3 year old blog

Yesterday was a big blog day around here – wifemothereventplanner turned 3. Happy Birthday blog. Mazel to us! It’s been so much fun. Yes I don’t write as often as I should, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still in love… With blogging. Absence makes the heart grow fonder right? Ahem.

Connected to this blog is an email, wifemothereventplanner@gmail.com.
I don’t check it often because it’s a scary, dark place where weirdo people from the internet lurk and hide. But buried in that pile of crap are actual, normal humans asking questions. So! As my gift to you – because I’m a humanitarian like that – I’ll answer a few of those questions. Enjoy! And be scared for me.

Are those your real kids or do you get the photos from stock photography? I’m starting a blog but don’t have kids – should I get some photos of kids?

Umm. Yes. Those are my real kids. Although I never even considered the stock photography option. Look for a future post of me wearing a bikini on the beach. It’ll totally be me.

Love your blog but don’t push the posts. Don’t write unless you have something interesting to say.

Ok. Thanks.

How do you decide what to write about and what to keep out?

Easy, if I think you’ll enjoy it in any way I write it. I don’t write as editorial -many bloggers do that successfully. But giving you my opinions on politics, religion, etc isn’t my bag. I don’t think you really want to read another take on Obamacare or Prop 8. I do think you want to read about my obsession with Kate Middleton! Am I right?

You should change your name to TVloverwhonevercommentsoneventplanning.

Wow. Ok, point taken. More posts about TV shows.

Please protect your kids and stop posting their pictures.

Thanks mom.

What advice would you give to new bloggers? Is it worth it?

No advice. Just start writing. There are no rules. And it’s definitely worth it.

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Best Decision Ever.

Ummm…can we just skip over my explanation of not writing during the last 15 days? Ok. Thanks. More importantly – I couldn’t wait to write this post. 

We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout. Really we did. Swear on June and Johnny we did.  And when we made that decision it was filled with worry and anxiety. Are we doing the right thing? Yes. Are we too young? Yes. Will we make it? I sure hope so. But once we were married and living our little life in NYC – all that worry went away. We had a great first year of marriage. Lots of traveling for work and for pleasure. Lots of painting the town red. Not a care in the world. If we wanted to eat out at 2 AM, we could. If we wanted to leave at a moment’s notice to hop a plane to a tropical island, we could. But in reality we never did. We were pretty tame. But we were happy.

Right after the holidays we decided that this would be the year we had a baby. Unlike the wedding/marriage/decision to stay together forever thing- this was an easy one. I loved kids. He…didn’t hate kids. It was perfect. We talked it through. We made a 6 month plan. We’d get our finances locked down. We’d figure out if we could stay in the apartment. We’d figure out if we needed to buy a car. We’d take part of the year to really sort it out. But we forgot something important.

I am a fertile myrtle.  My body was made for baby bearing, and I’m not just talking about my hips. Just looking at babies could get me pregnant. And indeed, just thinking of having a baby was all it took. Well, not ALL it took. I’m not magic, but you get the point. I got pregnant quickly. Supersonic preggers. Look Ma, I got skills!

We were so excited. I won’t brag about how easy breezy the first months were. No morning sickness. No nothing. Just happy little butterfly flutters in my belly. We found out what we were having, because, well, you know. I’m nosy. I need to know things.

A girl!! Exactly what we wanted.

After that, instead of a Friday night movie – we’d head to Barnes and Noble and look up baby names. There must be an Irish/Ukrainian/Indian name right? Not so much. We knew the middle name would be Anne, because 1) Indians don’t really have middle names so I was open to anything and 2) My husband’s family has a long line of strong, beautiful women with that middle name. She could have no other middle name.

But there was an Indian first name that I loved. Asha. It means wish. Not just a small, penny-in-a-fountain wish – but a deep, burning, full-of-love wish. Asha Anne? It could work. I began working on my husband, trying to convince him that this was the name for our little one. He wasn’t loving it, but I think I would have talked him into it. Eventually.

2 months into my “Asha” obsession, my husband came home from work with a deeper than usual frown on his face. Then he proceeded to tell me about a woman who’d just started in his group that was making his life miserable. Anyone care to guess what her name was? Anyone? Bueller? No? It was ASHA. What? Come on!  In the words of Vizzini in The Princess Bride – inconceivable!

Long story short, we didn’t go with that name. But we found something even better. There are so many other details about that time that fill my head.

I could tell you about my doctor (I’d never met a Hasidic Jew before and the first time we were introduced he said,” you don’t ask me why I have curls and I won’t ask you why you don’t wear a dot, ok? Loved him). I could talk about the raging postpartum depression I had that lasted for months, and then one day, just turned off like a light. I could talk about how we painted a hallway yellow and called it a baby room (it was beautiful).

I went into labor at 5am. We hopped into a cab and my water broke. The driver didn’t act surprised, #cabsaredirty. I was in labor for a bit and then she was born. I remember my husband clearly saying to me, in the midst of my epidural haze, “we’re a family”. The next few hours, days, weeks, months were a blur.

I’m sure a lot of people assumed she was a “surprise” because we were so young. None of our friends were even married, let alone parents. We lived in a city where it was normal to see a twenty year old strolling around with a baby – because she was the nanny, not the mommy.

But we were unapologetic. She wasn’t Asha, but she was. Because she was a wish. A plan. A purpose.

That was 15 years ago. There’s a ton of words I could use to describe her. She’s funny, smart, beautiful, kind, thoughtful, stubborn, careful, sarcastic, passionate, loyal – I could go on and on.  Every time someone from the outside world tells me how amazing she is, I try not to do what I naturally want to do – which is to say,” I know right?”. I just say thank you and go cry in a corner.

Happiest Birthday to my first-born. Here’s what happens when you blink.  Your baby goes from this…

Kera3

To this…

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Second best decision ever

11 years ago my husband and I met one of his cousins to go on a skiing trip. They brought their two-year old twin boys and 4-year-old girl – who was best buds with our 4-year-old girl.

Before that weekend we had decided that one kid was perfect for us.  We loved our baby girl. She fulfilled every paternal and maternal need we had.  We were a tight little unit of 3 and we were happy.

Then we went away and everything changed. I don’t know if it was the way the three siblings in the other family clung together, or if it was my husband telling funny stories about his sisters, or maybe it was the memory of how happy I was when my mother told me I was finally going to be a big sister at age 11. Whatever the trigger was, then and there we decided our little girl needed one other person in the world that would share part of her history.

One other person that could understand how frustrating her mother could be, or how nutty her father was, or why we have cake for breakfast on our birthdays. A partner. An ally. Someone who knew what the house that she grew up in smelled like on Saturday mornings. Someone she could be angry at and say mean things to and still be able to sit down to dinner with and laugh. Yep. We needed to have another baby.

I got pregnant a few weeks later.

10 years ago today, I woke up at 4am on a Saturday morning and went into labor. I was supposed to go pumpkin picking that day with my girl and one of my best friends who had come to visit. Instead, my husband and I left them to go to the hospital.

The weather was exactly like it is today, cold and crisp. We lived in Upstate New York and the leaves had changed late that year – so everything was shades of orange and red.

He came like a bullet – in about an hour once I started pushing. And like a bullet, there was some major damage afterwards (I’ll save that for another post).

Since then he’s been a whirl of energy, emotion, comedy and activity. He’s always moving. Even in his sleep he’s moving. He’s smart and quick and always late for something. He says things like,” I love my life.” and “I want to be a kid forever”. Then I go cry in a corner.

And he loves, no adores, his sister. Both are Scorpios, if you believe that sort of thing (I do), but on different ends of the spectrum. She’s easy to trust, warm, welcoming and ready for anything. He’s guarded, careful and likes his routines. Bookends of our family.  Our perfect unit of 4.

So Happy Birthday to our little man. We had no idea how much we really needed you.

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Just another Scorpio Sunday

I’m a Gemini mom married to a Cancer dad livin’ in a Scorpio world with my two kiddies.  My oldest, my goldest, turned 14 today. Gulp.  I know she doesn’t want me to post about her, but I have to. It’s a blogging law.

So in 1998, at 5am ish I woke my hubby up. He was sleeping on the couch because we’d had a fight and I needed the entire queen mattress to myself to get over it…..we walked down our railroad apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (passing uncle Larry as he was about to walk Gracie).  We hailed a cab and headed to Lenox Hill Hospital – about 10 blocks South of us. My water broke in the cab but the driver had us there in 5 minutes (we tipped big for the clean up!).

She was born shortly after, the first grandkid for both our families. There have been lots of great moments in between, each worthy of its own post. Like when she was a few months old and I fell asleep feeding her on the couch and dropped her, or when she ate so much cake at her 1st birthday party that she passed out from the sugar high, or when everyone told me she was turning yellow from all the baby food and I told them it was just her skin tone. Good times.

Smart, Beautiful, Funny, and most importantly ours!

POTUS pontifications

True story:

A couple of weeks ago, at my son’s 9th birthday party at a Glow Golf place at the mall, a group of 18 boys gathered to eat cheese balls, pizza and a big cookie cake. During a lull in the very loud conversation, a spry young man stuffing cheese balls into his mouth shouted,” So! Who’s it going to be? Obama or Romney?”.  Everyone was dead quiet for a nanosecond. Finally, the birthday boy turned to me and said, “can I have another juice pack?”.  Then, thankfully,  the conversation turned to Legos and Ninjagos again.

Moral of the true story:

I love me a good Democratic process but I cannot wait until it’s all over and we can focus on cheese balls and juice packs again.

 

9 year old pumpkin

On October 25, 2003, I had planned on waking up and going pumpkin picking with my little girl.

Instead we welcomed a little pumpkin of our own.

 

You’ll be shocked to know that he was just perfect.

He slept for most of his first year of life. Went in at 7pm and woke up sometimes at 8am (no joke).

When he was awake he just stared at you with that face. And those eyes. It was killer. Still is.

 

Then the hyper speed went into effect.

He grew and grew and grew. Notice the curls. The perfect, insane curls.

 

 

And grew

 

Cut to today.

Cake for breakfast with a 9-year-old silly, funny, happy but sleepy boy. Two seconds after this picture was taken, and right before he blew out this candle, he lifted his leg and farted. True story.

 

 

 

Can we stop celebrating now please?

*burp*

It’s been a month full of festivities.  Last weekend we kicked-off the fun by inviting some family and friends to ring in the Fall.

My sister-in-law took this shot of my hubby and his pals.  She always gets these shots of him. Not just smiling, but literally giddy. Some spirits were involved.

Here’s a shot of my boy and some of his pals from that same get together. Please notice the can of soda that was imbedded into his hand the entire night. A good time was had by all.

Cut to this weekend.

We were invited to Staten Island to go to a local Oktoberfest – how could we refuse? I like this picture because it masks all my problem areas and was taken at a slight angle down – not to mention the photog was miles away from us. Perfect.

This morning we hosted my baby’s 9th Birthday party a few days early. Glow Golf anyone? Because I’m so together and organized I forgot to take my camera and had to rely on my phone, which did the job but everyone has evil eyes.  And yes, I could fix them all, but I’m tired!

There are a few more fun weekends ahead.  Then I plan on getting into my winter cave and not coming out ’till the New Year. Just sayin’.

Sorry the posts have been so far apart. It’s hard to do things and think and write. For me anyway.

it doesn’t mean I don’t love you

Here’s a riddle:

What’s this a picture of?

a) a present I just got from a close friend

b) a present I just bought for a family member

c) a present I bought 4 weeks ago for a cute little baby girl who just turned one and whose birthday party we had to miss but whose gift I should have sent via mail the next day – but instead it sat in my car for weeks, reminding me of how I don’t have my life together.

d) stop judging me!

Did you guess the right answer? Do you think less of me? Don’t hate me. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you if I don’t send you the gift – it just means I’m a spaz.

Moving on.  Why should this present be any different from the unsent thank you notes, forgotten housewarming cards, and of course – the left behind mommy-loves-you letters to camp. None of those things get out alive.

I have the best intentions – and the worst follow-through.  We have so many people in our lives that can get a birthday card to us the day of – THE DAY OF. That’s talented. I have no such talent. I will call you (except that one year I forgot both my best friend and my sister’s birthdays) –  and I’ll eventually take you out to a very nice dinner or drinks or something – but it’ll take a while.

A long, uncomfortable, guilt-ridden while.

 

40 is the new black

At 10 I was living in Albany,NY with my parents enjoying my last year as an only child, having as much fun as I could, happy as a clam.

At 20 I was in NYC, going to college, shacked up with my boyfriend, his family became my family, my friends were my life, I was completely clueless and again, happy as a clam.

At 30 I was married to that boy, we moved out of NYC, we had our first house, our first baby, and absolutely no idea of how we were going to make it, and I really was happy as a clam.

At 40 I am still shacked up with that same boy (legally),  we have another house, in another town, 2 punky kids that are surrounded by love (thanks to our unstoppable family and friends), and, well, you know. Clam. Happy. Me.

Mista Mayor

Photo Circa 1994. Me and then newly minted Mayor of NYC , Rudolph Giuliani. We were at the Pen & Sword Honor Society dinner at my college, he was the keynote that night, and an alum.  It took me all night to work up the nerve to go meet him… when I finally did, all I could say was,” My birthday is May 28th too!”. He just smiled and laughed. I think a security guard moved in closer and someone took the picture. That was it. Not sure how I got into the honor society. Here’s my main observations about this photo:

  • I rocked that tuxedo top I borrowed from my roommate.
  • Those earrings weren’t even close to being the biggest ones I owned.
  • See that hair…that’s my pre-marriage, pre-babies, frizz free, never-touched-a-flat-iron hair. I would trade one of my kids for that hair now.
  • Not sure why I felt the need to wear white eye shadow – maybe to draw extra attention to my unkept brows?
  • What I remember most about the night is that I was too chicken to tell the waiter I didn’t eat chicken – and since I wouldn’t eat anything on the plate with the chicken I hid in the bathroom until dessert was served.

Good times.

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