Truth is subjective

Me: Did you flush the toilet?
MiniMe: Yep.
Me: Did you put the lid down?
MiniMe: Yep.
Me: Did you turn off the light?
MiniMe: Yep.
Me: So I can go in there and check?
MiniMe: *Sigh* ...I'll be right back.

He's only three. I'm in trouble when he's fifteen.
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Update, July 1:

This morning I let MiniMe watch Mickey Mouse for a bit. When he came downstairs for breakfast, I asked if he had turned the TV off. We did the usual routine..."Yes, Mommy" followed by "So I can go check?" To which he responded..."Mommy, why you keep saying that? I always do what you say."

If only.

It's "about" time

I've been doing this blog thing for over a month now, and I feel like I'm starting to settle in (in spite of the recent change of address). So I feel like it's about time that I talk a little about me.

I grew up in a clothing-optional hippie commune in the forests of Northern California. My mother was an underwater basket-weaver and my father made hemp clothing. Then one day my father uncovered a government conspiracy, and we had to flee to Tibet where we became personal friends of the Dalai Lama.

Okay, not really. But wouldn't that be way more interesting than...I had a middle-class upbringing in Southern California with a brother, parents who were married for almost 32 years, and a pool in the backyard? Yeah. We were totally The Cleavers.

And I still live in that same town. Now with my own happy family, minus the pool in the backyard and with twice as many kids.

Sure, I took a brief hiatus and lived in San Diego for six years, but I decided that...you won't believe this...I didn't like it there (I still don't know what the hell was wrong with me), so I moved back home to freeload live off my parents' generosity until I could afford to move to San Francisco. Nine months later my dad suddenly passed away causing the world to explode. I decided to stick around one more year until my mom got her feet under her again. And then I met HIM.

Him who told his mother the day after we met, before he'd even asked me on a date, that he was going to marry me. I also knew what I had and wasted no time in securing things. We were engaged in less than three months, married eleven months after that. And the rest is history.

Ha...like I'm going to stop there?! History, yes. But history I'm going to continue to blather on about!

You see, things weren't so simple. When we got married, we became an Insta-family. He had a little boy from a previous relationship (Note: Relationship, not marriage. I am the only wife, thankyouverymuch, and not a homewrecker, thankyouevenmore--are you sensing some latent bitterness here about people's assumptions?). A little boy who, to this day, I am totally smitten with and completely adore. That little boy is now The Eldest Child. The first time he told me he loved me is still one of the best moments of my life.

That also meant my big San Francisco plans were off. We have full joint custody...provided that we stay here. In the armpit of Southern California (I said we had a pool, I didn't say it was pretty here). The Eldest Child's mother has often made things miserable and unlivable for us, which I am sure I will blog about. And while things are astronomically better now, I still have trouble trusting that is will always be this easy to be a blended family.

Since The Eldest Child was already four when we got married, we decided that we'd only wait a few months to try have another so there wouldn't be too much of an age difference between the kids. Have you ever heard the country song with the line "If you want to hear God laugh tell him your plans"? Yeah. That's us. We got married in November, wanted to start trying in March, and were pregnant in December. Like three weeks after we got hitched.

And so arrived MiniMe.

We toodled through life as a happy family of four for two years. With The Eldest Child only being with us half the time, we didn't want MiniMe to grow up as a part-time only child. As quickly as we got pregnant with MiniMe, we figured it would be a snap the second time around.

Again...laughter from the heavens.

I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (yuck-o, let me tell you) and was told that my previous pregnancy was a fluke, I'd be lucky to get pregnant again, and if I did, I had a 40% chance of miscarrying. We decided not to do any invasive fertility treatment and tried Clomid for four months. Four failed months.

So we did what any celebrity wanting publicity would do...we decided to adopt internationally. In order to do so, I needed to be able to say I wasn't pregnant (and with PCOS, you don't get to know the normal way). So I took a pregnancy test and...boom...pregnant.

With twins.

WHAT?!

Did you know that no one tells you how many sets of twins are in your families until you're actually pregnant with them? Yeah. That would have been great information to have...nine months ago.

Apparently, we do nothing halfway. And everything happens in an instant. If we're ever in an open field during a lighting storm, stand far away from me. I can guarantee you I'd be the one to get hit. Because that's just how things work around here.

The twins will have bloggy nicknames someday, too. But I want to wait until their personalities develop a little more.

So now, we're a family of six. I have four amazing boys (five if you include The Hubs) to shower me with love, make me pull my hair out, scream at the television during football games with, and go shoe shopping without. It's pretty damn great if you ask me.

The greatest compliment I've received since having the twins is that somehow I manage to work full-time, go to school, and raise four boys without complaining (which really just means I somehow manage to do it all without complaining publicly). I credit it to being raised an Italian Catholic. You see...I can drink lots of wine and claim that it's a cultural thing.

Come on in!

Thanks for following me to my new site. From what I've learned (and correct me if I'm wrong), you can't import posts to Blogger, so I'm working to bring everything from Chubby Bellies over here...by slowly cutting and pasting. S-L-O-W-L-Y.

Please bear with me during the migration. I'm trying to decorate and make things pretty. More posts coming soon.

A little creepy so I'm on the move

To begin with, let me give you a little background about why I called this blog Chubby Bellies. I was trying to figure out what to call this that would be clever and mom-ish, and most importantly, wouldn't already be taken. Yeah. Right.

I took a little break to download some pictures from the camera to the computer. One of the pictures was of the twins in their first bathing suits. And what struck me was how cute and round their little bellies are. You see, The Eldest Child and MiniMe no longer have the cute baby belly--the are absolute bean poles with abs, not bellies. And I miss the little bellies...tickling them, blowing raspberries on them, and all those other mommy things.

Then it struck me that chubby bellies weren't just one of my favorite things about my kids, it was one of the biggest side effects of having kids. Even when the baby weight was gone, the belly stayed.

So Chubby Bellies was born. But it seems that I have run across what you might call a fetish. These are some of the search terms that direct people here...to my website...about my kids: chubby mom love, pretty women with chubby bellies (I'm trying to take this as a compliment), jane blow chubby, and big pooping chubbies (I swear, I'm not even kidding on that one).

I think it goes without saying that I'm not sure I want stories about my kids, and maybe even someday their pictures, being here...amongst those search terms...being found by, well, people using those search terms.

Now I live here. Hopefully my new, mom-ish tag will change the traffic I'm getting. And someday, I'll explain the new name, too.

So please, follow me to my new home. It's actually much prettier there.

The end is near

Last night I had the evening news on in hopes that I might actually get to watch a little bit of it (ha!). One of the teasers for an upcoming story was about how, along with everything else, the price of shoes could be going up.

Now, I can handle rising gas prices and grocery prices. I don't like it, but I'll manage.

But this. This is just going too far.

New age swashbuckling

Today, MiniMe wanted to play "Ship," which apparently meant we'd be playing pirates. After disembarking from the ship, digging up the treasure, hauling it back onto our ship, and finding the key to open it, it was time for celebration. We held our hands up in the air..."No, Mommy, like this. Like pirates do!" because apparently pirates are also football referees and that was clearly a touchdown...and cheered.

Then...

"Now we have to hug, Mommy. {MiniMe hugs and kisses me} Yay, treasure."

We are kinder and gentler pirates around here.

A day of a million dreams

I have been busy this week running around Southern California (from Long Beach to Santa Barbara) with the family, so posting has been slow nonexistent. I promise, it won't always be like this. But I don't yet have the clout for guest posting and blogging isn't easy when I'm trying to referee four kids, chat with the in-laws, and stay awake in the car for The Hubs.

We originally planned to pack up the RV and go camping, but gas prices are not friendly when you have a 25-year-old hunk of junk that gets eight miles to the gallon on a good day. I am not spending over $800 to camp. So we crashed at The Hubs's parents house and sprung a surprise Disneyland trip on the kids. (First sign of a bad economy is when Disneyland is cheaper than camping!)

I can't say that I've been a huge fan of Disneyland in the last few years. On our first trip with MiniMe I started to become disillusioned. We (unknowingly) got caught on Main Street during some Christmas candlelight ceremony with Dick Van Dyke. We were being jostled around so much that we had to take MiniMe out of his stroller. Thankfully, since it ended up getting knocked over and the contents of all our souvenir bags were strewn on the sidewalk. Did anyone stop to help? Of course not. They trampled me and our bags, separating me from The Hubs and both kids--saying it was wall to wall people would be an understatement. When we finally got out of the mess, I had a screaming 15 month old and a six year old who was volunteering to go home. When your six year old wants to leave Disneyland, you know something is wrong.

But even worse, it seems to me that so many people have forgotten that Disneyland is a place for kids. I've seen one too many grandmothers throwing elbows to get in line for Peter Pan--by herself--so the family with the wide-eyed toddlers doesn't get there first. Moms cutting off other moms with their double strollers. Before I had a family, I can remember visiting Disneyland with friends and always deferring to the families. Your five-year-old needed a better seat for the parade? Here, have mine. Because that five-year-old is what it's all about.

So to be honest, I was somewhat reticent about this trip. The kids had been asking to go for months, but I just wasn't sure.

But I am so glad we went.

Sadly, much of the illusion is beginning to wear off for The Eldest Child. He gets that the animals on the Jungle Cruise aren't real. He knows that the characters are just wanna-be actors sweating in heavy costumes.

But MiniMe...oh, it's just beginning for him.

He's finally tall enough to ride everything except Indiana Jones. And it was with great hesitation that we asked him if he wanted to brave Space Mountain (which, by the way, is the greatest roller coaster ever made and you would have to have some seriously amazing powers of persuasion to ever convince me otherwise). The little champ not only got on it, but after a moment of complete shock when the ride ended, turned to The Hubs and asked to go again. I am so proud of my blossoming adrenaline junkie.

The best part of the day at Disneyland, though, is always after the sun goes down and the fireworks have gone off. People are friendlier, the pace less frenetic. MiniMe sat and watched Fantasmic like everything happening on the other side of that river was real. And all of us watched the fireworks and listened to Julie Andrews tell us all about wishing on a star and making dreams come true. And somehow, through the chaos of the day, the elbowing grannies, the rude teenagers, the cranky kids...somehow Disney has a way of making you believe that's true.

Maybe because when you look into the eyes of your kids, you know that they believe, with every bit of their soul, that it is true. That everything around them is real. And everything they want it to be is possible. That nothing in the world is cruel or deceptive or discouraging. Looking at them, you remember what it was like to be that young and think that wishing upon a star really could make every dream come true.

And that's where the magic is.

An open letter to pediatricians

Dear Doctors,

I realize you have spent far longer in school than I have, but the fact that my degrees (yup...plural) don't give me the right to put an honorific before my name does not mean you can presume I am an idiot. This is especially the case since you look like you've spent an entire week out of medical school (visions of a certain early-nineties sitcom) and have the personality of a used burp cloth.


You see, two weeks ago when I brought my four and a half month old twins to see you because they were raspy, hoarse, and horribly congested, I was not being alarmist. Since you saw them on an emergency basis and are not their regular pediatrician, I would have presumed you would have at least glanced at their chart to know that they were born a month premature with fluid in their lungs which meant that one of them spent 10 days in the NICU trying to figure out how to breath. I even mentioned it, in case you hadn't read that, but I think you were too busy being annoyed with the fact that my three-year-old was fascinated with your stethescope and politely asking if he could help you, please.

My mommy-instincts are usually pretty right on, and anyone in your practice--since, in six years, I've seen just about all of you--can tell you that I'm incredibly reasonable and non-alarmist, almost to a fault, when it comes to childhood ailments. They would also tell you that I tend to do a lot of research before I bring my children in since I do realize that, as a doctor, your days are busy, your time is valuable, and it's easier to speak with someone who has a clue what you are talking about. Oh yes, my friends and relatives who are in the medical field have taught me this.

So that look of contempt you gave me, as though I had totally wasted a whole 15 minutes of your day, when you informed me that it was a virus and I should "wait it out" was entirely unnecessary. And when you said "it will probably hang around for a while," you may as well have said, "Don't waste my time again, irrational mommy."

I would like you to consider this...
Yesterday, one of my little darlings spiked a fever. A rather high one. Until then, not a single worsening of any symptom. I was waiting it out...just like you said. Because with all the dust and pollen in the air right now, and as much as the wind is blowing, it could "hang around" a while. And when I took him to a different doctor, he ordered a chest x-ray out of fear that it was pneumonia and he would have to HOSPITALIZE my child. Yes, you read that right. HOS-PI-TAL. Thank goodness it wasn't that bad, but that's really not the point, is it.

Because you, Dr. Doogie, made me question everything I have learned in six years as a mother (which I would argue is every bit as valuable as what you learned in the equivalent time of medical training). Every instinct, every gut feeling. Which makes me mad. And I am mad at myself for letting you. But mostly, I am mad because you seem to have forgotten that you are dealing with other people's children. And if I want to be irrational and alarmist, I should be allowed to be. Because they are everything in the world that is important to me.

Just something for you to think about the next time you brush off a parent.

Sincerely,
Chubby Mom

I think this makes it official

Over the weekend, the twins were playing happily in their swings when I looked over and Twin A had that tell-tale red face and was making little grunting noises. I turned to The Hubs and laughed..."Oh look! He's pooping!"

I love watching babies poop. In fact, I think it's hysterical. The little grunts, the red face, the concentration. It is just too...darn...cute. (Mind you, this is completely different from loving to change poopy diapers, which, let's be clear, I do not love as I have an overactive gag reflex that is easily triggered by unpleasant smells.)

Even when MiniMe was potty-training and would sneak into the corner to poop in hopes that we wouldn't catch him and whisk him away to the potty, I thought it was cute. Annoying as hell, but cute. Now that he is potty trained, he has a pooping ritual that I have just been dying to share but haven't had the context to (so I'm kind of making up a context now).

The act itself is nothing out of the ordinary (unless you consider me standing in the room trying to stifle my giggles as he grunts and pushes because, I know I'm crazy, it just cracks me up!). It's what happens afterward that's the best part.

MiniMe dismounts from the pot and puts his hand out to me to indicate that I am not, under any circumstances, to move (picture my child as one of The Supremes here). He then turns around, looks in the toilet, and says, with all the awe he can muster, "WHOA!" Every time. Make no mistake of it...what he has just done is a feat to be wondered at, and it deserves the requisite displays of pride and amazement. Because...that is his poop. Whoooooaaaa.

And so I have wondered lately, at what point is poop no longer cute?

Then yesterday, I went into the bathroom shortly after The Eldest Child, lifted the lid, and Lord have mercy, that came out of him?! (Note to self...remind The Eldest Child to check to make sure the flush has been successful--common courtesy, my son.)

And that's when I figured it out: baby poop...cute; preschooler poop...cute; poop of an eight-year-old...definitely not cute. Or giggle-worthy.

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As I reread this post, I realized...I have now blogged about the bowel movements of three out of four of my children. I think I have officially crossed the threshold to mommy-blogging.

My cover has been blown

I've been laying low the last several days. I've been found. Not that I was really going out of my way to hide, but I certainly wasn't advertising this website to anyone I know.

You see, on Wednesday night, a family member came to me and told me he had read my post about my dad. It wasn't just that family had read me. It was that (a) I was called out on one of the things I am most private about and (b) it happened to be a relative who is highly computer illiterate (no offense), which means that not only was I found, but they are talking about finding me. But they are not talking to me about it.

My first impulse was to rush back here and hit delete. But I really do enjoy the catharsis of having this blog. I thought about moving, but really, wouldn't it just be a matter of time before it happened again?

I am not so naive as to think I could hide out here on the internet...as though this is any place to hide. But I didn't start this blog to share my thoughts and frustrations and general rants with my family. I did it to connect with complete strangers. When you look at it that way, maybe it seems a bit odd. But honestly, if I wanted to discuss these things with them, why wouldn't I just pick up the phone?

I write here to connect with a community of women, a community of mothers, who share the same, every day joys and frustrations that I do. I receive regular affirmation that I am normal. That I am not alone. It's certainly much less expensive than paying a stranger with a license and a notepad to tell me what I can find out from other mom blogs. And for me, it's much safer than looking for those affirmations from people I know.

I write here to chronicle my children's triumphs, their struggles, and to hopefully someday help them see that their mom is a person to, with dreams and hopes not just for them, but for herself. That their mom sometimes really struggled with motherhood, but loved them nevertheless. That I was never perfect at this mom gig, and never expect perfection from them either. I want them to know that I loved them enough to do this for myself.

And so, I haven't shared this with anyone but my husband and complete strangers. I liked it that way. I like the anonymity of writing what I'm really thinking and knowing that it wouldn't change the way anyone I already know related to me. I set very distinct boundaries not to discuss my extended family here (a rule I'm bending a little now) for that very reason...this was never meant to be for them or about them.

Now, I sort of feel like my older brother snuck into my room and read my diary.

So now that I've been outed, I have to ask those of you who visit and read here, how you manage the dichotomy of being a blogger and a daughter/sister/niece, etc. Because I really do feel like they are two separate parts of me. And I'm not sure I like how it feels when they've been put together.

Shout outs

I have to give a shout out to two different sites. Chances are, if you are reading this blog, you've come from one or the other. And since much of my traffic is coming as a result of them, I encourage you to visit the one you didn't just come from.

Now that you've read the preceding paragraph several times to muddle through the confusion, here goes.

First...
Props to Kelby Carr at Type-A Mom. Writing for her site inspired me to get this blog going. I highly encourage any moms reading this to check us out. The site contains advice for moms, written by moms. In other words...from the people who KNOW and who really get what it's like to be you. And I'll give you a hint...I'm the section editor on Children. Now go shower my profile with some happy gold-star love.

Equally important...
Were it not for my listing at All Mediocre, chances are most of you would have no idea that this page exists. So thanks to Meghan for the site that gives accolades to all of us who are just as witty/clever/interesting/compelling as anyone else, but just don't have oodles and oodles of traffic...yet.

I realize I only have a grand total of something like ten comments on my pages. And since I just got my stats program rolling, I really have no clue what my traffic here is like. But I'm beginning to feel like I have a readership. You know...honest to goodness people who care what I have to say. Yeah...I'm talking about YOU. Can't you just feel the love?

So thanks. To you and the people who sent you here.

Y'all rock!

June BOM: Eventide, by Kent Haruf

Before I became a mommy, I was a bit of a book aficionado freak. I'm not talking about your average, casual, book club reader. I'm talking fetish. If a book sounded even remotely interesting, better if it wasn't on any best seller list, I had to have it. I waited anxiously for awards to be announced each year so I could justify my purchases--after all, doesn't everyone need the book that won the Pen-Faulkner this year? The worst was when books had that luscious old book smell. I can't walk away from a well-aged book. Our office was so stacked with books that I hadn't read that The Hubs issued a proclamation that I was no longer allowed to go into any bookstore unsupervised. Period.

(Before you start commenting about what I dictator I'm married to and how I shouldn't tolerate that kind of behavior from a man, you need to know he really did have a good point. Someone had to stop me. I am the drunken celebutante of the book world.)

When I got pregnant, though, reading became all about What to Expect, Baby Names, and Dr. Sears. And then I had MiniMe and suddenly reading was all about Sandra Boynton and Pat the Bunny. This from a girl who used to get advanced reader's copies of books from her publishing friends. I read hot books before they were even published, people!!

In the interest of restoring my gelatinous blob of a mind back to the witty and well-read machine it once was, I have decided to use this forum (lucky you!) to make myself accountable. I'm not looking to be catchy or meme-ish or anything like that. I just want to be accountable; you know, like homework.

So each month, I will post the piece of lovely fiction I am reading. A book a month...can I really do that? And this is where you benefit: I will link said book on my side bar and in this post so you, too, can purchase these amazing books if you so choose (okay, maybe not really a benefit to you, but I'm not above pimping my blog for a 4% return from Amazon).

This month...

Eventide, by Kent Haruf
I absolutely adored his novel Plainsong. This novel returns us to Holt, Colorado, and many of the same characters. If you haven't read Plainsong, by all means do. It is a beautiful book. I'll let you know if Eventide is its equal.

Oh...you savvy readers may have noticed another book in my sidebar. Fool that I am, I think I can fit some life-improving non-fiction in, too. After all, what else is summer for?