Blog Contest: Win a copy of an amazing novel!

I have come to the realization that the professionals I have looked up to my whole life are now (at least age wise) my peers. The doctor who examines my children is not some wise old man but rather a father with a preschool age child just like me. He has no secret powers, he just went to school for a very long time. The super successful lawyer, she isn't some glamours woman off the set of Ally McBeal, she lives down the street and has a jog stroller. The writer who creates novels sold on the shelves of my local book store, she may actually attend the same playgroup that I take my children to.

In fact I do actually know and spend time with plenty to doctors and lawyers. And now I can honestly say that a published author did attend one of my playgroups. I don't know why I was so surprised. Just who do I think writers are? I guess I envision brilliant, yet reclusive introverts working away in a cabin on an isolated mountain top, but duh, writers (and doctors and lawyers) are just people. They are mothers, and fathers and they go to playgroups. They may be smart and talented but they are still human.

When I first met Shanthi she said nothing about the fact that she had written and published an actual book. She talked about her son and her life in Berkeley. It wasn't until we became friends on Facebook that I learned she had in fact created a real-life novel. A book, with a shiny cover and her name on it. A book that people will pay money to read because well... heck I did.
I am reading A Prayer Room now. I have been reading a lot lately, thanks to the time I spend commuting in and out of the city. Some of the books are better than others. The last book was pure candy, just a guilty pleasure-a love story that was written as a page turner driving the reader to the end just to see how everything is resolved. The author told a story, but gave little thought to the words that spun the tale.

Shanthi's book (A Prayer Room) is different. She is extremely talented at painting a picture. All of the words seem to be carefully chosen. In stealing from some of the reviews that I have read the beauty of the language is almost more important than the story. Don't get me wrong the story is interesting. It is about an Indian woman, her English husband and their triplets. It is about love and family and cultural identity and it is certainly holding my attention. But I am not a book critic so I will leave that to the experts.

So where am I going with all of this? Another blog contest, of course! One lucky reader will win a signed hard copy of A Prayer Room. All you have to do is a) Be a "follower" b) post a comment to this blog post by June 5. c) check back on June 6 to see if you are a winner. d) Tweet a link to getrealmama, or post one on Facebook, and your name gets entered twice. Drawing will be done at random.

If you are in Berkeley and wish to see the very talented Shanthi in person, she is participating in a reading on June 12th at The Layover in Oakland at 7pm. She is amazing, and that makes me semi-amazing by just knowing her right?
Good luck and happy reading!

Cock-a-doodle-do

It is 4:15am. A pitter patter of feet in the kitchen. What are you doing up? Regardless of the rumbling in your tummy, you have no business eating at this hour.

The only acceptable explanations for being awake at 4:20 are as follows:

1. You are a rooster


2. You are a farmer with cows to milk and chickens to attend to.


3. You are an eager tourist rushing to catch a 6am flight to Cancun


4. You are a newspaper delivery person

As far as I can tell you have no feathers, we live in the city and don't own a cow, our travel plans do not include flying the friendly skies and newspaper delivery people don't ride bikes with training wheels. So you should be in bed.

Whats that? Your excuse is what?

Oh you are four.

Right. Makes perfect sense.

Happy Birthday Finn.

Tomorrow is my nephew's third birthday. His THIRD birthday. I can hardly believe it. I still think of him as a baby. I remember the call that I received in the middle of the night from my exhausted brother-in-law when he was finally born. After many hours of labor, my sister had an emergency c-section and baby Finn entered the world. I was so excited for her. I visited her the next day in hospital regardless of the disapproving eyes that glared at me as I left the office. I arrived to see my sister as a new mother and to meet the little boy connected to me forever by blood.

I of course was at his first birthday party and I watched Finn snub the beautiful green and yellow rubber ducky cake. Like his father. I watched him grow into a mischievous toddler. Like his mama- a trouble maker. Clever, funny, naughty, adorable.

Tomorrow he will have a birthday party and I won't be there. They are going to tour a fire station, and picnic at a park with lots of kids, and Zack & Evan won't be there. Because we are here. Which is good, except for the fact that we are not there.

When my sister and I had babies close in age I was thrilled. My sons will have cousins. I did not grow up with much family. My mother was an only child, and my father's brother did not have any children with his wife, plus they rarely visited. I had envisioned that my sons would be very close with Finn and Kristoff. I imagined sleep over parties and babysitting swaps. Family camping trips and Sunday barbeque's.

But life took us to California, what feels like a million miles away. I am going to miss the birthday parties and the everyday get-togethers, and it makes me sad.

I hope that my nephews will know that although far away, I am still a proud Auntie. I hope my sister knows that I miss her so, and if she did not, well she does now.

Love you Finn. Happy birthday. Stay naughty. :)

Love,
Auntie Rachel

A slice of life

Not every blog post has to be brilliant right? Today I give you a little slice of my life, heck I'll even make it alamode.

What was my day like? Well it it gives you any idea I have to stop typing every few words to helplessly scratch at the angry red amoxicillin rash that has taken over my body. I am ready to rip my skin off. I started taking the antibiotic about ten days ago to treat my first ever case of strep throat, which was by the way, the WORST sore throat I have ever had in my life. The drug cured the illness but left a nasty calling card. So here I am barely able to function because I can't stop with the damn scratching. I was just informed by my doctor that the itchy red bumpy mess may stick around for a good week. Lovely. Please just don't spread to my face. The last thing I need is to look like I have face full of screaming zits.

And now for the alamode, the whipped cream shall we say, on my day. I lost my beloved cell phone on the train. I know a tragedy. But hang with me here, it is hard to lose your phone. I realize that I am not saying anything newsworthy, but we rely on our little cell phones, a lot of our lives are stored in these pocket sized telecommunication devices. I don't know any one's phone number anymore, because I just punch in their name. My whole social life revolves around that phone. I realized that I had lost it a couple hours after arriving at the office because I was expecting an important call. I rummaged through my pockets and my purse and came up empty handed. I dialed the number, no answer. I dialed again, nothing. I contacted Verizon Wireless and was told that someone had in fact been using my phone to make calls. Bastard. I was angry. Why oh why couldn't some good Samaritan have found my little red phone? And now what? The dreaded trip to a Verizon Wireless store. Remember my post about the DMV? A trip to the cell phone store is almost as close to hell.

So to make the loooong story short, because a trip to Verizon is never quick and easy, I had no insurance on my phone so I either had to spend an astronomical amount of money on a new one, get a crappy used one, or opt into a new contract to get a decent phone for cheap. So now I have a brand new two year contract and a not so fancy phone. Hurray.

So there you have it folks. A little slice of rachie pie.

Blog contest: win a copy of a great novel!

I have come to the realization that the professionals I have looked up to my whole life are now (at least age wise) my peers. The doctor who examines my children is not some wise old man but rather a father with a preschool age child just like me. He has no secret powers, he just went to school for a very long time. The super successful lawyer, she isn't some glamours woman off the set of Ally McBeal, she lives down the street and has a jog stroller. The writer who creates novels sold on the shelves of my local book store, she may actually attend the same playgroup that I take my children to.

In fact I do actually know and spend time with plenty to doctors and lawyers. And now I can honestly say that a published author did attend one of my playgroups. I don't know why I was so surprised. Just who do I think writers are? I guess I envision brilliant, yet reclusive introverts working away in a cabin on an isolated mountain top, but duh, writers (and doctors and lawyers) are just people. They are mothers, and fathers and they go to playgroups. They may be smart and talented but they are still human.

When I first met Shanthi she said nothing about the fact that she had written and published an actual book. She talked about her son and her life in Berkeley. It wasn't until we became friends on Facebook that I learned she had in fact created a real-life novel. A book, with a shiny cover and her name on it. A book that people will pay money to read because well... heck I did.

I am reading A Prayer Room now. I have been reading a lot lately, thanks to the time I spend commuting in and out of the city. Some of the books are better than others. The last book was pure candy, just a guilty pleasure-a love story that was written as a page turner driving the reader to the end just to see how everything is resolved. The author told a story, but gave little thought to the words that spun the tale.

Shanthi's book (A Prayer Room) is different. She is extremely talented at painting a picture. All of the words seem to be carefully chosen. In stealing from some of the reviews that I have read the beauty of the language is almost more important than the story. Don't get me wrong the story is interesting. It is about an Indian woman, her English husband and their triplets. It is about love and family and cultural identity and it is certainly holding my attention. But I am not a book critic so I will leave that to the experts.

So where am I going with all of this? Another blog contest, of course! One lucky reader will win a signed hard copy of A Prayer Room. All you have to do is a) Be a "follower" b) post a comment to this blog post by June 5. c) check back on June 6 to see if you are a winner. d) Tweet a link to getrealmama, or post one on Facebook, and your name gets entered twice. Drawing will be done at random.

If you are in Berkeley and wish to see the very talented Shanthi in person, she is participating in a reading on June 12th at The Layover in Oakland at 7pm. She is amazing, and that makes me semi-amazing by just knowing her right?

Good luck and happy reading!

Lost: My analysis

Lost is over. They all died. They met in some crazy place (AKA: Sideways) where they reunited and walked through the pearly gates together. Although some of them died years before, and some many years later they all found each other in "sideways" at the precise (and best looking) age they were when they were last seen on the island. This includes Claire's baby.... which confused me. Are we to believe that this baby never grew up? Will the baby age in heaven, or simply stay forever an infant in constant need of Claire's motherly attention? So many holes...



But beyond all of the frequently asked questions and explanations "time is irrelevant!", I have a few glaring inquires of my own, ones that I do not believe have ever been addressed:

1. On an island with such a limited food supply, how on earth did Hurley stay so obese? After several months of living on papaya and fish, one would have thought he might have dropped a few lbs?


2. In that same vain, with all of the skinny minis that descended on the island, you might imagine that in their already fragile conditions, the runway-ready beauties might drop dead from heat exhaustion, lack of Special K Cereal and fat free probiotic yogurt in the first two months or so... yet some how they persevere climbing cliffs, building rafts and hauling supplies back and forth across the God forsaken island.


3. Are we suppose to believe that Kate is sexy under any circumstances? The woman never looked bad. Whether she was sweating from lugging around a pack while hiking in a humid jungle, suffering from a chest wound or in jail she was smokin. How is that possible? Granted she would put her hair back now and then, but she never really had a bad hair day. A day when her hair was limp and oily or totally frizzing out from all of that humidity. Nope never happened to good ol' Kate. And just how are we suppose believe that? We women know better.


4. Finally that dog Vincent, sure it was sweet that he survived to the end, laying down with Jack while he took his last breaths, but come on, the pup should have been wild boar food in season one.

So there you have it folks. One of a million and one comments on the season finale of a pop culture phenomenon. With all my of my snark, I am actually glad that I tuned in. And yes. I am going to miss Jack. It was almost like reliving the last episode of Party of Five. Almost.

The Velveteen Rabbit Experiment

"Weeks passed, an the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all the whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots fade. He even began to lose his shape an he scarcely look like a rabbit any more except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real, shabbiness doesn't matter. "

-The Velveteen Rabbit.

For those of you who know my eldest son, you know that wherever he goes, Mr. Brown Doggie goes. Like all stuffed animals MBD started out plush and soft, a dark brown fur and a vivid, bright orange hat with matching green scarf. A baby shower gift, he sat on the shelf in Zachary's nursery for a good two years, unnoticed. I will never know how it happened, but seemingly overnight the the dog became a trusted best friend. We had offered countless hand-knit blankets, and far more adorable stuffed animals to love, but for whatever reason Zachary chose Mr Brown Doggie. Maybe it was the way he flopped just right and was easy to lug around by the scruff of his skinny neck. In any case, it is a love that has withstood the test of time.

Mr Brown Doggie has been through a lot. He has been puked on, dropped in the toilet, and left outside in the rain. He has accompanied us to doctors visits, birthday parties, airplane trips and weddings. He takes the leading role in Zachary's imaginary play, traveling through space, and living on a remote mountain in Africa.

He is a part of the family. To us he is "Real".

And he is falling apart. His fur now worn and shabby, his scarf missing, his hat dirty, the pupils of his eyes worn away, and worse, a big gaping whole in that scrawny little neck, where the stuffing is now at risk for coming out. Yes, mommy needs to learn to sew.

So on a whim, with Zachary at my side I googled "Go Dog Go stuffed animal". And found a woman selling a brand new Mr. Brown Doggie. The toy has been discontinued, but she had one up for sale for a mere $29.99. I looked at Zack, "What do you think? Do you want a new MBD?" I asked. Zack nodded his head eagerly. I hit "purchase" and that was that.

The new dog arrived yesterday in a cardboard box. I opened it up and saw a beautiful soft stuffed animal, bearing very little resemblance to the well-loved pet in Zack's arms. I presented Zachary with the new dog. His eyes were wide and he grabbed him in his arms. Then he went on to introduce MBD to his new buddy.

Why did I do it? Why would I mess with the love shared between a boy and his favorite stuffed animal? I can't say for sure. Perhaps it is sort of experiment. A test of Zachary's loyalty for the shabby dog. Maybe it is a bit of nostalgia for me. Some day in the not so-distant future Mr Brown Doggie will end up at the pile of a heap of other toys, forgotten and outgrown. This brand new dog reminds me of that nursery where MBD was first discovered, back at 3352 Bryant Street, the nursery that was dismantled and sold off piecemeal when we packed up our belongings and headed west. It takes me back to Zachary's babyhood, when all the toys were shiny and new and parenthood was an exciting novelty.

Either way now we have two stuffed dogs and time will tell. Will Zachary stay loyal to his shabby lovey or will he be lead astray with the lure of something prettier? Right now it seems to be a tie. Both dogs had the privilege of watching Sunday morning cartoons with him, and they both participated in a lively game of "Space Dogs" at 6am. Perhaps he will find room in his heart for both. He does after all, have a pretty big heart for a little guy.

Lucky

Over the past two weeks I have transitioned from 40 hours per week in the office to twenty. I have dipped my toes back into the turbulent waters of the stay at home mama. Straddling two worlds. One day rushing into the city, sitting at a desk in grown up clothes and settling back into being a "professional", the next day wearing worn jeans and flip-flops sharing a sunny morning at the playground with Evan. One day savoring a latte while on a conference call, feeling the chilling thrill of an honest compliment "job well done". The next day surrounded by preschoolers, meeting the eyes of my own child, clearly happy that I am there for circle time. One day coming home from a busy day of phone calls and emails, exhausted and not up for the dinner challenge. The next day drumming my fingers for hours while Evan naps, trapped at home with a pile of laundry and carpet that needs vacuuming.

Clearly both worlds have their ups and downs, and I believe that I have found the winning combination. Working part time allows me to be Rachel for a while, to have a life outside of the house in North Berkeley. Working part time lets me feel that I am still capable of supporting myself, that I am contributing to the household in a monetary way based on my talents. It feels good.

Working part time also allows me to be more present in the day to day activities of the boys life. I am there for the preschool parties, the doctors appointments and the playgroups. To be honest I enjoy being mom even more this way.

Sadly, I am fairly certain that this lovely arrangement will be short lived. My contract is up at the end of next week, and I don't know if it will be extended. Finding work isn't as easy as it once was, back in the day when I could "wow" hiring managers in an interview just by dressing nicely and being articulate. Finding the ideal part-time gig is even more far fetched.

I am frightened by the prospect of being at home full time again. For those of you who have never tried it, do not dismiss the work that full time parents put in. You may see them lounging at the park or pushing a stroller and think lucky. What you don't see is the mind-numbing boredom that can come with another story hour at the library, the edgy frustration that is felt at yet another melt down, and the admirable creativity demonstrated by creating yet another interesting art project. For those of you who do it every day, I raise my glass to you. Perhaps you love it, perhaps you have ambivalent feelings, perhaps your wishing for your own part-time job. Either way you are there every day, rain or shine, sickness or health, happy or sad. You are there and you are doing it. And so will I, if I must. There are worse things in life. Either way, I know that I will likely look back at my life and think.... lucky.

"IF"

Today I was greeted at the doors of the Jewish Community Center where Zack attends preschool with the chaos of staff attempting to communicate with rushed parents at drop off. We were told by reception to speak with the Executive Director before leaving. I saw a semi circle of parents surrounding her. Did someone die or quit? What is going on? I joined a group of parents all wearing the same look of concern on their bewildered faces.



I was quickly told that the JCC had received a threat for this very day because it is a Jewish holiday and the center is holding an all night prayer and study session. She explained that the threat was overheard and reported to the police who investigated it and determined that it was not in fact valid. As a precaution, police patrol of the area was stepped up and the bags of any unknown individuals were to be searched. That scenario didn't give me a whole lot of comfort. I envisioned our cheery red head receptionist searching a shady character's bag and stumbling upon a bomb. What in the hell is she going to do about it? "I am so sorry sir, but no bombs allowed, your going to have to leave." Right.



We were assured that the police thought the center was safe and that although it was our decision we should feel comfortable leaving our kids there. Zack was tugging at my jacket anxious to get to his classroom. It was a big day. Although it is a holiday (Shavuot) I did not grow up celebrating, it seems to be a beautiful celebration. The children were taught that it was a day to give thanks for all of the new things that spring brings; fruits & vegetables, and a time to study and learn. As is custom, the preschoolers had decorated baskets and filled them with fruits and vegetables. They made flower garlands to wear on their heads and were all going to march around the JCC with baskets in hand, singing songs. Zack was truly excited about the day, particularly since I was going to be joining him for the party at noon.



I took Zack to his classroom and felt the nervous energy of the other parents. We all looked at each other, hoping that someone would think of something smart to do in the situation. The room was full, and it appeared that many parents had already made the decision to leave their children at school. I spoke with one of the mothers that I am friendly with and she was torn as well. I called my husband and asked him what he thought. Ultimately we decided that it was *probably* nothing. It was *probably* just some anti-Semitic fool talking smack at a Starbucks. If I took Zack home I would be the one over-reacting parent and Zack would miss out on a celebration that he had been looking forward to for weeks. So I kissed him goodbye made him look me in the eye and told him I would be back at noon.



As I drove off I wondered if I was being tragically optimistic. Probably nothing. Probably. And if it's not? And if some crazy religious zealot comes storming in with a gun, what then? If something happened to Zachary and I had the ability to prevent it how could I live with myself? I almost turned back, but somehow I took comfort in the fact that the other parents had made the same decision.



I feel incredibly angry that we live in a world post the Oklahoma City Bombing, post 9/11, post Columbine, where anything feels possible. Today we hear stories of children being slaughtered in the preschools and kindergartens of China, and we wonder will we have a US copycat? Are we ever really safe? Truth be told we are probably not. Every time we get on an airplane, every time we send our kids to school, every time we step out our front door there is risk. Minimal risk, but it's there none the less. So what do we do? Never take a trip? Keep our kids at home, stay hunkered down and isolated "just in case"?



I realized today that I will make thousands of decisions on behalf of my children. *Probably* none of them will be in life or death situations, but one can never know. Did those parents who carefully selected the the federal building of Oklahoma City for their daycare center make a bad decision by choosing a government facility? Perhaps they had the best child to caregiver ratio. Should Natalee Holloway's parents have known better, and never let her take that fateful spring break trip to Aruba? All that drinking, it only means trouble right? But then again, my own husband took a spring break trip his senior year and survived with happy memories.

So we hope and pray that we make the right choices and that we keep our babies safe and sound. We want to believe that we have the power to keep them out of harms way and far from the evil we see around us, but the reality is we simply can't. We are not God. We are not fortune tellers. We can only do what we can do, and make the best choices possible in the moment.

And pray that it is good enough.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I have a couple of secrets. No better place to come clean than in my top secret diary. I wish that I had a lock. And that I could read and write, but let's over look those small details for the sake of humor.

First Diary, I have been a tad bit naughty for a few days now. Every morning I get up before everyone else. My brother lies snoring in his crib and mommy and daddy stay in their bedroom for forever. It is the perfect opportunity to go downstairs and help myself to some cereal. That's what my sleepy parents think anyway. Here is the good part, in the very cupboard where mommy keeps my Honeynut Cheerios are the giant Whopper candies. Big chocolate covered peanut butter and malt balls. Daddy and mommy are very stingy with them. I think that they are trying to keep them all to themselves. Each morning I sneak one or two. I almost got caught the other day. Daddy said he could smell chocolate on my breath, but I was quick on my feet and told him that he was wrong, I had only been eating cheerios, and then I changed the subject. I am pretty sure I got away with it! I hope he didn't notice my chocolate mustache..

Also I have an awesome trick I like to play to get out of picking up all of my toys. When mommy tells me it is time to clean up, I lie on the floor and pretend that I am really super tired. I start whining and tell mommy that I can't help because I don't have any energy left. Sometimes for good measure I also throw in a line about how I didn't make the mess and that it was all Evan's fault. Almost without fail, my gullible mother ends up tidying up all by herself, after telling me that I have to pick up three toys. Three toys? No problem, there were like 100! Works like a charm!

Anyway gotta go to bed. Mommy & Daddy think I am sleeping, they don't even know that I can type. SUCKERS!

Yours truly,

Zachary

Snarky

This might be one of those blog posts that gets me into hot water however, since I am feeling a bit snarky tonight I am going to take the chance.

Today as I was flipping through US Weekly, (I know shameful but we all have our vices) I came upon an article on the Duggars. The Duggars have pretty much been flying under the radar ever since their 19th baby girl was born 14 weeks premature. It appears that they are back in the limelight. And of course Im hooked. For those of you who are blissfully unaware of the Duggard's and their 19 offspring, let me briefly fill you in.

Jim Bob (yes you read that right) and Michelle Duggar are parents to a small community of 19 offspring ranging in age from 22 to just a few months old. Each child was given a name starting with the letter J. Jerdiah, Jeremiah, Johanna, Jessa, Jackson... and so on. Their explanation for the unusual choice is that they are Christian's! They are pro-life! They asked God to bless them with as many children as He saw fit in His timing. (Words taken directly from their website). And God then gave them a reality television show on TLC so that they could share that children are a blessing from The Lord! (They use a lot of exclamation points on their website.)

I realize that I am treading on thin ice here, but I have a serious problem with their logic. God wants us to keep having more and more children simply because we can? If we all agreed with this theory, I can only imagine the incredible impact on our environment, economy and sanity. Quite honestly, I do not believe that human beings were suppose to breed to this extent. Let's look at this way, God made some of us fertile, but he also gave us brains, brains that developed birth control, and brains that understand the human body. Clearly the Duggars know how to create babies, so they probably have a vague idea how to prevent pregnancy naturally as well.

As I explore this theory further I wonder why God would want the Duggars to have nearly twenty children and then decide that another loving couple should be saddled with infertility and have none. It makes no sense. God works in mysterious ways? I don't buy it. I just don't. So perhaps Mr & Mrs. Duggar, I am a heathen. So be it.

Michelle & Jim Bob try to convey that they are a joyful, close knit, god fairing family. While I have no doubt that these masters of procreation love their litter, I do question how happy their kids could possibly be. How special could a child really feel if he were number 18? How much attention could he possibly receive from his parents? And how about kid number three? How does she feel about being forced into a role of pseudo mother at age 9?

I actually imagine Michelle with a little excel spreadsheet documenting information on each of the J's. Johanna's birthday is xyz, she prefers chocolate cake to vanilla, likes horses and needs to work on her grammar, Joseph is allergic to strawberries, has an irrational fear of bread crust and tends to wet his bed if given water past 6pm, Josh is married, loves European history and doesn't care for peanut butter, Jessa hates horses, likes math, prefers vanilla and loves baby dolls! How else could one possibly keep track of it all? How well could they actually know each of their 19 children? Even though I am positive that the pair would venomously deny it, I have a feeling that each progressive birth became more and more routine. How special can a birth actually be after you have gone through it 19 times?

Now don't get me wrong I sincerely hope that their newest child although premature, survives and lives a long healthy life, however I hope that Jim Bob & Michelle take this as a sign that enough is enough.

It's 2:00am.

A house at 2am should be quiet unless of course you are 20 years old and hosting a wild kegger for your closest 100 friends. But a home with a family in the middle of the night should be somewhat peaceful right? Maybe a drip drop of a leaky faucet, or the far off whistle of a train, but there should be a general lack of noise that promotes happy sleeping.

Nah. Not at my house. At my house it sounds something more like this.

2am. I am lying wide awake listening to two members of my family snoring loudly. The louder of the two is not the grown man sleeping next to me, but the 24 pound toddler in his crib. The kid is making noises with his nose that shouldn't be possible at two years old. In addition to the snoring there is a whining whimpering noise beckoning me back to the side of my four year old's bed for the third time that night. "What is wrong?" I demand, hands on hips, feeling a serious lack of empathy. "I don't know!" I am told by the crabby child as he turns abruptly away from me and pulls the covers over his head. Well fine. Back to my room where I can lie by the side of Sir-Snores-A lot.

Now in bed again, I am overcome with the a loud ruckus of Bascom on a barking terror for which I am half thankful for (perhaps she is actually scaring a burglar away), but mostly annoyed about (more than likely she is barking at squirrel that caught her eye). Adding insult to injury I am also now lying under the weight of two purring cats across my back that feel like a vibrating electric blanket in August. I start to sweat. I don't have the heart to push them off.

As I lie there sweating and listening to the snoring, whimpering, purring soundtrack of my life I wonder, will I ever really sleep again?

What a Day.

So mother's day exceeded my expectations. Perhaps it has more to do with my own frame of mind than anything that actually happened, but I have felt absolutely joyful all day. Of course my boys have treated me well. I was permitted to sleep in, which although pathetic, meant 8am because I simply cannot stay in bed any longer these days. I rose and went downstairs to find my boys with bowls of cereal plopped in front of the dreaded Sponge Bob. Entranced in the god-awful program, they failed to acknowledge me until their father hollered from the kitchen "eh hem!! HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!" Zachary shot up and ran for the kitchen. He emerged moments later clutching a bouquet of white and yellow flowers and chirped a clearly rehearsed "Happy Mother's Day Mommy!" I hugged him tight. I grabbed both boys onto my lap and sat down to watch an episode of the stupid yellow sponge with them. Coffee was poured for me.

It was a grey morning and there was a light sprinkle of rain, so I sat and played board games with Zachary while the husband fetched bagels from a nearby shop. We had a brunch of bagels, smoked salmon and fresh cherries. I was presented with a homemade card featuring a lion sticker and the word "Zoo" scrawled in Zachary's handwriting.

This afternoon Zack and I ventured out for a mommy/son date to see "How to Train Your Dragon". Zack sat on my lap, munching popcorn and I felt proud as punch that he was my son.

At home now, I am enjoying a glass of Zinfandel, while my boys are baking a Mother's Day chocolate cake.

I feel gitty with love, and beyond lucky. I know that I tend to be a world-class whiner, and this blog is often a space where I vent about the challenges of motherhood. But when we get down to it, this is the life I dreamed of. I couldn't want for more. (Well maybe a bigger house, a live in maid, a flatter belly, and a little extra disposable income, but you get the idea). I am truly, madly in love with my family and this wonderful, crazy, messy life.

Happy Mother's Day

I walked into Safeway on Friday afternoon and was confronted with a big gaudy pink & lavender Mother's Day display. Potted lilies and cheap bouquets of flowers with shiny heart shaped balloons. Cards with sappy cursive writing I heart Mom. I think to myself this is for my grandmother, not for me.... right?



But no, in fact I am mom, and this stuff is marketed in my honor. Wow. How did I get here? I know I have earned it. Two pregnancies, two c-sections, sleepless nights, forgone vacations, all the diapers, puke, and tears. I can proudly wear the badge of "Mom", or some cheesy mother's day corsage. I now have a new understanding of the all of the cliched Hallmark mother's day cards. The cartoon mom, hand on her hips, looking at a pile of laundry on the floor. "Today is your day mom, don't lift a finger, you can do it all tomorrow!" Ha. Ha. I sometimes even get teary eyed looking at the sweeter sentiments, "Thank you, mom for all you do, you will always be my best friend". And yet at times I still find it hard to believe that I am the Mother.



I know same old story different day. Rachel marveling at the passage of time, and wondering how she got to be a grown up and why the guy at the bar never cards me anymore.



But here I am, the mom. And tomorrow is my day. Bring it on.

From the Desk of Rachel Kargas

Dear Staff,

I am writing to you today because of some very serious issues that have come to my attention. These are concerns that seriously threaten the integrity of Kargas Inc. These issues require your immediate attention.

First, I am very, very disappointed to announce that our support staff has raised some extremely serious allegations against Kargas Inc. These accusations threaten the very integrity of our organization.

• One unnamed employee (ruff, ruff), has claimed that she has been consistently harassed over the past several weeks with physical threats including "hit! hit!". This same individual (bark, bark), has documented proof that employees have pulled her ears, and tampered with her food.


• Another very small employee (meow) claims that the work environment is hostile and that he feels unsafe in the presence of all other staff members. He says he hides in fear for the entire work day.

These allegations are very disturbing. The support staff has threatened to contact their unions (PETA & the American Humane Society) and bring suits against Kargas Inc, suits which could possibly put Kargas Inc out of business.

I am hear by demanding that this behavior cease IMMEDIATELY. We are an equal opportunity employer, and we will not stand for the harassment of other species.

I also find it necessary to mention that we are at risk for incurring significant fines from the Department of Health due to the unsanitary conditions in our work space. It is embarrassing, and inexcusable. Effective immediately each and every Kargas Inc employee must adhere to the following policies:

1. All used pull-ups most be disposed of in an appropriate garbage can. It is not acceptable to discard soiled garments on the floor of ones room.


2. Food is to be eaten at the kitchen table, and must not be flung from one's plate onto the floor. Food throwing has resulted in sticky floors and walls.


3. Please refrain from playing with kitty litter. This spreads germs and puts you at risk of contracting social pariah disease.


4. Please do not leave hair balls in common spaces. If you feel the need to purge a hair ball please do so in a designated area. (i.e.outside).

Finally, I have personally noticed an overall lack of professionalism in the work place. I am particularly offended by the poor choice of language I have overheard on company property. Potty language is never acceptable. Going forward all foul language will be fined $30 to be deposited in the Kargas Inc Fashion Fund.

Now while I am certainly disappointed, I do take partial responsibility for the company's poor performance. I realize that I have been out of pocket for the past couple of months working on some off site projects and I am sure that this has upset the general balance of our organization. As a result, I am now dedicated to increasing my time on site by 50%, so I will be much more visible, and I will continue to make my expectations clear.

In happier news, I am sure that you are all well aware of the BIG upcoming company holiday. Sunday is the day to honor yours truly, your CEO and Mama. Gifts will be accepted. Please talk with our CFO, he has the budget and I assure you it will be generous....

Warm Regards,

Mommy.

If Zack had a Facebook Page.

"Evan is a Poopy!"

"Banana pancakes, sausage, and fruit salad for breakfast again. Gross!"

"I don't think my parents know nearly as much about dinosaurs or volcanoes as they let on"

"Daddy is a Poopy!"

"I don't know why my mom is always cleaning up my stuff. Is she trying to make it look like we don't live here?"

"I am never ever ever ever going to eat eggs ever ever again. EVER."

"YOU are a Poopy!"

"If you keep saying that I am going to unfriend you! Your mean!"

"Argg! GRRRRR! Walk the plank! ROAR! I am a Pirate-Dinosaurs"

"Need a little advice-mother's day gift: Chick Hicks matchbox car or Spider Man underwear?"

"POOPY!"

Im a B.

I used to get straight A's. I was once awarded a scholarship for "The Highest Ranking Senior" in the school of Child & Family Studies. Did I peak at 21?

I have never really won an award since. No real promotions. I am, decidedly mediocre. Middle of the road. Plain Jane.

So what??? Poor me. I'm not a super-star. Cry me a river- right? I know. Being average should be acceptable. Pleasant even. But for me, it is hard. If I had an ounce of athleticism , I would pursue the Olympics. If I had a little more vocal range and a wee-bit of rhythm , I would audition for every musical on the planet, if nothing more but for the sheer joy of competition.

But I know better. I am not bound to win any major awards. I am me. Plain-old -me. I am not going to win any scholarships, modeling contracts, Grammy awards, or even a VP position. That's it. If it was going to happen I would know by now. So I had better manage my expectations. Most of us never achieve great, at least not in the public sense. Most of us probably don't even give it a second thought.

So here I am. Nothing extraordinary. No longer an over achiever, just a mom. Just a wife. Just a contract recruiter. Just me.

For someone who has spent so much of her life trying to be the best, trying to be an A+++, it's hard to come to the terms with the fact that your a B.

A blog post

First and foremost, I must announce the winner of the Hip Violet bib. Thank you to all of you who participated!



The winner is.....Jayme! Jayme, please email me at rkargas@hotmail.com with your address, so that I may send you the bib.

And now, a blog post.

Today we hit the Oakland zoo. Beautiful, sunshiny day, perfect day to walk around an view caged animals with everyone else in the city. Kidding aside, it was fun. And Zack decided he had to wear his pirate costume for the occasion. You know, pirates and zoos. Like peanut butter and jelly.

And it got me to thinking. What if grownups got to behave like children? And here is what I determined.

If I were to live my adult life like a 4.5 year old.

• I would buy a pair of those red glittery "Dorthy" slippers and wear them each and every day. To the office, to the park, on date night. Every day. Because they are shiny.
• I would delight in eating pancakes drenched in syrup and butter for breakfast without a second thought.
• I would eat a handful of grapes for lunch without feeling hungry after.
• I would never wear clothes that were too tight or shoes that hurt my feet for the sake of fashion. I would probably wear a tu-tu every now and then, because they are pretty.
• A messy house would not embarrass me. Dishes be damned, they could sit in the sink.
• I would read a book everyday.
• I would think that every 35-year-old was my friend.
• I would spend a lot less time on this here computer