for sale: one half of king sized bed - barely used

I have a mom-related complaint that I would like to file with anyone who will listen. Are you ready? (collective nod, please.)

I am tired of not getting sleep. After three years of someone waking me up almost every single night (there were possibly a dozen nights in the last three years where I was in such a heavy coma that the house could have collapsed and it wouldn’t have disturbed my slumber) I am tired. Tired. Tired. My boys are three and one and this business of needing something in the middle of the night is getting old.

Wyatt is still up at least once a night. I’ve tried to just let him cry it out but it’s hard to ignore his cry. He only has one cry – it’s the same whether he means “I am one half a degree too warm” or “A bear is mauling me and just ripped my arm off.” Same exact cry. Plus, we put him in the same room as Wesley so now when he cries he is waking up Wesley, too. And he seems to like this new leverage.

Wesley, on the other hand, wakes up in the middle of the night needing something probably every other night. Sometimes I am sleeping and I awaken to feel someone breathing on my arm. And when I peel my eyes open, he tells me, “My leg hurts. Can I have some Zyrtec?” which means he most likely doesn’t have a future in pharmacology. But sometimes he doesn’t come into my room, he lays in his bed and screams, “Mom-may!!!” until I wake up and stumble into his room. Then after I get in there and break my baby toe or my kneecap on the train table next to his bed, I see what the problem is – that he has fallen out of bed. And I use the word “fallen” loosely. Because his bed is a toddler bed which is very low to the ground. So he has basically rolled out of bed and descended a maximum of six inches in elevation. And instead of just getting himself back into bed he feels the need to make me come in and roll him back over. Never yells for Dad-day, always Mom-may. It’s a popularity contest I would like to lose every once in a while.

I’ve read that being a mom is a pursuit which requires selflessness and patience but I’m running all out of those two things. I’m thinking of going on strike. Anyone have any witty ideas for my picket signs?

touchdown!

Bryan and I are not sports fans. We don’t keep up with any teams or sports and we don’t really like to play organized sports, either. In fact, that was one of the things I really liked about him when we met – I knew I would never have to worry about what kind of mood he was going to be in if his favorite team lost. And he knew that I would never run off and leave him for an NFL quarterback, no matter how good-lookin’ he was or how much money he had or how many luxurious trips he would take me on….(on second thought…)

Wesley has never been interested in sports, either, which is no surprise. I think no matter how much you want your kids to be their own people, some of who you are as parents rubs off on them. So yesterday Wesley walked into the kitchen and demanded, “Look at my underpants, Mommy! Aren’t they cute?” I moved closer to inspect the underpants, not sure what he was talking about. His underwear was printed with little blue football helmets all over which was a little strange since we aren’t big sports people, but cute? So I asked him why he thought they were cute and he looked at me like, you idiot and told me, “Those little whales are so cute!”

I don’t know - maybe we should watch a little less Discovery channel and a little more ESPN.

can't wait for three!

Really, could I be any lazier about writing? Somebody slap me!

Wesley has been having a hard time lately. He’ll be three in August so he is in the midst of the “terrible twos.” And since he is so close to three now, I’m getting excited – because it will all get better on his birthday, right?

When he first turned two, I thought, “This isn’t so bad.” But like a fine wine, he has perfected the terrible part of terrible twos with time. I’m not trying to be negative about my son. I still love him ridiculous amounts and I realize that this behavior is normal. But sometimes the constant whining/crying/arguing/rascally behavior gets a little old. Yesterday, he had had a particularly rough day. It was almost bedtime and he was having a mini-meltdown about which pajamas to wear. Something like, Not THOSE pajamas. No, now I want them. But only the shirt. Wait, I want the pants too. Right now! Give. Me. Those. Pants.

Finally, I put the pants aside and told Wesley to come sit with me for a minute. I realized that this had nothing to do with pajama pants but more with two year old angst. I pulled him onto my lap, his underwear-clad bottom on my bare crossed legs. I was trying to have a tender “mommy loves you” moment but he wouldn’t hold still. I asked him, “What is wrong, Wes? Hold still and talk to Mommy.”

And he exclaimed, “I can’t! There’s crunchy things all over your legs!!!”
Those “crunchy things” would be a week’s worth of not having time to shave in case you were wondering. I couldn’t hold it in any longer – I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

Crunchy leg hair saved the day. How cool is that?

scientists say the cutest things

Yesterday Bryan took Wyatt to the doctor for his second of three shots this week – shots for a recurring ear infection. The doctor says Wyatt has a double ear infection which is really a nice way of saying “your baby has been crying for two weeks” and for some reason antibiotics aren’t touching it.

I was holding Wyatt, trying to comfort him, having no luck. Bryan commented, “Didn’t we just go through this same stuff with Wesley? I thought we were done with this stuff.”

And I said, “Bryan, this is just part of having kids. If we have another one, it will probably happen again. That’s life.”

Bryan, ever the scientist, said completely seriously, “Laura, having another kid is like taking organic chemistry again for fun. We could do it, but WHY would we?”

I think it’s time to take away his Einstein and Friends action figures for a few days.

an apology letter

Dear UPS man,

I just wanted to let you know that this morning was a rough one. I woke up to a cranky baby (possibly an ear infection??) and had been up during the night with Wesley, changing his clothes and bedding because his diaper leaked and with Wyatt because he was hungry. So I didn’t exactly wake up feeling “refreshed.” The sink was already full of dishes that I didn’t get to last night so I had to wash them before I could even start breakfast for five of my closest friends. Then, without mentioning any names so as not to embarrass the culprits, I changed four poopy diapers before Sesame Street was over, one of which was so bad that I literally gagged. As I was finishing cleaning up breakfast (someone had thrown strawberries all over the floor and apparently the dog doesn’t eat strawberries) while holding my fussy 10-month old, he coughed once and then puked all over me and the kitchen floor. I’m still not caught up on laundry from the washer/dryer breaking down last week so my shirt selection was already limited. And that is why when you rang the doorbell this morning, I answered covered in puke, with one sock on, the smell of poo effervescing out of the living room, messy hair, no makeup, and one eye twitching.

Sorry about that. I’ll try not to let it happen again.
Sincerely, the crazy lady in the tan house

P.S. – thanks for the package of pictures.

thank heaven...for rubber gloves

I’m sorry I haven’t been posting anything. The truth is that my life hasn’t felt very funny lately. My job requires me to be home from 7:30 a.m. until 5:30 p.m. There are some days when I only leave the house to watch kids play in the backyard (does that even count as leaving the house?) And I fell into a little slump thinking that you have to leave the house to experience “funny.” But then I got a little surprise that I think was sent to help me out of my slump.

I’ve talked before about how I like surprises – most surprises. And working with kids, I get a lot of surprises. Like finding a handful of corn in my tennis shoe. Or finding out that the new coloring book came with a bonus page of stickers – which are now all stuck to the TV screen. Surprise!

Most of the daycare kids that come to our house bring a little backpack with them each day with extra clothes. Lately they have all realized that an easy way to get each other’s goat is to take the backpack of another child and say, “This is mine!” And that produces immediate screaming and usually is followed by some loud chasing and eventually ends in someone losing an eye or at least spending two minutes in the time out chair. Being the problem solver that I am, I thought really hard about how I could stop this daily insanity. And it came to me – why not just move the backpacks to a place where the kids can’t get to them? I know, why didn’t I think of that like six months ago, right?

So now the backpacks are all stashed safely in the laundry room on top of the washing machine during the day. The only problem being that if I need to do laundry, I have to move them all. But trust me, I’d rather move a million backpacks than listen to, “That’s mine!” “No, it’s mine! Give it back to me!” “Aaaaah!” all day long.

Well, this week I was experiencing a semi-calm moment with the kids and took the opportunity to try and get a load of towels into the washer. I raced into the laundry room and picked up the backpacks and there it was – sitting right on top of my white washing machine lid – a turd.

I didn’t have to smell it to be sure – in my line of work, I see a lot of turds (heck, I’m practically a turd expert) so I knew what it was right away. I have no idea if it came from one of the backpacks or really where it came from at all. I was just a little surprised to see it looking up at me, all brown and smelly. How did it get there? Who did it come from? Why was it on my washing machine? What did it want from me?

I stood there for a minute, just looking at it, my face expressionless. Then I got out my state-mandated rubber gloves and without saying anything to any of the kids, I laid the little turd to rest in the garbage can on the back porch. I didn’t even say a moment of silence.

But honestly, I owe that little turd a big thank you. It breathed new life into my day. So to that turd I say, “Two thumbs up, little friend.”

this might be a true story

Once upon a time there was a mother who always tried to do her very best. And one day, she realized that her son was getting older and might be ready to reach a new milestone – potty training. The mother had never potty trained anyone before and wasn’t really sure what to do but she was confident that she could get the job done, especially with such a smart son. So the mother talked about potty training with her son and bought him underpants to get him excited and got a cool looking potty chair for him (can a potty chair look cool?) Anyway, the mother really talked it all up, as she tended to do, and picked a date to begin – the Monday after they returned from vacation: P-Day.

What the mother couldn’t foresee was that her other son would develop a terrible ear infection the night before P-Day. AND, the mother hadn’t even thought about the fact that she would also have five other kids to watch and care for while she was trying to teach this one to eliminate waste only on the potty chair. Adding to her misery, she also decided to begin a diet that same day.

By noon, this poor, poor mother had changed her son’s entire outfit four times. They were 0 and 4. The other five children could sense her weakness and circled around her head like turkey buzzards as she continued diligently to coax her son to “just make some potty, please.” As her blood pressure continued to rise, large amounts of milk were spilled on the floor, one child ate a handful of sand, and someone threw up in the living room (strangely, she never found out who…) That afternoon, her son managed to make, not even exaggerating, ONE drop of urine. It was a miracle that was immediately rewarded with two M & M s for the son and two Tylenol for the mother.

The next day, the potty chair was gone. And it wasn’t seen again for a long, long time.

On the road again, just can't wait to get on the road again...

We made it to Florida and back. It was a good time. But here are some traveling tips that I wanted to pass along to you, my good friend:

1. The first day of a trip during which one will walk several miles, fly on two airplanes, drive close to 200 miles, and be hurrying through airports with a two-year old and a baby is NOT the day to pilot a new style/cut/brand of underwear. Enough said.
2. Assuming that the airport parking will be available and not leaving any extra time for unexpected circumstances is the best way to ensure that absolutely no parking will be available. At the risk of sounding like my mother, leave extra time just in case.
3. If you will be spending time on the beach, try on your new swimsuit before you go on your trip.
4. If your young son says, “Mommy, my mouth feels yucky,” while you are sitting in a restaurant, take him out immediately – he probably isn’t kidding.
5. Going along with #4, it is wise to keep an extra change of clothes for each child in the diaper bag to avoid having to buy a new wardrobe in a Cracker Barrel giftshop.
And finally…
6. If you will be traveling with small children, it always helps to have a small flask of vodka in the diaper bag. For your or the baby, whichever one needs it more.

I don't want much - just a teeny tiny trophy

I spent a long time in school and working before I became a stay at home mom. And now I work, but still at home and aside from the Big Brother lady with the cane from DHS, I am my own boss. Which is nice. But what I really miss about not working in the world is the feedback. Like, in school, you get grades and they provide feedback for how you did. And when you work, you have evaluations. And paychecks and sometimes bonuses. But when you stay at home with your kids or have a home daycare, there isn’t a whole lot of feedback.

Okay, I have to take that back – there isn’t a lot of positive feedback. I certainly know when I accidentally put milk into someone’s cup instead of juice because they tell me in a very shrill voice while throwing the cup on the floor. Or if I help someone put their sock on and it feels funny on their toes, I know they will immediately dissolve into a puddle of tantrums on the floor until I fix it – and that, too, is feedback.

Yesterday, Wyatt was playing in his Exersaucer. He was having a great time, jumping up and down and turning in circles. When he started to get fussy, I pulled him out and went through the usual checklist – he wasn’t tired and I knew he couldn’t be hungry so I tried the diaper change. As I pulled off his little pajama outfit, I found a surprise. Apparently, a few little turds had somehow escaped his diaper and slid down his leg. And then he jumped and turned in circles for twenty minutes. It was not a good surprise. But despite the fact that I had four other kids to take care of, I didn’t panic. I got to work, wiping him clean and changing his outfit and rinsing out the remains of the surprise. And when he was all clean and smelling fresh as a daisy (well, not quite…) I looked around. I know what I was looking for - I wanted someone to tell me that I had done a good job or give me a badge or hand me a brownie. But that didn’t happen.

Does life set us up for this letdown? We spend two decades getting rewards for everything we do – in school we got the coveted scratch-and-sniff stickers, and then there were trophies for playing baseball even if you never actually hit the ball once the whole season, and good grades for studying and it just kept going. But now I do what I think is a really important job and some days the only feedback I get is someone asking for more little smokies at lunch.

Do you think the economic stimulus package includes bonuses for stay-at-home moms?

Urethra, I have found it!!!

Sorry, I had to quote Kelly Bundy from Married With Children for the title. I realize that the word should actually be “eureka.”

I have an idea for an invention and I’m going to share it with you.

This week both of our boys got some kind of virus. It has not been fun. It started on Tuesday. Wesley had to go back to the doctor’s office to have a repeat oxygen level test to make sure he is recovering from walking pneumonia (which means that last week was a giant ball of laughs, too.) He doesn’t like to go to the doctor so I knew he would put up a fight. He was very quiet and un-Wesley-like while we waited in the exam room. When we were finally finished, I took him out and loaded him into the car. They locked the door behind us since we were the last customers of the day. As soon as I buckled the straps, Wesley said in a really puny voice, “Mommy my tummy hurts. And my mouth hurts.” I figured it was because he had worked himself up so much about the doctor. I was wrong. He opened his mouth and puked all over his car seat and himself. I was torn – do I stick my hands under the fountain of puke and try to unbuckle him to get him out of the car or do I just wait for him to finish erupting? I decided to get him out. We went back to the doctor’s office and knocked on the now locked door. They were gracious enough to let us use the restroom. I stripped Wesley down to his diaper and tried my best to wipe him off. It was not a shining moment in my career as a mother.

There really is no worse sound to wake up to than that of a two year old ralphing in his own bed. Luckily, Wesley’s bout with the virus only lasted 12 hours. Unfortunately, I have about seventeen loads of laundry to help me remember each of those 12 painful hours. And then Wyatt got the bug.

Back to the invention. There are machines that help predict earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. There are even dogs that can warn people when they are about to have a seizure. I think what we need is this: some kind of device to predict when a little kid is about to throw up. It would need to give about a two minute warning so you could get said kid out of the car seat or off the couch or off grandma’s handmade rug imported from Turkey. I think a really good name for it would be the Puke Predictor. And we could get that Billy Mays guy who yells everything to do the commercial for it. “ARE YOU TIRED OF YOUR CHILD THROWING UP IN INCONVENIENT PLACES? THEN THE PUKE PREDICTOR IS FOR YOU!!” This invention would all but eliminate incidences of what I call PWAW – or puking without adequate warning.

Feel free to go ahead and actually create one of these devices. I only ask two things: when you make your millions, send me a free Puke Predictor, and when you get to go on Oprah to show off your clever invention, let me be in the studio audience. That seems fair, right?

mom, you might not want to read this one

Internet friend, I have got to share something with you. It’s not the kind of story I would share with, say, a stranger on an elevator or at the dinner table (well maybe Bryan’s family would but mine sure wouldn’t…). I’ve tried to keep it to myself for so long but I just can’t anymore. So I’m glad you and I know one another well enough for me to share this with you.

When I first started doing home daycare, there was one little guy who always had a runny nose. You know how parts of this world have frozen soil that never thaws called permafrost? Well this little guy has a condition on his upper lip that I call Permasnot. He seems to always be sick. He doesn’t just seem to always be sick – he IS always sick. But he isn’t one of those selfish kids who won’t share – he shares his illnesses with others very nicely.

During one of the first weeks he came his mom nonchalantly mentioned as she dropped him off that he had Thrush. She didn’t make it sound like a big deal at all. She said he just had white stuff inside his mouth and it gave him a little blister on his lip. I didn’t think much about it. Even when I found Wyatt’s pacifier in his mouth.

So fast forward about a week to me getting dressed on a Saturday. As my shirt lightly brushed my chest, I felt some severe pain. It went on all day and I also realized Wyatt had been fussy and that my pain got worse when I fed him (breastfed him.) Being a mystery solver by nature, I pried open his little mouth. It looked like someone had painted his cheeks with White Out. Suddenly, the word Thrush popped into my mind.

After a little internet research, I learned that Thrush is basically a yeast infection. IN YOUR MOUTH. And that my sweet baby had passed me that yeast infection. But it wasn’t in my mouth – it was ON MY NIPPLE! I immediately called his doctor who told me how to treat both of us.

But instead of getting better, it got worse. The next day I had a crack the size of the Grand Canyon that looked like it was going to bleed. And let me explain to you how it felt. If you’d like, I’ll give you a scenario that is comparable and you can act it out at home, too. First, take out your nipple. (If you are male, a small piece of skin from you genitalia will work.) Next, find a cheese grater. Firmly hold the cheese grater in one hand and the nipple in the other. Then, rub the grater over the nipple constantly for ten minutes or so (to simulate nursing a baby.) Repeat every three hours.

I shouldn’t have to explain why it would be hard for a wound to heal under these conditions. But within two weeks, it had pretty much healed. I was glad. Until this week when the same affliction has occurred on the other side. Only it’s worse this time.

Do you think this is what the phrase “occupational hazard” means?

perhaps he will become a sailor someday

This weekend, Bryan and I were sitting in the living room with our boys. I don’t remember what happened, but Wesley looked at me and said, laughing, “Mommy, you a dumb butt.”

I was a little surprised. I wanted to correct him and say, “No, Wesley, it’s ‘Mommy, you ARE a dumb butt’ – you forgot the verb.” But I knew that forgetting the verb wasn’t really the problem here – it was my two year old son calling me a dumb butt. Bryan and I told him that we don’t use that word and I gave him an alternate phrase: silly turkey (child development experts say you must give them an alternate word/phrase to use and luckily I just read that a few days ago…) He seemed to accept this idea, at least for the moment.

A few minutes later, the phone rang and Winnie barked at it. She doesn’t usually bark at the phone but that isn’t the point. The point is that Wesley laughed and said, “Damn it, dog.”

Okay, that one didn’t come from me. My eyes just about fell out of my head and I looked over at Bryan. But I don’t ever hear him say that either. Where is our precious little angel getting these words? What’s next – dropping the f-bomb to a little old lady in the church nursery?!? Cussing out the Easter Bunny? I don’t even want to think about it. And now that he knows he isn’t supposed to say those things, I often hear him chanting them to himself over and over like a little broken record.

It reminds me of when I was a young’un. I can almost taste the soap in my mouth now…

because they only take their first steps once

I was watching Oprah one afternoon and I saw something interesting. There was this guy who is the founder of an internet company. He makes gazillions of dollars but instead of having a big flashy office, he has a little cubicle with all the rest of the workers at his company. He was talking about how much he loves what he does. His advice to everyone was this: find a way to get paid to do what you love.

And so I started thinking…what do I love to do? Immediately I knew. But I couldn’t find anyone who wanted to pay me to sleep or watch TV. I know – isn’t that ridiculous?!?

Due to circumstances in life, I recently started a home daycare. If I said I love it, I would be lying. But I like kids and I have a strong desire to take care of my own boys (as opposed to putting them in daycare so I can work) so it seemed like the most logical choice.

I began the process of being licensed back in November. It was a long and painful process that involved speaking on the phone with numerous government workers who obviously hated their jobs and me for making them work.

I try to think positively about the whole situation, even when someone else’s child is handing me his booger. Which happens several times each day. And the most positive thing is that I do get to take care of my own kiddos, still. A few days ago, one of the little boys who stays with us was crying after his mom left. I was comforting him and Wesley wiggled up next to me. “Why is he crying, Mama?” he asked.

“He misses his Mommy. She had to go to work and that makes him sad. You know, Wesley, you are really lucky because your Mommy gets to stay with you all day long.”

But I know that I am still the lucky one because I don’t have to go flip burgers or type memos for some guy named Ed or floss other people’s teeth. I get to be with my boys and I don’t have to miss all the sweet things that they do and the milestones that only a Mommy can appreciate. Even if it means I have to wipe five other noses (and butts) each day, it’s what I want to do.

conversation with Wesley

Wesley and Wyatt were laying on my bed together this morning while I was drying my hair. It was so cute to see them cuddling that I had to put my hair dryer down and join them. We just spent a few days with my sister’s kids (there are five of them) and Wesley seemed to enjoy having so many kids to play with. So I asked him, “Wesley, do you think some day you would like to have another brother?”

His reply was a simple, “No.”

My next question, “What about a baby sister?”

Again, “No.”

He continued to tickle Wyatt and hand him toys. I persisted, “You love your little brother. Are you sure you don’t want a little baby brother again someday?”

He looked me straight in the eye, pointed his stubby little finger at Wyatt’s head and said,
“I didn’t even want this baby,” and then resumed his playing.

bringing home baby

I know that I promised my next post would be telling all the details of my horrid hospital stay. And I really tried to think of how I could recount the tale and make it funny or even just amusing. But the problem is that writing about it is almost as bad as re-living the whole traumatic event. So I am going to have to sit on this one a while and try to come back to it later, perhaps after all my flesh wounds have healed. I hope you understand.

Instead, I will bring you a little up to date on our new life as a family of four. Plus one dog that eats her own poo. Bringing a baby home from the hospital is sort of like bringing a goldfish home from the pet store: you get really excited about bringing this little thing home only to realize that in all honesty it doesn't really DO very much. Like, you never hear someone say, "The other day I was at the park with my goldfish and this really cool thing happened..." You also never hear anyone say, "Yesterday, I was playing my Wii with my newborn baby and he did the neatest thing..." Or at least you rarely hear that.

But there are some real differences, too. For instance, a goldfish never shoots projectile diarrhea at you when you change its diaper. And if you go out shopping and leave your goldfish at home, no one calls DHS. And, a goldfish doesn't wake you up in the middle of the night twenty-seven million times with a Scream So Shrill That You Want To Cut Off Your Own Ears just to let you know that he is hungry. Again.

Other than that, though, it's pretty much the same thing. And things are going well.

the longer version

As most of you probably know, last Saturday I gave birth. Again. And trust me - the whole experience gave me lots of possible material to write about. But if I thought it was hard to find time to sit at the computer with Wesley demanding my attention, I had no idea how hard it would be to sit and type with a small human attached to my nipple (sorry, Mom.)

Anyway, last Friday was a tough evening. I went with Bryan's family to a fish fry and I was self-admittedly a huge crank-monster. I really just wanted to be alone and lay down on the couch but I did my best to be polite-ish. Then, Friday night when everyone else in my house was resting peacefully in their cozy beds, my stomach started to feel like my uterus was about to rip open (which is a remote possibility since Wesley was born via c-section.) So I went out to the couch to watch some info-mercials. All I can say is, "Sham-Wow!" But my stomach was still hurting. Thinking I might be hungry, I decided to enjoy a big bowl of the always delicious and nutritious Cookie Crisp. When even that didn't help, I just went back to bed, knowing that Wesley would be awake in just a few hours. And no matter how hard I try to convince him to sleep in for Mommy's sake, he just doesn't have empathy down yet.

Sometime after 7:00 a.m. Wesley was awake so I got up to use the restroom and get ready for the day. But as soon as I was walking to the bathroom, it became clear that something was going on.

"My water just broke," I told Bryan.

His reply from bed was a sleepy, "Yeah, right."

You see, I MIGHT have been making the joke that my water just broke for about three weeks now. Sort of like the little boy who cried "wolf" only more like the girl who cried "my water just broke." Except, get the mop, I wasn't kidding this time.

We called Bryan's parents to come get Wes, Bryan started making calls to his boss (because he is supposed to work every day and luckily was able to find someone to cover for him for the day), and I began packing. Yes, you read that right, I Began Packing. Because I had thought that I still had two weeks before the blessed event was to occur. Silly me.

Within an hour, we were at the hospital. I was slightly less than panicked. Now the first time I had a baby, I was scared because I didn't know what to expect. This time, I was scared because I Knew Exactly What To Expect.

But to keep this from becoming the blog that never ends, I will give you more details in my next post. I only hope the anticipation doesn't keep you awake until then...