December has come and gone in a rush of cold air, some torrential downpours, and freakishly unpredictable tantrums. They are like tornadoes. They come out of no where, lift up your life, and tumble it into the air, never giving a hint as to where it will land again. For all we know, it won't.
Three is the suckiest of all the years we have encountered so far. As far as cuteness levels go, they plummet at this stage, not because the kid ain't cute...he's adorable LOOKING. It's the horrible temperament. The terrible, awful, painfully unlikeable personality that goes along with three is like someone pulled another kid out of yours and left you with two. One has the ability to make your heart explode with love. The other? Netflix The Omen.
Along with three comes his one and a half year old counterpart, who still has his new baby smell. He iss also still adorable, still cute as a button, and still devoid of the stench of being awful three. Not that I expect this to last, mind you, as the three-year-old is trying his best to convert the one and a half year old into his minion. It's slowly starting to work, too. No matter how much I try, there's always something he can get by us. Three is very sneaky, you see. Three knows he will eventually need someone to drive the getaway car when he robs the local bank. It's been planned since the day we brought his brother home from the hospital.
Potty training has gone...no where. Basically, we've decided that he's just messing with us at this point. He knows when he has to go. He CHOOSES not to go where we want him to. He says he likes diapers. I like them to, until I get the bill at the end of every friggin' month for nearly $100. My husband is ready to throw him in underwear, tell him there are no more diapers anywhere, and to play a kind of poopy "chicken" with him until he gives up and goes in the toilet. I, on the other hand, am not thrilled with the prospect of throwing feces stained clothing into the wash every three hours or whatever ridiculous amount this stupid standoff will take.
The Battle of Three will go down in the annals of history as the grossest, smelliest, most exhausting year of our lives.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Gross is Relative
Sorry, how long as it been since I've written? Over a month? That's because I'm covered in excrement and urine. You read that correctly. Poop, pee, and pre-chewed food. It's really an amazing thing, being this coated in disgusting. I used to think it was all too much to bear. But since I'm dead inside now, very little of this phases me. Boys will be boys, after all.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
The Poop of Potty Training
Watching the Presidential debates on television reminds me of how much I hate changing poopy diapers.
Yes, that means we are still trying to potty train our three year old, and it's getting rough. He's pretty much disagreeing with everything we ask him to do regarding the potty. It's not a matter of who is calling the shots anymore. We know he's in charge, and at this point we just try not to show fear in his presence.
We also know his teachers at school, who also change his diapers, are cursing our names under their breath. That is, when they CAN breathe in all that stench. It's pretty rank. We sheepishly apologize whenever we see them, and then shamelessly bribe them with chocolate and baked goods.
At this point I'm really hard pressed to find a potty training method we haven't tried. I've literally tried every piece of advice I've been given by moms and teachers alike.
1) Incentives? We tried candies, books, toys. Nothing.
2) Coercing worked for a minute, and then he reverted back to his old ways.
3) Not mentioning the word potty at all? Did not work and still isn't working. Naked time? He peed, and worse, all over the bathroom floor without a blink.
4) Begging? Quite possibly the most humiliating of all the methods we've attempted. He smirked while I did it, too.
We can't figure out what we are doing wrong, nor can we figure out which steps to take next. What we DO know is that it's really, really frustrating to have your kid look you straight in the eye and says defiantly, "No, I didn't poop." ...and then the smell punches you in the face like a sack of wet, rotten fish heads.
Yes, that means we are still trying to potty train our three year old, and it's getting rough. He's pretty much disagreeing with everything we ask him to do regarding the potty. It's not a matter of who is calling the shots anymore. We know he's in charge, and at this point we just try not to show fear in his presence.
We also know his teachers at school, who also change his diapers, are cursing our names under their breath. That is, when they CAN breathe in all that stench. It's pretty rank. We sheepishly apologize whenever we see them, and then shamelessly bribe them with chocolate and baked goods.
At this point I'm really hard pressed to find a potty training method we haven't tried. I've literally tried every piece of advice I've been given by moms and teachers alike.
1) Incentives? We tried candies, books, toys. Nothing.
2) Coercing worked for a minute, and then he reverted back to his old ways.
3) Not mentioning the word potty at all? Did not work and still isn't working. Naked time? He peed, and worse, all over the bathroom floor without a blink.
4) Begging? Quite possibly the most humiliating of all the methods we've attempted. He smirked while I did it, too.
We can't figure out what we are doing wrong, nor can we figure out which steps to take next. What we DO know is that it's really, really frustrating to have your kid look you straight in the eye and says defiantly, "No, I didn't poop." ...and then the smell punches you in the face like a sack of wet, rotten fish heads.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Yoga Pose of Death
My post-baby body is reminiscent of a Jell-O commercial, minus Bill Cosby rolling his eyes around and spouting gibberish. Also, Jell-O is tasty stuff. Post-baby body? Not so yummy.
My stomach has been looking one of two ways...elephant skin-ish or taut like an over-blown balloon about to pop. One taco too many and my belly becomes seven months pregnant all over again, without the fun baby to blame for the extra gut.
On the other hand, if I eat less, my stomach deflates and looks downright ghoulish, like a serial killer came to me with a skin suit he made with his victims and said, "Here, you could totally work this!" Basically, it's a belly button nestled inside a glob of unbaked bread dough. Unlike the Pillsbury dough boy, when you poke me there, I burst into sobs.
The thought of exercising my flab away has been not unlike watching a before and after Jenny Craig commercial. I'm Jennifer Hudson, once chubby and unable to wear the latest runway fashions and then POOF!! Here I am, skinny Jennifer Hudson! Size 0! Look how fabulous I look with so much less of me to look at! Yes, I dream the dream of becoming a size 0...only because once I get that skinny, I can revel in people shoving sandwiches in my face, begging me to eat something because I look ghastly.
So I began a very unregulated routine of walking with a skinny, young friend who makes me go up and down the steepest hills and goads me into going one more block which ultimately turns into seven and then WHAT THE HELL I AM DYING. I planned on walking every night until I saw a marked improvement. I ended up walking one night, after which I was so sore I could barely move the next day. This was a problem, since I have this big baby at home I have to occasionally lift onto the diaper table. My back wasn't having none of it, y'all.
So after a few days of sobbing into the couch cushions and waiting for the pain to subside, I felt well enough to sit up and do some stretches. It seemed harmless enough. I even tried a few of the yoga poses I had tried ten years ago at a class.
There's this pose called The Cobra that is supposed to be the easiest pose. If you look in any yoga book on the shelf at a bookstore, this pose will be listed as EASY, BEGINNER, POSE #1. That's the pose that took out my back in one crack of the vertebrae.
The minute I tried to stand up from The Cobra, I felt something creak out of place. As it happened, it was my pride dying inside me. I was in so much pain, I could only move when assisted by my husband, who looked genuinely concerned. Who was going to take care of his big, heavy baby while he was at work, after all? Ugh. Even my ego was too tired and old to feel wounded.
I got a text from my young, skinny friend that night asking if I was ready for a walk. The conversation on my phone went a little something like this:
SHE: Want to walk?
ME: I threw out my back.
SHE: How did you throw out your back?!
ME: I did a yoga pose.
SHE: HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
My stomach has been looking one of two ways...elephant skin-ish or taut like an over-blown balloon about to pop. One taco too many and my belly becomes seven months pregnant all over again, without the fun baby to blame for the extra gut.
On the other hand, if I eat less, my stomach deflates and looks downright ghoulish, like a serial killer came to me with a skin suit he made with his victims and said, "Here, you could totally work this!" Basically, it's a belly button nestled inside a glob of unbaked bread dough. Unlike the Pillsbury dough boy, when you poke me there, I burst into sobs.
The thought of exercising my flab away has been not unlike watching a before and after Jenny Craig commercial. I'm Jennifer Hudson, once chubby and unable to wear the latest runway fashions and then POOF!! Here I am, skinny Jennifer Hudson! Size 0! Look how fabulous I look with so much less of me to look at! Yes, I dream the dream of becoming a size 0...only because once I get that skinny, I can revel in people shoving sandwiches in my face, begging me to eat something because I look ghastly.
So I began a very unregulated routine of walking with a skinny, young friend who makes me go up and down the steepest hills and goads me into going one more block which ultimately turns into seven and then WHAT THE HELL I AM DYING. I planned on walking every night until I saw a marked improvement. I ended up walking one night, after which I was so sore I could barely move the next day. This was a problem, since I have this big baby at home I have to occasionally lift onto the diaper table. My back wasn't having none of it, y'all.
So after a few days of sobbing into the couch cushions and waiting for the pain to subside, I felt well enough to sit up and do some stretches. It seemed harmless enough. I even tried a few of the yoga poses I had tried ten years ago at a class.
There's this pose called The Cobra that is supposed to be the easiest pose. If you look in any yoga book on the shelf at a bookstore, this pose will be listed as EASY, BEGINNER, POSE #1. That's the pose that took out my back in one crack of the vertebrae.
The minute I tried to stand up from The Cobra, I felt something creak out of place. As it happened, it was my pride dying inside me. I was in so much pain, I could only move when assisted by my husband, who looked genuinely concerned. Who was going to take care of his big, heavy baby while he was at work, after all? Ugh. Even my ego was too tired and old to feel wounded.
I got a text from my young, skinny friend that night asking if I was ready for a walk. The conversation on my phone went a little something like this:
SHE: Want to walk?
ME: I threw out my back.
SHE: How did you throw out your back?!
ME: I did a yoga pose.
SHE: HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!
Friday, July 27, 2012
It was the worst of times...THE END.
Oh, what the FLARG. Three-year-old tantruming has become a sniper attack-type of war between the adults and the children in my home. Every day goes a little something like this: He's fine. No, wait, he's not. Yes, he's ok now. No, no...he's absoluely oh my GOD HE'S EATING HIS BABY BROTHER.
Do children get PMS? Toddler PMS? Is that a thing that I haven't Googled yet? *Googling as I type...*
On a less hysterical, valium-craving note, I do know a little something about child development, having had many, many horrible years of college attaining a degree in early childhood education and whatnot. So after witnessing first hand the crap-tastic freak outs, screaming matches, swatting, biting moments of this not-quite-three kid, I have come to this conclusion...kids his age are smarter than all of us combined, minus the communication skills.
I'm not bragging about JUST my kid, mind you, although I do think he's spot on academically for his age. But have you ever been on an internt forum and seen someone post something so incredibly STUPID, something absolutely INNANE, a comment so friggin' ASININE, you just had to comment with an eloquent, well-thought, cleverly structured comment that made that person stop what he was doing and think to himself, "Wow, I'm such a moron, and I should stop everything I'm doing in my life and be someone better!"
But instead, this is what you type: "ROTFLMAO! LAME! WTF!"
That's kind of what I imagine my kid is experiencing. I'm the doofus on the online forum and he's the smartest person on the internet, but he can't pronounce the word BLUE yet.
In closing, here is what I propose: European spa vacation, all-you-can-eat everything, Ryan Gosling.
Do children get PMS? Toddler PMS? Is that a thing that I haven't Googled yet? *Googling as I type...*
On a less hysterical, valium-craving note, I do know a little something about child development, having had many, many horrible years of college attaining a degree in early childhood education and whatnot. So after witnessing first hand the crap-tastic freak outs, screaming matches, swatting, biting moments of this not-quite-three kid, I have come to this conclusion...kids his age are smarter than all of us combined, minus the communication skills.
I'm not bragging about JUST my kid, mind you, although I do think he's spot on academically for his age. But have you ever been on an internt forum and seen someone post something so incredibly STUPID, something absolutely INNANE, a comment so friggin' ASININE, you just had to comment with an eloquent, well-thought, cleverly structured comment that made that person stop what he was doing and think to himself, "Wow, I'm such a moron, and I should stop everything I'm doing in my life and be someone better!"
But instead, this is what you type: "ROTFLMAO! LAME! WTF!"
That's kind of what I imagine my kid is experiencing. I'm the doofus on the online forum and he's the smartest person on the internet, but he can't pronounce the word BLUE yet.
In closing, here is what I propose: European spa vacation, all-you-can-eat everything, Ryan Gosling.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Time Flies When You're Covered in Vomit
Has it really been a month since the last post?! Apologies, but I have been busy buying food to feed this brood of boys and it has been a full time job.
The boys love their food. Oh, how they gobble it away like it's going out of style. After nearly passing out from the last Visa bill, I've taken careful note of how much we have spent on food in the last few months and OHMYGODANDTHEBABYJESUS. It's well over what is the acceptable amount for someone with my income. See ya later, eating out. I'll miss you!
The boys love their food. Oh, how they gobble it away like it's going out of style. After nearly passing out from the last Visa bill, I've taken careful note of how much we have spent on food in the last few months and OHMYGODANDTHEBABYJESUS. It's well over what is the acceptable amount for someone with my income. See ya later, eating out. I'll miss you!
I've also noticed how much has been going to groceries and the like. When the two boys were smaller, food wasn't a huge issue because of delicious breast milk that also happens to be free of charge. Can I get a "Thank you, wonderful mother, for getting mastitis, thrush, and boobs that look like tennis balls in gym socks!" No? Motherhood is its own reward? BAH.
Now that the boys are larger and both enjoying solid food like feral cats, this grocery shopping deal has gotten out of hand. I find that I'm going every week to pick up bags upon bags of food. Six hundred dollars in a month, and I've begun scavenging for coupons like those slightly off-center women on Bravo's Extreme Couponing. FYI: If you have a coupon for paper towels, I may shank you for it in the parking lot of Walgreens.
In addition to picking up a few coupons here and there, trying to save money has been nearly impossible, aside from the in store deals which have subject me to purchases such as GENERIC DAIRY CREAMER SUBSTITUTE. Your guess is as good as mine, but my guess is that it's not dairy, nor is it creamer. It is, however, pretty disgusting and not unlike the liquidy paste leftover from a nearly empty Maalox bottle. Obviously, couponing and sale items are not my strong points.
Scouring magazines for cost efficient recipes has been my new tactic, and I have found some good ideas for meals that will feed this crew of hungry boys without breaking the bank. For instance, the other night I slaved over the microwave for an hour. It was the most patriotic Fourth of July dinner ever...TACO NIGHT.
Oh, how I used to love taco night as a child. And now, my children will also bask in the glory that is ground turkey mixed with some serious Schilling taco/msg mix powder. Top that on a hard crunchy taco shell, sprinkle some shredded "Mexican" cheese from the dairy section, maybe a dribble of LaVictoria taco sauce...deliciousness.
Oh, how I used to love taco night as a child. And now, my children will also bask in the glory that is ground turkey mixed with some serious Schilling taco/msg mix powder. Top that on a hard crunchy taco shell, sprinkle some shredded "Mexican" cheese from the dairy section, maybe a dribble of LaVictoria taco sauce...deliciousness.
And yes, it was well received by the kids. The older boy snarfed down two immediately, one hard shell, one soft. But the little one, holy cats! As soon as we handed him a rolled soft taco, cleverly adhered by refried beans and thick guacamole, he inhaled it. The husband handed him another one. SNARF. He ate that one too.
Then the husband began constructing a third one. "DON'T." I warned. "He can't eat three! His stomach is only the size of a lime."
"But look how cute he is eating tacos! And it's TACO NIGHT! I love it!" He proclaimed, and promptly handed the baby a THIRD taco.
"But look how cute he is eating tacos! And it's TACO NIGHT! I love it!" He proclaimed, and promptly handed the baby a THIRD taco.
The third taco was not gobbled as enthusiastically as the other two. In fact, the baby seemed to just suck on the outside of the soft taco, like it was an enormous straw. He left behind a lifeless shell of soggy tortilla. At this point, he also looked a bit overstuffed and lethargic. Ah, the warning signs. Why do we never learn?
Bedtime rolled around. I gave the little dude some breast milk and put him to bed, slightly awake and moving like a drunk slug. I looked at the clock, which read 7:00 p.m.
By 8:00, he was babbling up a storm, talking about sports, local news stories, how Obamacare would effectually insure millions. And then...silence.
My husband noticed the lull and was immediately concerned. He walked down to the baby's room. When I heard him quickly shuffling up the stairs again, I knew something was amiss. He poked his head around the corner and said, "Um. Hon? There's vomit."
"Vomit?" I asked, "Where?"
"EVERYWHERE." He replied with a grimace.
We spent the next hour bathing, cleaning, disinfecting, swearing...and then, the fireworks began.
He stayed up just long enough to watch the show and then passed out as soon as the last colorful explosion disappeared into the night sky. Ah, our sneaky, patriotic baby.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Terrible Threes
You can forget the "Terrible Twos." These people warning you about the second year are just messing with you. It's really three you have to run screaming from.
It could be that people are being very specific and literal about the age at which the cute, adorable little children become CHILDREN OF THE CORN. Because, really, it all begins around the late twos. Maybe 30 months or so. Yes, I just described my child in months even though he is in preschool. I'm THAT mom now.
And here's why. You really need to be on the dot about the months, and I understand why now. It's because every month in a toddler's life is like a dog year. They mature at an exponential rate in all areas of growth...brain development, behavior, awareness, speech...it's all crazy fast forwarding at an impossibly quick rate. So before I had kids, I was quick to make fun of the parents who said, "Oh, she's 27 months old." I would think, "WOW. What a douche. HA HA."
But now, AFTER kids? It's a badge of honor to say how many months you've had to tolerate the crazy of toddlerhood. When they were infants, the months were necessary until they hit one year. And then after that they weren't two, but they were so close to two, but calling them two years old seemed unimaginable since they were still your little baby. Totally understandable.
But after two? People start looking at you funny when you say, "Oh, he's 26 months old." They give you the stink face as if to say, "Yeah, you mean TWO, you pretentious douche." NO. I MEAN HE'S 26 MONTHS OLD.
But what I'm really saying is, hey, I've been dealing with this nutjob toddler for 26 months. Sure, 12 to 18 was a breeze and he was cute enough. But now?! He's an angelic doll one day, offering me hugs and kisses, giving me unconditional smiles, eating everything on his plate and then BLAM...it's all freak outs in public and ninety minutes of negotiating at night just to get this kid to close his freakin' eyes. Oh it was so great having a nice, pleasant 24 month old, but now it's One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest up in here. I'm barely keeping it together, people! Don't even talk to me about potty training!! EVERY DAY IS A FIGHT TO SURVIVE. Therefore, I count every month as a month of surviving this sh#t.
Imagine Alcoholics Anonymous, with the fabulous chips that indicate how many days you've been sober. Not to compare the two or underscore how impossibly difficult it is to overcome alcoholism...but have you ever had poop on your face after a diaper change or caught vomit IN YOUR HAND?! Talk to me after you've dragged a screaming toddler down six blocks because you dared to touch him on the arm or try to wipe his face. People stare at me like I'm Joan Crawford when I'm trying desperately to contain the crazy in public. So, yeah, I should get a friggin' chip too. Now add a gift card for a mani/pedi because I really don't think these things called "nails" need to look like Fritos corn chips.
But I always try to remind myself during those moments of fight or flight...this, too, shall pass. I hear year four is lovely. Yes, year four sounds nice. Until then, you can find me in my happy place...I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, unicorns pooping rainbows and all that good stuff...
It could be that people are being very specific and literal about the age at which the cute, adorable little children become CHILDREN OF THE CORN. Because, really, it all begins around the late twos. Maybe 30 months or so. Yes, I just described my child in months even though he is in preschool. I'm THAT mom now.
And here's why. You really need to be on the dot about the months, and I understand why now. It's because every month in a toddler's life is like a dog year. They mature at an exponential rate in all areas of growth...brain development, behavior, awareness, speech...it's all crazy fast forwarding at an impossibly quick rate. So before I had kids, I was quick to make fun of the parents who said, "Oh, she's 27 months old." I would think, "WOW. What a douche. HA HA."
But now, AFTER kids? It's a badge of honor to say how many months you've had to tolerate the crazy of toddlerhood. When they were infants, the months were necessary until they hit one year. And then after that they weren't two, but they were so close to two, but calling them two years old seemed unimaginable since they were still your little baby. Totally understandable.
But after two? People start looking at you funny when you say, "Oh, he's 26 months old." They give you the stink face as if to say, "Yeah, you mean TWO, you pretentious douche." NO. I MEAN HE'S 26 MONTHS OLD.
But what I'm really saying is, hey, I've been dealing with this nutjob toddler for 26 months. Sure, 12 to 18 was a breeze and he was cute enough. But now?! He's an angelic doll one day, offering me hugs and kisses, giving me unconditional smiles, eating everything on his plate and then BLAM...it's all freak outs in public and ninety minutes of negotiating at night just to get this kid to close his freakin' eyes. Oh it was so great having a nice, pleasant 24 month old, but now it's One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest up in here. I'm barely keeping it together, people! Don't even talk to me about potty training!! EVERY DAY IS A FIGHT TO SURVIVE. Therefore, I count every month as a month of surviving this sh#t.
Imagine Alcoholics Anonymous, with the fabulous chips that indicate how many days you've been sober. Not to compare the two or underscore how impossibly difficult it is to overcome alcoholism...but have you ever had poop on your face after a diaper change or caught vomit IN YOUR HAND?! Talk to me after you've dragged a screaming toddler down six blocks because you dared to touch him on the arm or try to wipe his face. People stare at me like I'm Joan Crawford when I'm trying desperately to contain the crazy in public. So, yeah, I should get a friggin' chip too. Now add a gift card for a mani/pedi because I really don't think these things called "nails" need to look like Fritos corn chips.
But I always try to remind myself during those moments of fight or flight...this, too, shall pass. I hear year four is lovely. Yes, year four sounds nice. Until then, you can find me in my happy place...I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, I'm a kitten, you're a kitten, unicorns pooping rainbows and all that good stuff...
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Adult vs. Toddler
Just to let the Internet world know, my baby will be one year old very soon. ONE. That's no longer negative one. That's a whole year gone by in a flash like Wally West just ran around the Earth in seconds flat in his superhero costume. Color me blown away.
Meanwhile, the baby, (as we like to still think of him,) is trying desperately to walk. He will pretty much do anything to grab onto a surface and pull himself up into the walking position. Then, he precariously balances with one hand, wobbling like a feather in air, for a good five seconds, until he lets go and inevitably falls on his butt in a WHOOMP. It's as if he forgets he has yet to master the art of putting one step in front of the other and just GOES FOR IT, MAN.
Cut to me, mom, freaked out and in the fetal position in the corner of the floor. This stuff is terrifying for me, considering this is my last baby. He is preparing to leave babyhood behind for toddler life, and I am decidedly against this proposition. As it stands right now, for the most part, I intensely fear and loathe toddler life.
The reason I fear and loathe it so is because I already have one. He's currently residing in his crib because he decided that a toddler bed was way too much fun to sleep in. Instead, he would feign sleep, then quietly slip out of his comfortable bed at some ungodly hour to silently creep over to me while I was dead asleep and put an unbelievably freezing cold tiny hand on my face while yelling, MOMMY!! It's funny to recall it now, after being peeled off the ceiling. After two weeks of that, we decided the crib would make a defeated return. The toddler bed can wait...until he's voting age.
The toddler life has destroyed our sanity on many a day and night, but only intermittently and in between the most amazing of moments. This kid is fast learning about life and all that is wonderful in it. When taking him anywhere new or fabulous, he runs face first into the wind screaming, "WHEEEEE!!!" It's truly a joy to behold.
However, there are those moments...those "face and full body on the pavement screaming in defiance" moments. And they are a bear to deal with. For instance, last night while getting over a decidedly nasty cold, he decided that he didn't like, oh, I don't know...being two. He just started crying at an ear-splitting tone for every reason under the sun. No pancakes for dinner? SCREEEEE!!! You CUT my burrito?! WAAAILLL!!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE IS NO CHOCOLATE PIE ON MY PLATE AT THIS VERY SECOND I WANT TO POKE MY FORK INTO IT!!! AHHHHH!!!
And so on, and so on. The battle rages on. It's adult vs. toddler, and it's hardly a fair fight.
Meanwhile, the baby, (as we like to still think of him,) is trying desperately to walk. He will pretty much do anything to grab onto a surface and pull himself up into the walking position. Then, he precariously balances with one hand, wobbling like a feather in air, for a good five seconds, until he lets go and inevitably falls on his butt in a WHOOMP. It's as if he forgets he has yet to master the art of putting one step in front of the other and just GOES FOR IT, MAN.
Cut to me, mom, freaked out and in the fetal position in the corner of the floor. This stuff is terrifying for me, considering this is my last baby. He is preparing to leave babyhood behind for toddler life, and I am decidedly against this proposition. As it stands right now, for the most part, I intensely fear and loathe toddler life.
The reason I fear and loathe it so is because I already have one. He's currently residing in his crib because he decided that a toddler bed was way too much fun to sleep in. Instead, he would feign sleep, then quietly slip out of his comfortable bed at some ungodly hour to silently creep over to me while I was dead asleep and put an unbelievably freezing cold tiny hand on my face while yelling, MOMMY!! It's funny to recall it now, after being peeled off the ceiling. After two weeks of that, we decided the crib would make a defeated return. The toddler bed can wait...until he's voting age.
The toddler life has destroyed our sanity on many a day and night, but only intermittently and in between the most amazing of moments. This kid is fast learning about life and all that is wonderful in it. When taking him anywhere new or fabulous, he runs face first into the wind screaming, "WHEEEEE!!!" It's truly a joy to behold.
However, there are those moments...those "face and full body on the pavement screaming in defiance" moments. And they are a bear to deal with. For instance, last night while getting over a decidedly nasty cold, he decided that he didn't like, oh, I don't know...being two. He just started crying at an ear-splitting tone for every reason under the sun. No pancakes for dinner? SCREEEEE!!! You CUT my burrito?! WAAAILLL!!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE IS NO CHOCOLATE PIE ON MY PLATE AT THIS VERY SECOND I WANT TO POKE MY FORK INTO IT!!! AHHHHH!!!
And so on, and so on. The battle rages on. It's adult vs. toddler, and it's hardly a fair fight.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
The Poop on Potty Training Boys
Even before we began to think about potty training our first born, people would volunteer their thoughts on the subject. The only thing people said over and over again was, "Boys are harder to train than girls."
We are now going on a year trying to train this kid to poop in his potty. There is no rhyme or reason to his refusal to go. Like fecal-obsessed maniacs, we ask him repeatedly throughout the day, "Poop? POOP?! DO YOU NEED TO POOP!?" The only answer we get is, "No poop."
LIES. He DOES poop. He actually hides while he poops in his diaper. He stealthily crawls to the corner of the room, peers around the leg of the dining room table to see if I'm taking notice. How can I not, little man? The smell. Oh GOD, the smell. It eats the paint off the walls.
But the potty remains spotless. Once in a while, we'll get some pee, and then he'll get an M&M. Yes, we bribe our child with chocolate candy. It's called desperation, people.
Actually, desperation will be when we let the kid loose in the house without a stitch of clothes on. That's the method some of the books are suggesting. Apparently, when the child is naked, he will realize he has to go to the bathroom and run to the potty. Then, there is a happy dance performed and everyone eats chocolate candy and ice cream. Yay!
Yeah, no. Knowing this kid? We'll be bleaching the %$#@ out of our carpeted living room while eating buckets of Tums. Wait, do they offer chocolate-flavored Tums?
We are now going on a year trying to train this kid to poop in his potty. There is no rhyme or reason to his refusal to go. Like fecal-obsessed maniacs, we ask him repeatedly throughout the day, "Poop? POOP?! DO YOU NEED TO POOP!?" The only answer we get is, "No poop."
LIES. He DOES poop. He actually hides while he poops in his diaper. He stealthily crawls to the corner of the room, peers around the leg of the dining room table to see if I'm taking notice. How can I not, little man? The smell. Oh GOD, the smell. It eats the paint off the walls.
But the potty remains spotless. Once in a while, we'll get some pee, and then he'll get an M&M. Yes, we bribe our child with chocolate candy. It's called desperation, people.
Actually, desperation will be when we let the kid loose in the house without a stitch of clothes on. That's the method some of the books are suggesting. Apparently, when the child is naked, he will realize he has to go to the bathroom and run to the potty. Then, there is a happy dance performed and everyone eats chocolate candy and ice cream. Yay!
Yeah, no. Knowing this kid? We'll be bleaching the %$#@ out of our carpeted living room while eating buckets of Tums. Wait, do they offer chocolate-flavored Tums?
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Post-Partum Prolonged
Depression after giving birth to the most wonderful thing to ever enter your life is a cruel twist of fate that seems unnatural and poorly timed. How can one be so unhappy after seeing those ten tiny toes, ten impossibly small fingers, button nose to die for? It makes no sense.
After my second was born, I felt the urge to brag about the fact I had just given birth to another adorable addition to our perfectly appointed family. Big brother was a fabulously chubby tot with a deep, infectious laugh and a personality that drew people in like the sun. Little brother was roundly shaped in every way, chubby and handsome, c-section perfect. He cooed on command, smiled when he had gas, ate like a lumberjack. Aside from the no-sleep-ever-for-the-rest-of-eternity thing, we were pleased with our accomplishments as parents so far...just having these two around were our bragging rights, and we hadn't even done any real parenting yet.
A few weeks after the birth, I began to feel the familiar stirrings of what life used to be like when my first was a tiny baby. Those stirring were sharp reminders of how I should have been concerned about my predisposition to depression, and that post-partum depression was guaranteed in my case. My doctors both said, be warned. If you have had post-partum with the first, you will definitely have it with the second, and more than likely it will be worse and more intense because of your history of depression. Apparently, doctors get those medical license thingies for a reason, because they were annoyingly right.
A month after giving birth, I found myself staring off into nothing. A wall, a bookshelf, reading the letters on the side of a building, the dashboard of the car while my husband was driving us to fun activities in the city. I was distracted, but thought it must be the exhaustion. Yes, the exhaustion must be it. I am SO TIRED. Being a mommy is so much work. Whew.
Being distracted is harmless, benign behavior that happens to the best mommies. My distraction wasn't just mindless nothing, however. It was coupled with thoughts that were so awful, it seems wrong to write them down. Writing them down gives them reality, power, life. It makes my stomach churn to think about it for too long.
I will say the thoughts were more daydreams. Images, not ideas. And they mostly involved me being evicted from life, giving my family the freedom to be happy without being burdened with me and my debilitating sadness. My guilt over not being "normal" was destroying any chance for happiness. I couldn't breathe or move or think without having these horrible thoughts of death, dying, terrible things happening to my loved ones that I couldn't prevent. Basically, things that were out of my control were my biggest fear. The "what-ifs?" They're terrifying.
The guilt. The tremendous GUILT. It weighed heaviest during the day when I was alone with the baby, trying to smile for him, keep him happy, oblivious to the fact that I was falling to pieces right before him. I performed motherly duties. I fed him from my body, gave him sustenance, peace of mind that I would always be there to comfort him when he cried. In the back of my mind, all I could think of was the possibility that his life might be improved by my absence. I felt worthless as a person, a mother, a wife, a daughter (as I was reminded on a regular basis by my own mother.)
Months have passed. Nine.
The depression has not left me. It remains, firmly rooted in my gut. If anything, it has gotten worse...splintered and spread. When I try to exorcise it from my body, it pulls on me like tentacles grasping and tightening their grip. I can't take a breath without thinking of how to make it all stop and go away. I can't hold my child without stifling sobs of defeat. He looks at me and smiles as a reflex, because I'm there, his mother. I'm always there. But I feel as if I am a million miles away.
Motherhood, although amazing and beautiful in so many ways, is also the most life-changing event I will ever experience. It erases you as the person you once were without kids and creates an entirely new person, one that struggles to be something other than a mother. If you surrender to it, you will lose the person you were entirely and be swallowed whole by motherhood, as if that is all you are and that is all you will ever be. Some embrace it willingly, without a second thought. I hear, "I was born to do this." and I am full of jealousy. Why can't I be that perfect mother?
Calls to my doctor go unanswered. I get no relief from pills due to the breastfeeding. I won't take anti-depressants until I'm done. I feel like my fingertips are whitened on the edge of a cliff as I hang precariously off the end of the world.
As it stands, I await a call from my doctor. Monday, I keep thinking. Monday, I will get a break from this suffocation. I pray this is true. I pray for some light in this dark place I have landed. There must be a window I can open. I crave that fresh air so much.
After my second was born, I felt the urge to brag about the fact I had just given birth to another adorable addition to our perfectly appointed family. Big brother was a fabulously chubby tot with a deep, infectious laugh and a personality that drew people in like the sun. Little brother was roundly shaped in every way, chubby and handsome, c-section perfect. He cooed on command, smiled when he had gas, ate like a lumberjack. Aside from the no-sleep-ever-for-the-rest-of-eternity thing, we were pleased with our accomplishments as parents so far...just having these two around were our bragging rights, and we hadn't even done any real parenting yet.
A few weeks after the birth, I began to feel the familiar stirrings of what life used to be like when my first was a tiny baby. Those stirring were sharp reminders of how I should have been concerned about my predisposition to depression, and that post-partum depression was guaranteed in my case. My doctors both said, be warned. If you have had post-partum with the first, you will definitely have it with the second, and more than likely it will be worse and more intense because of your history of depression. Apparently, doctors get those medical license thingies for a reason, because they were annoyingly right.
A month after giving birth, I found myself staring off into nothing. A wall, a bookshelf, reading the letters on the side of a building, the dashboard of the car while my husband was driving us to fun activities in the city. I was distracted, but thought it must be the exhaustion. Yes, the exhaustion must be it. I am SO TIRED. Being a mommy is so much work. Whew.
Being distracted is harmless, benign behavior that happens to the best mommies. My distraction wasn't just mindless nothing, however. It was coupled with thoughts that were so awful, it seems wrong to write them down. Writing them down gives them reality, power, life. It makes my stomach churn to think about it for too long.
I will say the thoughts were more daydreams. Images, not ideas. And they mostly involved me being evicted from life, giving my family the freedom to be happy without being burdened with me and my debilitating sadness. My guilt over not being "normal" was destroying any chance for happiness. I couldn't breathe or move or think without having these horrible thoughts of death, dying, terrible things happening to my loved ones that I couldn't prevent. Basically, things that were out of my control were my biggest fear. The "what-ifs?" They're terrifying.
The guilt. The tremendous GUILT. It weighed heaviest during the day when I was alone with the baby, trying to smile for him, keep him happy, oblivious to the fact that I was falling to pieces right before him. I performed motherly duties. I fed him from my body, gave him sustenance, peace of mind that I would always be there to comfort him when he cried. In the back of my mind, all I could think of was the possibility that his life might be improved by my absence. I felt worthless as a person, a mother, a wife, a daughter (as I was reminded on a regular basis by my own mother.)
Months have passed. Nine.
The depression has not left me. It remains, firmly rooted in my gut. If anything, it has gotten worse...splintered and spread. When I try to exorcise it from my body, it pulls on me like tentacles grasping and tightening their grip. I can't take a breath without thinking of how to make it all stop and go away. I can't hold my child without stifling sobs of defeat. He looks at me and smiles as a reflex, because I'm there, his mother. I'm always there. But I feel as if I am a million miles away.
Motherhood, although amazing and beautiful in so many ways, is also the most life-changing event I will ever experience. It erases you as the person you once were without kids and creates an entirely new person, one that struggles to be something other than a mother. If you surrender to it, you will lose the person you were entirely and be swallowed whole by motherhood, as if that is all you are and that is all you will ever be. Some embrace it willingly, without a second thought. I hear, "I was born to do this." and I am full of jealousy. Why can't I be that perfect mother?
Calls to my doctor go unanswered. I get no relief from pills due to the breastfeeding. I won't take anti-depressants until I'm done. I feel like my fingertips are whitened on the edge of a cliff as I hang precariously off the end of the world.
As it stands, I await a call from my doctor. Monday, I keep thinking. Monday, I will get a break from this suffocation. I pray this is true. I pray for some light in this dark place I have landed. There must be a window I can open. I crave that fresh air so much.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Nine Month Old Baby with the Gigantic Head
We just had our well-baby visit with our pediatrician, and I can safely say our second is well on his way to being a big, fat baby. 21 pounds, 28 inches long, and off-the-charts head size. And I do mean off-the-charts. No, really. When I looked at the chart, his head was not on it.
Compared to our elder boy, who was 21 pounds, 29 inches at FIVE months, this one is a skinny Minnie. I can't imagine why, since it seems like I'm feeding him around the clock breastmilk. I'd better bulk this baby up soon or people will start talking. After all, I am well known around the neighborhood for having humongous children.
Compared to our elder boy, who was 21 pounds, 29 inches at FIVE months, this one is a skinny Minnie. I can't imagine why, since it seems like I'm feeding him around the clock breastmilk. I'd better bulk this baby up soon or people will start talking. After all, I am well known around the neighborhood for having humongous children.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)