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.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
It's My Life
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."
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."
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Bath Tub Highjacker
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.
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.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
A Letter From The Landlord
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
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
Sunday, May 31, 2009
An Apology To My Husband
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
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
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Googer Hurts, Mama
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."
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."
Friday, May 22, 2009
Monday- Pull Head Out Of Hiney
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.
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