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.