Reasons Like Seasons

Finding time to write is difficult at best, and some days it is next to impossible. With my small people running around, I am always amazed at how busy and tired I can be without actually accomplishing anything. Take this morning as an example. The baby and I wake up at six, because Boy Two never bothers to check the calendar to see if it's Saturday or not. He's been sick since the day before yesterday, and for the second time in a row his eyes are crusted shut with dried goo that had oozed from his face overnight. Blinded, he cries, first with confusion and then with anger as I pick him up out of bed and attack him with a warm, wet washcloth. Between the tears and the steam his eyes open, but he is an angry, grumpy mess, making all kinds of noise as my husband and Boy One try to sleep. I decide to take him on a bike ride to get some breakfast, because every day is better with a breakfast burrito. (Three cheers for breakfast burritos.) Getting out of the apparent with my bike

I got up at 6:40, which is sleeping in, so I can't complain. Boy Two was up a few minutes later, in tears because breakfast wasn't delivered to him in bed within seconds of his becoming concious. Through the tears, I cooked eggs, most of which he threw on the floor before demanding a large serving of BBQ pop-chips. He did not volunteer to help clean up the eggs. I tried to take a shower alone, but Boy Two came in and stood outside the tub, ripping at his clothes trying to take off his shirt and yelling, "Bahf. Bahf!" Okay, fine. I took off his clothes and tried not to slip on the super-hero bananza that he dumped in the tub upon entering. After the shower, wet kid tried to run all over the apartment butt-naked, refusing to put on his diaper lest hell freeze over. I tried to get dressed myself instead, so he decided to cry some more. Fun times all around. Boy One woke up from the screaming and immediately began to relate his dream to me in intricate detail. There w

Angry people do angry things. They throw papers off of the table, Scatter dinner across the floor, And refuse to brush their teeth, Unconcerned by the consiquences. The older one sings a song Despite requests for quiet. He repeats, louder each time, Disrupting the ever-shrinking peace. The small one cries. Not the cry of the sad, but the cry of the angry. Angry that he is small; angry that he cannot speak, And his anger seethes out, staining the hopeful darkness of the night. No one rests. No one sleeps. Everyone lives in the angry, vengeful rage. And yet, we still dream of sleep... Peaceful, restorative sleep. Perhaps, one day, it will come, As easily as the sunset, As quiet as the moon. Until then, we suffer, Victims of our own choices. Victims of the children we were born to love.

I love the fall. I love sweater weather, school in full force, and the promise of holidays to come. So now, as October rolls into full force, I am reminded of November, the month during which, for several years now, I have posted on social media each day, from the first to Thanksgiving, one thing for which I am thankful. Today, I am reminded of all for which I am thankful, even though it is still October. Please indulge me as I explain. I had the luxury last week of going on vacation with my husband and boys for the first time without grandparents allowing us to tag along, and I am thankful for the generosity of my husband's parents as well as our ability, finally, to afford this vacation on our own. While we were away, we swam and ate and saw the sights. I am thankful for our able bodies, good food, and the beauty of the world. I also had to do much of the inane and everyday tasks that I would have to do at home anyway. I  am thankful for fully-stocked grocery stores, Target,

I think joy comes with forgetting With living in the moment With time that separates itself From everything else From the noise And from the heartbreak. I can forget when I read: Lost in a story Whether true or make-believe. I can forget my faults, my limitations And find peace with myself. I can forget when I teach: The world shrinks down to that room Those students And the outside dims. Time races. I can find my strengths, my abilities To question, to explain, and to respect. I can be at peace with myself. Thinking robs the joy Fills time with what ifs and should haves Awakens the beast Of utter discontent. But one cannot live in forgetting. And so I ache for the moments when I forget Only knowing them When they have already gone away.

His angry words burn like glowing daggers. His small frame shines with the might of armies. He tramples my soul with his dissatisfaction. His anger overflows. He is my husband, my father, my brother. He is me and mine. A snarled reflection of all that I hope to be. A fragrant symbol of repeated failure. I am responsible And I have no words. Nothing kind, nothing gracious Only anger and fear to face the same. We stalemate at the edge of the evening. It is night, and yet no one is sleeping. Anger is wide awake.

Today was a good day. I got to go to work early, nothing exploded, and I left before 4:30. Both boys were fed before either one managed to go to pieces, and I got to ride my bike, which is more exciting than it sounds. My small people and I rode to the park, where I ran into a woman who used to attend a yoga class I frequent and who was the recipient of an extra car seat I had sitting around taking up precious real estate in my seemingly tiny apartment. She has a daughter not much younger than my second son, and together we talked as our children played together. We chatted about having small children, about her job, about my recommendations for starting children to school early or holding them back. We laughed as our small people demonstrated their mastery, or lack thereof, in throwing a frisbee. We had forgotten each other's names, and we were both too embarrassed to ask, but together, nameless, we enjoyed motherhood and the park with our chilpdren. Upon coming home, I found

At work, I cannot see incremental progress. I know intellectually that our program has improved, that I am a better teacher than I was in the past, but because there is still room to grow, because I am not all that I want to be, I stress and fret and am never satisfied. At home, I cannot see incremental progress. I know intellectually that my children are small, that they will not stay one and five forever, but because Boy One throws a fit, because Boy Two pulls all the clean clothes onto the floor, I stress and fret and am never satisfied. I do not know the solution to my problem. I do not know how to manipulate how I perceive time and my own shortcomings or how to find more peace within myself. I do know that I love my children and respect my students, all of whom are talented and beautiful, flawed and deeply human. May I find a way to grant myself that love and that respect. May I find a way to see the progress without drowning in the incremental.

Bedtime is at 7:00. (And unicorns are real and M&Ms have more vitamins than kale.) It is now 8:27. We have officially been getting ready for bed for more than an hour and a half. One boy is sleeping. One boy is throwing blankets off of the top bunk. One mommy is silently gripping her sanity, holding on for dear life. Can someone please tell me that this will eventually get better? After screen time was over, Boy One threw a fit to end all fits because he wanted to watch another episode of Rescue Bots. After smearing blueberry yogurt basically everywhere, Boy Two demanded more food, none of which he was willing to eat in his high chair. After working for close to ten hours, I wanted to drink some wine and watch an episode of The Good Wife. Obviously, my expectations for life are far too high. Now, at 8:35, both boys are finally asleep. I am physically and mentally exhausted. And tomorrow will not be any better.

I'm at the park, again, and the breeze is soft and warm. Boy Two is wandering around with only one shoe, a green monster truck clenched in each hand. Boy One is climbing on the outside of the play structure, showing off for an older girl in pink tennis shoes and a cat helmet with ears. The girl's grandmother watches her from a nearby bench, occasionally saying something in a language I do not understand. The girl speaks a mile a minute, peppering Boy One with questions. "Can you ride a two-wheeler? Can you climb on the top of the monkey bars? Have you ever been to a pool with a high-dive?" She's said more since we got here than he has said in a lifetime. Boy Two finds his shoe under the slide and waddles over to me, shoving the shoe in my face. I pull him into my lap and put it on his tiny foot. In a moment, he's off again, chasing Boy One as he rides around the blacktop on the little girl's scooter. When Boy Two finally catches up, the three of

When anger overflows, Like a volcano, Like an explosion, Everyone suffers. Everyone is burned by the heat, By the fire, No matter the reason, No matter the source. The anger of children Lashes out In every direction, Flailing, scalding, Regardless of cause And immune from reason. The anger of adults Focuses in, Bores a hole, Targeted, searing Bursting with cause And stuffed with reason. Reason is less than it claims. Anger is more than it seems. In a fight, anger will always win. No matter the topic. No matter the reason. No matter the bodies left behind. Anger, unfortunately, conquers all.

Most of the time, as I drive, I listen to NPR. It makes me feel up-to-date. It makes me feel like part of what is going on in the world. It makes me feel intelligent, knowledgeable, connected. But then, sometimes, as I drive, I listen to music... Then I am 16 again, lost in the world and free to be foolish, free to scream the words as I drive down Bolsa Chica Street. Free to yell. Free to be. Most of the time, as I live, I am constrained. Constrained by my desires, by my children, by my expectations. But then, sometimes, as I live, I listen to music, and I forget... I forget, and I live, completely on accident. I forget to plan, to consider, to organize, and I just be. I forget what I look like, how others perceive me. I just sing along, and I be. I sing along, and I am. To live more and plan less? I only dream. Maybe in the next decade. For in this one? Perhaps the realization is more than enough. Perhaps the knowing and the being take years to get to know each other. Pe

Boy One is being an uncooperative punk, and my husband is mad. Boy One is five, and my husband is an adult, but at the moment, it is hard to tell the difference. Both of them need a time-out, but instead they yell at each other, locked in conflict, for longer than I would wish, neither willing to back down or retire. After far too long, they are calm, and I venture to speak. "Why don't you call your mom and ask her what you were like when you were five?" I suggest. "Why don't you call your mom?" he throws back. "She said I didn't listen until I was thirty," I replied, "and with that, she's being generous." "I'm not calling my mom," he declared. "Have it your way," I respond, grinning. (I bet he was exactly the same.)

My skin's as smooth as a baby's now, No longer scratched By unshaven whiskers. I always have enough blankets, And I don't have to share when I sleep. Billy never starts playing When I want to hear Elliott, And I never have to worry About when you're coming home from work. Instead I wonder How long my phone card will last, How much I can communicate With three Euros' worth of time. I wake up to the wrong person snoring, And I fall asleep to the Jimmy CD That you made for me... While I wait as patiently As possible, To come back to you.... May I always come back to you.

This evening, Boy One would not stop stealing Boy Two's pacifier. He pestered, proded, harassed and teased despite everything I did to try and stop him. Then, the problem solved itself, when Boy Two smacked him, hard, in the ear with a block. Boy One cried. He cried a lot. He cried the cry of the innocent victim despite his obvious guilt. And I was glad. Vengefully glad. The bully got his comeuppance and Baby Dude stood up for himself the only way he knew how: with a blunt weapon against a tyrant. Nice going, David. Goliath has fallen. So, facing a sobbing five-year-old, I kiss his face and ask him what he learned. "Nothing!" he yells back at me, angry and clearly beatten. "Well, I suggest you leave your brother's pacifier in his mouth next time." I reply. (Three cheers for the underdog.)

In the tiny compartment Between the top and bottom bunk I can see clearly all that I have: A safe place to live. A pair of healthy boys. A husband who loves and adores me. I have all that one could ever desire, Yet I lack. What I lack can't be counted On a survey Or a worksheet Because on paper, I have everything. Everything. So how... How do I feel What my brain knows is real? What others can see? What is right before my eyes? Rather than feeling the empty, The spaces... How can I focus on the all that I have, And ignore the not... Because my all is complete. What is missing is within me. And that I cannot fill, Despite my grandest efforts, No matter my contribution. May the world grant me peace. Peace and fulfillment. As I wait, and I long... To see myself as others do... To accept the beauty that is my life... To be beyond the feeling of nothing... May the everything overwhelm the nothing. May the nothing simply cease to be. May I see my world

At the Huntington Harbour Mall, the management company has decided to show movies on designated Friday nights throughout the summer. Tonight, they are ending this year's run with a showing of Cinderella. At least two dozen little girls have arrived in the open space between the Athletic Club and Noah's Ark Pet Grooming, donning their finest rendition of the famous Disney princess. They are a rainbow of tiny humanity, mostly frocked in frilly blue dresses. Some break the mold, like the little girl with a pink and gold gown. My favorite is the one with a blue tule skirt and a Leonardo sweatshirt from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. A few boys people the audience as well, outnumbered and underdressed. My boys stare at the girls, confused and entranced. Some things may never change. With blankets and wagons, beach chairs and snacks, we all gather together to say goodbye to the summer. We gather in hope of entertaining our children while we attempt to relax, sipping wine from p

I wish I had more to say this evening, but between small children and getting ramped up for the school year, there is little of me left to compose beautiful prose to dazzle and amaze you with the difficulties and trials that are my day-to-day existence. Suffice it to say that while today was good for some of my family, it was a struggle for others, and although I wish it averaged out to fine, the difficulties of one brought down the whole more than one would wish or expect. Please feel free to keep me in your thoughts, prayers, or whatever else it is you keep when you know someone who isn't having the best of times. Do not fret, however, that my blog will remain vacant, as when things settle down a bit I am sure I will get back to writing. Be well and stay well, RL

I have experience with angry parents. Parents who wished for another life. Parents who wanted something more, something different. Parents whose dream for their children was something other than what occurred. But angry children are a new breed. He wants more. More than I can offer. More than what I can allow. More than I am willing to give. How can I requisition one and refuse another? How can I excuse the former and subdue the later? How can I pretend that my wishes supersede those of another? How can I prioritize? He is small, but he is real. I am large, and I am real as well. He is young, and he is growing, May I not be stagnant. May all be well and kind. May all be well and kind. May I remember that I was once small. May I remember that I may soon be old. May we all be as we are. May we all be well together.

I feel as though I am on the brink of something. The brink of what, I can't tell you, but I hope it is something good, something rewarding. I could use something rewarding. Maybe it's the usual excitement of the new school year. As one who longs for routine, the comfort of established daily expectations, I certainly picked the wrong profession. Months of unstructured summers tear me apart, and the despite my constant vigilance, there is too much variation for my liking. I spend more time thinking about what I should do than actually doing it, and the stress builds more than it is relieved. I feel like the only person on the planet who gets stressed out by having too much time off. Maybe it's the promise of finally going back to work. Maybe it's the culmination of the steps I managed to take during my time off to put myself in a better position in my body. I got glasses, so now I don't have to squint and strain to read or write an email. I started going to the chir

Anger burns. Sometimes like a match, Quickly scratched then quickly extinguished. But that is the best kind, The best because it is gone Almost as quickly as it comes upon itself. Anger burns. Sometimes like a lighter, Held as long as one wants to hold it. And that kind causes little harm, Because the owner is in control And can put it out at any time. Anger burns. Sometimes like an ember, Hot and smoldering for ages. And that is the worst kind, The worst because it lingers Longer than anyone would expect. Be cautious always for embers, For they can ignight at any time. There is no looking back. Anger burns.

Unfortunately, it is my purse, and in my efforts to make it more like an elegant woman's satchel and less like a grumpy toddler's carry-all, I came across the following items: - a baby blanket - two diapers, both unused - the book, The White Queen , of which I have read three pages - my wallet (One point for me!) - a batman hat - a pair of (clean) underwear (Bless my luck!) - a apple sauce pouch lid - a white handkerchief (One point) - lipstick (Bonus points! This counts as two, bringing my total up to four.) - a receipt for Boy One's glasses - the paper cover for a pair of disposable chopsticks - baby sunscreen (I'm counting this for me, because I use it, too.) - a pack of silica gel - Boy One's glasses, in their case - car keys (another point for me!) - a pen - part of a tissue - an empty medicine bottle So, in total, I have six points, if and only if I count lipstick as two and the kids' sun screen as one. They, on the other hand, are respo

The Good Wife is good. I love my husband good. Balancing children and work is hard good. Living in an apartment after living in a house sucks good. I am loving this show good. The levels of awesome are deep and gooey: the main character addresses racism in the courts, sexism in general, and the seeming impossibly of achieving anything that resembles a work-life balance. Then, on top of all that, she kicks some major butt in court prosecuting pharmaceutical companies and defending  the poor and defenseless. Excellence spreads itself all around. Anyway, please forgive the shameless promotion. It is rare that I fall in love with non-historical fiction, so I thought I would share my most recent addiction. Please feel free to share some of your favorites in the comments below. I look forward to hearing from you!

This is me trying to remember that they're not small forever. This is me trying to remember to stay focused on success. This is me trying not to get angry that I am awake and that they are awake and that every single person in my house is still awake. This is me trying to see the beauty in the world rather than the disaster. This is me trying to avoid the "if onlys:" if only Boy One would go to bed; if only Boy Two were already asleep. This is the me trying not to scratch the eyeballs out of old, old women who tell me that these are the years I should treasure, these are the days I should hold close to my heart. This is also Boy Two giggling about how funny it is that mommy is angry. This is also Boy One, overtired and unable to manage his emotions. This is also my husband, desperate for time with his woman, fully unable to successfully manage the small people in his care. This is Sunday night, and my anger burns. On my walk around the neighborhood, p

As my little blog has now earned its first pennies, I thought it time to spend more than 3,000% of my earnings on business cards while simultaneously keeping my day job. However, here is where you, dear reader, can contribute and show your love for my continued reflections and rantings. Here, you can take a moment of your precious life to vote on which style of card from the "Elegent" list on Vistaprint best embodies the style, mood, and tone of my illustrious blog.  Yes, I know what you're thinking. How could one tiny rectangle of heavyweight cardstock possibly do justice to all that my blog contains? Well, obviously, or at least hopefully, it can't, but at least you can have some input as to which example does the least crappy job. I will take all votes into consideration, then do whatever I want to do anyway. Artists and writers are fickle and capricious like that. And with all seriousness, thank you for reading my blog. It brings me great joy to know that

A bedtime dialog between me and my five-year-old. [Boy Two], what was the best thing that happened today? Sleeping. Sleeping? Uh huh. Seeping. How could sleeping be the best thing that happened today? I mean lunch. Lunch! Lunch was the greatest thing that happened today. Do you agree? Was lunch the best thing that happened today? What do you mean, lunch? Where did we go for lunch? The pizza place and the veggie place. Actually, yeah, I did like lunch. What did you like about it? I liked everything about it. That's pretty awesome, dude. It's not often that I like everything about anything. How do you think that I could like more about the stuff that I have to do? You will never like the stuff that you have to do. You mean there's no hope? Is there nothing I can do to be happier when I'm doing things that are kind of boring or annoying or that cause me to be anxious? Isn't there anything I can do to make my life better? You could watch Netf

The most amazing things that happened today, in order. Number 1: Massages from my man, but better. Number 2: Dust buster from Amazon. I had no idea how many cheez-its had been crushed into the fabric of the recliner. Maybe I didn't want to know. That brings me directly to number three...   Number 3: Wine juice box from Target. Enough said. P.S. Although tempted, I did not drink wine directly from a box with a straw. I used a wine glass (like a grown-up).

As I waited for the elevator with my wagon, B2, and a pile of empty blue Ikea bags, I cursed myself for thinking it wouldn't be so bad having to share a laundry room with a hundred other people. It was 10:25 and I had washed six loads of laundry. "People all over the world share washers and dryers with others," I'd said. "It will be convenient to have four washers at a time," I'd convinced myself. I was an optimistic idiot. Two kids and two flights of stairs and too little time have robbed me of my best self. I want my own washing machine. B2 clapped his hands as the elevator dinged, and we rolled in to go downstairs to pick up the last two loads. But as I stepped inside, I inhaled an image of Papaw, my mother's father, standing in a kitchen in Dothan, Alabama. It was an image of menthols and humidity and sweat, and there he was, with a blue hat and a half-empty green packet sticking out of his breast pocket. In that moment, I was six year

I went to work today for the first time in a few weeks. B1 was hanging out with me until his camp started, and while he colored on the white board, I began by opening my email... Me: I have over one hundred new emails! B1: Ohhhh uhhhhh. That is a lot of emails. Me: I know! What should I do? B1: You should erase all of them. Me: I don't think I can do that. Some of them may be important. B1: So read all of them, then delete them if they are not important. Me: Thanks, dude. That sounds like a plan. B1: How about a fist bump? Me: Only if it gets to explode. I love that kid.

I got home from my lovely vacation Friday afternoon and slept in my own bed that night for the first time in almost a week, only to be woken up on Saturday morning by the fact that July is almost over and I have accomplished less than one percent of the tasks I had planned for the summer. (Insert expletive of your choice here.) What on earth have I been doing for the last two months?  (Spending time with my children, packing, and cleaning my apartment are not legitimate answers.) Time to get with the program. My frantic attempt to accomplish tasks is pretty much my husband's worst nightmare. While I endeavor to clean, vacuum, reorganize, wash, and de-own, he longs for two uninterrupted days of sleep and playing Xbox. I feel you, my lovely spouse, but this weekend, things will probably go better for everyone if you stay the (reuse expletive from above) out of my way. I started with beans: almost six cups of Sprout's dehydrated pinto beans. On Friday, I made the mistake

Apparently vacations are where you go to die. I am tired, very tired, after spending almost a month organizing, packing, and mentally preparing myself for going away from my home for most of a week. Now, at my destination, I am surrounded by well-meaning, yet somewhat unfamiliar, extended relatives, relatives who leave my children confused and feeling uneasy, despite my repeated reminders that we are related to them, that they are good people. But at 18 months, a stranger is still a stranger. I wish my sister-in-law was not seen as a stranger. Away from home, every door in our living space is at the mercy of B1's game of open and close, open and close, open and, hopefully, not close on anyone's fingers. There have been no reported damages (as of yet). Get back to me tomorrow to see if our lucky streak continues. There is no escape from the constant barrage of questions, tears, and request that come along with a life spent side by side small children. They are beautiful

I am a chronic over-paker. I can easily take a week's worth of clothing on a weekend trip to visit the boys' grandparents, so packing for a four day sojourn on an island is basically like planning to survive for three months in the Amazon. Additionally, if I make the smallest error in my preparations, such as miscalculating the proper diaper per day ratio or forgetting my eye-makeup remover, I will clearly be struck down by the packing gods and publicly humiliated for the rest of my mortal life. Obviously. I started preparing weeks ago, ordering items that have no place in my everyday life: a microfiber travel towel, a swimshirt, and (gasp) even a pair of shorts. For the boys, I bought matching Superman rashguards, tiny sunglasses, and hats. B1 got a new backpack, and as official concession to my status as an Orange County suburbanite, I even caved and got one of those collapsible wagons, the ones I used to look down my nose at while in line at the farmers' market. At le

Once the EMTs from CHOC finally arrived around 8:00, things started clicking into place. Three of them arrived with a gurney complete with a car seat strapped within a row of machine after beeping machine. I carried B2 from the room to the gurney, gently clicked him in, then kissed his tiny forehead as he continued to struggle to breathe. The female EMT smiled and handed me a stuffed bear with an IV wrap which matched my son's. I nestled it between B2 and the side of the carseat, and he snuggled up to it and grabbed it with his non-IVed hand. He looked so fragile juxtaposed with all of the technology intended to monitor his signs of life that I almost cried, but with great effort, I managed to reach out and hold his hand instead, and he seemed to relax, at least a tiny bit. Soon, we had all of his paperwork and a disk with his chest X-rays as we rolled into the second ambulance of the evening. I rode in front with B2 in the back while my husband took my car to fetch B1 from my fr

When I finally realized my husband had walked in the door, it was like heaven had ripped open and poured rain on the drought-stricken desert. I had been helping hold B2 down again while two nurses with matching reading glasses poked at him with their IV needle. They looked kind of adorable moving their glasses up and down together, chatting about veins as if they were skeins of yarn. In times of crisis, the smallest details seem to carry the greatest significance. Once they finally found success, I turned away to breathe and found my man standing behind me. "[Husband], I am so glad you're here! How long have you been waiting? No, wait, please don't move: I'll be right back." I realized, all at once, that I hadn't been to the bathroom for many, many hours. After weaving through the throngs of humanity that peopled the hallway, I managed to quickly rectify that unfortunate situation. Then, I ran to return to my men. When I came back to the room, my giant h

A passing conversation in the hall at school went something like the dialouge as follows. School Professional: I was over in the preschool today and I got to spy on [Boy One] a little. Me: I hope you didn't see anything wrong with him that I don't already know about. SP: No, no. It was really interesting. He seems to be the only one who really "gets" [a little girl from his class]. Me: Yes, he really likes her. He talks about her all the time. Is there something different about her? Why did you notice that he "gets" her? SP: No, no, not like that. She is just completely no-nonsense, time to get down to business. [Boy One] seems to really get that. Me: You have met his mother, right?

The ER doctor was rugged, handsome, sharp. He looked tan like the rich get tan, not tan like those who work the land or sell their wares on the sidewalk. He was Greek god tan, I spent last weekend on my yacht tan. I bet he made the softball team swoon. I found it hard to focus when he was talking. "...going to push fluids and get him on some steroids. That should put him in better shape while we wait for the ambulance." "The ambulance? We just came in the ambulance." "No, the CHOC ambulance. They send their own people for transfers. We are just waiting for them to call us back." "A chalk ambulance?" I felt like an idiot and a moron. "We don't have a pediatric wing, so we can't keep children overnight. CHOC specializes in children, so you will be in good hands there. I'll have the nurse come in to get that IV started." I must have been staring as he spoke. Perhaps I didn't even blink. "Do

One of the first orders of business once we were set in our room was placement of the IV in my tiny baby's arm. This entire enterprise was an unqualified disaster. On the first effort, a forty-something bleach-blond nurse with a ponytail and bright red reading glasses on a chain tried three different times, twice on one arm and once again on the other. I held B2 as he screamed. After the third attempt, she lifted her glasses and smacked her mint gum. "He must be dehydrated," she said. "I'm going to get someone to help you hold him down." "I'll get someone to hold you down," I thought. My better self responded instead. "Could we get him something to drink first?" I asked. "Sure, honey," she replied. She left, and B2 and I together both cried and struggled to breathe.

- macaroni and cheese from a box - snack bars - hot lunch from camp - pepperoni pizza and bread sticks from Taco Bell - more snack bars - several juice boxes - hot lunch from camp - cheese sticks - a happy meal - tortilla chips - ice cream

At the hospital, the same giant men rolled my little baby out of the ambulance and into the crowded chaos of Sunday afternoon at the ER. Thankfully, we were wheeled directly into an empty room, a by-product of a call from the beautifully haired nurse practicioner from the urgent care who had called ahead to let them know we were coming. A pleasant seeming woman with a blond ponytail asked us to wait inside, then quietly argued with the EMTs as B2 sat quietly on the bed, struggling for breath. I held him and tried to stay calm. The rest of the ER was like a crooked slice of humanity sprawled out for view at its least attractive. In the waiting room, half of a softball team was waiting loudly for their teammate who had started throwing up after being hit in the head while at bat. In the entryway, an woman of a certain age in ridiculous shoes sat in a wheelchair with an ice pack on her knee, a likely victim of a fall. In the hall, an ancient man in a hospital gown stared blankly at the

I never saw myself as an ambulance chaser, one of those poor souls whose livelihood relies on catching an injured individual in the hospital loading dock, but yet, there I was, running a red light behind a shiny emergency vehicle as it barreled down Barannca Parkway, as though my life depended on it. Despite the radio on and the traffic outside, the only thing I could hear was my baby, crying as the EMTs had shut the steel doors in the parking lot at urgent care, B2 on the inside, me on the out. In my mind, he was louder than the sirins. There was no red light in Orange County that was going to stop me from getting back to him. He had woken at two that morning, coughing as he tried to breathe. I gave him his inhailer, then we'd gone back to sleep, only to repeat the program at six, ten and two again. By then, he just wasn't himself, fussy and quiet instead of rampuncous, refusing to walk even the few steps from our car to the play structre when we arrived at the park. I decide

The past few days, the toil of small people has worn me down. I have everything, absolutely everything, one could hope for in this life, yet my mind complicates and obliterates the good in favor of the empty, focuses on the lack in place of the bounty. I work to bring my mind in line with the light, to see all I have and live in and the beauty that it has to offer, to disallow the view that there is smallness in tending, and to see instead the greatness in it. May I find my way clearly, swiftly, and cease to suffer from an endless summer. May I impose the structure of work and progress on my struggle and benefit from it. May my anxiety find strength in production and my restless drive to produce find those who need an able ally. In accomplishment , may I find space to be, and may my children benefit directly. May the goodness overwhelm us all.

What I have is Focus. Details. Assignments. Tiny compartments, neatly filled. Straight lines, Black words, Controlled, contained, Allotted. What I need is Wind: Blowing, dancing, Bursting from the seams; Endlessly curving Vibrant colors Exploding down the pavement Unabashed and unafraid...

Today, for the first time, Boy Two drew blood from Boy One. B1 was on the floor looking at one of his coloring books, when, BAM, out of nowhere, he was hit smack in the face with a flying flashlight. B2 was the only other person home, and I can promise you, I am not in the habit of throwing camping gear in the apartment. The guilty party is clear. At first, B1 didn't breathe, but his face made that square-mouth shape he used to make when he was little, when the injustices of the world were just too much to bear. Then, he took a breath, and then he screamed, a long, anguished scream, as the blood began to seep out of the new red line below his eye. I looked at B2. He was smiling from behind his pacifier, reaching out his tiny hands to be picked up. "Look, Mommy! I can throw!" he seemed to say. "Come and congratulate me for successfully passing the light stick to my brother!" "Baby, you hurt [B1]. He is sad because you hit him in the face." Confused

I once read that families are comparison machines. In the story, it was argued that the close proximity of one sibling to another drives innumerable comparisons to the surface, often with life-long implications for those compared. For years, during the formidable childhood years, kids are told they are this one or that one: this sister is the smart one; this one the outgoing one. This brother is the funny one; this one is good at math. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter if both sisters are outgoing and smart in comparison to the rest of the human beings on the planet. It only matters that this one seems smarter than that one, that this one seems more outgoing than the other. In this way, brothers and sisters learn to carry these beliefs like widgets, widgets of judgement and self-limitation. Widgets that help define who they are and how they see themselves in the world. So, of course, I compare my boys. Boy One was an articulate speaker almost  immediately

I cut the baby's hair yesterday. It wasn't the first time, but it was the most significant. Previously, I had simply trimmed, shortened his baby curls in a formation that allowed for at least cursory containment. But now, I have done the irreversible. His baby curls are gone, likely to never return, and with this unique action, with the use of a simple machine to trim and cut and shape, he has irrevocably left the baby world for the world of an older sort. He has become, with no reservations, a toddler. In the conservative Jewish tradition, a boy's hair is not cut until he is three year's old. Once he has arrived at this ripe old age, there is a ceremony called an  upshernish , an event in which members of the religious community ceremoniously cut the child's hair, a symbolic cutting away of  infancy as the small human enters into childhood and the beginning of his formal education. It is at this point that the boy begins to wear the traditional symbols of m

Standing on the side of Yorba Linda Boulevard, holding Boy Two while Boy One wrapped himself in a blanket, I leaned into my man and watched the fireworks. Next to me, a father held his young son on his shoulders, quietly singing, "Happy Birthday, America." They have part of a conversation in another language, then switch back to English. "How old is America?" the father asks. "239!" the boy replies. "That's right!" exclaims his father, then they stop, and continue to watch the burning elements explode across the sky. This, to me, is the beauty of America. Here, on the side of the road, my fourth or more generation, WASPy boys standing side-by-side with the children of imigrants, celebrating the nation's birthday. May we all continue to stand together. Happy birthday, America. Happy birthday.

Dearest Reader, Today, I bought a fancy new purse and wallet to celebrate my 4,000th page view on this very blog. 4,000 page views? I mean, come on! That means, on average, that more than 60 people read each of my posts. Now, there are (at least) two possible explanations for this documented phenomenon: either sixty random people show up to read each of my posts and never return, only to have 60 more random people show up for my next post and get board out of their minds, or, and I find this second option far more likely, around 50 people are reading my musings on a regular basis, with a small number of transitory visitors who stop by, then move along their merry way. For each and every one of these readers, I am thankful. I like to believe that I bring a small sprig of joy to people as I write myself a path to sanity. Thank you, everyone, who takes the time to read what I have to say. But now, I beg. According to Google, I have two subscribers. Two. One of those it probably my mom

Not A Cat Boy Two has decided that everything on four legs is a cat. "Cat! Cat!" he squeals, pointing excitingly at an overweight golden retriever. "Dog? Do you see the dog? What a nice dog," I reply. (Note proper use of target noun used in context. ) "Cat!" Fine. Sure. I give up. Your ability to identify a large, four-legged, hairy creature walking around the apartment complex as similar to the small, four-legged, hairy creature that roams our apartment has been proven. Good job, dude. Mozel tov. Good luck getting into college.