Confessing Mommy

Kicking Complaining to the Curb, I Call Uncle

2011-11-28T14:39:00.005-06:00

When I last left you on my month long challenge of Kicking Complaining to the Curb, I was having myself a pity party over a crummy day. I'd like to tell you that the very next day I picked myself up, plastered a smile upon my face, and got busy being positive. But, it didn't quite work out that way.
Oh, I was positive alright, but it wasn't my attitude. I was positive for Strep Throat. When I last left you, I was on my way out the door to take First and Secondborn to the Pedi for what I thought were colds. Unfortunately, my car battery was dead and I wasn't able to. Hubby replaced the battery that afternoon and I rescheduled their appointments for the following morning.
The Pedi thought as I did, and that they both had viruses and would just need to work their way through them. But, he tested them for Strep since it's been showing up at his office like wildfire. The Pedi was incredibly surprised that both kids were, indeed, positive.
After writing out multiple prescriptions for steroidal breathing treatments and antibiotics, he asked me to open my mouth and say, "Ahhh". After take a look see he wrote me a prescription. I thought he was being cute and it would say something along the lines of, "Get some rest, Mom". But, no. It told me to get to my doctor immediately.
So, while sitting in the car line at the pharmacy to drop off for the second time within three hours, I called my dear friend, Amanda. You remember her, right? She's the one who helped inspire this project of Kicking Complaining to the Curb and the Grateful Granny Square project.
I called and proceeded to be anything but positive. There were tears. There were curse words, There were complaints, and lots of 'em baby. But, as I boo-hoo-ed in the drive through line to Amanda, I actually began to feel better.
How could that be? I had been on this quest for positive enlightenment. To admit that complaining not only lightened my mental load, but provided for some much needed good laughs would be to admit defeat, failure.
So, here goes. I failed Kicking Complaining to the Curb....sort of.
Yes, I complained. Who wouldn't with four strep diagnosis in one household within one week? (Yup, even Hubby fell ill.) We felt like poo and our throats were itchy and burning. And, because we were all ill, we were all house bound. Throw in the fact that both First and Secondborn were on two separate steroidal treatments apiece, twice daily, and you've got yourself a recipe for insanity.
But, I found that holding all those complaints close to the breast probably would have done far more damage than letting them out. So, while most would count my challenge a complete failure, I count it as successful. Well, maybe not a soaring success, mind you, but I took away some powerful knowledge.
I was reminded of how good it feels to look on the brighter side of a messy situation. But, it also feels good to have a great friend who'll lend an ear, and throw in some dirty words with you when that brighter side is too clouded over to glimpse. I'm catching myself before I get grouchy and grumpy, and rerouting my attitude with much more ease than in the past.
Kids, jobs, spouses, life, it gets in the way of what we feel our life should be. Well, it's just that. It's life. You do the best you can, and move on. And, this is me moving on. I humbly admit that Kicking Complaining to the Curb kicked my hiney.....sort of. How 'bout we just call it a draw?

21 November KCttC

2011-11-21T12:49:00.003-06:00

Today's challenge is an epic fail, and all before lunch time.
The kids and I've been sick with a yucky cold all weekend, hence no blog catching up. Sorry.
This morning I knew it was time to call the pedi since Firstborn now sounded like his cold had landed in his chest and would need to go back on breathing treatments. So, I called and made an appointment for 2:15. Forty-five minutes later they called to see if they could move my appointment up to 1:00. I was more than willing to go ahead and get the appointment over with so I agreed.
After fighting with Secondborn for half an hour over what constituted appropriate footwear we headed out the door only to find that the Mommymobile would not start. It tried to turn over followed by lots of clicking indicating I am most likely in need of a new battery. Awesome. I'm sure that will result in yet another economics lesson that I will have to endure.
At this point I am failing miserably at staying positive. But, maybe after going back to bed, drinking some hot tea, and downing enough Ibuprofen to take out a six year old I'll be in a more positive mindset. One can only hope, right?

18 November KCttC

2011-11-18T14:29:00.002-06:00

It's nap time. The house is fairly quiet save the Soundscapes digital music channel playing, and the sounds of Hubby working from home in his office. Secondborn is fast asleep in her own bed, while Firstborn is snuggled up fast and close to me in the big bed. Try as I might, there just doesn't seem to be anything that I could find wrong with this day. Sure, there have been a few moments of irritation, but always held in check.
Today was the performance of Firstborn's preschool Winter program, and as preschool programs go, it was what you'd expect. It was fortunate that I wore my roomy sweater, because this mama was puffed up with quite the load of pride for her son. And, who wouldn't have been? They sang songs, practiced their rhythm using tamborines, they donned headdresses, and even exhibited their knowledge of those imposing black keys on the piano. Hubby and I couldn't be happier with the school that he's attending.
Afterwards we headed to Chic-fil-A for a rare fast food outing. The kids were thrilled with the fact that not only were they getting french fries and chicken nuggets, but they were going to get their germ on by playing in the play yard. Every kid's dream and every mama's nightmare, yes, I know.
While waiting on Hubby to bring the much anticipated grub to the table, the kids were treated even more by the fact that one of the Chic-fil-A cows was greeting each and every table. Judging by the look on Firstborn's face, life for him at that exact moment just couldn't have been much better. Well, okay, the cow could have been delivering a hot fudge sundae, but still, the kid was over the moon.
And, when my kids are over the moon, well, so am I. Especially when one or more is snuggled up fast and close as he is now possibly dreaming of his morning, cows, and maybe hot fudge sundaes. Maybe he's even dreaming of his mommy with her goofiest of goofy grins plastered on face, clapping like a fool as he looked out across that stage.

Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things. ~Robert Brault

17 November KCttC

2011-11-17T19:54:00.002-06:00

Do you ever those days where it feels as if you're spinning in place? No matter how hard you work, there's no traction to be had? Aside from Monday, I've felt as if I've had an entire week of mud flinging, mired and bogged down, wheel spinning. Whew, and boy, has it been hard to maintain a positive outlook and refrain from complaining.
So, while I'm laying it all out on the table, let me be completely honest. There was complaining. Mind you, not as much complaining as I once would have been guilty of, but there was some complaining of note. Along with that complaining went a healthy dose of shame.
The thing that made the most difference to me though was if I did bellyache about something, I immediately recognized it for what it was. I would then try to rectify the situation and find something positive about the situation and move forward.
So, while I'm by no means perfect, heaven help me, I'd have no reason to write Confessing Mommy if I were. I am working to become a more thoughtful, kind, and compassionate person. And, for now, that's a good start.

16 November KCttC

2011-11-16T21:04:00.004-06:00

I know that I am completely out of order with my dates, but I'll catch the others up this weekend and right this wrong order then.
It's 9:00 P.M. and I have a crying two year old in my bed. Her brother is asleep in his bed at quite the elevated status in order for him to breathe easier tonight. It's been a long day and a hard one to maintain a positive outlook as both have colds as well as a major case of grumpy butt-itis.
But, this much I know: they're not terribly sick, they'll be fine in a few days, and we love each other deeply no matter how much the day seemed to disagree with us all.
I also know that I have a wonderfully loving, kind, and compassionate hubby who cleared the supper dishes, picked up toys from one end of the house to the other, and put our brood to bed, so I could lay down when I wasn't feeling so well.
I have a wealth of positive to focus on in my world. I am filled with joy even though the space behind my eyeballs is screaming. I am joyous.

10 November KCttC

2011-11-13T15:52:00.005-06:00

Thursday at my MOPS meeting I almost got up and ran out within the first fifteen minutes. But, I stayed. I didn't want to. But, I did. There was a lady addressing our group about the death of her not quite three year old daughter. It was one of those rare tragedies in which everything just happened to fall into place at the right, or rather wrong time, leading to the premature death of a bubbly, beautiful baby girl.
As she continued to tell her story it became harder and harder for me not to run as fast as my feet could take me back home to my babies. It was brutal to listen to the devastating details of the four and a half week long hospital duration and the decision to remove life support. All I could do was hold back tears and wish myself away into the arms of my sweet, beautiful babes.
My intense desire to be clutching my children closely was beginning to be replaced by some unknown feeling, though. And, I didn't care for it all. It was shame.
My cheeks flushed hot with the embarrassment of realizing how selfish I truly was at that moment. I should have been feeling overwhelming compassion for this woman, who was still deeply grieving four years later. Yet, all I thought about was leaving a discussion that made me extremely uncomfortable, and configuring escape routes that would get me to my own children the quickest. I was a weak woman that night.
While I don't know how to turn my initial reaction into something less shameful and positive, I do know that what I felt was most likely quite natural. I imagine I wasn't the only mama there that night aching to hold her child to breast and shower with kisses. Somehow, being painfully reminded that life is temporary, fleeting at best, does that to a mama. We love fiercely. We can't not love fiercely. Sure, the umbilical cord is cut at birth, but there's a binding far stronger than that cord that can never be severed. I know. I saw a mama fiercely bound tight to her babe even in death. And, I am now a stronger, better mama for having heard her story.

9 November KCttC

2011-11-13T15:30:00.002-06:00

Wow. Wednesday was an especially difficult day to maintain a positive outlook. I woke early that morning to find myself sick with another flare up. And, pretty it was not. Fortunately, I had medication to combat the flare up. Unfortunately, the medication tends to make me extremely dizzy. We're talking dizzy to the point of not being able to stand, much less drive.
Instead of letting this flare up and the medication get the best of me, I turned this situation around by throwing a pajama party. Firstborn had been bummed when he realized I wouldn't be able to drive him to school. But, he quickly perked up at the mention of snuggling in bed watching cartoons, playing games, coloring, and reading books.
The pajama party cloaked what could have been a really bad day under the guise of playing hooky from school and doing the un-normal. The pajama party saved me. My positive attitude, while not at its best, was somewhat salvaged. And, while I would much rather have avoided the flare up altogether, it afforded me some much needed snuggle time with my two favorite wild things.

8 November KCttC

2011-11-13T15:05:00.003-06:00

Tuesday I had the extreme pleasure of joining Firstborn at his school for a Mommy, Me, and muffins morning. It was such a treat to see the pride beaming from his sweet face as I perched precariously on the tiniest of tiny preschool chairs next to his. Along with our muffins and juice, we shared giggle after giggle as we talked with his mates and their moms. It warmed and filled my heart to overflowing spending that precious time with him.

I rarely have one on one time with him anymore. It isn't by design. It's by life and circumstance. I went a few rounds of mentally beating myself up over forgetting that this special boy needed special designated time. That's when it dawned on me that beating myself up over something that I'm sure has happened to even the best of parents, was just as bad as a negative outlook and complaining. In fact, it's far worse. How can I maintain a positive outlook when I'm constantly pummeling myself for personal mistakes? The answer is I can't.
So, for Tuesday's Kicking Complaining to the Curb I learned a lesson that I am constantly having to relearn it seems. I learned I must let it go. Let it go and do better. And, that's exactly what we'll be doing this afternoon. We'll be doing better with some special mommy and me time in the kitchen while Secondborn is napping.

7 November Kicking Complaining to the Curb

2011-11-10T14:18:00.005-06:00

Monday was not an easy day for Secondborn. She cried, whined, whimpered, and screamed for what seemed to be hours at a time. At first I was slightly frustrated with the situation because I was in Mommy work mode. I had loads of laundry to tackle, bathrooms to clean, floors to sweep and mop, take Firstborn to and from school, and somewhere in all of that make a sweet potato bread pudding for my Canning Confessions page.
I quickly realized that there was more to the situation than just an irate toddler when she insisted on being in my lap, arms, or attached to my leg as I would try to accomplish any of my tasks. Secondborn being the adventurous, spunky, and free spirited child she is, cannot stand to be contained. Any time she refuses to vacate my lap and is whiny, is a good indicator that she's not feeling well. Since she was not displaying any of the visual symptoms of a cold or a fever I assumed that it might be her two year molars causing her grief.
We've long suspected she was cutting those pesky molars since our move in April, but they never broke the skin. There were a few other times over the summer when we once more thought this, but again, they never broke the skin. Our pediatrician informed us that hers might just be slow in coming down and whenever they move a little further down is when she's getting cranky, slight fevers, and a runny nappy. At her last visit he remarked that they were getting a lot closer to breaking the skin. So, there might be some relief in sight soon.

I tried not to have a negative spirit or complaining nature that day, but I must admit it was difficult. As we cuddled on the couch it was frustrating to feel the weight of housework burdening my positive outlook. Very little of my Mommy work mode list was checked off. And, checking things off my lists ranks pretty high on my, well, my list of things I love to do.
I'm not so sure that day seven should be counted as a win, but it played an important step towards my month long goal of kicking complaining to the curb. And, maybe that makes it a win after all.

6 November KCttC

2011-11-06T21:03:00.008-06:00

Ordinarily when I'm in the kitchen working on something that I plan to post about I like to be by myself. After working in restaurants, bars, and corner delis for quite some time I am accustomed to working at a rather rapid pace. A pace that tends to plow over anyone in my path who does not heed my warnings of, "behind you" or, "on your left".
I love having the kitchen to myself. That's my time. It's when I am most relaxed working at a frenzied pace that blocks out the rest of the world for a bit. But, it's also a time I'm learning to share. And, that's how I turned my sixth day of Kicking Complaining to the Curb around.
Secondborn was napping, and Firstborn was making it quite clear he was not. So, I invited him to help me in the kitchen. And, for that I was greatly rewarded.
I have a FaceBook page for my Canning Confessions site, and one of my "likers" sent me a link to this fabulous child friendly knife. I cannot say enough good things about these knives. Yes, that was plural. Please, we can't buy just one of anything in this house. Secondborn would never stand for that. Oh, you're concerned that I allow my two year old to handle a knife? I can understand that. But, both Hubby and I are big advocates for learning knife skills at an early age. It's those that have no knife skills or respect for the knife that end up with injuries.

And, yes he was wearing his pajamas. It was Sunday and that's what he does. After we come home from church he changes his clothes and always insists on putting on his pajamas.
He and I chopped onions, carrots, celery, and apples. We discussed different aspects of the veggies, how we were going to use them, and other uses. At one point he became quite concerned about my tears from the onion. He sweetly offered to "be a good boy" and not make me cry. I'm still not sure that he grasps the concept of the crying onions.
We had such a great time, and were laughing so loudly we woke Secondborn. But, that was fine by us. She was more than ready to practice her knife skills as well.

I will still crave time to myself in the kitchen, but I will make much more time for the natives now.

Those who wish to sing, always find a song. ~Swedish Proverb
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5 November KCttC

2011-11-05T21:01:00.009-05:00

I've worked hard this week catching up on errands, doctors' appointments, and never ending housework. By the time I pulled the last jar of chili out of the pressure canner last night at 11:30 I was pooped. It was somewhere around baking the fourth loaf of bread yesterday afternoon that I gave myself permission to relax today. And, that is exactly what I've done.
I tried to sleep late, but sometime in the middle of the night Firstborn snuck into our bed. That's pretty much an every night occurrence. We snuggled up and off to sleepy town we both went. Then, 6:30 this morning brought Secondborn into our bed.
I love when she wakes in the morning. She's happy and lovely. It's almost as if she hasn't realized yet that she's more than capable of throwing hissy fits as means of warfare.
She snuggled into bed with me and back to sleepy town I went.....for all of three minutes. It seems Secondborn was up and open for business, as they say. She was in and out of the bed every six minutes with some new and louder toy each time. Sure, I dozed here and there, but it was at my own risk. I cannot tell you how many times she accidentally clocked me in the head with some three pound, hard as a rock toy. Hubby finally gave up and got up around 8:00 and we all followed suit.
We lounged this morning in our pjs and watched loads of cartoons. We colored and played. We played outside and discarded our rotting jackolanterns. And, by nap time, we were all ready. None more ready than myself, for I had a plan.
I had made a stuffed dolly for Secondborn this past Spring before moving. I never finished embroidering the face or installing but a few strands of hair.
She's no looker, as my dad put it when he first laid eyes on her. This being my first stuffed doll in at least fifteen years makes that tolerable to hear. You factor in the that the doll looks as if she has a perpetual case of chicken pox and you really begin to get a better understanding.
While shopping for fabric I found a flannel, white with pink polka dots and an aqua flannel that had adorably colored birds to use. I love polka dots. And, that was exactly what I was thinking when I brought the fabric home. Not once did it occur to me until stitching arm and leg seams together that this doll would look afflicted in some horrible way.
After piecing the dolly together and stuffing her, she was packed away until just this week when Secondborn found her digging through one of my tubs of fabrics. And, since that moment the dolly and Secondborn have been the best of friends. I knew it was time to finish the process. And, today was the day to do it.
I removed what few strands of yarn for hair there were and began to embroider the face. Mind you, this was a fairly impulsive decision that today would the day that dolly would get a makeover so my choices in embroidery floss were limited to a bright pink, corn yellow, and a brown. I've not embroidered since high school, and it showed. Fortunately, this didn't concern me, and I was certain that as long as Secondborn could distinguish all the facial parts then she wouldn't be concerned either.
I decided to sew her hair in the Waldorf doll fashion and proceeded to ready my sewing machine. Do you have any idea how hard it is to wind a bobbin properly when your cat is trying to eat your thread? He's just lucky he didn't get his whiskers sewn together.

It took me all afternoon to do all the different seamings of hair installations. And, I enjoyed every minute of it. Yes, I have the attention span of a gad fly, and yes I found myself wanting to get up and wander around the house or surf FaceBook, but I stuck with it. And, while she's still no looker, she's better looking than what she was. And, Secondborn loves her even more. The look on her face upon presentation said it all.
Oh, there's a lot of negative that could be said about this blemished, lumpy doll, but, best you do it out of earshot. I'm all smiles over Dotty. Well, what else could we name her?

(Forgive the quality of the pictures. They were taken with my phone and the latter had little in the way of lighting.)
Affectation is a greater enemy to the face than smallpox. ~English Proverb
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4 November KCttC

2011-11-04T22:18:00.002-05:00

There was a time I loved going to the grocery store. It was like a game to me. I prepared for my shopping trips by making lists, comparing prices to different stores, matching sales to coupons, and always making sure both kids were well fed and rested before entering the store. But, a lot of things have changed. My go to market has changed their coupon policy, I don't have nearly the time I once did to commit to my coupons and match ups, the natives are older and much more active no matter how well fed or rested they are before we go, but the biggest problem is the constant rise in prices and our decreased food budget.
While trying to pay off our moving expenses we have decreased our weekly grocery budget. And, while frustrating, it isn't impossible. That is to say if prices were to stay the same. The problem, however, is that prices are noticeably higher each week. I know some of you must think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. Because we are on such a restrictive budget I document each trip the prices of what I'm placing into our cart. This makes hitting our weekly grocery budget increasingly more difficult. And, today was no exception.
After I had both kids buckled into their seats and the groceries loaded into the back of the Mommymobile I called Hubby. And, while I did my best not to outwardly complain of the situation, the entire conversation was dripping with frustrated whining. *Ugh*, Mommy fail.
Once home my mind wandered over to a piece I've been writing for sometime about childhood hunger. I've not finished it. I have no idea where the piece is going. I just know that it has been weighing heavily upon my mind and I feel compelled, almost forced to write about it. The problem is that it's difficult for me to write about because I've never been hungry. I've never been hungry in the true since of hunger. I've never been food insecure. Oh, believe me, I've been more than insecure about the level of taste, appearance, and satisfaction about food in my life, but not once have I been food insecure.
And, with that in mind I put our groceries away with more thankfulness than I had shown in some time. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to crochet. No, today was not completely without complaint or negative thought free, but I have been filled with such a grateful spirit that I think it would be okay to add a square for today to the Grateful Granny Square project.

3 November of KCttC

2011-11-03T21:49:00.007-05:00

Secondborn has been showing all the signs that she's beginning to give up nap time. Some days it takes over an hour for her to fall asleep. And, this usually involves me sitting on the floor outside her bedroom watching her every move.
There were days that I was getting really frustrated about the situation. After all, doesn't she know that nap time is Mommy time? Who did she think she was being awake in the allotted slot of time that I used to get things done? I was getting seriously bummed. Along with that serious bum I was doing some serious whining.
One day last week after exhausting every trick I knew and myself, yet was still facing a wide eyed, definitely non exhausted daughter, I laid down on the couch with her. It didn't take long till we both fell asleep. And, it was delicious. I thoroughly enjoyed that delicious nap with my baby girl, who is quickly loosing all aspects of being a baby.
Each and every day I see a little less of that baby that I reached down to greet nearly two and a half years ago. And, while I'm thrilled to watch her grow into this independent, feisty, and fearless little girl, I'm saddened to watch her babyhood melt away.
For the next few days after that delicious nap, I couldn't shake the sad little ache in my heart as I was coming to terms that Secondborn wasn't a baby anymore and she wasn't quite a little girl, either.
That's when I decided that more of those delicious naps were in order. There were a few days I freaked out when I would realize that was precious housework time. But, the more afternoons we spent together snuggled on that couch, the less the housework seemed to matter. In the past I wouldn't have been able to even entertain the idea of napping while she napped for fear of wasting time. But, not anymore. And, that's how I ended up mopping my house at 9:30 tonight. The housework got done much later than what I would like. But, the trade off was far superior.

To be upset over what you don't have is to waste what you do have. ~Ken S. Keyes, Jr.
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2 November of KCttC

2011-11-03T14:14:00.009-05:00

My friend Kelly over at Sleeping Kelly often refers to that time of evening when the children become possessed by poltergeist, supper hasn't began to take shape yet, and mama's getting a bit frayed around the edges as the Whining Hour. She says when the kids start to whine that's when it's time to pour the wine.
And, while I had no wine to pour yesterday evening, if ever there were a time for it, it was then. Fortunately, I had a secret weapon in my Mommy's Turn the 'tude 'round Dance Party Secret Weapon Playlist.
My laptop is always open for business in the kitchen making it quite useful in my arsenal of tricks to turn the 'tudes around when my tribe of natives gets a bad case of the grumpy butts.
Yesterday I started the party with Lawrence Welk's "Baby Elephant Walk". I always go right for the silly to get 'em started.
We covered ELO (Don't Bring Me Down), Merle Haggard (Mama Tried - that was more a reminder for me), Willie and Waylon with Good Hearted Woman, The Highway Men with Mamas (Don't Let your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys), Dion and the Belmonts (The Wanderer), and finished up with At the Hop.
The little boogers couldn't help themselves. The more we danced, the faster their cases of grumpy butts just melted away. It's true. Music soothes the savage beasts.

Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference. ~Winston Churchill

1 November of KCttC

2011-11-03T14:00:00.006-05:00

Since I've started this three days into the month I'm going to go back and retro-blog for those missed days.

Since I didn't know I would be starting this on Tuesday, I was full of complaints, especially since I was having an IBD flare up. And, while I can't correct what I did that day, I can look back and be grateful that I had such an understanding husband who was willing to take off work, if need be, and work from home to help out. Fortunately, my medication took effect and I was able to resume something of a normal day by lunch time. I was even able to go have my hair cut for the first time since moving from Alabama.
And, I must be absolutely honest here. I have no complaints whatsoever regarding the cut and color I received from my new salon, Jump, Jive, and Wail. Laura was a lot of fun to work with, professional, and understood exactly what I wanted. So, yea for happy hair!

Even though I'm just embarking upon this journey, I already feel more content. I feel the once lighter, brighter Mommy shedding the bog of life. Or, maybe it was just going back to the pixie cut.....time will tell, though.

Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats. ~Voltaire

Kicking Complaining to the Curb

2011-11-03T13:00:00.005-05:00

It's November and and thanksgiving isn't just a Thursday with a turkey and football. People are gearing up not only for the Thanksgiving holiday, but are also donning that festive spirit for the following holiday, Christmas. They take time to count their blessings more so than most any other time of the year. They stop to help their neighbors. They become more generous with their gifts, money, and good cheer.
The past few days I've noticed a number of people listing daily something they're thankful for on FaceBook. I think that's great. But, I tend to buck trends and have shied away from it. Yes, I'm that weirdo. But, that's another story for another day.
This morning my friend Amanda and I were talking, as we do most every morning as she drives into work, and she mentioned about how she'd been reading a blog about 365 days of gratefullness. The blogger had already completed 365 days of thankfulness and was now using the opportunity to be complaint free for one month.
This intrigued me. The more we talked about it the more I was convinced that this was something I wanted to be a part of. Amanda said it would help her to have me on board, and I would certainly benefit from having her on board. We talked of ways in which we could turn the negative into the positive. We discussed how we could spin the bad and the ugly not into a gilded lie, but spin it around to look at from a different angle. We discussed how Secondborn, who was in the process of throwing (1) a sippy cup, (2) a flashlight and (3) her daddy's new book at me, wasn't just pushing boundaries, but that she was displaying she was right on track for normal growth development. I did have to admit though, that she wasn't just normal in that department, but maybe above average.
Amanda even had the brillant idea that at the end of the day I could crochet one square to symbolize a day free of complaint, a day of gratitude and peace. I took that a step further and named it the Grateful Granny Square project. And, at the end of the month I could piece all the squares together for a cozy afghan.

Now, I'm not sure I can manage to do it every night, but the intent is there and we'll see where it goes. But, I hope to be checking back daily and sharing with you some ways of which I could turn a complaint into a realization of the positive. I've always been something of a bubbly character, but I've let life bog me down of late. It's time to shed the negative, find the light, and chase after it. Who knows where it will lead? Besides "a positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort." ~Herm Albright
And, I do so enjoying annoying grumpy butts.

Boogers As Wall Art

2011-10-25T14:39:00.002-05:00

There's a booger on my wall. There. I said it. It's been there maybe five days now. Seven tops. But, who's counting? And, another valid question that should be asked is why haven't I done anything about it?
Secondborn approached me last week in a great deal of excitement. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled, "Woom, Mommy! Come see! Boober, Mommy! Boober! Come see!"
And, that's where I was greeted by the biggest booger ever. EVER. The biggest booger EVER was smeared across her bedroom wall. It was like an art installation, except it was not my idea of art.
Every fiber of my being was repulsed. I quickly scanned Secondborn's bedroom for a box of baby wipes only to be sadly disappointed.
What I did spy was the biggest, proudest smile on my baby girl's face. She was genuinely impressed with herself and her mucus. What's more, she expected the same from me. She was doing the tip toe dancing in place, all the while pointing and giggling at the wall.
What could I do? If I removed the offensive booger in front of her, she'd be crushed. There's a good chance I would damage her fragile psyche and send her through years of therapy. *ugh* Clearly I am not that mommy.
So, I ask again. What could I do?
I left it there while I did the tip toe dancing in place with my daughter accompanied by lots of giggling. Clearly I'm the kind of mommy that can ignore a booger the size of a VW Beetle if it brings my daughter joy. I'm just not so sure what that really says about me at all.

Who Says Mommy's Lost Her Marbles?

2011-10-22T16:29:00.003-05:00

Who says Mommy's lost her marbles? I know exactly where they are. That can't be said about just anyone, you know.

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The House Of Ill Re-Poop, I AM MOMMY

2011-09-29T14:07:00.007-05:00

I live in the house of ill re-poop. And, no, I did not get the saying wrong. Within less than a week my tribe has had a nasty sinus infection, stomach virus, kidney stone, and a mutated stomach virus. I've been covered in poop, puke, and pee. I feel like a human Kleenex, or worse, a CSI case work load.

First and Secondborn have both been on Zyrtec for allergies for ten days. Unfortunately, Firstborn still developed a sinus infection. After a trip to the pedi for antibiotics we arrived home later that afternoon to a yurping Secondborn. Right after supper she sweetly sashed up to me while pointing at her mouth and repeated "poop" numerous times.
"Poop?" Why wasn't the kid pointing to her hiney then? Still, she persisted with the vigorous pointing and repetition. Since I was too daft to figure out what she was getting out, she threw me a bone and yurped all over me, the kitchen floor, and the garbage can, surprisingly not in the garbage can though. She's two. She gets a pass this time.
She continued yurping all the way to bathroom as Hubby led her for a much needed bath while I was on cleaning detail. I was summoned to the bathroom within minutes to be informed that there was indeed a code poopey. Awesome. Poor kid had it coming out both ends.
What? Too much? You read the title of this post. You had to know this was coming. Let me give it to you straight. It ain't gonna get any prettier. So, maybe you might want to take your kids that never puke, pee, or poop rainbow colors to the playground for ice cream while I continue on with our bodily fluid filled week in review.
Have you ever been around a two year old that has a case of the tummy yuck? It's sad. The little buggers have no idea why their body is declaring mutiny. Can you imagine what must be going through their minds? My niece woke yurping one morning and told her mom that she'd pooped all over her arms. That must have been what Secondborn thought was going down. Each and every time my sweet baby girl yurped she would have a complete come apart resulting in an immediate and dire need to be consoled within my arms......often prematurely before the yurping had ended. Being her mommy I obliged.
Firstborn threw up a time or two throughout the week. However, his was from sinus drainage. There have been several times I had the chapter from Rick Bragg's, All Over But The Shouting running through my mind where it detailed him suffocating on snot and his daddy had to shove a fistful of salt down his throat forcing vomiting. My baby boy has choked and coughed all week long on this demon drainage. It frightens me, to be honest. The sound of him sucking it back to make room for oxygen is frustrating not only for me but so much more for him, and rightly so.
This morning we woke with that glimmer of fool's gold in our eyes as we'd made it a full twelve hours without anyone upchucking. Sure, Hubby had a slight sore throat and a more pressing back ache, but, I had made it half a day without pulling puke from mine or anyone else's hair. I had even been so brazen as to publish a sweeping declaration on Facebook that the tummy yuck had been conquered. Oh, me of little foresight. *sighs*
Secondborn came to me shortly after 9:00 this morning crying in pain while pointing to her hiney. As I approached my distraught daughter I smelled immediately the offending issue. A scene that played itself out time and time again today. My poor baby girl walked around for a better part of this day holding her hiney while crying out, "It hurtz. Mommy, it hurtz." My heart broke. My stomach turned. But, more so, my heart broke and my arms ached to make my baby feel that all would be well soon.

But, all would not be well soon. Remember Hubb's pressing back ache? It pressed harder. It also moved. Hubby confirmed that yes, he had yet, another kidney stone making its way down that pain laden path. Oh, boy.
I had Firstborn coughing big balls of wet, choking, snott up, Secondborn painfully pooping anything that wasn't substantially attached to her innards, and Hubby alternating between laying in pain on the heating pad or in the jacuzzi tub.
So much for my sweeping declaration of illness banishment. Sweet Josaphat, our household has some seriously bad juju floating around was all I could think. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I didn't have all that much time to dwell on our past deeds that might have angered those presiding over household well being.
Secondborn was beside herself with her pooping predicament. Keep in mind, we're in the midst of potty training. Pooping her pants continually was not only painful and uncomfortable, but embarrassing and wrong in her world. Firstborn was picking fights with all that crossed his radar since he was still physically uncomfortable. And, Hubby had realized it was time to journey to the nearest E.R.
The rest of my day was spent wiping hineys, mopping floors that had been mopped too many times to count this week, making multiple runs to the market, wiping noses, holding hands, reassuring, taking slight breaks to vent to those few I trust to vent to, and contemplating purchasing large amounts of stock in Lysol.
I am Mommy. Hear me sob silently sometimes. Hear me suck it up, stuff it back down again, and soldier on. I am Mommy. And, I gladly, open armed, silently cursing, accept every mommy poop, pee, and puked covered moment of it. I am Mommy, see me glow and become all that was meant for my ill advised life as I become and not embrace, but swallow and live larger than life the life that only mommies do. I am Mommy and I live for this. I was purposed for this. I am Mommy, awww, crap, let me clean that up for you.
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Meetup.com or Stoodup.com?

2011-09-13T12:59:00.002-05:00

Since moving to Texas in May I've had little interaction with other moms. School was out for the summer, I was busy settling us into our new digs, and it was hotter than the surface of the sun. These were just a few of the excuses I gave myself on not getting out and meeting people. But, finally, I could stand it no longer and began cruising meetup.com for groups of interest. After settling upon a group, I RSVP'ed for a meet up at the local splash pad the following morning.
My tribe of natives and I arrived promptly with a picnic lunch, buckets and water toys aplenty to share, and eager to make new friends. The park was really crowded, but I had worn my big girl panties that morning and proceeded to walk up to the first cluster of moms. I bravely introduced myself and asked if they were with the Area Local Moms' Group to Remain Nameless, you know, to protect their identities and such.
No, they replied. They were the "'09ers". A group dedicated to all babes born in '09. If I had been smart I would have said, "Oh, that's what I meant to say." After all, Secondborn is what you would consider an "'09er". But, alas, it's well proven and documented that I am not the brightest crayon in the box. And, I continued on to the next mommy cluster.
Again, I put on my friendliest, happy camper, maybe a little too eager to make new friends face, and asked, "Are you with the Area Local Moms' Group to Remain Nameless?"
And, once more I was informed that no, they were not members of said group. At this point I felt my big girl panties shrinking a size.
Firstborn was now loudly tugging on my picnic supply laden arm demanding, "Where are all my new friends, Mommy? I thought you said we were going to have friends today?"
"We're still looking, sugarbooger. Be a bit more patient, m'kay?"
And, on I continued around the length of the splash pad asking each and every mommy cluster, and there were many that hot and sunny day, if they belonged to the Area Local Moms' Group to Remain Nameless. After the fourth inquiry I had the lines from P.D. Eastman's book, Are You My Mother going through my head. And, that is what it felt like with each and every inquiry of mommy clusters. "Are you my mother's group?" Followed by strange and blank stares.
I have no idea when it began, but at some point out of my peripheral vision I noticed the women putting their hands over their mouths and begin facing inward cluster. I could only imagine what was being said.
"Oh, the poor thing."
"How humiliating."
"I would be mortified."
And, indeed I was. I asked no less than twelve mommy clusters and all gave the same answer. No, they were not my mother's group. I had to explain to Firstborn that his new friends couldn't make it that morning after all, but we were going to have a fun time anyway. And, indeed we did. A few '09ers even came up to chat, but I knew it was the sympathy chat up. I felt like a social pariah.
After our fun filled morning I left my comments in the "How was your meetup" section. I replied that we had a great time but never found the group. I tried to write it off as an, "Oh well. Maybe next time". By the end of the evening I had three different messages from the director of the group apologizing for canceling the event but not posting that it was cancelled. I felt that she was sincere in her apology and decided to give the group another shot.
Last Tuesday I took the natives to the library for story time. I had even commented on the group's calendar what I would be wearing in hopes of avoiding the splash pad stand up.
Before I go any further let me just say that our library rocks! I'm in love with the library and our story time is phenomenal! I should have realized it was super popular when there was a line to enter the library at ten till 10:00, and story time didn't even begin for another fifteen minutes.
Since no one else had posted what they were wearing I grabbed a spot on the carpet with the natives and waited for someone from the group to approach us. I was not surprised that no one ever did. And, once more left a comment in the "How was your meetup" section about having had a great time, but would have liked to have met the group.
By this time I wondered if it were my fault that I kept missing the group. Obviously, the first time was not my fault as the director had cancelled the meetup and failed to list it as cancelled. But, the second time, well, it was possibly my fault. Or, maybe it was nobody's fault given how crowded story time was.

Yet, I intended to give the group another go. That is until this morning. Firstborn stayed home today sick with a fever and we had to miss story time at the library. But, because I was trying to change my RSVP and comment why we were missing, and deal with two hungry children, one of which was running a high fever and very cranky, I accidentally marked it for Thursday instead of for today, Tuesday.
The director made the comment, "I believe you must have your dates confused." Which, I did have them mixed up. No biggie. Then I received notification for a meetup for Wednesday of next week. But, once more I was trying to put out too many fires while tending to the calendar and thought it was intended for tomorrow. So, I changed my RSVP to "no" and commented that with Firstborn being sick I wouldn't likely make it.
Immediately I received a comment on the public board from the director saying, "Laurie, read your emails more thoroughly. You've confused your dates once more."
Did I confuse two RSVPs in the same morning? You betcha.
But, I could think of a few other ways to have worded that if I were the director, and I certainly wouldn't have put it on the public board.
It's become clear to me that I don't think this group is going to be a good fit. There were several groups that caught my eye during my initial meetup.com cruising. The Misfit Moms and Tattooed, Hippy, Pirate Mammas both look promising to me. Anything is better than getting stood up twice and snarked at on a public board. Make way, Misfits, another mama heading your way.
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You Can Lead A Toddler To Potty...And Get Them To Go

2011-07-20T13:53:00.002-05:00

A few weeks ago I posted about my daughter treating my like a dog. Nothing's changed. She still does. Whenever she wants me to go with her to a different spot in the house she still pats her leg vigorously, all the while saying, "C'mon, Mommy. C'mon".
I think however, things have gone too far now. A few days ago as I was in the kitchen canning cherry preserves, Firstborn entered leading Secondborn by the dog's leash. They were attempting to make laps around the island until I shoed them off. After all, I had a caldron of hot, hot stuff boiling away.
Last night Firstborn led her to bed by way of leash. Now, before I go any further, no, the leash is not attached to her in any way. They each have one end in their grasp. That's all.
This morning while in the kitchen making yogurt, the pair made their way in, by way of leash, of course. Firstborn proudly informed me that he was walking Secondborn like our dog so she would go poo poo in the potty. Of course! Why had I not thought of this while potty training him two years ago? Out of the mouths of babes, right?
They rounded the island a few times and then headed off to the bathroom. And, this is what I heard:
"Okay. Now sit on your potty. Good girl! You've been walked and now it's time to poo poo. Why won't you poo poo? It's time to put your poo poo in your potty."
I was laughing so hard at Firstborn's interesting take on potty training that I thought there might be a potty visit in my near future as well. And, when I thought I couldn't laugh anymore, he came running into the kitchen with his acoustic guitar.
"Mommy! I'm going to make music so she'll go potty!" Alright, kid. Knock yourself out.
And, she did. My sugar boogers worked as a team and conquered the potty. Firstborn playing rousing rounds on his guitar to accompany Secondborn's potty party. Go Team Potty!
I'm still in disbelief that she actually peed on the potty. She had done it a few times before about a month ago, and then stopped completely. I didn't push it. I knew she'd come to it in her own time. And, while Firstborn's method was unorthodox at best, it worked. Maybe I should ask his for his help in getting Secondborn to wear clothing for longer than three minutes.

Job Title: Native Wrangler

2011-07-14T09:00:00.017-05:00

Life has done it again and started rolling along pretty fast. That happens from time to time. Unfortunately, I've not been rolling along as well as I normally would. I've been having some tummy yuck for the past three weeks. And, we went out of town as well. So it's been much harder to get back on schedule this time it seems. But, I think this week has finally been the turning point.

The one area I still seem to be having a bit of difficulty with is writing. All three of my blogs seem to have been neglected slightly, and that bothers me greatly. It's not intentional. I've sat down many times to remedy the situation, but either the words don't come, or the natives need wrangling.

The latter tends to be the situation more often than not. And, that's okay. That's my first job above all else. In fact, I list it as my job title on every application I have to fill out. A librarian once gave pause to eye me with suspicion over that.

It's an exhausting job, but it's one I love. It's one I chose willingly and gladly from that very first plus sign on the pee stick. Never in my wildest dreams could I ever imagine loving this job so much. Or, loving someone so much. Sure, everyone tells you all through your pregnancies that you never knew you could love so much. And, you think, "Yes. Yes I do! I'm the one carrying this critter, not you!"

But, you really don't. You just don't. Not until that first moment Firstborn was held up over the operating curtain did I really know what was meant. And, there is not a day that I forget.

And, then all through my second pregnancy I worried over how could I possibly have enough love left to give to my second child. I didn't have that answer until I reached down to pull my daughter out and up to nurse for her very first time. While my midwife and doula tended to the rest of nature's work I felt something swelling deep inside my chest as I watched my newborn watching me. It didn't have a name, because love just didn't seem enough. No, it felt more like an all consuming need to protect, to foster a great independent spirit and wonderment of her brand new world. A pulling of my insides so strong I still felt connected to her even though I had already cut the umbilical cord.There was great hope mixed in. And, there was magic, sparkly and electrifying magic. A magic that only presents itself during the miracle of birth. So, maybe I was wrong. Maybe, that's exactly what love is. At least that's what love of my children means to me.

I have no answers as to how it all works. It just does. Maybe your heart increases in size much like the Grinch's. Again, I don't know. What I do know is there was an immeasurably void in my life before my natives turned it right side up.

So, while I am frequently frustrated that I can't find the time to write and, when I do the flow is gone, that's okay. The words will come when they're ready to. In the meanwhile, I have plenty to keep my busy. Life is like that.

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What Did Mommy Just Say?

2011-06-11T11:24:00.004-05:00

Mommy dreams of a day when she'll stop referring to herself in third person. She dreams of a day when she can once more return to the land of civilized conversation. Until that day those that overhear her must think her amnesiac, or a simpleton at best.
And, how could one not think that given that most of her dialogues consist of any number of the following phrases:
"Mommy said we will not use potty water to brush our teeth and wash our hair!"
"How many times has Mommy told you we DO NOT wipe our boogers on the T.V. screen?"
"Hasn't Mommy asked you not to go through her nightstand? That is a breast pump, not a trumpet."
And, the phrase that would most often leave people scratching their heads,
"What did Mommy just say?"
Because clearly, if Mommy can't remember what she just said, then surely she must be an amnesiac simpleton. Indeed.

Secondborn Treats Me Like A Dog

2011-06-10T21:13:00.004-05:00

Secondborn treats me like a dog. No. It's true. And, what's more, she learned it from Firstborn......who I should acknowledge learned it from me.

I guess what comes to mind first is, 'Mommy is as Mommy does'. By now I'm sure I've most of you scratching your heads. So, let me explain.

Before Firstborn and Secondborn came into my life there was another baby. A chubby, wrinkly, black baby, a pug named Lola who was the light of my life for five years before giving birth to my son. And, as so often is the case when your first babies happen to be furry and the real deal arrives, that first baby is sent to the dog house.

Lola has persevered through the years since Firstborn's birth. She has grown older with dignity and many, many pounds. She has lost much of her hearing, but never her faithfulness and devotion. She has endured many jokes regarding having chased one too many parked cars from my father, as well as silly string bombardments from my kids.

My children have closely watched my relationship with Lola just as she has closely watched mine with them. Firstborn quickly picked up on how to call her when needed. Because of her severe deafness one must first clap hands and then slap one's leg loudly while yelling, "C'mon, Lola. C'mon."

Hubby and I both got the biggest giggles when Firstborn began doing this when he was two years old. And, we really never thought much about it until recently.

I would be off somewhere else in the house when Secondborn, now almost two years old, would track me down. She would point down the hall towards her bedroom first clapping her hands, then slapping her leg loudly all the while yelling, "C'mon, Mommy. C'mon."

Somewhat taken aback at first, I tried my best to understand how this came to be. Slowly, it all came to me. This was how I called Lola. This was how Firstborn not only called Lola, but how he called Secondborn as well. And, having learned it from a most reliable source, this was how Secondborn learned to call all those of most importance to her.

Well, I suppose it could be worse. Right?

Big News

2011-06-09T19:50:00.003-05:00

I alluded to something in yesterday's post regarding new things unfolding. Well, having never been one who could wait for a finished product I'm going to let you in on the secret.

Remember me mentioning I've been receiving lots of messages, emails, and comments regarding canning and home preserving? My dear, sweet, hubby has been talking to me and has finally convinced me to launch a web site doing just that. He also wants me to begin teaching classes and selling wares, but, baby steps. Baby steps.

The site will give tips, how tos, recipes, as well as my own experiences, failures or successes. I do not claim to be an expert. But, I will gladly share what I do know with those who are interested in learning the noble and satisfying art of food preservation. I will also gladly accept any advice from those willing to help me expand my knowledge.

So, please visit my site at canningconfessions.com. I would greatly appreciate your support. And, comments are always welcome! Let me hear from each and everyone of you.

P.S.

I just launched the site last night. It's in the infant stage and will be undergoing drastic....errr well, it's just going to be growing. So, check back daily to see what's new. You'll be able to follow on Facebook as well. Thanks :)

Pineapple Paradise

2011-06-08T20:48:00.002-05:00

Thank the heavens! The natives were not nearly as restless today as they were yesterday. And, since I was not constantly having to play referee I was afforded ample time in the kitchen to make eight quarter pints of pineapple jam that actually set! There was some cause for concern at first. You see, after the great "peach butter scorching"incident of '10 I'm always weary of leaving my product on the flames too long. But, after giving it a good sample this evening I can assure you that is indeed "set".

I also made six half pints of strawberry-pineapple conserves with walnuts and golden raisins. I wanted to add a strawberry liquore to it, but that would have required the great hassle of loading up children and making a run to the store. It's still a decadent dessert topper even without the liquore. I can hardly wait to smother a pound cake or cheesecake in it!

There was also four half pints of pineapple and Chinese five spice marinade that will be perfect on pork. And, since I had more pineapple than I had empty jars on hand I made up a batch of a tropical freezer jam that included strawberries, mandarin oranges, banana, and of course, pineapple.

I'm too pooped to give up recipes at the moment, but check back. There are new things happening that hopefully will be unfolding soon.

On The Road....Again

2011-06-07T14:05:00.002-05:00

Has it really been four months since my last post? Wow. That's bad, even for me. But, I've got good reasons.....wait for it....You see, we moved. Again.

I know. I know. It's ridiculous the amount of moving we've done in the past two years. When we were dating Hubby informed me that he was somewhat nomadic. I suppose I should have paid more attention.

So, where are we now, you ask? Texas. That's right. We've landed smack dab in the fourth largest metropolitan area in the United States. Dallas. Well, Frisco to be more exact. Oh, and get this. My neighbor across my alley is named J.R. Sadly, his last name is not Ewing.

Hubby finally found an "out" from the restaurant world and jumped on it like a duck on a june bug. He's now working for a software company. We see more of him now than I think we have collectively over the past few years. And, he really likes his job.

Firstborn just turned four a few weeks back. And Secondborn will turn two exactly a month from today. They've both had the normal transition issues, but seem to really enjoy it here.

I'm taking longer to adjust, but that's quite normal. Change has never been a great friend of mine, but that's something I'm working at, well, changing.

It helps to have something to keep my mind off my homesickness. And, it just so happens that it's that time of year again when I can focus on my canning and preserving. Last week I canned 10 cans of chicken stock, seven half pints of strawberry-lemon marmalade, five half pints of freezer strawberry-banana jam, and six half pints of strawberry jam. I've also cooked and froze nearly 10 cups of shredded chicken.

I spent a good portion of this morning cleaning, coring, and chopping pineapples to be used in pineapple jam, pineapple-strawberry conserves, and pineapple and Chinese five spice jam/marinade. The natives were fairly restless this morning and not nearly obliging as they were last week when their behavior allowed me so much uninterrupted time for my obsession.

I've had several requests and more than a few emails/Facebook messages to detail what I'm doing and include recipes. So, it seems this blog will be taking an interesting turn over the course of this summer. I hope you don't mind. In fact, I rather hope you like it. And, if you do like it, pass it on!

Should Be Sleeping

2011-02-07T23:36:00.003-06:00

I should be sleeping, but I'm not. Instead, I'm sitting in the kids' bedroom holding Firstborn's hand as he sleeps. This is the most memorable part of my day.

If you look back almost exactly a year ago on this blog you'll notice that what I'm about to say and what I've already said are quite parallel. Basically, it's the same story, we moved, life happens, and everybody gets sicks.

But, this time it feels like everybody is staying sick. Oh, one might recover from whatever ailment it is plaguing them, but rest assured by next week it's mutated into something completely different and is being passed around like the latest comic book. Within the past three weeks both Firstborn and Secondborn have had strep throat. This was followed by a serious bout with RSV for the latter.

At first, she was on breathing treatments every four hours round the clock along with some talk of a stay in the hospital. I slept on the floor of their room for several days to be able to give the round the clock treatments. But I'm relieved to report that she's doing much better and we've been able to let up on the breathing treatments somewhat.

Because of the sickness we've all been at home much more than we'd like. A severe case of the Island Happy has set in and we're all a bit wound tight. Fortunately, Firstborn has been able to rejoin his preschool class twice a week. Yet, I fear that's not enough.

He's held my complete attention for for such a great length of time that he's taken issue with the lack I've been able to give him of late. You see, Secondborn wishes me to die an early death. I can think of no other way to sum it up. I've spoke of how she is the daytime to his night. I've described how completely opposite of one another they are. And, yet, they are so much like their gendered parent, it's unbelievable.

Not only does the boy look identical to his father's baby and childhood pictures, but the girl to mine. And, it isn't just limited to looks. Their personalities seem to mirror those of each respected, as well.

Firstborn is reserved, bashful, if you will. Once you engage him, and often it takes a great deal of coaxing, he has the time of his short lived life. Secondborn knows no fear. To say she is spirited and independent is somewhat the understatement. They truly are the equivalent of each of us in a most frightening and unusual way.

All that being said, I'm having to give Secondborn a great deal more attention than I ever did Firstborn at this age. In fact, it's almost impossible to take my eyes off her for fear of finding her running up and down the length of the formal dining room table......again. Or, climbing the floor to ceiling blinds as she did in our old house.....before she could walk.

Firstborn has had a difficult transition with this move. He's had a difficult time with the lack of attention I'm able to give him at this point. And, quite frankly, I'm having a difficult time with him.

He's not being a bad child. He's being a three and a half year old who's having trouble adjusting to many new things in his ever changing environment. It's me that seems to behaving as a bad child. I'm ashamed of how much alone time I've been craving. I'm ashamed of how overwhelmed I've become by his constant need for attention, my approval, my...my...my love.

And, it's when I finally have a moment of clarity when Secondborn isn't trying to scale the washing machine by way of whatever's at hand, that I realize how much his happiness depends upon my loving approval.

He's had it all along. For so long. And, then when I get bogged down with the reality of sick children, sick family, moving, settling in, but not really settling in because we're only here temporarily, insomnia like I've never experienced before, and a child who is hell bent on scaling Mt. Everest by age thirteen, I get lost. I get lost in the roar of the immediate and I can't hear the pleas of my dearest, darling, boy, "Mommy, watch me! Watch me!"

What shakes me to my core is looking back to one of the most beautiful faces I'll ever know with utmost attention and a little hand rubbing my arm saying, "It gonna be okay, Mommy. You're my best friend and I love you de whole day wong, ebry day."

How did I get this far from centered? I don't know. How do I get centered again? And, by that I mean, how do I get back to enjoying absolutely every waking and, not just the sleeping moments of my children?

I miss having fun with my children. I mean, really enjoying each moment with them. I know as I type these words there will be at least twelve mothers out there saying to themselves, "Enjoy these days, because they go by much too fast."

I know these days are limited and precious. And, I can see brighter days ahead. I know they are there. How can there not be brighter days ahead with a best friend like Firstborn? But, tell me, how can I be so blind to them right now?

The Natives Are Restless

2011-01-07T16:32:00.002-06:00

There is a great battle that will likely never be mentioned in any history book you pick up. But, a great battle it is. The natives in this battle wage a warfare that is calculating and decisive. Their spirits are brave. Their willingness to face the enemy day after day is overwhelming.

For the record, I'm the enemy. Each and every afternoon I face the battle of nap time. Firstborn is hit or miss with there being any actual sleep during his nap time. But, I still demand he lay quietly and rest. His quiet time is just as much for me as it is him.

Secondborn is in the process of transitioning down to one nap a day now. She always sleeps for several hours. The trouble I'm having with her is trying to push her nap time back so she won't be so cranky and tired late in the afternoon.

But, the battle lies in the fact that they share a room. I wanted them to share a room for a few years so they would be close. It seems I got what I wanted. When they go to bed at night there are the expected bed time stallings, but they usually quieten down fairly quickly now. But, for some reason they just can't seem to nap together.

The past week of battling has left me weary and ragged. However, I changed my plan of attack this afternoon. I moved Firstborn to the den couch. Within fifteen minutes he had waved the truce flag and passed out cold.

Secondborn waged a much more impressive and impassioned warfare. Yet, half an hour later upon realizing her resources were much depleted she too waved that white flag of surrender.

The restless natives were finally soothed into submission and I won victorious! At least until tomorrow's battle.

A New Sheriff In Town

2010-12-28T19:29:00.007-06:00

I just swatted my son. He rubbed his hiney, scowled, and finally did what I've been asking, begging, pleading, demanding of him. I don't even remember what it was now. But it's been that way between the two of us all day long. I don't mean the swatting, or spanking as some call it, although the incident I'm referring to was a definite swat as opposed to spanking. I mean he and I've been dancing this same dance over and over and over..... Well, you get the point. Anyway, that got me to thinking.

I've always tried to reserve swatting for attention grabbing situations. Say, one of the babes was just having a melt down and all other attempts to get through to the distraught babe had failed, then a swift swat to the hiney would be in order. You know what I mean, a swat of just enough magnitude to get through to them in order to employ other means of distraction or discipline.

Before I go any further, because I can only imagine the kind of email I'm going to receive regarding this topic, I don't judge on how you want to raise your child. He/she is your child and it's your place to decide how best to do that. Not mine. Again, I don't judge. It didn't take me very long into parenthood to realize all those preconceived, parental guidance handbook, warm and fuzzy prenatal intentions aren't always practical. I've learned that it takes a wide and wild mix of creative efforts in order to get the point across and the babe back in line.

Most often I stick to time outs by way of counting. It's kind of a 1-2-3 strikes and you're out sort of deal. It's great for "stop behaviors". When practiced consistently it's great for stopping whatever it is you want stopped. I'm learning that for "start behaviors" it's less effective. I find myself resorting to exhortion more than not when I want Firstborn to "start" something. I really dislike this and am open to suggestions if you've got any.

Oh, and when I say most often I stick to time outs, I mean before we moved. With all the chaos of back and forth trips to Alabama before our move, packing, parenting, and the move itself I became lax. I became inconsistent. I became ineffective.

To make matters worse Hubbs is working even crazier hours than his prior job. He's finally back in town from training, but we only see him a few minutes each day. No joke, just a few minutes. Firstborn is having an extremely difficult time with this. Every fourth sentence out of his mouth is, "I miss Daddy".

You've got a mommy with a splitting headache at the end of a long, long day and you mix in a three year old boy displaying all behaviors from acting out for attention, the chaos of a move, and inconsistent discipline and my friends, you've got yourself a recipe for disaster.

Okay, maybe not a disaster, but it certainly wasn't my best moment. And I could see it in his eyes. Everything about that look said, "Who are you and what have you done with my Mommy."

Arguably, I could have given him a similar look.

He and I've become lost in all, well, frankly, all of "this". It's time I got back on track. And that's my aim. Know this kid. Tomorrow, I'm bringing my "A game". I'm buckling down and bringing a new sheriff to town. There'll be counting and time outs the likes of which he's never seen. Firstborn won't know what hit him. And, this time it won't be me.

Wait. What's tomorrow? That's right! Hubby's off tomorrow! Heck, they're all his while I'm off to the market and the rest of my mommy errands. Guess tomorrow's your lucky day, cowboy!

Letters To Santa

2010-12-26T20:14:00.002-06:00

We've moved to a small town where the local newspaper still reserves a section during the holidays to print letters to Santa Claus. I took it upon myself to write on behalf of my children and thought I would share it with you.

The letter from Firstborn is as follows:

Dear Santa,

I've been a very good boy with only a few minor infractions. If you receive any letters stating otherwise please disregard them. It seems that no matter how hard one tries to be good there will always be someone to dispute your claims.

The following is a short list of suggestions of what I would like for Christmas. Of course, I'm always open to suggestions and surprises.

a little boy friendly digital camera

firetruck

Take and Play Thomas of Misty Island

a rather large giraffe

a puppy dog Pillow Pet just like my cousin's

games

books, lots and lots of books, please

three new flashlights

a fast racing car with horns on it

Santa, please don't forget about my little sister, Secondborn. Ordinarily I wouldn't care if she got presents or not, but if you don't bring her anything then she's just gonna want to play with my things.

With as much love, goodness, and honesty a three year old boy's heart can bear,

Firstborn

And the letter from Secondborn:

Dear Santa Claus,

Forgive me for what I'm about to say. I've not always been what you might call a good little girl.

Sometimes I've been a naughty little girl.

However, I maintain that I was only doing what comes naturally to a highly spirited and independent girl.

If you're willing to overlook my scaling the living room blinds, continually emptying my dresser drawers of all contents, a bit of indoor gardening, and other minor incidents, please give my Christmas list some consideration. Please keep in mind that my frank honesty should warrant at least a few presents under the tree.

a camera

stuffed llama

dollie

a chair just my size

Weeble Wobbles

lots and lots of books

And, Santa, I'm convinced my older brother is to blame for much of my behavior. Just ask the elves who've been assigned to keep an eye on us. They'll tell you the real story.

Hugs and sticky kisses,

Secondborn

Where I Am

2010-12-26T19:40:00.002-06:00

Hi, remember me, the one who promised to never leave your side and always tell you the truth? I know I've been absent for over two months now, and I hate to be that blogger who apologizes for blog neglect, but I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I'm back though, and I've got more to confess than ever before.

You see we moved. Yeah, yeah, I know I've spun this story before, but this time it's different. Really.

It all started in August when my mom died. And about that same time my dad was diagnosed with kidney cancer. Somewhere in between all of this my husband was interviewing for executive chef positions with several different restaurants near my hometown. After accepting an offer the packing began. And the chaos.

Secondborn decided then was as good as any to finally begin walking at sixteen months. The oncologist decided Dad had to have a kidney removed. There was the "kidney going away" party we threw for him followed a week later by the actually surgery. And less than a week after that, only a day before Thanksgiving, me and my circus moved in with him.

After placing most of our belongings into storage while staying with my dad for a few months, Hubby had to go out of town for three weeks for training. Fortunately, it was close enough he could drive home on weekends, but it still proved a trying time for all of us. Firstborn especially had a difficult time with this and the move. Yesterday was Christmas and he still says daily, "I wanna go home".

And speaking of Christmas, the stomach flu was not mentioned on anyone's wish list, yet we all got more than we ever wanted of it. That's okay, we still managed to make the most of it. The kids were thrilled with all the loot Santa brought. Hubby was mildly impressed, but it was a miracle he was even out of bed. And, me, I'm grateful we could all be together enjoying one of the rare white Christmases Alabama has had to offer. Oh, did I mention Hubbs got me a new Macbook Pro? So, no more excuses! Posting blogs should be a lot easier now that I don't have to hole up in the office while the kids go unsupervised.

Once more, I offer my most humble and "Oh, I feel like crap 'cause I've not written anything in ages" apology.

Life Skills

2010-10-25T13:42:00.005-05:00

It's Monday. That means it's grocery day. Grocery day with two young children. One of which I could not keep contained in the "cool car concept cart" and the other who decided today was the day to begin a life of crime.
Normally, while grocery shopping with both children in tow I have to maintain strict organization. Firstborn generally pushes the small, child size cart which causes me to shop in constant fear for my ankles' well being. Secondborn rides in the front of the normal shopping cart waving, blowing kisses, and clapping for all other shoppers who can't help but to flirt back. And, I have my coupons already coordinated with the weekly sales and a strict list to adhere to.
I said normally. This morning was anything but normal. This morning was chaotic. I did not have my list finalized. And I certainly didn't have my coupons coordinated with the weekly sales. I knew that alone would make this shopping trip longer than usual. Taking into account that my dear darlings would be tagging along would just make it downright frustrating or comical, depending on how one decided to look upon it.
Once we'd arrived at the market I demoted Firstborn's driver's license to that of an accompanied permit holder and placed him and his sister into what I refer to as the "cool car concept". He was none too happy to have his cart privileges revoked and to be sharing limited elbow space with Secondborn.
Aisle after aisle, he would jump out of the car and pretend to fuel it up because, "Mommy, the car hun-ghee (hungry) and needs gas."
"Fine. Fuel the car up but, do so quickly," I would say absently as I was leafing through my three ring coupon binder.
Then came the car surfing. Seriously. He was attempting to hang as far out of the "cool car concept cart" as humanly, and I'm using that word loosely at this point, possible without landing on his head. It was as if he had Gumby's genetic coding. The verdict, he's got a future in Hollywood as a stuntman if those ACT scores don't work out for him.
I was more than ready to put this shopping trip behind me as I finished unloading the Mommymobile once home. I took Secondborn to change her diaper only to discover her well kept secret. And, no, it was not located in her diaper, but, rather her overalls. My sweet and innocently, charming secondborn had taken to a life of crime while I was busy paying for groceries.
I blame the grocery store for placing peer pressure upon such a young and fragile flower. I choose to believe that she never would have gone down such a seedy path had the stores placed the candy selection out of sight and reach. How could she resist such temptation with all those candy bars calling out her name? She picked out the candy bar that was calling the loudest, a dark chocolate Dove bar, and stuffed it inside her overalls. And just like that, my daughter who had yet to take her first steps on solid ground, took her first steps into a life of crime.
As a parent, one always worries over the futures of their young. I suppose in a way I should be relieved that at least in these hard economic times mine can fall back upon smuggling and car surfing. I'm not sure how profitable that will make them, but popular they should always be with these life skills.

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That'll Teach You

2010-09-22T16:12:00.002-05:00

Firstborn's most favorite phrase of late is, "Dat's okay, Mommy. It an ass-e-dent. Ass-e-dents 'appen." Not exactly the phrase you want to walk in the front door to after a morning of special "Mommy Only" time. The first morning in months I'd been childless, save the two funerals within ten days I attended a few, short weeks ago.
This morning was much more special for a Mommy Moment given Hubby's work schedule of late and the personal trauma I've been doing my best to work through with a level head. Not only had I not had any time away from the kids most of the summer, I had barely seen my husband. When he was home he was nearly comatose from what I can only assume was his employer's creative way of trying to "off" him by over scheduling him in such a way that could only be described as an age old, tried and true, Inquisition technique.
I left the house early. Not only was I looking forward to my much overdue appointment to have my hair done at the local beauty college, but I had household errands to run before and after said appointment. The appointment ran late, much later than expected. That is one of the drawbacks to having a student service your hair. Sometimes they are so eager to do a great job that they get lost in the details and it takes a quite a long time.
Finally, five hours later, I pulled into our drive. I contemplated sitting in the Mommymobile for a few more songs to make the most of it, but my conscience wouldn't allow it. This was a single day off for Hubby after an almost illegal weekend work schedule. I knew it was time to go in and rescue him. He needed his alone time just as much, if not more than I did. This is what I walked in to.
I pushed the door open and stepped 1 1/2 steps inside. Firstborn runs up to me with a "forlorn and desolate outlook on life" look plastered upon his face, presumably due to my extremely long absence. The first words out of his mouth are, "Mommy, I sorr-wee 'bout your bedroom. Ass-e-dents 'appen. An', I wub (love) uo (you), sooo much. Uo (you) my berry best friend in da ho(whole) wide world, ebry (every) day, all day wong (long).
Immediately, my equilibrium shifted, as well as my "as close to Sivananda as I'm getting till these kids are both in school", peace and mentality.
"Accidents happen? Exactly what happened in my bedroom? Please, show me."
Firstborn took me by my ever so reluctant hand and led me in the direction of the oh, so never private bedroom Hubby and I share.
"What's that smell?" , as I sniffed, sniffed, sniffed from object to object. It wasn't until I put my nose to the carpet that my pulse began to beat much faster.
No. No. NO. NO!
Before I could further my questioning in the certain direction I knew it to be going, Hubby came up behind me to fill me in.
It seems Firstborn had lured Secondborn into our bedroom. He had managed to unstick my nightstand drawer. An irritation of always having to finesse to obtain admittance to this quircky thing, to a safeguard I had always counted on, this drawer was like a combo lock the likes I'd never seen before. Yet, he'd pried it open. Once open, he pulled out all the contents from nail files, magazines and books, including 1-2-3 Magic (a parental must have), to my brand new bottle of Nivea moisturizer.
The details thereafter are fuzzy. The best Hubby and I can do are piece together what we do know. This is what we know. When Hubby discovered the two in our bedroom, there was only one step between them and the door that was not saturated with moisturizer. Secondborn was covered entirely in said moisturizer. Firstborn was adorned with Hubby's brand new, white gold with yellow gold inlay, high-end, name brand, employer awarded for 10 years of excellent service, watch and a generous helping of Nivea moisturizer. I walked into the room wearing flip flops. I walked out of the room nearly breaking my neck as my feet met the laminate wood flooring in our hallway.
Welcome home, Mommy. welcome home. That'll teach you.

The Best Days Of My Life

2010-08-21T20:23:00.002-05:00

The house is the most quiet it's been all day. First and Secondborn are fast asleep and I am looking forward to settling down with a good book, good music, and a good glass of wine followed by a good night's rest. The makings of a perfect Saturday evening.
My life is a far cry from the wild weekends of my past and, for that I'm grateful. I survey the damage of what is the end of the day here in our household: books flung about from our half hour of pre-bed time reading, Goldfish crackers ground into the rug, sippy cups strewn about leaking their contents on my freshly mopped floors, and two baskets of laundry in dire need of putting away. I'm surprised at how clean everything looks.
What? And you thought me to be discouraged by the state of my surroundings? Nope. Not tonight. There was a time I was, though. It was a huge transition period for me to come to grips with raising children, keeping house, and being happy. It turns out that all my former ideals on housekeeping have been thrown out the window. Now, my goal is to stay clean enough that the Health Department doesn't shut me down.
I'm not a bad housekeeper. I like things well organized and neat. Turns out, children don't. It took a great deal of effort and time for me to understand that, but I finally did.
What I've finally come to grips with is I want my children to know without a shadow of a doubt that I am there for them. If they need me to drop to the floor and spontaneously read Llama Llama, Mad At Mama four times back to back, then I better get comfortable real quick while they both jockey for positions in my lap. If Secondborn wants me to hold her hands while she practices walking throughout the house for backbreaking sessions, then I best take a handful of Ibuprofen prior to our endeavors. And, I pray the day never comes that I refuse Firstborn his giddy "rocket ship" rides positioned on the bottoms of my feet while laying on my back, legs stilted against the skies flying him to faraway places.
Today was not an easy day. It wasn't a bad day either, though. I shudder when people talk about "bad days". It makes me wonder if they really know what a "bad day" is. I don't, and hope to never know. However, I do know long days, hard days, frustrating days, etc, etc. And while today was no easy day, this and all surrounding days are the best days of my life. As the saying goes, "The days are oh, so long, but the years oh, so very short". Indeed.

Canning Crazed

2010-08-19T15:01:00.003-05:00

Hi. My name is Mommy, and I have a canning addiction. At least that's what my husband tells me. He says I need to get some help. He suggested therapy and possibly some step programs. But he doesn't mean it. Not really anyway.
In truth, I know he's secretly pleased with his wife's mad home ec skills. He's appreciative of how little money I've invested in this endeavor, yet how much it will save us in the long run. He openly brags on how good everything has tasted. He's particularly fond of the salsa. So much so, that I've had to make numerous follow up batches to replenish our diminishing supply. Fortunately, I found a vendor in my hometown willing to sell tomatoes for $.50 a pound.
I grew up in a family that canned, dried, froze, pickled, and preserved food. To this day any time I smell fresh dill I am immediately brought back to my parents' divorce because my granny was canning dill pickles at that time.
To "put up", as they called it, was a necessity from days past, but they continued on because it's what you did. It saved countless pennies and tasted far better than anything you could find on the grocer's shelves. These are the same reasons I enjoy doing these same rituals. I like knowing what's in my family's food. I like knowing where my food comes from.
Some have told me I'm crazy for doing this. I probably am, but not for that reason. Many have been extremely supportive. I think they're just paving the way to a few handouts. And that's okay. Partly why I've canned so much this year is to give away as Christmas gifts. Then there have been a small number that have made comments predicting that we'll never eat all that we've made based upon their own canning experiences. To that I say, "Don't rain on my parade."
And, then there's my grandmother who's proud. She's so proud that her ways have made such a huge impact upon my life and the way I'm raising our family. It makes me happy to see her so pleased with my efforts. It made me down right giddy to see how she thoroughly enjoyed the jar of Apple Pie In A Jar. She had half the jar finished by the time I left her house.
As is the case in any addiction, I'm not alone. I've a friend who loves canning just as much as I do. She too grew up in the canning culture. So, for the past month she's loaded up her two year old daughter, supplies, produce from her garden and her CSA box, and headed to my house for all day canning sessions. Fortunately, her daughter is Firstborn's girlfriend. While we're ladling hot spoonfuls of homemade goodness into Ball jars they're having the time of their short lived lives. It usually ends up with both of them pants-less. But, that's another story for another day.
We've been quite successful in our endeavors. Between the both of our gardens, her CSA box, my father's neighbor and their apple trees, we've not had to purchase much produce. We've pickled peppers and squash. We've made marmalades, preserves, pie fillings, two different types of pepper jelly, fruit jellies, salsa, and even more salsa. We've frozen peaches, squash, and zucchini. We've dried peppers. We've even made a spicy peach barbecue sauce and a spicy/sweet Thai dipping sauce. We were just showing out at that point.
We've no plans of slowing down either. We've plans to visit the local farmer's market this weekend to see what we can come up with. We're gearing up for phase two of our canning craze and that involves our pressure cookers. Soups, broths, and anything else we can come up with are all fair game. Our preserving cookbooks haven't steered us wrong yet.
Hubby can continue to claim that I have an illness, an addiction if you will. I don't mind just as long as he doesn't get in my way in the kitchen. Besides, I can stop any time I want.

Covered In Tears And Ice Cream

2010-04-28T10:23:00.003-05:00

My grandmother always used to say to me, "You and your big ideas." Generally, this was said in reference to some grandiose plan I'd concocted and only half way managed to finish. It's a well known fact that those are two of my biggest faults. I dream too big, too tall for the world of my own accomplishments. I start with this "big idea" and dive right in, only to abandon it somewhere around mile marker "what was I thinking?"
In times past I would arrive at a certain location, not quite the finishing line of my delusional destination, and call it quits. In the past few years I've worked hard at finishing what I've started. I want to look back with satisfaction and pride at a project completed, even if it is with what little sanity I began with shredded. And that is where I was Friday, somewhere caught between "what was I thinking?" and "this will work, even if we're both in tears and covered in ice cream".
For weeks now I've been planning Firstborn's third birthday party. I've hand made the invitations for the past two parties. It's something I really enjoy doing, but I usually end up frustrated and stressed by the time it's all said and done. Especially, after last year when I had to redo all the invite driving directions twice because of road closures due to Steeplechase and an unannounced monsoon season. In the end I ended up making phone calls.
This year, in an effort to keep things simple as my mother-in-law is always suggesting, a suggestion I'd be wise to adhere to more often, I decided to use the photo invitations from Costco. They're cheap, easy, and available online. Those, my friends, are some of my favorite words. They even had a cute template that would work well with what little bit of a theme I was going for, an ice cream party.
The idea was to have a backyard party and grill out. We'd serve cake and ice cream and let the kids decorate their own cones. I was going to make a cake shaped as an ice cream cone by baking one sheet cake and cutting a cone shape from it. Then I'd bake three dome shaped cakes, one for each of his three years, for the scoops of ice cream. Each cake would be a different flavor. Strawberry cake with strawberry icing, chocolate cake with chocolate icing, and vanilla cake with vanilla frosting. Cute, right? I'd assemble the cakes and look like Martha freakin' Stewart. *editor's note* There's bound to be an upcoming post on how comical that attempt will be. Stay tuned.
To make the invitations super cute I thought I'd take Firstborn's photo while he was eating a three scoop ice cream cone. Easy enough, right? *Sighs* In the back of my head I could faintly hear my grandmother saying that phrase that had plagued me since childhood.
The first attempt at getting that "perfect shot" was Friday morning. He and I left Secondborn with Hubby for morning naps. The plan was to run a few errands and end up at an ice cream parlor to take the pictures. I thought I would tip big to ensure that perfect looking cone and also in case of a big mess. It became clear to me as the morning wore on that Firstborn wasn't going to make it. With each stop we made he became increasingly whiny and non-compliant. Yet, I pressed on. I knew I was so close to that money shot that I could already picture it in my head. His big blue eyes sparkling, his smile so fresh on the invitation that you'd swear you could hear his giggles, and a triple scoop of frozen perfection posed mid air, just below its point of destination. Nothing, and I mean nothing was going to keep me from my perfect picture.
At last, done with errands we made our way twenty minutes in the opposite direction to a shopping center where I'd remembered seeing an ice cream parlor. Firstborn was quickly coming undone in the backseat. I looked at the clock. It was closing in on lunch time. We'd taken far longer on errands than I'd anticipated and now it was showing. I began talking up the big treat of having ice cream for lunch only to be met with opposition.
"I no want ice cweam. I not wan it!"
"You don't want ice cream? "
"NOOO!"
"Why not? It's so yummy. You love ice cream."
"NOOO!" Followed by whining.
I chose to ignore the rest. I knew once inside the ice cream parlor he'd change his mind. But, that's where we faced an even bigger problem than the screams of my child being held hostage and about to be forced to consume ice cream. The place had gone out of business.
Alright, quick change of plans. I can do this. I can do this. I kept telling myself as I was trying to get him back into his seat. In no way was he excited to be getting back into his carseat. After prying his rigid and clutching body off the side of the Mommymobile and back into his seat we did the only sensible thing we could do. I admitted temporary defeat and headed home. We would try again after a long, very long nap time.
While Firstborn was napping I made a new game plan. I would make a run for ice cream and we would do the shoot in our yard. It made sense. I'd have Hubby for backup. We'd be able to make another cone should we have a mishap. And he'd be much more comfortable in his own setting. Right?
Immediately upon waking I started talking up the ice cream treat. He got excited, as did I. This was going to work. I just knew it. I quickly made up one dandy of a triple decker ice cream cone and we headed to the front yard. I handed him the cone and readied my camera. The boy took one lick and held it out to me.
"I no wan it, Mama. I no wan it."
"What do you mean, you don't want it? It's so tasty. Go on. Give it another lick."
"Noooo. I done."
"Oh, no. You're not done. There's a lot left to lick."
"Here. You eat it."
"Mommy doesn't want it. You eat it."
"But, I don wan it! I don wan it, Mommy!"
"Oh, but you do. And Mommy really needs you to try just a bit more of it. Pretty please!"
"NO! I done. I done. I done."
"Please! I'll give you candy if you just eat a little bit."
Yes, I resorted to bribery. Don't judge. I was prepared to do whatever it took, even if it meant he and I were both covered in tears and ice cream.
In the end, it was me who ate the ice cream cone. It was me who was covered in tears and ice cream. I had this out of body experience where I looked down to see a crazed mama on the front lawn, camera in hand forcing her child to eat a triple decker ice cream cone. What had gotten into me?
We made our way to the backyard to play on the swing set and try to recover our good spirits. After a maximum of only five trips down the slide I heard the undeniable sounds of the ice cream truck making its way down our street. Oh, no. Here it comes, I thought. I closed my eyes tightly and just waited. And, sure enough there it was.
"Mama! I need ice cream!"

Give Me Spring, Or Give Me An Umbrella Drink

2010-02-18T14:06:00.002-06:00

The sun is shining, both babes are napping, and I have Mexicano music blaring as loudly as I dare with said babes napping. Somebody pass me an umbrella drink. Never mind that the temperature is barely into the 40's. That's a virtual heatwave with what we've been experiencing. Give me spring or, or, or just give me six more stinkin' weeks of this frigid gloom.
I'm a sunshine baby and always have been. I just don't do well this time of year. Now that we are finally settled into a place with a yard I'm ready to explore every square inch of it. I'm just itching to get my hands into some composted/mulched/potting soil/good ol' dirt and get my garden started.
With every hour of sunshine that I can steal I'm one step closer to digging out my summer apparel, what I can still fit into. Last summer's collection was all maternity, as you may well remember. And I'm five to seven pounds away from pre-pregnancy weight and the clothing that went along with that. I suppose while I continue waiting on the weather and my body to both cooperate I could find other means of entertaining myself. Say, where is that umbrella drink?

These Days

2010-01-21T14:30:00.002-06:00

Discouraged. That's the word that jumps to mind most days. To be honest it has company. Tired, stressed, sick, and when they all band together I just reach a tad further and go with "pissed off and done with it all".
Since the beginning of November there's always been someone sick in our household. Two major holidays and two out of town trips took place. We moved. And three broken toes, two new cut teeth, countless sinus infections, and two clogged milk ducts later here we are.
Yet, another word has begun to creep back in. Joy. Pure and utter delight as Secondborn is clearly the happiest baby to ever grace this earth. Even as she cut two teeth in less than twenty days, we hardly knew it. Yes, she was fussy, but, she smiled all the while through it.
Firstborn also brings his share of joy to the table. Mind you, it's often tangled up in the mess of the moment, but it's there. Sure, sometimes I have to squint real hard through my tears to see its glimmer but I see it. I see his wonder for all that this world has laid before him to explore and conquer and I then remember that I want to join him on his adventures. Forget the laundry and unpacking. It will wait. In the meanwhile all those boxes make for a really good fort and there's bound to be something fun on the other side.
I know these days will pass and things will get easier. I also know that these days will pass and I will no longer have a beautiful daughter who lights up every time I walk into the room, or a son who can't wait for me to "Go 'splore, Mommy. Let's go 'splore." These days will pass all too quickly I am told all too often. It's time I really remember just what that means. It's time I kicked Discouraged and his downtrodden friends to the curb and replace them with Wonder, Joy, and Delight.

Family Planning, The Costco Method

2009-11-04T14:08:00.002-06:00

Some weeks after giving birth to Secondborn, Hubby and I had the discussion on which contraceptive path we wanted to take. After some discussion we opted for something non-hormonal. Let's face facts, folks. I'm crazy enough as it is without introducing any new variants to the mix. So, I chose the diaphragm.
After receiving mine I quickly realized that I had forgotten to pick up the required spermicide to be used along with the diaphragm. I quickly added it to the following week's grocery list and put it out of mind. The days that followed were something of a blur of preparations and excitement as we were expecting a visit from the in-laws.
Monday finally rolled around and we had a full day of shopping planned. First we had the grocery store and then home for lunches and naps. This would be followed by a trip to Costco for all our bulk item needs. After a busy morning of household chores we all loaded up and headed to the grocery store.
At this point, Firstborn routinely refuses to ride in the shopping carts no matter where we are, what we attempt to bribe him with, or what cool car concept cart it might be. In an effort to be somewhat in control of our mobile circus, I suggested that he push one of the smaller carts while Hubby would push the larger cart and Secondborn. An hour and only minimal (depending on who you ask) damage later, we checked out.
As I was unpacking the groceries in our kitchen I realized that we had accidentally omitted an important item from our list.
"Crap. We forgot the spermicide" , I said to Hubby.
"Well, we're still going to Costco this afternoon," was his reply.
Somewhat taken aback I asked, "Exactly how much sex are you planning on us having? I mean, I'm all for fun and games, but I've got two kids aged two and under. I'm a tired woman most days. Three, four times tops (a week), is about all I can manage after cleaning up after Firstborn. And let's not forget about Secondborn parking herself at my boobs throughout the day and night."
Even as I was saying those words my mind was flooded with pictures of tubes of spermicide so large that it would require a forklift to load them into the MommyMobile.
Poor Hubby. It wasn't what he quite meant to come out, but even he got a good laugh once he realized the implications of his reply.
And for the record, Costco doesn't carry spermicide. I know. Hubby and I both looked.

....But You Can't Pick Your Friend's Nose

2009-10-23T17:45:00.004-05:00

You know the old saying, "You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose"? Just how do you explain that to a two year old?
Last night Firstborn was not feeling well. He'd had a very long and trying day. I had the family down at the health department before sun up in order for us to obtain our H1N1 Flu vaccines. The vaccine made him cranky. The ungodly hour of 5:30 in the morning made him tired. And I just made him mad every time he turned around.
Since he was not feeling well I allowed him to go to sleep in my bed with the plan of Hubby moving him to the toddler bed once Hubby was home from closing the restaurant. Firstborn was having trouble settling down. He kept wiggling. I asked him to stop. He did. He began to sing. I asked him to stop. And he did. Then the nose picking began. I said to Firstborn, "Take your finger out of your nose and do not put it back in there." And thankfully, he did.
As I lay there on the very edge of sleep, thinking I had taken care of the situation, I reached out for my son's sweet chubby hand. For the record, this particular hand had no involvement in the prior nose picking incident. Firstborn was playing with my hand and I paid it no mind. That is until I realized my finger was going up his nose. My son had enlisted my hand to harvest his crop of snot.
After dislodging my finger and giving it a generous application of hand sanitizer, I once more tried to go back to that fuzzy sleepy place. This time I was interrupted by Firstborn sitting up in bed and asking, "Where booger go, Mommy?"
"What do you mean, 'Where booger go'?"
He then points to Hubby's pillow, apparently its previous resting place, and says, "Booger go bye-bye".
As I closed my eyes for the last time that hour, I gave an inward giggle that at least I would not be the only one picked for this booger business.

It's My Life

2009-10-08T11:10:00.006-05:00

I pride myself on having well managed days with a three month old and a two and half year old. While pregnant I was terrified of what the days after the birth would hold in store for me. But, as it turns out, I've done alright. Heck, I feel like I'm doing really well. Yes, some days are harder than others, but each has its own rewards.
In maintaining these well managed days I've had to let some things go. Namely, myself. Yes, I know I just had a baby....three months ago. That does not excuse the fact that I should not neglect the things that make me happy. I love writing articles for this blog. It's a wonderful outlet for my rantings. I have several topics scribbled down that I want to write about. The problem is when I have the time I'm often too tired to connect the words. Even as I'm writing this it feels forced and not as fluid as it once did. I hope that as we continue to establish a good working rhythm with our household that it will come back to me once more.
Secondborn is a pure delight. In every aspect she is the day to Firstborn's night. Where he was severely colicky and cried for hours and hours, she rarely utters a whine. There are exceptions to that, though. Obviously when she's gassy and it hurts she'll cry. Or, when big brother decides to shower, or mop as it was in one case, her with attention she does so as well.
Where he had a head full of jet black hair, she has little. And what she does have is strawberry blond. He never cooed or babbled much, but she's my little chatterbox.
It's a marvelous thing to have such an easy going and happy baby. It helps alleviate some of my heavy workload of constantly rescuing Firstborn out of some precarious position he's wriggled himself into. Or cleaning up mishap after mishap. Dealing with Firstborn at this time is exhausting and often frustrating. It's not uncommon since he's learned to open the refrigerator to find a new bottle of tarter sauce poured across the kitchen floor, or him drinking lemon juice straight from the bottle. I suppose that teaches me a lesson about having shoved lemon wedges in his mouth when he was just a babe to see his funny faces.
Yesterday was trying and today's forecast is predicting the same patterns as well, it would seem. I felt as if I had a three foot tall parrot shadowing my every move yesterday. Not only was my every step followed in close pursuit by said parrot, but my every word was also mimicked. I love Firstborn dearly, but sometimes Mommy just needs a moment. I'm certain all mothers have gone through this very thing. However, acknowledging that does not relieve the stress of having to be on ballerina toes at all times so as not to step on the always underfoot child.
And when he isn't underfoot, I'm even more concerned. Why, you may ask. Because that's when he's most dangerous. Not only to himself, but my sanity. He finally learned to put his poop in the potty. And there was great rejoicing throughout the land. However, for the third time this week he's deemed it unnecessary to use the necessary. What gives, kid?
He sneaks off while I'm nursing Secondborn. He has learned that this is his window of opportunity to wreck havoc upon my house and my nerves. He slips off quietly to his bedroom. He shuts the door, yet I never seem to hear it close. What I do hear over the monitor is him reading books to himself. I then silently congratulate myself on instilling a love for all books in him early on. I also hear him playing with toys. It all sounds so innocent until I hear those dreaded words, "I poo-poo, Mommy! I poo-poo!" as he's approaching me with fingers to elbows covered in poop.
After the initial freak out routine of me unlatching Secondborn with little to no ceremony, plopping her in the nearest safe spot, grabbing Firstborn by the upper arm and leading him to the bathroom all the while yelling, "We DO NOT put our poo-poo in the floor", I am once more thrust into clean up mode.
Today's routine was slightly altered as he had locked the bathroom door and then closed it. Hubby was on hiney detail and I was on umm, litter patrol. I went to the bathroom to flush the poop only to find I was locked out. Great, not only was I irritated that he'd once again pooped the floor, but I was left holding still warm poop. Lovely.
I love it when older women like to give the advice "to enjoy every minute of these days because they pass all too quickly". Even with days such as yesterday and today I try to. After all, it's my life and I love every single poop and tarter sauce covered floor moment of it. I may grow weary in the midst of it, but I will never tire of the greater rewards. Besides, I'll get mine when I get to tell his future girlfriends of how he tried to mop his baby sister and proudly said, "Look, Mommy. I hepped. All clean now."

Bath Tub Highjacker

2009-08-19T13:10:00.003-05:00

I realize that it's been quite some time since I've last shared any articles. I'm sure most of you are aware by now that our family has expanded. Secondborn joined our ranks on July 7, at 11:08 weighing in at 7 pounds and 2 ounces. She was just shy of 20 inches long. I was thrilled to be able to have a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). She has added immeasurable joy to our household as well as she has taken away from what little personal time I had before her arrival. That's a trade off that I have no problem with. Most days. Then there was the day we had on Sunday.
Firstborn had woken in the middle of the night with a high fever. We had to cancel Secondborn's prayer and dedication at our church not only because of his sickness, but also because Hubby had thrown his back out. That day I played Mommy to all three. By the end of the day I was done and extremely close to tears. After supper I begged to have a few minutes to myself alone in the bath tub with a copy of a magazine that was getting close to a month old, but still very much new to me. Hubby had Secondborn asleep on his chest while he was lying flat on the heating pad and Firstborn was engrossed with a Play Doh project at the kitchen table.
This was my moment and nothing was going to stand in my way. I locked myself in the bathroom and drew a hot, steamy bath. I was almost giddy thinking of how the next fifteen minutes would hold no diaper changes, no small child dangling from my boob, and no crying. I climbed in and began to block out the world of Elmo and spit up.
Not more than eight minutes into my relaxing soak did it begin. The crying. I distinctly remembered that I had stipulated my bath would have no crying, so I tried to ignore it. This crying was different though. This crying was coming from Firstborn and this crying indicated to me that some part of Firstborn must no longer be attached. I jumped out of the tub knowing that Hubby could do no jumping up as his back was out of whack. I unlocked the only barrier between me and what surely must be my severely maimed son. Once the door was open my ever so healthy and completely naked son pushed past me and climbed into my bath. My relaxing bath had just been hijacked by a two year old carrying a wide tooth comb. Not knowing what else to do I sunk back into my bath alongside my son and began to shed a few tears. So much for a bath with no tears.
*Editor's Note*
This is not my best work. Forgive me I'm somewhat sleep deprived with Firstborn still sick and typing with a baby latched onto your boob isn't that easy. Please continue to read on.

A Letter From The Landlord

2009-06-27T14:30:00.004-05:00

Dear current tenant,
while I have enjoyed your lengthy stay in my womb I am writing to inform you that I will not be renewing your lease upon its expiration date. This does not, in any way reflect my opinion of you. It is merely a personal choice.
During your stay we've come to know one another with great detail and intimacy. Therefore, I feel I can speak candidly. For the most part I've enjoyed your presence. But, there have been times that you've shown a complete disregard for my hospitality. This seems to be a common occurrence these past few months, one that does not sit well with me.
Your late night dance parties have often hindered my ability to enjoy a good night's rest. Your constant protests of my food and beverage choices is unwelcome. And your demand for larger lodgings is out of my control.
I feel that it's within everyone's best interest if we just part ways, and soon, while we're still on agreeable terms. I realize that this sudden change in living arrangements will most likely be disagreeable with you, however, I have a solution. Rather than viewing this as an eviction notice, I suggest you view it as a relocation program. In exchange for giving me full rights to my body once more, I offer up a warm, comfortable crib located within close proximity to my own sleeping arrangements. In addition, I will also throw in two working boobies that you may feast upon any time you so choose. So, you see, this really is in no way an eviction notice. I hope you find this plan to your liking and I look forward to your moving soon. Real soon.
Sincerely,
Mommy, your current uterine landlord

An Apology To My Husband

2009-05-31T15:23:00.003-05:00

To my dearest and ever loving husband,
do you remember when we were still dating? You would come to pick me up and inevitably I wouldn't be ready. I would pour you a drink and leave you to finish getting ready. I took great pride as well as pains, in choosing what to wear, how to do my hair, and where I should apply the perfume I had carefully chosen for the evening. I loved watching you watching me as I would walk back into the room. The way you would watch me all evening always made me feel special. I knew all my hard work while done in the name of vanity, had not been in vain.
During these past few years you've looked at me in many different ways. There have been looks of awe, anger, frustration, fascination, love, and sheer lunacy. The look I'd like to thank you for the most, however is for looking the other way. With only a few weeks left till Secondborn joins our ranks I often find it hopeless to spend the amount of time and energy I once did on making myself presentable. It's not as easy as it once was. It's certainly not as enjoyable. Let's face it, no amount of concealer is going to conceal the fact that I look as if I'm smuggling a watermelon. My issue isn't so much with what my body looks like, but what my body does. I left the land of Ladylike long ago. There's the burping that results in Firstborn asking each and every time, "You 'kay?" There's the belly and hiney scratching that occurs indiscriminately, whether it be in front of just you, or everyone in the supermarket. There's the ever present waddle that in no way resembles my once seductive sashey.
And then there's the pooting. The pooting that is fueled by my mostly produce ingested diet. The pooting that drives Firstborn to the other side of the room and causes much conversation while he and I are in public potties together. The pooting that I once would have been mortified by and try to lay blame on the dog or the newborn, is now so commonplace that I don't even notice. And by the look on your face, neither do you. You are either such a gentleman that you look the other way, or God has blessed you with some sort of pregnant hormone to block out all effects of mine.
So thank you, darling Hubby for looking the other way. I offer my sincerest apologies for all of my bodily offences for the rest of the pregnancy, labor, and delivery.
With all my love,
Your Affectionate and Flatulant Wife

Googer Hurts, Mama

2009-05-27T13:55:00.003-05:00

Firstborn ran up to me one day last week with his finger outstretched and waving wildly. He kept repeating this phrase: "Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
I racked my brain desperately trying to figure out what part of my beloved Firstborn might be ailing him. I reached for his hand and held it for a closer inspection. And there it was, on the very tip of his finger. A booger, or as my son was saying, "Googer".
"Does the 'googer' hurt or does your nose hurt from retrieving the 'googer'?"
"Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
That's all I could get out of him, besides the 'googer'. A lot of things hurt him these days. At his two year wellness check up last week I had to ask the doctor if he thought Firstborn might have a urinary tract infection. Every time he went pee-pee in the potty he would tell me his pee-pee hurt. The urine analysis was negative. Turns out our little "googer getter" now understands the concept of hurts and owies but not to its fullest extent.
I waddle a lot these days. A combination of gaining 33 pounds and being less than five weeks from my due date, I suppose. I also hold the bottom of my back often. And sometimes, if all the forces of pregnancy are really wanting to pull a good one over on me, the hiney will ache from the occassional hemmeroid as well. Firstborn approached me one afternoon as I was waddling down the hall with one hand on my lower back and the other on my hiney. I'm pretty sure I was giving a good bellyachin' moan too. My sweet child ran behind me and kissed my hiney. "You 'kay? No hurt, Mama."
"No hurt. Mama all better now. Thanks."

Monday- Pull Head Out Of Hiney

2009-05-22T16:46:00.003-05:00

I hate to be that person who not only neglects their blog, but writes a blog to apologize for said neglect. But, this afternoon I am indeed that person. The past three weeks have been really busy with Hubby's parents coming to visit, Firstborn's second birthday, and the planning and replanning of his party. Not only was I super busy, but it seems my endless energy is now finding its way to an end. I suppose that's to be expected since I'm only six weeks away from due date. I have had several ideas for new articles and hope to find the time sometime within the next week to finally commit them to the blog. So...for those emailing me nasty little notes about my blog neglect, message received. I'm writing it on my calander: Monday - pull head out of hiney and get busy confessing.

Pass The Gas, Please

2009-05-01T14:44:00.004-05:00

I'm craving one of my favorite southern meals: meatloaf, stewed potatoes, pinto beans, and cornbread. It's what's on the menu tonight. I'm even considering jacking this up a notch by adding broccoli and cheddar to the cornbread. The only thing missing at the moment would be fresh sliced tomato, but I'm too much of a tomato snob to enjoy one from the local big box market. But soon, very soon they'll be coming into season and I'll be able to hit my local produce stand up for one of those juicy Better Boys or Big Berthas.
Most likely this is a mundane topic for some of my dearly devoted. Those of you who know me though, know of my love for all things food. Factor in the pregnancy and you'll find that food occupies a good 78% of my thinking. So it was of no surprise when this menu came to me in a dream early this morning. I woke slobbering and smacking with anticipation for the deliciousness that awaited me.
As I was soaking and rinsing my beans it occurred to me, however, that this meal was going to hurt me. Between the heartburn and the gas, there's no doubt in my mind I will be rolling on the floor miserable a good half hour after consumption. Ordinarily this meal might sting for a brief time, but I would soldier on. I'd forgotten to consider my on board companion might not enjoy the in flight meal as much as myself. Well, little girl, you best buckle up. You're about to experience some slight turbulence. Mama needs her comfort food.

He Said, She Said

2009-04-25T19:06:00.002-05:00

The following conversation took place this morning as my husband I watched a pair of finches building a nest in our Boston fern on the deck.
"Typical male", I said as the female was doing all the nest building and the male sat below pigging out in the feeder.
"He was probably kicked out for not doing it right", said Hubby. " 'No! That's not where that leaf goes. It goes over here."
"Well, that sounds about right. He probably wasn't listening the first five times she told him where and how to do it."
"What was that?"
"Never mind, I'll just do it myself."

Some Days Are Better Than Others

2009-04-06T13:12:00.010-05:00

Some days are better than others. We all know this. But when stuck in the middle of one of those days it's difficult to see past the poop on your carpet, or whatever else may have come your way. So I suppose there was no great reason for me to be surprised when the words "GO GET IN YOUR CRATE" were issued from my lips last week. The surprise came as I realized I was yelling them at my son, and not our dog.
Firstborn turns two next month and we've been working on potty training the past two weeks. We've actually been "potty teaching" for some months, but it's been in the past two weeks that the proverbial light bulb went off deep within him. And with the weather warming up it's made potty training much easier. He's been going bare bottomed, and loving it too, I might add. His floor potty is placed in the living room atop several old towels as well as in front. I'm absolutely amazed by the boy's arc and aim. I can see now that I will be fighting a constant battle with keeping a clean bathroom in the future.
The first few days I baby gated him into the living room so as to contain any accidents. Each time he pee-pees in the potty he gets a jelly bean. After a few days the gate came down. I'm proud to say we've only had four, maybe five "uh ohs". The third "uh oh" I'm sure was done on purpose just to see if he could vacuum it up with his play Dirt Devil. It seems he may have inherited my love of vacuuming.
He's doing quite well with the pee-pee portion of potty time. It's the poopy that gives him fits. Like most boys he would rather poop in his diaper. The problem is that he doesn't like to wear diapers anymore. So when he needs to "see a man about a horse" he does this crazy, tribal dance. He'll run to the potty and sit. He'll hop up grabbing his hiney. Then he'll run in circles while whining, "hurts, Mama, hiney hurts". Then he'll sit again, only to repeat the whole dance. I ask him if he would like to put a diaper on and he'll utter a very pained, "yeah". Sometimes he avoids the whole tribal dance and just brings me a diaper. No sooner will I have him strapped in and he's finishing up business.
One day last week we were having an especially whiny morning. I don't know who started it, but when either Firstborn or myself wake in a whiny mood it tends to be contagious. I was sitting on the couch when Firstborn began his poopy dance. I was determined that this time the kid was going to poop on the potty, so I didn't offer him a diaper. He danced around the living room half a dozen times and then sat on his potty.
"Alright," I thought to myself. "That's more like it." He sat and sat. He sat some more. It had been over twenty minutes since the beginning of the "poo poo limbo" and I needed to go potty as well. I'm pregnant, it had been twenty minutes, you know the equation: pregnant + the recommended 60 oz of water/daily = peeing every 15-20 minutes.
I could hear Firstborn as I was making my way back to the living room. "Poo Poo! Poo Poo!" I hurried. I certainly didn't want him trying to empty the potty by himself. I guess there was no need to hurry after all. I entered the room as my son had a handful of poop and was about to place it into the potty. Oh, and there was more on the carpet. *Sighs* Some days are better than others.
The rest of the day followed much in the same fashion. I had a lengthy to do list, but was making no headway with it. Every time I turned around I was either cleaning up a new mess or disciplining. The straw that broke the camel's back came at the end of the day. I was trying to make supper and fold laundry while Firstborn was playing in his room. As I emerged from the laundry closet I looked across the room to see that he was washing my sliding glass door with his baby's blanket. I knew in an instant there was only one place he could have gotten the water to wet that blanket as thoroughly as he did, the potty.
I took the blanket away and swatted his bottom all in one motion. With my right arm I pointed down the hallway. And as if I was having some out of body experience I heard myself yell, "GO GET IN YOUR CRATE."
The dog, who had been sleeping soundly, jerked her head up. Her look said it all, "What did I do?" Firstborn cocked his head to one side and began to giggle hysterically. And with that so did I, because after all, aren't some days better than others?

Have You Seen This Giraffe?

2009-03-24T12:56:00.006-05:00

In the back of my mind I knew there would come a day when the unthinkable would occur. In anticipation of this dreaded day I had made preparations. Apparently, I had not done enough. The unthinkable took place last Monday. We lost a lovie, a precious, a near and dear to us. Put your hankies away. Nobody died. No, this was far worse.
For those who run with the five and under set I'm sure you're all too familiar with what a lovie is. It's a item of esteemed affection of a child. Hubby and I both had them as children. Both, coincidentally, were yellow blankets. I still have mine in all its tattered glory. When I was pregnant with Firstborn I began crocheting him a yellow blanket as well. It's a simple affair as I was, and still am a simple crocheter. Last spring I even made him a second "Yellow". A backup if you will. After having suffered the loss of my dearly beloved Panda as a toddler, I was all too familiar with this type heartache. I wanted to make sure our Firstborn never had to endure this. But the dreaded day did not involve Yellow.
We attended my niece's birthday party this past fall where the party favors were quite generous. Firstborn walked away with not only photo mementos, but a goody bag, and a handsome stuffed giraffe. From that day forward "Draff", as he has come to be known, has not left my son's side. Draff attends every function he does. And I mean every function, from potty breaks to church services.
I vividly remember the Great Jam Incident of '08. Firstborn was diligently sharing his breakfast of toast and jam with his dearest friend when things got a bit sticky. I deemed it necessary not only for Firstborn to have a bath, but Draff as well. Things went as planned during my son's bath, but a near riot insued when he saw Draff being dropped into the washing machine. He stomped, kicked, screamed, pulled all the magnets off of the fridge, and tried valiently to find a way to climb up and save Draff from what he was sure to be his very death. He pulled his stuffed chair into the laundry room and waited. He sat dutifully awaiting for his friend to emerge from his watery grave only to be tossed next into the dryer. Still, he sat. Never have I seen a more relieved look on my son's face then when I removed Draff from the dryer and handed him over.
Last Monday Firstborn, Yellow, Draff, and I loaded up the Mommy Mobile and headed to the mall to walk. We had been cooped up for much too long and were in search of some much needed exercise. After our 45 minute walk it was time to load back up and head home. This is where things began to get ugly. I quickly realized as I was packing everything into the car that Draff was not one of my items. I backtracked mentally. Where had he last been seen? I didn't actually remember seeing him in the mall, but I did remember him being next to the diaper bag at home. It's that period of time between leaving home and getting ready to head back home that was a complete blank. Drat this baby brain. I couldn't remember anything anymore. I convinced myself that most likely Draff was sitting on the kitchen counter patiently waiting for Firstborn to retrieve him.
I frantically organized a search party once home. Within the hour Hubby and I had ruled out Draff being anywhere in the house or Mommy Mobile. This was not good. I was beyond panic as I knew nap time was fast approaching. My mind was racing with thoughts of Amber Alerts: Draff: orange and white spotted, twelve inches in height, last seen wearing long eyelashes and a kind smile. While I was getting that out to the public, Hubby could be gluing recent "Have you seen me?" photos onto milk cartons. A team effort would be needed to print up fliers and get in touch with Nancy Grace. But I was certain we could pull it off.
Nap time was long and painful that afternoon. It took almost an hour to get Firstborn asleep. However, once he was Hubby and I worked quickly. I got on the horn. First I called the mall's lost and found, but no luck. Then I called my sister-in-law. Thankfully, she was home and able to tell me where she had purchased Draff. Within minutes Hubby was out the door and headed to Toys-R-Us.
While he was out Firstborn woke prematurely from his nap. I distracted him with projects and snacks. Then my knight in shining armor strode in quickly ripping price tags from a brand new Draff. I'm not sure if it was a combination of pregnancy hormones and stress, or if just seeing my son's face light up with sheer joy at seeing his long lost friend returned safely, but I began to cry. It was a look I will never forget. I know, it's a look he gives me often, and that alone makes being Mommy all worth it.
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Granny Takes No Prisoners

2009-03-13T13:06:00.004-05:00

Recently, I visited with my ninety year old Granny. It was the first time she had seen me in some months and there was definitely much more of me to be seen. At our last meeting I was still early on in my pregnancy. I looked as if I'd eaten a large lunch, not very pregnant at all. This time was a different story. I am now six months along and look as if I'd eaten a small hot dog stand, not just a large lunch.
We were enjoying watching Firstborn as he played with my aunt. During all this time my Granny complimented me on how good I looked and asked questions regarding the pregnancy. She deftly waited until my aunt took Firstborn outside to pick buttercups, and that's when she began the assault.
On outside appearances my granny looks like any ninety year old granny, but don't be fooled. She's a seasoned, war time general. She's lived long enough to learn the best tactile maneuvers, and she's not afraid to use them. Little did I realize that she had already been maneuvering her artillery into place in our prior conversation.
Granny: "You look good. You look like you've been eating well. And I see you're still out and about frequently. Is the baby giving you any problems? Hrphmph."
It all sounded so innocent to me as we were watching the antics of my aunt and son as they tickled one another with a feather duster. It's what she said next once we were alone, that set off the air raid sirens in my head.
Granny: "Don't you think you need to be in maternity clothing?"
Mommy: "Granny, this is maternity clothing."
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Oh no. There it was, the second Hrphmph! Just minutes before I had been lovingly rubbing my blissful belly as Granny had been speaking. I was caught up in the scene before me and not paying much attention to what she said. But quickly, I was jolted back to the battlefield that lay before me. I began running our previous conversation back through my head.
Granny: "You look good."
Translation: I see you've been performing your wifely duties.
Granny: "You look like you've been eating well."
Translation: Don't get too fat. You'll just have to lose all of that baby weight again, and we know how long it took you last time.
Granny: "And I see you're still out and about."
Translation: Don't you think you should be in confinement? You are after all, with child.
Granny: "Is the baby giving you much trouble?"
Translation: That poor child you're carryin' has to be miserable what with all the weight you've gained and you out gallavantin' about the countryside.
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Translation: I don't approve of this one bit.
Granny: "Don't you think you need to be in maternity clothing?"
Translation: You're in the family way. You should be wearing the appropriate tent like clothing, complete with Peter Pan collars.
Granny: "Hrphmph."
Translation: I really don't approve of this one bit. This is worse than I thought.
How had I missed it? I was a sitting duck. No, I was a sitting, pregnant duck with a giant bulls eye painted on my ever expanding belly. This was not going to be pretty. This lady was known for taking no prisoners. She left them in a pile of ashes and bones that had once been their self-esteem, strewn across the living room sofa.
It was time to hunker down. Firing back would have been in poor taste, after all, she was ninety. And her guilt game was far superior to even her war games. I would have to move quickly and carefully. I explained that not only what I was wearing was in fact, maternity clothing, but that it had been passed on to me from my younger sister. Ouch, sorry for throwing you under the bus like that dearest sister, but you know how the old bird operates. It's every man for himself.
I should have stopped there but I couldn't. My tongue marched on with prhases like, "this is how it's done these days" and "all the cool kids are doing it". She just sat there in silence with her left hand in a sort of fist under her chin and index finger covering her mouth. And just like that she had conquered victorious. With the entrance of my aunt and son her demeanor once again changed back into that of a jolly great-grandparent. I sat there on the living room sofa a shell of the once confident mommy to be.

Trying Two

2009-03-02T12:45:00.006-06:00

My dear, sweet, and strong-willed son, Firstborn, is not quite two. He won't be two until May, but has already decided to fully embrace the "terrible two's", a phrase I dislike greatly. It's a misleading phrase. Maybe a more appropriately alliterated phrase should have been the "trying two's". Because that's what it truly is. Firstborn is trying many things, not just my patience, but that's the one that comes to mind when I say, "trying two's".
Not only is he trying to learn who he is, but where he stands in this family. And that is going to be somewhat unsettling I'm afraid, once Secondborn arrives in July. He's trying out boundaries, of the physical and parental department. Three weeks ago he attempted ice skating in our narrow kitchen with each foot in a separate frying pan. Needless to say, he didn't stick that particular landing. He did, however, nail the one yesterday as he walked on the couch up and down its length until falling and cracking his head on the wooden armrest. I don't know about crossing his T's, but he certainly dotted his eye.
Firstborn is learning at an amazingly rapid pace that never ceases to amaze me. It's evident that he will be much smarter than I am. Maybe it was the fish oil pills I took the last half of the pregnancy to increase his brain growth and development. I'd like to think that us teaching him sign language starting at five months had a hand in it too. Most likely it's that he takes after his Daddy who I'm in awe of. Whatever the case may be, I'm both terrified and proud of my son's problem solving capabilities.
Recently we've had to replace the original covers on our electrical outlets. He had learned to pull the safety plugs out. The new ones require a steady and strong hand in sliding the plate over to its opening. We're taking bets on how long it takes him to figure this one out. Two weeks ago he learned how to unscrew lightbulbs. Two days ago he shorted out my nightstand lamp trying to figure out how it works. His favorite tool in the house for some time now has been an ever handy pair of kitchen tongs. He uses them to reach anything that's out of his reach.
Do you see where I'm going? Do we enroll him in some sort of Montessori Electrical Engineering program or duct tape him to his high chair? I've always loved working with children whether it be in daycare settings or one-on-one. I highly encourage thinking outside of the box. I believe a child should be independant and confident. I can't sit beside him and watch his every move. Not only would it wreck his self esteem but my house would be a wreck as well, what with all the neglect.
Every day is presenting new challanges and obsticles for both, Firstborn and myself. I want him to keep trying new things and seeing how they work. I also want a clean house (prefereably with all my electrical appliances working within the proper safety codes). But the question is, do I want these at the risk of raising a child who doesn't know how to think for himself void of any personality? No. As long as my child is safe, well fed, and fully aware of just how much he's loved, then I'm doing my job. As the older woman in my ladies group told me a few weeks ago, "Hon, your job is to give that child all the lovin' you got, and to keep him from breakin' his fool little neck...cause it's the only one that the good Lord gave him! The house can wait, but that boy will be gone in the blink of an eye." Amen.
So, for those who think I'm crazy because I let my son finger paint with chocolate pudding in the bathtub and play with Quaker Oats as he plows them into my living room carpet with his tractors I say this: I'm not crazy (err, that crazy), I'm just letting my son be the best "trying two" he can be.

Those Closest To Me

2009-02-04T14:50:00.002-06:00

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A Farewell To Buttons and Zippers

2009-01-27T15:39:00.005-06:00

When I was pregnant with Firstborn I could hardly wait to get into maternity clothing. I'm not exactly sure what excited me most about wearing elastic band pants. Maybe it was the prospect of hitting up any number of all you can buffets. Maybe it was the ease in which I could now pull my pants down as I was running for the potty for the umpteenth time that day. Or maybe it was simply that I was ecstatic to have this wonderfully created tiny being inside of me. Whatever the case may be I jumped into maternity clothing much sooner than I should have.
This time around, however, I've tried putting off "the great switch" as long as possible. Well, dearly devoted, that time has come. Farewell buttons and zippers. Till we meet again.

Plunged Into The Icy Depths

2009-01-14T08:23:00.004-06:00

I love my husband. He is a wonderfully thoughtful man with a huge reserve of patience. Let's face it, any man who is willing to commit his love and life to that of a stubborn, feisty, and often times erratic redhead is going to need HUGE reserves of patience. Having said that, it is time I tell you, my dearly devoted, of the grievous error he committed not once, but twice within a four day span.
The aforementioned grievous error took place the last week in December in the early morning hours. Some of you may know of my struggle to fall asleep. Since childhood I've had great trouble in getting to sleep. The older I become the more difficult it is. In recent years my doctor has prescribed Ambian, Ambian CR, and Lunesta to get me where I want to go. They've proven themselves to be everything they advertise on television. The problem is now that I'm pregnant I'm not allowed to partake in these aides. So once again I toss and turn for nearly two hours every night until I fall asleep. Now that I've given you the necessary background let me once more take you back to those chilly, early hours in the last week of December.
I was deep asleep and had only roused three times so far that night to relieve my bladder as pregnant women often do. I've learned not to drink anything after 7:00 including my night time ritual tea or else I'm up every hour performing this necessity. Still, it is normal for me to make my way to the bathroom, eyes shut, at least four to five times a night. I walk to the bathroom, eyes shut, in attempts to avoid waking myself to where I once more have trouble falling asleep. I even go so far as to keep the bathroom light off as well. I know the path by heart and more than once I'm sure that I've actually dozed for a few minutes while sitting in the upright position waiting to pee.
On this fateful night I was making my way, eyes shut, to the bathroom, completely dark, for the fourth time. It was on this fourth trip that I was plunged into the icy depths. With great force my hiney hit the bottom of our toilet bowl. Hubby had forgotten to put the lid down on the toilet. Not only was I cold and wet, but I was pissed - literally, physically, emotionally- anyway one could be. I can count on both hands the number of times my husband has left the lid up in the time that we've known one another. I tried to take this into consideration since he'd always been so attentive to it in the past, but taking anything into consideration in the middle of the night when your bum-bum is not only soaking wet and frigid, but slightly bruised from the force of the fall is difficult. After gathering my composure, hiney, and dignity from the bottom of the bowl I made my way back into our bedroom, eyes wide open. I recounted my ordeal in the calmest manner I could muster with a plea to always put the lid down. Hubby apologised and by the tone of his voice I could tell that he truelly was sorry. Hoping I could reclaim my night's sleep I rolled over and closed my eyes.
Two more nights passed by with no incidents. I would fight to find sleep, feel the need to relieve my bladder four or five times a night, and then go back to a warm and snuggly bed. The fourth night is a much different story, however. As you can already guess, yes, Hubby forgot to put the lid back down. Once more in the chilly, early hours of a December morning I was making my way, eyes shut, to the bathroom, completely dark. Once more I was plunged into the icy depths of our toilet with great force. You've got to be kidding me! What had happened to my once wonderfully thoughtful and patient husband? Did he not like my cooking over the past week? Had I been snoring too loudly? Was he seeing someone else and trying to find a way to "off" me, no matter how silly the cause of death might be? What was he thinking? Then it occured to me. He wasn't thinking. He was tired and simply not thinking. I don't know about you, but that reason made me angrier than any other reason he could offer. Not thinking? About his pregnant wife? If there is anything he should have learned from our previous pregnancy experience it's that he should always be thinking about his pregnant wife! I stomped back into our bedroom, eyes wide open and began my angry rant. My poor, sweet, and very tired husband felt horrible . And if I hadn't been so mad, then I might very well have felt sorry for him. But after all, it wasn't his hiney I had been toweling off just minutes before.
I'm not sure I ever got back to sleep that night. I fumed and fidgited in bed for what seemed an enternity. I must have made quite an impression upon Hubby because he has yet to leave the lid up again. God bless him. He's such a good egg.

Shame And A Sick Tummy

2008-12-23T14:04:00.002-06:00

Shame and a sick tummy are all that I am left with at this point. I made the mistake of buying stocking stuffer sweets for Hubby and Firstborn over a week ago. Mini reece's cups and chocolate Santas have been calling my name from the bottom of my closet ever since. I thought I was showing considerable self control by only indulging one or two here and there. Obviously, I was only fooling myself. I realized this yesterday as I was adding more non-food goodies to the bag of stocking stuffers that almost all of the candy was gone.
I have two options for blame. I can accept sole responsibility as it's a widely known fact that pregnant women cannot be trusted wherever chocolate and peanut butter is of concern. Or I can try and lay blame on my husband who was alone in our house for the past five days. I'm not sure which path I'll take. I'll figure that our later. Right now I have to run out and buy more candy and some Tums.

Excuses, Excuses

2008-12-07T09:59:00.004-06:00

It's been brought to my attention by several of my "dearly devoted" readers that I've been neglecting my duties in maintaining this blog. For that I apologize, but I have excellent excuses. Wanna hear 'em?
I'm pregnant. Maybe I should have punctuated that with an exclamation mark but I'm afraid to use my allotment. When I was in college Dr. Cross told us that at birth we are each given three exclamation points to be used throughout the course of our lifetime. We should use great care in when we make use of them. Yes, I know he was being dramatic about the overuse of this punctuation but it made quite the impression on me and I always think of it. I digress.
I'm almost nine weeks along. The morning sickness seems to have diminished greatly and I'm beginning to get some of my energy back. Those of you who know me personally know that I'm not a person who sits still often. I'm wound a bit more tightly than most people it seems. I enjoy keeping busy. So when I was spending most of the day lying as still as I possibly could on the couch watching Firstborn try to get me to play with him it made me feel all that much worse. It's not his fault that mommy and daddy wanted a fourth family member. It's not his fault that mommy was ready to yurp at any given moment. It certainly wasn't his fault that mommy didn't want to fix his favorite foods because she couldn't stand the smell of food. It was hard not being able to do the mommy things I treasure doing for my son. I'm still not back to my normal self, but I'm closer. And I can work with that.
The other excuses I have to offer up are company for Thanksgiving and Firstborn sick for over a week. Hubby's parents came out to visit us from Arkansas. We had a wonderful visit with them. I know I could have found the time to post then, but I was still lying as still as could be on the couch most of the time.
The night before they left Firstborn woke up with a case of exploding diaper and a slight fever. By the next afternoon the fever was up to 102.6. That night it went even higher. I had him at our pediatrician's office for the first available appointment the next morning. It was declared that he had a virus and to continue treating as we already had been. That night the fever was up to 104. The fever continued on for several days and didn't appear to have any interest in returning to normal so I made another appointment. This time I asked for a strep throat culture. Diagnosis: Positive. Usually kids don't get this until they're about four years or older but Firstborn has never been what you would call your usual kid. He's been on antibiotics for several days now and seems to be in a much better mood. He's slept the past three nights all through the night and that has made me extremely happy.
I hope this explains and excuses my absence and I pledge to be more punctual in my posting in the future. I go for my first ultrasound tomorrow afternoon so I hope to be able to post a few scans for you. Please pray for good health and development of our little chick.

So, You Come Here Often?

2008-11-06T11:47:00.004-06:00

This morning I took Firstborn to the local playground. You know the kind. The community builds them and they resemble castles and forts. He was having much more fun playing in the mulch than with any actual equipment, but that's the way it goes. After we'd been there 20 minutes or so we ran into another little boy and his mommy. Turns out both boys were 18 months old.
Immediately the mommy and I began chatting. We had so much in common. We went through all the usual warm up topics: clothing, potty training, likes, dislikes. So far, so good. My mind was racing ahead with all kinds of questions and antidotes.
This was too good to be true. This was not just another seesaw set up. This felt real. I was certain I was getting a good vibe. I hadn't had such good luck in the past. If the kids clicked, then mommy and I wouldn't or vice versa. Totally not the case here. All four of us were having a great time.
I began to turn my thoughts to future trysts. Trips to the children's museum, craft time at the art store, and best of all - visiting the inflatable gyms. This relationship could work. I just knew it.
I took a deep breath and dared to ask the big question. Were they seeing anybody else? They were. A little girl on Tuesdays followed by dinner. And while she never said if it was exclusive or not I just didn't have the heart to go any further. Once again I'd let my enthusiasm get the best of me.
How long was it going to take to find the right fit? How did other mommies do it? Do I need to place an ad? "Mommy and tot son looking for a good time. Likes it dirty. Open to group dates."
I didn't want to end up one of those playground groupies. I didn't want to be the mommy always giving out her digits to any and everyone. I had standards, by golly.
As is often the case it got a little crowded when another mom and her three daughters joined us. Though they were nice and played well, it just seemed as if a damper had been put on the mood. Lucky for us it was closing in on nap time giving us a solid exit line. "It's not you. It's us. It's nap time."

Mayor Of Sloppy Town

2008-11-02T10:39:00.005-06:00

Lately I've been feeling under dressed and out of touch. The only things I've added to my wardrobe over the past three years have been maternity clothing, tee-shirts of the long and short sleeve variety, a couple of pairs of ill fitting blue jeans, and a wedding dress. Before I became pregnant my wardrobe was still somewhat stylish. Many of the pieces were several years old but still stylish. I've always taken good care of my clothing by use of Woolite and minimal use of the dryer. My past purchases have been of classic cuts and good quality. Sure, I would snag some trendy stuff here and there but only at discount prices which usually meant poorer quality.
My maternity clothing was mostly purchased from Target or J.C. Pennies. I had some really cute pieces, but let's face it, by the time the eighth month rolled around I felt like everything I put on looked like dirt. The last month of the pregnancy i retained so much water I may as well have just invested in a couple of tents at the local camping store. However, I resisted as my condition was after all, temporary. But finally the blessed occasion arrived and I excitedly awaited to return to my former petite self.
After 16 months I was able to fit back into my old jeans, even the super skinny ones. At last most of my wardrobe was once again accessible. The more outfits I tried on the more it became apparent, however that I had been a hoochie in my former life. Maybe not a full time hoochie, but a hoochie all the same.
This was not good. I was a mommy and proud to be one. A mommy did not push a stroller wearing a sheer Bebe blouse while wearing a skirt that wasn't much longer. Besides, pushing that stroller was going to be much harder while wearing those stacked stilettos that I had once been so fond of.
I begrudgingly began packing several garbage bags with the clothing I had once loved wearing out to late, late dinners and cocktail parties. I surveyed what was left on the hangers in my closet and realized that I had officially become mayor of sloppy town. My love for lounge wear had left me with years of Tee-shirts that were super soft and faded to seven times past that of original purchase. My beloved yoga pants and gym clothing were still there to comfort me, no matter that they, nor I had seen the inside of a gym since my first trimester. Where had my style gone? Was it off somewhere hanging out with my boobs? 'Cause I hadn't seen them in a while either. At least not since I weened Firstborn.
I felt completely intimidated at the thought of rebuilding an entire wardrobe. I hadn't properly maintained the one I had and now I was starting from square one. Not only would this be costly but time consuming. I once enjoyed shopping but it now seemed that i had lost that spark.
I wish I had my sister's enthusiasm for the great retail hunt. She is a trained and avid hunter and darned good at it. Never have I ever seen her wear anything that wouldn't be spread across the pages of a magazine. Her hair and makeup always looking fresh and "just right". Me, I do good to get my face washed and moisturized. I even remember days when Firstborn still had that new car smell, that washing my face merely consisted of dragging a baby wipe across cheek to cheek.
Fortunately, my sis has made the offer of taking me shopping once I have a little cash tucked away. Until then I'll be rocking out in one of my high school cross country Tee-shirts from 1993 and an ever popular pair of black yoga pants watching "What Not To Wear". Feel free to nominate me for the show.

Iris

2008-10-26T11:07:00.001-05:00

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Pooping In Private

2008-10-23T19:51:00.001-05:00

I remember a time in the not so far past that i was able to enjoy pooping in private. That was before potty training began with our son. I've never been that girlfriend who missed her man so much that it was necessary to prop the door open during "business hours" to continue chatting. Now that I'm a married woman I'm thankful my husband and I are on the same page about our potty privacy. Not only does he like the door closed but I often hear the click of the lock to ensure no accidental invasions. I'm okay with that.
However, it's a different story with Firstborn. Before I go any further I should admit that I'm partly if not all to blame for this. Since he's been able to walk he's followed me to the bathroom. Rather than shut the door in his face I viewed this as pre-potty training. That and I wanted to be able to keep a close eye on him in order to avoid mishaps. I would inform him that mommy was "going pee pee or poopy." I thought by talking about potty in simplified terms when the time came to potty train he'd be much more comfortable with the lingo.
In fact he's very comfortable with the lingo and all that goes with potty. We got him a potty a month ago and have let him play with it and become well acquainted. I never guessed it would become his confidant. For a few weeks he was dragging it from room to room. Now when I suggest we go potty he runs to the bathroom.
The downside of this is when I inform him I'm going to potty he runs to the bathroom. It's come to the point where I check to see if he's watching before I slip off "to see a man about a horse" as my dad used to say. It never fails though. I've barely warmed the seat before I hear pounding on the door demanding entrance.
I pray that his interest in joint potty trips will end once he's mastered this necessary life skill. Then I will once again be able to poop with privacy.