who am i

Wouldn't it be funny if I really tried to wax Socratic or Shakespearean or what-have-you in this inconsequential space of internet? "And today we shall be discussing the id vs. ego as it pertains to one, Jessie Pope..." No.

Who am I? That is the question, properly accentuated. The reason I ask is I feel like I'm going through some kind of midlife crisis at the tender age of 28. A few fundamental things are just...changing or leaving or evolving. Not anything serious! In fact, you'll probably eye-roll vehemently when I expound on what I mean.

Take...alcohol. Jess of yesteryear (Jessteryear, if you will. You totally will.) had the palate of a nine year old. My buzz was attained through purely sugarfied means e.g. Mike's Hard Lemonade, Smirnoff Ice (barf), Angry Orchard Hard Cider (stilllll a fave, mind you), or some concentratey juice blend that was ever so unobtrusively spiked with a quarter jigger of vodka or rum. Keep wine or beer or anything whose taste remotely resembles mature out of eye line, earshot or taste bud. But now? A glance at the happy hour menu of one of our favorite haunts stirs up a longing for a pretty pint of their microbrewed honey blonde. Wine tasting has become my jam. I like whiskey now. I just...what? I have to ask: who am I.

Or perhaps take the state of our apartment. I've never considered myself a slovenly person. My mom is not permitted to weigh in here. It's not as if I would have won any Mrs. Meyer's trophies or anything, but I've always erred on the side of tidyishish. Ok but in the last few months I've become a little obsessive about a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place. I can't sit down to begin an evening with Sean post-Bedtimeageddon until toys away dishes clean clothes folded. And I'm kind of annoying myself. Sean will do this Tazmanian Devil type thing where the room is picked up in literally 17 seconds but I can't have it the way he does it. Because toys that have pieces? All the pieces need to be accounted for and put together (like those stackable cups and woodenblock towers.)

all the offenders pictured

The kids' DVD basket? Alphabetized. (Nope. I jest not.) Not to mention I've completely overhauled the kitchen such that there is nothing on the counter that doesn't absolutely need to be there (microwave, latte maker...yeah that's it actually.) Knives have been mounted on a magnetic strip. Paper towels hang from under a cabinet. Produce in wire baskets on the wall. Kitchen Aid found a new home atop the fridge. I've rearranged every room we have and when the kids nap during the day I use the time to reorganize or stare at the wall and wonder what and how to reorganize next. I feel like I'm on speed. That's what speed feels like right?

Here's what I'm thinking after ruminating on the cause of all this maturation. Necessity is the mother of invention. Wait, no. Survival of the fittest. There's an adage that I'm trying to apply here, but they're not panning out so I'ma make one. Mothering necessitates survival. Or something like that but I think what I'm trying to say is I'm evolving to suit this particular season of my life. A liberally spirited drink spurs a moment of unwinding. A clean room produces order in my mind and soul. As a mom I'm pulled in various directions throughout the day. Well, not too many because our apartment is pretty small but it's kind of like, "wait you guys need to eat again?" and "Mom, can you wipe me?" and "[something unintelligible which loosely translates to "Mom that blond girl who you call my sister hit me in the face again."]" There are emotions felt and tantrums had, and the surest thing about each day in unpredictability. Which means it's kind of nice to have that glass of wine to run to and a spotless floor to cling to and a Good Wife ep to zone out to. (Julianna Margulies - so zen. I crave her stability.)

Those are the constants in my ever changing environment. I like my ever changing environment - it's funny and full of life lessons and opportunity and there are two freaking adorable kids that live there. But you know those tops with the trippy patterns that spin and spin and spin? Eventually they have to come to rest. In this case rest just looks like a whiskey ginger and alphabetized DVDs.

a serving of brazen toddler with a side of emma stone

The other day I followed a weird spike in my blog traffic that landed me at GOMI on a forum where people were asked to link their favorite lesser known blogs. To my shock n' awe, someone had linked mine (*blush*). I followed the comment thread, and it garnered one response from someone who said something like, "I want to like this blog, but it's just another oversharing mom." (*blush again*)

It's SO TRUE though. My blog posts are rife with feelings caused by my children, stories featuring my children, pictures of my children. My sister Audrey of the Great State of Washington called me the other day to object to my blog desertion. And I know she mourns not the loss of content but of her niece/nephew photo fix. I simply told her, "I just don't really know what to write about right now." To which she advised, "Just write your thoughts."

My thoughts:

Emma Stone is my spirit animal.

Circa 2001 a young girl named Jessie stared at her 400 pound computer monitor, patiently sitting through the 12 minutes of cacophonous dial up that would eventually land her on AZ Lyrics, that she could repeatedly read chorus and verse to Blues Traveler's Hook until she could recite them without a hitch. I loved that song. And when Emma Stone got up there on the Jimmy Fallon stage I rapped transfixedly along with her. It just goes to show that sometimes following Buzz Feed LOL (on which I found above gem) isn't totally worthless. Even though most of their stuff is like, what Anime character are you? Well, the only Anime reference I even know is Pokemon. And only because Pokemon and pogs are the love language of my generation.

Jordan is simultaneously sage and sassy.

Case #1: I had a slight - read VERY SLIGHT - case of road rage the other day during which I berated my fellow driver to "come onnnnnn get overrrrrr." Backseat driver numero uno chimed her two year old cents in with a decided "Mom. Calm down. Don' be mad. Take a walk."

Um, ok.

Case #2: A few weeks ago, the totally old man car that I drive around suffered a slight case of vandalism. Overnight, the license plate was stripped from it's poor little old man bumper and the gas cap was mysteriously clipped off for some unfathomable reason. We had the car fully checked out to make sure nothing sinister was afoot, but I blame adolescence and the mostly empty bottle of pomegranate vodka I found under the car. Anyway, Sean replaced the gas cap with a locking one. It is super impossible to unlock it. Utterly. Post gas cap wrestle, I informed Sean as much. He explained the complicated and innumerable steps (...one step...) that must be utilized to prise away said cap, and I was indignant that he hadn't explained as much before. He said, rather quietly, "I guess I thought it was obvious." From the backseat (again) Jordan let the tension settle in before all too sarcastically claiming, "It's ozzious, Mom."

Go to your room Jordan.

Weston is weaning.

Which is nice because, freedom. But also not nice because breastfeeding has been my lone form of exercise. I've been eating just the same as I have the last 8 months but my muffin top reached Panera status in the last week. I guess it's time for that double jogger now. Because unlike Grace, I like to nurse my recovery (yes, pun intended, what do you think?) for about 8 months longer than she. Weston is 8 months and 5 days so once you crunch the numbers I think you should give her like a hundred clappy emojis.

Ok the kids have been sleeping a suspiciously long time now. I'm not complaining but I think I should check on their welfare. 

But to recap: I've had three whole blogthoughts in about a month's time. Oversharing mom FTW.

productivity in the time of babyhood

o - m - g   you guys, this last week. A crazy train, I tell you, and I'm all aboard.

Last Saturday night, Sean and I and a few members of my posse (...siblings) attended the annual dinner dance that benefits Life Centers of Ventura County. It's always a grand time and I, being stellar blogger extraordinaire for the ages, took approximately zero pictures and therefore have no proof that I curled my hairs and shadowed my lids and coated my lashes and inserted contacts into my eyeballs for the first time in a century. No testimony showing I put on a nice dress and adorned my feet in not-Uggs/flip flops and practically re-pierced my ears trying to put a pair of danglies in because it had been that long  since I did myself up enough to justify earrings. It did happen though. A few whiskey cokes happened too and holla at the husband who gave up drinking for Lent - as good a DD as a pregnant! (Ok fine he may have started his "Sunday" a little early but who am I to huck him under the bus?)

For about a decade or a little more, I've helped the Life Centers out with the dinner dance when and where needed, and have chiefly been in charge of working up bid sheets for the silent auction. Every year on the week leading up to the dance, there's a big push for last minute donations to the auction, which loosely translates to me staying up much too late working on bid sheets and emailing the other members of the committee frantically trying to get details on the items or starting bids or whatever. It's always been relatively stress free; it's as hard as inserting info into a template and coming up with a little tagline to make it sound enticing. I mean, there were 115 items, so it's time consuming, but it's not rocket science.

But this year: I have two kids. This year, one of these kids has some attitude, um, quirks  that are in perpetual need of adjustment or consequence

"I'm funny Mom" (on repeat)

and the other of these kids would prefer his person to be Krazy glued to my person, please and thank you.

"Let's run away together Mom."

Friday, the day before the dance, I of course had 285 things to do - give or take - to make the deadline. The kids, in turn, had 285 tricks up their 2T'd sleeves (yeah..they pretty much wear the same size now) and took alternating micro naps that did not coincide in the slightest. Every time I cracked the laptop lid, a needster got it's wings and flew into one kind of demand-fest or another. Both kids were finished with their naps for the day at some ridiculous time like 2 o'clock (naps start at 1, so) and I was powering through bid sheets to a soundtrack of Super Why and Weston Cry.

At a certain point I could no longer stand the wailing and indignation of it all, and succumbed into a defeated heap on the floor, that Weston could crawl and gnaw and touch touch touch until his needy heart's content. As Weston attempted to clamber up the summit that is my bum, a concerned Jordan lay next to me on the ground as I enumerated the thousands of wispy soldiers that had abandoned my head during these months of post partum hair loss, in favor of entangling themselves in the sheisty company of the carpet. She alternated between ardent professions of "I luss you, Mom" (we'll purchase "proper pronunciation of V's" Vanna) and earnest pleas of "Mom, could you moose over?" so that she could slide between my hulking frame and the couch. I obliged and scooted a millimeter to the left, simultaneously turning my head to be greeted by Weston's uvula as he made his best effort to ingest eyebrow to cheekbone of my terrified face.

Jordan can be heartbreakingly intuitive about people's feelings, and she addressed my crumbled stature with repeated appeals to "don' be sad Mom"  and lots of pats on my head and cheeks. It was there as I lay prostrate on the floor underneath the weight of my fat baby son and beside the worry of my sweet albeit crazy moody toddler daughter, that I pondered whether God had neglected to fully equip me for this stage of motherhood. By my estimation, I was lacking at least one of the following necessities:
more patience: this is a character flaw on my part. I have patience up to a certain point and then I explode over the drop of a cracker or the spill of a milk drop.
more sleep: Wes plays a cruel joke about once a month where he sleeps relatively well for two nights in a row, and I'm convinced my exhaustion sentence has been lifted. He's done this probably three times over three months, and follows up each of these periods with horrifying nights for the next week. Aside from this, an average night sees us up together twice or so, which isn't horrible but I'm over it.
more help: the three of us stumble our way through the day until 5 when Sean comes home, and he's good for a pool date with the kids (Weston enjoys observing the splashy antics from his rocker) while I recuperate by compulsively cleaning the living room or making dinner. He'll often do the dishes and he always does the Jordan half of bedtime duty, but he is not the Weston Whisperer. Nor is anyone, really. I'm seriously considering some sainted mother's helper; I love that red headed angel-monster to the moon and back but I need to escape the cling. Just for a minute.

a slight variation of a recent 'gram of mine..but this is more or less any of Weston's waking moments

Naturally, all three of these would be ideal. But I feel that if I had even one! Sigh...the possibilities. I remember being grateful in that moment that, of all the blog skipping or skimming I've had to do recently (because of the dinner dance, I mean. I fell SO behind on my e-stories. There were like 55 in my feed at any one time), I hadn't missed this one of Jenny's about how these everyday, grueling, tiring trials and tribulations can be acts of love.

>>Our mortal toil here on earth is exactly that: work. A lot of it. No matter the circumstances or situation of one's life, nobody gets out without putting in some hard time. And children are a lot of work. In fact, they're kind of the perfect means by which those of us called to the married life can work out our salvation with fear and potty training. 

But they're more than just work, however ardently popular culture - and tired mommy bloggers like me - might try to convince you otherwise. They're also immortal souls. Little images of the Word made flesh, Who dwelt among us. And they deserve to be seen as more than accessories or add-ons to an otherwise 'perfect' and ordered life.<<

So I remembered that post - thanks Jenny - smiled at Jordan reassuringly and picked up Weston for another round of "let's trick him into being distracted by some toy in Jordan's room and then sneak out real fast and stay hidden from view and see how long he forgets that he needs my presence." Don't get me wrong, I still led a harried and rather frustrating day, trying to meet the quickly approaching deadline while trying to keep children happy and healthy and out of the pantry wherein there is always some inevitably accessible something or other that makes a colossal mess while my back is turned. But it goes a long way to have a good shot of solidarity every so often.

The dinner dance was super fun. Sean and I dressed up and got a little break from the babes; my siblings and a few friends and I sat around an outside patio table in ridiculously pleasant weather with some delightful alcoholic beverages; I didn't win anything in the auction but it was great looking around at the work we had put into it and the huge success that it turned out to be; we raised a really good chunk of change for an important cause. Not to mention, my sweet cousin who babysat the youths for us insisted "everything went so great!" (I later had my youngest sister, who I had sent over to help with Jordan, give me the real skinny. She informed me that "...yeah, Weston cried almost the whole time.." but I was so grateful that my cousin brushed it off and put on a brave face so that I could feel better about the night.)

And what is all this to say? Aside from a narration of my every complaint and whine? I don't really know, except maybe that being a parent is kind of a mysterious and wonderful thing. Kids - or my kids, anyway - do their very damnedest to give you hell, but they honestly can't help but be our little glimpses of heaven.

relentless for lent

So, this happened. It happened in the ten minutes it took me to clean the kitchen after breakfast. The greater part of me thinks that this is hysterically funny. Jordan lines things up - it's her thing. Puzzle pieces, food pieces, shoes -

- and every single solitary stuffed animal in her possession. Then there's the part of me that sees this...and gives up. Why bother? Does anyone care if I clean? Does it matter if anything looks tidy? It's just we three for most of the day, and do you think the two year old and the 6 month of old give two poops?

I give two poops Mom. I tucked them in my diaper for you.

Nope, they don't. So should I?

YES.

I have been on this weird, incredibly productive clean/declutter bender for the last two weeks. In fact, Sean completely deadpanned to me the other day, "Jessie -(and he only calls me Jessie when it's serious. otherwise it's Jess)- are you pregnant?" And no, I'm not, but it's a valid question. It's been nesting on speed around here. What I've noticed is this: I feel better that I've done something tangible with my day. I'm happier, and I treat people (husband+kids) nicer. I'm more patient. It's glorifyingly freeing to be rid of so much junk that has smothered the atmosphere of this apartment for three years. My physical environment is cleaner, therefore my internal environment is at peace.

After some contemplation, I landed on my Lenten resolution(s). It's usually something like no sugar, no candy, no junk. That's hard for me, but I haven't been buying that kind of thing of my own accord for quite some time now. My only indulgence is Hershey's chocolate milk on the regulah. So I don't think it'd be much of a sacrificial change to give that up this year. I have decided to DO more. Vague? Let me clarify. I need to stop laying around waiting for the day to defeat me, because it inevitably will if I let it. Instead, I will be making a concerted effort to accomplish even the menial, the trivial, the mundane. Homecooked meals every night. (Right now you all are like, yeah duh. But for me, not duh. I know, I'm awful.) A clean bathroom. Books read to my kids - with all the voices and all the enthusiasm. A made bed. A carpet that knows the glorious feel of a vacuum blowing through its hair.

I'm not saying all at once and I'm not saying burn out or exhaust myself. I'm saying, do something everyday! I want this place to become a welcoming environment. I want my babies to have good memories of Mom when she was young and of their very first home. I want Sean to not come home to me watching Finding Nemo alongside my young while the kitchen produces nothing but a feast of squalor in its undone dishes and unwiped counters.

I know, I know. Lent isn't about doing things for you, it's about giving things to God. That's what I'm hoping to do with this Lenten plan, though. I intend to DO in God's name, for my family's sake. Double whammy, see. So, in the words of this shirt that I absolutely must buy:

via

I wish you all a blessed Ash Wednesday and a successful Lent.

the next chapter

Yesterday, I quit my job.

Well, quitting sounds like I was disgruntled or something awful happened. Really, I think I more "retired." I don't know if I've ever mentioned this here, but for the last seven years I've worked for my dad and uncles' insurance agency. My grandpa founded it in the '50s and my dad and all of his siblings run the business. It's been a blessing of a job. I have been able to work and learn with my amazing family, and a staff of really awesome ladies that I'm lucky to call friends. The management has always accommodated my quirked out schedule, has been more than understanding about last minute sick days for myself or Jordan, and has thrown me not one but TWO baby showers. I mean, good people here.

After much debate, number crunching, hemming and hawing, Sean and I concluded that, since he's landed this new job with a better salary, I am able to finally come home to the babies. Both sweet and bitter, this determination. I live but two minutes down the road from my work, so popping in for a visit will be no problem. It won't be the same, however, as ambling down the hallway and throwing a "hi Dad" at his office, or being able to walk four feet towards Kimmy's cubicle to give her the latest on my feelings.

In the spirit of honesty, I'm daunted. This new season of my life...it's thrilling and exciting and truly exactly what I want to do with it. I know that growing up with a mother that was able to stay home and raise me and my siblings has impacted my life greatly for the good. I want to give that to these fools

plus someone has to save Weston's life every hour on the hour

but I know, and am a bit afraid of, how much work is before me. Important important work! This article that Ana put me on to (THANK you Ana) says it all. I am these kids' anything and everything, for a few years anyway. Jordan has to learn potty skills, counting abilities, language comprehension, manners, reverence and prayers, and maybe some normalcy? from me:

ok, let's start with counting then

And Weston, well, pretty much this pin sums up Wes' needs as of now:

yep

So yes, I am now unemployed. And thus begins what I think may be a more challenging career. That's not a shot at the working girl! or the working mom! Heck, that was my jam for seven years up until yesterday. All I mean is: I'm confident that I'll be hitting up God for a little/lotta extra patience, vast amounts of know-how, and some vigorous self-motivation. Up until this point, I was just on "maternity leave." Now, well, this is happening.

just you wait, Mom

Seasoned vets, leave your very best counsel below. Because here I go: carpe crazy.

of late

I haven't been able to write with any frequency, or really, think coherently with any frequency in the recent weeks. Coming up with topics for blog posts proves tricky, as I'm not sure how interested any of you would be in reading about the fog density enveloping my brain, which speaks to the bleariness of my days and my inclination to start an alcoholic beverage earlier and earlier every afternoon.

Nor did I think Jordan's hot-off-the-press hair feats merited a full post

even though I really can't say which strikes my fancy more: the fact that at two full years she managed to produce enough hair for the twin ponies; her flawless pronunciation of "pigtails" (anyone who's had the pleasure of hearing Jordan speak knows she has nearly unintelligible speech impediments that I almost hope she never loses, so dearly do I love them); or her exclamation, upon my fashioning her hair as such, that she wants to "show Deerdin" (="show Jordan" = "look in the mirror"). At any rate, she's come a long way.

Really, I've just had these fleeting ideas that halfway form into something about which to write (<--- fear of dangling prepositions for $500, Alex). Welcome, therefore, to the half-empty caverns of my mind:

• When Weston is ramping up for a feeding in the middle of the night, he sounds like an impending car crash. Squealing brakes and screeching tires and lots of drama to boot. It takes him a few minutes and some jerky T-Rex arm manipulations before he goes for the kill (that newborn wail - ah! so effective and so tragic) so I know I have a few minutes to prepare the midnight feeding before all hell breaks lose.

• I've been on a Jimmy Fallon bender. My bestie Meg insisted I YouTube "#hashtag" (and we know how I feel about those) ft. J-Timber

which led to the "more suggestions" column underneath and the discovery of this diamond:

and may I just say: Stephen Merchant is tall in stature, twerkability and hilarity. And well, Joseph Gordon-Levitt boasts the lead in a top five fave:

so ya know, he has my heart forevs.

• Another meaningless tidbit: I'm tired a lot lately. Stinging eyes tired. I've tried to convince myself to sleep when the kids do but I find myself trying to catch up on the Kilimanjaro of tasks to be completed while I have a spare sec. Somehow somehow I still think it's a good idea to log on to Pinterest every stinkin' night as soon as I body check the mattress. Whhhyyyy? So stupid. Close your eyes Jessie.

• I am completely, but I daresay not irrationally, fearful of blogging about anything that my children are doing that aid my day - make it easier, you know. This is because I have burned by the jinx. You put something out there like, hey guess what my kid's doing? And then. THEN. They don't do it anymore. Suffice it to say that Weston doesn't only cry a lot, nor does Jordan only pull out every single book from her library or find the toy with the most pieces to strew about the apartment and under furniture never to be found again. But I'm not telling you what those little perks are, because then they shall be no more. Superstitious wench that I am.

• Weston has made it his short life's mission to conquer every uncovered square inch of my body + my entire pajama wardrobe (extensive, let me tell you) with one body fluid or another. The traditional spit-up route, the somewhat unpredictable urine tack (you've been burned by that one, haven't you Wes? Right in your own eye...) and his specialty: the way of the poop. He tends to pull out all the stops (ew) during his nighttime feedings and changings and I find myself making frequent costume switches or sheet strippings at 2 in the a.m.

feigned shame. I don't buy.

• The completion of this post spans several feedings and a couple Gossip Girl eps. I know. I've sunk so low. But GG is mindless enough that I don't have to pay much attention should Weston choose to funnel spit-up down my third shirt of the day, plus it doesn't require the appendages that Pinterest does. Sub-par tv it is. No apologies.

So, how's your day?

a little rest, a little booze, a little perspective

A week ago, I was starting to get comfortable. Almost resting on my laurels, as it were. I felt surprisingly healed from the c section, Weston slept and fed, slept and fed, slept and fed, with nearly no tantrum or cryfest to speak of. Jordan made sure she was throwing the rogue meltdown to keep us on our toes, but mainly she was being a sweet and thoroughly engaged older sister. Two kids. Boom, I got this.

About a week ago, Wes...woke up. He started crying more, in little sessions at first. Easily consoled though, and it didn't bother me too much. Babies cry, it's right there on the label. The last few days, well. If he's not sleeping (still doing quite a bit of that, praise be) or eating (pretty sure the kid would stay on the boob all day if I let him) he's having a total breakdown. That frantic, shrill newborn cry has been ringing throughout our probably extremely annoyed apartment complex. It takes a little time and some energetic bouncing, however I can usually talk him down off that ledge.

Oh but just you try and put me down, Mom, I dare you. You can inch at that rocker at the speed of sloth, but I smell your intent and I. won't. haveit. My sister needs a meal or a diaper change? You have to pee? You have 17 missed calls? Try me.

Sunday I was just, ah, I was so tired. Weekends are so important to my psyche because I have Sean's set of helping hands and because I require that we get out of the apartment. I need that change of scenery, I just do. But Sunday, I gave up on any sort of outing. After multiple meltdowns from both of my children, I decided to have one of my own. Or I guess my body and hormones decided. I sat on our unmade bed amidst dirty laundry and stale air and Weston and I just cried. A pathetic sight we made. When Sean finally coaxed Jordan into her bed and I had speed bounced/rocked/whateverittook Wes to sleep, I completely knocked out.

An hour and a half later, Sean crept in carrying a plastic bag. He had sneaked out to the store to buy "things he thought would make me happy." Apparently, those are Budweiser Lime-a-Ritas and Haagen Dazs milk chocolate ice cream bars. I slid out of the room without waking the spit-up breathing dragon and Sean and I had an in-home date of faux margaritas and two episodes of Ray Donovan before the taskmasters woke up.

Here's what I learned: my body completely responds to my state of mind. I started feeling sore and post-surgery-y again over the weekend because I was all stressed and frazzled. But I was so concerned about "wasting" the weekend by staying in; that time is too precious to me. However, sometimes "wasting" time is exactly what I need. I needed that sleep, I needed that [those] Lime-a-Rita[s] (they're actually pretty dang good), and I needed to waste that time with my husband in our shady living room watching some gritty Showtime.

I'm new to this, the two kids and the staying home and the trying to figure out what to do with my day. I mean, aside from making sure two little tummies and one not-so-very-little tummy are nourished, dressing three people, trying trying trying to pick up this place (failure thy name is Jessie Pope), and preventing tantrums if at all possible. And DANG, those things do take up a whole day, don't they? Yes, they can, but it's nice when I can get out to talk to people who know how to talk, too. That doesn't happen everyday though. So I'm adjusting. Jordan is actually a pretty hilarious conversationalist anyway - and she called me by my first name yesterday ("Hi Dassie") so I guess that means we're friends.

I have joined your legions, stay-at-homers (at least as of now), and I'm happy to be here. And while I know I have many more meltdowns in my artillery but I'm doing my best to wear my big girl pants and lead by example here. Survival tips, friends?

beach day bday

Saturday was my official debut as a helicopter mom. You know the ones. The ones that stalk their children like prey on the wild frontiers of the playgrounds and parks. The ones that hyperventilate at the scrape of their child's knee or bump of their child's chin. I'm not her. I'm not that guy.

I'm the one that lets her kid get knocked over by the surf so that she will learn to have a healthy respect for the power of the ocean. (Ask me how that's working out...has Jordan stopped trying to drown herself via giggling through the soup of the day's current? Maybe just a little. Mostly no.) I'm that callous mom that the helicopters point their horror faces at when Jordan biffs face first on the her way up the slide steps, and while she debates whether to employ water works I gloss "oh, you're fine." (Hey, it works. She believes me.)

But you know why I can act that way in those situations? Because I ultimately have control over them. When Jordan gets knocked down by a harmless wave at our usual beach, I pick her up and say "See? You have to be careful in the water" and she proceeds with a little more caution. When she takes a fall at the park and seems legitimately upset about it, I know hugs and sympathy bring about comfort in t - 12 seconds.

Saturday, however, we tried a new beach for Sean's birthday.

sorry for the Insta-peat, but I'm in serious love with this pic.

We decided to trek down Malibu way for the day instead of usual turn up towards Santa Barbara. Malibu always comes with a price, as we always forget until we're in the thick of it. We wandered for upwards of half an hour in surf traffic looking for reasonable parking, with the end result of paying $10 to park in some valet lot where they don't valet. (Seriously, the attendants wear uniforms and point, but you park and unpark your own car and cough up ten big ones. Are you for real, Malibu?)

My dad had warned me beforehand, but I didn't realize that the surf was HUGE. The beach sloped dramatically downward, and the waves crashed directly on shore. There was no room for error here. Frolicking in playful ankle-deep currents was not an option. Jordan did her signature sprint for the BEATS!! and I shrieked like a raving banshee and grabbed her by both hands. My hover status was advanced professional for the next couple hours. These were the types of waves that would first knock the feet from under you, then drag you back with them to be slammed on shore by the next wave in line. NO THANKS.

Fortunately, it takes very little to redirect Jordan's attention to not-that-exciting endeavors.

what bone-crushing surf?

Hey thanks Starbucks, for that totally impromptu sandtoy decoy.

Jordan filled, capped, stuck the straw in, uncapped, and poured out sand for a straight half hour. Easily pleased.

Our Sunny with a Chance of Drowning excursion turned out to be lovely, as long as Jordan stayed 10+ yards from the shoreline. I really have never experienced that type of anxiety over my child's surroundings before, and have newfound sympathy for what the stressed copter moms must feel all the time. We returned to our regular beach on Sunday, where I watched Jordan prance regularly in the regular puddles while I endured a regular amount of uneasiness - none.

So Sean is 27 and I have the privilege of lording my youth over him for a few days. We're a little over a week apart so I will be joining the ranks of "late twenties" fairly shortly. Until then... mid-twenties be mine.

accidentally on purpose?

You won't believe what Jordan did last night. You won't believe it because I don't really believe it.

Background: about a month ago I bought this DVD to accompany my lofty first-time-parenting goals of potty-training Jordan before her brother comes on to the scene. It's the movie my mom used for my younger siblings and it seemed to do the trick from what I recall. The theme song will stick with you until your dying day though. And it might even bring your dying day on a little sooner than expected. Steel nerves be yours if you purchase the potty video.

So I set the girl up on a little potty chair that was $12 at Target and painted to look like a frog. (Is this imagery supposed to encourage the process? I'm puzzled by the logic.) I popped in the obnoxious and plopped next to her for some quality potty bonding time. We danced along with all the toddlers who were excitedly circling their own potty chairs; we bobbed our heads to the never-ending theme song, and we semi-attentively listened to the training portion in which Jordan gets a quick and dirty anatomy lesson in cartoon form.

We've done this a few times now over the last couple weeks with a big fat nothing to show. As I expected really, it's a little early? But last night as we were winding down for her bedtime, Jordan climbed next to me on the couch with her bottle and asked for the "bah-ee." I've become something of a translating genius in toddler speak so I knew she wanted to watch the "potty" video. Sean was home; it could be like a wholesome family date.

I don't know if it was the extra presence and the pressure to perform or if it was just good timing, but Jordan peed in the flippin' potty. I could not possibly have been more shocked. I didn't think she was so much absorbing the content of the potty video as delighting in the overly enthusiastic half-naked toddlers in the theme song portion. I f-r-e-a-k-e-d out, generously doled out much too high-pitched praises that I'm sure neighbors' dogs could hear a couple miles away, hugged Jordan repeatedly, and walked her over to the real potty to dispose of her urinary efforts. I gave her two chocolate chips - because that's how magnanimous I am - and was sure to reinforce how "PROUD OF YOU!!" I was.

commemorative nakey shot: post-pee, mid-celebration

I'm leaning towards the this-was-coincidence campfire, but of course I'm going to take this success and run with it. I texted my mom the news and sent pictures, as all well-adjusted first-time potty-training mothers will do. I have great plans for loading Jo up on some liquids this morning and demanding a repeat performance. And look, I've blogged about it. Jenny tells us that this is grounds for regress.

In other news, I think I'll throw in a fave post over at Grace's. To be honest, I don't really have much of a favorite - not so much because I think everything I write is solid diamond, as much as sometimes I read my archives and think, wow, 30-something other people have agreed to read this stuff? But I forgot to acknowledge that I hit my 100th post (oh look, it's about potty. I am a pony possessing perhaps two tricks, at most.) so I thought I'd belatedly acknowledge such a feat by reflecting upon some of my blogcomplishments. I'm linking this post because a) I think it's really what finally convinced me to start a blog - so I could complain on a public forum!! and b) I really love me some Chicken Run. You should head over to Grace's and check some o' the others.

It's Friday! Yessssss!! You have yourself a good one.

for the mamas

I am one of those extremely fortunate women who have so many incredible examples of motherhood to emulate and to aspire to. In friends, in aunts, in grandmothers passed, and of course, and most especially, my mom.

this one is entitled "piggy face and her grandmother" (with LOTR photobomb)

That pic right there, that is an excellent example of why my mom is so great. She has never been self conscious about getting down into the thick of childish play for the sake of showing her kids (and now grandkids) a good time, or even for a reluctant teenage giggle. She throws herself wholeheartedly into our world: our triumphs, our problems, our trivialities, our joys, all of it. 

This weekend she was up at my parents' cabin with just my youngest sister. Just the two of them, enjoying a mother-daughter weekend together. Since I can remember, she has made an effort to see and hear each of her children individually. She has EIGHT. But we all had our "special nights" with mom where one of us was allowed to stay up late; little lunch dates; private talks.

So Mothers Day, yeah it may have been created by the greeting card industry or born out of some attempt to market mass quantities of bouquets or spa certificates. But it's a solid reminder to tell the woman who is certainly one of the most influential - if not the most - how much she means, how much she counts. Now that I am in the trenches of motherhood (you know, if being pregnant with your second counts as "trenches"), I know a little affirmation goes a long way. This mothering thing, it's been the most important and the most fulfilling and the most difficult thing I've done. Having done it, I can see just how high the bar has been set by the women in my life.

Cheers to you all, ladies. Mothers and mothers-to-be alike. It's a fascinating and miraculous thing, this motherhood.

And I'm just loving the ride.

Happy Day, Mothers.

the Bug and the Beanstalk

The only version of this fairytale - whose name I parodied above - that I am familiar with is Mickey and the Beanstalk. According to this critically acclaimed short film, Mickey is getting along fine, the star of Happy Valley, in his prime and loving life. Then some giant presence swoops in and lays bare everything he holds dear.

That sounds about right as far as Jordan's imminent future is concerned:

hello bean

The Brutus to Jordan's Caesar arrives August of 2013.
I'll keep you posted (ba-da-ching).

Like a Rolling Stone

I'm like a rolling stone because this is a music review. And.. Rolling Stone magazine reviews music, among other things. And.. my morning voice sounds like Bob Dylan. I don't know. I try too hard with my post titles.

A disclaimer, if you please: Sean thinks my music is boring. He thinks it's monotonous and contrived. It's because I'm a lyricist. That sounds super snooty, but what I mean is if the lyrics are compelling or creative then I can overlook a mediocre melody. But Sean doesn't consider any song appropriate for his 9000+ downloads library unless it has a Guitar Hero-worthy riff. So whatever, man.

A further disclaimer: I haven't updated my iTunes library since 2007 when I lost my iPod and never replaced it. I still listen to CD's that are stored in my ultra-cool big black binder that I acquired in high school. I still have Ace of Base in there. Any current tunes in my repertoire are found via my sometimes-kinda-like but mostly hatehatehate relationship with the radio, and are consequently downloaded to my phone to be cued up by Jordan whenever she's so inclined. (She can't say "cracker" but she can navigate her way to Flo & the Machine on the iPhizzle. This generation.) In the meantime, I can't figure out Pinterest. You can just call me Pam. Pam's my mom, whom I call a techno-tard (to her face - I'm not backstabbing here. I'm not a monster.) However she's stepping up her game, as she's learned to text - and it's super awesomely hysterical: she first needs her glasses that make her eyes look as big as that sketchy pilot's in Endless Summer II:

then she amps up the text size to like size 72. Then she texts with one finger.

Before you get the wrong idea, my mom's not old. She's actually super foxy.

 here she is posing with her besties at my wedding, but I don't have their publishing permish so I cropped them.

See? She's in her prime. She's just blind as a belligerent bat and needs technical support logging into her email. So, she's me.

Back to the point after that Cal Trans detour (aka, unrelated, unnecessary and not going anywhere): before you take my advice, know that my all-time fave bands are CAKE, Guster, and even though it's not trendy anymore because they are so very popular, Muse has my undying love. Add a healthy dash of The Airborne Toxic Event and that stray song I can't get enough of, and you've just about summed me up. (btw that Little Talks music video is freaky so watch at your own risk. Guess they're trying to match the imagery to the neuroses the lyrics communicate?)

Lucky for you: I'm reviewing children's tunes. Oh yes, we only host the choicest post materials here. Let me explain though. I hate kids' music all kinds. When the adults sing they make their voices downright cloying (I'm thinking Barney here) and when the kids sing they get REALLY ENTHUSIASTIC and try to SHOUT YOUR EAR OFF. Up to this point I've been playing either a CD of French café tunes that my mother-in-law bought for me, or the classical station during Jordan's and my half-hour commute every morning. Mainly I'm trying to offset the earful I know she gets when Sean picks her up and tries to Van Halen our daughter into permanent stupidity.

It occurred to me that Jordan is not getting enough fun out of music. I'm lulling her to sleep and Sean's riffing her into derangement. I had another idea. If you're my age or perhaps a little older, I'll bet you doughnuts to dollars you listed to 

Raffi.

I grew up on him. His voice is clean and unobtrusive, and the acoustic simplicity of his arrangements make him easy enough to listen to that I don't feel the need to plunge my little compact car into an embankment. And Jordan loves  him. He has some songs that I know will be helpful in the future (like about sharing, which I know will produce an eyeroll from you all, but I really do think songs are an easier/less dramatic way to reinforce a solution) and songs that are helpful now ("Brush Your Teeth" comes with a little interlude of Raffi making "ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch" sounds - supposed to be brushing sounds? - that Jordan thinks is great fun to emulate, so it helps us through the HORROR that is teeth-cleaning lately) and songs that produce a round of clapping and the sweetest little heartmelting giggle from the backseat.

Basically, Raffi has the Jessie approval stamp. It's so funny how these songs that I haven't heard in 20 years came right on back to me. Sean and I were both singing along to the lyrics upon listening to the CD the first time through with Jordan. See? Sean grew up on Raffi too. Must've been an 80's thing. The best part was I found some of his used CD's on Amazon for a penny. A penny! You pay shipping and it comes to $2.99. Not a scratch on it.

Ok but I'm gonna wrap this up by saying: those songs will stick. I have a half-hour after dropping Jordan off in the morning to purge my cerebellum with radio trash. But somehow I'm still sitting at my desk at 4:30 and all I've got is

Mama's taking us to the ZOO tomorrow, zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow.

Mama's taking us to the ZOO tomorrow. We can stay all day.

We're going to the ZOO zoo zoo, how about YOU you you?

You can come too, too, too. We're going to the zoo.

Endearing.

Favorites, Vol. I

May I just say: I am kinda liking this blogging thing. It has been a much needed creative outlet for me in my current life stage, in which most creative avenues are roadblocked by fiscal responsibility or apartment management. Granted, those avenues are fairly frivolous and include things like "why can't I paint my apartmennnntuh?" or "why can't I buy cuter clothessssuh?" but still  a girl needs an outlet. And writing has been just that, so thanks for playing along.

THEN Grace went and wrote this adorable a couple weeks ago and reminded me that there were a couple other reasons I wanted to start blogging. So now you must be subjected to the "milestones" portion of this feature presentation, but really it's more like my favorite things. About Jordan and mothering and raindrops on roses, etc. I'll go easy on the sap, that gets sticky. And I'm sorrrrry, I know, I need to learn to control my photo urges, but this post is pic heavy so proceed with caution.

1. Chowhound
Jordan eats everything. It's one of her defining characteristics. But it's not just that she eats everything, she eats a LOT of everything. It's kind of like she senses a food crisis, goes into panic mode, and pile drives through whatever she can get her fat fingies on. Observe:

2. Saturday Night Fever

I have countless video clips proving that Jordan is a shorter, dorkier, more spasmodic John Travolta circa 1977. But you don't need those. Nor do you need the pic that I was sorely tempted to attach of Jordan unabashedly, unashamedly, completely unclothedly dancing like a crazy; my 2026 self didn't want to give 2026 Jordan another reason to hate me in her teenage angst stage. But this

is easily G-rated and also includes a cutest cousin ever cameo, and features Jordan Monster Potbelly.

3. I think I may be raising a son. Jo-Bug has shown zero interest in dolls, dress-up, or similarly feminine endeavors. However, she is staunchly anti-hair growth and loves to play cars all the livelong day

this is her feigned patience stance while I take my sweet time snapping a photo before pushing the car back to her.

4. Her Father's Daughter

a) I only have 14 trillion photos of how cute Sean and Jordan are together. But I think I need not say more than these: 

 4 pounds 11 ounces, a few hours old, and the complete center of her dad's galaxy.

short buddy, tall buddy.

b) The ease with which Jordan picks up the tricks Dad designates appropriate to teach her is slightly disconcerting considering they in know way further her mental development. I propose to you that they actually hinder it: 

• "bonk": "Jordan, hit yourself on the forehead and whisper 'owwwww'!"; "Sure no problem Dad, and I'll do it over and over and over again, and lose 3 or 4 brain cells with each whack."
• "get Dad a beer": she hasn't the strength to open the fridge on her own, but Sean cracks it and Jordan swings it open, retrieves a beer from the bottom drawer, hands it to Dad, and dutifully closes the door. Like a trained collie. This trick is quickly followed by:
• "cheers": Jordan grabs her sippy and Sean has his freshly procured beer, and they clink their bottles together like drunk Irish pub buddies.

In the meantime, I'm working on basics like "one, two, three!" or "Jordan can you say mama?" or "Jordan where's your hair?" and am usually greeted with perplexed glares and/or annoyance on the part of my young.

*to be fair and for my own records, Jordan has successfully located her eyes, nose (or rather the inside of it), ears, "big fat belly" (Sean's title), ears, lips and hair in the last couple of weeks. She also says "mama" but only after much cajoling (and not by way of addressing me, only by way of showing off a trick) and she vastly prefers to say "dada" on repeat.

5. But Her Mother's Daughter too

Jordan is a hit-or-miss car person. Sometimes she serenades me from the backseat or enthusiastically reads me her fave boardbook "Are You My Mother?" (yes Jordan, I am. Don't you dare go thinking that condescending Jersey is.) Other times, the car seat is THE END OF THE WORLD!! But we've found a remedy for the apocalypse. Jordan flails her right arm above her head aimlessly until I grab hold of her squishy hand

and even though steering becomes awkward and my arm goes into a coma after about 45 seconds, I can't say I'd trade this for pretty much anything.

6. You Better not Pout

Jordan has taken a page from the Days of Our Lives  script of late and put on quiiite the show when something offends her. If I refuse her a third sugar cookie, force the toothbrush on her molars, change her diaper when she's not in the mood, or look at her the wrong way, the bottom lip juts out impossibly, the nose scrunches up and the eyes close forcefully and dramatically in her best effort to squeeeeeze out a tear. I have yet to capture the face in its full glory - a sight to behold, truly - but these are close:

I think the offense here was "Jordan your eggs are almost  ready, just a couple more minutes."

Also note her baby rosacea that flares up when she's upset. And here:

 it was "Jordan stop sucking on the dustpan."

Current word list:

dada * mama * baba * hi (sing-songed in an octave higher than I thought possible for human vocal chords) * byeeee * yeah * uh-oh (to everything) * owwwww * Otsssss (for my sister Audrey) * Meh-yee (for Sean's sister Mary and my sister Mary) * Zu (for my sister Sue) * myyyy (mine, oh that one's fun) * ecks (eggs) * ice (eyes)

Current signed language:

please * thank you * more * I'm sorry * waves hi & bye * sign of the cross (ok, she just throws her arm diagonally in front of her face) * laces her little fingers together for prayers

Friends, believe me when I say that I could go on for pages more. I'm cutting myself off at 6. I have a few not favorites too, and I'm not saying that mothering is always a slice but dang, this is a pretty fun ride. If you have littles, you know what I'm sayin'. It's great right?