Game Over

Fuck, you guys.
Isaac is now crawling.
And it's not that I don't want him crawling, but yeah, he kind of called my bluff on the whole "parenting" thing. Upped the ante, if you will. He was all, oh yeah? You think you have this shit locked down? We'll see about that.

And yeah, I'm cursing again, because having a crawling 9-month-old is alot of stress, and it's either cursing or drinking, and I think we can all agree that dropping a few F bombs is preferable to throwing back a few scotches and taking the family on a Sunday drive.

Holla, 1950s

So my mom was all, well, what's your plan, and I was all, what plan? and she was all your plan for safeguarding the house and I was all I dunno, I guess I'll just follow him around and see what he gets in to and take it away from him before he electrocutes/burns/chokes himself.

And then I got that "I'm concerned about your parenting" look again, which is quite frankly getting a little old, but you know how it is with family: Up in arms every time your kid chews on an extension cord. Sheesh.

So Ike is crawling. Not totally crawling, but enough so when I put him down and go check the laundry, he's not there when I get back. Which is disconcerting, to say the least.

And then there's Simon....
Poor Simon, who would rather lay around than move, and sleep rather than be awake...
This kid is all about energy conservation.
The thing is, I get Simon.
He and I, we're on the same page.
We're like two very lazy peas in a pod. He lays on the floor and smiles at me, and I sit on the couch and smile back, and we're all very happy with this arrangement.
But then this other one comes crawling by, grabing Simon's toy and assaulting my coffee cup, wanting to do things and, between you and me, being a total buzz-kill. And I'm all like, Isaac, maybe you should just chill the fuck out for a second and he's all like either you let me go or I'll scream till the rafters come down, so I have no choice but to release him, and seconds later I've lost him under the couch.
Again.

It's quite a problem.

Playpens help to contain him.
Barely:

Like, woah, right?

This kid is nuts.

He totally takes after his father.
Brian is what us "low-energy" folks like to call...a spazz. He can work a 24 hour shift at the firehouse and then come home and BBQ up some mean dinner. WITH appetizers and cheesecake dessert. And while I fully appreciate his ability to be productive for DAYS on end, it totally mystifies me.

Because I'm the person equivalent of a sloth:
I'd be completely happy spending the rest of my life wedged into the crotch of a tree, chewing on a bamboo shoot.

So you'd think that a high-energy person like him and a low-energy person like me would make moderate-energy babies. Like the energizer bunny mating with a vacuum to create the Roomba.

What?
Whatever.

But no.
We have one kid who lays around like a lump on a log, and another kid who gets meth-eyes every time he's still for more than 30 seconds.

It's more than a little ridic.

I'm sure it'll work out in the end.
Simon and I will sit in the house and watch paint dry while Isaac and Brian go outside and do whatever it is that spazzes do...like run around in circles with their hands in the air or whatever.

But for now, I'm left watching this little crazy person, completely baffled by his desire to move around, and trying my best to keep up with him while he log-rolls down the basement steps.

Oy.

Nine Months. Introduce Choking Hazards Now.

9 months.
9 crazy, ridiculous, insane months.
It's been 9 months (well, 9.5 months) since the meatloaves were born.
In that time, I've seen heaven and met the devil himself (mostly in the form of explosive diarrhea).
I've been spit up on more times than the camel caretaker at the Philadelphia zoo, and I've spent more money on formula than I care to discuss.

In other words, it's been wild.

The boys had their 9 month check-up this past week. Thankfully, they're healthy, happy, and growing reasonably.
They're 16.5 and 17 lbs, which totally surprised me, because I figured, based on how tired my arms are at the end of the day, that they weighed about a metric ton each, give or take a few pounds. Isaac is still taller than Simon, and Simon still wins in the BMI department, mostly because he lays around like a lazy starfish while Ike bounces in his bouncer until he develops callouses on his toes (no joke, that kid is a crackhead).

At 9 months, suddenly, I'm supposed to give them food. Not baby food. Like, people food.

Awww, they think they're people!!

The pediatrician was rattling off all these foods to give them, and I'm all like, woah, wait a minute, I'm supposed to just stick that crap in their mouth? They don't even have TEEFS!! and the Pediatrician was like, it's fine, they always figure it out. They'll just gum stuff until it dissolves and they can swallow it. And I was all, what if they DON'T figure it out and she was like, its fine. Don't worry.
And I just kind of looked at her in awe and wondered about her malpractice insurance. Because up until this point, I'm pretty sure that anything that could fit in their mouth was considered a choaking hazard, but now suddenly it's just considered nutrition??

When the F* did that happen??

(yes, I said F* instead of the real deal, because I'm trying my hardest to curb the cursing now that the meatloaves are absorbing language. But rest assured, a small part of me dies every time I can't drop the F bomb. Being a parent is all about sacrifices, I guess)

So I went home and broke out this thing of toddler puffs that someone had given me, and I put one in each of their mouths...and then I hovered, waiting to sweep in and begin child CPR the minute they showed the least sign of distress.

But instead, they gave me a weird look, and worked the thing around in their toothless mouths, and then suddenly it was swallowed and they were smiling at me and grabbing for more.

WHAT?!?

The little dudes are becoming more like toddlers and less like babies every day. And while I'm supremely excited that they're on the verge of feeding themselves, a little part of me is sad, I guess, that they're growing up.
...not sad enough, though, to keep me from doing a victory dance that I will soon be able to slap a plate of food down in front of them and then go watch an episode of Ghost Hunters while they eat lunch.

Awesome-sauce.

So, while 9 months ago, my life exploded into a chaotic malestrom of vomit and diapers, today, I'm piecing it back together again. But now it's way better than it was before. Sure, there's still vomit and diapers. But there's also baby talk and curly hair and jack-o-lantern smiles that melt my heart. There's communication and a little bit of independence on all accounts. And sleep. I cannot stress enough how a full night's sleep has helped me reclaim my life.

So I guess this post wasn't very funny.
But that's okay, because being a parent often isn't very funny.
There are days when I'm too proud, too thankful, and too blessed to crack a joke. Because these little miracles of mine are not only surviving, but thriving.
And sure, I could try to make that funny.
But sometimes, I'd rather just be grateful.

So let's end it on that note.

Beer, Rollercoasters, and the Ravages of Time

Well, we had quite a weekend here at Slapstick Motherhood.

Because Brian and I love a good challenge, we decided to take the whole family (retarded dog included) out to Lancaster PA to see my In-Law's newly purchased house. The itinerary included such awesomeness as Beer Tasting! and Rollercoaster Riding! and Sleeping In The Same Room As Your Twin 9-month-olds!, which wasn't awesome so much as completely annoying and included much farting.

It was a (mostly) successful trip.

The beer tasting was fun. Sort of. Well, the beer was good. I particularly liked this one porter that Brian had procured for me. However, I'll never know how to get it, because when I asked who brewed it, my Father-In-Law (FIL) replied, "this is a pretty good ham sandwich" (there was food too), and Brian followed up with, "I sing way better than this dude; I should start a band" ...at which point I suspected that I'd be driving home.

I also learned that while beer makes most things supremely interesting, there are just some subjects that are beyond boring, even while slightly inebriated.

Read: Clocks.

The beer tasting was at a clock museum. In other words, a building full of rooms and rooms of clocks. Like, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling clocks. And while Brian and my FIL spent the better part of an hour fully absorbed in learning about the complete history of the clock, I considered the practicality of suicide.

Dude

I'm not saying that clocks aren't marvels of technology and completely vital to our society, but if I never see another grandfather clock again, it'll be too soon.

But then it was time to go (hooray!).
And the next day was Hershey Park Day.
And it was everything I hoped it would be.
(But not for Brian, who had partook in a little too much merriment at the beer tasting, and spent most of the day as a living coat rack for purses and what-have-you)

Especially since everyone warned me that since I am now considerably older than the last time I rode roller coasters, I might be unpleasantly surprised what the ravages of time might do to my 1) ability to withstand and 2) enjoyment of loop-de-loops and other such fun. 

But the warnings were (more or less) for naught, and I was (more or less) unscathed.

Well...
Except for this one rollercoaster that happened to be the second steepest drop in America and might have made me crap my pants a little. But in my defense, we must have watched 100+ cars go down that drop while waiting in line and not one...NOT ONE person screamed. Because it was THAT SCARY.
All you heard was the sound of nightmares coming to life and the ping of loose change as it fell out of the pockets of sweating, panicked riders.

And there was this other rollercoaster, which we happened to ride after the aforementioned rollercoaster, so our adrenaline was kind of tapped out, and we figured we had survived the worst, and then we were in the seats, considering how we were about to be rocketed to some ridiculously high MPH over some ridiculously short period of time, and then we were gonna shoot up some ridiculously steep and high track, and maybe we should have prepared ourselves a little.

And then I almost died.
For serious.

And after we staggered through the Exit, we though maybe we'd slow jam the park for a bit, which was not how I used to roll, but well, I'm 30, and apparently these things happen.

The next day, voices hoarse and backs stiff from the jostling, we headed home. But not before a stop in Amish Country, my homeland, where I rocked out Pennsylvania Dutch style and enjoyed some of the dishes of my childhood, and took pictures of horses...
Because I may have worked in a barn since the age of 8, but I CANNOT let a cart and buggy go without taking a picture, petting the horse, and daydreaming that the horse suddenly freaks out and I jump in and save the day, and everyone's all wow, what are the odds that a horse expert would be here to save us?? and I'm all yeah, I'm a trainer. I deal with crazy horses all the time, and everyone cheers and offers me pie.

(still waiting on that last part to happen. One day...)

So it was great to get out with the family.
And it was an excellent test run for when we drive down to South Carolina in a few weeks to visit my Brother-In-Law

And if you're thinking that A) an 11-hour drive down to SC with 9-month-olds is going to suck like nothing has ever sucked before, and B) that is A LOT of In-Law Family Time for a one-month period, I would say that I agree wholeheartedly, but you have to pick your battles, and once your husband allows you to purchase a $*ahemcough* horse, you don't have much of a leg to stand on.

In conclusion:
Beer is great.
Pennsylvania Dutch cooking is great.
Rollercoasters are also great, but as you get older, they also hurt.
Clocks are not great.
Ever.
Neither is sharing a room with your kids.

I hope you all have learned from my experiences.

Like a murdering, junkie Mary Poppins

You know what I love?
Having to blog with a cat shoving her hind feet (claws out) into my derriere because she thinks we share joint custody of my office chair.
Hey, Diabetes Breath, you're on thin ice as it is, so perhaps you could remove your feet from my ass and go make me a sandwich before we decide to have you put down.

But my loathing for this cat that's not the point of this post; just an aside.

Moving on....

I want to talk to you about what's in my purse.

Because LORD KNOWS I've had some strange things in my purse.

Like this one time, when I reached into my purse and pulled out this knife that I had never seen before.
No joke.
I was all, how did THIS get in here?? and Brian was all, why are you carrying knives around in your purse like a creeper? and I was all I didn't put this knife in my purse. It's not even OURS. Look, it doesn't match our set and Brian was all ...woah and I was all...woah
At which time I concluded that some psycho killer lunatic slipped his murder weapon into my purse while I was out shopping or buying a latte or something.
Creepy.
And what's worse, we took it home and started USING it!! Because it was serrated and super sharp and way better than our dull crap K-mart knives.
I mean, I washed it first. But what kind of family uses some mystery killer lunatic murder weapon to cut their ciabatta bread for panini night??
THIS family does.
Which is why we're awesome.

And then this other time, when I asked Brian to go in my purse and grab a pen, and he pulled out a hypodermic needle, which ironically WAS mine this time. Granted, it was for infertility stuff and NOT to get a quick lunchtime fix, but I'm sure it still looked strage to the good people of TD Bank.

I believe it was around this time that Brian was convinced that I was booby trapping my purse, and next time he put his hand in there it'd come out with a bear trap around it. So now he's afraid to go within 3 feet of my adorable Vera Wang bag, which I find hilarious.

(Also, if I could get him to go in there again, I daydream of rigging it so a boxing glove springs out and punches him in the face. Now THAT would be funny)

But now, *sigh* I'm a mom. So I can't walk around with murder weapons, needles, or pop-out boxing gloves in my purse.

However, I find that being a mom lends to it's own ridiculousness in terms of purse contents. Sure, there's the occasional binkey, diaper, or clean (or dirty) bib. Sometimes there's a toy or burp cloth. Once in a while, it's a sock. (Always alone, without its mate)

But this last time, I found something particularly special in my purse:
the contents of my son's stomach.

While they both spit up regularly, Simon is a pro at spitting up at inappropriate times, and on inappropriate things. I don't hand him off to others without a a warning and a blanket to mop up what might come out. Many a time, I've been holding him and talking to someone, only to hear a *splat* and feel warm vomit dripping between my toes. But it would appear that one time he managed to get his spit-up INSIDE my purse, without me even realizing it.
Cut to hours (or days), later, when I reached in my purse to get a handful of sticky, slightly soggy, slightly stiff purse liner.

Gross.
Super gross.
Blech.

So I guess I can add that to the list of weird stuff that's been in my purse.
Personally, I think I'd prefer a boxing glove on a spring to vomit, only because rigged boxing gloves won't leave the stain (and the smell) that vomit leaves. Also because quite frankly I paid more for that purse than I did to conceive my children, and if I had to choose between the kids and the purse, it'd be a closer call than I care to discuss.

But yes. Simon puked in my Vera Wang bag.
Match, Set, Game.

I'm sure Mary Poppins didn't have to put up with that shit.