Notes on being a badass rockstar

Hello, Friends.

The space between my stories has been filled with summer fun, many headlines, new challenges, overdue victories and just enough defeat for the sake of balance.

Sanford & Sons

Really, Mark Sanford? You get on live TV, confess to adultery, claim that your Argentinian mistress is your soulmate, quote Bible passages to try and justify it all, then say you're going to try to reconnect with your wife?

If I was your wife, and you publicly (or even privately) humiliated me like that, the only thing that I'd be interested in connecting would be my foot with your ass. Lucky for you, I never would've married a republican from South Carolina.

Ed Mctheman, Queen of Posters and the King of Pop

That was a whole lot of death.

I was really sad when Ed McMahon died. It seemed like he was always on TV when I was a kid because of Star Search and Publisher's Clearing House commercials. I have so many great memories of watching what was the best talent show ever (before American Idol came along). My grandparents always watched with me too. It was a big family event.

Most people thought the entertainment news the day that Michael Jackson died was going to be that Farrah Fawcett died. Even Wolf Blitzer was prepared to give her 10 minutes of roundtable talk, remembering her famous feathered haircut, big smile and best-selling poster that made the Charlie's Angel star so popular.

Sadly, I could only seem to recall that I once saw her in a bad TV movie about a homicidal Texas mom. During the trial in that particular primetime gem, a cassette was entered as evidence and played for the jury. The song was Duran Duran's "Hungry Like a Wolf." That seemed to redeem the viewing experience for me.

So I was going to relay that story on Blitzer's message board (not really), but that all changed when reports broke that Michael Jackson had a heart attack.

The next couple of hours were a media mess. Some news organizations said it was just a heart attack, others said he was dead. His music played in a loop on several radio stations, and Blitzer showed many of his videos.

I was only half-shocked. It would be hard to imagine an 80-year-old King of Pop, and I know that has been pointed out many times since he died.

My first three thoughts were these:

1. What will the Duker do? The Duker, a.k.a. Hossain, was a kid I went to college with who danced, impressively, to MJ at every school function where music was played--whether it was an end-of-semester formal or a Rec Center event featuring free cheese cubes.

2. I wonder if those "I (heart) Michael Jackson" pencils are still at my mom's house. What person my age doesn't remember the Thriller album and the subsequent videos? Every year after its debut, I've always looked forward to that Thriller video being on during Halloween. I was in labor with Cienna (born at 1:41 a.m. on Nov. 1) and watching that video. Because I'm badass. Or crazy. Or the MILF of Pop. Let's go with badass.

3. How much MJ stuff did I have? I had the replica gloves. I thought I was cool when I moonwalked. Or tried to. "P.Y.T" and "Billie Jean" were among my favorites, according to an old sticker book.

I generally ignored all of his bizarre, as I do most celebrity sleaze. I've always been more interested in the music.

I'll be relieved after the memorial tomorrow. I'm hoping that signals a return to form for my cherished news programs. (Dear Anderson Cooper: THIS MEANS YOU! Love you!) I'd really like to know more about the captured American soldier in Afghanistan and our efforts there. The hot mess that is North Korea. And when the layoffs will stop. If ever.

No Shame for Steve

This was an actual conversation I had this weekend:

Me: Hey, I just got an alert that Steve McNair was shot. Turn on ESPN. Was he shot in the ass? It's always so much more interesting to me when athletes are shot in the ass.
Larry: Nope. He's dead.
Me: Ooooh.

Eat n' Rock

I've been playing a lot of air instruments lately. More than usual. This can all be blamed on Cienna's new, pink and black, guitar--yet another in a series of wonderful gifts from Nana. Thanks, Mom. I'm now doing the experimental band thing I never did in high school.

And Cienna loves this guitar in a serious way:

"Mom, I think I want to play my guitar every morning after breakfast because I like to rock out after I eat."

The ones that look like butterflies

From the summer of 2001 when I learned what it meant to press up for my forefathers with my best friends--while befriending yinzers on boats and buses, and realizing I'd always find a way to love everyone without giving up my independence-- to days ago while I watched fireworks with my arms wrapped about my daughter, I noticed that I've grown to love the Fourth of July as though it's summer's Christmas. (And we all know how I do Christmas: Properly!)

I tend to feel inspired every July by our country's history, by my own history, and this year I was both inspired and renewed. There's a good reason for that, but for now let's just chalk it up to the pleasure that comes from communicating with truly good people.

Fireworks help too. I think we're all a little inspired by bursts of magic in the darkness, a light show like no other that forces us all to look up for a while, shifting our lazier gazes from downward or what's in front of us to the sky and all that can be. And as I watched green and purple, and red, white and blue, fall over me like willow trees and reflect in my daughter's eyes, I declared silently to myself that I am still so hopeful. And I do have faith.

And, Cienna, she would've watched all night.

"Mom, you wanna know what my favorite one was? The one that sparkled real big and then fell down like butterflies."

Fifteen minutes of tame

Before I had children, I could spend a lot of time doing absolutely nothing to better our world. It wasn't unusual to find me on a futon, watching numerous episodes of "Sex and the City." Or going to IKEA and Target to buy colorful things I didn't really need. Or in a bar with a martini that matched my outfit. Or at a game with beer and nachos. Or on an uninterrupted phone call that lasted longer than 10 minutes. Or in a bubble bath by candlelight. Or on a long walk in one of Pittsburgh's neighborhoods. Or on a date in a quaint, BYOB Italian restaurant.

Now? I'd just like to go to the bathroom in peace.

Something about me urinating inspires the people I love most to begin an inquisition. And it's never a series of simple questions. It's always something like, "If we race for the cure, does it mean we'll never get cancer?" Welcome to life with a precocious 5 year old.

It's so hard for us to find time for ourselves, ladies. Some days, we long for those quiet days and secretly wonder what it would be like to have them back for just a few hours. But I promise you we traded up. Once you go baby, you never go back.

We could all use a vacation. We could all use a spa. We could all use a maid. We could all use a FREE maid. We could all use a few more dollars. We all want a few less pounds. We all wish for a few more hours at the end of the day.

It might be a while before we get any of that, but until then I suggest you try my "15 minutes of tame." When things get really hectic, I enforce the Woodall family's 15 minutes of tame. Everyone brings it down a notch. We get quiet. We get books. We get naps. We get food. We get a DVRd show. We get whatever we need. And the best part is--sometimes it lasts longer than 15 minutes.

There are also Selfish Sundays. Other than the built-in family things like church and visiting grandmas, the Woodalls like to keep Sundays open for themselves. Larry usually plays hockey. The kids usually choose the park. And Mom usually opts for a good book, TV dramas and a glass of red. And it's wonderful. Regardless of how busy the rest of the week is, we know that we will have our Sunday--which occasionally involves a sundae.

We all have different schedules and lives, but we've all gotta find that "me" time so we always have something to give to those we love. It's a challenge, but we deserve those minutes and hours to ourselves. It leads to a happy mom, which leads to a happy family. And what's better than a happy family?

It's the laughter that keeps us moving.

You folks didn't really think I'd have enough time this week to blog every day, did you? But in keeping up with this week's theme, I thought I'd include some things I heard or read today that made me laugh.

In motherhood, I've always thought it's the laughter that keeps me moving and the love that keeps me happy.

"Every crowd has a silver lining." --P.T. Barnum

"When skating on thin ice, our safety is in our speed." --Ralph Waldo Emerson

"This is my High School Musical," Cienna said, as she put on tens of pastel-colored bracelets. "And this is my Zelda Fitzgerald," she said, putting on a headband with a huge flower, pulled to the front.

Larry: "Did you know that Cienna can whip through first grade math?"
Me: "What? I work with her every day. She knows some stuff, but I wouldn't say she's whipping through it."
Larry: "Here. Look what she did in this workbook."
The workbook showed that she answered several pages of math equations correctly.
Me: "Cienna! Wow! How did you know all of those?"
Cienna: "I don't! I found the answers in the back! See!"
Me: "Ah! Yes! Well, Larry, we don't have a child prodigy on our hands, just a great cheat!"
Larry: "Thata girl, Cienna!"

Tyler: "Where Dada go?"
Me: "Dada's at work, Ty."
Tyler: "Dada fart."

Co-worker B-Ev: "...Oh just talking about some girl who..."
Me: "Is she a hoebag?"
B-Ev: "Oh yeah! ...yeah"
Me: "Is she stupid?"
B-Ev: "Oh yeah! She's got checks in both of those columns."

A line in a message from Lindsay: "All dogs might go to heaven, but all sinners do not."

Feel free to share some of the things from your day that made you laugh.

Myths of Motherhood

Tools of the Trade

If you find yourself in Babies R Us as often as I seem to, then you've probably had the urge to overstep some boundaries.

There's always that couple there registering for the first time, for their first baby. And you try to ignore it all like a sane person would, maybe offering that mom-to-mom smile, which is a lot like the wave that bus drivers and Jeep enthusiasts reserve for each other. But you see them clicking the scanner on so many things you know they will never use. The inner logic begins: "Aw, you're both so cute. But you will never need that many diaper disposal systems." And of course you never say that to them because you're normal.

Plus, there's always something better to grab your attention--like the pregnant mom scanning BPA items in the store and lighting up a cigarette outside of the store. "BPA-free is the least of your worries, sweetheart."

By the way, I'm the mom with the 5-year-old shopper who tries to find anything and everything that her younger brothers don't need.

But, really, I wish someone would've told me what I wouldn't really need when I was a young(er) mom. I was so thankful when Dawn told me not to buy a certain bathtub when I was pregnant with Ty. Cienna's old tub was passed on, and I needed a new one. If Larry and I had bought the one we originally wanted, we would've been disappointed, based on what I've heard from some other friends who bought that model. We were very happy with our second choice.

Other times I walk around and see something new, and think, "I totally could've invented that."

So I'm curious, what products have you found most useful, which have been useless, and what is something you would like to see on the market?

---

MILFs

While I have learned to restrain my inner bitch, sometimes I just need to educate the ignorant. I consider it a public service.

For example, there's a myth that exists, and sometimes it's silent, that marriage and children ruin intimacy, keep you from being sexy, make your life miserable and keep you old.

None of that is true. Poor perceptions and bad excuses are responsible for those things.

Let's just acknowledge the technological reasons of why that isn't true very quickly and then put it aside. There are various doctors you can go to who will ask you, if you're there for a certain kind of appointment, "Would you like to be 18 again or 14 again? And I should add that you can get to 19 all on your own, without intervention."

First of all, I will never desire to be 14 again for any reason. 19? Pretty damn good year.

Look, we do not birth buses. And some of us have had c-sections. And what a baby looks like at 3 months is not at all like what we bring into the world.

Really. I'll say it. The Vag rebounds victoriously.

And I have it on good medical authority that multiple partners over a period of time actually does the same for elasticity than if you've ever given birth or not.

We do not become powerless, helpless, sexless creatures when we become mothers. We simply become the foundation of our families.

And our generation has changed the definition of motherhood. It's not housecoats and separate beds and going to the supermarket when our husbands get home from work.

We work if we want to. We take care of ourselves and stay youthful. We have sex--all kids sleep eventually. Get a sitter, go out on dates, keep the intimacy alive. If you can't find a sitter, call me. I will watch your kids for you because I believe moms need to look out for each other and not get caught up in petty judgements or competition.

Remember who you were before your kids because you can still be those things AND be a good mother. In fact, you'll probably be a better one. And, yes, family has to come first. But that doesn't mean you get rid of your friends.

Some friendships will change, and some may drift apart if you no longer have anything in common. But some friendships will strengthen when you become a parent. And when you and someone you grew up with are both parents, it's truly magical. It's a beautiful relationship to share all that history and be able to take the parenting journey together. And remind each other that in additon to being beautiful, sexy, funny, smart, youthful, talented women, you also get to be moms. Which is really the greatest gift in the world.

It's our week!

Several of my friends have birthweeks instead of birthdays, meaning that they celebrate the entire week of their birthday.

While I do adore these people, my self-importance has never reached a level that inspired me to make an entire week about my birthday. Weekend, maybe. But not the whole week.

In their defense, it's not so much a matter of ego as it is a will to party. They just like to have a good time, and when is a better time than your own personal anniversary? After all, it's a celebration of an important relationship--the one they share with themselves.

An important relationship to me is my one as a mom. Is there a greater bond than that of mother and child? And is there a more precious gift than the gift of life?

Mother's Day is a week away, Friends, and I've decided to celebrate my place in our family throughout the next seven days. I'm hoping you will join me when I ask for stories, opinions and advice. And even if you're not a mother, by choice or chance, that doesn't mean you can't celebrate. Aunts, Godmothers, Sisters, Teachers, Friends--all have gifts of mothering that deserve to be recognized and appreciated.

Even though two of my best friends don't have children of their own, I've been luckily to have their love and support throughout my own parenting journey--and what a journey it's been! MB and BG are aunts and Godmothers and sisters, and they know what it means to truly love a child.

MB's love for me and my children has always been unconditional. How could it not be. She's there to hear the funny stories. She's there when I feel overwhelmed. She's there to cheer on every success--even if that success is that we all made it out of the house, showered and clothed, in less than 3 hours. She's there to hear every failure--even when that failure is potty training gone horribly wrong. She has been building the most amazing library for my children, buying them collector's editions and classics since the day they were born. And even when I'm busy with my three children, and she's busy with her advanced education, job as an editor and wonderful husband, we still find time to talk. Even if it is at odd hours and about odd subjects. I love her so much, and she is one of the friends who makes me a better mom.

Somewhere Dr. David M. Jones is laughing as I write that BG has made me a better mom. But it's so true. This incredibly unique woman, who attracts a cast of characters worthy of their own Discovery Health reality series, is one of my personal heroes. Whether you need alcohol or advice, she comes through every time it matters. On days when I've been whined to and shat upon, I turn to BG. I know that regardless of what I'm about to tell her, she will respond with something so much worse. And it will be so rich, so foul and so inappropriate that all I can do is laugh. I'm so lucky to have her in my corner, and she's definitely in my corner. At the slightest sound of sadness in my words, she's ready to throw down with somebody. The Irish gypsy in her is immediately inspired, and I immediately begin to think that I should design an exit strategy for the impending wrath that she's about to release. You do not mess with a BG. And you do not mess with a BG's kinfolk. As a mom, you NEED a crazy, Irish gypsy in your corner. But with BG, it's always BOGO. And with her you also get one of the most hilarious and intuitive souls to ever walk the earth. Her intuition has served her well as an amazing writer and has helped her develop the best comedic timing. And let's face it, mom's need to laugh daily. I love her, and I'm so lucky to have her in my life the last 13 years. Hey and hey and hey!

Even though MB and BG aren't moms themselves, they've sure made a positive difference in the life of a child.

*And to those of you reading this on Facebook, I'd love to hear your similar story if you've got one!

Close to May

Hello, Friends.



C-Woo got served



There are some things I've never done. I've never watched one second of The Hills, I've never been to the Carson City Saloon, I've never been parasailing, I've never cheated on my husband, I've never regularly played tennis, I've never purchased a designer handbag, and I can hear some of you saying I've "never used birth control."



Well...other than The Hills and the husband part, some things are about to change, and I owe it all to a local, high school tennis coach. The past few times he's called to report something at work, I've been the one to answer. I now know this is fate. He's encouraged me to play tennis. He's explained it's the fastest-growing sport in America. He's given hints that he may wear a red shoe. He's offered to teach me to play a sport that he's apparently mastered.



I've explained that I've taken lessons before, that I played with my mom when I was a child and that even last year I played in the Mt. Lebanon bubbles. Oh, and in those bubbles I got yelled at profusely by an elderly gentleman who took the game WAY TOO SERIOUSLY. I think shuffleboard was more his thing. I told my coach friend that despite my repeated exposure to "America's growing game," I just never developed a solid desire for it.



"Well if tennis ain't your thing, I can teach you volleyball," he said.



Oh.boy.



So I discussed this with another co-worker who is apparently an avid tennis player. I explained that if tennis were presented to me in event form, such as "Tennis & Tequilia" or "Tennis & Tea" (but let's be real, here), I could get behind it.



In the words of the great Ed Meena, "We'll see what happens."





Better weather



Tina and Missy would disagree with me, but I can stand the rain. Especially when it falls on my least-favorite days of the week. Much like last week, it's supposed to be nice Thursday through Sunday--and my Friends know how much I still love a Thursday.



In Pittsburgh, you just never know what you're going to see on a sunny day--anything from too many mandals to too few drag queens. While in college, it wasn't uncommon to see girls in bikinis at the Point--even when it was only 63 degrees. It was sunny, and that was apparently all that mattered. Last week while suffering a horrendous detour, I realized it was my fate to see a seemingly-homeless gentleman walking around in a cutoff-belly shirt with a huge screen print of Bob Marley on the front. He also had disheveled, gray hair, minimally tamed by a rainbow-striped headband. And he was carrying a Macy's bag and pulling a suitcase behind him. The thing is, I actually enjoyed seeing that. It was much less offensive to me than seeing a couple on the Norf Side, wearing matching visors. That moment definitely made me think more of "Highway to Hell" by ACDC and less of "Two of Us" by The Beatles.



TarantiNO



Is it just me, or did it seem like none of the Idols took Tarantino's advice last week? In nearly each clip, Mr. Tarantino gave specific advice, and then the Idol would perform live, clearly not doing whatever Tarantino asked. And, much like the last time Tarantino was on, Randy Jackson also seemed to disagree with whatever he said. Did I miss some battle over spandex a few decades ago or something? I hope not.



But I did get to see a lot of clips from Tarantino's movies--including Michael Madsen dancing around in "Reservoir Dogs." So that was successful alone.



inspIREd



Sometimes I wake up and find a toy dinosaur walking on me 10 minutes later. Ty calls it his "saur." It's just a small, little, plastic T-Rex, but he loves it. He doesn't want a bigger saur or a brighter saur or a more expensive saur. He's simply happy with what he has. It's just another reason Ty, and all children, inspire me.



Children don't have petty insecurities. They don't care to judge--though they WILL speak the truth (sometimes at unfortunate moments for their parents). They don't lie--at least not without being taught to. They don't care if another child is funnier than them--they just want to have fun.



They also have the best advice for when the Pens lose.



Yesterday when we got back from watching the Pens game with Friends, Cienna pointed out that I looked a little dejected.



"Oh, Mommy is just a mix of exhausted and bummed that the Penguins lost, but you smiling makes me feel better already," I said.



And I wasn't lying. The minute I saw her running down the stairs to give us a hug, smiling the whole time, I thanked God, again, that I was her mother.



"I think we should watch Madagascar. Those penguins don't lose," she said.



That they don't, Miss Faye. That they don't.



unFriendly Neighbors



When we lived on Beadling, we barely knew our immediate neighbors. Larry called the guy on the left "Old Man Withers." He was old, surely and only seemed to come outside to feed the birds once a day. The guy on the other side was younger and selling his house to live with his girlfriend. He was never around. Thankfully, there was a younger couple a few houses down who befriended us. They had dogs who they said were their children, and they liked to drink margaritas on summer nights in their backyard. Sometimes they invited us to join them. They were friendly people and Friend-ly neighbords.



Luckily, when we moved, we got even better neighbors. For the most part.



Connie and her husband live two houses down. She is a retired OB nurse, and he still teaches in a catholic school. They have a grown daughter who went to high school with Larry. One time Connie said, "My daughter thinks she and Larry may have had home ec together. She remembers him being sort of a clown in class a few times. Does that sound like him?" I said, "Definitely!"



Miss Connie, as the kids call her, likes to walk through the yards to see the kids when it's nice out. Because, when it's nice out, believe me--we're outside! She brings them bubbles and holds the baby, telling me how much she misses working around babies. She gardens and is probably exactly how you might imagine her. When I was pregnant, she offered a lot of help and support.



But yesterday, she told me something I hadn't known. According to Connie, "Two owners ago, there was a tall, thin woman who lived in your house. Tall, thin women can really push out babies for some reason. She had midwives. She barely made it to the hospital with her first baby, and the second baby was actually born at home in your bedroom."



Larry responded first. "Oh, I didn't need to know that. We really don't need any extra baby energy in the room."



I explained to Connie how superstitious Larry is and reminded her that I barely made it to the hospital with Dimitri. But I did kind of wonder if I should start sleeping on the couch or something.



When Connie comes by, she actually does most of the talking. And if you know me, you're probably surprised by that. She keeps me informed of our neighbors' whereabouts, even though I never ask. For example, I now know that Carol and Bill are in Florida and that if Bill (whom Larry loves and calls "Old Man Flanders") talks a lot it's because he has trouble hearing and doesn't always know when the conversation ends.



Carol and Bill have grandchildren, including a granddaughter Cienna's age. So it's nice when their grandkids visit. And Carol is famous for bringing over treats and goodies for the kids on holidays and etc.



Then there are the neighbors on the other side. Connie wonders what makes them tick. They're a young couple--maybe a few years older than Larry and me. They have a little girl, slightly younger than Ty and a black lab. They always say hello. The guy smiles a lot. But the mom looks down a lot and just occasionally apologizes when the dog barks too much. Even though we are not the type of family to care when a dog barks. Connie is like the mayor of our street, so of course she's tried to communicate with them. We've just never really tried. I guess we follow their lead. Some people are just socially awkward or not good at making friends, so it can take a long time. Maybe I'm holding out for a sunny day when we're all in our backyards, and I can initiate a conversation.



Connie just calls them the "unfriendly neighbors," but I can't give up so easily. Sometimes it's not a matter of being friendly or not. It's just that some folks are socially awkward.



Until then, though, I have absolutely no problem meeting at the fences with Carol and Connie and Larry and Old Man Flanders x 2 to discuss plants and people and kids and neighborly things. Even if Old Man Flanders is having an entirely different conversation.



Lil' Wayne's World



Friends, I think we're all in agreement that it should be Lady GoLa and not Lady GaGa, right? After all, among other things, I'm a popular music star. And my stage routine is about a bizarre as hers.



But there are some other songs out that we should discuss first.



1. Kiss Me Thru the Phone. First of all, I've been doing this for years, thanks. Second of all, the part that's "like da da dadadada da..." Ty thinks it's some form of barking, so he barks when he hears that part. And Cienna likes to sing the numbers "678 triple 9 8212." Why do I let my children hear this song in the car? Hey, we all have our failures in parenting.



Some lyrics from this artistic masterpiece:

She call my phone like / Da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da /We on the phone like/ Da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da/ We taking pics like/ Da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da /She dial my number like/ Da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, da/ Six, seven, eight, triple, nine, eight, two, one, two

2. How Do You Sleep. How do you stop listening to Jesse McCartney? It's everything you've ever loved about a boy band in one person. And this song sounds just like LFO's "Summer Girls" but with a faster tempo. Plus, it includes Luda. How can you go wrong.

3. Turnin' Me On. Thank you Keri Hilson. I'm nervous though. The last time I liked chic rap this much, the girl got shot for giving someone AIDS. But, you know, I'm sure that won't happen again. But, really, I love it --especially Lil' Wayne's contribution. I love Lil' Wayne and am extremely intrigued by "Lil' Wayne's World."

May be

I just looked at my planner. Again. And I've accepted that my life is busy and there's a lot to look forward to on any given day. The errands and daily chores are dotted with wonderful family-and-friend events and new challenges.

I'm really looking forward to a girls' party this Saturday afternoon. I think Cienna is joining me. My friend is taking her daughter, and her friend is taking her daughter too. It's so cute to watch them play together and sort of drift back and forth between, "Oh, look at how young and innocent they are" and "Oh, how did they get so grown up."

I have high hopes for May, Friends. I'm working a few golf events, where I will also get to swing on a few holes. That should be interesting. And there is the Cinco de BG event, which should probably be called BG de Mayo instead. A bunch of birthdays, including Larry's! Barbecues! Another work-related DC trip. Mayhem! And a lot of ballet rehearsals.

While I'm a fan of all seasons, mostly fall, is there any time more magical than spring? Nature just takes over, and it feels like absolutely anything can happen!

Love yinz!

A wink and a smile

If you're a mom, then you're probably somewhat familiar with the kind of day I'm about to describe. And if you're not familiar, then tell me you're secret NOW please.

It all started this morning when I was trying to exercise in peace. That was my first mistake, right? Because it doesn't matter if I'm working out at 5 a.m. (the usual) or 5 p.m., that's when everyone is going to need something. And if I send the kids to the gym daycare when I go there, well that's when everyone poops. The gym daycare workers don't change diapers or escort the older kids to the bathroom, so that means mom gets paged on the loudspeaker. I'm always reminded of Mr. Mom at those moments: "Herb, we weren't even in aisle four!"

After the morning drinks were poured, and I finished an angry workout--completely missing all the benefits of stress relief--it was time to cook breakfast for the kids. I made oatmeal pancakes for Cienna and Ty, but they only ate them after what felt like 10 minutes of choosing their favorite plates. And while my rational self was encouraging them with words of joy about Spiderman and Hannah Montana, my inner bitch was fantasizing about throwing every plate in the cupboard across the room and making the secret celebrity and secret superhero simply secrets. Forever.

Of course Ty was a syrup mess. It was as though he climbed into a bad George Michael video, and no amount of baby wipes could stand up to the challenge of cleaning my toddler. So it was time for a bath. Except that Dimitri wouldn't hear of tummy time or swing time or stare-at-something-colorful time. He simply wanted mommy time. So I wore Dimitri while I bathed Ty, and of course I ended up soaking wet in the process.

While I was trying to clean up myself and the bathroom, I knocked down one of the nets of bath toys and couldn't help but feel the universe was against me. At that point, my son was running between the bathroom and his bedroom, getting the hardwood in the hallway nice and slippery. Sure enough, Cienna came running out of her room and faceplanted right in front of me. Even though she was fine, she couldn't pass up the opportunity to try and snipe a Princess band-aid.

She was healed and Ty was clothed, but then Dimitri needed a diaper change. And in true Woodall fashion, nobody poops alone. Ty wasn't about to be outdone this morning. So he made his way to the potty after several minutes of me reminding him why the potty is better than pull-ups. He sat on the talking, singing potty, clapping and pooping. You can guess who taught him to celebrate a bowel movement with such gusto. And by the time I did the wiping and washing, I was already tired of poop by 9 a.m.

Dimitri was ready for his morning nap by that point, and Cienna was getting dressed. We were going to a meeting later that morning, and I informed her that she shouldn't wear her short-sleeved high school musical shirt. It was kind of dirty and not warm enough. I made other similar suggestions, and the result was a 5 year old stomping up the stairs informing me that I had ruined her life.

After I asked her to come back down and apologize for stomping and speaking to me that way, I called my mom and cried. "Cienna said I ruined her life because of a t-shirt," I said. "Just wait," Miss Linda said. "You have a lot more of that to come." "I didn't know my precious daughter could be full of so much attitude. What did I do wrong? It's like I'm raising Cher. Or at least her gay fanbase," I said.

I was en route to the shower when Larry called for the morning dish. Still couldn't tell you what he said. I was too busy being distracted by Ty who was driving his cars all over me and everything around me--but mostly me. "OK, honey, sounds awesome. I'm off to the shower. I'll call you later." "What's awesome?" "Um, I have no idea. I'll call you later."

While I may have had high hopes for 15 minutes of Aveeno stress relief in the shower, they were quickly dashed by "Tyler Joseph and Cienna Faye! Please STOP jumping on the bed! I swear you are never allowed to have Easter candy again!"

Then the guilt set in. Did I let them eat too much Easter candy? Am I a terrible mom? Did I let them have so much sugar that they will have Type 2 diabetes by lunch? Am I a terrible mom? And what about Dimitri? I haven't even really read to him today. I haven't even really talked to him today. And Cienna and Ty...did we do anything together besides eat and then get baths? Ugh. I'm the worst mom ever today. And I've yelled at them like eight times. And I have no idea what my husband said to me. I should've had a better conversation with him. It will have to wait until we see each other later. Maybe if I just squirt this Aveeno right into my nose I'll feel relieved? Bad idea. I would need a year's supply. At least. Did the bag of toys fall down again? It's staying down this time.

And as I steeped out of the shower, hoping for enough calm to dry my hair, Ty and Cienna began arguing over the same crayon. "Really? You're not going to share today? All manners and values are just ignorned today? Really?" So of course their arguing woke up Dimitri.

At that point, I just gave up and gave in. The most I could hope for was to get out of my robe before we had to leave the house.

I laid down on our bed--that was actually, surprisingly made--and picked up Dimitri from his Boppy. "What am I going to do today, Dimmers?" And he just started to coo and gave me the biggest smile ever. Just like that, I found my stress relief. I smiled back at him and played with him a little bit, and he kept cooing and smiling--with the dimples his momma gave him--and I realized I'd go through the whole morning all over again for the rest of my life as long as I could have perfect moments like that.

Naturally that was abbreviated by my Ty man who walked in and announced, "Poot. Poot. Potty? Potty? Poooooot!"

"Again, Ty? Really? You DEFINITELY have your father's digestive tract! OK. Let's go, buddy!"

And the toilet sang again. La Boheme it is not.

Somehow, SOMEHOW, we made it out of the house, clothed and appropriate. We were on our way to the meeting, Rupert Holmes' "The Escape Song (If you like Pina Colada)" came on the radio. I thought of my friend Joe, who is Cienna's Godfather. So we then talked about Uncle Joe and Aunt Helen from L.A., which was like Aveeno too. In case you're not aware, Joe is nature's prozac.

By the time we got to our meeting, Ty had taken both shoes and socks off, as per usual, Cienna's hair was a mess, and I again declared the double stroller cannot be opened with one hand as advertised.

The baby slept through the meeting, and Cienna and Ty were perfect angels. All quiet before the storm?

We got back to the car, and I realized Dimitri had pooped. So I took him out of his seat to change him on another seat, which of course did not make him happy. But I got him back in his car seat and calmed him down and thought all was well. However, I caught my jacket in the van door and lost my balance. I wanted to just lay down on the ground and take a nap--even if it was for 10 minutes.

As I drove us home--in perfect silence as the trifecta napped--I compared mothering to a full-time job. In a full-time job there are built in breaks and lunches most of the time. In mothering, there are no breaks. And sometimes my lunch is whatever the kids don't finish. And did I forget to put the clothes in the dryer? Yes I did.

Life 1, Mom 0.

When we got home it was time to cook lunch. The kids requested their favorite soup, and I was out of celery. "It's OK, Mom. We all make mistakes sometimes," Cienna said. "Thanks, Ci." But, thankfully, they ate it without complaint. Was the day rounding the good bend?

Yes.

And then it was almost time for Larry to be home. I was a combination of a loyal dog waiting by the door and a child waiting for Santa. That's how excited I was to see him. The calvary. The break.

"I'm home! What do you want to do?" he said.

"Sleep. I just want to sleep. I don't want to eat dinner. I just want to sleep before I have to work," I said.

And I got a beautiful hour of sleep before I had to go to work. On my way out of the door, I promised the kids that we would do something fun tomorrow! And on Thursday we will do something even more fun because it's going to be nice outside!

And I assured my husband that I would be looking forward to the hours we'd have alone once I got home. He gave me a wink (or maybe it was a twitch) and told me to call him later.

I'm going with wink.