The Threesome Marriage

OK. I’ve got to vent.

Tonight, I sit here pondering about “why do men hoard stuff??” I mean, not to be a sexist here, but I understand why women hold on to things- we appreciate sentimental reminders, we love getting gifts and we adore beautiful things. Most of us love to shop, which means we have more stuff.

In my case, I just have nicer stuff than my husband. 5 months before we got married, my husband and I bought our first home and I moved in first with my stuff. My sweet husband called a few of his buddies and they moved all my stuff into our new home. No questions asked and there were no eyebrows raised about my stuff taking too much space.

A few weeks before our wedding date, my husband talked about scheduling a U-Haul to move his stuff from his apartment. “What for?” I blurted, I honestly didn’t think he had that much stuff to actually fill an U-Haul. I didn’t want to hurt his feeling, but looking around at his bachelor pad full of hand me downs and mismatched stuff, it didn’t seem like there was ANYTHING worth keeping, and worthy of our new home.

When my husband moved in, he neatly stacked his boxes in the garage. Weeks went by. Months went by. The boxes remained exactly where he first put them. I didn’t give much thought and didn’t mind the boxes being in the garage- as long as it didn’t actually make it into my new home, I was happy.

The boxes stayed untouched, unopened, and unsorted for 3 years- till we moved to North Carolina. I decided if those boxes in the garage still remained untouched, we needed to re-evaluate their worth before we paid people to drive them across the country.

While my husband was at work, I finally opened one of his boxes. The box was full of his old college applications, old financial aid forms, taxes filed since 1988. I was appalled. I opened another box and it was full of classroom notes from high school & college. Another box full of not only old photos, but its original negatives (yes, definitely pre-digital), another box of outdoor camping gears including rock climbing gear, high school wrestling shoes from freshman year, a sculpture project he did in Jr. High School, and on and on.

I tried to reason, plead, bribe, and threaten my husband to get rid of those boxes but he remained unmoved on this issue. We moved 7 times in our 7 years of marriage. Every time we moved, the dumb boxes full of “trash” moved with us and we fought over them. When my husband got an internship for 3 months in Miami, he actually drove down with all those boxes promising to sort them, and they actually came back from Miami, untouched and un opened.

When we were preparing for the move down to San Diego this summer, I decided this was my chance to finally get rid of those boxes. Conveniently, my husband had to move to San Diego before us and I followed the following. I would walk by those boxes and throw them a menacing smile. I’ve waited so long to dump those boxes, and this was the chance I’ve been waiting for. I knew my husband would NEVER even notice.

The night before leaving to San Diego, I fell asleep before my husband as he was finishing packing his car. I barely managed to peel out of my bed to say our good bye at 5 AM. He left behind a whole house full of responsibilities and the task of now packing for our family. But I didn’t care; I was about to have a PURGE fest.

A few hours after my husband’s departure, I walked into the garage, almost giddy with excitement. I’ve waited 7 years for this moment and I couldn’t waste another second. When we didn’t have any kids, I tolerated those boxes because space was not an issue. But now, keeping his stuff meant less space for the kids’ stuff, and hardly any space for me. I would commit my crime now, and apologize later. After all, isn’t that what marriage is all about??

I walked into the garage. I walked over to the corner where the boxes have been stacked, untouched for the past two years since we moved into our house. Then I froze.

The boxes, the trash of old stuff, were ALL GONE!! I mean they completely disappeared into the thin air. Not one box was left behind. My heart started pounding, and I can feel the blood rushing to my head. I ran out to the garbage can to see if they were there. Nope. I looked around the garage to see if they have been moved. Nope. I even searched my curbside to see if they were left out for the garbage people. Nope. They were nowhere to be found.

Of course, my husband brilliantly managed to stay up all night and packed those stupid boxes into his tiny car for the 400 miles+ ride. Somehow, he was totally onto my scheme and managed to save his boxes of trash. Now, those boxes sit in our paid storage in San Diego, mocking at me, ready to move with me wherever I go next.

“We live in a constant fear” said a friend’s husband. “We never know what will go missing when we come back from work”.

Apparently men ARE sentimental. Who knew? I guess marriage is a threesome arrangement between you, your spouse, and the pesky packrat who just won’t go away.

The packRAT? Really Attached to Trash I say!!

Ta-Ta For Now: Part 1

It all began when I was 8 month pregnant with my second child, I joined an outdoor hiking program for my toddler who was 2 yr old at the time.  I wanted to spend as much quality time with him as possible before the new baby was born.  Since the class was also open to siblings, I thought it would be good to join something where I can attend with both kids at the same time.  Plus, I wanted to meet other moms with multiple kids, and learn how they juggle and keep their sanity.

 

When we showed up for the class, I immediately saw a boy from my son’s gym class.  I said hello to his mother, and we chit chatted while waiting for the hike to start.  She also has an infant daughter, and she told me that her part-time work keeps her sane.  I told her that we should get together sometime for a play date, and we said our good byes at the end of the class.

 

Well, it turns out this particular mom, works “part-time” as the Co-Founder and CEO of a very well known and large on-line photo cards company. Realizing that a play date is unlikely in the near future, I decided to venture out and meet more moms in the class.  I met another very friendly mom, who has 2 same as kids as mine, and seemed eager enough to get together for a play date.

 

I came home that night, told my husband about this new potential friend.  Much to my surprise, my husband recognized her name right away.  It turns out this woman was my husband’s classmate from college.  She also turns out to be a founder and CEO of even a bigger start-up company that sells party favors.   She has celebrity customers and her products have been featured in InStyle, Real Simple, Good Morning America, just to name the few. 

 

I was down right depressed.  I had joined a toddler hiking class for the over-achieving moms!! Forget play dates.  These moms went from changing diapers, to getting orders from Tori Spellings on their iPhones.  Where did they find the time, energy and creativity to start and run successful business “on the side”??  I barely had the time to take a shower!!

 

They say in Silicon Valley, if you don’t have a start-up on your resume, you are a nobody.   I decided I have got to start a start-up of my own.   Dang it, I've got to be somebody.

The hiking class?  I quit that after the second class. 

And that’s how it all began.

 

 

Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

I have a confession.  I hate attending my husband’s company events.  I don’t care how fancy and FREE it might be.  I just don’t enjoy it.  Don’t get me wrong… I love to party.  But my very smart, yet slightly “scientific” husband built his career in the Bio Technology industry, which means most of his co-workers are also very smart, and even more “scientific” (a.k.a – nerdy).  Just not my crowd.  I am way too cool and hip and definitely an outsider to the “scientific” community.  You also have to be somewhat cautious because you don’t want to be your hubby’s career limiting wife and become the talk of water coolers.

However, it’s only been two weeks since landing in San Diego and our family wknd calendar is somewhat bare so I welcomed the invitation to join my husband’s annual company picnic at the local beach.   We packed the car, packed the kids, and headed off to the party.  Anywhere is better than spending another day in corporate housing. 

My kids were thrilled to find that the party included a huge indoor pool with the biggest bouncy house I’ve seen in my mommyhood career.  We each took a child, changed them, and swim diapered the baby and went into the pool.   After about 5 mins, my ADHD baby wanted to get out of the pool, and go in to the bouncy house.   We only brought a small hand towel for the entire family so I decided to save the towel and just bring my baby to the bouncy house wet.  

“Please dry off before entering” said the sign on the entrance of the bouncy house.  I conveniently ignored the sign, and just slipped my baby in the bouncy house.  There were two other much older kids jumping and having a ball.  I should note here that this was my child’s first bouncy house experience.  She knew she wanted to go in, but once she was placed in the bouncy house, my baby realized she didn’t know how to actually jump or bounce.  She was locked in a crawling position, completely bewildered.   “Bounce baby, bounce.  Bounce like a bunny!”  I tried coaching her from the outside.  Nothing.  She didn’t move a muscle.  I cheered even louder for her to bounce.

That’s when I realized that she was indeed moving a muscle.  She was actually peeing!  Not a big deal, I thought no one would notice since she was dripping wet from the pool water anyway.  But much to my dismay, she kept on peeing and peeing for what felt like an eternity.  I didn’t know that toddlers can pee THAT much.  She simply wouldn’t stop.  What da heck?  Why did I pay a fortune for that swim diaper that doesn’t even work??  I stopped cheering and tried to pretend that I didn’t notice that she was actually peeing.  

“Oh my god- that baby is peeing!”  One of the parents of the other kids scremed.  Now, EVERYONE was looking, and the kids who were bouncing went nuts!  They started screaming, and tried to get out of the bouncy house but couldn’t because my baby wouldn’t move an inch, sitting right by the door.  To make the matters worse, when the kids tried to get out of the bouncy house, my baby’s pee would simply spill over to the next groove, then to the next groove.  Not only did it overflow, it actually started to bubble up, and there were bubbles getting bigger and bigger from my daughter’s pee!!  I didn't know pee can bubble up like that.  Bubbles were EVERYWHERE!  

I stood there totally flabbergasted.  I went right back to that place when my first child over-flooded the toilet at his friend’s birthday party.  How do I wipe down the bouncy house?  How do I try to wipe down my baby?  Should I pretend that she is actually NOT related to me?   Frozen by shock and dread, I was totally helpless.

Now I have a brand new perspective on company picnics.  Apparently I am NOT too cool and NOT too hip for the “scientific” community .  .  .  I now have to make sure my kids also don’t become the topic of the water cooler talks.  It’s a whole different level of stress.  Sighh…

 

 

 

 

Traveling Ramblings: Jersey Shore

Today, we packed the car, the kids, and grandparents and drove down to the Jersey Shore.

When we arrived, we soon realized the beach was also packed. We found a spot between a group of teenage boys playing volleyball, and some long legged girls tanning in their bikinis. Looking around, I suddenly felt too old to be there in my miracle-shape bathing suit.

Much to my amazement, there were a ton of dark, I mean really leathery sun bathers at the beach. There were people of all shapes and sizes, scorching under the July sun. We were huddled under two SPF 100 umbrellas, and I dressed the kids in long sleeve sun guards, and covered their face thick with sun block lotion. I felt old and out of place.

I decided to take the kids to the playground at the beach. At the playground I saw a group of boys laughing and playing near the swing set. I thought how nice it would be for my son to be able to hang out with his friends like that when he gets older. I walked to the swings to put my daughter in the baby bucket seat. Then much to my surprise, one of the “boys” took out an actual cigarette, and lit it.

I was stunned. I looked at the boy, and he looked no more than 9 or 10 years old. He had perfectly groomed eye brows, and a diamond stud earring. His friend climbed to the top of the swing set, and started making indecent gestures at the girls across the playground. How old were these “miniature” people anyway? Were they just really young, but “urbanized” or were they actually much older, just developmentally pre-mature? I couldn’t tell. I thought smoking was something we dealt with in the 80’s. I didn’t realize that now 10 year olds are smoking. I dragged my two toddlers kicking and screaming out of that play ground, just in time so they don’t pick up on all the “f” words, and get lung cancer from second hand smoking.

Being back in New Jersey brings back certain memories of childhood. I was no angel, and I’ve done my share of sneaking out beyond my curfew and crashing my parent’s car. But somehow, motherhood had a way of fast forwarding life that I’ve now become one of those adults who frowns upon smokers, sun-tanners, and kids growing up too fast.

“Being a cool mom doesn't mean to set your kids free without boundaries, but it is important to give your kids room to move and learn things for themselves. This will help you to enjoy parenting and help your children to enjoy being raised. It's a win-win situation.” -- WikiHow

I’m sure some 14 year old wrote that parenting advice on WikiHow because the thought of letting my son grow up and letting him hang out with those boys at the playground gives me a panic attack.

I am most definitely NOT a cool mom.

Traveling Ramblings: New Jersey

How do I describe New Jersey? Being a true Jersey girl, I’ve always been very defensive about Jersey. I didn’t realize it was the butt of every joke until I went to college where I first heard it being described as the “armpit”. To me, Jersey was always an extension of New York- just a little bit less crowded, nicer, greener, and much cheaper shopping.

Here are some interesting facts:

- This week, Gas is only $2.35/gallon. That includes the full service. They actually get offended if you come out of the car and start pumping the gas yourself.

- There’s no sales tax on anything you wear- that means no sales tax on clothes, shoes, etc,. Heaven!

- Others might call Jersey the “armpit” but the Jersey people call it “the Garden State”

- There are no “freeways” – every highway has tolls. To cross the bridge from New Jersey to New York, you would have to pay stinkin’ eight dollars!

- Jersey people really do have an accent. I’ve been denying it my whole life, but there’s no hiding it. Thanks Tony Soprano for letting the whole world know how we talk.

In Jersey, I intend to get spoiled and pampered by my parents. I plan to catch up with old friends, go shopping and get lots of R & R.

Home sweet home...

Traveling Rambling: San Jose Airport

“What? Are you insane?” a friend asked me. Call it ignorance, a pure fantasy, a delusion for being landlocked for what felt like an eternity with young kids, but I really thought it was a good idea to travel for a month with my two under-aged travelers- without my husband. Since our family is in the process of moving to San Diego anyway (hubby got a job there, and has been working there since May), why not use the opportunity to go and pay over-due visits to friends and family across the country?

So I began my cross country trip. I love to travel. I love just showing up at friend’s houses and surprising them. I love to go to places with nothing planned, and just “figure things out” when I get there. Unannounced, unexpected, and unpredicted was my style.

Now that I have two toddlers, and most of my friends have toddlers, anything “unexpected” is usually NOT a good thing. Knowing this, I arrived at San Jose Airport 2.5 hours prior to my departure time. Knowing that the evil airlines would charge me a fee for checking curbside, I got a luggage cart, and began loading 2 large suitcases, 2 car seats, my jewelry case, oversized diaper bag and a stroller. With my one year daughter in a baby carrier, and holding my 3 year old son’s hand, I began to walk towards the check-in line. Wednesday afternoon with the economy the way it is, I expected the airport to be empty. To my dismay, the check in line was packed, there were only 2 agents working at the counter and the airport was anything but empty.

“57 lbs. That will be $50” said the ticket agent. WHAT? I packed and weighted the suitcase myself just yesterday. “53 lbs, that will be another $50, total of $100. Would you like to pay it by cash or credit?” CRAZY!! I just waited 45 mins in the line so I can avoid paying the curbside fee. I was NOT about to pay $100 after waiting in line for that long. “I’ll rearrange my luggage” I said adamantly. The ticket agent rolled her eyes, and let out a loud sigh that screamed “I’m too busy to cater to you.”

I opened my over-sized and over-weight suitcases, and began to rearrange the load frantically. I can feel the eyes of disgruntled travelers behind me. How can my bags be off by 10+ lbs? Was my scale off? Have I’ve been weighing myself on the broken scale all this time? DOES THIS MEAN I AM ALSO 10+ POUNDS HEAVIER? There I was, in front of the ticket counter, with packages of Pampers, Ziploc full of wooden trains, clothes, and toiletries scattered everywhere- all eyes were on my 10+ lbs over-weight bags, and on my 10+ lbs over-weight self.

After several unsuccessful attempts at trying to magically get rid of the overweight lbs, I finally ended up with the unanticipated penalty of $50, a 67 lb suitcase, and a very visible fluorescent “heavy” tag hung like a scarlet letter on my suitcase.

The two hour flight to Denver was anything but easy. But the worst part of my trip was definitely the unanticipated $50 plus the unexpected weight gain. Sigh…

So began my month of travel. Next stop – Denver. Stand by for more unexpected, and unexpected happenings.

The Percentile Please!

Managing two kids means twice as many doctors appointments to remember. With my first child, I was anal about everything- making sure to book the appts so I don’t disturb my baby’s feed/nap/poop schedule, dressing the baby appropriately so he wouldn’t freeze on the examining table, etc,. I even took time to review and research before the appointments so I can maximize my 5 mins with the physician and ask the right questions.

That woman is now only a distant memory. Now I skid in to the garage, park completely crooked, and run madly with my kids flying behind. 4 months after my son turned three, I finally managed to book my son’s 3 year check up. No time to research my discussion topics. I only had ONE burning question in my mind.

I have to pause, and describe my son’s doctor. When I first met him, I was shocked at how young he looked. He couldn’t have been more than late 20’s, early 30’s at best. He looked too young, too hip, and too friendly to be a respectable doctor. (To all my doctor friends, apologies ;-) But the minute I saw him interact with my son, my skepticism dwindled. And the minute he turned to me and said “…and how are YOU doing…?” I knew I liked him.

With my ONE question, I waited patiently in his 10 x 10 examining room. My young, hip, Banana Republic wearin’ doctor finally walked in, and we chit chatted a little bit, then he began examining my son. Weight- 95 %, Height- 97%. Eating well, playing well, sleeping well, potty trained, etc,.etc,.

“Do you have any questions?” my pediatrician asked.

“Yes, I do have a question” I blurted out before I changed my mind about my question. The young doctor looked concerned and put down my son’s chart.

“ I’ve been working on teaching my son to pee standing up and noticed that he is not peeing straight. I’m wondering if his circumcision was done correctly. ” The thought of having to re-circumcise my son made me feel faint. But I had to ask and consider the unthinkable- just in case.

The doctor examined my son. “Everything looks normal with his circumcision. Circumcision is difficult sometimes because baby’s the baby’s penis is so small.”

My heart sank. Now, I had a much bigger problem.

I asked hesitantly. “Did you say my baby’s penis is small? Did you mean relative to other babies or did you mean all babies have small penis because they are babies?“ Would my child be made fun of at school? Would he be shy in locker rooms? Would he have a poor self-image?

The young doctor paused. Then he panicked. He looked away, searching for an appropriate response. “Your son’s penis is just fine. Normal in every way. I simply meant all babies have small penis and circumcisions are sometimes difficult” He added, “I wouldn’t worry”

This still didn’t comfort me. Now I was REALLY worried. What does "normal" really mean? Did he mean normal big or normal small?

“Can you show me the percentile chart?” My child has always been a very big, off the chart child. He must certainly be proportionally-correct, right?

Needless to say, my doctor went on to explain patiently how such a comparison chart does not exist, and he emphasized again how my son does not need to be re- circumcised.

I still remain somewhat skeptical. I will never know how my son compares to the rest of the 3 yr old boys. In the mean time, I’ve got to figure out how to deal with keeping the toilet clean. Why do I have so many toilet related issues?

Sighhhh…

Women needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle

“A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle” said Gloria Steinem (she was quoting Irina Dunn).  For the majority of my singlehood, this was my mantra, my declaration of independence, and my anthem of empowerment as a woman.  It is in this confidence and delusional state of mind, I encouraged my husband to go to Tahoe with some friends while I stayed behind with our two kids for the weekend. 

Everything went smoothly on the first day.  I took the kids to the farmer’s market, we played at a local park, went to the library to get some more books and Thomas DVDs.  I fed them, changed them, cleaned them, and entertained them.  First night after the kids were deep in sleep, I sank into my futon, enjoying a glass of wine.  Silence.  I loved it.

The second day also sailed smoothly.  I began to think “single parenting is not that bad.”  One of the things that really irk me is on seldom occasions when I leave the kids with my husband, I came back to a house where dirty dishes, messy rooms, and scattered laundry is “justified” because “I was too busy watching the kids”.  At times, I even dreaded going out because I knew I would come back to more work, staying up even later to clean up, and be more tired afterwards.  This weekend, I wanted to set an example.  I wanted to show him how to solo-parent while managing the house as well.  I needed to raise the bar.

After the kids went to bed, I began to chop, steam, sauté what felt like a month’s worth of food.  I started the laundry, started the dish washer.  Feeling really proud of myself, I began to clean the counter top, and even started mopping the floor.  All was going well.  It was past midnight and after I was done with cooking, cleaning, folding the laundry and showering, I was spent.   I loved going to sleep knowing that my house, specifically my kitchen, was sparkling.  I crawled under my fluffy comforter and closed my eyes.

But, something was not right.  I went around and made sure all the doors and windows were locked.  I came back to the kitchen to see if the dishwasher was done.  That’s when I saw my kitchen sink, completely clogged, and the yucky water kept on rising slowly. 

They say traumatic memories are remembered by not only your brain, but by all of your senses.  Some of you might remember my incidence with a clogged toilet.  Plumbing has never been my forte.  I froze.  I was alone in the house, and it was past midnight.  My husband wasn't scheduled to come home for at least another 16 hours.  I turned on the garbage disposal- no luck.  I tried to clear out all the vegetable peels and scraps of meat in the sink.  Still no luck.  I tried to think clearly.  Unfortunately, thinking clearly at 12:30 AM is like asking a sleep walking man to fill out his taxes.  I began to search the house frantically for a plunger.  No time to read the kitchen sink instruction.  No time to google.  I had to do something and do it fast.

I grabbed the plunger from the master bathroom, and ran back to the kitchen.  The thought of putting in a plunger which I assume was used for toilets previously, into my kitchen sink worried me.  But I didn’t have the time to sanitize my plunger.  Brushing off all other hesitations, I began to “plunge” my clogged sink.  At first, I was very careful.  But soon I realized I was not solving the problem.  I began to push up and down the plunger, like a mad person.  That's when I encountered "it".  

"It" totally, completely caught me by surprise and "it" shot up to my ceiling and landed on my hair.   "It" shot up, from the tiny silver knob next to my kitchen faucet, which I've never noticed before this moment.  "It" was my private Old Faithful, my geyser of filthy, muggy kitchen sink water, filled with old carrot peels, meat scraps and other questionable things.   My exhausted brain barely figured out that there was a cause and effect.  Harder I plunged, higher my geyser. My geyser shot up once, twice, then again and again every time I pushed down the plunger. I was in my own nightmare.

I wish I didn't have to end this story with me staying up for another 2 hours of cleaning, sanitizing, and showering...again.  I wish I didn't have to go to sleep at 3 am, only to get up at 5 am to nurse my baby.  But let me tell you, by the time my husband came back on Sunday afternoon, I nearly leapt into his arms, and felt so thankful that I don't have to hold the plunger again. 

A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle?  Obviously, Gloria Steinem was perfectly ok with taking care of her own plumbing issues or she knew a female professional plumber somewhere.  But today, I find it completely liberating to say - I AM MOST DEFINITELY PLUMBING CHALLENGED AND I OUTSOURCE ALL THINGS PLUMBING TO MY HUSBAND.

 

100% My Baby!

Message of warning- the content of this writing may be offensive and may even sound morbid. Reader discretion is highly advised.

I am not one to be on top of the celebrity gossip. Matter of fact, I get annoyed with how much air time celebrities get with their mundane life’s details. But, I recently saw a photo of Gisele holding Tom brady's son in People Magazine. It absolutely rubbed me the wrong way so here I am, needing to vent.

Recently, Gisele got a lot of grief over her comment “I understand that he has a mom, and I respect that, but to me it’s not like because somebody else delivered him, that’s not my child. I feel it is, 100 percent... I want him to have a great relationship with his mom, because that’s important, but I love him the same way as if he were mine. I already feel like he’s my son, from the first day.”

Well good for you Gisele. Yet somehow my postpartum hormones are screaming “you never had a baby of your own. You rarely spent any time with this baby. How would you know what it feels like to have your own son?”

Don’t get me wrong… I’m a firm believer of adoption and maternal instinct all of us have to a degree. Also, I would be much more respectful of her comment if Gisele actually did raise Tom Brady’s baby- staying up for days when he is sick, cleaning up all of his yucky diapers while offering her hand to wipe his nose when there’s no tissue in sight. I also believe that taking care of a baby is much more difficult and sacrificial than actually being pregnant and giving birth to a baby.

However, what entitles her to feel like this baby, who actually has another mother, is 100% hers?

Today, I asked my husband the question I ask every year or so. “Would you remarry if I die?” My husband rolled his eyes, and blurted out “I don’t think about remarrying EVER!” I began to think about my kids being photographed with another “mother” who is not me. It made me feel like crying, puking and fainting at the same time.

Before I was married, I didn’t particularly have a desire to live long. I wanted to live life fully while being young, and getting old didn’t really appeal to me. After I got married, I became more worried about my husband’s mortality than mine. I worried that my husband might just die on me one day, leaving me as a widow. However, now that I’m a mother, I feel differently and seeing this photo of Gisele makes me want to be around for a long long time. If fate demands for one of our lives to be taken away, I would definitely have to offer up my husband’s life, rather than mine (sorry honey!). The thought of my kids growing up without my husband is tragic, but the thought of my kids growing up without me … well, that’s just unbearable!!

Of course, God get the last laugh. After the kids were finally down, dishes put away, and tomorrow’s meal finished, I began doing my homework for the women’s bible study. The question I had to answer tonight was “if you were told that you had only one week to live, what would you pray for and what would you do?” What??!!

Dang it. My kids growing up without me would be bad. But my kids growing up without any mother at all would really, really bad. I shook my husband who was about to doze off.

“If I die, promise me you’ll marry again to someone who’ll love our kids as her own.”

I just hope my husband doesn't marry a size 2 Victoria Secret model.

Tuesday Morning

Every Tuesday schedule goes something like this:

4:30 am  Child #2 wakes up and starts to whimper in her crib

5:00 am  No longer able to ignore her, I pick her up and feed her, hoping she'll go back to sleep

5:30 am  Child #2 is happily playing on the floor, while I'm passed out, also on the floor

6:00 am  Child #1 wakes up, full of life and energy

6-7:00 am  Change diaper, visit the potty, change clothes, and entertain

7:00 am  Feed breakfast

8:00 am Frantically pick up toys and organize before the cleaners arrive

9:00  am  Arrive at women's bible study fellowship

9:10 am  Plead, threaten, and bribe Child #1 to go to the children's class

9 - 11 am  Mingle, socialize, and get into group discussion with the women at the bible study.  Try to make intelligent conversations, and try NOT to make a grocery list while listening to others talk

11:10 am  Pick up Child #1 from children's class.  One of his classmates comes to greet me as well, then stares at me strangely.  Whatever, kids stare.  Not a big deal

11:30  am  Rush home to nurse Child #2

12- 1 pm  Prep and feed Child #1

1:00 pm Child #2 goes down for a nap

1:30 pm  Clean up, briefly check emails

2:00 pm Child #1 goes down for a nap

2:05 pm  Finally having a moment to myself, I arrive at my bathroom to brush teeth.  Did I brush teeth this morning?  Couldn't remember.  Actually, did I even wash my face?  Wasn't sure.  WORD!!  What's that on my face?*@!  I had a pillow mark going from the top of my left cheek to the middle of my forehead!  My face was indented with this menacing pillow mark, making me look like a disheveled Captain Hook, and I had no idea all day!  I didn't think I slept long enough to even have a pillow mark.  It was past 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and I still had the mark like a permanent scar!

That night, I made sure I cleansed, rinsed, hydrated, and moisturized my face.  I guess beauty is fleeting but pillow marks and wrinkles are here to stay.

Sigh...

Boobs, boobs, boobs

That’s right. Today I’m going to talk about boobs. Motherhood, at least during the early months, is all-about the boobs. Previous to having kids I had no idea how important boobs are going to be in my feeling like a successful parent. When I was pregnant and was preparing to be a mother, I thought things like my bachelor's degree in education, and my graduate courses in child psychology would save the day.

Oh how naive I was!! None of those classes prepared me for the early months of motherhood. After having kids, now I know that nothing makes you feel more like a successful mom than a pair of well working boobs.

Before having kids, the world of boobs was simple- small or large boobs and fake or real boobs.
They were merely body parts that made you look a certain way. I didn't know that boobs can look and feel in so many different ways. I didn't know that boobs can do so much:

Nursing boobs
Lactating boobs
Engorged boobs
Lopsided boobs
Cracked nipple boobs
Sagging boobs
Leaking boobs
Soft boobs
Hard boobs
Head rest boobs
Sleep aid boobs
Sore boobs
Enflamed boobs
Throbbing boobs
The list goes on

Your baby’s world revolves around your boobs. Your life revolves around your boobs. When your boobs are not in working order, you feel stressed, you feel like a failure, and unfit to be a mother. I don’t care how helpful your spouse might be- unless he has a pair of boobs, he is simply not THAT helpful.

As I sit here, nursing my baby, I am so thankful for my boobs. Who knew my boobs could endure so much? I’m celebrating my boobs, and all the other tired, sleep deprived and overworked boobs out there.

Ooh, ouch! My teething baby is adding another one to the list.

Beef Jerky Boobs.

New Year's Resolution

Every year, as long as I can remember, my new year’s resolution began with “lose 5 pounds.” Actually, this “5 pounds” quickly grew to “lose 10 pounds” when I turned 30, then it became “lose 15 pounds” with baby #1.

Like all things passé, I grew sick and tired of the never ending “lose weight” resolution. Rather than starting 2009 with “lose 25 pounds” after baby #2, I decided now is the time. It’s time to embrace and celebrate the new me.

To celebrate this liberating moment, I decided to go shopping for a bathing suit. Who cares if I’m big as a whale? Now I’ve got boobs. I’ve never owned a pair of bikinis because I’ve always been so flat chested. This was my one chance to actually own a pair of bikinis. I was thrilled!!

I was pleased to find the store well stocked with a new 2009 shipment of bathing suits. I walked right past the one piece bathing suits. Sneering at the section of Speedos, and other “granny” swimsuits, I was determined to get me a pair of hot bikinis. I was on a mission. South Beach here I come. I was determined to be the hottest mama in my toddler’s swim class at the Y.

I tried on a halter top from Juicy Couture. I was absolutely floored! My boobs were too big for the Juicy top!! All my life I wished for boobs that can fill a bikini top, and now my boobs were suffocating behind the bikini top. There was nothing neither glamorous nor feminine about my boobs. Definitely NOT Juicy. I tried on another cute piece from Lucky Brand. I couldn’t even recognize my own body. I quickly realized that I’ve been so busy, I haven’t even had any time to look at my body. The body in the mirror, was definitely not me. Who’s body was this with the sagging boobs, hardly any waist, and huge arms? I also discovered the flatness from my chest have moved on to find a home with my derrière. Crazy! Where did my butt go?

Completely deflated, I couldn’t stand another mockery. I quickly got out of the fitting room, and dragged myself towards the one piece bathing suits. I stood in front of what I initially brushed off as the “granny suits” section. As if it’s written for people who couldn’t read without reading glasses, the huge tags read “Magic Suit by Miracle Suit. Look 7 lbs Slimmer in Seconds!” Desperate to find something, anything, I quickly grabbed the miracle suit, and rushed to the fitting room. It was miraculous. The Miracle Suit covered me, hugged me, and hid me in all the right places!!

Unlike other years, I will not try to watch my carbs or hit the gym this year. I am not going to fret over the extra pounds, and lament over the lost youth. I’m going to celebrate 2009 with my new Miracle Suit bathing suit. I just hope I don’t bump into any ladies from the senior class at the Y wearing the same bathing suit.

Cake Anyone?

Yesterday morning, my husband dropped us off at my son’s preschool friend's birthday party. My toddler son was very excited, and couldn't wait to open the door and say "happy birthday, can I have cake?". A birthday party for a 2 year old is really, all about the cake. I went inside with both kids to join a room full of 2 yr olds singing "O Macdonald Had A Farm." My son dropped my hand, and dashed to the kitchen to see if he can get a glimpse of the cake. We sang a few more silly songs, then headed out to the backyard, where kids can have lunch, make lots of mess, and of course, eat the cake. I strapped my infant on the baby carrier on my back, and took my son outside. He did great eating his pizza, sucking out every drop of juice out of his SunKist, and I managed to mingle with other parents. During events like these, I always feel a little bit more conscience about how my child behaves because after all, he is a reflection of my parenting, no? I want to make sure he shares, he doesn't bother anyone, and he would be obedient. One of the moms came over and asked me how I potty trained my son. As luck would have it, he is one of the first child to be potty trained in his class of 6 two year olds (and he wasn't even trained that early!). I talked about the Potty Training in One Day method, and talked about being surprised with how well my son’s been doing w/o diapers.

Then I saw from the corner of my eyes, twisting his legs like he has to go to the bathroom. You see how the story is going. But wait, it's much worse. I grabbed my son quickly, and headed into the house. He whined "No, no, I'm not ready yet". Well, Mr. Not-Ready-Yet, had a little bit of an accident already, and I was mortified to see a brown spot on his underwear. I scolded him, stripped him away from his soiled underwear, and made him sit on the potty to finish his business. My baby started to fidget and whimper on my back. I quickly considered my options. Do I let my son go commando or do I dress him in a pink Dora pull-up pants complement of the host family? I decided against the Dora pull up pants because I was not about to put my child in a pull-up, not even 5 mins after my speech to other moms about how I successfully potty trained my child. I wiped my child’s behind, and flushed the toilet. I flushed once, then twice. Then the water kept on rising and rising, and my son started screaming "Mama, I wet". Then the water started pouring out of the toilet. I couldn't believe it. Much to my horror, the water didn't simply "leak" ... it started to shoot our with such gusto, it almost looked like a fire hydrant. The Hoover Dam was demolished and Niagara Fall was over flooded. I quickly lifted my son and placed him inside the bath tub. I tried to reach for the little knob on the bottom of the toilet- no success. No plunger in site. No bucket in site. Water continued to pour out covering the bathroom floor, then out to the hall way. My son’s pants actually started to float down towards the door. Pieces of his poop started to float down towards the hallway. I just stood there dumbfounded, unable to think, or move in my son's poop water. My toddler started to scream and my infant started to cry. That's when I heard people singing "Happy Birthday" outside.

Then my toddler wailed " I want cake!!! Waaaaaa!!"

Portable plunger anyone? I'll be sure to pack one in my diaper bag next time. Oh, did my son get to eat his cake? He sure did eat a huge slice of cake sitting next to his friends, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and a pink Dora pull up pants.

Glam I Am...NOT!

Finding the perfect dress for a cocktail party used to be like finding the perfect mate. You have certain criterias, a picture in your mind, then you go out and shop. Given your past successes and failures, you narrow down your choices, and you go to the stores where you are most likely to find the dress you have in mind. You try on a few at your first stop, then you go to another store, just to comparison shop or to rationalize your choice. If you fall in love with the way you look in the mirror, you justify the price, fantasize the new you, and plan the rest of the assemble. It is magical and glamorous.

I recently had to go shopping for a cocktail dress and I am here to report that postpartum shopping excursion with 2 screaming kids is anything but glamorous. It's actually more like running the Amazing Race, while carrying two small people, and dodging grenades from all sides. After feeding, changing, cleaning, packing and bribing the kids, we headed out to the Neiman Marcus Outlet. I knew I had at best about 40 mins before someone was going to need to feed or go to potty. I had no idea what size, color, or style would flatter me. Since I was size 4/6 before pregnancy, I decided that size 8 would be my best bet. I grabbed everything from hot halter dress to grandma's Sunday church dress. When I physically couldn't hold any more dresses, I rushed to the dressing room with son flying behind me. I was determined to meet my glamorous dress.

The dressing room was empty, so I parked my stroller in the handicap room, and started the "amazing race". I tried on my first batch of 12 dresses. I began with a few Laundry dresses, BCBGs, and Nicole Millers - these are "safe bets". My safe bets quickly turned into disappointments as I struggled to squeeze into those tiny dresses. I would walk out to show the dressing room girl and she would say hesitantly, "well...I don't think that's your best look." My toddler began to get restless, and my 6 month old daughter began to whimper. I had no time to ponder or re-try on dresses. I raced through my next batch of 12 dresses. The person in the mirror (moi) looked so terrible, I felt embarrassed to even step outside of my dressing room. My son began to mumble "too small, too small" like an autistic child. Some of the dresses hugged my chest so tightly, my boobs started to leak! (don't worry, I was still wearing my nursing bra). This is when I decided to nurse my baby hoping to fit into some of those dresses. Since when did they make size 8 feel like size 6? I put the baby back in the car seat and tried on my next batch of dresses hoping that somehow nursing would simply shrink me to a perfect 8. Desperate to find at least one flattering dress, I even tried on some couture dresses. I grabbed a beautiful navy blue Armani dress, and tried to squeeze into its "size 8". When I finally managed to zip it up, I was horrified to see how a $2100 dress made me look so waist-less and un-glamorous

Feeling completely depleted, I tried to unzip and unwind from this unpleasant dress. Problem was, Armani hugged me so tight, I couldn't unzip it enough to get the dress off. I squirmed this way and that to no success. My son started to rock the baby's car seat and she started to wail. After several desperate squirming and breathing exercises, I decided my only option was to pull up the dress...over my head. Somehow I managed to pull it up (actually more like "roll it up") the dress over my chest. I tried to quickly pull the dress over my shoulder, and...it wouldn't move at all. There I was, my shoulder and head stuck under a beautiful Armani dress unable to move an inch. Sweat drops started forming on my nose. I could feel my own breath heating up my head inside the dress. "You ok mama?" asked my two year old.

My daughter's cry crew louder and louder. I couldn't even pick up the baby because my arms were stuck, pointing straight up to the ceiling. I had two options - I can do the incredible hulk and just break free of the dress by force, or I can ask the dressing room girl to help me. Luckily, the girl walked by and asked if everything was ok. I was so humiliated. She finally managed to peel me off the dress. She looked at the mountain of "no" dresses, and said "maybe you should try on a different size".

By this point, shopping was anything but fun. After trying out 48 dresses in a mad rush, and feeling slightly light headed, I managed to find a decent dress... IN SIZE TEN!! Nothing against size 10, but it's just not me, or wasn't me. I sheepishly thanked the dressing room girl. And get this. The dressing room girl, who looked at best a size ZERO and 18 yrs old, turns to me and says "Don't worry. I had a hard time finding my size after I had my baby as well"

OUCH!! Glam I am definitely NOT!

Where Are the Shopping Carts?

I love Target. Before having kids, I used to be appalled at how these mega-stores would drive out those innocent local mom-pop shops. Now, I shamelessly LOVE the convenience of a one-stop-shop. The Target in North Carolina even had groceries, and I was there literally every day. I love the wide isles where I can drive the shopping cart without bumping into anything, and the fact that there's always something interesting for my 2 yr old. Price is always reasonable, and I love the fact that the workers carry around those guns that can do the inventory checks instantly. I even began buying clothes at Target. I figured, if it's cool enough for Isaac Mizrahi, it's cool enough for me. I love the fact that I can just go there, just as I am. At Target, I don't feel like I'm out of style, out of shape, or out of my league. It's a very accepting and a non-judgemental place.

I was reflecting on this love affair with Target as I pulled into the parking lot today. I got out of the car and began looking for a shopping cart. I was a bit surprised that I couldn't find any Target shopping carts in the parking lot! I thought about quickly running into the store to grab a cart, but decided that leaving two kids unattended in the car was a bad idea. So I waited for someone to walk by with an empty cart. I couldn't believe it! There were no Target shopping carts to be found! What is going on? Is Target cutting back on their shopping carts? Are they in some sort of a financial trouble? Is there some special sale inside where everyone is using their shopping carts?

I finally saw this large black man walking towards me. He obviously didn't work for Target, but I was beginning to get desperate. "Excuse me, do you know where I can get a shopping cart for Target?" I asked. What I really meant was "Dude, I have 2 little kids in the car. Would you be a dear and grab a shopping cart for me from inside of the store?" He stopped, looked at me, shook his head then started walking away. Unbelievable! You don't ignore a sleep deprived, hormone charged postpartum woman who changed like 10 poopy diapers just this morning, and took over an hour to get the two kids ready to make the trip to Target. I asked him again in more firm, don't-mess-with-a-postpartum-woman voice. " Do you know where I can get a shopping cart from Target?"

Finally, he stopped, shook his head again and says "ma'am, if you want a Target shopping cart, you'll have to go to Target",

And that's when I realized, I was parked in the Wal-Mart Parking lot. Somehow I made a wrong turn, and ended up at Wal-Mart, across the street from Target.

Crazy!

People Watching at the Park

These days the highlight of my social outing has been going to this neighborhood concert in the park. It's funny how my social life revolves around parks and playgrounds these days. With arrival of my second child, going to the park even seems like a luxury. Since my poor husband was working late (again!) today, I packed the two kids, changed into something without noticeable stains, and headed out to the park.

While watching my toddler son with one eye, and my infant in the stroller, I couldn't help but to notice the vast number of people and the diverse lives they represent. In the sand pit, there was the leathery tanned guy with his questionably blond bombshell wife, trying to "play" with his daughter without bending down. Next to them, a guy stood in his work clothes, with his blackberry in one hand, telling his son to stop putting sand in his mouth. Then there was the Chinese guy wearing what should be an undershirt and workout pants with the white stripe on the side, saying something in Chinese to his toddler son with the rice bowl haircut. And of course, every park in Silicon Valley has someone wearing a shirt from a high-tech company who seems to be "working from home" while spending oh-so quality time with their kid in the park. I must confess my least favorite are those ex-sorority moms still looking fabulous in their tight fitting clothes, and loud laughs. When, and how do they find the time to get their hair highlighted, and toes pedicured?

And there I was, people watching while sitting at the bench to nurse Sabine who was covered in a hooter-hider (nursing cover). Everything was fine, except, I was so tired and absorbed in the people watching, I didn't even realize that the wind had blown over, and the only thing the hooter-hider was covering was my baby's face!! That's right, I just let my postpartum stomach and the side of my lactating boob hang out, flashing the world.

I'll have to switch parks next week.