socks ... in the dishwasher

People say stupid stuff.  Some people, however, are overachievers.

I slept like a baby.

Who in the hell says something that dumb, unless of course its following an all-night-drink-til-you-wet-yourself-bender because that's what my baby does.  I actually put laundry in the dishwasher yesterday.  I blame lack of sleep.  I woke up with my left eye swollen and oozing green toothpaste, but I am not sick.  I think my left eye, rebel that it is, was just pissed it didn't get to stay closed that long.  The right eye was more understanding and merely was bloodshot and felt like it was holding a sandbox.

Apparently at about 6.5 to 7 months of age babies go through a separation anxiety phase.  Haven't looked that up on any milestone charts because I am living it and hardly need some PhD's confirmation that hell exists.  Thing 2 is learning that we are not one person, that I can actually be separate from him.  I think this is further evidence my child is a freaking genius because he can grasp abstract concepts because I don't think we have actually been physically apart since his birth, twenty-nine weeks ago.  At any rate, he sleeps for about an hour then freaks out and needs held.  He also should be about 6 feet long by the end of the week because he wants  to eat about every 20 seconds.  

But back to my point, "sleeping like a baby" is a phrase either first uttered by one sarcastic SOB or someone who has never even seen an effing baby.  Go ahead, embroider that shat on a pillow, I know you want to.

Now on to my day where I try not to appear narcoleptic.

MommyShorts made me do it

As a child, I admit, I was a bit of a girly-girl.  I loved dress up and anything pink.  I have moved far away from this as an adult but I will admit to a bit of pink-envy when I see little girl's clothes as a mom now.  I walk by the frilly-pink-sixteen-racks of dresses and hair bands that is the girl's section of most stores and glare a bit in envy of the moms who get to dress up their daughters while I retreat to the four racks of boys clothes and am busy calculating how many rocks my boys can fit into those cute little pockets and when a reptile will be brought home to me.

But an opportunity to play dress-up with my youngest (and least opinionated as a result) presented itself yesterday and I dove on it.  Not exactly the frills and flowery headbands I have dreamed about, but I am a flexible person after all.

If you don't follow MommyShorts, do.  Like start now.  Go ahead, just make sure you come back.  Cracks. Me. Up.  Love it.  Since discovering this blog I have wiled away my miserable prison sentence in Parent Pick-up reading entries from the past so I can catch up.  So when yesterday a request went out for anyone with a baby and a camera you knew I was down for it.

The end result can be seen here!  I can proudly claim both Popeye and Captain Morgan as my offspring.

And I learned a valuable lesson ... the threat I have made for a while now to my husband -- that I either get a frou-frou dog I can dress up, a daughter, OR I turn one of the boys into a cross dresser so I can buy me some pink shat -- I can make good on.  While the point was that neither outfit was very involved he was a pro with impressions   He owned the Cap'n pose so well I locked the alcohol up.  And the pipe?  Took him a second to get the hang of which end worked better in the mouth, but once he did he got pretty peeved at me when I tried to trade it out with a rattle.

Make sure you go to the MommyShorts entry to see the final images, but here are some out-takes that I will be submitting to the Mom of the Year contest.

the Definition of Motherhood is ...

I saw something on facebook the other day that said something to the effect of motherhood = free labor and while I fully agree with this sentiment, it stuck with me and made me think.

The next time it crossed my mind was on my most recent 2 and a half hour flight.  You see St Paul and Thing 1 got up to pee twice each during the flight.  We had not followed the no fluids prior to the flight rule, I guess, because I had to go wicked bad too.  But did I go?  No.  Why not, you ask?  Well its simple: I was holding a sleeping baby.

You know, the sleeping baby everyone evil eyed while we walked down the aisle to our seats.  The baby that everyone prayed would sit very, very far away from them.  The baby that looked too young to bribe with fruit snacks or promises of presents once we landed.  That baby.  And he was sleeping.  We got on that plane, walked the four miles down that aisle with the tentative evil eyers and story tellers ("oh we flew once with my son at that age and never again, it was awful" -- really lady, gee thanks for that anecdote!) paying too much attention to us while some jackhole 50 people in front of us took forever to stow their carry-ons.  Once we finally poured our four selves, three backpacks, camera bag and jackets into those impossibly snug, funny smelling three seats I immediately set to work.  Got him as tired and hungry as possible and began feeding him so that he slept/ate through take off and beyond.

So while St Paul and Thing 1 got up for round two of the potty dance and my bladder was reaching the critical point, I looked down at the most angelic little sleeping baby in my arms and knew, just knew, that if I got up and handed Thing 2 off to St Paul there was a snowball's chance that he'd stay asleep.  Between my own waning sanity and the silent prayers of those around us I figured my bladder would just have to hold it.

And that my friends is the definition of motherhood:

Motherhood is holding it when you really gotta go -- even though your children ruined your ability to hold it to begin with -- because if you just wait and keep that kiddo sleeping then your family won't be material for everyone else's gripes on the drive home from the airport.  

"How was your flight?" 

"Oh there was this baby ..."

Holy heart failure, Batman!

Okay so if I was skipping around the room like a giddy five year old that I had gotten something published other than here where I chose to put it up (if ya missed that go here ;)) then I am really over the moon and about to get raccoon eyes from the tears of joy that are brought with discovering people have actually commented on my piece ... and liked it!

And I was actually worried that it was *my* parent pick up point-of-view that was the problem.  Ah, clearly not.  We all seem to wish we could drop houses on the soccer mom in line with us and steal that witch's shoes.

{Seriously, most of these women are richer than me and have absolutely fabulous shoes!}

So I have people reading me here -- I so heart you -- and people reading me there, and then I was listed as a "What We're Reading This Week" over at It Builds Character and I pretty much had a happy stroke right there!

Just had to share.  I have about a million things to do and this is not one of them, but it sure does make mama happy!

here I am!

Okie dokie, its been a while since I have posted anything because I was in Iceland, er ... I mean Iowa, and I needed to thaw my fingers back out so that they could type again.

This is St. Paul of Bunyan's and my version of star crossed lovers ... he, a boy from Iowa where they need things like chains on their tires ... me, a girl born an bread in the midst of the Sonoran Desert who's never even seen snow falling other than in movies and thinks that salting your sidewalks is foolish unless you plan to lick them before you shoot the tequila.

The weather was quite dead-of-winter-ish for me in the 50s and 60s until the last day when it was in the 40s, in the middle of the day.  Oh. My. Gawd.  My husband's family all had great fun commenting on how nice the weather was, or how chilly it felt all while quickly snapping a peak at my reaction. I was a big girl most of the time and never said things like "Holy shmidt its fricken freezing!" like I did the first time I went to Iowa.  Before we were married.  In front of his grandmother.  Oh, and no, I didn't say shmidt or fricken.  My brain was too stunned by the cold to substitute or even realize I was speaking out loud.  But we had a good time and I was a big girl this time about the weather.  They did find my shock at the size of their squirrels a bit amusing though.  (I swear it made badgers and house cats look small!!!)  

Anywhoo ... so I am back and in my absence I actually got some followers and comments.  Oh be still my little geeky heart!  Love it! Love, love, looooove it!  I will get back into the swing of things here soonish, I hope.  I have lots of little ideas and if I don't get them committed to blogland I will lose them to that wasteland in my mind the way I loose passwords and my kids social security numbers.

feelin' a bit badass

Okay so I admit it, I'm feeling a bit badass today.

Yes, I mean more than normal.

After years of *saying* I want to be a writer I finally stopped being a wimp and sent something in to a site I soooo love ... and somehow I got lucky, or the bribes were well placed enough, because they liked it and I can now say I am {ahem} "published."

Check it out HERE :)

P.S. I think I might have figured out how to post from my phone, which is pretty rock star in my humble opinion. I'm having a pretty awesome day!

when life hands you a broken door knob

You know the phrase "when life hands you lemons ..."?  I prefer the ever more practical variant which mentions salt and tequila because when did lemonade ever make anyone feel better?  But I found a new application for this phrase over the weekend.

For the last couple of weeks both of my bathroom door knobs have been biting the dust.  Both of them.  Seem fair? No.  Not fair, because the bathroom is about the only place I can guarantee alone time anymore and its not even a full guarantee.  Anyhoo, door knobs sent a little memo to each other and agreed to simultaneously have the little sticky-outy-part (I know there is probably a name for this part, but who cares) stay stucky-inny.  So the doors can close but not latch, much less lock.

So on Saturday St. Paul of Bunyan and I were furiously cleaning, storing, throwing out and swearing at stuff.  As we were wrapping it up I needed to "powder my nose" so to speak.  Go into the bathroom and do my business and was about to leave when it happened.

The sticky-outy-part that has been stucky-inny for like 3 weeks?  Popped out.

But could it pop out in a miraculous door-is-healed sort of way?  Hello, this is me we are talking about!  What are the odds that the exploding smurf, plastic wrap warrior will have the good luck to have something work in my favor like that?!

So the thingy pops out and I can't open the door.

I try turning the knob.  Turning it fast, turning it slow, pulling on the door, pushing on the door, speaking to the door nicely, calling the door a few names, smacked the knob a few times (not advisable, hurts you more than the knob) ... no change.  Finally I take a deep breath, try once more and I hear a strange clicking snapping type noise then feel the knob go slack.  I can now turn it in either direction with no resistance or effect.  Yeah, not good.  Fortunately, I wasn't home alone, or home with just the baby.  More fortunately I happened to have my cell phone in my pocket so I didn't have to yell myself horse until I was heard.

St Paul came back, starts running through the procedures I already did from one side of the door.  Then goes and gets tools. Lots of loud noises come through the door.  I sigh and realize I am not going anywhere for a little bit when the hubs has to go back to the tool box for some new tools.

And it hit me.

I am locked in a bathroom, alone.  As in by myself.  Just me.

And the shower.

And the clouds parted and the rays of sunlight shown down while the angelic chorus of "hallelujah" blasted through my brain.

That elusive beast that evades all moms, especially those of younger children, is mine for the taking.

I took a long, hot shower ... by myself.  Uninterrupted, if you don't count the loud noises resulting from St Paul eventually breaking the door down.  After 20 minutes I emerge from the steamy bathroom with my hair clean, skin scrubbed pink and moisturized, all relaxed and calm to a frazzled husband and crying baby.

So the next time you hear that tired old phrase about life handing you lemons just remember, when life hands you a bad door knob you can have yourself a somewhat peaceful shower.

You got a long, hot shower to yourself? You're welcome.

me n' Gumby

Lets go ahead and have a disclaimer right from the get go here.  Ready? Set. Go!

If you are one of those people who get freaked out at the thought of breast feeding in general (WTF are you doing reading my blog anyway) or don't like to depart from the happy, comfy, granola crunchy BS version of breast feeding where it never hurts or is awkward at all, read no further.  If you are, like, my dad, or someone who doesn't want to read something that is specifically about my boobs, you should also stop here.

That should cover us.  Its a little TMI, but I don't know of any honest breast feeding sources that don't crap hearts and rainbows and focus on anything other than the bondy happiness breast feeding is to vent my spleen here.  As stated in my last post or two about breast feeding I think it is all those happy unicorn things, but it is more.  So much more.

I have given up any hope or false belief I own my boobs.  He took them.  The ones I have now are not mine for all intents and purposes, nor are they the ones I had before.  I fear that in giving my child all the valuable wonderful (crapping hearts and rainbows) goodness that breast milk undeniably gives him I have also forfeited any hope of having human boobs again.

I have Gumby boobs.  At least Thing 2 thinks so.  He seems to think he can simultaneously eat and do some kind of Linda-Blair-head-turning sort of thing.

At least they aren't green.

Oh, and the baby is learning that my shirt is some sort of barrier between him and that which he loves most dearly.  Not me, just his food source.

So we can definitely add "my boobs" to the list of things my kids stole from me.  File it right after "my dignity" and just before "my peace of mind."

they call me *fart*

If beating myself up counted as I hobby, I could finally say I have a damn hobby.

I don't mean literally physically damaging myself, though with my innate sense of grace I most certainly do that as well, but I mean I can mentally tear myself to shreds in a mater of seconds.  I don't need help, I am quite skilled at neglecting myself, putting me on the back burner, taking care of everyone else ... then feeling like I am some sort of failure for the one, two, or ten things I failed to do or didn't do well enough by my abnormally and unfairly high standards I hold only me to.  Don't even ask me to address body issues, post- or pre-kids.  You'd be here for days hearing words like hideous, flabby, and Mr. Sunffelupagus and I would ruin the mascara I actually managed to apply this morning.

This said, I clearly have a low enough sense of my personal value.  But I still know, somewhere in the back of my mind, that my family needs me and couldn't run with out me.  Oh they'd survive, but they'd smell (worse) and be hungry(er).

This said, note the following conversation which just occurred and has happened in some form now twice.

Me: Can you say mama?

Thing 2: dadadadadadada

Me: Yes, yes, that's very nice, now say mmmmmma-ma!

Thing 2: Looks at me very seriously and says "DAdadadaDA!"

Me: *sigh* Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma (all while making his toys dance in time with each syllable)

Thing 2: Leans to his right so that his left butt cheek is off the seat and farts. Then lets out a nice sigh.

So after he cracks one off by way of saying "mama" I think to myself, "Self, I am giving up!" only to see him lean in very seriously, probably having some kind of internal dialog that sounds a bit like this

Seriously, she wants me to say mama but she never lets me play with her phone once I figure out how to turn the stupid thing on ... wait ... holy crap, is she wearing mascara???

And he proceeds to yell at me, in his loudest most projected voice he can:

DAAA!!!

I sincerely hope that since this has now happened twice it is purely coincidence and the child eventually decides to call me something else.  Otherwise, those whiny toddler years which are so often punctuated with "mama? Mama? MAMA!!!" are going to be really gross at our house.

Someone pass me some Mommy Juice please.

personal standards and life after children

With motherhood comes some strange gifts, many of which are useful but not exactly easy to brag about.

Particularly to your non-parent friends.

People without children -- also known as people who still have lives and some sense of a personal self -- don't get that your chin may seem like just a chin, until you become a parent.  Suddenly, you have a slightly less maneuverable, but still vital, third limb.

Eyes in the back of your head?  Not exactly, its sorta like Spidey Sense.  My Mommy Sense starts tingling every time a child holds a permanent marker, climbs anything taller than 2 feet off the ground, or speaks the words "this will be soo cool!"  We call it Momdar, as in mom radar.

I have one of the droid smartass phones.  They won't be asking me to do any plugs for them because "smartass phone" is totally the clean name.  I have more creative names, but out of respect for your possiblly delicate sensibilities I will spare you.  I think it has a personal vendetta out for me.  Works fine for everyone ... but me.  But even still, while it will turn off at random, change preferences, and (my personal fave) will have a touch screen that spontaneously takes a cigarette break and goes black, it is my only hope at maintaining my facebook life.

And yes, I hate the new facebook.  But I digress.

The point here (I am rambling, but you would aimlessly ramble your thoughts in a nonsensical-stream-of-consciousness way if you were a parent too) is that I accept all of this and live with it, and I would have never stood for that pre-children.  I would have had the time and energy simultaneously to go to the store.  I would have had to just get myself out of the car and walk into the store.  I would have had a reasonable, logical conversation with the salesperson in which I would appear to be a perfectly clearheaded individual who not once has to wonder if I am leaking on myself or if I only remembered to put mascara on one eye, and the person at the store would fix my issues or I would demand a replacement phone.  Ah, the good ol' days.

But in this reality, I chose to not pack up a diaper bag with stuff that I rarely use but will desperately need if I don't carry all 50 lbs of it, haul a infant carrier/sumo wrestler holder to the nearest cart which will always have a tendency to turn left, only to finally get into the store and have my smartasshole phone work perfectly fine for the guy in the blue polo who will look at me like I am some inept bafoon soccer mom who shouldn't be allowed anything more complex than the flip and just dial phones that were high end tech 4 years ago.  That stupid little hunk of glass and plastic always betrays me, and I usually lose Thing 1 for a while in those stores ("OMG Mom, they have the game/game system/movie/expensive thing I need to have now here on this aisle, can I show you please?!").

So in essence, parenthood has drastically lowered my expectations and personal demands because I prioritize a phone that works 100% of the time lower than my sanity and the little remaining energy I cling to.

It also falls way behind going to the bathroom with out having to yell "I will be there in a sec, just hold on," or showering, or sleeping for 2 hours consecutively, or wearing earrings without fear of having them torn out, or actually having a hair style, or ... you get the idea.

But the sick part isn't that you feel all of those things and more.  So much more.

The slightly sick part is just how worth it you think it all is.