Some people love my work, some people don’t. Some of those people are artists themselves, some of those people can barely draw a line. But ultimately success as an artist doesn’t depend on others, as much as it depends on the individual just having the confidence, albeit, sheer stubbornness and dedication to their style and craft. So maybe the work isn’t commercial enough to sell prints for millions (yet), or maybe the Critics slam it for not showing enough of the perverse darkness or irony of humanity (yet). How many times have we read about the great artist who died penniless and outcast because nobody accepted their work? To say these thoughts don’t go through my own mind and affect me in my work would be a complete lie. But then again I feel like much of my style and progression has been a relative fight against the grain. I’ve got my fair share of positive supporters, no doubt, but I want my kids to know whole-hearted, from the beginning, to really trust and empower themselves. Even if it isn’t practicing art, specifically, but whatever they choose to pursue. I think these life lessons can be applied to everything, every field, every hobby and passion.

My philosophy is; If you’re going to do something, do it to the best of your ability, keep an open mind in your ability to learn and GROW (ALWAYS). Take constructive criticism with a grain of salt. Ignore general criticism altogether. More often than not, the people who try to hold you down, are full of fear and self-doubt, a problem they have with themselves more so than with you, so dismiss that negativity. Live life with passion and purpose and the right door will open. Then, it’s just a matter of knowing how to step through.

…and my daughter, my one-year-old princess, just got her first kiss by the dapper as always, Charles Shellen, who, with his two-year-old swagger, planted the smackeroo right before my very eyes. It was effing adorable but I was forced to imagine when she would do this for reals, in like, 14 years ( ON THE LOW END SIENA!). 

You always hear the saying, but you never fully get it, until it happens. I guess I blinked.

These things are nice, but do not mean love to me: roses, chocolates, cards, fancy birthday or Christmas gifts, diamonds, pretty underwear.

This is real love:

A sympathetic glance when both your eyes are swollen with exhaustion and you’re completely, hopelessly in love and overwhelmed the first week you bring your new baby home.

The ache in your chest when you see them leave for work (or school), knowing it will be hours, days, weeks or years apart.

Laughing. Laughing. Laughing hysterically.

Silence on a car ride. You don’t always have to speak to enjoy each other’s company.

It’s having fun with each other while waiting in line at the horrible DMV.

Not looking your best and knowing that it doesn’t matter, even a little.

It’s kissing scars and appreciating what made them.

It’s a freshly cooked meal, because you think they will like it.

It’s checking their tire pressure and getting their smog check without being asked.

It’s believing in them so much, they are super-human.

It’s, “getting it” when nobody else does.

Listening to a story about a bad day and feeling bad too, just to understand and share the weight.

Saving the last 1/2 of cheesecake for them when you could easily take it down.

It’s creating a life out of whatever you have and working to make it better not for yourself, but for each other.

It’s side by side combat. In the trenches, no matter where it takes you.

Real love isn’t always pretty, it doesn’t always smell good, it isn’t perfect. It’s work, tears, sweat, blood and years.

It’s weathered and wrinkled, like a pair of old soccer shoes…that fit perfectly.

I’ve been with my husband for 1/2 my life. But my whole life wont be enough time with him.

Blair will be getting a makeover, so stay tuned.

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oh Sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep. Like the smell of fresh violets. A glass of sparkling water when you’re so, so thirsty. A hot shower when you’re cold…Glorious, restorative, sleep.

At 3:45am I hear the annoyed cries of my daughter, requesting her usual gut-bomb and a fresh diaper. Luckily my body knows this routine, so it isn’t as painful as it used to be. I get up, feed her, then its back to A bed. I say “a” bed because I’m a nomad of ZZ’s. I don’t have my own bed anymore. Right now my giant toddler requires the full-sized guest bed. He also requires that I sleep with him in that bed, or I will be awoken even more than I am now. My husband snores. FACT. When you’re getting so little rest, you will take what you can get. I take quiet feet in the ribcage over loud snoring in the ears. So I slip into my son’s bed, on the very edge, as he has claimed the entire middle. I pull my corner of blanket, whatever I can score. He searches for me with his feet, to confirm I’m there. Little toes jab themselves into my ribs and seem to say, “you stay.”

I can hear my daughter cooing in her room. Full belly, perfectly warm, just letting me know she is still awake, letting me know I’m not to fall asleep just yet, she may need a little extra something while she sings herself back to dream-land (sleep training is a miracle. Wish I did it better with my son). The vibrating sounds of my husband coming from the other room, the cooing of my daughter and the gentle breathing of my son are magical sounds. But only for all of a minute. My mind is buzzing with things I need to do, it betrays me. It will not slow down.

As my daughter quiets, I start to feel that wonderful weight on my eyes. The Sandman, recharged from the deserts abroad has come to give me sweet relief. It is now 5:30am. I will have approximately 2 hours of potential sleep. Yes please.

5:35am, my husband gets up to use the bathroom. He is a giant man, our floors are old and creaky. He couldn’t be a ninja if our very lives depended on it. The cooing from the other room restarts. My mind, again, betrays, re-runs through the list of musts.

It is now 6:15am. The Sandman returns, he is MOST welcome. But he is vigorously chased away by the child’s finger that finds its way up my nostril.

“That’s MOMMY’S nose!” says my son, he’s up, practically caffeinated. Followed by the shrill cry from a freshly awoken baby who has undoubtedly taken her morning crap. Goodbye Sandman…

It BEGINS.

1)To solve the issues of isolation, “get out of the house and meet new mom friends or hang out with old friends who also are stay at home moms”.

Well SURE! sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? Only its NOT. Because for one thing, there is no human on earth more paranoid than a mother with her children. You do not approach a mom with her kids and say ” hey, I’m a mom, you’re a mom, let’s be friends.” There is an initiation period, a “make double sure you’re not a threat to our safety” period, a “what do you want from me and am I willing to spend my limited energy on getting to know you,” period. Breaking into a new clique wasnt easy in grade school, it isn’t easy ever after. Say you get that all figured out and actually have someone you already know who can actually afford/wants to be a stay at home mom in the valley, or has passed all the tests and is willing. You have to figure out who naps when, who needs what, who is sick, who’s doctor appointment is when… By the time you actually agree on a time to meet it’s not for weeks and the playdate may be all of an hour. So all that for a solid hour of companionship. Maybe its longer than an hour on a good day, but that’s only if the kids don’t have a meltdown or attack each other and realistically, success is limited. Oh and don’t forget, you’re still watching your kids and it’s still exhausting, you’re just physically near another adult who can relate to you.

2) REST WHEN THE KIDS ARE RESTING. Oh this one makes my blood boil. Rest when the kids are resting. First off, my toddler doesn’t nap. He hasn’t napped for a while. When he does, its unexpected and unpredictable. If they are actually asleep, its my time to do all things I need  to do but can’t when they are awake.Like clean the kitchen without someone reaching into the dishwasher and pulling out the knives. Swapping loads of laundry. Figuring out if you have everything you need to make dinner or if you’ve got to make a run to the grocery store. Or hell, SHOWER yourself. What a concept. or maybe its time to blog and get the angst out or go on facebook ( while standing in the kitchen on your trusty ipad. I dont sit all day, I never sit)and try to feel like you are keeping in touch with the outside world. Or Pinterest and check out ideas on children’s activities or cute clothing that you love but there is no point in buying because there is no place to wear it.

These are my hours: 6am babies are up and changed and fed. The end of the day is 7:30/8pm when babies go to sleep. Until 12:30 when my daughter is up for food and a change. Then again at 3:45am and again sometimes at 5am. And again and again and again and again. Everyday, including weekends and holidays.

3) Take a break. A break. Gosh, if that was possible. A true break means you go and do things for yourself. You get to exercise or maybe watch a TV show that doesn’t have singing, dancing and lessons about sharing. My mom is very helpful in taking at least one of my kids and maybe even both off my hands. But it’s not every day and I don’t blame her, its not her job. She already raised her kids. Her charitable contributions can only go so far, and instead of taking the time to do things for myself, I will often run errands that are just easier to handle without kids. So by the time everything that needs to be done is done, there is no time left to take JUST for me, which isn’t much of a break at all. Selfishness is not a natural trait for a caring mother. Everyone else is first and even when you wish you could be first, you cant be. The guilt is heavy.

So get a job then. Well, if only it were that easy. First off I have been out of the working world for enough time to feel pretty insecure about my skills and pretty out of the loop in terms of technology. So let’s assume I can even FIND a job that I am qualified for and that is in my field. What then, daycare for my kids? Daycare that is probably the same cost as what I bring home in earnings? So I am paying someone else to raise my kids so that I can work outside of the house. Again, I’m not that selfish, if I am not helping my family financially, there is no point to getting a job. I’ve told my husband before, and I really mean it, if I could get a job that pays enough for him to stay at home I would do it in a heartbeat. I would switch places with him and be the bread-winner. But realistically I would never make the same money he makes. I don’t have the same skills, I am not a man. Men still get paid more for the same work. FACT.

Ahhh, so with all that out, I would still like to say, it’s a blessing to have my angels, and I don’t mean to complain. its more to share the darker/ more challenging side of something that people can easily take for granted. So if you’ve ever thought to yourself, MAN! I really want to stay at home and raise my kids. That is the LIFE. Well, it’s a life alright. But it’s certainly not an easy one. There are no bon-bons on the couch watching soaps, that’s for damn sure.

I just needed to go to the grocery store. I just needed Panko bread crumbs. Because if you’ve had baked chicken with Panko, versus ANY OTHER TYPE OF BREAD CRUMB, you will understand it cannot be substituted. I may have a pile of laundry scattered throughout the house ( thanks son, my bras absolutely DO belong in the oven)….but my family will have properly breaded Panko chicken for dinner, so help me…

Lots of parents bathe their kids at night, and I understand the importance of that ritual, though it never quite stuck for us. My house is a very charming, 1950′s home just at the base of some rolling foothills and a nature preserve. That’s my loving way of saying the house is really fucking old and needs a shit-ton of work to get it to the standards most people are accustomed to enjoying in the first world. That said, we do enjoy hot water, and electricity, usually. When the pipes in the basement aren’t broken…and so long as we don’t run multiple space-heaters at once, which is a lot to ask because we have no central heating. Spring/Summer living is just dandy. But its freezing in the winter, especially when snow is dusting the hills just above us…And we are spoiled and from the Bay Area, CA., not the tundra. I do not hunt seals, nor am I used to boiling whale blubber for fuel. So anything south of 50 degrees outside is pretty damn cold, even if the house is relatively insulated ( thank you nice windows) it’s still a bit uncomfortable to shower and go to bed with wet hair. My Mexican mother has warned me all my life of the IMMINENT DEATH that awaits when you go to bed with wet hair. Add to that a healthy helping of exhaustion and you have yourself a recipe for NO BEDTIME BATHS. This is all relevant to the story regarding my much-needed trip to the store for Panko bread crumbs…which there are no substitutions for….really, very critical for baked, breaded chicken.

We begin our day with breakfast and a bath. It wakes us up and we feel clean and smell good to start our day. I have a two-year old and a nine-month-old. There is no such thing as a shower to myself. So we all stuff ourselves into the shower and its tricky and slippery and exhausting and takes a good chunk of time. But once we are all dressed and cute, we are feeling GREAT and the challenges ahead seem minimal. Especially something as simple as getting Panko bread crumbs…for which there is no substitution.

On the way out to the car, my son decides, “why walk when I can totally drag myself across the grass. Oh look, it’s a little muddy. Even better.”

Of course I am powerless to stop it, as I have my hands full with a shockingly heavy baby and the diaper-bag plus keys and my purse. He went from perfectly polished to a little muddy. But onward we march, as there is no turning back. If we go back into the house, we will surely never make it out again. And I really need the Panko bread crumbs….for which no other crumbs compare.

Then he finds some stale Cheerios that he stored somewhere in his car seat, like a little chipmunk. He managed to make those three Cheerios into a paste that he proceeded to spread all over his entire shirt and face. You never knew three, stale Cheerios could cover so much ground. So we have muddy pants and hands, plus cheerio-paste everywhere in a matter of three minutes. But I say to myself, “ah, so it’s a little mud and Cheerios, no huge deal, he’s still somewhat presentable with a quick baby-wipe clean-up.” We get to the store and I realize the baby was playing with the baby wipes on the last car trip and pulled them all out and now they are dry and wont be cleaning anything. Whatever, bigger picture, we are at the store, and we need those bread crumbs( for which no crumbs compare).

Oh I wont bore you with the details of how long this went on…mud, cheerio-paste, blackberries, some kind of sticky, questionable substance (I don’t even know), an unexpected dump and a healthy helping of boogers.

The people in line were starring at me like I should really take more pride in  my child’s appearance. Like he is some kind of feral child. And all I’m feeding him is a half empty container of blackberries and

….two boxes of Panko bread crumbs. For which none compare.

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When I was 5, a midnight trip to the bathroom might as well have been a battle for life or death. The hallway sprint, the olympic leap a few feet from the bed, all needed to be settled and quiet before the sound of the toilet finished its flushing. But hey, I’m sure most little kids do this. But do grown-up, 30-year-old women with children of their own do it? Two thumbs pointing right at me.

A creative mind is NOT without its severe disadvantages. I can memorize the colors of a sunset, mix and recreate the palate and spread it on canvas like magic. But I can also feel the creepy under-the-bed creature’s clammy hands on my ankles as I change my sheets in broad daylight. Being both a creative writer and visually artistic is a double whammy. I can think it with words, and see it with images so clear, you could jab a USB cable into my ear and print it out. The anxiety isn’t limited to myself alone, pretty much everyone I care for is in CONSTANT danger, both real and imagined. The danger isn’t just from terrible humans ( who are very real in this world) but from mythical creatures and even lions, tigers and bears (OH MY!). So what is an imaginative sister to DO?! I’m a work in progress. I’ve been trying to force myself to confront my very random fears. I’ll list the fears, and you can judge for yourself how incredibly irrational they are. This will give you a glimpse into how crazy, albeit creative, I am.

1) Fear of the basement. Ok, so maybe this isn’t too terribly out there. It is dark, gloomy, underground, isolated. There are children’s drawings on the cement walls ( not my children, the children who previously lived here). The “Scotts hiding place” written in a crawl space is particularly bone-chilling. I actually will not take my children into the basement as I believe “Scott” will try to possess or harm them.

2) Fear of Grocery stores. Now this fear, many of my mommy friends will relate to. I believe there are very evil people in this world, and I believe they are after me and my children and their preferred location of choice to take us down is at the grocery store. Nuff said.

3) Paralyzing fear that my husband will be in a car wreck or he will fall off a roof. Yes…A roof.Needs no further explanation.

4) Fear of Zombies walking up my street at night. Did I close and lock all the doors and windows? Have I stored enough canned goods and water to get us through what will be a rather “challenging” time?

5) Fear of Mountain Lions. I’m PETRIFIED OF BEING EATEN OR ANYONE I KNOW BEING EATEN BY A MOUNTAIN LION. That is in all caps because I cannot express just how scary this is to me. It seems like a very very real possibility. Yes, I live in the suburbs. Yes, it’s a bit far-fetched. Yes, it is goddamn scary.

So there you have it. When my son, who is now a little scared of the dark, points at nothing in the room and cries, I can’t say the hair on my neck wont stand straight up. Is he just seeing something with his innocent toddler eyes that I am not? Are we in danger? Do I need to draw a ring of salt and make everyone sleep in it?

Do I watch scary movies? NO. I would die from the terror. Just the damn 30 second commercials are enough ammunition to royally freak me out. That all being said, I would like to say I wouldn’t ask for anything different. Though the drawbacks are definitely there, being able to conjure up beautiful things is something to be thankful for. I just need to go on a diet of the mind and stop myself before I get carried away. No need to visualize the zombies walking up my street. I will just make sure all my windows and doors are properly locked, and maybe I’ll be sure we’ve got plenty of canned goods. for you know..eating and such.

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Mid-scale restaurant employees, hear me:

I know you see me coming a mile away; hair disheveled, crying child strapped to my chest, mystery dried “goo” on my shoulder (to my credit I didn’t actually know it was there), fidgety toddler in hand, oversized diaper bag filled to the brim with sticky books and toys….I know you see me and say, ” Ahh….shit.”

But you know what, deal with it. Do you think I want to order the chicken fingers when I’d rather have a nice adult salad? I hate chicken fingers. It’s the only damn thing my toddler will likely eat here , so I will be a trooper and share my platter because we all know ordering him his own would be a complete waste of food and money, since we also all know everything that is specifically his, he treats like it’s been poisoned, everything mommy orders is golden and beautiful. So I will choke down the greasy fried fingers in order to get us moving along. I’m also sorry if my standing next to the table interferes with your walk way…I would really rather sit. But my infant daughter finds my sitting offensive. My only method of keeping all of us hearing properly and not ripping fistfuls of hair from our scalps, is to hold and bounce her on my hip. Standing and eating with one hand isn’t as easy as it looks, I’m certainly not doing it for the pleasure.

In general I actually don’t want to be at your restaurant. But I’m here because of simple math. #1, we are hungry, need to eat and I don’t have my own kitchen handy.  #2, I’m actually outside of my home and going to a restaurant is one of those things that seems like, a really good idea at the time, even though it mostly ends horribly and is more stress than it’s worth (yet we are always optimistic that THIS time it’s going to be great).

I know I am being seated in the back, in the “child” section. But I understand, if you’re going to clean piles of food and chewed crayons from the floor you’d rather keep it in one general area. I get it. I also get that most of your servers don’t have children. CLEARLY. Because people with kids would notice the care I have taken to place all the silverware, drink menus, sugar packets, hot sauce and anything that could be thrown or even remotely used as a weapon on the opposite side of the table and yet, servers place hot and/or messy items directly in the danger zone. If I don’t want my kid throwing dull knives at me, you better believe I am not looking forward to a face full of steaming clam chowder.

Please understand that I am painfully aware of the difficulty in bringing small children to an eating establishment. I am painfully aware how annoying children can be with everything, in general. I am also aware that you’re in the business of customer service, and, as much as you may find us repulsive and irritating, we are giving you business and quite possibly a large tip ( especially, to my absolute HORROR, if you mistakenly cleaned the poo off my son’s hand with your napkin thinking it was just food….you know who you are, again, I apologize. It was a difficult stage for us that has thankfully passed).

One day, this will be a non-issue, but for now…restaurant staff…please know that my going there is actually more difficult for me than it is for you. The end.