No, I am not an out the door in ten person if I am actually trying. I don’t think anyone would hold it against me. What I do think is crap is the, “My kids are angels and in bed by 8,” said with a beatific look and a nod that says, “Yup, mine are good, aren’t yours?” That scenario is about  as plausible as the knockout, dressed-to-the-nines who says she doesn’t even try.

I have had people tell me that I have a unique perspective on life with kids, that I give people pause and help them to reconsider the frantic pace and relentless hunger for attention so that they can enjoy it. I cherish those sentiments from people, but it does get me to think about bedtime. I think I should give a little glimpse behind the old curtain…

Because bedtime really depends upon dinner time, indulge me the wider window.

5:30 get home

5:45 announce bedtime will be early

6:00 say dinner is gong to be in 30 minutes

6:30 say dinner in five and bedtime immediately following

6:45 yell dinner in five

6:50 announce dinner is ready

6:55 call everyone for a 2nd time

7:00 sit down to dinner

7:01-7:11 get up every 2 minutes to fetch drinks, napkins and ketchup

7:12-7:16 cajole, negotiate and warn the girls to eat

7:17 clean up a spill

7:18 agree to say grace

7:19 “do cheers”

7:20 apologize for not doing cheers with each girl twice right at the beginning of dinner

7:20 excuse girls

7:21-7:30 sponge the disaster area that is the dinner table, the floor beneath and the walls around

8:05 look at clock and curse

8:10 breathlessly brush teeth with girls after corralling them upstairs

8:15 sweat through undressing and dressing them in their pjs

8:16 start story

8:17-8:23 field questions, requests for new books and referee as they jockey for position on my lap

8:25 begin bedtime – a lullabye for each girl + one for all 3, kisses, cuddles, hugs, setting the music and nightlight, handing out sips of water, nursing Fin and requisite, “I think I have to try to pee” pleas

8:41 stagger to my bed to “go to bed early”

8:45-9 Three trips back to their room to retuck-in and shush.

10:30 carry Ave to pee again

1am Fin wakes up and comes into our bed

2am Briar has a night terror

2:10-2:20 cuddling Briar

2:40 Briar has another night terror

2:50-3 More Briar soothing

4:30am Ave joins us

4:35-4:45 listen to Ave talk about why she woke up

4:50 convince Ave to go back to sleep

5am Fin wakes up and cries for milk

6am Ave wakes up again

7am Briar comes into bed

7:01 Briar complains that everyone left her loenly

7:02 Ave and Fin begin consoling Briar over my prone form

7:03 they begin to sing

7:08 Sean takes the girls downstairs

7:30 I stumble downstairs shaking my head that I don’t feel rested after going to bed so early

It is the same each night with very little variation.

The truth in my mirror is that bedtime is hell, except of course, when it isn’t.

Disappointment. How is that possible?

Somehow in the time between thinking about kids to having kids, a switch was flipped and it became a life or death matter that I do it all myself. That the herbs be grown in a garden of soil tilled by my own hands, that the cards be hand made and that the magic of fairy blankets and Santa’s ding-a-ling-a-ling be upheld at all costs. I was unwavering in the face of other, more seasoned parents saying, “You know, you can just go buy her one.”

I stamped my foot and grunted like a bull in the coliseum, “I will not give in. I will not mail it in!” I was indignant that I was not going to be like the people that took the easy way, refusing to sacrifice a bit of time in the name of convenience. Briar did love her costume and the photos I have show a radiant me, triumphant in my feat.

Five years later I am changed. It isn’t that I don’t believe in homemade, quite the contrary. I still have these fantastical visions of me as the perfect mom, balancing work, family and life with ease. I can picture homespun holiday cards and DIY crafts, but the other thing I can see, and can remember from my own childhood, is yearning.

A store-bought has no fuzzy edges, costumes from Target don’t elicit questions of “What is it?” or “Who are you supposed to be?” There is belonging in having the predictable, the known and the tested. I have seen my girls cock their heads and say with a high voice, “Yes, mama, it *is* nice. I. I. I love it, I do.” It seems inconceivable at 3 and five they know to fib.

The glue stuck the pages together, the sparkles bled and the colors ran. We all flatlined emotionally was we conceded, “Well, it got done.” Not exactly crafting nirvana. I suppose I have a new fantasy of sorts, one that has my girls growing up to be comfortable in wanting what they want. Valentine’s Day is coming up, last year we made cards, not because anyone wanted to, but because I didn’t make it to the store*.

As I look back, I wouldn’t change making that costume for anything in the world, but reading that blog entry I remember the pain and suffering— mine, Sean’s and Briar’s as I made her try it on time and again. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t relaxing, but it was worth doing to know that I need to balance my dreams and the girls. In the end, it’s listening to each other that makes it perfect.

*This year we’ll be buying Princess cards for Briar, maybe Handy Manny for Ave. I couldn’t be happier because frankly, I get no mom-joy from glue. Or paint.

All this said, here are a few things I’d like to say in what is probably seasonally inappropriate snarkiness—

I am grateful that I don’t lie.
I am grateful that I am not two-faced.
I am grateful that I know better.
I am so happy that I have the genuine friends that I do.
I am confident that the people that sparked this will get their just desserts.

Peace out.

To my neighbors: You really are remarkable in your brazenness to continue to walk your dogs and not clean up after them— Thank you. You really rocked my Thanksgiving Day walk this morning.

*Since I don’t want to end on that unapologetically ranty note, how about this? Looks like someone is going to have her two front teeth for Christmas.

Here’s the description of a pair of pants in one of the catalogs that came in today’s mail:

Runs small, order one size larger. Need to wear pants at least 10 minutes for proper fit; body heat molds stretch fabric to the body. Should fit snugly on the waist and hips with no pulls or baggy fabric.

Ummm, wtf?

Well, today’s shot comes from another excursion with Sean, a Halloween themed field trip with Briar’s school.

Too many to name.

Take a page from Nancy, “Just say no.”

Bastards.

On to the next thing…I was just checking my email and in one of the 6 or 7 headlines that Yahoo feeds me, I had something catch my eye and then light my Mama-fire.

We are killing our children. I’ll go ahead and let you know, the link is about the calorie count in “kids meals” at national chains. I am too angry right now to share a well thought out opinion on the state of children’s fitness in our country. I can say this, one of my favorite pictures from my childhood is one of me running across a gymnasium, my classmates in front, behind and alongside me. Our arms are in various positions of pumping, our legs bent, feet digging for the next stride. Our faces are alive; joyous and determined. This photo, which my mom had beautifully framed, sits on Sean’s desk.

The thing that makes me angriest about what is happening to kids now is that they do not know this joy. I used to wait, squirming in my seat, for P.E. I would get so excited at the prospect of running, of shouting to my classmates and participating wholeheartedly in whatever activity our teacher, Mrs. Bendix (don’t even get me started on the fun we had with that name), had planned. My proudest moment was the day I finally made it all the way up the rope and pounded the index card with my name onto the ceiling. Triumph.

There is no triumph now. Kids don’t get the chance to love physical activity. They are either not exposed to it, or by the time they are there is already a burden they carry, excess weight holding them back, the provenance of which can be directly traced to their parents’ poor choices.

Can we all just work a little harder at giving them a fair shot? Can we sit down at the dinner table together? Can we walk to the park? Can we start giving a shit? We are talking about their whole lives, it starts now. Be fair.

Boarding passengers shrank from the sight of us…suckers, she was more agreeable than any adult flying the unfriendly skies.

Without exception, no less than 1/3 of every airport purchased meals is unworthy of ingestion.

Air travel can suck, fixing stuff at the airport can suck way harder.

I knew San Francisco was going to be cool, but I had no idea the airport bathroom stalls would look like a Studio 54 flashback.

Lost car seats, canceled and missed flights, late bags and general rudeness – Thanks, Southwest.

BART had a narcotic effect on Fin.

The streets of San Francisco (How could I post without getting in some Karl and Michael lovin’?) had me rubbernecking.

I will cop to a bit of vanity in that I am generally loathe to post unflattering shots of myself, but good god, we look like we both had collagen injections on our lips by a back alley plastic surgeon…wtf?!

I am so small town, this picture was taken solely because the shoes were $600. If that’s your ass, I am sorry, wasn’t trying to shoot it.

We got all dolled up for the last night of BlogHer–see the necklace that less than 24 hours would be stolen from a plastic security bowl. (Deb, I am just devastated, please know I loved it for every second that I had this incredible new-mama gift you gave me!)

It was neither sidekick nor alcohol that made me think as I rode the Macy’s escalator, “Is that really how the face of a mannequin meant to represent a young girl should look? Really?”

My missed flight brethren.

Pedi, despite not being girlie, after four solid days of exposed heels and toes, it needs to become a part of my routine, if not necessarily my lexicon.

I shared a wild night I barely remember in Baltimore with…Fin.

As I left the Baltimore airport scant hours after having arrived, I stopped at a non-goddessy espresso bar.

“Could I have a skim iced latte?”

If that’s skim milk I’ll eat my hat.

Luckily I found the goddess shortly thereafter and got my fix on, despite it being an “airport Starbucks.”

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that, yes, I really considered it. See ‘em? They’re tic tacs. I had no toothbrush people, I was sporting chenille on my front teeth.

Made it home. Everything looked this blurry thanks to so many days in contacts.

The girls were so happy to have their lil sis home they insisted on sitting just so with her.

And apperently I aged like ten years in the time I was gone.

Did they bathe at all while I was gone??*

You made it to the bottom of this? Way to hang in there. I was gone for five days. It was good, I met great people that I failed to take pictures of, I cemented friendships, trembled too much to introduce myself to some, yet I spread my wings and really had a magical time. But coming home? There are not words to describe how fiercely I love this little family I have created.

*Sean not only bathed the girls, he took them to the farmer’s market,
an aquarium, a 3rd birthday with a bounce house and more. You are an incredible husband and dad, babe. I love you.