplating supplementing with ice cream.

Whew. I feel better getting all of that off my chest!! Carry on...

Pregnancy...the Second Time Around.

Women say that once you give birth, you forget about all the pain of labor. Women say that when you hold your baby for the first time, you forget about how sick you were for the 9 months leading up to that moment. Women say that once you get through those first few months of newborn insanity, you forget about the sleepless nights and shower-free days.

Women lie. A lot.

I did not forget about the 25 weeks of round the clock vomiting, punctuated with two bouts of the stomach flu. I did not forget about 44 hours of pitocin induced contractions, the first 24 of which were completely free of pain medications. (I may have mentioned that before, and I will probably mention that again. In fact, I like to mention it once in a while to the Tatiman, just so he understands that he is lucky I didn't call off the whole thing around hour 23.5 of labor.) I didn't even forget about newborn insanity. But the second time around, I went into it armed with the knowledge that all of that is SO worth it.

My second pregnancy started off way better than the first. Looking back, the roller coaster I rode when I was 5 weeks pregnant (and did not know it) was a metaphor for the next 33 weeks. I stopped nursing (well, pumping) the Tatiman when he was a year old. A few short weeks later, I felt off...and since we were heading to an amusement park, I took a HPT, just to be safe. Negative. Off to ride roller coasters I went!! Somewhere around the 2nd dip on the first coaster, I felt the contents of my stomach gurgle up into my mouth. I *knew* that HPT had to be wrong. Fine time to find out you are preggo...halfway through a roller coaster ride, with your entire family waiting at the exit gate.

A few weeks and a confirmatory u/s later (where I was happy to see that roller coaster ride had not scrambled the fetus's parts), we informed the world. You get some fun reactions when you have a 13 month old, and a little popping belly. People lack filters. But, that's a post for another time!

So, at about 7 weeks pregnant, I made my fatal mistake. I mentioned, casually, that this pregnancy was so EASY compared to my last. I mean, I was a little queasy, but I was able to eat. The smell of the refrigerator was not offensive, nor had I developed a sensitivity to air.

And then it hit me. Pregnancy #2's nausea was clearly out to prove that Pregnancy #1's nausea was a wimp. I am generally anti medication while preggo, for fear of what it could do to my growing baby (Roller coaster riding...check. Anti-nausea medication...no way!). Which meant I spent my days barfing, peeing (often while barfing...so lovely), and crying. Oh the joy that a little bundle brings!!

And the Tatiman. Poor, sweet, innocent Tatiman. The Tatiman who, up until that point had not watched any TV. The Tatiman who was used to dining on 100% homemade, organic meals. Well, that Tatiman was quickly introduced to Elmo and spaghettiOs (which he, thankfully, refused). I had many a cry about my perceived failures at motherhood-while-preggo, but we were in survival mode. And, I'm happy to say, survive we did.

Thankfully, the nausea subsided around week 16, and aside from a few other wonky things (Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo was a fan of laying sideways, trying to wrap around my back...requiring two actual versions and one attempted version), the rest of the pregnancy turned out to be easy peasy. Imagine that.

And this time, the moment I held my baby in my arms, my first thought was about getting to do that all over again, because there is nothing else in this world, quite as amazing.

I'm baaaaa-aaaack

Tonight, I witnessed one of the most amazing things ever: my boys, playing together, completely unaware of my presence.

That's right, my boyS. I've been promoted. Since I last wrote, a lot has happened. Namely 9 months of a difficult pregnancy followed by a comparatively easy 36 hour labor and birth, followed by 2 months of bliss and 5 months of pure H-E-Double Hockey Sticks.

And here we are: Today the Tatiman is 2 years and 5 months old, and his little brother, Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo (not his real full name, although his real full name is almost as long) will be 8 months old next week.

I haven't written because I spent 4 months heaving. Not dry heaving, because I was always sure to eat my daily dose of Mrs. T's Perogies (they come up as easy as they go down—lessons learned during my first pregnancy), but heaving nonetheless.

I haven' t written because I spent the rest of my pregnancy running to high risk docs twice a week to be monitored for a whole bunch of things that turned out to be nothing.

I haven't written because I had a beautiful and peaceful newborn.

I haven't written because that beautiful and peaceful newborn caught a virus at 7 weeks old that required a hospital stay that left him with the horrible 24/7 reflux cycle that goes something like this: SCREAM-eat-barf-SCREAM, rinse and repeat for 5 months.

But really, I haven't written because I felt like I was out of things to say. I was in love with my life. It was easy. It was exciting—in the 'shall we go to the playground, boardwalk, or woods to play today' kind of way. It was perfection. And, who wants to hear somebody ramble about perfection all the time?

But tonight, I saw my boys playing together, and I felt like I had something to say again. So, allow me to ramble. We'll get caught up, and then hopefully I'll keep up. Or not. Such is the life...

We didn't 'plan' on my promotion to Professional Stay at Home Mom of Two (Under Two). My pregnancy with the Tatiman was horrible. I never knew one could vomit so much in a 24 hour period, for so many months on end. The 44 hour labor was the icing on that cake. I was not eager to repeat that experience ever. We considered adoption after I swore I would never, ever, ever serve as a gestational vessel again. But, when it came down to it, we both felt that the Tatiman met our every parenting need. We felt complete. Our little family of three. Bliss.

But we both have siblings. And we both feel special connections to our siblings. And we both started to think about the Tatiman's best interests, and how one day he would have to deal with us as old people, and it would be nice for him to be able to share that load.

And though I had decided I would NEVER choose to get pregnant again, we also decided to leave it up to fate. Apparently fate thought we should get pregnant that week....38 weeks and 36 hour of labor later (an improvement!) we welcomed Finny Bo Binny Binny Boo Boo.

Thus, I accepted my promotion, and began a wholly new adventure.