Then.............and now.

In a month, Trent and I will celebrate our 5 year anniversary of marriage. (I thought I'd better specify what the anniversary was, in case you were thinking dirty things.)

Second marriages are funny. We've both done this before. But neither of us did it with kids.

Trent and I rarely fight. Probably because we don't have time! One or the other of us is always peeling Oliver off the top of the couch, the curtains, the top bunk, the ceiling fan, from under the Christmas tree. Anywhere he shouldn't be. Gavin is pretty easy, he is usually too busy showing us how to use our iPhones.

Regardless, I've been thinking about how much our life has changed in the last 5 years. Here's what I have come up with.

Coming Home
Before: We use to run home to be with each other, jump in each others arms, kiss, end up having sex.
Now: "I have a couple errands to run, then will be there."
"OK, I am going to bed."

Waking up
Before: Wake up, make out, sex. (Ever notice how no one has morning breath when it is a new relationship?)
Now: "Oliver is up."
"Yep."
"You getting up?"
"Will you do it tomorrow?"


Food
Before: One would come home for lunch, the other would have a sandwich ready, complete with sides. Dinner would be a pot roast, potatoes, vegetable, glass of wine.
Now: "Whats for dinner?"
"Oatmeal. You need to bring your cholesterol down."

Dates (if we can even find a sitter)
Before: Dinner at a nice restaurant, maybe a movie, always a bar, go home, have sex.
Now: "What do you want to do?"
"I don't know, I'm tired."
"Me too. Lets just go home and go to sleep."
"Sounds good."

Sex
Before: Wake up, have sex. Lunch time, have sex. Bedtime, have sex. Middle of the night and randomly wake up, have sex.
Now: "Do you want to have sex tonight?"
"Didn't we just do it a week ago?"

*A week later*
"We really should have sex."
"OK, but hurry up, I want to go to sleep."

Yep, life sure has changed.

More than Material

Every family has traditions. One that we've had on my side of the family for years is going to my grandparents house in Oregon, Illinois for an annual fall festival called Autumn on Parade. Its a family reunion of sorts. My parents, brother, sister-in-law, cousins, aunts, uncles and even great ones (when they were still alive) all descended upon my grandparents home, which sat right on the parade route, bringing a dish to share while my Grandma made a pot of chicken and noodles or creamed chicken on biscuit. We'd start the day walking downtown to view all the craft and food booths then make our way back to the house to watch the parade, which sometimes exceeded 2 hours in length. This tradition has been alive for as long as I can remember and the thought of missing it causes me great anxiety. In all the years that this tradition has been alive I've only missed it a couple times, one being two years ago when I was too pregnant to travel.

My Grandma passed away 7 years ago. Since then we've kept this tradition alive by rotating who would make the main dish (which has varied the last few years) but still stuck to most of the other aspects of the tradition.

Autumn on Parade isn't just a festival to me. My Grandma was very big on get-togethers. There was always too much to eat, lots to talk about, and stories to share. In my Grandma's later years there were always something we could find to make fun of her about. (One year she was bound and determined to convince us that she put green beans in her chili recipe. We still talk about that one.)

I remember the last Autumn on Parade my Grandma was alive. Distinctly and by detail. She was pretty sick (suffering from diabetes and going blind.) She was dead set against getting dressed and no one could make her. Everyone always tiptoed around Grandma. Not me. I drug her sorry elderly ass into the bathroom and told her in no uncertain terms she was getting dressed and I was going to put the damn clothes on her. She was so shocked, she couldn't even say anything. I distinctly remember putting her in lavender slacks and a lavender and blue blouse. For some crazy reason she seemed to think she didn't need a bra and I told her that no one wanted to see her boobs fall out under her shirt and to put the damn thing on. To this day, I wonder what she thought of me talking to her like that. She probably had another "Her mother deserves her" moment that I was always hearing about.

Grandma was important to me. In so many ways. We never lived more than a few hours apart but I'd call her for every little thing I needed help with. How to get a stain out, why my cake fell apart, how to make ribbon jello, and if my noodles were too thick when I cut them out. (Toward the end of her life when she couldn't see she could only feel them and tell us if we did it correctly.)

So a few weeks ago was the annual festivities. So much has changed in 7 years. Grandpa is almost 90 now and is confined to the first floor of the house. Oliver was desperate for a nap so I took him upstairs and laid him in my grandparents bed, which he fell right asleep in. His first time in a big bed. I can't help but think my Grandma had something to do with that.

While Oliver slept I snuck over to my Grandma's sewing room and started rummaging around. Most of her sewing supplies have come home with me but there are a few things I have left to get. I found material she had purchased just months before she passed that we have no idea what she was planning on making with it. It was an airplane print so it had to be something to do with my brother or dad. And then I found it. A quilt. The last one she ever made. I sat in that room, on the end of the bed I use to sleep on during my nights there, and just hugged it. I buried my face in it and inhaled as deeply as I could. I could smell her. She was still there. She was still looking over me. She has to be. There are nights I dream about her and every facial feature is there, every wrinkle, every bony finger. I still use Oil of Olay to this day because the scent reminds me of her.

I was lucky enough that my Grandpa let me take the quilt home. I am sad to think about the day the scent disappears from it, as I know it will, being in a new home. But if it doesn't, I know she had something to do with it.

Grandma, I miss you. I never told you how much I loved you and I regret that often. You have impacted my life so much more than you will ever know, when you were here and even after you've been gone. Your wisdom, strength and cooking skills stick with me. (Though I will never get over the fact that you never taught me to make a decent pie crust or to iron properly.)

I dread the day Grandpa leaves that house. I know life goes on but losing that house, that sanctuary, will impact me greatly. Not just because the Autumn festivities will no longer take place there, but to know I can't go sit upstairs catching your scent and feeling your presence.

I am still sniffing the quilt. (Sounds kinky, huh?) It humbles me on bad days and reinforces me on good days. Its just a material object but means so much more to me.

As I sit here, unable to sleep for the second night in a row, I think I will go bury my face in that quilt and cry a little (well, cry some more) and hope she can give me some reassurance from up above. That quilt isn't pretty. But to me, its the most beautiful thing I've ever owned. And is so much more than needle and thread.

The Post You Never Saw Coming

I've written this post about a dozen times and revised it even more. And finally I am able to make it public.

There comes a time when you start looking at things in your life really closely. The things that truly matter.

I had three resolutions this year. To lose weight, drink less and save money.

In January I started looking at my weight. I changed it. I lost the 20 lbs I wanted to lose and have keep it off minus or plus 2 or 3 lbs, but I am ok with that small fluctuation. Goal one = complete.

Onto the saving more money thing (as that was way easier than the less drinking thing.) I started clipping coupons, and then, um, failed.

So this month I went back to looking at the money thing again. And saw a pattern I didn't like. More than one of my bi-weekly paychecks goes to daycare. Another $300 goes to gas. And now, another $65 will go to preschool tuition monthly. The difference here is sadly very very small.

So goal number 2, to save more money, now has been met.

As of September 6th, I will officially be a stay at home mom, raising my boys, loving them, and teaching them new things (while I am not trying to lock them in a closet and throw away the key.)

So armed with a stack of grocery store ads, and a full bottle of vodka (drinking less goal NOT going to be accomplished this year,) I say goodbye to corporate life and hello to a life I never, in a million years, thought I'd be so excited about.

It is with a heavy heart, lots of tears (I will miss my friends terribly!) that my focus for awhile is to concentrate on a different kind of full time job. Being a Mom.

Let us now bow our heads in prayer.....

P.S. Anyone know where AA meets?

The Definition of Mom

My life has never aligned with traditional expectations that society bestows upon us. I married young, got divorced, got remarried only a few months later, was pregnant immediately and added another in the mix exactly two years later. Traditionally women stayed at home to raise kids. I went happily back to work.

There exists a certain stigma with working moms. The Work Outside the Home Mom (hereafter referred to WOHM) versus Stay at Home Mom (SAHM) debate will forever rage on. And there are days I question WHY I am working. But I don’t question it because I feel the need to be at home with my kids. I question it because after I pay for fulltime daycare, gas to drive 80 plus miles a day, and health insurance, there is very little left to bring home. Does that make me a bad Mom? It’s a matter of opinion.

In the last week it has become inherently apparent who the “Mom” is in our house. There is a role reversal present that has brought doubt to my mind as to whether I am what society would consider a “good” Mom.

Two nights ago I was standing around the corner of the kitchen listening to my husband teach Gavin the words to a song that would make him open his mouth wide so he could brush his teeth. He has taught him what sound almost every letter of the alphabet makes. He does all the laundry, makes dinner, and washes dishes. Every single weekday morning he gets the kids up, gets them dressed, and drops them off at daycare. When he is home at night he puts Gavin to bed. (Whether he stays there is another topic.) He has the patience of a saint and the encouragement of a top motivational speaker.

I love my kids, don’t get me wrong. But it is I who am the career oriented one. I am the one who wants to work 60 hours a week at her job and bring home the big paycheck. Trent would love nothing more than to stay at home and raise, teach and develop our children. But until my paycheck doubles, it isn’t reality. And in my profession I don’t see it happening.
I don’t doubt I am a good Mom, just not the one society expects. I would give my life for my children. But if I had to stay home with them all day, every day, I would have to spend my evenings at AA.

The Art of the "O"

Recently, I was packing up some books I was going to donate to the library or some other place books go to be useful once you've read them a dozen times. I came across my copy of Lou Paget's "The Big O." Fearing I may one day need this tidbit of information I decided to keep it.

What is it about the word orgasm that makes women blush and start tapping their foot uncontrollably on a carpeted surface? Why can't we just talk about it like the mature sex maniacs that we are?

Finding the book also happened to coincide with someone asking me what it feels like when I have an orgasm. (My husband shall remain nameless as the asker.)

Webster defines the orgasm as "an explosive discharge of neuromuscular tensions at the height of sexual arousal that is usually accompanied by the ejaculation of semen in the male and by vaginal contractions in the female."

HOW BORING!

I decided to ask around. Most notably, I asked my Dirty Laundry girls. I love these girls and I can always count on them to try to explain the unexplainable.

Dirty Girl (hereafter known as DG) number 1 said, "I guess I would describe it as a pot of water. First it starts out sort of tingly like the little bubbles at the bottom of the pot, then it builds, and builds until its boiling over. Then there are spasms. Well, now don't I feel like an orgasm loser."

DG number 2 said, "I'd say I'd describe it as an electrical surge or something. It build up and feels somewhere between too ticklish or sensitive and awesome and then crosses over into just awesome, then afterward you are the most relaxed you have ever felt.

Great job girls!

But its DG number 3 that really caused me concern. She said, "Well I'm not going to be ANY help. Why? I honestly don't think I've ever had one. Not alone or with anyone. It is very frustrating. Granted I do get enjoyment and I think I get what most call a climax but then it just doesn't haven any type of explosion and defintintely don't feel relaxed afterwards. I think I feel more bothered meaning wanting more as I'm guessing it really never happened."

I remember my first orgasm. I wasn't even having sex at the time. And to this DAY I can remember thinking, "THIS is what I have been missing?!?!" It was wildly intense and I never knew such a feeling existed. And even more surprising was that it had NOTHING to do with the penis! Yet, some 10 years later, I am still trying to figure out just what exactly I need to achieve the holy grail of voluntary seizures.

I figure practice makes perfect. Which is also my advice for DG #3. I also need to send her a copy of the book.

And maybe a plastic penis.

An InSPArational Experience

After a long night of margaritas, a flat tire in the ghetto, 3 women standing around wondering how to work the jack, one very hot cop, spike strips, Max the drug sniffing dog, two more cops and one very helpful Gengenbacher, I was really looking forward to my day at the spa. The idea of 20 minutes in a hydrotherapy bath, followed by an hour long massage and a pedicure was on par with multiple orgasms.

Going to the spa for the first time is kind of like going to your first gyno appointment. You make sure you have everything shaved, cleaned, and manicured. But, like the gyno, you quickly get over it and after your second or third time there, you are lucky if you put underwear on. I've been to InSPArations a few times and at least remembered to brush my teeth this morning.

I changed into my bikini, put on my robe and headed to the hydrotherapy room. After lowering myself into water I was pretty sure would burn off the leg hairs I decided not to shave, I settled into the crevices of the tub and let Amanda start the jets.

The jets start at the bottom and work their way up in a slow, meticulous motion. Thirty seconds into this I knew this wasn't going to be a grand experience. The jets beat down on the bottoms of my feet first, causing me to jerk them back, giggle uncontrollably and hit my shins on the bar that were suppose to be keeping my legs under water. The jets then moved upward to my calves, my hips, my back and my neck. After about 5 minutes I started getting really hot and was counting down until this was over. Looking back, I am pretty sure the warmth came from the high amounts of tequila being purged from my system.

I lifted my arms out of the tub and reached for my ice water and drank it in one big gulp leaving only ice in the glass. Then a bright idea hit me! I fished out a piece of ice and held it in my hand to cool down my skin and then ran my hands over my face. This worked for about 10 seconds before I just gave up and just ran the ice directly over my face.

PLOP!

There goes my ice straight into the tub. Immediately I was worried I would be thrown out and onto the street for letting such a tragic thing happen. There had to be rules about this kind of thing! Luckily nobody was paying attention and another piece of ice was fished out of the glass. At least now I understand why they don't let you have sliced oranges in your water while in the tub.

I passed the rest of the time thinking about penis'.

Finally, 20 minutes were up and I was allowed out of the boiling pot. I glanced in the mirror and my face was so red I looked like I had just had battery acid thrown on me. A few minutes of cooldown and it was onto the massage table.

I was only on the table for 5 minutes when I realized I was so relaxed, I would have agreed to anything at that point.

CIA: "Mrs. Vogel - tomorrow we will be dropping you in Afghanistan wearing only a paper bikini and carrying only a nail file. You will be responsible for finding and killing Osama Bin Ladin."

Me: "Why didn't we leave yesterday?"

The Many Titles of "Mom"

I recently pondered how my life has changed so drastically in the last 4 years. While 4 years can seem like an eternity when you think AHEAD, if you think backwards, it can seem like yesterday.

Four years ago this month I fell in love with my husband. It wasn’t planned…I really just wanted to sleep with him. But he seduced me with the song “Alcohol” by Brad Paisley on repeat and bottles of ice cold Bud Light. (Boy was he slick!) Six months later we married in Vegas and two months after that found out we were expecting our first son (to be named Gavin…not Borak as was Trent’s choice.) Since then we’ve added another penis to our family, pushing Oliver out in October of last year. (I like penises, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t need this many of them at once.)

Instead of leaving work and going home to drink a bottle of wine, eat a bag of tortilla chips and pass out, I now have the pleasure of doing all things associated with being a parent. With this pleasure comes many titles. Some of my favorites:

Photographer – taking pictures of all significant and insignificant events, including but not limited to, first steps, funny faces, toothy grins, major boo-boo’s, stuffy’s first swim, first pee in the potty, weird colored poop (to get opinions on what I may have fed them incorrectly) and just general everyday pictures to prove they are still alive.

Nurse – sponge baths, butt wiping, band aid applications, magic “kiss” medicine (not to be confused with what some nurses may do with other patients,) temperature probing, vomit analysis and cleanup, and minor surgery.

Negotiator – “Yes, you will take a bath. No, screaming at the top of your lungs will not change my mind. Neither will you trying to dive head first out of the tub. Yes, I do promise not to get it in your eyes. No, don’t pee in the tub. Yes, we have to wash your penis.” (Always back to the penis.)

Chef – I can expertly and efficiently nuke a corn dog in less than a minute. I can smear PB&J on a piece of bread with the best of them. I can put green food coloring in macaroni and cheese to help hide the bits of broccoli I sneak in. I should be on Hell’s Kitchen!

As the kids get older, my list of titles will continue to grow. I see Taxi driver, Judge, Analyst, and Bail Bondsman all in my future.

But above all, for the time being, I only want to be called one thing: Mommy.