Today was the very best kind of day.
A year ago - and this is where blogging is just a little surreal, because you do get to look back a full year and see where you were - but a year ago, I was in a very different place. A year ago, I dropped a pitcher of iced tea on the floor, burst into tears, and put my cranky kids to bed.
Today I had ice cream for breakfast.
Today I had eager kids bouncing on my bed, and an amazing au pair who woke up early and helped them mix and scramble and toast and scoop. They gave me ice cream for breakfast, with four spoons and a heaping helping of Belgian chocolate sprinkles (I am so planning a trip to Belgium, 'cause those folks really do have their priorities straight when it comes to food).
Today I had my family around me, with two mothers in the house and a birthday to celebrate, and plenty of yummy goodness. That includes some incredible cupcakes - and yes, I made them, but it's not really bragging because they are not really my cupcakes. These cupcakes belong to Martha. THE Martha. They are Martha Stewart's tiramisu cupcakes, and they are easily worth whatever you have to pay for real vanilla beans to make them happy.
What's funny is, that bad day, a year ago? That's the day I realized I was happy. And yes, I know that seems a bit contrary. But it's true. I knew I was happy because that one bad day didn't knock me down. It didn't send me diving for the covers. That one bad day was followed by one good day. And then another. And another.
And that's what makes happy. A string of good days, with a bad day plopped in there from time to time to remind you of what you've got.
Crap happens. It happens a lot. And then you have ice cream for breakfast.
Happy Mother's Day, folks. Gosh but this mom thing is fun!
May 9, 2010
The Great Potty Caper
Ever since our One Step Back, the redhead has had a bit of trouble with ... uh, shall we say preschool incontinence? That first day, my poor little guy went through five - yes, five - pairs of pants. He just doesn't make it on time anymore, and I'm not sure why. He could be regressing. Or maybe he just really hates washing his hands.
We've tried all kinds of incentives and bribes, the latest being an M&M for every successful, dry trip to the loo. None has really worked. Though, thankfully, our failures have generally been at home. Quiet. Discreet. Stash of clean clothes in a dresser upstairs.
Until yesterday.
Last night my folks were here (YAY!). They live on the other coast, so we see them maybe once a year. I had the kids out for a very late dinner at Wendy's. And no, I don't do fast food that often, but when in the excitement of seeing the grandparents and possibly swimming in the hotel pool you totally forget what time it is, then realize it's nearly 8:00 p.m. and your kids haven't eaten yet, fast food is the result.
We'd made it through the chicken nuggets and on to the ice cream when suddenly the redhead starts saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"Why are you sorry, peanut?"
"'Cause I pee on everything."
Oops.
I rushed him to the bathroom. Too late. He was soaked. And because he's been potty trained for nearly three years now, I was there without a stitch of extra clothing, trapped in an eco-friendly restroom with not a paper towel in sight.
Seriously. No towels. And you can't dry pants with toilet paper.
So I did the only thing a mom could do. I held him up, pants and all, under the air dryer. Baked him till he was done on one side, then flipped him over.
Worked, too. He marched out of that restroom, dry and warm, and finished his ice cream. He even washed his hands.
Fingers crossed that delivered a lesson, though. Because I'm running out of M&Ms.
We've tried all kinds of incentives and bribes, the latest being an M&M for every successful, dry trip to the loo. None has really worked. Though, thankfully, our failures have generally been at home. Quiet. Discreet. Stash of clean clothes in a dresser upstairs.
Until yesterday.
Last night my folks were here (YAY!). They live on the other coast, so we see them maybe once a year. I had the kids out for a very late dinner at Wendy's. And no, I don't do fast food that often, but when in the excitement of seeing the grandparents and possibly swimming in the hotel pool you totally forget what time it is, then realize it's nearly 8:00 p.m. and your kids haven't eaten yet, fast food is the result.
We'd made it through the chicken nuggets and on to the ice cream when suddenly the redhead starts saying, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
"Why are you sorry, peanut?"
"'Cause I pee on everything."
Oops.
I rushed him to the bathroom. Too late. He was soaked. And because he's been potty trained for nearly three years now, I was there without a stitch of extra clothing, trapped in an eco-friendly restroom with not a paper towel in sight.
Seriously. No towels. And you can't dry pants with toilet paper.
So I did the only thing a mom could do. I held him up, pants and all, under the air dryer. Baked him till he was done on one side, then flipped him over.
Worked, too. He marched out of that restroom, dry and warm, and finished his ice cream. He even washed his hands.
Fingers crossed that delivered a lesson, though. Because I'm running out of M&Ms.
May 2, 2010
Eight Years
You ever think of your life in eight-year chunks?
It's an odd thing to do. Most of the time you're thinking two years ahead. Or five years. Or 10.
But eight years. Enough time to be interesting, right? But not so dramatic as a whole decade.
And really it's not that long.
You know how I know?
Eight years ago, I had a three-year-old son starting preschool. I had a 12-week-old daughter who had just started sleeping through the night. The redhead was not even a twinkle in my eye. And the ex and I had just quit our marriage counselor, against her advice (gee, wonder how that went).
I blinked. That's all I did. I blinked, and eight years went flying by.
In eight more years, that three year old will be 19, finishing his second year of college and waiting, patiently and with all due respect for the law, through the 17 months between him and legal beer. That 12-week-old will be driving and dating, and I'm honestly not sure which of those is more startling. And my twinkle will be 12, almost 13, and driving the girls to distraction in middle school.
They're growing up on me, you know. And eight years, it's just a blink away.
Guess there's a lesson in there somewhere: Don't blink.
It's an odd thing to do. Most of the time you're thinking two years ahead. Or five years. Or 10.
But eight years. Enough time to be interesting, right? But not so dramatic as a whole decade.
And really it's not that long.
You know how I know?
Eight years ago, I had a three-year-old son starting preschool. I had a 12-week-old daughter who had just started sleeping through the night. The redhead was not even a twinkle in my eye. And the ex and I had just quit our marriage counselor, against her advice (gee, wonder how that went).
I blinked. That's all I did. I blinked, and eight years went flying by.
In eight more years, that three year old will be 19, finishing his second year of college and waiting, patiently and with all due respect for the law, through the 17 months between him and legal beer. That 12-week-old will be driving and
They're growing up on me, you know. And eight years, it's just a blink away.
Guess there's a lesson in there somewhere: Don't blink.
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