Lately there are moments when I can tell I have become a parent of two children vs. one.

Like when I call them by the wrong name.

Seriously, how hard is it to get this right? Apparently very. Perhaps I’ll just start saying, “Hey, you.”

Or when I start the car and realize I forgot to buckle #1 in her car seat.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. When I only had one, this type of safety lapse would’ve left me guilt-ridden for days, debating if I should call CPS on myself.

These days I feel like I’m succeeding if I get them both in the vehicle. Forgetting to go back around to buckle the 4-year-old? Eh. I mean, it’s not like I forgot to shut the door or anything. (Also, she always reminds me of my failure before I even start the car.)

And the list goes on to include so many other stereotypical shifts. How can it not? It would be physically and mentally impossible to repeat your debut performance when you are doing an encore.

But despite my fatigue and forgetfulness, at times I think I’m also doing it better, thanks to lessons learned the first time around. I appreciate the opportunity to make improvements now and then.

And then there are challenges you simply never had to face when you only had one.

Like yesterday when I was struggling to make dinner because the 10-month-old kept crawling into power cords, and the 4-year-old kept trying to pick her up by her neck to “help.”

Five minutes. I just need FIVE MINUTES to finish prepping dinner, people.

So I did what any seasoned parent would do – grabbed the toddler car seat that was headed to storage, plopped it in the middle of the living room, strapped the baby in, and told the oldest to pretend they were going on a road trip.

Talk about killing two birds with one stone. Both kids were rendered harmless for a full 10 minutes.

For whatever reason, this scene just cracked me up, and made me appreciate the insanity that now seems to surround us every day.

And yes, the baby is still wearing her pajamas at 5 pm. Wardrobe changes for any of us, let alone all of us, are a feat we don’t always accomplish. On the upside, it shaves at least 4 minutes off the bedtime routine.

On Saturday my 10-month-old woke up with a rash all over her torso and neck. I did a quick interweb search for rashes and found myself confused, disgusted and questioning every possible cause – food allergy, virus, diaper rash, full moon.

There was only one logical thing to do – call the family doctor. Also known as my brother.

Despite living 1500 miles away, my brother has seen more of my rashes and skin ailments, and fielded more of my random medical questions, than any other physician in my lifetime. Having a doctor in the family is a dream come true for a hypochondriac like myself.

Throw my mother and sister in the mix, and this guy deserves some sort of humanitarian award for the hundreds of illnesses – or lack thereof – he has diagnosed by phone for us.

Case in point: This weekend my mother was visiting. Yesterday she hobbled into the kitchen and explained that she had a sliver in the bottom of her foot. She was clearly concerned and in pain, and probably envisioning an infection or amputation in the near future.

She did not want to attempt removal for fear it would hamper her ability to maneuver in the airport that afternoon. I convinced her to let me look, secretly hoping for an opportunity to use my tweezers. As I peered closely at the protruding poker, I realized it was not a sliver, but an eyelash. That’s right – an eyelash. I gave it a slight pull – really more of a wipe – and voila, my mother was healed.

If I had not been there to solve this medical crisis, it’s not too much of a stretch to assume there would have been a call to my brother from the airport.

As if having a family of alarmists isn’t enough, my brother is blessed with two sisters who between us have the most sensitive skin on the planet. You cannot imagine the number of photos I have emailed or texted him of inflamed rashes and pussing blisters. I wish I could say they were contracted from something exciting, like touching a wild plant while on safari, or a male stripper while in Vegas, but no – most of them were caused by boring things like band-aids or surgical tape.

Occasionally I feel guilty that I never call my brother to chat about regular things like the weather or a great new movie.

But then I tell myself that maybe I’m doing him a favor. I am giving him the opportunity to test his medical know-how and experiment with treatment options! Surely having rashy relatives is almost as good as having a cadaver in his basement. Almost.

My brother is coming to visit later this week. I’m excited to spend quality time with him outside the context of my ailments. It will be good for him to see that I am not always slathered in hydrocortisone cream. I am more than just an allergic reaction waiting to happen.

But if I’m being honest, I am also making a list of medical questions about myself and my family just in case there’s a lull in the conversation. Because seriously – what the hell is that rash on my husband’s eye? And why do my feet always tingle? Does this bump on my daughter’s arm look normal?

Our next door neighbors are selling their house. It’s been on the market for four months and they haven’t had a single offer.

It’s driving me crazy because a) I am ready for them to move out. Their children scream ALL THE TIME. And b) I desperately want a nice family to move in. Preferably one with kids the same age as mine, a shared passion for lawn games and BBQs, and a belief that neighbors make the best babysitters.

I’ve only sold one home, but it sold in 4 days in the middle of a housing slump, so I like to pretend this makes me an authority on the topic of homeselling.

Here’s what I’ve seen plague my neighbor’s home listing, and others.

1. Hide your crap. Come on, people – doesn’t everyone know this one? Apparently not. I went to my neighbor’s open house and was so disappointed to see they had barely bothered to declutter. The desk in their office was awash in papers and files. Their bookshelves were crammed with photos, ugly trinkets and grade A junk.

As a prospective buyer, I don’t want to see your cherished memorabilia, your family photos, or really any evidence of your existence. I want a blank slate so I can imagine my own memories in “my” new house.

Case in point – this is the kitchen of my last house, as it appeared in person and on flyers when the previous owners put it on the market.

Nothing says ‘this home is safe and sound’ like a fire extinguisher on the counter. Can you at least put it under the sink? Or put away the dishes on the rack? Eesh. I think there were still crumbs from their breakfast in the sink. I remember being thoroughly disgusted by it.

Of course we still bought it – but we were young and poor and couldn’t afford the clean, well-marketed homes.

Here’s the same kitchen when we sold it 5 years later.

A bowl of 10 lemons and limes on the counter. How ridiculous! Who has that many on hand? No one. But by golly it looked fresh as a Martha Stewart cookbook and some fool bought the illusion hook, line and sinker.

2. Hide your stink. Last year we were perusing open houses and went to one that supposedly had an amazing water view. The moment we walked in the door my nostrils were assaulted by a smell that can only be defined as fecal. Seriously – it smelled like someone shat on the walls.

The view was probably breathtaking, but I honestly cannot remember because my breath was taken away by the overpowering stench. Instead of looking at the home’s features and imagining the possibilities, my husband and I were looking in every closet and room waiting to find an animal, or maybe a homeless person, taking a dump.

Again – I thought this one would be obvious to everyone, but apparently not. Don’t poop on the carpet when trying to sell. Or if you do poop, at least bake some cookies to mask the stink.

3. Hide your homicide. The other day when we came home there was a car in front of the neighbor’s house with a cute couple checking out the flyer. I could see a kid in the back seat so I couldn’t help but get excited.

“Hi! Howdy! Look – I have kids too! Do you like lawn darts? Let’s be friends!”

Before I had time to bring them some lemonade or offer a foot rub, they drove away. Then I noticed this random shoe lying in front of the house.

Unsolved mystery, Episode 413

Granted, I tend to have an overactive imagination, but a single shoe on the street can only mean one thing – DEAD BODY.

No doubt there was a windowless van speeding away somewhere, carrying a plastic bag filled with body parts . . . minus this shoe.

Is this the impression you want to give?! Pick up the orphaned shoe in the driveway! Put away your duct tape and plastic sheeting. Hide the rat poison in the garage.

Don’t give paranoid freaks like me any reason to recall scenes from Stir of Echoes, or they will hightail it out of there for fear of digging up a corpse in the basement in 6 months.

To recap, the keys to homeselling success are 1) Declutter, 2) Don’t poop, 3) Don’t kill people.

Follow these tips and I’m sure you’ll sell your house instantly.

Disclaimer: I am not a real estate expert and cannot be held responsible if these tips don’t work. That’s your own fault for following the advice of a wacko on the Internet. Shame on you.

Last night I stumbled on an old journal from 2003-2004 which chronicles my adventures, or lack thereof, the year before I met my husband.

I’m not sure anything could make me more grateful for my current life than reading the thoughts of 28-year-old me. Whoo boy was I confused and forlorn about life. Also apparently very constipated. Not surprising given the first two.

I was conflicted about my job, hopeless about being ‘eternally single,’ and depressed that my closest friends were moving away. What will become of me? was clearly keeping me up at nights.

When the perceived tragedy of my life was bringing me down, apparently I often found a shoulder to cry on from my dear friend – reality TV. A few of my favorite excerpts:

January 2, 2003 – I cried while watching Tough Enough on MTV tonight. Sometimes I scare myself.

September 1, 2003 – I cried tonight during the show Cupid. Hank and Lisa make such a great couple. But what I think I may really be crying about is the fact that I can’t find my own Hank.

May 26, 2004 – Fantasia won American Idol tonight. What a magical moment for those of us without lives of our own. I laughed, I cried, I did some leg lifts.

Yikes..

It’s always fascinating, and often cringe-inducing, to read old journals. But I learned a few things.

A) I should have invented Twitter. Each of those pointlessly riveting entries above is less than 140 characters. Damn I was ahead of my time.

B) I have been saying I want to be a writer for more than a decade. It’s nauseating to read something you said you wanted to do in 2004 and know that you still feel the same, but haven’t really made any strides to attempt it in 2012.

I’ve taken writing classes over the years – although I’m not sure I ever finished one. I’ve read several books about the craft of writing – although I’m not sure I ever finished one.

My job was always to blame for my inability to focus on writing. Now that I don’t have that excuse, what is it? My kids? My sleep deprivation? yes. yes.

Writing is such a vast and squishy category. What do I even mean when I say I want to write? A book? Magazine articles? Obituaries? Wikipedia entries?

Do I want it to be a job (laughable – who makes money as a writer?!) or a hobby? And do I really enjoy it, or do I just say that I do because I don’t know what else I want to do?

I honestly have no idea.

But I realize, hey – maybe I can use this blog as a place to figure it out. I find it hard to blog with much regularity or frequency, and have considered quitting this because I let doubts and uncertainties nag at me to the point of paralysis.

But it was good to find my journal and be reminded that I do, and always have, liked to write. So I need to focus more on the enjoyment I get from it, and less on my hang-ups about why I’m doing it, or how everyone else does it better.

And when I’m in need of some writing inspiration, I clearly need to watch more reality TV.

Someonepleasehelpme. I have been working on reducing my hoarding mess for over a week now and I swear the pile is barely shrinking. My hands are dry, cracked and chafed from sorting through so many old papers. I hate to chafe!

There may or may not be a dead body in there somewhere

I’ve been so desperate to make progress in my spare time that I haven’t even had any time to blog or tweet in five days. FIVE DAYS. Will my blog implode?! Do I even still exist in the social media sphere?!

My decluttering has had moments of amusement, but it’s mostly been an unsettling experience. I thought I had old bills and papers that dated back maybe a couple years. Ok fine, probably four years.

But I uncovered a shift schedule from a waitressing job I had in 1996.

I found a stack of resumes and cover letters from my college internship (I included a cafeteria job as my work experience . . . sweet jeebus it’s a miracle I ever got hired).

I had paystubs from a temp job I had in 1997.

I had titles and maintenance paperwork not only from my previous car, but also from the car before that.

MY NAME IS AMY AND I AM A HOARDER.

WHAT was I thinking holding on to these things? Am I keeping old credit card statements and check registers to fill some sort of emotional void? ugh

Most of this stuff I can’t just throw away because it dates back to the days when social security numbers were on everything. Medical forms, rental agreements, grocery store receipts. It’s no wonder identity theft became a thing!

So I am taking my stash to a free community shredding event next month. Can you imagine what kind of crowd that event will draw?! Me and my fellow hoarders, emerging from our dark spaces, dragging our garbage bags, secretly longing for a hug.

But enough of this. I can’t waste any more time blogging today. I need to go back to sorting and chafing.* When I am done with this, I am going to create a line of skincare products specifically for reformed hoarders. No one should suffer like this.

*Apparently my hands are just cracked and dry, not chafed. I know this because I google’d ‘chafe’ and discovered a disturbing array of photos and descriptions, largely focused on the groin region. Blech. So to clarify, neither my hands, nor my nethers, are chafed.**

**Yes, I could have just updated my post to remove the chafing references, but that would have taken too much time! I’ve got de-hoarding to do!

I’m finally making a dent in my hoarding mess. Last weekend I found my college yearbook. Ahh the memories. Actually the yearbook brings back no memories whatsoever, because I’m not really in it.

I flipped through the pages and saw photos of athletic teams, drama groups and more choirs than you can imagine. I didn’t participate in any of these, so of course I’m not in those photos.

Then I saw photos of things I never even knew existed – a danceline, some fraternities (it was a small school with no Greek system, or so I thought), and a society for creative anachronism. What? I did not recognize a single person in any of these photos. Did I accidentally grab my husband’s yearbook?

I flipped to the back and saw that I was listed as having a senior photo included – phew! Maybe that will jog some memories.

As a senior you could submit your own photo vs. getting a headshot by the college photographer. Perhaps it was a way to test us and gauge which students would submit a nice, professional portrait – and therefore go on to successful careers in law or finance – vs. those who would use it for comedic purposes, signaling a lifetime of poverty and failure.

Below is my senior photo. I’m the one in the middle.

The guy on the right is no doubt now in prison somewhere

To be clear, that’s my hand you see in the middle photo. And my floral dress. The person whose face appears in my senior photo was a fellow student I met in Thailand. She’s a lovely gal. But I was standing to her right.

If there’s a lesson here, it’s that you should always crop your photos yourself.

If there’s a second lesson, it’s that perhaps if you are more active and involved in your student body, people will recognize your face with your name, and they won’t cut you out of your own photo.

If there’s a third lesson, it’s that I was very popular in college. Obviously.