Neighborhood Mom Wars.

My neighborhood has a great Mom's group. It's organized through the school, sort of, and groups moms together who have kiddos starting kindergarten the same year.

The moms who started this group had stamina and initiative! They duly appointed a membership chair, an activity chair, and a class chair for each year. When I saw all these chairs, I assumed this group of ladies met with gavels and wigs. They just seemed so organized!

And then it came time to start scheduling playdates and sending emails. Well, in addition to stamina and initiative, most of these mom-preneurs also had more than one child. The disorganization drove me mad. And so, with the help of a fellow one-childer, I usurped the power from the 2017 class chair and took over the running of it.

Why do I do things like this? I HAVE NO IDEA. It's like that time in grad school when I swore I would never be our team's president and then BAM, I was the president. Or that time when I said I'd work part-time and then BAM, I'm working more than my full-time counterparts and getting paid less. These things find me like water finds a valley. It's inevitable and I love/hate myself for not ever learning to get out of the ditch.

Anway, back to my little Mom's group. Things were just fabulous for a year or so. I had a spreadsheet with potential playdates all backed up to The Cloud, an alphabetized list of moms and a neat and tidy email roster that made it simple to add new moms to the festivities.

Today, I got an email from a fellow mom asking where the evite for this week's Mom's Night Out was. "Did I miss it?" she asked.

Nope, she didn't miss it. I missed just how easy it is to do things like keep organized electronic files for inane things like playdates and mom drinks when you have one child who is not yet three. This was my mistake and I fully own up to dropping this responsibility like a bored baby in a high chair.

This is not what I want to write about, though. What I want to write about is The Class of 2019 Moms. You see, with the baby, I am also in the Class of 2019 group and organized electronically on their emails and evites. Their calendar is packed. They are killing it. Their emails usually include a link to a seasonally appropriate pinterest craft you and your baby will be doing together at said playdate. I've never been to a 2019 playdate (like I'm spending time on those when the kid can't talk yet), but I've heard the Halloween one was a bountiful fall harvest complete with bales of hay and mounds of pumpkins.

I don't wish these poor, poor girls ill-will. No, what I wish them is reality. Right now, they must all be six weeks pregnant or in heated discussion with their spouses about having a second. Assuming this is the case, and let's just assume it is, I want to be their Ghost of Christmas Future. I want to drop my three-year-old off on a day like today when he's got particularly bad cases of "NOOO!" and "I WILL NOT do [whatever I just said], and "Where's DA-DDDDDYYY?!!!" Then, I want to send them an email about pinterest crafts and organic baby food, just like the 2015 moms wanted to send me when I got all Excel organized on them.

Alas, the 2015 moms never did this and neither shall I. They watched from afar at our overzealous little group and just waited for our stomachs to start popping again and only then did the smirks also start showing.  "Bless your hearts!" I am sure they all thought, that sentiment laced with razors and meaning the exact opposite of it's literal definition here in The South.

Don't worry 2019 Moms, I am hear to pass the torch along for those pain-in-the-ass 2021 Moms. Those poor girls. They haven't even been through labor yet! I mean, really.

Where's My Wife?

A few weeks ago my husband asked me about the road not traveled. "Do you ever wish you'd married for money?"

"No," I responded a little too curtly and quickly, "I wish I'd married a lazy slug with no ambition so I could conquer the world while he stayed home with the kids and the house."

"Huh," was the response I heard back.

Seriously, ladies, do these guys know how amazing it is to have a wife? We are relatively equal here in my house. My husband is a great dad and does more than his fair share of parenting, but I really would like a wife. I'm tired of the [relatively] useless knowledge I've retained and skills I've developed.

I know if we have milk, orange juice, and laundry detergent without looking. I know what we will be having for dinner and can get it on the table in under 10 minutes and/or prepare it with a baby at my feet and a three-year-old begging for more Mike the Knight. I can locate a missing sock 90% of the time from the labyrinth of my son's drawer. I know the passwords to our banking accounts and when to pay bills. I know when the cleaning lady comes. I know the cleaning lady's name. I know where the key is that opens the gate to the backyard. I know how to change the time the sprinkler comes on. I know that you can change the time the sprinkler comes on. I can use a screwdriver or hammer or pliers to clean out the lint trap when it starts getting funky. I can plan a baby birthday party and provide a POV on a Coke marketing plan simultaneously! I can cram a full-time job into three days so I can be at home two days and cram seven days in there during my down time.

I'm exhausted. Anyone else? Where's my wife?

Choosing A Little Boy's Style.

Dear Me Of Three Years Ago,

A few months before the first baby was born, you asked your husband a serious question: "What do you think his style should be?"

Maybe you were overcompensating for your tutu-less future, but let me state clearly: YOU KNEW NOTHING.

At the time, your husband laughed and suggested you focus on keeping the baby alive before stressing about his look. Sage advice, and although you agreed, you did not ever want to be the mom whose little boy was decked out in licensed clothing and broaching the style topic was meant to gain alignment against this hideous toddler fashion choice. You judged the moms when you saw kiddos sporting too much Disney. "Yech," you'd think to yourself, "how do they let their child outside in that?"

Three years from today you will find yourself trying to convince a three-year-old to go to swim class. He is wearing Mickey Mouse swim shorts, a Hulk shirt, Spider-Man socks, Avenger sneakers and caps the ensemble off with a Superman hoodie towel hanging from his little head.

This child is yours.

Yes, Spring 2015 is the season of superhero style. You own every single superhero shirt Old Navy sells. You own sneakers, socks, undies, and outerwear. You own bathrobes, slippers, PJs, blankets, and bedding. You own cups, plates, and utensils and none of this happened by accident. I'd love to tell you that I don't know where all this licensed paraphernalia came from, but that would be an egregious and traceable lie, as I bought it all!

Here's what you don't yet know: little boys have a general disdain for wearing clothes and a boundless passion for superheroes.

I see your eye twitching and hear you calmly explaining that your little boy will always get dressed easily and not care about superheroes since you don't know the first thing about them and are relatively certain your husband doesn't either.

I'll squash that belief. Every boy loves superheroes, some just don't tell their wives until their is a littler boy around to share in the fun.

Your future house is a sea of licensed artifacts because they are the only leverage you have in the game that is about to become your life. They will protect you from battles around getting dressed, eating, and going to sleep. Yes, these sound like basic tasks in which every human easily engages, but just you wait!

So you see that little boy over there in the Superman shirt and LIGHT-UP (Egads!) Bat-Man shoes? His mom is simply happy he is not running through the mall clad only in Spider-Man undies.

Good luck and spend some of that glorious quiet infant time reading up on Captain America!

Yours Truly,
Annie of 2015

What Are The Tiny Holes In The Middle Of My T-Shirt?

Today I looked down at my shirt and saw another cluster of tiny holes centered just above the button on my jeans. "WTF!? I screamed inwardly while shifting my weight around so no one else in the meeting would notice my unseemly appearance.

The origin of these little holes in cotton shirts, the crop circles of domesticity, has eluded me. Eluded me that is, until today.

When this first started, I thought it was caused by some strange Texas bug that I'd rather not know exists. After a thorough search of the internet and exposure to photos I can never "unsee" I was pleased to learn no such gun-slingin', boot-wearin', cotton-eatin' vermin exist.

I developed a new hypothesis that involved the washer and/or dryer. Yes, I now realize some other datapoints, such as other household members experiencing the same thing or crop circles found in other pieces of clothing and fabrics, would have strengthened this hypothesis but rage clouded my scientific approach. You know what I did, though? I bought a new washer and dryer. Not for this reason alone, but it was a strong supporting point.

Today, with bugs and faulty appliances removed from the equation, I wondered if I am just the first in the world to emit a cotton-disintegrating hormone from my belly-button. Before phoning The New England Journal of Medicine, I took to Google. What I found made me wish I was a freak of nature.

Turns out, this problem is not mine alone. Many people, especially women with small children, find navel crop circles in cotton shirts.

This strange phenomenon occurs when two hard surfaces rub against your t-shirt. In most moms' cases, the hard surfaces are the button of her pants and THE KITCHEN COUNTER. These little holes are now more than another ruined shirt. They are scientific evidence of my unfair plight.I spend too much time in the kitchen. Oh, and this is not fun "let's experiment with cooking" or "I found a great new cookie recipe!" time. This is time spent making meals that will never be eaten, engaging in verbal battles that will never be won, and cleaning messes that will never go away.

I'd rather be barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen than up against a counter that is destroying my sense of self-worth and wardrobe at the same time. Thanks navel crop circles. I wish I'd never solved your mystery.

Mediums and House Concerts.

Several weeks ago I went to a medium. Despite my general skepticism when it comes to things I cannot see, Long Island Medium has made me a believer and, more than anything, I wanted to hear from my friend who died four years ago. There is still rarely a day that goes by that I don't think of her in some way and, of course, with my son named for her, this will be the case for the rest of my life.

I was incredibly disappointed when she didn't arrive. My grandfather did, and while it was fun to hear from him, I desperately wanted that last conversation my friend and I never had. Oh sure, we had a last conversation, and looking back I know there was something profound about it, but it still ended like this:

Me (walking past her desk on a Friday afternoon): "We're heading over to Jack's. Come meet us when you're done."
Her: "I'm going to the airport. Remember? I'm going to New Orleans."
Me: "Oh yeah; you told me that like two minutes ago, didn't you?"
Her (laughing): "Yep."
Me: "Ok. Have fun! See you next week."

And that was it. There was no goodbye, just a phone call 72 hours later.

I thought the medium was the way to closure you can never have in this situation. I thought I'd hear that life, if you will, is pretty darn good up in heaven. I thought I'd laugh with her again. I thought for 30 minutes it might feel like she never really left. I thought she'd show up, but she didn't. Not then anyway.

This weekend we went to a house concert. This makes me sound much more hip than I am so lest you start imagining me making my own cheese and honey over here, picture someone's living room filled with a mish-mash of chairs and a lady with a guitar serenading us at the front. This type of event is not the typical way I'd spend an evening, but we had a babysitter and an invite so I went along with it.

Toward the end the singer told us her next song was about a funeral she attended where she and her friends could not help themselves from inappropriately laughing because they didn't know what else to do with their grief. The song told the story of losing a dear friend unexpectedly, feeling badly about laughing through her funeral but believing the inappropriate response was a sign her friend would live on.

It took less than 20 seconds of that song to transport me back to my own friend's funeral. I saw the casket, heard the eulogy, and listened to the priest. I looked down and didn't dare look at my husband.

I could only think about her and to avoid melting into a puddle on the lovely floor in front of me, I focused on the math. "Four years," I thought, "has it been that long?"

To remove myself further from emotion, I began calculating the exact date. It was a complex equation involving the date of her funeral with where I was when I heard the news and all the days and events in between. There was the drive back home, the inability to dress myself, the work-sponsored grief counselor, the heavy reliance on packaged goods for calories, the arrival of out-of-town friends, dinners, dinners, drinks, and the funeral day itself. When I emerged, I was fairly confident that day was the anniversary. I whipped out my phone to check a calendar. My husband nudged me and strongly suggested with his eyes that I put my phone away, but I couldn't. I was on a mission.

It was the day.

She was there! It would be just like her to show up at a random house concert to say, "Hey, I'm ok. What are you doing at this house concert??"

So now, I own a CD with a song about a funeral and know my friend is laughing almost as hard as me about house concerts and encouraging me not to remember the casket, but the bottle of champagne six of us shared at the end of our own funeral day.

I Was Supposed To Have Girls.

I was supposed to have girls.

I love my boys, but I was supposed to have girls.

I would not have it any other way, but I was supposed to have girls.

This assumption comes not from a desire for princesses, pink, or peace; but rather, from the frightening realization that I am not trained in boy. For 35 years I dutifully avoided any fact or event that would be useful in the raising of boys. I say dutifully because I have three brothers. When they chased and ran and tumbled, I played with Barbie. When we went to sporting events, I read a book in the stands. When they spouted facts about baseball and football, I checked out until the conversation was over. When they played poker, I went upstairs.

This is not an insurmountable problem, but it is one with a steep learning curve.

"Mommy, who is Iron-Man when he's not in his costume?" 
"Mommy, why is the Joker a bad guy?"
"Mommy, can we wrestle?"

"Mommy, why is the Hulk almost naked?"

"Mommy, can we play chase?"

"Mommy, let's play catch!"
"Mommy, I would like a story about Spider-Man, The Green Lantern, Iron-Man and Christmas. In it, Spider-Man is sad." (Character traits must be accurate and the plot must develop slowly to its climax and then end happily. Any probing questions such as, "Why is Spidey sad?" are met with a "I don't know. Tell the story.")

I am ill equipped for life with boys. I was prepped for Barbie's Dreamhouse, Babysitter Club reading sessions, and the Care Bears. Instead, I have the children my brothers were supposed to create. If there is any justice in the world, all three of them will end up with little girls who prefer cute shoes to baseball cleats.

My silver lining is that I am learning and I've always reveled in new knowledge. I know why Bruce Wayne became Batman and that Iron-Man is Tony Stark.  I know how to wrestle safely on the couch. I can play a good game of Chase that leaves everyone in hysterics. I can catch a ball like a JV softball player. I can take random plot elements and weave a short story together on the spot. (Turns out Spider-Man was sad because he heard Santa had been kidnapped by Juggernaut and so he enlisted his superhero friends to save Christmas.)

So while I will have to borrow my brothers' future girls when I feel like some shoe shopping, I will spend the rest of my life learning about the male topics I worked so hard to avoid and end up a bit more well-rounded than I aimed. 

Meanwhile, I will keep Wikipedia ready to go. Today from the shopping cart he asked, "Mommy, who is Captain America when he's not in his costume?"

"Steve Rogers," I answered once the Captain America page loaded and we both smiled, happy to finally know.

The Second Changes Everything.

There are thousands of posts written about the difference between life with one child and life with two children. Most of these demonstrate, in a self-deprecating manner, all the ways the unlucky second child does not get quite the same care the first received.  I can tick off 80% of the differences on each BuzzFeed or BabyCenter list and laugh through tears at their honesty.

My first was fed homemade organic fruit, vegetable, and chicken purees; my second is sometimes placed on the floor at snack time to forage for food.

Our house was thoroughly baby-proofed for the first; we rely on my three-year-old to alert us if my second one is heading for the stairs.

Naptime was a sacred ritual requiring a quiet, darkened room for my first; my second can sleep in the back of a Costco cart if necessary.

I brought my first to the doctor if he had a fever for more than 12 hours; I didn't bring my second until he'd been coughing for two months.

These scenarios make me squirt my wine out my nose when I consider how Three Years Ago Me would react if she saw the future. Surprisingly, I ran into her a few weeks ago at lunch.

We bravely took our children out to dine and hid in a corner where food-throwing and screams of, "No!!" and "I don't wanna eat that!" would go unnoticed. Next to us was a couple with a baby. I had a chance to watch them for a few minutes while we waited for our food and my husband took our three-year-old to a grassy knoll, concrete pad, or empty parking lot to burn off some energy. They could have flown to the moon for all I knew.

Anyway, I knew from my non-creepy, innocuous observation that parenting was new to the couple. Their baby's carseat had a rain cover to protect her from the day's light sprinkle. My baby had a thin blanket thrown over him to absorb/protect.

They both looked a bit shocked to find themselves at their table with a baby. The sheen of their pre-baby life baby hadn't yet turned to a matte gray. I was toting the parental badge that arrives from Amazon when your child turns two as well as a general air of defeat and exhaustion. My old life wouldn't remember me if it saw me.

I heard the parents talking about work; it seemed that they were both lawyers but she wasn't working anymore. "Uggggggg," I thought to myself, remembering that awful time when I was flailing, trying to get a handle on how being a Mom fit in with my life, "I do not envy her."

After our meal, we started a conversation with them because our babies were smiling at each other. We had only been chatting for a few minutes when the mom asked, "Because he's your second, are you much more relaxed about germs?"

I looked at the baby. He was gnawing the table. The germ-laden table (I never wiped down) in Dallas (a city which recently made national news for Ebola). Then I laughed. "Yes," I answered, "I am."

I have never loved my sweet second baby more. Because of him, I am Elsa on the damn mountaintop letting it all go! I know why she whips here hair out and dons a thin, sultry outfit in an ice storm. She just doesn't care anymore. Wow! This is liberating!

My first could moo and quack by his age. My second can't, but I'm confident he'll figure it out before the SAT.

My first drank brand-name formula. My second seems to love Target's brand and will outweigh his brother soon despite the two-year gap.

My first was sleep-trained and on a strict schedule at 12 weeks. My second rarely sleeps through the night but he is the happiest baby on the block.

My first tried new foods when BabyCenter suggested them. My second gets anything I can find in the fridge and has never refused anything.

Sweet little bug, thank you for making me relax a bit. I know the time and attention equation is off between you and your big brother, but in return you get a Mommy who feels more and more like herself every day.  I would never have believed another baby would bring me back there.

So there you have it, folks. The biggest difference between your first and second child is that your second makes you feel like you again.

There he is! And I have no idea what he's into. Tacks? Knives? I'm sure it will be fine.