Oops, it happened again

Well, I didn't quite make my 7 in 7 goal…but it seems like a lot of us are in that camp.

C'est la life of a mommyblogger, eh?

Speaking of life, and of mommy blogging, how's this for some shit?

I have post partum depression. Again.

Thinking that I had sailed smoothly past the telltale signs and symptoms of this most dreadful of maternal foes, I somehow failed to connect the dots until this past weekend:

• anger, uncontrollable at times
• exhaustion, bone-deep, even after 8 + hours of sleep
• shortest temper ever (think tears and wailing over spilled milk, smeared poop, burnt toast)
• stalled weight loss/insatiable appetite (hmmm, those two might be more closely related to each other than to an outside impetus. I'll get back to you on that one.)
• weeping spells
• feelings of "I can't do this"/"This was a terrible mistake"
• the unshakeable certainty that I was certainly the most unfit mother in all the land
• numbness and the propensity to 'zone out' periodically throughout the day

etcetera, etcetera.

I thought it was worth putting it out there, embarrassing and humbling or no, simply because I've talked about it here before and gotten so much amazing feedback from my mom-rades in arms, and also because duh, this is a blog, and what good is a blogger without transparency?

So there it is. I have it, again. And maybe I'm the stupid one for saying "yes" to a new baby 3 times in 4 years, or maybe this is just the particular cross I've been handed to carry at this moment, but whatever the case may be, I don't see any benefit to avoiding it here on the 'ol blog. I'm not asking for commentary from the peanut gallery on how 'stupid' having kids is when you're mentally ill/prone to mental illness (aren't we all, as humans?) and believe me, I've had that kind of feedback in the past. But it won't keep me from speaking out because I know there are other moms out there who are dealing with this, who have dealt with this, and who will deal with this in the future. And it sucks. And you feel totally alone and alienated from reality and out of touch with your past/present/future self…but here's the thing: it's not you. 

I'll never forget something Dave said to me while we were dating, and I know I've mentioned it here before. After I confessed to him my struggle with depression and the embarrassment and sorrow I felt over my illness he wrote me a beautiful letter - in Adoration, no less - and in it he quoted Bl. John Paul II who adjures Christians to remember that "the person is not their illness, and is never to be confused with the condition from which they suffer" … or something to that effect.

"You are not your illness, Jenny" was the specific line that stands out in my memory of that letter from him. I believed it then, and I still believe it now, and that's why I feel confident in sharing this here. Because it's not me. It's something that is happening to me, yes, but it's not the sum of who I am as a person, or as a mother. I've been a good mother before. And I'll be a good mother again. And in fact, I'm a good mother even now, in the midst of the hard times, because I'm still doing it, dammit. Because adulthood. And responsibility. And faithfulness.

Anyway, I'm taking steps to get better. I had some progesterone injections today, courtesy of my fantastic Creighton-trained doctor. I'm in the process of scheduling some counseling sessions to talk it out. I'm working with my Creighton instructor (who happens to be a nurse and a nutrition junkie herself, conveniently enough) to plot a course using supplements and nutritional tweaks. I might even get rilly crazy and toy with the dose on my regular 'ol daily antidepressant (for my regular 'ol depression, not to be confused with PPD. Aren't I a lot of fun?)

At any rate, we'll see how things go. Already after just 2 progesterone shots today I feel as if there is air in the room again, if you know what I mean. Before I could breathe and breathe and still feel oxygen deprived. But now…it's all seeming a little lighter. A little more manageable. 

So that's where I'm at. I'm not looking for sympathy here, but I am asking for empathy, because I know there are enough of us out there who have gone through this, or who know somebody who is going through this. Pray for them. Offer to watch their kids so they can get to a doctor's/therapist's appointment. Don't say stupid stuff to them like "well, maybe you should stop getting pregnant if it makes you so sick." Hi, that's asinine, and it's equivalent to telling cops to quit showing up for their shifts if they don't want to keep getting shot. Occupational hazard and all. Rant over.

I hope this helps someone. Or I hope it helps you understand someone you love.

I do know one thing: she was more than worth it.

Ciao y'all

Forgive my radio silence yesterday, but girl's night out called and I answered, and I just couldn't seem to find the time to do my duty. The margaritas, however, were delicious.

I've been noticing some new faces around the comments lately and some increased activity on bloglovin and Facebook, so I thought I'd go ahead and introduce myself to you dear new readers. No doubt you've stumbled over here via the Edel Gathering homepage or perhaps Jen or Grace sent you (so my stats tell me), but at any rate, you are very welcome here. Very welcome indeed, Mrs. Bates. 

I just figured I perhaps owed you a little introduction and I figured what better way to do that than in a feigned third person interview? Plus, 66% of my offspring are wailing themselves to sleep right now and my husband is working for at least another 2 hours tonight and that soothing white noise on the sound machine? It's just the background ambience I need in order to conduct a proper interview with mahself. 

Without further ado, may I present to you, Mama Needs Coffee's FAQs (or something like that).

1. Who is this coffee lover, and how much caffeine does she actually consume? 

Hi, I'm Jenny. I'm married to Dave, who works for the Archdiocese of Denver. We live in a southern suburb of Denver proper, and we've been happily married for 4.5 years, in which time we've accumulated 6 separate addresses. The most recent address before this one was in Rome, Italy, where Dave worked as a journalist for Catholic News Agency, covering the Vatican beat. Yep, that's a real thing. We're pretty much done moving for now, though, much to the relief of grandparents on both sides. Italy was a blast. It was also supremely lonely/frustrating/confusing/charming/historic/socialist. Choose your own adventure from the archives and see for yourself.

(Oh, and I drink one to four shots of espresso per day, depending upon the night before. Yes, even when I'm nursing/pregnant. Makes 'em smart and tough.)

2. Why are your kids so close in age? Are you done?

Honestly, I was almost 27 when we got married, and Dave was 30. We're just making up for lost time.

In all seriousness though, we're practicing Catholics, and with that we believe in managing our fertility naturally, and without the use of birth control. As even a cursory examination of this blog will tell you though, I know a lot about contraception, and even if I were straight up atheist and living la vida loose and loca, I still wouldn't be popping the Pill. It's not only a moral issue, but a medial issue. And an environmental issue.

As for the 3 kids in 4 years? What can I say, we just like 'em. We figure we'll keep going till we get an ugly one. Meanwhile, please be at least a teeny bit classy when you're asking me about my sex life in the Target checkout line. I warn you, my comebacks can be a tad caustic when I let fly the first things that come to mind. 

3. Why blog? And why not monetize it, or at least learn some basic design-y tricks to make it look less like…it does?

I've been blogging since 2006, long back before it was cool. What started out as an outlet suggested to me by a college fling (who, incidentally, was a huge fan of this site called "Et Tu, Jen?") ended up having greater longevity than the relationship. We ended, but the virtual ranting didn't. And so 8 years and one name change later, here I be. Speaking of Jen, she claims the title of her forthcoming book was inspired by the headlining quote on my old blog, which is, admittedly, a good one. 

I haven't monetized it because honestly, it seems like a hassle. And because I have a full-time job already. (More on that later.) I write because it makes me feel alive and because it's how I process the world. Whenever I get emails asking about sponsored posts or guest posts I turn them down, not because I'm not flattered, but because that's not why I'm doing this. I don't have a brand to build, and honestly, I swear kind of regularly. And address controversial topics. And frankly, I like having the freedom to to so. (However, if anyone wants to send a killer diaper bag or amazing footwear my way, I will happily write you a love story and host it here.)

4. You have a real job?

I mean, 3 kids in diapers, you do the math…

No but really, I work full time, from home. Hence all the recent chatter about a mother's helper. I'm the content editor for a news aggregator called Heroic Media News. It's a news site that features content on life issues from all over the world. On a given day we cover everything from euthanasia to abortion, and surrogacy to the death penalty. It's fascinating stuff, and what makes Heroic Media News different than just about any other site is that the content is 100% relevant to major bioethical issues of the moment, but is pulled from a wider variety of sources than almost any other news outlet can claim. Secular, religious, state-run media, academic papers, you name it. If it relates to life and family issues and it's breaking news, you'll find something about it on Heroic. 

Our parent company, Heroic Media, has been in business for the past decade and is focused on offering life-affirming choices and resources to women in crisis pregnancy situations through various media outreaches; billboards, tv commercials, radio spots. You name it, they've done it. And they've done it well.

In addition to curating the content for the website, I also direct the content for a weekly television show by the same name. It's currently slated to begin airing on EWTN in April. The show, (which I will infrequently appear on as a guest anchor) will cover 5 breaking stories from the week. The aim is to "catechize through the news," which sounds odd, but hear me out. Technology and legislation - especially in the reproductive sciences arena - is moving ahead so quickly that there is often little or no thought given to the morality of a new advancement. We're so caught up in the "can we?" that very often nobody stops to ask the "should we?" What we're trying to do with Heroic is help people to reason through and to understand the moral and social ramifications of issues like abortion, embryonic stem cell research, and end of life care. You'd be surprised how few people have ever heard a homily on IVF, or who have ever discussed palliative care versus extraordinary measures with their own families. We want people to have these conversations. They're important. Maybe even the most important. 

So Heroic Media News. Read it. Bookmark it. Visit it every day. And feel very free to send news tips my way any time!

5. Did you study journalism? Or English? 

Yes. And no. I mean I was a journalism major for a semester, I think. But I was also a history major, an English major, a psychology major, an earth sciences major, and I ended up turning my tassel for a degree in the now-defunct school of mental health and human services. (Hail, Steubenville, made up majors.) 

So no, I didn't actually graduate with an official mandate to write, but writing has always been my thing. My first ever real published article appeared in Our Sunday Visitor way back in 2007, and the publishing bug bit me hard. Real hard. To date I've published more than 50 pieces for various publications both in print and around the web, and there's more fun coming this spring.

6. So, a book?

Honestly I'd love to write a book. (And no, no deals currently in the making. Not any solo projects, at least.) I think I'd write about contraception, and about how very wrong our culture has got things in that department. Or maybe about parenting and motherhood. (This would largely be a blooper reel, as I'm sure is self evident.) Or perhaps a memoir of our 9 months in Italy. At any rate, one day…

7. Do the things you write about really happen to you? Surely you're using hyperbole.

With very few exceptions, the shit that gets laid down on this page is real. I don't know if there is something about my manner or person that invites utter weirdness from strangers, or if perhaps I am just more attuned to finding and then recounting the humor in daily encounters, but let me assure you, I really do discuss teenage promiscuity with strange men at the Grease Monkey, and I've been known to encounter all kinds of … kinds at the big red bullseye. Plus, my kids are really weird themselves, and are thus an endless source of material. Just this morning I was trolling the Drudge Report with JP on my lap when he excitedly shouted "there's daddy right there! there he is!" while pointing at my laptop. The image he was so jazzed over was of Vladimir Putin and Barack Obama, so I'll leave that to your imaginations as to who my baby daddy more closely resembles…

And with that cliffhanger, I'll bid you a lovely evening, and repeat my gratitude for your time and interest. Truly, it's an honor to have so many new readers. I hope you'll take off your coat and stay a while.

Naming Rights

I read Bonnie's name stories for her babies today and I just knew I had to play along. That and I didn't have anything much in mind for today's requisite post, so…c'est la baby names.

Starting out our line up of all star Catholic names we have:

Joseph Kolbe

Joey, as he is more frequently called, was named to honor the patron saint of our courtship and engagement and the foster father of Jesus, St. Joseph, and a favorite saint of Dave's - and now one of mine - St. Maximilian Kolbe. Also known as the priest of Auschwitz. Aka prisoner 16670. He died in the camp after offering himself in place of a father who called out for mercy for his children's sakes when he was randomly selected for exaction by Nazi guards looking to make an example for the general population. Fr. Kolbe was sentenced to death by starvation, but after weeks without food, he was still alive and still offering encouragement to his fellow prisoners. The Nazis finally killed him. Cool fact: the family of the man whose place he took was present in St. Peter's Square years later when JPII beatified him (the precursor to canonization, or recognized sainthood.)

Another cool story: while traveling in Italy (the first time) we chatted up a capuchin Franciscan from Poland in a restaurant in Assisi of all places, and as he bounced 7-month-old Joey on his knee, we proudly told him that his middle name was Kolbe "for Father Max." The happy friar shot us a look of horror and asked in disbelief You took his family name?! So I guess the American trend of assuming surnames is not kosher the world over.

Next up:

John Paul Francis

So after the aforementioned trip to Italy, where we attended the beatification of Bl. John Paul II (soon to be St. JPII!) and profoundly encountered the spirit of St. Francis in Assisi, we returned home and found out we were expecting this little dude a couple months later. We tossed around a couple other names but when he arrived, we both looked at each other and said, oh, this is John Paul, right? Fun fact: to complete the papal trifecta, John Paul Francis was named almost a year before Pope Francis was elected, but not before Pope Benedict took him in his arms and laid one on him. If this kid isn't destined for the seminary, I don't know who is…

Bringing us finally to:

Genevieve Therese

This little sweetie was the only baby whose sex we discovered in utero, but we still hemmed and hawed over her name pretty much until she was placed on my chest. Genevieve is a nod to a sometimes nickname from childhood when my dad would substitute the french version of Jennifer, and she is also the patron saint of Paris. Therese is my favorite female saint, and it just seemed right and beautiful to pair two such lovely names together. So she's our little flower. And she has 8 e's in her full name. So you're welcome, sweetheart. Good luck with roll call. Fun fact: we thought we were being a tiny bit unusual without being actually, you know, unusual with this name, and in secular circles we for sure get that reaction, but no sooner had the ink dried on her birth certificate than we discovered not one but two fellow FUS alums with Genevieve's of their own. And not just Genevieve, but Genevieve Therese. Both of them. One born less than 3 weeks after ours. Go figure.

So there you have it. The moniker medley for family Uebbing. Thanks to Kathryn for giving me something to post about for day 3.

How (and why) to Catch a Mother's Helper

So leave it to the old mommy blogger identity to make my recent post about getting a MH one of my most read to date in 2014 (like thousands of page views, go figure).

Apparently you guys want to know more. Well let me be the one to bring you into the happy, light-filled place where well-rested and highly satisfied mothers dwell: the land of helpful teenagers.

Now, I've heard you can get your own helpful teenagers with approximately a dozen investment years of blood, sweat, and tears, but I don't have the luxury of a decade + of mothering under my belt yet, so I had to outsource.

I had several well-respected moms of many extol to me, via email or the combox, how very useful one of these mythical creatures could be, and, even more helpfully, advise me on how best to lure and capture one. So allow to me share the recipe.

First, know what your needs are. Maybe you're the kind of mom who loves to read books, play imaginary games, build endless railroad tracks, and sing lots of kid's songs out loud. But maybe you'd gladly pay someone to fold your underwear and mop your kitchen floor. So tailor your search accordingly. I, however, am very much not that kind of mom.

The tremendous amount of energy it requires for me to engage my introverted momself with my kids all day long is actually weirdly rejuvenated by vacuuming, uninterrupted laundry folding, and even the occasional toilet scrubbing. Plus, I am a bit of a perfectionist in the housekeeping department. Don't get me wrong, my house is not extraordinarily clean, but it for sure is cleaned to my standards and my standards alone, by me. I love my kids, and I also love someone else entertaining them while I take an hour of uninterrupted time to clean. I know many moms who would rather have the cleaning help, and that is fine too. Just be clear in what you're looking for.

Secondly, have a realistic budget in mind. Take a gander at your local Craigslist or Care.com ads for childcare help, cleaning, etc. and get an idea for what the going rate is in your area. Think of what you'd pay a babysitter. Ask your friends what they pay theirs. Heck, ask your friends if they employ mother's helpers of their own. I was shocked at how many of my girlfriends had recommendations for me. And all this time I thought they'd all been Super-moming it on their own…

If you're willing to hire a younger teen, you can definitely save some money. Be prepared to have to be more flexible in terms of availability, however, as they might be younger than driving age and might not be able to handle more than 1 or 2 kids on their own if you decide to leave the house.

Third, know where to look. First, ask your local mom friends. Call around to local churches and inquire with their youth ministers or youth pastors, (think outside the Catholic ghetto - good opportunity for evangelization, too!) ask the barista at your regular coffee spot, or ask your friends who teach or coach at area high schools. If your city has a homeschooling community or email list, this is a great resource, especially since homeschoolers have much more flexible schedules.

Finally, don't feel the need to explain yourself or hover around your fabulous employee once they're on site. I mean obviously you'll want to observe them with your kids, have a character reference or two, and be confident that they're responsible and friendly, but then… back off.

My biggest concern when I was considering making this move was that I'd feel awkward having somebody in my house while I'm there, and that I'd have to justify why I was essentially paying someone to hang out with my children while I took a nap, did some writing, ran errands, went to the gym or just sat on my bed, nursing and reading a novel. Stop it. You don't have to explain to anybody. Even moms deserve the chance to shower without spectators, and I know my husband would rather come home to a smiling wife who might have even cooked dinner than to a frantic shrew who tosses him a screaming baby as she runs past him into the night for an hour of escape. (Don't I paint a rosy picture of family life? Whatever, postpartum mothering is hard.

Hard, but cute.

Mothering in this culture is hard, period. For starters, those of us who don't commute to an office have to answer the idiotic inquiry do you work? at least on a weekly. Coupled with that is the reality that modern America is not exactly family friendly. Sure, there are kids play places and programs at the library for little people, but hardly anybody lives nearby enough to their extended family to get any real help, and childcare is so expensive that it necessitates (and also creates the need for, by the way) a second income. Plus, nobody is home during the day on most weekdays, so if you're staying at home, you're going it super alone. It ain't natural, I'm telling you. And it isn't the way mothers the world over are doing it.

There's a reason so many of us are burnt out, lonely, and wonder on the regular whether our work means anything at all. In the eyes of our culture, the answer is too often a big, fat no. But the eyes of the heart reveal a different answer. What we do is infinitely and eternally important…but we were never meant to do it completely alone. Ladies, don't be afraid to add a co-worker to the corporate payroll when you've found yourself with a broader job description. There ain't no shame in upping your game, even if that means expanding the roster to include some new talent.

I hope this helps you struggling and lonely mamas out there see the idea in a different light. And if the cost is intimidating to you, perhaps there is a solution that doesn't cost a thing. Maybe there's another mom in your same situation who would be willing to swap kids one day a week, and the two of you can take turns relieving each other. Maybe your mother-in-law is local and is dying to be invited to help you with the kids on a regular basis. Maybe there's a teen in your community who just loves little ones, and who would want to come play with your kids for no cost at all. You never know until you ask.

For our own situation, our MH is  15-year old homeschooled high school student whose parents were willing to drive her both ways (this was hugely important to me) two days a week. She comes Monday and Friday afternoons from 1:30 - 5 pm, and I usually entrust her with my 3.5 year old and my 22 month old for the entire time. I will also leave her with the 9-week-old, as long as one of the three kids are asleep. (She doesn't have any qualms about taking care of them all, but I feel like 3 little kids is a lot to ask of a 15 year old.) When I do leave the house, it's usually for an hour or so while I shop or work out. I won't put her specific salary, but the going rate for babysitting in our area is 8-12 per hour, and I stay within that range.

Hope this was helpful and not sleep inducing. (And thanks for a second day of motivation, Jen.)

Go by Giving

Squeaking in during the pre-bedtime lull in the storm to post my due diligence for day one of the 7 in 7 challenge, and my little bro made it easy on me. You'll see a new button on the top right corner of the blog - see it? -------->

Do me a favor and clickity click your way to the fundraising page and make a small donation (or a large one, by all means!) to help fund my little brother's mission trip to Ecuador next month. Actually, they leave in 2 weeks so time's a wasting.

Kenny is in his last semester at FUS and is one of the best guys I know. He has a deep desire to serve and to spread the love of Christ in a tangible way. I was talking with him last weekend while he was here for wedding festivities and asked him what the plan for the trip was and he said that the plan was to set up basic medical facilities for the village they'll be visiting. Not being pre-med or nursing, he said his contribution would probably be to carry stuff, haul trash, maybe give talks on basic hygiene to the people of the village, and perhaps do some catechetical instruction like "Why go to Confession" and "the importance of going to Mass" And he was so happy to be going to do these basic things! He didn't mind one bit that he'd be doing the grunt work of the trip, and he is paying out of pocket to do so.

As a survivor of FUS student loan debt myself, I know it's no small detail to shell out money during college for even fun and frivolous matters -- but to spend $ on a mission trip for senior spring break…well that's something special.

So yeah, I think he deserves an honorable mention and a shameless plea from his proud big sister. So what are you waiting for?

:)

It's a Beautiful Day

Since I mentioned a wedding, I felt it was only fair to share a picture or two from the blessed event. We were all more or less recovered from our plague, and I thoughtlessly rewarded my still fragile immune system with copious amounts of alcohol and carbohydrates, so I'm calling an early start on Lent this year…just as soon as tonight's episode of Downton wraps. #31isnot21 #oldmomproblems #vodkasodas4ever.

Hashtag.

Anywho, here's the happy couple, aren't they gorgeous?

The first 'look.' (They didn't actually lock eyes till she started down the aisle.)

If you're local-ish and lucky enough to get on her schedule, this gal is an amazing photographer, and a sweetheart with two beautiful baby girls who she takes gorgeous pictures of on her blog all the time. Check her out. And okay, one more gorgeous pic:

55 degrees in February. Go home Colorado, you're (happily) drunk.

I think I'm jumping on the Fulwiler bandwagon and taking up the 7 in 7 challenge, so I'll be back tomorrow. 

In the mean time, any thoughts on Lent? Dave and I were talking about it on the way home from Mass this morning and he had some awesome words of reflection from our Holy Father's Message for Lent about overcoming destitution, which he explains as being very different from poverty. Destitution, says Pope Francis, is poverty without hope, and can be in a material, spiritual, or emotional form. He was encouraging us to find ways to overcome destitution this Lenten season, both in the world and in ourselves. He also said (and this one is a little scary) "I distrust a charity that costs nothing and does not hurt." Ouch. 

That little gem led me past my usual line of alcohol abstinence and no desserts unless it's a feast day reasoning and onto the possibility for a greater sacrifice for this year. I think the very most difficult thing I could imagine at this stage of life is to start setting an actual alarm and waking up before my children to pray for 10 minutes each morning. I don't know what is sadder about that sentence, the idea that a grown adult doesn't use an alarm, or the fact that my greatest suffering is waking up in the morning, but I'll get back to you when I've decided. Pathetic.

So no booze and waking to an alarm. It'll be just like high school all over again. Maybe I'll get my body back, too…

What are your Lenten plans?

Life's a Beach

5 days out of 7.... that's not bad, right? That's like a solid C. I'll take it.

It has been HOT here in Rome. Like too hot to leave the house between noon and 6 pm. And pretty much too hot to do much of anything else, the rest of the hours, aside from wandering up and down the shady side of the street eating gelato and drinking regular Coke. I have become a disgusting sugar addict in these past 8 months, and I've had mornings where I'll happily slurp down a cappuccino con zuccharo, a cornetto con nutella, AND still eat nothing but fruit and flavored iced tea for lunch. Gestational diabetes, here I come.

We took a day trip to Santa Marinella on Friday, which involved lots of train riding, stair climbing, toddler coaxing and sand scraping...but it also involved 90 glorious minutes of being submerged up to our ribcages in the gentle waters of the Mediterranean. Joey sort of has zero fear of the water now, and happily took off paddling in a borrowed (stollen?) water ring for 'those boats over there Mommy, imma be right back.' 

Okay, el Capitan. But dipping your head under water every 4 minutes and pretending to drown isn't helping your campaign to convince me that you know how to swim.

JP, on the other hand, was happier scrambling on the shore right where the 'waves' (this was a very protected and idyllic bay with practically zero chop) hit the sand, playing with beach toys and occasionally allowing himself to be perched, semi-submerged, in my lap. Eventually we all got burnt to hell, despite our careful re-application of sunblock and the hottest modest swimsuits on the beach. So home we went. JP spiked a fever on the train and he has been in and out of febrile madness for the last 48 hours. So, I think it's safe to say he's a 'mountains' guy.

Speaking of beachwear (we were, weren't we?) Europeans have a muuuuuuch looser definition of age-appropriate and definitely have a different take on modesty. What I found disturbing as hell 3 months ago I am now utterly accustomed to, and, in fact, I don't think there's really anything all that wrong with dressing like you're going to the beach when you're at the beach.

Plus, I really don't know how to say this tactfully, so I'll say it the way I say everything else: there is something incredibly refreshing about seeing women with less-than-perfect (read: real) bodies rocking bikinis. Am I about to bust out my 2-piece circa 2008? Mmmm, probably not, but only because I have theeeee worst stretch marks on all of God's green earth, and I would never ever feel comfortable flashing them up and down the sand.

But the cellulite on my legs? Oh, it turns out every other woman over the age of 30 pretty much has that, too. And the less-than-toned midsection that looks like it has borne children because it has...yep, everyone else has got one of those, too. So the conclusion I've arrived at is this: bikinis, the great equalizers! And the men don't look that hot, either. And they couldn't care less! What a refreshing change from the country club scene where only nipped/tucked Marilyn rocks the teeny weenie while the rest of us schlump around in tankinis and skorts that I wouldn't have been caught dead wearing in the 5th grade. Made of Lycra. Oh for the love...

Anyway, Euro fashion...you're growing on me.

Try to Be Here

These days are so long, and they're so similar that sometimes - more often than I care to admit, really - I lift my head and look around on a Thursday afternoon and wonder how it isn't Monday still. Didn't we do all this on Monday already? Has the sun really risen and set three times since then? Have my legs been shaved this week?

They don't notice. They don't seem to have any real sense of the passage of time. Joey goes wild with satisfaction when I acquiesce to his demand for a bedtime "two minutes later than John Paul's." Sure, kid, whatever gets you through to quitting time.

But they don't have a real grasp on 'hurry up' or 'slow down' ... and they sure as hell don't have a handle on 'Mommy needs five minutes more on the phone, please go restart Curious George and teach yourself how to read.'

I am bad at slowing down. I'm also bad at surrendering to the pace of a toddler driven day, marked by periods of intense involvement with a wooden train set and periodic fraternal sparring over said vehicles. One more drink. Hold me. I want up on your bed. I don't want to go potty. I just peed on the floor. Don't get my hair wet. Hold me. Don't look at me. Et cetera. 

I don't know whether this is a terrible thing to admit, but I hate reading aloud to my children. I hate reading aloud, period. To revisit the same Curious George (why is that monkey such a fixture in my life?) story over and over again is a special kind of hell for me. It's definitely a death to self. But it's an unwilling death, not freely given. I feel acutely that my life is taken from me, in these moments, rather than freely surrendered. And that sucks. Because I want to love my children better than that. I want to give them the best of me, and to give it willingly.

I want to want to sit cross-legged on the floor reading the same book over and over again and marveling over his delight with the cadence of the story. But those moments are fleeting, and the feelings they invoke are unsustainable. Most of the time I'm lucky to keep myself from swearing in front of them or raising my voice to a full-on yell. I try to kiss them often, and squeeze their fat little thighs while telling them how precious they are. But I also spend way too much time on the computer while they're awake. I say terrible things about their behavior while I'm on the phone with my mom (who always admonishes me) and to my sister (who sympathizes with me).

In short, I'm failing them. Every day. I'm also serving them the best I know how... most of the time. I'm trying to teach them to love Jesus: we go to Mass and I sweat and wrestle and threaten and coax. And I pray that something is soaking down deep into their little hearts, and that it will grow and bloom. Today we took Aunt Claire to St. Peter's and we stumbled into Mass on the St. Joseph's altar, in Italian. Against all better judgement we stepped behind the velvet rope and joined in. Because it had just started and I needed the Sacrament today, just like Christy wrote about.

They both fought me most of the time, escaping from the pew, flirting with nuns, running away from me and climbing into the stately wooden confessional and kicking sandaled feet gleefully against the penitent's kneeler. In short, they were toddlers. As we were leaving the basilica, threading our way through massive crowds of sweating tourists, Claire asked 'was that normal?' And I could only laugh.

Oh yes, it was normal. It was every day. And it was awful. And yet, completely what I expected. These years are hard. They're fleeting and precious and something I'll ponder in my heart when I'm 50 years old, I know...but they're hard. And I'm just trying to live in them, to be in them, to not constantly try to escape from them. Because I know, if my vocation is here, then my salvation is here. And I mean that in the least saccharine way possible. I firmly believe these children will get me closer to Heaven than any other thing on this earth. And yet, I want to run from them. Often.

I hope if the internet is still a thing 10 or 15 years from now and they happen to stumble onto something I've written about this time in our lives together, they'll see how loved they were, in spite of the insanity and proliferation of bodily fluids. More importantly, I hope they'll remember a sweet, patient Mommy who didn't mind reading one more story or getting one more glass of water at bedtime, rather than the yelling, un-showered Mommy who is threatening to lock herself in the bathroom with a laptop and a bottle of red wine until Daddy gets home.

I hope they know how much I love them. And I hope they don't feel ignored or hurried or slighted or a million other emotions I unwittingly inflict on them on a daily basis.

I hope I can learn to be here. Because, in the words of one of my favorite saints, "We have only today. Let us begin."

Raindrops on Roses, etc.

Just 5 of my current favorite things, featured by Hallie via Grace. Thankfully, since I've been utterly spent for cohesive content today, I can keep my daily streak alive.

1. 

The best.

Today was the loveliest day I've had in Rome in ... maybe ever? Dave's sweet younger sister is here, taking a breather from her exotic life as a tropical disease specialist in Cambodia, and she is rapidly rocketing to the top of my roster of preferred Uebbings. Not only did she remain utterly calm when Joey peed his pants in a Vatican bike shed this morning (that's another story for another day... like maybe his wedding day), but she later did my dishes for me while I banged out some work during nap times. So I'm keeping her.

2. 

Dave bought this book before our London/Denver flight earlier this month, and passed it on to me after he'd finished it and even though I was totally halfhearted in my agreement to give it a whirl, I fell truly, madly, deeply in love and Savage Garden, hold me back, I wish I could un-know it simply so I could re-read and enjoy it all over again. If you like Jane Austen, Downton Abbey, small children, puppies, pastel nail polish, and anything else that is good about the world, well this is the book for you.

3.

This is the banner on my favorite gelateria's homepage. Which is pretty accurate, all things considered.

Gelato. Every day. Because I'm hot and pregnant, and not in the way you'd think. I'm 19 weeks in and 8 lbs. up, which may be a lifetime record and may also be very poor form to mention on the internet. I'll be checking back in at week 29 weighing in at approximately 55 lbs, so stay tuned. 

4. 

This palate, purchased during a stopover in the very glamorous South Bend, Indiana. (maybe you've heard of the University Park Mall, Ana?) It's Bare Minerals Ready Eyeshadow 8.0 in The Power Neutrals ($40), which is approximately $35 more than I generally spend on eyeshadow, and frankly, it shows. Almost every day, regardless of how little I've slept or how underdressed I may be, if I swipe this magic potion across my eye lids, my husband purrs his approval. Just trying to keep the magic alive. Plus, it has a chart (don't judge, don't laugh) that instructs me where to put what, and for which occasion. Since I was the eldest girl in our clan and wore Star Wars t-shirts to school until the 8th grade, I may have been just a tad on the late blooming side of the feminine forest. So.

5. 

I am in love with my MacBook Air. I got it for work and it is the perfect combo between a tablet and a laptop. I'm not sure of the pricetag, but my boss has some sweet connections and I'm sure he got a deal. I have last year's model and it's fantastical for a million reasons, but mostly the batter life, the screen clarity, the layout, and the 'intuitiveness' that is the Mac interface. I was a skeptic, but now I'm a believer. Whenever I have to type in www.youtube.com/allthecuriousgeorgefulllengthepisodesintheworld, I am supremely irritated by how clunky "Joey's" hand-me-down PC is.

Prayers for Hallie as she takes to the friendly skies with half her brood tomorrow. Grace has the virtual fort in her capable hands.

In Which I Melt Under the Tuscan Sun

Eh, the Roman sun. Close enough.

Checking in today and doing my duty in posting for a third consecutive day, a feat so incredible it had to be recorded on the internet for all of posterity.

It's really, really flipping hot today. In lieu of sitting around awaiting our errant AC repairman, I made the dubious decision to load up the troops and schlep down to the Vatican hood to crash Daddy's office once again for some reverse-sauna treatments.

Regrettably, this decision was made close to naptime, and so while we were cooler, we were not all a happy bunch. About $60 worth of pasta lunch and 2 hours later, I trundled home with my sweating masses, and we were mere meters from our apartment building when bam - or rather, almost bam - a freaking Fiat making an illegal uturn in a taxi lane almost took us out. A visibly pregnant lady sweating her ass off and pushing 100+ pounds of babies and stroller.

Excuse me!! I politely screamed at the top of my lungs, followed up with a much more predictable you asshole because I am a classy non-Italian speaker, I am.

The non-plussed driver didn't pluss, nor did any of the mildly intrigued passersby. So I grumblingly hauled babies up onto the curb and thundered onward, cursing the Eternal City.

I ducked into our favorite bar to buy 3 consolation popsicles for us to lick our almost-wounds over, and wouldn't you know it, I was a Euro short.

Damn this backasswards country and their tax-evading mafia-protected businesses and their shady debit-card-refusing policies. I just want to buy my kids some freaking ice cream to celebrate being alive and I don't have a witch's coin purse full of freaking gold deblooms on hand, just this suspicious piece of plastic linked directly to my bank account so of COURSE you wouldn't accept payment in such new-fangled form. Damn you, Italy.

But then Carlo, our favorite barista, bought my popsicle.

Italy, I still don't understand you. Charmed at this moment, but who knows what the next one will hold.

These are the bomb, by the way.

Day 2

Oh that title...the creativity is just oozing out of my pores. Truly.

Both my giant exterior babies are screaming their sweaty little heads off right now because 1. our AC units went out last night and 2. It's bedtime. And, you know, they've never been put to bed before. I'm just straining my little ears for the sound of forced vomiting any moment now...

Anywho, today was a relatively unremarkable, smolderingly hot summer day here in Rome. It is odd to feel the emptiness of the city, already dwindling in the tourist category, now absent one Holy Father as of 10 am local time. It feels similar to the period from Benedict's abdication to the beginning of the conclave...except obviously not sad. World Youth Day is a joyful reason for Rome to be sede vacante (well, in the physical sense), if you enjoy camping in fields, sweating your ass off and sleeping in the dirt. Or so I've heard. But it makes me so, so happy that Papa gets to go back to his continent and really say 'goodbye' to his part of the world. Isn't God good, for this to all have been planned and scheduled before a Latin American Pope was even a twinkle in anybody's eye? Yeah.

I'm eating pre-popped popcorn and apples with peanut butter for dinner. My kitchen is incendiary and will immediately combust if I flick the gas to the stove on. It's that hot. Therefore, no cooking for days...and days. I did briefly and stupidly heat water for a piping mug of Earl Grey to round out my preggie palate, because nothing says summer evening like hot tea.

I'm so sorry, this is just awful. Let's see, weather, meal planning...what else can I bore you with? Oh, I know, how about more behavior issues with my children. Perfect.

We're experimenting with a week of 'no spanking' with the boys, particularly Joey, and if you are horrified by the thought of corporal punishment, just go ahead and click non-judgementally away right now.

Okay, who's still with me? So confession time: I'm a spanker. Not very hard, and not all the time, but sometimes it feels impossible to communicate with boys any other way...except lately, even that line is cluttered with static. Now JP is kind of little to be spanked, per se, but we do smack his hand if he does something unsafe, like stick various metal items into temptingly-shaped European electrical sockets. And his world grows dark and dim and he collapses into a sorrowful heap of remorse and anguish. It is so sad that I can very rarely follow through on it.

Joey, on the other hand, generally laughs in my face if I raise a hand to his diapered booty. And sometimes he spanks me back when my guard is down, which is 100 kinds of special. So in addition to feeling like crap for spanking my kid, I am also increasingly aware that for this special model of almost-3-year-old, it isn't working.

Yelling doesn't actually work either. Or time outs. Loss of privileges are sort of effective 60% of the time. And eating gelato in front of his face while repeatedly recounting his offenses and reminding him why he can't partake is probably the most effective, but feels truly heinous once the novelty wears off. Plus, my hips. Cooling down from the inside out has consequences, y'all.

Anyway, feel free to consider this one part cry for help, one part confession, and one part trolling for discipline strategies. Whatcha got?

horrifying photobooth session at Daddy's (air conditioned) office this afternoon. Sweet dreams.

The Daily Show

Here goes 7 days of .... something.

I'm prepared to bore you with a contiguous week of postings, if only to satisfy the challenge Jen has thrown down. Also, since she's a signed/sealed/delivered author of the genuine variety, I figure any directives she has to issue on writing discipline are worthy of heeding.

This morning we were greeted with a surprised smile by our pastor as we staggered up the steps to 10 am Mass, an entire 30 minutes early and in time for Confession. He remarked on how very un-tanned and un-rested we looked for having returned from an exotic beach vacation, and we in turn congratulated him on his celibate vocation. Plus, he gets to spend next month at the Jersey Shore with other people's kids, so presumably, their nighttime care will not be his concern. And he's actually an Eye-talian American, so he will probably actually get a tan.

We, of pasty white northern European descent, were unable to work up sufficient pigmentation to even sunburn in the 3 cumulative hours spent on the beach this past week. But we did drink Coronas at one point (because I'm a terrible mother), and the public nudity was kept to an all-around minimum. So, win?

I am 18 weeks pregnant with number 3, but still sleeping somewhat happily on my stomach and not gaining all that much weight. Is it weird that this freaks me out? I've also only felt baby move a handful of times, and then I'm like, wait, did I feel that? No, that was nothing...or maybe was it?

I also regularly fantasize about traumatic birth outcomes, fatal illnesses, and awful complications to either my or baby's health, proving that I'm really no more fun as a third time mother than I was as a first timer. Does anyone else suffer from this kind of idiotic anxiety? And should I be feeling more gymnastics at this point since I'm practically a veteran gestater by now?

Anyway, there you have some stream-of-consciousness style posting to satisfy the not very exacting parameters of this blogging challenge.

And, because why not, some pictures:

You know, just some chocolate-masked egg babies hatching in a cafe window. Wft Europe.

And, their evil master, who may be, dare I hope, an actual Krampus? Lizzie, can you confirm this specimen as such?