tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58442824391365050152024-03-04T23:02:25.662-08:00Lessons from the Mama 'HoodAmandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-90908146014070645412016-04-21T13:26:00.001-07:002016-04-21T13:26:29.457-07:00Lesson 39: You Are Enough<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s 10:30 at night and I should really be sleeping. I
should probably be a doing a lot of things but I learned a long time ago not to
should all over myself. I read that once and it struck me funny, that
expression of “shoulding all over yourself”. I had actually forgotten about it
and had a bad case of the shoulds recently. Shoulding all over ourselves makes
us feel downright, well, crappy. We don’t feel adequate because we didn’t do whatever
someone thinks we “should” have done. We feel guilty because we took a minute
for ourselves instead of doing what we feel “should” have been done around the
house, at work, at church, at school, wherever. We don’t enjoy the delicious
foods we do eat and skip the chocolate cake we want to eat because we “should” eat
a salad. We aren’t happy because we “should” be more effective, able to do it
all, happier, better. By shoulding all over ourselves, we snuff our light right
out. We beat ourselves down. We become tired. We become frustrated. We become
hassled, harried, discontent. Our sometimes unrealistic expectations of what
life “should” be like and how we “should” be handling it are like a weight
around our necks, dragging us down and sucking out our joy. We should ourselves
right out of happiness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we spend time thinking about the things we “should” be
doing, we are devaluing what we actually ARE doing, which is usually a lot. The
worst part is that when we get in the habit of shoulding all over ourselves,
the shoulds start spilling over onto our children. We begin to think about what
they “should” be, rather than celebrating what they are. As a mom of busy, loud
boys, I often find myself shoulding on them as I observe other families. Instead
of appreciating their sense of adventure and boisterous love of life, I find
myself thinking my boys “should” be less rambunctious and quite a lot quieter.
I think it goes without saying (but this is the internet and you may not know
me personally so I will say it) that there are certainly standards of behavior
that need to be adhered to, and there is definitely a time and place for
certain things. I’m not referring to those things (of course my kids need to
act appropriately in the store, and I hold them to the expectation that they will
not swing from the rafters like spider monkeys in the middle of Walmart). I’m
referring to the general personalities of our children. This “shoulding” on our
kids often happens when a child does something unexpected or doesn’t meet our
expectations, even if they are age appropriate. For example, my then 5 year old
son was super excited to play soccer. That is, until he got to the soccer
field, where he most often refused to set foot on the field and when he did,
often devolved into running after other kids with his dinosaur claws out
yelling “ROAR”! This is terribly funny to me now, but at the time I was
mortified. WHY wouldn’t he play like the other kids? WHY wouldn’t he join his
friends? WHY was he acting like a total whackadoo? Um, he was 5 that’s why. You
may find yourself feeling that your child “should” be more outgoing, less shy,
more active, less active, a better eater, whatever. These “shoulds” become our
wishes upon stars. We expend energy on wishing our children were different instead
of recognizing that while they may not be the same as other children, they are
just as they were meant to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched a movie recently that really made me think,
charting the course for this post. That’s why I was writing at 10:30 at night
instead of going to sleep. The movie
wasn’t what I expected but it was exactly what I needed. I was expecting a
comedy about moms, and 6 minutes in I texted my two good friends because I was
laughing so much. This mom was living my life on screen! I could literally feel
her pain. It was funny because it was real. But the movie went on and touched
on just the right nerve for me. It got so so SO real. I don’t know whether you
pray or not, but I do. I pray about being a mom a LOT. I pray and I beg God to
help me do it better. To love better. To respond better. To do better. To be
better. I spend a LOT of time “shoulding” all over my parenting at the end of
the day. A LOT. You may be familiar with this line of thinking: I should have
said this; I should have done that; I should have been more attentive; I should
have been more assertive; I should have done it BETTER. In something so simple as watching a movie,
God finally showed me the answer that I have been searching for. I don’t need
to do it better; I just need to do it. I may need to do some things
differently, but THE MOST important thing is that I wake up every morning and
be there for these children that He gave to me. Watching those moms on screen,
all at different stages of parenting, all going through their own struggles and
all feeling inadequate made it painfully clear and simple. The overall message
of the movie was YOU ARE ENOUGH. I know, kind of cliché in these times, but a
message that is so true and so often lost. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m here to remind you not to “should all over yourself”,
especially as a parent. Whatever you did instead of those “shoulds” is ok. It’s
ok that you said no to volunteering this time. It’s ok that you didn’t get the
laundry, dishes, sweeping, whatever done. It’s ok that you spent some time
reading/walking/sleeping/ sitting/whatever instead. It’s ok that you got take
out tonight to save your sanity. It’s ok that you skipped baths just this once.
We get so caught up in the frenzied pace of life that the little voice in our
head starts in with the shoulds the second we deviate from our normal hectic
routine. But guess what? You will be ok. Everything will be ok. YOU get to decide
what you and your family need, not someone else and certainly not someone
else’s expectation of you. YOU are the one. And YOU ARE ENOUGH. <o:p></o:p></div>
Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-89045411074901692992015-08-29T10:34:00.002-07:002015-08-29T10:34:26.905-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Lesson #38: Reality Bites<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My problem has always been that I get an image in my head of
how something will go, and inevitably end up disappointed when reality does not
live up to the wonders my mind creates. Case in point: summer vacation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s how the summer looked in my mind:<br />
The boys outside riding bikes at all hours, playing in the yard as I sat in the
shade reading and enjoying the sound of their laughter. Trips to the beach
where we would hang out for half the day, happy and sandy, cooling ourselves in
the water and munching on snacks. Day trips exploring the area, where we would
discover local hidden gems. Messy outdoor crafts and water play and time in the
pool. It was going to be <i>so great</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the reality:<br />
The boys got tired of pretty much every activity we have within a matter of
about two weeks. I now have to declare it Outside Time and lock all the doors
behind us to make them stay outside so they don’t sneak back in to watch TV and
get into snacks. Even then, it’s so hot and humid that they play for about 15
minutes before becoming soggy, sweaty messes and begging to go inside where
it’s cool. What about the pool, I ask. They want to wait until Daddy gets home,
or won’t go in unless I am going in. What about the water table? The little one
won’t play with it unless the big one is; the big one refuses on principle.
They beg to go to the beach, one of my favorite summer past times. I would love
nothing more than to take them to the beach. However, my mind didn’t take into
account this pregnant body. The heat takes its toll quickly, making me sick if
I get too hot. I can’t get comfortable on a sofa, let alone a beach. There is
no way to position myself on a towel or blanket that doesn’t cause discomfort
or indecent exposure. I can’t take a camp chair because, well, I can’t get OUT
of a camp chair once I get into one. Not even joking. I had to have my husband
help me out of a camp chair as I wobbled back and forth like a Weeble, unable to heft myself to my feet. Then
there’s the matter of having to use the bathroom literally every 20 seconds.
Packing up two boys and heading to the restroom with them in tow every other
minute does not equal a fun beach day. The only thing beached this summer is
me; a beached freaking whale. We can’t really “do” the park either, since there
is virtually no shade at the parks we frequent. If we manage to get there at
just the right time of day there MIGHT be one bench with a shady-ish spot on
it, but it is always taken up by one mom and her 57 bags, or by several
people’s bags while they buzz around watching their kids. Trips to anywhere are
pretty much out of the question at this point in time anyway, since riding in
the car brings such discomfort that I just can’t even. And, of course, once we
get to wherever we’re going, even if it’s only across town, I often have to hobble
around like a 90 year old woman due to the sciatic pain shooting through my
butt cheek. Fun times. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other reason summer vacation is not quite what I saw in
my mind’s eye is that boys are like bulldozers on crack. They leave a path of
destruction so wide and so long there is no hope of ever repairing the damage.
They are loud; they are rough; they break things and spill things and leave
crumbs on every surface imaginable. They get into things when I’m in the
bathroom; they eat all the cookies (and chocolate chips and marshmallows and
sneak chocolate syrup) while I shower; they fight like rabid dogs; they trash
their room so badly I can’t even walk in it. They run away and hide on me when we’re
outside; they chase the cat; they splash water all over the bathroom. I have to
say things like, “WHY is there pee all over this floor?!” and “You have to
flush the toilet EVERY TIME you go to the bathroom. EVERY. TIME.” and “Do NOT
lick the cat!” By 10am I’ve done enough refereeing to last me a lifetime. It’s
probably a good thing I’m pregnant so I can’t start drinking. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s a confession: I used to think that stay at home moms
were kind of jerk-y for celebrating the return of school so much. Taking for
granted those lazy summer days that the rest of us working moms had to ration
like precious sips of water in the
desert! How could they?! Lucky them, getting to spend all that time with their
babies; time that my colleagues and I only dreamt of. Now that I have spent
exactly 78 very long days in a row mostly alone with both children at the same
time, I can safely say that I get it. I <i>so</i>
get it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone talks about being “in the moment” and enjoying it
but I find that being in the moment is what sucks the joy out of my day. Moms
of rowdy boys know that every moment brings another mess, another argument, another frustration to deal with, constantly. I spend entirely too
much time “in the moment”, stewing about how I JUST mopped the floor and it’s
sticky and spotted again; how I JUST gave someone a snack yet they are in the
fridge again trying to get another; how they seem to think the floor is a trash
can because I have found YET ANOTHER wrapper, cup, plate, trail of crumbs; how
ONCE AGAIN the toilet seat is up and there’s pee just hanging out in the toilet
waiting to be flushed; how they JUST had their room clean last week and now I
can barely walk through it again. It’s exhausting. It makes me tired. It turns
me into an unhappy hag. It takes something away from us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So yes, I get it. I understand now because I, too, long for
those days ahead when both boys will be in school all day and I will get a
quiet minute, a floor that stays clean for longer than 30 seconds, an errand
that gets done in a timely manner, a complete thought passing through my brain.
Yet at the same time, I know that once the rush of school begins I will miss
them. I will feel like I never get to see them. They will get home at 4:00 and
we will play outside for a bit, have dinner, and then it will be time for baths
and bed. I will only see them for the 2-3 hours in the morning before school
(yes they wake up that early and school starts that late) and the 2-3 hours in
the evening before bedtime. I will want more of them. I won’t remember all the
things above that make me feel like I am slowly going insane. Instead, I will
remember the time we used frozen finger paints in the morning sunshine;
playdates with friends; splashing in the backyard pool; the puppet show at the
library; playing with spray bottles; visiting the farm stand; making s’mores
around the fire; the day we baked banana bread for the first time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the dog days of August propel us towards that bittersweet
September day when my babies will again have to be shared, I will do my best to
celebrate each day from now until then. I will try my hardest to be fun again.
I will try NOT to be “in the moment”, but rather to focus on and see clearly
the memories I have collected within, around, and between moments. <o:p></o:p></div>
Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-6542395577467780112015-05-21T14:24:00.001-07:002015-05-21T14:24:14.622-07:00Lesson #37: Love Is A Battlefield<div class="MsoNormal">
Pat Benatar wasn’t wrong. I bet she wasn’t even talking
about romance; she probably just had a couple of kids at home waging the next
world war. Think about it: “I’m trapped by your love and I’m chained to your
side”. Sounds a lot like parenthood don’tcha think? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My kids don’t hate each other alllll the time but they
definitely go through cycles where they constantly bicker anytime they are in
shouting-or striking- distance of each other. I’m not sure whether it’s the
time of year, the changing seasons or if there’s a full moon coming up, but
right now we’re smack dab in the middle of one of their cycles and there’s no
end in sight. From the moment they wake up in the morning to the time they go
to bed at night, its one big battle of wills. Whether it’s the 7 year old being
overly sensitive and/or bossy, or the 4 year old being purposely destructive or
pushing someone’s buttons just because he can, it’s one thing or another. Every. Second. Of. The. Day. I might as well start wearing black and white
stripes, as many fights as I’m refereeing on a daily basis. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It starts about the time they wake up and start arguing over
who gets to lay beside me when they come into my room. This is the most absurd
and irritating of all arguments to hear, especially at 6am, because Daddy is
already at work at that time so they lay on either side of me which means THEY
ARE BOTH BESIDE ME! But whoever gets on Daddy’s side of the bed is the one who
is lying “by mom” apparently. The other side of my body doesn’t count I guess. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Toys aren’t even fun anymore. Case in point: Legos. They
recently decided they love to <s>fight over</s> play with the slightly larger
set we have. That is, until they want the same piece and come to a battle of
epic proportions over said piece. It typically goes down like this: they start
arguing over the piece, the younger one tires of that noise and goes all
primal, smashing the older one’s “ship”, sending him into a screaming, teary rage.
This is a bit of a sticky situation in which I find myself a little torn about
how to respond. On the one hand, Mr. Destructo should absolutely not have
smashed his brother’s work. That was unkind and wrong. On the other hand, Lord
Business also needs to realize that Lego creations don’t last forever. You
can’t hoard 2/3 of the Lego set on the premise of it belonging to your “ship”
that can never be broken, ever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 7 year old has recently started expressing that he wants
some space. He will often take a book and attempt to sit in a quiet spot to
read. Of course, his brother follows him wherever he goes. This continues as
they move from spot to spot until Older gets frustrated and starts yelling at
Younger and they wind up in yet another epic battle. That battle typically goes
down like this: older screaming that he hates having a brother and wants to be
ALONE while Younger cries that he doesn’t have anybody to play with and just
wants to play. Younger quickly tires of all the words and resorts to
aggressively chasing after Older as Older screams “HE’S TRYING TO HURT ME” at
the top of his lungs. Another sticky situation as a parent. We all need our space,
and I fully support Older being able to move away and have some time to
himself. That said, you are part of a family and can’t expect that you can be
by yourself at all times. TRUST ME. If alone time were that easy to come by,
Mommy wouldn’t have a headache right now. And try explaining to a 4 year old
that his brother doesn’t want to play with him because he always breaks his
work, tries to hurt him, and won’t listen to him. It’s kind of like explaining
algebra to a cat; he just doesn’t get it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wondered whether it was that they were both boys, or that
they are fairly close in age that was fueling the fires of discontent, but in
talking with a few other moms it seems that neither of these things is the case.
A friend with boys older than mine echoed my experience of them egging each
other on and bickering over anything and everything. A neighbor with daughters nine years apart in
age shared that the bickering starts the moment the oldest walks in the door at
her house as well. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps the changing of the seasons, with one day a summery 84
degrees and the next a chilly in contrast 61 degrees is getting to everyone.
Maybe it’s the school year coming to a close and the impending change that is
sneaking into their subconscious minds and causing discord. Or maybe they’re
just brats. Your guess is as good as mine. I keep thinking about how they’re
both going to be in school all day come September and it gets me through the
day. Until I remember that by then, or shortly thereafter, I will be the sleep
deprived mom of a new baby AND two battling school agers. The cherry on top? I
just realized this morning that by the time the 4 year gets through the bratacular
phase, the baby will just be entering the bratty years. I’ll have at least one child
acting like a giant brat for the next 6 years, and by that time the 7 year old
will be a teenager. Dear God. Pass the Xanax. <o:p></o:p></div>
Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-64178918584837808782015-01-30T09:32:00.000-08:002015-01-30T09:32:06.488-08:00Lesson #35: Use The Vacuum<div class="MsoNormal">
If you have carpets, this is probably obvious to you. If you
don’t have carpets and this is still obvious to you, congratulations: the mommy
brain hasn’t completely taken over. The force is strong with you. For the rest
of us (or maybe it’s just me, sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake), this
lesson will save that wee little bit of sanity that’s threatening to fly away at the discovery of the next crushed goldfish cracker
or stray Cheerio. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We've had hardwood floors for many years and only kept a
vacuum around because the enclosed porch at our old house had carpet and every
once in a blue moon we figured it would be a good idea to vacuum it. We also
have a dog that sheds more than should ever be possible for an animal. I’m not
exaggerating when I say that you could fashion a life sized Dachshund out of
all the hair he sheds on a daily basis. Brushing him frequently only leads to even more shedding which makes no sense to me. Anyway, dog hair has been the
bane of my existence for the last 13 years and 11 months. That's a long, long time. This dog is almost
15 (what dog even lives that long??!!) and became “our” dog when he was a year
old and I met my husband. I cannot stand dog hair and his excessive shedding
leaves me battling tumbleweeds on a daily basis. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My typical floor cleaning
routine is to use the Swiffer Sweeper Vac to pick up ONLY the dog hair since
the stupid thing will not suck up ANYTHING else, not even a crumb or a piece of
dirt. Once I've run from room to room with it, only getting about 50% of said
dog hair since it starts dying approximately 2.5 seconds after I turn it on
even though it’s been charging for three days, I must then break out the broom
and go through the whole house again getting all the crumbs, dirt, cereal,
pretzels, popcorn kernels, crackers and other random crap that my kids drop all
over the place. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then one day as I was walking out of the laundry room I
spied the ole Hoover sitting over in the corner all “Hey Girl. How YOU doin?”<br />
“Oh Hoover,” I thought, “What kind of game are you running?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stepped closer to
examine it and that’s when I spied it. There it was, plain as day: a setting
marked Bare Floors. Jesus, Mary and Joseph I've found it! The Holy Grail of
floor cleaning! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the exact text that I sent my husband that day:<br />
I've had a breakthrough. Usually I hate doing floors because I have to Swiffer
to get the dog hair and it always loses power before I am done. THEN I have to
go through AGAIN with the broom and get all the crumbs and crap the Swiffer
doesn’t get. Well… We have this magical little machine that can do both AT THE
SAME TIME! It’s called a vacuum and it’s my friend.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes friends, that day will go down in history. It
will forever be known as The Awakening. OK maybe not, but it seriously makes me
happy that I can go through my house ONE TIME and when I’m done the floors are
actually clean. Not sorta clean, not almost clean but actually bare. No
lingering dog hairs or dust. Nada. There is something really satisfying about
sucking all the dog hair out of that little space between the fridge and the
counter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and I also have a little “helper” in my house. He’s
about 3 feet tall and his helping usually runs more towards the Lucy in the candy
factory variety than the actually helpful variety. But this neat little jobbie is just
perfect for a little helper! It takes about 90 years for him to vacuum a one
foot by one foot area, so mama gets a break AND doesn't have to clean! Score! <o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It really is the little things in life. Don’tcha
think?</span>Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-19059147975332001562014-07-01T19:18:00.001-07:002014-07-01T19:18:18.228-07:00Lesson #34: Never Take A ShowerIf you have read this blog, you know that the bathroom is pretty much my nemesis. My arch-enemy. The Kryptonite to my Superman. The pin to my balloon. The rain to my parade. It is the place where privacy died. It is the place where epic messes are made. It is the place that holds me hostage while my children attempt to take over the world (or at least eat all the marshmallows while dancing to Kesha radio on Pandora).<br />
<br />
This particular day, I was sudsing up when both children barged in, double trouble. My 3 year old whipped open the cloth shower curtain and sat down on the outside of the tub, peering in at me in all my glory through the clear plastic curtain. Like he was ready to have a fireside chat or something. Meanwhile, his brother announced loudly that he needed to GO POOP.<br />
<br />
As I'm sure you can imagine, things went downhill from there.<br />
<br />
A few minutes later, after banishing him from the tub-side peep show, the 3 year old was crying because he had climbed into the sink and couldn't get down. I'm still not sure exactly how he got up there. I swear he has some kind of spider monkey powers or something.<br />
<br />
"I'm stuck! I can't get down! Help me! Help me!"<br />
"I'm in the shower, I can't help you right now."<br />
"But I can't get down! Help me! HELP MEEEE!!!!"<br />
"You climbed up, just climb down the same way you climbed up."<br />
"I CAN'T!!!! HELLLPPPP MEEEEE! I NEEDA GO POTTY!!!!"<br />
<br />
About that time, big brother started using yards of toilet paper to wipe himself. I cautioned that he was using far too much but to no avail.<br />
<br />
"Um, mom the toilet is clogged up!"<br />
"HELP MEEEEE!!! I NEEDA GO POTTY!!!"<br />
"Mom, MOM! The toilet is plugged up!"<br />
"I. NEED. TO. GO. POTTY!!!!!!"<br />
<br />
I should also mention that when I had gone to get a towel for said shower, the cupboard was empty save for that smallish raggedy "extra" towel shoved in the back. All I had at my disposal when Pottygate went down was a ratty ass half towel that only covered about 2/3 of my body. I got out of the shower and covered myself as best I could and grabbed the plunger. I left the three year old in the sink, figuring that at least he wouldn't be trying to "help" with the toilet situation if he was stuck in the sink. So there I was, desperately trying to hold the towel on by pinning it down with my arms while plunging a toilet with an audience at 5:30 in the morning.<br />
<br />
Once the toilet was un-clogged I had to help with the butt wiping situation since homeboy uses miles of toilet paper and only gets anything on about 3 squares out of the whole mess. After the butt was clean, I turned to wash my hands but of course I couldn't since there was still a child in the sink. Throwing the towel around the back half of my body, I turned and washed my hands under the tub faucet. As I turned back to grab little man out of the sink, he declared, "I peed." Of course. Well at least he was in the sink. Silver lining and all that jazz.<br />
<br />
Clogged toilets, peed in sinks, colored on walls, raided chocolate chips, pilfered hot cocoa, dumped cornstarch, spilled drinks and spilled cereal and spilled crackers and spilled milk, scrapes and bumps, books and trucks, tears and cheers, smiles and laughs, hugs and kisses. These are all the things that fill our daily lives and turn moments into memories. While some of them aren't my favorite things in the world, I'll gladly plunge a few toilets if it means I get to make memories with these little people for the rest of my life. <br />
<br />Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-26102965881031359632014-04-04T18:09:00.000-07:002014-04-04T18:09:58.972-07:00Lesson #33: Our Time Will ComeYou know by now that my children wake us up when it is still dark outside on a daily basis. What I'm not sure I've mentioned is that they do so by dive bombing our bed. And not so much in a fun way where they dive bomb it and then snuggle in for some family cuddle time. Noooo no no. It's usually a dive bomb followed by a fistfight about who gets what spot. No matter which spot each one gets, they want the spot the other one has. Then it's a bunch of pushing and slapping and yelling about who gets to go where. Mind you, we have a queen sized bed so two adults and two children is a wee bit tight <i>without</i> a WWE cage match going on. Oh, and at some point the three year old usually gets out of the bed and flips on the overhead light, effectively blinding everyone. It's only a matter of time before we give up the family snuggle pipe dream and wave the white flag in surrender, getting up before someone loses an eye or something.<br />
<br />
As a result of this daily wake up brawl, hubby and I have taken up a new hobby. It's called scheming and dreaming about how we will re-create all their shenanigans when they're teenagers. Oh how very very sweet it will be when we exact our karmic revenge! The gloves will come off and it will be time to give them a taste of their own medicine. Muahahaha!<br />
<br />
I can see it now: we'll run screaming into their bedrooms at 4:30 in the morning, turning on overhead lights and dive bombing their beds.We'll flail around, yanking all the blankets off and yelling in their ears until they're forced to get up just to put an end to the chaos that is occurring literally right on top of them.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'll wait until one of them needs a ride somewhere, tell him I'll take him and then refuse to get up from wherever I'm sitting. Once I finally give in and get ready to roll, I'll remember that I am dying of thirst and really need a drink NOW before we go anywhere. Despite his protests, I'll simply go to the fridge and get myself a drink. Then I will yell at him about how HE'S making ME late.<br />
<br />
While they're at school we'll re-create the Toy Mountain (see Lesson #30) effect in their bedrooms. Can you imagine their faces when they come home from school and every single thing they own is piled up in one corner of the room? *Evil laugh*<br />
<br />
They also went through this fun phase where they liked to pee in/on things that were not the toilet (that's another whole blog post altogether), though I think re-creating that might be going a tad too far.<br />
<br />
I like to joke and laugh about all of these things that make parenting a crazy adventure, but I recognize that while the lack of sleep, the constant messes, and the refereeing (oh, the refereeing!!!) are all exhausting and challenging, these things are also blessings. One day I will long for a tiny body squishing me, small hands pushing me out of bed, and little ones turning on my overhead light at the butt crack of dawn. One day, my home will be quiet and I will wish for the sound of little voices and laughter echoing off the walls. One day my babies will be grown and I will miss their little selves. One day these days will just be memories. I will enjoy the good times and take the rest with a grain of salt. After all, the days are long but the years are short. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-66040449984146234142013-11-09T19:06:00.000-08:002013-11-09T19:11:02.660-08:00Lesson #32: Did I Mention You Will Never Sleep Again? I'm sure I've mentioned that my kids wake up long before dawn has even <i>thought</i> about cracking, no matter what time they go to bed. Every. Single. Day. I ever so naively thought that once they got a bit older I would at least be able to sleep through the night. One might think that with a 3 year old and an almost 6 year old, this would be an achievable dream. One would be incorrect.<br />
<br />
Let's recap my week, shall we?<br />
<br />
Early in the week, my older son came into our room around 1a.m. saying that he had a tummy ache. I had him climb into our bed to cuddle up for a bit. Wrong move. Not five minutes later he said, "Mommy my tummy really hurts! I think I'm gonna throw up!" I immediately leaped out of bed and threw on the lights, telling him to get up so we could get to the bathroom. Just as he sat up the dreaded heaves began.<br />
I encouraged him frantically, "Come on buddy! Get up so we can get to the bathroom! Don't throw up on the---" Too late. We made it to the kitchen trash before the next round, and finally made our way to the bathroom. After some late night cleaning I camped out in the living room with him so we could be close to the bathroom, just in case. I should mention that we don't own a full sized couch, just two love seats. I'm not very tall but I'm juuuuust tall enough that I can't quite fit on the love seat. I "slept" (I use the term loosely) with my head on the arm rest and my legs alternately jacked up to my chin and hanging off the end. As if all this wasn't excitement enough, we were roused from sleep around 5:40 by the pungent aroma of our dog taking the mother of all dumps on the living room floor. Awesome. Oh, and the kicker? While I was in the shower later that morning, the boys turned off the bathroom lights and ran away, leaving me in pitch darkness. Fun times.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to the next night. I was awake from 12:30-2:30 because my 5 year old's junk was "bothering!" I'm not exactly equipped to give advice on how to fix what has come to be known as Penis Problems, so I wasn't much help. Long story short, we made a couple trips to the bathroom and I finally ended up giving him some Children's Motrin, which apparently did the trick. In the morning I asked him how it was feeling. He said, "Great!" and that was the last I heard of it. The joys of raising boys are just endless.<br />
<br />
Last night it was the 3 year old that had me stumbling through the darkness. "My blankets are wet!!!" Oh yay. Fun fact: If a Pull Up is on backwards you might as well have put the child to bed naked because it's going to absorb about as much pee as a cheap paper towel. Note to self: check his work when he dresses himself. About two hours later, he woke up crying again because he was cold. He alternated between screaming about wanting to wear jammies and screaming about not wanting jammies for about 5 minutes straight as I struggled to keep my eyes open and my sanity intact.<br />
<br />
I said the other day that it will be great when they're teenagers and I can finally sleep in again. My dad quickly pointed out that I still won't sleep because I'll be up half the night waiting for them to get home.<br />
<br />
I guess it really is true. Once you have children, you will never sleep again. Ever. I guess that's what they make coffee for. Coffee: Getting bleary eyed parents through the day since 1696.<br />
<br />
<br />
<img src="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" /> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-90893611464627273142013-09-23T17:52:00.000-07:002013-09-23T17:52:20.817-07:00Lesson #31: Parents Just Don't Understand<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Trying to understand the behavior of a 3 year old is like
trying to understand Ozzy Ozbourne speak… In Japanese… Under water. It Just. </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">Doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">. Make. Sense. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One night I told Little Dude it was bath time. He
immediately went right into the bathroom and undressed himself from the waist
down. Sweet! Things were off to a great start…Then there were some incoherent
whines about his shirt. I thought he was having trouble getting it off, but
when I began to assist he shrieked, “No!!! I don’t want my shirt off!” Apparently
it was of utmost importance that said shirt stay on while he peed. I acquiesced,
leaving the shirt on. But when I set him on the toilet he bellowed, “NO I don’t
want to go pee!” Right about then Momma got down to bid’ness: took the shirt off and plopped him in the tub.
At which time he immediately began screaming that he did NOT want a bath... What???
Five seconds ago you were so excited for it you undressed <i>yourself</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The soundtrack of the entire episode I’m about to share
with you was the earth shattering, hysterical murder scream that my kid emits anytime he cries. There is never a mere cry. Not a whimper to be heard. Oh no
no. He goes from zero to Janet Leigh without missing a beat. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He stood in the tub and screamed incoherently, repeatedly
throwing a leg over the edge in an attempt to escape. I kept my cool,
explaining that he could stand or sit, but that he needed a bath because he was
dirty from playing at the park. And so he stood… and screamed hysterically
while I washed him. You would have thought I was giving the kid an acid wash
the way he was screaming. I accidentally dropped the washcloth in the tub and
despite his distraught state, he was quick to pounce and throw it at me as hard
as his little muscles could, sending a stream of water all over me. Kid-1,
Mama-0. Then it dawned on him that there was an entire tub full of water he
could splash at me. Kid-2, Mama-0. Of course, none of this distracted him from
the screaming and he continued to rage on as he launched his attack. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Finally he was clean-ish and I surrendered, pulling the
plug. He immediately flipped the drain lever back, threw himself on the floor
of the tub and refused to get out. Ummm… You just screamed bloody murder for 5
minutes straight as I washed you, all the while trying to jump out of the tub,
and now you refuse to do exactly what </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">you've</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> been fighting with me about doing
for the last 5 minutes??? My attempts at removing him were pretty much in vain. He pulled the slippery fish move: throwing his arms straight up in the air
so that I </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">couldn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> get ahold of him</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">. Finally I wrangled him out and after trying
to run away from me, he ripped the bath towel out of my hands and chucked it
right into the tub. Which still had water in it. Kid-3, Mama-0. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a really fun (read: not fun at all) dry off, which
consisted of much kicking and screaming (him, not me), he refused the Pull Up
and ran away in hysterics. I carried him naked to his room, armed with the Pull
Up. He ran straight to his bed and hid under the covers, naked as the day he
was born. Let me just tell ya: Trying to put a Pull Up on a kicking, screaming 3
year old is like trying to lasso water. It just ain’t gonna happen. I gave up and
sat on the floor. A minute later, thumb in mouth, he said, “I want to put my
Pull Up on.” Finally! Mama’s on the scoreboard!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the game of life
we parents may score a few points here and there, but they will always win. Then
again, one could argue that just being in the game is pretty great too.</span></span>Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-73267688101847450492013-04-11T17:59:00.002-07:002013-04-11T17:59:30.731-07:00Lesson #30: The Shower Is A Dangerous Place<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some people can shower at night. I am not one of them. Trust me. Anyone who's seen me first thing in the morning would agree: this hair is not made for night showering. Because of our schedules, I often find myself showering when my husband is either sleeping or not home. Since I'm not a shower at night kinda gal I am held hostage by the shower on a daily basis. Inevitably there is an ominous crash, thump or cry while I'm trapped in my shower. It's like playing craps every morning, and let me just tell ya: luck definitely ain't no lady.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When my son was an infant I used to bring the baby monitor in the bathroom with me. Even though that thing was jacked on high, I'd swear I heard him crying at least three times every shower. I'd jump out and press my ear up against the speaker, only to hear... nothing. As he got a little older I could barricade him in the living room with baby gates and closed doors. It never failed though: I'd be getting good and soaped up when the dog would start barking maniacally. I'd yell to my son, trying to get him to answer me so I'd know he was ok and not being kidnapped by a band of pirates or something, but he never did. I'd leap out of the shower and run into the living room in a complete panic, dripping wet, only to find him in one piece, looking at me like the crazy person that I clearly am.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once he figured out he could knock down the baby gates it was all over. Now that there are two of them running amok, the stakes are oh so much higher. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One morning in December we were preparing for some friends to come over with their kiddos to make ornaments and decorate cookies. Cookies were baked, the house was nice and clean, and everything was in its place; I just needed to shower before they arrived and the festivities got underway. No sooner had I gotten in the shower, than I started hearing strange bumping noises. I picked up the pace a bit but it didn't sound too bad, and the Hubs was home so surely he was keeping an eye on things. After a few strange bumps, the loud crashes started. "You better check on them!" I hollered to Hubs. He didn't answer me either, and the crashes continued, louder and in closer succession. "GO CHECK ON THEM!!!" I yelled. A moment later, Hubs came into the bathroom. You know it's not good when your significant other simply says, "You have to see this. I can't even explain what they did." What they did was take everything in our playroom and throw it into one corner. Every. Single. Thing. Every book from the shelves, every Hot Wheels car, every stuffed animal, block, puzzle piece, bin from the toy shelf. The entire room was completely bare, save for the one corner with its toy mountain. We were literally speechless.It was one of those moments as a parent where you're so dumbfounded you can't even be mad. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This kind of thing happens regularly at my house. They wait until the opportune time (ie: mom's in the bathroom) and all hell breaks loose. It's ok though. Little do they know, I'm keeping tabs and one day I'm gonna cash in my chips. Because, you see, one day one of <i>them</i> will be changing <i>my</i> diapers. Fifty years from now, when my son is in the shower, I'll be dumping all my caftans, crossword puzzles, bifocals, and Depends into a corner of my room, the whole time smiling serenely and playing senile so I don't have to clean it up myself. Who knows, maybe I'll even convince the grandkids that Grandma needs help "finding something" and trick them into trashing it with me. Oh yeah, it'll look like a hotel room after Led Zeppelin checkes out. For now I'll just bide my time and use my blog as a running record to refresh my memory when the time comes. Heh heh heh! </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-21605888301866883182013-01-23T17:08:00.000-08:002013-01-23T17:08:12.434-08:00Lesson #29: Look Before You SitThey should totally make one of those Mayhem commercials that starts out, "I am that puddle of pee that keeps collecting in the porcelain at the base of your toilet." I swear, the last 5 years of my life have been dominated by other people's bodily waste. I thought when my oldest was potty trained things would get better, but now our bathroom just smells like pee all the time and I have to wipe out that little nook in the porcelain just about every time I go in there. I thought about convincing him that he should just keep sitting to pee, but along with the ridicule <i>that</i> would surely bring about later in life, it really wouldn't solve my problem either. Moms of boys are all familiar with the "pee through the crack" phenomenon. You think you're safe because he's sitting, when all of a sudden that eensy crack between the toilet seat and the toilet bowl becomes your worst enemy.<br />
<br />
This is my life. Many of the lessons I've learned are really great examples of hindsight being 20/20. Foresight is apparently not my strong suit, as this lesson, learned the hard way, will clearly illustrate.<br />
<br />
One evening a few weeks before Christmas, I headed into the ole lavatory and sat down to do business only to realize all too late that the seat was completely drenched in pee-ola. Ack! I quickly jumped up and wiped down the seat. I thought that was that until a little glisten caught my eye at the front of the toilet as well. Upon further inspection I discovered that along with the soaking wet seat and stream down the front, the entire toilet was also covered. And when I say entire toilet, I mean <b><i>entire</i></b> toilet. Seat, front, tank, sides-the entire thing. Co-vered in urine. Then my eyes panned out and I realized that there were rivulets of pee streaming down the wall, a moat of it on the floor, and the completely soaked toilet paper roll was the cherry on top. It was like a pee massacre in there. I swear I am keeping Lysol in business.<br />
<br />
Cut to Christmas morning:<br />
Santa had come, the tree lights were glowing, the children were laughing, and this Mama and Daddy-o were truly content, counting our blessings and reflecting on the joys in life. I took a quick potty break, and just after I had made use of the toilet paper, it registered that it had felt a little funny. I looked over at the roll-the last one in that package, judging from the empty toilet paper bag someone had left on the floor-and saw that part of it looked kind of wrinkly. Like maybe it had gotten wet and then dried. I took the roll off and inspected it, wondering what the heck was up. The paper was discolored in the area where it looked and felt funny. Colored a light brownish-yellow color. Yep. Guess some of the pee tsunami had landed in the TP package that fateful evening weeks prior. And I was the lucky winner that wiped with peed on TP. On Christmas morning. Awesome.<br />
<br />
"I am that puddle of pee that keeps collecting in the porcelain at the base of your toilet. You may not see me but you'll smell me. And just when you think you've Lysol'd me out of existence, BAM! Urine it again."Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-25370793767240128232012-09-20T16:38:00.000-07:002012-09-20T16:38:48.021-07:00Lesson #28: Dogs Will Eat AnythingWhoever said dogs have cleaner mouths than humans has clearly never met my dog, Lex. Not only does he have one nasty case of doggie breath, but he's also been known to eat some pretty revolting stuff in his 12 years here on earth. Like the time my son threw up ham and pineapple alllllllll over the place and as hubs cleaned it up, Lex was right there beside him doing some "cleaning" of his own. *Gag* Little did I know, there was something much, much more horrid yet to come.<br />
<br />
You'd think I would have learned by now that one must <i>always</i> diaper the toddler, but apparently I'm a little slow on the uptake. My just-turned-two year old is known for peeing wherever he's standing if he's left hangin' in the breeze. Well, almost anywhere. If he's anywhere near the potty, forget it. But that's another whole story. Anyway, I should have known not to leave him undressed, but I had just gotten him out of the tub, realized I hadn't put out any pj's, and figured he'd be ok for the 2.5 seconds it took to pull some pj's from the pile of clean laundry that seems to multiply exponentially every other second in my house. Why I would think such a thing is beyond me. I really should have known better. I turned to grab the jammies and when I turned back around I noticed something wet on the floor. I looked at the little dude and started to ask if he had just peed when I spied it-a nice mound of juicy brown poo. I looked from the poo pile to the puddle to the little dude. "Poop!" was all he said. "Did you just..." I trailed off as I saw the poo smeared on his backside and leg. Yep, he did.<br />
<br />
I took him to get cleaned up and put the jammies on, then grabbed some paper towels and Lysol wipes and returned to the scene of the crime. I had been gone for all of 5 minutes, tops. I thought for a moment that motherhood must have finally gotten the best of me and I had totally lost my mind because the offending poo was nowhere to be found. I knew I must not be crazy since the puddle of pee was still there. I stood there for a moment completely dumbfounded, looking around the room. That's when my eyes settled upon my dog, laying on his dog bed about a foot away from ground zero <i>licking his lips</i>.<br />
<br />
Maybe it was some kind of weird alpha dog move to even the score after the Milk Bone incident (see Lesson #26). All I know is, I'm with Lucy...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/pq9hBEvFNlM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-70104985877498690352012-07-31T17:23:00.000-07:002012-07-31T17:23:59.256-07:00Lesson #27: Privacy Is A Thing Of The PastOh how I long for the day when I can pee without an audience! C'mon you know what I'm talking about. Don't pretend you don't! If you have children you feel my pain. You, too, have lived through the Bathroom Invasion.<br />
<br />
Just the other day this scenario played out in my house:<br />
I went into the bathroom and had just plopped myself down on the throne when the door slowly pushed open and Mr. Almost Two poked his head around it and exclaimed brightly, "Hi!" Sigh. I said hi back and as I tried in vain to gently shut the door, it came flying back at me and Mr. I'm Four And A Half poked <i>his </i>head in and said, "Whatcha doin?" Ummmm. WHAT DO YOU THINK I'M DOING??? I respond calmly something along the lines of, "Mommy has to go potty. Remember how we talked about privacy? Shut the door until I'm done please." Right about then was when the hubs walked up and started talking to me about supper. True story. You can't make this stuff up. Apparently the fact that I was <i>on the toilet</i> was insignificant.<br />
<br />
Not too long ago I got up for work and jumped in the shower, intent on getting it done before my oldest woke up and the Bathroom Invasion began for the day. I almost made it, too. Then, just as I rinsed my hair, I heard the door open and a sweet little voice said, "Good morning Mommy!" I could hear him sliding up on the toilet seat, making himself comfortable. The conversation went something like this:<br />
<br />
Me: Good morning buddy! Mommy's almost done. Why don't you go sit in the living room and read a book and I'll be right out?<br />
Privacy Poacher: No I'll just wait until you're done.<br />
Me: You can sit for a minute but I'd like some privacy while I dry off. When I get out, you can go in the living room.<br />
PP: No, I'll just wait<i> right here</i> until you're allllllll done.<br />
Me: Remember how we talked about privacy? I would like you to give me some privacy please.<br />
PP: But Mommy, I won't laugh at you!<br />
<br />
That last bit melted my heart. I still have no idea why he'd think I was worried he'd laugh at me, but the sweetness of his reassurance was touching.<br />
<br />
I like to think that the Bathroom Invasion and my less than perfect body is teaching my boys a realistic idea of what women's bodies look like, and helping them to appreciate and respect people of all shapes and sizes. Either that or the Bathroom Invasion is going to make some shrink very, very rich.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-81875608512879462832012-06-13T18:00:00.000-07:002012-06-13T18:00:05.896-07:00Lesson #26: Milk Bones Make Great TeethersMy 22 month old is completely obsessed with Milk Bones. I'm not sure exactly how this started, but I am certain that it definitely relates to the whole second child concept. Does my oldest know what a Milk Bone tastes like? Heck no! Did I laugh when I saw my youngest running around squealing and laughing like a crazy person as he chomped down on one? Hell yes! <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let me be clear that it's not as if the kid gets hungry and I just hand him a dog biscuit instead of actual food. In fact, I would really much prefer that he like actual food more than he likes Milk Bones! When he first developed a taste for them, I would "explain" to him that "Bones are for dogs" and give him a graham cracker or something equally crunchy to munch instead as he sobbed "Bone! Bone! Bone!" and pointed to the Milk Bone box. I'm not exactly sure when I decided that a little Milk Bone wouldn't kill him, but I think it was probably one of those parenting fails that occurs when you just let the kid have whatever it is they want so they will stop screaming and you can get out the door and maybe not be late for once. Now I try to keep him out of bone box as much as I can but once in awhile he manages to bust through the baby gate and zip up the stairs to steal one. After all that effort, I just don't have the heart to take it away, so I let him carry it around. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You would be amazed at how many kids and parents you know have consumed some sort of dog food at one time or another. I was pretty sure that a little nibble on a Milk Bone now and then wouldn't hurt him, but even so I turned to my friends for input. A friend and colleague who has raised 5 children agreed that it's probably fine, and shared that two of her kids used to have a penchant for Milk Bones too. My brother's friend told a story about eating the free samples of Beggin' Strips at Petco because he thought they were bacon samples for the shoppers. (What???!) A couple friends suggested my little guy was teething, some reminded me that there are worse things he could put in his mouth, and most shared that they have, indeed, crunched on doggie chow at some point. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The thing that weirded me out the most was a suggestion that several people gave me: make some sort of cookie that's shaped like a dog bone, or make my own homemade dog treats to give him. While I have to agree that this would be a clever trick and I could be certain of the ingredients, somehow this just seems wrong. Maybe it's no different from letting him chow on a pilfered one every now and then, but it feels different to me! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I guess the ultimate validation that a Milk Bone here and there is ok was when the dentist told us that the little dude "has remarkably clean teeth" compared to other children his age. Case closed! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-85515948737616723672012-04-17T16:56:00.001-07:002012-04-17T17:03:09.616-07:00Lesson #25: Sitting Through A Meal Is A Thing Of The PastYou know how people are always saying to appreciate the little things in life? Once you have offspring, you start appreciating the things you <i>used</i> to have (privacy! a clean house! sleeping in!) and celebrating the microscopic things, like not having to wipe pee off the toilet seat before you sit down.<br />
<div><div><br />
</div><div>The thing that I find myself missing most is sitting down to eat. My husband and I both grew up having family dinners, and sitting down all together to have dinner is something we do with our children as much as possible. It sounds all idyllic and quaint all-American: the family meal where everyone eats together and shares all the wonderful things that happened that day. The reality is more Roseanne Barr than June Cleaver. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I seem to be constantly getting up for one reason or another. Most of the time it involves my 4-year old having to use the bathroom even though he was JUST in there washing hands five minutes ago. This is typically followed by my 19 month old throwing food on the dog before launching his plate and cup as far as possible juuust as I reach out to take them away. The kid's got lightning fast reflexes. The thing is, he hasn't quite figured out the whole cause and effect thing and typically cries (this kid doesn't do anything halfway; when he cries he SCREAMS) because now he doesn't have his plate, or now he wants to get down and wreak havoc while we're all still at the table. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Easter brought about a prime example of the sort of meal interruption that seems to always find me. We were celebrating with my mom's side of the family-she's one of 9 so there are typically a LOT of people at our family gatherings. We had just sat down to eat when my 4 year old announced that he had to go to the bathroom. Of course. I glanced at hubster but he was trapped at the end of the table up against a wall and couldn't get out (good strategy, I'm trying that one next year). I took ole potty pants to the bathroom and lemme just tell ya- he let out a doozy of a poo. I was pretty excited that he'd made it to the bathroom and I didn't have to clean out pooey underwear (definitely appreciating the littlest of things there). The situation went downhill a bit from there though. The little dude flushed the toilet several times in a row, then said, "Mama the water's getting really high". Oh yes. Clogged the toilet right in the middle of Easter dinner. Everyone else was chowing down on ham and there I was playing Roto Rooter in the bathroom. Most of the family found it amusing when I went out and asked where the plunger was kept. I'm pretty sure they all laughed when my son came running out shouting, 'The water's going down! My green poop went down now!" </div><div><br />
</div><div>Maybe we should just eat in the bathroom. It has pretty much everything we'd need: the toilet is right there for the older one; the tub is in close proximity for those who are in splatter range of baby Babe Ruth; the sink is also right there for rinsing dropped cups and forks; heck, there's even towels to sop up those spills! I think I might be onto something here... </div></div><div><br />
</div><div>Whether it's a potty trip, sopping up a spill, rinsing off dropped silverware, or pouring more milk, my job is never done- and neither is my meal. I just keep reminding myself that one day my babies won't need me to pour their milk or cut their meat, and I'll miss these days when they still needed me. That, and one day they'll be changing MY diapers muahhahahaha! </div>Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-8653269659644314372012-02-11T08:43:00.000-08:002012-02-11T08:46:13.616-08:00Lesson #24: Perspective is a Funny Thing<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">As you know, my babies were both preemies requiring stays in the NICU. The NICU is housed on the 7<sup>th</sup> floor of the hospital where they were born. The 7<sup>th</sup> floor is the maternity floor. When you get on the elevator and push 7, people give you little smiles, and sometimes even say congratulations if they see the hospital id bracelet on your wrist. Going to 7 means you’re a new mommy or auntie or grandma; that you or someone you love is anxiously awaiting the arrival of a new little life. What those elevator congratulators probably don’t know is that amidst all the joy and excitement of Grant 7, there is a place no parent wants to find themselves; a place where fear and the unknown abound. Of course I’m talking about the NICU. No parent wants to leave the hospital without their baby, only to return, day after day, having to push number 7 and receive those smiles and nods before walking past the anxiously waiting families, the rooms where babies and mothers cuddle and nurse, and the newborn nursery, only to ring a doorbell and gain entrance to the land of no guarantees. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">One day when my baby was finally healthy enough to be moved to the Continuing Care Nursery on the 8<sup>th</sup> floor, I stepped onto the elevator and pushed 8 with what can only be described as a giddy sort of relief. NICU babies who have graduated to the 8<sup>th</sup> floor mostly just need to grow and learn how to eat; they are generally not in critical condition. In some ways, it means the storm has passed, or at least the worst of it. The CCN has private rooms and families on the 8<sup>th</sup> floor enjoy a sort of privacy not afforded to the families who are still “downstairs”. I was so excited to get on that elevator and push 8. That day as I pushed 8, a man looked at me with a sympathetic smile and nodded knowingly. “Got a sick kid?” he asked. You see, 8 is the Peds floor. People going to 8 have a sick child. In that moment I was struck by how subjective perspective is. I felt a sense of triumph in being able to push 8, while he saw a mother with a sick child; someone to feel sorry for. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">The power of perspective hit me again last Friday. That morning the “Washer Fluid Low” message came on in my car. I immediately began fretting about it: did we have any washer fluid in the garage, what if I ran out, when would I have time to stop and get more? That afternoon my 17 month old woke up from his nap with blue lips and a 105.4 degree fever. We spent 6 hours in the ER while doctors and nurses worked on restoring his oxygen and bringing down his fever; getting chest x-rays and trying unsuccessfully to get an IV into his dehydrated veins; administering lab tests and blood cultures and breathing treatments. After six hours he was doing better and we were free to go. As we pulled out of the parking garage that “Washer Fluid Low” message popped up again, and this time I laughed. How absurd that I’d fretted so about something that, in the grand scheme of things is so trivial. Children have a way of putting things in perspective. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">In her book, "Half Baked: The Story of My Nerves, My Newborn, and How We Both Learned to Breathe", Alexa Stevenson says, "Being a mother in the NICU is a painful crash course...like learning to swim by being dropped into the ocean by a helicopter". She's right. That experience is what gives me perspective. It's what allows me to laugh about and share with you the many mishaps of parenting that I experience. As my family gears up for our 5th March for Babies event to benefit the March of Dimes, I reflect on that experience and am reminded of how lucky we are, and of the many others who are not. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKbyXidt2B2BJSbdDvD-lpK5DXYcVivTXnG8hYPXnvuefbFLUi2L_mdFBPeTIt8toTtdgyPOQkPQTY76QRaa9YKvE9w_VNQGmRamWLjTfc-lf6v1fH8muzBBHahvC4HsDROBMRHTnMWP0/s1600/AustinBenNICU.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKbyXidt2B2BJSbdDvD-lpK5DXYcVivTXnG8hYPXnvuefbFLUi2L_mdFBPeTIt8toTtdgyPOQkPQTY76QRaa9YKvE9w_VNQGmRamWLjTfc-lf6v1fH8muzBBHahvC4HsDROBMRHTnMWP0/s320/AustinBenNICU.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Austin, born at 29 weeks and weighing 2lbs 10oz, 56 days in the NICU. Benjamin, born at 30 weeks, weighing 3lbs 5oz, 36 days in NICU. They are our miracles. We walk for them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">We would greatly appreciate it if you would consider making a donation to our March for Babies team. You can learn more or make a donation at <a href="http://www.marchforbabies.org/apate">www.marchforbabies.org/apate</a>. Thank you for your support. </span>Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-16550724900699876922012-01-26T17:57:00.000-08:002012-01-26T17:57:17.333-08:00Lesson #23: Meltdowns HappenI considered many titles for this lesson. Some of my favorite possibilities were "Four Year Olds Are The Devil", "If This Is Four, I Want My Three Year Old Back", "You Thought Two Was Bad??!! JUST WAIT", and my personal favorite (drumroll please): "Good Lord I Don't Know If I Will Live To This Child's Fifth Birthday And He Hasn't Even Been Four For A Month Yet!" Ok so that last one wasn't actually in the running but it's totally what I've found myself muttering lately.<br />
<br />
You see, my child has never really had a meltdown of epic proportions before. I guess things had gone well for so long I started to think I was exempt from the public meltdown. Surely MY child would never do such a thing. Yet suddenly there I was, standing in Hannaford with a whining puddle of four year old at my feet.<br />
<br />
It all started when he wanted his OWN cart to push. Dude, you can’t even see over the cart, you’re not pushing your own. I told him his choices were to help <i>me</i> push the cart or get <i>into</i> the cart. Of course, he jumped onto the <i>end</i> of the cart. Now, I have spent many a shopping trip balanced on the end of a shopping cart, so it’s not like I don’t get the draw. However, my kid isn’t exactly graceful and he JUST turned four so the odds are good that it would have ended in him getting run over by the shopping cart. I told him that it wasn’t safe to ride that way and he’d have to choose to get into the car or help me push. You know what he said? “But Mommy the big kids ride this way, I see them all the time!” Really. If the big kids jumped off a bridge would you do it too? No, I didn’t actually say that but it did cross my mind. I simply repeated his choices which resulted in him LAYING DOWN on the floor of the grocery store. I knelt down beside him and said, very calmly, “Get. Off. The. Floor. Right. Now. Or. We. Are. Leaving.” I was all proud of myself for keeping my cool. I’d just read some Brazeltonian wisdom and was feeling like SUCH a great parent, all understanding and empathetic. He quickly jumped up and when I repeated his choices, he said, “I just want to get a basket.” Ok fine, whatever. We were only getting a few things: some chocolate chips so we could make cookies together and a couple ingredients for dinner since all we had at home were half meals: spaghetti but no sauce, bread but no cheese- you get the idea. Of course, he wanted to get his OWN basket. I didn’t care, I just needed to get the stuff and get out of there so we could pick up his little brother before childcare closed.<br />
<br />
The real problems started when he had trouble carrying the basket because it was about as big as he was. He got frustrated with it and, long story short, ended up throwing it down on the floor before he ran over to the flower display and latched onto a yellow pot of flowers that he insisted we buy. I was still feeling pretty great about my parenting as I calmly and quietly told him we were not there to buy flowers. It went downhill from there and, needless to say, this little shopping excursion ended with me carrying him out of the store as he screamed, “I don’t wanna leave Hannaford” the entire way. Awesome.<br />
<br />
We got to the car and he refused to get into his car seat, instead falling into a heap on the floor as he cried and shouted about going back into the store. The following conversation went something like this:<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Him: I WANNA GO BACK IN HANNAFORD!<br />
Me: We are not going back in Hannaford. You are not calm enough to go in the store. <br />
Him: I AM calm! I just wanna be CALM!<br />
Me: Yelling and crying is not calm behavior. <br />
Him: I WILL have calm behavior and I WILL stop yelling! I want to go in Hannaford! <br />
Me: I’m sorry buddy, we’re not going back today. We’ll have to go another time. <br />
Him: [Unintelligible crying and screaming]<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And on it went. I couldn’t get him into the car seat and wasn’t quite sure what else to do, so I simply closed the car door and stood there like an idiot in the parking lot, hoping to God people didn't think I was tying to kidnap the kid. He totally freaked out and pounded his fists on the window, screaming “Mommy! No! Don’t close the door, don’t close the door!” I openend the door and instructed him-very calmly- to get into the car seat. He refused. I closed the door. He pounded and screamed. This happened a couple more times before I just got in the driver’s seat and started the car. Apparently I should have thought of that first, because he immediately panicked at the thought of me driving off before he was buckled, and jumped right into his car seat. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Leaving the store, however, did not end the meltdown. He started ranting and raving about how he was "Just going to HIT the baby room teacher and HIT the babies" when we got to the childcare center to pick up my other son. I was still totally rockin' the stoicism and said, "Hitting people won't solve your problem. Hitting them won't make us be at Hannaford." (See? Don't I totally rock?) <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We finally got to the childcare enter but he was still ranting and raving so I thought I should try and defuse the situation before going inside where his little display would have an audience. I knelt down in front of him and said in my best soothing voice, "Buddy I think you better calm your body before we go in. Let's try and get your anger out before we go into B's school." Wrong move. It was pretty much the equivalent of poking an angry bull with a hot poker. The kid went absolutely bat shit crazy. He started jumping up and down angrily, shaking his fists into the air and screaming "I JUST WANT TO GO IN HANNAFORRRRRRD!!!!" At this point my confidence might have wavered, just a little. That is, until he fell into me, sobbing, and said, "I just want to make cookies with you Mama." Insert heartbreak here. I explained that if his behavior got better, then maybe we could make a different kind of cookies that we wouldn't need the chocolate chips for. Wrong answer. This set him off again and he repeated the whole spectacle all over again. I could feel the eyes of other mothers and children on us as they came and went from the center. I was at a complete loss. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We eventually picked up the little man, but unfortunately we had to drive back by Hannaford to get home. I gotta give him credit, he was really holding onto the hope that we just might stop on our way back by. When we didn't, a whole new wave of tears and anger came pouring out. Part of me wanted to give him another chance but there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks I was going to give him the message that having a huge fit is the way to get what he wants. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fast forward to the pb&j and yogurt supper we had since we hadn't gotten any food at the grocery store. I slapped the kids' sandwiches together on regular wheat bread, then made mine on multigrain, only to hear "I DON'T LIKE SEED BREAD!" I turned around just in time to see him THROW his sandwich on the floor. Right about then is when my awesome parenting went out the window. "Go to your room right now!" Of course he didn't, instead opting to lay on the floor. If you've been there, you totally understand how freaking maddening it is when they simply won't do what you say. Luckily, I've still got a good 2 feet and quite a few pounds on this kid so it was no thang to sling him over my shoulder and carry him upstairs myself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the future, maybe I'll just pull an Erma Bombeck: "When my kids become wild and unruly, I use a nice, safe playpen. When they're finished I climb out." I think she was onto something there, don't you? </div>Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-64601281112747111332011-12-17T07:38:00.000-08:002011-12-17T07:38:05.655-08:00Lesson #22: You Will Never Sleep Again, Ever.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When you have a baby, you expect to be up at all hours and to be completely exhausted. What you don’t realize until much, much later is that you will never recover. You will never get a full night’s sleep again, ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have often felt like my children are participating in some kind of twisted conspiracy to ensure that I never sleep again. It’s like some kind of modern day torture; a parental initiation. I think they communicate telepathically. It must go something like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Ok tonight you get out of bed 17 times, keeping her up til the wee hours. Then, just when she’s finally drifted off for a few hours, I’ll sneak attack with the 5am wake up poop!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">God forbid I should go to bed late. That pretty much guarantees that I will be woken up in the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn. Or both. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When my second child was born, our plan was for him to sleep in his pack and play in our room until he was a little older, and then share the room across the hall with his brother. I naively thought this would occur much, much sooner. The child is almost 16 months old and there’s no end in sight. It feels like he will never vacate our bedroom. It’s definitely not that I don’t want him out of our room, and not so much that I think he would mind sleeping elsewhere, but most certainly due to the fact that there's a fairly good chance his brother would injure him. His big brother (almost 4-holy where did that time go?) has a penchant for pushing, poking, and throwing blankets over his little bro. I do not trust them in the room alone together all night long. Besides the threat of injury, there is also the possibility of complete and utter mayhem, because I’m pretty sure they would find a way to get the little guy out of the pack and play and initiate destruction of everything in sight. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s gotten to the point that my husband and I are afraid to enter our room once the baby’s sleeping. We creep up our stairs (not an easy feat since our stairs make more noise than a freight train on crack), gently push the door open, and tiptoe into the “danger zone”. He’s sleeping soundly-win! We silently signal to each other to fix the bedding. The whooshing of the comforter echoes through the stillness and the baby begins to stir. We freeze, then slooooowwwwllllyyyyy climb into bed. CREAK goes the mattress. The little dude’s head pops up like a gopher out of a hole. “WAAAHHHHHH!!!!!” Fail. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One night we even tried sleeping “college style”-that is, squished into the twin sized bed in our downstairs office/spare room. That might work when you're 10 years younger and 40 lbs thinner but these days it's a recipe for a stiff neck and numb arms. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last night I fell into bed at 9pm, exhausted from the previous day's late night/early morning combo. I was almost asleep when my cell phone started shreiking and vibrating like it was warning the end of mankind. I scrambled to silence it as the baby began to stir and make "num num num" sounds as he sucked on his thumb. Phew! Crisis averted. I fell asleep only to be awakened at 12:30 by the sound of my older child going downstairs. Hmmm.... Should I get up? I heard the bathroom fan turn on. Ok, maybe he just has to go to the bathroom. He'll come back. Right? Maybe I should get up. Then I heard the sound of running feet and crying. Ok, ok, I'm getting up. I went down the stairs to find him running into the kitchen with just his pj top on, completely naked from the waist down. "Mommy I just had to go pee but the toilet is too cold! Will you warm it up for me?" Holy cripes this kid has GOT to learn how to pee standing up. We got the potty situation taken care of and I tucked him back into bed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just when I was certain I would need to invent a caffeine drip stocked with coffee if I was going to make it through the next 5 years of my life, a Christmas miracle occurred. I knew something was up when I woke up and it wasn't dark outside. I had a moment of panic, wondering if everyone was ok. I peeked over the covers to see the little dude standing in the pack n play smiling at me. I looked at my clock and almost passed out when I saw the time: 7:52!!!! I swear I heard angels singing the halleluja chorus right there in my bedroom. I just might make it through another day. Amen to that!</span></div>Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-28844619516829774272011-11-18T12:49:00.000-08:002011-11-18T12:49:25.923-08:00Lesson #21: Puke Always WinsI was at work on Monday when my husband sent me a text saying that my almost 4-year old had puked. This text was accompanied by a most appetizing photograph of the offending vomit. Only after I got home did I learn that he had, in fact, puked all over the couch. As soon as I walked in the door I was assaulted by the warring scents of a "Red Apple Wreath" Yankee candle fighting a losing battle with vomit. Yummmm. Our couch has super puffy non-removable cushions so you can imagine how much fun <i>that</i> was to clean up. Luckily that duty fell to the hubster. Three more washings and a Febreezing later, and the smell is mostly gone.<br />
<br />
Puke-1, Mama-0<br />
<br />
Fast forward to Thursday evening. I was sitting in the recliner (Lord knows I'm not sitting on that couch for awhile!) giving my younger boy a nebulizer treatment when the older one came over to tell me he'd finished all the yogurt in the fridge (greeeaaaaat) and show me the empty tub. All of a sudden he started coughing uncontrollably for no apparent reason. He coughed so hard his face turned red and he kind of shuddered. I reached out towards him with my free hand to make sure he was ok when SPLAT! He coughed so hard he upchucked yogurt into my outstretched hand. Hmm... What to do here?<br />
<br />
Puke-2, Mama-0.<br />
<br />
Today is Friday. My husband dropped the kids off at child care before heading into work. I worked some extra hours earlier in the week so I was planning to leave work at 11:30 today. I was really looking forward to spending a little "me" time at home before jumping into the belly of the beast known as Super WalMart to get some groceries. I pictured myself finishing my book over a leisurely lunch of leftovers ( hey, it's the little things), going grocery shopping all by myself in the middle of a weekday when WalMart *MIGHT* not be jam packed with lunatics, and getting supper started before heading to pick up the boys a full 2 hours earlier than I would have if I'd worked a full day. Sweet! Wins all around! At 11:15 I got the message on my office phone: "Hi this is L at Child Care. I wanted to let you know that B threw up and needs to be picked up. I'll try your cell phone too. Thanks."<br />
<br />
Puke-3, Mama-0<br />
<br />
When you think about it, there really is no way to win when it's you vs. the puke monster. When it rears its ugly head the best we can do is don our armor of cleaning products and Febreeze and hope for the best. Hey, if three separate puke attacks in one week is the worst we have to endure, then I think we're doing pretty well, don't you?Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-2763447198041964202011-10-19T17:03:00.000-07:002011-10-19T17:03:41.656-07:00Lesson #20: Sippy Cups Multiply Faster Than RabbitsMy house is being overtaken by sippy cups. At any given moment I can walk into my living room and find no less than 3 of them strewn around the floor, in the toy bins, and (usually dripping) on the furniture. This is largely the fault of my almost 4-year old. He has a terrible habit of leaving his cup wherever he was playing and walking away. Every day I tell myself that he is only going to get ONE cup for the day and that if he wants a drink he's going to have to find his cup first. The problem with that is that when he wants a drink the cup is nowhere to be found. Literally. I send him to every room of the house looking for it, to no avail. Then I usually end up looking for it myself and can't find the thing either! After half an hour of looking for the freaking cup that appears to have fallen off the end of the earth, I inevitably give up and hand him a new cup. Then, without fail, about five minutes later I'll walk into the living room and suddenly there are six sippy cups laying all over the place. What the heck?! I don't understand this phenomenon any more than I understand why there are never any clean towels no matter how much laundry we do.<br />
<br />
Speaking of sippy cups, I keep telling my husband that he has GOT to check the floor when he's cleaning up a meal. One side of our kitchen table is against the wall and the floor on the wall side is a repository for lost toys, dog hair, and dishes the baby has thrown that my husband "didn't see" (aka: didn't look for). Maybe it's a guy thing, but he seems to only be able to focus on one thing at any given time, and when cleaning up a meal that one thing is the baby himself. The booster seat tray <i>might</i> get wiped down, but the bib is never cleaned out and the cup is alllllways left wherever it fell when the kid chucked it off the side of the tray. The other day I found not one but TWO sippy cups of milk under the chair. Does he not look down at any point during the day or what? How does he miss TWO cups of milk under there? Last night I found one dangling haphazardly between the table and the wall. The worst, however, was when I was Swiffering (side note: LOVE the Swiffer Sweeper Vac so much I wanna marry IT) I made the appetizing discovery of a sippy cup of milk that had been under there for a <b>while</b>. I'm talking at least a week, maybe more. The milk inside was so far gone, I swore it was yogurt. *shudders* It was allllll kinds a nasty.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking it would be nice if I could apply the sippy cup multiplication phenom to myself. Just got home with two cranky kids and no supper to speak of? No problem! I'll just multiply by two. A screaming baby that needs to be cleaned up after supper, a 3 year old with yet another poo in the pants, and a dog that's whining to go out? No problem! I'll just multiply myself by 3. Dishes to wash, laundry fold, floors to sweep, garbage to be taken out? No problem! I'll just multiply by four.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure that until someone invents that technology I will forever be driving myself crazy as I clean stuff up and the three males in my house go right along behind me undoing everything I just did. On the bright side, at least I always have a cup, and from where I'm sitting, the glass is definitely half full.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-86302608604216079732011-09-06T18:07:00.000-07:002011-09-06T18:07:49.277-07:00Lesson #19: Wow, I'm LameI like to think I was kinda cool before I had kids. I wore sassy shoes with heels. I stayed up late and slept in. I read Cosmo. I went shopping just for fun. I had parties (and not of the Tupperware variety, either thankyouverymuch!) For awhile I thought I was still cool even after I had one. Not to be shallow, but a baby is a very cool accessory these days-just pick up any gossip rag; mommyhood is all the rage. (And for the record, NO I did NOT have kids so I would have a "cool accessory". As a matter of fact, it took me over two years to finally get knocked up.) <br />
<br />
But no matter how cool I might've once been, it is painfully clear to me that I am definitely no longer, in any way, shape or form, cool. Maybe it was turning 30 that did me in, I don't know. All I know is, I'm not wearing shoes I can't chase a kid in; if I sleep until 7am it's a miracle of God; shopping is a dreaded task that involves groceries; and the last magazine I read advertised "26 Low Cost Recipes" and "$68.55 Worth Of Coupons Inside!" on the cover.<br />
<br />
The realization that I am pretty lame came on slowly. The thought first occurred to me when my little sister, who's pretty much half my age-13 years younger-came over. She walked in with her tight jeans and fluorescent plaid belt, all long curly hair and white teeth, looking totally cute and young and, well, hip. (Is that even a thing anymore? Do the kids say "hip" these days? See??? Lame-o!) I told myself that I was hip in an age appropriate sort of way and felt a little better.<br />
<br />
The next inkling that I might be getting old and lame came at the grocery store. On the way in, I got distracted by the "Hardy Mums and Asters" plant display. "Wow, what a great deal-only $6.99 for that big pot," I thought as I picked one up. Hey, flowers are pretty and pretty is always cool, right? So, therefore not totally lame. Next, I passed the magazine rack and the Family Circle caught my eye- the cover advertised "Slow Cooker Recipes" , and it was only $1.99! "Oooh that will be great for fall", I thought, and picked one up. As I stood in line with my potted plant, mom magazine, and fake chicken nuggets, behind two college students buying stuff like organic cheese, tortilla chips and booze, I felt utterly, completely, lame and O.L.D. The biggest plans I had for the night were surfing the web looking for a swing set on sale for my kids.<br />
<br />
The notion that I was definitely no longer cool became a stone cold truth when I was hanging out with my family over the holiday weekend. My young, hip sister spilled lunch on her new tank top, and I looked at it and actually said, very seriously, "Oooh, you're gonna have to use some Shout Advanced for Greasy Stains" on that!" Gawd. Of course, my 25 year old brother didn't hesitate to tell me just how lame that was, and even my MOM laughed. Yikes.<br />
<br />
But you know what? When my babies give me hugs and kisses and tell me they love me I don't care if I'm an old fuddy duddy. Besides, kids think their parents are superheroes. In their eyes, there's nothing we can't do. When they see me and their eyes light up and they run over and throw themselves at me, there's no better feeling in the world. (You people with teenagers just shut yo mouths now! I know you're muttering "Oh just you wait!")<br />
<br />
I might not get out much, but when I look at my life I realize I have everything that matters, and the rest is just stuff. But, seriously, if you see me in JC Penny picking up some mom jeans and a fanny pack, PLEASE stage an intervention ASAP.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-85881789612917186272011-08-24T16:41:00.000-07:002011-08-24T16:41:05.244-07:00Lesson #18: Never Look Away When Paint is InvolvedMy 3 1/2 year old wanted to paint the other night. I know, some of you are cringing already, but having worked in early childhood education, I'm not phased by the uber mess that accompanies such projects, so out came the paints. The really messy ones too, not water colors. I have to admit, mess tolerant as I am, I did begin to question all the projects I've had him do that involved handprints when he painted both hands and said, "Look, I'm making handprints for you!" Little did I know this would soon be the least of my worries.<br />
<br />
Our kitchen has a room directly off it that isn't really big enough for a dining room and has a closet in it so we use it as a nursery. My little artist was happily creating all sorts of masterpieces at the kitchen table, and the baby was crawling around the kitchen checking things out. Since I could see them from the nursery I thought it was safe to step in there to make a quick call to my husband to ask him a question. (You seasoned parenting vets are laughing at me already.) I sat in the rocking chair, which faces the kitchen so I could see the baby be-boppin' around, but (here comes the fatal error) I didn't have a visual on the table where my little Van Gogh was going to town with the Crayola Washables.<br />
<br />
I was just finishing up with hubby when I heard Mr. Artiste say, "Hey, I'll paint you too!" What I should have done was go flying out of the chair into the kitchen to investigate. What I did instead was call out "What did you say?" (I know, that one should go in the Dumb Moments in Parenting Hall of Fame.) He came running into the nursery saying excitedly, "Look mom, I'm a cool dude with my face paint!" Yep. He sure was. Both cheeks completely covered in red and blue paint. Before I could even comment he informed me that he'd painted his brother too. Sure enough, the baby came crawling in, grinning ear to ear, with paint on his cheek, arm, leg and a big ole glob right on the top of his head.<br />
<br />
I did what any parent would do: I took pictures.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-74631742731696463632011-08-13T17:19:00.000-07:002011-08-13T17:19:49.283-07:00Lesson #17: Vacations Are Worth The Tears (Theirs and Yours)So my husband and I decided that we totally had to take our kids to "A Day Out With Thomas and Friends." Our older son is mad about trains and we knew he would go nuts for an event like this. Of course, this meant we would be driving 2 1/2 hours for 25 minute train ride, but that's what parents do, right?<br />
<br />
The night before the big day, I flew through the house like a crazy mama tornado getting everything ready. I swear, I have no idea how such tiny people can require such an inordinate amount of STUFF to go somewhere for ONE NIGHT! It was completely and utterly ridiculous. I swear, I packed at <i>least</i> 25 pairs of underwear (which was a good thing since I'm pretty sure my oldest was playing a secret game where if you poop your pants at every destination, you win).<br />
<br />
The morning of, despite an E.N.T.I.R.E box of Cheerios being dumped on the floor and the obligatory "Mommy I pooped in my undies" episode, we eventually made it out of the house still (mostly) on speaking terms.<br />
<br />
The "Day Out" event was well worth the long ride. It was fantastic and we all had an amazing time. Though we are the biggest suckers on the face of the earth because, of course, we left there with the $14.95 picture of us in front of Thomas AND a $17.00 train from the gift tent. What can I say? We don't get out much. <br />
<br />
After a busy day, we were happy to tuck in at our adorable little cabin. Everyone was tired and we all went to bed fairly early. All was peaceful until my 3 1/2 year old had a chocolate attack at 3:30am that even sleeping in a dark, strange place couldn't deter. I woke with a start to find he had gotten out of bed and gone to the kitchenette area and was digging around in the chocolate we'd brought for s'mores. I was so tired I didn't even tell him no. I just told him to swallow it before he fell back asleep so he didn't choke, tucked him in, and went back to bed. (Still waiting for that Mother of the Year award!)<br />
<br />
Of course, the weekend wouldn't be complete without a total and complete take-him-to-the-car meltdown, which occurred at a McDonald's on our way home. The pit stop didn't start off well when a guy old enough to have witnessed the Last Supper yelled at my son for no apparent reason. Then my kid suddenly got possessed by the We're In Public Pscyho Demon and had to be carried out kicking and screaming. Not only that, as it was happening the old guy practically yelled, "Good! The father's taking him out of here!" I wasn't embarrassed about my kid's freakout, because all kids freak out sometimes, and I felt we handled it well by taking him out of the restaurant. I was, however, supremely ticked off at the rude old guy. Like he's never had a bad day. Jeez.<br />
<br />
When all was said and done, we had one spilled box of Cheerios, four pairs of poopy underwear, one meltdown, one Thomas train ride, and countless memories to show for it. Twenty years from now, I won't remember the Cheerios, the poopy underwear, the long drive, or the rude old guy; I will remember the look on my son's face when he "met" Thomas the Train, and I will cherish it. Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-38055653846436400542011-07-29T16:41:00.000-07:002011-07-29T16:41:15.632-07:00Lesson #16: When In Doubt, Make the CallIt seems simple enough: your child is sick, call the doctor. Yeah, the thing about that? If you call the doctor, they will tell you to come in. And I've schlepped everyone off to the doctor's office and paid the cold hard cash only to be told "It's just a virus, there's nothing we can do" more times than I care to recall. Because of this, my current method of dealing with sickness is the "Wait and See" method.<br />
<br />
The "Wait and See" method is pretty self explanatory: your child is sick, you wait and see if he gets worse. Then if he only gets a <i>little</i> worse, you wait and see <i>how much</i> worse he gets. If he doesn't get any worse but he doesn't get any better either, you start talking to your spouse and your mother about whether you should call the doctor's office. Hubby and Mom tell you to wait and see. So you wait a little while longer. Then you decide that you'll just wait until after nap and if the child's not any better after nap you'll definitely call (but surely he'll be better by then so it will totally be fine). Then when the child wakes up from nap and he seems about the same, you think "Well, he's not getting any <i>worse</i>..." So you wait just a little longer. Then by supper he's still not better yet and you start thinking that, gee, he's been sick for X amount of time and doesn't seem to be getting any better, so maybe you should call after all. So you get back on the phone with your spouse and your mother, and by this point you've decided that the child just isn't himself and you <i>definitely</i> need to call. The spouse and mother confirm that, yes, you definitely should at least call. So you call. And the doctor's office is closed for the day. And then you end up taking the child to Walk In Care (or worse, the ER). See? Easy, peasy!<br />
<br />
This is what happened to me last weekend. It had been a long, hot week and I had planned a fantastic Saturday. We were going to pack the cooler, find a beach, and spend the day outside enjoying the weather, instead of cooped up in my 90-degree living room.<br />
<br />
The day started out fine-I even got to build a blanket "cave" with my 3 1/2 year old! But around 10:30 my perfect little Saturday started to unravel. The 3 1/2 year old said his side hurt. This usually indicates the need to drop a serious deuce so I immediately took him to the bathroom in hopes of avoiding any poo-related incidents. Much as he tried, it was a no go. From that point on, he laid on our recliner, refusing to eat or drink, and crying about his belly hurting. I tried everything, to no avail. At first I thought it was simple constipation, but as they day wore on and I went through all the phases of the "Wait and See" method, as described above, I began to get scared. What if it was more than constipation? What if he was having kidney failure? What if he'd swallowed something I didn't know about? What if he had an intestinal blockage? Needless to say, we ended up at the Walk In Care.<br />
<br />
Now, mind you, this child is <i>always</i> on the go. He has two speeds: fast and manic. He's always playing with something or getting into something or asking seventy bazillion questions about something. For him to have spent the day lying around, doing nothing but crying, was pretty major.<br />
<br />
As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, I swear the kid perked right up. He started in, asking all kinds of questions and pointing out different vehicles as he <i>skipped</i> along beside me to the door. <i>Skipped.</i> I asked him if his belly still hurt, and he reported that it did. Reluctantly, I led him into the clinic. At the desk, he turned into a freakin' Chatty Cathy, asking the registration girl what her name was and why she was typing on the computer, pointing out Mommy's purse, and showing off the bag I had brought (packed with coloring stuff, books, Hot Wheels, and a drink and snack, of course). I found myself explaining to the registration girl that he really <i>was</i> sick and had been all day, I swear! I'm sure she thought I was a total fruit loop. I asked him again if his belly still hurt, and it still did.<br />
<br />
We went to the waiting area, where he played with his toys with great enthusiasm. I asked him if his belly still hurt, and it still did. When the nurse pulled us into a side office to do a preliminary investigation of the belly pain (to make sure he was well enough to wait the two hours it would be until he could actually get treated), and he pointed to three different spots on his stomach-all of which were not anywhere near the spot he'd identified repeatedly earlier in the day-I began to have my doubts about this whole expedition. I asked him if his belly still hurt, and it still did.<br />
<br />
About forty five minutes into our wait, the little dude said he had to go potty. In my haste to pack activities to keep a small child occupied for what could be hours, I had not grabbed The Bag (I know, I know!) so I hustled him into the restroom tout suite. Lemme just tell ya: the kid let out mammoth turd. It was the biggest turd I have ever seen. I'm still not quite sure how it came out of that little body of his. All I could think was "No <i>wonder</i> his belly's been hurting!" <br />
<br />
After that, he asked for his snack and downed the whole thing, then started drinking from (playing in) the water fountain. I asked if his belly still hurt. It didn't. Surprise surprise. Then he said, "Mommy let's go home!" So we did.<br />
<br />
Note to self: get some prune juice to keep on hand for emergencies.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-61093482051195814282011-07-21T19:15:00.000-07:002011-07-21T19:15:09.062-07:00Lesson #15: It's All Over When the Baby Learns to CrawlMoms are always proud when their babies reach milestones, but I'm especially proud of my babies when they do it. Being born at 29 and 30 weeks, respectively, ain't easy (that's about 2 1/2 months TOO SOON for those of you who used to yell "And don't tell me in weeks!" when asking how far along I was). My little 2 lb 10oz-er and 3 lb 5oz-er had rough starts in this life and it's been amazing to see them grow and thrive as they have. When your baby starts life with a breathing tube, a feeding tube, a temperature gauge, an IV line, several leads stuck on him, cloth "sunglasses" over his eyes, wearing diapers the size of panty liners, you get a little teary eyed when almost a year later the little dude finally starts crawling around the floor!<br />
<br />
All that being said, I'm pretty sure we are truly in for it now. This is only the tip of the little boy iceberg that I'm pretty sure is going to sink our parenting ship: two rambunctious boys on the move!<br />
<br />
Our 3 1/2 year old is finally at the point where he can pretty much be trusted around the house, and we got kinda comfortable with that. Once the baby finally learned to sit up, it was all good: we could sit him in the "baby corner" of the playroom that is our living room, and he'd sit around playing happily while we went pee or put water on to boil. Not so much anymore. Hubby called me at work to tell me little man was crawling all around the place and I asked if he was <i>really</i> crawling or just <i>kind of</i> crawling. His response? "I set him in the toy area, went pee, and when I came back he was across the room chewing on a sandal!" So really crawling, then.<br />
<br />
Now that he's on the go, we've had to remove the braided throw rug from our living room floor because no matter how many times you vacuum that beast, dog hair WILL get stuck all over his hands when he crawls on it. And what gets stuck on his hands WILL end up on his face and in his mouth. Ewww. The best part, though, is when he spits up and crawls through it. That's super fun! You'd think I would learn and just keep a roll of paper towels in the living room, but I never think of it until I NEED them. Even when I pick him up right away to prevent smearing, he somehow manages turn the living room floor into a road map of puke every time.<br />
<br />
I'm actually a bit afraid that the little dude has some kind of magic powers or something. I mean, the kid literally learned to crawl overnight. Sunday he could get up on his knees and maybe move one knee ahead but that's it. Monday he could get two knees forward but nothing close to actually crawling. Tuesday morning-BAM! He's launching a sneak attack on sandals. What's next? I wake up tomorrow and he's running laps around the house? This weekend he's taking the car out for a spin? By Monday morning he's smashing beer cans on his forehead? I swear it could happen! He was already up on his knees holding onto the door of the entertainment center, eyeballing the Wii! Pulling himself up can't be far behind.<br />
<br />
With two little boys on the move, we definitely have to step up the man to man defense a notch. I figure we're safe as long as they don't know they have the upper hand. We can't let them smell our fear! As long as they don't realize that together they can wreak the sort of havoc that drives people to drink we're all good.<br />
<br />
And if worst comes to worst... there's always Mimi and Papa's house!Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5844282439136505015.post-55288361742225534992011-07-11T17:10:00.000-07:002011-07-11T17:10:47.231-07:00Lesson #14: We Will Visit the WalMart Restroom. Every Time.Lesson #14: We Will Visit the Walmart Restroom. Every Time.<br />
<br />
I swear, WalMart has freaky voodoo powers that cause young children to either act like psychos or have to go potty while trapped within its walls. I hate going to the place too but it doesn't make me crap my pants. Sheesh.<br />
<br />
The first time we took my son to the bathroom there, he was totally freaked by the huge toilets that emit roaring flushes at random intervals, and wouldn't go. Of course, five minutes later he swore he had to go and promised that he would try. No go. Five minutes after <i>that</i> it was Pooey Lewis and the Ewws in the underpants. Shoulda figured. Luckily (I guess) he was still wearing Pull Ups whenever we ventured to a public place then. Unlucky for everyone that we forgot The Bag at home and had nothing to wipe him with or change him into. Yay for the Parent of the Year award I am sure to be receiving soon.<br />
<br />
Last week my sister in law and nephew visited from the left coast. One day hubby and SIL decided they needed to stop at Walmart and look at covers for the new iPod Touch that SIL and BIL had gotten us for our anniversary (do I have the best in laws or <i>what</i>). They had my older son and nephew with them, and sure enough, the Poo Voodoo struck again. My husband came home and announced grimly that my son had pooped his pants at Walmart, then went on to say that he'd forgotten The Bag at home and once again had nothing to wipe the child with or change him into. He wears underwear all the time now, so I had a feeling I knew where this story was going. I feigned horror and said, "Ohmigod what did you do?" He replied, "We went back out into the store, I bought some new underwear and threw out the old ones." Yep, just as I suspected. What he didn't purchase, however, were wipes... Hm. Ew.<br />
<br />
Since having two kids we've found that grocery shopping is much more easily done with two adults: either one kid in each cart or one adult at home with two kids while the other shops. Yesterday we were loading up the ole family truckster to head out to Wally World (you see what I just did there?) to get groceries when hubby, clearly pleased with himself, held up The Bag, declaring, "Better not forget this!" He's such a smarty pants. Sure enough, about ten minutes into the grocery run, my 3 year old had to go potty. "You're taking him this time!" hubby called out as he snatched the list and raced off with the baby.<br />
<br />
Lucky for me, homeboy hadn't poo'd this time, he just had to do numero uno. I thought about taking him into the handicapped stall so we'd have a little more space but the toilets are sometimes taller and I didn't want him to totally freak so we squeezed into a regular stall. The problem with this is that you really can't help a kid get his pants down without your booty hanging out under the stall door. Awesome. At least I wasn't wearing a skirt. Why do they have to make those things so dang tiny anyway?<br />
<br />
The next obstacle to overcome was the fact that the only place to stand as a potty spectator is directly in front of the toilet, which, as you know, is <i>not</i> in the safe zone when little boys are sitting down to pee. Of course, the toilet seats at Walmart, like many public restroom toilet seats, have an opening across the front. You might as well put a bulls eye on me.<br />
<br />
I was trying to get him to do his thang as quickly as possible while touching as little as possible, when he started playing around with the door to the little metal receptacle for feminine trash, pushing it open and letting it slam shut.<br />
The exchange that followed went something like this:<br />
Him: What's this Mommy?<br />
Me: Don't touch that!<br />
Him: Why?<br />
Me: Because it has germs.<br />
Him: But what is it?<br />
Me: It's a little garbage can.<br />
Him: Why?<br />
Me: Ok let's get your pants back up now, the toilet's going to flush!<br />
<br />
And, of course, it did. It's never pleasant having your face a foot away from an automatic flusher in a public restroom. I don't care if it sprays or not, it's just gross. <br />
<br />
Along with learning that we WILL be sojourning to the Walmart restroom on every visit, I think we've also learned these important lessons as well:<br />
1. Don't forget The Bag.<br />
2. Don't wear a skirt.<br />
3. Always push the cart carrying the baby.Amandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07323197824365080754noreply@blogger.com4