the upside (down).

i feel like my last blog was a little bit of  a downer, albeit honest. so to balance things out, i'm making myself acknowledge the more positive, rewarding aspects of being a mother, along with some visuals to cheer me up if i'm ever in need.



being called 'mommy,' 'mama,' and being told that i'm loved every single day.

two year old and three month old smiles. they're the best.

being able to provide the sole nourishment via my breasts for my infant son and watching him grow to be stronger and healthy, every single day.



taking my toddler to the park and watching him fearlessly explore.

never going to bed alone at night. even when the queen is fully packed with four bodies.

watching my infant son go nuts with his crazy kicking legs in the bath.

holidays are pretty awesome now.

watching my two year old nail the alphabet with his new flash cards for the first time (both first time seeing the cards and first time mom realized he knew the alphabet by sight) ever last week was a pretty amazing feeling.

making chocolate chip cookies and feeling like martha stewart.

nap time. individually and as a family. ALL of the snuggles.

the (mental health) struggle is real.

i'm not feeling all that much like myself these days. it's hard to sound the alarms when you're not sure which flag to raise. is it post partum depression/anxiety? is it the identity crisis associated with the loss of employment? stockholm syndrome from the 85+ degree daily temps keeping you alone indoors with two children - every - single- day? is it the facebook 'on this day' reminders that pop up, reminding you of the fun loving, FREE, young woman you once were - galavanting on miscellaneous adventures and enjoying life?

i don't know. i do know that i'm sad, though. and lonely. and isolated from the world.

i love my husband. i love my children. i'm privileged enough to be able to spend the days i have with my two young boys, and on a couple days a week, i even am lucky enough to have help from the boys' grandparents to help wrangle the toddler and leave me with a few hours to 'bond' with the baby who's not as tiny of a baby as he once was. my kids are healthy, and for the most part happy. my two year old is sweet and smart as a whip. my husband and i do not have money troubles.

so how can i feel justified to vocalize the feelings of sadness i'm currently experiencing on a daily basis? i can't. i don't. but i feel them, they're real. i cry, every day. not usually any longer than 30-60 seconds, and when i do, i don't usually realize it until i'm wiping my eyes.

i don't feel accomplished. i'm normally a busy body - always on the move. cleaning, cooking, playing, chasing children. running errands. i used to walk two to file miles a day just in my regular routine.

these days, i'm lucky if i clock 200 steps on my pedometer. 'it's too hot.' which it is - but i know deep down it's an excuse of sorts. like at a job you hate, when you have no work to do, or too much to do - that crippling feeling of not being able to even lift a finger. but i like my job - or at least my kids, anyway. i don't have a 'j-o-b,' i just am a mom. and am raising two little boys two years apart. and they're fantastic. but oh my god i'm so tired, even after a full night's sleep. and i can't say what it is. the isolation? the jealousy of not having the freedom for a pedicure with a mimosa? first world problems, i know.

maybe a job would help. but the job hunt is just as big of a confidence blow. not because i can't get a job, i nearly have an offer waiting for me next week. but because i don't know what i want to be, or am, when i grow/grew up. my last title isn't really what i am, because i lack the formal training. and what i want to do requires another degree, despite others in the field saying not really. it took me thirty minutes yesterday clicking what kind of jobs i'm even looking for on the state employment site, in order to qualify for unemployment. i couldn't even classify in one or two words what it is i can do, or want to do.



wearing something, anything, other than the same milk stained tank top for the fourth consecutive day is one goal. walking around the block is another. buying new underwear is a third - but that requires spending money that i don't have to spend. seeing people. a concert. hopping in my car for an impromptu road trip. going to the bathroom without an audience. losing five pounds - even though i have fifteen to lose. feeling like my days count for something - anything.

it's all the same. but if/when i do return to work - then what? i leave my boys with someone else, not the qualified daycare centers because yeah right, i don't even make what they charge for two kids, but instead of an over extended sitter that my boys cry at when i drop them off. talk about heart breaking.

so instead, i sacrifice myself. my identity. my fire. my very existence. because that's parenthood, right? sacrificing yourself for your kids? which is ok. but i didn't feel this same emptiness with my first. given, i had a job to return to. and tending to one immobile baby is easier than battling a strong willed toddler and needy infant. but it's not the struggle of the challenge of watching the children. and it's not the lack of confidence associated without having a real job. it's just this - isolation. and repetitiveness. it is enough to break you - or me, i guess. i just wonder what my actual breaking point is. is this sadness normal? is this post partum stuff? i don't think about ever harming myself or my kids, so i'm not concerned. that's what the checkboxes at the baby wellness exams seem to screen for. i'm not gonna do anything to endanger anyone. unless tears and excessive screen time to appease your children is harmful, i don't know.

i don't really know where i'm going with this. i guess i'm just hoping writing helps me relate to myself and get stuff off my chest. connect with other mamas who've undergone the struggle.

i know i need to cherish these moments and that they're fleeting. having two little sugary sweet mama's boys before they're gross stinky masturbatory rebellious teens. i'll miss the days of hearing angelic tiny voices tell me they love me, or smile gummy rainbows at me.

but i'd be lying if i said i felt good. or even ok, on some days. it's like i'm just on auto pilot. and it's not a 'night out' that can fix it. i've had a couple of those, and they were awesome, but hangovers with children cause more problems than they fix. and retail therapy doesn't really work if you buy cute clothes or accessories and never get to wear them anywhere. i'm my own biggest obstacle. i know millions of moms are able to function on daily routines with multiple children, summer heat or not. but it's just so hard to find the confidence and motivation.

even now, it's just me and a sleeping infant. the toddler is with his grandma, having a fantastic time at the botanic gardens. and i'm (sort of) dressed. i have non athletic shorts on, at least. (but the milk stained tank top is def on point). i'm caffeinated. i have a car. i COULD hop in my car and go somewhere. but. . . . i don't know.

i just want to be me, again. feel the feels. do the things. function.

i post all these pictures on social media of my smiling, funny little boys. i love them more than i've ever loved anything or anyone. that is not a front.

but this is the flipside of being a mom, at least for me. the mental instability. the lack of independence or fire i used to blaze. instead - i'm just a spaghettio slinging, gap attired, birkenstock sporting cliche.

some day it will get better, yeah? in the meanwhile, if any of you feel up to giving me a hug, or a coffee, or a sandwich, an encouraging text message, or even just a visit (if i'm not too anxiety ridden to accept - b/c that struggle is ALSO real and it makes about as much sense as it sounds), i could probably use it. hopefully some day i can be the support system you need. it's not easy to ask for help, especially when you don't know what you're asking help for. but - help?

a rejection.

what? it's like no one wanted to read about the difficulties of knocked up pube maintenance? (rolls eyes). whatever. i submitted this to a popular mom blog and it got DE-nied. probably rightly so. but this is real talk. THE number one struggle of pregnancy, at least for me. (ok, that may be an exaggeration, but it sucked). makes me think of all those beautiful model celebs who flaunt their baby bumps in itty bitty bikinis on the beach. you just KNOW they had to hire some schmuck to trim their hedges/bikini lines for them. how glam. anyway. i wrote this when i was about halfway done cooking lil max. i'm happy to say, my lady bic is now back in action, some two and a half months post partum, just in case you were curious.

I said goodbye to my vagina tonight.

Not in the ‘no more sexy time’ way, (because let’s face it, other than a handful of rushed, quiet sessions of couch sex and the debut night we purchased my toddler’s full sized bed (cough, cough, co-sleeping), which coincidently, landed me in my current state), THAT lady was pretty much bid adieu twenty months ago when my first son joined us.

No, I literally said goodbye to my lady friend tonight, as I awkwardly realized this evening’s grooming session was likely to be my last in the next six or so months. Being twenty-four weeks pregnant with my second child, I figured I had more time to declare my farewell, but after a risky peek at business down there three nights ago, I was shocked to find that my days as an Amazonian woman had apparently snuck up on me sooner than anticipated and it was time to clean things up, one last time. Three weeks ago I never would have been able to contain my impulsive OCD to waiting three minutes on a sole stray ingrown hair on my bikini line, let alone three whole days on the whole front lawn. But come on mamas, when you’re constantly chasing a two and a half feet tall, juice guzzling, ‘Bubba Guppy’ obsessed little terror around all day and you’re carrying around an extra twenty or so pounds, the choice between crawling into your luxurious, warm bed at 8:30 pm or hacking around blindly at your lady bits isn’t exactly a tough one to make.

But here I found myself, crouched over my toilet, nervously peeking, gripping my electronic Lady Venus bikini trimmer in one hand, a handful of my bloated, skin tight whale belly in the other, determined to get things done. And while I had my fair share of Mr. Magoo ‘man I hope I’m getting this right’ moments, I’m happy to say I managed to successfully trim the hedges. Expecting an expertly self-executed Brazilian, I was not, but I am feeling pretty proud to know I got the job done. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t bittersweet, though. You ladies know what I’m talking about. Shit gets way too awkward and clumsy, and as we teach our young ones, it’s not smart to play with scissors (or bikini razors).

So goodbye, my friend. Or at the very least, see you on the flipside, in sixteen or so weeks, when I put you through hell and back once again, and you re-humble me with the wonderful and mysterious gift of motherhood. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll find the energy and privacy (ha! with two little boys under two, not likely) to worry about prettying you up one day again. Until then, I’ll just be getting reacquainted with my newfound pal, belly button, and all the wonderful contents that apparently reside in that mysterious cove.

my pukey heart.

I miss writing. It used to be my thing. Not only was it a ‘living’ I flirted with in college, but it was therapeutic and something I used to feel I was kind of good at. It also scored me hundreds of free concert tickets, mp3s, books and whatever other formats of media I could manage to ramble on about. Even when I would complain about suffering from writer’s block, it always gave me some sort of purpose and I always felt accomplished after I pushed something out, even if it wasn’t my best piece of work.

After I got pregnant with my first born, I got tired. And after he joined the world, I got even more tired. I tried to force out a blog here and there whenever I had ‘free’ time, but that ‘free’ time grew farther and farther apart, especially after I became pregnant with his brother, and now have two little ones. Not to mention, the few and far between moments of inspiration that do bother to come my way no longer have relatable subject matter to the majority of my pals who would feel so inclined to stumble upon my dusty old blog. My life has become taken over by babies. And it’s not the cutesy my life is so complete fairy tale so many other mothers have made it look to be. There’s shit, tears, coffee, confusion, a complete lack of sense, and an ongoing struggle of self-identity. At least there is in my story. Which I can’t imagine to be too vastly different from others.

I tried to adapt my writing style to a prettier and cleaner format, in efforts of submitting some essay like rambles to a popular mommy blog. Because it wasn’t in a top ten format, (fucking lists), I was rejected. But I’ll never forget the humble high I was riding after finishing my first piece, and how proud I felt of actually writing something I felt could be relatable and witty. I wasn’t surprised when it was rejected, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to adapt my style to anyone else’s (unless it’s for $$$$$) ever again. I like my rambles, run-on sentences, lack of proper capitalization and messiness. It’s how I roll. I have a degree in journalism, so of course I KNOW the rules, I just choose to ignore them when I’m doing my thing for me. It’s free therapy.

So I’ve decided that since not everyone wants to read my whiny rambles or humble mom brags, I’m going to start a new blog to post the mother-centric shenanigans, away from my regular online abode. I hope to still contribute to unpolished – but til then, here’s seeing where this new project takes me. I welcome fellow mamas and papas alike to join me in sharing your victories and losses and overall head scratchers.

I read countless ‘articles’ online about mothers who were concerned that they would not be able to love their second born as much or the same as their first. That it would be SO MUCH HARDER wrangling two children over one. First off, that’s just silly. I always knew I would love my second kid as much as my first, and that just like the first, the love would grow as did number two’s personality, and luckily, this has proven to be the case. Second, no duh – of course two are harder than one, but it’s a different kind of challenge. It’s a lot easier, in some ways, because this isn’t your first rodeo and you’ve got all the shit and methods down already. Whether the same crap works with the second one as the first is a different story, maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. My second dude is completely different than my first – but since I googled every single trick the first time around in trying to calm a baby with colic, I’ve got a whole slew of treasures stored in my mommy noggin. Yes, it’s twice the amount of time to get out the door with two kids – and your likelihood of daring to venture out for that brunch with girlfriends is a lot more difficult to justify with two kids, but the concept of two children isn’t that much different.

But I digress. Lately, our two year old has joined my husband and I in the ‘family bed.’ (yep, that’s a thing now. Not my bed – or ‘our’ bed, but the ‘family bed.’) Holden has his own full sized bed in his room (hence, the creation of Maxwell not long after giving Holden the official boot), but the ‘family bed’ is in the room with the air conditioner. And this summer heat is ON. When H wakes up crying in the middle of the night, a) I feel bad that it’s hot as hell in there and he’s wearing pants and fleecey pajamas (HIS insistence, not mine), and b) I’m too damn greedy on the little sleep I do manage to sneak with a newborn and toddler so just bring H into our room vs. laying down in his hot ass non air conditioned room. I swear to god we will not be sleeping four to the family bed long term. (keep telling yourself this, Jodi). But anyway. Last night, my husband, myself and Holden are crammed into the bed. Max is snugly sleeping right beside us in his rock n play, which he is sure to outgrow any day now and make his official move into the family bed, because fuck cribs. They’re a pain in the ass to put together, take up tons of space, and the kids refuse them. At least ours do. Why sleep in a baby jail box when you can cuddle up to mom and dad on their soft sheets and blankets? Holden spent a whopping two to three weeks in his before he discovered the sweet ass comforts of the family bed. I don’t think we’re even going to bother re-assembling with Max. What’s the point?

But again, I digress. We’re all crammed in the bed. I might happen to be buzzing off two to three hard earned mom beers. And Holden cradles my face and sweetly sleepily says ‘wuv you mommy.’ I ask him if he’s happy to be in mommy and daddy’s bed to which he murmurs in his tiny angelic voice ‘yes’ as he nestles up his booty into my tummy for a cuddle. And I peek over my shoulder to the mini glow worm all swaddled up in his rock and play, sweetly snoozing. And it hits me – just like that, hard. Twice the amount of love. The double mass of affection everyone says you’ll get slammed with once you have two kids. I turned to my husband, fighting back tipsy mommy emotional tears, “I think my heart is gonna vomit.” Because it was so full. I felt fulfilled. 90 minutes out of 100, these boys drive me to my breaking point. Crying and crying and demanding mommy and climbing and pooping and needing and so on. Both demanding and needing my 100%. But only being one person, I can only give 100%, not the 200% they deserve. And this was the first time I actually full forced felt the power of 200% fulfillment. It was incredible. I seriously felt like my heart was going to vomit, because it was so full of (corny) love. It was something, folks. Made me feel like all the madness was worth it. Does that mean I need three beers a night for the rest of the toddler years? Probably. But it’s worth it, to have a pukey heart, I swear.