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.