Tag Archives: Family

A Momish Moment

So, I know I’ve made you guys aware that Baby L is going to be ONE in just a matter of mere DAYS (18 to be exact) and that this sort of freaks me out. I mean. Okay, it totally, beyond anything I could describe to you, is FREAKING ME THE EFF OUT, you guys. And maybe because I am an irrational ball of hormones. Or maybe because it is just a BIG FREAKING DEAL. Either way. It is sort of like she decided at 11 months that she would cease this baby business and start doing grown up shit. Like staying up late and walking and all that crap that adults do (minus playing poker and smoking cigars, because those things would just be inappropriate). Okay, so she isn’t really “walking” yet. But she definitely won’t SIT either. She won’t sit, she won’t lie down, she won’t sleep. She needs to be UP. And MOVING.

ALL. THE. TIME.

And, you know, because I am still terrified of bumps and bruises, (and yes, I know that they will happen you guys, but I think we all know that I am insane and full of anxiety about ridiculous and irrational things. I just got over the fear of tripping, falling on my face and knocking out all of my front teeth that has plagued me since I was a little girl. And now that I am thinking about it, it is sort of freaking me out again. Thanks a LOT, internet.) I am constantly nervous. I have been working on it. I have not been piling our hardwood floors with 33 blankets to cushion the blow in case she falls down (anymore). I have just been letting her go. And this has been torture. Because then she inevitably does fall. And she bumps her head on said floor and she screams bloody murder until I put a pink, stuffed bunny in front of her face or give her a goldfish cracker. And for those 10.5 seconds wherein she is crying and looking at me with those big, blue eyes that seem to say, “Mama! How could you let this happen to me?!”, I feel like jumping off a bridge. But then she is noshing on a cracker. Or a bunny.  And she doesn’t even seem to remember that she just almost gave herself a concussion. But I do. And the trauma lingers. You know…for ME.

Yesterday was an especially good day for us. I was, despite my GINORMOUS belly, able to sit on the floor with her while she threw toys around the living room and then darted to retrieve them only to hurl them again (which, by the way, is one of her favorite things to do these days, aside from throwing things on the floor for her PARENTS to retrieve…). I was amazed that she was so content to be sitting with me without needing to try and do cartwheels or headstands or whatever kind of gymnastic maneuver she is normally trying to accomplish. I was pleased that we were playing so nicely. So calmly.

And then I realized that she was holding, in one hand, a plastic (noisy, annoying, ridiculously stupid) toy phone and in the other hand, a half of a dead leaf. And she was chewing. Now, I have never tried to eat a dead leaf so I can’t be sure, but I have this feeling that, even if you have a BUNCH of teeth (as I do), chewing a gross, dry leaf might be a little challenging. And because Baby L only has 8 (at the last count, before she was a piranha) teeth, and they are all in the front, I had a feeling that this could end badly. And sure enough, within seconds of realizing what she had done, I was being puked on. Because, you see, babies CANNOT chew dead leaves. (Just in case any of you were inspired to check this out…Don’t.) After the puke, even though I hadn’t seen the leaf, I assumed that this crisis had been averted and I was all, “Sweet! That wasn’t even chunky because we haven’t even had breakfast yet!” (Before being a mom, if someone puked on me, I would have unfriended them on Facebook. Because that shit is serious, y’all.) It wasn’t until I put her in her chair to have her first meal of the day, that I realized that the leaf was stuck, VISIBLY STUCK,  in the back of her throat, causing her to let out these tiny, annoying coughs every couple of seconds. It was at that moment that I became that crazy lady who has no fear of the gross consequences of sticking my fingers into the orifices of another person. It is at that moment that I become MOM. So, I did it. I stuck two fingers into the mouth of another person and retrieved…a leaf.

For real. Crisis averted. Everyone is alive.

But really, universe? Did you need to give me yet ANOTHER thing to be paranoid about? Really?

 

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A Happy Lack of Monkeys (Party Time!)

So…now that the sprinkle is over and the dust has settled from all the crazy of the move and the party and the finally coming to terms with being a pregnant lady again, it is time to start planning Baby L’s first birthday party. Which will take place in exactly 26 days. TWENTY-SIX DAYS, you guys! Are you paying attention? That means that in less than ONE MONTH, I am going to have a ONE-YEAR-OLD.

 

Oh. My. GOD.

 

I have to admit, I am not even sure where to start. I mean, we are obviously, being that we are a single-income household and everything, on a budget and not able to hire performers or rent a bounce house. (Which, let’s face it, I am terrified of anyway…and no, I am not going to get into the story about how one time, after too much Patron, I almost died in a bounce house…because this is a family blog, for fuck’s sake.) I know that I want a totally rad cake (which I am hoping to get from this lady, here, because she is an old friend and she makes some pretty fancy-pants cakes, these days). Said cake will obviously involve owls. Because I love them. And because if I let Baby L pick, it would probably be a monkey theme. And I strongly dislike monkeys. (And no, I won’t get into why. Because it involves poop-slinging. Because most stories involving monkeys, evidently, DO involve poop-slinging. I am not a fan.) I also know that we are going to have the party in our giant back yard. Which means that I am thinking that we should keep the food simple and able to be cooked OUTSIDE. (You know, and preggo-lady friendly. BURGERS AND HOT DOGS…YES.) Because I am pretty sure that, at 9+ months pregnant, I am not going to want to clean up the kitchen. Because, I can tell you, I did an event page on Facebook for the party and invited 50 people and many, many more family members do not have Facebook accounts. (In fairness, a bunch of these people live very far away and will not attend, but I felt the need to invite them anyway…) So, I’ll be damned if I am going to cook things. Like, in my house. Like, that I have to clean up later. Oh hells no.

But I am overwhelmed thinking about decorations and favors and things like that. And how much food to buy. And, holy god, why can’t I be craftier so that I can just make some awesomeness?! WHY!?

So, I ask you, interweb, do you know of any good places to get unique and supremely awesome party stuff? Better yet, any supremely awesome owl themed birthday stuff?

 

 

The Countdown has Begun

So, I’ve made it to week 33. And we have already established that I feel gigantic. And you can probably tell that I am over this whole being pregnant thing, that I have been doing for the last two freaking years. (Here is a little glimpse into 33 weeks during the LAST TIME…)

I am tired. Overwhelmed. Crampy. Irritated. Irrational. Impatient. You know, all of those things that will likely get worse in the next 7 weeks until this whole thing is over and I get to see our new meatloaf.

But I am hanging in there. I had a checkup yesterday and, it appears, I am stellar at being pregnant. My bloodwork is always perfect, my blood pressure, better than it ever was before pregnancy and I have gained a total of only 11 pounds. (Which some of my friends seem to think makes me some kind of freak. But let me assure you, this lady doesn’t go ONE DAY without a bowl of ice cream and a ferocious chocolate craving. And yesterday, to celebrate my 1 pound gain in the last 5 weeks, I had a McDouble. And some pizza. AND THEN ICE CREAM.) Baby O’s heartbeat sounds glorious and he moves around much like his sister did at this point. Only he isn’t quite as intent on actually hurting me. The doc says “boys are lazy” so exerting themselves that much is more of an annoyance. Which is a nice change of pace considering that Baby L, I’m convinced, might have been trying to somehow turn me inside out. But now she is on the outside. Kicking the shit out of me from a whole different direction. Good times.

I know that, at this point, it probably should have totally sunken in that I am about to have a baby. And some days, I can totally get all excited about nibbling on his tiny toes and smelling the top of his head (something that I still do to Baby L CONSTANTLY) but most days it just seems too surreal. I am SO excited about the prospect of not being pregnant anymore that sometimes I get happier about THAT part than the actual little munchkin that I am currently cooking. (Yesterday, I was sitting here thinking that after this seven weeks is over, I will never have to be pregnant again. And I literally started to cry like a total basketcase because I was so excited to feel normal again. My husband thought this was hysterically funny. But that is because he doesn’t have a uterus and has NO IDEA how much this body has gone through and how desperate I am to just feel like ONE person. Not a person growing another person, holding another person on her hip. Ugggghhhh.) But then, you know, reality sets in and I remember that yes, soon I will be UN-pregnant (empty) again and it will be so nice to have a glass of white wine. But then I will scarcely have time to drink said wine because I will be cleaning up spit up. And making bottles. And changing newborn diapers. And then I just don’t know how to feel anymore. Because I want this pregnancy to be over, but holy crap, I don’t think I am ready for this yet.

I guess these next weeks will be my prep time. I am really going to have to get READY for this. Like, mentally prepare myself for what is about to take place. I just really don’t even know where to begin. I mean, I don’t even know what things to buy! Like, since I have two kids, do I need two baby monitors? That might sound like an idiotic thing to panic about. But I am really, REALLY good at panic. So, I tend to do what I know.

I’m gonna try and get a handle on that. I swear.

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An Open Letter to Baby L at 11 Months (Holy SHIT!)

Dear Lilah,

Tomorrow, you will be eleven months old. I can’t really wrap my head around how this has happened. I feel as though I just brought you home from the hospital. And you were all tiny and resembling an alien. (I can say that, because I am your mom and really, all newborns look sort of like aliens.) Your dad and I were looking at pictures yesterday of the day that we brought you home and I was so amazed at how much you have grown and turned, from my little meatloaf, into an honest-to-goodness person. Like, with a personality. And likes and dislikes. And a VOICE. Because, holy cow, do you like to use your voice. You are so beautiful and REAL and perfect and I can’t imagine my life without you. Even if you are a pain in the ass when it is time for you to sleep. Or for me to sleep. Or, like, if someone in the neighborhood is trying to sleep. (You have a serious grudge against sleeping. Which I may or may not have mentioned to you before.)

You have eight teeth now (possibly nine, but I will be DAMNED if I try to stick my fingers in your mouth right now as you have discovered, and seem to have an affinity for, BITING) and you like to eat. Like, more than anything EVER. You love puffs, and lil’ crunchies and pears and bananas and grapes, strawberries and paper towels. (You know, because they are totally delicious when covered in all the aforementioned fruits that I have just wiped from your face, hands and feet…) It cracks me up that you are JUST about as finicky as your dad is when it comes to food. (Meaning, simply, you don’t like peas. The end.) You will eat just about anything that gets close enough to your mouth. And you have the cheeks to prove it. Let me tell ya, little lady.

Just the other day, I was telling a friend of mine (who had one of her daughters just six days after you were born) that you have absolutely no desire to figure out your walker (or be placed in any other freestanding contraption, these days) and that you will allow me to place you into it. But that you will then stare at me with those sad little eyes and start to cry, because, “MOM! THIS THING DOESN”T DO ANYTHING!” and then I usually give you a little nudge and you like that until you realize that, in order to keep the momentum, you have to actually MOVE your chubby little legs. And then you get pissed again. SO, needless to say, the walker has not been a favorite of mine. But yesterday, after explaining this to said friend, I thought I might give it another try. You know, because I am a glutton for punishment. So I put you inside the walker. And you didn’t get upset. But you also didn’t move. You shifted your attention to Rachel Ray on TV (I think she was making some sort of buffalo chicken deliciousness, which explains why you were so interested) and seemed not to mind that I was actually DOING something on the laptop. (You hate it when I touch ANY electronic devices that you cannot pound on or throw on the ground.) I called to you a couple of times from across the room. And I even planted by gigantic, pregnant ass on the hardwood floor to possibly coerce you to come to me. And you didn’t. And you didn’t. And you didn’t.

Until you DID.

And then you attacked. And you rolled over my toes while I was trying to stand up and make room for you to roll about. Then you took a giant crap (which seemed to please you immensely), and then you knocked over about 50 XBOX games and broke the tower that they used to reside in. But, I wasn’t mad, my dear. In fact, I was so proud that I started to cry. Of course, at first it was pride that made me cry. And then I realized that, in order to remedy the mess that you had just made, I would not only have to deal with poop, but I would have to get back down onto the floor again. And I don’t know if you know, but I am 33 weeks pregnant today. And mommy doesn’t enjoy the floor. But you got the hang of it, and I was proud. And then it took me 35 minutes to get up.

You have also started to wake up at ungodly hours of the night and insist upon playtime. No one is a fan of this. Except for you. I am having a hard time adjusting to waking up at 3 and then playing until 5 and then you sleeping until 10. As much as I have wished to sleep until ten, this is not exactly what I had in mind. I hope that you stop this soon.

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This face made cleaning up that garlic butter disgustingness totally worth it.

Tonight, you noshed on a breadstick. I gave it to you against my better judgment, but it turned out to be pretty hilarious and I am glad that you enjoyed yourself. You know, I WAS glad, until I had to clean you up. And you were covered in buttery garlic mess. That was not so much fun. And I just found some of this mess behind my ear. So, there’s also that.

All in all, you are a lot of fun. And you keep your father and I laughing all the time. And, you know, we love you despite your non-sleeping, mess-making, toe-breaking antics. Because we made you. And because you are, quite possibly, the cutest, most amazing little girl I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Nay. You just ARE. You rock our faces off and we are excited about, next month, celebrating keeping you alive for an entire year. Because that, little one, is a big freaking deal for us. And you, I guess. Because, well…you’re the one who was in danger. After all, you got US as parents. But we are doing a damn fine job making you into all kinds of awesome. At least, I like to THINK we are helping with that. But it could just be all you. Whatever. You are one cool kiddo. And I ain’t afraid to say it.

Next month, when I write your ONE YEAR OLD letter, I will probably be a blubbering mess. And. for that, I will go ahead and apologize now. But hopefully, you will forgive me because you will see that it isn’t just the pregnancy hormones, but the fact that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me and I appreciate every miniscule thing that you do. Because you are my reason for getting up every morning. (Partially because if I didn’t get up, you would continue to pull my hair or kick me in the kidney.)

I love you, kiddo. I love you more than these letters will ever tell you.

Happy Eleven Months!

Love,

Mom

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Emotional Cliff Jumping

I have definitely reached “that point” in pregnancy where it is more annoying and exhausting than anything else. This is the part where you almost totally forget that you are doing a beautiful thing by baking this human being. Because you are so tired, achy, ornery and generally pissed off that it is all you can do not to stab random people while waiting in line at the grocery store, you know, because they are wearing bad shoes or a Billy Ray Cyrus tee shirt. Am I feeling a little illogical? Possibly. Unreasonable? Could be. But I am so CLOSE…yet so far away, people. And I just want to feel normal again. And I just want to sleep. For, like, more than 3 hours. (And yes, I am aware that I am about to have a baby and that this is a total pipe dream. Don’t remind me, okay?)

Up to this point, I have been really proud of myself. Because I have had very few incidents of psychosis. I have felt good. I have smiled, even when I wanted to hide in my bed for two days and eat ice cream. And I haven’t threatened to punch anyone in the throat. (Except at my Sprinkle. And then it was just my best friend’s wife. Because she kept talking about my having twins next time. Insinuating that there would be a “next time” to speak of. So she totally deserved throat punch threats. At least I didn’t actually DO it. But I like her. SO…)

And then the last few days, I have felt like I was drowning. Like, I felt overcome with all of this insane, pregnant lady anxiety and emotion. And I just couldn’t hang. All of that optimism I have been gloating about flew right out the window and I started, not only dreading having two tiny people to chase around and keep alive, but really hating everything about being a stay-at-home-mom. I started feeling lonely. And scared. And irritated at my husband for continuing to get me knocked up and not even being apologetic about it. And then expecting me to handle it with some sort of superhuman ease. (Which I thought I was totally capable of, until now.) I have been tired. And cranky. And close to tears at almost every moment. And I just wanted someone to take my precious Baby L for the day and let me marinate in this idea that I can DO this and I won’t fail. Because I need some assurance. I need some REAL PROOF that I am not going to fall flat on my face. But there isn’t anyone to take that precious baby for the day so I can marinate. There isn’t any “time out” for me at 8 months along. And MB, well, he just doesn’t get it. Because he feels stress too. But he doesn’t understand THIS stress. THIS kind of stress is reserved solely for the mother-to-be. And it is a shitty place to hang out alone. I am back at that place where I don’t want him to get to do ANYTHING that I can’t do. I don’t want him to smoke a cigarette. Or have a beer. Or hang out with his friends. I am jealous of his lack of fetus. Because I am huge and miserable and have two months left before I can have my body back. But even then, internet, things will never be the same. And that’s my fear. And he just doesn’t get it. And that pisses me off. And then I feel awful.

How will I make it through 4am feedings and spitting up and leaky boobs? I mean, I made it through the first time, and no one died. But I JUST DID THIS. And I am quite happy not having to wear giant pads in my bra. And not smelling like baby puke. And being asleep (most of the time) at 4 am. (Even if there is a small child wrapped around my face.) I was growing to like the fact that my little one is rolling around and readying herself to walk. And saying things that sound more like words than crazy baby babble. And now I am starting from scratch. And holy shitballs, how terrifying is that?

I know that this is all probably just some hormonal cliffjump I have just taken. And I am sure the parachute will open soon enough and I will coast through the rest of the way and then I will give birth to this meatloaf and love him and care less and less about breast pads and baby puke. But in the meantime, can I just get a nap? And some ice cream?

Gigantic

Okay, so I don’t know if I told you guys or not. But I’m pregnant. I know. It is shocking. Don’t worry though, internet, this pregnancy isn’t nearly as bad as my last one. When I was pregnant with Baby L, my world was a pretty dismal place. It was a world where people, including MB, could NOT POSSIBLY have understood how uncomfortable I was. Or how much peeing I was doing on a daily basis. Or how painful getting up to make it to the bathroom to DO all this peeing had become. With the back pain and the hip pain and the headaches and the giant belly, my life was hell. And I was SURE that if I left the house, some stranger would tell me how fat and hideous I looked and that I would either burst into tears and vow never to leave home again or punch them square in the neck…Or both. Because I was a total lunatic. And I make no bones about saying it. But I was miserable. And I needed a drink.

This time around, I have experienced heartburn and back pain and headaches. And I have avoided mirrors on certain days for fear of slitting my wrists at the sight of myself in this state. But I have fared pretty well here. I mean, I have been violently and deathly ill on FOUR occasions and have thought that I might never be able to eat anything again. (These illnesses weren’t your run-of-the-mill, pregnant lady morning sickness illnesses either. They were BRUTAL and lasted DAYS.) But once these days passed, I was able to go back to semi-normal, feeling like a regular lady instead of one who is baking a baby. You know, because if you avoid the mirror and there are no real pregnancy symptoms, it is really easy to pretend that none of it is happening at all. And I was blissful in those moments.

Over the past few weeks, my belly has started to take over my house. It has grown quickly and with a fury that I could not have expected. And I can no longer ignore it. I am the size now (at least, in my head) that I was when I delivered Baby L who was full-term. (I don’t really know for SURE that I am the same size, just that I FEEL it.) I can’t see my feet anymore. And those lovely comments I got during my last pregnancy about how I looked 5 months along the whole time…well…those aren’t coming this time. So, I have accepted that I look like a pregnant lady. And today, internet, I tried on clothes. Like, in a store. Under terrible lighting. And a few days shy of 8 months along. And to top it off, these were NOT maternity clothes. AND I HAD TO TAKE PICTURES OF THIS EXPERIENCE. (That’s really another thing altogether but the long and the short of it is, I did a “Sample and Share” Market Research study, wherein I had to try on some clothes, take pictures and have a friend do the same, and then we got the clothes for free…but maternity clothes were not an option.)

I don’t know when this happened, internet, but I am GIGANTIC. And now there is photographic evidence. TWICE IN THE SAME WEEK. (you know people didn’t even refrain from photos at my SPRINKLE?! THE NERVE!) And now, here I am, wondering if I could make it the next two months without actually ever leaving the house in order to spare myself the shame of possibly not fitting inside my Volvo. (Yes, I drive a Volvo. And this should give you an idea of how large I am. Or at least how large I feel. Because I drive a tank.)

What’s a girl to DO?

(Interested in getting some free “Sample and Share” goodies? You can sign up here! It’s free…and sort of awesome!
http://crowdtap.com/invitations_landing

Sprinkling

So, that was pretty painless…

Yesterday was the “Sprinkle” for Baby O. I have to say, I was a little nervous about having another party for, yet another, baby. Because, you know, I didn’t want to seem greedy or like I have no desire to see people unless they are bringing me diapers or whatever. But, after a lot of thought about it, I was convinced that, since I don’t need a crib (already have it!) or a swing (check!) or any of the big stuff that you register for when you have your first baby, a “sprinkle” would be an acceptable kind of party. I didn’t register. And I honestly didn’t really even expect gifts. I just wanted to get some of my favorite people all in one place to see this gigantic belly-saurus-rex (because this is the last fucking time this is happening to me and that is ALL I have to say about that…) before it is all over. And, you know, this time I was a much better sport and I even encouraged beer drinking (not for the other two preggos who attended, though…duh.) because, I have accepted my fate as a non-drinker. Because I haven’t been able to enjoy cocktails, and I mean REALLY enjoy cocktails, in over a year. Because I am always pregnant. Because my husband has super human sperm that are, evidently, resistant to every kind of birth control known to man. Even when all of them are used simultaneously. But I digress…

Anyway, there was beer. And I coveted it. But not like I did last year at my shower. Not at all like that. There were munchies and there was BEAUTIFUL weather and there were good friends and I wasn’t the only one growing a baby. And I was happy. And now I am staring at a stack of boxes of diapers nearly as tall as I am and I am remembering that feeling of, “HOLY SHITBALLS. I’m about to expel a person from my body” Only this time, it is more like, “HOLY SHITBALLS. WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!” And it still doesn’t seem real. At least, not most of the time. Until there is a foot in my ribs. Then shit gets REALLY real. My due date is just under two months away. And it is surreal.

On the one hand, I can’t wait to see Baby O’s face and kiss his little toes. And on the other hand, I wish I could just take a month break from being pregnant, enjoy some un-pregnant lady sleep and some adult beverages and then go back to this after I have thoroughly prepared myself for what is about to go down. Because, internet, some serious MOTHERHOOD is about to take place on this here bloggy thang…FOR REALS. The sprinkle just made it seem like the beginning of the end. Which is great, because pregnancy SUCKS a whole lot of ASS but terrifying because if I am not pregnant, that means that there will be another CHILD. One who will only sleep two hours at a time and will spit up on me 74 times per day and make me smell horrible and behave like a mom zombie for the next several months. One who will care less than Baby L does about how exhausted I am or how long it has been since I have had a shower. (Not a baby shower, though, because I have those at least weekly, it seems…)

All in all, though, I am really glad we had the party. Mostly because, even though I am acutely aware that this baby is surely happening, moreso now than before the party, I got to spend some time with some really great people. And, you know, they brought diapers and didn’t at all seem to think I was a greedy bitch for having another party. (Thanks, guys. You really do rock my face off…)

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Free Stuff!

So, I just found this great freebie and wanted to share. In honor of Autism Awareness Month, you can get 19 FREE educational apps for the entire month of April!

Check it out here!

 

Enjoy!

An Open Letter to Baby L at 9 Months (Okay, 10. Sue Me.)

Dear Lilah,

You are WAY past nine months old now. In fact, you are ten months old, as of yesterday. But, as you know, your mother is nothing if she isn’t a total slacker. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy writing letters to you. Really. It is that between you insisting on trying to pound away at my laptop while I am doing so, and the miniscule amount of time I have without you attached to me, I am unable to do a whole lot of anything these days.

You are getting so big. I was at one of my check-up appointments the other day and there was a woman there with a baby who she “claimed” was 8 weeks old and weighed 11 pounds and I could barely remember you being that tiny ( say “claimed” because I swear to Cheesus, that baby was so small. SO SMALL). You are so full of personality now and you really are a little person and not at all like that little meatloaf that you were when we brought you home from the hospital. It is so strange to think you have changed so much. And also to think that, in just a few months, we will have another meatloaf. And this time it will have a tiny penis. Weird. Anyway, you shouldn’t concern yourself with such things. You just concentrate on being super cute and deliberately spitting on everything in a 20 foot radius of you.

You are not a crawler. And not because you can’t, mind you, but because having to crawl to get somewhere really pisses you off. I wonder if I am the only mom out there scratching her head on this one. I have seen you do it and I know that you are capable, but yet, for some reason, you would rather get in baby plank pose, scoot yourself about a foot backwards and then get super angry and start to screech. I am not as worried that you are behind in development as that you are going to be lazy until your brother is born and then take giant leaps when I don’t have the time or the energy to pad the entire house for you to fall all over.

You say things like “mama” and “dada” but I am pretty sure you don’t yet know that you are saying our respective names. Your dad, however, insists that you say “duck” when it is bath time. (You do have a rubber duckie or two that we have in there with you when Daddy bathes you, but I am not sure that I buy that you are yet calling them ducks. Not because I think you are a dummy, but because I haven’t heard this and your dad has a hearing problem. Meaning he hears what he wants to. And this applies to everyone, not just you.)

You love eating. You are indiscriminate completely about food unless I try to give you peas. Peas and carrots? “Sure, Mom! Bring it!” Peas by themselves? “No way, Mom, get that shit out of my face.” You should know that peas are delicious and you should eat them. Don’t listen to your dad when he talks about how gross they are. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You especially love strawberries, pears, and green grapes. All three of my favorite fruits. And we have them just about every day for a snack together and it is really amusing for me to watch you master your dexterity and pick up tiny pieces of slimy stuff. Half of the time, most of it ends up in your lap, but I enjoy watching you stuff your face on the off-chance that you make it in there. (You are totally getting good at it, though. At first, I doubted that you had gotten ANY fruit into your mouth, now I only find a couple of slivers in your lap and on the floor…Good work, my love.)

You are still a really weird sleeper. We attempted to do this thing called “sleep training” wherein your father and I would train you about when and how to sleep on your own. What ended up happening was that you ended up training me and your father on how to sleep with you wrapped around our faces. We are about to start this process again because it is really important to me to have you in your own bed/room before your brother gets here and keeps me up all night.  In fairness (to me), it would have been pointless to go full force with sleep training if we were just going to uproot you, which we just did when we moved to this new house. So…yeah. I don’t suck as much as it might seem.

You are also working on getting tooth number 7. And let me tell you, Lilah, teething is a total bitch and you OWE me for this. Like, when you turn 18, you are going to need to buy me a kitten for each tooth that you have. Okay, that’s not a good idea. But I will think of something for you to do. Because this shit is DUMB. (And also makes your sleeping WORSE. Yes. That is possible, it would appear.)

So, again, I am sorry that I was a slack ass during your ninth month, but we had a lot going on. I mean, be for real, we had to move so that we had room for your brother and so that you didn’t catch disobedience and general badness from your cousin. I’m just saying. By the time you read this, you will know exactly what I mean. No need to get too involved.  Either way, your father and I are very proud of you. You crack us up every day and you are so effing cute with your growing front teeth and your chubby, delicious cheeks. We can’t get enough of you. You are the love of my life. Duh.

Love always,

Mom

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On Not Getting Hit with Golf Clubs. And Some Other Shit.

Dancing bears

Dancing bears (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Baby L has been a pretty bad blogger lately. It might have something to do with the fact that she has been busy trying to stand on her own and furiously trying to crawl. (She can crawl, but usually does more backwards crawling and when trying to go forward, either flops over onto her side or just lets her arms give out and starts to fuss about it. What a baby, I know…sheesh.) She’s really letting the blogosphere down. I tried to tell her that people are going to stop reading and that everyone is getting really pissed that she is so selfishly ignoring this blog. She said she’s sorry, you guys. Don’t give up on her. After all, she is just a baby.

Oh, you guys were under the impression that I was going to blog…Right. About that…Well, a lot has happened in the past few weeks. For starters, (and I know I will forget something, because I TOTALLY have pregnancy brain and am having trouble remembering pretty much everything. Especially if I have to remember it for more than 30 seconds) MB, Baby L and I moved into a new place. Before you get all excited for us and our new status as homeowners, just don’t get excited. Because we aren’t. And I am okay with it. We are renting a three bedroom house with a giant yard for a fraction of what I would have expected to pay for a place this size. Is it on the side of town that I was hoping for? No. Is the rent going to be too much for our single-income family? Shockingly? NO! Go, Team Oopsie!

Is this my dream house? No. But there are a few things that I absolutely LOVE about it. Like, for instance, the yard is seriously gigantic. This makes me super happy because pretty soon it will be summertime. And Baby L will be frolicking about in cutesy little sundresses and I will be prancing with my giant preggo-beast belly to Grateful Dead songs. Okay, probably this won’t happen. I mean, who wants to prance with a preggo-beast belly? And I feel like Grateful Dead prancing should only happen after a lot of cocktails or hallucinogens. Neither of which I am really allowed to partake in currently. (I mean, not that I would take any hallucinogens anyway. At least, not anymore. Don’t judge me. I was a teenager once, OKAY? I digress…there probably won’t be prancing.)

The house is pretty old, so it has that awesome built-in shelving in it. I have always loved that, because I hate putting up shelves. So I just don’t. And then I wind up with a bunch of framed pictures and barnyard animal figurines all over everything. (Okay, not so much the figurines, but I wanted to make sure you got the visual of a ridiculous and tacky clutter. Mission accomplished? I think so.)

Also, and this might be a pro AND a con for us: NO CARPET. Only hard wood! OH. MY. SWEET. BABY. JESUS. I love hard wood floors. I mean, do I really have to say anything else about it? I don’t think so.

One of the best things, though, just kind of fell into my lap. When we were looking at this house, the landlord was having a broker show it. And the broker, well, lets just say he was sort of flighty and weird and I didn’t like him. And he stood us up a couple of times before we actually got to see the place. And then, once we finally saw it and MB had decided that, not only was the price right, but that he wanted to go ahead and get it ASAP, the dude couldn’t locate our former landlord and couldn’t get a reference. When I offered to speak with the potential landlord, she mentioned that her father (who has dementia) is living alone in a house right next door and that she is not only looking for a tenant, but also someone to spend a couple of hours per week with him to cook meals and give him medications. Naturally, I mentioned that I am not currently working and that I used to work with dementia patients at a nursing home. This won her over, apparently, and we got the house the next day. And then, a week later, I had a job. Not a substantial one, but one that will help out with our bills and one that will provide me with a little purpose. You know, of the outside of the house variety. SCORE!

So, now I am employed. And, call me crazy, but I really like working with dementia patients. He tends to cuss a lot at me when I put in his eyedrops but I was warned about this. And cussing, you guys, I can totally handle. I mean, fuck, I am a sailor-mouthed mommy blogger. As long as he doesn’t bite me or hit me with a golf club, I can handle him.

So, we are no longer living with a disobedient five-year-old. And we have hard wood floors. And a huge yard. And I cook eggs and bacon for a dementia patient and try to avoid getting hit with golfclubs for several hours per week. So, that’s the news.

I don’t think that I have to tell you that I want a GIANT FUCKING BEER. Or that I still hate being pregnant and can’t wait until this shit is over. And I probably don’t need to inform you of the copious amount of ice cream I have ingested over the last month. Or that my belly is officially giant and I want to hide from the world until this kid makes his grand entrance. Because, you guys can probably guess how that is all going over. I mean, I just did this. You guys might remember all the fun that was had.

I will be posting my open letter to Baby L (9 months, totally late. Shut up.) very shortly. I just haven’t had a lot of time to write about her being 9 months old because I have been busy dealing with a 9-month-old. But I have a little more free time now that we are out of our previous living situation and now that I am not currently cleaning up after 4 adults all the time. You know…because that shit sucked the blogging right out of me.

I shall return. And sooner than you may expect.

 

Peace OUT!