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By Jodi, May 15, 2012 11:28 AM

Ro, Smitty + Shepz

It’s unbelievable that we’re here already – Sheppard and Smith are eighteen months old. When I brought them home from the hospital, I remember wondering if I was up for this challenge. I knew I could do it: I could keep them alive, I could care for them. But could I do it well? Would we all figure out how to make this family adapt? I was intimidated and a little sad about losing the ease with which my life had been cruising. Anson commented immediately that he already couldn’t imagine the family without them and truthfully, I couldn’t agree at all. I could imagine the family without them because the family had been amazing without them and what if? What if it would never be that amazing again?

But, as children do, they each cast a spell on me. A spell that lets me see how our family is different now, and lets me enjoy that difference. Obviously, I wouldn’t go back. Even in the hardest times, I do not yearn for the ease of “before”. Because the overwhelming needs of my sons, my three sons, gives me a super sense of accomplishment, and if that’s pathetic so be it. But I do feel like I’ve accomplished great things if I even come close to meeting their needs. And at the end of the day, when I lock the door and catalog another day where everyone is healthy and safe, I feel lucky again that we took this chance and it rolled out this way.

Sheppard is an amazing climber. At this point, he has trained me to not jump and rescue him from the predicaments he has placed himself in. Instead, he likes to test them, to see if he can get out of them. Usually he can. He cautiously climbs everything, then squats, rises, places his hands in the air, and states in a lowish-baby voice, “Ta-da.”

Not. Safe.

Smith is also an amazing climber. At this point, he has trained me to wait for him as well, as he teeters on the inevitable edge of falling and triumph. A boisterous appreciation for applause and attention motivates his declaration of “Ta-da” to be said with at least 4 or 5 exclamation points. He shouts it in a mid-range somewhat nasally voice, which commands the attention of everyone in the room. The inevitable applause always inspires him to shout “Ta-da!!!!!” as many more times as the applause is forthcoming.

Trying to get out of the window onto the fire escape. Oy.

Kiss.

The boys are also very affectionate. They kiss each other often, open mouthed with a sound effect of “mmmmuah!” They obviously know it’s cute because they always look around to see who caught it. If there are smiles and squees of delight, they will repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

Roan is their favorite for playtime. Sheppard is the one to call him, with an extended, “Roooooooo” followed by a very short “Ro!” For some reason, Smitty insists on calling him “Da-da”. Roan is the one who can coax a kiss from either boy, he is the one they love to roll around with on the floor. Roan is the one who has figured out systems to make them stop crying, and he is the one who makes my heart ooze with motherly goo when he sits them on his lap and reads to them. Shepz + Smitty are ravenous readers, each with their own favorite book. Sheppy digs Goodnight Moon, and Smitty digs…everything else.

At eighteen months, I declare this my favorite age. But I also know that I declare that at every new developmental jump. The more I get to know who these guys are, the more I fall for them. I had no idea how much I needed them in my life. And I did. And I do. I love their challenges, and I love their rewards. When they try a new food and like it, I love it. When they go down for naps but decide to chit-chat for 1/2 hour instead, I love it. When they need me to just hold them, I love it. And when I see that they trust this world and the people in it, I couldn’t be more proud. Smitty says “Hi!” to each person he passes on the sidewalk. Every single one. And every single person, even the surly teenagers, stop and smile at him, and say hello back. Sheppard has declared his love for Kara, who loves him back. He holds on to her, rests his head on her shoulder, and resists being handed off, even to me. This tells me he has found safety in this world – it tells me I’m doing my job well. (It also tells me that offering Sheppard many tasty snacks is a pretty reliable way to his heart.)

Sheppy loves shades. And being naked.

Smitty loves a good free fall

At eighteen months, I am calm. I trust that my boys will sleep, that they will eat, and that they will play. I trust that Roan is a happier boy in this world, and that he loves sharing his world with his brothers. At eighteen months, I absolutely can not imagine this family without Sheppard and Smith. This family is loud and happy and messy and noisy. But we are a family, unimaginable in any other configuration.

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By Jodi, May 7, 2012 3:08 PM

My last entry was pretty much a documentation of a provoked temper tantrum I threw on the Brooklyn Bridge, in front of Roan. Two good things came from this post:

1. On our walk home from school, I told Roan I wrote about the Brooklyn Bridge Big Jerk. Roan asked if any of my readers had commented, and I told him yes, and that pretty much everyone agreed that the Big Jerk was in fact a Big Jerk. Roan raised his eyebrows high and started shaking his head and said, “I bet that guy didn’t know you had a blog or else he wouldn’t have acted like that.” And so far that is the biggest laugh I have had all year. I’ve decided to let Roan believe Pistols is actually all that powerful. Because it’s nice to have a superpower.
2. The second great thing from that post is that I received a comment from a woman named Amy. It read as follows:

I have MS and am no supporter of the MS Society (as a charity, nearly fifty percent of their fundraising dollars goes to admin. this makes them a business, as far as I care.) That man was a bully using a “good cause” to push his weight around and I personally hope you shamed the whole lot of ‘em. Good on you.

Wow.

Ok, so actually I have no idea about the integrity of the MS Society, but as far as I’m concerned, if you have MS, you get to have pretty emphatic and passionate opinions about all things MS. So, on that: I’m firmly on Team Amy.

I was curious to find out more about Amy, and since her name was linked to a website, I clicked it. You wouldn’t believe the woman I found. Amy is more than a woman with MS. I could pretend that I’m capable of writing about who she is, but instead I’m going to let her tell you. Watch this. I dare you to watch this and not love Amy.

So, now that we all love Amy, and want her to keep making plans for her future, I have a second dare.

I dare every single person who reads this to donate $5 to Amy’s cause. It’s an amount I feel confident that we can all do. But if you can’t, how about sharing this post? Put the word out. To be even awesomer (Yup partner, I said “awesomer”), do both.

What would happen if our health care was patient-driven rather than profit-driven? I cannot imagine. But maybe – if Amy gets her way – maybe she can show us what would happen. I cannot help but love a woman who doesn’t shrink down and accept defeat. She instead is going Ninja, with all of us support ninjas behind her (and in front and next to her). Right? Seriously. Give $5, more if you want. And then let’s watch this Amy stand tall as a warrior and take a chance on something that would change her life drastically. And change her children’s lives. And maybe other people, who also have MS. Maybe someone in your family. Maybe even you.

I just cannot think of a better way to spend $5. And maybe after all, Roan could be right. Pistols could be powerful in the way he thinks. But only using our power for good.

Paypal or credit card here, or click here to get an address to send a check to.

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By Jodi, April 30, 2012 10:37 AM

I’ve talked about running on this site – how it is my church, it is the thing that pulls me together on the weekend. I’ve always thought it would be amazing to share it with Roan, when he gets old enough and then BAM he suddenly became old enough. Sunday I convinced him (ok, absolutely bribed him) to ride his bike with me as I ran across the Brooklyn Bridge and back. We had done a short rehearsal of this once before, as he rode alongside me on the waterfront, but that was a scant two miles, compared to over double that. I was confident he could do it though, as that outing hadn’t even flushed him and had in fact prompted him to tell me that I’m not “exactly slow”. Heh. High praise, that. Punk.

Sunday was a perfect day. Gorgeous weather, and nothing on our schedule. We started out and talked as I tried to keep up with him. I chose a path that would take us a little longer to get to the bridge but was dedicated to bike and foot traffic only. Once we got to the bridge though, I knew we were a bit screwed.

Apparently the National MS Society had planned a walk to raise awareness on this exact Sunday. Its path included going over the Brooklyn Bridge. Believe me, I’m all for fundraising and walking and running and biking events for good causes. Unfortunately though,  when a huge gathering of people try to cross the Brooklyn Bridge at once, it is a huge cluster…eh…cluster. But we were there, and they were there, and it was up to all of us good people to share this bridge and make the best of it.

There has long been a war between pedestrians and bicyclists on the Brooklyn Bridge. As a Fat Cyclist’s sister, I have always obeyed, with what borders on religious reverence, the painted line that separates the two. When I’m running, I don’t veer into the bike lane unless I need to pass a gawking tourist and even then I giddy-up out of the bicycle lane ASAP. With Roan on a bicycle, I finally had a pass to be in the lane, but it was full of walkers. Bugger.

Their good cause was not lost on me, neither was the fact that they had every right to be there. So Roan and I weaved in and out of the crowd, with me leading the way with “Excuse me, coming through” and Roan sticking close. I finally came across the group of people that you just don’t want to come across. The ones who will not move, not give others three seconds of their time to step aside. I asked them a few times to let us pass, and then pointed out that they were actually in a bike lane. And here’s a kid on a bike. Wanna let him through?

And then of course, one big-mouthed slow-walking dude decided to step up to a mom and her son. This man apparently needed to show his fellow friends that regardless of his taking part in a great and worthwhile event, he could pull his terrible personality out and flash it around for all to see. He berated me for trying to get through, and spoke down to me in such a way that his aggression rattled my son.

Oh dear.

As a former badass, I couldn’t help myself. I stepped up to him and told him, yeh, I have eyes and can see what’s going on. I’m happy to share my bridge with him and am just trying to get my kid through so MOVE. I did match his aggression, but I did keep moving, not wanting to start a fist fight with an MS Walker on the sabbath in front of my son. But this guy. THIS GUY. He needed to show how awesomely dominant he was so  he kept yelling insults, kept embarrassing his friends (I hope), and I just kept my hand on Roan’s back, guiding him through. But before I was out of his life for good, I turned around, gave him a hand gesture my mom would ground me for, mouthed GFY (which does not mean “Good For You”), and in my best teaching life-lesson voice told my son in front of Big Mouth’s friends, “Some guys are just born assholes.” Roan’s face went from anxious to mischievous as he laughed at me swearing in front of him. Score.

Ok. Not the most even-handed or mature or even best approach ever. But guess what? I’m not sorry. Had Roan not been there, I probably wouldn’t have reacted in that same way. But I felt that this guy was not only being a bully to me, he was doing it to my son. I could not bear the idea of letting that slide, because I would never want my Roan to believe it’s ok for people to act like that. Still, there are probably ways that would have been better to handle this guy, including just ignoring him.

But at the end of it? Roan was proud of me. In his re-telling to his Dad, I was a hero and I was strong. His mom was fierce and stood up for him. And the bike ride was a blast, and he wants to do it again. So maybe just maybe – me acting the fool was an ok thing. I’m still not sure.

What do you think?

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By Jodi, April 24, 2012 9:46 AM

I received a request a few days ago, from Nickelodeon’s Parents Connect. They wanted me to write a piece revealing my ultra-secret, uber-sought-after and highly-protected tips for feeling sexy. After laughing ha ha ha with my computer (we share the same sense of humor), I tried to deflect by sort of shining a light on who I am, really. My response was this:

Nothing is sexier than a mom of twins in cargo pants and her 8-year-old son’s t-shirt, right? Because hand to God, that’s what I’m wearing right now. Yeh, I think you’ve found your girl….

Well apparently my friends over at Parents Connect are into that sort of thing (weirdos) because they green lighted me and here we are. I suppose it had to come to this eventually, what with all the velvety innuendo and entendre, what with the way I look at all of you, what with my smoky voice and simmering scintillating wordsmithing. Oooops. I did it again.

Just collect yourselves while I continue to simmer over here, with my new title of Sexy Mommy Blogger.

As a mother of three boys, including 1 1/2 year-old twins, my primary role is  ultra-defined as mother. Mother precedes and supersedes everything. I want to keep my children alive, teach them a good manner or two, and provide a favor to the world by sending them into her as part of the solution not the problem. It’s a no-brainer that my identity of wife and woman fall to their knees, begging to be picked up and dusted off every once in a while.

So out of the 10,080 minutes that are in a week, how many of mine are spent trying to be sexy?

That’d be roughly: zero.

But to me, that’s totally sexy.

I’ve found myself in awe of people who try to put it on, the obvious “sexy”. I’m awed by their motivation and drive ending in a result so opposite from what they were going for. Sexy is not the same as looking good. For instance, when I take the time to do the best with what I have, getting dressed up in my most flattering ensemble: heels, lipstick, jewelry and tamed hair, I may look my best, but I feel less sexy than when I return home from a run: flushed, endorphin-heavy, wild-haired and sweaty. Sexy isn’t something I can put on. Sexy is something I run into when I’m taking care of myself.

So my tips on feeling sexy are pretty simple. Essentially, a person has to be willing to be kind to themselves. Fair? Let’s do this:

1. If you have a limited budget, spend money on your hair. Not clothes. I heard Isaac Mizrahi say something to this effect and it made good sense to me. A good cut and color make pretty much everything else fall into place. Doesn’t matter if you have it in a ponytail, braid or tied up in a knot. Good work translates into all of these styles. I have started buying cheaper diapers for the lads in exchange for me spending more money on my hair. Hot, right?
2. Take care of your body, in whatever way this makes sense to you. It does not have to be obsessive, but it should be deliberate. My approach is this: during the week, I don’t have the resources to get any childcare help. So regimented exercising is pretty much out. That’s ok though, because I make sure that Monday through Friday, I eat super healthy food. Portion control, veggies, fruits etc. Then on the weekend, my husband takes over on childcare duties, and I get to go running. Also on the weekends I eat like a frat-boy, trading my good exercise behavior for questionable nutrition. Pizza, desserts, pancakes, chocolate, whatever. This works for me because it feels balanced. I will probably never be the skinniest  lady in the room, but as luck would have it skinny is not the holy grail for me. I feel sexy when I am fair to my body. I do not deprive it. It feels less like a temple and more like a playground. That’s right for me.
3. Wear clothes that you don’t need to tug, pull, adjust, or always be flexing in. Wearing an awesome piece of clothing looks awful if it just does not fit correctly. The cool thing is that the opposite is also true: very mediocre clothing can look awesome if it does fit well. Jeans and T-shirt that fit like a dream? Can’t beat that. Put something on that you can move in and not worry about. P.S. PLEASE do not let me see your thong when you sit down. Not sexy. Annoying.
4. Find something you’re good at, and do it. Obvious, right? Yet so many people go days on end doing nothing that makes them feel successful. Regardless if it’s raising children, or working in a huge office, spending days just to get to the nights is soul-crushing. It’s a crucial piece in basic self-care that many people ignore because it takes a little introspection. What makes you feel successful? Cooking? Writing? Photography? Sanitation Work? Whatever it is, make some time for it and show it off. Being funny is not sexy. Being smart is not sexy. It’s the confidence from doing something well that is sexy.
5. Find a way to treat yourself every day. I love it when I find a new perfume to love. A one-time splurge lasts for  months, and I can indulge every day. Perfume does that for me. Find something that does it for you.
6. Don’t concern yourself with articles on how to stay sexy. Everyone’s buttons are different, we’re all hard-wired in unique and wonderful and awful ways. As far as I can tell, as of today, there are no magic formulas other than dumb luck and genetic lotteries that make a person universally appealing. So. Collect ideas from people you trust but in the end just make peace with your flaws. They’re there. Mine are too. When all else fails, step away from the mirror and go check out how a person you love looks at you. Love is sexy.

The point is, being sexy has very little to do with my husband, our pool boy, the hot crossing guard, or the local barista’s reaction to me. It feels good of course to get a positive reaction from people around us – a compliment, a double-take, an envious sneer (ok, that’s not all that positive but I can pretty much spin anything in my favor – heh – now that’s sexy). But those things are just peripheral. Everyone I know, the mama’s who are rocking it the hardest, their swagger comes from within. It’s the principle behind the phenomenon of the newly single lady who looks hotter than ever. When a person gets out of a relationship, part of the healing includes a metamorphosis. They dive into themselves and begin exercising, eating right, listening to new music, taking new classes. They get sexy. They start taking care of themselves as an individual. If we can remember to do that within our relationships – as a mother, a wife, a friend – that is sexy. What are your tips? What if you were asked to share them – what would you say?? I’ve shown you mine. Now show me yours.

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By Jodi, April 19, 2012 10:37 AM

Just as I was leaving Utah in 2006, there was a guy called Pete Ashdown who was doing his best to poke holes in the staunchly Right-Wing Republican bubble that has had their grip on Utah for the last…eh, forever. Pete Ashdown was a Democrat running against State Senator Orrin Hatch, who has the distinction of being the longest-serving Senator in Utah history which is ha ha ha laughable as he was first elected in 1976 (!) largely based on his criticism of his opponent for holding office for so long.

That’s some poetry right there, as Sentor Hatch is now a 36-year incumbent.

I watched the campaign from my high horse in NYC, because though I left her, I love her, the Utah. I was hoping there would be an upset, I was rooting for the underdog. I wanted with all my heart for Utah to stop being pop-culture popular for her polygamy and backwards laws, and just start being awesome because that’s where my first-born son was always going to have to say he was first-born. But alas, the writing was on the wall and Senator Hatch was reelected adding more years to his reign.

Now, here we are in 2012. Utah is still in the same place, nothing has changed. Her gorgeous landscape, skiing and Great Salt Lake are still overshadowed by her reputation for old politics, constrictive laws, and elections won by big business and corporations. She’s stuck. She needs a push. And I still care.

Undaunted by his defeat in 2006, Pete Ashdown is still swinging. He’s up for the fight again this year. I can’t help but think of my neighbor state New Jersey’s Mayor, Corey Booker, and how he learned a million things he needed to know in his initial defeat. He’s now a much-loved hero in his state. I find myself believing Ashdown is headed on this same trajectory. The major plank of his current platform is rooted here:

Many politicians start out with good, honest intentions, but the current system of campaign finance muddies the water by making elected officials indebted to wealthy donors and PACs. Right now, Senator Hatch has nearly eight million dollars, with only 1% of that figure raised by small dollar individual donors. I can run a winning race on much less, but since I have decided not to take PAC money or seek bundled corporate individual donations, I need 100% of my funds to come from individuals like you.

Pete Ashdown

In short, if this election were a movie, Pete Ashdown would be played by Ryan Gosling. And we all know what that means: honest and earnest, not bowing to the 1%, major intelligence balanced by charisma, and of course, some working out.

Obviously, that’s my candidate. If I still had my feet planted in Utah, if my kids were being raised there and I were hoping for the nation and world to stop focusing on the nonsensical reality-show type farces my state was becoming famous for, if I wanted my home to have a chance of being slightly more balanced, I’d make sure that my candidate was speaking with my voice, the one he said he’d represent. I’d make sure that my candidate was not beholden to the giant PAC machine. I’d make sure that the challenger who needed to put Orrin Hatch on the ropes was actually going to be different than Senator Hatch. Ashdown would absolutely be my candidate, because he’s savvy enough to play ball with the big dogs, but Ryan Gosling enough to beat them with his integrity intact.

[Check out Pete Ashdown's site to learn more about him: http://peteashdown.org]

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By Jodi, April 16, 2012 10:44 AM

Yes, I'm six.

My birthday was this past Thursday. I’m a person that loves to celebrate things, and I do not shy away from being treated in a super-special way. Fortunately, my team of boys is well-equipped and up to the task. All week, Roan was asking me what I wanted. If I could have anything, what would I want? Oh geez well I can’t help but give the standard mom answer – a card. Something homemade, with sentiment and words. And that’s the truth that’s what I want. His little-boy hand to draw something and put down something that I’ll look back on in five or ten or twenty years and begin to weep because boohoo he’s all grown up.

Little did I know that Roan and his father had already purchased a present for me from Tiffany & Co., and this constant asking was part of a clever ruse to throw me off the scent of my fancy-pants bauble. I’m not sure when it began, but Anson loves shopping for me there. There is something iconic about the blue box and white ribbon, and the delicate necklaces that come out of them. But this year, Roan put his own spin on it, and wrapped the iconic blue box in his own hand-made creation which is my new favorite blue box:

You'd never guess the other side is Lucky Charms

After I was properly presented and caked up, we moved on with the birthday treatment. I had foot baths and foot rubs. I had hugs and kisses and Thai food and opportunities to sleep in. I was lucky enough to be able to spend the entire day with my three sons, playing in the park and reading books. It was my kind of day.

My brother even got in on the birthday treatment action. As a celebrity on the fast track to superstardom, Elden (“Fatty” to those who know him through his celebrity) was given the chance to have a walk-on role for the television show “Leverage”. Knowing that my bro was going to be hanging out with Timothy Hutton, my first star-crush of all time (ok ok ok ok my FIRST was actually Donny Osmond but that just feels so shameful, and reveals some information about what makes me tick that I actually don’t want to look at so moving on…) I expressed my jealousy at his good luck. Big Fatty Brother then sent me this picture, and made my day:

Timothy Hutton holding up a picture of ME. Yowza.

Ahem.

That got quite the reaction from me. So much so that Anson kind of put a limit on how much I could look/talk/squeal about it after a while, birthday or no.

And as the weekend was reaching perfection, I found out that MoMA’s PS1 was hosting a Kraftwerk Music Festival. Being an Electronic Music Geek from way back and for so long, I was intrigued. When I found out that Juan Atkins, the super awesome founding father of Techno would be the DJ there, I was even considering going. I’ve sold so many of his albums, back in the day when I owned a record store and made my living off of throwing parties. It was so long ago – but I’m still so impressed with him. And when I realized they had planned it at exactly the time of day I can recreate without falling asleep – 3:00 until 6:00, I made my plan to go.

That would be, 3:00 – 6:00 in the afternoon, mind you. The old me, from twenty years ago, would definitely need that clarification. And she – the old me, from twenty years ago – would give me the thumbs up for getting my ancient booty on down for the show.

Juan Atkins, and Robots

It was awesome. I went alone, and felt absolutely at home. I danced for a good three hours, and recognized probably 80% of what he played. It was as if I were in my 20′s again – not really caring who was looking, not needing to take care of anyone, smiling and living in my own world. And then it was over, and as I walked out, still in the daylight, I received this picture on my phone:

Bathtime

I just couldn’t get home fast enough. As much fun as it was, as therapeutic as it was, as nostalgic as it was, visiting my 20′s for an afternoon only made me realize how much I have now, in my forties. This life has gotten better and happier and more fulfilling than I ever thought it would. And while those olden days of capricious youth are sweet to look back on, this time right now, with my family as it is, is more than I ever thought I could have. Happy Birthday, for sure.

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By Jodi, April 10, 2012 10:06 AM

Easter Sunday Shenanigans, at home.

I remember while living in Salt Lake City this feeling that never left me. Anson and I owned a home, a beautiful thing. Plenty of space, remodeled with a gorgeous kitchen and a jacuzzi tub in our bathroom. Our backyard was landscaped and Anson built a sweet wrap-around porch out front to sit on and take in the pretty city sights.

But I always felt uneasy.

There was never a time where I would sit in my home and feel comfortable. I needed to plan, to get out, to walk around, to meet up with people. And while I was aware of it, I couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. After a vacation at my mother’s home for Christmas, I realized what it was. When I was in my mother’s home, it felt like a home. It felt warm and easy. And when I returned to my house, it felt uneasy. It wasn’t my home. If anyone visited, I felt stressed out. If I had to spend time there alone, I couldn’t fully relax. It just wasn’t right.

Years later, after our family moved to Brooklyn, that feeling is gone. I’ve realized that it has nothing to do with the actual house, though. I am still Honeymoon-Happy with the apartment we live in. But it’s not the structure. It’s the place. It’s the location and the people around me and it’s the place I am in my own life. I am at home here in Brooklyn. This is the first place I have lived where I feel settled, at ease, and calm. I know I am home. When I lock our doors at night it isn’t to keep people out, it feels like a gesture of locking our family together at this point in time. In this comfort. In this home.

For the first time in my life, I love having people visit me. I love to show off my friend New York City, but I also love welcoming them into my home. I don’t mind that it’s not the biggest nicest fanciest place I’ve ever lived. I just love the feeling it has, which is simple and warm.

This past week, Anson’s brother Devon and his family came and visited us. Our entire family couldn’t wait to have these cousins around to play with, and cool Uncle Devon and Auntie Michelle all to ourselves.

Brothers

In a matter of four days, we toured Dumbo, rode Jane’s Carousel, ate Nathan’s hotdogs on the beach, rode every ride worth riding in Luna Park, went to Times Square, walked up Fifth Avenue (ok ok ok I skipped that day because the babies! Had mandatory nap-make-up duties.), had a meaty BBQ in the backyard with friends, tasted the goods at Farmacy, and hosted an Easter Egg hunt. There were sleepovers and restaurants, Lucali pizza, and too too too much chocolate.

Post-Farmacy Sundae Binge

We had five lifetimes of fun in four days.

Cousins on Jane's Carousel

Uncle Dentist making sure he has a future client in Shep

Before the hotdogs and never-ending rides

And now they’re gone and Roan has not gotten off the couch all day. I have given him an all-day couch pass because he has a post-cousin-rocking-great-time fever and sore throat. The babes are making up for lost sleep by sleeping extra, and I am making no attempts at keeping this home visitor-ready. While that may sound relaxing it is a little bit sad. It’s so nice to have family in town who are excited to spend time with us, and as impressed with all of New York’s shiny awesomeness as we are. I love so much being able to share my family with my family. I love the feeling of welcoming people into my home.

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By Jodi, April 2, 2012 10:16 AM

I’m not one to get all excited over new things to do on my phone (yes I am) and I’m almost exactly two years late on this. Which by the way totally makes sense because two years ago I was busy building two babies at once. (I’ve been told that I can use “twins” as an excuse for pretty much everything from my weight to flakiness to neediness to uncoolness for the next five years. Wonderful.) So. Instagram. I am your newest addict.

I have been resisting getting on board with the latest social media hot shot sites. Because for reals, my time has been sucked up enough by Facebook and Twitter and various blogs. So, Pinterest, I am resisting you. Google+, I am resisting you. Twitter, I am slowly quitting you. But Instagram? I love you. For anyone who is lame-o like me and hasn’t really gotten on board the Instagram train yet, let me break it down. It’s simply a site where you load pictures, with a caption or not. You can crop and re-size, and there are a few filters you can choose – not an overwhelming amount – and they give your photos a nice finished gloss that in the past has made you wonder how your friends get their pictures to look so good while yours look so….homegrown. And everything is down from your phone, super duper easy. Here are some examples of my photos before and after using an Instagram filter:

My Backyard - before

My Backyard - after

Roan on 9th + 36th - before

Roan on 9th + 36th - after

Empire New Yorker - before

Empire New Yorker - after

Smitty + Shepz - before

Smitty + Shepz - after

Right? Ok – so I’m new at this and am not the most awesomest photographer-ess ever, but I love getting these pics. And that’s it – you just have the chance to look at your friend’s photo feeds, they look at yours. They can “like” your photo, or add comments. But the sweet thing is that there is no need to come up with clever, amusing, bright or brilliant statements about what you’re doing. Let’s face it, sometimes it’s hard to make riding the bus sound interesting. But a photo of what’s happening on the bus? Sometimes – very compelling.

Roan and Me on the B61 Bus

I have not been paid or contacted by Instagram, by the way. I am just their newest fan. If you’re on Instagram, let me know who you are and I’d love to follow you. I think it’s a great way for me to connect with people who might read me. And feel free to follow me – my user name is PistolsPopcorn. Obviously – expect many many many pictures of my boys and Brooklyn. I do love to share this world.

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Comments (9)

By Jodi, March 26, 2012 10:34 AM

Morning Fun

I came across this online forum where people were encouraged to bash Mommy Bloggers. The tag line reads, “Yes, we know you’re the first mommy ever.”  I cringed when I read it. I absolutely detest it when someone calls me a “Mommy Blogger”, but I also felt like they were speaking to me. Is all this writing just an obscene form of navel-gazing?  Pistols + Popcorn was nowhere to be found, so nobody hates me, everyone loves me. (The obvious truth is that I’m actually not big enough to be hated. Thankfully.) So back to the thing though – almost an accusation: Mommy Blogging. I haven’t met a person yet who likes the description. None of us Mommy Bloggers want to admit that our writing – our escape and proclamation that we exist outside of taking care of our children – is all about taking care of our children.

Yet. We can all see the Mommy Blogging on the wall.

Backyard Brooklyn Boys

All my entries are tied to my family in some way. Maybe not 100% of them but a good 98%, anyway. My family is eternally fascinating to me. They help decode things I wouldn’t know about myself otherwise. I have decent intuition. I am capable of reading aloud in some very hysterical voices. I do not become murderous after repeating the same word over and over and over, especially if a child is saying it back to me for their first time. Lunch for me can consist of the four sides of the crust cut off a PB&J. My moods can be lifted up and anchored down by a tear or a smile. I am strong in ways that sometimes astound me. I am weak in ways that sometimes terrify me. I am smart and dumb, strict and liberal, in-control and totally unleashed. I prefer collapsing on a couch, hand and arm tangled up with my husband’s, to grabbing a drink at a local bar. I can love others one-trillion times more than I ever thought possible. Being a mother makes me a better friend. Having children has helped me stomp out things I did not like about myself.

I suppose that for now, I am a mother. It is front and center, it is the dimension of myself that is the most important to me. It defines me, fulfills me and challenges me. My family occupies me almost entirely. And that is why I write about it.

I wouldn’t have guessed this is who I would be. My 20-year-old self, filled with hubris and innocent stupidity would have looked down her up-all-night nose at me and said “no way”. Even my 30-year-old self didn’t know. Until Roan exploded into my world, I had no idea that I could be this person. I didn’t know I wanted to be this person. I most likely made fun of this person. I probably would have written something bad about this person on the Mommy Blogging Bashing Board.

I’m certain I will not always be in this place. That makes me sad though. Of course I know that my family will always be this important to me. But I do understand that these children reportedly grow up and eventually have their own lives. And when that happens, my focus will shift to something else. Possibly something new, maybe visiting something old. Maybe meshing the two. This time I have right now, where my purpose is so clearly defined and so insanely enjoyable will not always be here.

My Three Sons and a Brown Bear

So. I will be a Mommy Blogger. I will document what happens with pictures and words because what is happening now is good. It is the best my life has ever been. It is what I want to be around, it is what I want to remember, it is everything I love. If that doesn’t make sense to someone on the outside, I get that. That’s ok. But it makes sense to me. And at the end of the day, every day – that’s the forum that matters.

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By Jodi, March 22, 2012 9:51 AM

Since Roan missed school one week ago due to a vomitous illness, I  arranged my regimented and highly accurate schedule to reflect him not being sick again until sometime mid-May. Imagine my surprise when I noticed that his back felt like fire on the walk home from school Tuesday afternoon, just one week after kicking the last illness. Roan further defied my schedule by percolating his fever to a full-blown 103 degrees around 2 AM.

A few hours later, my buddy the unlicensed but highly qualified Doctor Kara Knott, who has a promising future in the Carnival guessing people’s illnesses (she has accurately nailed my strangest afflictions, even when doctors couldn’t) immediately wondered to me if it could be Strep. I grabbed a flashlight, had my eldest stick out his tongue and got an eyeful of white pustules camping out on his tonsils.

I began rescheduling and thinking and planning and checking my credit. Credit with friends. Who is going to be lucky enough for me to give them no notice and ask if they can watch a baby while I take Roan to the doctor? I submit to you that it is a ridiculous thing to even consider taking two toddlers and one pustule-tonseled big kid to the doctor when I do not own a car and have no more than two arms. Before I could make my way through my self-inflicted credit check, Kara called and said she was taking a baby and that I should get on my way. Lucky me that she re-arranges her life behind the scenes to accommodate mine. She’ll never let me know what she’s had to move around or who she’s had to cajole – she just shows up. And even luckier me that my friend Lola is very much the same way. I think if Anson and I were to be plucked off this Earth at the same time, I’d just have these two women rotate Smitty and Shep between their homes. They live across the street from one another, so the logistics would work. Also, the babies adore them. Smitty blows kisses at Lola’s house, and Shep stands at our front gate and belts out, “K-AAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAA-R-A!!!!”

Roan of course would be sent to live with Tim Gunn.

A speedy in-then-out of the doctor’s office confirmed Strep, and we went to the pharmacy in Rite Aide to get some antibiotics. Poor Roan was still feverish like crazy, so he sat in a blue vinyl chair, sandwiched between two blue-haired elderly ladies. I kept my eye on them because those older Brooklyn ladies are a dangerous bunch. I simultaneously began the task of trying to present the facade of a mother who knows how to keep her really really bored toddler named Sheppard on his best behavior in public.

Photo by Roland Bello for Goatmilk

Sheppard was actually in a great mood, but eager to be busy. He’s a guy who loves to pick things up and then put them away. So I grabbed an empty basket and let him drag it along the floor. He would put various items in it, then I would put them away. As luck would have it, the store’s entire selection of condoms, sexual lubrication, pregnancy tests, drug tests, and dubious erection potions were all located at toddler-height, precisely in front of the pharmacy.

Now. I suppose I could have relocated Sheppard to a different isle for propriety’s sake. But I didn’t, because:

a) I didn’t want to leave Fever-Roan alone with those cagey ladies,

and

b) watching my 16-month-old Sheppard pull inappropriate items off the shelf, inspect them, nod his head emphatically, say, “Yeh!” then put them in his cart and applaud himself over and over until his little cart was full of condoms, lube, and dubious other items was exactly the stuff I needed for a big laugh.

The older ladies, not so much amused.

Thirty minutes later, with a prescription of antibiotics and everything put away nice and neat (you’re welcome, Rite Aide!) we hailed a cab and got home. I picked Smitty up from Kara’s house, who was just about to feed him lunch. She transferred his lunch into a container, and sent enough for Shep. I crossed the street to our home, and built Roan a nest on the couch. The babies were ready for lunch and I looked at it – a gooey buttery amazing looking grilled cheese, with Jarlsberg cheese on Brioche bread cut into perfect tiny squares. I had no choice, considering the day – busy and stressful. I prepared the twins a crappy peanut butter sandwich and as I fed it to them, treated myself to the most delicious grilled cheese sandwich ever. Who says being a mother is hard?

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