Holiday Update 1.0

I want to preface all of this by saying I usually never have my shit together.  Like, in general...ever.  I'm one of those people who prefer to fly by the seat of their pants and claim to do my best work under pressure.  Around the holidays, I like to have things done earlier than the norm, but I have never been this close to being done by Thanksgiving.  So needless to say, part of me is bragging and the other part of me is just freaked the hell out. 

• Our holiday portraits have been taken and ordered and will be ready to be picked up by Wednesday.
• Our holiday cards have been created and sent to the printer and should arrive by next week some time.
• Santa has been visited and informed; photo was taken.
• I am 90% finished with my holiday shopping.  Gifts have been wrapped AND hidden.
• I'm putting up my Christmas tree tomorrow.

I am genuinely surprised at my efficiency.  I don't know where this motivation is coming from, especially when I am the size of Santa Claus (possibly larger) and have a very crazy toddler, a needy dog, and a crazy, needy husband at home.  Part of me wonders if it's somehow being driven by my subconscious feeling that Baby 2.0 isn't going to stay in for as long as the docs are saying.  Maybe a freakish mommy part of me knows that I need to get this shit done and is giving me the willpower, energy, whatever to do it.  I wish that same drive would tell me to put my laundry away, but that's here nor there. 

Along with the holiday cheer, I have to share our experience with Santa this year.  We had a deal from Sears that for $10 you get to take the picture with Santa and get a few sheets of photos.  You also have an appointment time!  In the past we've just tried to show up at the mall when we thought no one would be there.  Typically we had to wait in line for way too long and then they murder you (with holiday cheer, of course) with the cost of the photos they take.  I recall in the past it was upwards of $30++ and you get like, two 5x7's.  They even choose which pose they think is best and generally (in my experience) don't even show you what the other options were.  I was delighted at this Sears offer and wondered if there was a catch.

The catch?  None.  Aside from the fact Santa was a little bit weird and kept saying "Ho, ho, ho! Santa needs some Starbucks!"  He was a pretty legit looking Santa.  Child 1.0 did not appreciate how real he looked.  As soon as we walked in to the little studio, he shut down.  He sat on Santa's lap and with a terrified, forced smile, took a picture.  Luckily the picture popped up on the screen and I immediately told the lady we were going to need some time.  I didn't know that time was going to be forty-five minutes.  Child 1.0 had a few breakdowns (he was really freaked out by this Santa guy) and a lot of arguing, claiming he didn't want any presents and just wanted to go home.  We have been making our "list" for weeks now and he's been reciting it pretty consistently.  He even pretends to call Santa on his fake cell phone and talks to him.  We walked around Sears trying to get him to a happy place and finally I had enough.  I decided I was going all or nothing and taking him back to that studio whether he liked it or not.  I was even willing to put him onto Santa screaming and crying and get that picture.  All of Child 1.0's pictures with Santa are of him happy as can be but go figure that by Christmas #4 he wasn't cooperating.  I march his ass back to the studio and we were able to walk right back in immediately.  Child 1.0 bounces up in Santa's face and yells, "MERRR!!!"  I don't know what merrr is, but it is a loud, sudden sound that makes most people jolt---including Santa.  Child 1.0 was laughing hysterically at his success at scaring Santa, and jumped right in his lap and was cheesing like nothing had even occurred.  He started rattling off the most random "want list" ever, including things like t-shirts, new shoes, and hats (which I worried made us look like we needed DCFS to come down the chimney instead).  When he was done, he told me he was ready for his "treat."  In the heat of his meltdown, I may or may not have bribed him with a toy.  I figured he was shouting so loudly that he didn't hear me say, "Just take a good picture and you can go into the Disney Store and pick WHATEVER you want---ANYTHING!!!!"

He heard it.  He happily bounced into the store, and what seemed to be intentional, took his sweet ass time looking at every.damn.thing. in the store.  Luckily he has cheap taste because this venture only came to be $4.97.  When factored in to the cost of the portrait package, it was still half the cost of what we would have paid the usual mall Santa PLUS we get more prints, so it's hard to even put a price on it.  Hell yeah.

Ho, ho, ho!  Mommy needs some Starbucks!

When Your Good Intentions Don't Mean a Damn Thing

Ain't that the truth...

Today I learned something terrible: No matter how nice your intentions may be, shit can still go terribly wrong.  See this quote from my least favorite Jurassic Park movie:

Billy Brennan: You have to believe me, this was a stupid decision but I did it with the best intentions.
Dr. Grant: With the best intentions? Some of the worst things imaginable have been done with the best intentions.

It all started with my dog, Dex.  I was so excited to have my first adorable wittle puppy that I didn't put much thought into where to store his crate.  It seemed like the main hub of our house is either the kitchen or the living room, so I plopped the crate in the corner of the kitchen and that is where it has been for the last six months.  Since then, we've gotten a new kitchen table that doesn't quite fit (aesthetically speaking) with the crate.  Grr.  Things like that eat at me, especially when I am super-neurotic and pregnant.

Skip over to our disaster of a laundry room.  It's a pretty damn big space, and I utilize that space by throwing everything in there and closing the door.  Voilà, problem solved.  When we first moved in, we put a mini-fridge in there and kept all of our (hubby and my) drinks in there (not just booze, asshole...mixers too.)  We also have a full-size fridge in our garage PLUS the one in the kitchen, so obviously we were NOT lacking in fridge space.  For about the last year though, the fridge in the laundry room has been empty.  It has also been plugged in.  Super efficient, right?  Exactly my thought a few months ago when I was in there staring at the pile of laundry that needed to be done.  I thought to myself, "Wow!  What a waste of money!  I am going to unplug that bad boy!"  So I did.  And I left it.  And because I don't do laundry too often, I don't go into the laundry room unless I have to.  

Skip back over to today.  With all the boys sleeping and me already on my third cup of coffee, I felt like reorganizing something.  Aha!  We'll move the damn dog crate into the laundry room.  It's like killing two birds with one stone or something....So first I emptied everything I could from the laundry room (which really reminded me that I needed to do a load or ten) and figured I'd move the fridge a little closer to the wall.  So with a mighty heave, I pushed the fridge and heard a terrible "swooshing" sound.  Shit.  Genius over here, (me, obvs.)  unplugged the fridge (that has that little freezer part at the top that had turned into a block of ice) and never did anything about draining it.  Dreadfully, I opened the door and although I'm not sure if it was the water pouring out or the dreadful smell, but it resulted in me screaming.  Not only was a shit-ton of water ALL OVER the floor, but the innards of the fridge were COVERED in a moldy/mildewy mess.  Shit.  It smelled awful.  I was embarrassed in my own lack of common sense and for the fact that nasty water was all over my feet and bottom of my pant legs (ew).  

Needless to say the project turned out to be a TON of more work than I had originally planned.  However, the dog crate has been moved into the laundry room, which I am sure it has NEVER been as clean as it is today.  Seriously.  Also, my kitchen table is now centered appropriately and it looks a lot better.  

Now let's hope my uppity dog doesn't have issues with his new sleeping arrangements or shit is gonna get real.

Morning of Failure; Commonly Known as NotChristmas

This morning I woke up laying crooked on the bed, with my head damn near hanging off the side of the bed where my belly is usually overhanging.  It was darker than usual in the room, and I couldn't get my bearings together quick enough to realize what the fuck was going on.  Where the hell was I?  I am such a creature of habit that something as simple as waking up looking at my room from a different perspective makes me wonder if somehow I was kidnapped or something (which I know is unlikely because that would mean someone would have to lift me up, and let's be real, that shit isn't happening without three large men).  After I snapped out of Sleepyland, I realized why I was laying where I was: A child had magically appeared in my bed.  And he was in my spot.  I sat up and looked at the clock: it was 5:00am.  Fuck.  I punched around hoping to locate some piece of hubby, but he had strategically placed himself on the opposite side of the bed.  It appeared he had relocated to accommodate our guest as well.  Child 1.0 has NEVER crept into our bed in the middle of the night.  If he wakes up in the middle of the night, he yells for us and we go in to his room and calm him down, and in extreme circumstances (see: I'm really fucking tired), we bring him into our bed.  This was not the case tonight.  He had somehow managed to get out of his bed, meander into ours, and take over my spot on the bed without waking either one of his parents.  Damn, he's good.  I stared at him for a few moments and contemplated taking him back to his bed.

...Nah.  I went back to sleep and at 6:00 he was breathing his hot breath in my face telling me it was time to wake up.  Not so fast, my friend.  I told him to go back to sleep or he was going to go back to his room.  He fought me on this for about two minutes before I attempted to sit up to whisk him back to his own domain.  He shot himself back down onto the pillow and shut the hell up.  I woke up at 7:00 and he was sleeping still.  Nice.  Back to sleep.  At about 8:00 I woke up to him silently rustling the covers and creeping out of the bed.  He took off running out to the front part of the house, leaving me confused.  Within moments, he was screaming and had entered Meltdown Mode.  Thinking he discovered a dead body (or the candy wrappers I had left on the coffee table), I had to run out to the living room as well (which I'm sure was a sight to see).  He was standing in the middle of the floor, crying, thrashing, and mumbling incoherent somethings.  When I finally got him to get it together, he told me that his presents didn't come.  What the fuck?  I had not had enough coffee to play "What the Fuck is Your Toddler Trying to Tell You" so I asked him to say it again:


"MY PRESENTS DIDN'T COME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

As patiently as possible, I told him I didn't understand.  He looked at me like I was crazy and proceeded to tell me that today was Christmas and that Santa did not come and that he didn't get any presents.  And for fuck's sake, he was pissed.  Part of me wanted to laugh and the other part of me wondered if my big pregnant ass forgot it was Christmas.  I had to exert my last few ounces of patience and explain to him that it wasn't Christmas.  It was hard.  He did not want to hear it.  He had been so exited for NotChristmas that he had been unable to sleep and came into our bed.  He had wanted to wake up earlier to open presents but "mommy made me go back to sleep" and he had waited "like a good boy."  It was awful.  He was distraught and outraged.  I needed coffee.  After a good half hour (which in Meltdown Mode equates to about three weeks), he was on the road to recovery.  Unfortunately, since we had spent so much time battling tears and angry voices, his whole day was gearing up to be whiny and pissed.  Nothing was good enough for him and EVERYTHING was an argument. 

I did what any decent parent would do and dumped him off at my mother in law's.  We couldn't both be in meltdown mode.  We are almost out of tissues as is.  Booyah.

Get Your Kicks...At 3:56 am.

If this post seems more ridiculous than usual you can blame it on my daughter.  No really.  She's not even here yet and I have already been strategically placing the blame on her.  You see, I haven't gotten "good" sleep in five days.  Now pre-kid(s), I would have been fine with this.  You know, not going out until 10 (that's p.m., folks) and not coming home until god knows when.  Then you get like five hours of sleep and you're good to go.  That shit doesn't fly anymore.  My bedtime is roughly 9pm and anything after that should be highly applauded.  I need to sleep until about 7:00am to feel as if I got enough rest.  That is TEN HOURS of sleep per night.  Yes I know, my adjusted age is roughly 93, but my ass is tired.  Needless to say, chasing Child 1.0 around with my new body  shape (see: Round) is reallllly hard.  It's noteworthy that bending over to pick something up results in me panting.  With roughly two-and-a-half months left, I am not quite sure how I am going to survive.  Pregnancy #1 was easier overall because I didn't have a house to clean, meals to cook (and shop for), a child to parent, socks to find the match of, etc.  Boo hoo me, right? 

Now that we are in the home stretch of final pregnancy #2, I am supposed to be doing what are called kick counts.  My OB says to make a note of ten kicks within a two hour span.  When I was told this, I laughed.  TEN!?  I can get ten kicks of of Baby 2.0 in roughly fifteen seconds, every fifteen seconds.  Not only is Baby 2.0 breech, but this lady loves to dance on my pancreas, or whatever fucking body part she is currently tap dancing on.  Sometimes she throws jazz hands in there, and I truly feel as if she is using my rib cage as a ladder (or stripper pole).  It's glorious.  And by glorious I mean painful and awkward.  Lately she has been interfering with my sleep habits because she is on the schedule that I used to be on pre-kids (see above).  She gets moving at about 11 and DOESN'T STOP.  So no matter how I am laying in bed, she decides it's not going to work.  By luck, I am an incredibly light sleeper so this equates to no sleep.  You try sleeping with a snoring husband and the star of Riverdance in your uterus---I dare you.  To add to the aweomeness, because she is starting to pork up, she is putting all kinds of extra pressure on my nerves that have had a three-year break from dancing babies; hence resulting in: LEG CRAMPS!  Oh, except it's not just in my legs.  It's in my feet, ankles, toes, hips---everywhere.  They are so strong and painful that it is actually sore the next day (and the day after).  So imagine that you finally get to sleep, only to be rudely awakened by the sharp, stabbing pain of death the muscles in your body catching ablaze.

Dancing babies, leg cramps, and getting up to piss every two hours not only makes for a long, terrible night, but it also means your day is going to suck.  My eyes twitch like a crack addict and I am pretty sure my demeanor screams "ASSHOLE."  My house is a mess and is starting to smell like a pirate ship (because I know what that smells like...).  I'm pretty sure if it wasn't for the simple pleasure in life (you know, like the fact the Keurig can make a cup of coffee in seconds)(oh, and Nutella), I'd be curled up in the fetal position under the dining room table (the only "small" space I can fit in). 

All anger and "woe is me" aside, knowing that my wee-one will be here soon enough is pretty damn exciting.  Somehow, my hubby and I made a pretty awesome kid so I know Baby 2.0 will continue to bring all the joy that Child 1.0 has already set the precedent for.  Plus, after the baby shower that was just thrown for us, she'll be dressed so damn awesome that I won't even be able to complain about her eating every two hours and making my pirate ship smell like an orangutan exhibit.  I loves me some babies.  Just not being pregnant.

Approach with Caution

Typically I try to speak to Child 1.0 in language that he will continue to understand past babyhood.  I was never a babytalker who used terms that made no fucking sense.  Everyone uses that ridiculous ass voice to talk to babies but avid babytalkers use that voice and say things like, "Does dee wittle baby want a wittle yum yummy?"  Niiiice.  It's a match made in babyland hell and I go batty when I hear it especially when the baby is 48 months old.  I've read a lot of shit from the literary/educator perspective about how important it is to talk to your baby and that babies do pick up on language faster when you use that crazy pitch in your voice but that using proper vocabulary is equally important.  That's not to say that Child 1.0 doesn't say that he has to go "pee-pee" (because if my three year old said he had to urinate---well, I just wouldn't be fine with it...).  So it's safe to say I've been a pretty straight shooter with Child 1.0, aside from my annoying ass voice.  I've always wanted him to know the real words of things, and that evolved into me wanting him to know how shit really goes down.  That's not to say that I lay the burdens of life on him (START SAVING FOR TAXES!), but I try and make things as easily understandable, within reason, as I can.   

Recently, Adam and I were flipping through a magazine and he saw an ad that displayed this gorgeous aquarium.  He told me that he wanted some fish (because having a puppy and a sister on the way ain't enough).  I reminded him that last year we had an aquarium that had lots of fish, but now it's put away until he is old enough to clean out the tank by himself (because that shit STINKS).  He asked me, "What happened to the fish?"

Ummmm.

I tried to see how easy I could make this.  First, I reminded him that the tank is down in the garage and we'd get more fish another time.  Nope, that wasn't good enough.  "But where are the fish?"  "Well, they were done living here and went somewhere else."  All truth. 

"Did you give them to Nana?" "Err, um.  No.  I put them in the toilet and flushed them down in the water."  There.  Fine.  I said it.  I waited for a tortured reaction...

"So they're dead."

".........errr"


I stared at him blankly for a minute.  How much of that did he understand?  How much of death does he get?  How much of death can you get when you are three?  I have used the word dead before in conversations with him (like why I'm throwing all my plants away, why the leaves fall from the trees, what happened to that guy on the last episode of Dexter), but it was never a conversation that we had.  It was never really defined to him.  It was clear that he knew the fish weren't at someone's house or back at the pet store, but it really unnerved me that he knew that they were dead.  Is my son's youth gone?!?!!

I had no choice but to try and talk to him about it.  I asked him to tell me how he knew that the fish were, um, as he said it, dead.  Luckily, he is NOT three-going-on-fourteen because he said, "The fishes can't swim in the POOP!!!" <insert his uproarious laughter> (On second thought, maybe that answer IS him going on to fourteen...)

I went with it.  It damn sure wasn't the time to talk about death within the same month that we talked about god.  Too heavy.  I'm too hormonal.  He's too young.  That night I wondered if he is so ahead of his age because I never used baby terms with him.  I reflected on my own skillz (or lack thereof) and wondered what his response might have been had I actually told him that the "wittle fishies went to go play with Nemo" or something.  I rely heavily on the thought that I want him to be extremely imaginative and love playing with toys (see: ACTUAL TOYS---not video games, electronic devices, etc.) because he will have plenty of time to do that other shit later (see also: why we don't watch tv---different story).  But the best thing I did?  I quit beating myself up over it.  He is, without a doubt, a toddler.  Just because he can sing and name all the Beatles songs and loves Spirit of the Radio, he is still a toddler...just one that thinks that the fish actually lived to see the poop in the toilet pipes.

Being Prepared for Being Unprepared

The best thing I learned to do as a parent (within my realm of 3.5 years as a parent) is to be prepared to be completely, utterly unprepared for everything.  Don't waste your time trying to be prepared for every little thing because it will NOT happen the way you planned it.  I went into the journey of Child 1.0 entering school accepting that school was going to make him a bit different.  He was going to learn behaviors of other children that would probably go against how he has been raised, he was going to learn new words, new sass, new everything.  It is my role as a parent to establish how we (as a family) react to all these new things and how we can make these learning experiences.  Sure, the other boys may do Exhibit A, but it is a better choice to do Exhibit B instead.  Things were coming along pretty nicely until yesterday he dropped a bomb on me that I was NOT prepared for.

Let me set this up first:
Child 1.0's class says the Pledge of Allegiance at the start of class everyday.  Adam loves songs and chants and had that bad boy memorized within the first week.  It has worked its way into our bedtime routine and even in the car.  Yesterday we were driving and without notice he asks me, "What is god?"

Yelp.

I asked him what he meant and he referred to the exact phrase of The Pledge where that word pops up.  Holy shit (no pun intended).  How come he couldn't ask hubby?  Nevermind, that probably wouldn't have gone well either. We have made the decision as parents to raise Child 1.0 with no religious influence either way.  As an Atheist who chose to be such AFTER completing the Catholic Sacraments, I did not know what to tell him that would be appropriate for someone his age.  I made up my mind two weeks after my Confirmation that this wasn't the right for me.  My dad is also an Atheist and my mom is Catholic.  Growing up with my dad, when I was interested in going to church (in 2nd grade), he let me go with my friend's family.  He never told me what he believed or questioned my intentions, he supported me either way.  He funded my church adventures and never once said anything that made me change my mind.  I recall the moment my faith disappeared and it was only then that we had a long talk about it.  

Now my answer to his question was vague enough to suit his needs for now (granted, he is 3), but I know that it will come up again, probably after he returns to school on Tuesday and tells all the other kids.  My answer was wholehearted and sincere because I had NOT planned for what I would say---quite frankly, because I didn't think that kind of shit was going to come up for a few more years.  He just so happened to discover that word because he didn't recognize it and it was the shortest one he could repeat (it's great hearing a three year old say "allegiance", "republic", and "United States of America").  


In the past month, I've had to parent-through things that we've never really experienced yet: sharing with 22 kids (check), not talking during announcements (check), pushing/shoving (check and check), girl parts/boy parts (OMFG check), profanities (SHIT! CHECK!), and now we can add religion to this list.  

Good Parenting is hard.

Note: After our conversation, I googled the topic to see how others in our position have faced the topic and found a really interesting essay that I want to share for those interested.  If you're not, don't click the link.  It's that simple.  Not a debate.  STFU.  Essay is 'hurrr.
 

Le Peep Show

Girlfrans already got a ton of clothes...thank you to all of my fellow mommy friends :)

There is something completely refreshing about having a baby girl on the way.  Maybe it has something to do with the ridiculous amounts of manliness I have to put up with daily, because you know, I am currently the only female in the hizzouse.  My hubby, Child 1.0, and Dex all act like "typical" men.  If "typical" means nasty, smelly, gross men.  I welcome the idea of having a girly girl, wrapped in tulle and lace, even if she decides to go all tomboy once she learns to dress herself.  Fine.  But while I can still have some say, it will be ribbons and bows bitches.  So I fell in love with the idea of decorating Jbaby's room.  I scoured the internet for countless hours, looking at so many different shades of pink that I thought my eyes were going to bleed.  I subscribed to all the Rich Folk baby catalogs, so I could mooch off of their design ideas.  I drew out various layouts, did lots of mapping, and wasted a lot of time meandering in stores that I had no business being in.  Finally, shit started coming together.  I developed a sense of what I liked and didn't like, and I thoroughly took my time getting things prepared.  Contrary to how I decorated our home (threw shit together as quick as I could and hoped for the best), I took a ton of time on this and I cannot even explain how much I love this room.  I even became all sorts of crafty and made a majority of the stuff in the room.  I love it.  Seriously.  Hell, even Child 1.0 loves Jbaby's room.  I don't friggin' blame him.  It's awesome.  It's not completely done yet, there are a few more mechanical-type tasks that hubby needs to complete before The Big Reveal, but I have to share some tidbits of this room.  It's that freaking awesome and I am that freaking proud.  I shall not disclose what these items are, but some might be pretty damn obvious.

Handmade.  Booyah.

This was originally black and my big pregnant ass painted it.  In yo' face!

My BFF taught me how to make these for roughly $4.00 before I spent $60 on etsy.  Thank god for talented friends.

The end result of my first-ever sewing machine experience

The big splurge in the room

This piece has become one of my favorite things in the room.  I mean, le duh...

One of the things I really appreciate in Jbaby's room is that there really is no theme.  I pretty much backed myself into a corner with Child 1.0's room because I did a specific theme and then had very little to work with.  Animals.  Rainforest/jungle animals.  Now I am sure there are tons of people who could have done it right, but my ass had no decorating skillz and everything was matchy-matchy and LAME.  I look back and want to kick my own ass for having such a fugly room that he seriously grew out of in like three minutes.  Oops.  Looking at the pictures now ('cuz I'm like, all mad fierce decorator and shit), I see so many things that I should have done differently.  Everything in the room matched, including the paint on the walls.  Ugh.  In Jbaby's room, I just went crazy with looking for feminine, elegant looking prints that were the opposite of washed out (kids, see: VIVID).  Go big or go home.  Or go Tropical Punch, Fuchsia, and Pink Cadillac.  I wanted clean lines and different girly patterns that Jbaby can grow with.  I mixed brights with pales, polka dots with paisleys, water and oil, and just about everything I could and it LOOKS AWESOME.

Once hubby finishes smacking on the final touches, I shall present the finished project.  Until then, I am trekking the internet for ideas to do Child 1.0's room.  Because I can't leave him out on this redecorating extravaganza.