It goes without saying that I’m a fan of food – chocolate most specifically, but all sweets in general. I like it. A year ago, it was my job to remain in bed and eat. I was perhaps one of the only bed rest moms to not complain about the twice-a-day chocolate protein calorie shakes (I thought they were quite tasty), and it certainly didn’t take much twisting (OK, it didn’t take ANY twisting) of my chubby arm to get me to eat any of the buffet of snacks provided by the nurses. So, yes, I’m a food fan, AND I have no will-power what-so-ever. So, why am I surprised that I’ve gained a few pounds? Easter, for me, proves to not only be a time of religious celebration but post-Easter-chocolate-sales celebration as well. I’m sorry, but chocolate? And chocolate ON SALE? And you expect me to say no?!?! Yeah right.

Also, to complicate issues, we were on an EE retreat this past weekend. When we call the engaged couples to go over a check-list with them of items to bring, we include the request for them to bring snacks or drinks to share with the group. I don’t know how long this has been a part of our program, but when Mike and I went on OUR EE weekend six years ago, we spent the entire time growing closer as a couple and eating…absolutely stuffing our faces.

This weekend, our retreat was held at a beautiful rural camp-like setting complete with farm animals below in the valley. Just like the cows, I grazed. I grazed ALL WEEKEND LONG. And what’s really sad, is I discretely manipulated the couples into bringing the foods that I wanted. When running through the check list, I’d say my spiel, “And we ask that, if you’re willing, you bring snacks or drinks to share with the group: like a six-pack of pop, some bottles of water, a bag of chips, brownies.” Yep, there it is: BROWNIES. After realizing, that I’d mentioned brownies to enough people, I figured I’d already gotten a taker; someone would take that suggestion and run with it. So, then to make up for it, I changed my spiel with the remaining couples, “…some bottles of water, six-pack of diet soda, maybe some fruit.” Yeah right. The damage had been done. The brownies showed up. I’d dug my own grave…too bad it’s now too small to fit in. That’s a bummer. Literally a BUMmer. Or in my case, more of a GUTter.

So, to counteract my foodly habits of late, I decided last night, it was time to get back into the Spin cycling class at the gym. Karin, the instructor, is so good – she’s like a little Drill Sergeant in spandex with a microphone attached to her head – people pay a buck in advance to reserve a bike in her class. Somehow, there was still room available. It was a sign! I had to get to the gym to get my name on the list so I could get my butt-kicked (and stomach-socked). I quickly whisked the boys out the door and we were on our way.

I told myself that I was not allowed to feel guilty for going to the gym. After a weekend away from Matthew, we’d spent all day doing really great quality activities together, and I figured I’d earned an hour of Me-Time. (Am I a terribly, selfish Mom?). Not to mention, the boys get to play at the Kids’ Club which has tons of toys, great movies, etc. (Read: Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.).

With bated breath, I approached the Spin class sign-up sheet. There was still room! I gleefully signed my name, looking forward to my hour of excruciating pain and what I like to call “fun torture.” I took the boys into the Kids’ Club. Matthew seemed excited to be there, it’d been a while since he’d played there, so he wasn’t opposed. Zachary, on the other hand? Not so much. Zach took one look at Julia and Shawna, the childcare attendants, and started to wail. Julia, calmly took him from me, and reassuringly said, “He’ll be fine in a couple minutes. Have a good class!” Right. OK. Not going to feel guilty. Not going to feel guilty. I’m not a terribly, self-absorbed mother, but I’m not going to feel guilty.

I looked down at Matthew who was starting to look a little distraught. “I don’t like it when Zachy’s sad,” he told me. “I know,” I said, “but I’m just going to do the quick [OK, hour-long] Spin class, and then we’ll pick up ‘Donalds on the way home for dinner tonight for a special treat.” (Read: Guilt. Guilt. Guilt). Yes, apparently I am that kind of mother. I spend the weekend away, and then try to make up for it in whatever way possible. (Read: Bribery to make up for my Guilt).

Matthew was happy then and Zach seemed to be settling down; Julia was doing a great job of distracting him with toys, so I quietly snuck out and headed to the locker room.

As I set up my bike in the Spin class, I was still amazed with my luck. It was just so meant to be that there had been an opening in class. I needed this hour of butt-kicking, nay gut-kicking, to get back on track with healthier habits. No guilt. No guilt. No guilt. Pretty soon, I was able to start peddling to the beat of my mantra. Thankfully, Karin cranked up the music and I no longer had to bike to my Mommy Shame.

Julia. Julia standing at the door to the Spin room. Julia gesturing for me. I’d gotten to bike for about…a minute. I’d maybe burned…mmm...ten calories. I left my water bottle and towel on the bike in wishful thinking: I’d get Zach settled back down and then I could slip right back into class, not giving up my bike and hardly breaking my cycling rhythm!

About five minutes later, I walked back into Spin…both boys in tow. Karin (into her mic) laughingly said, “Ahh, you’re getting the boot from the Kids’ Club, huh?” To which I replied, “Can’t I wear him [Zachary] in a backpack while I cycle? And do you have a tricycle for him [Matthew]?” Yes, I was joking (and the thought of a toddler-tricycle Spin class cracked me up on the inside), but it sure would’ve been nice to stay at class.

My boys helped. They made sure I didn’t feel any guilt about doing the class…since I didn’t get to do the class. I was a little disappointed, but after picking up our McDonald’s (for the record, I got a salad) and heading home, watching the boys play couldn’t help but lift the mood. And the dark chocolate M&M’s after dinner helped too. (I’m going to pay a buck to reserve a bike in Karin’s spin class for tonight when Mike can stay home with the boys. I gotta work those M&M’s off sometime).

Top of the mornin’ to ya.

Mike and I had a great weekend – we were a presenting couple on an Engaged Encounter retreat. Zachary came with us while Matthew spent the weekend with my parents. We informed the couples on Friday evening that Zachary was part of the rent-a-baby program provided as propaganda by the Catholic Church (you know, to spread the Baby Bug to all the soon-to-be married couples for the purpose of going out and making Catholic babies). Thankfully, he did live up to the standards of the rent-a-baby program and he was VERY Good, Very Cute, and Very Entertaining – as always.

Matthew had a fantastic weekend of quality time with my parental units and his Uncle Chris. We now get to go through Detox in the Martin Household. We need to bring Zachary down from his center-of-attention withdrawals (he thought that all 33 engaged couples were there for the sole purpose of admiring him), and Matthew will be going through Grandparent-Spoiling-and-Withdrawals Detox. Wish me luck. It should be interesting.

The boys were ridiculously cute in reuniting last night after a weekend apart. They were like two puppies just released from their crate – literally running (or crawling) in circles around each other. The joy lasted a few solid minutes before we started to hear, “No, Zachy. That’s MY toy.” And then we made it another couple of minutes before there was a bonked head and cry from the other room. Welcome home.

Now that Matthew has more verbal communication skills (and the fact that he has a mom going through therapy), he’s very open to discussing his emotions. This weekend, according to my Mom and Dad, he had one moment of sadness missing Mommy and Daddy and wanting to be at home, but that was quickly remedied with some cuddles and story-reading with Grandma. Then yesterday morning, around breakfast time, Matthew rested his head on his hand and heaved a great big sigh. My Dad inquired as to what was wrong, and Matthew replied, “I’m very frustrated ‘cuz I miss my Mom and Dad.”

In that case, I was frustrated too with missing my Matthew.

This morning I’m filled with gratitude. I’m grateful for my family. I’m grateful to be home. I’m grateful that we were able to spend a weekend helping couples prepare for marriage. I’m grateful to not be spending this spring in the hospital. And I’m grateful for coffee and my daily antioxidant dose in the form of a Dark Chocolate Hershey Kiss.

I do believe that I have experienced my first (of many) unofficial – and yet, so official-feeling – rejection. I submitted a small article – more of a personal interest story – for our local newspaper publication, The Newcastle News. A few months ago, a local “free-lance writer” had written an article listing the reasons that she loved our little city. Not to be overly judgmental (and yet thoroughly judging), while I am a total and complete amateur to the writing world, I was not that impressed with her article. So, I decided: what the heck! Maybe this is a way to baby-step into the admittance of “I’m a writer.”

Just like with music, I hesitate when admitting any possibility of talent. Music has been a part of my life for nearly 17 years. I’ve taught lessons privately, taught in a school, teach on my own, I’ve had paid gigs, and yet I still don’t say, “I’m a musician.” Apparently I believe announcing that requires some sort of official documentation or something – proof that I lack. So my response to the “what do you do” question is: “I enjoy music….I play the flute and sing.” And so it’s not surprising that with writing, it’s not “I’m a writer,” it’s “I enjoy writing.”

And yet, here I was hoping for my first official rejection letter – something tangible that I could frame and hang on the wall next to where my Pulitzer will someday be. A big fat “Ah-ha!! You rejected me, wee little Newcastle News, but look at me now! Moooo-ahhh-ahh-ahhhhhhhhhh!” (Apparently being a writer also turns me into a mad scientist).

I know that rejection is the name of the game with writing…as it is often in life. You’ve gotta have a tough skin. I don’t know if my skin is quite there yet. When the latest edition of The Newcastle News arrived, I flipped through each page with bated breath. Maybe – just maybe – the editor didn’t respond to my email inquiry regarding my story. Of course he’d gotten it! And he loved it so much, it was so sensational, there was no point in taking the time to respond to me. Who would pass up on such a quaint personal story for our local publication?! So, maybe – just maybe – I’d find it on page 19. Oh. Nope. OK, glance over to 20. Nada. 21…22, here we go! Denied. 23. Rejected. 24. Zilch. 25 and we find ourselves at the “Police Blotter” – breaking news in our little corner of the world: car prowls are up. Bummer.

Oh well.

Here it is for you to read:

Ahh, Newcastle in the springtime. The tulips are up. The grass needs to be cut. The weeds are prolific in our flowerbed. And I love it all.

I missed the spring in Newcastle last year. I missed spring all together last year. From March 12^th until April 30^th, for seven weeks, for 49 full days, approximately 1176 hours, I hibernated – literally. I was stuck in a bed, in a room on the 6^th floor of Overlake Hospital. Why? To be an incubator. At 28 weeks pregnant, I went into preterm labor. My job was to lie there and keep our little guy, Zachary, a-cookin’.

Our now 3 ½ year old, Matthew was a preemie – born at 35 weeks. So, going into pregnancy Round Deux, we knew that we’d be carefully monitored lest we have another preemie. Turns out that baby brother Zach was even more anxious than Matthew. Contractions started 12 weeks before my due date. I checked into Overlake and never left (it felt like the longest labor in history)! Together, Zach and I fought contractions and impending labor until 35 weeks when he was showing signs of distress. In the end, labor was induced. Zachary was – and is – a tough little guy. He spent only one week in the NICU before he came home to Newcastle.

After seven weeks in the same confined space, leaving the hospital was overwhelming. I’ll never forget that first drive home. Everything looked just a little bit brighter, a little bit clearer.

This spring, my goal is to not take anything for granted. I get to actually see the tulips come up (and yes, the weeds too). I can’t wait to start my weekly stroller trips down to the Produce Stand. And as the weather continues to grow warmer, the boys and I will get to spend more time enjoying Newcastle’s parks and trails.

Spring is sometimes referred to as “the season of growth.” While our boys continue growing like weeds, there’s no other place I’d rather see them thrive than in Newcastle.

Jenny Martin is a full-time Mom, a part-time Music teacher, and a budding freelance writer.

We survived our first long road trip with both boys. Things got off to a rocky start when we merged on to the 405 Freeway (less than a mile from our house), and Matthew asked, “Are we there?” I swear it was just yesterday that I would ask that of my dad while – smooshed in the middle of the backseat, sandwiched between my two brothers – we set out for an annual camping trip.

The Easter Bunny – knowing that our boys aren’t the most patient travelers – was kind enough to spot early at our house, leaving a new toy on each kid’s car seat: for Zach – a new chew toy and for Matthew – a MegaDoodle. The toys proved to be good boredom deterrents, and our drive to Spokane went perfectly well. It helps that Matthew is REALLY into trucks and in particular, tractors. How lucky are we that his obsession is something we see while driving and not something like, oh say…dinosaurs? At one exit, in search of the Starbucks (for a necessary pit stop, leg-stretching, and caffeine break) we got lost in a dinky town called Ritzville. Luckily our scenic route included driving by the John Deere Machinery Shoppe! Woah, was that ever exciting. I’ll be! We got ourselves a right ‘lil farmer boy! Matthew can tell you what every tractor and tractor attachment is called (harvester, plow attachment, baler, etc.). I’ve learned quite a bit from our John Deere expert.

Driving through Eastern Washington is intriguing to me. I’m fascinated by the thought of farming and rural life. How would I survive with the grocery store and Starbucks being more than a two minute drive away? I wouldn’t.

And the names of the towns! Ritzville, Washington (although to give them credit: they do have a McDonalds and Starbucks right next to the freeway in ritzy Ritzville). Washtucna, Washington. Chewelah, Washington. And my personal favorite: George. As in George, Washington.

We had a lovely Easter with Mike’s fam in Spokane. We were adequately spoiled: the Easter Bunny brought a toy ATV (Matthew can tell you that it is technically an “all terrain vehicle”) and a stuffed duck and froggie for Zachary. And we were, of course, well-fed: Aunt Dolores is an amazing cook and Uncle Harry loves to wine us and dine us. The weather was perfect for an outing to the park with Aunt Jamie (Mike’s sister) and Uncle Dan (her husband). And we even fit in a trip to the hotel swimming pool. Both boys loved it!

Our drive home on Sunday was not quite as peaceful as the drive over. While Zach never broke into a full-on cry, any brief fussing he did was met by Matthew immediately responding, “zz…yyaAACCCHHHHHHHH! STOP CRYING!!!” OR “zzyaaACCHH!! SUCK YOUR THUMB!!” The best part of the six hour drive home was the 30 minutes when all three of my boys (Mike included) fell asleep. It was a fleeting and welcome moment of quality me-time. I had no idea how nice a quiet car could be!

I ran into a couple of my former music class moms at an indoor toddler play gym this week. These weren’t just any moms and this wasn’t a typical class – these gals were members of the Music Class Mommy Mafia.

I’d been asked by a gal if I would teach a class just for herself and a few of her friends. I told her that as long as she did fill the class (about 7 kiddos with accompanying moms); I would put them on the schedule. How easy is that? It’s like business being handed to me on a silver platter.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

From day one, I tried; I tried really hard, not to judge these women. But from day one, they made it so easy and necessary to do so. These are the ladies that, with one look, you can see roaming the halls of a middle school. They were the “cool girls” that all the other young women worshipped and tried to emulate. In high school, they were the cheerleaders and the Prom Queens. In college, these ladies were the president of the social committee at their Sorority. They studied Communications, Marketing or Business. Some time after Graduation, they found suitable, marriable, handsome and wealthy (former Frat boys) to marry. Stereotypes? Totally. And yet, fight it as I might, these ladies – this Music Class Mommy Mafia – completely fulfilled every stereotype that I resisted. I had no choice in the matter. I totally judged these judgmental ladies.

They walked into my at-home music class as a united front, and I stood no chance against their power. I was treated like the hired help, expected to entertain their kids while they drank their lattes [yes, I recognize that I would’ve loved to be drinking a latte too], gossiped [who me? Talking about people?! Believe it or not, I do try not to]. They discussed which yuppy preschool their child was on the waiting list for, where they would be vacationing next, why they were on the prowl for a new nanny, where they bought their child’s designer outfit [the clothes of these toddlers most likely cost more than I’ve ever spent on clothes for our whole family…in a year], etc. etc. etc. You get the gist. All this discussion was going on, mind you, whilst I attempted to teach a music class to their completely out-of-control angels.

I did make the occasional comment – plea – for them to participate more fully in class. Or in the least to control their kids. But apparently there had been an understanding that I was not aware of – as a music teacher I was also to be the full-time personal slave to seven yuppy two-year-olds while their Moms had coffee tawlk. On the occasion that I did make a feeble, half-ass attempt to (subtlety and politely) remind them to please be more involved in class, the moment, I turned my back my pleas were met by nasty loud-enough-for-me-to-hear whispers.

At one point, the kids even shhhh-ed their moms because they couldn’t hear the story. At another time, when I stopped little Kate from running laps around the room (since her Mom, her Grandma and the nanny dared not tell this girl no – yes, she traveled with an entire entourage), my disciplining the child was met with the dirtiest looks and shocked and appalled silence.

In the end, after suffering through an entire six week session with the Mommy Mafia, the ladies asked if I would be willing to teach their class on a different day. My class was great, but Fridays didn’t work so well since they liked to travel, take long weekends, go to their husband’s business golf tournaments, etc. My response? “Uh…no. Sorry. Friday is the only day that I’m teaching right now.” So, with that, my Mommy Mafia Music Class was over. Phew. Thank God that was done. I’d suffered enough.

The whole experience was such a reminder of the clique-drama of seventh grade. While I recognized, all the while, that I have very little respect for these women, if anything I feel sorry for them, their seemingly cold lives and their confused priorities and principles, I still found myself trying to impress them. My inner seventh grader wanted to fit in to their “popular girls’ clique” and be thought of as cool. Lame. Totally lame.

* * *

7^th grade. Does anyone love it? It’s a time of bad hair, bad clothes, growth spurts, the confusion of puberty, acne, general awkwardness. For me, seventh grade started off full of promise. I was in a clique. Not just any clique, mind you. We were Jenny, Jenni, Jenna, and Natalie. Like a seventh grade law firm of Cruelness or Coolness (or so we thought), we walked the walls arm-in-arm, sharing private jokes and laughing at lunch until milk shot out our noses.

Jenna and I had been best friends since first grade. While the years had been occasionally marked by drama – third grade: Jenna seemed to choose Sarah over me, fifth grade: Elizabeth came into the picture and temporarily stole my spot by Jenna’s side – I knew that we were totally BFF (Best Friends Forever). We adopted Jenni and Natalie, welcomed them into our fold. I knew all along though, that if I had to choose just one to save in a fire it would be Jenna. No question.

The four of us decided to play a quartet for a band competition: the Jennies on flute, Natalie and Jenna honking on the clarinet. The night before the competition we were all invited to spend the night at Jenna’s. My parents, being the wise-ones that they are, recognized that I wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep at Jenna’s house, and so I stayed home. (Totally like the lameness of the century, at the time)!

The morning of the competition, my life took a nasty turn for the worse. Unbeknownst to me, the other three girls had talked about me all night long during my absence. With Jenna as their leader, they decided I was not to be in their club any longer. I was chubby, had acne, wasn’t allowed to watch MTV, and didn’t shop at the Gap. My naturally curly hair, cut short, was just a big afro; I was too loud and laughed too much. The list went on. And on. And on. And I was out.

They proceeded to become masters in the cruelty that comes naturally to seventh grade girls. It’s a skill, and a gift, a force to be reckoned with. Jenni, Jenna, and Natalie went full-force on their campaign to ditch me, all-the-while belittling my very existence by constant harassment, using code names for me but talking about me right there in class, on the bus, in the halls. Mocking anything that they could come up with, they took my every inadequacy and used it for ammo. Like hyenas on a group kill, they totally took me out.

I spent days, weeks even, crying. My Mom took me to the guidance counselor at school (oh the agony). It does help to have your mom working at the school though. The girls were called into the counselor’s office. They were called into the principal’s office. Their parents were called. Harassment was against school policy and it needed to stop or there would be serious consequences.

Through all this, my other friends – the ones that I’d put on the back burner while I was fully committed to my much cooler friends – welcomed me back with open arms. To this day, my friend Rachel has always been there for me. She was a bridesmaid in our wedding, and we’ve run a half marathon together. She has provided endless support to me and my boys; she is Matthew’s favorite Auntie. Perhaps most important of all, she loves me unconditionally – even with my fluffy afro hair, whatever skin imperfections I may have, whatever size I may be, whatever emotional state I am in.

* * *

Seventh grade was rough, but I’ve gotten over it, right?

Back to my contemporary clique issues, when I saw these two ladies at the play gym this week, I realized that I was spending so much of my own energy judging them. I was back to being the completely insecure seventh grader again. These women, who I claim are so judgmental, probably don’t waste one thought on me. So, why did I feel all these bitter feelings towards them?

One of the ladies now has four-year-old Kate, an almost two-year-old, and a five week old. She was sitting there, drinking her latte, chatting with the other Mafia Mom while the nanny carried the infant and chased after the other kids. Am I jealous that she has a nanny? No, not really. While sure, help occasionally is great, I’d never trade my full-time hands-on Mommy job for the world. Was I jealous of her latte? Probably. Was I jealous of her obvious wealth? No. (Mike and I love the question: If you won the lottery, what would you do? How would you change your life? We wouldn’t change a thing.) So, what’s my deal?

And then I figured out what my beef was with this lady. At five weeks postpartum, she was out-and-about, nursing with no difficulty, walking with no signs of doing bed rest, she looked amazing, and she was already back in her size 4 designer jeans. It was at this point, that I looked down at my boys – Matthew riding on the John Deere tricycle, Zachary climbing on the baby slide – things may have been hard for me, may BE hard for me, my pregnancies and postpartum experiences have not been ideal or stress-free, but I would never, NEVER trade any of it. Not even for the money, the nanny, or the just-postpartum-size 4 designer jeans. The daily lattes would be nice, but I’m surviving nicely on my home-brewed coffee, and my weekly treat of a Starbucks. I’m in it for the kids, not the lattes.

What a busy week it’s been. Good busy, but busy.

Matthew made it to preschool on Tuesday. The theme for the month of April is Gardening/Flowers. So, to honor this, the kiddos got to “plant” Lima beans – they put them in a plastic cup in a wet paper towel. Now, that’s my kind of gardening! I told Ms. Susan not to expect our lima beans to make it. She reassured me that it’s pretty hard to mess them up, but I countered, “Ms. Susan, I think you doubt my black thumb skills. These Lima beans don’t stand a chance in the Martin house of doom.” The Martin home is where plants go to die. At one point, I’d asked Mike if we could get some flower pots out on the deck so that we could see them from the kitchen window. (I spend A LOT of time at that sink)! Mike reminded me that I don’t even water the plants that are RIGHT NEXT to the sink. It’s not like I need to go far to get them some H20. Good point.

The Lima beans haven’t done anything yet; I wonder if they’re already goners.

* * *

Zachary has a new trick. As you enter the room he says a quiet and polite, high-pitched “hi.” It’s sweet and oh-so civilized and then often followed by sticking out his tongue at you which he thinks is pretty darn funny every time. (We quite agree).

Easter Egg Hunting has taken on a whole new meaning for us. Matthew's first year as an egg hunter was a peaceful affair set up in the backyard of neighbors -- two toddlers, lots of eggs, not really hidden just placed around the yard. This year we had three big hunts to choose from -- one at Church, one at the neighborhood park, and one at the community center where Matthew attends preschool. My vote was that we either a.) call and find out what exactly the plastic eggs would contain and attend the hunt with the best booty or b.) figure out a way to hit up each one.
In the end, we did make it to two.

We arrived at St. Madeleine Sophie's Hunt about two seconds before the count-down to Egg Mania began. They had the foresight to group their hunters by age. I was pleased to see that Matthew towered over most of his competition in the 0-age 4 hunt. (How a 'zero-year-old' hunts for eggs is still a mystery to me. I suppose that means the pregnant women are elbowing each other out of the way to get at the eggs filled with the most chocolate. I'm sure that's what I would've done last Easter had I not been occupied by lying in bed eating chocolate-filled eggs). Anyway, looking over the raincoat-hooded heads, I felt something stir within me. I had to fight the urge to give Matthew a pep-talk: OK, Matthew. This is it. This is what we've been training for. Remember our practice Easter egg hunting in the living room last night? Ha! Mere child's play. So, focus. Keep your head in the game. See that little two-year-old? His shoe's untied -- no competition there. And that little girl over there? So, bundled up in her rain parka she can hardly move. Ooh, the twin boys on your right -- they look a little tough and they might have an advantage working as a team, but you can take 'em down. I know it...Maybe it's a good thing that Matthew (as of yet, anyway) doesn't seem too into competitive sports.

I'm happy to report that he did totally clean up though! His truck-basket (yes, of course he has a truck-shaped Easter basket!) was overflowing with his stash of brightly-colored goody-filled plastic eggs. So, after a quick stop in the Church hall to look through his treasure, eat a donut and replenish our egg-hunting reserves, we headed off to the local park Hunt.

Ooh, Matthew. There’s some stiff competition here. They don’t have the hunters grouped by age. We’ll be running against ten-year-olds, but we can totally take them out! I mean you can totally take them out. I’m just here for support.

The added bonus of the park Hunt was the mud factor. And technically it wasn’t really a ‘hunt’ just a ‘run onto the muddy field and find the eggs that are lying on the grass in plain view.’

Our training did pay off: Matthew was focused on the eggs, not at all distracted by the other kids slipping in the mud, and again, he came out a victor! A field of mud is no match for Matthew Martin, Egg Hunter Eggstraordinaire!

Oh no! What is the World coming to? A headline today at CNN.com reads: "Trump has 50 percent chance of losing hair." Wow. Well, I suppose if that's the breaking news for the day, things could be worse.

Aside from an early morning, butt-kicking run with my neighbor/running buddy, Andrea, my quality “Me-Time” for the day was spent in a chair at the dentist’s office. Since when did 45 minutes of teeth-scraping torture become a brief (and sadly welcome) vacation from the chaos of my life?! And tonight, the chaos in the chaos of the Martin home reached a whole new level – a decibel level, that is. Zachary has become a screamer. Not really a sad screamer, more of a I’ll scream because I can and for no apparent reason kind of a screamer. Do you know that kind? I hope you don’t. It’s loud, UNBELIEVABLY L-O-U-D…and shrill…and painful. Matthew, quite some time ago found a good use for the “Martin Ears” (one could call them large-ish) – he literally folds them over to block out loud noise that he doesn’t care for. Apparently the Ears aren’t even enough for Zach’s screaming, so Matthew has combined the Ears with another philosophy, “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” So, alas, tonight while attempting to make dinner over a chorus of high-pitched, blood-curdling screams, I found myself daydreaming back to my moment of peace in the dentist’s chair.

Now, if you’ve been actively following along with the Saga of a Stressed-Out Mama, you’ll know that I’m really into the self-help, self-discovery, self-medication (my preferred legal stimulant being caffeine, of course), Zen voyage that I’m taking right now. I’m trying to discover the true essence of Jenny – to fully connect with and embrace the Jenessence. So, in the middle of the screaming chaos in my kitchen, I found myself automatically traveling to the world of self-help. My thoughts went as follows: OK. OK. They’re screaming. Matthew’s got a cold and doesn’t feel well, he didn’t nap today, he’s screaming because Zach is screaming and Zach is screaming because he’s teething and because he’s turned into – God help us – a Screamer. A bunch of howler monkeys on crack have taken over my kitchen. They’re STILL screaming. I can’t seem to get them to stop. When do the parents come home to take care of these crazy children, so I can go back to my house? Right, crap; I’m the parent. No longer the babysitter, I’m the parent; I gotta figure this out. OK, what did my latest self-help book tell me? Right. “When you discover yourself in fight or flight mode, that means that you are stressed.” Um, duh. Obviously I’m stressed right now – they are screaming, SCREAMING! “Stop your stressed-out self-talk and ask yourself, ‘Is my self-talk leading me towards or away from my goal?’” My goal right now is to make them stop screaming! OK, maybe this self-help crap really is just a bunch of hoo-ie. Who am I kidding anyway? Maybe I’m being bogged down by all this self-help stuff. I’m in a self-help rut. I should write a book, The Self-Help Book for When You’re in a Self-Help Rut. That’s catchy. OK, but that doesn’t help the fact that they’re STILL screaming…

And so on. Welcome to my life!

I’m so into the whole self-help, therapy, Yoga, New Age-y growth and personal development thing right now that I think we’re all a little scared. (Although FEAR is merely Mother Nature’s way of telling us that there is a problem. We must listen to our “Self-Talk” and within ourselves clarify our desired outcome so as to work through the “fight or flight” response.) Again, I’m pretty into this stuff. I may have turned a bit into a brain-washed mini-therapist. I find myself, when chatting with friends, asking them, “Well, how does that make you feel?” And “Why do you think you responded that way? What is going on inside?” This is either: a good thing and I can provide my people with a bit of their own (unsolicited) therapy OR the jig will be up soon, I’ll get called out on my new counseling tendencies and mocked like there ain’t no tomorrow. I am open to either option as I have no control over the response of others, I cannot change the world around me only my response to it, and I must recognize when my expectations aren’t met and move on….Yes, one could easily say that I’m obsessed with reprogramming my outlook on life. I recently learned that it takes 8-16 times of hearing something for it to truly saturate your sub-conscious thought and become a natural response. So, I guess I’m trying to get that 8-16 doses as quickly as possible.

Let’s take a look at my book collection right now, shall we? I once was a believer in the only-one-book-at-a-time philosophy. Somewhere over the last couple of years, I’ve slowly evolved into a multi-book reader. I’m currently reading a parenting book, a book with Mike (a fantasy, sci-fi type that I’m really not that into, but shhh, don’t tell), my book club book for the month, a “fluffy” read (right now, a Coffeehouse Series murder mystery), a self-help audio book (Stress Reduction Workshop for Women), a writing book – Pen on Fire: A Busy Woman’s Guide to Igniting the Writer Within, and I start every morning with my cup of coffee and Daily Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much. Oh, and there’s a copy of Runner’s World Magazine in every bathroom lest I forget to bring a book with me for a one of my brief moments of me-time. (Look, I’ll take it wherever I can get it). I’m discovering that there is never enough time in a day to do all that I want to do and read all that I want to read. (Not that this is a Woah! Discovery, Ahh-Haa-Oprah-Moment by any means). So, what am I to do since I cannot change the amount of time in a day? I have to prioritize and make time. (It’s Saturday morning, and I’ve been up for an hour while the boys are all still in bed…I’m on the right track, though that sleep thing sure is good).

A year ago, right now, I had way more than enough of that in-bed, DOWN-TIME. Last year, on March 24^th, I’d already been in bed, in the hospital for 12 days. TWELVE DAYS! (And I still had another 37 coming my way). I am definitely not desperate enough for down-time to want to relive that hospital-arrest situation nor will I ever be. And even during the experience, I recognized that there would come a day where a good book in bed would sound like a welcome respite from the craziness of Mommyhood. But 49 days of down-time? I don’t think so; no thank you. I’ll take my current lack-of-time over the too-much-time any day.

We finally did it! We broke the Martin-field-trip Curse. (Historically, we've always been sick -- or something! -- and don't get to partake in the field tripping festivities). But, finally, FINALLY we have conquered!

Yesterday, on the way to preschool, Matthew started asking about our kitty Mistletoe. He wanted to know what she was doing in Kitty Heaven, if she got to ride on a Kitty Heaven teeter-totter (anyone know the answer to that one? 'cuz I sure don't), and most importantly he was very eager to find a way to visit her up in Kitty Heaven. I informed him that while we can't visit her, we can look at pictures and tell stories of her. Matthew then asked, "When do I get to go to Heaven?" "Uh...we go to Heaven when we die," I responded. I held my breath, anticipating the next inquiry. Sure enough, my three-year-old in the backseat exclaimed, "I want to die and go to Heaven!" Little did I know that this wish would actually be granted during his preschool field trip.

As we set out, the seven three-year-olds held on tightly to their colored rings on the walking-rope. (Yes, it's like a fancy, colorful leash). We made the long voyage to the -- drumroll, please-- MACHINE SHOP!! (It's less than a block from the community center, but with seven three-year-olds, we could have summitted Mount Everest for all the effort it took). At any rate, we reached our anticipated destination, and were met by Mr. Steve -- Park Maintenance Man. Mr. Steve had FOUR tractor/lawn mowers out in the middle of the yard including TWO John Deeres! The kids got to climb all over them and sit in the driver seats. Boy, was it ever exciting! Really, it was as if the field trip was designed especially for Matthew...Matthew who wouldn't leave home without his John Deere hat and John Deere tin lunch box full of John Deere trucks and tractors. The child had definitely died and gone to heaven!

Play dates should be a fun and stress-free time for Moms. (Oh, and the kids should have a good time too). On Friday afternoon, we had the pleasure of hosting my ppd pal Patricia and her lovely kiddos: Maxime (3 ½) and Olivia (1). Patricia and I always have great conversation – swapping post partum depression war stories and tales of therapy – tips and pearls of wisdom that we’ve gained from our respective therapists. We enjoy sitting with our Diet Pepsi’s (one form of the caffeine addiction of the stay-at-home Mom of 2007), watching the babies play (keeping Zachary from pulling Olivia’s full mane of brown hair), and checking in on the bigger boys (usually playing pretend dragons or pirates or playing with Matthew’s multitude of trucks). Play dates should be a fun and stress-free time.

Patricia and clan had only been at our house for about 40 minutes when I announced, “Hmmm, the boys are a little too quiet, I better go check on them.” I went into Matthew’s room and walked into a wall of stink. Maxime was no where to be seen, and Matthew was just standing in the middle of his room, staring at me like a befuddled deer in headlights. “Wha…?” I started. Matthew cut me off, pointing to an unfortunately familiar-looking brown object on the floor, “Maxime went poo-poo on the floor!” he declared. “Uh….Where is Maxime, Matthew?” “He’s hiding in the closet.” Okay, then. I walked back out into the living room. “Patricia-dear. I’m sad to tell you that your day just got a lot worse.”

Turns out that wee Maxime – who has been fully potty-trained for quite some time, has decided that this new poop-dropping technique will be a special method for attention-getting. Poor Patricia has no idea what to do about it, except clean up the aftermath. So, unfortunately the rest of our play date was cut short while she and Maxime spent their time scrubbing down Matthew’s room and toys. (The place has never been so clean, I might add).

Later, when I was filling in Mike on the Ca-Ca Crime, he asked, “Was Matthew reprimanded?” He made the point that while Maxime was obviously the one that made the REALLY bad choice, Matthew was an accomplice. He knows full well that poo-poo belongs in the potty and not on the poo-brown carpet. A very good point, indeed. Patricia feels strongly that Matthew was merely an innocent bystander – a victim of the heinous crime.

By the by, just a note: Last Monday, the 12th was the one year anniversary of when I went into the hospital to keep Zachary cookin'. I've started re-reading my blog from that time and 're-living' the experience has been interesting. One thing I find fascinating: when Zach was still in the womb I often referred to him as a 'monkey' and that he'd be too busy 'swimming laps' for the nurses to monitor him properly. Boy, was that a foreshadowing of our little busy boy!

This time, last year, I'd already been in bed for four full days. It blows my mind, looking at the calendar now and all of the things that we have planned between now and April 30th...that last year I was in a bed for that whole time. March 12-April 30th IN the hospital. That's a L-O-N-G time to hibernate in a bed, in a room -- a room with ugly wallpaper boarder, I might add. At least this Spring I get to see the tulips come up. I missed them last year. I missed so many things last year.

Therapy Thursdays have definitely become my favorite day of the week. Man, do I look forward to that hour of talking about myself! Last week's session was perhaps a record-breaking waterworks display. Right when I think I've got things figured out, and I'm doing so much butter -- wham! -- I hit another low-point; the postpartum depression demons creep their way back into my soul and wreak havoc. I was SO frustrated. It was very helpful to have Therapist Louise remind me that what makes ppd different from common depression is that it doesn't just constantly linger; it comes and goes. This can be good because you are able to enjoy life, but it also means that when you find yourself in another ppd funk it's even more upsetting.

So, last week at my exhibit of emotion, I made a request, really a desperate plea. Louise NEEDS to get better quality Kleenex in her office. While I understand that they must go through LOADS of Kleenex in that place what with all the ppd ladies coming in, they should make an investment towards the cause. Wiping your snot-tear-soaked face with sandpaper is not a pleasant experience. Quality Kleenex must be worked into the budget.

Another Kleenex issue that I joke about with Louise is the fact that the box is placed discretely on the side table. We both pretend for a while that I'm not going to need it, and then inevitably shortly into the session, I just place the whole box next to me on the sofa. (No, it's not a brown leather sofa and I don't lie on it like some may think. If you must know: it's a green upholstery-type and I sit -- sometimes shoes off and cross-legged if I really want to get comfy).

Yesterday, when I arrived at Louise's office, I was pleasantly surprised to discover the Kleenex box waiting for me on the sofa. That was only the beginning of the surprises: Louise informed me that she had a chat with her supervisor regarding the crappy Kleenex, and from now on, they will only purchase the fancy-shmancy soft stuff. So, rest-assured, should I die tomorrow, I have made a difference in the world -- well, at least a difference to the noses and faces of the sobbing ppd visitors to the green couch. And to top off the excitement of the Kleenexy developments, apparently that box acted as a security blanket, and I had my first ever tear-free session!

Why does the computer hate me so? I had composed the most exceptional Blog entry of my life only to have it magically disappear. Of course, I can’t prove that it was as phenomenal as I claim it was, so you’ll just have to take my word on it. Since I used up all of my Blog-skills on the aforementioned missing entry, you’ll just have to settle for this mediocre one.

Life after the stomach flu is fab. Anything after a stomach-curse is amazing. I’d say even a toothache or a hangnail would be a walk in the park after doing the Toilet Tango. Somehow the boys were all fine – thank goodness – after a couple of days while I continued with the Diarrhea Dance for an entire week. (I’m sticking with the dance-themed analogies here, can you tell?).

Before I knew it, we found ourselves on a Tuesday morning (i.e. Preschool morning) while I still suffered the wrath of the Tummy Twist. I was bound and determined that Matthew would NOT miss preschool. He was perfectly fine, and he’s missed so many classes thanks to the frequent visits from the Snot Fairy; I just couldn’t let my Belly Boogie cause another absence. I had us all dressed (even semi-groomed); we were ready to get in the car, garage door open and everything, when I finally had my moment of sanity. Throughout the morning departure routine I must’ve run to the bathroom ten times to partake in my Paunch Polka. I asked myself: Is this really wise? While I keep a change of clothes in the car lest Matthew have an accident, I don’t have spare undies for me. Do I really want to show up to preschool having pooped my pants?! [I acknowledge that in civilized society Potty-Talk is rather taboo, but as a parent you have no choice but to be fluent in the language and fully embrace body function. So, please bear with me. We all poo; let’s accept it and discuss it like adults]. I decided then and there that I didn’t want to be the Mom about which the other preschool parents would explain, “Yes, that’s Matthew’s Mommy – she had an accident. No, not WITH her car. An accident IN her car.” So, in the end, Matthew didn’t get to preschool that morning.

Finally, last week after a three-week hiatus, Matthew made his grand re-entry to the Almost 3’s classroom. The kid was like a celebrity. Hey! Who is this Matthew kid?! He’s pretty fun. And since it was a beautiful day, we went straight to the park after preschool. (Yeah, two outings in one day! Pretty adventurous, huh?) After letting him swing for a bit in the baby swing, I wore Zachary in the front pack while we followed Matthew around the playground. Now, I am very used to people openly staring at Zach. How could they help themselves? He is RIDICULOUSLY cute after all. However, on this particular park excursion, I noticed that people seemed to be eyeing him quite a bit more than usual. It wasn’t until we got to the car that I discovered the cause for so much curiosity. Zachary had a big ‘ol piece of Wagon Wheel (cracker-type finger food) stuck to the side of his cheek. The flesh colored food looked very much like some sort of abnormal mutation growing out of his face. Oh well, you can’t be the cutest baby at the park EVERY time.

We've had the stomach flu. This is not something that I would wish upon my worst enemy. Both of the boys got a little sick on Saturday, though we didn't think much of it. They're still getting over colds and Matthew tends to get sick towards the end of one. But then, gradually throughout the day yesterday, I started feeling worse. It got to the point where I couldn't move without vomiting. (Not that you want the details, I'm just trying to paint the picture here). By the time Mike got the boys put to bed, he, too, was feeling queasy. All I can say is thank goodness the boys weren't sick and that both slept well during the night. Mike and I were so busy taking care of ourselves (or at least trying to survive), the boys would've had to fend for themselves. Both of them had flu shots, so we're hoping that that's what kept them from the misery. And we're sincerely hoping that this misery has come and gone. Yuck.

The strange delusions that occur when you're that sick can be a bit entertaining. With my book club, I'm currently reading a book on fundamental Mormonism and polygamy. One of my clouded thoughts last night was, Well, there's one good thing about polygamy: If you get really sick, there are at least three other wives to help look after your eleven children. And with Mike, I'm reading Eragon (fantasy -- dragon story; definitely a guy's book), so during his moments of non-lucidity, he found that assuming the position of using a bow and arrow, helped him feel a bit better. Odd.

On to another topic: it has been said that Matthew is "Mini-Mike" and Zachary, "Jenny Junior." Well, Zach is taking after me more and more. The boy can seriously dance! He's got baby moves like I've never seen. Last week, when some music came on the TV, Zach, stopped what he was doing, looked up and immediately started to shake and groove. (He specializes in the booty-shake, knee-bend sort of dance). He can even do the splits, though he's not very thrilled when his feet start to slip into that pose. He can definitely cut a rug though!

In addition to sharing my good looks and my intensely phenomenal dancing skills, Zachary loves the camera. He will stop mid-fuss and strike a pose and smile for the camera. I really don't know where he gets this. Really!

I had a moment of serious panic today. It was a VERY brief moment, but a moment, none-the-less. I was changing Zachary's diaper and looked down at his...uh...boyhood and there was something extremely wrong with it -- it looked...deformed. (This was that moment of panic that I was referring to). The moment came and went in a second when I realized that there was an uneaten Cheerio stuck to the end of his...boyhood. This is day two of discovering a whole, non-consumed Cheerio in his diaper. How these finger foods make their way down to the bum region is an absolute mystery to Mike and me. He's wearing the diaper -- which is snugly secured by two velco tabs. On top of the diaper, firmly snapped shut is a onesie. Over the onesie, he has on a pair of pants and a shirt. And when he's eating these vagabond O's of goodness, he also is wearing a firmly secured bib. I don't understand; it is an Unsolved Mystery of the Martin household.

JENNY'S TIPS FOR CUTTING DOWN ON LAUNDRY WHEN THERE IS A SNOT EPIDEMIC IN YOUR HOUSEHOLD:

1. The mother should never bother changing clothes as her clean outfit will be immediately covered in a fresh batch of child related bodily fluids. Besides, every sleeve and pant-leg surface should be throughly used as a Kleenex before removal.

2. Save on laundering towels! Why bother bathing your children?! Just wipe them down from head-to-toe with a diaper wipe. (Save time and your back by not having to bend over the tub).

3. If child's outfit removal is necessary, use the pre-soiled item for a thorough nose-wiping before dumping it in the laundry hamper.

4. Night-time vomiting? Use a tarp instead of sheets on your child's bed. No need to wash, just hose it down in the backyard. This technique has the added benefit of watering the grass at the same time!

5. In addition to saving on laundry, carpet vacuuming and cleaning might as well be avoided until all children are 18 years of age and have moved out (or have been kicked out, whichever comes first).

Happy Valentine's Day! I spent my day with my two favorite mini-Valentines...unwashed hair, in sweats, and covered in crustified baby snot. Boy, do I feel sexy! We've been hit with yet another cold (after a whopping two week break from snot-action!). We had to miss Matthew's preschool Valentine's party yesterday and have had to miss out on all sorts of fun play dates. But alas, 'tis the season and the way with these little Martin mucous machines. Matthew felt so icky today he put himself back in bed at 11:30am, I woke him at 3pm, he ate a couple of crackers, a couple of grapes, threw them up and laid back down on the sofa. Poor kiddo...he's definitely inherited my pukey-nature. (As a child, I used to have a monthly vomiting for no known reason). And poor Zachary is yet again a snot-dispenser. He screams the moment I come at him with a Kleenex. Matthew gets so upset at Zach's distress that I have to wipe his nose with a three-year-old beating on me trying to protect his younger brother.

In addition to the nose leakage situation, Zachary is demonstrating a new trend: he's becoming more and more like a puppy dog every day. His preexisting canine qualities include: chewing on my slippers, slobbering, piddling on the floor if left diaperless, and the latest, most shocking of all: biting. He TOTALLY bites -- gnaws on the table leg, chews on my pant leg if really excited, etc. I think we need to invest in some new chew toys and maybe obedience school.

Happy Valentine's Day!

"What's the name?" "Abigail Madeline...Abby," we responded to the doctor. "Yeah, I don't think he's going to like that," Dr. Coe replied.

The room exploded in surprised and excited noise, though I still thought that they were joking. I thought of all of the pink clothes hanging up in the closet at home; it had to be a joke. Then Mike looked down and said, "Oh my gosh! It IS a boy!!" I will never, EVER forget that moment.

Mike claims to this day, that after his initial shock wore off, his first thought was, "Well, at least we don't have to pay for a wedding." Three-and-a-half years later, I guess I'm still working on overcoming the shock.

I prepared for the birth of our daughter for months and grew emotionally attached to this little Abigail in my womb. We received an entire wardrobe of adorable girls' clothes (size 0-3T) from friends who were done having kids. Like a kid on Christmas morning, I excitedly opened the boxes, carefully looking at each little frilly pink dress, the trendy flared and bedazzled Baby Gap jeans and the size 6 months bikini (who puts a baby in that?! OK, I figured I probably would just for the sheer ridiculousness of it). Included in the piles of baby girl clothes were the dresses that my mom had saved for me. Dresses that I'd worn as an infant -- pink bow glued on my head, shiny black Mary Janes on my feet that couldn't yet walk. Dresses that someday I'd put my daughter in.

Two days after Matthew was born, I came home from the hospital. I was postpartumly exhausted, a Baby Blues blubbering emotional wreck especially heartbroken that our firstborn was in the NICU -- full of tubes and hooked up to all sorts of machinery. Who knew when we'd get to bring him home. The first thing I did, like a mad woman, was to start pulling girly clothes off of tiny hangers. (I had, of course, already cut tags, washed clothes and hung them by appropriate size-grouping). I shoved and dumped clothes into boxes not caring anymore about size or organization or even neatly folding. I just wanted them gone and away. I honestly don't think that at that point I was sad -- despite how it may sound now. I merely wanted to purge any sign of the baby that we had expected, so that when we brought Matthew home, he was the one we'd be ready for. I definitely knew that I would never dress him in any pink and rarely was the boy in a gender-neutral yellow or pastel green. There would be no mistaking this baby for the boy that he was.

I was just telling Louise at therapy the other day that I've been organizing my maternity clothes for one of my dear book club friends to borrow. (Love ya)! I had the realization that I have no problem loaning those out, but a thought came to me: if I were to find out that Molly was having a girl, could I loan her the entire wardrobe of beautiful girls' clothes?! Sadly, the answer is no. I wish I could, but I know that seeing someone else's daughter dressed in the clothes that I'd planned to dress my daughter in would be too difficult for me. Upon learning that our Abigail was actually Matthew, a coworker who was also pregnant told our friend (who reported back to me), "Oh good! I hope that I have a girl, so that I can have all those clothes that Jenny got!" Needless-to-say, a couple of months later when Olivia was born, she did not receive boxes of clothes from me.

So, it goes without saying, that I'm apparently still dealing with all of this "stuff." That's the interesting thing about therapy, it opens up wounds that you'd thought had totally healed but were apparently just scabbed over. (Gross metaphor, sorry). Here are the questions I'm struggling with: Do I feel like my family is not complete until I have a daughter? And why, is that? Do I want a daughter so badly because I was expecting one and mentally preparing for one or is it for some deeper reason? Deep indeed, and I don't have answers. At least not yet.

I am so unbelievably grateful for the children that we do have, and I don't for a second want my boys to think that I would change anything about them. They are such beautiful, creative, intriguing little people. It is an absolute truth that you will never know how much your parents love you until you have children of your own. (As I type this, I just paused for a cuddle break with my snot-dispensing angel baby, Zachary).

To end on a lighter note...There is a VERY long list of reasons that having boys is wonderful. One of my personal favorites, is the fact that having sons pretty much guarantees the fact that I will never have to kill another spider. I have a feeling that Zach will be the bug-killer of our two boys. Today, Matthew was playing in his sandbox while I did some yard work. Suddenly, he let out a terrified, absolutely blood-curdling scream. I don't know if I've ever run so fast.
It was a worm...I little sand-covered, wiggly worm.

Not that I can't relate. I clearly remember standing outside our house, at the age of four, screaming and crying for Mom or Dad to come and get me. There was a slug on one of the steps leading up to the front door absolutely blocking ALL entry into the house. There was no way I was going to walk by that slimy, creepy thing. I still haven't covered this incident in therapy. It's on the list. But it's a LONG list.

Apparently Oprah Winfrey has been reading my blog. Topics on her show this week included: de-cluttering your life (hello! totally my theme right now -- see my Blog entry about being a cluttered linen closet), the keys to looking healthy and young (OK, I'm pretty healthy and young but the main idea: find your passion in life and make it a priority), and the secret to creating the life you really want (do you know "the secret?").

I've been thinking about those things a lot this week: what are my passions? what makes me happy? what do I want to be when I grow up? Today was Therapy Thursday -- hooray! And I discussed some of this with Louise. She reassured me that one of the main issues that postpartum depression presents is the "loss of self." Here you have this baby to take care of (and in my case, a toddler too), you're nursing, you're tired, you're busy, and on top of all of these standard Mommy-related problems, you feel completely detached from who you really are. And even though you know that ppd is a temporary situation, there is the constant underlying fear that it's not. You worry this new bummed-out You is here to stay and you don't know why and you definitely don't want her to overstay her welcome. Not that she was very welcome in the first place.

So, to counteract the ppd-bummed-out ME, I've spent this week in lots of Oprah-type-what-makes-me-happy analysis. It's been good...and fun thinking (and yes, making lists because list-making does make me happy) about all of the activities and things that fulfill me. Focusing on enjoying the moment and living in the present has made for a good week. Three-year-old Matthew playing and strutting around shirtless with his fireman hat on (looking very ready for the calendar photo-shoot, I might add) was one of those moments I couldn't help but thoroughly enjoy. And his referring to a photographer as a "cheeser" (you know, "Say cheese!") was pretty great too.

I'll be the first to admit that I've been a little nuts lately -- or at least more nuts than usual. But at least I'm not completely crazy. Not to be too judgmental or anything, but there is a fellow Mom at Matthew's preschool who IS crazy. Nearly every time we've spoken, she's informed me (and re-informed me) that her son, Theodore, based on his birthday, should be in the older preschool class. That class, however, was full and she therefore settled on Theodore joining Matthew's "Almost 3's" class. She reminds me (nearly every week, lest I've forgotten) that Theodore is not only older than the other children (his birthday is 13 days before Matthew's) but far more advanced and is "ready" for the more mature group of preschool scholars. Now, OK, fine and good. I can accept the fact that Theodore is, indeed, eligible for the older group. I would even be perfectly agreeable to his being "ready" for the older group if he was actually "ready." But the fact of the matter is, every time that I've helped out in Matthew's class, Theodore is the weird kid. You know, the token odd child in the class (although let's face it, at 3 years old, all of the kids are a bit odd). But Theodore's been the one requiring the most hand-holding, scolding, reminding and general assistance.

Today was picture day -- our first ever school picture day. It was a special and stress-filled, hair-slicking-down, shirt-tucking-in, snotty-nose-wiping extravaganza of a day. Due to the excitement, most of us parents hung around class today. Once the photo shoot was done, the parents retreated out into the hallway where you can discreetly (noses pressed to the glass) watch your offspring's every movement while in class. Theodore's mom and I were amicably chatting outside (about...guess what! Preschool! And how Theodore needs out of this far-inferior group) when, she stopped talking, looked in the classroom window and with the zest of a fan at a soccer match exclaimed, "Yes! Theodore!! Good boy, throwing away your Tang Dixie cup!....Now, go push in your chair. Oh, no! Don't get side-tracked by the books. Go back to the table. Hmmm, we'll have to work on that." I'm all for applauding the skills of your child and all, but I do have to say that I'm growing tired of the parental-pressures that I'm privy to. Why can't our kids just be normal?! What's wrong with being an average three-year-old?! [Did you read my blog yesterday, by the way, about what a genius Zachary is? Oh, and of course we all know that Matthew is a musical prodigy...but I digress.] Anyway, peeking back in the window at preschool, I watched as Matthew did NOT throw away his Dixie cup nor did he push in his chair before trotting happily over to the truck table. Ms. Susan, gently herded him back to the required tasks -- dixie cup removal and chair-pushing duty. But boy! Was I happy to see just how NORMAL my son is.

Zachary is orange. Literally. His nose, especially just looks a little bit orange-ish. When I questioned Dr. Benda about it at his check-up last week, she said, "Ahh, yes. I noticed it right away. That's what we call the carrot tan as in beta carotene, carrot tan. Some babies, particularly when they're first starting solids turn a little bit orange while they adjust to their new foods especially sweet potatoes, squash, and carrots." Thankfully, Zach's orange-hue is concentrated on his nose, but apparently some babies turn orange from head to toe. As long as the whites of their eyes are still white (ruling out Jaundice), than it's fine and their fake-tan-look will fade over time. But in the meantime, I'll need to find clothes that will complement his orange complexion.

It should come as no surprise that Zachary is a genius, an orange genius, none-the-less. At nine months old, he is not only a skilled athlete (his specialty is gymnastics and is also semi-pro in the Olympic event the Speed Crawl) but he is also a talking prodigy. Last week, whilst I wrestled him into a diaper, Zach said, (and I DO NOT exaggerate) "hot." In shock I said, "Zachary!! Did you just say hot?" To which he replied, "Yeah." Now, I realize that most likely he had no idea that his noises were actual words that mean something, but come on, that's pretty impressive! Then, later that same day, while sitting in the grocery cart (near the yogurt and eggs, by the by), Zach for the first time looked at me and said, "Mama!" Now, if I could only get him to combine the two: "Hot" and "Mama" and we'll be good to go.

I am like my cluttered linen closet. This is the analogy I came up with for myself at therapy on Thursday. I'm all put together on the outside (when the closet door is closed no one knows the chaos lurking within), however open me up and you'll find a complete clutter of covers and towels and dust clothes and sheets. Oh my! Louise also helped me realize that part of this Jenny, the Linen Closet, decluttering process includes the cleaning up of excess should [replace with a four-letter sh-word]. I should all over the place! I can't sit down and read a book for a few minutes, I should do the dishes....how dare I contemplate a nap when we've got laundry up the wa-hoo; the boys are both napping, I should make the most of this time! I'm full of bull-should. I have the idea that fun or a break from work must be earned, and that I've got to get through my list -- my never-ending list -- before I can do something for myself. Apparently somewhere deep within me there is this philosophy that a cluttered house = a cluttered soul. Hmm! Interesting stuff. Louise asked how I would feel if, after dinner, instead of going straight to the dishes, I sat and had a cup of tea (knowing all the while the dishes were waiting for me). "Sit and enjoy the tea. Don't do anything else...no list-making or guilt-feeling, just be by yourself with your tea." Nice thought. Although realistically? I would have the tea, I really would...while I did the dishes, talked on the phone, had Zachary on my hip, and put Matthew in time-out. Well, no wonder the poor kiddo is getting time-outs, he's doing whatever it takes to my attention. And my attention is constantly divided a bunch of different ways, so it's no surprise that I don't feel whole and that I'm always tired. The lesson (and it's a work in progress, believe me): is to embrace the present. Attempt to be solely focused on the task at hand and enjoy it. There is the belief that spiritual and personal growth come from the ability to live in the moment. Don't put things off and be only focused on the future, and don't constantly dwell in the past. Carpe diem, baby!

And speaking of baby: Zachary had his nine month check-up on Thursday. He is 29 1/2 inches long (that's 90th percentile for height) and weights 16 lbs. 14oz. (that's 5th percentile)!! The boy is TALL and SKINNY. So much so, that Dr. Benda wants me to seriously fatten this kid up. She even suggested adding melted butter to his food! Before we start feeding him daily Big Mac's, we'll push the healthy fats -- yogurt, avocado, cheese, etc. Zach is still not quite sure what to think of all these new and exciting foods, but he'll take to 'em like a champ eventually. Part of the problem is that the kid is in non-stop motion, he's burning every calorie he consumes. And since he's so tall, he's wearing size 18 month clothes, but so skinny, that he has literally jumped right out of his pants! (Must be in the genes...or the jeans...yuckyuckyuck).

The battle of the boys continues. The more mobile Zachary gets, the more territorial Matthew gets. Matthew doesn't want Zach to play with his stuff, but then is constantly harassing Zach and wanting to play with him. Just yesterday I had to say the following things, "NO! Matthew, do NOT flip Zachary over the elmo sofa." (Doh! Too late. Zach did a head first somersault off of it). And "Matthew! Don't put your brother in the laundry basket." I do have a feeling though that Mr. Rough-and-Tumble-Move-it-and-Shake-it-Non-Stop-Enery-Baby ZJ will get his sweet revenge on big brother. At nine months, he already does a pretty decent job of holding his own. It's only a matter of time 'til Matthew is the one covered in brotherly-afflicted bruises.

Changing diapers in this household has turned into a full-on contact sport. I'd like to say that I'm getting better at it too, but seriously, changing Zachary's diaper has got to be like roping steer (which I've never done but have witnessed during childhood trips to the Ellensburg Rodeo -- an attempt, I believe, to help City Girl Jenny, see life outside the suburbs and the Starbucks). He's only 9 months old, and I think I'm going to have to give up on the changing table concept. I changed Matthew on the changing table without problems for 2 1/2 years! Now, the moment we put Zach down to change him, he immediately rolls over, gets up on all fours, then stands up in order to play with the beautiful quilt my Aunt Jackie made for him that's hanging on the wall. So, I have the pleasure of trying to clean baby buns that are in constant vertical motion -- not an easy task, I assure you. If I change him down on the floor, I usually end up crawling around after him trying to secure a clean diaper on the bum! I finish every diaper changing session exhausted and totally spent. I think I'll start wearing a tool belt with all of the diaper-changing accoutrements handy, so that it'll be easier to change Zach mid-movement.

It happened. They said it would happen, I doubted it, and yet it happened. I had a moment -- truly only a brief, fleeting time -- where I actually missed bed rest. Certainly not the WHOLE bed rest experience, but the beauty of lying in a bed (and getting to stay in it) when you're really tired. Zachary, the angel baby, really is a pretty good sleeper. He's finally settling into a bit of a nap routine, and as of the last few nights, he heads to bed around 8, has a snack at 11ish (before I go to bed), we're up around 4, and then he decides he's ready for the day around 7. I know it's not that bad (and I apologize to anyone who has had a SERIOUS anti-sleep baby reading this right now. I know that you hate me. Sorry). It could be WAY worse (and when we do have one of those way worse nights, I'm reminded of how good we have it). But I'm tired. I'm just always deeply fatigued. I don't remember the last morning that I woke up and my first thought wasn't, "When do I get to get back in bed?" Or "Is today the day that I'll get to take a na?." Matthew knows now how I cope with the whole tired-thing. One morning when driving to preschool, I was drinking coffee (as I frequently do), and he said, "Ahh, Mommy. Are you tired?" The kid knows. And on the topic of coffee, I would like to confess a new addiciton: the Sugar-Free Cinnamon Dolce Latte at Starbucks. LOVE them. When I'm not drinking one, I'm thinking about when next I can. Of course these cost money and calories, so I do limit my intake...but distance only makes the heart grow stronger. Or in this case, lack of lattes only makes my longing lengthen. Mike knows that he need not ever worry about what to get me for Valentine's Day: a Starbucks giftcard, and I'm good to go.

The time has come -- for professional therapy. And no, for once I'm neither kidding nor exaggerating. After months of debating and struggling, I have finally decided to start therapy. Everywhere that I've read about postpartum depression has strongly recommended that treatment really should be two parts: Anti-depressant drugs AND therapy. I don't have a real good reason that it's taken me so long to give in to the therapy side of things, but what's important is that I finally have made up my mind, and I'm THRILLED about it. I had a woman recently tell me (when explaining why therapy really is important) that OB's hand out anti-depressants like candy because depression obviously isn't their specialty. But once you're on the drugs and can at least think straight (better anyway), then you really need the therapy to work through all of the issues and emotions that you're still dealing with. And I'm definitely still dealing.

So, I finally came around and made the call. I found a therapist who specializes in pregnancy-related issues, postpartum depression, parenting and family life. I met Louise yesterday for my first-ever therapy session, and I was ridiculously excited! Let the healing begin. I realized, hello! Who wouldn't want to sit for an hour and talk about themselves?!! And FINALLY -- someone who takes notes when I'm talking!! I've been waiting for that for ages. Don't people realize that everything I say is worth writing down?! Well, thankfully, Louise gets it. And it's official now, I have a diagnosis and a treatment plan. Unfortunately the treatment plan doesn't involve a vacation to Hawaii and lots of dark chocolate, but it does involve a weekly trip to Louise (for a few months) and getting to talk about myself. I'll bring my own dark chocolate, but she at least provides the Kleenex.

Yesterday was a big day all around. I had my first therapy appointment and Matthew had his first ever trip to the dentist. The good news is that they had lots of toys and he got to watch some of CARS while they cleaned his teeth. The bad news is that the dental hygienist took one look at his mouth and said, "So, what' s his habit? Thumb sucker? Pacifier?" I responded, "Uh. No. It's a little bit weirder than that...See, Matthew has a special teddy bear 'Green Bear'. Matthew turns Green Bear over, smells the tag on the bear's butt (yes, it looks like he's smelling the bear's rear) while sucking his bottom lip -- his own that is, not Green Bear's bottom lip 'cuz, well, that'd be hard since Matthew's already smelling the bear's bum...uh...yeah." So, yes, the bottom lip part, that's where the dental issues come in to play. And here's what's worse, while he automatically does the bottom lip suckage the moment he has Green Bear (at nap time and bed time), he also does the infamous habit subconsciously -- while watching tv, playing, riding in the car, etc. The dentist took one look at him and said, "Yeah. That's a new one. Well, he's too young for orthodontia, but I imagine that as soon as he's old enough -- five or six -- they'll want to get an appliance in there to push out his bottom teeth so that they don't permanently affect the shape of his mouth, his adult teeth, etc. In the meantime, I'd try to get him to break the habit in the next six months." So, we some how get to break a habit that Matthew has literally been doing since day one. (We have a picture of him in the NICU on the 'tanning bed' -- jaundice therapy light bed -- wearing shades and sucking that bottom lip). AND we have a 3-D ultrasound picture of Zachary also sucking his bottom lip (although he has since developed an appetite for the flavor of thumb instead). Alas, forget about saving for college, we better just start saving for anti-bottom-lip-sucking-dental apparatuses or apparati, if you will. And while I'm in therapy, Matthew will start a teddy bear-butt-smelling-bottom-lip-sucking support group. Also known as Lip Suckers Anonymous.

For the love of Pete!!! (I don't know who Pete is or why the love is for him, but regardless...) Who told Zachary that sleeping was an optional occupation?! Whoever it was, boy, do I have words for you. He has also decided recently that in addition to being an avid left-thumb-sucker, he also wants his comfort object to be gripping a wad of my hair (in his right hand, of course since his left is occupied. In fact, he's such a thumb-sucker, that since the development of teeth, he has a permanent teeth indent/open wound on his thumb). So, if he's pulling my hair and sucking his thumb, he falls asleep like a champ. However, once in the crib (known to many as "baby jail"), he realizes what's really going on. (Wait a second! She's actually thinking of leaving me in here by myself?! And taking her hair with her?! What is the meaning of this nonsense?! Isn't this child abuse or something? I've got to call CPS...oh, and learn how to use the phone and knowing how to talk would help too...)

Now, there's this whole philosophy of letting the baby 'cry it out' -- essentially you occasionally soothe them, but they learn to put themselves to sleep. Crying it out, though hard to listen to, works like a champ (Matthew is living proof). Zachary, however, is not a candidate for the 'crying out' technique as he doesn't cry it out, he screams it out. Zachary throws a complete crib-bound, crazy coup d'etat. He wails and screams, cursing in Baby Tongue, gets up on all fours, bumps his head against the crib slats (just to add any parental guilt that might have already been lacking), and tries to then sucker you in with a squeal of glee and mischievous smirk, once he sees you approaching the crib. You can read his thoughts at this point: Ahh, the jig is up! You have finally been suckered into my plan. Muuuw-ah-ah-ahhhh! (evil baby laugh). If I maintain strength and don't immediately fall victim to his evil baby scheme, then occasionally I get to hear it in stereo (lucky me!): Zach screaming from his room and Matthew yelling, "STOP CRYING! NO CRYING, ZACHY!!" from his room. If there was a soundtrack for my life right now, that would definitely be a cut on the CD. Thankfully, the next one would be the music of Matthew and Zachary giggling together while playing on the floor. That one's my personal favorite.

I had a blind-date today. It went fantastically well! We were set-up through a mutual friend and have been emailing and talking on the phone for almost two months now. We have an amazing connection and a lot in common!...Her name is Patricia and she has a three-year-old boy and a ten-month-old girl. Our friend Cathi thought it would be helpful to get us together since we've both been going through postpartum depression. It's been so great to have the support -- the true empathy -- from someone who really understands. And it was such a fun play-date for all of us. Patricia and I talked while the boys played, and Zach and Olivia crawled around on the floor, occasionally stopping to poke at the other ('Wait a minute! You're my size!'). They were so cute, and I realized that it's the first time that Zachary has ever played with another baby -- and he was surprisingly gentle with the little lady. What a difference from Matthew's baby days when we spent one morning a week playing with our baby friends from childbirth class. Another exciting thing about these new friends is that they speak French! Patricia's husband is from Marseille, and Maxime goes to a French immersion school. So, I got to practice a little of my rusty French -- though it was really more Franglais today. All in all, our first rendez-vous was tres bien!

Does anyone know the cost of a welder's mask? We need to invest in one for feeding Zachary. That, and I think an entire tarp-themed outfit would be good. I've recently introduced prunes to an already creative-and-hands-on eater, Zach. The prunes, of course, are the baby food, smooshy version. I can report that they are messy going in and as you can imagine (though I don't blame you for not wanting to) equally messy going out.

On to another messy topic -- snot. Truly a subject that only a mom could dedicate an entire paragraph to. Zach's got it. Lots of it. And he's seriously upset about it, or at least the cleaning up process. If I even walk towards him with a Kleenex he starts to howl. And Matthew, watching me approach Zach with the tissue, immediately covers his ears. At one point today, Zachary was wailing so much while I attempted to clean up the nostril situation, that Matthew got pretty upset about it. He stormed over to me, ripped the Kleenex from my hand, and said, "Mommy! That's enough!" It was very sweet how he wanted to protect his baby brother from the torture of the tissue. Although he and Zach proceeded to spend much of the afternoon wrestling -- it's TBWW...Toddler-Baby World Wrestling, and Matthew wasn't so concerned with protecting Zach at that point. But, in all honesty, I'm not too concerned about the littlest Martin man. He can hold his own -- literally. He's a hair and face-puller, so Matthew is usually the first to want out of a brotherly wrestling match. Zachary is also quite the little gymnast and was absolutely cracking himself up, doing headstands (with my spotting) over Matthew's small Elmo sofa. Too bad the minimum age at the gym is 12 -- I have a feeling that getting him to burn off all that energy might be a bit tough.

My being a gym-junkie has paid off, in a very funny way. Two nights ago, Mike and I met up at the gym. After picking the boys up from the Kids' Club we all went next door to the grocery store. A normal event. The problem? I'd forgotten to pack my belt with my after-workout clean clothes. So, I walked around the store, pulling up my pants every chance I had. Thankfully, we made it home without incident. Mike was getting Zach changed and Matthew ready for bed while I carried groceries up the stairs. I like to load myself up like a pack-horse in order to make as few trips as possible. So, laden with multiple plastic bags on each arm, I commenced my summit up the stairs. Unfortunately, there was no free hand for holding up my jeans, so with each step I took, my pants slipped lower and lower. By the time, I got to the top of the stairs, my jeans were completely around my ankles, and I was laughing hysterically. I shuffled to the kitchen to put down the groceries, and then I shuffled down the hall. Matthew took one look at me and said, "Mommy, you look funny. Better come see in the mirror." I assured him that I knew how funny I looked and didn't need to see the proof.

Perhaps it's because we are now a pet-free home or maybe due to the fact that Zachary crawls around like an animal, but apparently Matthew now thinks of his baby brother as some sort of mammal other than human. He has taken to patting Zachary on the head (I'm surprised it's not accompanied with "good doggy"), occasionally tries to ride Zach like a horse (thankfully baby ZJ is one tough little tyke), and most recently has begun setting up obstacle courses for Zach to clamber over and through. Zach definitely would win 'Best in Show', as he crawls over packages of diapers, successfully plows over Kleenex boxes, and climbs into laundry baskets with the agility of a miniature poodle, yet leaving a wake of destruction comparable only to that of a robust Rottweiler.
Oh, and he drools too. Maybe that's where Matthew gets the connection.

Confession: I have become a Gym Junkie. I love it. Absolutely, love it. I try to go a few times a week and at least once, I bring the boys with me to play in the Kids' Club. They have a policy there, that any child under 18 months counts as three kids (as they're more demanding for hands-on attention), and only 10 kids are allowed in the Club at a time. I have, on occasion, had to wait a few minutes for some children to get picked up before I could leave Matthew and Zachary since combined, my two children are the equivalent of four. Needless-to-say, three-kids-worth-Zach rules the joint. Now, that he's thoroughly mobile (AND at eight months old, climbing already), he really does count as three children. What I don't understand is why the childcare attendants at the Kids' Club don't understand that and come home with me to help out. How can they just send release those 2 (but really 4) children into the world with ME everyday and assume that I've got what it takes to keep Zachary from: climbing into a laundry hamper basket (it's happened already), nearly doing a complete headstand on to Matthew's Elmo sofa (been there, done that), getting stuck under the over-turned bouncy seat (totally his own fault), playing with lamp cords (almost a daily habit -- the kid is FAST. Turn your back for a second and he's exactly where you don't want him to be!), sucking on the bathroom rug (grosses me out more than I can even begin to explain), attempting (and thankfully getting too frustrated to venture on) to climb the stairs, partially eating a WRAPPED chocolate that Matthew gave him (both boys take after Mommy in the chocolaholic category...an intervention is in order), and whacking his noggin' numerous times a day on any possible hard, bluntish object (be it toy, furniture, wall, etc.). Yes, apparently I don't have what it takes to keep our busy Zachary safe, so I'm praying that he's got a guardian angel with as much energy as he does, and I'm thinking it's time to invest in a helmet and full-body padded suit....for me.

I have yet to address a topic that is WAY overdo, but I constantly lack the time and the sufficient creative juices to properly paint the picture that I want you to see. Alas, I have no choice, but to suck it up and do my best attempt (although not nearly adequate) at the depiction of Matthew, the Little Drummer Boy.

At Bellevue Square (a huge shopping mall near us), starting last Christmas, every night from the day after Thanksgiving through New Year's Eve 60, yes, 6-0 drummers dressed as toy soldiers march out along the streets and play a 15 minute show with laser snowflake lights on the sides of the building, loud holiday music and complete with fake snow. It's like stinkin' Disneyland in Bellevue! It's amazing! We went to it a couple of times last year, and Matthew was so into it (maybe even more than me!) that with the help of a bucket on his head (the strap strategically placed below his nose forcing it up like a piggy...VERY funny), he transformed himself into a little drummer soldier boy.

This year, he has taken the drumming to a whole new level. Every day for the last, oh, month or so, (often multiple times every day) he'll request that we put the Little Drummer Boy song on (the Harry Connick Jr. version is his personal favorite). He will then put on a show for us (and anyone present willing to watch). He wears his drum, marches out from his bedroom, and stands on a stool (that he has strategically placed -- and it has to be JUST SO -- in the living room) and proceeds to drum along (in perfect rhythm, none-the-less) to the entire three minute song. He is absolutely serious and focused throughout his entire presentation. Drummer Matthew also includes a brief interlude of stick tapping in the air (just like the performing drummers do) as well as the occasional hip or booty shake (a bit of his own flair to personalize the number) and then concludes with the grand finale of a high-stepping, drumming march back down the hall. The piece de resistance this Christmas, was Grandma Therese surprising us all with a mini-soldier Drummer Boy costume for Matthew to wear whilst performing his routine. Contrary to popular belief, I have NOT coached the child at all and did not intend to be a Stage Mom. (Though I can tell you that the soldier drummer boys get paid $30 a night for the 15 minute show, auditions are held at the end of September -- requiring a short sight-reading of the show music and a brief piece to demonstrate skill, and the minimum age of the drummers is 13 though I have no doubt that will change once they see the cutest, littlest soldier drummer boy of them all). Drummer Boy Matthew can be viewed (along with other holiday photos) at http://mikenjennymartin.home.comcast.net