Originally published on HybridMom.com

About a month before I gave birth to my second child, I took an online quiz. Which Superhero was I? I was dying to know. On Facebook, I had adopted a strict “no quiz” policy. But since I had found the Superhero quiz on a friend’s blog, the rule didn’t count.

I answered a series of questions and the results came back as I expected. I was, in fact, Wonder Woman. Clearly, I lacked Lynda Carter’s rock-hard body, tiara and teeny blue shorts covered in stars. But I remembered the summer of 1980, when I ran around barefoot sporting a pair of Wonder Woman Underoos. I took this as proof the test was highly credible.

Shortly after my son was born, my superpowers—fueled by adrenaline, 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and a daily dose of Starbucks—were intact. I felt ready to take on the challenge of mothering two children. I put on my cape, muscled through the sleep deprivation and attempted to resume life as normal. I reasoned that getting out of the house would be good for my three-year-old, and for me. So with my newborn in tow, we went to play dates, the museum, an indoor playground and the pool. We had lunch with friends and entertained visitors.

So maybe I overdid it, just a bit. Eventually, the Lasso of Truth reeled me in.

When my throat began to hurt, I ignored the symptoms. I kept going when I lost my voice. But when I started to look a little less like Wonder Woman and more like the corpse of Lynda Carter, a friend insisted on taking me to the doctor. The doctor concluded I had a viral infection and said I needed more rest. What? No caffeine patch? No miracle drug to instantly zap me back to health? I resisted the urge to laugh/cry in her face and agreed that she was probably right.

But how, I wondered, is it possible to give my children what they need? Will I ever learn how to love them and care for them and simultaneously take care of myself? When will I find time to work, date my husband, sleep and exercise? I had just gotten my groove back after having my first child. Was it possible to lose it that quickly?

I pondered these questions as I spent a quiet week at home with my kids. I traded my tiara for yoga pants and nursing tanks, and my three-year-old entertained himself with his cars and trains. I got better acquainted with the daily rhythms of my newborn. I even experienced a rare moment when the heavens opened up and both children napped at the same time.

So, while I may resemble Wonder Woman, I have resolved that my fantastic superpowers have limits. Maybe I’m doing my children more good by revealing my greatness, as well as my weakness, rather than perpetuating the fantasy that I can do it all. Because I can’t. At least not all at once.

And that is okay.

Originally published on HybridMom.com

I have returned to the phase of motherhood where I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again. It’s at least an hour before dawn and my infant son has just fallen back to sleep. My two older boys (3-year-old child and 35-year-old husband) are either snoring or sawing down large trees, I’m not exactly sure. I’ve decided to give up the fight and put on the coffee.

I’ve been down this road before. I know it gets better. I understand sleep deprivation is not some cosmic conspiracy to drive me crazy. Or maybe it is. Remind me to add that to the list of things I’m not sure about. I’ve been told I appear to be such a laid-back mom, and that’s partly true. The other side to the story is I often feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Dazed and confused but miraculously still alive.

After I had my first child, I couldn’t believe how awful I felt. That’s when I realized I had officially joined the secret society of moms. “Welcome,” the certified members whispered, giving me a knowing look and understanding nod. At the time I was pretty ticked off. I didn’t recall anyone warning me about the initiation, or rather, the hazing I would endure.

But eventually I came to learn what they already knew– the fact I’m biologically wired to survive motherhood is a blessing. And this quiet moment, when I’m able to write and have a cup of coffee in silence, albeit at a freakishly early hour, is a blessing, too. Before I know it, my oldest son will come running down the hall, so happy to greet me, as if he hasn’t seen me in days. My baby will cry out, and he will give me a half smile just before chomping at the air in search of milk. Then my mind will cue that Darius Rucker song, the one where he reminds me it won’t be like this for long, the one that makes me want to pull over in traffic and sob on the side of the road when I hear it on the radio.

The other morning, my son dug through a basket of VHS tapes and handed me a Baby Shakespeare video. I was thinking, “He’s too old for this,” and wondering why we still owned a VCR when the narrator began reciting Robert Frost’s poem, Nothing Gold Can Stay. I know it very well, thanks to my middle school days and my friends’ preteen fascination with Ponyboy from the movie The Outsiders. As I listened to the words, I studied the curves of my baby’s face. I conceded I will never remember them quite as clearly as I see them now. The more I focus on the present moment, the more I realize just how fleeting it is.

I have more gifts than I can count, even if it does seem a bit unfair to receive them while I’m half caffeinated, half delirious. I try to capture this precious time in my life and hold it tight. I resort to begging, “Please don’t leave until I can catch up on my sleep!” But it’s true, nothing gold can stay.

So I remind myself each morning I rise (no matter how early it is) new gold is waiting. I just have to choose to see it. And on this morning, I have my coffee pot of black gold, steam rising out of my cup, just the right amount of cream and two Splenda. I want a lot of things in life, but for now, I’ll savor this small treasure.

Originally published on HybridMom.com

Lately, I’ve been playing a mind game with myself. It’s called “Breathe. Be happy.” When I’m running late, which is always, I remind myself to breathe and be happy. When both children are crying, I take a breath and smile at the little darlings. It’s just a game and I don’t always win, but I’ve learned the hard way that resisting and pushing against the stress just leads to more. If I pause and get my wits about me, I’m able to focus on the task at hand.

The mind game served me well when I realized I had forgotten to get my oldest son a costume this past Halloween. He was dead set on being Scooby Doo, so three days before Halloween I was scouring the shelves at Target. I found a Scooby suit, but Dillon is a 3-year-old the size of a 5-year-old, and the costume didn’t fit.

So we headed to the popular locally-owned costume shop where you can find any character you want, at a conveniently jacked up price. I quickly found a Scooby suit and removed my son’s shoes to start the process of trying it on.

“Um, ma’am, you have to use the dressing room,” said the man in charge.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“There are several signs posted.”

I wasn’t trying to break the rules, so I took a breath and gathered Scooby, Dillon and Blake (who was sleeping in the stroller) and headed to the back of the store.

On the way to the dressing room, Dillon saw the rest of his friends: Shaggy, Freddie, Thomas, Percy and Diego. Suddenly, he wanted to be all of them for Halloween. I explained we had to pick one, so he conceded Diego could go back on the rack. Then I held up Shaggy and Freddie. Dillon pointed to Freddie. With the costumes narrowed down to four, I reminded myself to breathe and be happy. “This is fun,” I told myself. Or maybe I said, “Fake it ‘til you make it.” I can’t remember.

There was a line leading to the dressing room, and we could only try on two costumes at a time. Then we had to go to the back and start the process all over again. After two trips to the dressing room, we had eliminated Thomas and Percy and were still mulling over Scooby and Freddie. The problem with the new Scooby costume was that it was a little too big and it wasn’t cheap. But Freddie looked like a dork.

That’s when Dillon decided it was “no pants Wednesday” and tried to convince me to let him walk around the store in his underwear. Then Blake woke up and started to cry.

Now the store was filling up with childless adults shopping for sexy get-ups for their Halloween parties. Time for the lady with the stroller to go.

We left empty-handed. Once home, Dillon remembered his heart was still set on Scooby, even if the suit wasn’t a perfect fit. So I called my husband and asked him to pick up the costume on his way home from work.

When my husband got to the store, he was greeted by the man in charge. “I’m looking for a Scooby costume. My wife was in here earlier.”

“Blonde girl? Two kids?” My husband nodded. “Yes, I remember. She was crazy patient.”

When my husband told me that, I felt like mother of the year. I’m not sure whether he put the emphasis on crazy or patient. But I’ll take it.

Originally posted on HybridMom.com

I’ve been demoted. This past weekend, I was kicked out of my home office and exiled to the dining room. My performance has been above bar; I’ve shown true dedication and commitment to the team. The change in my WAHM status boiled down the bottom line: baby Blake needs a room.

Our house has been on the market since April, before Blake was born. Our three bedroom cottage is adorable, but now that my husband and I have two children and our game has shifted to man-to-(wo)man defense, we need a little more space. Plus, our house is on a busy road, and we think a more traditional neighborhood is in order. Perhaps one with a few more sidewalks and a little less drag racing.

We bought the house five years ago, quite frankly, because it was close to the bars. The quaint restaurants and pubs in walking distance and close proximity to downtown Charleston suited our pre-kids lifestyle. Back when my husband and I ate out several times a week and went on actual dates.

When our first son was born, the house was still a perfect fit. We built a picket fence to deter him from playing in traffic. As he got older, he discovered Big Wheels and the thrill of speeding down the driveway. We drew an imaginary line in the pavement, sort of like an electric fence minus the shock, and he still obeys the boundary. For added safety, we park our car at the end of the driveway and never let him play outside without supervision. But eventually, living in this house with two little boys is going to get tricky.

For staging purposes, I left my home office in tact. I reconciled infants don’t need much, anyway. Blake slept in a portable crib in our room, and I strategically placed wicker baskets filled with changing supplies around the house and tucked his tiny outfits neatly in the hall closet. I considered how times change; I would have never done this with my first child. Dillon’s nursery was a work of art, decorated months before he entered the world.

Eventually, we conceded Blake needed his own space. (Yes, I considered having the boys share a room, and I can think of several reasons why this would a horrible idea.) My husband broke down the office furniture and moved it to the garage. In a matter of hours, my former work space was transformed into a haven of sailboats and all things fluffy.

I noticed how fun it was to decorate the nursery now, just as I’m mourning the passing of Blake’s infancy. (He’s off the charts in height and weight.) As I rocked him in the plush gliding chair, I experienced the newborn intoxication I always dream out before the child arrives. You know, the vision that, in reality, is blurred by intense sleep deprivation, high doses of caffeine and pain meds. We gathered around as Blake kicked happily in his crib. He shrieked with laughter and clutched his feet, as if to say, “My room totally rocks!”

So, here I sit, writing this essay at the dining room table. My new office opens up to the den, where my preschooler and husband play trains. Thankfully, I’m perched by a window and natural light flows in.

The house remains on the market, and we still have options to consider. But for now, taking the time to nest is the energy boost our family needed. Our house feels like home again and we’re blessed to have it, for however long we’re meant to be here.

I thought getting demoted to the dining room table would hinder my creativity and productivity, but it’s doing just the opposite. I suspect my muse was waiting for me to figure that out.