The Rest.

You've been on my mind. "You" meaning this blog, it's readers, or perhaps just the Great Void. The point is - I have been wanting to write a post for weeks now. My camera is chalk full of stories to be told, memories to rake through carefully and reverently, the way you rake your fingers through the gossamer hair of a young, sick child. 

While I haven't had time to do the former, I have found myself doing the latter quite a lot lately. This year's cold and flu season has hit our home with vengeance. I won't bore you with the play-by-play details (like I did my very, VERY wonderful Facebook friends) but my oldest was hit hard with walking pneumonia and then an allergic reaction to her antibiotic, then I got a stomach bug, and then my youngest got the stomach bug that she is *fingers crossed* finally over. 

The whole thing crescendo'd last night with a whirlwind trip to the emergency room for my youngest who was beginning to show signs of dehydration. Thanks to some wonderful staff at her doctor's office, the hospital and a magical little pill known as Zofran, she seems to be on the mend.

What I didn't see coming was that following the frenzied crescendo of last night, would be today: The rest. 

I am in awe of today. With two small children who were born less than two years apart, it is rare that they do anything apart. While I am usually with both of them, and sometimes with neither of them, I am very, very rarely with just one of them for any stretch of time. But today my husband drove off with my healthy Scarlett to drop her off at preschool while my still-not-feeling-it Cecilia stayed home with me. Not that I don't miss the sweet, inquisitive presence of my five-year-old, but my is this nice. 

We slept in. After kissing her sister and Daddy goodbye, baby girl turned to me, speechless, and lifted her arms up to me. I gladly complied, feeling her little body mold against mine in a way that deceives me and let's me believe she's still a baby for just a little bit longer. "My belly hurts" her raspy voice whispered into my ear. We snuggled up in bed and while the snow drifted outside our window, we drifted off to sleep. At 10:30 I woke up to her face about two inches from mine as she squealed, "I'M ALL BETTER MOMMY!" 

And I think I believe her. 

We scooped up snow in a bowl and ate it. We made snowballs and threw them out the window. We played with blocks and read books. She painted and played with play dough while Sarah McLaughlin crooned away and brought me into a place of total peace. I enjoyed the feel of my hands sudsy from dish detergent, the sound of the washer and dryer whirring rhythmically behind me. My dishes are done. My bed is made. My floors are vacuumed. And I am *almost* caught up on my laundry (a huge feat given the copious number of loads required to purge our house of anything that came in contact with the devil stomach flu Cecilia caught). And all this without breaking up fights, ignoring my child, or even worse, losing my temper.
I deliriously text my husband, gushing about my love of motherhood and how wonderful it feels to be productive. He response: Lol. I think you both needed this.

Smart man. I feel like today was one gloriously long therapy session and I have purged all the sickness and stress from my home and my body.

Anyway, I am done blubbering about this wonderful place of rest. For now. And I will be back soon with pictures and with "real" posts. Promise :)

Now it's time for me to go get ready to pick up a dearly missed daughter and sister. Looking forward to coming home to a clean house where we can sit down and she can tell us all about her adventures today.

Stay healthy, stay warm, stay appreciative. 

-T

Believe in Magic

Working in a hospital changes a person. You watch life struggle to maintain it's healthy existence - and sometimes fail - on a regular basis. In my short time doing what I do, I have seen young, seemingly healthy people have their world turn topsy-turvy as they grapple with a sudden stage 4 cancer diagnosis. I have observed as a frantic woman watched her husband slip away, and then be revived again. I have seen HIV patients reach their breaking point and turn violent. I have comforted little women and men withering away in confusion, as they plead with me again to tell them who I am and why I am in their home for the dozenth time in an hour.

Most recently, I've seen the mist in a 90-year-old man's eyes as he looked me straight on, challenging and pleading with me to be a better, more attentive, more playful, more compassionate mother NOW because I have no idea how quickly this time will pass and I have no idea how hard I will try and fail to recreate this remarkable time for the rest of my life. "It's unlike anything else in the human experience. Parenthood." 

It's the thing parents hear most often. "Savor it." "Enjoy it." "It goes by too fast." But when I hear it nearly every day from people who have lived out nearly their whole lives and they tell me this is it. This is the best thing you'll ever know. Well, it does something to your perspective. I am, at times, painfully aware of the seconds ticking by. How many more years will my 5-year-old believe that a magical Santa Claus slips into our home with a bag ripe with toys just for her? How many more months will my 3-year-old gladly welcome snuggling in my bed, her hand gently curled around mine as her breath grows rhythmic with sleep?

 We don't know until it's too late. We never know when it will be the last time we hand-make our child's Halloween costume. We never know the last time we will host their birthday party, or play dress up with them, or paint their nails. We never know the last time we pull out the play-dough or use finger paints. 

So Wednesday morning after I got home from work, I woke the girls and I just DID it. I left my phone plugged into the charger and the TV off. A little Pandora played in the background and I kept my camera near by for a quick snapshot here and there. But mostly, I just played. 

It felt good. Scarlett was eager to make sand castles "just like at the real beach!" and Cecilia quickly turned my spaghetti into slithering snakes. I think sometimes we get so caught up in that damn to-do list that we forget to stop and have a little fun. Being a kid is SO. EFFING. FUN. The good news is that as a parent, you get to relive those times. You can build elaborate forts and get lost in a good coloring book. And that's totally normal. You try doing that shit without kids and you can get used to singledom and maybe a room with nicely padded walls. So live it up while the gettin' is good. 

(Check out Zinfindel photo-bombing the Halloween pictures. "This is MY holiday, thankyouverymuch.")

So go ahead and MAKE those rockin' home made costumes. TAKE those blackmail worthy photos. The cool thing about being a parent is that - to an extent - you get to handcraft the memories your kids will have. You get to be the Great Initiator of Traditions. It's a lofty title. Don't let it go to waste. While they might roll their eyes at the over-the-top childhood in their teenage years, I promise that as an adult they will never regret the magical, spectacular ways in which you went above and beyond for them. Reality and responsibility will hit them hard enough, soon enough. Let them be kids. 

I still have time to see if this theory proves true, but I like to believe that we can change the way our children view the world. We can shape their ideas about their influence on the world around them and give them the right tools to believe, even as an adult, in a bit of magic. I don't know about you, but I'm aiming to raise up some idealists. I recently saw a quote online (can't find an author) that states, "The ones who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones that do." I hope my kids are that kind of crazy.

Hoping that your Halloween was as magical as ours, and that Sandy didn't rain to hard on your parade! Stay safe, and don't forget to give in to your inner child. Hell, even if you don't have kids. Build a fort. I won't tell. 

Before I Lose Momentum, I Wanna Know...

This week I have gone to the gym three times, which for me, is GREAT. I've also had the chance to catch up with some friends and on some much needed sleep (even if the sleep has been at weird times and interrupted by bouts of insomnia - it's still more than I usually get).

 However, I've also neglected a lot of housework and home projects that I vowed to tackle during this glorious 5 day reprieve from work. So today I am buckling down and focusing solely on those things. However, I am definitely one of those people who needs inspiration to clean. For me, that usually comes in the form of a playlist. But not just any play list - it's a play list compiled of songs I remember reverberating through my childhood home when my mom was in a cooking, cleaning, baking frenzy the day before, or the day of our hosting a houseful of company. I loved those days! The whole house filled with wonderful aromas from the lemony freshness of Pledge or the sweet woodsy smell of Murphy's Oil to alluring traces of stuffed shells or baking cakes. So I'll share with you, a few of the bands that throw me back to that time and give me the boost I need to tackle my own projects on the home front.

So... Just a few of my cleaning favorites are:

Anything by:
The Crash Test Dummies
4 Non-Blonds
The Cranberries
500 Miles by The Proclaimers


I'm sure I'm missing some. Might have to go pick my mom's brain on some of her other cleaning favorites because I'm sure that they will strike a similar chord.

What gets you motivated to clean? Do you have a play list? I wanna know! Always looking for some inspiration. Oh, and HAPPY FRIDAY! :) 

Slowing Down

Oh, hey! So let's just forget that awkward 5 month hiatus and pick up where we left off... K?

Alright. So I've been working every Monday and Tuesday and every other weekend, right? You can imagine with only every other weekend off that I treat it like those 3 days will be the last three days of my life. I say "YES!" to everything! 

Sometimes this is a great thing. I see friends I have been missing, I indulge the girls' requests for crafts and park and restaurant outings, I spend great quality time with the husband. It's a real love fest. But the thing is... Sometimes my kids don't say "Hey, what are you doing this Saturday, mom?" But everyone else does. Enter... My last weekend off. 

There were couple dinners, karaoke revolution revivals, and Halloween parties. It was a friend-filled free-for-all. And. It. Was. AWESOME. I mean, who doesn't love a night of debauchery with Gumbi, Where's Wenda and Waldo, and The Cast of Rocky Horror Picture Show? Who doesn't love doing wheelies in Dr. Scott's wheel chair or grinding on cardboard cut outs of Matthew Broderick and Ben Stiller? ...What? I mean.......

But then I went back to work. And I missed my girls, and my guy, somethin' fierce. 

Wednesdays are the one day of the week that I worked the night before and I don't have a sitter. I usually opt for a movie day where I lay on the couch half asleep and half awake, interspersed with quick meals and easy playing. But after my weekend of friends, I decided the girls needed some SOLID fun with their mama. In order to do this, the one thing I have learned is: DON'T STOP MOVING. The minute I stop moving I find myself gravitating toward the couch, lusting after it's soft cushiony bed. So this Wednesday I decided, ENOUGH! Don't pass go, don't stop and collect 200 dollars, don't even change out of your freaking scrubs!

I'm not sure if I get good mom points or shame points for the scrubs thing. Good mom points: I did the damn thing. I got myself out the door without fall into a stupor first. Shame points: These scrubs have seen some super gross things. Bad, bad things. Like, worse than Matthew Broderick and Ben Stiller even. Note, however, that I DID take the time to stop for coffee. See? I know how to prioritize. Coffee > Clothes. I regress...

We went to the park. But not just any park. We went to the castle park. You know, the one that gives me a freaking heart attack every damn time because my kids go running in opposite directions down view-obstructing wooden passage ways where I have no effing clue if they are being lured away by men with lollipops and '70's porn star mustaches. That park. But it was 8 am and there were no other nervous moms with their easy-target children to be found. And that made it easier to keep a close eye. It's the little things.

We came. We saw. We did park type things. It was good. 

I have been reminded how very precious these moments are. How quickly they grow and enter new phases and want different things. Today, being the cool mom means not caring if I am still wearing nasty scrubs, just so they have my attention and the chance to do fun kiddie type things. But pretty soon, that won't be the case. Pretty soon it will be buying them their first lip gloss and letting them tack up their room with boy band posters. So I am savoring the now. My weekend off is on the horizon. It will be filled with a date night with the husband, mornings where we are all piled into one bed for family snuggles, pumpkin picking (super late, I KNOW!), and eagerly giving in to my girls' whims. 

I have been picking up a lot of extra shifts lately. Between a $300 parking ticket I was so lucky to receive in Philly (don't even get me started...) and wanting Santa to leave a lavish lay out for the girls this year, the extra money will really help. But I need to remember, the best thing I can give them is time. It's attention. It's me. So I'm not picking up shifts this week. I'm slowing down. I'm enjoying that I am so wanted. And with that... I'm off. Two very sweet little girls just woke up and after this post, I am going unplugged for the day. Happy Thursday! Tell me - what will you be focusing on more this weekend? Whatever it is - enjoy it! 

Why Being an Optimist Sucks

Yes, I'm seriously blogging about this. Yes, I know it's a contradiction. But contradictions make me funny, witty and super cool, so let's just go with it.

I am an optimist. Now, I know what you're all thinking. "How can that B joke about her kids being a-holes and then call herself an optimist?!" Well, because ONLY an optimist could totally acknowledge a-hole behavior in her child and be like, "Ohmygosh it's hilarious and cute and yes, baby, you are the stuff of true entertainment".

Anyway... Let me start by saying that I used to be a reverse optimist. Which is not quite a pessimist. Let me explain what I mean here... (But first, let me future-apologize for all of you who have heard this story five times a minute. I tell stories. I forget I tell stories. I tell them again. Get used to it or get off my blog. So that's my apology to you.) When I was little and did pig-tailed little girly things, once in a while my mom would be like, "oh hey, we should probably take you to the doctor man and make sure you're not broken" So when it was time to visit the DM (doctor man), I always wanted to know if the "Sh" word was going to be involved. Not that "Sh" word, you weirdo. Why would I be worried about that "Sh" word at the DM's office? I digress... SHOTS. I know every child hates them and everything but I had a little extra anxiety over these bad boys. As in, the moment my poor mother confirmed that yes, I needed a shot, I would start crying profusely. And I wouldn't stop... Until the needle was in my arm. And then... Silence.




I know it sounds all crazy masochistic of me that the shot is what actually made me shut the hell up, but I swear... It was reverse optimism. Like I imagined how mother effing bad that needle was going to feel wiggling around in my fragile baby veins, and then, when I'd actually FEEL the needle, I'd be like, "NL (nurse lady), PLEASE... This is nothing compared to the psycho shit my mind was just pulling on me."

And that's how my optimism was born. I swear. After hyperventilating myself into a frenzy enough times about stupid crap that turned out to be not nearly so bad as my crazy brains made me believe it would be, it finally clicked that most things in life aren't really so bad. But there's a flip side to that...

Enter... Adult me. I radiate things like hope and sunshine and magic fairy dust from my pores! Or something like that. But believe me when I say... I am a glass half full kind of girl. Even when I'm not. That whole fake-it-til-ya-make-it mentality totally works. Like when you ugly cry and then you look in the mirror and smile at yourself and you're like "Wow, if that puffy eyed loser in the mirror can muster up a smile, then what do I have to lose?!" Really though. You know you've done it. You know it works. You do.

So I do that a lot. (The glass half full bit, not the crying at myself in the mirror bit.) And it works for me. Most of the time... But then some of the time - and my husband can totally attest to this - I am over the freaking moon about some idea I have, plan I have, adventure I'm going to embark on, you get the idea... And I tell him that it's going to be rainbows and unicorn special. Like when I was all, "I'm going to do night shift because it's going to be amaze-balls. We won't need as much child care. I'm super human and stay up until bazillion o'clock all of the days anyway. I never liked sunshine. Boo hiss. Vampires are kind of okay. I am going to be goddess of the nightshift and wear a crown of moons and stars and awesome nighty things!"

And then the first night I wanted to puke my innards out, shove ice picks in my eye balls, and crawl into the psych ward where even the walls are made of mattress magic. Then it got better. And I'll put the optimist and reverse optimist on mute for a hot second and just say: I don't hate night shift. I don't love night shift either. But that could just be because I don't really like working. (Come on, who LIKES working?! If you like working it's because you are probably too boring to be awesome at real life.) I also don't like that having a glass of wine at 8am when I get home from work and before I go to bed is not an acceptable thing. It's not even a thing. Just like having a drink BEFORE work is not a thing. So that kind of blows.

But overall... Night shift, it's one of those things that's just sort of okay in a "this is totally mediocre sans the crown of stars and sans the ice pick eye balls". But somethings do wind up being ice picks in your eye balls. But I'm too much of an optimist to talk about those things.

Also... My patient just called me "Turkey." Because she's hopped up on pills and can't remember Theresa. Okay. Maybe night shift is a LITTLE bit crown of stars. But just the kind you only see with your peripheral vision. It's a peripheral crown.

Love,
Queen Turkey

I'm Full of Excuses

You guys like how I left you all geared up and ready for a blog-posting extravaganza and left you hanging? Yeah, that happened. Because let me tell you what: Night shift... is hardcore. Night shift... is bad ass. Night shift... Is kicking MY ass!

Okay, really though, I love it. There's something totally invigorating about staying up all night while all those poor 9-5 saps are sleeping. And I dig starting my day with family and fun time and ending my work day by crawling under the covers. Of course... Then when I find myself running on 5.5 hours of sleep for five consecutive days (er... nights...) and am perpetually sick, I wonder why the hell I like it so much. It feels like there's not a single minute I can slack off between the job, the sleep (or lack thereof), the kids, the house, the homework, the class, the cooking, the errands, the lunch packing, etc... As I warned a friend recently... If you call me to hang out, I'll probably start ugly crying. Because even though I WANT to hang out and I WANT to do fun things, I'm getting scary close to a nervous break down. Britney Spears style. So yeah. Keep razors and shit away from me.

Here's the thing... I want to stay nights. I really, REALLY do. But in order to maintain sanity - which I do NOT possess right now - I am going to have to eventually switch to three twelve hour shifts instead of this five eight point five hour shift crap. Which means, someone who is now currently working three twelve hour shifts has GOT.TO.GO. So if you're wondering where I am, or what I'm doing... I'm probably scouting out the weakest link.

- T

PS: I'll leave this on a happy note: The ice cream truck came during the course of this post. I am pretty sure I ran out of here so fast my neighbors thought our house was on fire. Anyway... I let the girls pick what they wanted. Scarlett picked a Sonic the Hedgehog ice cream pop. And for that... I love her. So blog, meet Scarlett and Sonic.

Zombie Me is Happy

In the past 2 weeks or so, I have… Landed a new job, bought scrubs and stethoscope for said job, obtained trustworthy child care for my children, set up busing so Scarlett can continue to attend preschool, remodeled my entire kitchen (admittedly… the husband did most of it), created invitations to my daughters 3^rd birthday party, was fitted and bought my bridesmaids dress for two of my best friends’ wedding, requested time off for said wedding, purchased plane tickets for my daughter and I to fly out to California and requested time off for said trip to California, and oh! Started this blog. All while working two jobs, raising two fine young ladies and taking two college classes. 

I.Am.Exhausted! 

To say I have a new found appreciation for energy drinks and coffee is a gross understatement. 

 

I don't even like coffee. Also, take note: That can says Red Thunder as opposed to the OTHER red energy drink. Off brand > name brand.

For today that's all. But I see a lot more writing on my horizons. And not just here. I'm lucky to be a part of this super cool syndicate and so I have a few things in mind for them as well. Be ready! :)

-T

A Confession, Ann Lamott, Asshole Republicans, and a Blood Prerequisite

Hello Blogisphere, 

I'm going to break the ice with a confession: I'm no blog virgin. I've been around the proverbial blog block a couple of times, but my perception of them has always been off. I thought I had to have grade A photographs and lengthy posts in order for them to be appropriate for public consumption. Truth: I don't like living behind a lens and I don't always have time for lengthy. But I do have snippets. And besides, blogging is trendy. So I'm back and mama got herself a brand new name! 

Wildly, Messily, Marvelously. A few years ago I stumbled across a quote by Ann Lamott. I have no effing clue who Ann Lamott is, but apparently she is the author of this quote, which makes her pretty B.A. in my book. So... The quote: "We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be." 

So this is me. My fast and dirty blog, constructed wildly, messily and marvelously. Enjoy it. 

My first little nugget of wisdom for the day...

I'm a mom. As such, I butt heads with my kids. My girls are 2 and 4 (aka evil and calculatingly evil). Of all the mother-daughter duels, one of the most frequent is about... wait for it....














Band Aids. 

If you are a kid, and you get a band-aid you can call it a day. Just throw on some footie pajamas and get back in bed because you're day will not get any better than it already is. 

So yeah, band-aids weigh heavy on my girls' minds. Pretty much any time they think of a band-aid, they want one, and they have lots of triggers. A commercial. A dream. A puppy. A waffle. A pool. *Insert Random Noun Here*. But the biggest trigger? If their sister gets one. If one of my daughters hurts herself and needs a band-aid I better HOPE that the other one does, too. 

So yeah, band-aids kind of turn my kids into little Republican assholes. And if your kids are the right age, you know what I mean, because I'm pretty sure band-aids turn EVERY kid into an asshole at some point or another. It's okay, I found a solution. 

Blood prerequisite, baby!  Oh, you're hurt? That's unfortunate. You want a band-aid? Sure, where's the blood? Aw, no blood? Okay, well just a kiss then. BAM. Even baby Republicans can't argue with that logic. So far, this method has cut our tantrums by about 25% which I view as a major success. So go ahead, tell me I'm a genius and report back when your band-aid woes are miraculously cured.

WARNING: This theory has yet to be applied to little boys. DO NOT put it past the little hellions to go ahead and MAKE some blood just to get that band-aid. This is why I'm glad I only bore sugar and spice (with just a side of asshole).

Have a nice day :) 

-T