Tag Archives: Parenting

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.

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.

 

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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The 18-Month Demon Possession. I mean, Sleep Regression

Okay, you guys. I am about to lose my shit. And not in that cutesy way that’s all, like, Oh Em GEEE, I’m at the grocery store and, like, that guy is SO CUTE and I haven’t brushed my hair and I’m wearing yoga pants!

Seriously. L hasn’t napped in EIGHT DAYS. And she’s not hungry or wet or sick (I know this because I brought her to the doctor already and she was fine) and she’s not on fire. But the minute I mention sleep in any form, she goes batshit crazy and screams like she actually IS ON FIRE.

Now, before you get all, “She’s probably teething, or entering the Terrible Twos, or having separation anxiety or is on FIRE”, let me assure you that I am aware that all of these things are possible. (Except for that last one. Because, that would be harder to miss. Come on, you guys, I’m not a TOTAL idiot.) But do kids typically scream in their cribs for HOURS ON END? (Note: I have not let her stay in there for hours on end screaming, but she WOULD, I assure you.)

It started last Thursday. I went to put her down for her nap, a little early, I’ll admit, because she was acting like a maniac and I was about to stick a screwdriver in my temple. She went apeshit. APE. SHIT. She screamed for five minutes before hurling herself out of her crib and I heard a thump. This was my worst nightmare. Luckily, she didn’t have any bumps or bruises but she scared the bejesus out of me (and herself). So, I waited about two hours, let her play and tire herself out and then put her down again. This time, she screamed but she eventually went to sleep after just a few minutes. Success!

Friday was a lot like Thursday. INSANE protest at our first attempt. But the second attempt went swimmingly. Until Baby O lost his baby cool and screamed for 45 minutes (which he NEVER DOES) and woke her up after exactly 36 minutes. Sleep? Who needs it!?

Saturday, we were visiting my mom. Heh. NADA.

Sunday I got her to sleep at her normal time and I believed that all was not lost. And then MB wanted to wake her up early to have lunch with his dad before he left to go back home, out of state. And so we did that. DISASTER. She was a total asshole for the rest of the day. I wanted to run away from home.

Monday, I brought her to the doctor for her 18-month check up and she did great. Until I tried to put her down. SCREAM, SCREAM, SCREAM. No nap.

Tuesday. She was angelic. No problems.

Yesterday? Forgetaboutit. I am thankful for the Thanksgiving feast at my mom’s house which provided her with two 30 minute car seat naps.

Today? THREE ATTEMPTS at napping. Each involving 45 minutes of non-stop screaming. I am convinced that my neighbors are going to call CPS because I cannot stop the noise. CANNOT STOP IT. So, I called the pediatrician. Her advice? “Yeah, give her a little motrin or Tylenol just in case she is in pain. But you just have to let her know that it is nap time and she has to stay in her bed and go to sleep. So, just let her scream and go in every 15 minutes or so and console her. But don’t pick her up. She will eventually wear herself out.” Now, mind you, I have read every baby sleep book known to man. I have avoided the cry it out method as much as possible. And I had finally gotten L to a manageable level of slumber. But I have been using this method, exactly as she just told me, for THREE DAYS already and, unless I want to listen to my kid continuously scream ALL FUCKING DAY, I am not sure I can continue. Just now, after an hour and seven minutes of this, she has finally stopped (an hour and seven minutes in THIS attempt, 40 and 45 minutes in the previous two attempts) and she has either finally worn herself out or has banged her head, amidst all the thrashing, and knocked herself out. And I am afraid to check. Because if I wake her up and have to start all over again, I WILL KILL MYSELF.

I called MB at work, in the middle of my second meltdown of the day, trying to explain to him what it is like to NEVER. EVER. EVER. get to stop trying to get babies to go to sleep. Especially when you haven’t slept, yourself. He is no help. Because he has never had to do all of that while simultaneously trying to tend to an infant. I have never, in my life, felt so helpless. And, I mean, sort of hopeless too. It seems like I can never accomplish anything because I am constantly trying to get L to sleep. There is no time to do ANYTHING ELSE.

I have read about this 18-month sleep regression. And let me tell you, those articles and whatnot make it sound like it is just a rough patch. Like, you got a hangnail. I liken it more to COMPLETE DEMON POSSESSION.

Please send good sleep juju. Or an exorcist.

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No Apologies…My Kid Watches TV.

DJ Lance Rock with King Khan and the Shrines

DJ Lance Rock with King Khan and the Shrines (Photo credit: greenplastic875)

This evening, right before bath time, L spilled her sippy cup of water all over the hardwood floor in the living room. She stood in a puddle of water next to the coffee table and looked at me with those little wide eyes as if to tell me that she had done something wrong. When I walked over to her, she looked down and her soggy socks and started to try and walk away. She slipped and lost her footing, but she didn’t fall. I realized what had happened, scooped her up and grabbed some paper towels to clean up the water. And when I started to clean it up she looked at me with those same giant blue eyes and said, “Oh NOOOOO! I sorry!”

This may not be such a big deal. But so many things happened in that moment. Like, I realized for the first time that, while she has previously exhibited some knowledge of what is going on around her on a deeper level than I expect her to, she actually KNOW THINGS, you guys. Like, she knows that she made a mistake. And then that the proper and polite thing to do was APOLOGIZE. And she’s not quite 18 months old and she walks and talks and sings and dances and it is like she learns more stuff so quickly that I can barely keep up! And it makes me feel so full of this immense joy that I feel like my heart might actually explode. But it also makes me so sad that SOOOOOON she won’t be my baby anymore. (Which, I guess, makes it pretty awesome that I get to do all of it simultaneously with her brother, who is just a year and 24 days younger than her. Yes. Most of you know that already.) But Oh. My. GOD. My baby is a PERSON.

That’s not really the point of this post.

I read a lot of stuff about the development of the brain of babies and toddlers. And, like, how they shouldn’t watch any TV before they are two years old. And then it is supposed to be a REALLY small amount. You know, you have all read the same things. And for a long time, with L, I was really stringent about letting her watch ANYTHING. And then I got to a point where I knew that, with her NEVER SLEEPING and all of that, I would need to find some SECONDS to do ANYTHING else and that might require DJ Lance Rock. And things worked out well. A half hour of DJ Lance was enough for me, when she was seven months old and bouncing up and down in some contraption or another, to do dishes. Or PEE. Or brush my teeth. And life was better.

And then I had Baby O. It was then that I realized, not only do I no longer have time to read these articles about baby and toddler brain development, but I don’t have time not to turn on DJ Lance for 30 minutes so that I don’t stab myself in the eye so that I can get a break (read: trip to the emergency room which would be the only way I would get a break most of the time). And I said, “Fuck this. I get to decide these things.” After all, my mom said that, at 18 months, since I was unable to walk due to an injury sustained during birth, I would watch entire episodes of Sesame Street and could read well by the time I was four. So, yeah. The articles say that allowing children under two to watch television will cause them to have ADD. And they will be socially underdeveloped. And BLAH BLAH MOTHERFUCKING BLAH. But the people who write these articles CLEARLY don’t have a four month old and a seventeen month old sucking the ever-loving sanity RIGHT OUT OF THEIR SOULS. Nope. I am sure of it. So my kid watches “Elmo the Musical” and happily sings the theme song to “Yo Gabba Gabba” but she also apologizes for spilling her water on the floor. And she interacts with everyone. And she shows NO signs of any kind of ineptitude in any area. Do I let her sit in front of the TV for 10 hours per day? No. (And that would make me a total asshole, b t dubs.) Does she watch 2 hours per day? Heck yes. And you know why? Because I’m the mommy. And there’s another tiny, demanding little guy needing something during pretty much ALL OF THE SECONDS in which she isn’t. So there.

In your face, article writers who make moms feel guilty about stupid shit. My kid is gonna be a damn genius.

An Open Letter to the Preggos (This One’s for you, Anna)

Dear Preggos (Mostly you, Anna),

I wanted to write you a letter because I feel that you are about to go through something that no one can really prepare you for. Something that you will remember for the rest of your life. Something that will be the most traumatic, yet ridiculously beautiful thing that will ever happen to you and your body. And no one can tell you how profound it will be. But I am stubborn. And I’m going to try.

First off, I want to let you know that everyone fears childbirth because the idea of squeezing that little person out of your vagina is a big deal. And when I say “big deal”, I mean it. Because, and I’m not gonna lie, that shit hurts. But, don’t worry, you won’t even remember that part. I mean, you won’t REALLY remember it. Because the adrenalin makes you a beast of a person and it will feel like hell but it will feel like you could seriously move mountains if you wanted to. (They won’t let you attempt that, anyway. You are pretty much confined to a bed. But you are a strong ass bitch.) So, you will have this vague memory afterward of this pushing and this nurse yelling at you and you wanting to rip her face off. But in the end, you will have a baby. And, I mean, seriously, what is better than that? Unless you happen to give birth to, like, a suitcase full of money instead. Because, holy shitballs, that would have been awesome. Anyway…yeah. It hurts. But it is a small price to pay. So get over that fear and accept the reality that that little thing is coming out. Whether you like it or not. You will sleep easier. I promise.

Secondly, I feel it is imperative that you know that parenting is super hard. Like, harder than being pregnant. (Which, if you ask me, is the worst fucking thing EVAR, because you have all this stress and no one will bring you a cocktail.) You bring this little meatloaf home from the hospital and you, if you were like me, are totally clueless as to what to do with it. And I read everything. And it didn’t matter. I was a total wreck for weeks. Because just when you think you got this thing all figured out, it does something new. Like, changing its sleep pattern. Or growing a tooth. Or going from being the happiest baby ever, to being a screaming, inconsolable monster. Because all of that happens. And no day is the same as the day previous. Ever.

Thirdly, you probably have this idea of how you will raise your kid. You know, like you won’t use a pacifier because nipple confusion, blah blah blah. Or you will only breastfeed. Because, after all, breast is best. But that baby doesn’t care about your plans. Sometimes, you have to find some way to plug that baby’s pie hole long enough so that your head doesn’t explode. And sometimes, breastfeeding is harder than you had anticipated. And you might do it, and if you can, you are my hero. Because I couldn’t make it happen with either of mine for varying reasons. I did it. But not for as long as I wanted to. And not for lack of trying. Those babies just had other plans. And guess what! They both use a pacifier and drink formula. And they’re alive. And they are thriving. And its okay. And you might be disappointed in yourself for giving in or not doing everything the way you had intended. But…seriously? Shit happens. And you just do the best you can. And that’s all anyone (including you) can expect.

You are going to have some days where you will want to run away from home. And you will feel like shit about feeling that way. But believe me, it happens to the best of us. (In fact, early this morning, I almost escaped through my bedroom window while both of the kids demanded things as I tried to get ANY amount of sleep to prepare me for the day ahead, wherein they would demand MORE THINGS…) Sometimes, you will want to jam sharp things into your ears to stop the noise. And sometimes, you will consider crawling into the oven. Because, motherhood is not a joke. And its all okay. Because then, that baby will look up at you, totally helpless and totally beautiful and innocent, and you will fall in love all over again. And you will. Again. And again. And again. Because you are a mom. And that’s what that means.

Sometimes, when I am having a hard time, and it is the middle of the night and someone is refusing to sleep. Or someone has a fever. And my husband is sleeping and I feel like I am all alone and it will never END, I have to take a step back and remind myself what a beautiful thing I have done by having these babies. I have to remember the first time I saw their little faces and how much I loved them, even then. And how smart and amazing they are. Which is sometimes easier said than done when you are sleep deprived and frustrated and haven’t washed your hair in four days. But it is all worth it, you guys, seriously.

My advice to you (especially you, Anna) is to remember, through all the crazy and even if you feel totally alone, that it will pass. And tomorrow is a new day. And while this is the hardest thing you will ever do, it is the most important. And the most wonderful. And you aren’t alone. (And if you ever need reassurance of that, you guys, I will be right here, blogging about being puked on and having been up for 72 hours straight. Don’t worry.)

Good luck to you!

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Survival

So, I did it. I decided that, instead of letting my mom take both kids to visit my sister, I would let her take L, since she is older and super hyper and I thought that she would have a good time running around at someone else’s house for a change. And you know, chasing pets around and things like that.

She left Friday afternoon and will be back in about four hours. At first, I seriously didn’t think I would make it. She woke up from her nap on Friday and I cried my face off while I was changing her diaper. She, of course, thought that this was hysterically funny. And then I watched my mom get her into the van and drive away. And then I cried my face off again.

Surprisingly, after she was gone, and as long as I was getting constant updates via text message, I was okay. I mean, it was so strangely quiet in my house that I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. And the lack of Cheerios on the floor was daunting. But, we made it. Baby O and I cuddled and cuddled and played and played. And he made more noise than he ever has in his life. Most likely because, for the first time ever, he could HEAR himself.

The news here, internet, is that I made it. And I got to spend a lot of time bonding with my little dude and hanging out with adults. (I know! Weird, right? I didn’t have to spoon feed ANY OF THEM.) It was a damn good weekend. And now, though I don’t feel as relaxed as maybe I should, I am fully prepared to see my little L and kiss her face off.

But, I survived!

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An Open Letter to My Kids: A Mommy’s Plea

Dear Kiddos,

I want to preface this letter by telling you how much I adore both of you. You are the center of my universe and your smiles are the most beautiful things I have ever seen. You make every day fun and interesting and pretty damn hilarious and, for that, I am so grateful.

But…

You are being total assholes.

You have been taking turns driving Mommy batshit insane for days on end and you seem to have no remorse. You wait until the other is content (for the 3.5 minutes that this will last) and then you scream your bloody head off and create havoc until I calm you down. And then the other one of you starts. You do this for hours. And hours. AND HOURS. Until Mommy is almost bald and considering padding the whole house, not only for easier childproofing but for protection for herself for when she completely loses it. Padded rooms are supposed to be safer for crazy people, I hear.

Mommy is not a terribly patient person to begin with. She likes quiet and alone time and reading books. She doesn’t get any of that anymore and has dealt with it rather well considering that one of you is a little tornado who NEVER. SITS. DOWN. and the other is a tiny, brand new nugget who needs constant attention in order to become another tiny tornado down the road. Mommy is tired and cranky and spends the majority of her time dreaming of enough time to take a hot, glorious shower. One where she might even SHAVE HER LEGS.

There is not enough wine in the state of Florida for Mommy this week, you guys. You have to tone down the crazy-pants. Or Mommy’s head will explode.

Your dad is a marvelous man and is a wonderful father, but has been working many, many hours per week to make sure that Mommy can stay home and keep you alive and not have to leave you with strangers or people who can’t handle the crazy. This leaves Mommy alone with you both for 16 hours per day. 16 hours is a really long time. And being that one of you (probably the one who shouldn’t be yet, but is, obviously, wise beyond his months) is sleeping 9 hours per night and the other (who will remain nameless, LILAH.) refuses to sleep in her crib for more than five straight hours at night without pitching the world’s largest fit until being invited to sleep in Mommy and Daddy’s room where she will torment us with feet of steel (seriously, how are those little kicks NOT LITTLE KICKS?) to the kidneys for hours and then resort to head butting and sitting on our faces, Mommy is EXHAUSTED.

Mommy wants to finish ONE CUP of coffee while it is still hot. Mommy wants to eat a meal while sitting down. Mommy wants to shave her effing legs. Or pee without an audience. Just once. Maybe twice per day. Mommy wants to put on mascara and not read a book that does not involve red fish and blue fish or cats in hats and the like. Mommy needs David Sedaris, you guys. Can I read “Naked” to you? Because I’ve gotten to page 14 and it has been three weeks.

Again, I love you guys. It is the kind of patient, unyielding love that I never expected to feel. But seriously, you guys, throw Mommy a bone here and GO THE EFF TO SLEEP. Like, at the same time, and for a couple of hours. Consecutively. My legs are a forest.

Thanks.

 

Love,

Mommy

 

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