Target. One of my all-time favorite one stop shops. You need a frozen pizza and some grape jelly? Go to Target. You need fishnet pantyhose and a pair of peace sign hoop earrings? Go to Target. Oh, what's that? You want a barbie toothbrush and some Batman underoos? Guess what! Yup, Target. Love that place. Taking all 3 children in 2 vehicles in 25 degree weather at 8 o'clock at night and realizing 5 minutes into the drive there that I may have remembered to comb the kids hair but damn if I remembered to do my own... yeah, not really loving it so much anymore.
Wait, let's not stray from the subject of combing for just a sec... I'd like to comment on both my own head and my daughter's for a brief moment because it will really set the scene for how people stared at us the entire time we in there tonight. Olivia's hair smelled like a "butterfly" per her dilusional father. I asked him at dinner "What the HELL does a butterfly smell like?" and he laughed. I think he thought that telling me something really cutesy and girly when I asked him what in God's dear name he had put on her head would somehow win me over. Nah, not so much. Not only did her head smell like Grandma at Junior Prom but it had coated her beautiful (and very out of control) curls into this Don-King-Meets-Elvis do' that literally could have landed her a main part in a Dr. Suess movie. You see, Daddy decided to go ahead and mousse her up with Mommy's Bath and Body Works Honeysuckle lotion. Oh well, she's 1 and a half, she's so darn cute no one will notice. Me, on the other hand, I should have just been plain ol' ashamed of myself. It was clean, that I was sure of. The 80 year old bun I had slicked back on my head, however, was another story. Add to that the fact that after catching the stomach bug from the kids and throwing up for hours I was forced into wearing my black framed 60's style crooked glasses because I had literally destroyed my contacts from the constant pressure of dry-heaving. I think there were maybe two small gel slicked curls hanging out of this lovely bun and several very long missed strands hanging down my neck. You know what? It'd been like that all freakin' day and I really wasn't in the mood to change it up. By the time I had everything packed to leave the house, the kids in their coats and shoes, the baby strapped in her seat, warmed up the cars, turned off all the lights, put leftover dinner in the fridge... AND got my grown ass husband ready... really, truly, my hair was probably number 104 on my priority list. Anything past 15 on that list usually goes in the forgotten pile anyway, never to return.
We pull in to the parking lot, looking like a posse pulling in from Kindercare. We are literally turning into a damn gang there are so many of us. Maybe we should come up with one of those cool finger hand symbol thingys. Eeeast sy-ide! On the other hand, maybe not. Ryan pulls the two older kiddos out of his car. I jump out of mine like I'm playing chinese fire drill because the cold air that bursts into my face as I open the door literally sucks my breath away. It doesn't help that I stopped to get Riley a milkshake that I promised him hours earlier. I think my hand is already stuck to the cup. I thrust it at him hoping he's got a grip on it and am waiting for my fingers to rip away from my hand as he pulls the cup to his mouth. GOD. IT IS COLD. I have the brainy idea to carry the baby in the infant carrier on my chest in the store. If I don't we will have to push two carts. Nah, not interested in that tonight. We are already becoming a spectacle. I don't want to make it any worse. It takes me 10 minutes to yank the baby out of her seat, she's so tiny I can't tell what's a leg and what's just part of the 5 point harness system. Stupid harness sytem, why are you always so difficult with me?? I pull her out, she makes that high pitched sucking a breath in noise and I instantly feel like I'm putting my newborns health in jeopardy. I do what comes to mind first, toss a huge blanket over her entire body as I hold her with one arm and pray she either has some air in there to survive on or can hold her breath until we get to the front door. Poor baby. If she only knew what she was in for in this family.
We spend another 3 minutes outside trying to direct Riley to where the actual "IN" door is and then another 2 minutes as he tries to spell it out. Really, Riley? NOW? Mommy isn't exactly in the intellectual mood if you haven't noticed. PLEASE JUST GET YOUR ASS INSIDE! No, I didn't say that... I just sorta kept walking until I rammed him from behind and bulldozed his tiny little butt into the store. He never knew what hit him. We spent another 12 minutes at the carts dismantling coats, putting on the infant carrier and other misc. odds and ends. People were already staring. Some smiled at the cute little newborn head popping out from my chest as I strapped her on. Some looked at us (or maybe it was Livy's doo-whop?) like we were out of our minds. I took on the attitude of not caring, I had too much to focus on anyway. During all this I pull the carrier straps over my head because, let's just face it, I'm way too lazy to unbuckle the sides and put it on the right way, and damn if I don't pull put out 50 different strands of random hair bundles from my awesome bun. GREAT. Now I look like Medusa. With glasses. I tried tucking in one, it didn't work. I figured the rest weren't going to cooperate either. I gave up. Besides, Riley had already occupied himself by discovering fake dog poop in the dollar bin and was announcing how great it was to some stranger walking by. Yup. My kid likes the poop. Get the horrified look off your face and keep on truckin' lady. Nobody cares what you think.
Things get pretty uneventful for awhile, hey it can't be comedy ALL of the time. We fast forward a little to the food department. At this point I've already discreetly yelled at Riley at least 97 times to stop acting so crazy. By the time we get to the ham in the refrigerated section I decide I don't care who hears me anymore and I declare to all around him in my loud other-worldly Mom voice that if he doesn't stop running and looking where he's going someone is going to run him over and crush his head into tiny little gooey pieces with their cart. The employee stocking soup on the shelves is trying hard to act like he doesn't hear what I'm saying and I can see that he's not sure if he should smile or just ignore us altogether. I push past him before he gets a chance to make a decision. Riley seems to have calmed down for the moment, well at least until he sees the millions of M&M's that someone has released all over the floor in the toy section and he thinks he'll roller skate on them. We make it to the diapers and he's actually being helpful. He even melts the heart of some lady standing next to us at the wipes when he says "Oh Mom, let me see Natalie! She's sleeping?! Awww! She's so beautiful when you walk around with her". I'd attempt to decipher exactly what he meant by that for you... but there really isn't any use. I have no idea. It was cute though, I'll give him that. We're finally moving on to the clothing and I'm beckoning for Ryan who's watching Olivia climb through all of the display cribs in her big pink and white tennis shoes and skin-tight cupcake pj's. Oh, I didn't mention those? Yeah, she was definitely a sight on this fine evening. There's not even a description I could begin to think of to describe my little monkey. When you add in the hair... I can't even go on.
Clearance rack: I'm checking out the little boy outfits that are $5 for two reasons. 1. My cousin's wife is having a boy in May and they'd make a nice gift. 2. What new Mother out there can resist those tiny little outfits that your dear child may only wear once if you're lucky... and it's only $5?! I'm sold. Several other women must have had the same idea because we all seem to be politely fighting through the two feet of rack to get the best steals of the day. Riley tells me and everyone around us that he sure wishes we had had a boy instead because he just found the cutest airplane shirt. I'm not surprised by the boy comment, he's still coming to terms. I was more shocked that my 4 year old was checking out the bargain rack. Wow. If his Dad could only see him now. I know what you're thinking, he's there in the store with you, right? Well, yes. Only he's chasing Livy who is extremely tired, cranky, insane and silly all at the same time. He's decided to release her from the cart and now he's almost killing himself running through the maze of clothing to keep up with her. She's really cute when she runs. You should see her. I don't think Ryan was having the same thought at that moment. I can especially attest to this when he finally caught her and slammed her down in the seat again, breathing hard and maybe even sweating a little.
Getting back to the bargain rack. We weren't there long, really. At one moment I'm looking at those little boy outfits with Riley beside me looking at the onesies on the lower rack. A much better height for him. The next thing I know he's disappeared. "Did he run off?" you might be thinking. "Oh, my! Did someone kidnap him? Lure him away with candy? A puppy perhaps?". Oh no, I'm not THAT lucky... No, my child was walking through the middle of the rack to the other side looking at the discounted Spider Man shirt AND he was basically walking right into some woman's crotch. Any person above the age of 4 would realize that they are not headed in the right direction and veer off to the right or left. Not 4 year olds. Nope, they assume that whatever is in their path will simply part one way or another for them to have clear passage. I say the first thing that comes to mind because that's just what I've been doing a lot these days. "Riley, please get out from underneath that woman's legs!". It doesn't sound right. I know it doesn't. People look at me. I desperately try to reach for Riley underneath all of the hanging clothes without letting the baby slide out of the carrier. I'm leaning low enough now that I'm pretty sure that could be a possibility. Before I can even touch him he's already running away. I try to apologize but my words trail off as I chase him over to the strollers. I didn't even look back to see if she heard me. I hoped that my actions were loud enough to make up for any lack of a formal apology. If not, oh well. Riley is now climbing into the umbrella strollers that are lying on the bottom shelf and when I scream at him (in a voice a little louder than intended, my nerves and patience were shot at this point) he says that he's just trying them out. The man standing closest to us smiles, he probably thinks this is funny. I smile back and I'm not sure why. It's not funny in the slightest and I just want to get the heck out of there. I've never wanted to leave Target so badly in my entire life. I've even given up hope of somehow tricking my dear hubby into covering the tab on our overflowing cart and beg him to just take the kids home in his car while I go to the checkout lines. I'm ready to sign over a blank check just to make this nightmare ends. As always he calms me down by telling me it's okay in his ever-patient voice and we proceed directly to check-out 3. Riley is already trying to persuade me to buy some new yo-yo device that he found in the aisle. Damn those last minute toys and trinkets that are just waiting for your bored child to eye up while you load the conveyor belt. I tell him no without even an explanation and surprisingly he tosses it down and goes with his Dad to load the cart. I fight with Olivia for a brief moment because even though she's 18 months she already knows that the credit card needs to be swiped in that cool black and gray machine thingy with all the buttons. She wants to do it. Could be a sign that Mommy uses the card a little too much or a sign of the times, who knows. I wouldn't be shocked if there are 18 month olds with cell phones at this point. Hell, mine can hold her fake Disney Princess cell phone alarmingly well with her shoulder up to her ear and multi-task with the other hand already. Scary. So my card goes through and I'm already dreading putting all of our coats back on and de-strapping the baby who is sound asleep. Let's not even mention how I felt about having to go back out into the cold and load the trunk. The check-out guy who has been silent until now asks how old the baby is. I kiss her head, yikes! Sorta forgot about her for the last hour. I tell him she's one month old. "WOW! So little!" he exclaims. He asks how old Livy is. 18 months (going on 18 years! I don't tell him that though) and she waves to him as if on cue. He looks at Riley. "How old are you young man?" he says. Riley gives him the cutest grin and holds up 4 fingers. I'm grinning from ear to ear. Wow, these kids are incredible. They truly are my babies and I adore them right down to their toes. Ryan and I say goodnight to the nice man and head for the door. A trip to the bathroom to wash hands and one tiny incident of Riley almost throwing up in the water fountain because he was a little over zealous and slurped in more than he could handle, and we were gone. We managed to load the kids, the bags and ourselves and came straight home to start the bedtime ritual of bottles, blankets, etc. All in all a good night. It might have been crazy but it was a much needed trip out of the house. Oh, and it was one more experience to make me think that it sure is tough these days but just when I'm ready to lose my mind these kids make me realize that I'm the luckiest Mommy alive.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Oh how I hate you Rotovirus
Winter. A time of beautiful white snow, icicles glistening on pine trees, cozy warm fires and above all else, that horrible infectious thing called the flu. Well, maybe the flu. Who knows anymore. It could be H1N1 or the more commonly known Swine Flu. It could be a cold, hell, it could even be malaria for all I know. Either way, it just plain sucks. What I'm learning very quickly is that God has decided that not only am I going to be brought up to speed on what it's like to have 3 very young children, but I'm also going to be tested... many many times. Afterall, if I can't handle a flu bug or two, how will I handle things when these children of mine are all in their teen years and I'm fretting over driver licenses and teen pregnancies? I've already decided the kids aren't leaving the house, let alone dating, until they are at least 33.
You may be noticing with these unbelievably captivating blogs of mine (insert laugh) that there is a trend forming. Some blogs tell tales of an event that's really happened while others are merely posted for informational purposes. Those that are informational are basically just a really big rant where I've decided to put my two cents in on how I see a situation. Unfortunately for me, this particular blog is not the latter. Not only is this real but it's happening as we speak. Yip, frickin, ee.
Let's take you back to a few weeks ago when this all started. If you hadn't heard, know this... I gave birth to my third child all while dealing with a major cold-like virus and fever. Okay, so yeah, the fever might have been mild (nothing like blowing your birth story out of proportion... c'mon, everybody does it). Look, the point is this, I spent the weekend before I had Natalie dying on the couch and making whoever owns Kleenex a very rich man... or woman, I don't discriminate. Go women business owners.
Oh, and just before that, our poor sickly children missed out on a major family Christmas party. I know I know, given the fact that the kids were hacking up a lung I should have seen it coming when I came down with the sniffles. It's kind of like being on death row. You know the inevitable is coming and you dread it, but what are you going to do about it? When you have young kids it's just a well known fact that you WILL get sick. So anyway, the kids were sick, I was sick... I came home from the hospital after Natalie was born and was STILL freakin' sick. Ryan decided shortly thereafter that it was his turn. So he was sick. Then Livy caught a cold. Sick Sick Sick. Story of our lives. I was honestly just sick of the word "sick".
While all of this is going on I'm desperately trying to protect a newborn and everyone else who isn't... well... you know... LOOK, don't make me say the word again. You know where I'm going with this. So, this past Saturday morning, we're talking 3 am, Ryan hears pitiful cries over the monitor from Livy's room. Aww, poor thing. She lost her binky again. Ryan tiptoes over to her room, puts the binky in her mouth, grabs the covers and... squish. Throw-up all over the blankets, the crib bumper, her precious blankie, the pillow case, everything. If it's in the crib, it's covered. Unbeknownst to me that this is all going on, I am in the other room fighting to keep my head from falling forward for the 87th time while breastfeeding. You know you are sleep-deprived when your husband is cleaning up your toddler's vomit in the middle of the night, she's in the tub happily playing as if nothing ever happened - what IS it with kids and fevers anyway?? - lights on everywhere, the washer is going, the dryer is running... and all I can think is "Man! He must really be having a hard time finding that binky!" Did I for once think what in the hell might be taking him 20 minutes? Nope. Did I worry? Nu-uh. Did I even attempt to check on him? Negative. Instead, I put the baby back in her bed next to me and silently prayed that THIS time she would stay asleep when I laid her down and by the time my head hit my pillow I was already blacking out. Two hours later I awoke to an empty void on the opposite side of the bed and realized something was very wrong. If you want to know what your brain comes up with at that time of the morning when you've already been awake at least 8 times since midnight, it's this: Oh my god... Ryan did it. He ran away in the middle of the night. That bastard left me with all these kids. Alone. I'm. Going. To. Kill. Him. You laugh, and so do I now, but that was honestly the first thing that popped into my head. I even took an extra moment to see if his recently used duffel bag was still on the floor or packed and gone. I quickly realized this was not the case when I saw his shadow pass by the hallway wall through the crack of our bedroom door. Whew! He's still here. Thank you JESUS. Yeah, I say that a lot. So sue me.
Long story short as Ryan's Dad likes to say... Livy had a virus. The nasty kind with things coming out of all places and multiple tub scrubbings and Shop-vac cleanings of the couch becoming necessary every hour or so. Ryan was an absolute champ. He didn't even wake me. Man, I love that guy.
Mid-day Saturday our little Livy was feeling much better and I let out a sigh of relief that the rest of us were in good shape. The worst was over! Woohoo! We were in the clear and almost escaped completely unscathed. Not only that but the couch even got a good cleaning and those hundreds of juice and milk stains were nowhere to be found! Bonus!
I was absolutely living the high life... until this morning. Even then, my high life had only turned into mid-life. Riley jumped into my bed at his usual 7:30 am time and crawled under the covers. Awwww, how cute. He's really starting to catch on that Mommy likes to sleep until 8. I turn over to give him a gentle "Atta Boy" pat on the head and my stomach falls. Damn, he's burning up. Never fear though, he might be hot but he's acting completely normal. We eventually get up, the baby is hungry again, Riley's hungry, I am desperate for coffee and I hear Livy's cute little voice over the monitor "Where's Wi-Wee?". That's toddler gibberish for "Where's Riley?" if you haven't figured it out already. All is right in the world except for Riley's one minor setback. But hey, he's asking for Captain Crunch so it can't be that bad right? Yeah... right.
By 4 pm Ryan has managed to come home early (which he never does) and he announces that he's left the office because he didn't want to... well... I won't embarass him. He didn't feel well and he just didn't want to do anything in his office that not feeling well might bring on in an instantaneous manner. Nuff said. I tell him "Oh, I'm sorry you don't feel well. Riley has a mild fever but he's napping on the couch. Maybe you should do the same?" and I'm simultaneously thinking that it can't be that bad because Ryan now wants to know where the bag of pretzels from the pantry are and Riley just ate another bowl of Captain Crunch AND asked for chocolate milk. Who has an upset stomach and asks for milk? Exactly. A 4 year old. Guess I should have considered all that before I agreed to the 3rd cup of that dreaded beverage. I sit down on the opposite couch from little Riley, looking at him so lovingly. He's my baby boy and he doesn't feel good. I love him so much, I wish I could make it all go away. Meanwhile, I'm holding Natalie the peanut who is going to town on her 5th lunch of the day. Man is she an eater! Riley must know I'm thinking about him because he opens his eyes and looks at me. Those light blue eyes. He's so cute. I know I'm his Mom so my opinion is biased, but he really is a good lookin' kid. I watch him, he watches me. He starts to look funny. He closes his eyes. His stomach is moving but it's not in rhythm with his breathing anymore. Uh-oh. I say to him "Riley, does your stomach hurt or feel sick?" as if he's going to know the difference. Dear Jesus what is wrong with me? He says "It hurts". I ask him "Do you have to throw up?". He adamantly denies it. No, only his stomach hurts. He leans back farther into the couch and grabs his belly. "Riley! Do you have to throw-up because if you do...." and that's pretty much as far as I get. Chocolate milk and Captain Crunch pieces go flying everywhere. Chocolate milk that I decided was a really good idea to give him at the time because after all, everyone knows you can't take Motrin on an empty stomach! Chocolate milk that is now covering 1/3 of the couch and floor and the new pillow and rug I got for Christmas. I start to yell and then I stop. First, I can't get up. I am still nursing the baby. Second, why in God's name would I ever think for a single minute that this poor kid could tell me not only that he has to throw up but then gingerly get up from the couch, walk down the hall, open the bathroom door, pull up the lid to the toilet and then proceed to spew directly into the bowl. Most adults don't even make it that far. I do the only thing I can at that moment, scream to Ryan who is resting in the bedroom to come help. He gets the short end of the stick pretty often I realize. Again, like a super hero, he comes to our rescue. I can tell he's trying not to lose it himself as he picks up Riley and heads toward the tub. He's such a good Daddy. Don't you think? Meanwhile, me, who seems to be becoming more and more throw-up-a-phobic with each kid I add to this family, can't even look at the dark brown stain on our light beige couch. After much cleaning and another trip with the Shop-vac, the only sign of any disturbance is the wet stain on the cushion and the fan that is blowing vomit fumes my way. I gotta get out of here. I try to make it sound as loving and concerned as possible when I announce that I'm going to the store for chicken soup and ginger ale. Will drop off Livy at the grandparents and take the baby with me. Ryan agrees, whew! I put my shoes and coat on faster than you can say "VOMIT!" and am dragging Livy and the baby out the front door. I'm pretty sure I haven't brushed my hair or teeth today which is probably TMI, but you know what? I'm dealing with the plague in my house and I don't really give a damn right now. If my breath stinks maybe you should just look the other way checkout boy. I've got bigger problems. I succeed in getting the needed items from the store, drop them off at home, and go back to relieve Grandpa of Livy duty. After making him some dinner to show my appreciation I head home. Afterall, Ryan isn't feeling well and I want to be there for him and my baby boy if they need some TLC. So long as they keep their germs to themselves, that is. All is as good as can be expected when I get there. I dispense the ginger ale like a good Mother and wife would do in this situation. I ask everyone if they are okay, do they need anything? Nope, all is fine. In fact, Riley hasn't even thrown up since I left! Yay! I leave Riley and Dad to their movie in the bedroom and sit down here to do a bit of catching up on Facebook, e-mails, etc. It's rare that the baby and Livy are sleeping at the same time and with Riley and Ryan preoccupied I get a rare moment to myself. I'm actually excited. After 20 minutes of bliss I hear the bedroom door open. It's Riley. He seems chipper. "Mom," he says in that perfect little high-pitched boy voice "I just loved that movie you got for me. It was great!". I smile. I'm thrilled I decided at the last minute to hit up the Red Box movie thing when I went shopping on Sunday. I love bringing home special little treats and surprises for him. The look on his face is always priceless. I tell him I'm so glad and ask him how he's feeling. I can see that Ryan has gotten crafty and given him our bright orange Halloween candy bowl with black spider decals all over it as a safety back-up for up-chucking. He might miss, he might not. If there's a chance we'll have to clean less from the floor or couch, I say go for it dude. He smiles at me, my heart melts, he takes his bowl and sippy cup of ginger ale over toward the couch and is in mid sentence of telling me about the movie when his face changes. He holds the bowl out in front of him and proceeds to throw up down himself with only a small portion actually making it into the bowl. Oh, and the sippy cup is now swimming in it. Yep. Another "day in the life of three" for me. Only this time I realize that Ryan is passed out in bed and I wouldn't dare wake him. Looks like this one is on me people. Life of Three going solo. I usher Riley to the tub... his second trip there for the day... and tell him what a good job he did on trying to make it into the bowl. Next time maybe he could hold it a little closer. He laughs. "Hey Mom?" "Yeah Riley?" "Do you think I could get some more of that delicious soda?" Without hesitation he grabs his cup right out of the regurgitated ginger ale and thrusts it at me. He's got the enthusiasm of a child who realizes he's finally found his answer for conning his parents into multiple glasses of a sugar-laden soft drink for the day and then proceeds to dry heave over my bare feet. Winter. You can suck my big left toe with a hang nail the size of Texas. Spring can't get here soon enough.
You may be noticing with these unbelievably captivating blogs of mine (insert laugh) that there is a trend forming. Some blogs tell tales of an event that's really happened while others are merely posted for informational purposes. Those that are informational are basically just a really big rant where I've decided to put my two cents in on how I see a situation. Unfortunately for me, this particular blog is not the latter. Not only is this real but it's happening as we speak. Yip, frickin, ee.
Let's take you back to a few weeks ago when this all started. If you hadn't heard, know this... I gave birth to my third child all while dealing with a major cold-like virus and fever. Okay, so yeah, the fever might have been mild (nothing like blowing your birth story out of proportion... c'mon, everybody does it). Look, the point is this, I spent the weekend before I had Natalie dying on the couch and making whoever owns Kleenex a very rich man... or woman, I don't discriminate. Go women business owners.
Oh, and just before that, our poor sickly children missed out on a major family Christmas party. I know I know, given the fact that the kids were hacking up a lung I should have seen it coming when I came down with the sniffles. It's kind of like being on death row. You know the inevitable is coming and you dread it, but what are you going to do about it? When you have young kids it's just a well known fact that you WILL get sick. So anyway, the kids were sick, I was sick... I came home from the hospital after Natalie was born and was STILL freakin' sick. Ryan decided shortly thereafter that it was his turn. So he was sick. Then Livy caught a cold. Sick Sick Sick. Story of our lives. I was honestly just sick of the word "sick".
While all of this is going on I'm desperately trying to protect a newborn and everyone else who isn't... well... you know... LOOK, don't make me say the word again. You know where I'm going with this. So, this past Saturday morning, we're talking 3 am, Ryan hears pitiful cries over the monitor from Livy's room. Aww, poor thing. She lost her binky again. Ryan tiptoes over to her room, puts the binky in her mouth, grabs the covers and... squish. Throw-up all over the blankets, the crib bumper, her precious blankie, the pillow case, everything. If it's in the crib, it's covered. Unbeknownst to me that this is all going on, I am in the other room fighting to keep my head from falling forward for the 87th time while breastfeeding. You know you are sleep-deprived when your husband is cleaning up your toddler's vomit in the middle of the night, she's in the tub happily playing as if nothing ever happened - what IS it with kids and fevers anyway?? - lights on everywhere, the washer is going, the dryer is running... and all I can think is "Man! He must really be having a hard time finding that binky!" Did I for once think what in the hell might be taking him 20 minutes? Nope. Did I worry? Nu-uh. Did I even attempt to check on him? Negative. Instead, I put the baby back in her bed next to me and silently prayed that THIS time she would stay asleep when I laid her down and by the time my head hit my pillow I was already blacking out. Two hours later I awoke to an empty void on the opposite side of the bed and realized something was very wrong. If you want to know what your brain comes up with at that time of the morning when you've already been awake at least 8 times since midnight, it's this: Oh my god... Ryan did it. He ran away in the middle of the night. That bastard left me with all these kids. Alone. I'm. Going. To. Kill. Him. You laugh, and so do I now, but that was honestly the first thing that popped into my head. I even took an extra moment to see if his recently used duffel bag was still on the floor or packed and gone. I quickly realized this was not the case when I saw his shadow pass by the hallway wall through the crack of our bedroom door. Whew! He's still here. Thank you JESUS. Yeah, I say that a lot. So sue me.
Long story short as Ryan's Dad likes to say... Livy had a virus. The nasty kind with things coming out of all places and multiple tub scrubbings and Shop-vac cleanings of the couch becoming necessary every hour or so. Ryan was an absolute champ. He didn't even wake me. Man, I love that guy.
Mid-day Saturday our little Livy was feeling much better and I let out a sigh of relief that the rest of us were in good shape. The worst was over! Woohoo! We were in the clear and almost escaped completely unscathed. Not only that but the couch even got a good cleaning and those hundreds of juice and milk stains were nowhere to be found! Bonus!
I was absolutely living the high life... until this morning. Even then, my high life had only turned into mid-life. Riley jumped into my bed at his usual 7:30 am time and crawled under the covers. Awwww, how cute. He's really starting to catch on that Mommy likes to sleep until 8. I turn over to give him a gentle "Atta Boy" pat on the head and my stomach falls. Damn, he's burning up. Never fear though, he might be hot but he's acting completely normal. We eventually get up, the baby is hungry again, Riley's hungry, I am desperate for coffee and I hear Livy's cute little voice over the monitor "Where's Wi-Wee?". That's toddler gibberish for "Where's Riley?" if you haven't figured it out already. All is right in the world except for Riley's one minor setback. But hey, he's asking for Captain Crunch so it can't be that bad right? Yeah... right.
By 4 pm Ryan has managed to come home early (which he never does) and he announces that he's left the office because he didn't want to... well... I won't embarass him. He didn't feel well and he just didn't want to do anything in his office that not feeling well might bring on in an instantaneous manner. Nuff said. I tell him "Oh, I'm sorry you don't feel well. Riley has a mild fever but he's napping on the couch. Maybe you should do the same?" and I'm simultaneously thinking that it can't be that bad because Ryan now wants to know where the bag of pretzels from the pantry are and Riley just ate another bowl of Captain Crunch AND asked for chocolate milk. Who has an upset stomach and asks for milk? Exactly. A 4 year old. Guess I should have considered all that before I agreed to the 3rd cup of that dreaded beverage. I sit down on the opposite couch from little Riley, looking at him so lovingly. He's my baby boy and he doesn't feel good. I love him so much, I wish I could make it all go away. Meanwhile, I'm holding Natalie the peanut who is going to town on her 5th lunch of the day. Man is she an eater! Riley must know I'm thinking about him because he opens his eyes and looks at me. Those light blue eyes. He's so cute. I know I'm his Mom so my opinion is biased, but he really is a good lookin' kid. I watch him, he watches me. He starts to look funny. He closes his eyes. His stomach is moving but it's not in rhythm with his breathing anymore. Uh-oh. I say to him "Riley, does your stomach hurt or feel sick?" as if he's going to know the difference. Dear Jesus what is wrong with me? He says "It hurts". I ask him "Do you have to throw up?". He adamantly denies it. No, only his stomach hurts. He leans back farther into the couch and grabs his belly. "Riley! Do you have to throw-up because if you do...." and that's pretty much as far as I get. Chocolate milk and Captain Crunch pieces go flying everywhere. Chocolate milk that I decided was a really good idea to give him at the time because after all, everyone knows you can't take Motrin on an empty stomach! Chocolate milk that is now covering 1/3 of the couch and floor and the new pillow and rug I got for Christmas. I start to yell and then I stop. First, I can't get up. I am still nursing the baby. Second, why in God's name would I ever think for a single minute that this poor kid could tell me not only that he has to throw up but then gingerly get up from the couch, walk down the hall, open the bathroom door, pull up the lid to the toilet and then proceed to spew directly into the bowl. Most adults don't even make it that far. I do the only thing I can at that moment, scream to Ryan who is resting in the bedroom to come help. He gets the short end of the stick pretty often I realize. Again, like a super hero, he comes to our rescue. I can tell he's trying not to lose it himself as he picks up Riley and heads toward the tub. He's such a good Daddy. Don't you think? Meanwhile, me, who seems to be becoming more and more throw-up-a-phobic with each kid I add to this family, can't even look at the dark brown stain on our light beige couch. After much cleaning and another trip with the Shop-vac, the only sign of any disturbance is the wet stain on the cushion and the fan that is blowing vomit fumes my way. I gotta get out of here. I try to make it sound as loving and concerned as possible when I announce that I'm going to the store for chicken soup and ginger ale. Will drop off Livy at the grandparents and take the baby with me. Ryan agrees, whew! I put my shoes and coat on faster than you can say "VOMIT!" and am dragging Livy and the baby out the front door. I'm pretty sure I haven't brushed my hair or teeth today which is probably TMI, but you know what? I'm dealing with the plague in my house and I don't really give a damn right now. If my breath stinks maybe you should just look the other way checkout boy. I've got bigger problems. I succeed in getting the needed items from the store, drop them off at home, and go back to relieve Grandpa of Livy duty. After making him some dinner to show my appreciation I head home. Afterall, Ryan isn't feeling well and I want to be there for him and my baby boy if they need some TLC. So long as they keep their germs to themselves, that is. All is as good as can be expected when I get there. I dispense the ginger ale like a good Mother and wife would do in this situation. I ask everyone if they are okay, do they need anything? Nope, all is fine. In fact, Riley hasn't even thrown up since I left! Yay! I leave Riley and Dad to their movie in the bedroom and sit down here to do a bit of catching up on Facebook, e-mails, etc. It's rare that the baby and Livy are sleeping at the same time and with Riley and Ryan preoccupied I get a rare moment to myself. I'm actually excited. After 20 minutes of bliss I hear the bedroom door open. It's Riley. He seems chipper. "Mom," he says in that perfect little high-pitched boy voice "I just loved that movie you got for me. It was great!". I smile. I'm thrilled I decided at the last minute to hit up the Red Box movie thing when I went shopping on Sunday. I love bringing home special little treats and surprises for him. The look on his face is always priceless. I tell him I'm so glad and ask him how he's feeling. I can see that Ryan has gotten crafty and given him our bright orange Halloween candy bowl with black spider decals all over it as a safety back-up for up-chucking. He might miss, he might not. If there's a chance we'll have to clean less from the floor or couch, I say go for it dude. He smiles at me, my heart melts, he takes his bowl and sippy cup of ginger ale over toward the couch and is in mid sentence of telling me about the movie when his face changes. He holds the bowl out in front of him and proceeds to throw up down himself with only a small portion actually making it into the bowl. Oh, and the sippy cup is now swimming in it. Yep. Another "day in the life of three" for me. Only this time I realize that Ryan is passed out in bed and I wouldn't dare wake him. Looks like this one is on me people. Life of Three going solo. I usher Riley to the tub... his second trip there for the day... and tell him what a good job he did on trying to make it into the bowl. Next time maybe he could hold it a little closer. He laughs. "Hey Mom?" "Yeah Riley?" "Do you think I could get some more of that delicious soda?" Without hesitation he grabs his cup right out of the regurgitated ginger ale and thrusts it at me. He's got the enthusiasm of a child who realizes he's finally found his answer for conning his parents into multiple glasses of a sugar-laden soft drink for the day and then proceeds to dry heave over my bare feet. Winter. You can suck my big left toe with a hang nail the size of Texas. Spring can't get here soon enough.
Breastfeeding and a bike.
Women are judgmental. Guys cringe. You're basically damned if you don't, and well... yeah, "damned if you don't" pretty much sums it up. Fortunately for me, I've been blessed to be able to nurse all of my children. I'd like to think that has something to do with their good bill of health and superior intelligence so far. Let's take a moment to relive the journey and reflect back on the ups and downs of breastfeeding. Isn't that what we're really all about here anyway people? Reflecting? Alright, get that confused look off your face and I'll explain.
They (whoever "they" are) say that breastfeeding is like riding a bike. Once you've done it, you never forget. What "they" so lovingly forgot to mention is that with each subsequent child the bike riding gets a teeny tiny bit more difficult. I like to compare it to riding a bike that's been in the garage for a few years, tires sagging and in serious need of $5,000 Brazilian implants... um, I mean a good air pump, yeah... air pump. Back to the bike... did I mention this sweet ride comes with a state of the art toddler seat attached to the back and a trailer hitched to the rear wheel? Yes, my friends, we are stylin'. You see, the infamous "they" also like to make you think that breastfeeding is a solo project. A special bonding time between you and your precious little one. So fresh and new, you will spend countless hours staring into each other's eyes while your body produces the perfect blend of ingredients to fit your baby's needs. Your baby will drink this and become full of pure whole-hearted goodness. You are both a wonder of God at that exact moment and you can almost see the love in your baby's eyes. As for your love, wow... in those quiet minutes between Mother and child it's almost as if an outsider could literally see it pouring from you. Suddenly, out of nowhere: BAM! A sticky, fuzz laden hand comes from below you and punches the baby in the head. Next, it grabs your pinky in an excruciatingly painful black ninja hold and pulls you in an attempt to get you to follow it to the kitchen, no the living room... no, wait, the dining room... maybe the playroom... oh hell, just follow it - it'll figure out where it wants you to go eventually. Yep, it's your toddler. Oh, and contrary to what experts think, she believes breastfeeding sucks. Let's take a moment and strap her crazy ass down in the toddler seat on the bike for safe-keeping. We'll get back to her soon I promise. Wouldn't want to leave her unattended now would we? Next, your 4 year old decides the best idea he's had all day is to ask you to turn on a movie while single-handedly making him a snack and simultaneously looking at every commercial on the Disney channel that advertises the most expensive toys on the market. "Look Mom! I want THAT!... and THAT! Mom!! You are NOT looking! OH MY GOD MOM! You just missed it! GOD! I told you to look!!". Yeah, 4 year olds require TONS of exclamation marks and capitalizing. They are demanding and dramatic like that. All the while, the baby is still attached to my boob. Yeah, she's still there. The tiniest, most helpless member of our family is holding on like a champ. I love her for this. Fighting for her place amongst her siblings. I look down at her and smile "You sure are tough, little peanut". Okay, so lets toss... er, uh, place the 4 year old in the trailer attached to the rear wheel now. Afterall, we are getting ready to take off and we can't leave him behind! Breastfeeding is a group effort. Damn it. And did I mention that I'm doing this all one-handed? Yep, I could make dinner for a table of 10, shave my legs and mow the lawn all while that little bundle is still attached. I'm just that good.
So let's use our imaginations here for a sec: 4 year old in the trailer with his rolling Spider Man back pack full of 3,000 intricate choking hazard toys, a blankie, 5 stuffed animals, a packet of fruit snacks, a ham sandwich with the crusts cut off and a cup of extra chocolately chocolate milk. Toddler in the seat with her blankie, a binky, a bobby (a.k.a. bottle for those of you not in "the know"), a random piece of tape, an old used sticker, a battery and a blue marker. Me, riding on the bike seat while nursing the newborn in one hand who still has a stinky diaper on from this morning, my blouse tails flapping in the wind (who are we kidding here... a blouse? Yeah right) - my husbands rather large and now crusty black t-shirt flapping in the wind up over my head because really, do we milk machines EVER have time to cover our boobs for extended periods of time? Formula and a bottle full of warm water wrapped in foil latched on to the handle bars for good measure because we just never know when our milk will be stubborn, decide to play games and piss our babies off. A boppy pillow hanging by a thread from the front brake pad being torn to shreds on the pavement because it's something that "they" say all breastfeeders should have but in the end we dish out $45 on something that is just a conversation piece. Oh, and if you haven't figured it out yet, we've taken off at this point and have managed to get about a block before the toddler and 4 year old are both protesting that they are bored and want to go home. Well, the toddler can't really tell me this. A series of slaps to my face and one good temper tantrum sorta spelled it out for me. Baby is still hanging on but I fear the constant tugging is doing nothing but bad things for my poor milk bags. They outta be good and pretty by the time she's 6 months. I really do hate stretch marks. Okay, we have the formula, the bottle, the boppy... and yes! The endless chain of burp cloths which I've tied around my head like a bandana because I've run out of room on the bike (maybe I should purchase a handle bar basket?). At this point, and let's just face the facts here, I look like Rambo-the-half-naked-and-crazy-homeless-woman transporting her entire life and litter of children down the streets of D.C. on a slowly deflating bike at 1.3 mph. Oh and let us not forget the endless stream of men on the sidewalk who are shielding their eyes from my bare chest. Sure, at one point they ruled your life but NOW you are disgusted by them. Men. Go figure. The good news is that I think the baby actually drank something. How much? Who the hell knows at this point but I'm going to go ahead and guess that 5 minutes of nursing is better than no nursing at all. I detach her from the boob, poor little bird mouth moving from side to side because she's certainly not even close to full yet... and it's already been 45 minutes since she last ate! Oh the horror! I release the hounds, I mean kids, back to the house, stomp on the boppy pillow out of pure repulsion, use the burp cloth to wipe my sweaty brow and toss that piece of shit bike in the trash can on my way to the front door. Screw it, I'll vow to extra power breastfeed her for 10 whole glorious minutes next time! It'll be great, you'll see. For now, the bottle will be my new breast... I mean best, friend. Thank you Enfamil Lipil. Reflect on them apples, La Leche League.
They (whoever "they" are) say that breastfeeding is like riding a bike. Once you've done it, you never forget. What "they" so lovingly forgot to mention is that with each subsequent child the bike riding gets a teeny tiny bit more difficult. I like to compare it to riding a bike that's been in the garage for a few years, tires sagging and in serious need of $5,000 Brazilian implants... um, I mean a good air pump, yeah... air pump. Back to the bike... did I mention this sweet ride comes with a state of the art toddler seat attached to the back and a trailer hitched to the rear wheel? Yes, my friends, we are stylin'. You see, the infamous "they" also like to make you think that breastfeeding is a solo project. A special bonding time between you and your precious little one. So fresh and new, you will spend countless hours staring into each other's eyes while your body produces the perfect blend of ingredients to fit your baby's needs. Your baby will drink this and become full of pure whole-hearted goodness. You are both a wonder of God at that exact moment and you can almost see the love in your baby's eyes. As for your love, wow... in those quiet minutes between Mother and child it's almost as if an outsider could literally see it pouring from you. Suddenly, out of nowhere: BAM! A sticky, fuzz laden hand comes from below you and punches the baby in the head. Next, it grabs your pinky in an excruciatingly painful black ninja hold and pulls you in an attempt to get you to follow it to the kitchen, no the living room... no, wait, the dining room... maybe the playroom... oh hell, just follow it - it'll figure out where it wants you to go eventually. Yep, it's your toddler. Oh, and contrary to what experts think, she believes breastfeeding sucks. Let's take a moment and strap her crazy ass down in the toddler seat on the bike for safe-keeping. We'll get back to her soon I promise. Wouldn't want to leave her unattended now would we? Next, your 4 year old decides the best idea he's had all day is to ask you to turn on a movie while single-handedly making him a snack and simultaneously looking at every commercial on the Disney channel that advertises the most expensive toys on the market. "Look Mom! I want THAT!... and THAT! Mom!! You are NOT looking! OH MY GOD MOM! You just missed it! GOD! I told you to look!!". Yeah, 4 year olds require TONS of exclamation marks and capitalizing. They are demanding and dramatic like that. All the while, the baby is still attached to my boob. Yeah, she's still there. The tiniest, most helpless member of our family is holding on like a champ. I love her for this. Fighting for her place amongst her siblings. I look down at her and smile "You sure are tough, little peanut". Okay, so lets toss... er, uh, place the 4 year old in the trailer attached to the rear wheel now. Afterall, we are getting ready to take off and we can't leave him behind! Breastfeeding is a group effort. Damn it. And did I mention that I'm doing this all one-handed? Yep, I could make dinner for a table of 10, shave my legs and mow the lawn all while that little bundle is still attached. I'm just that good.
So let's use our imaginations here for a sec: 4 year old in the trailer with his rolling Spider Man back pack full of 3,000 intricate choking hazard toys, a blankie, 5 stuffed animals, a packet of fruit snacks, a ham sandwich with the crusts cut off and a cup of extra chocolately chocolate milk. Toddler in the seat with her blankie, a binky, a bobby (a.k.a. bottle for those of you not in "the know"), a random piece of tape, an old used sticker, a battery and a blue marker. Me, riding on the bike seat while nursing the newborn in one hand who still has a stinky diaper on from this morning, my blouse tails flapping in the wind (who are we kidding here... a blouse? Yeah right) - my husbands rather large and now crusty black t-shirt flapping in the wind up over my head because really, do we milk machines EVER have time to cover our boobs for extended periods of time? Formula and a bottle full of warm water wrapped in foil latched on to the handle bars for good measure because we just never know when our milk will be stubborn, decide to play games and piss our babies off. A boppy pillow hanging by a thread from the front brake pad being torn to shreds on the pavement because it's something that "they" say all breastfeeders should have but in the end we dish out $45 on something that is just a conversation piece. Oh, and if you haven't figured it out yet, we've taken off at this point and have managed to get about a block before the toddler and 4 year old are both protesting that they are bored and want to go home. Well, the toddler can't really tell me this. A series of slaps to my face and one good temper tantrum sorta spelled it out for me. Baby is still hanging on but I fear the constant tugging is doing nothing but bad things for my poor milk bags. They outta be good and pretty by the time she's 6 months. I really do hate stretch marks. Okay, we have the formula, the bottle, the boppy... and yes! The endless chain of burp cloths which I've tied around my head like a bandana because I've run out of room on the bike (maybe I should purchase a handle bar basket?). At this point, and let's just face the facts here, I look like Rambo-the-half-naked-and-crazy-homeless-woman transporting her entire life and litter of children down the streets of D.C. on a slowly deflating bike at 1.3 mph. Oh and let us not forget the endless stream of men on the sidewalk who are shielding their eyes from my bare chest. Sure, at one point they ruled your life but NOW you are disgusted by them. Men. Go figure. The good news is that I think the baby actually drank something. How much? Who the hell knows at this point but I'm going to go ahead and guess that 5 minutes of nursing is better than no nursing at all. I detach her from the boob, poor little bird mouth moving from side to side because she's certainly not even close to full yet... and it's already been 45 minutes since she last ate! Oh the horror! I release the hounds, I mean kids, back to the house, stomp on the boppy pillow out of pure repulsion, use the burp cloth to wipe my sweaty brow and toss that piece of shit bike in the trash can on my way to the front door. Screw it, I'll vow to extra power breastfeed her for 10 whole glorious minutes next time! It'll be great, you'll see. For now, the bottle will be my new breast... I mean best, friend. Thank you Enfamil Lipil. Reflect on them apples, La Leche League.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Really, Livy? It's not even built yet.
Just put Olivia (a.k.a. Livy) down for a nap and it's only the third try today. She's a mean little booger when she's not feeling well. Guess it doesn't help that I got over zealous in wanting to put together the new dresser we bought for the girl's room and decided the perfect place to construct it was in the middle of their bedroom floor. Yay, go me. I'm full of smart ideas today. Did I also mention there was (please take note that I'm using WAS in it's complete and full meaning here) a rather large bag included of very small nuts and bolts, wooden pegs and other misc. pieces that were probably very important. I can't say for sure how it happened, but in the moment it took me to reach for the Phillip's head screw driver Livy managed to find this bag of goodies, pick it up and make it explode onto the floor. And here you thought I was just over exaggerating when I said "ornery". Of course, I can in no way shape or form blame her for this event. It was I, her 27 year old adult Mother, who decided it was a grand idea to leave this bag within her reach in the first place. It's taken me about an hour, but I'm pretty sure I have most -if not all- of the parts picked up. I'm already having nightmares of a forgotten piece being lodged in my baby girl's throat. Maybe I should go double check just to be on the safe side....
Alright, no other pieces to be found. Back to the story... so while all of this explosiveness of screws and nails is going on, I've also lost my mind just enough to give Riley a large ziploc bag of markers and pencils to draw on the box that this dresser arrived in. You know, doing my part in encouraging arts and crafts in young minds or something like that. So he's carrying along with his drawings when all of a sudden I hear it "OLIVIA! NO! NO!". I go running. Unsupervised children. Markers. OH MY GOD, I left the baby in her rocker at ground level. What the hell was I thinking?! I envision the newborn with caveman-like drawings all over her pretty little round face. I'm in the living room in 2 seconds flat and am positively elated that the baby is unscathed. I'm even more elated to find that Livy has simply stolen a blue colored pencil from her brother and I don't see any evidence of it on the walls or furniture or herself. Thank you JESUS.
I confiscate the colored pencil and put it on the desk and am back with the dresser pieces in no time flat. I've decided I'm just so good at this building thing that I'm going to not only have this dresser built in time to impress my husband when he gets home but I'm also playing with the idea of sorting out ALL of the girl's clothing and putting everything away! Hell, I might even color coordinate at this point! Things are going GREAT!
Yeah, it's usually at this point of my feeling an overall sense of well-being and looking forward to any type of future plan for the day that I get a good ol' fashioned dose of reality. I hear it again "OLIVIA! NO! NO!" only this time it's followed by "OH MY GOD MOM, COME HERE!". Panic. Just pure cold panic goes through me. Before I continue on, let me make note that only half of the dresser pieces are with me at this point. The rest are lying in nice piles in the living room... with the kids... and the markers. I probably don't have to spell it out for you, but I will. I will because I just want you to know the severity of "Mommy Brain" that I've succombed to. This was the beautiful white dresser that my husband and I both agreed would be around for at least 10 -15 years. Okay, so he mostly talked about it being around that long. I just nodded my head profusely and said "Sure!" because I knew that was the only way we'd ever purchase the damn thing and get it home. The dresser that we (well, okay HE) talked on and on about trying to make sure it was the right color and would match with everything else now had blue heiroglyphics all over the large left side panel. I know this because I was busily pushing wooden spoke type things into the RIGHT side panel in the other room. Yup. All those blood pumping endorphin kicking thoughts of "I am woman, see me build!" came crashing down like a freight train. Now the only vision I had was of Ryan coming home and me wondering how long it'd take him to realize the entire two boxes of dresser parts were completely missing. I'd just go store them in my trunk until the time was right and dispose of them in the mall parking lot dumpster or something. Wait, I know! I'd tell tell Ryan that we must have been robbed! Either that or just act like the dresser never even existed. You see, it has nothing to do with the $119.99 that we spent on it, it's more or less the fact that I lost my brain and made it possible for our 1 year old daughter to have access to markers in the first place. Ughhh... it's a cruel cruel world and it just bitch slapped me in the face yet again!
I ran to the dresser piece and without thinking spit right on the drawings (which is so gross, I didn't even think I knew how to spit!) and rubbed as hard as I could with my brand new pink bath robe sleeve that I just got for Christmas. Great, ruin the robe. I guess I wasn't thinking that far ahead. A few swipes and a smile began to spread across my face. Hey, I might have Mommy Brain but I at least had the sense to buy washable markers. I said another "Thank you JESUS" and threw every last one of those damn markers on top of the fridge. Crisis #134 of the day: AVERTED. You'll have to forgive me though, my enthusiasm for building the dresser just isn't what it used to be. I think I'll let Ryan finish this one thank you very much.
Alright, no other pieces to be found. Back to the story... so while all of this explosiveness of screws and nails is going on, I've also lost my mind just enough to give Riley a large ziploc bag of markers and pencils to draw on the box that this dresser arrived in. You know, doing my part in encouraging arts and crafts in young minds or something like that. So he's carrying along with his drawings when all of a sudden I hear it "OLIVIA! NO! NO!". I go running. Unsupervised children. Markers. OH MY GOD, I left the baby in her rocker at ground level. What the hell was I thinking?! I envision the newborn with caveman-like drawings all over her pretty little round face. I'm in the living room in 2 seconds flat and am positively elated that the baby is unscathed. I'm even more elated to find that Livy has simply stolen a blue colored pencil from her brother and I don't see any evidence of it on the walls or furniture or herself. Thank you JESUS.
I confiscate the colored pencil and put it on the desk and am back with the dresser pieces in no time flat. I've decided I'm just so good at this building thing that I'm going to not only have this dresser built in time to impress my husband when he gets home but I'm also playing with the idea of sorting out ALL of the girl's clothing and putting everything away! Hell, I might even color coordinate at this point! Things are going GREAT!
Yeah, it's usually at this point of my feeling an overall sense of well-being and looking forward to any type of future plan for the day that I get a good ol' fashioned dose of reality. I hear it again "OLIVIA! NO! NO!" only this time it's followed by "OH MY GOD MOM, COME HERE!". Panic. Just pure cold panic goes through me. Before I continue on, let me make note that only half of the dresser pieces are with me at this point. The rest are lying in nice piles in the living room... with the kids... and the markers. I probably don't have to spell it out for you, but I will. I will because I just want you to know the severity of "Mommy Brain" that I've succombed to. This was the beautiful white dresser that my husband and I both agreed would be around for at least 10 -15 years. Okay, so he mostly talked about it being around that long. I just nodded my head profusely and said "Sure!" because I knew that was the only way we'd ever purchase the damn thing and get it home. The dresser that we (well, okay HE) talked on and on about trying to make sure it was the right color and would match with everything else now had blue heiroglyphics all over the large left side panel. I know this because I was busily pushing wooden spoke type things into the RIGHT side panel in the other room. Yup. All those blood pumping endorphin kicking thoughts of "I am woman, see me build!" came crashing down like a freight train. Now the only vision I had was of Ryan coming home and me wondering how long it'd take him to realize the entire two boxes of dresser parts were completely missing. I'd just go store them in my trunk until the time was right and dispose of them in the mall parking lot dumpster or something. Wait, I know! I'd tell tell Ryan that we must have been robbed! Either that or just act like the dresser never even existed. You see, it has nothing to do with the $119.99 that we spent on it, it's more or less the fact that I lost my brain and made it possible for our 1 year old daughter to have access to markers in the first place. Ughhh... it's a cruel cruel world and it just bitch slapped me in the face yet again!
I ran to the dresser piece and without thinking spit right on the drawings (which is so gross, I didn't even think I knew how to spit!) and rubbed as hard as I could with my brand new pink bath robe sleeve that I just got for Christmas. Great, ruin the robe. I guess I wasn't thinking that far ahead. A few swipes and a smile began to spread across my face. Hey, I might have Mommy Brain but I at least had the sense to buy washable markers. I said another "Thank you JESUS" and threw every last one of those damn markers on top of the fridge. Crisis #134 of the day: AVERTED. You'll have to forgive me though, my enthusiasm for building the dresser just isn't what it used to be. I think I'll let Ryan finish this one thank you very much.
Excuse me... has anyone seen my brain lately?
I know it's here somewhere. My brain, that is. Amidst the mountains of diapers, the make-shift tent draped over the dining room table, the endless dirty bottles and the hundreds of toys I keep tripping on, I know it's here. See, the trouble is, as soon as I think I've spotted it the baby decides an 8 minute nap will suffice for the day or my 18 month old thinks diaper cream is the newest body paint fad and covers her head in it. Motherhood. It's endless, it's exhausting, it's stressful... and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
I suppose I should start by introducing you to the three characters that have inspired me to share our daily trials and tribulations with you. After all, they are the only reason I could even fathom taking on a blog along with the other thousands of things I try to accomplish each day.
My oldest, Riley, is 4 and he's got quite the imagination and gift of gab. If he's not building or creating it, he's talking about it with the amount of detail that only a Mother's patience could handle (or at least pretend to - it's amazing where head nodding with a big cheesy grin on your face can get you in life). I envision him one day writing instruction manuals on how to build spaceships or skyscrapers and then saying "The heck with it! I'll just build it myself". He spends his days creating intricate towers out of blocks in impossible configurations that you can be puzzled over for hours. Oh, and just when you think you've figured it out, he knocks it down and does it again. He's a genius, really. He's extremely thoughtful albeit a little defiant and you simply can't help yourself but to fall in love with him every time he sweetly says how much he adores his "Gorgeous Princess sisters".
Olivia, our middle child, is 18 months and ferocious. I probably should have chosen "Ornery" as her middle name instead of "Grace". Cuddly one minute, slapping you the next, she is the most lovable mischevious child you will ever meet. She's got the energy of a race horse and she's not afraid to tell you like it is in her adorable toddler babble. She knows more words than most 2 year olds and I'm growing more and more afraid that soon she's going to figure out how to put those words together and tell us all off. She has the face of an angel and idolizes her big brother more than you could imagine. We love her endlessly and 99% of the time she is the main source of our hysterical laughter.
The newest addition, Natalie, is just shy of being 1 month old and from what we can tell so far she's a pretty cool kid. Does she sleep? Absolutely not. She has smiled once or twice though and those baby blues of hers are mesmerizing. Sometimes when she decides to surprise me by taking a real nap I can actually forget she's there. Never fret, however, as it only takes a moment for me to be knee-deep in making lunch for two starving children (or changing her big sister's diaper while brother Riley announces he wants chocolate milk for the 3rd time) before her cries shoot me straight back to reality. If only I had octopus arms, oh the things I could do!
So, yep, those are my kids. Each so different in their own way and for those differences we love them even more. Perhaps that's the biggest reason and driving force for why I've decided to do this blog thing. There isn't a day that goes by where something completely unbelievable, funny or just entertaining happens and I think "Man, I wish I could record this... this one moment of the day that I'd give anything to look back on when the kids are grown. Something to make me cry, laugh or shake my head in wonder. To relive it as if it were happening all over again." Give me enough time in every day to jot something down and 20 years of life to reflect back on and perhaps this blog will be the answer I was looking for. Or, maybe the only real lesson I'll truly gather from all of this is that I was insane. Oh well, better to be insane than boring! Nevertheless, if I have to go through this journey on a daily basis than so do you. It only seems fair. =)
Another day, another adventure... and who knows, maybe I'll enjoy the ride a tad more without my brain. Afterall, I've made it this far without it, why look for it now?
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