I get a get out of blog free card for parent-teacher conferences, by the way.

This post probably won’t count either.

But I’m still going to collect my $200 and pass go.

Oh, and this Veteran’s Day, I plan to have a moment of silence for the moms of Veterans and those deployed.  One of my best friends is making this wonderful documentary.  I can’t watch the trailer without crying.   I can’t imagine sending my sons off to a place where bullets are flying and land mines are buried.

Peace,

ohm

I’ve been teaching for ten years and for ten years I do the exact same thing in November.  I freak out that I am not prepared for parent-teacher conferences.  I feel like my room is a mess and the student work is disorganized.

Then I have parent-teacher conferences.

And I start to love my school all over again.  I finish and I say, “That wasn’t bad at all.”

Right now I’m in the freak out mode and all of the foresight in the world won’t make it go away.

Blogging everyday is a little silly.  Especially when one has nothing of real value to say.

Except I did just see a young woman in hijab in the drugstore lingering for a long time in the same aisle as the diapers.  In Walgreens here they put the diapers and the “feminine products” in the same aisle.  I hate when stores do that.  Anyway.  I saw her a few minutes later get in line with a pregnancy test.  She seemed really nervous.  I wanted to lean back and recite my blog to her.  In case she was wondering.  Then she got off the line.  Perhaps she sensed that someone was considering filling her ear with a whole lot of blog.  I wonder if she bought the test?  I wonder if she’s ok.

See?  I have nothing real to say.  Not right now.  I guess that’s what you get for checking blogs on a Monday in November.

Much love, ohm

… suggested this morning that we each pick a weekend morning in which we let the other person sleep in.

The thing about being a mom is that you also have to be a grown-up.  Often.

The other day we were having dinner at a friend’s house.  My friend J declared Cakie the king of “Oh, Shucks.”  I hadn’t really noticed it so clearly before, but when you tell Cakie “No,”  he often says something like, “Oh, ok,” rather than pitching a fit or a melt-down.  This is a valuable skill for one’s toddler to have.

Take this evening, for instance.  We went to Macy’s to get a winter coat for Cake.  (I’m still puffed up with the fact that we have managed to remember to do this before snow has hit the ground.  How very adult of us.)  I had scoped out the possibilities on-line beforehand.  I identified the two coats that were definitely down-filled.  So when we got there, we played up the warmest, cheapest (and cutest, in my book) coat they had.  He liked it.  But he didn’t want one with “badges” on it.  (It had a patch on the arm.)  Then he did want one with “lots of badges.”  He very adorably checked the inside of each coat he tried on, to ensure that it had “secret pockets.”  We had settled on choosing either the green or the orange version of the coat we wanted.  Then, something in the back of the room caught his eye.  It was a super-cool blue coat with stripes down the sleeves and a “badge”  that actually had a lightning bolt on it, much like his Halloween costume.  He was psyched. He put it on and walked about the store. But it wasn’t warm.  It was water “resistant”  and wind “resistant.”  It just wasn’t warm enough to handle how I’m imagining this winter is going to go down.

We compared the prices.  The down was only ten bucks more, and my honey had a ten dollar-off coupon, anyway.  We had to be adults.  We told him he had to choose the orange or the green one.  The blue was not going to be warm enough.  If I were the child being told this information, my knees would have buckled.  I would be on the floor, moaning, “Whhhhhyyyy Whhhyyyy?  I don’t waaant to be warm anywaaay!” What did my sweet boy say?  “I’ll take the orange one.”  God I love that kid.  Really.  I wanted to buy him an ice cream sundae on the spot.

But I feel ambivalent about being a grown-up.  It is so dang responsible.

I finally had my appointment with the urogynecologist yesterday.

I had to answer a lot of questions about pee.  I guess anyone with “uro” in their job title must talk about pee a great deal.  I had to cough had over a pad on the floor while unclothed.  I had to pee “in the commode in the corner” to make a urine sample to make sure I didn’t have an infection.  Little did I know the secret powers on the innocent-looking commode.  I peed in the cup.  Then something started printing out in the corner of the room.  It was my stats!  The commode measured how long I peed, how fast I peed and how much I peed.  I felt like a professional peer.    I could be on a team for the NPL — not to be confused with the NFL or the NHL.  It all felt a little silly.

Basically, it boils down to this:  I’m sagging on the inside.  She said from giving birth and “regular wear and tear” (giggle).  So I can do one or several of three things:  1.  Go to a physical therapist and really learn how to do some massive pelvic floor workouts.  I called it “Pelvic Floor Boot Camp.”  2.  I could have a pessary (?)  a little support that I put in there to hold things together.  3.  I could have surgery.  Part of me would just like to have the surgery and get it all over with.  The problem is, the recovery time is three weeks.  I can’t take three weeks off from work. And I don’t really want to miss three weeks of summer.  So I decided to go to boot camp.  If it doesn’t work, I’ll consider the surgery at the end of the school year.

Man, that toilet was cool.

I get weepy when I’m tired.

With me getting all manic at night, then Trucker getting all manic at 5 am, I’ve been tired a lot lately.

For example, this morning I could not hold back my tears as I watched the ridiculously precious “Baby Signing Time”  DVD, in which the over-the-top Rachel teaches sign language to babies via song.  The song “Tiny Hands,” complete with lots of footage of babies made me burst into tears.  Babies grow up.  How sad and happy.  Waah.  My recently-baby sons probably thought I was a loon.

This afternoon, I took my class to see a Mexican Dance show.  We get to study Mexico in third grade, you know.  I turned to look at my students.  My children — especially the ones from Mexico –  were completely engaged, leaning forward, smiling at each other.  The girl next to me whispered, “My grandmother is from Veracruz!” as the white-dressed dancers tippy-toed on to the stage with candles on their heads to dance “La Bruja.”  Waterworks.  I can’t keep it together.  They must be so excited to finally see their culture represented at school.  And how can I include all of my kids from Bangladesh and the one from Yemen and the one from Pakistan, if the only other country we’ll get to study is China?

Later, it was in the doctor’s office.  I finally got to the urogynocologist.  I’ll blog about that tomorrow.  I was crying in her office before she actually arrived.  Crying because for fifteen months I thought I’d have to live with this annoying pelvic floor situation.  I thought it was something I’d have to live with.  I felt a little foolish and a lot grateful.  So I cried again.

And now, I think I really ought to go to bed so I can get some teaching done tomorrow, teaching instead of sniffling.

Ok.  So I know some folks promise to blog every day in November.

I don’t know if I’m up for that.  But I can try.  I just won’t promise anything or put any kind of button on my blog.

Does a one-word post count?

I can say this right now.  I’m having some issues with my little Trucker.  He is a Mommy’s boy.  He gets mad.  Screaming, crying, banging on the door mad if I should dare to leave the room.  Sometimes a mommy has to pee.  And if you want a drink, I have to go in the kitchen to get it.  I wish my honey could distract him when I have to leave, so I don’t take all of my bathroom breaks with screaming as my background music.  But if he knows I’m gone, he’ll scream.  If she distracts him or not.

I guess one could call it child-lead attachment parenting.

I love the hugs and I love that he needs me.  I know I’ll look back on this fondly when he’s a teenager and I embarrass him.  I’ll be kicking myself for complaining at all.  I just wish I could have a quiet moment in the loo.

That’s my big news for the day, folks. We’ll see if I actually post tomorrow.

Of what is Halloween an anniversary, you ask?  Here’s a hint:

[The hint was borrowed from Cakewrecks -- the funniest blog ever.  Go read it so they don't get mad that I borrowed their image.  It is just so dang appropriate.]

Have you guessed?

Two years ago.  Two years ago, and I will probably never ever forget it and will always throw back half a bag of candy corn in celebration of it, I saw the second line on my pee stick.   I was released from my TTC duties by the insemination I did on October 19.  Do I remember the date when Cakie got his first tooth?  Nope.  When Trucker took his first step?  Unh-uh.  But October 19 and October 31 will still be in my dementia-riddled brain when I’m 104.  It was the day Trucker set me free.

I dressed up like a pirate and dressed Cakie like a pirate and walked him around the block begging for candy, door to door.  All the while, I was haunted by that ghostly pink line I’d seen at four am that morning.  Later, I took Cakie-the-pirate to my building Halloween party.  And I took Trucker, too.  It was his first “Lobby Party” as Cake calls it, even though he was just a doubling cluster of cells at the time.

As an anniversary present to you, my invisible friends who helped me survive the insanity that lead up to that 4 am BFP, I present a photo from Trucker’s “third” Halloween.  My superhero, Speedyboy.

[Ok, I put a different picture in that was already horizontal.  I think I originally didn't choose it because Blue's Clues is in the background.  But who am I kidding?  My children watch TV. No need to pretend that they don't. ]

PS  I dedicate this post to eggdrop’s ten follies.  I’m sending a zillion virtual sperm Halloween cookies out to those about-to-drop eggs.

I don’t know if we should wait until the day before an event, such as Halloween or a birthday party to get Cakie’s opinion on things.

For a good long time, Cakie wanted to be an astronaut for Halloween.  My honey was psyched to create a jet pack.  She even acquired a realistic safety-orange astronaut costume from kris.  Then, about three weeks ago, he changed his mind.  He wanted to be Bumblebee (a Transformer, for those of you unfamiliar with the current child toy trends.) That was quickly and skillfully avoided.  Then he decided he wanted to be “Quickman.”  Who is Quickman?  He’s a superhero. Made up by Cake. Can you guess his superpower?

Of course I, the purchaser of the matching toggle coats, immediately made up Quickman’s sidekick, Speedyboy.  It sounds cute.  And it is.  But not as cute as the original Trucker costume that was Cake’s idea back in the olden days when he was going to be an astronaut.  Cake said, “Trucker can be a rocket!”  How cute would that have been?  Achingly cute.

According to Cake, Quickman wears red pants and a red shirt with “a storm” on the front.  A silver one. And some silver stuff on the pants. No hat.  No cape. But he must have muscles.  Muscles are a requirement.

We got an old Hulk costume with muscles on it from a friend.  Then, on the same day, my honey and I separately went to neighborhood discount stores and bought three red shirts, two pairs of red pants, one pair of grey pants and a silver drape.  The plan is to sew the red shirt on to the muscles for definition.  Speedyboy will get a silver cape, a silver belt, a onsie and some PJ pants.  And some kind of emblem on the shirt.

Two days ago, Cake decided he really wanted to be Spiderman.  Really?

If he had decided before the discount store, I’d be at Party City right now buying an over-priced muscular Spiderman costume.  But I’m sorry, love.  It will be Quickman or no man.

The thing is, I want to indulge him sometimes.  Especially when it comes to my favorite holiday.  A person has got to be happy on Halloween.  There’s just no other choice.  But if I did, I know Friday night as I kissed him goodnight, he’d swing back to Bumblebee.  Or Wolverine.  Cake.  That’s my boy.

Anyway, I need to go sew a storm.  Just thought I’d fill you in on the latest adventures of the supermoms.

Having two kids makes a person a different kind of parent.

Namely, I can no longer hover over my one child and marvel in his every move.  I can’t stand under him to catch him if he falls head-first from the bar from which he’s hanging upside-down.  If I do, I won’t be able to catch the baby, who has managed, at 15 months, to climb half-way up the playground structure ladder.

I decided recently to take the boys straight to the playground, weather permitting, as soon as I pick them up from daycare.  Bringing them home was bumming me out, because too much tv was involved.  Cake had so much energy after being cooped up in his daycare “class” all day, that he was running back and forth in our living room as though it were a racetrack.  So I thought I’d let off some energy, avoid the boob tube, and possibly give my honey some alone time when she got home from work by taking them to a place where they are supposed to run around in circles and climb things.

It has been fun.  I’m glad I made the decision.  It has also made me look long and hard at myself as a parent.  I really need to be with Trucker in the playground.  I’m used to being with Cakie, though.  Lord knows, they don’t stay together.  So I’ve had to let go of Cake a little.  I’ve become that mother of a “big kid” about whom the mothers of little singletons are thinking and possibly saying under their breaths, “Where is his mother?”  I’m right here, on the other side of the playground trying to stop the one-year-old from jumping off of the concrete water fountain, thank you very much.

Mind you, Cake is a good kid.  He loves babies and is generally careful around them and loving to them.  He’s also a little dare-devil.  And he’s pretty athletic.  So I’ve had to look seriously at the risks in my playground (there are very few).  I have to just let him play and stop hovering.  Trucker needs me to hover, not Cake.

Then the other part of me hears that evil kidnapper guy who imprisoned that girl in California in his back yard for all those years.  Apparently he said to a woman who was trying to print out a child-safety flier at his copy shop, “All you have to do is grab just one [child.]“  That just makes me into a crazy person.  Our playground has only one exit, so it would be hard for someone to take him without me seeing.  Regardless, in the playground I do a little dance between fierce protective mama and “Where is his mother?” mama.

The truth is, I think I am a little over-protective.  And I think Cake is partly glad that I have to watch Trucker instead of him.  He likes to be free of me for a while.  Having Mommy stand right there while you try to be Wolverine and a pirate simultaneously can seriously cramp a four-year-old’s style.