Today

5:45 a.m. -- Wake up! Heart beating like a crazy woman, nightdress around my waist. Fricking iPhone default alarm is on - holy crap that's loud!

5:46 a.m. -- Lisa's out of town. I don't have to be up at this hour to go for a run. Mo-fo. Back to bed. Back to bed. Yeah, no.

6:10 a.m. -- Thing 1. Up and adam. Did-I-Know-That-Bobbafet-Can-Be-Sticky-Taped-To-My-Legos? LOOK MOMMY! God I wish I hadn't taken Ambien.

6:45 a.m. -- Okay, time for a shower. Shit, no razors. I could bite the hair on my legs off with more efficiency. Add to mental list for Target.

7:15 a.m. -- Kids are not reading chapter book with La Gringa, they are watching American Gladiators. I'm pissed. And fixated. My hair dries all whacked while screaming at the top of my lungs for Jeff (who lost).

8 a.m. -- Thing 1 cannot be consoled. Jeff, his favorite Gladiator challenger lost. He's sobbing, he's pointing out that he came from behind, that he lost his balance, that life isn't fair. At first I laugh, and later, find myself holding him tightly, rocking him, telling him Jeff the American Gladiator challenger is a winner in his heart. Thing 1 doesn't buy it. He wants Wheaties for Breakfast. Breakfast of Champions, which obviously poor Jeff isn't.

8:15 a.m. -- Go to get dressed while La Gringa makes breakfast (the only work day I get the early bird special). I didn't pick up the dry cleaning. Fucking dry cleaners, never open when I need them. Don't they know I work for a living? Backup outfit isn't bad. Add a gold belt, looking better.

8:40 a.m. -- Go flying out of the house barking orders at La Gringa to pass onto the babysitter. As I race out the door, I realize Thing 2's hair isn't brushed. She's blowing it out of her eyes with her bottom lip. Crap.

8:45 a.m. -- Head to Monsieur Beans for a coffee and remember I'm cash-less until payday tomorrow. Scrounge for cash in the car. Lotto! Run into some kind retired folks that I've known a few years back when I was retired (and not searching for change). I feel like an asshole as I have to cut them off talking about their bananabread recipe so I can hit the road and make it to San Francisco by 10 a.m.

8:46 a.m. -- I have to pee and I need a bottle of water. I go back into the coffee shop and run into a Twitter pal. Not exactly a great time to Tweetup. Bought the water. Forgot to pee. Crap, I have to pee all the way to San Francisco.

9:12 a.m. -- Nearly crash my car trying to Tweet and Drive. I'm an asshole.

9:30 a.m. -- Narrowly escape a double speed trap on 280. I was Tweeting, speeding *and* listening to Pontus 08 on XM radio, which alone, is a carwreck.

10 a.m. -- No parking on 15th Street in San Francisco. I guess I'll have to pay for parking. Oh shit, no cash. ARGH! I finally find parking by wriggling in between a smartcar and an old SUV. I nearly hit a sleeping homeless guy in my parking space. I guess they have more sympathy for homeless people in the big city than in our Willow Glen suburb. I felt slightly disappointed that I didn't tag the strung-out dude.

10:30 a.m. -- Staff meeting. Oh god, the days of staff meetings... somehow I feel happy that this client is super smart and even happier than I, unlike them, am not in PR. God help me. PR seems satanic to me. The online community old schooler in me wants to puke all over them -- but business is business and I'm learning from them how the system works from another angle.

11:30 a.m. -- Move my car. Fast, before the parking gods take my car away. Go to the ATM, say prayers. Sixty bucks pops out. There is a god. His name is ATM.

12:30 p.m. -- It's Wednesday! It's Bread Day! I absolutely plow my face into a turkey sandwich, savoring every.single.white.flour.gluten.carb. Whew. Sweating, I crinkle the evidence of my bread fix and start ticking down the next six days, 23 hours until we can meet again.

1 p.m. -- The client's client comes in. I'm frustrated. I'd love to tell you why, but I know enough to know that even this blog isn't private and I'll leave it at that. The *best* part of the meeting for me was the 125 lb. dog St. Bernard sleeping and farting on my feet. No allergies here...nope, not me. The hives are from something I must have eaten....

2:48 p.m. -- Touch the home button on my iPhone for the 100th time in two hours. I absolutely *must* leave by 3 to make it to San Jose by 4 to pick up the kids.

2:48 p.m. -- (multi-tasking meeting, checking time, wheezing and holding breath from farting dog) Thinking I hope the kids didn't drown at camp today.

2:58 p.m. -- Excuse myself from said meeting. Bolt to my shared desk. Throw everything in a bag and make a break for the door, praying my car has not been towed for overstaying my welcome in a parking space.

3 p.m. -- Low Fuel light come on. Actually, had been on, but just noticed that it meant business.

3:58 p.m. -- Arrive at camp to find children slightly sunburned but happy -- and alive.

3:59 p.m. -- Kids start crying. They don't want me to pick them up from camp. They want grandma and tell me to go away and find someone better to pick them up. I need a cocktail.

4:12 p.m. -- Pull up to home as housekeeper and gardeners are there at the same time. I have no hope. I bribe kids with CPK.

4:30 p.m. -- Mac'n'Cheese ordered, I'm nearly in tears that CPK has a new kids menu/activity booklet. God bless the person who distributes those things.

5:30 p.m. -- Kids catch me eating their dessert and tell me I shouldn't eat any more sweets and treat because it will make me fat. What do they know? Amateurs. Finally, La Gringa shows up. Life is looking up.

6:15 p.m. -- Mom calls. Work calls. Work calls again. I put an outgoing message on my phone saying that I'm not answering my phone until tomorrow. That ought to do it. Not. Distant cousin calls. Work calls again. I wish cell phones could be ripped out of the wall. The drama would be fun right about now.

6:45 p.m. -- Things insist on "Football Party Mix" from a $1 bin at Diddams party store. We all scream out “Whoomp! There It Is!" all the way home, windows down, blasting the bass cholo-style, thumping our hearts out... life ain't bad.

7:23 p.m. -- Kidlets in bed. No work tonight. Tomorrow's another day in the life of a working mama.What a fucking wild ride.

Goodnight.

The Difference Between Grandma and Mommy

What NOT Going to BlogHer Meant

I pouted. I wasn't going to BlogHer. I had the go-ahead from work. I had the go-ahead from clients. I could have gone. Except, I couldn't find a fricking ticket last minute and was too shy (yeah, I can be shy, believe it or not) to ask any of my contact for entrance.

I should have been there.

I never cared before, truly, about any conference. I've spoken on so many panels it's no longer exciting to me; I've worked so many conferences that it's more of a chore than a thrill. But somehow, *this* BlogHer, *this year* got to me. I did a few stunts for clients for BlogHer this year, I followed my buddies on Twitter as they boarded planes, got in taxis and stumbled through San Francisco. I was there, but not there.there.

On Friday I did a presentation for work, kids in tow, ready to go pull a favor somewhere to wiggle myself in to the conference at the Westin St. Francis.

As I walked down Powell street I saw my kids skipping and laughing and holding my hand. They were laughing at mommy being all dressed up and acting silly and full of questions and true wonder about everything from homeless people to the "Lego looking" houses they saw stacked on top of each other. Turn toward Union Square where my people were, I turned around.

I took the kids straight to good old cheesy Pier 39. We walked all the way to the Ferry building and ate shrimp cocktail sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the pier watching the boats go by. We watched street performers, did a bungee jump trampoline thingy and shopped for goodies from strung-out-tchachke-selling ladies. We ate eclairs and danced disco. At one point, staring out at the Bay Bridge a girl rolled up in a wheelchair. The name of the back of the chair said, "Westin St. Francis" -- my jaw dropped.

God was speaking to me. I thought then, cotton candy was in order.

Thoughts on Five

My Things turn 5 tomorrow -- five. The big V. A half of a decade. 60 months. 1826 days.

I told Thing 2 tonight that we were having our last blessings of 4 and tomorrow we'd be having blessings of a 5-year-old. She burst out crying. She doesn't want to be 5, she wants to be 4. "I really like 4," she said, crying in her big girl princess bed. I tried to tell her 5 was the same as four but you get to do more stuff. She asked what stuff, but I couldn't really think of anything to say except that she gets to go to Kindergarten, but that made her cry harder.

Thing 1 jumped in, "I don't want to go to Kindergarten either, so if we stay 4, can we go back to PreK?" Ugh. Growing up is hard to do.

I struggled to figure out something comforting to say, but truth be told, I'm not quite ready for the fives either. I told them that their skin would still taste like corn on the cob (an inside joke), that they'd still have the same house, bed, family and friends and that I'd love them just the same. They laughed and wanted to be tucked into bed like babies, side by side, foregoing their big kid beds in lieu of huddling next to each other.

Age 4 has been such a blessing. Four is better than 3 for twins; it's better than 2 and a fricking truckload better than 1 (are you kidding me, I can't believe they or I survived that year). Four has been a year of crazy growth -- separate bedrooms, independence from each other, separate classrooms, some separate friends, separate playdates, learning to read and write and dance alone in their bedrooms. Four has been a year of reciprocal love from my Things that I had not expected to have, a compassion I was surprised to see and a burst of personality that makes me laugh hard, think often and keeps my sorry old 37-year-old ass in line.

My Thing 1 grew in manly ways -- focusing on sports with a fury. His obsessions of all things sports seemed far beyond his four years -- passion for Joe Thornton and the Sharks (memorizing their team numbers, stats and positions); gaining cult status at the barber shop for knowing and feeling crazed about the NFL playoffs, the Patriots and his beloved Peyton Manning; refusing to take off his LiveStrong bracelet after learning about Lance Armstrong, then following it up with giving out friendship bracelets to his sister, LaGringa and me, telling us that this was our family LiveStrong bracelet. I NEVER took mine off until Thing 1 finally did after over two months.

My sweet, strong Thing 2 lives to be a Garza -- she is all girl, the real kind of girl. Thing 2 blew me away as a 4-year old for knowing what she wants completely consistently, without abandon and with complete focus. Her dedication to dance, (she led her ballet recital with all the girls following her -- right or unique -- steps); her absolutely unfaltering dedication to family through letters, thoughts, articulation of feeling and their complexity always, without fail brings La Gringa and me to tears instantly (La Gringa does this hand wave thing when she starts to cry over Thing 2's compassion); her never ending ability to befriend a peer in need from an Autistic child to younger oglers and meet them on a level they can understand. She blows my mind -- her 4-year-old heart literally stops mine.

So we're onto the 5ives tomorrow. I can only pray that it brings as much joy as 4 has. In front of us is school and bilingual education and independence from each other. We'll be looking at their different interests in sports, friends and their completely different views on life.

I've got some goals for them, but only a few solid ones. Here they are:
1. Make sure we keep our morning "cuddle time," even if they use it as an excuse to watch TV in our bed. :)
2. Open their worlds just enough to grow and be there enough to make them feel safe in it.
3. Watch American Gladiators and Iron Chef America together still -- it's a silly common ground! Don't laugh, I mean it! :)
4. Try to keep "favorite part of your day" dinner conversation every night like we've done for two years now.
5. Let them be 5. Nothing more. Nothing less. And don't forget to be 5 with them sometimes too.

Happy Birthday Things. I love you in ways I never knew it was possible to love.

-- Mommy

22 Adults. 21 Kids -- At least we outnumber them...

The Things birthday parties (yes, two parties same time, same place, same friends, but different parties) are this Saturday.

I'm going for low key -- we'll see how that plays out.

Grandma J and Super H have the kidlets for a few days so La Gringa and I can work and try to prepare for the party and for my nieces and brother in-law to come to town tomorrow. It's so awesome having them here to be a support to us. We're very, very lucky ladies.

Cross fingers for a great day Saturday! I can't wait! I can't believe the Things are going to be FIVE! :)

You Ready for This?....

Donor Children Article

Very interesting research on donor conceived children. It supports all the stuff I've read for years and years, but it's nice to see it in print every once in awhile.

Like I always say, May God bless the donor that I used. I hope that sperm-slinging guy has the best fricking life e.v.e.r -- he certainly gave that to me.