Balance

The night before we left Missouri to return home to Alabama, a 12+ hour trip, thankyouverymuch, both of my children decided that sleeping was for sissies and that screaming their lungs out was what all the "cool" kids were doing. Tate took the first shift with Carson, trying to calm him. After over an hour, I reluctantly went in to rescue Tate since I could hear the tone in his voice getting angrier by the minute. He seemed both relieved and irritated by my rescue attempt, but I think just my presence helped to settle both Tate and Carson.

I was able to return to bed, and Tate finally got Carson to sleep about an hour later and returned to bed. Literally within seconds of lying down, Ella started fussing. I heard Tate mutter "DAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMIIIIITTTTTT," under his breath, and since he'd just spent the last two hours with Carson, I got up with Ella to calm her. She finally fell back to sleep after what seemed like four hours, but was probably something like 20 minutes.

Being a person who desperately needs her beauty sleep, I was so incredibly pissed when after about 30 minutes, Ella decided to wake up again. This time I muttered something (NOT under my breath) about throwing her out the window and letting her fend for herself.

"At least it will be quiet in here and we can finally sleep," I huffed.

Sensing my obvious frustration (Tate is quick like that), he offered to take this shift with Ella. Unfortunately, she wanted only Mommy and Mommy's boobies to fall back to sleep. I ended up feeding her and getting her back to sleep around 3 AM, an hour before our alarm was set to go off.

Both Tate and I were exhausted on our drive home. Even the tiniest of irritations could have sent each of us over the edge. Somehow, we were able to take turns having our own tantrums while the other remained calm, cool, and collected.

Tate and I seem to know how to balance the other's mood. He (usually) seems to know when I'm at my wit's end and ready to snap. Even when I adamantly deny needing a break, he'll take over kid duty or cooking duty or whatever duty, and let me simmer down. The same thing is true when he is obviously about to lose it. I sweep in, take over, and give him the much needed break. Often, I feel somewhat resentful when I have to be the sane one, since I spent the majority of everyday attempting this sane facade. I suspect he feels the same resentment when he's just returned from a stressful day at work and immediately has to take over when he walks in the door and finds me teetering on the edge of chaos.

Somehow we maintain this completely necessary balance. We're a good team, Tate and I.

No Cheesy Coffee Cups For Me, Thank You

You know those cheesy gifts you get people when they turn 40 (or 50, or 60...) that say stuff like "over the hill?"

Sure you do.

(On an aside, my 40th birthday is coming up in a little over 7 years, you may want to be begin party planning now to assure a prime location for all attendees. Sushi would be an excellent choice for the party menu. As for gifts, no cheesy coffee cups for me, thank you, but I'd adore a convertible.)

My in-laws have a coffee cup that says:

Life begins at 40.
And so does cosmetic surgery, bladder trouble, high fiber diets, liver spots, hair replacement treatment, sitz baths, eczema and senility.

With the exception of liver spots, how is this any different than what happens after you become a mother?

Cosmetic surgery? F*ck yeah I need it. My boobs will be to my ankles after breastfeeding Carson and now Ella. My stomach will never be flat again without surgical intervention. There are a few other things I could think of that need work, but in the interest of not disgusting you all, I'll stop there.

Bladder trouble? Sneezing, coughing, laughing...all make me pee in my pants. Just a little.

High fiber diets? Not that I know anything about hemorrhoids, but I hear that high fiber diets are excellent in helping with this little (or enormous) gift of motherhood.

Hair replacement treatment? You know, from pulling it out in frustration over sleep issues, toddlers using poop for fingerpainting, and other "joys" of motherhood.

Sitz Baths? See high fiber diets. Also a definite must after childbirth.

Eczema? Am I the only one with weird skin issues after having a baby?

Senility? Pregnancy brain, coupled with the remainder of my brain leaking out of my boobs at each feeding, has made conversations with me sound like, "Can you get me that thing? The one over there in that thing? What? I'm supposed to be where right now? Shit."

See? Motherhood. It's the new 40.

Haiku 'Roids

(Referring to STERoids, not HEMORRhoids...in case you were afraid to continue reading! This was just going to be a simple haiku, but it kept growing and growing, like it was on steroids and into an actual post.)

Without further adieu, may I present...

With all the costumes
I'm surprised he's so pleasant...
You best step off, bitch

******

I fear I've thrown my son under the bus.

Carson is a shy boy. He often protests loudly when we go to story time at the library, refusing to say hello to anyone, crying when asked to sing the songs. Trying to diffuse these somewhat embarrassing situations, I try to crack jokes with the other moms about how "fun" having a toddler is. I've told everyone who will listen that his name should be Mary, Mary Quite Contrary. More than once I've commented that I don't know why he acts the way he does and that his behavior annoys me.

I think these admissions to women I don't know, has somehow made them feel that they have permission to comment on his behavior, too.

But they don't.

They don't have the right to say, "gee, he's finally acting pleasant today." Those words sting as much as a slap across the face.

They don't have the right to say, "he's not in Mom's Day Out or preschool?," in an accusatory tone. When and if I send my child to MDO is up to Tate and I, not some stranger I see once per week for 45 minutes.

I feel so badly that I've ever said anything less than complimentary about my son. The mama bear in me wishes I would have had a great comeback for these unintentionally hurtful remarks. It pains me to know that these other moms have only one view of my son, as a difficult child who is often whiny and unhappy. They don't know the child who laughs and sings and makes my heart nearly burst with pride. They don't know this because I've only complained about him.

[picture removed]

That's my boy. My Carson, lover of Thomas the Train, his Daddy, his baby sister, Ella. This boy who is sweet, kind, and sensitive. MY boy. Those other mommy's best step off. This mama bear roars.


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Mirena and Me

I'm going to my OB/Gyn later this afternoon and getting a Mirena IUD (put in, installed...what's the right word here?). I know that I asked for your advice several months ago regarding this, completely chickened out, and decided to go on the mini-pill. Of course, I had a slight adverse reaction to the mini-pill, which caused me to temporarily consider changing my name to Martha Smith, dying my hair black, moving to a non-descript town in the middle of Nowhere, USA, and begin a new life as a convenience store worker.

I've thought alot about this decision and done some research. I think this is the right decision since the current birth control method we're using has a fairly high failure rate, but I'm still afraid. I fear the side effects, especially the possibility of losing my mind again. Googling Mirena IUD yielded both positive and frightening results. Some people have had wonderful experiences and would recommend it to everyone, others have become pregnant or have had painful side effects that doctors claim aren't a result of the Mirena. I'm hoping my experience will be on the positive end of the spectrum.

If you're not sitting down, this may be a good time to do that. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but here goes. The main reason I decided to go with the Mirena is that I'm not 100% sure that we're not having more children. Despite repeatedly telling people that I was sure that our family was complete, now I'm not so sure. In fact. I'd even consider two more. Although I routinely provide evidence to the contrary (like in this, this, this, this, this, especially THIS, oooh and THIS post), I do in fact enjoy my children and love my role as a mother. You may question my sanity and desire for another child, I wouldn't blame you. Maybe I have lost my mind, maybe it's just a temporary yearning to have more children. One thing I do know is this, I am certain I'm not ready to have another baby right now or even anytime in the next year.

**I do reserve the right to retract or alter any and all of the above statements.

Crappy-Parents-R-Us

I'd like to think that Tate and I are above being manipulated by a 2 foot, 5 inch toddler. At an impressive 64 years between the two of us and the fact that we're parents (the most all-knowing of all beings, duh), I'd think that we could easily deflect his wily ways.

This is sadly not the case. Little Carson man has become a master manipulator. And we fall into his expertly woven trap every. single. time.

He's becoming especially efficient at stalling at nap time and bedtime. Before he will even consider going to bed, it has become absolutely necessary that all of his choo-choo trains, monster trucks, firetrucks, stuffed animals, or any other toy within his range of vision be put to sleep as well. This routine consists of lying each toy on it's side and Carson saying, "bye bye choo-choo train engine, bye bye blues clues fire engine, bye bye every last toy that he possesses!"

Somehow, we've lost all control of storytime before bedtime. We used to allow only 3 stories, but now storytime has somehow morphed into reading 8-9 books. Even though I put the rogue books back on his bookshelf everyday, at some point during the day, Carson returns the books to his nightstand, ready to be read that night. Rather than let his primal screams wake up Ella, we give in and read the disallowed books.

Not ready to leave wherever we are? No problem, Carson will just suddenly find the most minute grain of nothing on the floor and decide he must study it, demanding to show us this nothing. We feign interest just to hurry his ass along.

Not interested in eating what I cooked for dinner? Say "all done, all done, all done" until we can't take it anymore, give up, and let you down to play.

Not feeling like having your diaper changed? Simply ignore Mommy as she requests your presence on the floor. Continue to ignore until Mommy starts losing her patience and then, and only then, begin to laugh and run away. Mommy thinks to herself, "I shouldn't chase him, he wants me to chase him." And a chase ensues.

You want a package of fruit snacks right there in the middle of the grocery store, but we haven't paid yet? Just scream your head off until Mommy relents and lets you eat one (okay, two) packages in order to finish the shopping trip in relative peace.

Come on, you're super impressed with our parenting skillz? Am I right!? (Damn, I swore I'd never be that parent.)

No, Mommy, wait!

Red Ball Chase

Tate came home from work early, which is a rarity. We took advantage of the extra hours of family time since most evenings are saturated with dinner, bath time, and bedtime stories, leaving little time for conversation and play. We all went outside on the patio and the boys began their favorite game, red ball chase. After an extremely long summer, I thought I detected the slightest change in the air, signaling a hint of fall. This shift in the air felt almost magical.

I watched as Tate and Carson ran in circles, bouncing the red ball, and very immersed in this game that appeared to be so simple. They invited me to join in their game and I learned that this game had rules and technique. Sometimes you chased Carson, other times you chased Daddy. There was lots of ball bouncing, especially off of me, but I relished being included in red ball chase. I never did really understand my role in their game, but Carson, even at 23 months, knew the rules and when I broke them.

As young children are known for doing, Carson became bored and began to play with something else. Tate and I watched him as he practiced going up the stairs on the patio, ever so carefully, saying "sep! (step), sep!, sep!," as each foot touched the step below. We revelled in his ability to feel such joy in this simple activity.

The black gum tree next to our house began to fill with birds of all kinds, woodpeckers, robins, and a cardinal. Tate explained that we needed to stand very still or we would spook the birds, causing them to fly away. Carson was mesmerized by the chattering between the birds and watched, entranced, not moving a muscle for longer than I'd expect of a child his age. Eventually the birds flew away and you could see the disappointment in this little boy's face as he called, "more bir, mor bir!"

I realized, spending this unexpected afternoon with my family, that even if it was temporary, time didn't feel like it was in the way. For this afternoon, I didn't feel the constraints of responsibilities and was able to just enjoy. This once, reality didn't feel burdensome.

I never knew something so seemingly insignificant as red ball chase, steps, and birds could bring such peace. I hope I can open my eyes, grab those moments and simply be, more often.

Time

I watch the clock. 5:30? Why hasn't he called? I want him to call. I need a break.

When will this stage pass, sleepless nights, colic, "no", throwing food on the floor, naps chaining me to the house...

Next summer Ella will be walking, it will be easier.

Next year Carson will be, I will be, Tate will be...

I'm always waiting.

It seems to be such a shame that I'm not enjoying the moments more. I know I should savor these times, not wish them away.

When it comes to the concept of time, I'm always at odds. I wish it away, yet I wish for it to last longer, too. Now that we've had children, Tate and I have such little time together. Yet in the evenings, I find that it's hard to switch gears from "Mom" to "wife." I don't know how to go from covered in spit-up and washing dinner off little hands to adult conversationalist and lover.

There's never enough time to just be me.

The ability to make time for everyone, Carson, Ella, Tate, friends, seems impossible. I don't know how to balance everyone's needs. I joked yesterday about needing help. But really, it's not a joke. I'm tired. I'm having trouble keeping up.

I'm always overextended.

I miss the days of being childless and carefree. Planning my days however I felt, not planning around meals and naps and bedtimes. I miss going out to dinner, having nice clothes, being the other half of a great couple, and driving fast with the windows down and music blaring. I wished this time away, wanting children. Wanting to be truly grown up.

Well here I am grown up. So lucky to have a wonderful husband, healthy and beautiful children. I have everything I ever dreamed of having and more. But, why am I not finding the contentment I'd thought I'd have?

Is this IT for the rest of my life? Making meals, wiping butts, calming tantrums, getting up in the night, disciplining, always waiting for the next thing.

Or is THIS it? Watching my kids grow and flourish, encouraging them, making them feel loved, going to baseball games and dance recitals, crying on their first days of school, remembering to savor the here and now.

Either way, I don't know where I fit. When do I get to be me?

*****
On a somewhat related note, check out my recipe blog for a delicious recipe from Impostor Mom, Spicy Honey-Glazed Chicken. Mmm, mmm, mmm. Delicioso.

Reminders

I'm in a funk. I'm eternally irritated. With Motherhood, with living in Alabama, my dogs, my ever expanding body, my husband (gee, could you tell...I never post about HIM.)

But as I sit here right now, I look over at Carson. He's sitting beside his sister playing and giggling. He's talking to her in words I don't understand except "baby Ella." My almost 4 month old baby girl has almost scooted herself off the blanket. And even though it's only a temporary respite from yet another lackluster day, it reminds me of how lucky I am.

Sometimes I need two reminders.

Forget Dante's Circles of Hell

Tate is sick.

Need I say more? Oh, but I can't resist.

Welcome to my own version of Hell. (Based on Dante's Inferno.) Care to join me?



First circle: Teething
Second circle: Tantruming toddler who acts like a horse's ass.
Third circle: Day in, day out monotony of life with children who require naps, some requiring frequent naps, and nap fighting (if they're tired, why won't they JUST SLEEP?)
Fourth circle: The TV show, Hi-5
Fifth circle: No showers or any sort of grooming for that matter because there is NO TIME since the rest of my time is spent getting children down for naps (heh), preparing meals, or singing the Hi-5 theme song.
Sixth circle: Noise making toys purchased by grandparents and people who don't have children.
Seventh circle: Colic.
Eighth circle: Tate, sick. (Please note that this is the DEEPEST level of Hell, even worse than colic.)

This is only my current version of Hell. I strongly suspect that many of the circles will cease to exist only to replaced with these:
*Shit smearing children
*children who slam their doors when they don't get their way and they are generally assholes at this pre-pubescent age
*back talking preteens
*back talking teens
*curfew breaking teens

I really could go on and on.

Tate being sick will always be the deepest level of Hell, though. Always.

Hello Pot? This is Kettle

He simply told me how he put her to sleep differently.

"Didn't you see how I held her and rocked her. She didn't even cry after I laid her down."

That's all he said, but to me it felt like he said, "your abilities as a mom are really lacking, why can't you do a better job?"

Me and melodrama...we're tight.

I've dealt with Ella's nap and bed time battles nearly everyday since she was born. And nearly everyday, I wonder what I'm doing wrong. It's always been a struggle. So when he put her down, successfully! twice yesterday, it makes me question my parenting skills even more. How is it possible that I do this everyday, yet I can't put her down without her sounding like a drowning cat?

I know that he is a parent to our children, too. His way of doing things certainly isn't wrong, I just don't like to hear when they're better than my way.

Even writing that, I know it is just like the pot calling the kettle black. How many times have I questioned something he's done with the kids? "This is how you fold the dirty diaper correctly." "You should be holding up on your shoulder, she doesn't like being held the way you're holding her." "No, you dilute the apple juice this way."

Most of these ridiculous directives are combined with excessive eye rolling and exasperated sighs.

My "wife skills" are starting to rate right up there with my ability to put my child to sleep. I know. (Eyes roll at myself.)

I feel resentful, though.

I'm guessing this is how he must feel when I correct his parenting attempts...

I suppose I should also feel remorseful.

Wherein I Admit to Being Wrong

Before we had kids, most of us probably had very specific ideas about how we would parent. We knew what sleep method we'd use, how much TV we'd allow, how much sugar was acceptable, and how we would discipline. In fact, we may have be been so knowledgeable and well versed in the latest, greatest parenting books, we possibly even spewed our ad/assvice on unsuspecting people with children.

Yeah, I was one of those people.

I'm here to say, first, that I'm sorry I ever offered even one speck of ad/assvice to any of my friends with children. PLEASE forgive, for I knew not what I was doing. Secondly, I want to say that I was wrong about my views on parenting. (You may want to print this particular blog since I'm admitting to being wrong. It's rare that I'm ever wrong, and even rarer for me to admit it.)

You know that rule about two hours of TV, as recommended by the AAP? Oh yeah, my son would not be allowed to watch even an hour of TV. Seriously, we were going to do enriching, learning activities TOGETHER. Reading books, fingerpainting, crafts, outdoor activities (humid 100 degree weather be damned), and singing/dancing/tumbling classes were all on my carefully scheduled agenda. There wasn't going to be time for TV.

I'm happy these days if he only watches 4 or 5 hours of TV. Per day. Go ahead and judge me if you want, but I've learned to accept my slacker parent ways. He is QUIET when he's watching Blue's Clues, Hi-5, and Live with Regis and Kelly.

He learns things by watching TV. In fact, we think he may be a genius. He can count from 1-4, 8, 3, 2, 6, and 8. He knows the colors blue, blue, blue, and black. Occasionally, he even knows orange. The little genius is even beginning to tell time. He knows that at 7:00, the monster truck cartoon comes on, followed by Peep and the Big Wide World. So all this TV is actually helping him and NOT stunting the growth of his brain.

Before ever even getting pregnant with Peanut, I knew how he would be disciplined. Actually, he wasn't actually going to need much discipline since I was going to teach him the proper ways to handle his frustrations. Instead of hitting, he was going to have words to convey his feelings.

I'll give you a minute to stop laughing AT me and compose yourself. Are you done? Moving right along then.

So I was wrong about how much discipline he was going to need. He does have words, all right. He screams "NO!" really well. I was sure time-out would nip any and all misbehaviors in the bud. Uh, time-out kinda makes him giggle. And his naughty chair is his favorite place to sit.

Such innocent fools we are before having kids, huh?! Who knew that TV would be such an excellent babysitter and that time-out was such joke (at least for my kid)!

What have you done since having kids that you swore you'd NEVER do?

********************

Check out Suburban Reviews today! Sarah from In the Trenches of Mommyhood is the guest reviewer! Go see how she used Clorox on her kids!

Groundhog Day

I don't care much for weekends anymore. I especially don't like having a random "weekend style" day in the middle of the week.

It's just not fun having to entertain three children people instead of just two.

Tate is a do-er. He doesn't like being homebound, watching TV, and generally doing nothing. Unfortunately for him, having two small children puts a major cramp in his style.

When he got home from work on Tuesday night, he wanted me to plan some good ol' family fun for the Fourth of July. In all fairness, he did say "we" should plan something, but seeing as I speak Tatenese, I knew that really meant I was to be the planner. I was not aware that I was to be the Entertainment Coordinator for this holiday. Flattering to be nominated for the role, I suppose, but with all my other responsibilities, I wasn't interested in taking on another position.

Being the overachiever that I am, though, I thought real, real hard for about 1/2 a second trying to come up with a fun activity. Hmmm, I thought to myself. What kind of fun can we have with two small children, who need naps and won't nap anywhere but their beds, and one who needs my boob every 2-3 hours? Gosh, I was stumped.

I couldn't think of ONE thing to do. So we did nothing.

Tate moped around all day Wednesday having suddenly realized we're losers parents. I was too weary from my attempt at Entertainment Coordinator to remind him that being homebound is just a temporary side-effect of having a newborn.

I wonder, does he think I enjoy being stuck at home all week with no place to go? Does he think I enjoy always sticking to the standard operating procedure for two babies? Does he realize that I can't distinguish between the days because they are all the same? Does he realize that I am bored OUT OF MY MIND?

The walls in my house look a lot like the bars of a prison cell. I stay home EVERYDAY. Keeping to feeding schedules and nap schedules, cleaning house, doing laundry, fixing meals, paying bills...yeah, it's just not my idea of a good time. I would have loved to have hosted a bar-b-que, gone to the beach, or gone to see fireworks, but it's just easier to stay home.

My brother and his girlfriend are coming for a visit this weekend. I suppose I should get my ass in gear and start planning some wild and crazy things to do between the kids' naptimes. Scrabble anyone? Twister?

I'd hate to be fired from my job as Entertainment Coordinator. Heh.

Better

Worried about being jinxed as I was last time, I haven't talked about Shel and colic or acid reflux. Or any crying related cause. Or crying in general, except my own.

Don't be misled. She still cries, and rather too often for my taste. But overall, she seems better. No longer does she appear to be in pain, crying in agony or playing light as a feather, stiff as a board.

However, (and there's always a however) Shel is what I would classify as high maintenance. She is not a baby content to just sit in her baby papasan, or just swing, or just lay on a blanket.

Shel likes to be coddled. She likes to be entertained. She really, really likes to play spit out the binky and see how long it takes that lady to put it back.

And most disturbing, this kid is a nap bucker. She wants to sleep, oh how she wants to sleep, but will fight the nap to the bitter end. This nap bucking is the root cause of the majority of her crying spells.

Shel does have her good traits, though. After all these hellacious weeks of crying (hers and mine), she's begun to smile. Baby smiles make up for many past indiscretions.

She also has begun to whimper when you're not paying her enough attention. It's as if she's saying "hey, lady, coo at me some more! I like you, you're funny!"

Hey Shel, I like you, too.

******************************

Join in the fun, The New Girl has put out a call for pics of our squalling babes. And since I seem to be the Queen of crying babies, I couldn't resist.

Some Days Require Warning Labels

Bolt awake and realize it's 7 AM. It's 7 AM!!! Woo hoo, what a great start to the day!! Oh, it's 7 AM? Peanut never sleeps this late?

Check on Peanut, creep ever so quietly into his room, see that he's sleeping. Feel relief, today is going to be a great day with Peanut so well-rested. Close the door on the way out and accidentally let go of knob too early, causing the latch to make a noise.

Peanut hears the latch, wakes up crying. Damn. Go in and get him out of his crib, realize his diaper leaked and he, along with his sheet, blanket, pillow, and crib bumper is wet.

Change his diaper, the sheets on his bed, and start first load of laundry.

See that it's 7:30 and time to get Shel up for the day. On the way, see something on the carpet, "must be a raisin," I think. Pick it up and to my horror realize it's a dingleberry from my dog's ass. Gag. Almost puke. Praise the Lord Peanut didn't find the raisin look alike first. Curse the dogs.

Begin to feed Shel, start working on the checkbook. Realize we went a little crazy with our money during the month of June.

Peanut demands breakfast. Try to make toast one-handed while feeding Shel. Feel smug and accomplished as I serve Peanut his breakfast without spilling or burning anything. Pour him a cup of milk, accidentally spill it all over when I don't get the lid put on correctly.

Clean up mess, start to clean up breakfast dishes. Get distracted when I find two more receipts to put in the checkbook. Realize we went really crazy with our money in June.

Attempt to put Shel down for her morning nap after she yawns and acts sleepy. Play binky bitch for twenty minutes until she falls asleep.

Start second load of laundry after trying to locate all the clothes Peanut has hidden throughout the house when I left the laundry basket in his reach.

Hear someone pounding on the front door. Shel awakens, crying. Curse Fed Ex man for POUNDING on the door when the sign covering the doorbell clearly says "please knock" not "POUND AS LOUDLY AS YOU CAN AND WAKE UP MY BABY, JACKASS."

Open the door, realize I'm wearing my breastmilk soaked nursing gown, with one of my boobs hanging out of the slits. Quickly cover myself as best as I can, turn a lovely shade of crimson, sign for the package, close the door as quickly as I can and pray that he didn't see my boob peeking out to say hello. Run to comfort Shel, and finally get her back to sleep after yet another round of binky bitch.

Dogs are starving. Open the pantry door and realize we're out of dogfood. Put dogs outside to distract them while I think about what I could feed them instead. Toast, leftovers, the whole box of dog treats? Realize I'm going to have to make a run to the grocery store soon. Start a grocery list.

Make a marinade for the meat we'll grill for dinner. Open meat package and realize the meat is spoiled. Gag. Almost puke. Look at the date, a week expired. Shit. Add flank steak to grocery list.

Turn around and see Peanut wielding a butter knife I'd left too close to the edge of the counter. Scream for Peanut to put down the knife. Eventually, wrestle knife from his fingers. Praise the Lord I don't need to add band-aids and replacement fingers to my grocery list.

Look at the clock and see that it's only 9 AM.

Second Place

Saturday began as a terrific day. Sun shining, we went to some garage sales. We used our double stroller for the first time, Shel napped for the majority of the morning's shopping, and we salvaged all kinds of junk at cheap prices. The little things were bringing me joy.

The day continued with little crying, long naps from both children, and time on the computer for me. It was a good day indeed. I was feeling happier than I had in a long while.

Then like a switch, the good day darkened and my mood changed.

It's the rare occasion that I have the opportunity to give Peanut his bath, read him his bedtime stories, and put him to bed. This is usually the time of night that Shel needs lots of tending and I get the responsibility of calming her. However, Saturday night was different. Shel was calm, so I gave Peanut his bath.

After his bath, Peanut demanded that Tate come in and read his stories and put him to bed. He was pleading for his Father. He didn't want me.

It felt like a slap in the face. This second place parenting. My confidence has been shaken.

All I could do was take Shel from Tate's arm and leave the bedroom. I didn't, I couldn't even tell Peanut goodnight.

I began to nurse Shel, crying because of the hurt and sadness that had so suddenly washed over me. That voice in the back of my head who has been taunting me since Peanut was an infant, had spoken quite clearly to me that night. I'm always going to play second fiddle to Tate in Peanut's eyes. I've never had the ability to soothe and comfort Peanut. I've never been the one he's run to. I can't make the truck noises, give him tractor rides, and play for hours outside. Daddy can. Mommy can't.

Tate does not comprehend why I am feeling so down, so resentful. I haven't had the words, or even the courage to admit that Peanut hurt my feelings. Even saying that a 20-month old could hurt my feelings to this extent seems trivial and immature. I'm an adult and know that I should realize that Peanut is just a small child and his intent was not to hurt me.

But I feel my confidence in my parenting abilities waning. I wonder how I'm going to handle always being the second place parent. It's not a competition, shouldn't be a competition. But I can't help but wonder, can I do better? How do I do better?

Hatin' on the Binky

My goal this week was to not moan on my blog about colic or acid reflux. And I'm not.

But I didn't make a goal not to be a binky hater.

Shel's pacifier is going to be the end of me. One minute it's our best friend, soothing and comforting her, lulling her to sleep. The next minute, all hell breaks loose.

All the pacifier is is a primitive (and rather ineffectual) mute button, providing temporary relief to us both.

She wants it...waaaaaaaaaaaaah, waaaaaaaaaaaaah, waaaaaaaaaaaaah!

She spits it out...waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! WAAH, WAAH, WAAH, WAAH, WAAH, WAAH!

Then Shel wants it back....waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Wants it, hates it, wants it, hates it, wants it, hates it....

I've become her binky bitch.

She may only be seven weeks old, but I'm putting the kibosh on that f*cking pacifier.

I'll be systematically weaning her from the f*cker. I am nobody's binky bitch.

So far today..Binky 1,000, Jennifer 0

My cause isn't looking good. Not good at all.

Doody in the Pool

We had an incident in the tub last night.

Peanut pooped in the tub.

Just a nugget, but still, he pooped. Luckily it was easily, uh, retrievable.

So, does this mean I'm a full fledged "Mom" now? You know, now that I have my very own poop story.

Am I in? Am I! Am I!

Where do I pick up my plaque? Do I get a jacket, too!

Feeling Blah-gy

I think that perhaps the baby blues have set in. Or maybe the sleep deprivation is catching up with me. I suppose it's possible that the teething on Peanut's part, the crying on Shel's part, and my lack of dairy is causing me to feel...blah. I feel a bit paralyzed by everything. Little tasks overwhelm me.

We were in a minor fender bender Saturday morning (actually it was a fender scuffer) and I reacted poorly. Nobody was hurt, which is of course the most important thing. I was terribly rude to the poor girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, who bumped into us. I feel so terrible, I know I should call her home and check on her, but I don't know what to say and how to tell her "I'm sorry I was such a jerk."

This fender scuffer is adding to my very long "to call" list. There are insurance companies to call, estimates to set up, and planning to be done on how on Earth we'll survive with just one car. Others on my "to call" list include my brother (whose left me message after message that I've yet to return), the cable company (our internet is up and down several times per day), several friends, and the Mother's Day Out program where I'd like to enroll Peanut in the fall.

On Saturday afternoon, a photographer came to our home to take some family pictures and naked baby pictures of Shel. It was a very uncomfortable experience for me since I am so incredibly unhappy with my appearance right now. I know that I'm only 5 1/2 weeks postpartum, but I wish I looked...better. My body does not feel like my own. There is flab where I don't usually have flab. I had to buy pants in a size I worked so hard several years ago to never be again. My hair is brown. It's brown so that I don't have to have my roots touched up. I'd much rather be blond again.

I had planned to do something for Tate for Father's Day yesterday. Unfortunately Shel and Peanut were both having bad days, making it painfully obvious that going in public would be a mistake. It certainly was not my fault that it turned out to be a disappointing day, but I wish I could have fixed it so that we could have done something.

Looking around my house makes me want to hire a housekeeper to come in hourly. Eventhough I vacuum and dust twice a week, there is dog hair everywhere. Peanut has destroyed my unread magazine collection, leaving bits of paper strewn about. His cars, trains, animals, sippy cups, shoes, and socks are always underfoot. I'd clean them up, but why? He'll just get everything out again within minutes.

Cooking dinner, making grocery lists, cleaning the bathrooms, and other seemingly easy tasks have become overwhelming. It would be nice to have a personal assistant to just take over. Really it would just be nice if someone would take care of me.

As much as I love blogging, it has begun to overwhelm me, too. Lately, I don't like anything I've written. It's like my brain is misfiring and I've lost some creativity. The Publish button has become a regret button, as I wish I could have done a better job on several posts. I find myself posting, even the crappy stuff, just so you all will talk to me. Also, I read other's posts that cause me to have serious blog envy. I wish I could be so eloquent. It would be nice if I had something more to talk about than Shel and Peanut. However, they are my only experiences right now. I wouldn't even be able to discuss current events right now since I haven't watched anything but Noggin for weeks.

I'd leave the house more often, but it's so hot that I feel like I can't breathe. Getting two kids in the car, with all necessary drinks, snacks, and diapers, then finagling them both to our destination is just not worth the effort. Also, gas prices are so high and we live so far from anyone I know, that I can't justify frequent outings.

I know that I need to just take it one day at a time. I know we all have days, even weeks (or more) that we are not ourselves. It's just that I want myself back, in my body, the person who I am. Not this robot mommy that I feel like. Blah, blah, blah.

David Letterman Paid Me a Visit

Top Ten things I've learned since becoming a Mother (especially a Mother of more than one!)... (I probably should compile a list of 1,000,000 things I've learned, but ten seems much more manageable!)

1. Assvice=Bad, Advice from great friends in the blogosphere=Good

2. Even I can watch Hi-5 if it means that I can have 20 more minutes of peace and quiet for blogging cleaning.

3. You can never watch too many episodes of Blue's Clues (please refer to #2)

4. The pediatrician doesn't know your child like you do. You don't need their permission, you don't have to follow their parenting advice, you must demand more of their time if they don't give your child what he/she needs.

5. Microwave meals are not evil. Dry and not as tasty as home cooked, but nourishment, nonetheless. Sandwiches also count as a full meal.

6. Showering at night means you at least get a shower.

7. Shaving is highly overrated. So is make-up. So are hair dryers. And nail polish.

8. It's okay if your toddler has only jelly for breakfast and ketchup for lunch.

9. There's nothing wrong with wearing pajamas all day. It's better than going naked when there is no laundry clean.

10. All baby clothes should have crotch snaps. The ones that don't have snaps make excellent dust rags.

The Nice Way to Say F*ck Off

Here's the scene...

Location: Babies R Us

The Characters: Lots of first time pregnant women with their mothers and me and a screaming Shel

As I'm browsing with my screaming daughter, who has JUST eaten, I'm receiving lots of stares. Stares that say "THAT woman needs to help her baby, THAT woman is a terrible mother, THAT woman needs my assvice."

Please note that just a little while back I asked all of you for advice as to how to help Shel with her colic. I'm eternally grateful for this advice for which I asked.

I do not, however, take kindly to people (specifically strangers whom don't even have their own kids yet) spewing off assvice as if they've taken verbal ex-lax.

Here's what I heard...

"Have you tried to hold her upright, she looks so uncomfortable how you're holding her."

To Shel..."Your Mommy just isn't paying any attention to you is she?!"

"That is one hungry baby."

"Get yourself some (you fill in the blank) and she'll never cry again. It worked like a charm for my best friend's, uncle's, next door neighbor's, veterinarian who had a colicky baby."

"She needs her binky." (This after Shel has spit it out in brutal anger for the umpteenth time.)

I didn't say anything to these people for fear of bursting into tears. Not tears of frustration, but the hot, angry tears you get when you feel backed into a corner, minimized, looked at with scorn.

I need a really good come back for times like these, as they will continue as long as I go in public and Shel is colicky. I want to say something to the effect of f*ck off, but more eloquently.

Any suggestions? (Getting advice when asking for it...cool! Getting assvice from randoms...Infuriating.)