I've Been Tagged

My friend Gina, who I've known since high school, has tagged me.

I wasn't sure what this meant initially. Until now the only game of "Tag" I've played has been the horrifying playground version, where good runners slap you on the back, yell "Tag, you're it!" and then run away, leaving me in their dust. Never much of a runner, I've always hated tag.

But the grown-up e-version appeals to me much more. From what I can gather, I now have to reveal seven (why 7? Why not 8 or 6?) things about myself and then tag someone else. So here goes…

1. I spend a good part of every work day waiting for someone to come into my office, tap me on the shoulder and say, "Heidi, seriously, we know you're faking it. Pack your things. You're out of here." Hasn't happened yet, but I'm sure it will someday.

2. Dave hates this about me, but I'm a little bit crazy when it comes to going to bed. I have to sleep on the same side, and have to make the bed before I get into it. I don't make it in the morning though, so each night I basically make it perfectly neat and then hop in, immediately destroying the hospital corners. Don't ask.

3. I'm a little obsessive about Grey's Anatomy, and frequently check the writer's blog to get the back story behind each episode. Check it out – it's really interesting.

4. The only time I've ever been fired from a job (so far) was when I was in high school. I was hired to work at Barney's Bagels when they first opened, and I loved it – at first. Then my work hours started to interfere with my social life. I called in sick a couple of times, called and said I couldn't make it because of school a couple of times, and showed up late a couple of times. A few months into the job I called because I wanted to go to a football game and was told to enjoy the game. And not come back.

5. As much as I try to be a healthy-ish eater, I cannot resist cookies. Or cake. Or brownies. Or pretty much any baked good. Especially if it's fresh from the oven. I've got a problem.

6. I've been wanting to do something drastically different with my hair for years, and every time I get my hair cut I discuss this with Candice, my stylist. She always smiles, nods her head and cuts my hair exactly the same way, but styles it a little bit different so I think it's a dramatic change. Apparently she knows what's best for me. Or at least for my hair.

7. Every night, before we go to bed, Dave and I sneak into Owen and Jake's room and "check the kids." I'm not sure what we're checking for really – sometimes we have to usher out one of the cats, or cover up one of the kids if they've kicked off their blankets. But really, for me at least, it's a chance to go in, see them at their most peaceful, fall in love with them a little bit more, and push the memory of the most recent tantrum back a little bit further.

So there you have it. Seven things about me. I'm only going to challenge one person, mainly because I know he's got a fountain of fascinating factoids about himself tucked away that I'm sure people in cyberspace would want to read. So Dave, you're it.

From Now On, Jake Gets His Own Seat

I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, but it's quite possible that I made my worst one yet last month when I decided not to buy Jake his own airline ticket. I made this decision on the fly (sorry for the bad pun) after learning how much it was going to cost to fly my whole family to North Carolina over Memorial Day weekend.

Incensed at the cost of the airfare I took an "I'll show them" attitude, declared Jake to be a lap baby and walked away pleased with the money I had just saved.

Turns out, it would have been worth spending the extra $300 on a seat for Jake. In fact, it would have been worth much, much more.

Cute as he may be when he's not being held for two straight hours, when he is forced to remain immobilized in your arms, he's no fun at all. In fact, he turns into "That Baby."

You know the one I mean. The baby who cries, screams, claws at his parents, pulls everyone's hair, throws food, toys, books and everything else within his reach on the floor, and occasionally peeks over his parent's seat to smile at the irritated passengers behind him.

The stewardess tried to woo him with pretzels. He threw them on the floor.

At one point I put him in the aisle and let him walk up and down the airplane. He touched the arms of everyone he passed, smiling up at them. Some smiled back, others yanked their arms away, still others just gave me dirty looks.

The moral of this sad tale? Spend the money. If your child is old enough to know that he doesn't want to held anymore, he's old enough to have a chair of his own. Your child will be happier, you'll be happier, and no one on the plane will be able to blame you for making a 2 hour flight feel as long as a trip around the world.

Chaos 1, Organization 0

Sometimes, on really, really bad days, when it seems like I'm just never going to get my shit together, never going to figure out where to put my keys, and never, ever get enough sleep, I look at pictures like these and realize that really, it's not all that bad.

Organization is likely going to elude me most of my life (and really I can't even blame that on my kids because I've never been organized) but if I had to choose between well organized closets and my current cluttered, disorganized and chaotic life, chaos would win every single time.

Why Jake Almost Didn't Make It Through Mother's Day

My Mother's Day started out a little more hectic than most: Dave was away for the weekend and I had the kids to myself until Sunday afternoon when he returned. So instead of trying to entertain the boys myself all day I made plans to drive to Providence to spend Mother's Day morning with my own mom.

In case you don't know, in my house mornings – even on weekends, and even on Mother's Day – mean actual morning. We're usually up, dressed, and almost done with breakfast by 6 a.m. So yesterday, even after lazing about a bit, we were dressed, fed, jacketed up and ready to go by 7:15 a.m.

Except one thing: I couldn't find my keys.

In fairness to Jake, I can almost never find my keys. I typically throw them in the crook by the front door, but sometimes put them in my purse, other times leave them in my coat, sometimes toss them on the counter, occasionally leave them in the door, and once even left them on the roof of my car. But even worse than my inability to keep track of my keys is Jake's sudden love of hiding things.

He takes magnets from the refrigerator, opens cabinets, places them inside pots, puts the covers back on the pots, closes the cabinets and then walks away. He takes one shoe and brings it to the complete other side of the house, only to toss it under something. I'm not sure he does it intentionally, but he does it all the time. Usually it's funny. On Sunday morning it was infuriating.

I knew I had seen him wandering with my keys earlier, so I looked around my bedroom, where I had seen him last. Nothing. I combed the likely locations. Nothing. Next I looked in some less likely – and less desirable - places: on the floor, in the cabinet in the bathroom, in the pots and pans in my cabinets, in the trash, by the cat's dish, in the toybox and even in the diaper pail. Again, nothing.

Next, I turned to Jake, who had been following me around the house eagerly.

"Where are my keys?" No reply. I asked Owen to help me look. He obliged and began to tear through his toy box, only to find a long-lost toy that quickly distracted him. Still, no keys.

After 30 minutes I called my mother, in tears.

"We're not coming," I said. "Not only can't we drive to Providence, we can't even leave the house."

I hung up, furious with Jake, with Owen, with karma, with my cluttered house, with Mother's Day, and with anything else that popped into my head. I walked through my house one final time, dumping out every box of toys, taking every pillow off every couch, lifting the corner of every rug, opening every cabinet and sorting through every drawer.

45 minutes into my search I opened the drawer of Owen's train table and shuffled through the mess of trains, tracks and little people. My keys were at the very bottom.

I'd like to say I've learned something from all of this, but I'm not sure I did. My house is still filled with a million little places for Jake to hide stuff, he still quietly steals things and squirrels them away, and I've already misplaced my keys twice since then.

But next time I go to Target I'm picking up a belated Mother's Day present for myself: a key rack, that I will hang well above Jake's reach.

The Sound of Silence

For the first time in nearly four years, I woke up Sunday morning to silence.

Well, not actual silence – Dave was snoring his happy little it's-Sunday-morning-please-don't-wake-me-yet snore, but for the first time since Owen was born I didn't hear crying, chattering, yelling, babbling, talking or even heavy sleep-breathing.

(A quick sidenote: Friends have been telling me for months to ditch the baby monitor, but I always find a reason to keep it – Jake's sick, Owen might be up playing all night, the two of them might be fighting, or a cat may be trapped in their bedroom. All likely scenarios, but the fact is simple: I like hearing them. I love the sound of their heavy breathing when they're sound asleep, I love waking up to the sound of Jake gurgling happily as he plays with his feet and I love when Owen's first words each morning are to say hello to Lightning McQueen or Buzz Lightyear.)

But on Sunday I heard none of that because the boys had their first-ever sleepover at my parent's house in Rhode Island.

I had initially called my mother to babysit Saturday night, thinking she'd spend the night on our couch as she has countless times while we went to Spiderman (which, by the way, was awesome). But when I asked she countered my offer with an even better one: Bring the kids down early Saturday, set up their beds, get them comfortable and then leave. She even offered to bring them back on Sunday so we wouldn't have to drive down to Providence again.

This is something we've considered before, but we've always been too anxious to follow through. True, they did raise me and my sister, but let's face it – the last time they were in charge of two kids under 4 for 24 hours was about 30 years ago.

But we took a leap of faith, bought ourselves some tickets on Fandango so we couldn't bail at the last minute, packed up the car early Saturday and were back in town eating popcorn and watching previews by the 4 p.m. show. We had a great dinner in the North End, picked up some dessert at Bova's and then came home.

When we went to bed we laughed about the quiet, and wondered aloud how the kids (and my parents) were faring. But it wasn't until morning when there were no little faces to greet me, no diapers to change, no chaotic breakfast to make at 6 a.m. and no bored kids to entertain by 6:30 a.m. that I really felt the difference.

My parents showed up around 11:30 a.m. with Owen and Jake, who both ran in excited and giggling. Mom and Dad, on the other hand, looked exhausted – but happy – and handed Dave the car keys and asked if he would go get the gear.

All in all, the night was a huge success. My mom was psyched that we had finally agreed to let her keep the kids overnight and encouraged us to do it again, soon. In fact, she suggested we do it every couple of weeks.

Dave and I looked at each other when she said that. Within the space of about 5 seconds I thought quickly about how adorable and cute our kids are, how much I missed them. Then I thought about the long, lazy breakfast we had enjoyed just a few hours before, and remembered that our fifth anniversary was just two weeks away.

"What are you doing the weekend of May 19th?" I asked, not skipping a beat.

Silence. And then a sudden jingle of keys from my father.

"We better get going," he said, pretending he didn't hear me. Within minutes they were out the door.

I'll give them a couple of days and then try again. A little bit of early morning silence every now and then? I could get used to that.

My Spidey Sense is Tingling

I've been taking some heat lately from folks who just can't quite believe I'm a Spider Man fan. And truthfully, it's very out of character for me. I'm about as much of a YUP-ie mom as you can get, what with my SUV, Ann Taylor credit card and condo in the suburbs. But damn, when it comes to superheroes, for some reason my heart has always been with Spiderman.

I remember when I was a kid I would grab the paper every day to read the comic strip, and scan the TV stations (all 4 of them) on Saturday mornings to find the cartoon. Something about his alter-ego as a journalist, his love for MaryJane the "regular" girl, and his tortured soul always captured my interest.

I admit, it doesn't make much sense. I was never a comic book geek and usually shriek when I see actual spiders. But I've already got my parents lined up to watch the kids Saturday night, and Dave has agreed be my date for opening weekend.

Let's face it: life is just too hard sometimes. There's too much to think about day to day, too much stress between work and home, and way too little time to lean back in a comfortable chair, hold hands with your husband, stare up at a screen three stories high and get lost in a completely improbably but absolutely enjoyable movie.

So we'll be at the 9 p.m. show in Danvers Saturday night. Feel free to join us if you want. The popcorn's on me.