Note 13: Doing Nostalgia

Nostalgia.

I always associated that word with the ladies on the show The Golden Girls. And for some reason, for me, it was always more of a verb than a noun. Like, they were always sitting around “doing nostalgia.”

It was never a pastime I saw myself doing. It was just something older ladies liked to do to pass the time and made for really good TV.

But, this past holiday season, I totally did nostalgia.

Just call me Blanche.

I don’t know if this happens to everyone in their mid-30s or if it’s because I now have the little princes; but I felt myself developing this weird ache for traditions from years past paired with a strong desire to replicate them.

The short time I was #1. Christmas in the 80s with mom and dad.

I think Don Draper from the hit series Mad Men (I know, lots of TV references in this post) described the feeling best when he said,

“It’s delicate, but potent. Nostalgia… literally means ‘the pain from an old wound.’ It’s a twinge in your heart far more powerful than memory alone….. It goes backwards, and forwards… it takes us to a place where we ache to go again.”

Ugh, gut punch right?

Gut punch.That’s how I can best describe the feeling. Not quite as eloquent as Draper but, in my defense, he had a 24 hour mini-bar at his disposal.

But with every ornament I unpacked, or Christmas carol I heard, I felt like I was getting punched in the gut. And, instead of trying to fight the assailant or negotiate a deal, I just kept going back for more.

So, I assumed re-creating holiday traditions from my youth would cure me.

Every single year, my dad took us to get our picture on Santa’s lap. It was like this major event that we all looked forward to attending. Time with Dad, some kind of bad-for-you- but-oh-so-good takeout or diner food, and a Polaroid.

The Kelley sibs sometime in the early ’90s.

Once we got older, we carried on the tradition. We pretended like we did it for Dad, but I think secretly it was for us. I even drove home from PA at the crack of dawn late into my 20s, to ensure we got to the mall in time for the shot.

Never too old for Santa. Kelley sibs in the mid 2000s

Once my babies were born, the tradition inevitably died.

So, like any good parent, I forced it on my kids to keep it alive!

This is how that turned out:

Sorry, Franco. Ho, Ho, Ho.

Brooks wouldn’t even get out of the car.

So, alas, I continued to search for other ways to replicate the holiday magic of my childhood for my kids. We made Christmas chains that sort of fell flat, drove around to look at Christmas lights which met some success, and I just couldn’t sell the idea of a real tree on hubby.

On Christmas Eve night, Brooks, Franco, and I started getting the cookies ready for Santa, and carrots for the reindeer (like I did when I was little.) Suddenly, Brooks repeated his strange request from the year before, “Mommy, don’t forget the corn for the reindeer… Uncle Justin said it’s their favorite!”

I realized at that moment we had our own little tradition. Small and silly as a kernel of reindeer corn but it’s just ours. And it’s fabulous.

Brooks with his Christmas Eve spread in 2016. Cookies and milk for Santa, and carrots and corn for the reindeer.

Traditions are wonderful things. They create lasting memories, build excitement, and form lasting bonds. But, they aren’t something that can be forced. Re-enforced, sure. But, not forced.

Sometimes they just need to be recreated—as a new family is created.

Some traditions, though, carry on naturally. Like ones for the Birds.

Super Bowl Sunday.

Show me an adult Eagles fan anywhere who didn’t feel the gut punch of nostalgia on that day.

Luckily, Brooks already bleeds green.  “All on his own,” he developed a love for the Philadelphia Eagles. So, when my Uncle Kenny said he was having a Super Bowl party with the entire family I knew we had to make the trip back to Eagles country for the big dance.

The tradition continues. “Tailgating” in Uncle Ken’s backyard before the big game. Ignore the distorted faces…..we had technical issues.

Eagles were a big part of our childhood. My dad and uncles always had season tickets—ever since the days at The Vet—so game day was a big deal.

Seeing Brooks have that same grit and excitement while watching the Birds is the absolute coolest thing in the world. (I’m hoping Franco gets the bird bite too…But, I won’t force it. I promise. Re-enforce, maybe.)

Brooks with his game day face.

Three generations of fans were at that party, celebrating old traditions by screaming the fight song at every touchdown, scarfing my dad’s signature chili, and making new traditions, too.

What I learned throughout all of this is that becoming a “real grown-up” is weird. And a total mixed bag of emotions. There are days you long for the “glory days” and others where you feel you were never meant to be anywhere else.

Fly, Eagles, Fly.

Nostalgia will come in both high and low tides. But, just like we did in the boogie boarding days of our childhood, you have to either ride the wave or duck under water until it passes. There’s no forcing your way into or out of it without a wipe out.

So, I’m trying to enjoy the waves as they come and celebrate that I have such a strong foundation to build on with my guys. Because really,  life is too crazy, beautiful, and short to wade in the twisty waves of nostalgia.

Don’t try and replicate the past, use it as inspiration for future greatness: Noted.

 

 

 

 

Note 11: Never Say Never: 9 Things I Swore I’d Never Say….

Everyone warns you that being a parent changes your life. I expected that. No more marathon party weekends with my friends, or frequent enchanting get-a-ways with hubby, or hours at the salon. Extracurricular time would be for the kids. Got it. Nooooo problem.

I just never thought that I would change. When I got pregnant with Brooks, I pictured I would remain myself—just with a kid. Ya know, running around looking fabulous with him by my side in a cute little fedora.

Yeah, it was more like this.

HA!

There was a moment about a month ago when I actually didn’t recognize myself. My hair hadn’t been touched by a professional in 5 months, I was wearing a sack dress, and my toenails had sporadic chips of various nail colors.

Sad, but oh, so true. Photo credit: @teamnobadtimes

Don’t worry, I’ve been to the salon. And finally got a shower.

But, my character is also changing. My priorities are changing. And I find myself saying (and believing) things I SWORE I’d never say. I’ve reached the parenting point of no return.

Witty, Carrie Bradshaw-esque phrasing that I so often prided myself on has been replaced by my new parenting prose.

Here are some recent gems:

“I’m Just Resting My Eyes”

My MOTHER used to say this all of the time. We all know I love Linda. And, now that I’m a mom, I feel like I need to call and thank her every day. BUT, this was one phrase that she’d say that drove us all nuts. I remember saying, “No you AREN’T…YOU ARE SLEEPING. WAKE UP!” But, “resting my eyes,” sounds so much more glamorous than, “I need a nap!” Doesn’t it?!

“The Floor’s Clean”

This would totally GROSS ME OUT when other moms would say this to their kids. Like, HELLO, your kid just dropped something on the floor. DO NOT LET THEM EAT IT. We aren’t cave people.

Totally Clean.

But, after the 5,000^th time the goldfish hits the hardwood seas, you let them reel the sucker in.

 “Let Me Check You After You Wipe”

Another Linda gem that grossed me out to no end. But, you can’t have your little guys run around with an un-wiped bottom, right?! The mommy check is key to a clean hiney. Especially with boys.

Mom, you’re doing WHAT to my brother?!

 

“Not My Son”

Sorry, childcare professional, it wasn’t Brooks’ fault. Or Franco’s. Ever. They just wouldn’t do something like that. They are angelic.

Or plotting.

“Because I Said So”

Hated this phrase too. But like the food on the floor, after the 5,000^th “But, Why?!” I got nothin’.

“I’d Rather Just Hang Home Tonight”

I was ALWAYS the friend ready to go out. No matter what the occasion. Family party? Count me in. Midnight Movie? I’ll go. Extra shift at work? I’ll take it! Sitting at home and vegging was something I just rarely did after about 3 p.m. Now, the thought of having to pack everyone and everything up and go somewhere makes me have a minor anxiety attack. The rare occasion to just hang at home with the boys is a borderline luxury.

 

Yes.

“Leftovers Sound Great”

I used to think leftovers (unless it was pizza or mom’s pasta) were gross. Now, they are a survival mechanism.

Thankfully, he loves mom’s leftover pasta, too.

 

“I Don’t Really need Those Fabulous Sky-High Wedges. Those Loafers Though….”

My shoe game is sad now. So, so sad. Just the other day I put down the most beautiful pair of leather wedges for fuchsia loafers. Who.Am.I?

 

Yep, I own these.

“My Boys Are My World”

If you told me 5 years ago that two wild little boys would rule my universe I would have choked on my Merlot. But, here we are. And here they are. And they are just the perfect example of why I was put on this earth.

❤

 

 

Never say Never: Noted.

What do you find yourself saying that you SWORE you’d never? Leave it in the comments!

 P.S. I promised myself that I wouldn’t let this blog disappear into the ether like I’ve done with blogs in the past. I’m sorry it’s been so long and I so appreciate all of your kind words and subtle hints that I needed to get my ass in gear. I’ll try to write more. Thank you for your support, your comments, and for reading! XOXO.

 

Note 10:Parenting Is The Ultimate Contact Sport

It’s hard to remember the last time I just vegged out on the couch and actually watched an entire football game from start to finish. Probably sometime in early 2013.

Now, I barely get glimpses of the game while trying to manage the boys.

Some Sundays this season I was so delirious, I swore the referees were calling the game of my life  instead of the plays on the field.

Timeout.

Interception

I have the privilege of working from home two days a week. While I’m thankful for the opportunity, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Like when you are on a conference call and your baby blows through his diaper and you have to change him while on the call and reporting your piece. I think it took two full weeks to get the smell of poop out of my cell phone.

I was so proud of myself prior to the blowout, too. Franco was down for a nap, all of my notes were ready to roll, and the home office was pristine. Everything was heading straight for the end zone, when BAM!

A shitty interception.

Field Goal

Spaghetti Score.

Meals are always an adventure. Some days, you give up and just go for the three points. Like when your son eats “his entire plate” of spaghetti, while he is covered from head to toe with gravy and meatball and  a fourth of the pasta it is on the floor.

Offside

I’m thinking hubby and I need our own set of hand signals, like in the game. How am I supposed to know that hubs didn’t think Brooks should be allowed to have a picnic dinner on the floor? Or that building a tent in his bed at 8:00 at night was frowned upon? Or that his favorite dino was hidden for a very.important. reason.

Sometimes we need to take a second and evaluate where we’re at.

Fumble

A chocolately fumble sealed with a smooch.

Once in a while, I just drop the ball.

Last week, was one of those slippery moments. Brooks was TIRED. I was PMSing and so was Franco.  Breakfast seemed like the most difficult thing in the world. Brooks suggested a brownie and I handed it over. Horrible play calling.

Even worse, I had one with him…we even “cheersed” our brownies. Fumble in the end zone.

Unnecessary Roughness

Similar to how the NFL is a brotherhood, the minute you have a child you are in the sisterhood. This is why I will never understand mom on mom judging. I hosted a group playdate at my house one afternoon and one of the little guys was a bit more spirited than the rest. He did nothing that a few Clorox wipes and five minutes of timeout couldn’t fix. But, the looks and the whispers were enough to last his poor mom a lifetime. There is never an excuse for throwing that kind of shade at a member of the mommy tribe. I’ll call unnecessary roughness almost every time.

Pass interference

You’re crazy if you think we’re watching this game, mom.

We often have the best intentions and then an outside force blows it. I think every time we have some sort of planned event scheduled, a Lamboy will spike a random fever, or projectile vomit, or have a blowout, or throw a random earth-shattering tantrum.

It’s life’s job to interfere; we need to just huddle, regroup and lob another pass.

Touchdown

Love.

Isn’t it amazing when you just get it right?

Like when Brooks actually stops for a second and has a tender moment with Franco. Or, I arrive at work without snot, spit up, or a dried up Cocoa Puff on my dress. Or everyone is in bed by eight and you can enjoy your hubby for a little bit. Or when you  play the ultimate game of dinosaur vs. trains and your son looks at you like you are his hero. The rush of taking the ball through the end zone makes all the other bad calls so worth it.

Parenting is the ultimate contact sport: Noted.

Week 9:Mommyhood Makes Ya’ Cukoo

I wrote the beginning of this blog with an old-school gumshoe voice in my head. Like one of those vintage black-and-white detective shows with the cool baritone voice-overs.

You should feel free to read it in that tone.

It was a dark and windy autumn night in south-central Pennsy. Not a star in the sky. Only a few cars on the road.

Little Brooks and I entered the food store late Sunday night.* He had napped later in the day and bedtime was nowhere close so I figured, “Hey, what the heck, let’s make a date of it.”

We crossed into the cereal aisle and that’s where it happened. The scene of the crime, see.

My guard was down. The little munchkin was wearing the cutest new pajamas and he was sportin’ a knit Eagles cap.

As a cruel aside, the Birds had just lost to Detroit by one measly point. I was off kilter…soft, even.

“Mommy!” he squealed, “Can we get those?”

I turned my head to see what the lil’ darlin’ was asking for.

“Um, are you sure you want those?” I mumbled, looking over my shoulder to make sure there were no other mommy witnesses.

“YEAH!” he exclaimed. “They will be so yummy, won’t they?”

As, I looked into those chocolaty brown eyes, I couldn’t lie to the lil’ bugger. Where was my Italian heritage when I needed it most?

“Ok, buddy,” I said hating myself for secretly feeling SO EXCITED that this box would again reign supreme in my household, “We can get them.”

Just that morning I was making him pancakes from scratch. I substituted bananas for sugar. Used whole wheat flour and even oats.

Where was my resolve?

Three years of healthy breakfasts down the tubes.

I dabbled back into the dark stuff.

You know your mouth is watering. Photo credit wikipedia.org

[End Gumshoe-Elle voice, Enter Modern day-Elle voice]

Here’s the thing. My brother and I loved Cocoa Puffs when we were little. We loved them so much that we ate them while we both had the stomach bug and I got sick into my bowl.We turned out fine. In fact, he’s a culinary master now.

But, with all the constant mommy noise out there ringing in my ear like a never-ending sound machine, I feel like I’m doing my son a huge disservice by serving him something cold, packaged, chocolate flavored and non-organic for sit-down breakfast.

(I specify sit-down because on days where we are running out the door, like three days a week,  he scarfs a cup of organic milk and an organic cereal bar in the car. Much better than cold cereal? Nope. Do I tell myself it is? OF. COURSE. I. DO.)

I lost sleep last night over this whole thing. Not the fact that I bought the cereal but that I cared that I bought the cereal. What happened to me that I think I’m better than the chocolaty deliciousness of Cocoa Puffs? In fact, it’s probably more nutritious than some of the “healthy” breakfasts I give him! (Actually, in researching the blog, I discovered they even cut the sugar a bit since we were kids. Score!)

My mom is a modern day Jackie O. We all know this. Just last week, she made me gnocchi from scratch for my birthday dinner, complete with a huge flower arrangement, full table setting, appetizers, and wine.

My mom put that together on her own. Photo credit: Screen shot of Sissy’s Instagram. (The sibling rivalry is a post for another day.)

Mom also gave us Cocoa Puffs 30 years ago. We survived. We are fabulous.

Then it hit me.

She gave us Cocoa Puffs because it was something we wanted to have. It was one meal out of our day, where we felt like we had some kind of control. We got to think we cheated the system because we were the only ones in the world who knew that if you waited a couple seconds you would not only have a bowl of chocolate puffs for breakfast but also get to drink chocolate milk…something we rarely had in Linda’s house.

She didn’t make everything about her or her perfect parenting. This one was for us.

So much of the mommy noise today isn’t for the good of the kids. We are so scared to do something terribly wrong that we are forgetting that parenting isn’t about always being  right.

Or Pinterest perfect. Or Queen of the mommy group.

Sure, our ultimate job is to fill their bodies with the best fuel possible, their brains with the highest intelligence we can muster, and their hearts with all the love and kindness we’ve got.

But once in a while, we need to remember that they are kids. Something we were not all that long ago.

And when I look back at my childhood, it’s always the moments when my parents went a little rogue that I cherish most.

So, this morning I gave him a big ol’ bowl of cereal, had my own bowl with him, and got the most awesome wave of nostalgia when his big cocoa eyes smiled above his bowl and said, “Hey mommy, that milk is chocolate.”

The prince and his puffs. Lovin’ every bite.

Week 9: Plug the noise and pour the puffs.

Noted.

*Late to us is now 8:00 p.m.

Week 8: Prepare To Be Inspired.

I know, I know, I haven’t blogged in a while. I used maternity leave and summer vacation as a time to bond with my babies and recharge. But, now the boys are back in their routine and I’m back to work!

New Sibling Love.

I’m not going to lie, getting back to the office was even harder the second time around. But, days like today, I’m reminded how lucky I am to work somewhere that had such a huge impact on our country over 150 years ago and continues to inspire millions of people each year.

What is it about Gettysburg that sparks such inspiration?

In my humble, non-history buff, novice opinion—it’s the stories.

As a mom, I understand the power of a good story.  My oldest son’s new favorite thing to do is go to the library and get books for bedtime. It’s such a joy for me to see him take his time looking through the countless titles until he finds that magical book that takes him into a different place and time.

And, if we’re really lucky, leaves him wanting more.

Lately, it’s all books about dinosaurs and sharks. Like all kids, I’m sure he feels small and powerless at times. These huge creatures are the opposite. He strives to be like them—he’s intrigued by their size and dominance.

Brooks and his dinos.

Gettysburg does the same thing. Just like the library has countless stories on millions of topics that can take you anywhere, Gettysburg has something for everyone. You can find yourself here.

The soldiers and civilians who fought and lived here came from all different backgrounds with all types of occupations. They were mothers, sons, fathers, artists, officers, statesman, seamstresses, and teachers. They enjoyed music and poetry, fell in love and bore families, dreamed big, and lost hard.

Today, I had the opportunity to share stories from the section that I connect most with—the women of Gettysburg’s collection.

Sharing stories.

Modern women have our share of trials. We battle the work/life balance, struggle with mommy guilt, strive to keep marriage exciting, cope with negative body image, aim to be Instagram ready, avoid Pinterest fails, master multitasking, arrange time for girlfriends, focus on being present, get ahead at work, navigate through dating apps, nail school projects,  and the list goes on.

Some days being a woman of the millennia seems impossibly exhausting.  But, I can assure you, it’s nothing compared to what those women encountered in 1863.

It’s really not even close.

I was interviewed by legendary interviewer David Hartman today to bring their stories out of the 19^th century and into the hearts and minds of today.

David Hartman!

Together, along with his awesome team at Argentine Productions and the Gettysburg Foundation, we are working to share Gettysburg’s incredible story collection with the masses.

I can’t wait to share these stories with you.

I promise there’s a title for you in the 10 videos in the works—stay tuned.

Lesson # 8. Inspiring projects like this make coming back to work easier.

Noted.

 

Week Seven: Sleep Is Life’s Greatest Luxury

I was on Pinterest last night searching for “kid-friendly, healthy, recipes for princely toddlers that aren’t a healthy version of chicken fingers.” (Seriously, pinners, there are other foods out there besides CHICKEN FINGERS. Brooks won’t eat them . I think it’s the name. Like, what about eating a chicken’s finger is appealing?)

Plus, my family is a bit turned off by chicken these days (more to come.)

Anyway, I came across a board I started about five years ago titled, “Lamboy Luxuries.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I saw it.  According to the board, the things my five years-ago-self considered luxuries were (in no particular order)

1. Traveling to Exotic Places
2. Alcoholic drink recipes that contained booze that cost over $10 a handle
3. Diamonds
4. Designer duds
5. Romantic Weekend Getaways

I was amazed how this list seemed like it was created in another time in a universe far, far, away from my current situation. As I stared at the screen, calculating how much time I had before Franco woke up for his next feeding and Brooks finished his meeting with the dinosaurs, I thought of my present list of luxuries.

Here is what I could come up with:

1. A nice, long, nap
2. Sleep for longer than two hours at a time at night
3. Sleep in a room with just hubs and me
4. Sleep of any kind
5. Using the bathroom alone

I never knew how amazing sleep actually was until I had kids. For those of you who know me, you understand how highly I value sleep. But, I never really appreciated it.

Like the old cliché dictates, “ you don’t know what you got til it’s gone.”

I used to take disco naps in college to prepare for a night out.

Slept until at least noon  on weekends.

Napped to reward myself for doing a chore.

My sister and I in Mexico begging for a nap with a sculpture clearly made for us. Apparently, vacationing is hard work.

Now, I’m lucky to get two uninterrupted hours of sleep before one of my darling boys needs me to either feed them, change them, or snuggle with them. Forget about my poor husband’s needs.

You thought being pregnant was a sexual buzz kill? Imagine having your 8-week old in a bassinet that conveniently swivels right onto your bed.

Watching your every move.

Oh, hey Franco.

When Brooks was an infant, I followed the strict advice of doctors, family, mommy bloggers, and friends to “sleep when the baby sleeps.” So, while I may have been up all night, I just slept with him during the day. We just rode the same schedule.

Now, Brooks decided he’s over naps. So, when Franco is snoozing, I’m playing trucks. Or dinosaurs. Or running around outside.

Sleep is not something my almost 3-year old considers a luxury.

Brooks and Franco in dino-land

I thought I was getting used to the new normal of constant dreary-ness and looking like the walking dead. I was actually starting to mentally pat myself on the back for functioning at such a high level while remaining relatively pleasant.

Until…..

Did you ever play chicken when you were younger?

I feel like that’s what I’m playing with my brain cells on a daily basis.

Some days I win. Most days, I nearly get hit. A few days ago I got completely run over. The chicken won.

Let me explain.

My husband and I had dinner plans for his birthday. It was the first time we were leaving the babies alone since Franco was born and forgot how crazy it is to prepare for a night out with a newborn.

My sister arrived a little early to babysit so I quickly ran to the grocery store so she and her boyfriend would have something edible to snack on while sitting the boys.

With less than an hour to spare until we had to leave, I stampeded into the house with the groceries and asked hubs to unload them while I showered.

That was Friday. Fast forward to Tuesday.

In an attempt to start losing this baby weight I packed on, I bought a family pack of chicken during the speedy store trip so we could have grilled chicken and salad for lunch throughout the week. Hubs got home a little early from work on Tuesday and offered to grill up the chicken while Brooks and I saved the dinosaurs from the volcano in the sandbox.

“Babe!” he yelled from inside the house, “Are you sure you bought chicken? I don’t see it in here…”

Like any good wife, I rolled my eyes.

“I’ll come get it,” I said confident he just wasn’t looking in the right spot.

“Think you left it in the bagging area again?” he  questioned cautiously.

“Maybe….” I said rubbing my eyes in hopes it would awaken my brain.

“Oh, no.”

I ran out to my car and saw what I feared. The family pack of chicken was sitting in the backseat, where it had been cooking in the blazing sun against my black interior for the past 4 days. (I don’t get out much.)

Ugh.

Like it usually does when I mess up, my brain quickly flashed through the trifecta of instances that resulted in this mistake.

• I had to put groceries all over the car because my trunk was packed with two strollers and a diaper bag from an outing the week before.
• I was rushing when carrying in the bags.
• Hubby unloaded so I didn’t realize the chicken was missing.
• I WAS RUNNING ON 2 HOURS OF SLEEP.

Words cannot fully describe the smell this chicken left in my car. My first thought was that this must have been the smell Henry encountered in Goodfellas when they dig up Billy Batts.

I walked inside and I guess hubs could tell by the look on my face that the chicken had been found.

Sure, he wasn’t whisking me away to some deserted island or showering me with diamonds but the fact that he went right outside and started cleaning the car out while I ordered pizza was about the most romantic thing that’s happened to me since we had Brooks.

This isn’t helping.

I wish I could tell you that the chicken incident was my wakeup call, (pun intended) but I’ve since put Parmesan cheese in plate cabinet, ate popcorn and Twizzlers for lunch for four days straight, and used shower gel as shampoo.

Typically, I end this blog with an epiphany of the lesson I learned with an action plan to fix the problem.

But, there is no end in sight to my lack of sleep for the next 20 years or so..

And, believe it or not, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

That face though!

But, I still came to a realization.

I owe a monumental apology to all the moms and dads who I insulted with my incessant whining about lack of sleep before I had kids.

Thank you for not punching me in the face when I answered your, “I’m sooooo tired” with “Me too.”

I had no idea.

Lesson #7:  Sleep  is life’s  greatest luxury.

Noted.

Week Five: Introducing The Newest Addition….

We couldn’t feel more excited or blessed to share the news of our newest addition: Franco Chieph Lamboy!

8 pounds, 14 ounces and 21 inches of love.

Meeting baby Franco in the flesh for the first time! So much to note from this experience…. Here’s one quick one:

Despite the advice I received from many friends and family that C-sections were a breeze, I found the whole experience borderline horrifying. Maybe because I had Brooks’ natural delivery to compare it to? Not sure.  And, no, I’m not being dramatic.

I was on the verge of a total meltdown until I saw the anesthesiologist’s name tag. His name was Patrick. So, I breathed just a little easier and quickly remembered that Franco has one of the best guardian angels up there. Hence, our son’s middle name, Chieph. Good looking out, cuz.

Franco’s rockstar Daddy takes him to meet his public.

Franco with his Abuelo

Pappy and Franco….he’s already nicknamed him Brutus!

Brooks and his Super Pac, Mom-Mom, scoping out the competition.

Boys Club.

Franco and his Mammy.

My princes ❤

Brooks and his Godparents Uncle Den and Aunt Jen give Franco the lowdown.

Brooks ready to share the crown.

Proud Uncle.

Chillin with Pop.

Mom, I think we’ll keep him.

Proud Daddy ❤

Welcoming home the newest royal.

 

After I had Brooks, I swore I could never love anyone as much as I loved him. But, just like that, my heart evenly split in two. Welcome to our crazy and beautiful world Franco…we love you.

NOTED.

Week Three: My Son Has His Own Political Agenda.

Super Tuesday never interested me until now. Having a 2 ½ year old son and another one on the way has given me a whole new perspective on the importance of primary elections.  I’m becoming borderline obsessed—a total political news junkie.

My sons’ futures are at stake. I want them to look up to the man or woman in the oval office. I find myself waking up in cold sweats at the thought of who could possibly be the new ruler of the free world.

Ugh. Photo Credit: Reuters/Dominick Reuter

However, as I watch the results come in tonight and see repeated play-backs of all the political antics, I can’t help but realize that I may not be giving my son, Brooks, enough credit.

Perhaps it’s all the political noise in our house over the past few months; but my little guy is acting much more presidential than princely these days.

1. He’s outsmarting me by playing on my fears.

Politicians are masters of manipulation. They play on our insecurities—whether it’s illegal immigration, college loans, education, or health care—and make promises to fix them or slay those who disagree with them.

My current parenting fear is potty training.

Brooks’ biggest beef with me is going to bed on time.

So, he worked the system.

Last week, I was tucking him into bed on a night I could tell he really didn’t want to go down.

Bane of my existence.

“Mommy, one more book.” He demanded.

“No, buddy.” I replied wearily.

“More water, peeeease?” He asked sweetly.

“You just had some babes.” I muttered back.

“Sing a song?” He asked desperately.

“We’re done with that, Brooks.” I whispered.

He laid there for a few minutes and as I slowly backed out of the room he said excitedly, “I have to go pee-pee, poo-poo!”

“YAY, let’s go!!” I yelled happily.

We ran into the bathroom and he just sat there on the potty. For. 20. Minutes.

He was just chatting away, and playing with his bath toys that I left on the sink with no real urge to use the toilet.

I realized at the moment I’d been played.

2. He works his Super PAC to his advantage.

Politicians use their Super PACS to do their dirty work for them.

Saturday, Brooks and I went to Lancaster to visit my sister, Jen, and meet up with my parents who were also visiting her from Jersey. After Brooks and I parked the car we met up with everyone at this little Italian bakery that we all love. Despite it being 9:30 a.m., Brooks was allowed to pick out a cupcake based on the premise that he wouldn’t eat it until after my dad cooked breakfast at my sister’s apartment.

We got to her place, unloaded groceries and baked goods; and then Jen and I ran back out to my car to get the diaper bag and toys for Brooks. We weren’t gone long enough for my dad to fry up the bacon.

And I walked into this:

 

Brooks with one of his biggest Super PACs: Mom-Mom.

I swear I heard him say, “ I’m Brooks Alonzo Lamboy and I so approve this message.”

 3. He utilizes his charm to get ahead.

We’ve seen it time and time again with folks like John F. Kennedy, Barack Obama, and even Sarah Palin—attractive, smooth, politicians who know just how to phrase a sentence, flash a smile, or bat an eyelash to get the public to buy into what they are selling.

Two weeks ago, Brooks woke up at 4:30 a.m. ready to p-a-r-t-y.

Clearly, I was not.

“It’s still nighttime, buddy,” I cooed, “Let’s go back to sleep. Love you.”

Up until this moment, Brooks hadn’t said I love you. He could say Hi, Bye, Good Morning, and Good Night but never those three words.

“I yove yew too, mommy” he replied in the most adorable way possible.

Who could resist?

“OK, we can get up and go downstairs,” I replied trying to pick myself up from the pile of mush I’d become, “I guess it’s almost morning.”

Another win for President Brooks.

Sure, the political atmosphere is scary right now. But, I think I’m going to make a conscious effort to devote my attention away from CNN and onto  my budding politician at home. We’ll keep learning from each other and maybe one day he’ll take these budding skills to the oval office…..and show these clowns how it’s done.

Lesson 3: My 2 ½ year old has his own political agenda.

NOTED.

 

 

Week 1: Life Happens.

I brought scraps for my son’s Preschool class to eat for their holiday snack.

You read that right. Scraps.

The same snack I scoured over Pinterest for weeks to find.

The same sweet concoction I slaved for over for an hour to make.

I’m still mortified. My brain is as gooey as the delicious marshmallows in said snack.

Let me explain….

Once a month a parent is assigned to bring a snack to school. Typically, the smart parents bring in fruit, or something easily portable and packaged like pretzels, crackers, or cookies.

But no, not this girl. I had to get on my high horse and create something magical for the kids’ last class before the holidays.

Because, clearly, 2 year olds pay very close attention to their snack.

Here is what I did for November. I have issues.

Gobble, Gobble.

So, I had to keep my self-appointed Snack Queen status and set out to make Christmas Tree Rice Cereal Treats. I even went crazy and bought cinnamon pretzel sticks to use as the stems.

With a little geometric help from hubby who served as the lumberjack by cutting 15 perfect trees, the snack turned out fabulously. I couldn’t wait to show my son, Brooks, in the morning.

Then, morning came.

Along with our first case of toddler constipation.

I’ll spare you the details but we took 5 trips up and down the steps within 15 minutes, onto and off the changing table, until I saw him hide and squat behind the Christmas Tree and  knew victory was finally ours.

Is there an inherent trait in the male species that draws them to do their business among the trees? A blog for another day, I suppose…..

….Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yes, the snack of doom. So, finally, now 8 minutes late for school, we rushed out the door with teachers’ gifts, the foiled-covered snack plate, book bag, my lunch, purse, and sippy cup all in tow.

I buckled Brooks into his seat and handed him is cup of juice. “Nooooo, mama, he yelled, Ba-Ba!!!” Ugh. He wanted milk. I ran back inside and out of the corner of my eye saw the other snack plate, the one that I filled with the ends of the treats and the mess up trees. I almost grabbed one for the road, but forgot by the time I filled the Prince’s cup with milk.

School welcomed us with a moderate rain which I quickly realized would add an umbrella to my already full load. Then, my adorable little Mr. Independent needed his own umbrella.  Not having one for him yet, since last week he was perfectly fine with sharing, I gave him mine.

He does carry it with swag though, right?

We then struggled through puddles, wind, rain, and balancing the 55 items we were carrying to get to school. Thankfully, Brooks’ teacher was on front door duty. Seeing me struggling and hearing Brooks begging me to wipe off his now wet shoes, she grabbed the snack plate from me to take into the classroom. As I handed it to her, I thought it felt much more lighter and portable than I pictured it would but I just chalked it up to mom-strength.

I headed to work confident in the morning’s accomplishments. A confidence that came crashing down when I started cleaning up dinner later that night and saw, out of the corner of my eye, a piece of wax paper creeping out of the scrap snack plate.

My stomach dropped.

I didn’t put wax paper in the scrap plate.

Slowly, like someone creeping up to a crime scene on an episode of SVU, I unwrapped the foil to uncover the beautifully perfect snack meant for Brooks’ class on the adorable holiday platter I bought just for the occasion.

I brought the wrong plate to school.

I couldn’t believe that I took the scraps and mess-ups to his class. My brain wouldn’t accept it for a good 5 minutes. Then the morning’s accounts flashed before my eyes.

It was like a perfect storm.

His teacher grabbed the plate from me so I never looked at it again. I was in a rush leaving so I didn’t double check the plates. I forgot to grab a treat for the road. It was raining so I didn’t even look at the plate while grabbing it from the car to walk into school. We had a little bathroom issue so we were 10 minutes late. My mother-in-law picks him up from school so I didn’t see which platter they gave back. When I asked Brooks how snack was on the drive home he replied, “no sticks.” (His favorite part of the snack was the pretzel stick Christmas Tree stem, which the mess ups didn’t have.)

WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!

I began uncontrollably crying at the realization of my mortifying Christmas crumble. What did the teachers think when they looked at that platter?! It was ends, burnt rice cereal, and messed up trees. Did they kids even get a snack? Did Brooks realize what was up?

Through overly dramatic sobs, which in hindsight were probably more of a result of pregnancy hormones and all the holiday craziness than just this snack debacle, I e-mailed his teacher with a photo of the Christmas snack that should have been with a more overly dramatic apology.

The Snack That Should Have Been. (Photo Blurry Because It Was Shot Through Tears.)

For the sake of everyone, especially my poor husband who instinctively saw this as just the tip of the breakdown iceberg, Brooks’ teacher responded immediately despite the late hour.

“Don’t worry, Elle,” she wrote, “We still ate them and they were delicious. Sometimes, life happens.”

Two simple words. But a much needed reminder that in all the holiday craziness that turns into New Years resolution insanity, that changes to winter blues and then develops into Spring Fever and finishes as vacation envy before back-to-school mayhem that we all need to just take a breath, realize what’s really important, let life happen, and  just bring a fruit plate.

Lesson #1: Let life happen.

NOTED.