Confidence is something I'm lacking lately.

I hate to admit it, because it sounds completely shallow (and maybe it is), but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with how I'm looking since the birth of my daughter.

I feel heavy. I feel puffy. I feel unkempt. I feel like no matter what I do, I'm not going to look good. I don't want my picture taken (which is going to really stink in a few weeks when we have family pictures)...heck, I honestly don't even want to go out in public.

The way I move? I swear the only way to describe it is 'lumbering'. I am uncoordinated - more so than usual.

I see other moms who look so put together. Their hair is done in some other style than a thrown up ponytail and it isn't doing the nasty postpartum shedding thing. Their clothes are crisp and actually have waistbands that don't result in a muffin top.

They don't sweat profusely doing mundane things like grocery shopping.

They get time in the day to take care of themselves (I bet they even get to go to the BATHROOM by themselves...jerks!).

I know I have a lot to be thankful for, and believe me, I am.

I would give so much to feel good about myself again. I hate how much my physical appearance ties into how I perceive myself.

But it does. That's an unfortunate fact.

I don't remember feeling this poorly after my birth of my son. After he was born, I went back to work. Though I am thankful I have the opportunity to be a stay at home mama, there was something affirming about having a job outside of the home. I dressed up everyday. I got to speak with adults on a daily basis. My brain was used for something other than housework and playing Thomas the Tank Engine OVER AND OVER.

I guess I can't have it both ways. And if I had to choose, I guess I'd choose to be exactly where I am right now. At home with my children. I know raising them is the most important job I'll ever have.

What needs to happen is me finding a way to thrive in my current situation. And when I figure out how I'm going to do that, I'll let you know.

Right now? I'm going to figure out how to get in a LONG shower. You know, maybe I'll shave my legs AND wash my hair.

Extravagant. I know.


And I Have a Preschooler.

As I write this, I am hiding in the bathroom. This week...no scratch that...last few weeks have been rough. Nothing I can't handle, but I have shed a few tears, which is quite the feat through my Zoloft armor.

Last time I bitched...errr WROTE...it was all about the woes of potty training. Then lo and behold, one day G just runs into the bathroom, climbs on the big toilet and announces 'Mom, I'm pooping!'

And that was that. He is fully trained now. Even wakes up dry, though I'm still putting him in a Pull Up at night. You know, just in case.

Once he got the whole potty thing, I thought we were home free. We started preschool for three hours, two days per week. And those three hours? Glorious. I was able to run all my errands, even grocery shop and use coupons effectively (this seriously requires concentration, it's no joke).

My happy little bubble was abruptly burst when I received a call during a doctor appointment for the babe. G was having a very difficult time, and had been since he started. Screaming, crying, ignoring the teacher.

And not making eye contact. That right there freaked me out the most.

After meeting with the teacher, we decided that either me or the hubs would gotpreschool WITH G.

So that's what I've been doing the last few weeks, wearing the babe in the Moby wrap.

A few colds later, G's teacher said I could try leaving him there last Thursday. And THANK GOD, he did okay. Not great, but he made progress.


So thats what I've been up to. Fun, right?

Being a parent is hard sometimes. But when you see improvement? All the tears and work are totally worth it.

- Posted from my iPad! I know!


The Poop Chronicles

I would really love to be able to say I have more to talk about than poop.

But I don't. My life revolves around poop right now.

Potty training is going really well. Except for number two. G absolutely refuses to go in the potty. Not even for chocolate chips. Not even for TWO stickers. Not even for a chance to go to the train store.

Clearly, I'm not above bribery.

The other day while at my parents, I had the bright idea of letting him go in their raspberry patch and eat to his hearts content. I mean, there's no way he'll be able to hold it once he's eaten his weight in raspberries.


Wrong. He held it and held it and held it. He ran around the yard clutching his little bottom. He begged for a diaper.

I finally convinced him to go poo poo in the yard like a doggy. Then I followed him around with a shovel. Not one of my proudest moments.

And yes, I know this is questionable parenting. But seriously, I can't deal with the poopy undies. Beyond gross. (I did see Thea's suggestion on my last post to let G change his own poopy undies and I've taken it under advisement).

Preschool starts in about three weeks. Admittedly, I don't think we're going to have him fully potty independent by then, we may have to postpone enrollment for a month or so.

But good lord, I could really use those three hours, two times weekly to chill. And by chill I mean run around like a madwoman trying to run all the errands that are nearly impossible with two kids in tow.

And I also fully realize that if my son ever reads this post, years down the road, he will be mortified and will probably be putting me in a horrible nursing home.

But really? He really should be changing MY poopy underwear. It's only fair.


I'm Really Reaching Here, People

I need to write and I am so, so stuck. The term 'writer's block' is so cliche. But yeah, I think I've got it. That, or I'm brain dead from my ingenious idea to do potty training bootcamp whilst juggling a super cute yet super needy baby.

The potty training. Oh. My. Stars. Talk about frustrating. We've been working at it for about a week now, and only in the last four days have I seen progress. Except yesterday was a total regression and cleaning poop out of underwear now nears the top of my list of possible tortures for P.O.W.'s. Nasty.

But I charge ahead...the only way G is going to preschool is if he's fully potty trained. We toured a preschool on Thursday that I really loved and I think will be a good fit, but he's got to be fully independent in the bathroom. Oy. My great hope is that his desire to go to school (and he talks about it constantly) will override his stubbornness over toilet training. I know he can do it. The kicker is if he WANTS to.

Up until last week, I was going mellow route. Asking everyday if he wanted to wear big boy underwear. If he said no, well, that was that. But now we're going whole hog. I'm OVER changing a 3 1/2 year old's diapers. Barf.

Er. So after that HUGE digression, yeah, I'm needing to write, for my sanity, but all that is on my mind is, well, poop.

In an effort to try to break out of my brain lock, I'm just going to do one of those random posts. Yes, I'm totally indulging myself. Whatever. And I'm doing bullet points, cause I like them and I'm the boss of this blog.

Let the randomness begin!

- I'm in love with quinoa. I make a bunch and mix it with roasted veg and balsamic vinaigrette. So good, hot or cold. The rest of my family won't touch it, of course.

- Can I just say I am SO tired of this post pregnancy body? Nothing fits. I know I need to exercise. I'm planning on starting the C25K program. I just need to figure out if I can take the baby in the jogging stroller yet - I think she may still be too small. But back to the body hate thing - getting dressed is such a chore. I used to love putting outfits together. Now I want to wear muumuus. Waistbands are torture.

- A few weeks ago I had the realization that I haven't worn heels in forever. I used to wear heels to work everyday. Now? They are all sitting in my closet blanketed in a layer of dust. It's tragic. And yesterday, I considered dragging out my fifteen year old Birkenstocks because my feet are killing me with all this baby pacing. It's official, I'm going crunchy. If I wear wool socks with my Birks, please track me down and kick me in the shins. It's just not acceptable.

- I got my first crown last week, narrowly avoiding what would have been my first root canal. The saddest thing is that I actually enjoyed my time in the dental chair and found it relaxing. It must be a 'mother of young children' thing.

- My son accidentally watched the Honey Badger on YouTube. It was an accident, but now he is obsessed with honey badger. I will let him watch it, with the sound off. Mother of the Year, right here. I'm balancing it out with the Duggars. He is also obsessed with them and can name all the kids, in order. So proud.

And that's all I've got. I'm so tired and my brain hurts. If anyone has any questions or ideas for posts, please share. Seriously. Inspire me, I'm begging you!


My Dogs are A$$holes

Before I had children, I scoffed at people who unloaded their pets once baby arrived. Our dogs slept in our bed, enjoyed doggy day care, thought nothing of climbing up on the couch.

Basically, I was an idiot. And we created two monsters. Stinky, hairy, loud monsters.

We have two dogs and two cats. The cats know their place. They have acclimated to moving even further down the totem pole quite nicely.

The dogs are going down kicking and screaming. Make that barking and whining.

Sadie, the elder and supposedly 'smarter' (according to my husband, I have
my doubts) of the dogs is the ringleader. She has coordinated several jailbreaks from the backyard that have resulted in a trip to doggy jail. You'd think we had them chained up or in a 5x5 pen.

Oh no. No no no. Our dogs have our ENTIRE backyard. And it's not small. What have they done with this expanse? Dug it up, destroyed landscaping, crapped on every square inch. Thrown themselves at the gate until it splintered and they could squeeze out. Littered the grass with the plush dog bed they disemboweled.

Then, when they finish their rampage of destruction, they camp out against the sliding glass door. For hours. Forget playing or running out some energy.

Since they can't be left outside when I'm gone under threat of escape, leaving the house becomes a huge exercise in dog proofing. No diapers, clean or dirty, can be accessible, or said diaper will be shredded and strewn about the living room. This also goes for nursing pads and used kleenex.

They are walking purveyors of filth. I sweep, I'm not even kidding, at least five times daily. I need to buy stock in Swiffer. If I do something as stupid as mop, they will track in mud immediately. Even if it hasn't rained in days.

The dogs have recently taken to pacing up and down the hardwood floors, scratching at their collars, shaking and incessantly licking their genitals (loudly) JUST as the baby is about to go to sleep.

This is what is going to push me over the edge, I swear. If you've ever had a fussy baby, you know the all encompassing rage that overtakes your being when someone/something messes with that babe's sleep.

Of course, we won't get rid of the damn dogs. My husband thinks they keep me and the children safe. My son adores them.

So they stay. Even though I might accidentally shave all their fur.

- Posted from my iPad! I know!


Live from Tissueville, It's the &:$;@!@ Summer Cold!

I swear I don't just come here to complain.

Okay, maybe I do.

But ugh. The plague has descended upon our house. First G had a runny nose last week. Then the husband had a cold. Then me. Mine consists of a gross phlegmy cough, a faucet for a nose and sore throat.

So I figured we were all done.

But this morning, G woke up and five minutes later put himself back to bed. I knew right away that a) the apocalypse was imminent or b) he was sick.

One wrestling match and armpit temperature later, it was confirmed. Fever. It hit around 102 and at that point I employed the perennial mom move - the Tylenol full nelson. This kid is not compliant in taking medicine, ever.

We're now hanging out at around 100.

The little prince is splayed out on the couch, demanding 'babies' - this is the Duggars. And clearly another post where I explain why he knows them AND ALL THEIR J NAMES is forthcoming.

For now, I'm crossing all my fingers and toes that the baby stays healthy. A two month old with a fever is panic inducing.

And also, G must be feeling better cause he's back to annoying the heck out of me.

Lay off, kiddo. I still feel like garbage. Thanks, your momma.


Happy 4th and Stuff (Mainly Stuff About Screamy Baby)

It's July 4th already. This summer is going by way too fast and with far too little sun for my liking.

But today, it's perfectly gorgeous outside. Which for Northwest Washington on the 4th of July is extremely rare...possibly a sign of the apocalypse.

The explosions in our neighborhood have been consistent for about a week now. Nothing says patriotism like blowing stuff up, yeah? I'm so glad neither my children or my dogs seem bothered. Cause then I'd totally be that neighbor calling the cops.

Funny how lack of sleep and a fussy baby will make you the crazy, stick in the mud neighbor.

Just so you know, I've been blogging in my head for weeks. It's just that none of it makes it here. Typing whilst rocking a screaming baby is impossible.

I have still yet to pinpoint why my babe is so screamy. I'm off dairy, she's on reflux meds. I'm considering going gluten free for a while to see if that helps. I know that MY body seems to function better when I'm not eating wheat.

Here's what I'm scared of: she's simply a high need baby. That's Dr. Sears' nice way of saying super duper don't ever put me down fussy. (I'm reading The Fussy Baby Book right now and it's like it was written about my child. Shoot.)

The best way I've found to cope is to wear her. All. The.Time. It works, and it frees up my arms. I've been using my Moby Wrap, which G calls the 'pocket.' If the babe is crying, G says 'Mommy, put baby in her pocket.'

And I do.

So basically, I'm totally morphing into a crunchy mama.

Breast-feeding, co sleeping, cloth diapering, baby wearing. It's kind of awesome to realize that getting back to the basics is do-able, even for a domestic flunky like me.

And cloth diapering is saving us so much money. Which rocks.

I have so much to write about. Probably boring stuff, but I get to do a lot of thinking whilst pacing.

And I'm mastering typing on the iPad while moving.

Multitasking is awesome.

- Posted from my iPad while baby wearing!


Houston, We Have a Screamer

Apparently I jinxed the heck out of myself by proclaiming I have an easy baby.

Yes, my sleepy little angel has been replaced with Fussy McScreamerson. It all started a few weeks ago. I mentioned her fussiness at her two week well child visit, thinking maybe I'd have to give up dairy or that the doc would recommend gas drops.

But he whips out a prescription for an antacid. Thinks she has reflux.

I was not convinced. Her symptoms simply don't show reflux. But I told him I'd try it. Two weeks in and nothing. In fact, I'd say it's (whatever 'it' is) worse.

Last Thursday I called and left a message for the nurse asking if I could stop with the reflux meds.

The great news is that the nurse that called me back is also a lactation consultant...I didn't know my pediatrician's office even had one. I spoke with her at length.

Here's the thing: I've always been an overproducer when it comes to breastfeeding. Sounds like a great thing, right? Yeah, not so much. The lactation consultant directed me to an article on the La Leche League website that addresses problems surrounding overproduction of breast milk. The basic take away is that baby gets too full on the lactose rich fore milk and never gets the fatty hind milk. This leads to gas, horrible poops and overall fussy baby.

And seriously? Reading the list of symptoms and effects on baby? It was like reading a word for word description of both of my kids.

So, since Thursday I've been following the article's advice on how to make sure baby gets the right balance of fore milk and hind milk while trying to curb my crazy Bessie boobs.

I've noticed a little improvement in baby. She still has a witching hour...okay, hours. So I'm not ruling out colic.

But I'm hoping once I get the milk factories to stop working overtime, we will see more improvement.

Cause I know I'm not cool with the colic. Eff the colic.

- Posted from my iPad! I know!



Hey there.

Um. Hmmm. What day is it? Where am I?

I need to face facts. Newborn bliss has faded. I am tired and my life revolves around boobs and poop.

Don't get me wrong. I adore my wee babe. But good god, I forgot how annoying massive boobs are...seriously. Ouch. And how little sleep I can have and still (kind of) function.

And last week, I hit a big wall and ended up calling my doctor, sobbing. I actually scared myself...anxiety like I'd never experienced, crushing anxiety. And I was so irritable and impatient. Forget about a short fuse...I had no fuse.

Suffice it to say, my doctor immediately wrote me a prescription for antidepressants and scheduled me to come into the office asap.

At first, I was absolutely gutted that I needed help. That I couldn't handle things on my own. I don't like to ask for help.

To be honest, I'm still struggling with it - I didn't have PPD with my first child. Why now? What's different?

Logically, I know that this is something I can't control. It's an imbalance. My hormones are all out of whack. And my doctor assures me it'll get better.

Emotionally? I'm kind of pissed. I'll get over it, and I know I made the right decision in seeking help.

For now, I just want to enjoy this precious short time that Baby C is sweet and tiny. I need to remember to soak it in...time is fleeting. I don't want to wake up from this haze and realize I've missed anything.

- Posted from my iPad! I know!


That's It. No More Books.

I knew this day was coming, but I wasn't prepared. I knew the time would come that my child would open his mouth and say something embarrassing. In public.

Today, upon meeting a woman with gray, curly hair, he exclaimed "Hi old lady!"

And then, just in case she hadn't heard him the first time, he referred to her as "old lady" for the next twenty minutes.

I tried to brush it off...he thinks everyone over the age of 30 is old, I said. But I knew that he was calling her "old lady" because she had the same hairdo as the Old Lady in Babar.

I won't be telling her that. Cause I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be taken as a compliment.

- Posted from my iPad! I know!