Revolution IS the American Way

It's been so long since I've posted anything on the 'ole blog, I almost forgot I had one. I hope my thoughts on the current cultural/political powder keg in which we find ourselves falls on fertile soil.

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"When one man of popularity stands up and tells the truth...he might lose a few dollars, but he's helping millions. But if I kept my mouth shut just because I'm making millions, this ain't doing nothing. I love the flesh and blood of my people more so than I do the money."

-Muhammad Ali

Donald Trump would have NFL and NBA players downplay racial injustices and ignore opportunities to voice their justifiable objections to them from the broad platform each of them has earned, and instead to sit idly by and be quiet--show their masters that they're grateful for the millions of dollars they are "given" to play sports. Step and shuffle, all the way to the White House to shake hands and smile for the photo op. According to him, taking a knee during the national anthem dishonors our country's heritage. Public protest is anti-American. Please note: his current tear started because one of those athletes didn't want to come visit him at the White House.

He's forgetting (or more likely skipped the days at school) where we were taught what our country is actually about--from Plymouth Rock to the Continental Congress, from the Trail of Tears to Standing Rock, from the Northwest Passage to Appomattox, from Pearl Harbor to D-Day, from Kristallnacht to Nuremburg, from Kent State to Occupy Wall Street, from Birmingham Jail to the Freedom Riders, there's never been anything MORE American than pointing out wrongs in an attempt to right them, win or lose. He's forgetting that how hard and how often our flag gets saluted doesn't mean anything, if "the Republic for which it stands" doesn't honor all the people who stand under it--equally.

I've been ashamed to call myself an American for the better part of a year, lest someone mistake me for aligning in any way with my country's current figurehead. This week, I remembered what being an American actually means. I'm relieved to be reminded that a much different precedent was set long before him and that his is not the only standard to which I have to aspire as an American.

I do not admire or support a man who's ideals ignore and marginalize his countrymen in favor of blind, national pride. Today, I kneel with the jocks.

Crime Doesn't Pay

Thanks to Netflix and insomnia, I've been watching enough true crime documentaries lately that I've developed a bit of an obsession with alibis.

 

As I'm sure you already know, an alibi is a timeline surrounding an alleged commission of a crime that would put a suspect someplace other than where the crime was committed. If a suspect can provide that, and has at least one witness or a documented record to back up their story, they're off the hook.

Most people, unless they live/work alone in the wilderness, or unless they did what they are being accused of, usually have no problem coming up with alibis. But that got me to thinking, what about parents of young children?

Call me paranoid if you want, but if you think about it, typical, beleagured parents of young children without regular childcare, can go an entire day without seeing or talking to another soul, other than their children. And frankly, kids don't make good alibis.

Take me for example. I'm alone with my kids all day at least once a week, sometimes for an entire weekend. If, by some unholy sequence of events, I ever became a person of interest in a crime investigation, on those days, I'd have a hard time coming up with a record proving I wasn't where a crime was being committed, nor would I have anyone to corroborate my timeline of where I said I was. My 1 year-old, while effective at nonverbal communication when she wants a graham cracker on a shelf out of her reach, would be useless to me. Screaming and pointing only works to get what SHE wants, not the scapegoat her Mama would need.

My 5-year-old would also be useless. Right now he's busy mastering the days of the week, learning to tell time, and ticking down how many days a week he has to go to kindergarten before he gets a two day break. If you ask him what he did today and in what order, he can't remember. And what he can remember is usually wrong, overstated, or out of order. I'm not gonna be able to count on him to lay out what time of day Mama cut his chicken into bite-size pieces for him only to eat one of those pieces, then throw the rest away. And how's he going to convince a jury of my peers that I fall asleep on the couch five minutes after I put him and his sister down for the night when Daddy is away? Who will buy my story that I spent the day cleaning up after my kids? That won't hold water if anybody takes a look at the place at the end of the day and it looks like a cyclone hit it. Again. Who will believe me that it's impossible to leave the house with mayhem in mind when you spend half the day making people take naps and the other half of it handing them things they can't reach and breaking up their fights.

There'd be no documented record of my whereabouts, because I can't talk on phone without one of them teying to gargle bleach or pushing the other one off of something high. I can't have anybody over, either. My 5-year-old would interrupt every conversation to get attention, and the baby, currently in her stranger danger phase, would cry and beg to be picked up anytime someone who wasn't related to her looked at her longer than 5 seconds.

This tells me very clearly that I am not suited for a life of crime. And if you, too, have young children, hear me say this: neither are you. There you go, mamas and daddies. I just saved you thousands in lawyer fees and a lengthy prison sentence.

 

Stay out of trouble. Good night.

Whenever I Can Fit It In

I know.

It's been more than a month since I did one of these. But, you guys, the month of May was so not my fave. First, I (stupidly, and against my will) turned 40. And that's not even the worst thing that happened last month.

No, I don't want to talk about it.

A couple of good things did happen, like both The Bud and Lady had birthdays, so now I have a five year old and a one year old. A kindergartener and a toddler. *sniff* Work had its good and not-so-good moments. Life keeps tripping by, some days, sorely trying my patience and mental fortitude.

Anyway, that's my list of excuses. What I have for you today is some musing, mingled in with some life bloopers, if you will. Enjoy.😚

• Today, I discovered that I'd been wearing one of my shirts backwards since I bought it six months ago. It fits much better the new way.

• I discovered that a lone (but powerfully effective) dingleberry--yes, it's what you think I mean--got washed and dried in a load of laundry. You know the saying, "One bad apple doesn't spoil the whole bunch,"?

One dingleberry does. It really does.

• The other day, I had the thought that if I could invent a pair of women's underwear that kept in line that tiny front butt that shows up sometime after the 2nd kid, without cutting off circulation to one's outer extremities, but that wasn't so flimsy the undies constantly roll down below said front butt, I'd be a millionaire. Then I realized I'd never get around to fleshing out the idea. No pun intended. I'd get distracted trying to inobtrusively (is it in or un??) roll my current underwear back over my tiny front butt while in line someplace inappropriate. Like Starbucks, H&M, the office, or if I'm honest with myself, anyplace outside my personal bathroom.

• I am completely over post-partum boobs. They were a novelty for a while, but now I just really need my shirts to fit.

• If the newborn is now a year old, can I still call them post-partum boobs?

• My five year old is learning how to deal gracefully with disappointment. I don't have the heart to tell him he'll still be working on that in 35 years. Seems mean.

Monthly Musings: April, 2016

It's a springtime miracle: I'm posting a list of 'Musings' in the month in which I gathered my muse!  Better get crackin' before I forget what I'm thinking about (which happens WAY more than I'm comfortable admitting to you).
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• I spend entirely too much of my daily parenting, lately, teaching my man-cub not to fart in my breathing space. #boyslife

• Currently, I'm not the favorite of either of my children. They want Daddy for just about everything, so why am I still so freaking tired all the time? #littlechildren

• I'm "outgrowing," for lack of a better word, my all-for-the-kids parenting phase. I've started to seek out ways and moments to be away from my children, which isn't all bad. It's kind of refreshing, actually. What it means for you, though, is you really don't want to answer my phone calls or texts right now: I'm probably looking for a sitter. #youbusyonfriday?

• The other day, I was complaining to my mom about The Bud's unwillingness to participate in the $85 soccer camp we (I) signed him up for this Spring. Her answer? "That's sounds like you at his age."

M'kay.

I'll ignore the not-so-subtle retributive glee from my mother and, instead, try to find a bright side in my own parenting future. So he hates rules, right now. There's still a chance he'll turn out alright in the end, right? This will have to be my solace. If we let him live, that is. #only3moreweekstogo #i hate heartsoccer

I Love Being A Fly On the Wall

Conversation overheard, between The Artist and The Bud, just now:

TB: Um, um, Daddy?
TA: Yeah, Bud?
TB: Will you come downstairs and watch Charlie Brown wiff (sic) me?
TA: *sigh* Alright, but just for a minute. I'm watching baseball, ok?

[Walking down the stairs]

TB: Ok, for 15 minutes.
TA: No, for 2 minutes.
TB: Ok, how 'bout for 12 minutes?
TA: How 'bout 30 seconds?
TB: Yeah!

Somebody needs to teach that kid that minutes are longer than seconds. #tricked

"Monthly" Musings: April 2016

° Today, I decided I liked the degree symbol better than a standard bullet point, so all of my muses will be in farenheit...fairenheit. Farenhiet. Ok, Celcius.

° The Bud is still having occasional pooping difficulties, but we've found a great deal of relief for him in thrice-daily doses of prune juice. His beloved 'purple juice' is keeping him as close to regular and pain-free as I've seen him since we started potty training a year and a half ago. Sugar content, bedamned.

° We have relatively laid back kids, but I swear they turn on us when either Mama or Daddy is parenting alone. The little buggers already know about the weakness of zone defense.  #divideandconquer

° I read somewhere that doing a daily crossword puzzle can improve memory in Alzheimer's sufferers, so now I've got 3 games of Words With Friends going on my phone. I'm hoping it works for mamas, too. #cantrememberwhereileftmymemory

° The book, 'Are You My Mother' is 63 pages long, and is currently The Bud's favorite bedtime story, particularly on nights when I'm exhausted and just want him to go to bed, so I can go to bed. And he knows when I skip pages.

Really, P. D. Eastman?

° Speaking of memory loss, the next couple posts will be from my drafts backlog. Apparently in the last six months or so I've been writing stuff but forgetting to publish what I wrote. #whatever

Daddy's Birthday Blues

The pilot died at 4 am.

Who's qualified to fix it?

Daddy's birthday blues.

Pancakes on the menu, again.

Somebody's gotta mix it.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Changing itty girl clothes with giant hands,

Potty training woes and Mama's demands,

These things can weigh pretty heavy on a man.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Long day on the grind, got a beer in mind,

Daddy's birthday blues.

Man, I've been beat up,

Can't wait to put my feet up.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Just settling down,

To smooth out that frown, 

When a tiny voice pipes from the calm,

T-Rex can't battle alone, his little boy moans.

Daddy's birthday blues.

Some time with his girl would do him just fine.

Daddy's birthday blues.
Uncork that wine, babe, it's just after 9.

Daddy's birthday blues.

The candles are lit

Strains of music fill the air

When baby's cry cuts through the bliss.

Hold off on that dance,

Teething killed the romance.

Daddy's birthday blues.

It don't seem this way,

In our busy day-to-day,

When the thanks seem as thin as your patience.

But I see what you do

And I thank God for you

Life with you is the only thing that makes sense.

You get better every year and I love being part of the journey. Here's to another year of adventure. Happy birthday, sweet man! XOXO

The Secret of My Success Is Low Expectations

A brief list of my accomplishments from the last 24 hrs:

-I made the call to a friend I've been meaning to invite to dinner for weeks.

-I went to the gym today (5:30 am, y'all) for the first time since October.

-I made eye contact with and said "I love you' to each member of my family before I left the house this morning.

-I packed a lunch.

-I stopped on my way home from work last night to buy new windshield wiper blades to replace the 2 yr old mud-rubbers I'd had on there. I even installed them.

BOOM. Good job, Me.

Monthly Musings: A Year In Review--2015

Boy, have I missed you guys! 2015 was inSANE. With the new baby, the move, and the new job, most days, I didn't (and still don't) know whether I'm coming or going, but my choices are either to write or not to write, so I choose the former. Even with the 4 year old sitting next to me, begging for iPhone access and another piece of chocolate, "pwease, Mommy." I will write and I will like it. Maybe not as much as I like this chocolate, but whatever. This little post is a combo of musings from December to get my feet wet and a state of family affairs to get you back up to speed on the goings on around here. Sit tight and enjoy. You can have some chocolate when you're done reading the entire post.

MUSINGS

• After a month of an unceasing litany of Christmas tunes on the radio, I was disappointed not to have heard every parent's classic favorite: All I Want for Christmas Is An Uninterrupted Nap.

• Relegated to the hottest, itchiest corner of Hell, be the creators of all tiny toys and toys with small component parts--marbles, Legos, pick up sticks, jacks, dinosaurs, soldiers--you name it. Oh, and whoever created toys that require AAA batteries. We never have AAA batteries, so them, too. Straight to Hell.

• Having a baby in the house is like living with a rooster. #getityet?

• I'm up at or before dawn most days, whether I like it or not (note: I do not.), but somehow never manage to be on time for anything. #dichotomy

• My 4 year old mispronounced the word "bloodier," instead saying, "blooder." Do I correct him, or pretend the ghoulish conversation never happened?

UPDATES

The Baby:

is 8 months old and wonderful. She's the smiliest little bit of lovin' you ever did see. We kiss and snuggle her constantly. She's got one tooth and crazy, curly hair, sits up almost completely unassisted, snorts down solid food like a Depression survivor, and has been pushing up to her knees and rocking for about 3 weeks now. Crawling is imminent. #slowdownlittlelady

The House:

is little and cute and perfect for us. We love our new digs. Everybody has his/her own space to fill up with too much stuff and yet we all still manage to spend most of our time in the kitchen. As much as I hate(d) moving, this was a good idea and I'm excited to make memories here. If you're in our neck of the woods, come by and see us. We love visitors! #littlehouseintheburbs

The Bud:

is starting kindergarten in the Fall. My baby. They're taking 3 month olds in kindergarten now, apparently. Also, if it's possible to die of impotent rage, he's killing us, slowly and painfully. As I mentioned, he's sitting next to me, currently getting peanut residue backwash in my water glass, chirping about what a "healthy and awesome" drink water is. My water, not his. His water in his own cup, he hates with a blazing fire. Mama's is the only water worthy of his backwash. I swear there is a conspiracy afoot (perpetuated by other parents who have already fallen for it and want you to suffer, too) to make parents keep children past their expiration dates. Every year of his life, some seasoned parent has earnestly assured me that next year, things will get sooo much better. That if I just hang in there, this year I will get to enjoy the spoils of the war we've waged since he developed a will of his own.

They are dirty liars. They only say that to dupe us into keeping him another year.

Without hyperbole, I can say that he's more frustrating, irritating, willful, tantrumy, whiny, and disobedient at 4 years old than he's ever been. And we couldn't love him more. In spite of it all, we are completely devoted to him, snuggling and kissing him whenever he'll allow it. #chumps

The Job:

is in Sales, for those of you who don't know. Every day is new, and challenging, and exciting. I feel like an idiot most of the time, but I'm grateful for the chance and determined to succeed.

The Baby Weight:

has gone nowhere. I am pissed. And hungry. #dammit

The Artist:

is still a complete hottie, and as it turns out, is quite handy at home repairs. If I could only get him to use one paper towel at a time instead of 4, I'd have it all.

That's all I got for right now. Here's hoping that 2016 works out to be The Year of Us All. We deserve it.

From me, to you. XOXO

Moving Day

We moved a lot when I was a kid.

I remember 6 different moves before I was 15 years old. Our reasons for pulling up anchor every couple of years weren't lofty. Mine wasn't a military or missionary family or anything like that, but simply a poor one. My mom was young and single, so in order to capitalize on cheap housing options, we could never stay too long in one place--the rent always went up.

I think where they live, and for how long, matters to kids. Or at least, it mattered to me when I was a kid. I used to fantasize about how it would be to live the lives I believed my friends lived, some of whom went to college from the same house their parents brought them home to when they were born. To go to school with kids you'd known your whole life. To live somewhere where a door frame in the house marked your growth over the years. Where you knew all the good hiding places, and the quickest route to your best friend's tree house, two streets over. That was the life I wished I had.

Instead, my sister and I started over every couple of years, and since I craved the safety and security of the familiar, it was hard on me. One year in particular, when I was having trouble acclimating at my new school, I remember going to the nurse on average once every few weeks, having developed a legitimate fever from the daily anxiety I battled. Of course, she had to send me home, and since all I wanted in the world was to go home to my mom, I guess my little body cooperated.

I was as itinerant as the next fledgling kid in my college and post-college years, but I was so busy experiencing life and building rich relationships, it didn't bother me. Once I started working and gained control over where I lived and for how long, though, I've tended to grow where I'm planted. I've learned a lot about myself over the years and have come to terms (mostly) with the life my mom was able to provide for me. But I don't like to move and probably never will.

And in light of my own struggles in childhood, now that I have children of my own, I want to shape a life for them that wasn't possible for me as a child. I want them to track their growth by marks on a door frame. I want them to know the best hiding places for all their treasures, and to wear a path on the quickest route to their best friend's house. I want them to know the safety and comfort of familiarity.

A week ago, yesterday, marks a step in that direction. Last Saturday, we moved. I moved into my apartment in Midtown 5 years ago--a young, single woman who couldn't keep a plant alive. Today I'm leaving with a family. (I still can't keep a plant alive, but my partner can, so it's ok). Over the years, I put down roots. I cultivated deep and lasting friendships, nurtured a career, fell in and struggled with love. I developed an abiding love for my adopted city, endured pain and loss, weathered crises of faith, and brought my children home.

I grew up there, but now it's much too small to continue to hold all the life I have to live. Those peeling walls hold the memories of so many of my triumphs, failures, joys and sorrows, and the door frames keep a record of my growth. I will miss that place dearly, even as I stretch my cramped legs in relief.

We're suburbanites, now, God help us. Richmond Heights, thanks for the memories.

Sometimes, I Wonder Why I Even Bother.

Conversation with The Artist, via text:

A: I'm at Whole Foods. We need anything?
Me: Yes! Milk, and some of that yummy basil salad dressing, thanks!
A: ...

Later that day...

Me: (looking in the fridge) Did you get milk, today?
A: No, after I texted you, I didn't check to see if you'd texted back, so I didn't realize we needed some.
Me: Wth...???

A Week In the Life of a Working Mom (Part 2)

Day 3: Hump Day

Dear Tommee Tippee,

Thank you for capitalizing on the inherent unsophistication of infants, making a bottle that, to them, handles like a boob. I don't know how you did it, but Lady totally fell for it. Her entire family, especially her Mama, is in your debt. You're miracle workers. Lying, little miracle workers.

Day 4: I Am In Hell

At least it feels like it inside my car, anyway. The AC went out in the car I just paid off last month. And just my luck, temperatures shot into the nineties after more than a week of 70-degree days. Today I had to shuttle my poor kids in rush hour traffic. It was ugly. The Bud kept telling me how hot he was, but he didn't like having the windows down, because he said the air was "too heavy in my face." Lady spit up BIG TIME in her carseat. I think she was overheated.

I grew up without air conditioning, which I don't remember being a problem. So, either weather inflation has increased the misery of summer temps 3% per year since the 80's, or they just don't make kids as sturdy as they used to.

We shouldn't leave the house. Thank God for Daddy's car. #tommorrowisanew...whatever.

Day 5: The Home Stretch

Friday, I love you so. Hearing your name gives me the hope of having nowhere to be "on time" for two whole days. Unscheduled bliss! Naps! No cars! Jammies all day!

If only I could get this excited about laundry and house cleaning...

A Week In the Life of a Working Mom (Part 1)

I'm a working stiff, again, and it's been interesting, to say the least...

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Day 0: The View from the Top
Somehow, the day that felt so far away when we first brought Lady home from the hospital has arrived. My maternity leave is really over. Tomorrow is my first day back to work and I'm freaked out, but determined to try my hardest to do this thing well. I've been here before and survived, right? How much harder can it be to get two kids and two adults out of the house each day, with sanity intact?  I read somewhere that when life is hectic, you should "help your tomorrow self" by doing as much as possible the night before, to minimize the chaos. That's what I'll do. I'll keep my focus on logistics, and all will be well. Today's preparations were intense, but I'm feeling ready. Laundry is done, lunches are packed, checks for childcare written, clothes laid out, all bags are packed and waiting by the door, and both kids bathed and put to bed with a minimum of fuss. I am a Working Mama Guru. I should teach this stuff. People will want to learn from me. I am kicking tomorrow's ass!

Day 1: Liftoff
Things went as planned. Sort of. Everybody got breakfast and left the house with their assigned bag(s)/kid, at least. I was almost too busy to focus on the fact that I was about to spend 9 whole hours apart from my sweet girl for the first time in her whole, tiny life. [Cue tears]. Lady and The Artist left the house on time, but traffic took its toll--Daddy reported that he was 15 minutes late to work after dropping the baby off. Back at home, with 30 minutes til go time, The Bud refused to get dressed and I lost my temper with him.

Awesome.

Somehow, I managed to leave the house only 5 min behind schedule, drop The Bud off at preschool, and get to work on time. Being back among adults feels pretty good, I'm not gonna lie. An hour later I realized I forgot to leave the check for preschool. Late fee. Reports from daycare were a mixed bag. Poor, little Lady strongly objected to our forced separation and went on a hunger strike. She barely ate all day. Sitter was encouraging and not at all concerned. She's seen it before. Tonight, I ordered new bottles that are supposed to trick babies who prefer to nurse into thinking a bottle is a boob. They'll be here in two days and I didn't have to brave the Target parking lot at 8:30 pm to get them. Thank you, Amazon Prime. I'm not completely confident this will work, but I'm willing to try anything to get her to eat. I don't know what I'll do if this experience turns her into an iffy eater, like her brother. Having two preemies has made me a mom I (smugly) was determined never to be--a mom who freaks out over if/when her kids eat. Oh, how the mighty have fallen...*Sigh* #tomorrowisanewday

Day 2: Faceplant
Today I woke up in a fog. The Artist and I were so tired from our respective days that we both fell asleep last night in front of the TV (me in a chair), without "helping our tomorrow selves." Crap. I dragged myself to bed in time for Lady to wake for her 1 am feeding. She was up twice more in the night. Making up for not eating the day before I guess. All that to say, this morning was tough. I overslept, and of course everything took too long to do. I sent a half packed and totally useless diaper bag to daycare. The Artist handled shuttling both kids, thank God, so I had enough time to scarf down a fork full of The Bud's leftover breakfast of pancakes with peanut butter on my way out the door and screeched into work only a few minutes late. No packed lunch today, so I made do with takeout. Not ideal, but not fatal.

In spite of it all, I was taking the day in stride. I handled a couple of different work situations with something approaching my normal level of competence, so I guess I got a bit cocky and relaxed my guard. Rookie mistake. When I pumped at lunch, I pulled my shirt down to attach the cups, instead of up. Did I lose focus and in the bustle to clean up all the parts and get back to work, did I forget to pull my shirt back up, and did I walk around my office for AN HOUR with my nursing bra (and breasts) exposed? Yes. Yes, I did.

 

I am a cautionary tale. *Sigh* #tomorrowisanewday

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Stay tuned for the next installment of "A Week in the Life of a Working Mom (Part 2), Day 3: Hump Day..."

Monthly Musings: November, 2015

• What is it about little kids that makes them eat foods with a definitive top and bottom (i.e. pizza, open-faced sandwiches), upside down? #notenoughwetwipesintheworld

• After a year of potty training, I have a four year old who still resists pooping in the potty, so accidents are common around our house. Have you heard the anecdote about the kid like mine who's parents "only had to make their kid clean up the mess themselves once," and said kid never had an accident, again? Yeah, me too. Unfortunately, mine is not that kid. He thinks cleaning anything is great fun, poop included. #iwantmymoneyback

• Next to my bed is an empty cereal bowl, stuffed with a napkin, a soiled burp cloth, and a disposable diaper that I used as a burp cloth after the first one died from overuse. The best thing I can say about that is, at least it's from today. #igiveup

• Conversation in the car:
The Bud: Wook, Mama, I made this for you!
Me: I can't look right now, Bud, I'm driving. Can you tell me what it is?
The Bud: It's a heart. And it's black. #ghoulishgifts

Monthly Musings: July 2015

• Recently, I had the bright idea to make the (literal) first time I took both of my kids anywhere by myself be to take them to visit my family in my home town. It only took listening to my newborn scream for 20 minutes while I drove down the highway unable to make it stop on the first day, and The Bud puking all over me for 6 hours straight in the middle of the night on the last day, to decide never to leave the house alone with them, again. #whatwasithinking

• Loneliness is holding your puking (and resisting) preschooler over the toilet by the scruff of the neck with one hand, while nursing your newborn in the other, at 3 am. #calgontakemeaway

• The tag on a prescription I recently got filled for Lady had her name on the box sticker, in quotation marks. What, do the pharmacists think, she's a tiny, squalling figment of our imaginations? #idontgetit #misplacedquotationmarks

• Motherhood: eating the discarded crusts of someone else's bread for breakfast and calling it 'toast' since the beginning of time. 😝

• Newborn motto: we cry more before 5 am than most people (except our parents) do all day. #beallthatyoucanbe

• Daddy's Jobs:
1. Wrestling with the big kid, upon request.
2. Eating said kid's leftover cereal every day. #wastenotwantnot #gladidonthavetodoit

• I took a trip to the mall with The Artist today. It was so exciting, it felt like a field trip. I was so tired when we got home that I fell asleep sitting in a chair, clutching my phone in my hand, upright. I'm obviously not getting out enough. #babysteps

• The Bud came to me in distress, asking where his Diplodycus was. I was stumped, since I don't make it a habit either to play with, or to lose, his toys. So I said I didn't know, to which he replied, "it's in the fire engine!" #naturalconsequences #ifyouknewallalongwhydidyouaskme

• I love, I mean simply LOVE, HGTV. #fixerupper #DIYordie😍😍

• I don't know about yours, but my newborn has now slept almost 5 hrs in a row between nightime feedings, on two, non-consecutive days. #prodigy #gettingexcited #itsthelittlethings

Welcome to My Circus

It probably surprises no one that it's been a while since I've posted: what, with the whole preemie newborn thing and all. If you've actually felt a hole in your life where my blog used to be (doubtful), I do sincerely apologize for dropping the ball. Things are happening, it just doesn't occur to me to tell anybody, since really, all I want to do is sleep and eat meals with both hands these days.

Anyway, I was talking to a friend who suggested I post a story I'd just told her on the blog, which, in light of my absence, seemed like a good idea. It's as good a time as any--The Artist is at work, The Bud at preschool, and Lady is napping peacefully for the moment, so lest I be guilty of further neglect, here you go!

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A week ago, I got my first opportunity for a night out, sans kids. It was for a surprise birthday party for my boss. His wife invited me, so it seemed prudent to go. Some of my favorite coworkers were going, I'm starting to fit into my non-maternity clothes again (does that rev anybody else up, or is it just me?) and honestly, I wanted the time away from my house. Be gone for a few hours, recharge my batteries with adult conversation and beverages, then home to the loves of my life. Best idea, ever, right?

Ugh, you guys, it was so hard! I was so tired that I yawned and rubbed my eyes constantly. That's when I wasn't frantically searching for our MIA waitress so I could order food because I'm hungry ALL the time, and hadn't eaten for approximately 35 minutes (the length of the car ride to the bar). I kept getting distracted from conversations by my letdown which made me question my decision not to bring my breast pump with me to the bar. So now my coworkers and assorted strangers think I'm a space cadet with secret leaky boobs, who can barely stay awake in a loud and crowded bar, after having only 1 beer. Yep. Nailed it. #hardpartier

When I finally found an opportune moment to politely escape excuse myself, I went home.

On first glance, it seemed The Artist hadn't fared much better his first time alone with both kids than I had, on my own. All the lights were blazing in empty rooms. The house was a wreck, with the remains of peanut butter on toast (preschooler "dinner") left scattered on the dining table.  It was 10 pm. The Bud was still up, watching YouTube on the iPad. In our bedroom, I found Daddy nodding off in exhaustion, while Lady snoozed through her evening bottle, draped on his chest. Her diaper was soaked.

I woke him up to help me put Humpty Dumpty together again, then we both flopped into bed for our 3-hour nap. That's all our newborn allows us right now.

Yeah, we'll probably be ready to try this again soon. Next year, maybe.

Confessions of a New-ish Mama

As promised, here's a post from my archives that mysteriously never got posted. In the interest of full disclosure, I have no recollection of writing it. Like, none. I did read it, though, and it sounds like something I'd say, so here you go. Good luck to us all. And I can't figure out how to change the post date to today on my phone, so don't even mention it.

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1. I have tasted my own breast milk, and not "by accident," like I've heard other moms say, I guess to avoid looking like weirdo cannibalistic, breast milk drinkers. *shrug* I have nothing to lose at this point by admitting I get why the littles like it. #tasteslikeicecream

2. For 3 days, I convinced myself that it was ok that I hadn't showered, because I didn't want to confuse my newborn over who was caring for her by smelling like soap instead of my natural scent. #notok

3. I've only given birth by c-section, but no one can convince me I don't know what labor feels like. Why? Because I've experienced the dreaded First Post-Partum Poo. #nuffsaid

4. There may be nothing funnier than watching The Artist lose his sh*t because the baby projectile pooped while he was changing her. #comedy #laughterthroughtears #itshappenedtometoo

5. I've deliberately stayed awake between Lady's 12 am and 3 am feedings more than once, just for a little peace and quiet, and to be awake but not have someone touching me. #touchedout #overwhelmedbyneeds

6. Intellectually, I know it can get annoying when a new parent bombards social media with pictures of their new kiddo, and/or status updates of all of her newborn "accomplishments," ad nauseum, but I am completely unable to stop myself. #ohwell #yougonehaftablockme

From The Bottom of My Heart

For those of you who hadn't heard, complications from pre-eclampsia caused me to get really sick and required my baby girl to be delivered early. I was in the hospital for five days and have been home for one.
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They sprung me, today! (Actually, it was yesterday, but I'm not currently capable of doing anything on time, soooo...).

Five days post-partum is only a day longer than a typical c-section stay, and doesn't even beat my personal best (8 days), but I can tell you, these brief, five days have been tough. Having our Ladygirl born at 34 weeks gestation and me getting so sick derailed all of our plans and threw our family into a tailspin. When I think of the outpouring of help, love, and support we've received, I wish I had the time to come find each of you individually and kiss you all over your faces, until you feel sufficiently thanked (as rated by my overactive, post-partum love-o-meter, patent pending).

Since I don't, you'll have to settle for this little note of heartfelt thanks, instead:

Thank you for each call, text, email, gift, hug, snuggle, and hand squeeze. Thank you for the visits. Thank you for "dropping in" at the cost of a 5+ hour road trip. One way. Thank you for the rides, the meals, the babysitting, and the prayers. Thank you for the sincere assurances that I was radiant, even when photographic evidence proved that I looked like the exact opposite--a hormone addled, sleep deprived, insane person. Thank you for crying with me. Thank you for making me laugh until my incision ached. Thank you for all the congratulations, oohing, and ahhhing over the three (!) people I get to call family. I love them so much and it feels like you do, too. And most of all, thank you for the chocolate milkshakes; including the one the doctors heartlessly took away, the one I hadn't yet started to drink, the one they wouldn't even let me TASTE, because surgery.

Our birth story won't be complete until Lady is home with us. She's got the herculean task of figuring out how to take all of her nutrition by mouth and gaining weight at the same time, which is no small feat for a preemie. But she's shown herself to be as much of a fighter as her brother was in the same set of circumstances. I have no doubt that she's going to be home, very soon, so I pray in expectation of it every day. Will you join me?

To each of you who helped us carry our burden, you know who you are. Thank you for blessing us, more than I can say or repay.

Mmmmuuuah! 😙😙

Monthly Musings: April 2015

• Six words guaranteed to make Mama's blood pressure rise when coming from the mouth of her three year old: "Don't tell me what to do." #getsmeeverytime #threenager

• A month ago, I had a high BP scare at my prenatal appt. With my history of pre-eclampsia, there's a zero tolerance policy on anything that might signal vascular disease. I've overcome the threat so far with interventions of all kinds and things seem to be going really well. So, I tried to write about it. But what's come out so far is so raw, so full of ghosts, (not so) latent fear, and pain, that I can't bring myself to go deep enough to finish it. And I can't share it here. Not yet. Maybe I never will. 

• Rounding the bend into my 3rd trimester, I've developed a need for a regular infusion of chocolate milkshakes. I wonder if that has anything to do with me measuring 3 weeks ahead of my due date? Nah...coincidence, probably.

• The cliche that all men love showering their women with lingerie doesn't ring true around here. My man showers me with Cardinals gear. In the last month alone, The Artist has bought me 2 Cards' shirts (non-maternity, though I am politely termed, 'great with child,' and getting greater by the second), and a pair of earrings. That brings my Birds On A Bat gear total to 6, which seems like overkill, but the love behind it makes me blush. I've never been so full of team spirit. #CardinalNation

• I'm outnumbered around here, and have been for a long time. I know it, and I've mostly come to terms with it. I'll admit nursing a secret hope that Lady will help  balance the power after she's born. Be on my team. Or at least help me clean up the film of pee and peanut butter that's on all my stuff. But I've noticed lately that when The Artist talks to the ladybump, she goes nuts. Like, waaaay more nuts than when I talk to her. I'm starting to see my dreams of a ride-or-die sidekick turning to ashes. #teamdaddy #anotheronebitesthedust

• Today, I get my roots done and a trim. I've never been so excited about routine beauty maintenance before.  #thisisalmostforty #pregnantgrayhair

When Mama Went Off the Deep End

It seems that I went through a paranoid phase when The Bud was three. I think he was winning...

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Hey. This is The Bud, here. I hijacked my mama's computer to have a bit of a heart-to-heart with all the preschoolers out there. I can't read, yet, so I can't say for sure what she's been posting on this blog,  but I can hazard a guess that not all of it is...shall we say...complimentary to those of us in the 2.5 to 5 yr old set. It's time to fight back with the tools we have at our disposal.

Where my people at? Whaddup, playas??!

Why the gangsta lingo? And how am I able to type and spell, when I've just told you I can't read? Don't ask me questions you already know the answers to! I'm three. Why do I do anything? Because I can, that's why. And you'd better believe it. In fact, for the adults who may actually read this post, I pity you the mind f**k that'll have you trying to come to terms with the possibility that a three year old could actually hijack an adult's computer and write a blog post. Admit it: in some of your more paranoid moments (like after he figures out how to escape his bedroom in the middle of the night, after you've turned the doorknob around so that very thing would stop happening), you wouldn't put anything past the little bugger. Crazier things have happened.

But I digress. This post is to empower the powerless. We'll start with Tips To Avoid Bedtime:

1. Request that Mama read ALL the books to you before you can sleep. Every. Single. One.

2. Fake a stomach ache, requiring a parent to apply "tummy wotion" (rosemary essential oil--may as well be snake oil, for all its tummy soothing properties) to the skin over the offending organ.

3. Go pee, again, but not until you've announced your need to do so to both parents and gotten their buy in on the plan.

4. Ask for more dinner.

5. Ask for more drinks.

6. Ask for a snack, your missing blanket, or for help to find your favorite stuffed toy-which is only missing because you don't know (read: care) to look under your blanket for it. 

7. Ask to be tucked in. Again. You can't help it if Mama and Daddy have already fallen asleep. You need their help!

And if, by some fluke, your maligned parents are unmoved, and all these deflective techniques fail, fall asleep for a half hour, then fall out of bed and scream the house down. That'll do it. Ain't NObody gonna sleep for a while after that. 

I've given you my best stuff. Make me proud. And DO NOT tell them where you learned this stuff. Even if they offer you chocolate. 

Love, The Bud