So completely fudrucked out of their minds, running on empty, that the only thing that makes any sense to him, whatsoever, is to strip down entirely naked, be wrapped up in his sleeping bag (ZIPPED! ZIP IT UP RIGHT NOW!), and be spoon-fed applesauce in place of dinner?

You have to use your calm voice that sounds like really intense screaming at a whisper under your breath. The same voice you hear in the grocery store when a mom with a kid in her cart that will. not. sit. down. and she uses her serious voice to let them know they have just one more chance to make it out of that store alive.

And while you’re secretly sipping adult beverages on a beach where no one in the entire world can get ahold of you in your happy place, you’re dodging the scrambled eggs being thrown at your face and the applesauce being painted into your hair. On a good hair day. During it all you scoop and serve and smile. You pat his head and explain to him that although things look really calm, this is not acceptable behavior. And when he’s able to hold his shit together this conversation will continue.

He uses those baby blue eyes to look up at you, somehow manages to stop breathing fire and says “I love you, mom” and before the spell works on you – you agree! He’s done with dinner. You lift the entire apparatus up and out of his chair making sure you have a hold on his arms, not his legs or anything more sensitive, as you carry him up the stairs and begin the countdown to Battle Zone Bathroom: It’s time to brush his teeth.

Which you will do, damn it, even though tonight would be a perfectly acceptable evening not to – this has gotten personal: the toothbrush fight, and letting it slip one night will mean you start from ground fucking zero tomorrow – and ground zero? Is death-cab parenting.

Your calm/rage voice coaches him through his bathroom break and then without warning you stick that toothbrush IN HIS MOUTH, wriggle, and count to 10. Really fast. Wipe his mouth, his tears. DO YOUR HAPPY DANCE.

Pick that kid up, inside of that insane and completely impulse purchase of a sleeping bag (that you’re cursing right about now), and you lay him in his bed.

His cheeks are glistening from his emotional breakdown over To Zip or Not To Zip and he cannot remember how he got here – so you look down at him, kiss his forehead and whisper “I love your brave heart. I love your wonderful mind. I love your gentle hands. I love you, Oliver. Good night.” And you tip toe out of his room because somewhere between Brave and Wonderful – he fell asleep and the last thing he remembers is his mom tucking him in, singing his praises, and loving him to pieces.

Tomorrow we do it all again only this time? We’ll take naps.

I had to share:

Also? It’s laundry day! And my intimate relationship with all-the-unmatched-socks-in-the-entire-world is very fresh. Fresh and frustrating.

Seriously though – I will duct-tape clothing to my kids. You?

If you ever find yourself as a parent (or non parent, I suppose) in a group of new people might I suggest some of these conversation topics:

Things you never want to read in an email.

So, you went to Diabete’s camp?

Girls vs boys, the diaper difference.

(Admittedly, this one’s for parents … because, awkward.)

Birthing tips, doctor swapping secrets.

Battle stories from the front lines of raising boys.

So, we covered mostly parenting stuff but I haven’t laughed like that in a while. I’m not a current events conversationalist and I don’t often volunteer information about what I do or am working on … and having older children (no longer toddlers with eating schedules, napping schedules or diaper rashes) can make the parenting conversation a tricky one to navigate. But I don’t know, I’m my own kind of crazy (just ask Aaron.) and it was fun to be part of a group of women who understood that part of me last night.

When you get together with friends, old or new, what keeps the conversation going?

These are some of my finds (as requested, Meghan). Aaron picked out the shirt on the left and it is my favorite find of the day. Shirts with details around the bust (empire ish?) always make me look longer, which is something I’ll never actually be. Long. Or tall. He also brought me the combination’s in the middle and to the right – both of which I brought home, only one have I worn.

I’m a little worried about the whole “western” looking gettup. I haven’t had the guts to wear it yet. But I got some new jeans (Dojo’s, Meghan!) that are currently being hemmed. (See, never going to be tall. Or long.)

I picked up a couple other pieces that I’ll try to remember to photograph, but this is my wardrobe these days. (Better than before?)

How are we accessorizing in 2012? School me.

Aaron has been talking about joining the gym with us for a good 6 months and we finally got around to it this weekend. Not because we don’t want him there with us, but because his schedule generally likes to kick him in the shins while he’s sprinting toward home.

It’s more of an internal battle, to use more time away from the kids or me, to reduce stress. Which, hello? I am all for it. The guy needs a hobby – and punching things or throwing balls, running, swimming and lifting weights? All great hobbies. Good for your heart, too. I am a fan.

But here’s what he doesn’t know about the gym, and this is what I’d like to call “The Beginners Guide to our Gym: A Warning.”

1. I know this because I’ve asked, and guy’s locker rooms aren’t like you see on TV. They don’t sit around in towels, completely naked – throwing dirty socks around or telling Yo-Mamma jokes. Turns out when you’re naked, you’re all a bit like the girls locker room. Like a little lost bird who just wants to find her nest again. Flailing limbs, tripping over half strewn on clothes in an effort to avert your eyes from the ass in your face, possibly the years worst-kept beaver trail and then you have to look them in the eyes and be all “Oh hey! This Weather, huh?”

2. You’re so cute, you gung-ho newbie! Try every class and get those stamps for your promotional $50 giftcard. You know what the gym is doing right? A service to themselves: in an effort to keep them past the 60 day drop out, if we dangle a gift card in their face they’ll totally complete the program and learn to love being told that they’re doing it wrong. HARDER! FASTER! DO NOT SLOW DOWN! That gift card? Is only good for the gym, not a great night out – or your favorite retail store. You can buy 50 bottles of water! On them! Or pay for other classes, or kids classes. And well, working that hard to like sweating your balls off should mean I get something shiny when I’m through.

3. Spin class will break your vagina. I mean … well, I mean your vagina. I’m not a guy. I tried the spin class 8 very sore weeks after giving birth to an over nine pound he-man child, whom made his exit from my body through the birth canal. Spelled that one out for ya, huh? That’s technically only 2 weeks after the doctor inspects your still raw-meat girl parts and says, hey guess what! You can totally “practice” making more babies already! This doctor is generally a male because any female doctor would look at you, commiserate and then write you a prescription for an entire 4 months that having any kind of sex will incapacitate the ability to ever give a blow job again. That’s how it works.

4. When you start to have a routine to your gym schedule you’ll notice the routines of other frequent gym-goers as well. You’ll start to know which locker you prefer and which shower stall. You’ll begin the rhythm that will eventually be like coming home, taking off all your stress from the day and zoning out for an hour or two, maybe three. DO NOT INTERRUPT THE RHYTHM OF YOUR GYM GOER COUNTERPARTS. You noticed that Speedo guy likes the locker at the end of the 3rd row, don’t throw his game off and steal it. Don’t strike up conversations with folks on the treadmill, there are people who LIVE on those treadmills (I am one of them) and I stare directly in front of me with something really loud with lots of bass streaming in my ears – and I run away as fast as I can, for as long as I can. Do not disturb this kind of therapy. You know where the chatter’s hang out? Good, go there.

5. Welcome! It’s just like high school PE class only no one is timing your mile.

I’m pretty sure Aaron’s gym experience will be awesome now. He says he’s going to try the Spin class today … so, you know. I’ll be buying foam donuts this afternoon.

It’s this:

Wake up before anyone else in the house, be really loud. Ask for SO MUCH FOOD RIGHT NOW, OMG I’M HUNGRY! Now a drink. More drinks. Even more drinks, cold ones. Big ones. Lots of water. Different glass!!!!

Blues Clues? More food. NOT THAT FOOD!! THE OTHER FOOD!

Ok Oliver it’s time to get our coats on and go to school.

BUT I DON’T LIKE COATS! WAAAAAAAAAAA!

Your coat hasn’t changed, it’s the same coat. It’s blue! You love this coat. Let’s put it on.

Weird noises that let me know he’s testing out Dinosaur voices but with a touch of Wolf … and it all means “NO WAY!”

(I put it on for him.)

Crying. Possibly a temper tantrum, most likely being punched in the boob.

Dude, not again. Not today. We’re going to be late. You may not hit me. You don’t hit girls. You’re allowed to use your words when you need something.

Grunts.

And we generally repeat this process over every decision for the rest of the day. It’s a little like walking around a land-mine. Which phrase is going to trip the trigger?

Maybe I didn’t notice this after bringing him home from the hospital with Jessica, I was sleep deprived and hormonal and trying to figure out how to show Jessica I loved her the same, if not more, while still meeting all the needs of this infant who screamed louder, ate more often and wanted to be held constantly.

The adjustment period.

And now … another adjustment period. Gone is my baby boy who wants to cuddle and kiss and tell me he “wuvs me” and in his place we have a defiant preschooler who knows the power of a decision. Of saying no. Of choice.

So many choices. All of the choices every where in the entire world, CHOICES! They are now on his radar, at his beck and call. And he wants the Superman socks today, not Batman thankyouverymuch. But the Superman socks are in the wash and the Batman are clean and the sun is shining but the sky is FALLING and where is his ki-ki? Duckie? Charlotte?

It’s a dance, training a boy (who is a preschooler) to become a man. To want honorable things, to BE honorable and DO honorable all the while battling the indecision with massive options of how to say Yes, No and Not Right Now. To teach him that saying “I need help” has more character than using his fists, even though his fists are super strong and could totally win.

To champion his wins just as much as we champion his falls, his losses and his defeats. Because in the scheme of learning how – they all matter. And today what matters most is that I was here to hear him need me. And I listened.

I’ll take the baby beating, the fist in my chest. The exhausting fight over shoes and getting out the door. I’ll take it, but not always with grace, and I’ll walk with him, not over him, while we arrive, together.

I’ve been thinking about this one for a long time. Years, actually. How much I struggle with expectations and yet how completely pacified I am by good enough. I am a self proclaimed NON-perfectionist, but I set expectations for perfect. (And then never meet them …)

In the middle of a project or huge decision, I am very decisive. I don’t need to debate or think it over. It is, or it isn’t and we move on. I’m good with those things but sometimes, when I’m not sure, I don’t know how to speak up or say it out loud.

I don’t know how to rise above the mediocre, the good enough. I don’t want a life that is just Good Enough. And yet … I cannot figure out how to get above it.

I can get pushed enough to finally scream these things, desperately, but by that time the wrong people are listening. Or the right people stopped listening. Or both.

It’s crippling, being just good enough. Just past the bar of potential, just enough. Not great or exceptional. And I can go there in my head and be all whiny and poetic about how I want AMAZING THINGS! I’ll dream all day long about the life I. Will. Live. one day but then I talk myself out of it, because all those things? Do they really matter?

But I wake up and today is good enough. It will always be enough but somehow I want more. Is there a date of expiration here? How long do I have to really figure this out before it’s too late?

Sometimes I move around just to make sure I’m here to begin with. I drive these roads and watch the water lap the beach and I make these markers in time just to know I’m here and not invisible or somehow fading. I try to make an imprint, sometimes a big one or a messy one – on roads or dirt paths so I can look back and see the proof.

I need more than Good Enough, I’m drowning in good enough.

But I will be damned if this defeats me. Round up, me – we’re doing this – suit up.

Now, now. Siri.

I think we’ll get along just fine. Now if only she could scramble these eggs.

Damn it.

I recently bought an ebook from Crunchy Betty about natural ways to clean oily skin, or acne prone skin … and although I experienced a slight hiatuses from the stupid stuff (Pregnancy hormones! Amazing!) my skin generally likes to argue with me. And it almost always wins.

Ughhhhhhh! Fine! [stomps feet angrily and marches in opposite direction]

So I need to stay on top of this. And probably buy night creams and wash my face before bed and use make up remover. I GET IT.

Only, and sadly, I do not get it. But the ebook helped, as I’m sure scouring her website for recipes and tips would also help – but I’m a fan of the conscise collection of everything-I-need-to-know, here-you-go. (Also I’m a big believer in supporting other bloggers.)

I have a routine, if we can consider a routine something I’m trying lately and count as productive if I remember 3 out of the seven days in a week to actually do it.

Tonight I added DIY Biore Strips to the routine and it works, really well. But she is lying when she says it won’t hurt when you take it off. I applied to my entire face (probably mistake #1) and waited the 10 minutes. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t yell MOTHERFUCKER through out the removal process. Quickly followed by the oooooooh! when I saw all the little creatures coming off my face.

I start with a cleanser/make up removal that is water, Baking Soda and natural unprocessed honey. Followed by a pH balancer of apple cider vinegar and water. Then the Biore strips, if needed. I finish with a honey wash. Simply honey.

I often start my day with a honey wash, too.

What do you guys do? Are there really miracle creams out there? What works and what doesn’t? Let’s discuss.

I was telling Aaron this week how scared I am of this book. What if I get finished and then I hate it? Or the people who read it hate it? And he said: then you’ll write another one. Just like that.

What a simple expectation. How easy it was for him to believe in me. I might not be the next great writer and I might not make it to the shelves of a box-book-store … but I might find an honest circle of people who feel the same way. Who can respect my story and the raw brokenness it brings – and maybe that’s enough.

Maybe waking up every morning and drowning in these black and white Verdana emotions will be enough when I’ve written my last sentence and cried my final tears through this year of writing.