It happened. The dreaded thing that all Moms gossip about... only it's a story passed down from Mom to Mom because "it" only happens to other people. Well guess what my people, it happened to me. My kid crapped the bed. No, no, let me re-phrase that. She crapped and then she put it IN the bed. And then again. On the couch.
Nap time used to be a joyous ocassion. I could pay some bills, surf the net for a minute, eat something or just enjoy the "life of two" (or heck, even one!) for a bit. I'd put Livy down with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the head and quietly exit her room. If I was lucky she'd stay down for at least 2 hours and spend another 30 minutes afterward waking up and readjusting herself to the world. Now, with the above given events, nap time has a certain stigma attached to it. Mostly fear. A lot of worry. And a little bit of denial. I fear nap time for the obvious reason. Who really wants their toddler messing around with poop? Worry because if she does, will she get sick? Where exactly will she put it? If she does get sick how will I explain to the doctor the reason why I think she's throwing up? Is that even something you would take her to the doctor's office for? I can hear the phone conversation now: "Ummm... yeah, my kid isn't feeling well... Why? Oh, you know, she ate poop again." "What the F?" I can hear the operator saying to her co-workers over lunch as she discusses my case. Denial pops in because I am somewhat in denial that this will ever happen again. It's got to be a once in a lifetime child curiousty, right? And yet, I know that if I am not careful and take several precautions, it most certainly WILL happen. Livy is just that type of child. If you had told me that Riley would do this during his toddler years I would have laughed. "Yeah... right" I would have said. He didn't get into things. There was no curious behavior about things like what may lie underneath the kitchen sink and if there was, he never took action on it. Livy not only wants to know, she wants to feel it, taste it, and see what it looks like in her hair. This goes for almost everything including toothpaste, hair gel, hand soap and muddy water out back. So anyway, on this particular day I changed her diaper for the second time that morning, put her pants back on and laid her sweet little self down in bed for a nice long nap. Fast forward almost 3 hours later and I finally hear her squeals. Not bad squeals, more like the talking to herself that she does when she first gets up. I let her go for 15 - 30 minutes because I know she needs this time to fully wake up. If I get her immediately she is cranky. Go figure. So I hear the squeals and the usual "Mommy? Ri-wee? Baby?" which means she's ready. The first thing I notice when I open her bedroom door is a stench. No concern here though. She always ends her nap with a poop. It's strange, I know, but she's like clockwork when it comes to these things. I see her head pop up from the crib, hundreds of tiny curls bouncing with the momentum and she smiles a wide toothy grin. Out comes her evil laugh. If you spend any time with Livy, you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about. Let me just follow this with a quick detail so you can better imagine this situation. The crib is positioned vertically from the door so if you walked into her room you would be looking at the foot of the crib where there are no slats. You can't see inside the crib until you are in the middle of the room and looking at it directly. In those first few miliseconds that I am in her room, I can't see anything but this head starting back at me. The next I am upon the crib and am in pure disbelief. First, my child is stark naked. Like, STARK naked. I know I didn't put her to bed this way. The most she's ever done is yank her socks off. She gets that from me. Strangled toes at bed time are restless toes all night. The next thing I notice is that all of the blankets, stuffed animals and her pillow are lying on the floor on the otherside of the head board and partially draped over a nearby stand-up floor fan. She's got a good arm. The third and most horrifying thing I notice is a brown substance all over the sheet and the crib bumper. It's also covering her pillow. Oh, and her butt and back. OH. MY. GOD. This takes the cake. This is a situation where you don't know what to say, where to look and above all else, where to start. Do I pick her up? I can't. I'll get poop all over myself. Do I try to wipe her off in the crib first? I can't, I'm too short to reach. I go running for a towel and wrap her in it. Pick her up and lay her down on the changing table. She's going to have to wait a minute. While I'm doing this she is repeating over and over again "Mommy, EWW!" which I am relieved about becase A) She realizes this is gross and B) She doesn't seem to have any on her hands which means she didn't touch it directly. At least I don't think she did. I'm still baffled by the items strewn around the room covered in poop. I don't know how she did all of this or managed to keep her hands clean in the process. I wipe her down from head to toe (a bath isn't in the stars right now, I've got too much to clean up at this point) and put her in a one piece pajama outfit with a zipper and a snap. "Now, try and get out of THIS you little booger" I tell her. Evil laugh again. This isn't looking good for me. She goes running when I put her down and I proceed to tackle the disgusting mess of a crib before me. I will spare you the details, let's just say I'm pretty sure she used everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, to wipe her butt. I strip the crib down to the bare mattress and take at least 20 disinfectant wipes to all of the slats and the mattress. I'm not taking any risks here. After about 20 minutes of pure poop hell I now have a large trash bag of linens including one stuffed bunny and one teddy bear which I promptly deliver to the laundry room. I hate this part about Mommy-hood. Just because we grew these little suckers in our bellies and popped them out doesn't mean we should have to be okay with cleaning up their doo. I don't even like to drink after my kids let alone clean up last nights digested macaroni and cheese. Sorry, a bit graphic I know. So I'm en route to the washer which you can only access by going through the kids playroom. Livy is sitting on the couch watching Monsters vs. Aliens for the 300th time this year in her nice clean pjs and doesn't even so much as give me a glance as I carry her toxic load. This is a thankless job, that I know for sure. I put as much as I can fit in the washer on hot and add a little extra detergent for good measure. I should have taken the entire bag and just tossed it, wasn't thinking that far ahead though. My brain was in shambles over this whole ordeal. I leave Liv to her movie and head to the bathroom for a good scrub in the shower. It might seem over dramatic to you, but I was just grossed out. Usually I am good for a solid 10 minutes of showering, teeth brushing and other normal every day hygiene activities before she gets back into trouble or Riley or Natty need something. Well, okay, so they usually want something the moment my big toe hits the shower floor but I can get away with 10 minutes of bliss before I actually have to act on what they need. I just finish rinsing the conditioner out of my hair when I hear Riley come into the bathroom. He rips back the shower curtain with great enthusiasm leaving me standing there under the running water staring at him like he's lost his mind. I try to cover myself... although I'm not entirely sure why. He still doesn't seem to notice nakedness thank goodness. "Mom" he says in a very dramatic filled tone of voice "Livy pooped in the playroom." You know that feeling when your brain feels like a jellyfish has wrapped itself around it and stung the ever-loving piss out of you? No? Okay, maybe it's just me... well, that's what I felt like. My brain was STUNNED. No thought process going on, none. I half fell and stumbled out of the tub, water still running, me still naked. I ran through the living room, through the kitchen and came upon the playroom. Drips of water trailing after me on the floor. There my daughter stood, naked. AGAIN. How? Why? Huh? What? Her pjs in a heap on the floor, her soiled diaper next to them. The couch, which is a cream color, now has brown spots on it. Not only the top of the cushions but the front of it as well. I wish I had gotten her on video tape. Maybe then I could have a full understanding of how this was possible. Not to mention she just pooped twice within the same hour. I don't even get dressed first. I just clean and scrub naked. Shower still running, I break out the spray bottle and attack the couch. Livy is so stunned by the non-sensical made-up words spewing out of my mouth (to replace what I REALLY wanted to scream) that she doesn't even move an inch. She just stares at her angry crazy naked Mommy who is knee-deep in a sea of rags, paper towels and more disinfectant spray. I manage to clean this up a little quicker probably because there are no blankets or pillows involved this time, thank God. I grab new clothes and a diaper for Livy. Wipe her down AGAIN and place a large towel on the couch cushions as she climbs back up. By now I am shivering and my hair has begun to dry. I run back to the shower and jump in to re-scrub all over again. As I'm rinsing myself off I go over the events of the day in my head. Scheming up new ideas on how to prevent this from happening, I think I've finally found the solution. There is only one thing I can think of to prevent my dearest Liv from ever ripping her clothes off and creating this disgusting act: DUCT TAPE. I smile to myself as I envision wrapping a nice long piece around the top of her pants (not too tight, don't worry) so that the little monster can never take her clothes off again. Much less get to her diaper. Hey, if a handyman can fix a leaky pipe with that stuff, I can most certainly fix my pooping child! It's either that or I purchase one of those diving wet suits that zips up the back. Now THAT would be perfect.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
I must feel brave these days...
So I've done it. I've taken a leap and decided that, as my hubby explains, my need to get out of this house has finally exceeded my fear. Yes, yes, I have flown the nest... my 3 little chicks in tow. I made a massive discovery a few weeks back that if I take the 3 inch thick winter cover off of the baby's carseat, all 3 seats will fit in my car. It's a tight fit, sure, but hell... it fits. With this discovery came a new found sense of freedom. I can go anywhere! Well, okay, I certainly can't go at whim for a gallon of milk or a latte. They might all fit in the car, but I never said it was easy getting them in or out. It's a process, as is everything else in my life these days. Don't believe me? Let me tell you a little tale that happened this past Monday.
Over a cup of coffee my dearest Riley asks me "Where are we going today Mom?" as if we go somewhere every day and he wants our itinerary. This whole 'going in one car' thing has so perplexed my brain that it doesn't even occur to me sometimes that we can come and go as we please. "Can we go to the playground? You know, like one I've never been to before?". He always says this about everything. He loves new places, new surprises. The kid is practically jumping out of his skin to get out of here... almost as much as me. I pull up my trusty friend Google on the internet and search for "fenced in playgrounds". If you think for one minute I'm going to pack up these kids and the 300 things they require to get through the day just to go to some playground where there is a 9 out of 10 chance that I will lose at least one of them (and by that I mean LIVY) - you are kidding yourself. Nuh-uh, no way, no how. We go chain-link fence all the way baby. Extra points to those that are at least 6 feet tall so my crazy toddler doesn't try to climb over and escape. Just when I think I've discovered every park within a 50 mile radius of our house, up pops a new one called Candy Cane Park. C'mon, what kid could resist? It boasts new play equipment, ducks, horses and best of all, it's fenced in! "OMG!" I think, "We are SO there." I announce to the kids that we are going to the playground, it's time to get ready. Riley lets out a "Woohoo!" and Olivia, who I forget is catching on to new things pretty much every day says "WEE!" which is her code word for slide. Alright then. Let's get packing! Getting the kids dressed these days would seem a lot simpler with warmer weather upon us. After all, there are no more coats, hats, gloves, scarves and boots to worry about. I don't have to dress them in layers in preparation for peeling a few off if it gets too warm in a store and then putting them all back on again as we walk to the car. And if you are thinking this my friend, you are wrong. Sure, shorts and t-shirts are no big deal. It's figuring out the foot wear and covering of tender skin parts that worries me these days. First, sandals, flip flops and crocs are a huge no-no for the park. There could be wood chips. There could be stones. There might even be mud and I certainly am not going to take the time to clean out everyone's shoes at least 10 times during our visit because of this. Nope. Tennis shoes for sure. I just hope it isn't too warm. Sweaty feet = cranky kids. Really. Next time your kid cries for seemingly no reason at all, take their shoes and socks off. Voila! Happy kids. Oh, and feel their feet. It's disgusting. I hate slimey toes. The next hurdle is of course, sunscreen. Meet the spray, my new best friend. I take Riley and Olivia out onto the front porch. "Stand still and close your eyes for a minute" I tell them. I haven't done this in a bit, need to make sure I cover all areas. They are my children, after all, and the whiteness of our skin is literally blinding. No area must be left un-touched. I spray them down, spraying a nearby bee as well and promptly killing it in the process. I realize I can not spray this stuff on their faces. They'll inhale it faster than I can say "get high!" and so I threaten their lives if they move off the porch and go running at full speed for the face stick in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Before the kids have a chance to even look in another direction I am back and am attacking their little cheeks and noses. I give myself a good all-over spray too and start loading Livy in the car. Riley has to wait since the baby goes in the middle and it's just too hard to lean over him. I have a bit of a hard time getting buckles fastened and there is a lot of pulling seats back and forth and tightening and re-tightening. I also have to position the baby's seat handle and sun shade just right to keep Livy from poking the baby's eyes out. Trust me, she's tried it several times. "Baby's eyezzz" she says in a long drawn out voice as she gingerly shoves her pointer finger into her sister's iris. I run back in, gather up all of the snacks, hats, sunglasses, drinks, diapers and other general kid type things that I know we will need... and think we will need... into several bags. Into the car they go filling every last empty space in the front passenger seat and under the kids feet. The trunk is designated for my 100 pound double stroller which is so large that the wheels have to come off before it can even remotely fit. Once it's in there you might be able to throw in an umbrella or an unused shoe or something, so I don't really count it as storage anymore. Necessities in car? Check. Kids in car? Check. Me in car? Check. Directions to park we've never been to? Nope. UGH! I realize this when I've almost completely pulled out of the driveway. I pull back up to the house. Thank God I did. Amidst the mass chaos I've discovered that I forgot to close the front door. That would have been nice. Calling all neighbors to walk on in, in particular the drug dealer down the street who shoots up drugs in the large pine tree across the street. Yes, really. He does. The police have tried arresting him several times but they "lack evidence". They even wanted someone to take pictures to catch him in the act. The neighbors said this too. They told my husband this. He volunteered me. I, in turn, gave him "the look". "What?" he said in a sheepish voice "you're home all day, just snap a few pictures." Yeah, okay Ryan. In between changing 20 diapers, doing the laundry, cleaning, making lunch, playing cars and/or babies depending on who needs attention more at the moment, breastfeeding our 3 month old every 2 hours AND making an attempt to get a cup of coffee in me before a severe headache overtakes my cranium and I'm deemed useless for the day I'll just go ahead and snap a few. You can call me Bond. James Bond. Let me just pull out our 5 pound camera with the 3 pound telephoto lens and grab a few pics of the guy across the street... who probably can see me through our kitchen window. Maybe he'll try to kill me, who knows. I'll probably make the 5 o'clock news one way or another. No thanks, think I'll pass. Ryan even told this to our hippy neighbor who thought it was just great! Yeah, of course you do. He confided in Ryan after a few minutes of conversation that he "use to dabble in the stuff himself but hasn't touched it in 20 or more years". "Can't you tell?" he asks Ryan, smiling and pointing to his 16 inch pony tail going down his back. And I still can't figure out why Ryan hates neighbors... Anyway, we make our way toward the park. Of course, I pull onto the beltway since this thing is in Chevy Chase and borders D.C. The beltway is just the quickest way and path of least resistance for traffic lights, etc. I come to a dead stop. Looking ahead to one of the alert signs over the highway there is a message flashing. Can't read it from here but judging by the non-moving traffic I know it's not good. It certainly isn't saying "Wow! Traffic is great today - just wanted to wish everyone a very happy Monday!" Ha, yeah right. 20 minutes later I've inched myself close enough to make out what it says: "Accident at B/W Parkway. 3 Left lanes of I-495 CLOSED" Oh Jesus in HEAVEN. I am at exit 20. I need to get to 30. These kids are going to freak. I pray they fall asleep and looking back in my rear view I realize that Olivia already is. Bonus points to me for not giving her a nap before we left. At the time it seemed like a dangerous idea to toy with. Now it far surpasses even sliced bread. I ask Riley, my 'Updater of backseat activities' how the baby is doing. She's asleep he says. I let out a sigh of total relief. I give Riley a brief description of what is going on and tell him to keep an eye out for the accident, it should be coming up somewhere. What? Sure I feel bad for those involved, but I'm trying to entertain my children here people! I say that I wish I could just get off at the next exit but I'm not sure where that would take us. "Don't get off the road," he says, "I want to hang in there and go to the park. Don't give up Mom!". I am amazed that this just came out of his mouth. I smile and tell him I won't give up. I turn up the music to the "Blah Blah Blah" song and he asks me if this is one of my "Gazzercize" songs. By this he means Jazzercise, and yes, Riley, it is. He giggles. He loves it when he's right. Definitely his father's child. We finally make it through the mess of traffic after another 30 minutes of inching. Almost to the park, I see the sign after a few more turns and then we are parking in front of the glorious FENCED IN play area! Yay! I unload the kids and snacks, pile us all into the stroller and push us through the gate. We barely fit. It's a little unnerving that the gate doesn't close and latch. I make a mental note to watch this side of the playground because Olivia is sure to try it out at least once and she'll see this gaping hole for sure. Oh, and did I mention that there is a 10 foot wide fairly fast running stream only steps from the playground? Grrrreat, not only will she escape, but she'd drown soon after. Will have to pay extra attention today. So of course I'm hoping to get the kids fed first but my Mommy brain knows what is coming. They want to run free and try out all of this cool equipment NOW. Riley runs away first, but he can be trusted. Livy is climbing out of her seat before I can even unbuckle her. I release her and off she goes. I dump the stroller at a bench, pull the baby out in record speed and pray no one tries to steal my bag with my wallet, keys and phone as I go running to find out where Liv is. She's following Riley, we're safe for now. I can see, though, across the way, that there are two more gate entrances. Neither one is closed. In fact, they are hanging wide open. I walk the fence perimeter and close them. People look at me like I'm nuts for a moment, carrying around this tiny newborn and closing gates. I'm sure they all completely understood though when they saw a 21 month old and a 4 year old hanging off of me later on. The baby quickly tires out my already aching arms and so I strap her into the carrier. It's getting more use outdoors these days. To this I add our 8 pound camera. Yes, I brought the telephoto lens... no plans of snapping drug user photos this time though. I take some pics of the kids, adorable ones actually, and simultaneously play games with them all while Natalie hangs off of my chest. She's loving the movement. I just have to be careful to not let her get too much sun. It's blaring by now and must be at least 85 degrees or more. Riley runs off to the swings. Livy, on the other hand, after going back and forth on this bridge type thing at least 40 times, is now convinced it's the most terrifying thing in the world. She immediately sits. She cries. She screams. I try to hold her hand through the bars. You see, I'm well below where she stands and have to reach up to touch her. This scares her even more to see that I'm firmly planted on the ground and she's not. How in the world can this child go from being fearless 5 minutes ago to now being petrified of a 4 foot long platform that is completely flat and barred in on both sides and doesn't even move?? Nothing I do pleases her. Not even having her big brother come all the way back over to where we are to help her down. Nope, I must drag the baby and the camera swinging off my back up the steps, across the bridge that does move, up to more platforms of steps and over several children to get her. She wants picked up. Ain't happening. I'm already carrying enough. Picking her up would just squish the baby and possibly damage the camera. I take her hand. She screams. Everyone is looking at me. They all look like they feel bad for me, but no one is feeling sorry enough to help out. I have to drag her down. Several very long minutes later we are on the ground again and I tell her it's time for "nummies" which is lunchtime in toddler world. It's all about distraction these days. She smiles, jumps for joy and goes running toward the stroller. Wow, wish I could bounce back from trauma like that! I yell for Riley and they both crawl up onto the bench for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with goldfish crackers and juice. By now it's so dang hot that the baby is causing sweat to run down my chest onto my stomach, drenching my shirt and capris. The kids are so sweaty that I can run my hands through their hair and it stands completely on end. Gross. Riley even says he wants to go find some shade and feed the ducks that we read about. He looks really hot. Livy climbs in the stroller after a solid 3 minutes of coaxing and pulling on my part. I put the baby in the back seat and soon enough we are heading toward a small stream and bridge. We brought a bag of bread for the ducks too, there better be some. That's all I have to say. We search and search and search. Not a damn duck anywhere. I'm sweating even harder now because I'm pushing the stroller down a dirt path to nowhere. Livy is screaming, she wants out. If I did this she would most likely run full speed and leap head first off the bridge within 10 seconds of freedom. Not a good idea. I turn back around, much to Riley's dismay, and we go back to the car. He's pissed and decides to sulk by dragging a 7 foot long dead branch back toward the parking lot, dragging it over and killing every beautiful spring flower he can find. Destruction. Makes you feel better I suppose. We've only been here about an hour. It took us longer than that just to get to this place thanks to the accident on the beltway. Oh well, I see my teeny tiny car up ahead I can't wait to get in and crank up the a/c. I manage to load all stroller contents and two out of three kids back into their seats. Split the last of my water into two sippy cups for my thirsty kiddos and take a moment to feed the baby in the front. I'm not taking any chances of a screaming hungry baby if the traffic Gods decide to strike again. Sun drenched and energy zapped, the entire backseat of my car is sound asleep before I even reach the highway. I turn up some tunes and enjoy some peace, singing along and be-bopping my head just a tad. I even look over and do a quick head nod of acknowledgment to the old woman in the vehicle next to me as we wait for the light. Look at that, a fellow driver. I'm pretty dang happy at the moment and sing louder. It's a good song and I haven't listened to "my" music in what seems like years. Hey, this car ride thing isn't so bad after all. Quiet moments like this are worth every single solitary second of hell it takes to load up. Hell, I'm already thinking about where we'll go tomorrow! Look out world cuz here we come!
Over a cup of coffee my dearest Riley asks me "Where are we going today Mom?" as if we go somewhere every day and he wants our itinerary. This whole 'going in one car' thing has so perplexed my brain that it doesn't even occur to me sometimes that we can come and go as we please. "Can we go to the playground? You know, like one I've never been to before?". He always says this about everything. He loves new places, new surprises. The kid is practically jumping out of his skin to get out of here... almost as much as me. I pull up my trusty friend Google on the internet and search for "fenced in playgrounds". If you think for one minute I'm going to pack up these kids and the 300 things they require to get through the day just to go to some playground where there is a 9 out of 10 chance that I will lose at least one of them (and by that I mean LIVY) - you are kidding yourself. Nuh-uh, no way, no how. We go chain-link fence all the way baby. Extra points to those that are at least 6 feet tall so my crazy toddler doesn't try to climb over and escape. Just when I think I've discovered every park within a 50 mile radius of our house, up pops a new one called Candy Cane Park. C'mon, what kid could resist? It boasts new play equipment, ducks, horses and best of all, it's fenced in! "OMG!" I think, "We are SO there." I announce to the kids that we are going to the playground, it's time to get ready. Riley lets out a "Woohoo!" and Olivia, who I forget is catching on to new things pretty much every day says "WEE!" which is her code word for slide. Alright then. Let's get packing! Getting the kids dressed these days would seem a lot simpler with warmer weather upon us. After all, there are no more coats, hats, gloves, scarves and boots to worry about. I don't have to dress them in layers in preparation for peeling a few off if it gets too warm in a store and then putting them all back on again as we walk to the car. And if you are thinking this my friend, you are wrong. Sure, shorts and t-shirts are no big deal. It's figuring out the foot wear and covering of tender skin parts that worries me these days. First, sandals, flip flops and crocs are a huge no-no for the park. There could be wood chips. There could be stones. There might even be mud and I certainly am not going to take the time to clean out everyone's shoes at least 10 times during our visit because of this. Nope. Tennis shoes for sure. I just hope it isn't too warm. Sweaty feet = cranky kids. Really. Next time your kid cries for seemingly no reason at all, take their shoes and socks off. Voila! Happy kids. Oh, and feel their feet. It's disgusting. I hate slimey toes. The next hurdle is of course, sunscreen. Meet the spray, my new best friend. I take Riley and Olivia out onto the front porch. "Stand still and close your eyes for a minute" I tell them. I haven't done this in a bit, need to make sure I cover all areas. They are my children, after all, and the whiteness of our skin is literally blinding. No area must be left un-touched. I spray them down, spraying a nearby bee as well and promptly killing it in the process. I realize I can not spray this stuff on their faces. They'll inhale it faster than I can say "get high!" and so I threaten their lives if they move off the porch and go running at full speed for the face stick in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Before the kids have a chance to even look in another direction I am back and am attacking their little cheeks and noses. I give myself a good all-over spray too and start loading Livy in the car. Riley has to wait since the baby goes in the middle and it's just too hard to lean over him. I have a bit of a hard time getting buckles fastened and there is a lot of pulling seats back and forth and tightening and re-tightening. I also have to position the baby's seat handle and sun shade just right to keep Livy from poking the baby's eyes out. Trust me, she's tried it several times. "Baby's eyezzz" she says in a long drawn out voice as she gingerly shoves her pointer finger into her sister's iris. I run back in, gather up all of the snacks, hats, sunglasses, drinks, diapers and other general kid type things that I know we will need... and think we will need... into several bags. Into the car they go filling every last empty space in the front passenger seat and under the kids feet. The trunk is designated for my 100 pound double stroller which is so large that the wheels have to come off before it can even remotely fit. Once it's in there you might be able to throw in an umbrella or an unused shoe or something, so I don't really count it as storage anymore. Necessities in car? Check. Kids in car? Check. Me in car? Check. Directions to park we've never been to? Nope. UGH! I realize this when I've almost completely pulled out of the driveway. I pull back up to the house. Thank God I did. Amidst the mass chaos I've discovered that I forgot to close the front door. That would have been nice. Calling all neighbors to walk on in, in particular the drug dealer down the street who shoots up drugs in the large pine tree across the street. Yes, really. He does. The police have tried arresting him several times but they "lack evidence". They even wanted someone to take pictures to catch him in the act. The neighbors said this too. They told my husband this. He volunteered me. I, in turn, gave him "the look". "What?" he said in a sheepish voice "you're home all day, just snap a few pictures." Yeah, okay Ryan. In between changing 20 diapers, doing the laundry, cleaning, making lunch, playing cars and/or babies depending on who needs attention more at the moment, breastfeeding our 3 month old every 2 hours AND making an attempt to get a cup of coffee in me before a severe headache overtakes my cranium and I'm deemed useless for the day I'll just go ahead and snap a few. You can call me Bond. James Bond. Let me just pull out our 5 pound camera with the 3 pound telephoto lens and grab a few pics of the guy across the street... who probably can see me through our kitchen window. Maybe he'll try to kill me, who knows. I'll probably make the 5 o'clock news one way or another. No thanks, think I'll pass. Ryan even told this to our hippy neighbor who thought it was just great! Yeah, of course you do. He confided in Ryan after a few minutes of conversation that he "use to dabble in the stuff himself but hasn't touched it in 20 or more years". "Can't you tell?" he asks Ryan, smiling and pointing to his 16 inch pony tail going down his back. And I still can't figure out why Ryan hates neighbors... Anyway, we make our way toward the park. Of course, I pull onto the beltway since this thing is in Chevy Chase and borders D.C. The beltway is just the quickest way and path of least resistance for traffic lights, etc. I come to a dead stop. Looking ahead to one of the alert signs over the highway there is a message flashing. Can't read it from here but judging by the non-moving traffic I know it's not good. It certainly isn't saying "Wow! Traffic is great today - just wanted to wish everyone a very happy Monday!" Ha, yeah right. 20 minutes later I've inched myself close enough to make out what it says: "Accident at B/W Parkway. 3 Left lanes of I-495 CLOSED" Oh Jesus in HEAVEN. I am at exit 20. I need to get to 30. These kids are going to freak. I pray they fall asleep and looking back in my rear view I realize that Olivia already is. Bonus points to me for not giving her a nap before we left. At the time it seemed like a dangerous idea to toy with. Now it far surpasses even sliced bread. I ask Riley, my 'Updater of backseat activities' how the baby is doing. She's asleep he says. I let out a sigh of total relief. I give Riley a brief description of what is going on and tell him to keep an eye out for the accident, it should be coming up somewhere. What? Sure I feel bad for those involved, but I'm trying to entertain my children here people! I say that I wish I could just get off at the next exit but I'm not sure where that would take us. "Don't get off the road," he says, "I want to hang in there and go to the park. Don't give up Mom!". I am amazed that this just came out of his mouth. I smile and tell him I won't give up. I turn up the music to the "Blah Blah Blah" song and he asks me if this is one of my "Gazzercize" songs. By this he means Jazzercise, and yes, Riley, it is. He giggles. He loves it when he's right. Definitely his father's child. We finally make it through the mess of traffic after another 30 minutes of inching. Almost to the park, I see the sign after a few more turns and then we are parking in front of the glorious FENCED IN play area! Yay! I unload the kids and snacks, pile us all into the stroller and push us through the gate. We barely fit. It's a little unnerving that the gate doesn't close and latch. I make a mental note to watch this side of the playground because Olivia is sure to try it out at least once and she'll see this gaping hole for sure. Oh, and did I mention that there is a 10 foot wide fairly fast running stream only steps from the playground? Grrrreat, not only will she escape, but she'd drown soon after. Will have to pay extra attention today. So of course I'm hoping to get the kids fed first but my Mommy brain knows what is coming. They want to run free and try out all of this cool equipment NOW. Riley runs away first, but he can be trusted. Livy is climbing out of her seat before I can even unbuckle her. I release her and off she goes. I dump the stroller at a bench, pull the baby out in record speed and pray no one tries to steal my bag with my wallet, keys and phone as I go running to find out where Liv is. She's following Riley, we're safe for now. I can see, though, across the way, that there are two more gate entrances. Neither one is closed. In fact, they are hanging wide open. I walk the fence perimeter and close them. People look at me like I'm nuts for a moment, carrying around this tiny newborn and closing gates. I'm sure they all completely understood though when they saw a 21 month old and a 4 year old hanging off of me later on. The baby quickly tires out my already aching arms and so I strap her into the carrier. It's getting more use outdoors these days. To this I add our 8 pound camera. Yes, I brought the telephoto lens... no plans of snapping drug user photos this time though. I take some pics of the kids, adorable ones actually, and simultaneously play games with them all while Natalie hangs off of my chest. She's loving the movement. I just have to be careful to not let her get too much sun. It's blaring by now and must be at least 85 degrees or more. Riley runs off to the swings. Livy, on the other hand, after going back and forth on this bridge type thing at least 40 times, is now convinced it's the most terrifying thing in the world. She immediately sits. She cries. She screams. I try to hold her hand through the bars. You see, I'm well below where she stands and have to reach up to touch her. This scares her even more to see that I'm firmly planted on the ground and she's not. How in the world can this child go from being fearless 5 minutes ago to now being petrified of a 4 foot long platform that is completely flat and barred in on both sides and doesn't even move?? Nothing I do pleases her. Not even having her big brother come all the way back over to where we are to help her down. Nope, I must drag the baby and the camera swinging off my back up the steps, across the bridge that does move, up to more platforms of steps and over several children to get her. She wants picked up. Ain't happening. I'm already carrying enough. Picking her up would just squish the baby and possibly damage the camera. I take her hand. She screams. Everyone is looking at me. They all look like they feel bad for me, but no one is feeling sorry enough to help out. I have to drag her down. Several very long minutes later we are on the ground again and I tell her it's time for "nummies" which is lunchtime in toddler world. It's all about distraction these days. She smiles, jumps for joy and goes running toward the stroller. Wow, wish I could bounce back from trauma like that! I yell for Riley and they both crawl up onto the bench for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with goldfish crackers and juice. By now it's so dang hot that the baby is causing sweat to run down my chest onto my stomach, drenching my shirt and capris. The kids are so sweaty that I can run my hands through their hair and it stands completely on end. Gross. Riley even says he wants to go find some shade and feed the ducks that we read about. He looks really hot. Livy climbs in the stroller after a solid 3 minutes of coaxing and pulling on my part. I put the baby in the back seat and soon enough we are heading toward a small stream and bridge. We brought a bag of bread for the ducks too, there better be some. That's all I have to say. We search and search and search. Not a damn duck anywhere. I'm sweating even harder now because I'm pushing the stroller down a dirt path to nowhere. Livy is screaming, she wants out. If I did this she would most likely run full speed and leap head first off the bridge within 10 seconds of freedom. Not a good idea. I turn back around, much to Riley's dismay, and we go back to the car. He's pissed and decides to sulk by dragging a 7 foot long dead branch back toward the parking lot, dragging it over and killing every beautiful spring flower he can find. Destruction. Makes you feel better I suppose. We've only been here about an hour. It took us longer than that just to get to this place thanks to the accident on the beltway. Oh well, I see my teeny tiny car up ahead I can't wait to get in and crank up the a/c. I manage to load all stroller contents and two out of three kids back into their seats. Split the last of my water into two sippy cups for my thirsty kiddos and take a moment to feed the baby in the front. I'm not taking any chances of a screaming hungry baby if the traffic Gods decide to strike again. Sun drenched and energy zapped, the entire backseat of my car is sound asleep before I even reach the highway. I turn up some tunes and enjoy some peace, singing along and be-bopping my head just a tad. I even look over and do a quick head nod of acknowledgment to the old woman in the vehicle next to me as we wait for the light. Look at that, a fellow driver. I'm pretty dang happy at the moment and sing louder. It's a good song and I haven't listened to "my" music in what seems like years. Hey, this car ride thing isn't so bad after all. Quiet moments like this are worth every single solitary second of hell it takes to load up. Hell, I'm already thinking about where we'll go tomorrow! Look out world cuz here we come!
Friday, March 5, 2010
Never Fear... I'm still here
Wow... I can't believe it's been over a month since my last blog. Don't get me wrong, I had every intention of jumping on here. After all, there's always something in my every day life that would make a great subject to focus on. I've been busy. I know that much. Between my somewhat successful effort to add exercise and good eating habits back into my life and my husbands horrendous work schedule there have been longing moments to blog. To be honest with you whenever I sat down to write, however, I started yawning uncontrollably or the baby decided she wanted to eat for the 50th time. Yes, my friends, I'm tired and the baby is a piglet! You know, I think I'm going to take this opportunity to recap February for you. I can't think of a better way to catch up and start fresh with this new month upon us. Here we go...
Riley, the eldest. Sweet child. He yelled and head-butted me a whole hell of a lot these past 4 weeks. I don't know why. Fighting for attenion I suppose? Nevertheless, he certainly won the battle of gaining my attention, that is for sure. Was it positive? Nope. Did I feel bad about it? At the time, nope. I'm realizing that I need to give him even more one-on-one time than what I previously thought was enough. Well, I should probably rephrase that. Attention to a child never fits in the category of "enough". I think we can all be honest in saying that we strive to hit the "enough" category rather quickly on certain days so that we can have a minute to ourselves. Why my dear son decided that squeaking at the top of his lungs like a frickin' mentally retarded cat who just sucked down 4 balloons full of helium repeatedly for 5 minutes straight would make me turn around and say "Yes, honey?" is beyond me. Oh, and when I ignored him hoping that he'd get my point that the un-godly noise coming from his tiny body was purely unacceptable, yep, he head-butted me. Hard. In the hip bone. Ouch. It wasn't just head-butting either. It was pinching the hangy-fatty part on my arm and the tapping me on the side of the face as hard as he could that really got my "attention". Poor kid. He's having a bit of a 4 year old rough patch right now I guess. Still love him. Wanna kill him. Still love him though.
Olivia, my terrorist. This is her new name. The terrorist. When she's not destroying everything around her, she's striking absolute TERROR in both myself and grown men alike. You never knew what she'd have up her sleeve this past month. Granted, she's always been a bit of a sweet little spaz... but this, this was just pure insanity. If it wasn't the remote, it was my cell phone. If it wasn't the phone, it was the toilet plunger. If it wasn't the plunger, it was the space heater and the misc. paper clips from who know's where in her mouth. I don't care if it was moldy, snot-ridden anthrax. She touched it. She shoved it in places you never thought it could possibly fit into. She squashed it, snapped it, twisted and mangled it. By the time she was done with it, whatever it was, you didn't even recognize it anymore. Oh, and she almost drown in the tub. Yep, I knew it was coming. If we're really being honest here, you all knew it was coming too. Don't tell me you've read all of the other blogs and didn't think she'd attempt a drowing in the tub or two. Perhaps it was my fault. In the 3.4 seconds it took me to literally sprint to get my screaming Natalie from her baby swing, Livy had managed to somehow fall backward in the tub and couldn't get up. Thank GOD I had the sense to only put a few inches of water in there to begin with. As soon as I heard the splash I knew she was in trouble. I probably yanked her up with as much speed as it took her to go crashing down, but it still scared me. It scared the SHIT out of me, excuse my French. Did she come up gasping for air, screaming and crying from sheer terror? Of course not! Silly you for asking. Her name is terror and she is it's creator. She simply laughed and stuck her face directly into the water and proceeded to try and drink it. I'm pretty sure she peed in it prior to, but this girl could parachute into the Iraqi desert and it wouldn't phase her. I came up with a new phrase to describe my little monkey: "Taming the beast". As you can see, February was a really fun month.
Natalie, our Natty Noo. Cute. Absolutely positively cute. You might think I'm playing favoritism with her compared to my descriptions of the other two little rascals above. I'm really not, I swear. She's just immobile right now and can't speak, so she's a piece of cake most of the time. I don't worry about her back talking me or eating a battery out of the Glo-Worm. Nope, Natty is content to stare at colorful toys hanging from the swing. She's smiling now, at everyone. Oh, and she coos and sings, both of which completely melt your heart. She's growing like a weed, which my boobs can attest to - they never get a rest. Aside from one fussy evening when she got five, yes five!, vaccinations she's been a complete doll. I secretly smell her head all of the time and get high from it. Love that baby.
Ryan, poor dear Ryan. Pretty much works 7 days a week, 12 hour days, comes home, eats dinner, says hi to the kids and passes out by 9. He's working like a maniac which makes things here at home that much more difficult. Not his fault, I know. I just don't see an end in sight yet and so my Mommy brain has to be restrained or I might go postal. He kept me sane. Just a tad bit worried I might lose my mind one of these Saturdays... hanging on to it for dear life right now.
Me, oh the changes! I've been eating healthy foods and focusing on balancing my nutrition for over a month now. Way proud of myself. I feel better and I'm not so groggy. I can actually stay awake during the kids nap times! Woohoo! I've also joined a gym and am taking Jazzercise classes. For those of you in the dark, it's like dance aerobics in a night club with great club music... only it's usually during the day with older ladies... and no alcohol. Okay, bad description. Anyway, it kicks my butt and that's all that's important at this point. I've also been taking a body pump class which incorporates weights with lunges, sit-ups, etc. I think I died and was resuscitated back to life after I took it the first time, but it's getting easier now. I want to get back into my skinny jeans so bad I can taste it. Which, by the way, is about the only thing I'm tasting these days.
Daily Life of Three, as a whole: We are surviving, no doubt. It helps that we scramble up the week with visits to my Mom's house and my in-laws. I appreciate these kiddos way more when I've got an extra hand to keep them calm or grab a chocolate milk from the fridge. It's given me a few extra moments to realize that Riley is the greatest big brother there ever was. He knows how to get his tiny sister to "talk" to him when he makes crazy baby noises at her. She's so in love with him it's not even funny. I've also never laughed so hard in my life at toddler antics, courtesy of Olivia. Who else can give you an evil laugh, run over to her baby sister, repeatedly lick her newborn head and then finally give you a grossed out look while she spits toddler drool all over the floor. Sure, Livy, it's disgusting. The baby's head is slicked down from everyone loving on her. You thought licking her head was a good idea because.... why? Oh yeah, you're 20 months old... and you're Olivia Grace. Nuff' said. Yes, we are still living the good life. Toting ourselves around in two vehicles as always, carefully planning out strategics on who has who and where that "who" will go in the grocery store cart so that we ALL can be comfortable. No more sicknesses, so far. Praise Jesus. I'm starting to see the light of Spring and all of the wonderful warm weather and playground visits that come along with it. We've almost survived the winter and I couldn't be happier. It's been a journey, that's for sure. Now, on to March and all of the quirky things it will bring our way. Don't worry, soon enough I'll tell you ALL about it. You love it, you know you do. =)
Riley, the eldest. Sweet child. He yelled and head-butted me a whole hell of a lot these past 4 weeks. I don't know why. Fighting for attenion I suppose? Nevertheless, he certainly won the battle of gaining my attention, that is for sure. Was it positive? Nope. Did I feel bad about it? At the time, nope. I'm realizing that I need to give him even more one-on-one time than what I previously thought was enough. Well, I should probably rephrase that. Attention to a child never fits in the category of "enough". I think we can all be honest in saying that we strive to hit the "enough" category rather quickly on certain days so that we can have a minute to ourselves. Why my dear son decided that squeaking at the top of his lungs like a frickin' mentally retarded cat who just sucked down 4 balloons full of helium repeatedly for 5 minutes straight would make me turn around and say "Yes, honey?" is beyond me. Oh, and when I ignored him hoping that he'd get my point that the un-godly noise coming from his tiny body was purely unacceptable, yep, he head-butted me. Hard. In the hip bone. Ouch. It wasn't just head-butting either. It was pinching the hangy-fatty part on my arm and the tapping me on the side of the face as hard as he could that really got my "attention". Poor kid. He's having a bit of a 4 year old rough patch right now I guess. Still love him. Wanna kill him. Still love him though.
Olivia, my terrorist. This is her new name. The terrorist. When she's not destroying everything around her, she's striking absolute TERROR in both myself and grown men alike. You never knew what she'd have up her sleeve this past month. Granted, she's always been a bit of a sweet little spaz... but this, this was just pure insanity. If it wasn't the remote, it was my cell phone. If it wasn't the phone, it was the toilet plunger. If it wasn't the plunger, it was the space heater and the misc. paper clips from who know's where in her mouth. I don't care if it was moldy, snot-ridden anthrax. She touched it. She shoved it in places you never thought it could possibly fit into. She squashed it, snapped it, twisted and mangled it. By the time she was done with it, whatever it was, you didn't even recognize it anymore. Oh, and she almost drown in the tub. Yep, I knew it was coming. If we're really being honest here, you all knew it was coming too. Don't tell me you've read all of the other blogs and didn't think she'd attempt a drowing in the tub or two. Perhaps it was my fault. In the 3.4 seconds it took me to literally sprint to get my screaming Natalie from her baby swing, Livy had managed to somehow fall backward in the tub and couldn't get up. Thank GOD I had the sense to only put a few inches of water in there to begin with. As soon as I heard the splash I knew she was in trouble. I probably yanked her up with as much speed as it took her to go crashing down, but it still scared me. It scared the SHIT out of me, excuse my French. Did she come up gasping for air, screaming and crying from sheer terror? Of course not! Silly you for asking. Her name is terror and she is it's creator. She simply laughed and stuck her face directly into the water and proceeded to try and drink it. I'm pretty sure she peed in it prior to, but this girl could parachute into the Iraqi desert and it wouldn't phase her. I came up with a new phrase to describe my little monkey: "Taming the beast". As you can see, February was a really fun month.
Natalie, our Natty Noo. Cute. Absolutely positively cute. You might think I'm playing favoritism with her compared to my descriptions of the other two little rascals above. I'm really not, I swear. She's just immobile right now and can't speak, so she's a piece of cake most of the time. I don't worry about her back talking me or eating a battery out of the Glo-Worm. Nope, Natty is content to stare at colorful toys hanging from the swing. She's smiling now, at everyone. Oh, and she coos and sings, both of which completely melt your heart. She's growing like a weed, which my boobs can attest to - they never get a rest. Aside from one fussy evening when she got five, yes five!, vaccinations she's been a complete doll. I secretly smell her head all of the time and get high from it. Love that baby.
Ryan, poor dear Ryan. Pretty much works 7 days a week, 12 hour days, comes home, eats dinner, says hi to the kids and passes out by 9. He's working like a maniac which makes things here at home that much more difficult. Not his fault, I know. I just don't see an end in sight yet and so my Mommy brain has to be restrained or I might go postal. He kept me sane. Just a tad bit worried I might lose my mind one of these Saturdays... hanging on to it for dear life right now.
Me, oh the changes! I've been eating healthy foods and focusing on balancing my nutrition for over a month now. Way proud of myself. I feel better and I'm not so groggy. I can actually stay awake during the kids nap times! Woohoo! I've also joined a gym and am taking Jazzercise classes. For those of you in the dark, it's like dance aerobics in a night club with great club music... only it's usually during the day with older ladies... and no alcohol. Okay, bad description. Anyway, it kicks my butt and that's all that's important at this point. I've also been taking a body pump class which incorporates weights with lunges, sit-ups, etc. I think I died and was resuscitated back to life after I took it the first time, but it's getting easier now. I want to get back into my skinny jeans so bad I can taste it. Which, by the way, is about the only thing I'm tasting these days.
Daily Life of Three, as a whole: We are surviving, no doubt. It helps that we scramble up the week with visits to my Mom's house and my in-laws. I appreciate these kiddos way more when I've got an extra hand to keep them calm or grab a chocolate milk from the fridge. It's given me a few extra moments to realize that Riley is the greatest big brother there ever was. He knows how to get his tiny sister to "talk" to him when he makes crazy baby noises at her. She's so in love with him it's not even funny. I've also never laughed so hard in my life at toddler antics, courtesy of Olivia. Who else can give you an evil laugh, run over to her baby sister, repeatedly lick her newborn head and then finally give you a grossed out look while she spits toddler drool all over the floor. Sure, Livy, it's disgusting. The baby's head is slicked down from everyone loving on her. You thought licking her head was a good idea because.... why? Oh yeah, you're 20 months old... and you're Olivia Grace. Nuff' said. Yes, we are still living the good life. Toting ourselves around in two vehicles as always, carefully planning out strategics on who has who and where that "who" will go in the grocery store cart so that we ALL can be comfortable. No more sicknesses, so far. Praise Jesus. I'm starting to see the light of Spring and all of the wonderful warm weather and playground visits that come along with it. We've almost survived the winter and I couldn't be happier. It's been a journey, that's for sure. Now, on to March and all of the quirky things it will bring our way. Don't worry, soon enough I'll tell you ALL about it. You love it, you know you do. =)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I need a "Mom-cation"
I need a Mom-cation. I realize it's only been 5 weeks since D-Day with three kids but 5 weeks in my world is equal to 6 months in yours. Trust me, I did the math.
Let me share with you the happenings of this past Monday evening. I think you may sympathize a tad more once I explain.
Monday, February 1, 2010: The day started out quietly enough. Riley was at Grammy and Grandpop's house so it was just me and my girly girls hanging at home. The baby slept okay the night before and both chick-a-doos even slept a little later than usual that morning. It was a good start. Coffee in hand I charted out the days events because Natalie had a doctor's appointment at 1. I was anxious to get her there and see what she weighed now. Grandpop had stepped on the scale with her at home and swore she was 9 and a half pounds. This would mean she gained almost 2 pounds in 2 weeks! If I haven't mentioned it before, my kids start out normal enough but quickly start to grow as if I fed them steroids intravenously. I've been told I have the breast milk of champions. I've also found that sounds quite odd coming out of my mouth in social situations. Note to self, don't talk about the superior strength of your boob milk when in public. People really don't want to know. Seriously, they don't. Especially your husband's bachelor friends when we all meet up for drinks. So anyway, I plan out baths, showers, diaper bag contents, timing of dressing the baby to avoid as many spit-up stains as possible, etc. and make a quick call to Grandpop because he's going to watch the two older kiddos while I take the baby. Grandpop arrives with Riley in tow, Livy is napping, I'm off to the doctors office. Yadda yadda yadda for a bit... baby is doing great, gained 1 lb 2 oz. in 2 weeks (holy crap!) and gets her follow-up Hepatitis B shot. This, my friends, is where my day starts to go down hill - only I don't know it quite yet. It might sound cold-hearted but I've found that with each baby this whole shot business tends to get easier. Oh I'm sure it's no less painful for the baby but for me it's not nearly as tramatic seeing them get 2 shots in each thigh and scream their little heads off. It breaks my heart, of course, to see them in pain but I know it'll only last a second and it's all for a good cause. Cue shots in thigh, pick up baby to soothe her, she quickly stops crying and falls asleep in carrier before I'm even out the door. We're now heading home, one doctors appointment down - a dozen more to go, and that's just this year. More "yadda yadda yaddas" pertaining to a few in-between boring things and soon it's 3:30pm. Livy is up from her nap, but she's more cranky than usual. Actually, let me retract that. She's WAY more cranky than usual. She has several teeth ripping through her gums and she's not really all that thrilled about it. Who would be? It even looks painful, her gums all red and swollen with these tiny little white daggers poking through. The damn things are like razors... and I know this from experience because she tried to bite my pinky off over the weekend. She's an animal. Nose running, she wants nothing more than to be held. Of course, according to the great gods of Life of Three there will be obstacles to go along with this. The exact moment I pick Livy up to give her some lovin' the baby magically awakes and is screaming. She wants to be fed, I think. I try reasoning with Liv that Mommy has to feed the baby for a minute but will hold her as soon as I'm done. I promise. Yeah, right. All Livy hears is "Mommy blibbidy blah blah blah baby blibbidy blah blah" and begins to throw herself back in a temper tantrum and slams her head into my nose. GOD DAMN IT. That hurts. I think I just saw stars for a brief moment and check my nose for profuse bleeding. Nothing yet. I end up holding Livy with one arm, half her butt sitting on my right leg, the baby tangled in between us, legs completely squashed behind her sisters back and nursing from the left. My back is going into spasms from holding them both but I am determined to succeed in keeping these kids happy. Afterall, happy kids equals happy Mommy. Okay, so I just wanted them to both be quiet for a second. Can you blame me? Livy decides she's had enough, jumps down and runs to the pantry. "One-deese" ("Want one of these", roughly translated) she says from across the room and points at the pantry door. She figured out how to open it about a month ago and it's literally become her favorite place. For me, it's just torture. She NEVER knows what she wants from inside but she sure has a blast making me pick her up while she points at nothing in particular. We play the guessing game of "You want this? No. Okay. How about this? No... (sigh) How about THIS?" and we end the game where it usually ends each and every time. Fruit snacks. This is always the first "this" that I offer but I'm finding that Livy likes to mess with my head. She loves me, she's just ornery like that. I give her the pack of fruit snacks and make it back to where I'd left the baby in the swing moments before. At this point she is almost passing out from her angry cries. She was asleep a minute ago but something has gone and pissed her off. I'm not sure what. You'd think I'd be the Baby Whisperer or something by now, but I'm just as lost as the next guy. I pick her up, she's still crying. Unusual. Most times she just wants to be held. To feel that bodily warmth and firm grip to make her feel safe and secure again. Not this time. Nuh-uh, no way. She is downright mad. It is now about 4:30 and if I'd known how the events of the evening were going to go down from here I would have started running... It's times like these where I honestly have considered hiring a sitter. I don't want any of that business of a Mother's Helper. Screw that. The whole point would be so that I could get away! All this talk of having someone here to help me while we co-care for the kids is just silly nonsense. Get me out of here. Now. I realize, looking back, that at 4:30 that day I was just being a whiney baby. It was more like 8pm when I legitimately had every reason and then some to lose my ever-lovin' mind. And I did. Several times over. Baby screaming non-stop at this point, I realize that Riley is vying for my attention now and has discovered that screaming at the top of his lungs to mimic the baby's crying has caused Mommy to yell at him. This is attention... not good attention, but attention. Crazy kid reasoning. I tell him to quit, he yells louder. He is actually smiling while doing it now. I can't remember what I ended up screaming back at him at that moment, but whatever it was it was good enough to make him stop abruptly. As if a switch is flipped, he has forgotten about the baby and wants to color. Whatever makes you happy dude. I fish out the basket of crayons and markers and give him a stack of paper 2 inches thick. If I'm lucky he'll occupy himself with pictures until his Dad gets home. For good measure I toss down his toddler scissors and glue sticks on the table. Have at it kid. Channel Picasso and create me a masterpiece.
Time for dinner plans. I realize now that I should have ordered pizza. Sure, we may be on a budget and I may not have a job. To be honest I would have rather spent the last $20 to my name on a pie and been dirt poor the rest of my life than to go through the nightmare of dinner prep. Maybe even if I'd just thrown a Hamburger Helper on the stove. I could have been fine. Do I do this? Of course not. I thaw out chicken, pull out carrots, broccoli, and other assorted veggies. I pull out some teriyaki rice mixes, the sesame oil. A few garlic and ginger shakes later I am slicing chicken and heating up veggies with one hand all while nursing a very fussy baby with the other. It comes to me like a light bulb blinking on above my head. I think I've discovered Natalie's problem. The shots. Duh. None of my other kids had any problems with them. Not that I remember anyway. This time, however, if I even breathe near her leg she screams. Not wanting to eat anymore I do the only thing I can think of and strap her in the infant carrier on my chest. I'm getting more use of this thing IN the house than out. I might as well wear the thing as if it were my 5th limb at this point since it's pretty much turning out to be just that. Baby in the carrier, Livy has now attached herself to my left leg in a fitful scream because the right leg got her nowhere. Her nose is running down her face to her chin. It's completely raw from repeated wiping and she's got a low-grade fever now. Teething sucks and any idiotic doctor who tells you that teething does not bring on these symptoms is, well, a big idiot. I've chosen baby wipes as my weapon of choice for her nose now because the tissues with lotion don't seem to be helping and proceed to rip out another two sheets from the pack. She sees me coming and runs like a bat out of hell. I can't chase her so I don't. I'm sure she'll be back in a few minutes to scream some more at my leg anyway so I'll attack the nose then. Riley screams to me over the chaos to come look at his picture for the 5oth time. I've reduced myself to yelling back "Cool!" without even so much as a glimpse his way. I feel horrible about it at first but then I find myself yelling "Cool!" to him when he's not even asking me to look. I guess that means he's asked one too many times... or Mom's losing it. I manage to chop the chicken and veggies and throw them in a wok without burning myself or the dangling infant legs hanging off of me. Everything is cooking in one pot now so the hard part is over. The baby is still screaming but at a more muted tone now. I think she's losing her voice, poor thing. I just don't know what to do to stop her. I can't remember if 1 month olds can have Tylenol and it's too late to call the doctor. It is now 6:45. Where is Ryan? It's still not completely out of the norm that he's not home, traffic, after all, is a bitch. I text him. When I sent him a message earlier asking if he'd be home on time because my Mom needed me to make a run to IKEA with her, he sounded optimisitic in being home with time to spare. 7pm. He texts me back. He got an emergency page at the office. It'll only take a few minutes to finish up and then he's heading out of there. I contemplate putting Livy in her highchair for some dinner. The kids had a late lunch of soup but they have to be getting hungry by now. I know I'm starving but that's because I don't think I've eaten since breakfast. I sorta forgot, again. I end up lifting Olivia into the chair, holding her out in front of me by her armpits in an attempt to keep her from smashing the baby who is on my chest. I untangle her twisted pretzel legs from the foot holes in the chair, and voila! She's in. She hates it. She's so pissed she's trying to climb back out. I try to distract her with jello... apples... cereal... anything until I can throw together some kind of decent dinner item for her to munch on while the other stuff is simmering. 7:45 approaches. Dinner is done and growing cold on the stove. WHERE IS RYAN. Normally we text all day long. We are not great phone talkers. It's easier to text the main point of what you want to know or say and be done with it. Besides, ME have time to talk on the phone. Haha, you're frickin' hilarious. I pick up the phone and dial. He answers and by the tone of my voice, not to mention both girls hysterically screaming in the background, he knows I'm at my wits end. "WHERE are you?" I grunt. He's passing I-95 on his way to route 50. Will be home soon. I click my cell shut and start humming. I'm not sure if the humming is for the baby's benefit or mine. I re-think the humming, it's even scaring me not to mention what it's doing to the baby and so I turn on the first music station I can find. Country. Oh well, I like country sometimes and it's a lot more soothing than the adult rock channel. Maybe it'll calm these kids long enough until their father walks in the door. God I hope that's sooner than later. I'm now blasting "My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend" and singing and dancing in the living room with Natalie over my shoulder. I don't know this song but it's so cliche of country music that I can pretty much figure it out. Ryan is finally home and a series of "Daddy!" triumphs can be heard from both Livy and Riley as they run to the front door. They are probably just as glad that someone else is here as I am. "Having fun?" he says as I sway back and forth for the 500th time. I don't nod, I don't answer, I just glare. He doesn't take it personal, he just smiles and picks up Livy and takes her into the kitchen and grabs a bowl of food. Oh sure, you're like a Banshee from Hell when it's just Mommy but now that Daddy the Saviour is here, all is right in the world again. Defeated and having finally quieted the baby down some, I plop down in the rocker, lean my head back and close my eyes. Strange, I don't think I took one breath in or out in the last 4 hours because suddenly I let out this huge sigh as if I'd been under water. I hear a buzzing noise... my cell going off. It's a text only this time it's from my Mom. "Natalie needs her Neenie" I desperately type to her. She's coming over. THANK THE LORD ALMIGHTY. What better way to cure a Mom in crisis than with another Mom. The baby wakes up, more screaming and I am now warming up a bottle. I try to stay away from the formula when I'm at home but my body just can't take anymore right now. I struggle with the bottle, the baby really doesn't like it when I try to give it to her. Meanwhile, Ryan a.k.a. Mr. I-Can-Handle-All-The-Stress-In-The-World himself is starting to crack. Livy is spewing out the first half of her motrin and refuses to let the medicine dropper within 10 feet of her. "I think I'm going crazy" I say to him in passing. "After 15 minutes of walking in the door I'm usually losing it too" he admits. Well, at least I can take comfort in the fact that it's not just me. At that moment there is a knock at the door. The kids literally go running as if their lives depended on it. "NEENIE!" they scream simultaneously. I never could figure out where their Neenie radar comes from. Happiness is pouring from their little bodies. You'd have thought Santa was making a surprise visit in February. The tables have turned. They are now both extremely happy kids bouncing around the house in excitement. Screaming, yes, but for a very different reason. They are practically rejoicing. My Mom takes the baby from my aching arms and has her fed and lulled to sleep in minutes. The kids, albeit a tad crazy, are no longer hanging from my sides and protesting about every little thing they can possibly ponder up. It figures, doesn't it? 5 hours of my trying to undo the madness in this house and all I get are some snotty tissues and sore legs from 30 minutes of constant swaying. Neenie, on the other hand, takes less than 3 minutes to turn those frowns upside down and the world is right again. You gotta love her. My rear end hits the couch for the first time in an eternity and I prop up a few pillows behind my head. It may not exactly be a Mom-cation I'm enjoying at the moment but let me tell ya, sitting by myself in a semi-laying down position with no children yanking on me sure is pretty damn comfy. Yeah, it'll do.
Let me share with you the happenings of this past Monday evening. I think you may sympathize a tad more once I explain.
Monday, February 1, 2010: The day started out quietly enough. Riley was at Grammy and Grandpop's house so it was just me and my girly girls hanging at home. The baby slept okay the night before and both chick-a-doos even slept a little later than usual that morning. It was a good start. Coffee in hand I charted out the days events because Natalie had a doctor's appointment at 1. I was anxious to get her there and see what she weighed now. Grandpop had stepped on the scale with her at home and swore she was 9 and a half pounds. This would mean she gained almost 2 pounds in 2 weeks! If I haven't mentioned it before, my kids start out normal enough but quickly start to grow as if I fed them steroids intravenously. I've been told I have the breast milk of champions. I've also found that sounds quite odd coming out of my mouth in social situations. Note to self, don't talk about the superior strength of your boob milk when in public. People really don't want to know. Seriously, they don't. Especially your husband's bachelor friends when we all meet up for drinks. So anyway, I plan out baths, showers, diaper bag contents, timing of dressing the baby to avoid as many spit-up stains as possible, etc. and make a quick call to Grandpop because he's going to watch the two older kiddos while I take the baby. Grandpop arrives with Riley in tow, Livy is napping, I'm off to the doctors office. Yadda yadda yadda for a bit... baby is doing great, gained 1 lb 2 oz. in 2 weeks (holy crap!) and gets her follow-up Hepatitis B shot. This, my friends, is where my day starts to go down hill - only I don't know it quite yet. It might sound cold-hearted but I've found that with each baby this whole shot business tends to get easier. Oh I'm sure it's no less painful for the baby but for me it's not nearly as tramatic seeing them get 2 shots in each thigh and scream their little heads off. It breaks my heart, of course, to see them in pain but I know it'll only last a second and it's all for a good cause. Cue shots in thigh, pick up baby to soothe her, she quickly stops crying and falls asleep in carrier before I'm even out the door. We're now heading home, one doctors appointment down - a dozen more to go, and that's just this year. More "yadda yadda yaddas" pertaining to a few in-between boring things and soon it's 3:30pm. Livy is up from her nap, but she's more cranky than usual. Actually, let me retract that. She's WAY more cranky than usual. She has several teeth ripping through her gums and she's not really all that thrilled about it. Who would be? It even looks painful, her gums all red and swollen with these tiny little white daggers poking through. The damn things are like razors... and I know this from experience because she tried to bite my pinky off over the weekend. She's an animal. Nose running, she wants nothing more than to be held. Of course, according to the great gods of Life of Three there will be obstacles to go along with this. The exact moment I pick Livy up to give her some lovin' the baby magically awakes and is screaming. She wants to be fed, I think. I try reasoning with Liv that Mommy has to feed the baby for a minute but will hold her as soon as I'm done. I promise. Yeah, right. All Livy hears is "Mommy blibbidy blah blah blah baby blibbidy blah blah" and begins to throw herself back in a temper tantrum and slams her head into my nose. GOD DAMN IT. That hurts. I think I just saw stars for a brief moment and check my nose for profuse bleeding. Nothing yet. I end up holding Livy with one arm, half her butt sitting on my right leg, the baby tangled in between us, legs completely squashed behind her sisters back and nursing from the left. My back is going into spasms from holding them both but I am determined to succeed in keeping these kids happy. Afterall, happy kids equals happy Mommy. Okay, so I just wanted them to both be quiet for a second. Can you blame me? Livy decides she's had enough, jumps down and runs to the pantry. "One-deese" ("Want one of these", roughly translated) she says from across the room and points at the pantry door. She figured out how to open it about a month ago and it's literally become her favorite place. For me, it's just torture. She NEVER knows what she wants from inside but she sure has a blast making me pick her up while she points at nothing in particular. We play the guessing game of "You want this? No. Okay. How about this? No... (sigh) How about THIS?" and we end the game where it usually ends each and every time. Fruit snacks. This is always the first "this" that I offer but I'm finding that Livy likes to mess with my head. She loves me, she's just ornery like that. I give her the pack of fruit snacks and make it back to where I'd left the baby in the swing moments before. At this point she is almost passing out from her angry cries. She was asleep a minute ago but something has gone and pissed her off. I'm not sure what. You'd think I'd be the Baby Whisperer or something by now, but I'm just as lost as the next guy. I pick her up, she's still crying. Unusual. Most times she just wants to be held. To feel that bodily warmth and firm grip to make her feel safe and secure again. Not this time. Nuh-uh, no way. She is downright mad. It is now about 4:30 and if I'd known how the events of the evening were going to go down from here I would have started running... It's times like these where I honestly have considered hiring a sitter. I don't want any of that business of a Mother's Helper. Screw that. The whole point would be so that I could get away! All this talk of having someone here to help me while we co-care for the kids is just silly nonsense. Get me out of here. Now. I realize, looking back, that at 4:30 that day I was just being a whiney baby. It was more like 8pm when I legitimately had every reason and then some to lose my ever-lovin' mind. And I did. Several times over. Baby screaming non-stop at this point, I realize that Riley is vying for my attention now and has discovered that screaming at the top of his lungs to mimic the baby's crying has caused Mommy to yell at him. This is attention... not good attention, but attention. Crazy kid reasoning. I tell him to quit, he yells louder. He is actually smiling while doing it now. I can't remember what I ended up screaming back at him at that moment, but whatever it was it was good enough to make him stop abruptly. As if a switch is flipped, he has forgotten about the baby and wants to color. Whatever makes you happy dude. I fish out the basket of crayons and markers and give him a stack of paper 2 inches thick. If I'm lucky he'll occupy himself with pictures until his Dad gets home. For good measure I toss down his toddler scissors and glue sticks on the table. Have at it kid. Channel Picasso and create me a masterpiece.
Time for dinner plans. I realize now that I should have ordered pizza. Sure, we may be on a budget and I may not have a job. To be honest I would have rather spent the last $20 to my name on a pie and been dirt poor the rest of my life than to go through the nightmare of dinner prep. Maybe even if I'd just thrown a Hamburger Helper on the stove. I could have been fine. Do I do this? Of course not. I thaw out chicken, pull out carrots, broccoli, and other assorted veggies. I pull out some teriyaki rice mixes, the sesame oil. A few garlic and ginger shakes later I am slicing chicken and heating up veggies with one hand all while nursing a very fussy baby with the other. It comes to me like a light bulb blinking on above my head. I think I've discovered Natalie's problem. The shots. Duh. None of my other kids had any problems with them. Not that I remember anyway. This time, however, if I even breathe near her leg she screams. Not wanting to eat anymore I do the only thing I can think of and strap her in the infant carrier on my chest. I'm getting more use of this thing IN the house than out. I might as well wear the thing as if it were my 5th limb at this point since it's pretty much turning out to be just that. Baby in the carrier, Livy has now attached herself to my left leg in a fitful scream because the right leg got her nowhere. Her nose is running down her face to her chin. It's completely raw from repeated wiping and she's got a low-grade fever now. Teething sucks and any idiotic doctor who tells you that teething does not bring on these symptoms is, well, a big idiot. I've chosen baby wipes as my weapon of choice for her nose now because the tissues with lotion don't seem to be helping and proceed to rip out another two sheets from the pack. She sees me coming and runs like a bat out of hell. I can't chase her so I don't. I'm sure she'll be back in a few minutes to scream some more at my leg anyway so I'll attack the nose then. Riley screams to me over the chaos to come look at his picture for the 5oth time. I've reduced myself to yelling back "Cool!" without even so much as a glimpse his way. I feel horrible about it at first but then I find myself yelling "Cool!" to him when he's not even asking me to look. I guess that means he's asked one too many times... or Mom's losing it. I manage to chop the chicken and veggies and throw them in a wok without burning myself or the dangling infant legs hanging off of me. Everything is cooking in one pot now so the hard part is over. The baby is still screaming but at a more muted tone now. I think she's losing her voice, poor thing. I just don't know what to do to stop her. I can't remember if 1 month olds can have Tylenol and it's too late to call the doctor. It is now 6:45. Where is Ryan? It's still not completely out of the norm that he's not home, traffic, after all, is a bitch. I text him. When I sent him a message earlier asking if he'd be home on time because my Mom needed me to make a run to IKEA with her, he sounded optimisitic in being home with time to spare. 7pm. He texts me back. He got an emergency page at the office. It'll only take a few minutes to finish up and then he's heading out of there. I contemplate putting Livy in her highchair for some dinner. The kids had a late lunch of soup but they have to be getting hungry by now. I know I'm starving but that's because I don't think I've eaten since breakfast. I sorta forgot, again. I end up lifting Olivia into the chair, holding her out in front of me by her armpits in an attempt to keep her from smashing the baby who is on my chest. I untangle her twisted pretzel legs from the foot holes in the chair, and voila! She's in. She hates it. She's so pissed she's trying to climb back out. I try to distract her with jello... apples... cereal... anything until I can throw together some kind of decent dinner item for her to munch on while the other stuff is simmering. 7:45 approaches. Dinner is done and growing cold on the stove. WHERE IS RYAN. Normally we text all day long. We are not great phone talkers. It's easier to text the main point of what you want to know or say and be done with it. Besides, ME have time to talk on the phone. Haha, you're frickin' hilarious. I pick up the phone and dial. He answers and by the tone of my voice, not to mention both girls hysterically screaming in the background, he knows I'm at my wits end. "WHERE are you?" I grunt. He's passing I-95 on his way to route 50. Will be home soon. I click my cell shut and start humming. I'm not sure if the humming is for the baby's benefit or mine. I re-think the humming, it's even scaring me not to mention what it's doing to the baby and so I turn on the first music station I can find. Country. Oh well, I like country sometimes and it's a lot more soothing than the adult rock channel. Maybe it'll calm these kids long enough until their father walks in the door. God I hope that's sooner than later. I'm now blasting "My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend" and singing and dancing in the living room with Natalie over my shoulder. I don't know this song but it's so cliche of country music that I can pretty much figure it out. Ryan is finally home and a series of "Daddy!" triumphs can be heard from both Livy and Riley as they run to the front door. They are probably just as glad that someone else is here as I am. "Having fun?" he says as I sway back and forth for the 500th time. I don't nod, I don't answer, I just glare. He doesn't take it personal, he just smiles and picks up Livy and takes her into the kitchen and grabs a bowl of food. Oh sure, you're like a Banshee from Hell when it's just Mommy but now that Daddy the Saviour is here, all is right in the world again. Defeated and having finally quieted the baby down some, I plop down in the rocker, lean my head back and close my eyes. Strange, I don't think I took one breath in or out in the last 4 hours because suddenly I let out this huge sigh as if I'd been under water. I hear a buzzing noise... my cell going off. It's a text only this time it's from my Mom. "Natalie needs her Neenie" I desperately type to her. She's coming over. THANK THE LORD ALMIGHTY. What better way to cure a Mom in crisis than with another Mom. The baby wakes up, more screaming and I am now warming up a bottle. I try to stay away from the formula when I'm at home but my body just can't take anymore right now. I struggle with the bottle, the baby really doesn't like it when I try to give it to her. Meanwhile, Ryan a.k.a. Mr. I-Can-Handle-All-The-Stress-In-The-World himself is starting to crack. Livy is spewing out the first half of her motrin and refuses to let the medicine dropper within 10 feet of her. "I think I'm going crazy" I say to him in passing. "After 15 minutes of walking in the door I'm usually losing it too" he admits. Well, at least I can take comfort in the fact that it's not just me. At that moment there is a knock at the door. The kids literally go running as if their lives depended on it. "NEENIE!" they scream simultaneously. I never could figure out where their Neenie radar comes from. Happiness is pouring from their little bodies. You'd have thought Santa was making a surprise visit in February. The tables have turned. They are now both extremely happy kids bouncing around the house in excitement. Screaming, yes, but for a very different reason. They are practically rejoicing. My Mom takes the baby from my aching arms and has her fed and lulled to sleep in minutes. The kids, albeit a tad crazy, are no longer hanging from my sides and protesting about every little thing they can possibly ponder up. It figures, doesn't it? 5 hours of my trying to undo the madness in this house and all I get are some snotty tissues and sore legs from 30 minutes of constant swaying. Neenie, on the other hand, takes less than 3 minutes to turn those frowns upside down and the world is right again. You gotta love her. My rear end hits the couch for the first time in an eternity and I prop up a few pillows behind my head. It may not exactly be a Mom-cation I'm enjoying at the moment but let me tell ya, sitting by myself in a semi-laying down position with no children yanking on me sure is pretty damn comfy. Yeah, it'll do.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Love and marriage... and kids
Subject of the day: What happens to a marriage when little munchkins invade your life.
Most of us will go through this at some point in our lives. It doesn't last forever, but just long enough to make a real dent in the direction that you, as a couple, will go. It's like Survivor. It's hard, it's tough, grueling for sure. Some people will pull for you, others against you. You do your best not to let yourself get voted off and if you're still there in the end, the prize is amazing. Spending a lifetime with your best friend who has had the privilege of sharing in all of your life's memories. The ability to grow and nuture a family and then watch them follow in your footsteps.
I love my husband. I still have moments when I look at him and I get the excited flutters in my belly and my heart speeds up a beat. I think that's cool. To share your life with someone for almost 6 years and continue to get the "wows" every now and again is no easy feat. Especially when you've condensed what most people do in 10+ years of their life down to the mere 6 that we have. Yep, you know what I'm talking about... kids. Add to that the fact that both of us have moved at least twice, from separate dwellings to our first home and then again to our second. We've gone through crazy financial issues with the downturn of the economy, hired and fired (or lost) more Nannies than you could count (I'd like to think it was not because of us, we truly are nice people... maybe being too nice was the problem). We've unfortunately seen a few deaths in the family, TONS of births, a job change or two and several other misc. stressors that life has brought our way. Above all this, we managed to somehow squeeze in 3 kids who we may not have planned on at the time but couldn't do without. Despite all of this, we're still here. I would, however, like to bring to light a few things I've noticed along the way.
Let's talk about appearance for a second. Do you remember in the beginning when you and your loved one always looked your best? You couldn't even fathom not spending hours getting ready before you laid eyes on each other. Legs and armpits shaved. Hair perfectly styled. Make-up flawless. Enough perfume or cologne that even your neighbor down the street knew you were prepping for a hot date. Clothing impeccable, particularly after you'd tried on 20 different outfits and ended up wearing the first one you picked. Three hours from when you first started primping you are finally out the door with tic-tacs in hand. You are the shiz-nit. Dressed to impress you can barely contain your excitement. You look great, you smell great and you just know this inevitable attraction leading to a long-term never ending and eternally happy relationship will be - you guessed it - G.R.E.A.T.
Fast forward to now. Your lucky if you can get a brush through that matted birds nest on the top of your head, you reek of baby spit-up and that smudge of mascara running down the left side of your face was the only attempt you made yesterday to look half-human for the baby's doctors appointment. Why you've still got it on 24 hours later, I mean really, do you even have to ask? You've had the same pants on for 3 days now (which kinda spells out the whole shower situation, now doesn't it?) and have managed to peel away the crust spots of this morning's spilled eggs and your toddler's snotty nose from the knee section using only a finger nail. MacGyver style. And this is just you. Your husband is pretty much in the same boat only his facial hair has managed to completely cover any evidence of flesh below nose level. You have the same problem, only it's more or less your pits and legs that are struggling to breathe through all of that bush. Hell, if you had the time and patience you could probably even braid it. Hubby jokes about his socks taking on a life of their own and then immediately rips them off to show you and the entire world how proud he is of the stench he's managed to create. Sexy. I know.
It is at this point that I look at myself and then over to dear hubby and realize, we really truly honestly don't seem to care. Oh sure, we notice. How can you not? I wonder to myself if we'd seen each other like this in the beginning would we be sitting here together at this moment? I think it's a gradual process. We let one thing go at a time in a slow process of not caring anymore. Maybe that's what brings us to this point. The point where I can sleep on the couch for a week straight simply because it's easier to get up and feed the baby 17 times a night without the added burden of trying not to wake up my other half who has to work. He knows this has nothing to do with him. I'm not mad. We aren't getting over some crazy knock down drag out fight and one of us has been banished from the bed. We don't take it personally when we somehow finagle taking turns eating dinner while the other rushes around tending to the kids needs. We aren't angry or depressed when not one word is exchanged between us that doesn't pertain to diapers, bottles or poop in a single evening. It's just life. Well, life right now anyway. We make efforts. I leave him notes here and there when I can. He gives me a gentle pat on the back or a quick hug as we pass from room to room cleaning up messes or breaking up fights. At least we try and for that I'm grateful.
Gone are the days of holding in gas or belches and keeping the bathroom door closed at all times. Well, for him anyway. The concept of bringing toilet paper to each other in times of need doesn't even phase us. When he needs more soap from the store he never cringes when I bring him extra foo-foo smelling body wash because it was only $1.99. He just smells like a bouquet for a few weeks and congratulates me for getting such a bargain. The other day he thought he was getting a good deal on hair gel... in toothpaste tube form, no less - and he asks me how it smells. I gag and tell him he reminds me of my Gandpa. We laugh hysterically. It's funny because we are at a point where the fragrance of our hair doesn't have to impress. You haven't lived until you can find humor in these things and each other. Laughter, after all, seems to be what makes the world go 'round.
God bless those little kiddos. Only they could make it possible for their Father and I to look our worst and have breath so terribly funky that the slightest peck on the cheek would knock you out cold and still we see each other at our best. It might only be the inner beauty we're seeing at that moment, but it still counts. It counts the most, actually. I love my kids and my husband. I also love that my children love my husband and he loves them. Just when I think I'm going to lose it he jumps in and takes them for a horse-y back ride. When I almost crush the baby because I'm quickly slumping foward during that 2 a.m. feeding I feel his hand touch my back in an attempt to support me. Likewise, when I can tell he's run out of ideas on how to get the baby to quiet down, I grab her with a smile and say it's my turn to try - even if I'm exhausted. I think it's in those tiny gestures that we can come to terms with feeling like we haven't talked, let alone acknowledged, each other in days. We're speaking, just in our own language I suppose. Now if that doesn't make you go "Awwww!" I don't know what to tell ya. =)
Most of us will go through this at some point in our lives. It doesn't last forever, but just long enough to make a real dent in the direction that you, as a couple, will go. It's like Survivor. It's hard, it's tough, grueling for sure. Some people will pull for you, others against you. You do your best not to let yourself get voted off and if you're still there in the end, the prize is amazing. Spending a lifetime with your best friend who has had the privilege of sharing in all of your life's memories. The ability to grow and nuture a family and then watch them follow in your footsteps.
I love my husband. I still have moments when I look at him and I get the excited flutters in my belly and my heart speeds up a beat. I think that's cool. To share your life with someone for almost 6 years and continue to get the "wows" every now and again is no easy feat. Especially when you've condensed what most people do in 10+ years of their life down to the mere 6 that we have. Yep, you know what I'm talking about... kids. Add to that the fact that both of us have moved at least twice, from separate dwellings to our first home and then again to our second. We've gone through crazy financial issues with the downturn of the economy, hired and fired (or lost) more Nannies than you could count (I'd like to think it was not because of us, we truly are nice people... maybe being too nice was the problem). We've unfortunately seen a few deaths in the family, TONS of births, a job change or two and several other misc. stressors that life has brought our way. Above all this, we managed to somehow squeeze in 3 kids who we may not have planned on at the time but couldn't do without. Despite all of this, we're still here. I would, however, like to bring to light a few things I've noticed along the way.
Let's talk about appearance for a second. Do you remember in the beginning when you and your loved one always looked your best? You couldn't even fathom not spending hours getting ready before you laid eyes on each other. Legs and armpits shaved. Hair perfectly styled. Make-up flawless. Enough perfume or cologne that even your neighbor down the street knew you were prepping for a hot date. Clothing impeccable, particularly after you'd tried on 20 different outfits and ended up wearing the first one you picked. Three hours from when you first started primping you are finally out the door with tic-tacs in hand. You are the shiz-nit. Dressed to impress you can barely contain your excitement. You look great, you smell great and you just know this inevitable attraction leading to a long-term never ending and eternally happy relationship will be - you guessed it - G.R.E.A.T.
Fast forward to now. Your lucky if you can get a brush through that matted birds nest on the top of your head, you reek of baby spit-up and that smudge of mascara running down the left side of your face was the only attempt you made yesterday to look half-human for the baby's doctors appointment. Why you've still got it on 24 hours later, I mean really, do you even have to ask? You've had the same pants on for 3 days now (which kinda spells out the whole shower situation, now doesn't it?) and have managed to peel away the crust spots of this morning's spilled eggs and your toddler's snotty nose from the knee section using only a finger nail. MacGyver style. And this is just you. Your husband is pretty much in the same boat only his facial hair has managed to completely cover any evidence of flesh below nose level. You have the same problem, only it's more or less your pits and legs that are struggling to breathe through all of that bush. Hell, if you had the time and patience you could probably even braid it. Hubby jokes about his socks taking on a life of their own and then immediately rips them off to show you and the entire world how proud he is of the stench he's managed to create. Sexy. I know.
It is at this point that I look at myself and then over to dear hubby and realize, we really truly honestly don't seem to care. Oh sure, we notice. How can you not? I wonder to myself if we'd seen each other like this in the beginning would we be sitting here together at this moment? I think it's a gradual process. We let one thing go at a time in a slow process of not caring anymore. Maybe that's what brings us to this point. The point where I can sleep on the couch for a week straight simply because it's easier to get up and feed the baby 17 times a night without the added burden of trying not to wake up my other half who has to work. He knows this has nothing to do with him. I'm not mad. We aren't getting over some crazy knock down drag out fight and one of us has been banished from the bed. We don't take it personally when we somehow finagle taking turns eating dinner while the other rushes around tending to the kids needs. We aren't angry or depressed when not one word is exchanged between us that doesn't pertain to diapers, bottles or poop in a single evening. It's just life. Well, life right now anyway. We make efforts. I leave him notes here and there when I can. He gives me a gentle pat on the back or a quick hug as we pass from room to room cleaning up messes or breaking up fights. At least we try and for that I'm grateful.
Gone are the days of holding in gas or belches and keeping the bathroom door closed at all times. Well, for him anyway. The concept of bringing toilet paper to each other in times of need doesn't even phase us. When he needs more soap from the store he never cringes when I bring him extra foo-foo smelling body wash because it was only $1.99. He just smells like a bouquet for a few weeks and congratulates me for getting such a bargain. The other day he thought he was getting a good deal on hair gel... in toothpaste tube form, no less - and he asks me how it smells. I gag and tell him he reminds me of my Gandpa. We laugh hysterically. It's funny because we are at a point where the fragrance of our hair doesn't have to impress. You haven't lived until you can find humor in these things and each other. Laughter, after all, seems to be what makes the world go 'round.
God bless those little kiddos. Only they could make it possible for their Father and I to look our worst and have breath so terribly funky that the slightest peck on the cheek would knock you out cold and still we see each other at our best. It might only be the inner beauty we're seeing at that moment, but it still counts. It counts the most, actually. I love my kids and my husband. I also love that my children love my husband and he loves them. Just when I think I'm going to lose it he jumps in and takes them for a horse-y back ride. When I almost crush the baby because I'm quickly slumping foward during that 2 a.m. feeding I feel his hand touch my back in an attempt to support me. Likewise, when I can tell he's run out of ideas on how to get the baby to quiet down, I grab her with a smile and say it's my turn to try - even if I'm exhausted. I think it's in those tiny gestures that we can come to terms with feeling like we haven't talked, let alone acknowledged, each other in days. We're speaking, just in our own language I suppose. Now if that doesn't make you go "Awwww!" I don't know what to tell ya. =)
Monday, February 1, 2010
Where, oh where, has my body done gone?
I'm going to be brutually honest. Sure, it's only been a month since I brought our precious Natalie into the world... but I want my body back. Oh she can have my boobs, no prob. Thanks to her they are a full 2 sizes bigger and I'll admit that it's nice looking like a female in that area for a change. Not to mention that some experts claim nursing burns up to 600 calories a day. Score! Who needs exercise? Oh, right, me.
I would, however, like to exchange my still flabby gut, the brand new stretch marks on my sides and the extra million pounds that cause my thighs to touch when I walk... okay, and sit... and stand. Alright, alright! They are like two drum sticks battling it out for a cash prize or something.
Apparently all of this "baby" weight -as I like to call it, it just sounds more justified that way - is supposedly there as a back-up for your hardworking breastfeeding body. I'm not sure who came up with this, perhaps it was a group of moms hundreds of years ago who decided this is what they'd tell their husbands and friends when any weight related subject came up about their post-partum bodies. You can blame a lot of things on "post-partum". I'm moody because of post-partum. I'm fat because my body is going through the post-partum stage. The time I lost my mind for a brief moment watching that stupid Hallmark commercial and cried like a big blubbering idiot... Good ol' post-partum. Our bodies are in limbo. We are cleaning out all of the excess hormones, fluids, etc. that we no longer need to grow another precious human being. All I'm saying is that now that my precious being is here in the flesh, Give. Me. My. Body. BACK! If I could choose I'd take the body I had after Riley before dear sweet Olivia came along. You, my trusted Reader, probably have no idea which one that is but I remember very fondly. It was my 118 pound, fits in my skinny jeans leaving still another inch of wiggle room, can run a flight of stairs without exploding a lung body. Of course, at that time I only had one child and plenty of spare time for that little thing called EXERCISE. Back then I would have told you that you were crazy if you thought I had any spare time to work out. You'd be just plain insane to even suggest it! Somehow, though, I managed to squeeze it in on almost a daily basis. Wow, fast forward 4 years with 3 children in tow and the same comment and now I'd probably just laugh at you hysterically until I peed my pants. Nothing like taking down the stacks of my skinny clothes from their hiding place in the closet only to find that even my fat pants that I wore after having Olivia don't fit anymore! Oh the HORROR. Seriously. HORROR. I'm simply depressed at the thought of hanging those puppies up as an incentive to lose weight. Great, put the fat pants up so the even fatter fatso can attempt to get back to her pre-fat but still fat self. Self-loathing, I think they call it? On a side note, I really hope that no men are reading this because I'm pretty much spelling out the stereotype on how most women feel about their body image. You know, the one we all deny but secretly obsess over with every bite. Actually, who am I kidding. If any man starting reading this they've definitely stopped long before they got to this part. I can see the head shaking and eye rolling now. "Women" they'd say and completely shut their computers down in an effort to make it all go away. If they only knew what we go through... and usually, as always, it's for them.
I've been telling myself ever since the day I came home from the hospital that I would make every effort to eat right and stay as active as possible until I was given the go-ahead to head to the gym. No sugary snacks, cut out all the white and starchy foods. It's veggies, protein and fiber for me! Woohoo! Half a Valentine's Day cake from Giant and 2 quarts of chocolate milk later here I sit, on my ass, blogging to you. Don't worry. I don't blame you. I blame the never ending housework, the endless requests for snacks and juice, juggling the nap times and the laundry, my husband's crazy work schedule, the moon, the stars, and the Great Wall of China for my lack of doing something about it. No more, however. I have plans to join a gym this week, I'm breaking out my videos and hand weights. I am doing this. Grapefruit and baked chicken, here I come! I vow to be even more successful than the frickin' spokesperson for Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers combined. I will no longer wear my black stretchy pants that hubby despises. After all, the may be black but they certainly aren't slimming!
Our womenly bodies are like battlegrounds. Constantly fighting with ourselves to win over our cravings, our tendency to give in to temptations and the never ending excuses of why we can't exercise, why we can't justify taking a few minutes of time to ourselves to do something to make us happier, healthier people. Look, I'm not trying to be some motivational speaker on weight loss here. I'm really not. I'm just hoping that by being honest and telling you all of this that it might put a foot up my butt to get it in gear. For all I know you could be the re-incarnate of Olive Oyl herself with a loaded kitchen full of bean sprouts. I hate you, by the way. Me, on the other hand, will be clearing out the shelf of fruit snacks and cheese puffs in the pantry for my brown rice and Special K.
Somebody pass me the duct tape. Those size 4 jeans I've been hanging on to? Those bitches are going on the fridge and shortly thereafter my skinny little ass. You just wait and see.
I would, however, like to exchange my still flabby gut, the brand new stretch marks on my sides and the extra million pounds that cause my thighs to touch when I walk... okay, and sit... and stand. Alright, alright! They are like two drum sticks battling it out for a cash prize or something.
Apparently all of this "baby" weight -as I like to call it, it just sounds more justified that way - is supposedly there as a back-up for your hardworking breastfeeding body. I'm not sure who came up with this, perhaps it was a group of moms hundreds of years ago who decided this is what they'd tell their husbands and friends when any weight related subject came up about their post-partum bodies. You can blame a lot of things on "post-partum". I'm moody because of post-partum. I'm fat because my body is going through the post-partum stage. The time I lost my mind for a brief moment watching that stupid Hallmark commercial and cried like a big blubbering idiot... Good ol' post-partum. Our bodies are in limbo. We are cleaning out all of the excess hormones, fluids, etc. that we no longer need to grow another precious human being. All I'm saying is that now that my precious being is here in the flesh, Give. Me. My. Body. BACK! If I could choose I'd take the body I had after Riley before dear sweet Olivia came along. You, my trusted Reader, probably have no idea which one that is but I remember very fondly. It was my 118 pound, fits in my skinny jeans leaving still another inch of wiggle room, can run a flight of stairs without exploding a lung body. Of course, at that time I only had one child and plenty of spare time for that little thing called EXERCISE. Back then I would have told you that you were crazy if you thought I had any spare time to work out. You'd be just plain insane to even suggest it! Somehow, though, I managed to squeeze it in on almost a daily basis. Wow, fast forward 4 years with 3 children in tow and the same comment and now I'd probably just laugh at you hysterically until I peed my pants. Nothing like taking down the stacks of my skinny clothes from their hiding place in the closet only to find that even my fat pants that I wore after having Olivia don't fit anymore! Oh the HORROR. Seriously. HORROR. I'm simply depressed at the thought of hanging those puppies up as an incentive to lose weight. Great, put the fat pants up so the even fatter fatso can attempt to get back to her pre-fat but still fat self. Self-loathing, I think they call it? On a side note, I really hope that no men are reading this because I'm pretty much spelling out the stereotype on how most women feel about their body image. You know, the one we all deny but secretly obsess over with every bite. Actually, who am I kidding. If any man starting reading this they've definitely stopped long before they got to this part. I can see the head shaking and eye rolling now. "Women" they'd say and completely shut their computers down in an effort to make it all go away. If they only knew what we go through... and usually, as always, it's for them.
I've been telling myself ever since the day I came home from the hospital that I would make every effort to eat right and stay as active as possible until I was given the go-ahead to head to the gym. No sugary snacks, cut out all the white and starchy foods. It's veggies, protein and fiber for me! Woohoo! Half a Valentine's Day cake from Giant and 2 quarts of chocolate milk later here I sit, on my ass, blogging to you. Don't worry. I don't blame you. I blame the never ending housework, the endless requests for snacks and juice, juggling the nap times and the laundry, my husband's crazy work schedule, the moon, the stars, and the Great Wall of China for my lack of doing something about it. No more, however. I have plans to join a gym this week, I'm breaking out my videos and hand weights. I am doing this. Grapefruit and baked chicken, here I come! I vow to be even more successful than the frickin' spokesperson for Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers combined. I will no longer wear my black stretchy pants that hubby despises. After all, the may be black but they certainly aren't slimming!
Our womenly bodies are like battlegrounds. Constantly fighting with ourselves to win over our cravings, our tendency to give in to temptations and the never ending excuses of why we can't exercise, why we can't justify taking a few minutes of time to ourselves to do something to make us happier, healthier people. Look, I'm not trying to be some motivational speaker on weight loss here. I'm really not. I'm just hoping that by being honest and telling you all of this that it might put a foot up my butt to get it in gear. For all I know you could be the re-incarnate of Olive Oyl herself with a loaded kitchen full of bean sprouts. I hate you, by the way. Me, on the other hand, will be clearing out the shelf of fruit snacks and cheese puffs in the pantry for my brown rice and Special K.
Somebody pass me the duct tape. Those size 4 jeans I've been hanging on to? Those bitches are going on the fridge and shortly thereafter my skinny little ass. You just wait and see.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tar-jay, lookout, cuz here we come!
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.
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.
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