Man's best friend...

Now where did I put my Xanax...


Those of you who have been to my house, or even just to my Facebook page, know that one of the most domineering forces in my life is my dogs. As soon as you walk through the door, they are in your face, stealing your shoes, and possibly your wallet. They sit on the kitchen table, have chewed the eyes and ears off every stuffed animal my kids own, and are pretty much the reason I drink declare that I when these two are long gone, I will NEVER EVER get another dog.

At this point, on my side of our family, we are the only ones with children. Human ones, that is. Everyone else has at least one dog, and they are all treated better than most people's real offspring. My parents have filled their empty nest with two poodles- a beautiful Standard black poodle, named Chloe, and a tiny toy poodle, Bailey. My parents bring them on daily trips to the park, have arranged their social and vacation schedule to accomodate their new brood...I wouldn't be surprised if they started a college fund for both of them.

My sister Missy and her new hubby have THREE little dogs, and are thinking about getting a fourth. Phife, Lily and Baxter, are all adorable little creatures- especially Baxter who looks like a cross between Benji and Dorothy's Toto. My youngest sister Karen and her other half have two Pugs, Winnie and Barry- who are probably the cutest and most clueless dogs I have ever met. Seriously, when God was handing out brains, the Pugs were too busy sniffing each other's hineys and eating goose poop. Then again, I'll take dopey and loveable, over smart and mean anyday.

Then last, but not least, my brother and sister-in-law have a Shiba Inu puppy, Mia, who reminds me of an arctic wolf you might find on an iceberg in Alaska- she's one snow-white gorgeous gal. All of these dogs are well fed, well groomed, and most of all, very well loved. Not that my two little devil dogs aren't loved, but, well, things aren't quite how they used to be...

Back in July 2002, right after my husband and I tied the knot, our favorite topic of conversation was what kind of dog we were going to get. After extensive googling and some good ol' fashioned newlywed arguing, we both agreed on a Boston Terror Terrier. According to the gods of the canine world, the American Kennel Club, the Boston Terrier is "truly an All-American dog... a charming and highly intelligent breed." Sounds awesome, right? Then again, Ted Bundy was charming and highly intelligent, and I'm pretty sure we wouldn't adopt him.

That September, we found a reputable breeder, drove out to Timbuktu, and hand-picked our first baby...8 week old Mugsy. He was seriously the cutest thing we had ever seen- tiny, sweet, HUGE eyes...a cuddler, a snuggler and a snorer. And he was smart little man- our first potty training experience went off without a hitch, we brought him to Puppy Kindergarten every week, where he was the star pupil, sitting, staying, heeling, all for a piece of cold hotdog.

Then, when Mugsy was about a year old, we started noticing some strange behaviors. Barking at the ceiling, refusing to eat his food unless we threw it on the floor so he could "hunt" it (stupid humans!), staring and growling at the dishwasher for an hour and a half...after consulting our vet, we met with Dr. L, an Animal Psychologist. Literally, a dog shrink (I think we all know who really needs a shrink, right??)

Anyway, Dr. Doolittle, who p.s., costs $300 an HOUR (you know what kind of massage/facial/liposuction I can get for that kinda cash??), diagnosed Mugsy with Obsessive Compulsive disorder and an anxiety disorder. We handed her half our life savings, she handed us our golden ticket, a prescription for Prozac. Yes, real people Prozac, aka, the best $6.00 I spend every month.

Dr. L also suggested that we get another dog, so Mugsy would have a companion. Apparently, not only was he anxious, but he was bored. We found a Boston Terrier rescue, and a 25 page application, two home visits and one trip to Pennsylvania later, we adopted a 10-month old little Boston Terror girl, Rita. Then the real fun began...Double Trouble doesn't begin to explain what these two are capable of, not to mention the havoc their medical expenses have wreacked on our bank account...more on that, later.

For the first four years we were married, before we had babies, these two nutjobs were our babies. We would take them on daytrips to NYC so they could walk around Central Park. We took weekly outings to Petco to buy new treats and chews. We dressed them up in Christmas sweaters and took professional pictures with them to send out as our holiday cards...for three years in a row. Yes, we were crazy, but we loved our pups, and we had lots of time and neurosis to devote to them.

Then, the inevitable happened, and our family grew...and then grew again. Five years and two kids later, the dogs are lucky when I remember to feed them- and that's usually only because Mugsy picks up his metal bowl and drops it on the kitchen tile repeatedly, like a crashing cymbol, until I

a)yell my fool head off


b)feel guilty


c)bribe one of the kids to fill up his dish


d)spend the next 10 minutes sweeping the trail of dog food that goes from the closet to the dishes, left by my not-so-careful three or five year old.

Anyone with kids knows that having little people in your house creates enough chaos and mess...throw in two dogs, whose favorite pastimes are to bark incessantly, eat crayons and soap, and pass gas (seriously, stankiest. dogs. EVER.), and you have an instant three-ring circus. I spend quite a few hours a day, threatening to send Mugsy to "the farm" and swatting dogs off the table while they noisily slurp up whatever is left in Bella's bowl of Cocoa Pebbles.

Now, things aren't all bad...my canine devilish duo provides plenty of entertainment for my other devilish duo- allowing them to chase, tackle, and dress them up in hair bows and boas. Mugsy sings one heck of a rendition of "Happy Birthday", and Rita can outcatch anyone in a game of Frisbee. Best of all, they are truly good sports when it comes to being tortured playing with my little ones. Every night when my little monsters (of the human variety) are snoozing and the house is finally in order, I settle in on the couch with my hubby, a book and the remote. I immediately find myself covered with Bostons- 50 pounds of craziness, exhausted from a full day of driving me insane, snoring happily on my lap. I look at their smushy little faces, and I fall in love all over again.

And then someone honks their horn two miles away and the troops are alerted...there's not enough Prozac in the world...

Purely for your entertainment, here is an incomplete list of the vet bills we have incurred over the past nine years...one thing I know for sure...our vet's kids are going to Yale, while we might be able to afford the finest community college New York has to offer.

- Mugsy slipping on a patch of ice, dislocating his knee, requiring orthopedic surgery: $4000


- Rita jumping out of the back of a moving roof-less Jeep and breaking her tailbone: $1500


- Mugsy and Rita double-teaming my purse, finding a bottle of Advil, breaking it open and eating them like Skittles ON THE 4TH OF JULY, when our vet was closed and we were forced to go to the emergency vet clinic, where both dogs had to swallow charcoal and have their stomachs pumped: $2500

- Rita eating a can of bacon grease- this chick has some major food issues- giving her a major case of pancreaitis: $1800

- Rita suffering from a slipped disc in her back (probably from the 10 extra pounds she carries on her compulsive eating little body), and needing acupuncture TWICE a week for two months, at $75 a pop...I'm too tired to even do the math for that one.

Go the Fudge to Sleep

OK, so maybe 'fudge' isn't the exact word the author of this brilliant ADULT (not children's) book used, but I'll try to keep things G-rated. Or at least PG-13.

Let me start by saying that as I sit down to write this, my darling little man is hysterically screaming my name, over and over again, in a last ditch effort to get me to lay in bed with him. No, I'm not talking about my husband. I'm talking about my other darling little man,my 3 year old little howler monkey, Luca. Before you think I'm the meanest mom on Earth (although I definitley have earned that title some days), my very patient husband, Saint Chris is in there, speaking in soothing tones, talking our distressed child off the ledge. I'm sitting on the couch, iPad and snoring dog in my lap, trying to muster up the energy to get up and pour a much deserved gallon glass of wine to drown my guilt and sorrow. "Why so guilty and sorrowful?" you ask. "Surely you must be impervious to crying children by now. Just take out your super awesome hearing aids, and turn up American Idol!" Well, the truth is, I have to admit that I am 100%, maybe even 200% (if that's even mathematically possible) to blame for this nightly bedtime mama drama.

We were bit spoiled by our oldest, Bella, who despite a few nights here and there, has been always been a champion sleeper (knocking on wood now!). When Lucs came along, things seemed to be easy peesy for about the first five minutes or so...and then it all started going downhill.

Despite being a scrawny, six pound/twelve ounce peanut, he was starvin' like Marvin, summonsing his private dairy cow, aka ME, every 2-3 hours, round the clock. Out of pure exhaustion, and against my better judgement, this worn out Holstein started the very bad habit of nursing and snoozing...aka co-sleeping. In my PK (pre-kids) days, I could be found standing on my soap box, declaring, "Babies belong in their own cribs. I would NEVER let my baby to sleep in our bed." I'd like to grab that PK me, hit her over the head with her soap box and laugh in her face.

Inconsistency became the key to our downfall. When the L-man was around 16 months old, I was still nursing him just at bedtime...and then (three times) once during the night. Knowing this was a Lindsay Lohan-sized disaster, I closed up shop. I cried, stuck some cabbage in my bra, and tried to remedy the damage. What I soon discovered is that it was tooo late.

Since then, it's been an uphill battle. He sometimes fall asleep in his own bed, sometimes in our bed (watching *GASP* Mickey Mouse Clubhouse). There are nights when he passes out on the couch by 6:30 pm, from sheer exhaustion and we just pick him up and put him in his bed. I have to admit, those are jackpot nights. I couldn't be happier if I won a lifetime supply of under-eye concealer and Mr. Clean Magic Eraser sponges.

For a year and a half, we've done everything, short of filling out the online application for Super Nanny, to get our little monkey snoozing peacefully. We've bought six different night lights, filled up countless sippy cups of juice and milk (yes, can't wait to get that dentist bill!), camped out in a sleeping bag on his floor, curled up into the fetal position and slept in his bed (years of chiropractic care are in my immediate future), traded the toddler bed in for a super cool race car bed, begged, pleaded and cried for him to just GO TO SLEEP. Eventually, yes, he does fall asleep. But on the rare nights, when all of the stars are aligned, and he does fall asleep in his own room, he still somehow makes his way back into the mothership (literally) between the hours of 3 and 5 AM. 99% of mornings, I wake up, hanging off our king-size bed, with a drooling three year old, and two Boston Terrors stealing all of the surface area and covers.

I know there are solutions. My stock of parenting books rivals Barnes and Noble's. I've read and reread the sleep Bible, Sleeping Through the Night by Dr. Jodi Mindell. I've googled and purused thousands of message boards, taking notes on Ferberizing, accupuncture, slipping Benadryl into a sippy of milk... Kidding, kidding. I have friends who have climbed their way out of the deep, dark pit of sleepless nights. At one point, my mommy partner in crime had two of her girlies taking up prime real estate in her bed, all night, every night. One day, she woke up, put her very tired foot down, and instituted a "Kid Ban" on her bedroom. Within a couple of days, she was completely kid-free between the hours of 8:00 pm-7:00 am. I couldn't be anymore impressed if she had trekked up Mt. Everest wearing 3-inch platform heels.

So what's a mama to do? First off, I have to remember my mom's own parenting mantra, "This too shall pass." Secondly, I know the key to effective parenting is consistency. At this point, I'm about as consistent as Kirstie Alley's dress size. Starting tonight, no more Mrs. Nice Guy. No more nonsense. No more tears. This kid is sleeping in his own room, in his own bed, solo.

I just need to get some Valium and ear plugs first...

P.S.- would love you more than bacon if you want to share your sleep (or lack thereof) stories and suggestions. Help!!

Here we go again...

These days, my third, and youngest baby, The Shop to Stop Child Abuse Sale, has been the one keeping me up at night. This fundraiser was born out of a late night Bravo-induced bout of insomnia during Spring Break 2011, and has been one of the most fulfilling endeavors of my mommy life.

I had been looking at a pile of discarded toys and outgrown clothes in my laundry room, and wondering if I could muster up enough donations to organize a sale to benefit a local agency. After some googling, I choose a cause that is close to my heart, the Center for Prevention of Child Abuse of Dutchess County. They are a non-profit agency that is dedicated to educating children, parents and schools on preventing and breaking the cycle of abuse.

Last year was a test run...we started by shamelessly asking for support from our local community. My motto for the SSSCA sale quickly became "It never hurts to begask." The morning after my brainstorm, I called Hopewell EZ Storage , a locally owned storage unit business, and I connected with the amazing and generous Marge, who became integral to the success of the sale. She started off by donating a unit for the storage of our donations. That one unit quickly became two...and then three...and by the time the sale rolled around in June, we were up to five jam-packed-protect-your-head-when-you-open-the-door-because-it's-all-coming-tumblin'-out-units.

Hopewell EZ Storage became our primary and most often used drop-off location, but we had a few other local businesses and schools that were kind enough to lend us some space. My homebase, Van Wyck JHS, along with Sheafe Road Elementary School both lent us their main offices as places for parents to bring piles of clothing, books, toys and other baby gear. The Little Gym of East Fishkill, my little monsters' favorite place for gymnastic classes and birthday parties, also allowed us to use their gym as a collection site- I would get a call at least once a week that their little office was becoming happily filled with boxes of gently-used goods.

As June 18th, the date of the sale, loomed closer, we realized that we need to start sorting through everything we had accumulated. A small group of volunteers made up of family and friends, spent hours sweating like we were Zumba-ing in the Sahara, in the Hopewell EZ Storage parking lot, sorting through an endless mountain of clothes, trying to organize them by gender and size. I was so appreciative of these lovely ladies who took time away from their families and other duties to help this cause, with the only perks I could offer them being a pretty fabulous suntan, and some good karma.

At last, after two months of panic attacks preparation, the fated weekend had arrived. I had some wonderful friends, Van Wyck parents and students, as well as my always agreeable family volunteering to follow me into the fire as we set everything up. The sale was held in the Fellowship Hall of Hopewell Reformed Church, who very graciously donated this large and beautiful space. At least, the hall seemed large, until we started bringing in truckloads, yes, I said truckloadS from the storage lockers. My husband, brother-in-law, and amazing teaching partner&friend assembled a 3-man team of unloading units, loading the box truck and unloading the truck delivering everything into the Hall. I completely underestimated how long this process would take...by the end of hour #2, I was starting to get a little short of breath- and I wasn't the one doing all the heavy lifting.

Once all of the clothing, high chairs, playpens, swings, gliders, exersaucers, strollers, bathtubs, toys, bicycles, books and stuffed animals were unloaded, the crew got to work. Tables were set up, everything was laid out and priced. My parents called off their evening dinner plans with friends, and instead invited their group to come and help us set up. My in-laws invited my kiddies over to spend the night, allowing me to be 100% dedicated to the task at hand. Everyone was on a mission, and I had such an overwhelming feeling of gratitude as I looked around at the selfless group of people who made such an event possible. My husband, aka my right hand, never once questioned my sanity during this entire process. I'm sure I used up my lifetime quota of "Yes Dear"' during that two month time frame. By midnight, all was set, and we turned off the lights with an excited and nervous anticipation what the next day would bring.

We opened our doors, bright and early, Saturday morning. The sale ran for eight hours, and saw a decent amount of traffic coming through. It was a learning process, adjusting prices and policies as the day went on. In the end, we raised almost $2000 for the Center. One thing we did not think through was what to do with the large amount of leftovers...we ended up donating mostly everything to other local agencies who could use the help, as well as The Barn in Pleasant Valley.

That night, after all was said and done, I uttered the words "Now, next year..." to my husband, who's eyes I thought were going to pop out of his head. I agreed to put all planning on hold until at least the ink was dry on the check we wrote to the Center.

Fast forward a few months to October. My fantastic and always thinking girlfriend Alicia mentioned that she has been in the process of starting a fabulous new website with another local mama. She asked if I would be interested in having their help with the sale...she could hardly get the question out before I screamed hell yeah "Why, yes, that would be lovely!"

And so, this year's Shop to Stop Child Abuse Sale was born. We (well, me) have partnered with Alicia and her smart and social media savvy business partner/friend/local mommy, Erika, to bring you this year's new and improved sale. Words cannot express how good it feels to have these two lovely and brilliant ladies diving into this adventure with me. I won't be surprised if my iPhone starts smoking from the rapid fire emails that we send back and forth once one of us gets an idea. Working on something together, especially when it's for an awesome cause, is exhilarating, exciting, and of course exhausting, but the other two 'ex' words totally negate the tiredness that may occur. The one major change for this year's sale is the date and location...the 2012 Shop to Stop Child Abuse Sale will be held on Saturday, April 28th at the Jewish Community Center (110 Grand Ave Pougkeepsie, NY) from 9 AM- 2 PM.

So, if you have stuck with me through this very long post (I started off by just writing a quick blurb, I swear!), you may be asking yourself, "What can I do to help?" Well, you're so sweet- thank you for asking! Here is a quick list of ways you can get involved, starting today!

1. Donate your gently-used baby/kid/maternity clothing, toys, books, and other baby gear (playpens, strollers, cradles, bathtubs, swings, walkers, exersaucers, baby gates, etc.). The only items we are not accepting are stuffed animals, drop-side cribs, car seats and husbands who forget to put the toilet seat down (3 AM swim anyone?) Drop off locations can be found on our website www.shoptostopchildabuse.com.

2. Join The Little Bloom (their link is at the top right of this page!) www.thelittlebloom.com. Alicia and Erika's aahh-MAZ-ing new venture. They have up to date information on the Sale, as well as other exciting happenings in the Hudson Valley. It's free and it will only make your life more fabulous (as if that's possible!).

3. Print out our flyer and post it EVERYWHERE! Your kid's school, dance class, Starbucks, supermarkets, church bulletin boards, bathroom stalls at Target...all of the mommy hotspots.
Copies of our flyer can be found on our website (see above) under the "how to create awareness" tab. We thank you in advance!

4. Like us! On Facebook, that is. There is a link to our FB page on the website, or you can just search for the Shop to Stop Child Abuse. You will then be in the loop of any breaking news. Be sure to "share" our page with others...just like Kody Brown would say, the more, the merrier!

5. Come hang with us! We need warm bodies, like Angelina Jolie needs a sandwich (right, fellow Golden Globe watchers??) Moms, dads, kids (age 12 and up!), community members, teachers,
sports teams, Chippendale dancers, ANYONE who wants to volunteer is encouraged to contact us through our FB page, or our email address shoptostopchildabuse@gmail.com. Please give us your information and in what capacity you would like to help, and we will be sure to get back to you ASAP!

6. If you are a local business owner, and would be able to help us advertise (donating signs, etc) or would like to adopt this cause for your school or business, give us a shout and we will make it happen! A local school gave us this idea, as they have decided to adopt the Sale as their February Mitzvah project...thank you, JCC pre-school!

I think that's all, folks! We thank you for all of your help and support in making this sale a success, and we look forward to working with each and every one of you. Smooches!

You Are What You Eat...

<------------ Suck it, Sweeney.


Now, if that was true, I would be a giant pizza-flavored Goldfish cracker, sprinkled with cheese and covered in chocolate and peanut butter.

I used to be healthy. Seriously healthy. Like Jillian Michaels could've called me for diet and fitness advice kinda healthy. I ate my weight in fruits and vegetables, shunned sugar and carbs, went to the gym five days a week, and could out-plank anyone in yoga class.

Then, in January 2006, we happily discovered that I was expecting our first little bundle of noisy joy. Debunking those fat lady pregnancy myths, during those nine months I was, by far, the healthiest I have ever been. I ate right, dranks oceans of water, and was a fixture at Planet Fitness. A major component to my Richard Simmons lifestyle, was that my bff, J, was pregnant too, our due dates a week apart. We power walked after school, went to the gym at night, and did prenatal yoga classes on the weekends. At the risk of sounding like a world class beeotch, WE WERE AWESOME. Plus, it was summertime, so we had this amazing glow from the miracle of impending motherhood eight straight hours of lounging on a pool float or on the beach each day.

But, like all good things, my short stint as a tan, pregnant fitness model came to an end. In September 2006, I welcomed my baby girl into the world, and bid a sad farewell to the elliptical machines and free weights. My money continued to go to the gym for a few more years, but my sneakers found a cozy little niche in the back of my closet and developed a serious case of agoraphobia. Lack of motivation, energy, time...they all played a part in my downward spiral into a world of arm fat and a muffin top. The only semblance of a workout I get these days is hauling groceries and chasing my unruly enthusiastic children down the aisles at Target.

Now, although I know I'm not one Reese's Peanut Butter Cup away from being recruited for next season's Biggest Loser, I am not totally happy with myself, and the fact that even my bloomers feel tight. Who's to blame for this conundrum? It's obvious...MY KIDS.

Why don't I go to the gym? Because I have to play Barbie, cook dinner, clean up toys, wipe hineys, do bath time, read "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" 17 times, bribe everyone into bed, do my Cinderella chores and then finally collapse from exhaustion on the couch at 10 pm with a bowl of ice cream and 2 hours of Bravo's finest programming.

Why don't I eat healthy? Because in a effort to be economical and non-wasteful, I find myself eating handfuls of Cheez-Its left in Bella's snack pack from school, sneaking spoonfuls of Mac and Cheese from the pot on the stove (you know you do it too!), and inhaling pizza crust and abandoned globs of cheese from my little skinnys' plates. My house is full of Oreos, Cheerios, Spaghetti-O's and every other sugar/fat/artificially flavored O's you can think of.

Alright...so I know I am being a teeny bit unfair, placing all of the blame on my innocent little angels. I guess I should take some responsibility. I guess Luca isn't force feeding me the Twizzlers that I found under his car seat (don't judge). I'm sure I could pack myself an apple and a bottle of water to bring to the park, instead of stealing sharing the kiddies' Pirate's Booty and Yoo-Hoo.

I'm thinking that the key to success and mommy-body acceptance is baby steps. Cutting out the junk, and starting to move and groove are good places to start. The fabulous thing about life is that everyday is a fresh start. Tomorrow, it's whole grain toast and egg whites for breakfast...but I think I'll start tonight by doing some lunges during commercial breaks on Jersey Shore. Again, don't judge.

Whac-a-Mole

Oh, Whac-a-Mole. That cute little game at carnivals and ChuckECheese (aka the reason wine and earplugs were invented) often pops into my head when I'm trying to wrangle my little Italian jumping beans into their car seats, beds, or straight jackets strollers.

I have always prided myself on being a fabulous multi-tasker. I could read a book, talk on the phone, plan this week's dinner menu and make a mental grocery list, all while running on the treadmill. Backwards, in heels. Of course, that was all in the BC (before children) era. These days I'm lucky if I can pour bowl of cereal, and remember to breathe at the same time.

I'm sure that every mom since the beginning of time, has wished she had three more arms, two more eyes (for the back of her head, of course) and a brain that hasn't been taken over by the theme song to "Yo Gabba Gabba." Feeding the dog, while pouring (and spilling) chocolate milk, sweeping the kitchen floor for the third time in an hour, and trying to say more than 5 words to my husband in a row without hearing "MAAAAAAAAMMMMAAAA" is pretty much impossible. No matter what I do, no matter how many lists I make and how organized I think I am, it all goes out the window most days. Most nights, I am still loading the dishwasher and wiping the crumbs from dinner off the kitchen table at 9:30 pm.

It's not just my Cinderella chores that keep me twitching and pacing 24/7...the wonderful world of technology has added a whole new chapter to my To Do list. Many days, my iPhone might has well be duct-taped to my hand. Many hours are spent texting sarcastic remarks and observations to my mommy partner-in-crime, updating my Facebook with inappropriate Elf pictures and rocking the highest score in Arcade Basketball.

I had thought I was doing a pretty good job juggling everything- kids, work, chores, hubby, texting, swimsuit modeling, until last week. I was steam mopping the living room, and gabbing on the phone, while my little bambinos were sitting on the couch, enjoying everyone's favorite oval headed super cool exploradora. My little man kept saying "Mama, come sit. Mama, come sit" to which I kept replying "In a minute, buddy!" ( If I was a Fisher Price Mommy doll and you pressed my belly button to make me talk, that would definitely be one of my top three phrases, along with "I love you" and "Stop touching your pippy!")

Anyhoo, there I was, multitasking my ever-expanding hiney off, when my wise little three year old, walked over to me, grabbed my mop and my arm and said, "Mama, stop and come sit with me now." My first impulse was to shake him off and repeat my favorite phrase in Dora's native tongue (uno momento, por favor!)and then it hit me. My little man was telling me to slow down, sit down and stop mopping/chatting/planning my days away. So I did. I have to admit, after about 30 seconds of sitting, I heard my phone go off, and I used a whole week's worth of self control not to check it. I remembered that I hadn't made a list of ingredients I needed for Christmas cookies, but I fought the urge not to run to the kitchen for paper and a pen. I realized that my children watching me constantly running around like the Energizer Bunny on crack isn't good parenting. All work and no play makes ANY mama a cranky, cranky gal.Quieting my mind and body, and just vegging out with my babies on the couch, doesn't sound like a tough task, but I know you will all agree that it is way harder than it sounds. Then again, nothing worth having comes easy...and it was worth each and every snugglicious moment.

Here's to a relaxing 2012...well, a girl can dream, right? Cheers!

The Green-Eyed Momster

Jealousy. Envy. Dirty looks. No, I'm not talking about last week's episode of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I'm talking about the classic battle...as epic as Sparta vs. Athens, Yankees vs. Red Sox, Me vs. My Hair...the Working Moms VS. Stay-At-Home-Moms (SAHM's...see?? They even get a cute acronym!!)

From my snarky remark, you can most probably guess which side I am on. For the past five years, I have been a working mom. There have been good days, bad days, and days when I feel like swimming across the Nile River or being Charlie Sheen's agent would be a treat compared to the mental/physical/emotional rut I was in.

Now, I should say, that I kinda play both sides of this game. Yes, I am a working mom (WM? nah, just doesn't have the same ring...), but I'm certainly not the workingest mom on the block. I teach middle school, which means although my day starts early, I am home by 3:00 most days. Some working mamas are just grabbing their afternoon pick-me-up espressos on their way to their fifth meeting of the day at that time.

Being a teacher also means I have snow days, holiday breaks throughout the school year, and of course, that coveted 10 week summer vacation. I know I have the best of both worlds, and to top it off? I heart my job. Like if you covered it with bacon and whipped cream and it was delivered to my front door by Matt Damon, I couldn't love it anymore. I work in a great building, with amazing colleagues, who happen to also be some of my best friends, and I truly enjoy teaching and interacting with my gaggle of sixth-graders every day.

I also have another advantage, in that my mom (who actually used to also work at my school), retired from her position when Bella was born so she could babysit for us while I worked. I know how blessed I am to have this advantage...I've never had to leave a crying baby at daycare, or a teething toddler at a sitter's house. (Honestly, I'm pretty sure that my kids are in better hands with Grammy, than they are with me. My mom, a veteran SAHM herself, raised four productive members of society. Me? I've raised two insane pups who take a daily dosage of anti-anxiety medication, and some really brown house plants.)

At the risk of sounding like a spoiled brat, despite all of these amazing accomodations, being a working mommy still bites. Missing the first day of school, class parties, first steps, and all of those milestones sucks monkey toes. And what's worse than missing those sweet moments? THE GUILT. MOMMY GUILT is the worst variety of guilt available. If it was possible to bottle the insane amount of guilt that me and my fellow working mamas feel on a daily basis, I could market it to the US Government as a weapon of mass destruction. The A-bomb has nothing on us.

What's almost as bad as 'the guilt', is the perpetual feeling of playing catch-up. As my mommy partner-in-crime always puts it, it's like we are constantly treading water, just trying not to drown in the ocean of tasks that all have to be done like, NOW. Or even worse, 5 minutes ago. Multi-tasking doesn't even start to describe the day...grading spelling tests, while breading chicken cutlets, nursing your six month old and helping your Kindergartner with her homework is an EASY afternoon.

OK. Enough woe-is-me. There is a bright side. Like I said, I do love my job, for which I am so grateful. I have the benefit playing dress-up everyday, wearing heels, baubles and cute sweater dresses for an entire 8 hours without the threat of having smashed banana smeared across my boobs, or sitting in a puddle of apple juice. I get to bring home da bacon and live very comfortably in a two-salary household. Eating lunch and having a half hour of uninterrupted adult conversation each day is also a major perk. To most SAHM's, that probably seems as unattainable as scampering up Mount Everest or watching an entire episode of Jersey Shore without seeing Snookie's hoo-haa at least three times.

Back to the aforementioned war...over the past five years I have been a resident of the nervous hospital United Nations of Mommyland, I have encountered "the look" many times. It started when my mommy accomplice and I spent the 12 weeks of our maternity leave at a New Moms support group, and Mommy and Me yoga classes. Here we are, all new to the neighborhood of stretch marks and sleep deprivation, and we were front and center in the Mommy Court, being judged. "Oh, you're going back to work? Ooohhhh." "Who's going to watch your baby?" Well, we were thinking that the dogs were old enough to babysit- Mugsy is 7? That's 49 in dog years! He's more than qualified.

And I won't claim innocence. Us working madres are pretty judgemental when it comes to the SAHM crowd too. We expect them to be Martha Stewart/Gwyneth/Donna Reed hybrids, with sparkling clean houses, organic meals and crafty projects done each day. They have allll day, don't they?? Yes, they have all day, unless your darling two year old decides that he is NOT getting dressed in anything except rubber rain boots and a tiara today. They have all day, until your 18 month old decides to fingerpaint your leather couches with mac and cheese. They have all the time in the world unless your 4 year old stomps a BJ's size bag of Pirate's Booty into your brand new living room area rug. SAHM's need to multi-task as much or even more than the working mamas do...and they have to do it for longer periods of time, each day, with no breaks or relief in sight. Like I said, I get to be a SAHM every summer, and it is both wonderful and exhausting, and usually by 3:00 in the afternoon, I am counting the seconds to when my husband is going to walk through the front door.

There are no winners in this war, no right or wrong. You always want what you can't have, and the most destructive thing we can do is to judge another mom, because 99.9% of us are doing the best we can, with what we have. The most important thing is that our babies grow up to be happy, well-adjusted little people, who won't have to invest too much of their future salaries in psychotherapy.

My New Year's resolution this year is to be a 'half glass full' kinda gal (as long as that glass is mine, and it's half full of Pinot) and appreciate what I have. Green isn't my color anyway...

He sees you when you're sleeping...

No, not your creepy neighbor or stalker ex-boyfriend...I'm talking about the big man in red- Santa Claus. This time of year, I name-drop Santa about as often as Lindsey Lohan calls her attorney. My mini-mes are at a perfect age for the Christmas hype, and all of the lies magic that goes along with it.

Now, Santa is very busy getting ready for the 25th, churning out Barbie dolls and iPods, negotiating contracts with the Elf Union, and promising Mrs. Claus a new Louis Vuitton if she would just bake him one more dozen of her Red Bull-laced gingerbread men cookies. To help him out sort out his naughties and nicies, Santa has sent a slightly spooky and very cute little elf down to live with many of us. "Elf on a Shelf" is an awesome idea, thought of by a mother/daughter team who created a little helper who goes to live with families during the Christmas season to make sure that everyone is on their tip-top behavior. The kit comes with a book that tells the story of how your elf is a magical little guy who must never be touched by children, and who travels to the North Pole each evening to report back to Santa whether or not you were nice to your parents, ate all your veggies, bit your sister, etc.

This is our 3rd Christmas with our elf. Bella named him "Finn" which I think is a pretty elf-tastic name. Finn just made his grand reappearance this week at our house, and so far he is working wonders, God bless his strange little soul. The highlight of our morning is Finn-finding...that sneaky little elf has been found sneak-attacking Spiderman, hoarding chocolate chip cookies, and joy riding under the Christmas tree with two blonde bimbos Barbies in a pink Corvette.

I know Finn is a temporary fix to my little monsters' affinity for non-sharing and mess making, but in this oh-so-stressful holly jolly season, unless Supernanny is coming to the 12590 sometime soon, I'll gladly take all the help I can get.