Author Archives: Crystal

On Guilt

When I decided to be a SAHM, I sort of didn’t really get to decide. If you have been following along for any amount of time, you might know that I was fired from my position two days after announcing my pregnancy. I was a good worker. I was the one chosen to train new employees. I was on TOP of shit. And then, all of a sudden, I was pregnant. And I was left without no insurance and a baby on the way. This was a giant mess. On top of never wanting to have kids in the first place, I was without a safety net. I went through so much during my pregnancy with L. I was depressed. I felt hopeless and alone and generally lost.

And then I saw her face.

And then all was right with the world. I decided, right then, that not only did I want to be with her every minute, but I wanted to give up working. At least for the time being. Because what the hell is a job in comparison to raising a child?

And then I found out I was pregnant with Baby O. Right about the time that I had decided I was ready to start looking for a part-time job to get out of the house a little bit. To make some money. To feel like a person again. Even a person who was stocking shelves or running a register. Just something else. For a couple of hours per week.

And then there Baby O was. With his little, toothless, juicy face. And again, I didn’t care about anything else.

And now, O is eight months old.

And I am lonely. And exhausted. And overwhelmed.

The babies are beautiful and healthy and so freaking fun to be around. But I am functioning as a married, single mother. And I am running on fumes. I feel my blood boiling if the kids won’t go to sleep and give me the 30 minutes of silence I so desperately need to remain sane for the rest of my 16 hour day. I feel myself grinding my teeth at the 32nd diaper change and sometimes feeling the urge to lock myself in the bathroom for six hours to avoid tantrums. And I wish desperately, sometimes, that I just had to go to work. Because, at least, if I were at work, there would be no tantrums (well…in theory) and there would be no diaper changes (I hope…). Because, at work, you just get shit done. And then you go home and it is over. When you are a SAHM, it is never. fucking. over. You just go and go and go and go. And you drink coffee at 4pm so that you don’t fall asleep on the couch, allowing for so much mischief and possible death. Falling asleep could cause a house fire. It is proven fact that, as a SAHM, if you fall asleep, it will trigger some sort of natural disaster. Hurricane Katrina? Yep. Some poor lady, after four days of dealing with a toddler and a teething infant, fell asleep at 3pm and BAM! Worst storm EVAR. True story.

Anyway. Yeah. I am super tired. I miss sleeping and nights out with friends. And riding in my car without babies. I miss reading books and talking to adults and blogging. Oh my god, you guys, I MISS BLOGGING. (Because, I used to have shit to say…) I miss sleeping until noon and going to brunch. And the beach. And…SO MANY THINGS.

And I feel guilty. Because I love my kids. I love them so much that I feel like my heart will explode when L says, “I love you”. Or when O’s eyes get all big and bright when I pick him up from his crib in the morning. I love that they love me so much and I can SEE it and FEEL it and TASTE it in every tiny thing that they do. But oh my GOD, I want to go to work. I want to speak to people without having to add a “y” to the end of words. I want to have relaxing lunch dates, wherein I gossip with some petty girl about some coworker. (I know, it is awful…but it is also strange what you miss when you don’t have it. And I am more of a listener, anyway.) I want a mimosa. On a beautiful, sunny day. In my coastal town. WITH ADULTS. And no curfew. I want, I want, I want.

And there is guilt. So much guilt.

An Open Letter to My Kids: 8 months and 21 months

Dear Kids,

This past month has been INSANE. You have been sick, teething, exhausted, cranky, defiant, loud, hyperactive, and sometimes, all of these things at the same time. My days with you have varied from wonderfully entertaining to seriously infuriating. When I say infuriating, I want you to realize that I am not mad AT you, but I am mad that I a) I have tried 47 times to drink coffee while it is warm, subsequently heating it up OVER AND OVER AND OVER but it never works because one of you has suddenly created some sort of gift for me in your pants and it needs to be dealt with RIGHT THIS MINUTE or because someone else is shrieking because she cannot lift a chair that is TWICE HER SIZE, over her HEAD. (I can see where this would be frustrating, my dear. The shrieking is taking things a bit far. I am more than happy to relocate said chair for you. Promise.) or b) no matter how many dishes I have done today, every time I go into the kitchen, the pile seems to have doubled. Or tripled. (Why the eff don’t we have a dishwasher?) or c) one of you is sick and cannot decide if you would like to sleep constantly or not at all so I spend most of the day fighting with you to sleep and then you wake up the other one of you. And then I fight with that one. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I could never be angry at you guys though. You are little and hilarious and super fun. You know, when you are smiling and cooperative. Which, by the way, could happen more often if you wouldn’t mind. Just saying. But you are generally good little spawn. You are more grown up every day and it kills me to think that, pretty soon, you won’t be my tiny, dependent little people. And you will be doing things like going to school. And having sleepovers at friends’ houses. And, like, stealing cars and stuff. (You seriously had better not steal cars EVER, you guys. I am serious. Unless you can be really good at it. Like, if you were like Nick Cage and Angelina Jolie in “Gone in 60 Seconds”. Far be it for me to make you stop doing what you’re good at. Don’t get caught stealing cars.) It blows my mind that you guys will be ONE and TWO in a few short months. How did this happen?

If there is a grievance here, it is that I would really like to sleep more. I am not saying that this is always a problem. And O, you are mostly an angel in letting Mommy sleep. L, on the other hand, you are a monster. 21 months old and you still refuse to stay in your crib all night. You want to be next to me ALL. THE. TIME. (And I don’t hate this at all because you are the best cuddler I know…but let me tell you something about how mommies and daddies like to sleep in the same bed. Sometimes, you make it a little difficult for your Daddy to sleep because you are kicking him in the nose for hours on end. You really should apologize for that.) But I am tired. With your Dad’s schedule, at this point, there is rarely any time for showering or sleeping or the brushing of the hair. I really miss brushing my hair too. And showers. Oh my god, how I miss showers. Long ones. Long, hot, GLORIOUS SHOWERS. Okay, I might be getting off topic. But you guys will understand all of this when you become parents. Or probably when you are teenagers and I start giving all of this back to you tenfold. Just wait. Sleep with one eye open. Mommy will be there. Interrupting sleep and showers and peace. You wait.

I haven’t had a whole lot of time for writing since you have both been sick with strep and Baby O with a double ear infection before that. You have definitely been giving me a run for my money for the last few weeks. And I really did want to write you each and individual letter about how insane you are making me awesome you are on an individual level, but there just hasn’t been much opportunity. So this will have to do.

L:

You are getting to be SO very smart. And social. And you love being outside and running around like a maniac. And singing. And pulling all of Daddy’s DVDs off of the shelf and then sitting amidst the pile of them while I stand by and decide whether it is worth it to tell you “no” and risk the epic tantrum you will have or if I should just let you have your way and try to use this as a teaching tool for “Cleanup Time”. Most of the time, you win. Because I am a sucker and you are so freaking cute. Because not only do you make this giant mess, but you then look at me from your pile of whatever it is you are attempting to destroy and you put your arms up with a concerned look on your face and say, “What happened?!” like you have NO IDEA how this has occurred. I am in trouble with you, kiddo. You are an evil genius.

I am about to start to plan your second birthday party. And it makes me crazy to think about because it feels like just yesterday we had your first one. You are such an amazing little person. You are getting so big and you talk so much and the best part of it all is that you actually make sense now. You know, sometimes. The other day, you tried to pick Baby O up from off of my lap and, while it was hilarious because he weighs ONE POUND LESS THAN YOU, it was terrifying to think, “What if she actually succeeds one day and drops him on his baby noggin?!”

As per usual, you make life worth living. You are the best, brightest, most amazing little girl in the world and every day with you is the best day ever. (Okay, I am going to go ahead and say that I mean this all the time, but there are definitely days that I want to run screaming from the house because you have had 74 tantrums. Just so you know. I love you. But you are a handful.) I can’t believe that, before too long, I will be looking back on these days and they will be a distant memory. It is bittersweet.  But I am excited to see the person that you will become. I love you.

Baby O:

You are eight months old now. And holy crap, I don’t even know what to say. You are amazing. Your smile is HUGE and real and just as contagious as the strep throat you and your sister have been bouncing around. You are super ticklish and you HATE to be on your tummy. You immediately roll over onto your back. I assume it is so you can protect your head better from being crushed by your insane sister. Or at least see the skull crushing coming and yell for help. She doesn’t mean any harm. She just thinks that everything is a seat. Seriously. She has totally sat on my head before too. Don’t be offended. You love her though. Your face still lights up when she comes near you. I’m convinced that the two of you are going to be inseparable.

You are still not crawling, but not because you don’t want to. I, actually, believe that you probably just need a few more minutes per day of practice. But this poses a problem because you are both at ages where you demand attention. A lot of it. And usually simultaneously.  I am going to get this thing going. Because even though the thought of both of you running around the house and falling down and stuff scares the bejesus out of me, the thought of carrying you around for much longer is far worse. You are a BIG BOY, kiddo. Adorable. And totally solid. But FREAKING HUGE.

I find myself getting so excited for you to grow up a little and be a little more independent and then I immediately feel guilty for what feels like wishing your infancy away. There are, however, moments that I wish you could stay my cuddly little turkey forever. But there is so much more to come, little guy. So much. And we will have so much fun!

I love you.

 

Both of you make me so very happy and fill my heart up with some crazy happiness I didn’t know existed until you were here and our family was complete.

To the moon and back,

Mom

A Dare

So, I haven’t really written in awhile, about how life is as a mother of two UNDER TWO. And that is mostly because, as a mother of two under two, I have  ZERO time to do so. Which, I am sure you might have expected.

I am, by no means, some type of domestic goddess. In fact, I am quite the opposite. I hate dirty dishes, but if I use my muffin pan to make the delicious and healthy oatmeal cups (for which, the liners will not work) for my daughter so that she doesn’t have to eat crap food for breakfast, I will pretend not to see the muffin pan sitting in the sink for days and use the excuse that “it needs to soak” to avoid scrubbing the shit out of it. I do assloads of laundry but frequently leave clean clothes in baskets until I can no longer stand to look at them. I sweep 471 times per day but can never seem to get everything. And I routinely bribe my husband with anything I can think of to scrub the bathtub because I fucking hate doing it.

When and if my kids take naps at the same time, I prefer to spend that hour (USUALLY LESS) watching the reality TV on my DVR and playing Candy Crush. Because, we all have our guilty pleasures. And while I wish I could say that I bust my ass during that time, I would be lying. Because it rarely happens and Mama needs her Mob Wives fix. And I won’t apologize. Because, as chaotic as I knew all of this “mother of two” shit was going to be, I HAD NO IDEA what I was getting myself into.

I have a friend who was pregnant with her second child when I was pregnant with L. Her kids are about 17 or 18 months apart. I always marvel at her because, though we share a bunch of frustrated, “WHY WON’T THESE FUCKING KIDS SLEEP” texts (DAILY), she seems to handle it all so much better than I feel I do. I mean, it could just be that I am more willing to say things like, “Seriously. My kids are being assholes and they are trying to kill me” or “If they don’t STOP THIS RIGHT NOW, I am making them sleep in the yard”. It just seems to me that, through the frustration, she finds grace. And I find myself wanting to bang my head against hard things.

Being a SAHM is completely ridiculous. I mean, there are moments that I am SO grateful for. Like, when the kids interact with each other and I get to catch what seems like this private, brother-sister moment. Or when L says something really awesome like the other day when she said, “Hot mess!” when I was trying to scrub syrup off of her chin. I am grateful that, in her, I can see so much of myself. She speaks with my inflection (and hopefully doesn’t start integrating my HORRIBLE language! FUUUUUCK, I have to stop swearing so much!) and it is all because I am the one she hears the most. And that is pretty awesome. Dangerous. But totally awesome. I would say that about 85% of the time, I really enjoy my time with my kids. But that other 15% makes me want to run screaming from my house and never come back. I don’t know if it is okay to admit that. But screw it. There it is. If my bosses in the workforce ever worked me like this, I would have stabbed them in the neck with my staple remover. But, you know…my little slavedrivers are the loves of my life. So, that’s like, a get out of jail free card. Lucky them.

I am more patient than I have ever been (although, my husband might tell you differently, but what does he know about anything? He gets to leave the house without two tiny people hanging on him.) and I am mostly happy with the decision I have made to become this person. Mostly. I miss interacting with people who can utter at least four-word sentences (we’re so close!) and drinking coffee while it is still hot. I miss lunch breaks. I even sometimes miss waking up to an alarm and not an infant demanding food. (I never thought I would say that I miss my alarm. Seriously. Who says shit like that?)

But this shit is hard. I am exhausted and am currently nursing L back to health from strep throat and dealing with Baby O’s third round of teething. I am averaging 3 solid hours of sleep per night and eating frozen food while I make 17 different dishes for L who is entering the terrible twos. I drink entirely too much coffee and spend entirely too little time with my husband. (who is currently out of town for work for two weeks. Just in time for the strep and teething. Lucky bastard.) I haven’t painted my toenails in weeks and my hair desperately needs a trim. I need to lose the last ten pounds I gained during my last pregnancy (plus about 30 more) and I need to take better care of my skin. But the kids. Oh my god, the kids. They are so much fun and so adorable and so time consuming that I barely remember that these things are…well…things.

It is a balancing act. And I am working on it.

So, there you go, internet. Go ahead, have two kids in the span of 13 months. I dare you!

An Open Letter to Baby O: Seven Months

Dear Ollie,

Just a few days ago, you turned seven months old. And I sat and thought and thought about how, just a year ago, your sister was at this stage and I just can’t believe that, a year from now, you are going to be doing all the crazy things that she is currently doing. And then I thought and thought about what kind of crazy things she will have learned to do in that span of time and then I thought, “HOLY HELL! How will I maintain any sanity with TWO TODDLERS who will inevitably be refusing to take naps, throwing food all over the walls and floor, flushing strange objects down the toilet and learning to effectively TANTRUM?!” You know. Among all the other things that I haven’t even thought of yet. This all scared the bejesus out of me. Because OH. MY. GOD. I am already averaging 2-3 days without showers because I can rarely ever contain the two of you long enough to turn the water on, let alone, get in there and wash my damn hair. Yeah, you guys are making me suffer right now, FOR REALS.

So, yeah. I am freaking out a little bit about the future of my sanity. (Or the lack thereof…) But I am also really excited for all this fun stuff right there on the horizon for you. Pretty soon, you will be getting all brave and trying to dive off of things, like your sister does! Ooooh! Okay, this doesn’t thrill me, it just gives me a heart attack. But you WILL be learning to crawl and pull yourself up and stand and then WALK. And then I will lose my shit because, as much as I want you to do all of that stuff (because you weigh FAR TOO MUCH for me to carry you much longer), I am only one person and you guys outnumber me and can fit into small places that I cannot. Danger. SO much danger.

But I am excited that you will pass through all the really annoying parts of infancy. Take, for instance, your most recent development, wherein you gave up sleep. I don’t really know why you have done this all of a sudden. Because you have always seemed to enjoy sleeping. Much more than your sister ever did or currently does. You have been a little sleeping angel. That is, until the DAY that you turned 7 months old. And then you decided that 4:30 am is an appropriate time for singing songs at the top of your lungs for long periods of time. I am grateful that you aren’t crying during these times. On the contrary, these times seem like very joyous events for you. Good for you, buddy, for having a healthy love of music. Can I just suggest that maybe we try loving it more, like sometime around 9 am instead? That would be cool.

When I think back on L and her sleeping (or NOT sleeping, in her case) patterns, it dawns on me that when she was exactly 7 months old, she decided she hated to sleep even more than ever before also. So…I am hoping that you do not continue this into toddlerhood. Because if you do, you will both be sleeping in a tent, in the back yard. Which is probably a total lie. Because I will probably be the one sleeping in the yard. Let’s be for real here.

You have two teeth now and I am sure that more are right there, just waiting to make my life a living hell push through those juicy little jaws of yours. You look more like a kid every day and not so much, anymore, like my little baby boy. It is so insane that you are almost as big as your sister at such an early age. But, again, your father is the Jolly Green Giant. So…at least we know where you get that from. But you are pretty much your father’s clone in most ways anyway. So I was expecting as much.

You are generally still one of the happiest babies I have ever encountered. Your giggle is so infectious. You love it when I hold you in the air and pretend to nibble on you and you laugh like this is the best/funniest/most entertaining thing that has ever happened in the history of the world. And I love the sound of your happiness more than I can ever tell you. Your big, hazel eyes are wide with curiosity already, and it is as if you are trying to take the whole world in, all the time. You seem to be sizing everything up and becoming a little genius before my eyes. You seem like an old soul to me. You seem, to me, to be a lot like my Grandpa Ollie, your namesake. And I think it is wonderful. I couldn’t have asked for anything better than you. I am so excited to see who you become. I hope, every day, that I can be a good example to you. I hope the same for your sister. I hope that I can teach you to be the kind of person that you can be proud of. I hope you will learn to be kind and gentle like your father and I hope you value the importance and opportunity of education and knowledge. I hope that you belly-laugh every day. And I hope that you find the joy in making other people belly-laugh as well.

Being a parent is one of the scariest things I can think of. I hope that I do you proud, my little dude. Because I couldn’t live with myself, otherwise.

You two are the loves of my life. And I value every second of every minute of every day that I am lucky enough to have you. I hope you remember that always.

To the moon and back,

Mom

Daughters

So, I never thought I would have kids, much less a daughter. The thought of having a daughter was like…well…there wasn’t any thought of it. Because I just KNEW that if I had kids, I wanted a son. A son just seemed easier. Like, I wouldn’t have to have “the talk” because, obviously, as the opposite sex parent, I would get to be oblivious of all those nasty things that happen to boys during puberty. I wouldn’t have to explain that it is totally natural. I wouldn’t have to pull a Dan Connor and advise him to “put a book in front of it”. Because…gross. I don’t want to know about any other uses for your books than reading, kid. That’s Daddy’s department. I don’t have a penis.

But then I found out I was pregnant. With L. And she didn’t have a penis either. And holy shitballs, you guys. What the hell was I to do with this tiny female fetus? A fetus that would eventually go through a totally different puberty that warranted ZERO books. Puberty is totally shitty for girls. Because it isn’t just embarrassing. It is messy as hell. And, much like in pregnancy, things happen to your body that you not only can’t control, but don’t understand. And those things make PREGNANCY, like, POSSIBLE. Which is terrifying. And maybe the thought of that is MORE terrifying for the PARENTS of these little things. Because no parent wants a pregnant, barely pubescent kid. And you, as the parent, are responsible for making sure that this little spawn of yours understands that all this mess and embarrassment comes with some responsibility. How do you teach this to someone who can’t even drive a car? Or drink legally?

I know I have  a little while to stew on this, you guys. L isn’t even two. Right. I get it. But I definitely think about it a lot. Because as her same-sex parent, I want to make sure that I am a role model. And an information source. A trusted one. Because I sure as shit didn’t feel comfortable talking to anyone about anything like this. But I also waited until I was 19 to have sex. And with someone that I genuinely loved and trusted and planned to be with forever. And I definitely don’t regret that three-year relationship. Because I was responsible. But not because I had anyone explaining why I should be. But because I am just a pretty logical person. And I am kind of scared of everything. So…the combination did me well. I just want to make sure that my kid…you know…isn’t a total ignorant mess about the whole deal.

There are SO many things I worry about with my little lady. As she grows, I hope that she doesn’t ever get caught up in bullying. I hope she isn’t bullied either. But I hope that if she is, she will be strong and confident enough not to fall into a trap that threatens to ruin her. Because she is beautiful. And she is already so smart and funny and amazing. Kids are so mean. And society is mean to kids. We make them believe that they have to be this impossibly beautiful, thin, imaginary person. We make them small. We make women small, in general. And women are NOT small. We are the center of the universe, ladies. We are where life starts. And we are responsible for the next women. And we will plant the seeds for the women after them. And we have to do them proud.

And this scares me.

We don’t need more Kardashians. (Please, Cheesus, no more Kardashians.) We need more strong, brilliant, beautiful women. Women who are strong because they are proud. And not women who are famous for the size of their asses. Or whatever those Kardashians are famous for…

We need to lead by example.

It is especially daunting because, though I know I am strong, I am sort of delicate. I have anxiety and I like to blend in more than I like to be seen. And I could definitely benefit from being a little easier on myself these days, after two babies in two years. I have to be the one to show L that she, despite whatever flaws she might think she has, IS BEAUTIFUL. And to do that, I have to start recognizing the beauty in me. Because that’s where it all starts. With me.

 

2013 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 14,000 times in 2013. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 5 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

An Open Letter to Baby O at Six Months

Oh, my Darling, Oliver,

You are growing SO FAST. You turned six months old the other day and I am having a hard time processing that. Because about this time last year, I was starting to plan your sister’s first birthday party. And now here you are…catching up with her. I can’t believe it.

You got your first tooth on December 7th. And not without a lot of screaming. I will be the first one to tell you, son, that you are the loudest screamer EVER. You are quiet and content and giggly almost all of the time, but when you scream, little boy, you don’t mess around. Your sister had a hard time with the teething too, as all babies do, but she didn’t come close to your range of angry sounds. L just kind of fussed continuously for months while those stubborn teeth popped in, one by one, taking their damn time and ruining any plans I had of sleep or peace in general. You are like a really pissed off air horn. I will forgive you sometime between now and your first birthday (hopefully) when all of these little bastards are in place and I can sit back peacefully and wait for the molars. At which time, I will move out of the house until you are finished growing them. Just kidding. (Kind of.)

You sit up unassisted. Which, I mean, isn’t new. But it is something you are doing. You seem to be hitting your milestones a little slower than you are supposed to. But this is totally my fault. Or, rather, your sister’s. I am terrified to put you down on the floor to let you explore your body and strength and surroundings for two reasons: 1. we have hard wood floors and I am constantly concerned that you will lose control of your giant noggin and crack it open and 2. the other day, I put you on this baby gym thing that lies on the floor and has toys dangling above your head. I went to the bathroom and left the door open to where I could hear you and your sister but could not see you. I heard your muffled cries and ran into the living room with my pants around my ankles, only to find your sister, straddling your face, attempting to reach the dangling toys. And I screeched like some sort of bird not yet identified by scientists and pulled her off of your face. So…needless to say, our home is a dangerous place for the likes of you. And if it takes you a little longer to crawl but your cranium remains intact, so be it. Score one for mommy.

Aside from almost being smothered by your sister, you seem to really enjoy being around her. You get so excited when she is around. You giggle at each other and you babble to her and she treats you just like I do. When you cry, she strokes your head and says, “It’s OK, baby” and she gives you hugs and kisses ALL THE TIME. And you eat it up. And it melts mommy into a big, slimy puddle of gooey love all over the place. I really can’t believe how quickly and beautifully this bond is forming between the two of you and how blessed I feel about getting to witness it as it does.

You have giant, pink cheeks and beautiful hazel eyes. And you have a wonderful, happy disposition. You sleep well and you eat well and at your six month checkup on 12/12, you weighed in at a whopping 20 pounds, 11 ounces and you were 27 inches long. You are a big boy. Rightly so. You are definitely your father’s son. And that makes me happy. I hope that you learn from him how to treat the ladies. Because, honey, your father is truly a gentleman. I am so lucky to have him. And so are you and your sister.

We are finally about to transition you into sleeping in your crib full-time. And yes, we may be slow to do this, and we are aware. But your sister didn’t start sleeping in her crib until six months old (although, she pretty much still hates it) and your room was an utter disaster until this past weekend. And now, it is complete, and ready for YOU. Daddy put all kinds of things together for you and we bought all new toys and bedding and fun things for you to look at and play with. Just in time for Christmas!

I hope that, when you read these letters, you know that I love you more than I could possibly document here. I hope you know that there is nothing better than you and your sister and our little family.

I love you always, little man.

Mom

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My kids don’t make me happy

Absolutely! I love this.

The Matt Walsh Blog's avatarThe Matt Walsh Blog

“Kids won’t make me happy.” I’ve heard that statement, or statements to that effect, thousands of times. Enough that I should, by now, have a response prepared. But when a guy said it to me a few days ago, I fumbled the answer. I failed him.

“I don’t know, man. Don’t get me wrong: I think it’s cool that you’ve got kids and everything. But, personally, I just don’t think kids would make me happy.”

That was his comment to me as we stood out in the cold, him smoking his cigarette, me secondhand smoking his cigarette. Maybe I just wanted to go back inside. Maybe I didn’t feel like having this conversation. Maybe I judged him for his selfishness. Well, I did judge him for his selfishness. I shouldn’t have — it was pretentious and arrogant of me — but I did. Whatever the reason, I offered a nonsense response…

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