Stop. Potty time.

I always knew I wanted children. Truly. There was never a doubt in my mind I wanted children. More specifically, I always knew I wanted two children. I should also say, I have friends who feel equally certain they do not want children. For my women friends who feel this way and comfortable enough to say it aloud, I'm always proud. Our society seems to think if you're a woman, you must yearn to be a super crafty human maker. I believe you can lead a full life without children. It's just not the life I ever wanted for myself.

When the mister and I finally decided to pull the goalie a funny orbit around doctors and my hormonally-challenged body began. After months, well, years of issues really, I was diagnosed with PCOS, Poly-cystic Ovarian Syndrome. Big fancy words for: you don't make eggs right (I'm not a skillet), oh and you gain weight for no reason but can't lose it (I grow without water) and you might have patchy pigmented skin (you're on your way to actually looking my Latina heritage), hello acne (Didn't I break up with Clearasil a decade ago) and excess hair (didn't have that symptom, praise Jesus.)

So with medical cocktails and an obscenely amazing OB, we managed two children. Dream come true. I basically cooked two eggs. Over easy, since they arrived eight and six weeks early. We're eternally grateful for the little monsters and get to experience life in the company of a little girl and a little boy. I know with all my heart I received exactly what I prayed for: a family.

That, yay I had kids, aside, I could NOT be happier to say, I changed my last diaper, people. I repeat, I changed my last diaper. At least for my children. For 41 months I wiped, powdered, diaper creamed and diapered one boy's cute little bum. Before Eli, is was Charlotte's cute little bum. I never went anywhere without a diaper bag stocked with wipes, clothes, diaper cream, etc. I don't mean to sound like we deserve medals; diapering is something all parents do. It's just when little Eli finally decided to hit the water, I realized I was in a word: done. Done, done, done, done, done!

Since I realize my good fortune and therefore know I'm done having kids, when the proverbial pee light bulb goes on for the youngest, it means d-o-n-e with the diaper bag. It's so stinking life-changing and liberating, I can barely contain myself. If my dear friend hadn't spent a small fortune on my fancy pants Petunia Pickle Bottom diaper bag, I'd channel the 60's and burn it like a bra. Burn baby burn, I say. Not to be confused with drill, baby drill. I'm no hockey mom and my lipstick is optional. I do however, channel MC Hammer and sing in my head: Stop, potty, time...every time the boy goes.

My favorite Eli sayings with regards to his mad potty skills:
1. "My pee/poop is feeling kind of shy Mom. I try later."
2. "Don't worry Mom, I'll be careful to not hurt my penis." (When closing the toilet lid.)
3. "I have to go potty now. You stay here. I need my privacy." (pronounced pwyvacy)
4. "Bye, bye, Eli's poop. See you next time. Have a great day...okay?!"

"Laughter through Tears is my Favorite Emotion."

As most of you know, the kids and I spent four weeks in Colorado visiting family this summer. It was a wonderful and bittersweet trip. Sometimes so oddly normal to be *home* and other times, kinda tough, especially to be away from Ben for so long. It's his busy time of year at work. He was only able to get away for a single long weekend.

While in CO, I visited a dear friend from childhood battling Stage IV Renal cancer. She was my favorite friend through all the crazy adolescent antics. Always funny and incredibly beautiful, her advice on how to be a girl during the formative years of Elementary and Jr. High schools are priceless to both me and my heart. The few hours I had with her were both inspiring and heartbreaking. Sometimes the truth about our personal journey is hard to face. She seems to handle it with amazing grace, humor and remains beyond beautiful.

I also had the privilege of supporting my mother-in-law through Chemo and its aftermath as she fights breast cancer. She's pretty amazing and although cancer is my absolute least favorite thing, it afforded me time to be with her and get to know her on a different level which in and of itself was a gift. Time with people, when it's real, always is.

She's a strong and very real lady and able to see the humor in the awful and made me laugh many times. I kept thinking of that line in Steel Magnolias when Dolly Parton says, "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion." We shared stories like old friends and a love for Simply Lemon lemonade. I saw her fight through pain in effort to take Charlotte to the American Girl Doll Store, where Molly the doll got her ears pierced and her hair did and thought what an illustration of leading by example. She also ate my food and said it was good. For the record though, the Chemo left her unable to taste food...so don't buy it. Next step for her is Radiation, which I hope brings an easier road.

It was fun for the kids to have time with her, and all the grandparents for that matter. We miss them all so much living up here. We had it good when a visit with them was just a phone call away. I'm pretty sure my kids miss the daily chocolate chip or M&M pancakes courtesy of Grandpa Ted, now that they're back to my oatmeal. (Whenever I make it I swear I hear them whispering in their best Tiny Tim voices, "More please.")

Eli continues to be the source of great humor and feist. He's a joy and a big fat handful of naughty. Just when I start to really worry about his behavior and begin Googling medical conditions for children, he cracks a funny or does something amazingly smart and sweet. He's a treasure and so beautiful with his big brown eyes. He starts preschool next week and is both excited and proud.

My favorite Eli story of late: I recently told Charlotte all the Colorado sun made her hair a bit red. To which she responded, "I noticed too and I've always wanted to be a red head!" I thought it was funny, since she's only seven. Then out of nowhere, Eli says, "Yeah, well my hair is turning GREEN (pronounced gween)," and then died laughing at his own joke. For the record his hair is not green and never will be unless he gets creative in his teen years.

Last week my first baby started 2nd Grade. Insert ugly cry. I don't mean to sound like a Hallmark commercial, but truly it goes by too fast with kids. I remember working so hard to stay pregnant, then helping her figure out how to drink from a bottle. Follow that with months of P/T getting her to crawl and walk. Now she has legs up to her armpits, is taller than most 4th graders and looked so sweet skipping to school in the rain.

For the first time ever she didn't carry her Little Mermaid or Cinderella backpack to school. She didn't say why, but I know it's because she feels too big to outwardly show her love for them. Instead she opted for a brightly colored Hanna Andersson backpack (a gift from her Auntie) and my favorite school supply ever: a Scooby Doo Mystery Machine lunch box. Just before school though she made me promise not give away her princess backpacks.

More ugly crying.

Followed by laughing.

Always.

The latest installment of Sippy Cup Chronicles is in the works. Highlights include: Four weeks in Colorado, Eli's hair turning green, Charlotte's Doll getting her hair did and wait for it...I, J-C-H am joining a gym. Crazy talk, I know!

Stay tuned...

Surrender Mommy.

I love my little Elimonster. A firecracker from the start, in utero he illustrated his affinity for loud music by kicking me to the beat. Particular to 80's glam rock and monster ballads. My kind of kid.

After a difficult pregnancy and a few weeks in the NICU, we finally brought the boy home. He then screamed, and screamed, and screamed, for months, pretty much non-stop. The doctor kept saying Colic. So we tried different bottles, formulas, homeopathic remedies, carseat on dryer, vacuuming, rocking, driving, 15 minutes in the crib (him) to rest our minds and still, he screamed and cried for eight or nine hours a day. Sometimes more. Nothing gave him peace. Poor baby Bless Ben's heart, he was the stay-at-home parent at this time and he was amazing with the little boy. So patient and calm. It was a blessing really that I was the one working. I'm not sure I could have been as good a parent in the same situation.

Finally at four months of this Colic parent method-acting I told the Pediatrician, whom we adore, something was wrong, it wasn't Colic and we needed to fix it. His cries sounded like he was in pain and always came with feedings, which for our preemie boy was every 2-3 hours. I kept reading about how many babies have acid reflux and it's often misdiagnosed Colic. I begged her to try acid reflux medication even though he didn't spit up like Reflux babies. I swore if it didn't work, we'd throw it out. Miracle of miracles, within 48 hours of liquid Zantac, he was a new baby. A happy baby. Ahh.

Still Eli was always very specific about what he liked. Toys that made noise, not being swaddled, no rocking at bedtime. Even now, his bedtime ritual is locked tight. If you miss a step, he'll remind you. It goes like this: read a book, waft his favorite blanket up in the air three times while counting aloud a-one, and-a-two, and-a-threeeeee before laying it over him. Then out goes the light, sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Row Row Row Your Boat, say prayers, kiss goodnight, turn on his fan and as you leave his room, you to say, "Mommy, Daddy and Sissy love you." In that order. It's always worked like a charm. Until about a month ago.

Now he realizes his room is not a cell and he has both power and confidence - the double threat. He gets up, opens and shuts his door, runs around, plays with his toys, sings, calls out, throws anything to hear it crash. He'll knock on the walls or door and say, "Hello?" Anything to make noise. This goes on for about ever before he falls asleep with the lights on and sometimes on the floor. People try to tell me he's not tired, but honestly, he is. He has bags under his eyes, rubs his eyes and yawns throughout.

I should say, I know to those who don't know me well, I probably sound very negative about my boy. Please know,I love him with my whole heart and adore his spunk. It's what makes him so incredibly funny. He's hilarious, creative and sweet. In him though, I've definitely met my match. His three year old self is a tough nut to crack and his Mommy is sleepy. If life were The Wizard of Oz and brooms could indeed fly, my sky would read: Surrender Mommy.

Note: I meant to publish this in June before leaving for CO. Clearly failed. He's now going to bed better thankfully. His new trick however is to crawl in bed with us at about 4AM. Then he starts shrieking if I move him back. He knows sleep is my Achilles and so he's winning this battle, but not the war I tell you. Not the war. And if I keep repeating that statement, surely it will be...

Girl with a Blue Daisy Earring

I met my husband at a time I wasn't interested in love. In fact I was kind of over the whole thing. I was 22, five months away from college graduation and trying to figure out how to oust that nice Maria lady from Sesame Street to make way for me, 'cause hers, is my dream job. Surely the Street needed a young, light-skinned, non-Spanish speaking Latina with a love of words, letters and Cookie Monster. Surely.

As it often does, when I start making plans, life, the universe and or God reminds me that I'm only this-much in control. So meeting Ben surprised me. Not being a complete idiot, I knew a good thing when I saw it. So I altered my train of thought and decided to hang out with the quiet, handsome angler and see what happened.

Flash forward four years. We're married. Eight years and our daughter is born.

Shortly after her birth and I can't remember the exact timing, I decided it was time to do what most girls in my family do and have her ears pierced. I don't know if it's a cultural thing. I do know mine were pierced when I was about a year old and most my cousins did the same.

For those of you in the Ben know, you know how incredibly mellow and accommodating he is. So when I brought up said ears piercing, for the first time in our entire relationship he said incredulously, "Absolutely not! Not until she's at least 13."

Wow. That sounded like an order.

I was stunned. If I were to channel Yoda, I believe my reactive phrase would go something like: Floored, I am.

So speechless (a rarity for me) and with eyebrows raised, I gave some thought to all the things he is and isn't. Ben is not a man who speaks in absolutes with regularity and neither of us committed to an old-school traditional Cleaveresque marriage where the guy calls the shots and the woman obeys. He is also not one to waste words, give undue praise or feed egos. When he says something he means it, wholeheartedly. He is also kind, thoughtful, loving, an amazing Dad and often non-traditional. With all this in mind, I chose to respect his feelings and let it go and said, "Okay."

We stayed this course for six years. If Charlotte asked about getting her ears pierced, my answer was always the same, "Your Dad said, 'not until your 13.'" Then one day about six months ago his answered changed and surprised us all: "If Charlotte wants to get her ears pierced, it's fine with me and totally up to you guys."

We explained to her she could but it would hurt, only for a short time, kinda like a shot. She decided she wasn't ready. Fine by Dad.

Last week she changed her mind and decided it was time. (My parents were in town visiting.) She came up to me and said, "I decided to be brave and get my ears pierced the day before Grandma Lee goes home." When the girl makes up her mind she's very specific. Much like someone else I know. Mr. "Absolutely not until she's 13."

The big event brought us to Claire's Boutique where three girls aged 21 and under, took on the task. One of the girls was fantastic, the others, insecure like all young women that age, repeatedly and over zealously told her how brave she was. I don't know why people do that to kids, they can always smell out insincerity. Always.

Charlotte picked out her earrings and sat waiting patiently and listening to the girls gush. As I watched her sit there, I wondered for the first time, what were we doing? She's only seven after all and I'm letting someone ram metal through her skin so she can what...? Before I could even finish the thought, I said, "Are you sure?" Her answer, "Yes." 1-2-3, it was done.

And then, my daughter looked at me, her huge brown eyes teary and broke down immediately. Not because it hurt, because of the anticipation. Six years of waiting and I believe it was the last 20 minutes that put her over the edge. Funny, though after about 30 seconds the nice girl asked her if she would like to see her new earrings. She brightened right up and looked at her new adornments with such pride. Pride for doing something she wanted to, when she wanted to, for facing her fears and for being a big enough girl to wear genuine blue CZ daisy starter earrings, even if a little pain came first. But really, what female on earth doesn't know a little heartbreak before a jewelry reward?

Buzz Lightyear & God, No Wait, make that God & Buzz Lightyear

So this week, I decided it was high time I start teaching the little boy to pray and remind the big girl how to as well.

I readily admit, the timing of my teachable moment epiphany has everything to do with signing the little boy up for Catholic Preschool. That whole Catholic fear slash guilt thing of having ours be the only child not in the Sign of The Cross know was horrifying to the internal mortal sin level. Those of you who are absent Catholics know what I'm talking about. Not being up for 50,000 Hail Marys and 2,104 Rosaries, I got the prayer ball rolling.

I've never considered myself anything but Catholic. I find the church and its rituals comforting. I did my time, I mean 10 years of Catechism, and all my sacraments up to marriage. I conscientiously objected that one on account of my desire not lie to the church and His Holiness about my co-habitation habit, not to be confused with a Nun's garment. Just the opposite actually. Somehow lying to the church seemed wrong. More so, than the church considering my living with Ben before marriage sinful to the point of not allowing us to marry in the church. I made the choice to live with Ben on my own, fully knowing it was a trial basis thing for marriage. Coming from divorced parents, we decided it prudent to see if we could live together.deal with bills and money before we committed to a lifetime and family. Seems/ed backwards to many, but to us it made sense to us and worked well, but I digress.

So, for you non-Catholics, saying/making the Sign of The Cross goes like this: In the name of the Father (touch forehead), the Son (touch chest), the Holy (touch left shoulder) Spirit (touch right shoulder), Amen. This ritual comes before and after saying a prayer.

The little boy loved the ritual. A funny conversation followed. (Note: I started writing this the day it happened, it's now two weeks later and I don't remember verbatim, but this is super-close.)

Eli: Mommy, who's, the Father?
Me: The Father is God, sweetie.
Eli: Who's God?
Me: Someone magical who lives way up high in the sky, past the clouds in a place called Heaven. He helps us everyday to be good. His son's name was Jesus.
Eli: Oh, cool. That nice. Can I go fly up high in the sky with Buzz Lightyear and go see him?
Me: Yes.

This awwww moment brought so many warm fuzzies, my goal now is to start going to church again. I'm realistically shooting for 1-2 times a month.

I should totally volunteer to be on one of those, "Catholics Come Home" commercials.

The Sippy Cup Chronicles: Potty Training Part 1?

I'm trying to potty train my three year old. I have no idea what the eff I'm doing. Yes, I said eff.

I get lots of advice. I ask for lots of advice. I've skimmed the books. I say skim because after the first five pages, I stop. They all make it seem so easy. Just follow these five clever steps and voila...no more diapers. I've skimmed the articles, the blogs, polled the people on Facebook. I've heard if I use my seven year daughter's Baby Alive and have my son teach it to potty train its plastic self, he too will learn how, drum roll please, in a day or less.

Anyone over a certain age thinks I'm a year too late to the party. Some say it out loud. Others don't, instead they tell me about how their grand kids were trained and how their own babies were trained, all before age two. I will say, in their defense, if I had to scrub cloth diapers by hand I'd probably be more motivated. But I don't and I'm pretty sure that it's my son who's in control of his pee-nis, not me.

I can admit too, it totally intimidates me. I don't want to deal with it. This child in question is beautiful, smart and spirited in all the ways wonderful and behaviorally woeful.

Today we tried underwear. I asked every few minutes if he needed to pee. He tried several times. He went once and got his prized chocolate chips. Big high fives and knuckles! Then in the next 90 minutes he sprayed Thomas the Tank Engine, drowned Mickey Mouse and drenched The Hulk...in underwear and finally asked to wear his Buzz Lightyear pull-ups. I called it a day and we went to Wendy's for a Frosty and followed that tasty treat with a really good snuggle slash nap.

What's that Scarlett O'Hara said? Tomorrow is another day. Or was it, lather, rinse, repeat? No, that was the shampoo bottle I forgot to use today. It all starts to blur together after a while.