Since the invention of the kiss there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure...

And then there are the kisses you discover your 6 year old sharing with her 6 year old friend when he's over to stay the night.
Marlena and Simon were upstairs, playing in her dress up trunk, like they have a thousand times. This time however, they were pretending to be married, because my darling child is obsessed with kissing.
She and I have had many discussions about how mommies and daughters don't share romantic kisses, brothers and sisters don't share romantic kisses, and that she is too young for a romantic kiss.
She sees kissing all around her. When we take her to see Harry Potter she sees kissing, when she watches The Princess Bride or Star Wars she sees kissing. Then she, being a method actor in the extreme, wants to see what all the fuss is about. Regardless of the conversations we have had about kissing, my daughter bravely forges ahead, to try out this kissing nonsense on Simon.
Why him? Because I am sure in a moment of idiocy I explained why you don't try to romantically kiss your 3 month old brother by stating those kisses are reserved for boys, when she is older.
Well, Simon is a boy, and now, she is older.

The two of them in particular have had an increasing aura of suspiciousness about them over the last few months, and his mom and I have been keeping a closer eye on them, we just didn't realize their playfulness and curiosity had gotten to the point of kissing!

Ack! Sadly, this means no more overnights between Ellen's kids and mine. It has been coming for a while, this need to separate the girls and the boys, but it is the end of an era.

I now have a Girl. A Girl who knows which of her friends is a Boy, and is aware enough of the differences that she wants to kiss him. And lock the door to her room while she does it.

No good deed goes unpunished.

Especially when you have children.
Children are loving, snuggly, persnickity, perverse little wretches.
Today we planned to go to the beach. We were supposed to leave the house at 9:30 this morning in order to catch the sea before high tide and meet Ellen and Tiff.
We woke up early, with an hour and a half to spare, and I gave Marlena her requested breakfast of apples and peanut butter and cereal. I told her we only had an hour and a half before we had to leave to meet our friends at the beach for a day of swimming and fun. She excitedly jumped around and then asked to play on the Xbox.
"Er... no," I said. ""You need to eat your breakfast, so we can go to the beach."

And here is where the good deed is punished. Sad that she was not allowed to spend the hour before the beach on the Xbox, Marlena defiantly settled at the table, set her ankles up on it, and slowly, painfully picked up a single frosted mini wheat, and began to gnaw delicately on it's edge.

Sighing and shaking my head, I went about my packing of snacks, dressing of baby, and otherwise preparing to spend the day doing something fun with my children. Occasionally I would toss out to Marlena that she needed to eat, as I would not be spending six dollars on a crappy piece of pizza on the boardwalk if she failed to fill up on breakfast. I would also not be getting her fast food.

An hour passed. It was 15 minutes until departure time. She had managed to consume about 5 frosted mini wheats, and one apple slice. Argh.

Finally I told her to finish getting ready. She meandered up stairs, spent about 20 minutes in the bathroom without managing to brush her teeth, and only when I yelled up "If you are not ready and down here in ten minutes we are NOT GOING!!" did she actually scurry to brush her teeth and hair, and put on her shoes.

Of course, by now I was grumpy, having spent the morning dealing with She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Fed, instead of getting to engage in the excitement of beach trip preparation.

About 10 minutes into the drive the comments started:
"Ooh..a Wendy's!" "Look mom! A McDonald's." "Mom, can I get Ice cream?"

I just don't get it. Why, why on earth, would she decide to goad me to the point of canceling the trip?? Does she like me in a bad mood? Argh! Of course, my mood was not improved by carting the huge bag of supplies, beach umbrella, and baby to the beach. Nor was I cheered by the bouts of crying Oliver engaged in. I did cheer up when Marlena, Oliver, and I went down to the water and splashed a bit. Pictured here:



It was also nice to see the kids splashing, and to hang out, however briefly, with Ellen and Tiff.

However, the trip was fairly stressful for me. I swear, I am at the point where leaving the house at all is simply too much trouble. Maybe I will become a hermit.

What would Freud say?

Last night I had the following dream:
It was the day I planned to start Oliver on Rice Cereal, his first solid food. However, we were out of Rice Cereal, so instead, I made Oliver stone ground whole wheat spaghetti noodles in a butternut squash sauce.
I placed Oliver in the high-chair and began to give him his food, one tiny, cut up noodle at a time. He tasted his first noodle, got very interested, then started grabbing huge handfuls of noodles and stuffing them into his mouth.
"No, Oliver!" I exclaimed, while desperately trying to retrieve huge streams of noodles from his mouth, "One noodle at a time, this is the first time you have ever eaten real food! You might choke!"
As I frantically pulled noodles away from my boy, he kept grabbing them and shoving them in his mouth. Sauce went everywhere, noodles flew, and I kept trying to get back to one wee noodle at a time.
He looked as happy as a baby can be, trying out his new noodles, playing in them, with his little baby mouth shaped like a monkey, upper lip sticking out, noodles dripping down his chin.
When I woke up this morning, at the now usual ungodly hour, I just laughed.

Bed, bed everywhere, and not a wink of sleep.

Oliver woke up this morning somewhere around 5 or 6 am with an intense desire to discuss the crown molding around our bedroom wall. He lay in bed with me, nursing contentedly, but letting go every few moments to spill milk on the bed and point at the walls and comment loudly. In about half an hour I was completely awake, yawning like mad, and lying on a milk soaked bed with a very determined interior decorator in the making. I am uncertain if he likes the crown molding, or dislikes it, but it certainly seems to be worthy of much comment.

Why, why has my son found his voice? Is it all the yammering I do at him all day?"Who is a cute baby?" "Would the baby like some food?" "Is Oliver flying?" "Where is sister? Do you see sister?" "Who has stinky feet?"

Maybe he feels the need to comment in the morning because he knows he won't be able to get a word in edgewise for the rest of the day.

Sadly, I could have napped today, but I can't nap. I have never been able to nap. I either have to fall asleep accidentally or wait until bedtime. I believe it comes from my years as an insomniac, I lie in bed, thinking about all the things I could be doing with my time. When I try not to think about it, I lie in bed, telling my self to stop thinking about all the things I could be doing with my time. No naps for me, but I will need an early bedtime tonight.

Scott and Sierra are in town for the week, hanging out with us and being generally warm and cheerful. I am happy to have them here, and Marlena is thrilled. She loves her Dot.

Well, off to work for me, the frog waits for no one.

The third person.

I believe I have hit upon the reason mom's refer to themselves in the third person. For example:
"Mommy is busy right now honey, please wait until I am done."
"No honey, Mommy can't turn the t.v. up right now, Mommy is in the shower."
"Mommy is still in the shower honey, I can't get to the remote right now! Please wait until I am out of the shower!!"

It is in part do to the interaction with the infant, but I think it is really because mommies have three personalities, therefore Mommy is personality number three, the third person.

My first person is a young woman who loves to go dancing, stay up until dawn, smoke cigarettes and toss back one too many tequila shots. Sadly, she was put into a coma about 6 years and 9 months ago, so the chances of anyone seeing her again are slim. However, she occasionally invades my consciousness with a sweet memory and the smell of freedom, often when I am driving in the rain and turn the music up a little louder than I should.

My second person is a serious lawyer ready and able to save the world. She is dedicated, tireless, and armed with the tools needed to wreak havoc on opposing council. She wears sexy yet serious business suits and sensible heels. She is witty at cocktail parties and political functions, and still amazes her husband with her intellectual prowess and social capabilities.

My third person is a mom. She is always there for tears, problem solving, lunch making, real and imagined insults, boo boo kisses, and upset tummies. She cleans the house, buys the groceries, prepares the food. She showers at night becuase she is usually showered in baby spit up several times during the day. She is a napkin, a washcloth, and more. She doesn't sleep, hasn't worn make-up in months, and lost her ability to put together a decent outfit ages ago. She is an expert in getting smiles and giggles, diffusing kiddo stress and consternation, and removing stains from laundry. She can change a really messy diaper in under three minutes with only three or four wipes.

However, she is the hardest personality to acknowledge and accept. She is much more disheveled than the other two parts of me, much more emotional, and seemingly less capable, though really, she is just dealing with more. After all, how often does a lawyer have to handle complex billing negotiations with a screaming baby vomiting on their suit? How many young and carefree women have to schlep children through the grocery store?

Anyway, the reason I think I refer to this third personality in third person is simple, it places distance between the sleepless, pale, disheveled mad woman in the mirror and myself. After all, carefree woman and slick lawyer are rarely interrupted in the shower by anyone for any reason, much less a six year old needing help with the television.

I really am still the young carefree woman and the slick lawyer. They are just currently hidden behind a river of baby spit up and burp cloths. Until I can see them again, or at least small parts of them, I will likely still continue to refer to the rest of me, that tired, spit up covered woman, in the third person.

The great poo of 2007... and a sorrowful exploration of life...

Okay, this post is bi-polar, as are my days most often of late.

The humorous part first, so those not wishing to feel sad can stop reading and retreat back to happyland. (Which is located no where near New Jersey.)

The great poo of 2007 struck full force tonight while I was enjoying an evening coffee with a friend, Tiff. Oliver, who had been poo free all day and was sitting calmly on my knee, suddenly exploded, sending a river of poo out of his diaper, down his leg, onto his shoe, onto my leg, down my leg, and onto the floor. Ick.

At first, unaware of the extent of the damages, I began to perform a quick diaper change in the nearly empty cafe on the chair next to me. (The bathroom has nowhere to change him.) Sadly, there were two factors conspiring against me. The first, Oliver had waited to perform his amazing feat until the cooing, baby friendly family had left the establishment and were replaced by the mean and glaring anti-poo family. Second, the extent of the poo rendered my "quick-change" plans useless.

I retreated to the bathroom and wiped my baby and I off as best I could. Happily, he felt much better, and my "quick-change" attempt had driven off the mad family, so Tiff and I were able to better enjoy the remainder of our coffee.

WARNING: The following contains not happy emotions.

I am struggling with something. I am supposed to sit for the NJ bar in nine days. I have not been able to study for it at all because I have a newborn, a child out of school for the summer, no nearby family, and recently moved.

Normally, these obstacles would be challenges to me, something to soar over and conquer with strength and grace. After all, I took and passed the Colorado Bar while preparing for a move to NJ, recovering from surgery, pregnant, and with my husband in another state. Because of this, many of the people in my life express their belief in my ability to take this bar and do well. I have my doubts.

There are differences between now and then. Fairly important ones. To begin with, the last bar I took after over 2000 hours of study with Nick. We had been at it for 6 months by the time the test came around. We had been at it for over twelve hours a day for the two months immediately preceding the bar. I was living with my parents, who were helping me with Marlena while Lee was in NJ. I had a pile of similarly situated friends around me, with treats and emotional support. I did not have a brand new baby.

Now, I am in NJ, with no family but Lee, and have been here for a year. I have friends, but none of them co-students. I have not been able to study more than about 30 hours. I have not slept longer than 4 or 5 uninterrupted hours in over 3 months. I have lost my previous study partner to drowning, and every time I start to work on the bar, I start to cry. My migraines are returning, I have anxiety attacks, and I have about a tenth of the support network I had before.

I am in the process of adjusting to a new house, a new baby, and a new town, again. I am still living out of boxes. I spend a great deal of time mourning the loss of my friend, my previous life, my days as a law student, and many other things. The rest of the time I care for my children and try not to let my feelings negatively effect them. I try and shop for groceries, get together with my friends, and shower before noon. I try and cook dinner for my family. I try to remember to feed myself.

I have been told I have the baby blues, I have been told all this is to be expected after the death of a dear friend. I have been told I can take the bar and just fail it if I can't study.

Except I can't just fail it. This is an area of my life where I have a bad case of OCD. I have literally bitten and torn my thumbs to pieces stressing out over not doing well on this exam. I have cried in frustration each time I have set a movie on for Marlena, gotten Oliver to sleep, tried to study, and been interrupted by him waking up, or Marlena needing a snack.

I have to hand write the exam, which is next to impossible on a good day because of my lovely RSS and the injuries I suffered when the dogs pulled me over the stroller and dragged me across the yard the other day.

I am at a completely indecisive standstill. I can't win. I feel like a failure if I give up and don't take it, but I will feel like a failure if I take it and don't pass. It is past the time that I can actually study in a real way and assure my passage. Taking it at this point is one big Hail Mary, thrown desperately from deep within my own territory.

So what do I do?