Tuesday, April 27, 2010

&#$@!!!

Confession: Sometimes I want to cuss out my kids.

Shame on me, right? What kind of mother has to bite her tongue to avoid telling her 2 year old to just shut the fuck up? *raises hand* Me. This mother. I feel as though I should start this post off by saying that I love my kids. Really, I do. I'd kill for them. So please nobody call child services on me. Did that sound like a threat? Hmmmm....

Moving on, the last week or so has been complete HELL with Nut. I thought she was going through the Terrible Two's the past few months and I was wrong. That was just a precursor, an appetizer of shitheadedness if you will, preparing me as she fully morphed into a Brat. Capital B on that title. She whines from the time she gets up until the time she goes back to bed. Every thing I tell her elicits a giant fit. She now spends most of her free time rolling around on the floor screeching because of something completely unreasonable, like the fact that I can't snap my fingers and make Barbie fruit snacks appear in the cabinet.

I've always been pretty good about watching my mouth around her. I'm quite foul-mouthed when I want to be (and sometimes when I don't want to be) and having kids has helped me to curb it. Since I babysit, I don't drop a single F bomb, shit balls, God damnit, or what the hell all day long. No need to expose other's offspring to that. But when those kids go home, I have found myself having a hard time lately. A really hard time. Take this exchange from yesterday evening for example:

scene: Living room. Nut is dragging around a Little Mermaid beach towel, demanding I put it on her like a blanket. Her brother (who is sick) is asleep in my arms.

R: "Mama, mermay towel. Mermay towel! I cold!!"

I put towel around her shoulders.
She immediately lets it fall off.

R: "Maaaaaaammmmaaaaa! Towel! Towel! I cold! Mermay towel!"

Me: "Shhhh! Your brother is asleep! Come here and I'll fix it!"

R: "Waaahhhhhh!!!"

Stands 2 feet from towel, pointing and wailing.

Me: "Be quiet right now and bring me the towel."

R: "Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh! MERMAY!" insert bloodcurling shriek. "Waaaaaaaaaaah!!"

Me: " Your legs aren't broken. Right now, bring me the God damned towel young lady. I can't get up, your brother is asleep."

Throws self to ground and rolls around kicking legs and shrieking. Towel now so close to her, she is rolling on top of it.

Baby starts to stir and cry. R keeps screaming.

Me: "Okay, seriously! Quit fucking screaming, bring me the fucking towel and thanks a fucking lot for waking up the baby!!!!"

R laughs manically, gets up, and goes to play with something else.



*sigh* Bad mom. I think she does it on purpose, just to see how far she can push my buttons. I just hope this phase of the Terrible Two's is almost over with and she goes back to her aforementioned more manageable fits. I'll wind up an alcoholic - one who cusses like a sailor - if she doesn't....





Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Quit stalking me (subtitle: I liked it better when you just laid there).

A wise person once said, "You spend a year wishing your baby would walk and talk and the next 17 wishing they'd just sit down and shut up." I'm not sure who exactly said that or where I actually heard it but it was the most philosophical observation ever. They should print it in greeting cards. Can you imagine opening that up at a baby shower?

Bug has become my stalker. A full on don't-turn-your-back-because-surprise!-I'm-there-I-will-follow-you-wherever-you-go crawling creeper. He's such a stealthy baby too. I don't even hear him coming until I back up to shut the dishwasher and Whoa, there's a baby behind me! One minute I'm trying to choose a rinse cycle, the next I'm flat on my ass writhering in pain. I have a subscription to Glamour and while they said accessories would be big this spring, I don't think they meant 21-lbs-of-baby big. But alas he is attached to my pant leg wherever I go now. It's cute for a while, but after roughly hour six of it, I'm done for the day. It has also sparked a vicious fit of jealousy in his sister, who then has her own meltdown until I pick both of them up. At the same time. Thank God I have child-rearing hips to support their combined 50 lbs of child.

I took the kids to the park in our subdivision today, all four of them. They love going but I swear to God, I'm exhausted before anyone's even set a light up sandaled foot on any playground equipment. Today's outing was pretty typical and went as follows:

Step 1: Put shoes/Pull-Ups/jackets/clean diapers on kids
Step 2: Make bottle for Bug to pack in diaper bag
Step 3: Pack aforementioned diaper bag with diapers, wipes, drinks for kids
Step 4: Sniff armpits because I can't remember if I've put deoderant on
Step 5: Can't tell because nose is stuffed up from allergies and have no sense of smell
Step 6: Take allergy medicine
Step 7: Switch shoes that one or both toddlers have put on wrong feet
Step 8: Take Bug and 3 yo I watch to car
Step 9: As lifting Bug into his seat, get a clear whiff of myself
Step 10: Usher kids back into house for Mommy pit perfume application
Step 11: Take Bug and 3 yo BACK out to car
Step 12: Load both in seat. Go back for Nut and 1 yo I babysit
Step 13: Get 1 yo strapped in very back carseat, pull Nut out of driver's seat she's climbed into and get her buckled in her carseat
Step 14: Where are my keys??
Step 15: Bug starts howling
Step 16: No, really, where did the damn keys go?
Step 17: Dump out entire purse. No keys
Step 18: Nut starts screaming "Go bye-bye in booful (beautiful) car! Go bye-bye!!!"
Step 19: WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY KEYS???
Step 20: Search under seats and in very back of car. No keys
Step 21: Phone rings, my mother. Needs me to book a flight for my step-dad.
Step 22: Find keys. In pocket the whole time.
Step 23: Turn car on, blinkers, wipers, and cruise control all turned on thanks to Nut
Step 23: Finally driving. Out of habit, leave my neighborhood and don't realize it until I'm 5 minutes away
Step 24: Go by Starbucks since I'm almost there anyways
Step 25: Get to the park, praise Jesus!
Step 26: Start unloading children
Step 27: Realize I've left diaper bag at home. Pray nobody poops.
Step 28: Kids are playing, I'm parked on a picnic table with the baby, trying to look up flights for my parents.
Step 29: Keep smelling something foul, checking Bug to see if he's dropped one. No poop.
Step 30: Daughter decides to run into an evergreen tree to hide. Won't come out no matter the bribe or threat.
Step 31: Go fetch daughter out of tree. Am now sticky and sneezing.
Step 32: Chase 1 yo that decided to crawl around to make sure he's not trying to eat rocks
Step 33: Tries to eat rocks
Step 34: Puts 1 yo in stroller to round up toddlers to go home
Step 35: Look down and realize the stench I've smelled the whole time was not from child or diaper but decaying rabbit under the picnic table I'm sitting at
Step 36: Haul ass away from table and threaten/bribe Nut until she gets off slide
Step 37: Make it back to car.
Step 38: Load up kids and stroller.
Step 39: Drive home
Step 40: Repeat Steps 11-15 in reverse
Step 41: Yell at Nut who is now sitting in wagon yelling for a walk
Step 42: Finally, finally, FINALLY get all kids in the door
Step 43: Open fridge and look longingly at Bud Light Lime.

It's time like these I wonder how - and why - people with a lot of kids go anywhere. Blah.

Monday, April 19, 2010

I run, I run so far away

My friend told me last week about someone she knows that ran a half marathon nine weeks after giving birth. I'll let that sink in. Nine weeks. 9. As in 63 days. Nine weeks after I gave birth, I believe I spent a majority of my time fantasizing about running my car into a pole to escape Bug's non-stop crying. Or slitting my wrists. Or hiring a nanny. Whichever it was, I was definitely NOT out training to run 13.1 freaking miles. Even now, almost 8 months later, the only time I use the word "run" in a sentence pertaining to me is the following:

"I'm going to run to Target"
"Can we run the kids by your mom's for a few hours?"
"If you guys don't put a cork in it, I swear to God, Mommy's going to run away and never come back."

Etc, etc. And of course I don't mean it literally. My ass isn't running anywhere. I'd probably vapor lock. Ya know, more power to that chick, but come on. Quit making normal mamas look bad. On a daily basis, I cook, clean, do laundry, all the grocery shopping and errand running (there's that damn word again), change diapers, bathe kids, haven't slept in years and some nameless faceless stranger I don't know made me feel lazy. Bitch.

How about we celebrate the REAL accomplishments of a mother of a 9 week old? You washed your hair today? High five!! You got out of your pajamas before noon? Or at all? You go, girl! You put on makeup? Holy shit, you're Super Mom!!

I've consoled myself with the certainty she is one of Those Mothers. You know the type. The my-child-doesn't-eat-sugar-or-white-starch-I-make-my-own-organic-babyfood-what-do-you-mean-you-don't-breastfeed-named-my-kid-something-pretentious-like-Buffy type. I bet she enjoyed being pregnant too. Loved every minute of it. I bet she didn't break a sweat during labor. I bet she didn't use any pain meds. I bet she does baby yoga and wears her kid around in one of those stupid looking papoose things I can't figure out how to use. I bet she only uses organic biodegradable recycled diapers and wipes her kid's ass with aloe vera leaves. I bet she blogs about how every minute of her newborn's life is joyous, a blessing, and that the little angel never cries, is the happiest infant she's known (and the most gorgeous of course), and that while she's gone from a size 0 to a size 2, she's loving her new post-baby body. Hey lady - eff you.

With Bug, I hated the last ten weeks of pregnancy. Hated them. Counted down the days until that glorious due date. Bawled. Frequently. Told DH I couldn't do it. Told my OB I couldn't do it. Prayed that I would go into labor at 37 weeks once he was fully cooked. Tried to bribe the aforementioned OB to induce me once I hit that mark. Did convince him to induce me a week early.

I went days without washing my hair after he was born. Days. Plural. I think the record was 5.

I once spent 6 days in the same pajamas.

I went most days on 2 hours of sleep.

He cried non-stop; I cried right back.

I ate lots and lots of Reese's PB cups out of stress.

I didn't lose the ten pounds I'd gained during pregnancy, I gained ten more.

The thought crossed my mind (more than once) that if I killed DH, I could use insurance money to pay for a nanny. It wasn't like he helped me anyways.

I don't boil my baby's bottles.

I give him formula.

I don't use nursery water, I use plain ol' - GASP - tap water.

I feed him babyfood straight out of a jar. Sometimes it's generic.

I use Pampers. Many, many, many Pampers. Between the stench of his poop and my purchasing those disposable diapers, together we are destroying the Earth. Alert Al Gore.

I don't wear my baby. I tried it once and it sucked. It was hot and uncomfortable and hurt my back.

Sometimes when he cries and I need to unload the dishwasher, I turn Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on for him and he stops. That's right - my baby watches TV.

But here's the thing - we're okay. Both of us. I may not be sprinting across any finish lines any time soon, but the fact that I make it through each day unscathed, with happy and healthy kids is more than enough for me.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Photo Friday

Or maybe for alliteration purposes, Foto Friday. Either way, pictures for your viewing pleasure! Or maybe just for mine. Regardless, here we gooooo....


Photobucket

Bug was having a grand ol' time in the bathtub the other night, almost as good a time as Nut and I had covering him in bubbles.




Photobucket



The canine genius that we call our dog ate Nut's pink soccer ball. She found the deflated inside portion of it and, creative girl that she is, wore it around the backyard as a hat. For hours. It kept me entertained, lemme tell ya. Such the fashionista, that one.


That's all I've got right now. Bug started his day off by rolling out of my bed and hitting his head so I'm being my usual spastic self and keeping a close eye on every bit of his behavior to make sure he's acting normal. Or at least normal in his standards. I promise a real post later today. Or tomorrow. Okay, sometime this weekend.....

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Step away from the WebMD

I vividly remember DH coming to me one evening not long after Nut was born to address his concerns about her sleeping: Was she getting 12 hours a day? Every day? Was I sure? No, was I really REALLY sure? Like, 100% positive? I assured him that she was, more than that in fact, and asked him why he was so concerned about it. He told me he'd read an article on line that said babies who get less than that amount are more at risk for psychological and behavioral problems. Whether or not this is true, I don't know. I filed the info away in the Doesn't Apply to Me folder in my brain and didn't think of it again until recently.

Nocturnal Baby is back. With a vengeance. Never in my life have I met a baby who sleeps so little yet goes so much. Ever since he started learning how to crawl, he's stopped sleeping. He doesn't even make up for it with naps. It's the oddest thing. He gets up around 8am --- and we all know he still gets up two to three times a night --- naps for maybe 45 minutes to an hour the ENTIRE day and then fights bedtime until 9-9:30 at night. Every time he starts to doze off, he pops up on all four's and starts trying to crawl around. It's driving me INSANE. He's all over the house, rolling, scooting, and belly flopping along so I know he has to be tired. I thought during those early days of him never sleeping that surely, SURELY it was only temporary and that I would be getting some much-needed zzzzz's soon.... but no. That was almost 8 months ago and he's yet to sleep through the night. Yet to take two good naps during the day. Yet to let me feel like a human being and not a zombie most of the time. Don't get me wrong, I love that he's so entertaining and active, it's just.... SLEEP damnit! That being said, let me get back to the original point of this story - yes, surprise, it actually has one.

I jokingly told DH that I think Bug will have ADHD. He agreed. I jokingly mentioned it to someone else. And then another person. And another. They also agreed. Suddenly it didn't seem to be such a joke. So I did what any neurotic hypochondriac with the world wide web at her fingertips would do: I googled it.
"Early signs of ADHD in infants" "Common characteristics of infants with ADHD" "ADHD + infancy + signals"

That was a dumb idea. Dumb, dumb, DUMB. Here's what I pulled up (courtesy of adhdcentral.com):

"According to ADDResources, some of the signs are:

More squirmy
Less able to cuddle
More impatient
More easily frustrated
Require more attention
Have more colic
Have a more difficult temperament"




Fabulous. Everyone tells me how hard Bug is to hold, how they can barely keep him from squirming right out of their arms. DH's grandma flat out refuses to hold him because she's scared she'll drop him. Requires more attention? Go back and read my previous posts, I've often referred to him as the neediest little shite I've ever met. Colic? Dear God, the horror of the nightly four hour screaming episodes are still fresh in my memory. Difficult temperment? Check! Impatient? Check!

As if that wasn't enough to send me into oh-shit mode, there was also this little tidbit:


"In previous support groups for parents, some also indicated their children, later diagnosed with ADHD, slept less or took only short catnaps in comparison to children that were not diagnosed with ADHD."



Catnaps?!? That's all this baby ever took. Crrraaaaaap. And so I came to the illogical conclusion that my child has ADHD. I know, I know, it's overdiagnosed, he's not even 8 months old, I'm being a spaz, blah blah blah. Hence the illogical conclusion statement. Really deep down I know I'm being an idiot. You don't have to tell me that. You'll probably think it though and that's okay. I'd have to agree. And honestly if there is some slim chance that I'm right and not just being an overly dramatic bored mama with nothing better to do than self-diagnose my kids with stuff, well then we'll deal. There's a hellava lot worse things that could happen.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

I ain't no trick pony, Ma

My kids will never have to worry about me putting them in child acting classes. They NEVER do anything on command, in fact I think they secretly relish stopping what they're doing the second I pull out the camcorder or camera (and of course immediately resume it once I turn them off). That being said, I have been trying to capture Bug's "crawling" for the last week or so to no avail. He gets distracted by the TV, a piece of lint, you name it. I finally got a short video of it yesterday, although not without a couple of failed attempts first:

video


Mmmmm, yummy right? But finally, here we go:


video

SUCCESS!! He is all over the place now, I wish I could get better video of that seal lion flop he does but for now this is it.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

April Showers?

Today I have been peed on not once, not twice, but THREE times. Not exactly the April showers I had in mind. Changing boys' diapers: alway exciting.

Yesterday was an interesting day with the dog. Even though he is half border collie, I don't think the brain portion came from that breed. Keeping in line with the general stupidity of our pets, I'm afraid to say Mo isn't the brightest of all animals. Sweet as can be, but somethin's not clicking up there. Yesterday morning I let him out in the backyard for his usual 30 minute morning bathroom break. I was in the kitchen making breakfast when out of the corner of my eye, I see the dog staring at me. Through the window. He'd climbed up on the patio table. You're probably thinking, Well, that took some smarts, which would be true... if he could have figured out how to get back down. I had to go get him and put him back on the ground. Later he wanted out again. After about 15 minutes, I hear a riiiiip and look out to see the dog eating the screen off the back door. We slide that all the way over when he's out soley to discourage him from pawing at it or chewing on it, but it didn't stop him. It kept getting better after that. He was in the house with me for a few hours during the afternoon while it stormed. When I let him back out, he ran around like a banshee and got soaked. The next time I checked on him he was rolling around in the sandbox chasing his tail. He wouldn't stay out of it after that. How he gets the lid off, I don't know. Perhaps the icing on the cake though was when we left him the backyard to go run a few errands. We were gone about an hour and when we came home, we found that he'd torn the entire back screen door OFF the hinges and was dragging it around the yard.... I'll just let that info digest for a minute. DH has had it. He wants him gone, but that ain't happenin, I've got news for him. If it comes down to him or the dog, well... peace out honey.