The Two Sides of My Brain

Since I decided to leave the 9-5 and work from home part-time, my daily routine has become easier. I can spend more time with Lauren and Will in the morning without feeling rushed. I can visit my daughter’s nursery school and not worry about missing a meeting. And although I’m tired by 5:00 p.m., I don’t feel brain dead when I pick the kids up from daycare.

So what’s the problem? These days it’s my inability to shut off the two sides of my brain, not right and left, but the mom side and the work side. When I’m writing, I’m rarely distracted by other thoughts. It’s as though I get lost in some strange vortex, but the moment I take a break, my mind starts to wander. Lately, for example, I’ve been worried about Lauren’s mysterious 2-1/2 week outbreak of hives. What’s causing them? Will the hives be gone by the time we go to the allergist? And if they do, will he know how to help her? Then my thoughts turn to the kids’ winter wardrobe, meals, house projects—the slippery slope of the to do list. When I can, I’ll divide my day in half, spending the morning writing, and the afternoon tackling the list, but that’s becoming increasingly harder to do. I lose track of time when I’m working on a writing project. I’ll look at the clock and it will be 3:30 p.m., giving me only an hour and a half to tackle any household demands.

I’ve made a promise to myself (and the kids) to focus on them when they’re home with me. If Will is taking a nap, and Lauren is immersed in a craft project, I’ll check email or fold laundry, but overall I’ve held to my promise. Once they’re in bed for the night, my mind returns to work. This never happened when I worked full-time. I could leave the office and rarely give it a second thought once I arrived home. That’s changed, too. I love what I do now, and so I am constantly thinking about story ideas, what’s worked, what hasn’t and what I should be doing to get ahead. Sometimes I can’t sleep. It’s not so bad that I’m up until 2:00 a.m. thinking about work, but it takes at least an hour for me to shut down.

I’m not complaining, though. It’s good to be busy, to spend more time with the little people and feel challenged. I thought I’d have more balance working this way, but now I wonder if balance is possible. I’m starting to think it’s more about finding what works on a daily basis, and being inordinately flexible when life gets in the way—whether it’s the hives, a new project or my thoughts sending me in another direction. The truth is, whether a mom stays home, works in an office or does a little of each, both sides of her brain are always buzzing.

Will’s First Encounter with Christina Aguilera

Christina Aguilera and Heidi Klum on Project Runway

I was lounging on the couch, eating red Twizzlers and watching Project Runway, where the contestants were designing a Bob Mackie-inspired dress for guest judge, Christina Aguilera. The show is my number one guilty pleasure (reading Entertainment Weekly from cover to cover is a close second), and in rare moments when I can watch Project Runway uninterrupted, I’m in a pure state of couch potato bliss.

Just when the contestants’ models were about to walk the runway, a call came from upstairs. “Mama! Where are you?” Will is getting his two-year molars—his finger is almost always lodged into the corner of his mouth—and he’s having trouble sleeping. Even though Project Runway was recorded on the DVR, I didn’t want to wait for the ending. I asked him if he wanted to watch a show with me, which might as well have been a rhetorical question.

We cuddled together on the couch, and I wondered (briefly) if Project Runway was appropriate for a two-year old. Unless one of the models walked down the runway naked, which I knew wasn’t happening, I couldn’t imagine the show would make an impression on his young mind. He pointed to Christina Aguilera. “Who’s that girl?” he wondered. I told him she’s a singer. Will paused and considered her for a moment. “She needs a sweatshirt,” he said.

Christina on the judging panel. Could she be chilly?

I looked at Christina’s bare arms and low-cut blue dress and had to agree. “Yes, Will,” I said. “She could probably use a sweatshirt.” I thought about Aguilera in her pre-motherhood, Dirrty days, wearing nothing but chaps and a muddied bikini top in a music video, and thought her blue number was decisively more conservative. But still. This is Project Runway, couldn’t she have stepped it up a notch, especially for the fashion savvy Tim Gunn? A two-year old and his mother certainly think so.

Thanks Pottery Barn Kids

PBK's Ultimate Barbie Dream Room

Pottery Barn Kids arrived in the mail last week, and as I’m apt to do, I tossed the catalog aside. The high prices, combined with the über-organized kids’ rooms are too much for me. The catalog’s photography instills feelings of inadequacy, as in; I wish my play space looked that good. Or more accurately, I wish I could afford a room like that. I understand that catalogs have to visually appeal to customers to sell merchandise, but I’m asking, does anyone know a kid whose room reflects the catalog? Infants don’t count here. I’m talking moving, active, curious kids with lots of toys and books. Is a Pottery Barn Kids’ room really possible?

One thing that I never imagined was finding my 3-year old flipping through the pages of the PBK catalog. After dinner, I discovered her eyeing a spread that celebrated, “50 Years of Barbie,” with a sub-headline that reads, “Inspired by her classic style, our exclusive bedding creates the ultimate dream room for your biggest Barbie fan.” Who knew Barbie had classic style? I think back to some of the hot pink 80’s numbers my Barbie wore, and classic doesn’t come to mind, but I digress. Lauren was eyeing the all pink bedroom with great interest. I asked her if she liked the room, and she said, “Yeah (as in duh, Mom). It’s all pink!”

A few days later, we were in her bedroom, and she casually brought up the catalog. “Do you know, I saw that room in that book, and everything was pink. The bed was pink. The walls were pink. It was pinkalicious!”* I laughed out loud—amazed by how Pottery Barn Kids could influence a 3-year old. I mentioned that pink was already part of her room—there are pink rosebuds in her quilt and throw pillows. Plus I like that her walls are a contrasting blue, no need to go all Pepto Bismol here. “But I want it,” she said. “I want a pink room.”

Sigh. What’s a parent to do? I’m going to hold out hope that her favorite color changes. If not, I guess you’ll find Ted and I painting her room pink one weekend. But there is no way I’m buying a Barbie duvet cover, coordinating dupioni silk quilt and tulle bed skirt. That’s where I draw the (pink) line.

*Pinkalicious by Victoria Kann & Elizabeth Kann is one of Lauren’s favorite books, and definitely worth a read.

The Hazard Report

Friends have asked if I have regrets leaving work, if I’m finding it hard staying home and if I’m busy. Lauren and Will try my patience daily, whether it be the refusal to put on pants or not replying when I ask a question three times over. And lately, Will is up nights, almost as if he’s a newborn again. I’m tired most of the time, and I’m drinking more coffee than I ever did at my full-time job.

That being said, I wouldn’t change a thing (well, maybe the late nights). I love my days with the kids. It’s been wonderful to deliver Lauren to preschool and not have to rush anywhere. Will can stay and play for a bit, and when it’s time to leave the classroom, the two of us run errands together, play baseball in the driveway or hang out at the local coffee shop. One day, while strolling down Main Street, he declared, “Mommy, we are happy!” He couldn’t have said it better.

Will takes long naps in the afternoon, so that’s when Lauren and I spend time together. She’s tired and cranky after school, which is never fun, but post lunch, she’s ready for anything. We’ve been doing a lot of baking lately. I have to remind Lauren not to put her fingers in the batter, or lick the sugar off the table, but generally, she keeps herself in check. She also likes to do arts and crafts. I’ve found I have a flair for making construction paper people and figures, so that’s what we create most of the time. This week we made a movie star version of Lauren’s aunt, two delivery trucks and a Thomas the Tank Engine for Will, which I’m particularly proud of.

Thomas the Tank Engine by Yours Truly

Lauren's ice cream delivery truck

When the kids are not at home, I’ve been diving into work. I feel guilty because I accepted a copywriting job, which I said I would not do. But I feel better knowing I’m contributing in some way, and as far as copywriting gigs go, this one is as good as it gets. My client is flexible and I can tell him up front when I’m having a crazy week. And he pays on time, which is a rare treat for a writer.

I’ve made a promise to myself to pitch at least two stories a week to magazines, and I’m hoping an assignment will come. Next week I’m headed to Boston to talk with some writing peers and a former boston.com editor about pitch letters in general. Sending a story idea to a magazine is similar to drafting a cover letter for a job—the process is time consuming but necessary. And like applying for a job, you never know if or when you’ll hear back. I figure the more I put out there, the more chance I have of something happening.

So do I have regrets? Not yet. I miss clothes shopping in Freeport during lunch. I miss seeing some of my friends. And I still worry about being poor and on the street. But for the most part, as my son would say, we are happy.

There Are No Zzz’s in Hazard

Recently, I signed up for boot camp — a community exercise program that involves running, stretching and lifting weights. I was reluctant to commit to the class at first because a) I haven’t exercised in an embarrassingly long time and b) boot camp begins at 5:30 a.m. On the upside, the class would force me to get up early, and upon return home, I’d have time to prep lunches and enjoy a morning shower before the wee ones rise.

Plus, since leaving my job in July, the kiddos and I have been in a pattern of waking at 8:00 a.m. (a luxury in the parenting world). On their days at home, the late start doesn’t matter. But on my writing days, I deliver them to daycare around 10:00 a.m.. To make any progress, my workday would need to start earlier. Boot camp seemed the solution to whoop my ass back into shape in more ways than one.

But last Thursday evening, after only two sessions of camp, I found myself wondering why I made this decision—not due to the early hour or my sore hamstrings, but because my children don’t sleep. At least not when Ted and I want them to go to bed. Lauren needs company to fall asleep, which usually means I’m in bed with her until 9:30 p.m. And Will hollers “I want my Mommy!” or “I want my Daddy!” for an hour if we’ll let him, until one of us breaks down and goes to comfort him.

In addition to this crazy bedtime routine that we’ve fallen into, Lauren almost always runs into our room in the middle of the night. Sometimes, we’re so tired, we don’t even notice she’s wedged between us. But mostly, one of us ends up scurrying her back to bed and sleeping with her until morning.

On this particular Thursday night, I’d planned to be in bed by 9:30 p.m., so I’d get enough sleep for boot camp the next morning. For the most part, the plan was intact. I read to the kids, helped them brush their teeth and miraculously, everyone was in bed and silent right on schedule.

Around 3:00 a.m., Lauren arrived in our room. For some unknown reason, my husband decided this was the night he was going to make a point. He walked Lauren back to her room, wished her good night and returned to bed. She shouted, “Daddy! I have to go to the bathroom!” which was enough to wake up Will, who then shouted, “Me too!”

Ted ended up lying down in the hall between their rooms, telling them both they had to go to sleep on their own. I offered to help, but Ted sent me back to bed and shut the door. “We have to do this,” he said. “They need to cry it out.”

I returned to bed, determined to rest before my 5:00 a.m. wake up call, until both children came running to my side. “What are you two doing here?” I asked. To which Ted interrupted, “I’ve had enough of these menacing kids…” or something reminiscent of Scooby Doo. “I’ve been up for over an hour. I am done!”

I asked him what I should do? There were only 45 minutes between now and the time I needed to be at class. Ted muttered something unprintable and threw the covers over his head.

My first, thought, nice timing! I have boot camp, people! Lauren and Will stared at me as though I was some kind of bedtime savior. I decided to put them both in Lauren’s bed, and sat in a chair beside them. Lauren looked like she might fall asleep, but Will was singing the Itsy Bitsy Spider complete with hand motions. I brought him back to his crib, and right on cue, he started yelling, “I want my Mommy!”

I returned to my post in Lauren’s room. She tossed and turned while Will screamed. It was now 5:15 a.m., and boot camp seemed less a possibility. I went to Will’s room and Lauren followed. “Do you two want to go downstairs and have some cereal?” To which they both screamed “Yeah!” as if I asked them if they wanted to go to the North Pole to meet Santa Claus.

While they munched on Kix and watched Mama Mirabelle, I stewed. I was mad at Ted for deciding to make a point in the middle of the week. And I was mad because I was missing boot camp.

Then I’m not sure what happened to alter my mood. Maybe it was the new brand of coffee. Or maybe it was seeing Lauren and Will contentedly sitting on the couch, cheeks stuffed with cereal. Whatever it was, I decided mothering two unpredictable toddlers was good enough reason to miss boot camp. And more than likely, I’ll miss class again. I’m sure some drill sergeant out there would consider this an excuse, but a little boot camp is better than none at all.

Stop! You’re Growing Too Fast

While taking Lauren’s preschool picture, it brought me back to my own first day photo: me posing by the front door in a brown dress and matching knee-highs, grinning and waving to the camera. Now here I am, an adult and mother (gasp!), sending my daughter to school. It’s hard to imagine I was her age once, and even harder to believe she was a newborn three short years ago.

Lauren amazed me on her first day. She picked out her own outfit, and slung her backpack over her shoulders like an old pro. And as Ted fastened her into the car seat, she proclaimed, “I’m a school rock star!”

Even though she’s only three, the experience of taking her to preschool felt like a milestone moment should. I was equal parts nostalgic and proud. Not surprisingly, the rock star started school without fear. Once I hung up her backpack, she was off and running among her peers. I watched her bounce from the dress up station to the wooden building blocks, and then to the easels to paint.

Lauren and I - not that long ago

When it was time to leave, I kissed her goodbye and extracted Will from the toy cars and trucks. He said, “I want to stay! I want to go to school.” I told him, “Not yet, buddy, you’re coming home with me,” and squeezed him tight. Cliché or not, the saying really is true—kids grow up too fast.

Mood Swings

This is the face of an unhappy 3-year old.

Our day started well. It was the kind of day when a mom feels heroic, and pats herself on the back for a job well done. Earlier, the kids and I went to see Schoolhouse Rock at the Maine State Music Theater, followed by lunch at a friend’s house. After the morning’s activities, we returned home for Will’s afternoon nap. Lauren and I watched 101 Dalmatians in my air-conditioned bedroom, while eating graham crackers smeared with Nutella.

Since we were having such a good streak I thought: What could be a better end to our day, than swimming followed by a cook out? I figured that after Will’s nap, we would first pile back in the car to pick up our farm share. After quickly collecting our veggies we could return home with enough time to pack food and beach gear.

When we arrived at the farm, Will and Lauren wanted to climb a nearby rock pile and carry stones to the van, depositing their finds in the back seat cup holder. Normally, this kind of activity wouldn’t bother me, but I had an agenda, and it was hotter than it had been all summer. Even with an air-conditioned movie break, the heat was making me a little cuckoo. I asked the kids to please speed things up.

When I finally filled our bags with corn, potatoes, squash and salad greens, I noticed the sign mentioning our flower share had begun. I love the time of year when I can pick flowers at the farm and bring home bouquets. The kids were excited, too. The farm supplies little, rounded scissors for children, and they were ready to put them to use. Unfortunately, the field is located down a dirt road and through some tall grass, which isn’t much of a walk, but becomes so when your 36 lb. two-year old wants to be carried the whole way, and your three-year old is 20 feet behind you.

Cutting flowers in 90º heat wasn’t as romantic as I had remembered. I trudged along in flip-flops, navigating the bumpy ground while propping Will on my right hip. Lauren was trying to cut Cosmos, but kept getting dirt in her shoes and demanding help. My mood was souring by the minute. I tried to put Will down, so I could snip a few snapdragons, but he wouldn’t have it. Lauren was leaving a trail of what looked like dead-headed blooms behind her.

By the time we reached home, I was hot, cranky and irritable. My poor husband was greeted by two dirty children and a sweaty wildebeest. He wondered if we should forget going to the beach and take it easy. But no, I was on a mission. “I need to cool off!” I declared. “I’m going crazy from this heat.” He smartly agreed to get the food ready, and whisked the children away while I changed into my swimsuit.

And it seemed the beach was just what we all needed. Lauren and Ted splashed in the water together, while Will and I hung out and played with an existing sandcastle, filling its moat with water. The air was cool and it felt wonderful. Instantly I was relaxed again.

But then, the worst of 3-year old behavior ensued. We decided it was time to eat, and Ted took the kids to the showers to wash off their sand-coated bodies. Lauren returned wearing nothing but a tank top. I scooped her up, placed her in the car, and told her she had 2 choices: a dress or shorts. “I don’t like those!” she announced.  I told her she had to pick one, or at least put some underwear on. “No!’” she shouted. “Okay, then we won’t have a picnic, we’ll just go home,” I warned.

“I want to have a picnic!” she hollered. “I don’t want to go home!” Ted intervened, and asked her to please put some pants on. She still refused, so he pulled her out of the van, while she kicked and screamed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see an audience forming up the road. I wondered if someone might call DYFUS on us. To a casual onlooker, here’s a screaming child with no pants and a man trying to wrangle her on the ground.

My husband didn’t have any luck either. For a three year old, the girl is strong. Ted ended up buckling her into the car seat pantless. “Ouch!” she screamed. “This hurts! Let me out!”

Ted and I hopped into the van like we were two officers preparing for a car chase. He encouraged me to ignore her while she screamed. I felt terrible. A woman can understand how uncomfortable it must be to sit in a car seat without any pants.

Our ignoring her didn’t deter the behavior, she hollered louder. So much so that her little brother told her to stop crying. I wondered, who is this screaming lunatic in the back seat. Can this be my child?

Once we arrived back in the house, we sent her to time out. She settled down, and joined us in the kitchen for dinner. Her brother asked, “Are you okay now, Lauren?” and she nodded.

By the end of the night, she was back to her regular sweet self. In fact, before going to bed, she told me, “Mommy, you’re my best friend.” It’s this incredible shift in behavior that amazes me. In a matter of 30 minutes, a three-year old’s mood can change in an instant. Although to be fair, so can her 37-year old mother’s.

Bosom Buddies

I can’t write anything worth posting today. So instead, I’m offering up a recent photo of the kiddos at Pineland Farm’s flower garden. Lately, they’re becoming great playmates.

Can't you picture them at 80, hanging out together?

I love that they crack each other up, make up songs and watch the same TV shows. In fact, after a 20-minute giggle fit with his sister, Will announced, “We are friends!”

On a day when I’m feeling off kilter, this photo does a mamma proud.

So Many Guests, So Little Time

Early last week brought the inevitable series of lows I expected after quitting my job. My sister had been in town since Friday, and while I enjoyed her visit, I wasn’t getting anything accomplished. I’d hoped to get work done on Tuesday, and managed to complete some meager tasks, which mainly included catching up on emails. An old client of mine asked if I would be interested in writing articles and blogging for his site. Ummm, let me think, yes! And I finally made inroads towards putting together a real web site for myself. So not bad, generally, but as usual, I’m putting a lot of pressure on myself to succeed. I knew it would take time to find my groove outside of the office, but that doesn’t lessen the stress I feel when I’m not meeting self-imposed deadlines.

My heart was in it, but my mind and body were physically and emotionally pooped. I needed a mental break from an action-packed weekend with the kiddos and their auntie, but I wasn’t going to get it. My mother-in-law asked if I would host a dinner party with her goddaughter and her family, who were visiting from Los Angeles. The M-I-L figured our house was better for accommodating two young boys, ages 11 months and 4-years old, and offered to make dinner. Now I’m sure there are daughters-in-law out there who would decline, but I couldn’t, even though I was tired and I didn’t feel like hosting. Plus, we were having our own friends over Thursday night, so a full scale cleaning was needed regardless.

I was bent out of shape because my Wednesday was D.O.A. No writing was going to get done, although I did manage one short blog post for Cute Potato. My day was spent mopping, dusting, vacuuming, etc. The whole time I was thinking, I’m never going to get anywhere! I suck! What kind of writer spends her whole day cleaning the house? So as you can tell, I was sliding down the slippery slope of negativity.

You’re probably wondering how I was able to get any cleaning done with two kiddos in the house. The answer is, they are still going to daycare. Instead of five full days, they’re at daycare for three. The thought process was to get writing projects done while they’re out of the house, but I do feel guilty. It’s a strange thing to drop the kids off, only to come back home again to write. I don’t know why I didn’t feel this way when I went to an actual office. Why does the work setting make a difference? Anyway, the guilt was riding me hard. Not only was I not writing, but I was dropping my kids off at daycare to boot. What kind of mother was I?

While scrubbing the toilets, I talked myself down. Relax, head case, it’s summer! There’s time. And this was a particularly busy week. I would have time Thursday to write, and Friday I could have a beach day with the kids. My goal was to make sure I balanced work, family (and house cleaning), as best I could.

As soon as I changed my thinking, my week started to get better. Wednesday night dinner was crazed with four little kids running everywhere, but it was a success. My sweet father-in-law thanked me at least three times for hosting. On Thursday, I finished an essay, which I hope to send out soon, and we had a great time hosting our friends and their daughter for dinner. A writer friend of mine came over with her boys on Friday morning. We were able to talk shop, drink numerous cups of coffee and watch our kiddos play together. Did I get as much done as I hoped? No. But weeks like these will happen, and I will continue to feel frazzled. At least I’ll be doing what I want to do: writing and spending more time with the kids. I’m not a bad mother, just a normal one trying to find the balance that works for me.

Weirdest Week Ever

Last week was the most memorable in recent history. The kids left for six days with the Jersey grandparents. We’ve never been apart for longer than a weekend, and I worried a full week might be too much for the little ones. Thankfully, I had enough on my plate to distract from my guilt.

What’s Wrong with the Woods?

First up, the parade of workmen that entered our home on Tuesday. Ted and I had planned to retile the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms for over a year, and the project was finally happening. The downside: early mornings and next to zero privacy for three days. Our master bath offered the only working toilet, and I spent 20 minutes folding laundry, waiting for one of the workmen to do his business. Then I remembered the embarrassing state of my bathroom—underwear strewn over the side of the tub, dried toothpaste on the counter and a wastebasket full of dirty diapers. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that the tile guys would need to use the facilities. But now they were very familiar with my personal space.

Later Alligator

In addition to renovations, last week included my final 3 days in the office. Everything at my workplace is done quietly, in a reserved and matter-of-fact way. On my second to last day, the copy team treated me to lunch at a favorite deli. They gave me a card with a four-leaf clover inside and the messages included, “good luck,” “stay in touch,” and “you’ll be missed.” But after five years, I was surprised that more people didn’t stop by to bid adieu. Milestones are big in our society—birthdays, graduations, anniversaries, etc., but completing five years at a corporation, not so much. To be fair, when my parting was announced in an email, I don’t think my boss mentioned an official last day. But still. My final day at work was depressing and validating all at the same time. Sad because no one outside of my cubicle village seemed to care that I was leaving, and happy because damn it, if I was just a warm body in a desk, then I made the right decision.

Do I Have a Good Side?

With all of these events going on, I received an email from the editor of Raising Maine magazine, offering a feature story for fall. It’s great to have an assignment, especially given the timing. I could tell co-workers, yes, I do have an upcoming project! I am not “just” staying home (this was a constant and annoying phrase I heard during my last few weeks, as in, “I heard you’re just staying home with your children, good for you!” but that’s another post altogether). Coupled with the gig from RM, the editor requested a professional picture for the web site. I agreed, but I felt like an awkward middle school student. I did all the primping a person would expect—make-up, an attempt at styling my unruly hair and selecting a color (I hoped) would do my pale face justice. Little did I know the photo shoot would include a full body shot (I would never have chosen my jean skirt if I’d known this, featuring my bug bitten, bruised legs in all their glory). The photographer asked me to position my hands naturally, and I obliged, placing them on my hips with elbows pulled back, like I was mulling something over or about to shout at someone. When the photo shoot ended, the photographer never showed me any of the pictures. I’m scared to death of looking like a candidate for What Not to Wear.

The Great State of Vermont

After all of this weirdness, I was ready to hightail it to Vermont. My parents have a second home there, and planned to meet us on Saturday with the kids. Two full days in Vermont seemed like the perfect ending to a crazy week. Ted and I slept in, went out for lunch, talked and sipped local beer, spent some time at our favorite farmers’ market and went to see Funny People. And just when I thought, man, I am relaxed, I could use a few more kid-free days, my parents arrived. Lauren ran to me like in a romantic drama, arms outstretched, shouting, “Momm-meee!” and Will yelled, “This is the house!” This is the house!” The two of them were one happy pair. And my parents appeared unscathed. We celebrated our reunion with a farm dinner, polished off two bottles of wine and enjoyed grandpa’s favorite oatmeal cookies and ice cream for dessert. The kitchen was a mess. Toys were all over the floor. The kids were covered in ice cream. But everything was as it should be.