Dear TV execs...

The kids have taken over. Slowly but surely I have come to the realization that the television is no longer mine. I don't know why we pay for 250+ channels when we only watch 3 of them. Children's programming: can't live with it, can't live without it. Well I could, I just couldn't live with my toddler screaming about the lack of Nick Jr. So keeping in the spirit with that, below is a list I've compiled of some episodes I would love to see.


1. Thomas and the High-Speed Derailment. Join Thomas the Tank Engine and his friends for loads of fiery fun on the island of Sodor.

2. Dora Gets Deported. Backpack can't get her out of this mess. The Map knows where to go - and it's back home to Mexico.

3. Diego and the Rabid Dog. Watch as Diego earns a new Animal Rescue badge - posthumous.

4. The Wonder Pets: Ming Ming and the Speech Therapist. Seriously. The speech impediment has to go.

5. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse: Donald Gets Arrested. The duck finally has to own up for never wearing pants.

There goes the baby's college fund....

Baby R (aka Bug) had his appointment with the pediatric GI on Monday. They confirmed his milk protein intolerance and decided to switch his formula due to "intestinal malabsorption". I have no idea what that means, it was just marked under the diagnosis box on the sheet they sent me home with. I'm guessing that's the fancy medical term for Your Kid Poops A Lot. Either way, the $26 a can Nutramigen he was on before seems downright cheap compared to the Nutramigen AA they switched him to. That stuff averages about $50 a can. And not a can that will go a long ways either - roughly about 2.5-3 days. I feel like crying. How does it cost more for a 16lb infant to eat in a week than it does for the rest of the family members' grocery bill for almost the entire month??? I just don't know what to do with the little guy. He is downing formula like crazy because he's hungry, but the doctor wants me to hold off on giving him any solids until they can figure out exactly what the deal is. It makes me sad. He grabs for our food all the time and instead I have to tell him no and offer up some more gag-inducing smelly formula. Patience. If the little guy can have it, so can I......

Hi, my name is Nic....

And I'm a spaz.

With the birth of my second child, I smugly thought I had joined the ranks of veteran parent. I'd learned the lessons: kids cry, kids fall, kids get the sniffles, kids pick stuff up off the floor and eat it, kids live. I got it. Or so I thought.

R is sick. Cough, fever, no voice, the whole nine yards. As a result, I have totally wigged out. I don't even recognize myself; I'm like a crazy lady. I manically checked on her all night last night (when I wasn't sleeping next to her in bed), and have spent $375 on doctors and meds the last two days. I feel like a new parent, a rookie with no clue. In my defense, I have been blessed with relatively healthy children (Baby R's first few weeks nonwithstanding) so I haven't dealt with anything other than the sniffles. When R started in with a croup cough last night, I flipped. I made DH go buy a new cool mist humidifier at 1am, I took her temperature non-stop (thank God for the temporal thermometer so she didn't wake up), I woke her up to give her ibuprofen, and every time she whimpered, I came flying up the stairs. She called for me, I climbed in bed with her and listened to her breathe. I even took her pulse. Seriously. I know what you're thinking and it's okay to say it: Cuckooooooo. I don't think I slept more than 3 hours the entire night. When she got up this morning, she sounded even worse. I took her to the urgent care clinic (aka Waste of Medical Resources) for the 2nd day in a row on suspicion of croup - yesterday I was told there was nothing wrong with her...FAIL! - and the doctor diagnosed her with bronchitis instead. By nap time, she was back to sounding like complete shit and once again I found myself lurking outside her door like a stalker. DH assured me she was fine and to stop overreacting, but I couldn't help it. I even went online and listened to audio clips and youtube videos of kids with stridor and croup. Nutso, right?? After talking to a very nice pediatric nurse (for 30 minutes, the woman was a saint) that was on-call for my doctor, she decided that it did sound like R had croup and advised me what to keep my eye out for. Long story short, I wound up in the ER with her.

And guess what??? She has croup. Take that Priority Care. Too bad I can't get back the $90 they cost me between copays and meds. R is on Prednisone now and I'm still busy camping out near her. It's going to be a loooong night.

Count your Blessings

Quick post tonight. Go to these links, read these parents' stories. Then kiss your babies, hug them a little tighter. When they're driving you nuts (which they do, read my posts!), stop and think how damn LUCKY you are to have them there to do it.

www.corasstory.org


www.caringbridge.org/visit/ansleymclaurin


I pray for these families and also say a little thanks for helping me remember to appreciate just how fortunate I am.

Battle of Wills

Okay, so I may not win any Mother of the Year awards for this statement, but it needs to be said: MY KIDS ARE DRIVING ME INSANE. In fact, it needs to be shouted from the rooftops because nobody seems to be listening and there are days where I feel as though I'm about thisclose from having a nervous breakdown. All I ask for is a break. Ten minutes of my day where I'm not holding a baby while simultaneouly trying to fix dinner, tie a shoe, run the DVD player, answer the phone, pay bills, and take out the trash. A solo trip to the grocery store. A shower that doesn't involve R pulling back the shower curtain to throw Yo Gabba Gabba figures into the tub for me to inevitably step on, or just climbing into the shower herself. Fully clothed. Happened over the weekend btw.

R's latest thing is a hunger strike of sorts. We are locked into a fierce battle of wills, Mommy Vs. Toddler, and so far I think the score is about even. As soon as she wakes in the morning, she asks for a "dink" and a "bite". She even says "pease". It is from this moment on though that things start to go downhill. I offer milk. Fit is thrown. I offer juice. Fit continues. I offer pink milk. Mass hysteria. Hell, one day I offered beer. Not that I would have given her any mind you, but I wouldn't have minded one myself at that point. And what is the root of all this commotion you may wonder? C-A-N-D-Y. I'm so used to spelling it, it feels weird just to write it. Candy. The very word sends my almost-2-year old into such a frenzy that I find myself backing away slowly out of the kitchen, hoping that she'll find someone else to torture about it (namely DH). Where the obsession began, I can't really say. She obviously got some at Halloween and was allowed a piece here or there, but it wasn't as though it was a staple of her diet. Honestly, I did what every mother does and ate the majority of it myself (don't judge, you know you do it too). I guess the latest phase started at Christmas. She got candy in her stocking from Santa, as well as from both grandmas, and thus became a feign of sorts. The candy has long been eaten. It is gone. There is none in the house (well except for my stash of Reese's in the fridge, but she doesn't know about those). Yet the battle continues. At breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, she refuses to eat what I give her. As I cook meals, she stands under the cabinet doing The Candy Dance where she moves her legs back in forth and points while screaming, "Candy! Candy! Candy!" It may sound cute, but it's not. Trust me. Plates are dumped. Food is strewn about her high chair. Tears are shed. I damn the day my toddler ever met an M&M. I keep up the good fight though. It's all I can do.

Baby R, he's another story, but one for another day as it is just about snack time and the C-A-N-D-Y War is about to continue. Wish me luck.

Blast from the Past

I have always been a writer of the mundane. I got my first diary when I was 8 and over the years continued to use one, switching from Dear Diary to a journal to eventually a number of blogs over the years. Last night I was going through a box of old books when I came across a red book with Tigger stickers all over it. I recognized it as a diary. I opened it up and the first entry was dated December 27, 1994. My 12th birthday. I laughed reading it, the ramblings of a 'tween, as I went through the pages. I could see myself evolving over time, as my worries went from sleepovers to boys. And more boys. Lord, I was boy crazy. The journal was a thick one and the entries went up until mid '97. I found one from when I was 14 that upset me. In it I start complaining about how unhappy I am with myself. The ironic part is, I had no reason to be. Apparently that day the family had gone out to eat and my brother had started making fun of me about my weight - which again is odd because I was right where I should be. He may have only been 11 but had quickly figured out the way to upset a girl is to call her fat. I talk about how he spent the whole meal calling me fatty fatty 2x4 and blubber butt and lard. I talk about how he and my step-dad kept looking at my meal and laughing at me and how hurt I was when my step-dad told me that I was going to eat so much I'd blow up like a balloon and float away. I talk about how I refused to eat my sandwich. How I sat in the restaurant and cried. How then my youngest brothers (who were 5 and 3) joined in on the name-calling. I vow to stop eating. I made myself throw up. The next entries are all about dieting.

It's depressing to read really. I wish I could go back in time and give that girl a hug. I wish I could tell her it's not okay for people you care about to treat you like shit. I seem to let that happen a lot though. Looking back over the years, I can see the pattern. In all my relationships - platonic, romantic, and the blurred line between the two - I let stuff slide. Stuff that shouldn't be forgiven, stuff that if it was one of my friends it would happening to, I'd be taking names and kicking ass. Looking back, it's embarrassing. I wonder what some of these guys thought. Treat Nicky like crap and she'll still come back for more! I always thought I just had a "thing" for assholes and now I realize I was just used to being a doormat.

So what's that all mean? I'm done with it. No more. Next time somebody treats me that way, I'll be taking names and kicking ass - for myself.

Need a little more better and a lot less worse....

It's funny where your life takes you. The ups, the downs, the twists, the turns. I can honestly say if you'd said to me ten years ago I would be in the place I am now, I would have laughed at you. I had plans. Big plans. I was going to move to Chicago or New York, I was going to write, I was going to get published. I was going to be a book editor. Marriage? Yeah right. Kids? Not now. Eventually, but not now. Especially not two of them. A mini-van? Heeeellll no. Yet here I sit, 27 years old, living the dream. Or so they say. I love my kids, God I love them. I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world and can honestly say they make me a better person. I still sit and wonder about the what-it's though. What if I hadn't had to move back to Springfield? What if I hadn't started working at Wells and the friends I did? What if we hadn't gone out on the night I met DH?

When I was a kid, I loved those pick your adventure books. Remember those? "If you want to go to Sally's house, turn to page 15. If you decide not to, go to page 33." Sometimes I think about my life like that. There is no way to know how things will go, but I am going to trust my gut, do what my heart is telling me to, and turn the page. It isn't going to be easy, it will hurt, but it is for the best and a chapter ending means the start of a new one.

I know I sound cryptic but it makes sense to me so that's enough for now.

Still hanging in there,
nic