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.

Right?

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.

blink

Today I woke up and realized that my little girl has been here one week already.

And cue the postpartum tears...

I'm thrilled to report that thus far, many of my fears about going from one to two kids have been unfounded.

Knock wood.

Honestly, the transition has been fairly simple. G has embraced his baby sister and has been so loving and protective. He has his acting out moments...but don't all three year olds?

Baby C has been, in my opinion, and from past experience...ahem...dare I say it...easy.

I may have just totally jinxed myself.

She's a great sleeper, barely fusses and just seems to have a mellow temperament. I have to actually wake her to eat, most of the time.

I'll be honest, I've still had my moments. Don't you just LOVE hormones? Gah. Honestly, I kind of didn't want to leave the hospital last Wednesday when I was discharged. I mean seriously, they have a menu and you can sit and order room service and I got to laze around in bed all day and not worry about dinner and laundry and it was SO quiet. And I had amazing nurses who didn't even piss me off when they woke me up every two hours to take my vitals. Then I realized the hospital was like staying in the most expensive hotel ever. So, I came home, to reality. As soon as I got home, I was happy to be here, to have my entire family intact and under one roof. Plus, my husband has been really amazing and supportive. I feel very lucky this last week that he's home and able to take some paternity leave.

For the most part, I feel calm and like somehow, I have my stuff together.

Then again, I'm still on narcotics. So I'll let you know how I'm REALLY doing in a few days when I totally stop taking them. I know there will be that moment at my one week post surgery check up when the nurse asks how I'm doing, how I'm really doing, and I'll burst into tears. And then they'll offer me the happy pills.

Believe me, if I though I was for reals experiencing PPD, I'd have no problem with the pills. But by and large, I'm a happy tears person at the moment.

Like right now, I'm looking at this picture...


Totally crying. And this one...

Come on.

Then I think about how fast this is going. Already. And that? That kind of makes me sad. But I'm excited. Even a little proud of myself for soldiering through this first week. Having the realization that I might be able to pull this mother of two thing off...for reals.

Mother of the Year

Ugh.

I can't believe I let my little man's birthday pass with out a post!

Don't worry, at least we celebrated in real life. Which I guess is the important thing.

So, a few days late, Happy Birthday, G-Rex!


I love everything about you. I love that you're 'busy'. How you are so sensitive and always asking how I'm feeling.

How you say 'grayby' for gravy and 'eyegrows' for eyebrows.

How you will pick fruit and vegetables over junk food every day of the week.

That you love Wall-E and seem to understand it better than a three year old should.

That you watch ESPN with Daddy and know who Kornheiser and Wilbon are.

And your obsession with Thomas the Tank Engine? Oh.My.Goodness.

I just love you, kiddo. You've made me a better person. It is absolutely my privilege to be your mama.

I just can't wait to see you as a big brother and watch you grow.

Late Breaking News: Va Jay Jay Wand Works!

So I'm reading the title to this post and it sounds a lot like I'm writing about a sex toy. But I'm leaving it, cause I want people to be all disappointed when they come here to perv out and I'm talking about the gender of my unborn child.

You all are sick. Sick, I say!

Anyhow, I'm very late getting here to report that we are, to the relief of many family members, having a girl child. And don't get me wrong, I'm beyond thrilled. Over the moon (gag). But I have to be honest...all the boy hate had me a little up in arms and indignant.

Moving on, though. Moving on. I'm a little over halfway through this pregnancy. I don't know if it's the extra girl fetus estrogen, but I have to admit, I've been a weepy mess. Yeah, I know pregnant ladies are emotional, but I can barely even turn the television on these days without getting verklempt. Have you seen those 'Foundation for a Better Life' spots? Brutal. BRUTAL.

My little G has been sick since Sunday. There is nothing worse than the look of terror on a little kid's face when they throw up. I think he's on the upswing. Now here's to hoping I don't get sick. Where's the Purell?

This little post is going to be, well, little. Cause little dude is waking up from a nap and I've got to resume coaxing him to eat. Next up?Popsicles. For him too.

Right Now

For the first time in a long time, I'm content and peaceful.

My mom is home from Alaska (she's been up there for 7 weeks) - I have a feeling that was the first piece of the puzzle. She lives an hour and a half away, but its nice to know she's THERE, you know? Plus, she has the patience of a saint with my child, who has decided to be Whiney McWhinerson as of late.

He's still cute though. I'll keep him, I think.

So my mommy is home.

My husband and I are getting along really great. Like, actually having fun together. Not that we don't generally get along, but you know, life is stressful.

I've gotten to spend some time with old friends. Ones that have known me since I was in grade school. Something about reconnecting with people that have seen all phases of your life is so soothing.

Especially if they like to laugh.

Summer is winding down. I'm sad it's coming to a close. Not that it's been the best summer...the weather has been less than ideal and I've struggled with so many ups and downs.

But like everything in life, seasons change and we start fresh.

My mother-in-law has finally been placed in her final resting place. It was excruciating for all of us to revisit that grief, but we know now she's where she wanted to be...and that is comforting. Now I hope the healing can finally begin.

The rest of this summer? I plan to soak in as much fun as possible.

Starting now.

Nap Please

Have I mentioned that I am tired today? The kind of tired that I feel as if my eyelashes have tiny weights tied on them with tiny little strings. Serious, narcolepsy type tired. So tired I scared myself driving to and from the post office.

And? My toddler is on day four of NO NAP AT ALL. Which I hesitate to admit, but is probably a sign of the extinction of the daytime nap.

!*@*)#^&*%.

He's faked me out a couple of times in the past, but the last few days have been different. As in, I put him in his room and all he does is remove every toy from its basket, every book from the shelf and every article of clothing from the drawers. All while screaming at the top of his lungs.

Things aren't looking too promising.

I tried to get him lie on the couch with me for a rest, but all that accomplished was me being half awake, feeling even more groggy and him hitting me with books he wanted read.

Right now, he's alternately watching Yo Gabba Gabba and trying to hijack my keyboard.

I still need to work out today, clean and make meals.

Time to brew some coffee and pray for an early bedtime...for him and for me!

Dewey Decimal is An A-hole.

I've been working on budgeting better and was looking at expenses - and noticed that hoooo doggies, I spend a lot on books. Too much.

So I decided to get me a library card. I found our local library system online and signed up - and the card came in the mail yesterday. It said all I needed to do was show up with picture i.d. and my card and I'd be golden.

Here's what I forgot about public libraries. Since I actually haven't set foot inside one in um, ten or so years.

You can't find shit.

That is, unless you're good friends with Dewey Decimal. And believe me, I would have no problem getting reacquainted with him, but stupid me, I brought my toddler to the library with me. I thought he'd be awestruck by all the books. That he'd sit down in a little beanbag chair and pore over all the wonderful picture books.

[Not my kid]

I had a rude awakening when I was reminded that my child is not, and will never be, that child. A library child. He's more of a let 'em loose in WalMart child. A park child. A circus child. Not a 'quiet place' child.

Especially a quiet place with a ginormous fish tank.

FIIIIIISSHHHHHH!!! Fish! Mommeeeee, fish!!

Yeah, I see them.

I figured out pretty quickly that the little list of books I wanted to find, so neatly tucked inside my purse, would be staying put. No books for me today.

We went directly to the children's section. Where my son decided to lie down on the floor and roll around. I grabbed for a couple books that looked semi interesting, scooped him up under my arm and made for the checkout counter.

All the way there, he made a racket. Mommeeeee! Books!! BOOOOOOKKEEEEES! Even the men at computers hunched over the free internet (porn) stopped and looked up.

My saving grace was that there were a few 'recommended' books right by checkout. And one was, in fact, on my little list.

Thank you God. I hope you don't mind me picking up a book that has 'blue balls' in the title. It's been a rough day.

A Frat Boy Trapped in a Thirtysomething Mom's Body

The other night I was on Twitter, having a conversation with some girlfriends. Whoever follows me on Twitter, well, they probably think I'm mental. Because I won't go on Twitter for DAYS. Then, one night, I'll have like 50 tweets about random, random stuff.

Anyhow, the other night, the conversation somehow got to drinking (imagine). And I brought up beer bongs. And luges (I had to explain this one...you carve a 'luge' in a block of ice, then pour shots down the luge into a waiting mouth). And keg stands.

Then I made the suggestion that my friends make a beer bong and let their kids do hits off of it with root beer, then have a burping contest.

And with that, I nominate myself for the trashy parent of the year award.

Reading all my drinking suggestions would probably lead you to believe I was (or am) some kind of crazy partier. But I wasn't. For reals. The height of my partying was for about one year in college (okay, maybe two). The rest of the time, I was working 40 hours a week while taking 15-18 credits per quarter. Not a lot of time for fun. Or hangovers.

Still, I seem to have a wealth of information on drinking games/stupid methods of getting obliterated. Let's just say I'm observant. Maybe it's where I'm from. There wasn't a lot to do out in Podunk, WA except drink, go four-wheelin', and get knocked up. None of which I actually DID in high school. Cause I was SO SO SO boring. Not that getting knocked up is a good way to be interesting. Let's just say I wasn't even doing the things to get knocked up.

So, just in case you were following me on Twitter that night, I'm not a raging alcoholic, and I promise not to train my child on the beer bong. I'll wait till he's at least 12.

Daddies + Sidewalk Chalk =

Cute, possibly innappropriate chalk body outlines on patio.


It was a massacre. Person, dog (I think) and cat.

At least I intervened before they became, ahem, anatomically correct...

Dear Nick Junior nee Noggin

Does anybody out there watch Jack's Big Music Show? Anybody? Bueller? Bueller? *crickets*

Well, my son is OBSESSED with Jack, his dog, Mel and his 'super swell friend', Mary. Or, as he says, JACKMELMARYANDMEL! Most of his words and phrases seem to stem from this lovely little show on Nick Jr. (formerly Noggin). We only let him watch it once, maybe twice a day (on THOSE days). But there are only about 25 episodes total, so he's seen them all multiple times.

The show was canceled a few years back - I seriously don't know why they don't bring it back. In my opinion, it's probably one of the most innovative and educational shows (as far as music goes) out there for toddlers. Bonus - it's parent friendly. I honestly don't mind it at all. And that's saying a lot.

Jack's Big Music Show is basically a puppet show, focused on music (duh) - with a couple of kid friendly music videos thrown in, and sometimes a guest. Jon Stewart did an episode. And Lisa Loeb has been on it too (oh 1995, how I miss thee!).

Yeah, it's cool. I'll admit it. I kind of love it.

Except for these musical guests. I find them, well, disturbing.



I did a little research and found out this group is called The Trachtenburg Family Slide Show Players (and yes, they are a family - dad, mom and daughter) and they're from Seattle OF COURSE THEY ARE . While they have an interesting thing going - the slides they show are randoms they pick up at garage and estate sales and flea markets - I TOTALLY CANNOT GET OVER THAT GUY'S MUSTACHE. There I said it. I'm shallow. Get over it.

ANYhow.

What I really want to know is why Jack's Big Music Show was canceled? Can someone please get their shiz together and bring it back?

Cause if my alternatives are The Upside Down Show and Wow Wow Wubzy and Lazytown (okay, maybe Sportacus is kind of hot if you can get past the pencil thin mustache...yes, I have mustache issues) I might need to pop someone in the nose.

Two Years Ago Today: Part II

On January 22, 2008, I started the day (or VERY early morning) staggering into the maternity ward at the hospital. But not after getting lost because we did not know where we were supposed to check in.

Did I mention we didn't take a baby class or a hospital tour? Yeah. Whoops.

Luckily, I did manage to pre-register, so when I waddled up to the check in desk, in the midst of a mind bending contraction, B was able to tell them my name and I was admitted right away.

And as soon as I got into the room, I puked. Again. Tater tot casserole. Mmmm.

There really wasn't much of a question as to whether or not I wanted an epidural, especially since I was in so much pain at 4 centimeters. I had all intentions of seeing how far I could go without drugs. For reals. But between vomiting every time I had a contraction, and the fact that I didn't seem to have any lull BETWEEN contractions (I found out later I was having back labor), I was pretty much asking my husband to draw a target on my lower back with a sharpie.

Epidural. NOW. Ahhhh.

I could have made out with the anesthesiologist.

My doctor came about an hour later and since I wasn't really progressing, he ordered pitocin. The pitocin, well, it made my contractions worse. As in I could feel them through the drugs.

Four to five hours later, I had just finally made it to an eight. They broke my water, and I was supposed to get more pitocin. But the head nurse (who was a major pain in the ass, and treated my husband like he was an idiot) made the executive decision to hold off on the pit because I was 'non-emergent'. Meaning, my baby wasn't crowning. I guess the full moon had brought in laboring women in droves. Thirteen women were admitted after I was and their babies were born before I delivered.

So, my pitocin was put on hold. And I'm pretty sure she forgot about it. Another nurse helped me roll to my other side, and then the fetal monitor sounded funny. As in, it slowed way WAY down.

I was in a haze, between the epidural and sheer exhaustion, but the look on my husbands face and the fact that my sister in law had tears in her eyes, well, I knew something was wrong.

The baby's heart rate had dropped from 160 to 80. And it wasn't coming up.

The nurses flipped me back to my other side and his heart rate came back up, slowly. Whew. But, at this point, the doctor made the decision that the baby had to come out. Immediately.

I was prepped for surgery. My mom and sister-in-law helped B get dressed in his scrubs. Poor guy - he was terrified. As was I.

The doctor who was to perform the surgery was not my regular OB, but I had met with him. And I knew I liked him - and I discovered I liked him even better when he straight off started cracking jokes in the operating room and tried to put me at ease.

It worked. Well, I'm sure being numbed from the chest down didn't hurt either. Something about being completely numb was strangely comforting for me. I know some people don't like it, but after all the previous pain, I was relieved.

Within 45 minutes of the decision to perform a C-Section, we met our little boy for the first time.


Even though the birth was disappointing, nothing could take away from the magic of the moment. He came out screaming, and peed all over the doctor. My first glimpse of him told me that he looked JUST like his Daddy.

Our George.


I can still smell that delicious baby smell, and hear the little tiny baby coos.

Today, my baby turns TWO YEARS OLD.

The sweet baby smell has been replaced by little boy smells - not bad, just different - and the little coos are now full fledged words.

'No, Mommy.'
'Mommy, watchu doin'?'
'Are you kiddin' me?' (I kid you not, he said this last week).

He's a little boy who loves dancing to Jack's Big Music Show. He jumps more than he walks. He spends a lot of time coloring at his easel...and on the walls. He's slightly obsessed with Diego. He tries to hug and kiss his dogs. He gives his Daddy high fives and is a champion snuggler. He won't eat chicken nuggets, but devours avocado, green beans and tofu with gusto.


He's the G-Rex. He's ours. He's two (Sob!).

Happy Birthday to my little man!

Milestone (Maybe)

So, guess what?

I'm going to Vegas in three days! Woot! The hubs is letting me tag along to biggest nerd herd gathering on planet earth the Consumer Electronics Show. I joke about it being all geeky and stuff, but honestly? I'm wicked excited.

On the flip side, I'm kind of freaking out because we are leaving the G-Rex behind. He is staying with my parents. It will be the longest we've ever left him. I'm sure he'll be fine. I'm the one who will be a wreck.

Did I mention I haven't fully weaned him yet? This may be the end of the nursing. Again, I'm sure he'll hardly notice, but I'll be crying...INTO MY COCKTAIL, FLYING TO VEGAS.

I can't believe I've made it this far with breastfeeding. For a long time, I wanted to at least make it to a year. Then, I decided 18 months. Now that he actually walks up and tells me 'NURSE RIGHT NOWWWWW' while yanking down my shirt, I think it's time to call it a day.

And I will be sad. I won't lie - a few anticipatory tears have already been shed. The last remnant of him being a baby will be gone. He'll be a little boy.

I don't know if I'm ready.

Can I stop time? For a little bit, at least?

Please?

Feats of Strength and Endurance

If you have a toddler or have ever cared for a toddler - or even just observed a toddler - you know they are crazy unending founts of energy. As a mother of a 'busy' child, I more than fully understand the phrase 'run ragged'.

A while back I was chasing my monkey around and was thinking there should be some kind of official competition for moms. Especially since it seems that every playgroup/family gathering/et cetera has some mom who seems to completely have her poop together.

I want to see HER under pressure.

I want to put a bunch of moms in a competition and make them actually PROVE their parenting prowess.

This matching of wits and wrangling shall be called - wait for it - the Mamalympics.

Some potential events?

- Getting toys out of packaging. There is a special place in hell for whoever is responsible for twisting for all five hundred of those little ties in those Little People sets. Necessary? Really? As my cousin's wife called said, it must be a prison job.

- Carrying a diaper bag, all the groceries and a child all at once. Whoever can get everything from the car to the house in one trip wins.

- Eating dinner while simultaneously doing ninja hands to protect your food. No distracting child with a sticker book or a favorite tv show. The evening news must be on the television.

- Diaper change for speed and accuracy. Children will be fed a fiber heavy diet prior to this event. A pee pee only diaper is an instant disqualification.

- Cleaning the entire house during nap time. Two hours to clean as much as you can, laundry, prep dinner, crochet. Or, you can sit on your computer like I do.

What would your event be in the Mamalympics?

Above Average?

My toddler has discovered my computer ('puter, in G speak), and somehow keeps hitting buttons that make me have to restart this bad boy to even be able to type.

I think I'm in for it. I'm really, really in for it. This kid is not even two and can bring me to my technological knees.

We know he's smart. And if you know me, you know I'm not the kind to brag about my kid. In fact, I have a hard time talking about how intelligent he appears to be, because I don't want to be THAT mom.

And I will always counter my 'bragging' with the fact that he throws himself on the ground and screams at Old Navy, or colors all over the door, or bites me on a pretty regular basis. In fact, I've been calling him Damien (as in the Omen) on a pretty regular basis, and I probably should stop that, cause that's just really not a nice thing to call your kid.

He's a bit, um, rambunctious, but I just keep telling myself at least he's crazy and smart. I don't know how I'd do with crazy and DUMB (I would love him just the same, stop judging me!).

But I have to tell this story. G did something the other day that stopped his father and I dead in our tracks. We were at my husband's work, and one of his co-workers has a Rosie the Riveter sticker (you know, the lady showing her bicep) on her printer. The name 'Rosie' is printed on the sticker.

G walks up, points and says 'Wosie'.

DUDE.

I don't know if it was just some freaky coincidence, but all the same, we were dumbfounded.

Our little dictator. I have a feeling this one will keep us on our toes...

Idiot Box

When I was a kid, we had a 13" television, no remote control and three channels.

Oh, how times have changed...


Cartoons on the big screen. I am creating a monster (in my defense, I only use the electric babysitter when I'm sick...or tired...or...oh, never mind).

For more technology, zap on over and visit Beth at I Should Be Folding Laundry.

Adventures in Shopping

Today I went to Old Navy. I figured it was safe, because school is back in.

I had a mission. Skinny jeans. IKNOWSHUTUP. But there is a purpose behind them. I needed something to go with my super sweet Def Leppard t-shirt that I am wearing to THE DEF LEPPARD/POISON concert tomorrow. Woot!

So, I'm in the store, and it's busy. Which is no fun when you're pushing around one of the carts they have that you can strap your kid into.

Which my kid can now unstrap. Lovely.

Things were going downhill fast. G is the worst shopper in the world. It's like he has a concentrated version of the male shopping aversion gene. The whine starts the minute we enter any kind of retail establishment.

I located the jeans pretty easily and started quickly looking around at a few other things.

(By the way, you know you're old when you have to ask the salesgirl if something is a shirt or dress.)

At this point, G unstrapped himself, stood up in the cart and announced at the top of his lungs 'ALL DONE!'

I scurried back to the dressing room, tried on the jeans (ARE THEY SUPPOSED TO BE SO TIGHT?), fought with G over opening the dressing room door and finally decided they'd do and quickly dressed.

The line at the checkout, of course, was a mile long. G would not sit in the cart, so I was holding him and letting him empty the contents of my wallet. That soon was not entertaining enough, so he turned into a limp noodle and I set him down and attempted to hold his hand. Then came the jello legs.

Seriously, isn't 20 months a little young for this?

After an eternity, there was an available checker. I'm holding onto my child with one hand, throwing things onto the counter with the other, and trying to answer all her questions.

I handed her my card, and she asks 'Do you want to open an Old Navy Card today?'

Bless her - how cute. She really thought I'd spend an extra 10 minutes at the check stand with my child reenacting scenes as Damien from the Omen.

'No thanks. I think I'd better get out of here before he gets REALLY mad.'

At that comment, she looked frightened, and bagged me up - stat.

So, mission accomplished, but I sure do miss the days of leisurely shopping and trying things on. These days, it's rare for me to actually go to a store, I normally shop online. For obvious reasons.

But, there is a silver lining to this tale of woe. When I got home, I tried on the jeans and ... wait for it...

THERE ARE ZIPPERS ON THE ANKLES.

Deep Dark Past

I don't talk about this a lot, because it kind of pains me to admit it.

I was a cheerleader in high school.

Most of the time, I manage to push this fact into the distant recesses of my memory. And then, I do something to bring it front and center.

Like today. Little grumpy dictator was having a massive meltdown in the living room. I think he wanted yogurt(YOOOO-GUT)or to nurse (NUSSSSSSS) and I wanted to distract him. I started beckoning him down the hall to his room to look at some books.

And then it happened. I broke out in cheer.

Oh yes.

L-E-T-S-G-O, Let's Go, Let's Go, L-E-T-S-G-O, LET'S GO!

He stopped in his tracks and looked up at me with his little puffy red face. And then he burst out laughing maniacally.

Hmmmm. Now I have to see what other cheers I can remember. Hey, if I have to live with the shame, I may as well use it to my advantage in deterring tantrums.

And the Award Goes to....

Let's have a look, shall we?


Smelly dog for pillow? Check.

Toys covering every square inch of floor? Check.

Zoned out watching Dora? Check.

Chewing on shoe? Check.

Yes, it's true. I am very much in the running for Mother of the Year.

P.S. You totally thought this was about my post from last night, didn't you...DIDN'T YOU?!

Simple Math

Going to bed way past bedtime (10 PM. Yipes.)

+

Waking up at 4:30 am to take Daddy to work so he can go to airport for business trip

+

Crappy morning nap starting at 8:00 am and ending at 9:00 am courtesy of our m'fing dogs

-

Any nutritious meals all day (cheerios, french fries, cheesy poofs and string cheese do not a balanced meal make)

+

2 hours in the pool

+

Playing like a madman for hours all whilst jumping up and down

+

Weather in the mid-eighties

=


Child passed out in carseat literally one minute after leaving.

Poor bubba. It's tough being a rough and tumble little boy!

P.S. Before anyone calls CPS, I fed my darling a very healthy meal upon returning home. And also bathed him.

Yay! Boo.

Good news: We just booked tickets to Kauai for Thanksgiving.

Bad news: I'm absolutely deathly terrified of flying with my son. I have a sneaking suspicion he's going to be 'that' kid.

You know, the one the other passengers are throwing bottles of Benedryl at while muttering under their breath at the audacity of those parents flying with such a child?

We have four months. Four months to condition a crazy kid into an airplane friendly kid. Is it possible? Am I dreaming? Are we crazy?

Don't answer that last one. I'm pretty sure that's a big 10-4.