Yay, I can fail at this too!

I was so excited to make my own baby food. Really, I felt so jazzed about the whole thing.  I was reading up on recipes before Thing 2 could sit up and was already figuring out what I'd make loooong before I was actually making it.  I was having one big hippie, rainbow-shittin', successful-mama-moment dreaming about how I was going to do something wholesome and right for my little boy.  He would grow up all strong and noble, knowing how to write in cursive, match his own socks, and win the Nobel Prize -- despite my failure at cloth diapering -- all because his mommy made him his first foods.

And it has been one big massive failure.  He hates it. Anything. Everything.

I tried rice and oatmeal first, even though I was biting at the food-processing-bit, and he had super fun allergic reactions.

Oatmeal Art ... unfortunately,
 consuming it made him violently ill

So I researched, and decided to start with orange/yellow veggies first and move to the greens, then fruits.  This is supposed to lay down pathways in the brain that lead to healthy eating habits later.  Supposedly by eating things in this order he would be less likely to develop a sweet tooth -- which led me to believe my mother was giving me chocolate by IV at 4 months of age, but this is beside the point.

I talked with my awesome pediatrician, found websites, read books, then went to websites with simple how-to-recipes that a monkey could follow.  A brain dead, blind monkey ... with a peg leg.

I tried sweet potatoes first.  I grinned like a fool and my husband took pictures.  Baby shivered like a naked man lost int he arctic and gagged like I had asked him to lick a live 9V battery, but he got used to them and eventually he would eat them with only a minimal shudder. But he would eat them.

Yams? Um, two bites then he mutinies.

Squash? Oh hell-to-the-no. You'd swear its torture.

Carrots? Ha!

Avocado? If he could run he would have.

So I figured maybe I just really suck as a baby chef.  Really, who would be surprised by this particular development?  Bought carrots.  Jarred carrots.  He tried those and while it made me feel like less of a failure as a cook (he ate even less of those than he did mine) he still wouldn't eat them.

Giving up I bought pears today.  Pears are yummy. They are fruit, the thing I had intended to not give him until after we'd successfully navigated the less sweet and tasty stuff.  I bought Gerber in a plastic bin, didn't even attempt to make them as it is a lot of freaking work for him to gag on and refuse.

Sigh. Nope.

Now he is sick of the sweet potatoes and won't eat them anymore either.

"Oh Lawd, that airplane is back!"

I let him play with it, play with a spoon, eat in a high chair, on my lap, eat it warm, eat it cold ... in a house, with a mouse ... and a partridge in a pear tree … he wants nothing to do with anything I give him that is "food" ... but he is quite into breast milk still. He also loves to watch people eat and grabs at our food.

I know nutritionally he is fine, I know he can continue this way more or less for a bit. He is about 32 inches long and weighs 23 lbs or so ... not like he is wasting away or anything. I am just baffled. My oldest was inhaling baby food by this age.


I just can't help but laugh that I walked into parenthood this time around thinking I was sooo open minded and was going to do so much better than the stumbling act I did a decade ago with Thing 1.  Well in the immortal words of Lennon, life is what happens while your making other plans.

lies I tell my children

just like candy

Given that a decade passed by between kids I often feel a bit like a first time mom all over again with child numero dos.  I don't remember all of it from ten years ago, and if we're being honest its not like I knew what I was doing well enough to make actual decisions then.  Its a miracle Thing 1 isn't already in rehab.

So when I was nearing the end of the prison term that is pregnancy I joined Baby Center and added myself to a bunch of clubs so I could read and get advice as needed.  I have found on this one website, more than anywhere else, the most concrete of evidence that women are singularly the most cruel beings on the planet at times.  The moms on this site rip each other to shreds at times over things like formula feeding and onsies with stupid phrases on them.  I am not much of a Judgey McJudgerson myself, because I am pretty sure I am doing it all wrong by someone's standard anyway, so I don't dive into these blood baths or partake in assuming I know a dayum thing about how someone else parents (unless you let your kid sleep with knives, then I think you're nucking futs, you sicko).

But a while back the concept of lying to your kids came up on a post and it got me thinking about the lies I tell my children.  As I am not the type of mom featured in parenting magazines I will admit I have had some fun at the expense of the minds I mold ... no, you really are the only person with a butt crack and its because I dropped you ... but one of my best ones came to light fairly recently.

When Thing 1 was younger I, like all good mothers do, warned him of the dangers of accepting candy from strangers.  It was probably a Halloween related bit of wisdom but I never do anything halfsies, so I went fully monty and told him about the crazy Tylenol poisoner.  I believe that whole thing happened the year I was born or so, so I have been raised with the pain-in-the-ass-bottles but none of the fear and stuff people who really lived through it experienced.  But I sure milked it.  And after I was done telling this innocent little three year old about it (see, I told you I was a bad mom) I proceeded to tell him that the crazy Tylenol poisoner considered spiking candy at one point too.  In my infinitely selfless willingness to show motherly love I told Thing 1 that it was best that I act as his royal taster and insure that none of his food was poisoned.

I know, you think I am sick.  But think about the possibilities.  I got the first taste of anything good for years!  That trusting little goober would allow me to take a sip of his chocolate shake, a bite of his cookie, a taste of anything that was appealing to me because I had the foresight to know what kinds of things crazy Tylenol poisoners would poison. Interestingly enough it was all the things *I* like.

But the funniest part about this story isn't that I was evil enough to say it, do it, and milk it for years, but rather that at about 9 Thing 1 finally realized that his mother was devious enough to hatch such a plot.  I got nearly six years of it!

But really, the best news of all: I convinced him to not tell his little brother.  Here we go again! =)

the *real* Story of Creation

Being out numbered three to one by males in my house I am quite sensitive to gender issues.  This is a nice way of saying that I am situationally bombarded with farts (which I mind), football (which I don't mind), and I find myself swearing at the Mars/Venus author a lot.

So when on Wednesday night Thing 1 said that his throat was bugging him a bit and his head was hurting I began bracing for the worst.  Sigh, the Man Cold was about to invade.

While the invasion is in full swing, however, it has led to a religious epiphany on my part.  Whilst reciting my version of the Serenity Prayer, I realized the Almighty's motivation in something.  I, of course, felt very blessed to have been gifted such an amazing bit of holy insight and had to share it here, with you.

Despite popular and biblical belief, God did not create Eve from Adam's rib following the realization that the poor guy was one lonely dude.  Rather, God looked down from heaven and saw that Adam was slowly starving to death and completely unaware of what the eff to do without someone there to hold his silly little male hand.  And it was then God realized once that poor fool got sick he'd just whither away and die.  Realizing that He could not allow his most prized creation to just die due to his overwhelming sense of self pity, God created Eve.

Then Eve went and served up some forbidden apples and they were cast out of Paradise ... and God, then and only then, created the Man Cold so as to punish woman kind for Eve's mistake.

Gee, thanks.

evidence that my child is a horrendous dictator in the making

Following a title like that I am sure you are either thinking "oh my gawd, she's horrible" or "Ha! Preach on sistah, I have one of those kids too!"  Your response of course entirely depends on your being a parent or not being a parent.  Or maybe you are a parent without a sense of humor ... good lord, how do you survive?!

Anyway, my child is only 7 months old and I am pretty sure he has all the makings of a horrendous, terrifying dictator in the making.  I already shudder to think about how the history books will portray his sheer mad brilliance, and I hope history doesn't look down upon me too harshly because, as you are about to see, his path was set long before I started to pretend I had control over this.

{Editors Note: I still pretended I had control of him as a human being from the moment the little line on the pee-stick formed right up until about a few weeks before my due date, when I realized I had truly zero control over anything having to do with this kid beyond incubating him.}

With no further adieu, the Top 5 Reasons My Kid Will Someday Be a Terrifying Dictator:

1. His nickname in the womb was Voldabean.  As in a morph of Jellybean and Voldemort.  Yeah.  At 13 weeks I had my first ultrasound, and it looked like a jellybean with a heartbeat.  I thought it was cute -- this kid hadn't given me any morning sickness or unpleasant preggo symptoms as of yet so I started calling the little gender-less blob my Jellybean.  Fast forward to the Jellybean turning into a Sasquatch sized member of Cirque de Soleil in my tummy who left me with horrendous heartburn, back pain, early onset of contractions, and thought his "due date" was merely a laughable suggestion of date he should avoid arriving on at all costs... I started saying I was going to give birth to Voldemort.  Voldabean was the compromise.

2. His little baby hands can out-do any Chinese Water Torture trial.  Oh. My. Gawd.  I don't care how short I trim those nails, they are daggers.  Maybe he is like Wolverine and can retract them, I don't know.  To add to this he has this adorable habit of squeezing his hands open and closed right as he falls asleep.  So right as he drifts off he starts slowly, delicately, gouging four small trenches in your arm and all you can do is put up with it, or wake him up.  Yes, I have scars.

3. He has a sick sense of humor.  Not all dictators have this, in fact many don't thus why they are so uptight and horrible.  But my kid?  He has already learned to apply his gasp of the ironic in order to manipulate me. Example: I am with this child nearly 24/7.  I am the focal point of his world, and nearly always there trying to teach him and help him.  Who did he roll over for first?  My mom.  When he learned to do the much harder back to belly roll over, who did he do that for first?  St. Paul of Bunyan.  After days of working with his slowly emerging and adorable ability to clap I was gone from his side maybe a couple hours only to return and find him perched on St Paul's knee clapping furiously.  When I excitedly said "he's clapping!" St. Paul replied, "oh he's been doing that for like an hour now."  Don't even get me started on how the little traitor babbles "Dadadada" constantly.

4. His sense of timing is flawless.  Timing is everything, everyone knows this.  And so does my baby.  Case in point: child holds off on a blow-out until just the right moment.  Like the I am running late wearing my favorite shirt and only clean jeans in the house, go to pick him up and put him on my hip and ... I'll spare you the visual.

5. He is so stinkin' cute and perfect he could convince you to do anything.  It has been said that the greatest, most horrible dictators of our time were, for all their tyrannical cruelty, still very good leaders.  This is how they were able to convince so many to follow them, no matter what.  I assure you, Thing 2 could make you do anything.  Anything.  Between his perfect little round-bald-baby-head, big blue eyes framed with perfect dark, curly eyelashes, and adorably chubby cheeks ... my kid could kick the Gerber kid's ass.  He sneezed yams into my eye the other day, and I am the world's biggest sissy with eye stuff.  The word "contacts" makes me shiver just at the thought of touching an eyeball, but there I was with globs of grainy yam in my eye sockets and he laughed, and I was okay with it.  That gummy little smile could melt Satan's heart.  This child can already convince you to do anything, so I can only assume that this skill will be honed and of greater threat once he practices some more.

So let the record show, someday when my child is trying to overtake a small country or is working at the Motor Vehicle Division, that I saw the signs and tried to intervene.  But then he gave me that cute little gummy smile and used sign language to either sign "mama" or "bitch" (they look really similar) and I know whichever it is, it refers to me, and I just melted.  Sorry world.

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 ..."

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.

moments: I collect them

I once saw some cutesy crafty sign that said something really profound.  In its adorable fake-cross-stitchiness it stated:

Life is a collection of moments.

Wow.  That's deep.  Like pass the Doritos I am having a Dazed and Confused kind of moment deep.  Not the real "deep" where you have actually said something actually profound.

But I do agree, none the less.  Life is a collection of moments.  And they can be categorized thus:

Moments which are just funny.  Period.

and

Moments you have to find the humor in in order to keep the sane facade up.

For example, when Thing 1 was newly minted and only a couple weeks old I took him and Cindy Lou Who to a store which will remain nameless.  So while we were at the "bulls eye" store and I was still a new enough mom that I was bringing multiple pacifiers with me because I believed they needed boiled after contamination, Thing 1 in all his precious baby-ness had a melt down and started screaming.  Cindy Lou had a very autistic reaction to the shrill baby screams, so she had a meltdown of her own.  There I stood right in front of greeting cards with one baby screaming and one sister shrieking in response with everyone staring at us, mouths agape, and of course blocking the aisle so I can't drag the two out and make my escape.  So I had to find humor and said loudly, over the screams of the two little darlings,

Hi, we are a roaming PSA promoting the use of birth control!  Could you get the helloutta my way now please?

When a friend posted a facebook update recently stating that clearly her two year old had seen her opening a beer because she had pulled her shirt over the lid of her apple juice in order to twist it open I see that as a naturally funny moment, and damn practical.  Parenting fail?  I think not!

Thing 1 seeing me holding his brother while doing dishes one handed, child perched on  my upraised knee  stating that I am doing a, and I quote, "Captain Morgan?"  Um, fail?  Thing 1 played with an old  Copenhagen container that held three beer bottle tops and was sealed with glue as a baby.  At least it wasn't mine, that would have been really redneck.  As it is, it was classy.

Thing 1 also used to say "Whaaaazzzzzuuuupp?" just like the Budweiser commercials cuz we thought it was funny.  I'd like to say that all of this was because I was a really young mom, which is true.  But I am not that young anymore.  Kinda normal mom-aged I guess.  And Thing 2 is fascinated by beer bottles.  Clearly, its not the age but the person.  The me factor.

So life is a collection of moments.

Hopefully my kids won't need to spend too many of theirs re-living their childhoods on a therapists couch.

the Battle of the Toilet

There are things one must accept when horribly outnumbered by boybarians.

Fart is a second language.

Showering can be seen as optional to some.

Chocolate, and Mommy's compulsive need for it, is not treated with the sacred respect it requires.

But the toilet seat?  Ah this is a battle I have had within myself because you see I am a fair person all things considered.  Being that there is only one of me, and two of them (two out of the three males in my house use the toilet, third one is too young yet) I kinda debated briefly whether or not it was reasonable for me to expect the toilet seat to be put down after use. 

When I say I "debated" it that means I thought about it for about forty five tenths of a second.  I asked myself is this a fair request when there is only one pee-sitter in the house and was instantly barraged with mental images too gruesome to share -- though I am sure some of you can relate.

I really have two toilet related issues:
1.) The seat is rarely down
2.) The pee rarely goes where it aught


When I bring up either of the two to the others who live in this house I get one of three responses.

St. Paul of Bunyan: That is sooo Thing 1's doing.

Thing 1: It wasn't ME!!!  I don't know how that happens!

Thing 2: Dadadada <-- he is only 5 months old but if you pay close attention note that he is blaming someone who goes by "dada" ... hmmmmm ...

In the front bathroom, which we all use, there seems to be a pee fairy that hits everything but the toilet, and no one claims to have been this person or had anything to do with it.  Since the baby can't walk yet and I generally know where I have put him we can assume he is not the pee fairy.  Since I would have to do some impressive acrobatics that would leave me severely injured I think we can rule me out as not being the pee fairy.  So that leaves two others.  The two who say they have nothing to do with it.  Strange.  In the other bathroom, the one St. Bunyan and I use, the seat is never down, but the aim does seem to be a bit better.

Odd, donchya think?

Ultimately, I have reached the conclusion that Mars vs Venus may be a way of life for us here, but its all about compromise.  Basically I accept that I will hear things like "no really, pull my finger, I won't do it this time" and will not interfere because really some lessons in trust and gullibility are necessary.  But I also accept that while I expect the seat to be down and there to be some attempt at aiming this this will not happen 100% of the time.  I will be lucky if I see it work out 30% of the time. But that's okay.

What's the phrase?  Revenge is a dish best served cold with a single red sock in a hot wash with all your white clothes?  Something like that anyway.