Covered In Tears And Ice Cream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.