I just read an awesome article that basically says letting babies play by themselves is really good for them. That’s all I needed to hear. In my constant struggle for self-identity in this chaotic working mother world I live in, I’ve finally been given the permission I’ve been waiting for, permission to ignore my children when I get home from work! Hallelujah! Finally a way to infuse more time into my day. Now I can happily leave my two- and four-year-olds in a room, alone, together, to you know, be boys, beat the crap out of each other, grab toys from one another, cry, scream, fuss, and need things from me that they can’t get for themselves, like snacks and/or water. And while this “playing” is going on, I can do really important things like becoming cooler and more tech savvy by Twittering, Facebooking, text messaging, and um, microwaving their dinner.

I feel so liberated!

It’s no wonder I’ve been having such a hard time balancing all this. I thought that hanging out with my kids was part of the deal, sort of an unspoken understanding. I thought I’d be sent to Mommy Prison if someone caught me on the computer or the phone instead of building Lego towers. I thought that I’d get stoned if it somehow got out that occasionally, I like to close the bathroom door when I have to pee and I’m home alone with my kids. What dear God have I been subjecting myself to? How could I not have gotten the memo that ignoring our children will build an independent, self-directed future generation? I’m in support of that. I like independence and self-direction. I often wish I had more of it. Maybe this is my chance.

So, you are hearing it here first. I’m turning over a new leaf. When I get home from work this afternoon, after having picked up my little ones from daycare, I’m going to look them both in eye and say, “well, guys, I’m off to get a pedicure. I’ll catch you all on the flip side. Milk’s in the fridge. Goldfish crackers are in the pantry. Please don’t watch TV. Unless you get really bored. And if that happens, please don’t tell Daddy. He hates when you watch TV. Peace out! I mean, love you!”

For more from Kami, check out her blog at: www.workingmomfence.com or follow her on Twitter: @workingmomfence

I’m not a big shopper. I only like very particular shopping experiences. Namely those found at drugstores. And Target. And places like Loehman’s and Filene’s Basement. And Marshalls. And DSW. Oh, and BJs. You know, places where you can get a deal on stuff you don’t need. Or stuff you need alot of. Or stuff that you give as presents. Or on stupid stuff that you never have enough of, like wrapping paper or writing utensils other than that one burnt sienna crayon in my kitchen junk drawer.

Lately though, I’ve revisited this habit – it’s almost compulsive, come to think of it – where, when I have some spare time by myself, and don’t have any absolutely necessary oh-my-God-the-world-will-come-to-a-end-if-I-don’t-pick-up-X errands to run, I’ll miraculously find myself at a store, such as one of those mentioned above, and shop. For this or that. Cool t’s for my boys, jeans for my husband, colorful spatulas, what have you. I’ll go in, grab a cart, and dive in. Whole-heartedly. And without much thought to cost.

Man, I uncover treasures.

Back when I was pregnant with kid 2, I did this more frequently. Once a week, kid 1 had a later daycare pick-up time, so between working and mommimg, I’d slip in some shopping time. Because sometimes I like the feeling of spending money on stuff. Okay. You got me. I am a consumer culture capitalist. Market it to me, people.

But, the bizarre twist on this whole thing is that, after my cart is full and my treasures are many, I’ll get to the check out line, dump the loot, and head back to my car empty-handed. Yup. I’m the woman who creates more work for the store employees. I’m the woman who deliberates and deliberates forever over which thing to get in which size and then ultimately gets nothing. I’m the woman who fosters a false sense of security in the stuff industry. I shop up and than I ship out. With no more than I sauntered in with. It’s a most incongruous habit for a person who is crazy about being as time efficient as possible.

It’s really sick.

So, here it is. Recently, I hit my rock bottom. In the middle of my workday, driving across town from one meeting to another, I saw something. A Dollar Store. Don’t judge me! I pulled over and parked at a meter. I told myself I was just gonna run in for a second. I grabbed a basket. I filled it with gift wrap, bouncy balls, Halloween candy, razors, and crackers. I browsed quickly, and with great focus, making my way through all the aisles like I was Speed Racer. Then I suddenly found myself at the register. No one was there to scan my crap. I looked around the store. I looked at my basket of crap. I gingerly placed it on the floor and took off.

It was the middle of my workday. I’d wasted 15 minutes shopping for nothing in the stupid Dollar Store.

And I was greeted by an angry, red $25 parking ticket on my windshield. ‘Cause in all the excitement, I’d forgotten to feed the meter. Please don’t tell my husband. Or my boss. And remind me that shoving the parking ticket into my purse won’t make it go away. You’d think in front of The Dollar Store parking tickets would be discounted.

Wouldn’t you?

I love summer. I love outdoor activities, I love ice cream on a hot day, and I love very tired children. I also love me a week-long summer vacation. Preferably at the beach. The Beach Vacay is an 8 year old tradition is our household, though 8 years ago I must say it looked very different. But, no infant was gonna rain on our sunshiny parade. And neither was any infant/toddler pair.

I forced those babies to brave the sand, the wind, and the waves practically from birth. I know. My parenting is totally questionable. But my kids are tough guys.

I made ‘em that way.

This year, our 8th year of Beach Vacay, we decided to mix it up a bit. We usually go to Cape Cod, just a quick afternoon’s road trip from where we live in Boston. This year, however, we decided to book it down to the Outer Banks. In North Carolina.

A mere 17 hour drive away.

Stop looking at me like that.

I figured, what the hell, right? We’ll just hop in the car because flying a family of four, well…we spent that $1000 on dealing with our busted hot water heater last week.

So, we drove. In the car. From Boston to North Carolina. With two children under 5.

Oh, Yes. We did.

And it was all peachy keen, until we hit the bridge to the Outer Banks. We were just 25 miles from the house we’d rented with another family. And traffic was moving at 2 miles an hour. If that. It took us 4 hours to go 25 miles. True story.

If I have to sing John Jacob Jingle Himer Schmidt one more time in my life, I will fall over and die.

Luckily, my husband lost it early on and then napped out his anger for the remainder of the bumper to bumper ride. This left me driving, fielding the awesome and timely thunderstorm that was following us, silently cursing, AND entertaining the kids. (Please note that by “entertaining” I mean “interceding” because my two precious angels were wielding tin flutes around like light sabers and weren’t afraid to use them.)

Finally, we arrived at the house. In time to put the children directly to bed. And I got to choose between going to cry it out in the shower, and relaxing with a glass of wine from a box. (Don’t judge, people. I take what I can get.)

I chose the wine. And I’m not embarrassed.

Today, the kids slept in. And by “slept in” I mean they woke up at 6:30, but stayed in their room until 6:47. Hey, I’ll take it. 6:47 is luxurious around here. I’m a much nicer mom at 6:47 than I am at 5:47. So, really, it’s in their best interest to sleep later. It has nothing at all to do with me.

It was a perfect morning. We had to leave at 9 to be at the appointed spot by 10. In the car, we munched on mini-chocolate donuts (What? Those are totally healthy!) and we had a car seat dance party. Granted, we were dancing to the same damned song over and over and over…but, before we knew it, we were there. At Beaver Brook Reservation. (Beaver! Hahahahahahah!) Ready to splash it up in the splash park. The second splash park we’ve been to in three days.

Hundred degree heat sans AC rocks. If you were wondering.

My kids took off as soon as they saw the small geysers shooting out of the well-placed boulders. Then, they ran over to the adjoining playground. Then, back to the geysers. Then back to the playground. And so on and so forth.

They were so happy.

I was so happy.

I even got photos to prove it.

When it was time to go, I gave the ten minute warning. Then the five minute warning. We returned to the car with no meltdowns. (A win for Mommy.) We re-ignited our travel dance party for the ride home, this time to a new song. (Another win for Mommy.) We raised the roof. We yelled every time we drove under a bridge. We waved to all the bodies of water we passed by.

We DID NOT fall asleep in the car.

We arrived home in time to enjoy a picnic lunch outside on our deck under the trees. Then, my four year initiated a book scavenger hunt wherein we all grab a different stuffed animal and then quickly search the house for a book featuring said animal to read before naps. He grabbed a frog, so we read Froggy Gets Dressed. My two year old grabbed a dog, so we read Harry the Dirty Dog. See how it works?

And now, they nap.

Supposedly.

It’s been a good day. So far. And good days? Well, they’re what make this crazy cacophony of motherhood worthwhile. I try to hold onto ‘em. Tight.

Recently I considered applying for a part-time gig at my local Starbucks. That would be in addition to my real job and my, you know, being a mom to two young children. Oh, and my blogging. And my going to the gym. And my having any semblance of a relationship with my husband. See, this is what I was thinking: a free pound of coffee a week, free coffee drinks (big, big yay!), and the opportunity to wear a baseball cap to hide the fact that I haven’t had a chance to wash my hair in several days.

Unfortunately, it’s all just a pipe dream because, I seem to have cultivated a learning disability which prevents me from being able to brew drinkable coffee. If you want soapy coffee, I’m your gal. Weak coffee? Have a seat. Hot water that somehow didn’t filter properly through the grounds? Coming right up. Drinkable coffee? Sorry. Mental block. Keep it moving.

So, I can’t make coffee. Big whoop. Take a look around to see all the other things I do with grace and poise. Like for instance…Wait! Don’t look there! I haven’t swept up the half-eaten mini waffles, cheerios, or banana bits on the floor surrounding the high chair. Stop! Don’t look there, either! My two year old got a hold of the roll of paper towels and had a little party with them in the corner. Oh no! Please! Avert your gaze from over there too! That’s where my four year old emptied out the contents of the diaper bag in search of what? Oh, that’s right. He was looking for his “beaver chair.” (Don’t ask me…)

Ok. I know what you’re thinking: “This girl can’t make coffee and her house is a wreck. What kind of a home-maker is she?” Well, I’m a lousy one. I admit it. My inability to make coffee is a metaphor for my home-making in general. It simply sucks. But I have mad mom skills and I’m really good at my job. Also, I’m pretty.

Forgive me World, but sometimes I have to go to the doctor. This probably happens twice a year at most, but yes, it does happen. And yes, I did get the memo titled Mommies Getting Sick is Verboten, but like I said, it happens.

It happened yesterday, as a matter of fact. Though my throat’s been hurting for about two weeks, I’ve gone about my life, ignoring it just like any good mommy would, in accordance with the afore-mentioned memo. But then, the unthinkable happened. I woke up yesterday without a voice. Let me tell you, it is very difficult to spend an entire day alone with a two year old and a four year old and no ability to speak.

Those kids outright laughed at me when I attempted to enforce a time out. Apparently, my crazy, emphatic, gesturing to the stairs was funny to them. How lovely that my sore throat becomes amusement for the whole family.

Since the mute parenting wasn’t as effective as I’d hoped, since I had no idea how long my voice would be on vacation, and since I was in pain, I called my doctor’s office. Somehow, the kind receptionist could understand my garbled sultry whisperings and fit me in for a late afternoon appointment.

Fieldtrip!

But not the fun kind that revolves around the kids. Not the kind the results in stickers and ice cream for everyone. The kind that forces me, the two munchkins and a doctor together in a 4×4 exam room that may well double as an echo chamber. Because over the chaos that my dear children were creating, I couldn’t hear a word that doctor said beyond, “Claritin.”

Awesome.

I was kinda banking on an antibiotic and relief within 24 hours, which is why I bothered to arrange this little rendez-vous. But Claritin? Seriously? Tell me that over the phone, dude! Don’t make me haul my butt and two other little butts in for Claritin!

Well, people, I got home and took the Claritin. Just like the doctor ordered. And guess what? I woke up this morning able to enforce time outs like nobody’s business. Don’t mess with me kids, I’m no longer channeling Marcel Marceau. My mime days are over.

Now, sit down and lemme read you a book!