It’s been a while since I’ve posted about my boys.

(Okay, it’s been a while since I have posted about anything; I get it.)

Growing like weeds, those two. One thing I’ll never get used to is when I take a second glance at them and suddenly it dawns on me just how old they’re getting.

Five and two, already; I can’t even believe it.

A coworker mention just the other day that his son was to be transitioned to the preschool room at the daycare shortly, and quickly I was hit with the realization that Carter starts Grade One in the fall. I know the fall is sometime away considering we’ve just had our first real dumping of winter snow, but people: GRADE ONE.

I have childhood memories of Grade One. I’m pretty certain that most of what I can remember is from that time forward. Very, very few from any time before then, but from that point on, I remember things that happened, people in my life, teachers, friends, even things my parents did.

That terrifies me.

It’s great to have those memories, sure; but what I now worry about is my boys will also likely retain bits and pieces of happenings from these days forward into their adult lives. It will likely be spotty and somewhat hazy, but there will be instances where a random recollection of something we’ve done (or didn’t do) will stick out. I want, more than anything, for those moments to be special ones. My heart aches when I think of their memories being ones of conflict or even me telling them, “Not now”.

It’s inevitable they’ll have some reminiscences of those darker moments, and some may even be important one which will guide them towards the men they will become. But, as most parents do, I want their childhood memories to be those of fun times, trips, playing games, wrestling with each other, and a happy home life.

I want to keep them in a protective bubble; free of parental fighting, tantrum-induced yelling, and time-outs. Memories of night-time cuddles, whispered giggles, sleepovers in the same bed, laughter, and love should be recollections of their childhood, because what child doesn’t deserve that?

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As a teenager, my relationship with my mother was anything but pleasant. Living in a home with the two of us must have been hell. Me, constantly wanting, her, constantly resisting. Typical mother, teenaged daughter-type relationship really.

Things became significantly more harried as I began to “date” an older boy. I say “date” because well, I was weeks from my sixteenth birthday, he just turned nineteen – and already had a girlfriend with whom he stayed while we “dated”.

I know. So wrong, but I was fifteen! I blame the Whore Moans hormones, because really? Hot older boy liked me!

My mom knew something was going on even though I insisted we were just friends. No matter how many times I tried to convince her otherwise, the evening phone calls which lasted HOURS upon HOURS screamed the opposite. The conversation about safe sex really never came, though there were instances which warranted it: sneaking out at night, coming in past curfew, wreaking of alcohol and cigarettes when I came home from “watching a movie at a friend’s house”. I thought I was living the high life. Then. Now, I think she knew I was reaching and was going to be hurt by this boy, but she let me learn. She let me test the waters and only when I stepped out of line was I reigned in and given a stern talking to.

I would push all limits. I would take advantage of her generosity. I would give less and expect more. I would ignore her rules.

My mom used to tell me she wished me a daughter. She wanted me to know what it was like; I don’t blame her.

Our relationship was pretty strained until I moved out at eighteen and went away to college. I think it was a blessing for both of us – and saved our relationship. As I’ve grown, had children of my own, I’ve come to realize the sacrifices she’s made for my brother and I. In retrospect I can see just how lenient she really was about many things – disobedience not being one of them. Like any parent, she did her best to raise polite, respectful children who knew right from wrong. And just like any child, I did my best to push her buttons and defy boundaries.

I see it in my children already. At almost five and two, they push, they defy, and they test.

Even though they’re boys, I think I have seen a glimpse into my future.

My mom just may get her wish.

Either that, or Karma really is a cruel, cruel bitch.

:::

This post was inspired by the book If You Knew Suzy by Katherine Rosman, which was our From Left to Write Book Club read for July. From Left to Write is a book club which was once part of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog family.

I have received no compensation except for a free copy of the book which I will giveaway to one lucky commentator. My copy is in mint condition with the expection of a few folded pages.

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I’ve been teetering on the edge of losing my ever loving mind over the past few weeks. Between working 70 hours a week in the office, another 20 – 30 at night on my own business, I’ve worn myself down to merely a zombie going through the motions. Mike was off work for the past 6.5 weeks and I’ve been doing what I can to pump out some quick work to bring in a little extra cash while I’ve been swamped at my salary paying regular job. Without him, I’m certain this house would have imploded.

I try valiantly to find balance, but I find that I become consumed by one or the other depending on how much attention they require. The kids get sick, I stay home, things come up that need my attention then I spend too much time away from the office or unavailable, the boss notices and then there’s reprimand. Should I have to put in additional hours – which include weekends – then family and marriage suffer. Finding that balance is a feat in itself and I am finding I am not so strong at managing my home and work-life balance.

Actually, I am failing that balance.

I know it’s short term and will eventually, (hopefully) work itself out. It has to. I love what I do. I love working. I love being a part of something and contributing to amazing and wonderful transformations on a daily basis. Driving into Downtown Toronto and seeing the skyscrapers and condo buildings makes me proud because even though they have become eye sores and block out any natural light in the downtown core, I have been a part of their construction. Though my work is neatly hidden beneath soil, steel and glass, It’s an amazing feeling to know that I have contributed to that.

But that feeling, as amazing as it is, is really nothing compared to that of being there for your children. Teaching them, learning with them, being there during their Firsts. Nothing in the world can neither compare nor replace that, and I don’t I want it to.

I want both.

I want to find that perfect equilibrium.

But then again, don’t we all?

I am not about to quit my job, though I do appreciate the links and feedback on my last few posts, I am just working through being overworked and underpaid, fatigued and riddled with Mommy Guilt. It’s regular day-to-day around here. I need to rant and vent, but I am so grateful to have you. To hear my woes and encourage me to keep on keeping on.

Just a few more hours of sleep. That’s all I need.

Oh, and a life coach, personal organizer, nanny and a winning lottery ticket.

I wasn’t kidding. I want it all.

• Greet the dawn, you know, without killing someone….
• Fixture
• Failed

My upbringing was probably a pretty traditional one: parents divorced when I was really young, one sibling who I fought with constantly, low to middle income of which I was completely unaware since I sucked at math. The early 80′s were very much the time that kids did their thing while the parents did there’s. I remember rarely being accompanied by an adult as I rode my Big Wheel bike throughout the tiny townhouse subdivision where we lived with our mother. We would be out with our friends at the ages of 5 and 6 until the street lights came on, of course.

I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing, but in some way it’s obviously affected me because, well, I’m writing about it.

There were a few rare occasions when my mom would play with us, but for the most part, my brother and I depended on ourselves and our friends for entertainment. She’s always been protective, but not entirely hands on. There, but not. I’m beginning to notice it more and more in myself these days. I am finding I partake little in my kids’ lives, in their fun and laughter, and parent from the sidelines.

I’m here, but not.

They make their games around me. Their laughter is just background noise. Their fun doesn’t include me.

I’ve fallen into this pattern, or routine, of a life I swore I wouldn’t have. I’ve been watching my children play and grow. Rather than being a part of their lives, I’ve been watching from the outer realms of their existence; merely a fixture.

I was often left to my own devices as a child. I was to entertain myself and not become a bother to the adults. I am seeing that in how I am raising my children. They are merely here as we live in parallel universes with small but frequent interaction. It unintentional, but the realization is so painful it’s hard to breathe.

I’ve unknowingly began a journey down a path I have no desire to be on. I never wanted this for myself or my children. The idea of just doing to get by makes me ill. Fighting through each day only to start all over the next. Same boring routine, same boring days which seem to meld into one and before you know it, the weekend has arrived and you’re just too tired to play even a half assed game of cars. Seeing my kids for a total of 2 hours a day is killing me.

Seeing the income tax statement from the daycare today was an eye opener.

From when I returned to work in May, until December, 74% of my gross income has gone towards daycare costs.

Essentially I am paying to work. I am paying to sit on the sidelines of my childrens’ youth.

It’s a painful kick to the gut.

I’m winded. I’m lost. I’m tired.

• On Wanting It All
• Paranoid Freak
• Of babes

Since leaving high school and attending post-secondary school at the age of 18, I have, more often than not, been the youngest person in my close knit group of friends. Sometimes by gaps of four years or more. It’s really not been something I spend too much time on until it’s brought up; for example, in conversation or I’m outright asked and the resulting reaction is something along the lines of: Holy shit, you’re only (insert age here)?! But in all honesty, I really don’t care if you’re 2, 5, 8, or 50 years older than me (or younger for that matter. But 50 years younger? That may be a little um, weird) if you’re a friend to me, I am a friend to you.

When I’m feeling overly sensitive (sometimes) and utterly emo (always) I wonder if maybe people think because I am younger my opinions don’t matter or they feel I have nothing to offer to a conversation because my life experiences are assumed to be less than comparable to theirs. I, the completely irrational person I am,  don’t realize that: a) many are likely oblivious to my age and just assume I am older. (Yes, I obviously have an issue with self-esteem. I know this.) or b) they really don’t give a shit about me or my age in the first place. But they should care! Why don’t they care!? No one likes me! WAAAAAAAH! Also? See item a), parentheses 1.

So I’m a little lot self conscious and care far too much what people think of me. I’m working on it. As I have been my entire life.

And as self conscious as I get for being the youngest in the group, I also think, Wait a minute, why are you so shocked that I’m “only” 28? Do I look older? OMG, I LOOK OLD!

It’s really a vicious circle.

Then last week? That circle? It came to a crashing, back breaking halt. Straight into a brick wall of OLD.

In my defense, I spent majority of the week sleeping off some stomach bug I got from the kids. I showered and went to work on the Friday but with little make-up and my hair pinned back: low maintenance. I had to go to our sister company to pick up some project related paper work and while I was there I was chatting with a few of of my former co-workers, one of the guys, whom I used to joke around with a lot, commented, “Holy Sam! Look at you! You look… like a MOM.”

I LOOK LIKE A MOM!?

A MOM?!

Does Mom equal OLD?!

Because I’M NOT OLD!!

One of the ladies turned to face him and informed him “that wasn’t very nice” , while I, in my true colourful form told him he was “such a douchebag.” I wasn’t offended per say, I don’t really offend all that easy, but as I thought about it over the weekend I couldn’t quite pin point what about that comment irked me so much. It’s not like it was a lie, I am a mom. A mom to two beautiful, wonderful little boys. I am a parent. I love having children.

The thought of looking like a mom has me visualizing Mom Jeans, plaid shirts and Keds. I think of women losing their (our) self image and conforming to this uniform and lifestyle that strictly revolves around the children. I think of unkempt hair swept back in pony tails, no make-up and stained clothes. Immediately I felt shame wash over me. Have I fallen so far down the rabbit hole that I give the indication I no longer care about my outward appearance? OMG, I’M A MOM!!!

Yet, I’ve worn that uniform, and I know that’s not a mom. I KNOW. It just happens to be easy and comfortable and realistic most of the time, but it’s not a mom. No outfit, be it from a discount chain store or a high end boutique, makes a mom. A mom is that woman who plays; gets down on the floor with trucks, barbies or what have you.  She takes them to playdates, swimming lessons, doctors appointments and soccer games. A mom makes lunches, dinners, draws a bath a scrubs the dirt and grim from their little fingers. A mom comforts and soothes, loves and adores. Being a mom is NOTHING to be ashamed of, no matter if she works outside the home or in it.

I? Am a mom.

I? Am not ashamed.

I? Am, however, updating my wardrobe.

• Failed
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• Hierarchy of Suckage*

It’s not often that I cook. Everyone who knows me well knows my cooking typically consists of quick and easy items: macaroni and cheese (Velveeta, not that Kraft powder shit), spaghetti, sandwiches, zoodles, sometimes boxed preservative laden meats even.

I think it’s more the waiting part that turns me off cooking rather than the actual mixing, working and creating. I am very much the type of person who needs immediate results in order to be satisfied.

Cooking does nothing for me.

Once and a while I will bake. I love making chocolate chip cookies mainly because I eat more of the batter than I do the cookies. See? Immediate results.  I’ve been known to slave over a few lemon meringue pies in my time, even some easy peasy cherry cheese cake type concoction I learned from my Gramma. Once again, all quick, all easy all requiring little to no actual baking.

Since having children I have taken a little more pride in cooking and baking. I’ve learned a few more recipes, I’ve actually made macaroni and cheese from scratch (THANK YOU PIONEER WOMAN!) and even indulged in bring baked goods to work. To feed my co-workers. To share. To proclaim to outsiders that I am indeed capable of making food stuffs save enough to eat!

Carter announced to me earlier this year that he LOVES pumpkin pie. LOVES. Because the lady at the daycare – The Cooker, The Daycare Lunch Lady, The Chef, or as I like to call her: The Procurer of Food for The Little People – makes a mean pumpkin pie.

So, for Thankgiving, I thought I’d spoil the little ankle biter and make him his own pumpkin pie. After all, what child could turn down a pumpkin pie made by their caring, doting and wonderful mother? Right?

I’ll spare you the disaster details of the actual pie making as they are irrelevant. But the kid got a pie. A pretty damn good pie if I do say so myself.

As we sat down to indulge in the delicious pumpkin-y goodness with a dollop of Cool Whip I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Carter’s little four year old face scrunch up in disgust. I played it off as nothing as I dove into the creamy goodness of my pumpkin filling.

The kids wasn’t eating anything. Not even a lick of the Cool Whip. I kinda suspected what may be coming, but I asked anyway.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” I asked.

“This pie tastes like junk,” he said matter-of-factly, “and not the good junk either.”

Seriously? Are you SERIOUS, you little jerk? After I slaved over that pie for you. I measured. I mixed. I baked. I WAITED!!!  And you call my pie JUNK!?I am NEVER. BAKING. AGAIN!!

But instead of letting him know how royally pissed I was that he dismissed my pie so coldly, I did what any parent would do in that situation.

I excused that ungrateful little shit loving and brutally honest child from the table and scarfed down his pie too.

:::

This post in brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book is See Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Moms by Beth Feldman. The book is a culmination of short essays written by a number of very talented blogger who also just happen to be moms (including two short stories from one of my favourite writers, Liz Gumbinner of Mom 101). It’s witty, hilarious and ALL TRUE. Read it!

For the FTC blah-blah-CRAP: I was given this book for free and asked to write a post inspired by the book, not a review. Also? Suckit.

• Eighteen and counting
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Sitting at the red light, the boys in the backseat, I glanced in my rear view mirror to see Carter looking out the side window at the passing cars. He’s gotten so big, in what seems like little time at all. He’s reciting days of the week, he knows the months of the year, and can spell his name. It all seems to have happened in a blink of an eye. He’s a funny and wonderful kid, most of the time – because hello? He’s four – but the stuff that comes out of that kids mouth sometimes? Comedic gold.

As we waited at the light he said, “Mommy? I love Hudson.”

“Awe, that’s sweet Carter. You’re a good big brother,” I told him, “You like being a big brother, don’t you?”

“Ya. I like Hudson.”

“Would you like to have another baby brother? Maybe a baby sister someday?” I asked

“Nope. Not today Mommy,” he replied still looking out the window.

“No, not today Dude; someday.”

“We can’t Mommy,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Curious I asked why we can’t. Seriously? When kids say stuff like that it freaks me out. Do they know something we don’t know?

“No, we can’t. Because the Halloween store close soon. Halloween will be over.”

• Fixture
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I thought I’d pass the reins to someone else for the time being. You’ll have to excuse the mumbles and lack of dialogue on his part, he’s just starting out. I’m thinking once he gets his routine down he may be better at maintaining this bitch.

I mean the site.

(Not THIS bitch.)

((That’s just wrong.))

(((Not to mention disgusting.)))

((((And also? SOMEONE ELSE’S JOB. SOMEONE WHO HAS NOT BEEN DOING HIS JOB.))))

(((((YA HEAR THAT SOMEONE ELSE!? I’M TALKING TO YOU SOMEONE ELSE.)))))

Ahem.

This is all wrong. ALL. WRONG.

Like I said: I think he’ll be taking over.

• Junk
• Eighteen and counting
• Today

Things are coming together. I think I’m getting my groove back. You may still occasionally find me huddled in the deep recesses of my new! garage! hiding with my raspberry vodka, but for the most part I think my shit is coming together.

I fell asleep before the kids were in Mike’s recliner on Saturday night; the most sleep I’ve had since prior to BlogHer. Holy shit! Was that three weeks ago already? I can’t believe how fast time has been flying. Two weeks and summer will unofficially be over as the kids (not mine, but yours) are gearing up to go back to school.
The school which Carter will eventually be attending is a stone’s throw from my new house. Seriously, *I* could hit it with a stone. I can see it from my front windows. I’ve been contemplating – again – the idea of sending Carter to Junior Kindergarten. I mean, the daycare has a program there and I only have to suffer through one pick up and drop off, but the money….even the mere two hundred dollars we could save would be beneficial (especially when daycare fees are the same as our mortgage. 1840 big ones. Per month. Yes, that’s right.)

The Incident in Carter’s class has somewhat dissipated as the offending person has been removed from the daycare. They will not be returning. Ever.
Thanks to you and your comments, I realize that you’re right. I didn’t fail my child but the person in question failed me. I can’t help but still feel that twinge of guilt in my pit of my stomach: I should be home caring for my children. I should be their primary caregiver. I don’t know that that will ever go away.

Aside from that, I feel a little more comfortable about the whole thing. Still uneasy, but better.

Except. By process of elimination I am fairly certain I know who the victim was (is).

My heart breaks for them. Their whole family. I wish nothing more than to be able to do something for them. To take away that pain and worry and heartache they are certainly feeling.

CAS has someone going to the daycare to talk to children whose parents have concerns and aren’t sure how to broach the subject with their child. I am leary about having a stranger talk to Carter about such a sensitive issue. We’ve had a number of discussions which lead me to believe that he understands what private parts are and who can touch you. He hasn’t exhibited any signs which we’ve been instructed to look out for, so we’re pretty confident that we’re on the right path to educating him. But! I worry that I’m not taking every aveune available to us by declining the interviews at the daycare.

Can we ever win this mental battle of Parent Guilt?

P.S. There’s pictures coming. I swear. I have to try and locate my camera.

P.S. Who’s coming to help strip wallpaper and paint? I have a pool and margarita mix!

• I Hate Kindergarten*
• Stepping up my game
• Today

This past weekend was my very first BlogHer and since I’ve been writing on this site for over three years now, I’ve come to *know* quite a few people. I’ve become very close with a gigantic mitt full of them making it even more surreal to have those people (and more) in the same room at the same time, talking face to face. There’s no other way to describe it other than completely surreal. I mean, you know all about them: their loves, their children, their hard times, their fears and to have never laid eyes on them until that meeting and know exactly who they are is pretty fuckin’ cool.

I can’t remember which night was which nor where I’ve ever had so much fun before.

Krystle (@snarkykisses), Moi and Miss Karen (@karensugarpants) at The Sparklecorn Extravaganza hosted by MamaPop.

photo lifted from Dove Clinical Protection Photo Booth @ MamaPopRocks Sparklecorn Extravaganza

I stayed up all hours of the night living off basic necessities like coffee, pop and free swag food – and free alcohol (DUH!). I think I had one staple meal the entire weekend.

I felt like I was in college again.

Totally hugging on The Michelin Man in the Expo

Totally crushed on people I’ve been reading FOREVER like the GORGEOUS and very sizzle Sizzle.

Me and Sizzle

And her? OMG HER. I would move to Florida and live in a cardboard box just to be with her all the time.

Me and Miss Britt

My Americus twin. I don’t know what more I can say about her besides she’s funny, GORGEOUS and so generous.

Angie and Me. Us. Forever.

Oh, and she likes my bewbs.

My Ali (@alimartell), Me and my Angie, bewb lover (@alotofnothing)

Wednesday night, our BlogHer Carpoolers‘ vehicle arrived. Chevy dropped off a beautiful 2010 Equinox which I immediately fell head over heels for. It’s an amazing drive which I totally pimped out the whole time (because I wanted to, not because they plied me with alcohol and free food). I think I may have even sold it to the gas station attendant I caught drooling all over the hood.

I arrived at Miss Karen Sugarpants‘ house where she greeted me at the door with a beer in hand. Which totally makes up for her calling me a twat. Then I spooned her and snored sweet nothings in her ear for about two hours before we got up and headed out on our eight hour drive to Chicago. Giddy like little high school girls we crossed the border into Americus blaring Britney Spears while Karen earned her new moniker @karengrannypants.

And America? Can you please talk to Target about opening their doors at 7:00am. Kthxbai.

Arrived in Chicago short on hearing (I think @karengrannypants forgot her hearing aid back home because the stereo was louder than loud and my ears were ringing for DAYS) where we met up with my twin, my stalker (WUUUUT?) (P.S. Fuckin’ LOVE her), Miss Shash and my dearest Avitable (Yes, I said dear). A warm welcome indeed.

After finding our room and cracking open our WalMart beer (I never thought I could love WalMart or America more) we met up with Mrs. Flinger (but don’t click that link because Ree has beaten Leslie’s server to a pulp and there’s nothing there.) in the hall as they stuffed bags for the Room 704 Party. Skype doesn’t do that woman justice people. Mrs. Flinger is all kindsa awesomesauce!

Thursday night has become a blur of FINALLY meeting my imaginary friends, parties and swag.

Seriously? What is this swag y’all are talking about? I’ve never even heard of swag. Swag gives me hives.

(If you haven’t listened to Dane Cook’s ‘The Nothing Fight’ then that will mean absolutely nothing to you, just carry on.. we’re walking… we’re walking…)

I know Craftastrophe won a weapon, I drank some beer and walked about six city blocks at 3 o’clock in the morning only to turn around and go back to the hotel.

I paid for a conference pass yet didn’t attend one panel. I’m not sad about that in the least. Because you know what? That conference pass was worth just being a part of those Community Keynotes (Can’t find a link to video at the moment, sorry!) and the Room of Your Own sessions. I stressed a little that I was wasting my money not attending them until that Community Keynote. Then I KNEW why I was there.

Friday night’s Nikon Cocktail Party was totally fabulous. Met some goreous women, and hung out with some of my favourite ladies while I contemplated approaching Carson Kressley but shied away from his lips critisism fame and watched from a distance.

Can I just tell you that party? So well put together, so much fun pretty well the highlight of the trip.

Or so I thought.

Because that was BEFORE I made it to the Sparklecorn Extravaganza.

Oh.

My.

Gah.

I didn’t even get any cake, just a giant unicorn leg of fondant icing.

Unicorn cake. OMFG.

picture from amysprite’s flickr. Go see. She’s AMAZING!

But like Karen said: The party was like a HUGE wedding without all the boring stuff.

And then I went all Gene Simmons on Mrs. Flinger.

So ya. That’s BlogHer.

Ahem.

Oh! And Casey. My dear sweet Casey.

Nothing but perfection.

Another amysprite pic.

________________________

Side Note:

I wanted to thank you all for your outpouring of support during our difficult time in The House of Me. I don’t think I’d be as sane right now if it weren’t for you. So thank you from the bottom of my cold, dark, shriveled heart.

I love you.

There are interviews being conducted with the children starting in two weeks. I haven’t decided if I should be there or just have Carter talked to someone without me there. I’m working through that at the moment.

We close on our new house TODAY. Our internet will be cut from this afternoon until the 11th of August so I have no idea when I’ll be checking in again. I’ll do my best to keep up with e-mails for The Business and I’ll be here and there when my addiction sees that it’s time to head to the nearest WiFi location.

<3

P.S. None of the photos are mine. I’ve stolen each and every one of them. There’s been NO time to download my camera. If you click the photo it will link you to its rightful owner.

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