Doing vs. Getting it Done

**now a word from our sponsors: the entrepreneur in my husband thinks some of you will actually click on these ads to the right and make me some money. i love how all the ads have something to do with poop. awesome. as you were.

motherhood is the hardest job i've ever had. there are days i wish i was "working" again or back at school taking final exams and writing essays. (why did i ever complain? it was all a piece of cake compared to this) and you know what i've slowly come to realize. just because i have these thoughts, doesn't make me a bad mother. the reality of motherhood is not at all what you see in commercials and movies, where mothers are emanating this glow while breastfeeding (it sucks) or playing on a see-saw with their kids (makes me wanna vomit). those hallmark/kodak moments definitely happen, but not every single day.

i used to feel an enormous amount of guilt about ever feeling ungrateful about my situation, because i made this choice. and i know it's better for my kids. i should feel lucky that my husband's income allows me to stay at home. but motherhood is a lot of work. it requires one to be incredibly nurturing, patient, warm, and giving. i love my kids to death, but i do not love every single minute of every single day that is devoted to their care. i spend much of the day alone, cleaning up and caring for my girls - making sure they're entertained, clean, clothed, fed. kids are attached to your hip, they think they live in a restaurant, barking out orders for pasta or pizza, make mess after mess, demand a lot, and without fail or consistency, cover you in snot, vomit, or shit.

not to mention the fact that it's hard to never have an uninterrupted conversation let alone carry an adult conversation. it's hard to go anywhere for more than 2 hours with kids and when they're with you, they want and need your constant attention (mom i'm bored. mom i'm tired of walking. mom i'm hungry.) sometimes the worst is the day to day routine and monotony of it all. it's the same day over and over. wake up at 7am. make breakfast. feed kids. clean up. play. learn. make lunch. feed kids. clean up. pray for nap. make a snack. feed kids. play some more. mediate fights. make dinner. feed kids. clean up. bath. read bed-time stories (after the 139th book, you inevitably get asked, can you read me one more book?) put kids to bed by 8pm. my 13 hour days with them can be brutal. it's hard to be around anyone for that long.

and just because i'm busy, doesn't mean i'm not utterly bored. some days, i just gotta get out of the house. often times, i get through the day by turning mundane tasks into major events just to kill the time and have something mildly interesting to do. errands become momentous undertakings. i'm proud to say, i've totally lowered the bar of expectations. a day in which laundry is done or the kids' beds are made is a triumph. the highlight of a day becomes a trip to the grocery store (you know all about my love for costco) or farmer's market, going to the gross germ-infested indoor mall playground, going to the park, taking dina to ballet, soccer, latvian school and soon farsi school (oh my).

but i have to remind myself that kids are little for a very short time. my baby just started kindergarten. it seems like yesterday, my husband and i were living in philly in the middle of winter 2 days before D was born and arguing about whether we would walk the 2 blocks home from the hospital after i give birth, or have him pick dina and me up in a car with the car seat. (never let a man decide these things: i could barely pee let alone walk after pushing out a watermelon through my you know what). i read an article a few years ago that mentioned a truism that all parents should heed. the author wrote, "i wish i had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less." i have to cherish this time together, the hugs and kisses, even the poop (ok i think that's taking it too far) and 'can i sleep with yous,' because pretty soon they'll be teenagers and want nothing to do with me and i'll be left spending 12 hour days with my husband. insert commercial-like image: i'm glowing and euphoric as i sit next to my husband and look into his eyes for hours on end. ha!

Till Running Do Us Part

about once a month, i engage in some serious whining. this complaining is usually directed at my husband. this month's topic: my husband's lack of romance. i can't remember the last time he made plans to take me out on a date. against people's court's advisement, i take matters into my own hands. i line up babysitters (the g-units), make reservations, do my hair, and tell my husband we have plans friday night.

**note to guys: just because you marry the girl, doesn't mean you have to stop writing poems (he is going to kill me), surprising us with chocolate on our cars while we're in LSAT class, accompanying us to the movies (oh that stopped 24 hours after we said "i do")

T: "honey let's see a movie tonight."

A: "i don't do movies."

T: *blank stare*

back in high school, i was the go to person for relationship advice. i doled out relationship advice like it was my job. carolyn hax who? shiiyet. i had zero experience of course, unless you count my boyfriends in kindergarten, 3rd and 4th grade. as a persian girl, growing up with traditional persian parents, i was forbidden to associate let alone date the opposite sex. that didn't stop me of course. funny anecdote: i remember being on 3 way (coolest invention ever at the time) with a boy and one of my friends. we asked him for his list of superlatives (i.e. best looking in our grade, best body etc.) and guess what? yours truly was voted for sexiest voice on the telephone and most likely to xerox her butt. *applause* thank you. thank you. it's such an honor. [please note: i did gain some redemption 9 years later by actually winning best smile in law school (probably my proudest moment)] so why is it that this self-proclaimed relationship guru is having difficulty in her own love life?

in an effort to shut me up, my husband took matters into his own hands yesterday. want to know what his idea of doing something romantic entails? why it's going out for a run together. with the kids. and where does the romance fit in exactly? he pointed out: jogging side by side of course. silly me. call me old-fashioned, but i would be perfectly content with some flowers (orchids please), chocolate (i'm not picky as long as it aint dark), a massage, 20 minutes of hair-playing, or a hallmark card that reminds me of my awesomeness. running together makes me feel anything but romantic. in fact, it has the opposite effect. in my mind, i'm cursing him and counting down the minutes until this "quality time together" is over. my husband loves to run. he would do a monthly marathon if he had an understanding wife that could tolerate all the training time away from the family. he even bought the above hideous shoes. that's how much he loves running.

so back to yesterday's love affair... i feel way too much pressure going for a run with my husband. i just can't keep up and i feel like i'm holding him back. oh and he thinks i'm some kind of superwoman that can run and simultaneously carry on a conversation. hello! i have asthma. know your family's medical history doc. so after mile 2, he says to me, "okay i'm going to run another few miles and meet you back at the car." wtf? that doesn't sound very romantic. dropping me like a hot potato. i told you i cramp his running style. but i wanted to kiss him right then. soap opera style. i was going to get to turn around, take a leisurely stroll back to the car, listen to my ipod and enjoy some peace and quiet.

T: "sounds good A, see you soon, take your time" and he stops me dead in my tracks.

A: "here you go honey. (he passes the jogging stroller reins to me-mind you there is 80 pounds worth of heavy cargo inside) if you're going to walk back, you might as well get some exercise and take the kids with you."

T: *blank stare* (i'm really good at those.)

oh and guess what loverboy told me this morning, all bright-eyed and bushy tailed:

A: "i think i'm going to do the marine corps marathon in october."

T: taking imaginary gun and pointing it at my head. gulp. "oh, really?"

A: "you know what that means. lots of training. it's only 2 months away."

T: "sounds great babe. i'm sure the kids will love training with you."

A: *blank stare* (now that's a first)

Never Trust a Ho

you know you're in serious trouble, when your five year old (going on 15) asks the following questions:

1. D: what does "untouched" mean? (referring to the song "untouched" by the veronicas)

T: uhh let me demonstrate. come here D. i use my index finger to touch her shoulder. you're now touched, but i'm untouched. get it?

2. D: what is a ho mommy and why shouldn't i trust a ho? (referring to that song, the title escapes me, where the singer says, "don't trust a ho, never trust a ho...shush girl, shut your lips, do the hellen keller and talk with your hips. yeah. real classy. totally awesome lyrics. ha!)

T: a hoe is a dangerous gardening tool D. one should be very careful when using a hoe. *innocent look. gulp. is she going to buy this???"*

D: scrunches face, raises her eyebrows, and gives me a confused look that tells me she'll accept that answer...for now anyways. phew.

3. D: when are you going to download boom boom pow for me?

T: soon D. soon.

4. D: why do girls have boobs and boys don't?

T: uhhh, good question, ask your dad, he's the doctor.

5. D: daddy, did you have a girlfriend before mommy? what did you do with her? (man i wish i was there for alex's response to the latter question. )

i know i am largely to blame. but if you were forced to listen to the itsy shitsy spider, old fucking mcdonald had a farm, mary had an ugly ass lamb, and row row row your damn boat for the past 5 years of your life, you'd resort to 99.5 too. i promise. but my kid is too damn smart for her own good. she is a beast at picking up song lyrics. and she is not just singing for the sake of singing. girlfriend is paying attention to the lyrics, dissecting them, analyzing them, and writing op ed pieces and shit.

looks like i'm going to have to whip out the We Sing CDs again and put a jolly old smile on my face and sing along to hush little baby (while simultaneously daydreaming about daddy buying ME a diamond ring.)

good bye rihanna, black eyed peas, madonna, and miley (kidding! ok fine. i'll admit that 7 things i hate about you song is kinda catchy. shame on me.) i'll reevaluate in a few years.

Get In My Belly

sorry i've been MIA lately. i've been busy traveling, gaining weight, and spending time with my family. i have gained 7 pounds this summer. add to that the 10 pounds of baby weight i never lost giving birth to A. you do the math. and i'm starting to notice it in places other than my ever expanding mid-section. i do double takes when i see myself in the mirror. woah check out that girl's double chin. wait. that's me. my skinny chicken legs are still in tact, but now i'm sporting some serious purdue chick thighs. my husband is constantly pulling on my former stick-man arms and there is at least an inch of fat in his grasps. and god, please forget about my prayers for a J-Lo ass. i was just kidding. (and what i really meant was J-Lo's ass pre Marc Anthony and kids, not preggo J-Lo ass) i want my flat ass (the one my asian friends and i would lament about in high school) back please. and can't i just once be like those bitches who gain weight in their boobs?

i'm growing old. losing weight has become a battle. my 114 pound high school days are over and i need to get a grip. i am a lone soldier fighting an army of ice-cream, cakes, tarts, cookies, heath bars, kit kats (or as D likes to call them:kitty kats), lindt chocolates, sohan (persian version of brittle), whip-cream, flan, creme brule, tiramisu, brownies, batter, etc.

but i'm sick and tired of retreating. it's one thing to take over my belly territory, but when you start fucking with my face and neck, oh i am going to go ape shit. insert 3- finger-Z snaps. a grit. and a 360 degree circular neck roll. shiiyet.

i am going to get my life in order. i'm going to figure out what i want to do: law, teach, write, open up a stand at my farmer's market, go back to school, dance, become a model (ha! just making sure you're paying attention), what have you. i'm going to stop turning to sweets as a quick fix or temporary fulfillment from what's really missing in my life right now. i'm going to make my husband fall in love all over again with that "persian princess" who was driven, ambitious, and skinny (aka smokin hot) in undergrad.

The Poop Scoop

the pic that resembles "i'm constipated" best

i hope you're not getting too tired of reading about poo. but lately my life revolves around it. no really! A has developed a major problem with constipation and pounds of blueberries, blackberries, cherries, and plums have failed to work their magic. a typical conversation between me and my husband goes as follows:

A: hi honey.

T: good morning darling.

A: how are you my love?

T: i'm well. just enjoying my time with our beautiful, perfect kids.

A: you're the model mother and wife. i miss you. i want to take you out to dinner and a movie and shower you with expensive gifts. i'm the luckiest guy in the world.

HA! here is the real exchange between us:

A: hey.

T: grunt.

A: how's A? did she poop yet? what has she had to eat? (in an oh so accusing tone)

T: food.

A: make sure she eats lots of fruit. no milk. no pasta. no bread. no bananas.

T: check. check. and check. salute.

A: keep me posted.

T: ok. bye.

3 hours later:

T: finally! she pooped!

A: thank god! poor thing. what did it look like?

T: it was huge. and hard. and long. and i can't believe that thing came out of her cute little butt.

A: what's for dinner?

T: i have really bad reception here. i can't hear a word you're saying. see ya. byeeee.

end scene.

Alex, recipient of the world's best hubby award, took care of the kids for 4 days straight so that i could spend some quality time with my relatives visiting from iran. during those 4 days of utter bliss (did i just admit that out loud?), he got A off the bottle cold turkey and insisted that her milk intake was contributing to the constipation. i was skeptical. my husband is an ER doctor. he deals with stab/gunshot wounds and heart attacks on a daily basis. was he talking out of his ass again? (pun intended.)

finally on the last day of alex's mr. mom stint, A got very constipated. and i felt slightly vindicated. i was thinking to myself, "see, i'm not a bad mom, it happened on your watch too buddy!" in any case, it's time to take her to the doctor. my family (half are doctors and the other half think they are) insists that i should give her a spoonful of olive oil each day. (we tried this method and it really works! we gave her a few spoonfuls of honey and snuck in a spoonful of olive oil - she didn't even notice) i suppose it's better than a daily dose of enema for now.

my daughter is off the bottle at the tender age of 25 months. but i hope this doesn't hinder my future dreams of her becoming a supermodel (afterall, she is 95% in height - we just need to work on the 95% in weight impediment) as she now refuses to drink milk in any other form.

Shake that Healthy Butt, Baby Got Back...

okay. so one of you readers has the evil eye. cheshm shod! in other words, my little girl was jinxed and i guess it's partly my fault for posting the picture of her adult-like poop in all its glory in my last post. last night was one of the roughest mommy nights of my life. i was up every hour tending to my severely constipated child. there is nothing sadder than seeing your child suffer and in so much agony because of a big, hard boulder of a poop refusing to come through. we had to administer a home made enema at 4am to no avail.

so this morning, i had to wrestle A into the car seat. (my brother-in-law advised that i should refrain from using the kids' first names to save them from future embarrassment and isolation.) she refused to sit on her bum. at wegmans, she refused to sit inside the grocery cart (and the cart with the kid-mobile attached to it didn't sway her either). clearly, her rectum was in some serious pain. i get an email from alex to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy, that will require another butt insert of sorts. i pray like i prayed before taking the LSAT, the MD bar, and right before giving birth to D and A. please god. please let A poop so i don't have to put anything up her cute little butt and further traumatize her.

we waddle our way up to the pharmacy counter and are told it will take 15 minutes to fill the prescription. we meander through wegmans in a sleepy stupor to kill time and as luck would have it - happen to stumble upon the diaper aisle, when A lets out a loud shriek, followed by a whimper, "mommy poo poo." there's no mistaking the smell. my baby has finally let out the hardest and biggest poop of her life. right then and there, i grab a bag of pull-ups, tear it open and remove one to replace A's diaper. there's no time for wipes. i am changing my baby's diaper right then and there in the middle of the grocery store and i don't care whose watching or how unsanitary it may appear.

seconds later, A is back to her normal, jovial self. we pick up the prescription anyway for future reference and make our way to see the "choo choo." needless to say, i have never been so happy to see and smell my kid's poop. although, i must admit, after just having changed A's 4th poopy diaper of the day, the jubilation is starting to wear off.

on a serious note, don't you think my kid could totally be a butt model?

Holy Shit!

this post should come with a PG-13 disclaimer. i'm sorry for the graphic nature of the above picture. please do not be offended, but this is the reality of a persian mommy doing her best to potty-train her 2 year old.

this morning i woke up with a mission: to begin potty-training anais. i felt her daily announcements of her farts and number 2s were her way of letting me know, "mommy i'm ready to be a big girl now and this full diaper is cramping my style." so...when she woke up this morning, i took off last night's diaper and let her roam free. picture a baby chimpanzee. a few minutes later, i heard dina and anais in the bathroom together. dina had to go #2 and encouraged her little sister to do the same in her princess toilet. i thought to myself, how cute, the sisters are bonding in the bathroom over poo. two minutes later i hear dina yell, "mom anais pooped on the toilet! come look!!"

i run from the kitchen (where i was in the middle of making chocolate-chip pancakes) with so much pride and excitement - finally my daughter had taken her first successful dump in her little toilet. i'm skipping in the hallway, singing and clapping, "yayyy ana...good job ana!!" and arrive at the doorway of the bathroom to find the above monstrosity.

clearly i had misunderstood. anais pooped ON the toilet, not IN the toilet. (thank god it didn't happen on my beloved persian rug.) needless to say, this is not going to be very easy or pleasant. we are definitely not getting a dog anytime soon. how do dog owners do it? do they really get desensitized with picking up poo? does it become second -nature? *shaking head* in any case, anais is now rocking her stage 6 pampers cruiser diaper and i have no intention of potty-training her in the near future. anais can be ready, but i'm certainly not.