Let Him Be Right.

The first night Luca was home from the hospital, I thought I would lose my mind. Sleep deprived. Sore. Curled into a recliner with pillows and blankets and pacifiers and a baby whose red faced shrieked to me in rage, "You are fucking this up!"

She wouldn't latch. Hadn't nursed fully as far as I knew since the one time some strange nurse turned a bright light on over my hospital bed at some unearthly hour and man-handled my breast to get her attached. Here I was at home with no nurse and no bright light and no one who knew what to do and my baby would only cry. She cried and cried and her face was red and her arms were so skinny, my little bird, and I sobbed in that uncontrollable heaving way so many sleep-deprived and hormone-flooded new moms have experienced.

Through fat tears, my husband's face grew closer. His hands lifted and repositioned our new baby. He helped me latch her and gently rubbed at her chin to get her to suck and before I knew it my baby was eating. Eating, which meant she was not crying. Eating, which meant no more shriek to remind me I was clueless and a brief respite from feeling like a caged wild mama bear whose cub is on the other side of the gate begging me for help.

That moment where my husband stepped in and took control and knew just what to do to help didn't solve all our problems. Breastfeeding my daughter was one of the hardest things I ever did. And the big lesson it taught me that night is that sometimes, in parenting, my husband really is right.

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There's a trend in the world of moms, to paint the men in our lives as less than us. Less capable. Less instinctual. Less smart. Less nurturing. Less skilled. Less of a parent.

We break them down into traits and characters. We tell ourselves and others that we're right and they are wrong. We tell them. We tell them in tears and in words, in passive aggressive behavior and in vitriolic words. We overstep them. We parent them because we seem to think they need it. As though we know better. As though by the virtue of being the mother we know; by virtue of being a man they can't possibly.

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We forget the power of those hopeless moments of desperation, a crying baby with fat tears and strained lungs from crying. Those moments when we're lost in our primal mama bear moments and through tears we see the same hands that helped guide our baby here, into our arms, guiding us together. Rubbing a newborn baby chin and silencing the desperation with calm.

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Out of the bath, wrapped in a warm blanket with wet hair and skin the color of apricots. Sitting on the bed, smoothing lotion over legs that keep growing, over toes with chipped polish and hands that now hold a pencil and expertly write her name and all the letters of the alphabet. We have these talks a lot, a routine we started when she was old enough to understand. This is yours, this body. This sacred land of soft skin and long eyelashes and feet that dance circles across my bedspread. Who is allowed to touch you? No one but me. Me and mommy and daddy, and only if you have to. Never if I say no. Who do you talk to if someone hurts you? Mommy. Or daddy. Grandma. A teacher. A police officer or a fireman.

"I have a scratch," she says, pointing. This body. This perfect little body folded into leggings and skirts and boots. Folded right now into a towel. This perfect little body over which I am smoothing lotion, lifting her wet hair to run my hands across her shoulders and down her arms. I freeze inside, but on the outside I am the calm in the storm.

A boy in her class. Lunchtime. A hand under the table and she moved away reflexively. A scratch and my brain feels on fire. She is five. He is too, or maybe six. I know enough. I know it's normal. I know that kids do these things and curiosity is the elixir of childhood. I know, also, of mugshots and headlines. Of children who are curious and grow to be men who steal innocence. Men who hurt. Who take childhood and twist it like an ugly nightmare. And this body. The same body that once unfolded from me like a lotus flower and slept on my chest heartbeat to heartbeat. My brain is on fire and it buzzes.

It's normal. It's probably harmless.

I will move her to another school. I will never let her leave my sight.

Instead: "Tell me what happened?"

A boy who touched her at lunch, from whom she pulled away. Told him not to do that. Told the teacher.

She did everything right, and sweet relief floods me, soaking through my veins. She did it right. She remembered our talks and she did it all the way we taught her.

We talk as the minutes pile up in the corner, going over what happened. Who he is. Does she sit by him in class? No. Did he get sent to the office? Yes. Is she ok? Yes.

She did everything right. We did everything right. He's five maybe. Maybe six. It's normal and it's still not ok.

Not to mama bear.

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Before I tuck her into her bed, wrap her in a Tinkerbell blanket with another pink blanket on top, I ask her if she wants to tell her daddy. She does.

She tells her daddy. A window of rage in his eyes, which he shutters quickly. His hand, again, under her chin. This time he looks in her eyes, holding her face, and he says, "You did everything right. And if that (fucking son of a bitch no-good kid) boy touches you again, you don't just tell him no."

My brain. On fire again. Is he for real?

"If he does that again, you grab the back of his head, push it down toward your leg, and land your knee square against his nose."

He's for real.

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She sleeps soundly. Her dreams, no doubt, of unicorns and fairies. She is safe. She is loved. She did everything right.

Downstairs, I approach the subject. I suggest calling her teacher. Making sure the boy isn't near her ever again in his natural-born life. Maybe he can be moved to another class? Maybe he can wear a straight jacket to keep his 'normal, curious' hands to his goddamned self? Maybe he's been expelled? I plan what to say next. What to do. How to be at work all day while simultaneously serving as her personal bodyguard and never leaving her alone with another boy ever again.

"She remembered," he tells me, "so you have to let it go. She did everything right, and if he touches her again she can knee him in the nose."

But I want to keep talking. I want to be sure she knows she did it right. It's not her fault. It's probably normal and probably benign and yet she can always say no. I wonder aloud at a meeting with the teacher. I wonder aloud at what more we need to talk about, to be sure she won't suffer some body-dysmorphic asexual side effect to the perv in kindergarten's actions. I wonder aloud and he stops me.

"You have to let it go. She's fine. She did it right and she will probably never bring it up again. If she does, you talk to her. You show her the best way to knee a guy in the nose. But until then, stop. Stop talking. Because it makes you feel better and you want to keep talking, but you talk and it makes it bigger and it grows until it's a Thing instead of just something that happened at school once and then she did everything right. Don't bring it up with her again. She talked to you now. She'll talk again if she needs to. Don't beat the subject to death to ease your own mind. For her sake, let it go."

And I listen. I listen because of the times I've wanted to be the nurterer and he knew the kids needed a "That sucks, but get over it" approach. I listen for the time I tried to talk to the kids about stranger danger and safety words and he interrupted and said, "If a stranger approaches, run. Yell and run and if you have to kick and punch. But first, you run." I listen because when the mama bear is in her cage and pacing and growling and wants to pull her cubs close but she can't because they are on the other side of the gate - - - those are the times papa bear teaches them how to climb the fence.

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I am a flawed mother. A flawed wife. But I love them fiercely and so does he. And I am so thankful for a husband who changed diapers and helped his wife breastfeed and smooths lotion over those same limbs that used to be exclusively ours but are now exclusively theirs. Sometimes my heart loses to his instinct, and in those times I'm so grateful for the instinct of a loving dad to guide them.

Love Tanked.

Perched on the edge of our big new tub, yoga pants rolled above my knees, I stretch one leg across to the far side, smoothing shaving gel over my legs. I'm careful with the razor; the two little bodies in the water have to be kept safe. I shave quickly, the swick swick swick of the blade againt my leg barely audible over splashing and giggling from my companions. I am utilitarian in my mission: make the most of these minutes while the kids are safely occupied in the tub and save a few minutes later when I take my own shower. They are anything but: merchildren of a wild sea, soap-bubble ice cream cone makers, Cinderella wiping the walls clean so she can get to the Ball and meet the Prince.

I am the laziest mom in the world. I am the most clever. I am a failure at prioritizing myself. I am Mother Earth.

Little bodies, slick and with a film of white bubbles on kneecaps and shoulder blades and under their chins. They acquiesce, standing still long enough for me to tousle their hair dry and wrap them, burrito style, in towels. I turn and they make a break for it, climbing up onto my bed and jumping, giggles and somersaults and wet towels and clean teeth and toes.

We read books. Sometimes I am patient with the inumerable questions and interruptions, small hands pointing details of the illustrations out to me. Sometimes I am bone tired, refusing any attempts at plot dissection or character analysis of Curious George. I mean, for fuck's sake---it says right there in the first two sentences of every damn tale that the damn monkey is curious. Must we revisit this each time?

Potty. Blankets. Kisses. Maybe a song (Mother Earth), maybe not (lazy).

The days are long and the nights are short. Other times, not so much. I fall asleep on the couch or I don't. I stay up too late, reading in silence because if I don't get a slice of quiet time with no one watching stupid movies (I Am Number 4????) and no one asking me for a snack or a book or a craft or to discuss some bill we need to pay or requesting some marital relations I will short circuit in a matter of days. The tell tale signs will include irrational loss of temper, profanity under my breath, and a clear realization that I'm being a huge ass + a complete lack of giving a shit about it.

Then later, from a dreamless sleep, a creak in the hallway and the light thump-thump of steps. A warm body - so warm -  climbing up next to me. Without rising fully into consciousness my arm raises, scooping up the radiant warmth and swathing my baby in my own blankets. My baby. My sweetest, purest flesh of my flesh. Her: warm belly, long hair, long legs, feet intertwining instantly with my legs, morning breath all night long. Him: shaggy mop, cheeks so soft, hands finding my arm or my face or my neck, breath like honey and milk.

I may think about moving them. Kicking them out. Tough love. Independence. Space.

Fuck tough love.

Fuck independence.

And space? The warm bodies and soft skin. The tiny snores and toes tucked under my knees and wide, warm palm on my cheek. Breath in. Breath out. How can they invade my space, when they are so much a part of me.

I used to worry that I was doing it all wrong. My husband, that dear and kind man, remembers the manuscript of parenting, lackidaisically reminding me that we should kick them out of our bed. I might agree. I might invite him to be the one to crawl out of that cocoon of cuddles and walk tired, fuzzy kids back to own rooms. I might just not comment, the morning light peeking in the bathroom window and lighting their apricot cheeks in golds and roses.

Fuck doing it all wrong. The night hours - those darkest hours of the day when the stars are pulled over the earth in a silken blanket and dreams dance behind heavy lids. The night hours matter too. We all need our love tank filled. We all need closeness and space, tucked toes and a warm palm on your neck, morning and milk-honey breath. Circulating the air, sharing atoms and oxygen and breaths and blankets. The love tank is emptied by long days of work and school. Rushed dinners. Early bedtimes to quash bad moods. The love tank is filled with couch cuddle puddles and ice cream runs in our pajamas and bath time with warm water and bubbles. By nighttime cuddles in shared dream-space. I might be doing it all wrong. We all might. Fuck doing it all right.

In the morning, the bathroom tile will be cold and the coffee timer has only a 45% chance of being set. There will be breakfast to figure out. Lunch to pack with nothing appealing to include in it and the freezer packs unfrozen and still in the backpack. Clothes to select. Socks to hunt down and shoes to put on and hair to brush. Someone will be running late or too tired or hungry enough for three breakfasts when time scarcely allows for one. There will be school drop off and commuting to work and long days. There will be a day's end that comes at least an hour later than you'd planned and a rushed dinner that contains nothing organic and at least one thing microwaved. Fantasize about indulgent grocery store trips when the cart brims with leafy greens and fruits of all kinds and organic free range chicken and then the beep of the microwave will end this reverie as you remember that you're out of milk and don't have coffee creamer for tomorrow morning's caffeine rush.

There's no such thing as doing it all wrong. Doing it all right? Same thing. You just do. You dress and you bathe and you feed and you stress and you love and love and love until your brain is abuzz and your heart is hot pink infected with all that love. You pretend to be sleeping when the kids sneak into bed, surreptitiously curling a blanketed arm over them to wrap them in your love bubble. You hope for the best. You hope you're doing something right. You see in the glow of the alarm clock their long lashes and sleep-swollen lips and you remember a time when they were brand new and you spent hours just watching them sleep. You hope to god you're not doing it wrong.

There is no right. There is no wrong. There is only a love tank, ready to fill and be filled.

Artistes.

This morning's crafty fun time involved a roll of butcher paper and my kids' first introduction to oil pastels.

I shit you not, this morning a commercial for laser hair removal made me cry. Not because I have an epic she-beard and I'm sensitive to the topic. Because of one little line in it, which I can't even remember word for word right now. But the gist was this:

Moms, need some time to yourself to recharge? Get laser hair removal.

And I found myself thinking, "If I could afford it, I'd totally get laser hair removal. JUST so I could have an hour of quiet that was all about me."

And then I cried.

And from the backseat, my carpool buddy said to me, "What's wrong mama? Why are you making that sad face?" and I was surprised because, truly, I thought for sure that I was hiding the tears. Stealth, silent, ninja tears like we moms get used to shedding. Tears that release that little bit of frustration or anger or sadness or just plain emotional overwhelmedness without alerting the mini-people that mama is seriously losing her shit.

I did the only thing you can do when caught mid ninja-cry. I played dumb, "What do...um...why do you ask Luca? What face?"

And, in the rearview mirror, her eyes scrunched up empathetically, she nodded her head and tilted it to the side and said, "Oh mama, it's ok to be sad sometimes. We all get frustrated. I know you love me even when you're mad."

The ninja-cry dropped from its perch among the ceiling beams with a HEE-YAAAAAAAA! and became real tears.

Because I lost my patience.

Because I was running late, again.

Because the shoes we just bought her a month ago no longer fit.

Because I would consider a laser 3 cm from my face if it meant an hour of quiet and someone focusing only on making me happy.

"Is it because you're gonna be late for work again? It's ok, mama. Grandma can walk me to school. No one cares if you're late to Kindergarten."

Because she forgot her backpack at Grandma's yesterday and I got mad at her for forgetting.

Because I don't even want to GO to f-in' work.

Because I need a date night with my husband. Preferably one that involves sleeping in the next day.

Because I miss so much, every day.

So I made a decision right there. Late to work be damned, I was going to stop by grandma's for the orphaned backpack, park down the street, and walk my kid to school. I was going to tell her with my words ("Luca, I AM going to be late to work. But you matter more.") and my actions. I was going to hold her hand the whole way from our car to the playground, then watch her run free to give an excited hug to her best school friend. I was going to stand on the edge of the playground watching my kid be a kid and enjoying every second of it.

When the bell rang, I walked with her and two friends over to the morning line up spot. I listened to the girls giggle together and soaked it in. "I love Justin Bieber!" one of her friends announced. "Are you gonna make him fall in love and marry you????" the other girls asked back, in excited little-girl voices full of laughter. "YES!" proclaimed the Future Mrs. Bieber. And they giggled and held hands.

Behind me, as I stood there waiting, I heard one mom say to another, "I saw you the other day! In Scottsdale!" The second mom asked, "Do you work up there?" And the first mom replied, "Oh GOD no! I was on the way to my plastic surgeon!"

And in front of me, three girls slipped pink and purple and sparkle and pony backpacks on little shoulders, giggling together and holding hands. I watched them walk into school and I wish I could say I had some mom-moment epiphany about creating a world where by the time my kid's a mom herself there aren't moms talking about plastic surgery at kindergarten drop off.

She may not be the boss tha pays my bills, but she looks Boss in that outfit.

But I didn't. Because not every I-had-a-shitty-mom-morning event wraps up neat and tidy, cue audience applause. Because I walked to the car contemplating how I can save every dime between now and whenever and find a way to be home more. Because I imagined a conversation in which I don't cower at the idea of telling my boss I need more flexibility and more time with my kids. Because I need more time with my kids, but damn if I wouldn't let some technician super-analyze my momstache if it meant an hour, just for me.

Learning to Let Them Go.

Last night before bed, Luca picked her outfit for the first day of kindergarten: a brown dress with pink polka dots and her new brown shoes. Rohan asked me to get his orange 'buttons' shirt, and I selected some new khaki shorts to go with it. I packed Luca's lunch, cutting her turkey sandwich ino a star and a letter 'L' and including a strawberry cupcake she chose at the grocery store. I scrawled 'Rohan K' on the inside of an old t-shirt and pair of shorts with a Sharpie and tied them into a bag with his name on the outside. Extra clothes for school, in case he has an accident. Luca's bag was packed with her purple pencil case and a towel for after-lunch rest time. Everything was ready to go.

We took a bath together, the three of us, washing the manes and tails of every My Little Pony in the house and also washing Luca and Rohan's new hairstyles. Hers: bangs. His: short and neat.

Before bed, Luca told me she was worried about kindergarten because even though she can count, "Sometimes I skip a number." I assured her it was ok, and that lots of kids skip numbers and she was goign to school so she could learn how to remember ALL the numbers when she counts. That seemed to satisfy her, and before she rolled over to close her eyes she smiled at me and told me she was excited to start school.

This morning both kids were still sleeping when I got out of bed, so I went and woke them by rubbing their back and telling them it was time for school. Luca jumped out of bed, excited to put on her pretty dress and take her new backpack to class. Mo was a little slower going, telling me several times that he didn't want to go to preschool. I got them downstairs, dressed, and sitting in front of Bubble Guppies so I could finish getting everything ready to go.

The morning was punctuated with Rohan's sadface, as he told me several times he didn't want to go to preschool. I didn't know what to say to him other than to fill him with platitudes about how preschool is super fun and he's going to make a lot of new friends and learn new things. It didn't work. He was curled on the recliner in a ball telling me he didn't want to go. Even Luca chimed in, telling him how she was worried about preschool but it ended up being so fun and she made lots of friends. He still wasn't convinced entirely.

We parked down the street from the elementary school, following a crowd of other parents as they led kids large and small to the playground to line up for their first day. Each of my hands held a tiny hand of one of my children, and if you think for a second I didn't feel the power of that moment you must never have met me.

We got to school a few minutes before the first bell, found the spot where Luca's class lines up in the mornings, and waited. I could tell Luca was nervous, and Rohan could too which made him nervous which in turn made ME nervous and on the verge of tears. We stood together in a cluster eyeing the other kids and their parents. I was trying to guess which kids would be the nicest and hoping my kid would be seated next to them, and Luca was probably admiring all the Hello Kitty backpacks jealously. Her teacher made her rounds, checking to be sure all the right kids were in her line and she knew how they were all to get home every day that week and I tried to look friendly by half-smiling at the other parents while behind my sunglasses my eyes nervously scanned the group of new kids and parents.

I leaned in close to her, feeling very sentimental as every ounce of mama love burned in my throat, and whispered into her cheek, "Luca, I'm so very very proud of you and school is going to be amaz--" and she cut me off. "Mom," she said impatiently, "your breath stinks like coffee." Sentimental moment over.

I wasn't sure how Luca would do when the time came to walk into the school with her class. After two years of preschool this is sort of old hat to her, but it was a different school and this is a new teacher and new classmates and new rules and a new schedule. Leading up to the first week, she was really excited, so we went with that and played up the excitement in the hopes it would pay off the first day. And while she was a bit nervous, clinging to my hand most of the morning, when the time came to kiss her good-bye she was ready to go.

We stood there, Mo and I, watching her walk away from us and into big kid school. She turned several times and waved, blowing kisses as we enthusiastically waved and blew kisses back. I snapped pictures through tears I'd held in until that moment, and as she passed through the doors and disappeared down the hall to her first day of Kindergarten, I turned with Rohan, took 4 steps across the basketball court, and was stopped cold by a wave of heavy tears. Rohan was looking at me sadly, so I scooped him into my arms as I cried, and he burrowed his head under my chin, his right cheek flat against my collarbone and his left arm stretched wide to pull me into a hug.

That moment? I will never forget it. And when I looked down into my son's big blue eyes, he was crying too. We stood there for a moment, holding each other together, then he walked beside me to the car holding my hand the whole way there.

The ride to preschool for Rohan's first day was quiet. My right arm was stretched into the back seat, and he held my right hand in both of his for the whole drive. We got there much too fast and before I knew it I was unbuckling Rohan's carseat and pulling his backpack out to rest it on his shoulders. Thankfully, his hesitation and nerves had calmed some and he didn't try to change my mind about leaving him in preschool that day. Because, I swear, if he'd asked me at that moment to let him stay home one more day I would have burrowed him to me and whisked him home so we could snuggle on the couch together for a whole day.

There wasn't much time for long sentimental good-byes once we got to preschool. Most of the kids were there already and the class was just sitting down for circle time. One of the high schoolers that works in the class came right over and greeted Rohan, taking his hand and leading him to his space on the rug. And suddenly, I had two kids in school. Just like that. Babies, done. Kids, here.

I knew I should leave, but I couldn't. I needed one more hug and kiss from my son. Needed to sniff his skin and feel the softness of his blonde hair and remind him to be good and kind and listen well. So I waited patiently for circle time to end and the kids to go wash their hands and I grabbed him and held him close to me for a kiss. And then, I watched him walk away and join the other kids at the little circular table for snacks.

I walked out alone, sat in my car, and let the tears come. I was crying from pride that a new phase of their lives is starting, and in equal measure from sadness that the last chapter is ending. No longer can I even pretend they are my babies. They are big kids now, with classmates and teachers and lunch bags and friends. They bring home pictures and classwork with their names scrawled across the top. They ask questions such as, "Mama, how does a car turn all the wheels the same at once?" (him) and, "Are whales mammals? Because I know that dolphins are and whales feed their babies milk too."

Learning to let them go and let them grow up is hard for me. I absolutely adore the people they are becoming. I beam at the praise from their teachers. I smile when I hear about new friends and eating in a cafeteria and recess and music class and share day. My throat tightens and my heart feels like it will burst as I witness them growing minute by minute into the little adults they will someday become.

This will be a big year. I'm trusting my kids to teachers and other families and their kids. I'm letting my kids go and grow. And I cannot wait to look back at this time in our lives and remember it sweetness.



Little Loves.

For my mom's Christmas gift, a friend who's starting up her photography business agreed to take pictues of her with my kids. And as a bonus, that means *I* get pictures of her and the kids.

Lucky me.

I mean, if that doesn't send your uterus into a fit of baby-wanting, what will?

PS: And I finally ran tonight, after a month of slacking. Pat's Run in 3 weeks! ---->

Progress.

We're the proud owners of Hardibacker, 18' of 2"x4"s and new drill bits!

I know, I know. I get excited about the weirdest shit these days.

I'm off work tomorrow because I have a Dr appointment smack in the middle of the day, so I convinced Darrick to get the wood we need to build a frame for our bathroom cabinets so I can get it stained tomorrow. We'll be building a square that is the same dimensions as they bottom of the cabinets to bump them up a few inches, since they are fairly short and we are reasonably tall. While we were there we got the Hardibacker, a cement board that goes up behind tile in the shower surround, so that we can get going on that project sooner rather than later. We decided to continue the tile all the way to the ceiling and around to the door frame, which also means we'll be raising our shower head several inches so it will look more in proportion and so Darrick can stand under it instead of in front of it.

I am getting really excited to get this next phase of work done. Once the Hardibacker is in place, we are ready to decide on wall tile. And once THAT is done, it's on to floor tile, paint, and new counter tops. I already bought new faucets, which are patiently waiting in the garage for their grand debut! I can't wait to hopefully have some good progress this weekend!

In other news, my day wrapped up in the sweetest way. When we got home from shopping, I sat the kids at the table with paints and asked them to paint some paper. My original idea was to cut the paper into smaller pieces and write a Valentine's Day note on them from Luca. Well, my girl instead decided she wanted to make 23 painted hearts for her friend. And make them she did. They look so cute, and I cannot wait to put them in envelopes and deliver them to school tomorrow with her!

When she was done painting, both kids got smiley faces painted on their tummies, then I shuttled them upstairs with popsicles in hand and piled them into the tub. They ate the popsicles with no worry over stickiness or messes, then brushed their teeth and put on jammies. Then it was time for songs and tucking in and kisses goodnight.

About 20 minutes later, we heard a funny noise upstairs, so Darrick and I went to investigate. There, in our bed, were both kids. They were tucked in under our giant blanket, their cheeks warm and rosy. Between them was about 7 stuffed animals and 3 extra pillows, and in the middle of all that cheek and eyelash and cuddly animals, they reached out and held each others' hands. I almost couldn't bear to move them, but I hefted each sleeping body into my arms and put them back in their rooms for the night.

Not much can beat that, you know? Craft time. Bath time. Popsicles. Best buddies falling asleep holding hands. Life is sweet.

On a January Morning.

This morning our alarms didn't go off, so I woke with a start when Darrick alerted me that we had 20 minutes to get everyone ready and our of the house.

"Shit!" I grumbled. And next to me in bed, a tiny voice mimicked, "Shit?"

Shit, indeed.

Walking downstairs, I realized I didn't smell coffee brewing. Turns out I forgot to set the coffee timer before bed, which usually isn't a big deal but when I'm running late making coffee isn't always doable. I quickly put some coffee on and went back upstairs to get clothes for the kids and me. Luca peered at me from under my own blanket which I'd just vacated a few minutes prior, and let out a hearty cough. She'd struggled to fall asleep through that same cough last night, and for a minute I couldn't figure out what to do. I called her over and she took my hand, her long, thin fingers lacing between mine. They were warm to the touch.

Downstairs again, I tucked her under a big blanket and she let out a little "Muuuuh." Not letting on what I was doing, I ran a hand over her forehead pretending to brush her hair out of her eyes, and she was warm to the touch.

An hour later, the three of us (Luca, Rohan, Mommy) were snuggled on the couch under two blankets, watching Disney Junior. We decided we needed Munchkins to get through the morning, so in our jammies and no shoes we ran to the nearest DD and went through the drive through, adding 2 small hot chocolates (with whipped cream and 2 ice cubes each, please) and a coffee to the order.

And now I'm sitting here, quickly sifting through work emails and watching my kids use stickers and markers to create art, feeling torn between soaking in a free day with my kids and doing something productive. I think, for one day, naps on the couch and kid TV are going to win out.

We Tricked. We Treated. And Now, It's A Downhill Run To Thankful.

Halloween this year could easily be put into the 'extra fun' category. We had just the right mix of excitement over the festivities and simple joy that comes with kids so little that EVERYthing about the holidays is SO MUCH FUN!

As far as I know, Rohan has never watched Super Man cartoons, so imagine my surprise when I asked what he wanted to be for Halloween and his answer was an emphatic "Supeeer Man!". Fortunately, after looking at pictures online, Luca became excited about the idea of being Super Girl, and my mom offered to make their costumes.

Other than the shirts, which were purchased at the store for less than it would have cost her to make something similar, she made their entire costumes, down to the fake boots. In a word? Awesome.

They were a hit in the neighborhood and got SO MUCH candy it's almost criminal. Already I squirreled some away to work and have plans to make even more of it disappear.

But before Trick or Treating, there was a preschool party for a certain honey bee:

Yeah, that's Luca again. Nothing says 'diva 4 year old' like a wardrobe change between the party and the outing. We were worried she'd mess up her Super Girl costume, so we took her to Goodwill to get her a witch costume (her request), but instead she fell in LOVE with this bee hoodie. For under $8, we got her that and the black and gold tutu, and she was set. I had plans to get a yellow shirt and put black stripes on it because a hoodie? in Arizona? on Halloween? Not weather appropriate. It was a high of 91 yesterday afternoon. But life got in the way, and I didn't get her the shirt. Luckily, the teachers at her school have all the kids put on 'normal' clothes after they trick or treat on campus, so we didn't have to worry after all. And Daddy dressed as the Grim Reaper (I really need to improve my Halloween make-up skills...he looks sad, not scary!) which was pretty awesome as well.



All in all, Halloween was great, and the kids already can't wait for next year! Tonight as I was getting him ready for bed, Rohan said, "You just wead da book and den we go walk and say "TRICK OR TREAT!" and den bed?" Optimistic little dude. Love him.

Now we are facing down the barrel of a LOT of holiday prep work and fun. We made a decision to pay off 2 credit lines we have open before year's end, as both have interest-free payments until January 1 (they were for major dental work I needed and insurance barely covered), which means money will be tight for presents this year. We're ok with that. We have SO MUCH already, and I am planning on making a few gifts and keeping it simple for the kids. And I confess I am very much looking forward to kissing 2011 goodbye! We've had a hard run of it in many ways, and January is shaping up in such a way that I think a lot of the things we've been stressed over will be resolved. In addition to paying off 2 credit lines, we had one of those life events that knocks the wind out of you when it happens but ends up being for the best recently. Our beloved day care provider, who watched Luca for 3 years and has watched Mo since he was 4 months old is moving a few hours north of us in mid-November. We were sad and stressed and just anxious when we found out, until my mom insisted we let her take over Mo duties through May when Darrick starts his summer break. This is perfect, because it means we don't have to search for a new provider for the next 6-ish months and after summer break he'll move to preschool and Luca will be in kindergarten. It's also perfect because it's going to mean several hundred more dollars in our pockets every month. Add that to getting rid of 2 credit payments a month, and we're finally going to be seeing a change in our financial situation for the positive.

With all this optimism abounding, I am VERY MUCH looking forward to taking some time off around the holidays to be with my family and to keeping things simple and spending this holiday season witha  focus on building traditions rather than building piles of stuff.

Last year, when November came and it was time to pack away the Halloween in favor of pretending it's winter, we created a Thankful Tree. I think we'll do something similar this year and I'm excited to involve both kids.

Welcome sweet November!!