Reasons Like Seasons

I would like to ask the universe this morning why the frequency in which things seem to hit the fan in the least convenient manner possible is in direct proportion to how important it is for the aforementioned things to go smoothly. Shockingly, this post is not about how everything went swimmingly along when there was nothing for me to do but sit around the house and watch Downton Abby reruns on Netflix. My husband had a big thing at work today, so he needed to be in the office before eight. So, last night, I arranged everything: I set my alarm for 5:45, I made the lunches I needed to make, I picked everyone's clothes, and I went to bed at a reasonable hour. However, as I am currently scribing this part of the tale while watching the hubs type stuff in the kitchen at 8:10, clearly, something in my great plan has gone strangly amiss. What was the problem, you ask? Did an earthquake bring down the power grid? Did a rogue case of bubonic plague break out in our apartment? Have the

Dearest Reader, Tonight, I would like to amuse you with a long, detailed description of my near endless adventures with not one, but two steam-cleaners. Similarly, it would bring me great joy to regale you with my mis-adventures trying to make sense of the gluten-free print-out I brought with me to Trader Joe's. In the same vein, I long to wax poetic about the drama that unfolded as my husband came home, tired and over-worked, to find the boys using a bike lock as a grappling hook from atop our piled-up belongings (see steam-cleaning in sentence one). However, tonight, the best I can do is this lowly paragraph and a new page on my blog documenting my meager attempts to feed my younger child food that does not exacerbate his breathing and skin problems. Watching a child unable to breathe is torture of the cruelest kind. May my efforts bring him, and me, some relief. Sincerely, RL

Here is where we stop to recognize progress. Here is where we try and realize that we cannot possibly accomplish all of our goals in the amount of time we would like to accomplish them. Here is where we do not, under any circumstances, shame ourselves or drive ourselves crazy for not being able to get the kitchen clean in one day. Here is where we remember that we are more than the conditions of our kitchens. We are more than the cleanliness of our floors, and we are much, much more then the dust on our bookshelves. We are women. We are mothers. We are workers, lovers, thinkers, and dreamers. We take care of our families; we take care of each other; we take care of the world. So, please, remind me and help me remember that we must also take care of ourselves.

Please view, mock, and pity my "before" picture.

The sheer number of tasks I want to accomplish in my apartment stagers the mind almost as much as my complete inability to make progress in accomplishing these tasks while my small people are alive. A childless person may ask, "Why not work when they sleep?" and the sad, sad answer to this question is that there are only perhaps 20 minutes in the average day when both boys are asleep and I am awake, and I usually reserve those precious quiet moments for drinking coffee and building a little white-picket fence around my sanity. At the top of the list of chores, washing the dishes and picking up everything off of the floor are tied. Both of these things I have independently accomplished in the past week, but neither stayed done. The best I can do with those two never-ending tasks is to try and think that at least I have enough food to eat and books to read, but as I usually find myself scarfing down my food with one hand while holding a child and am much more likely to be put

Here is a (short) list of things that have conspired to get between me and the fourth season of Scandal that was just released on Netflix: 1. Boy 1 wants to show me the 6,000 items he wants to buy from his Lego catalog. 2. Someone upstairs appears to be installing a new mini-bar on their porch. 3. Boy 2 wants to have ear plugs repeatedly placed in his ears becuase B1 has them and is yelling at himself all around the apartment. 4. B1 is yelling at himself all around the apartment. 5. The cat has decided she is too good for her litter box. (She is clearly over apartment living, but until she gets a job that pays at least $30,000 a year or gets a degree in Early Childhood Education, she better get with the program.) 6. "Mommy.... Mommy.... MOMMY!" 7. The hubs managed to sneak out to go to the store. Why is it again that I never leave the children with him while I go to the store? That problem needs immediate attention. 8. Ray: "B1, what are you doing in there?&quo

Baby Angry Snot Face decided that last night would be a good night to put up a fight. With a stunning combination of eczema, asthma, and pure frustration, he managed to keep the whole house up for hours at a time. Let me tell you, there is nothing as exciting as an angry baby snot face at 4:30 in the morning. Extra points to him for screaming so loudly that even the usually stoic cat even got upset. This one, without a doubt, should be considered as a contendor for Angry Baby of the Year.

Yesterday almost killed me. It was Tuesday, which is supposed to by my day with Boy One, but Boy Two has been really sick, so he was home with me as well. Clearly, I am not cut out for having any more children, and may the universe bless the Stay At Home Moms out there, because my people had driven me to the edge before ten-thirty in the morning. Boy Two was up at 6:00, because apparently he did not get the memo about it being summer vacation. He also missed the one about not requiring two doctor's appointments in the same week. Man, I really have to teach that kid how to read his email. Order your own at http://shop.lego.com/en-US/ByCatalog Boy One slept until 9:00, by which point B2 was bringing me my shoes and banging on the apartment door to be let out for the day. B1, cooperative as ever, refused to get dressed and replied to all requests for progress with some variation of, "I'm reading my magazine!" by which he means he is pouring over his Lego catalog

I am reminded of my age and status by my absolute love for the love of Mr. and Mrs. Bates. He is quiet, brooding, loyal and damaged; she is hard-working, eager to please, kind, and damaged as well. Their love is constant, generous, protective, and bruised, yet they carry on together, comitted to finding some joy in this wide world. Besides the obvious disadvantages of the lives of fictional characters in a drama, they live how I would like to live with my husband: glad of his company, proud of my work, and able to afford a fancy dinner once in awhile. I would also like to have a cook prepare all of my meals, but that is besides the point. I think a younger me would more easily see herself in Mary, tragically flawed by her own relentless fear of what could be if she allowed herself the chance to let go, lost in trying to find her place in the world. But I have a place in the world. I have a job I love and a husband who loves me. I have Boy One and Boy Two, and despite the great

I want to bang my head against the wall when I think about how messy my apartment still is after several days out of school. A wise e-card once said that cleaning one's house while one has small children is like brushing one's teeth while chewing an Oreo. I get the simile, and it kills me. My first goal is to make the room I need to de-own. I need a tidy room and significant space before I can start pulling things off of shelves and out of closed drawers. I am crowed in my space. I need less. My next goal is to define an area in which all of Boy One's toys must fit and give him a series of opportunities to pass along any toys that he can allow to move on to their next home. I realize that I am much more enthusiastic about this process than he will be, but I am a hopeless optimist. (If I have to pay him off, I may be reduced to doing so. I'd like to thing of it as a child's version of a tax break for charitable donations.) Next week, I will work to show you my

After reading my previous post several times, I was tempted to delete it, as I was embarrassed once I realized that if one of the women I most trust with the health of my children reads it, she would likely find it neither amusing nor flattering. However, in the journey that is publicly spilling my figurative guts (get the doctor joke?) on the Internet in the never-ending quest for positive feedback, I thought it would be better to clean up my discomfort than to simply delete it away. So, here it goes. I highly respect my children's doctor and the care she provides for my boys. I also appreciate her kindness towards them (and me) and the ways she takes time to soothe and comfort them (and me!). She manages all of this tending with grace, humility, and timeliness, which is far more than I can say for many members of the medical profession. In times of stress, it is easy for one to feel petty, and yesterday was one of those days for me. I feel helpless in the face of Boy Two's

My sons' pediatrician, bless her heart, cannot possibly be two minutes over twenty years old. It would not shock me in the least to hear that she was conceived to All-4-One crooning " I Can Love You Like That " somewhere in the depths of 1995. She does have an engagement ring the size of a Range Rover, but since I have known her for two years, that timing leaves just enough leeway to ensure that she was eligible to vote when she got married. Barely enough, but enough.

"Mommy, watch this!" he yells from across the pool. Jump. Splash. He disappears beneath the surface. One-one-thousand. I remember bringing him home from the hospital, wrapped up tight like a blue baby burrito. Two-one-thousand. On his first birthday, he was running down the sidewalk with Grandpa trying (unsuccessfully) to catch him. Three-one-thousand. When he first started preschool, he cried when I left him there and cried some more when I picked him up. Four-one-thousand. He stared at his baby brother when he was born, wrinkled his face, then asked if he could go home with Noni to watch Netflix. Five-one-thousand. Splash! He shakes his head, erupting from the water. "Mommy, could you see me?" "Yes, baby. Of course I could see you ."

Dear Apartment, I realize you are covered in dirty clothes, dirty dishes, and toys. I realize you have been ignored and abused for weeks, if not months. I realize I have not been there for you as I should have been, as you have been there for me. Everyday, you house me and my menagerie. You give me a lovely view of a safe neighborhood and offer not only electricity, but also hot and cold running water. I am truly blessed to have you in my over-scheduled life. I promise you that next week, you will get some of the attention you deserve. I know you have to share me with three people, but I also know how to be true to you. Please know that I love you, even when I forget to say it. Soon, I will lighten your load by clearing your floor, vacuuming your carpet, and possibly (gasp!) washing your mirrors. You will shine like the princess you are, and this difficult time between us will be over. (Well, that is, at least until school starts again...) Lovingly yours, Raychel

Ah, graduation: the culmination of years of work, learning, and personal growth all wrapped up in a funny hat with a tassel. Oh, to be young again. When I graduated from high school in the summer of 2000, I had high hopes and great plans. I was about to leave town for a three week road-trip along the Pacific Coast, and upon my return I was going to UCLA as a member of the university's honor's program. I was the cream of the cream. I was the top of the top. But what is down on paper and what is locked in one's heart seldom match, and I was as (or possibly more) anxious, scared, and unprepared as the rest when I walked down that long aisle made of eight hundred white folding chairs on the football field. As I watched my peers pass by, I dreamed dreams for them: doctor, lawyer, musician, architect. Some of these dreams came true, some did not. But they were my dreams, so they didn’t matter. The test that counts is if people dream their own dreams and make those dreams

I apply a woman's smell to everything I touch: The aroma of the winter goddess and bright, chocolate February winds. I clothe myself in control and ---,  an awesome holiday for the lips and flesh. But emotional technology I ignore, the extra romance of tears and cleansing. You are my non-qualified vacation, an eclipse of my mental touch, the threat of nightmares in the sea of discontent, and the inappropriate paid observer. But yet, as the glass sunset beacons me from beyond my common wax mind, in the clouds, I find my path just tangent to the darkest hour.

I hadn't realized that I had spent a notable chunk of my afternoon mopping the kitchen floor just so it would be nice and clean for Boy Two to come home from baby-care and pour apple sauce all over it from his overpriced toddler pouch. May no good deed go unpunished.

Dear Adorable Ducklings, While I admire your fluffy, cute feathers and am thankful you have not lost your lives to any roaving feral felines, I would greatly appreciate if you would not continue to leave your droppings all over the bottom of the pool. It is gross. Plus, there are a multitude of other places where you can eliminate pesonal waste without rendering my swimming area unusable. If you are unable to meet this request of mine unaided, then perhaps I could assist in finding you another role to play in this great big world of ours. Please respond with your decision before school is officially out for the summer. I anticipate my patience will have worn out by that point. Sincerely, RL

This aquantince of mine mentioned in my previous post spoke longingly about having a baby sometime around when I had my oldest more than five years ago. That she had to yearn and pine for her pregnancy makes me ache, especially because my husband basically only had to look at me sideways to get me knocked-up. I have been truly blessed (and very lucky) to have only become pregnant when I wanted to be, and on both of those ocations, I got pregnant right away. The struggle of women who are not as easily satisfied in their family planning as I was leave me longing. While I realize there is no need for me to fall on my sword for my reproductive success, I can imagine the agony and daily stress the longing for a child could bring to an adult life or an adult relationship, and I am sorry that this pain has to exisit in the world. I am sorry that people who want to have children are sometimes unable to do so, and that others only find success at the end of many cycles of tremendously expensiv

I had the great pleasure of seeing a Facebook picture of an old aquantince of mine today: she was smiling, visibly pregnant, and standing next to her proud-looking husband. I was more proud and gleefully at the site of this image than I had any right to be. I ached for all it had taken to get her to that simple, beautiful picture. I told her it was perfection, and she agreed. Having children is arduous, painful, and frequently sticky, but it is also brings indiscribably awe, love, and meaning to my life. I will come back to this topic shortly when my children aren't screaming for food and my un-di-f-ing-vided attention.

I recently started watching Downton Abby on Amazon Prime. I'd "splurged" on the free 30 day trial in order to get a ridiculously expensive bag delivered in a timely manner for free, and then I got sucked in by the wonder that is early 20th century England. I could watch historical dramas for days on end, as evidenced by my previous streaming-video bindges, which have included The Tudors, Reign, Marco Polo, and the mini-series The White Queen and Pillars of the Earth . (The Ken Follett novel was better, but the series was good nonetheless.) If it wasn't for the inconveniences that are my small children, work, the never ending pile of dishes, and attempting to spend time with my husband, I would just let myself be sucked into the rabbit hole of the recreated past, embroidery circle in hand. Now, I have yet another reason to avoid housework and let Boy One watch Scooby Doo on Netflix while Boy Two wreaks havoc on the doors and furnature. I just began watching season

Boy 2, you go ahead and own that blue Sharpie. Clenched in your hand like the holy grail, it looks ready to leave your mark on various non-washable surfaces. Feel free to color whatever you find in your way. Found your face? What an excellent start. There's nothing as exciting as Smurf children at half-past bedtime. Want to mark your brother as well? I bet that will go well. Go ahead and try. Your short life is in your tiny hands. #terribleplans

I'll be doing whatever snowmen do... June...the mixed blessing of months. On the one hand, my students are itchy to be finished with work and get away for the summer; on the other hand, my older son gets out of school, and I have to entertain him 24/7.  Wait. Mixed blessing?! Where is the good part?! (I love my boys, but after about four straight days with them, things start to hit the fan.) Camp. I am calling camp to the rescue. The treacherous balance of quality time, sanity, and cost weighs large. After much careful consideration, I decide to mix things up with a Monday/Thursday/Friday schedule for the big one and a Monday/Tuesday/Thursday for the small fry. That means I get Mondays to myself, Tuesdays with big guy, Wednesday with (gasp!) both of them, Thursdays to recover alone, and Fridays with baby. This schedule costs more than my usual monthly childcare budget, but as I mentioned before, sanity is one-third of the calculation pie, and sanity, appa

Sometimes, when I see you, I want to hold you forever in my arms; To give love, and to be loved, are the only ideas my mind can comprehend. But other times when I see you, I am almost afraid to touch, afraid that the spark that follows may engulf me in flames. It is then that I just watch, and explore your world as you exhale, the smoke streaming from your lungs the only sign of the fire that burns inside.

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"Can we go swimming?" asks Boy One. My heart rate soars and breathing enters hyper-drive. Few things bring greater terror than the one activity (other than riding in my car) in which my children are most likely to die. "It's too cold to go swimming." "It's not too cold for me!" "Can we just go to the park?" "Plllleeeeeaaaaaasssssseeeeee can we go swimming?" "Okay, fine. But you are not allowed to drown. There will be absolutely no drowning! Otherwise, I am going to have to resort to cutting off your Netflix privileges." "I promise I'm not going to drown, Mom." I must be overreacting. Things can't possibly be that bad. I should check an authority that can soothe my inflated sense of dread and foreboding. I am clearly being irrational. According to the CDC (Center for Disease Control), "Every day, about ten people die from unintentional drowning. Of these, two

Me: How big do you think the universe is? B1: Googol feet wide! And it will take a billion years to get off of the world from walking. Me: How do you get off of the world by walking? B1: Is google going to tell us? Me: You want me to ask google? B1: Yes. Are you asking it? Me: No. But did you know googol the number and Google that we ask questions are different things? B1: Yup. Me: How did you know they are different? B1: I don't know. I just know. Me: What else do you just know? B1: I know all about the whole world. Me: What do you know about the whole world? B1: That the Earth spins around the sun. Me: What else do you know about the Earth? B1: That the moon shines bright/At the night/And shines down on the houses. Me: Is that a poem? B1: Yes, I think so. Me: Nicely done, dude. You're a poet. B1: A poet? Me: A poet. B1: Oh, the sun shines down, the sun shines down, the sun shines down on the Earth...

A friend of mine recently posted on Facebook that she had, " determined there is no discernible difference between being a first-time home buyer and having an existential crisis." I think she just about hit the nail on the head with that one. I wish her luck in her quest, but can offer no satisfactory response to her 21st century housing crisis. And yet, I muse on. There is no practical way that I am ready to buy a house. I can barely keep the living conditions in my apartment under control. What with work and children and laundry and four trips to urgent care in the month of May alone, I am already well beyond my zone of proximal development. Yet I dream of owning my own home. When houses in my neighborhood go up for sale, I drive past them slowly, longingly, dreaming of the lives of the people who live there and imagining myself opening the front door to visitors, walking my older son to school, and choosing my own native-inspired, drought-resistant landscaping. Th

Me: When are you old enough to drive? Boy One: When you are older than one-hundred. Me: Then why am I allowed to drive if I am not one-hundred yet? Boy One: Are you ever going to be one-hundred? Me: I hope so, but it will be a long time before that happens. Do you think you will make it to one hundred? B1: Um-hum. Me: What makes you think so? B1: Because! Me: What do you think you will do when you are one hundred years old? B1: I think I'll have a wheel-chair. Me: Where do you think you'll go in a wheel chair? B1: I want to go on an airplane. Me: Where do you want to go on the airplane? B1: To visit you, but not if you're dead. Me: If were dead, where would you want to go? B1: To visit my kids, if I had any. Me: How many kids do you think you want to have? B1: A googol! Me: That's not going to work. B1: Fine. Like three. Me: That sounds more manageable. Where do you want to live with your kids? B1: In South America. I want to li

Dear Readers, It appears that I have not one single person officially "following" my lovely blog, into which I pour my tortured soul and excessively long sentences on a daily basis. To rectify this situation, I have decided to hold a drawing. For every ten followers I accrue in the month of June, I will select one follower at random to receive an adorable crocheted toy. How does one qualify for this AMAZING opportunity? Simply scroll to the bottom of this very page and fill out all of the lovely white boxes with your information, including a message (about how much you enjoy reading my amusing and occasionally poignant blog and) letting me know you would like to be entered in the contest. Sounds easy, right? It is easy! Scroll down to find the boxes that look like these to bring me joy and enter the contest.

When one is "in a tree," one must try to remain calm. One must take slow, intentional, deep breaths, and look for solutions to problems rather than wallowing in said problems. One must remember that all time is not confined to this very moment. One must allow the time it takes to regain focus, understanding, and calm. Then, when calm, one must look for and find a sturdy ladder.

5:05 Baby cries. Nurse baby. Baby sleeps. 5:15 Try to sleep. 5:20 Try to sleep. 5:25 Try to sleep. 5:30 Give up on sleep. Make coffee. Make lunches. Drink coffee. Check e-mail. Get dressed. 5:50 "Wake-up" alarm goes off. Make more coffee. Put lunches and work bag on stroller. 6:00 Get boy clothes. Change toddler. (Toddler remains asleep. Good sign.) Attempt to cloth Boy One. Boy One refuses to cooperate. Drink coffee. Regroup. 6:20 Peruse Facebook. Ponder the significance of my friend's post about which Disney Princess she is. Decide I would like to be Mulan. (That girl kicked ass.) 6:35 "Wake up the Boys" alarm goes off. Attempt to pry Boy One from bed. Resort to bribing Boy One to get up with promises of a yougart smoothie for breakfast. "I hate yougart smoothies!" Drink more coffee. 6:40 Toddler wakes, demands to be carried around the house. Boy One resigns himself to the day. Husband readies. 6