So, what really becomes of the broken hearted?

My toddler has a broken heart. I broke it. So, what becomes of the broken hearted? Or rather, how did he become broken hearted?

It all started with a fit. These days it all starts with a fit. Last night, we swam. He filled a bucket with water, again and again. I gave him his standard warnings: 10 minutes! 5 minutes!

At the 5 minute mark, we started playing the underwater game. He counts us down: "One, two, free, four!" And, under we go--only to float to the top and do it all again. It's great fun.

But, as Dr. Seuss says, "Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one." And so, we rely on tomorrow for another round of the underwater game. Except when we don't. And he decides to stand on the pool steps and scream. And bite. And stomp.

I issue his choice: "You may either stop screaming now, or you will lose your tractor tomorrow." (It's John Deere. With a trailer. It's kind of awesome). He screams. And so, after pedaling the 'Deere home, he lost his 'Deere privileges.

I put it in my car--where it currently resides in the downtown parking garage. R.J. cried for an hour. Mommy broke his heart. He'll get the 'Deere back tomorrow, and he understands this. Mommy broke her own heart and had to call her mommy for assurance that this too, will pass.

So, what becomes of the broken hearted? At last inquiry, the smaller broken hearted (1) promised to be sweet; (2) said he was sorry; and (3) told me he wasn't going to throw fits. Apparently, the broken hearted heal. They grow up--just enough--not too fast (he was headed to the zoo to look for the llama, llama, red pajama today). The broken hearted still kissed me goodbye and waved to me this morning when I (and the 'Deere) departed for work this morning. The broken hearted still loves his mommy. And so, mommy's broken heart healed too.

Oh, my aching...fashion sense?

I knew moms made sacrifices. We sacrifice sleep, and time, and the biggest piece of chocolate cake. I have been known to sacrifice the last French fry and the last bite of snow cone--just to see my toddler's gappy grin.

Other sacrifices surprised me. I used to carry darling little handbags. Just perfectly the right size for a phone, lipstick, and sunglasses. Darling little handbags do not have room for a spare pair of training pants, a Hot Wheels, crayons, a Happy Meal toy, and a toddler's digital watch. All of these things reside in my current mom-bag. It's roomy. And, it weighs at least 15 pounds. Oh, my aching back. (I hope the security guard who x-rayed my purse this morning appreciated the nifty WWII jeep that rolled around inside).

I used to wear high heels. Really high. Sky high. I was almost 5 foot six in them. They were (and are) glorious. My favorite pair resides in my desk drawer. I have determined that the throbbing toes are simply not worth it when I come home to a short guy who wants me to shoot hoops.

The shoes. Oh, the shoes. Three days ago, I had to walk to the bankruptcy court--a good five block walk. Somewhere in my mommy-ness, I have lost my willingness to sacrifice for fashion. I found myself in tennis shoes. With a skirt. And no socks. I blame pregnancy. I would never wear tennis shoes and a skirt. Except I did. People saw me. People who I will see again. They will remember this. Nikes do not an impressive litigator make. (I changed before entering the courtroom, but they will remember).

Even my toddler notices my changing style. I found myself in an OSU footbal shirt the other day. It's big. With numbers on it. I should know whose number it is, but I don't. My toddler (who I may have nursed just a little too long) exclaims, "Ha! Look at yo' num-nums! They team num-nums!"

I am a team player. I have made the mommy team sacrifices. The mom-bag tugs at my shoulder, and the comfort-style shoes give me away.

My reward: a short guy who wants me to shoot hoops every night. And I wouldn't sacrifice that for anything.

I am not a hoarder.

My name is Regan, and I am not a hoarder. My counters reveal glimpses of polished tile, and if you give me ten minutes, I can clear the kitchen table off to feed four.  I come from a long line of non-hoarding Cartwrights. Sure, we save things, but they're important things. My grandma's house is a house of love and giving. It never stops giving. She died in 1998.  Last year, inexplicably, I discovered her 1986 fishing license in my kitchen drawer. I am not a hoarder.

Grandma's house tendered a box of colored knee high stockings (invaluable for making doll clothes. I think.); fifty years worth of newspaper clippings--everything from the grand opening of a drugstore to pictures of my now husband's soccer team (we didn't start dating until after Grandma died--she may have been psychic); doll parts; paints; thread; sewing notions; and canned goods (fish heads from 1989 and pickles from 1992). I am not a hoarder.

This weekend, I faced facts: I may  have hoarding tendencies. Everyone saves "stuff"--the things that don't go anywhere but that we don't want to see go. Old t-shirts from senior year; trophies; notes from best friends--important stuff.

But my stuff revealed tendencies and could be categorized. Hoarding tendencies. Those that lean heavily in the direction of paper goods. Boxes, to be exact. Under the bed, a lovely Laura Ashley box--just ripe for regifiting. The closet--every single wedding gift box we received. They're sturdy, and perfect for a move. (I kept those).

The ultimate--that little Tiffany blue box. And, of course, shoe boxes, shirt boxes, a round canister style box! I revisited the discard pile and rescued the canister box.  What was I thinking?!

I am not a hoarder. But I save boxes. And gift bags. At least 150 of them. And did you know that you can iron and reuse tissue paper? It's true. I've done it. And kept it.

I am not a techie. But I save technology. Tape decks. VCRs. Gaming systems. Cell phone chargers. At least 37 coaxial cables of varying lengths. Because I might need one someday.

I cleaned. I purged. We took three carloads--and I mean carloads--of "stuff" to the thrift store. I itemized. On six legal sheets. I also hoard office supplies apparently. I returned a bag of binder clips and pens to my office today.

I ripped of the bandaid that covered that little piece of my soul that required me to hang on to my bar exam study file and my law school outlines--some of which are a hazard given that the law has changed at least 3 times since I took Civil Procedure classes. I kept the letter telling me I had passed the bar exam. Just in case.

And with the purging came the inevitable--a feeling that I had spent three days on a celebrity style juice cleanse. Slightly empty. Exhausted. Needing a chocolate bar with ice cream, whipped cream, and nuts on top.

But this morning, I visited my closets. They shine. They are organized. They hold the things most dear to me: Christmas decorations for a magical season with my baby(ies); three sacred t-shirts (Disney World--age 13; Six Flags--age 6; and a t-shirt sent by my grandma in Missouri--with my name on it--age 4); and yes, a few boxes--Tiffany blue (a ring I bought in New York with my own money--historic), and a round box (perfect for making a toddler drum on a rainy day).

I am not a hoarder. When I heard the garbage truck this morning, I buried my head under my pillow--despite all urges to run to the curb in my nightgown shouting, "Wait! Don't take the Laura Ashley! It will be just perfect to wrap a tie at Christmas!" I may have hoarding tendencies. My name is Regan, and I am telling you, I am not a hoarder. (But, I am a Cartwright.)

A Perfectly Good Fit

Toddlers throw fits. I get that. They scream and kick and bite and punch. At least, my toddler does. He's perfect, so of course he throws a perfectly textbook temper tantrum. He starts off with a stomp. Or maybe a test kick aimed at mommy's shins. He then finds himself in timeout. He head bangs the wall, lets out a few timed shrieks. And, in precisely 3 minutes (by the oven timer), his fit ends.

Until last night. He cried; screamed; punched; kicked; bit; and banged. For forty minutes. I soothed. I timeout-ed. I reasoned. I threatened to take away his John Deere trailer. I sent him to his room with instructions not to appear until he could talk to me like a human. Forty minutes later, he talked. Watery eyes. Snotty nose.

"I no wanna go to gymnastics," he tells me. "I'm scared." Last night was his first big-boy class; that is, mommy had to sit on the other side of the glass wall. So we visited. We talked about Coach Becky and his classmates. I convinced him he could just watch.

We missed the dancing, but we made it in time for roll call. And, seeing his friends and his  Coach Becky, he turned, waved, and called "Bye Mommy!"

This was public R.J. Campaigning. Brave. Fearless. He climbed the rock wall. Bounced on the trampolines. Rode the big swing. And when it was done, he cheered, "One, two, three, we love gymnastics!" He had fun (even though he said he didn't.) He was proud (even though he said he wasn't).

I understand. I've had hearings that made me cry. I woke up in a cold sweat the night before. I've said, "I think I'm going to quit. I don't want to go to court."

And then I go. And I argue. And sometimes the Judge disagrees. Heartily. And I remember my dad's advice, "Judge can't eat ya'. Why are you worried?" Public mommy lawyer. Strong. Fearless. With shaky hands that a podium hides.

And when it's done, I've had fun--in that sick twisted way that lawyers have fun. And I'm proud--even though I'll tell you I'm not. So, I try to remember that my toddler may throw a perfect fit, but he's had a perfectly good (er...bad) example.

M & M Olympics

Nearly every Tuesday night for the past two years, I have found myself in a padded room. Well, a padded toddler gym anyway. Last night was supposed to be R.J.'s award--the M & M Olympics. Turns out it was really my reward.  After a brief setback (a fit, a punch to the head--R.J.'s fist to my head to be exact-- and a well deserved timeout), I convinced R.J. that he wanted to be like James (Harden) and that he did in fact want to wear a "team shirt." He marched in with his team. He made faces at his mommy.

When he realized that mommy was right there, he broke rank and ran straight into my arms.  I guess I should have been embarrassed, but really, doesn't every mommy relish in those last fleeting days of baby-hood? If he were 16 and breaking rank on the football field, I'd feel differently. I think. But he's three. 

And so, the games began!

He cheered.

He tumbled. Forward rolls are a specialty.

He delighted in his success: "I did it!!!!"

He gave the M & M Olympics two thumbs up. 

And, when it was done, he rested. 

The only thing R.J. loves more than gymnastics is his Coach Becky. She's kind of a rock star. 

And, with smiles, R.J. took home his first trophy. He wanted to put it right on the counter so that his 'Sisa would see it first thing in the morning. Yes, he got M & M's too. Two bags. He shared.

And mommy and daddy were most proud of all. ( I remind myself that I won't always look like the throw pillows on my couch. Pregnancy is temporary. And I'm grateful for that too.)