I'm sure you all thought I was dead, buried in a pile of diapers as high as Mount Washington that collapsed when the sound waves of the boys' screaming produced an avalanche of massive and smelly proportions.
Well rest assured, I'm not dead.
It's just that the boys used to do this adorable thing where you could feed them into a coma and then put them down, where they would inevitably sleep for a few hours.
Now that they're bigger, they eat, and want to, like, do stuff.
They're all, "hey Mom, we're gonna try to figure out how to work our hands for a while. Want to get in on this?"
And I'm all, "Nah, thanks, I'm actually gonna try to get some work done."
And they're all, "Are you sure? Because we each have, like, a bunch of fingers and it's totally cool when they move around. See? Plus they taste good.
And I'm all, "I'm sure they do, but really, I have stuff I have to get done"
And they're all, "well, okay, but don't go too far. Simon's going to try to eat his foot in about 5 minutes and he's probably going to cry when it doesn't work. Like...a lot."
And I'm all, *sigh*
But I can't really complain. They suddenly figured out that night is for sleeping, and have slept for 6 or 7 hours straight the past few nights.
It's glorious.
I always thought the most exciting day in my life was the day I got married (either time), or the day I bought my first horse, or my first trip to Disney World, or something like that. Turns out the most exciting day in my life involved me, my tempurpedic, and suddenly waking up, looking at the clock, and realizing we were an hour past the normal feeding time.
YESSSSS *fist pump*
In other news, now that I'm more rested and the boys are ever-so-slightly on a schedule, I've suddenly looked around for the first time in 4 months and realized that my house is a DISASTER. And everyone who knows me knows that I've set the bar pretty low when it comes to homestead organization. But when you're looking around your living room and it's strewn with clothes, baby equipment, dirty bottles, and what may or may not be a possum living under your coffee table, you realize that maybe it's time to take the house back.
I've started small.
I finally replaced our comforter. Which doesn't seem like a big deal, until I explain that the comforter were were using up until last week had actually been used to cover and transport a piece of furniture from Brian's parents' house to ours. They left the comforter, saying that we could probably use it as a drop cloth or something.
It ended up on our bed.
Disgusting, I know.
We're animals.
I also got a napkin holder for the table.
It's the little things in life, people.
It's funny how once you have kids, you suddenly realize you're an adult. And this realization comes with all these little unexpected reactions, like buying life insurance. And keeping on top of the laundry. And obtaining a napkin holder for the table.
Did I mention it holds napkins upright and keeps them clean of the crumbs that tend to accumulate on dining surfaces?
So Cool.
I also ended up with my first pair of mom jeans, although in my defense, I needed a pair of flannel-lined work pants for the barn, and these types of pants only come with a 3-foot-long front zipper. S0 while my barn jeans may come up to my ribs, I'm also warm up to my ribs, which is preferable to being cold down to my fashionably low waistline.
So as we round the final turn to our 4 month mark, I'd say that things are looking up. The boys are sleeping, and I'm making a concerted effort to be a grown up, as opposed to a raggedy 20-something who uses ratty, hand-me-down comforters and lets their napkins lay on the table to collect crumbs and dust, and allows their barely-covered midsection to go cold in the name of fashion.
And while I hope I don't continue to mentally age at such an alarming rate, admitting that I'm 30 and that it's okay to care about my house and forego fashion for warmth once in a while is probably a step in the right direction.
After all, I'm a mom.
Maybe I should start acting like one.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Spirit of OMFG Please Stop Giving Me Outdated Advice
I'm sure everyone either has, had, or knows of a grandparent like my grandmother.
My grandmom is about a million years old. She's tough as nails, having survived multiple wars, economic depressions, and several occasions where she thought it'd be fine to just take the car for a drive, despite the fact that she doesn't have a license and can barely reach the pedals. She distrusts doctors and most non-European races (especially Puerto-Ricans, or "the PRs," as she loves to say. And then she does high kicks and snaps her fingers and plots to overthrow The Sharks). She gets confused when I tell her I'll call her from the grocery store (until she assumes they must have a payphone) and she's pretty sure my iPad was developed by the Russians. Or Aliens.
In other words, she's from another era.
Cranky and evil-spirited as she can be, she loves my boys. She truly does. But with this love comes a form of parenting that leaves me in wonder and amazement that my mother survived to create the next generation. Of course, this started when the boys were still in utero, and she berated me severely for sitting with crossed legs.
Because everyone knows that if you cross your legs you'll kill your unborn children.
Of course, I tried to explain to her that we have this thing now called science, which has pretty much confirmed that I can cross my legs and breathe easy that my fetuses are doing the same. But then she started going off on how all doctors are quacks and how most don't even have medical degrees (I know - don't get me started). So in the end, I uncrossed my legs, and made a mental note not to wear a skirt to her house again.
She also thinks that every time the kids move, they have gas. When my husband came home and Simon turned his head in the direction of the front door, Gramdmom declared that Simon had gas and I should try burping him.
The thing is - every time I burp the kids in front of her, she's convinced that I'm beating them to death.
Listen - I took a course in Burping 101 from the NICU nurses, and if you think I hit them hard, you should SEE the beating they administered to my 3-pound children in the name of gas liberation. It was like a Rhianna and Chris Brown reunion
What? Too soon?
But of course, try telling that to Grandmom.
So I patted them gently to release the gas they didn't have. And Grandmom heaved a sigh of relief that I wasn't killing her great-grandchildren.
Our most recent episode of Guess Which Century I Was Born In played out two nights ago when I told Grandmom that Isaac was teething. Explaining that I put something on his gums to help with the pain, she suddenly burst out, "Oh they still have Spirits of Nitre?"
...*awkward pause*...
And I'm like OMFG, here we go again.
So I say, "No, Grandmom, it's called Baby Orajel."
And she goes on (as if I hadn't even said anything), "All you do is turn the bottle over so you get a little on your finger, and then you rub their gums."
So I repeat myself (louder, because she's more than a tad hard of hearing), "NO, GRANDMOM, IT'S CALLED BABY ORAJEL. IT COMES IN THESE PRE-MEASURED COTTON SWABS. SEE?"
And I hold up the packet, which she squints at, frowns, and then mutters, "well, just make sure it's safe for the babies. It doesn't look safe."
And while I'm sure Spirits of Nitre was probably made out of formaldehyde and asbestos and mercury, and was just as likely to make you blind, deaf, and dumb as numb your gums, there's just no point in explaining the modern processes of the FDA to her. So I simply said "OKAY" and we moved on to more benign subjects, like how the PRs are ruining the country.
*sigh*
Of course, back in the day, giving your children substances that were more likely to harm them than help them was considered giving them character. I suppose it was a form of natural selection, where only kids who could survive food poisoning, exposure to toxic substances, and being hit with a belt for speaking at the dinner table survived.
And while I've been told that, for a new parent, I'm very relaxed with my kids (which seems to be mostly a good thing, provided they don't have any unforeseen allergies or immune issues), even I have some trepidation giving them any medications that have the words "spirit" or "tincture" or "essence" in the name.
But again, this is probably due to the fact that I was born in 1982 instead of 1882.
So while I love my Grandmom, let's just say that she won't be babysitting for me anytime soon. Natural Selection aside, I'm just not prepared to give my kids that kind of character.
My grandmom is about a million years old. She's tough as nails, having survived multiple wars, economic depressions, and several occasions where she thought it'd be fine to just take the car for a drive, despite the fact that she doesn't have a license and can barely reach the pedals. She distrusts doctors and most non-European races (especially Puerto-Ricans, or "the PRs," as she loves to say. And then she does high kicks and snaps her fingers and plots to overthrow The Sharks). She gets confused when I tell her I'll call her from the grocery store (until she assumes they must have a payphone) and she's pretty sure my iPad was developed by the Russians. Or Aliens.
In other words, she's from another era.
Cranky and evil-spirited as she can be, she loves my boys. She truly does. But with this love comes a form of parenting that leaves me in wonder and amazement that my mother survived to create the next generation. Of course, this started when the boys were still in utero, and she berated me severely for sitting with crossed legs.
Because everyone knows that if you cross your legs you'll kill your unborn children.
Of course, I tried to explain to her that we have this thing now called science, which has pretty much confirmed that I can cross my legs and breathe easy that my fetuses are doing the same. But then she started going off on how all doctors are quacks and how most don't even have medical degrees (I know - don't get me started). So in the end, I uncrossed my legs, and made a mental note not to wear a skirt to her house again.
She also thinks that every time the kids move, they have gas. When my husband came home and Simon turned his head in the direction of the front door, Gramdmom declared that Simon had gas and I should try burping him.
The thing is - every time I burp the kids in front of her, she's convinced that I'm beating them to death.
Listen - I took a course in Burping 101 from the NICU nurses, and if you think I hit them hard, you should SEE the beating they administered to my 3-pound children in the name of gas liberation. It was like a Rhianna and Chris Brown reunion
What? Too soon?
But of course, try telling that to Grandmom.
So I patted them gently to release the gas they didn't have. And Grandmom heaved a sigh of relief that I wasn't killing her great-grandchildren.
Our most recent episode of Guess Which Century I Was Born In played out two nights ago when I told Grandmom that Isaac was teething. Explaining that I put something on his gums to help with the pain, she suddenly burst out, "Oh they still have Spirits of Nitre?"
...*awkward pause*...
And I'm like OMFG, here we go again.
So I say, "No, Grandmom, it's called Baby Orajel."
And she goes on (as if I hadn't even said anything), "All you do is turn the bottle over so you get a little on your finger, and then you rub their gums."
So I repeat myself (louder, because she's more than a tad hard of hearing), "NO, GRANDMOM, IT'S CALLED BABY ORAJEL. IT COMES IN THESE PRE-MEASURED COTTON SWABS. SEE?"
And I hold up the packet, which she squints at, frowns, and then mutters, "well, just make sure it's safe for the babies. It doesn't look safe."
And while I'm sure Spirits of Nitre was probably made out of formaldehyde and asbestos and mercury, and was just as likely to make you blind, deaf, and dumb as numb your gums, there's just no point in explaining the modern processes of the FDA to her. So I simply said "OKAY" and we moved on to more benign subjects, like how the PRs are ruining the country.
*sigh*
Of course, back in the day, giving your children substances that were more likely to harm them than help them was considered giving them character. I suppose it was a form of natural selection, where only kids who could survive food poisoning, exposure to toxic substances, and being hit with a belt for speaking at the dinner table survived.
And while I've been told that, for a new parent, I'm very relaxed with my kids (which seems to be mostly a good thing, provided they don't have any unforeseen allergies or immune issues), even I have some trepidation giving them any medications that have the words "spirit" or "tincture" or "essence" in the name.
But again, this is probably due to the fact that I was born in 1982 instead of 1882.
So while I love my Grandmom, let's just say that she won't be babysitting for me anytime soon. Natural Selection aside, I'm just not prepared to give my kids that kind of character.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Yes, I refer to it as "number twosies"
I think I hit a new low yesterday when I went number twosies with a child strapped to me in a Baby Bjorn because he was sleeping (finally!) and I dared not disturb him.
(I, however, was deeply disturbed by the experience)
It's amazing what one will do when one is left alone with two 3-month-olds day after day after day. It's like some sort of twisted Survivor, where instead of being on an island you're trapped in the house, and the challenges involve epic dirty diapers and diabetic cats and blind binkey searches, and the immunity idol is really just an ice-cold Magic Hat #9 that you would literally kill someone to obtain.
I'm not proud to admit that I have during one or more occasions encouraged Ike to suck his thumb because if I had to retrieve that G-D binkie one more time, I was going to lose my mind. I know I will sorely regret this when I see the bill for his braces 13 years for now, but at the time, it always seems like a good (if not desperate) solution to an ongoing problem.
I've also watched more junk TV than I care to admit. Hey, I feed babies for an hour at a time, every four hours, around the clock. It's not only boring, but if I haven't had enough sleep, it's coma-inducing. If I'm not being entertained, I'll often doze off. Or daydream about all the cool things I USED to be able to do before I had kids. Either way - very dangerous. So I watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians and Say Yes To The Dress and My Fair Wedding to keep from dropping babies or falling into a pit of despair. I also watch a healthy amount of Celebrity Ghost Stories, but I'm not going to put that show in the same categories as the others, because Celebrity Ghost Stories rocks. Of course, it also has me jumping at every noise and imagining that my bathroom is inhabited by a "shadow person," but I'd rather be hallucinating evil things in my house than watching them on TV while they bicker and drive around in fancy cars and kiss their famous basketball-playing husbands while stroking their perfect hair. *shudder*
I've also, unfortunately, broken the cardinal rule of parenting by just. letting. them. cry. Sometimes, (and this is a rare occasion) I just don't have it in me to deal with them. Every once in a while, after an endless night of getting up every 20 minutes to deal with this or that baby crisis, I just can't deal. (and BTW, these kids are about as dramatic as the Kardashians about what constitutes a "crisis," and for the record, being slightly hungry or scuffing your Manolo Blahniks does not.)
Maybe I'm a shitty parent.
Maybe I'm a hypocrite working so hard to have children and then not being able to manage them 100% of the time.
I dunno (and at this point in my life, I don't really care).
But there have been times where they been left in their cribs to whimper while I closed the door to my bedroom and went to my happy place for 5 minutes or so.
Hopefully, they won't be scarred for life. From the neglect OR being witness to my bodily functions. And personally, I AM scarred for life from having these kids. But isn't that part of being a parent? Earning your scars? Surviving the low points? Being able to say "when they were babies..." while rolling your eyes to the heavens because you were there and you survived to tell the tale?
Of course, there are high points as well. And boy, they are SO WORTH the struggles. But only a parent would deprive themselves of sleep and sign up for endless diaper duty in exchange for a smile, no matter how miraculous that smile may be.
So this post isn't going to end on a funny note. Because while there are a lot of emotions that go into parenting, humor is vastly overshadowed by the simultaneous pain and pleasure of raising your kids.
I have no regrets. And I have more joy in my life than I ever dared to dream of. But I also have poopy diapers and screaming fits and all the day-to-day realities of child rearing. So you'll have to excuse me if I sometimes slip and lament my position instead of enjoy it. Because while having children is the best thing I've ever done...it's also, BY FAR, the hardest.
And sometimes, you just need a Magic Hat #9 at the end of the day, if you're going to survive the night.
(I, however, was deeply disturbed by the experience)
It's amazing what one will do when one is left alone with two 3-month-olds day after day after day. It's like some sort of twisted Survivor, where instead of being on an island you're trapped in the house, and the challenges involve epic dirty diapers and diabetic cats and blind binkey searches, and the immunity idol is really just an ice-cold Magic Hat #9 that you would literally kill someone to obtain.
I'm not proud to admit that I have during one or more occasions encouraged Ike to suck his thumb because if I had to retrieve that G-D binkie one more time, I was going to lose my mind. I know I will sorely regret this when I see the bill for his braces 13 years for now, but at the time, it always seems like a good (if not desperate) solution to an ongoing problem.
I've also watched more junk TV than I care to admit. Hey, I feed babies for an hour at a time, every four hours, around the clock. It's not only boring, but if I haven't had enough sleep, it's coma-inducing. If I'm not being entertained, I'll often doze off. Or daydream about all the cool things I USED to be able to do before I had kids. Either way - very dangerous. So I watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians and Say Yes To The Dress and My Fair Wedding to keep from dropping babies or falling into a pit of despair. I also watch a healthy amount of Celebrity Ghost Stories, but I'm not going to put that show in the same categories as the others, because Celebrity Ghost Stories rocks. Of course, it also has me jumping at every noise and imagining that my bathroom is inhabited by a "shadow person," but I'd rather be hallucinating evil things in my house than watching them on TV while they bicker and drive around in fancy cars and kiss their famous basketball-playing husbands while stroking their perfect hair. *shudder*
I've also, unfortunately, broken the cardinal rule of parenting by just. letting. them. cry. Sometimes, (and this is a rare occasion) I just don't have it in me to deal with them. Every once in a while, after an endless night of getting up every 20 minutes to deal with this or that baby crisis, I just can't deal. (and BTW, these kids are about as dramatic as the Kardashians about what constitutes a "crisis," and for the record, being slightly hungry or scuffing your Manolo Blahniks does not.)
Maybe I'm a shitty parent.
Maybe I'm a hypocrite working so hard to have children and then not being able to manage them 100% of the time.
I dunno (and at this point in my life, I don't really care).
But there have been times where they been left in their cribs to whimper while I closed the door to my bedroom and went to my happy place for 5 minutes or so.
Hopefully, they won't be scarred for life. From the neglect OR being witness to my bodily functions. And personally, I AM scarred for life from having these kids. But isn't that part of being a parent? Earning your scars? Surviving the low points? Being able to say "when they were babies..." while rolling your eyes to the heavens because you were there and you survived to tell the tale?
Of course, there are high points as well. And boy, they are SO WORTH the struggles. But only a parent would deprive themselves of sleep and sign up for endless diaper duty in exchange for a smile, no matter how miraculous that smile may be.
So this post isn't going to end on a funny note. Because while there are a lot of emotions that go into parenting, humor is vastly overshadowed by the simultaneous pain and pleasure of raising your kids.
I have no regrets. And I have more joy in my life than I ever dared to dream of. But I also have poopy diapers and screaming fits and all the day-to-day realities of child rearing. So you'll have to excuse me if I sometimes slip and lament my position instead of enjoy it. Because while having children is the best thing I've ever done...it's also, BY FAR, the hardest.
And sometimes, you just need a Magic Hat #9 at the end of the day, if you're going to survive the night.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Bribery and Denial
Well, that was a nice break.
After 12 nervous breakdowns, 11 bins of paper recycling, 10 baby temper tantrums, 9...well, you get the idea...we can successfully check Babies' First Christmas off the ole' milestones list.
Some parts of it were great. Turns out you can get away with damn near anything if you have twin infants. Like not cleaning the house before you throw a 13-person holiday party. And expecting the party-goers to bring all the food and drinks and hold/feed your children. And taking a nap in the middle of it all
And the baby outfits, of course, were delicious.
But the boys decided to party for 3 days straight, refusing to sleep for 12 hours at a time and then spending the nights in a state of sleep-deprived mania that led to copious amounts of fussing and more than episode of gratuitous parent begging and bribing. Turns out my children either have impeccable moral standards...or have yet to pick up on the subtleties of a good "extra bottle of formula" bribe.
So we survived the holidays. Hip Hip Hooray.
The boys also turned 3 months old a few days ago. And I'm embarrassed to admit that I thought that by 3 months, they'd be able to do more. Like sleep through the night. And hold their own bottles. And detail my Ford Focus. Okay, maybe not detail my car, but honestly, you've been alive for 3 months and you have yet to figure out how to hold a bottle to your mouth?!? That's kind of ridic.
And my mom's all, "well, they've been GROWING, and that takes a lot of work."
And I'm all, "well, detailing my own car takes a lot of work too, but you don't see me asking Brian to put my scotch in a sippy cup."
And then my mom looks me straight in the eyes with that I'm concerned about your parenting skills look and asks me how I've been holding up.
Whatevs.
All I know is that they'd better be sorting their own laundry by the age of 2, or I'm selling them to the circus.
Other fine points of parenting:
Before one freaks out over a potential child injury, one should inquire if one's spouse has been eating hot sauce.
Yes, those red spots all over your baby's onesie could be blood...or it could be the Louisiana Volcano Sauce that your husband holds near and dear to his heart.
Know the difference, people.
In other news, I re-homed my wonderful horse, Mikey. Turns out there's little point in paying for a horse you never use. Also turns out that Mikey's kind of a slacker and prefers lessons with little girls than the rigorous training schedule I had him on.
Go figure.
So he fell in love with a pair of girls (twins, ironically) who were leasing him over the winter, and I decided that the only thing dumber than paying for a horse you never use is paying for a horse you never use who is also a two-timing bastard who falls in love with someone else and suddenly treats you like yesterday's hay.
I kid.
I have nothing but love for that big galumf.
But because I love him, I decided to let him go. It was the right thing to do.
And I am in NO WAY looking for another horse.
Nope.
Not at all.
So if anybody knows of a reasonably priced jumper prospect, DO NOT tell me, because I'm NOT interested in possibly coming out to take a look at him.
No sir.
Not in a million years.
(call me)
So I've got a couple of 3 month olds that are GROWING (if not appropriately versed in hand-to-mouth motor skills), and a husband who likes to use them as hand wipes. We've survived the Holidays and our first 3 months together. I like them, and despite that I've resorted to tying the binkie to their heads with an old backpacking bandana (I'm not even lying about this), they still seem to like me.
I guess at this point, that's all that a new mom could ask for.
After 12 nervous breakdowns, 11 bins of paper recycling, 10 baby temper tantrums, 9...well, you get the idea...we can successfully check Babies' First Christmas off the ole' milestones list.
Some parts of it were great. Turns out you can get away with damn near anything if you have twin infants. Like not cleaning the house before you throw a 13-person holiday party. And expecting the party-goers to bring all the food and drinks and hold/feed your children. And taking a nap in the middle of it all
And the baby outfits, of course, were delicious.
But the boys decided to party for 3 days straight, refusing to sleep for 12 hours at a time and then spending the nights in a state of sleep-deprived mania that led to copious amounts of fussing and more than episode of gratuitous parent begging and bribing. Turns out my children either have impeccable moral standards...or have yet to pick up on the subtleties of a good "extra bottle of formula" bribe.
So we survived the holidays. Hip Hip Hooray.
The boys also turned 3 months old a few days ago. And I'm embarrassed to admit that I thought that by 3 months, they'd be able to do more. Like sleep through the night. And hold their own bottles. And detail my Ford Focus. Okay, maybe not detail my car, but honestly, you've been alive for 3 months and you have yet to figure out how to hold a bottle to your mouth?!? That's kind of ridic.
And my mom's all, "well, they've been GROWING, and that takes a lot of work."
And I'm all, "well, detailing my own car takes a lot of work too, but you don't see me asking Brian to put my scotch in a sippy cup."
And then my mom looks me straight in the eyes with that I'm concerned about your parenting skills look and asks me how I've been holding up.
Whatevs.
All I know is that they'd better be sorting their own laundry by the age of 2, or I'm selling them to the circus.
Other fine points of parenting:
Before one freaks out over a potential child injury, one should inquire if one's spouse has been eating hot sauce.
Yes, those red spots all over your baby's onesie could be blood...or it could be the Louisiana Volcano Sauce that your husband holds near and dear to his heart.
Know the difference, people.
In other news, I re-homed my wonderful horse, Mikey. Turns out there's little point in paying for a horse you never use. Also turns out that Mikey's kind of a slacker and prefers lessons with little girls than the rigorous training schedule I had him on.
Go figure.
So he fell in love with a pair of girls (twins, ironically) who were leasing him over the winter, and I decided that the only thing dumber than paying for a horse you never use is paying for a horse you never use who is also a two-timing bastard who falls in love with someone else and suddenly treats you like yesterday's hay.
I kid.
I have nothing but love for that big galumf.
But because I love him, I decided to let him go. It was the right thing to do.
And I am in NO WAY looking for another horse.
Nope.
Not at all.
So if anybody knows of a reasonably priced jumper prospect, DO NOT tell me, because I'm NOT interested in possibly coming out to take a look at him.
No sir.
Not in a million years.
(call me)
So I've got a couple of 3 month olds that are GROWING (if not appropriately versed in hand-to-mouth motor skills), and a husband who likes to use them as hand wipes. We've survived the Holidays and our first 3 months together. I like them, and despite that I've resorted to tying the binkie to their heads with an old backpacking bandana (I'm not even lying about this), they still seem to like me.
I guess at this point, that's all that a new mom could ask for.
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