Monday, December 16, 2013

Pregnant Walk of Shame

9pm: "Honey I think you need to pack your bag. I am having a lot of contractions."

11pm: "Still having them, I am calling the midwife."

1am: "Let's go. They are still happening."

This is how it went on Wednesday night. I was having contractions 2-3 minutes apart. They hurt but were bearable, and did I mention they were 2-3 minutes apart? So we went to the hospital, so sure this was it. Baby time. I was in labor. 

They hooked me up to the machines and yup, I was having contractions (thank god, because I was so worried that they would stop as soon as the midwife started watching.) I stuck my tongue out at Hubs and said some variation of "I told you so" and then she checked to see how dilated I was. I mean, I was a 3 on Monday and this was Wednesday, so I was expecting I was AT LEAST a 4. (For those not in the know, you have to be 10 for the baby to come out). And I was still a 3. Translation, I was not in labor. Translation, the baby was not on his way. 

Midwife gave me the options of walking around for an hour then being rechecked or going home to get rest. I am fairly sure option number one is given because they know pregnant woman are a volatile bunch who don't want to be told they are idiots. When she offered it, her face was totally saying, "don't bother." She strongly suggested I go home and rest with the option of coming back when the contractions got worse. I am not entirely sure how she said that second part with a straight face since I know that she knew that I was totally not going to be coming back anytime soon. One look at my husband's face at 3am told me it was time to go home. No matter how much I wanted, needed, or pleaded, this child was not coming out. Because of where the triage room was, I got to do the most embarrassing walk of shame at 3 am ever, right past the nurses station. I gave a half hearted fist pump and said "I'll be back," while they all smiled sympathetically and went back to chatting, knowing that I would indeed not be back.

On the way home I went back and forth between laughing and feeling like I was going to cry. Hubs dropped hints that he tried to tell me before that I was not really in labor and that next time maybe we should wait until I couldn't actually function the contractions were so bad. I dropped hints that his hints were unsupportive, unappreciated, and he may get punched.

As many of you know, I am overdue. A week on Wednesday. That is like four weeks in pregnancy-time. I still can't believe this guy has not arrived. His sister, who functions on a plane where she is the sun and all else revolves around her, was even quicker out the gate than this. I can only assume he is like me...can't find his way down a one-way street and slow to motivate. Not to mention when we are nice and cozy it is hard to move. So. We sit and wait. And I try crazy things to get him out, like bouncing on the yoga ball for several hours, and eating dates. I can't say I recommend either--the yoga ball workout was in hindsight excessive, and caused me to tear up while I walked around like a cowboy for the rest of the night, and the dates are not tasty despite the fact that they are known as the dessert of the desert. I am scheduled for an induction day after tomorrow, so if he has yet to show his face yet, he is going to get shown the door. I fear that he has been in there so long that he is going to come out with a full beard and a liquor drink.

Despite my husband's fantastically unrealistic idea of just laying low and waiting for my induction (*eyeroll*) I will continue to pray every second that Little Dude gets the memo that it is time to arrive. Please send me whatever kind of good juju/prayers/rain dances that you believe in. We are accepting any and all help to move this along. My sanity may depend on it.

Monday, December 9, 2013

The Longest Month

So I am now 3 days from my due date. The time has come to get out, baby. The month that should be known as "The Longest Month of a Woman's Life" is drawing to a close. A month of sympathetic looks, rude questions by those that should know better, and waddling through daily life worried that at any second your pubic bone will actually split in half or someone might ask you to bend over and pick something up. When one is in the final stretch of pregnancy, things need to be ignored. And forgiven. Like when you won't help me fix the covers and just jump in bed and I tell you "I hope you freeze to death in your sleep." I didn't really mean that. And when you ask me what's for dinner and I say, "whatever you can find in the pantry," its not that I want you to go hungry. I am just really tired. And you and Toodles can survive for one month on Princess fruit snacks and pretzels. 

I don't like to complain (I have been told I complain a lot). But. Imagine this. Ripley from Alien going about her daily life while that alien grew in her stomach. This month has been a lot like that. Everyday baby is getting bigger and jabbing away and doing what feels to be the cha-cha slide into my ribs. I told my OB I thought he may punch his way out. She assured me that was not possible. I am certain she lies. 
Don't let that face fool you, she is excited to meet her baby.
The last month of pregnancy is spent wondering and waiting. Thinking about what is left to be done. And what you have already done that maybe you should do differently. And what you will probably never get around to doing. Every day I wake up and think, "this could be it, today could be the day." The doctor visits get closer and the belly gets even bigger and you start hearing words like "dilating" and "effacing" and people start commenting on how much the baby has dropped. (By the way, saying 2 centimeters is not a lot to a person who grasping for every centimeter possible might get you slapped. Please remember that.) Anything is possible in these last few days and you know it, and that is scary and exciting and terrifying and a relief. And a lot of emotion at one time. And why woman in their weeks should be treated with kid gloves. Much like a grenade that has had the pin pulled out that no one is sure what to do with, so they pass it around and hope no one drops it while they wait for the bomb squad.

The tiny clothes are washed, the room is ready. The sheets are on the crib, the diapers are in the drawer. I even remembered to buy wipes. And now...we wait. And I enjoy these last few days of having one child. And eating whatever I want. And laying on the couch because moving is exhausting, and I can't be bothered unless it is absolutely necessary. Because sooner rather than later the Baby Alien will arrive and we will be a family of 4. And then I will find new things to complain about, and my beached whale status will be but a memory. Stay tuned. It could be any second now. 

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

The #1 Infertility Coping Mechanism: Secret Crazy

Women that are a trying to get pregnant can be a little, urm, crazy. I am allowed to say that because I was one of those women. I had some secret things I did that in retrospect (and honestly in the moment) seemed a little cuckoo. I am the first to admit it. It is SO easy to go a little off one's rocker. You start trying to have a baby, you get obsessed, you find ways to cope, and the rest is (slightly embarrassing) history. 

I used to torture myself by looking at the baby section of People.Com. I would look at all the babies being born to the rich and famous, living fancy baby lives with their fancy fertile parents. Traipsing around New York in their Bjorns and LA in their Bugaboo strollers. I lived vicariously through models on location with toddlers in Hawaii and actresses jetting to Cannes for a film festival with their babes in arms. I actually felt outraged when Jessica Simpson got pregnant twice in the time I couldn't even do it once. I cried with Giulana Rancic when she too couldn't get pregnant. OBSESSED is probably an accurate description. It seems a little saddish when I write it out, but hey, whatever gets you through, right? RIGHT?

I was also addicted to pregnancy tests. I know amazing and strong women who actually would wait to see if they got their period. Not I. The second I could, I was peeing on that stick. If that box said 6 days, I had that shiz marked on my fertility app. (Yes, there are fertility apps. It is the only app I have ever paid for.) I kept doing it every chance I got until Aunt Flo arrived.  Something about having a definitive answer for that day would help me get through it and on to the next. I felt like I was showing mad self control when I would wait a day between testing. After I took a test, I would hold it up to the light and analyze it, and then take it and hold it in front of the window, jus tin case things were more obvious in the natural light. Always searching for some glimpse of a line. And then, to really roll around in my own  crazy, I would get on the interwebs, where all the unhinged infertile types gather together. Did you know there was a website that has pictures of used pregnancy tests that you can compare yours too? And if you really want answers without asking people you know (who you fear will judge your crazy) you can submit pictures of your own test, and have strangers tell you if they see a line. The ones who are "experts" call themselves Tweakers and use photo shop and filters to try and discern a line. I never went so far as to put a picture on the Internet, but I sure would line up my tests and compare them to the ones on the websites. Yes I was obsessed, but at least I was channeling it. Not only was I keeping the economy afloat with purchases of terribly overpriced pregnancy tests, but I was getting some kind of answers in a time when there were so few answers to be had. And that actually felt good. Productive. Productive with a tinge of batty. 

I know some women who totally shut themselves off from the world when they have problems getting pregnant. Months of tortuous failing at something that should be so easy can do that to a person. I have friends that couldn't go to baby showers, that couldn't be happy for their friends that got pregnant, that found it impossible to enjoy life at all. And I get it. I felt the jealousy, I felt the hurt, I felt that sadness. I admit I cried when I found out people I loved were pregnant. And then I felt bad that I was upset, because I hated how that felt. But I get it. I do. Imagine being staked in the heart every month like clockwork and then trying to act normal. Its kinda impossible. 


Thanks to my Google Image search I
have learned that Fertility Goddesses
are really into showing boobs and lady bits.
They also are a group who are vastly
in need of undergarments.
This Aztec beauty is about as G-rated as it gets.
We are a desperate group, prone to extreme measures. I know women who read book after book about fertility, ones who make spreadsheets of temperatures, others who try special diets and herbs. I know people who don't do anything except pray for a baby, believing if they ask often and hard enough they will have a miracle. I knew one woman who kept a fertility statue under her desk at work to give her good juju all day every day.  Whatever way you cope with the depression and sadness and disappointment of infertility, it is okay. I don't condone taking yourself out of life completely, because that does nothing but make the darkness inevitably grow. But if you need to make a scrapbook of Angelina and Brad's kids vacations, or take endless pictures of your home pregnancy tests, or swim in the waters that the ancient Rockachoochoo people used to enhance fertility, rock on girl. We all have to cope with the loss until we are successful or able to move on. Sometimes we all gotta let a little crazy out. 



Sunday, October 13, 2013

My Infertility by the Numbers

I have been pregnant five times. The first two were ectopic. The third was LadyB. The fourth was ectopic. The fifth is Little Dude, who is set to make his debut in 9ish weeks. 

I have had two surgeries. The first removed the first ectopic. The second removed the second ectopic and my right fallopian tube.

I have taken approximately 7,034 home pregnancy tests (please note that is just a guess. It could be 7,032.)

I have had two chemical pregnancies that I don't even count in my total. That means positive tests that end up negative a few days later. The doctor thinks they were fertilized eggs that never made it down the gauntlet that is my remaining (probably partially obstructed/damaged) tube. 

I have spent the last six years trying to get pregnant, being pregnant, or recovering from being pregnant while planning when to start trying again.

I have had eight IUI's.

I have had one IVF.
One Million dollars worth of IVF meds.

I have been on 2 oral medications. 
I have been on 2 injectable drugs.
I have taken supplements, used patches, given myself trigger shots, and used suppositories.

We have spent tens of thousands of dollars.

I have been exhausted. I have cried countless tears. I have asked a million questions. I revised "the plan" to get pregnant more times than I can count. 

I never once gave up hope that we would eventually have at least one more child. And here we are. And it feels so great to finally be a success story.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

The Time I Put a Hex on a Check-Out Girl

I would like to interrupt my previously promised series on infertility to bring you a quick rant. You will understand why once you read it.

Dear Harris Teeter Check-Out Girl,

I was actually enjoying my trip to the grocery store alone. In my world, that is called a vacation. Nevermind it was eight o'clock at night, I was on my second grocery store, and it was the end of a long day of dealing with a Honey Badger and her many, many idiosyncrasies. I was able to focus and shop and get in and out in 25 minutes. My little vacation. And you ruined it. 

You started off kind, when you told me you weren't filling the bags too full, so I could carry them easily. I even forgave you quickly for calling me "mama." But then you went and said what you said. Let me refresh your memory. "You sure you don't want any help? You are about to have that baby any day now." One would think after I laughed and said, "Nope, not until December," you would have the sense to shut. your. mouth. But you didn't. You grabbed your chest in horror and said, "OH. MY. GOD. NO. WAY. You sure? You look like you should be having that baby now." Well, I am not, though it would serve you right if I labored right here on your scanner, you twit.

So you should know that as I waddled out of the Teeter, I silently cursed you. I sent powerful juju your way so that when you get pregnant, your ankles swell. And your nose gets fat. I hope you get hemorrhoids, and then make the mistake of hitting 'images' when you google how to treat them. I hope your baby is happy and healthy and really huge. With a huge head. And that after he or she is born you pee your pants every time you sneeze or laugh or breathe heavy. I pray that you will be extremely fertile and that you easily get pregnant so that you can experience a cute girl 15 years your junior and quite a few pounds smaller than you tell you that you look like you should be crowning. Then, maybe you will remember this day. When you were so rude to a tired pregnant lady who just wanted to get to her car and open the cookies she just bought.

I am normally not a mean vindictive person. I feel a little bad for wishing such things on you, child who knew no better. But damn. Read some body language, sister. This is just another teachable moment for all. Don't ever infer that you know someone's due date unless you see her water break. And even if you think she may have miscalculated her due date, there is no need for you to comment on it. No one cares what you think. Especially the person carrying the baby. 

Your's truly,
Thea, The Pregnant Lady you insulted last night at checkout #8 who couldn't even enjoy that she saved $18.49 with her VIC card because she was feeling like such a blimp.









Wednesday, September 25, 2013

This Post Brought to You by Science.

I have talked a wee bit about the fact that we did IVF to get pregnant with He who is currently incubating. I am very upfront about our dance with the fertility gods. It was a long and arduous process and I love to talk to anyone and everyone about it. I have even been know to bring it up to people I have just met. Seriously. I told another mom within 5 minutes of our meeting. Overshare? Possibly. But I like to see it as a way to say, "I am totally cool with my jacked reproduction system and I welcome the chance to challenge the taboo of discussing infertility." Toe-may-toe/Toe-mah-toe. 

On Tuesday morning I got a text from my bestie that they were having an IVF segment on the Today Show right then. (She texts me when there is something on I may want to see because she knows I am so not watching anything remotely like news, and because she is awesome. You would be wise to get you a BFF like that, people.) We turned off Mickey and turned on Today, and there they were, doing the first live IVF egg retrieval ever in the history of baby making. Thank you times a million, Jenn. Not since I saw Look Who's Talking have I been so educated on the science of baby making. It was amazeballs to watch, since of course I was sawing logs during my own egg retrieval. And then, right there, they shot the sperm into the egg. Conception on national television. Yay Science! On Friday they will do this girl's transfer of eggs back into the uterus...I am assuming they will show what they can of that too. 

Ah-maze-ing. I love that they are doing this. The world needs to see this side of IVF. What actually happens. Hear this couple's story. Understand what they are scared about and what they are excited about and how hopeful they are. Grasp the gravity of the decision to try IVF, mostly because of the cost aspect. Not to mention the fear of it not working. These are all things we struggled with. And these are all things I like to share with other people. 

It pains me to hear of women who have struggled with infertility and not had anyone to talk to about it. So I am going to take the next few posts to discuss different aspects of what we have gone through. Some happy, some sad, some educational (or at least my attempt at education) , and all very personal. I believe in being transparent. I believe in sharing anything I can about my own story to help other people with their journey. I believe in the idea that if we can create a community that allows us to talk about our infertility, it will help us, our spouses, and future generations of daughters who may struggle.

Feel free to ask me a question publicly or privately. I will do my best to answer it. Please share this with anyone you know that is traveling a similar path. It is amazing how cathartic it is to know you are not alone. 

This post brought to you by Science. (and my need to Overshare.)

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Marriage Tester #736: Saturday at IKEA


We love to do what I think of as "marriage testers." You know, things that may cause you to become so frustrated with each other that you question the very vows you took while plotting the other's death. Like picking out a car together when you are 11 months pregnant, or moving with a six month old, or repainting the outside of the house ourselves, or reorganizing the linen closet together. Still not divorced and no one is dead, so I guess we will just keep doing these things 'til someone cracks. We completed our latest marriage tester yesterday--IKEA on a Saturday. As did 1,562,987 other people. 

Have you been to IKEA? HAVE YOU? It is awesome. And insane. And awesomely insane. Especially on a Saturday. So many good deals. So many people. So much panicked buying in the air. I love it. Hubs though, Hubs finds it stressful. Throw in the Honey Badger, and it is a trip down the rabbit hole. The good news is this trip we had a unifying mission. Keeping the child from killing IKEA. I feel it really brought us together and kept us from focusing on our disagreements.  Instead of fighting about which toy bin was better and if we wanted the square or the rectangle Lack coffee table, we were all, "I will hold her in time out while you go grab the pillows to replace the ones the dog peed on." Go Team.

Every third person at IKEA has a child with them under age 5. Why is this important? Because it raises the decibel level by 7000%. Also, when your kid is screaming, it doesn't phase people. They get it. Kids lose their mind in there. It actually pleased me to hear other people's kids sobbing. It made me feel like I wasn't alone in the fight for sanity.

Every fourth person in IKEA is a pregnant woman. Not just a little pregnant. Very pregnant. And they are all followed by husbands pushing carts filled with throw pillows and vases and frames and spice racks with looks of paralyzing fear on their faces. Because they know if they ask why they are looking at shoe organizers instead of crib sheets they may get nut punched. Something about being pregnant obviously makes one panic about the disarray of their home. IKEA is making nesting a gazillion dollar business. They lure us there with cribs and highchairs and we leave with $500 worth of house flair. And a vague idea of what we want in the nursery. And plans in place to come back in two weeks to buy that stuff. Well played, IKEA.

When you take a 3 year old to IKEA they are going to lose their schmidt. Probably sooner rather than later. Here is the scenario that leads to the breakdown: arrive, pull them out of the car and rouse them up from their 35 min power nap, fill them with french fries and chocolate milk. Then turn them loose on a playground of brightly colored furniture and things to touch. LadyB is in heaven at IKEA. Because she is a "big girl" she doesn't want to ride in the cart. Translation--she needs to climb on every couch, play on every fake laptop, and turn off every lamp. (Side note---there are a ton of lamps at IKEA.) At one point I turned around in the bedroom area to find she had wiggled between a nice young couple looking at a bed and climbed up under the covers. While they were inspecting the duvet. I caught the girl giving the guy the look that said, "our kids will never be this out of control." I wanted to slap her and scream, "They will. Maybe even worse. They may pee in the IKEA bed. And then you will understand why I look so tired." I literally drug Her Highness out of that bed, all 33 lbs of dead weight, because she was "asleep" while those two fools stared, wondering where they kept the box of 7000 IKEA condoms for $3. I tried to trick her into the cart with Skittles. She actually said, "no thank you Mother. I am going to walk." Then after 72 warnings to stop running/screaming/tripping old people who were walking against the arrows because they are lost and we don't do guided shopping in 'Merica, I shoved her in the cart while she sobbed and screamed. And then gave her the Skittles if she promised to just be quiet. That worked until the Skittles ran out. Then it was back to begging to be released from cart prison. Loudly on repeat. 

By the time we were finished I was afraid I was going to go into stress induced preterm labor. Then we had to stand in line for almost 30 minutes. The couple in front of us bought $2200 worth of stuff. (I lurked to see the total because they had three carts worth). At one point sister put 6 packs of 36 tea lights on the conveyor belt. I can't even begin to imagine what one does with 126 multicolored candles. But IKEA does that to a person. You get in there and you totally redecorate your house in 2 hours. Of course you have to have 126 candles.

The best part is we are going back next month to actually purchase the baby stuff we just looked at yesterday. We may even go back twice. I may just plan to give birth there, right in between the toilet brushes and the wicker rocking chairs with no legs that everyone wants and sits in, but no one actually buys. Or by the Swedish meatballs and soft serve, just in case I get hungry. I would leave with a baby in a moses basket made from a 59 cent blue tarp bag and a new duvet cover and three chocolate bars for a dollar. Now that would be an amazeballs marriage test. 


IKEA + 3 YEAR OLD=EMOTIONAL AND MENTAL EXHAUSTION

Type A spouses are super annoying until it
is time to pack the car.
Then they are money.



Friday, September 6, 2013

The Epidemic Effecting Men Everywhere

I have terrible news. I have recently diagnosed my husband with a devastating illness. I believe it is a malady effecting men everywhere. Groceryagnosia, commonly known as Food Blindness. 

For years now I have noticed that when Hubs opens the pantry and refrigerator he is unable to see the food sitting right in front of his face. The issue does not seem to effect his speech, especially his ability to ask questions, such as "Where is the Milk?" For so long it made no sense to me. How can he not see the items sitting on the shelves? I am not just talking about the things in the drawers. That would mean actually opening them to look inside. Not even the food in tupperware. Cause its probably old and/or moldy anyway. I am talking about the food on the shelves and the door. Food that is labeled. By professionals. Then last week we were watching the show Perception and the perp had Prosopagnosia, also know as face blindness. According to the popular scientific medical website Wikipedia, it "is a disorder of face perception where the ability to recognize faces is impaired, while other aspects of visual processing (e.g., object discrimination and intellectual functioning (e.g., decision making) remain intact." The next day, Hubs was standing at the refrigerator, staring blankly, and he asked where something was and it hit me. He cannot physically see what is in the fridge. Same for the pantry. He is sick. With Food Blindness. It's. Not. His. Fault. Even though the jelly was RIGHT. THERE. Poor thing couldn't see it.

I am working to understand his illness. I try not to get angry when he asks where the peanut butter is, even though it has a bright red lid and says PEANUT BUTTER on it. Instead of storming over to the pantry and pointing in a hostile fashion while huffing and puffing to the poptart he seeks, I will try to gently show him they are right beside the granola bars. Instead of shouting "use your eyeballs, fool" when he wants the parmesan, I will simply tell him it is on the third shelf. I will remind him to use all his senses to find what he needs, not to rely on his eyes, since they clearly are not working. I will suggest using his nose and smelling each item until he finds the oreos. Or use his tongue and dip it in all the condiments until he finds the ketchup. There are other ways to find the food, and together we will work to figure them out. We can beat this thing. 

If your husband suffers from Food Blindness, you need to acknowledge it. Help him understand his illness and let him know he is not alone. Remind him men everywhere are staring at refrigerators, wondering where their gatorade is. I am currently developing methods to help our men overcome their problem. I think using flashcards of food items, walking around the grocery store and pop quizzing on what things are, and tazing their crotch every time they ask where something is, are all viable therapy options. We must retrain their brains. Sometimes it will be harder on you than it is on them. Sometimes it may take tough love. Sometimes you may have to let them starve for a few days.

So the next time your husband asks where the chips and salsa are, don't slap him in the face. Give him a hug. It's not his fault.
You see this.

He sees this.
It is an epidemic people.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Lean In (Not the trendy way. The other way.)

The time has come in the pregnancy where I am having to lean in. 
Literally. Lean in to pee, that is. Not the other lean in. I know that is a thing, but I don't watch the news much. Instead I lean in to pee, cause there is a person in there the size of a rutabaga (I don't really know what that looks like, that is just what Babycenter told me) sitting on my bladder and I have to push him out of the way. You know what I am talking about ladies. The lean. Every 30 minutes. Or fifteen, depending on how much coke sweet tea green tea water you are drinking. 

It is also the time when this is happening...

I am panicking because the only thing I have done to the nursery is taped 75 grey paint swatches to the wall in the guest room.

Everyday someone that lives with me comments on how big my underwear is now. I am growing a person here people, how about a little more reverence and a little less snickering. It's the gift of life a-holes.

I made brownies on Sunday and realized today that I may be the only person in the house eating them. It is Tuesday and there are only 4 left.  Well done, me.

I can't sleep because my sciatic nerve is being plucked by an invisible giant who thinks my rear end is a banjo. Every time I roll over/breathe too deep/sit up I think Hubs has tased my hiney. This is probably why I feel like I would feel better if I could slap his face.

I have exactly three items of clothing for the dude. I am thinking we may have to create swaddling clothes out of LadyB's old pink blankets. 

He has no name. He has name possibilities. He has names we are tossing around. But nothing that can be agreed on. Unless I decide I really do like Ultimate Warrior. Then the discussion is over and we just have choose between calling him Ultimate or Warrior. Because I can't stand double names for boys. 

I have to figure out a way to make my 3.5 year old sleep through the night again so I am not having to get up with a both her and her brother. Because getting up with just one is bad enough. Being double teamed will surely kill me.

The maternity pants I bought two months ago are already too small.

This is the nursery. I should probably put it on Pinterest.
(Photobomb compliments of Honey Badger)








Friday, August 23, 2013

The Paci Fairy Takes More Than Pacis

A few weeks ago the Paci Fairy came to our house. If you are here a lot, you know I was living in fear of this moment. Utter, total, paralyzing, fear. I waited until now to write about it because I wanted to make sure things were all settled down and I could have a little perspective. Here is my take-away from out little adventure in growing up...

Lady B proved me wrong yet again, while reinforcing what I have learned about her. (Confusing, right?) I was so worried about this situation. I worried about her being sad. About her screaming and crying. About her begging me for the paci. I worried about this being an epic of struggle of us against the paci. Instead, girlfriend was totally on board. She gathered up her paci's herself and voluntarily hung them in a bag for the fairy. She asked for her plastic phone that night just in case the Fairy wanted to text her. She was ecstaticwith the LeapPad that the Fairy left her. (Is that a ridiculous gift? Absolutely. Do I care? Not one bit. It was totally worth it.)  And after having a paci every day since she was born, we had about 7 seconds of crying one night. What? Not at all what I was mentally preparing for. 

This all goes to show me what I already knew. Big transitions with Her Highness are easy because the moment by moment living is hard. All of her big milestones have been relatively painless. Switching from bottle to cup, potty training, moving into the big girl bed...we have no crazy horror stories, nothing more than normal growing pains. However, every minute of every day is a struggle for who is in charge of our house--her or us. I guess she is so busy being passionate about things like which skirt to wear and how many band aids she should have, she doesn't have time to worry about the big stuff.

Not to worry. Don't hate me just yet. The Paci Fairy didn't only take the pacifiers. She also took naps and a piece of my sanity. Nothing is truly painless, my friends. We are three weeks in, and I can officially say that naps are jacked up. Gone are the days of her laying down and going to sleep and staying asleep for 2 hours. I now spend anywhere between 30 minutes and 2 hours listening to her playing in her room (also know as ultimate destruction), calling out to me, and begging me for wake up time. Occasionally she will still fall asleep early. More often, she waits until I am about to go in and release her from nap prison to fall asleep. Because she has worn herself out putting on lotion she isn't supposed to have and changing her clothes 12 times and making piles of stuffed animals. And then I have to take my life into my own hands and wake her up, because by that time it is too lateg to let her sleep. But I refuse to give in. I have to do work while she has rest time. Not to mention I need to have a break from the insanity. And put my pregnant feet up. What I have learned from this little situ is that when a child goes from taking naps one day to stopping the next, it makes her a little, urm, unhinged. There is more crying, more drama, more fighting. And it sucks.
Passed out at 4:45 after an extremely impressive nap-battle that included
yelling, screaming, crying, and refusal to take off her too-small shoes.
The Fairy also stole a good night's sleep. Gone are the days of sleeping through the night. Gone is the ability to walk Her Highness to the potty then tuck her back in and creep back out. Now she has no way to soothe herself back to sleep. She wants her back rubbed. Several times a night. How do you teach a kid to put herself back to sleep? I have no idea. All I know is we recently went on an adults only long weekend, and I felt amazing every day after a full night's sleep. Now I know what I am missing. Which is almost worse. And in a few months there will be an infant here too that wants attention all night long. What do I do? Do I go hard core and let her cry? Do I wean her off middle of the night back rubs slowly? Do I make her Dad go in there and then listen to her scream for mama? Do I go stay at a hotel for a week and let Hubs deal with it? I personally vote for the last one. 

I am up for suggestions on how to manage this situation. I am so happy/relieved/thankful that the Paci Fairy was a non-event. What I don't know about is how to sleep train a previously awesome sleeper. We all need to sleep all night. We need to have rest times that don't involve destruction and crying. We need some sanity in a big way. 

Sunday, August 4, 2013

Shark Week Sucks. (Alternate Title: Why I am Getting Divorced)

Well, my friends, Divorce is imminent  I thought my husband knew me. I thought he loved me. Tonight I find that our whole lives have basically been a lie.

Two words. Shark. Week.

I hate sharks. When I was in elementary school I saw Jaws and it basically ruined my life. I have had reoccurring shark nightmares ever since. That is around 25 years of living in fear. I am queasy just typing about it. Hubs know how I feel about the great white predator. He knows my distaste. My fears. Yet here I find myself watching something called Megalodon on Shark Week. W.T.F.

I have managed to avoid shark week for, well, pretty much ever. I feel there is not reason to devote a week to this. I can sum it up in 2.5 seconds. Just flash this on the screen...

                                  HELL NO GET OUT OF THE DEEP WATER 
                                        CAUSE YOU GONNA DIE

Sadly, now I have to leave Hubs. Because the very fact that he subjected me to something called Megalodon, about the world's biggest shark that broke apart a fishing boat and now there are some fools toodling around the high seas looking for it shows he doesn't know me at all. As if my dreams are not vivid enough being pregnant at all. Thanks babe. I just wanted to sit here and drink my decaf and Pinterest. I found myself relieved when LadyB called me in for her nightly backrub (usually it makes me want to pull my hair out b/c I think she is asleep and she's not. Just waiting for me to get really comfortable.) 

So if is the last you hear from me, it is because I had a heart attack in my sleep, having night terrors about floating in a beautiful swimming pool then having a shark that is 30 feet long coming out of nowhere and biting me. Cause they always get me when I least expect it, you know. 

Hold me.


What's that? This isn't real? No one cares. Cause it is horrifying.
And makes me feel like this:


I hate you sharks. And I hate you shark week. And now I hate you too Hubs. 

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Can't. Stop. Crying.

So I was getting ready to write about something different when I saw a Downy commercial. Yeah, like the fabric softener. I mean I don't even use fabric softener cause it is weird to me. But the commercial is amazing. It is the one where the guy has the same tee shirt through meeting a girl in college, then getting married, then having kids and at the end his 7ish y.o. daughter is wearing said tee. And I teared up. Cause that is some touching schmidt. Even if fabric softener is a racket.

Earlier today Lady Baby and I had a little conversation about college and what that is and that you leave home to go. She got very quiet and I could literally hear the crunch of brain gears turning in the backseat. Then she announced, "I hate college." I told her we had 15 years to worry about college. She then replied, "Will you come with me?" Cue tears. Yes baby. My sweet girl. I will go and we can live in the dorm and be roomies and I will warm your milk in the microwave in the parlor of your dorm and carry your book bag when you are tired. You don't have to ask me twice. 

Every day something happens that makes me tune up. Every day I am reminded that the flux of hormones pumping through my body is at an all time high. (Hopefully. If not, the all-time high may cause me to literally break in half. Or explode.) It can be anything. A song, a heated discussion, a broken dryer, a hangnail. Anything can cause me to feel that prick in my eyes and tightness in my throat. This morning, it was literally spilled milk. Yes. Spilled milk down the front of Her Highness's leotard. The only one we can find. When we are already late for ballet camp. Not only am I a hot mess, I am a cliche. Awesome.

I find myself most effected by Lady B's emotions. When she is apprehensive, sad, crying, upset, sobbing, unsure, or really anything else that is not meant to purely piss me off, I take it to heart. Literally. One day she was extra clingy when I was dropping her off at school, and I was afraid I was going to cry in the hall at preschool. The same place I have been dropping her off for the last 2.5 years. We are about to undertake the paci fairy (I know, I know, for reals this time) and I practically cry just thinking about how sad she is going to be. I feel like we have a brain link and what she is feeling, I am feeling x7589. Until she is all sassy and rude and won't stop saying "nope" to everything I ask. Then I want to cry because she is being mean and I am really tired. But everything else, totally.

I tear up thinking about crying. I am not being funny. That seriously happens.

Am I alone? Are y'all out there pregnant and crying over Real Sports stories and pictures of cats and chickens that are best friends and your kid bumping their knee? Please tell me that I am not alone. 

Cause that will make me cry.


Awe Dawson, don't cry.
You are a great mom.
And your 3.5 doesn't hate you, she just
wants to break your spirit.

Friday, July 19, 2013

They May Love me To Death.

We found out this week that we are having a little boy. Exciting, right? Especially when at our first ultrasound the tech said it was probably a girl. So we were just sitting there, waiting for confirmation on "the hamburger bun" when she started laughing and showed us "the turtle." Shock would be an understatement. More like absolute and utter disbelief. Hubs still says he may not 100% believe it until he is holding the newest Mr. We always thought we would have girls. Apparently we were very wrong.

Once we made our big announcement, people started saying things to me like, "awwww boys are the best. They really love their mommy." And, "I love having a boy because he is so sweet and he loves me like no other." Apparently little boys are really loving with their mommies. Which I am finding very scary. 

Don't get me wrong, I know I am going to love this baby and he is going to love me. What I am scared of is that he is going to love me with the vehemence and passion that his big sister does. Because I may be smothered to death by children if that is the case. My girl is a Mama's Girl. If she could get back in the womb with just her head hanging out, she totally would. When we watch TV, she prefers to lay on me. She holds my hand a lot. She wants me to carry her everywhere. When there is an issue, a booboo, or she is in need of ANYTHING, she wants me. She loves her Daddy because he is the fun one. But I am the go to for all things that require calming/snuggling/petting. And sometimes, it is a little much. 
The kangaroo is totally my child's spirit animal. That Joey is living her dream.
I read once they often have one in the womb and one in the pouch.
Cause who wouldn't want to hop around with two on board? I feel your pain, mama.
I have never been a "come on and sleep in our bed" kind of mom because the child touches me all day long every day. I need space, even if it is the 6-10 hours I am sleeping. I need to breathe and have some room. Otherwise, she would sleep pressed up against me, her arms wrapped around me, and occasionally actually laying on top of me. It is intense. On the rare occasion we do sleep together I often wake up to find we are holding hands. Sometimes I feel like she is going to love the skin right off my body. And then wear it as suit. 

I am a touchy-feely loving kind of person. I love the snuggles and I hope all my babies love to be cuddle like Lady Baby does. But if this little dude comes out and is half as mama-loving as Toodles, I may have to wear pants and a turtleneck. Just to save my skin from the road rash my children's love will no doubt give me. Every once in a while mama needs a wee bit of space.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Talking to Pregnant Women: A Cheat Sheet

So, as y'all know, I am with child. And I am a wee bit bigger this time around than I was when I was carrying Lady Baby. For instance, at this point with her I was barely in maternity pants. This time around I have been in maternity since like week 8. Awesome. I didn't encounter a lot of belly comments until the very end of my pregnancy. This time around it has been a little different. I have been the recipient of some, shall we say, remarks. And that leads me to what we have here. A list of things you can and cannot say to a pregnant woman.  (Not all of these happened to me. Some to my friends. I am sure they won't mind if I share their pain with y'all. It is educational afterall.)

Never:
"You are only ___ weeks?" (This was fun to hear last week.)
"You are not due until ___?" (This was equally fun. I didn't even know what to say.)
"How many are in there?" (The answer is always 37. There is no comeback, only embarrassment, if you say 37.)
"Are you dilated?" (Someone asked me that at a baby shower at Hub's office in front of the whole staff. Please, never ask anyone you are not BFF with the state of her cervix.)
"How big is that baby?" (Hold on, let me get my personal ultrasound machine out of my purse.)
"Are you overdue?" (Why yes, yes I am. Thanks for reminding me, I had totally forgotten.)
"You look miserable." (Was it the fact I can only get crocs on my feet or the look of desperation in my eyes that tipped you off.)
"You haven't had that baby yet?" ( I got that one a ton towards the end last time. I was more than ready to have the alien watermelon removed from my uterus. Being reminded constantly that it was still there was seriously unappreciated.)
"Wow, you feet are really swollen." (Thanks. Sometimes I forget that I look like I am walking with two loaves of bread on my feet.)
"Wow, your nose has gotten huge." (Yes, some women's noses spread. Yay procreation.)
"Wow, you are huge." (No schmidt. My maternity clothes don't even fit anymore. And I had certainly forgotten that I could hardly drive my car this morning because the steering wheels is so far away.)
"Yikes. I hope you are having an epidural." (For the record, my answer to this question is always a really loud, really enthusiastic 'yes.' I am pro-drugs.)
"I have a friend that had to have her lady garden fixed because she had a huge baby. Do you want the doctor's number she used?" (No comment needed. Just pray for a small head.)
"When is your baby due?" (She was born 4 weeks ago. Did you not notice the carrier here with the infant inside? Excuse me, I need to go google tummy tucks and juice diets.)

Always:
"You look amazing."
"You are glowing."
"You don't even look pregnant from the back."
"You are all belly."

Notice how many things you should never say and how few you should actually say? There is a reason for that. If you cannot control your mouth when you see a pregnant woman, then walk away. Otherwise, she may cut you. Or start crying. We are a hormonally unbalanced group. 


"Kim that dress looks awesome on you."
See, you don't have to say what you are really thinking.
Which may or may not be, "Please start shopping in the maternity
section for the love of God."





Tuesday, June 4, 2013

My Absence Explained with Good News.

It has been so long I may have forgotten how to write. So bear with me. This may be tedious and hard to read. I may have forgotten how to punctuate, and how to write precise and meaningful sentences. Who I am kidding. I have never been great at that.

I feel that it is only fair that I explain my absence. I have had questions, comments and hints. People wondering what is going on. Lots of excitement at the Manor. Read on, party people.

For the last two years we have been working hard and spending a lot of money with one goal. To ensure that the honey badger is not an only child. Cause let's face it. She would be THE WORST only child ever. And of course because we want another baby to share our love and home with, blah blah blah. I took drugs, had numerous IUI's, more drugs, more IUI's, even stronger drugs and it was crickets. Nothing except one very dejected non-pregnant person. Finally after 8 IUI's I hit an emotional wall and decided I was done. Time to take the baby making to the next level. And take it to the next level we did. We are talking IVF. The type of thing where we could have 11 babies and spend 1 million dollars. Scary. 11 Honey badgers. Someone hold me. And loan me a million dollars.

Well, after a long process that included a crap ton of anger and bloatation inducing hormones, a lot of doctors visits, a very successful fertilization of ten of my eggs in a super romantic petri dish (I am sure they have Lionel Richie on a loop), and a transfer of two eggs back into me, then 3 tedious weeks of blood work, we had a wonderful ultrasound full of good news. I thought it was an awesome day because we had our ultrasound and saw a heartbeat. Hubs thought it was an awesome day because we saw ONE healthy baby with ONE heartbeat. Apparently he wasn't feeling having to buy a minivan. 

Here are we are at 13 weeks tomorrow and Hubs finally lifted my internet gag order. I hope this is exciting enough to make up for my silence. I like to write about what is happening in my life. If it makes y'all feel any better, it was killing me!



SO. We are moving onward and upward with a bun in the oven (three in the freezer) and a smile on our faces. Those two years of agony are behind us. So happy to finally share it with some of my favorite peeps. Prepare yourself for lots of funny stories. I promise they are coming. This weekend I caught Lady Baby with her tankini hitched up telling another little girl in the baby pool that she had a baby in her tummy, did she want to feel it. So, yeah, this next 6 months will be entertaining.

Friday, May 3, 2013

Are We All Still in High School? Maybe A Little Bit.

(I know, I know. MIA yet again for awhile. Sorry my lovely friends. I am swamped with life and have lots going on...but more on that later...for now, a new post!)


I recently read an article that claimed our personality, who we areas a person, is solidified in high school. Do we all agree with that? Am I the exact same person that I was then, on a most basic level? I know every time I hear Counting Crows I am 16 again, sneaking a cigarette before Young Life. I mean, I would like to think I have “grown.” More centered and calm. More self-assured. Less worried about what people think about me. But sometimes, on a bad day, I am still that young girl sitting in my room wishing I was skinnier, taller, smarter, hotter, or cooler. 

I will be the first to admit that I loved high school. I had lots of friends, was on the soccer and swim teams (mediocre athlete but lots of enthusiasm), went to parties, made good grades, and teachers liked me. I was on Homecoming Court, I was the Prom Queen, and my senior superlative was Best Personality. But I was also the only one of my friends who never really had a boyfriend, definitely not one that was older and/or long term, like the girls I ran around with. I was the eternal wing man to my girlfriends, always the buddy to the guys. I once had a friend tell me her boyfriend thought I was a lesbian. I had an eating disorder. I was in therapy. I was constantly worried about everything. My life wasn't perfect then and it's not perfect now. 
This just in: This shirt was probably one of
the reason I wasn't getting any dates. Not to
mention I need some bangs, stat.
I wonder how y'all feel. Are you still that person you were, sitting in the parking lot after school with friends or throwing yourself into homework in hopes of getting into a great college or feeling left out of the cool crowd when you overhear other people talking about a party? Do you now hate the music that played on the way to school? Or are you nostalgic like me? 
Class of '97 Baby. I think our class song was
 "I Believe I Can Fly."  R Kelly is so inspiring.

It is funny how most of us identify “our era” as what was popular when we were high school. One evening last summer my friend and I were the two moms in tankinis at the pool rocking to the 90’s station while wee 15 year olds stared, promising each other that they would never be old. But hearing those songs, I was back at the lake in a two piece, drinking beer and talking about boys. I still judge everyone’s age by the year they graduated from high school (I was class of ’97). I still love Birkenstocks and 90210. I suppose my coming of age years are more ingrained in me than I thought.
Finally figured out how to dress like a girl.
And throw on a little makeup. You are
welcome, world.
I know that I am different than I was back then. I am calmer. I worry less about little things and choose to focus on things I can change. I strive to love myself for who I am and not what I am. I think we all take parts of who we were in our teens, and go from there. But hopefully we can all be more than who we were then. Except that I still wear Birks and dance when Regulator comes on. Cause, let's be honest. They are both really awesome.


Thursday, April 4, 2013

Spring Break is Neither Spring nor a Break. Discuss.

Remember when Spring Break used to be made up of bad decisions and regret? Well, guess what, people...it still is!!! 

In the old days I would have lamented partaking in a bit much tequila and dancing on a table. This year's spring break I am regretting this little last minute purchase at the Harris Teeter. 


The terribleness of the singing  rivals the
horribleness of the children's ensembles.
I don't know who should be beaten first: wardrobe or casting.

I am sure it is going to bite me in arse many times over. Our first viewing lead me to desire a bottle of tequila to smash over my head.

Happy Spring break...the best part is it is almost over!!! Five fun filled days of entertaining a child who is accustomed to a classroom filled with friends and stimulating activities. Neither of which we have here. Thank goodness for the sweet mother's helper who came to play with her or it would have been a train wreck with a three year old as the conductor and me strapped to the tracks.

Did I mention that it sleeted today? Special.

Sunday, March 31, 2013

In Defense of the Smart Phone Moms

Hi there, let me just...pull my...soapbox...over....here...arrrgghhhh...
Okay. Hang on while I climb up. Now hold my hand cause mama is scared of heights. Thanks.

Okay, listen up. I have to say something. 

I am SO tired of hearing/reading about people dogging out mothers on their smart phones. There are a variety of reasons, of which I will get into in a second. But the first and most important reason is hey, guess what? It is none of your business.  

My office. 
A lot of mothers, me included, work from home. That means, as a freelancer, I attempt to almost always be available so I don't miss out on something important. Small price to pay for getting to be at home with Lady Baby. So I check my email a lot, I look at Facebook a lot, and I text a lot. Sure some of it is for fun. But a lot is for work as well. I think it is okay for me to miss one trip down the slide to send an email about a job or to return a quick text about a problem. Back up off me people. I have a lot of balls in the air here. I don't have the luxury of leaving my phone/job at home when we go somewhere. So yes, I can be seen on it quite often. And I don't care what you think. Cause we gotta eat.

Most moms who stay at home are with their kids A LOT. And by a lot I mean most of every day. That is a lot of "hey mom" and "watch this" and "guess what." I don't begrudge any mom that takes her kids somewhere for them to have fun and then she dares takes a few minutes, or even many minutes, and plays on her phone. Sometimes we need a break. And guess what? She has her kids doing something. And assuming they are safe, why shouldn't she get a break? Seriously. You judgers, do you answer every question, and spend every second playing with your kids, and never ever look away for any reason? Doubtful. Would you be happier if the mom on the smart phone were looking at a book, or a magazine, or talking with her friend and not looking at her kids? Do your kids sit and watch TV while you do other things? Are you beating yourself up about that? I am not. Nor do I feel bad that I checked my email the other day during a play date.

We are all doing are best. For many, our phones provide a much needed avenue back into the world of grown ups. Our kids will survive us not watching their every move when they are having a great time playing with their friends or picking flowers or pushing a mini shopping cart around. It may even do them good to understand that they are not entitled to our undivided attention every second of their lives. Oh the horror for them to know there are other things beside their little faces the we enjoy looking upon. 

Seriously. Quit bashing each other, moms. We are all doing our best. And if that is taking a break at the park and playing a little Words with Friends or texting with our BF while breast feeding or reading Twitter during a dance class, then Back. Off. We need it. More importantly, we deserve it.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Potty Post Update

I feel like to grasp the full reality of us sharing our bathroom three ways, I wanted to share a pic of the bathroom. (Please notice the lack of linen closet. There is instead a little shelf situation with a shutter for a door that is in the wall for q-tips and advil and the like. Don't get me started on the closets. Three. In the whole house. Yeah. Three. But look at the trim work. LOOK AT IT.)
Raise your hand if you were picturing a bathroom that was a little bigger. Like one that would fit a full size sink. The one in here is for a small boat. I can hear your gasps from here. 



I realized I didn't mention how fun it is when we have overnight house guests. At one point my dad said, "Invite me back when you get another bathroom." Yup, it's really that fun. When Lady Baby is sitting on her mini potty she pulls it out and puts it in front of the bathtub. And then whoever else is in there gets to step over her. And bodder her. Relentlessly. So. Fun

Tomorrow is the beginning of spring break. Cause preschoolers need spring break. I am going to hide in my tiny bathroom and cry.





Tuesday, March 26, 2013

The Family Bathroom.(alternate title: No One Potties Alone Except the 3yo)

How many bathrooms do you have? We have one. Uno. A single tinkletorium. We live in a cute little bungalow that was built in the twenties and apparently flappers and dandies and mobsters were not well versed in the art of hydration beyond their moonshine and therefore did very little of the weeing. I am sure it had nothing to do with how expensive toliets and bathtubs were. Because we choose to live in a house that we love, in a neighborhood we love, we also have to deal with a few ugly truths. I feel it is only right that I share so others will understand. With great crown molding comes great responsibility.

I have advice for all those families who have at least two or more members and are looking at a house with one bathroom. It is doable, but you gotta know what you are getting into. Don't shudder and stop here because you don't want to to know. You need to know. Please, you have to understand. Dear lord...you must be prepared. 

1. If you are a couple, with no chilrens, one bathroom seems laughably doable. You are in love, you are not modest, there is nothing you don't want to share. I cannot stress enough that you will not always feel like this. Sometimes, you just don't want to put on makeup when your one true love is cutting his toenails. Cause that snip snip snip makes it hard to put on your face when your skin is literally crawling. And forget about feeling lovey dovey. When you are in the shower and someone must shadoob, it's a game changer. Game. Changer. We have never lived in a house with more than one bathroom. The only couples closer on this earth are the ones that crouch over a hole together in the jungle.

2. If you are a couple expecting, or have, a tiny one, you will look at your sweet little house with one bathroom and say, "we have a few years before potty training. We can totally add a bathroom on before our perfect child can even walk, much less be dropping it like its hot in a toilet instead of a diaper." But you probably won't do that. Because who wants to do construction when you have a newborn? And who can make any decisions about tile and shower heads when you haven't slept in a month? You could end up with a pink toilet with a squishy toilet seat and a heart shaped tub (I am sure that is what my subconscious would pick out). And once you have a baby, you are spending money on diapers and yoga pants and a rooftop carrier and coffee. Trust and believe that you will have one bathroom when that child is being potty trained. Please see #3.
The family that potties together stays together.
3. When a child is being potty trained, there is no putting them off. There is no, "hang on, mommy needs a minute to be alone." When they start a'knocking, let that kid in. The alternative is just not worth it. Especially if you have a runner in your hall (ours is sisal  which is code for impossible-to-clean-nooks-and-crannies). So therefore, one must be prepared to cut all visits to the toilet short. When you walk in, don't plan on committing to a long sit down. Ain't happening unless you are the only one home. 

4. With kids, you can NEVER count on being alone. If you need to do some sort of "landscaping" or you want to bleach your mustache alone, wait until everyone is out of the house. Otherwise, there is a chance you will permanently scar your children and give them something to tell their preschool teacher. No one wants to overhear, "my mommy has a hairy bod-ee and she pulls the hairs out with stickers and it makes her cry." Awk-ward. Also know you will not pee alone. You will not poop alone. Even if they don't really need to go, they will pretend they do. And then they will sit on their mini potty while you sit on the big potty and chat you up like you are just two people, sitting at the bus stop. 

5. There will be an uneven division of time. Someone will always get more. Ladies, you know what I am talking about. The men. Every one of my friends does not understand what takes their husbands so long in the b-room. I often wonder if we have a i-pad hidden in there I don't know about, or maybe an escape hatch lets him sneak down to the corner for a beer? This Is 40 hit the nail on the head. Get out of the bathroom and help me dammit. I don't get to sit in the bathroom while someone else monitors Lady Baby's scissor usage during craft time or finds something not embarrassing to pack in her lunchbox. You shouldn't get to either. (I totally yelled that in my head).

This is a true text that happened just this morning: Me (6:26am) I'd like to take a shower soon. I literally texted my husband from my bed to the toiley down the hall to get out because I had to bathe. This is what I am talking about people. We actually discuss at night the bathroom schedule in the morning. Like it's college. Except with work and responsibilities and a kid who is going to wake up and probably ruin the schedule anyway. And now Her Highness is throwing me out of the bathroom. Just yesterday, I am getting out of the shower and she comes in, sits down and says, "Mommy, please stop boddering me." I had to leave the bathroom so my child could deuce. Never mind she has a masters degree in boddering people on the potty. It's her bathroom...I'm just using it.

I just want y'all to know what you are getting into. Do I love my house with its awesome crown molding and high ceilings and front porch? Yes. Would I love to have a bathroom that does not have a revolving door? Absolutely. One of these days. Until then, it's all family all the time in the thunderbox.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

I Will Wreck This Car. Sweet Lord, I Will Wreck It.

I think my child wants us to die in a fiery car crash. In the car, it is on and on with the requests, demands, questions. "Mama look at this." "I can't reach my baby." "Mama roll my window down." "Mama, play Call me Maybe." "Tie my shoe." "Where is my chap stick?" And On. And On.  There is one thing that gets me every time. That makes me want to wreck the car out of frustration, if I don't do craning around trying to see what she is talking about. It is the following conversation:

A: Mama what is that.
Me: What?
A: That thing?
Me: Where?
A: Right there. * I look back in rear view mirror and she is pointing in a vague area toward the front of the car*
Me: Up here? *I gesture in the same vague way to dash/mirror/steering wheel/air around my head area*
A: Yes. That thing right there.
Me: This light?
A: No. NO. That thing. That thing right there.
Me: This?
A: That.
Me: This?
A: That.
Me: This?
A: NONONO. That.

We do a ten minute session of this. Basically just substitute every single thing in my field of vision in the front seat for "this light" and her answering me in the negatory. Awesome.

Do you know how crazy this type of thing can make a person? It ends with both of us out of breath and screeching at each other and totally confused. I feel like that only thing that can stop the madness is me getting smacked in the face by the airbag.

The worst part is 99% of the time, I never figure out exactly what she is asking me about. I get that she just wants to know things. She is three and curious and interested. But I am barely hanging on to my sanity as it is because we are late for school and I forgot her lunch and my tights are cutting off my circulation and my coffee is cold because I just dumped what I made an hour ago into my cup when we were running out the door and I forgot that it was show and share day and OH MY GOD FOR THE LOVE OF BABY JEEZUS I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT KID. It is like the dudes from Night at the Roxbury being interrogated by Home Land Security. 

The only thing that makes these intensive questions semi-tolerable is that I am not the only one subjected to it. The other morning Lady Baby was helping Hubs iron his shirt and they went through a whole "what's that thing, no that...no that...no that" and it made my heart sing. Then I offered to punch him in the face too.

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

The Badger vs. the Timer


Earlier this evening...

Me: Toodles, please pick up all your dress up clothes.
A: *stone cold silence*
Me: If you don't pick them up, I will put your princess dress (her most prized possession, the ripped up Little Mermaid dress that shows entirely too much bosom) in time out tonight and tomorrow.
A: *ignore ignore ignore. evil giggle to herself. more ignoring.*
Me: Dress up clothes in the bin. Now.
A: *waves of "you are dead to me" roll off her tiny body*

I go about my business cleaning the kitchen. Hubs is sitting on the couch talking to his parents on the phone, while Lady Baby gives his foot a full physical. She continues to ignore the fact that she is supposed to be cleaning up the den. Even when Daddy reminds her. She just continues to doctor his ailing foot. As if no one asked her to do anything, like clean up her own mess.

Me: Here is a timer. When it goes off in ten minutes, if this den is not clean and all dress up clothes in the bin, you will lose your dress.

I slam the timer down with the flourish of a mother who has done a good job.

A: wahhhhhhhh. *whine whine whine* heeeelllllppp meeee. waaaahhhhhhhaaaa. *starts to pick up a dress*

"This is how you parent," I think to myself. I am getting it done. DONE. She respects me because I am her mother, and I am in charge. I am setting limits and making rules. I am in charge you little El Diablo. You will not beat me.

Hubs (laughing to his mom): "Oh my god. Thea just brought the timer in, set it for ten minutes, and told your granddaughter to have everything picked up before it went off or her Ariel dress goes to time out. As soon as she walked out, A walked over to the timer, turned it to thirty minutes, set it back down and kept playing."

I overheard all that and my head exploded. Literally. Right off my neck, all over the kitchen that I had just sort-of cleaned. Then I laid dying in a fiery pool of righteous indignation mixed with desperation and feelings of inadequacy.

Well played Honey Badger, well played.

Someone please get me a conference call with Dr Sears, John Rosemond, Scary British Jo from Nanny 911, and Tiger Mom. I imagine them as The Avengers of parenting. I think it will take all of them to take down Lady Baby. 

So cute. Next time do your job, stupid.



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