Three's Company, Three's a Crowd

Oh, the age old question.  To have a third baby or to not have a third baby?  My heart says, "Babies smell like sugarplums" and my uterus is saying, "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR DAMN MIND NO."  It's a discussion that comes up frequently enough that I now instantaneously break into a cold sweat every time I hear the word, threesome.  I can't imagine how tired my brain would be caring for another baby, or how sore my nipples would become after breastfeeding a third time.  They drag on the floor as it is, and I'm not pleased with the dimpling.  Oh, Lord, the DIMPLING.

The only thing that keeps the conversation alive for me is the idea of my two sons with a baby.  It would be so unbelievable to see my eldest with a new sibling.  My younger one, however, has categorically said, "NO."  That's NO to the baby, NO to being a middle child, and NO to everything else that he can possibly say NO to. He's two and a half, so that's par for the course.

My oldest wants a baby sister.  He wants a little girl to play with, no doubt, but mostly he's in it for the clothing and accessories.  He has become THAT kid, who loves pink, plays with girls, and wants to wear dresses and rainbow shoes.  He also wants hair down to his butt, which will never happen in my lifetime.  The amount of time it takes to coif a girl's hair may seem entertaining for a day or so, but then the braids start coming, and it starts cutting into your Downton Abby time and forget that garbage.

So, a third might also bring us a much sought after girl.  It's a fifty-fifty shot, which is better than my odds of winning Powerball, so I've got that going for me.  But in all honesty, I doubt that I would be able to hold back my fainting hysteria if I got on that sonogram table and saw another penis on the screen.  My fear would be that the fetus would hear my groans of disappointment and immediately begin plotting how he was going to underachieve his entire life, just for spite.

Another reason not to have a third would be that my age puts me in a category that gets me booked into the high risk pregnancy doctor's office as soon as my test turns positive.  Having to double and triple check everything I do and eat and not eat every minute of ten months is not my idea of a good time.

Would my body love having another baby inside it?  Yes.  I was one of those annoying pregnant women who had a great seven or eight months before things started getting ridiculously big.  But would my body love having another baby outside of it?  No.  No, it would not.  I have flaps, dimples, and sagging in places I won't mention, mostly because when I do I tend to burst into tears.

Also, I like sleep.  I like it a lot.  I want to marry sleep.

But in reality, our finances are so thin I doubt the third baby would get anything to eat or wear other than hand me down, ripped, stained boys clothing.  We'd have to hide the baby in a Jansport backpack in lieu of a Bjorn because we have sold or given away most of our baby things as the boys have outgrown them.  There would be no money for gas, so our main mode of transport would be a Red Rider Wagon or a Skuut bike, jerry-rigged with four seats and a infant carrier.  Not a pretty image.

But OH HOW ADORABLE that baby would be.  The fattest cheeks, the soft tufts of hair.  Ugh, I'm battling the major cutes.  And this fight is so unfair.

Oh, The Places You'll Go...

June is flying by.  There has been a six month lapse between posts because I've been in the throes of a semi-manageable nervous breakdown.  Between two kids under the age of four and trying to find a job, my life has been insanity multiplied by a multitude of poopy diapers.  I can't believe I have survived to tell the tale, frankly.  It was pretty hairy for a while there.  Consider yourself lucky you didn't have to bear witness to the crazy.

So for your convenience, I'll recap the last six months in short, but overly descriptive sentences and/or paragraphs.  Ready, set, GO.

1) The two-year old has decided not to poop.  His record thus far is five days.  No pooping, but lots of screaming in pain.  His last movement was not unlike giving birth to a large goose egg.  Needless to say, he has been a complete joy to be around.  And by "joy" I mean "horrible I can't believe I have to deal with this isn't giving birth enough why can't I have a latte in peace."

2) The nearly four-year old is desperate to turn really four, which is months away and I can't seem to wrap my brain around the party details yet.  I believe I may be in denial, since they're no longer babies and I'm missing that new baby smell.  I have yet to see a new baby smell car freshener.  Someone do something about that.

Anyway, he routinely asks if he's four yet, and when the answer is "No, not yet," he asks WHEN is his birthday and WHEN can he have his birthday and WHEN are the presents coming and WHEN.  It's not at all annoying except when it is.  And he's snoopy.  He likes to snoop.  I have a closet full of pinatas and stuff and I can't afford this behavior.  Eventually, something will have to be done and I'll have to install an alarm system.  Maybe I'll enlist his brother, who is more than happy to oblige, I'm sure.

3) The brothers are starting to act suspiciously like brothers.  They play, they hug, they kiss, they say "I love you" and alternately they try to kill each other.  No really, they try to kill each other...with looks, with hands, with feet, with their butts.  It's not unlike having two cats thrown into a magical fountain that obliterates any memory of being affectionate toward one another.  But really, they are pretty sweet to each other...except when they're not...or when there's a toy involved.  If there's a toy involved, all bets are off.  I dread the day they bring home a girl.

4) The nearly four-year old boy can read.  Well, somewhat read.  But STILL COME ON BRAGGING RIGHTS.  He was always obsessed with numbers and letters to the degree that I was worried about raising Rain Man.  He started at 18 months and knew his numbers to 100 by two.  The teachers are impressed, the parents in his school ask if he's always been that way, and we are very nonchalant about the whole thing, I suppose because we've always been very used to it.  It's nothing new to us, and we never had a second thought about it.  But when I sit and have a moment to think about it, I can see how smart he is and boy, that tiger mom in me wants to roar.

That's not to say that both boys are the same.  The younger brother has interest in what his older brother does, naturally, but can't grasp the concept of being absolutely and completely obsessed with something.  He finds something interesting for a day, and then leaves it for a week, only to return to it the next day.  However, he's cunning in a scary way.  He gets what he wants before we even realize he's gotten it.  That's smart, too...but we fear that kind of smart.  He's manipulative because he is pretty damn adorable and he knows how to use his cute for evil.  This one will cause us trouble, I'm afraid.

5) Food.  We're running out of it.  I'm starving.  We need a telethon to raise money for groceries.  These boys eat nonstop and they are not timid about the mountain of food they need to function.  Sometimes, I find myself cringing while they eat.  It is not unlike watching feeding time at the zoo.  Boys are gross.

6) Although my older boy has conquered potty training, albeit late at 3 1/2 years old, my youngest won't even consider sitting on the thing.  We ask him regularly if he will grace the seat with his butt, but no, he won't.  He can't even be bothered to be asked, and runs screaming from the room.  In turn, he hides under the dining room table and does his business in his diaper there, all the while staring me down from across the room.  Eerie.  And smelly.

7) Babies.  The husband and I have been discussing a third baby, and it's kind of a To Be or Not To Be kind of thing.  Obviously, I'm tired.  I want to get back to sleeping more than five hours at a time eventually, and having a newborn in the house would obviously take that off the table.  I'm not interested in stretching my body to the four winds again either, considering my body has not bounced back from anything in over four years.  I'm older, and being called a geriatric pregnant woman is something I don't cherish.  So, everything points to no way, no how, are you joking, shut up.  But then I visited my friend's baby the other day, who is four days old, and OMG HOW ADORABLE I NEED TO BE PREGNANT RIGHT NOW.  Oh don't worry, because it wears off in a while and then I'm back to, AH MY PILLOW FEELS SO GOOD ON MY SLEEPY FACE.

8) Television.  I used to think it was evil and parents were horrible for plopping their kids in front of one.  But now, I can use the bathroom without someone sitting on my lap, so...yeah, television.  PBS is my friend.

A Quiet Moment

I have found the very rare, very unexpected quiet moment and have decided to write a blog post about how completely terrified I am of turning around to see my toddler hanging from the chandeliers.  And we don't even have chandeliers, but in my mind, that's what's happening right now.

Moment over.

Three is the Longest Year

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.

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.

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.

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!!!

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.  

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...