So the Sprogling is slowly getting more verbal. I think we have maybe ten words now.
One of those words happens to be "Wow", which he learned for the explicit reason to drive me insane.
You see there is a new show on the channel which we watch. And we watch tv, because I am a Horrible! Awful! Parent! It has that word in its title. The title character says "wow" a lot.
The Sprogling is completely enamoured of this show. And you know what? It's really not bad for a kids show. BUT! (and there is a but) It's only on once a day.
The Sprogling would be quite happy if it was on every hour. And informs me of this by relentlessly going "Wow wow, wow wow! Wow wow wow wow wow!" While shoving the remote control at my face.
Yesterday I got the brilliant idea to tape it while we were out and going to be missing it anyways.
"Perfect!" I thought. "This way I'll be able to pop it on when he starts freaking out and I'll prevent a meltdown!" I chortled to myself. "I am a super smart parent extrordinaire!"
Oh but I was wrong.
Because yes! I can pop it on and it is blissfully quiet and calm. But it is only 11 am here and we have watched it FIVE! times this morning. 5! Keep in mind we only hve the one episode taped. Today's doesn't come on for three more hours and I can only assume we will be watching the same stupid episode another two times and I shall be able to quote whole tracks of it.
So last Wednesday I packed up my kids, a teeny tiny trailer tent, an entire van full of stuff, plus my mother and her two dogs and drove 9 hours (including stops) to the town where I grew up.
It was... less than relaxing.
First off, we were in a tent. One of those flimsy things that people stay in and claim them as shelter? Yah, one of those. They aren't soundproof. At all.
My kids do not really sleep through the night. My son has night terrors. That means I have a crying child at least twice a night. We were not very popular come morning.
Secondly... Well I spent a week all by myself with just my mother. And one vehicle.
THERE WAS NO ESCAPE!!!
My mother annoys me to no end because everything that she does that annoys me I know that I do. I hate that. It's hard to see your faults paraded out for all to see, especially yourself.
I come away from this trip with the resolve to change some of my larger flaws.
So I'm going back to school in September. I'm half way through my degree and I'd kinda like to have it finished by the time the kids are both old enough to be in school. I can totally manage to do this by going to school two days a week. My day is full but it's do-able.
My problem is finding child care.
Well sorta. See I managed to swing it that one of my days is the day the hubs has off. So theoretically he can watch the kids that day. The other day I have it so that my mother is going to be watching them.
The problem comes in there. If she has a meeting on that day we're hooped. She doesn't have control of when she has to go to meetings. Now hubs is home until mid morning that day so if she can wrangle only early morning meetings we are golden.
But just in case I want a back up.
I've been phoning day care's like crazy.
Do you know how hard it is to find space for a two year old for only two days a week?
Nobody wants to have a toddler part timer. It's awful. I've phoned over thirty places, and only two have bothered to answer/call me back. Awesome.
I have mommy friends, but I really don't want to make them have to deal with my hyperactive, slightly destructive son, especially since the majority of them have younger children.
I also think that it would be a really good thing for the Sprogling to have a chance to interact with other children and have an adult that isn't family in charge.
My greatest joy these days is getting to do things by myself. Like go to the bathroom. Or eat a complete meal.
As a parent, all that you have becomes joint property with your children (at least in their minds). I am no longer allowed to have an entire drink all by myself. I have little grubby hands reaching for it before I even have the first sip.
It has been two years since I was allowed to go to the bathroom by myself without listening to a child scream. My son's favourite game to play is to pound on the bathroom door and jiggle he handle. Our main bathroom doesn't lock securely so if you put enough weight on it, it swings open. Hurrah. Just want, shrieking, giggling toddler when I'm sitting on the toilet.
The other thing I haven't been able to do in over a year is eat by myself. If I dare grab myself something to snack on that hasn't already been offered to the Sprogling, then heaven help me. I actually hid from my son the other day so that I could eat my breakfast in peace.
I fed him and his sister, plopped them both down in the living room to play and then subtly wandered back to the kitchen. I made myself a bowl of terribly healthy cereal and sat down to eat. It was at that moment that I heard silence from the living room. I grabbed my bowl and sat down on the floor behind our island counter. I heard the pitter pat of toddler feet and then "Mama? MAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaama?" The Sprogling hung over our gate for a couple minutes and then went back to the living room.
I got to eat the entire bowl by myself, I didn't have to share, and I only had to hide on the floor of my kitchen to do so. A whole five minutes by myself without children crying or grabbing at me.
Little Bit was born small. She only came in at 6 lbs and then lost weight during the next day, to the extent that the doctors got a wee bit worried.
She managed to stay ill for the next month or so and we were in and out of the hospital or seeing nurses or doctors every single day. The more callous ones started bandying about sentences like "Failure to thrive" and other equably terrifying things.
For the first six months of her life she mainly came in under the 15th percentile on the growth charts. We knew she was growing well but every time we met a new doctor they would put us through our paces and tell us she was small for her age or that we weren't feeding her enough or the correct formula (because I wasn't producing enough mama milk).
Well after we started feeding her solids, things started turning around. She started putting on the pounds. Rapidly.
She is now my little chunky monkey and now at 8 months she weighs in at 18 lbs on the dot.
She is on the 50th percentile for height and the 50th percentile for weight.
So yesterday for the Sprogling's birthday, I got a crazy idea. Instead of buying him a cake from the grocery store, I was going to make him one!
What a fantastic idea! The two year old would surely appreciate the time and effort going into his cake. Suuuuure.
But anyways I went ahead and bought things to accomplish this. My mother had picked up a cake tin in the shape of that really popular car that Disney is pushing right now. I pulled that out, read the oh so helpful instructions on decorating the end cake and went out bought the icing tips I would need, as well as super fancy food dye.
Get it all home and bake the cake. It works out well. Chocolate because the Sprogling doesn't have an opinion on flavours yet and I like chocolate.
I let that cool down and make the icing. I follow the darn instructions down to sifting the stupid icing sugar one cup at a time and I used my super duper fancy mixer. I get watery (tasty!) icing. Nothing that is going to let me decorate the cake.
This is about 4:30. Dinner is due at 5:30.
I make an emergency call to the Hubs to run and grab premade icing on his way home from work, pretty please or I swear I'm going to have a meltdown, OK!
He comes home at 4:45 with 4 extra big tins of icing and a big hug for me. Crisis averted.
I mix up the icing with the colours. Oh the colours. Did I mention that they stain? Everything? My hands still look like I may have been slaughtering small animals behind my house yesterday just for laughs, but that's beside the point.
I start icing, and I'm actually doing well! I have never in my life iced a cake any fancier than slopping on as much icing as possible and smoothing it out with a knife. Or writing "Happy Birthday XXX" on it with those gel type icing tubes.
I manage to get through the whole entire cake down to the part where I put the numbers on the side of the car. This is the very last step. My husband comes in and tells my I'm doing really well. I turn to smile at him and give him a quick kiss and manage to slop the icing down where I was about to meticulously place it in the lines of the numbers. I try to make it look as good as possible and then give up.
The Sprogling's two. As long as the icing is made with sugar and not spinach he doesn't care at all. He will not care if you cannot read the numbers. And oh yah, he can't read.
He had two helpings and got to eat with his hands. The cake was a success.
Tomorrow at about 2 my Sprogling turns two years old. There was a time about four years ago that I would never ever have a child, so this is incredibly big. TWO! How the heck did that happen?
So in honour of this momentous occasion, here is his birth story. Cause everyone wants to read about amniotic fluid and placentas!
My waters had broken the morning of the fifth but as we had gone into the hospital the night before for a false alarm, I didn't want to go in and get told that we were wrong again. So we postponed and procrastinated all day long. I spent half the day wandering around IKEA, leaking fluid. I can tell you, you have never lived until you've had to use the IKEA bathroom twice in one visit to change your pad. So we mostly walked around and shopped until at about 11 we went to grab some donuts (last minute craving) and when we got back discovered I had soaked through a pad, my underwear, my pants and most of the car seat. So at that point we decided there could be no doubt that it was real and we headed to the hospital.
We were admitted and sat in the Triage for a bit. A very very nice resident came and checked me out and confirmed that my membranes had indeed ruptured so he went to talk to the OB on call about what to do with me. It had almost been 24 hours, the magic number that they wait for labour to induce you after your membranes rupture so they really didn't want me going home. They said that I should probably walk around for a bit to see if we could make the small contractions that I was having increase and become consistent.
That meant that I wasn't allowed to go home. This wasn't really part of our plan. We had figured that they wouldn't want us there and that we would get to go home and come back in the morning, but no such luck.
We were taken to a Labour and Delivery room and at that point the other OB on call came in and decided that they didn't want to take the risk of my labour not starting quick enough so they hooked me up to an i.v. and started Oxytocin. This was also not part of our plan. It meant that I was tied to the bed and fetal monitors. No walking, no real moving and no going to the bathroom without a lot of unhooking by the nurses. So it was about 2 in the morning by this point so we tried to get some sleep. Not really happening, but we tried.
So fast forward through an awkward night of not much sleep and we arrive at 7:30 Monday morning and the nurses change over and my mother arrives with food for Rob. Did I mention that I wasn't allowed to eat anything in the off chance that I had to go to the operating room? Yah... sucky. The last thing I ate was a Timbit at 11 the night before.
We had the nicest nurses ever. We were lucky and had two devoted just to us as one was new and from Ontario and the other was observing/teaching her. By this point, what had been basically no labour at all turned into OH MY GOD! every two minutes for 50 seconds at a time. They were right on top of each other and to make matters worse, every second one or so was making me puke. At that point the very kind nurse S asked if maybe, even though she knew it wasn't part of my birth plan, because yes, she had read it, but maybe did I wanted an epidural? Now, yes an epidural wasn't on my plan, but neither was being induced. So I made a decision and the lovely anaesthesiologist, Dr. K became my new best friend. I was able to sleep finally after that and slept till about 11. Doctors came in and checked me and I was at about 6 centimetres and the baby was facing to the left side.
I was awake and active after that. Played some cards with my mother and chatted with the nurses and Rob. They had given me a catheter, but unfortunately due to all the UTI's I had as a teen it hurt like a mother. Even through the epidural. So they took it out and it turned out I was able to walk still. Needed help but could walk with the epidural. The nurses kept telling me that I wasn't supposed to be able to do that as I hadn't gotten a walking epidural, but there you go. I got up to pee at about 12:30. That went well until I got up to go back and at that point I started puking again. Apparently if you start puking and bleeding (which I was) there is a good chance that your fully dilated. So the doctors came back in and lo and behold I had dilated the full four centimetres in that hour and the baby had "deflated and turned" so was in the correct position. Hoorah!
So from about 1:30 on I was pushing. To be perfectly honest I don't remember a whole bunch about this part. I know that another anaesthesiologist came in and topped me up as I was really starting to feel the contractions again and at this point really didn't want to, but mostly I just remember moving into a lot of positions (I think I changed about 5 times) and pushing. The pushing was hard as until about the last 20 pushes or so, as I couldn't feel the contractions at all. It was just pressure. And when the Sprogling's head got far enough down there wasn't a whole lot of difference in the pressure of him and the contraction.
We did just fine until it was actually time to push him out. At that point his head got stuck. The doctor was getting worried as Patrick was getting tired (not to mention me!) and he wanted to do an episiotomy. This at least I got my way. He wasn't putting sharp things anywhere near my girly bits. He kept lying to me and saying one more push, and finally the Sprogling's head was out. Not pushing was actually harder than pushing. After that 3 more pushes and a little wet and squirming body was on my chest. The doctor waited until the cord stopped pulsing before Hubby cut it (this was another request of ours but at that point, if he had cut it early I wouldn't have noticed.)
I was crying and I think at that point it actually became real. Strange that until that moment I had managed to distance myself from what was happening so much that it didn't seem as if the birth was really happening. I cuddled the Sprogling for about 15 minutes than handed him off to the nurses and then Hubby while the placenta was being delivered. After the placenta was out the Doctor set about stitching me up. 15 stitches and second degree lacerations. Ouch.
*********************
So that is the story of the Sprogling's birth. What I didn't put in there is how the nurses both said, separately, that I had the prettiest vajayjay that they had ever seen. Uhm.. Thanks.
It's so hard to remember how very tiny he was and correlate that to the energetic toddler he is today.
It's hot here. The temperature peaked today at 30C which makes it ridiculously hot for our neck of the woods.
So to combat the heat I have taken to dressing my kids in the minimal amount of clothing socially acceptable. For going out that is usually a little sleeveless dress for Little Bit and a t-shirt and shorts for the Sprogling. When we are home all they wear is diapers. (Did I mention that we only have a very small window air conditioner that my stingy heart only lets me use during the very hottest part of the day?)
It's keeping them nice and cool but we have an unforeseen side effect.
My son has been delighting in taking his diaper off. In and of itself not too bad as we are half heartedly potty training and he doesn't make many messes on the floor. But he has discovered his "doodle".*
So now a common sight in my house is that of the Sprogling sitting on the floor/couch/etc yanking on his doodle.
He would quite happily play with it for hours. And hours.
I mean it's not like he's doing any damage, but it's a little off putting to see my toddler playing with his doodle.
*Yes that is what we call it in our house as I giggle uncontrollably whenever I say the word PENIS and I just can't force myself to say it. That and the Sprogling can almost say "doodle" but doesn't have a snowballs chance of saying penis.
Some days it's all I can do to keep on trucking when my kids are screaming and there is some unidentified body fluid on my pants and the house is a mess.
Yesterday was completely not one of those days though.
Yesterday my son just knocked my socks off with how charming he can be and then later my daughter just about killed us with how cute she is.
We recently became owners of a hot tub and have been spending most evenings lounging around in it. The Sprogling LOVES the hot tub. He especially loves the bubbles. In fact, "bubbles" is one of the only words that he can say. Yesterday he was playing in his bedroom by himself when things got silent. A few moments later he comes out stark naked and walks up to me. He grabs my hand and pulls me to the top of the stairs. He looks up at me and in the saddest most pleading voice goes "Bubbles peas?"
Wasn't really planning on going in the tub at that moment but you know what? When I get asked so very nicely I make exceptions.
Little Bit spent the ten minutes before we put her down trying to blow raspberries on Hubby's back and arm. She's only seven months old so this was a first attempt and hilarious to watch. The first hundred attempts were mostly her licking/mouthing him but by the end she was giggling hysterically to herself as she made happy little raspberry noises.
The small moments like this that in the grand scheme of things are inconsequential, are what makes this parenting thing so very worth it.
My daughter was an accident. In fact, my pregnancy almost ended my marriage. After the Sprogling was born I spiralled into post partum depression.
But I did it quietly.
My husband was at work all day so he missed seeing me at my most down. I'd sit staring at the Sprogling napping in his chair and just choke. It was so much work and I was doing the lion's share of it. I spent most of the first six months of the Sprogling's life sleeping as much as possible or crying. I'd nap when he'd nap. Every single time he napped. The rest of the time was spent holding him and cuddling him and feeding him and taking care of him. Never once did I regret having the Sprogling or feel resentful of him but I was so depressed that at times I wished I could just walk away.
I'd make sure that I was up and dressed before my husband got home. Most days that meant that I got dressed maybe half an hour before he was due home. I'd throw something in the microwave for dinner or boil water for pasta. I might take a cloth and wipe down the most visible messes or throw the clothes into the closet.
So when the hubby got home, I appeared fine.
Lazy, but fine. The housework got the barest attention. I was functioning but that was about it.
My marriage was suffering though. When the hubby got home, I would do everything in my power to pawn the Sprogling off so that I could go back to bed. Most nights I was in bed by nine and my hubby and the Sprogling didn't follow until a couple hours later.
You can imagine how frequently we got adult alone time. Never mind sex, we hardly ever talked.
Never once did he ever think that something was wrong with me though. He just believed that I was tired and wanted time alone or that I couldn't handle the baby.
So you can imagine how excited my husband was when I miraculously got pregnant again. I think we had had sex maybe three times since long before the Sprogling was born.
He withdrew. I withdrew. I spent most of my days resenting him for not seeing how much I was hurting and how depressed I was and he spent most of his time wondering what happened to his wife. He started looking outside our marriage for the things he wasn't getting from me. For the things he had stopped looking to me to get.
At one point I actually packed up my bags and the Sprogling and left him. I was six months pregnant at the time and we both had had enough. I even called divorce lawyers, because there was no way I was going to raise my babies in the environment that we were offering to them. We spent most of a month apart and actually worked through some things, mostly by talking on the phone. It was as if the distance made it easier to verbalize things and actually think about what the other was saying.
The months just before Little Bit was born were the worst of my life. I was still hurting so much and my husband was so unenthusiastic about the baby. Where the Sprogling had been planned and cherished and anticipated, my pregnancy with Little Bit felt the exact opposite.
I believe that my husband felt that if things got so bad with a child we had prepared for, how much worse would they get with the surprise pregnancy baby. I hated him at some points for taking away the joy that I felt for the new baby and tainting what should have been a really happy experience.
I can't say that things magically got better once she was born. They didn't. Having a baby only fixes relationships in poorly written romance novels. But we worked through things. Are still working through things.
Little Bit is one of the most loved babies you will ever find. She is hardly ever not in someone's arms or playing with someone, and she has her daddy firmly wrapped around her little finger.
She may not have been planned, but she is loved and such an important and "right" part of our family.
My daughter was born a little bit early and as a consequence was born fuzzy. She was still covered from ears to toe in lanugo. I have a fond memory of her nursing and me playing with the soft hair that covered her ear.
Now that she is nearly 8 months old, she's lost pretty much all of it.
Except for one inch and half area just above her bum. This patch of fur has spawned a family nick name for her of Fuzzybutt.
I'm sure that we may be doing her some kind of psychological damage but it's just too cute! Her little fuzzy patch is practically the only hair on her body as she is a little baldy baby.
It's something that I'm going to write down in her baby book and be sure to mention to her high school boyfriends and in my speech at her wedding.
My husband and I struggle with money. We've never come to the point where we have had to say we are flat out broke, but we have come close a couple of times. Mostly when the **** hits the fans.
Our problem is that we don't like to do without. When we have money, we know we can spend it so we do. If we are out and about, it's much easier to just grab some food from the food court than it is to remember to pack some snacks or to wait until we get home to eat.
I'm drawn to sales. I've said it before, I love shopping.
So we've started to change our ways. We are making do. When we go out and the urge to splurge hits us, we actively take the time to pause and consider and reconsider. Do we need this? If so do we need this right now? Can we get it cheaper somewhere else?
For instance, my kids and I have been spending on average 2-4 hours per day out walking. Its great exercise and they like looking at the neighbourhood and generally I can get them to fall asleep during the walk. But my poor stroller isn't holding up very well. It was just a cheap double stroller that we bought so I wouldn't have to sling Little Bit absolutely everywhere. What I really want is a double jogging stroller.
But the fact is I don't need it. As long as I don't go too fast and we don't go too far my stroller doesn't yell at me too much. When and if it breaks then I'll go out and find a used jogging stroller but it's really too gluttonous to have two strollers at once. I just can't justify it to myself.
This is a really hard concept for us to really get around. The fact that just because it's there, doesn't mean we should spend it. Saving is hard. Having all the money go into one account is harder. My hubby goes out and spends money when I'm not around and I do the same when he's not around so at the end of the month neither of us is really sure what's left in the account.
Our new goal is to live plastic free. At the start of a pay period we are going to take out a set amount of money and that's all we will be allowed to use for personal use and things like groceries. Most of our bills get taken out automatically so that's taken care of.
I think if we can manage to just live on cash our spending will drop dramatically and we'll be able to start making a nice little cushion.
My son is pretty much non verbal. Not that he's silent, because believe me, there is a very small amount of time during the dead of the night when he isn't making noises. He just hasn't started talking yet. At all.
Now for me this is a big deal. I know it shouldn't be and that I shouldn't judge my child against other children his age, but it's hard. He's turning two next month and he still doesn't call me mama consistently.There are two kids the exact same age at our playgroup and a couple who are up to six months younger than him. They all have more words than he does. The health nurse at his check up scolded me for not getting him to say anything. Like I have a choice in this matter!
My son is in no way not intelligent. He understands everything we say. Everything. We have taken to spelling out things like chocolate or work because he understands and gets upset when we either don't share or when he knows Daddy is about to go to work. You can ask him to go turn off the tv, or fetch something from the other room and he will.
We've taken to teaching him sign language, in a hope that it cuts down on the total melt downs we have been experiencing when he cannot get across what he wants us to know. Its working beautifully but for me it's still bittersweet. My son can come up to me and sign "Milk please" and can say he's sorry when he hurts his sister but he won't or cannot say Papa to his father.
Now he had major tongue problems when he was born that I am absolutely sure is contributing to the problem, but it breaks my heart when people judge him, which other parents do even if they don't mean to. It hurts to watch him break down when he can't make us understand.
It just plain hurts to have my poor baby not be able to do the things we both know he should be able to do.
I am a housewife and stay at home mom. The job can be extremely isolating, extremely difficult and the hours stink. Not that I would give it up for a second, but lately it's been kicking my butt. Hence the radio silence. I have five blog posts started and saved as drafts. I just haven't been able to finish them and get them up on the web.
My daughter has been ill for the past couple days. She's had a fever that peaked at 40.8 C yesterday. A temperature that high is scary in an adult, never mind in someone so tiny, and it's doubly frustrating when you call up your doctor and they tell you that it's fine even though she's been sick for days. I took her in and there appears to be nothing wrong with her but I have small little "oinks" playing in my head. Last night was particularly hard as she wouldn't sleep for love or money and I spent three hours sitting up and rocking with her until nearly two in the morning. I never stay up that late as I know full well that the Sprogling will be up bright and early at 6 or 7.
I've been feeling more and more isolated, even though I've been going out quite a fair bit. It doesn't seem to be enough anymore to have my mom and tots group and at least one other trip out during the week. I feel the need to get out without my children... which is impossible. I play baseball once a week and generally go all by myself, and when I get home, Hubby gratefully thrusts Little Bit into my hands and immediately disappears outside to chill out for at least half an hour. This is after only two hours by himself with the kids. I can't imagine the destruction and chaos that I would find if I were to go out for an entire evening or heaven forbid, a whole day!
My house is in shambles, partly because my husband has gained an extra day off which means that I have lost one of my designated cleaning days, and partly because now that he's home more he... puts more things out of place. I just don't have the desire to stay up late and clean lately. This means right at this moment there is a pile of dishes in the sink, my kiddo's trays are still mucky from breakfast and my living room looks like a toy store exploded. Don't even get me started on our bedroom. I have just written it off. No one needs to see that and lately it's more likely one or the other of us spends the night either in the Sproglings room or the living room anyways.
I'm tired. I need a hug. Preferably one that doesn't include sticky hands or a runny nose being wiped on me. Please?
It's nearly July. In Calgary, that means that it is nearly Stampede time. Now if you have never been in southern Alberta during this special time, you are really missing out on something. What I'm just not sure, but something. The Calgary Stampede is a weeklong party oh and of course a world class rodeo.
In my 22 years of being, I have never missed going. Not much really changes, yet every year I don my cowboy hat and drag as many people down to the fairgrounds with me as possible. I love everything about the Stampede. I love how all the city folk throw on blue jeans and cowboy boots, even if for the other 50 weeks of the year they wouldn't be seen dead in anything other than designer duds. At the grounds I love the swarms of people, the free concerts and of course the mini donuts (oh my goodness the donuts!). The rides are also a big highlight. There are no adult sized amusement parks within driving distance of here so having one show up on our doorstep once a year is a great thing.
This year I am going on as many rides as possible as for the past two years I've been pregnant and not allowed to go on even slow ones. Torture I tell you! I love rides, the ricketier the better, as the added fear that the car you're riding in is going to shoot off the track gives the ride an extra thrill. Luckily, although Hubby despises the idea of the Stampede, he likes rides. It's nice to have a built in ride buddy. One of the many perks of being married.
I have fond memories of sitting up late with my grandmother, mother and sister and placing penny bets on the chuck wagons. It's something we still do now, minus the pennies. You get to know the drivers over the years and get a fairly good idea of who is going to win, but that's not the point. The point is having family around and having fun.
That's the really great thing about the Stampede. There really is something for everyone. There are children's activities for kids the Sprogling's age up and of course for the drinking aged group of people there are nonstop parties for the entire Stampede. If it gets too warm there is the indoor market and art pavilion to visit. You get to watch real live cow boys competing and then you can go look at prize winning animals.
Then at the end of the night you can experience all the lights and sounds of the fair winding down (or winding up as the case can be) and watch fire works. Who doesn't like fireworks.
Yesterday my daughter was baptized. She wore the same dress that my grandmother, my mother and I were baptized in. It isn't fancy but it is steeped in memories. I put it on her minutes before the service was to start and discovered that the one button had snapped off and we had no way to keep it on her squirming little body. Luckily the church has name tags with pins, so we stole one and broke it to keep her dress on her.
We had her baptized in the same church that the Sprogling was baptized in, even though we no longer attend that church. Her Grammy, who passed away when I was 20 weeks pregnant with her, was a teacher at the school/church and I know it would have meant so much to her that Little Bit was baptized there. We have a hard time going there because the memories hurt too much, but yesterday was a great day.
She didn't let out a peep when the pastor poured the water on her head. In fact she started giggling and it looked like she expected us to wash her hair. She loves baths. Her grandparents from my side came out and her great grandparents, Oma and Opa both came all the way from the next province over. She was surrounded by love and I couldn't have imagined a better day. The Sprogling got a little bored and jealous but that was solved by having him go play outside on the playground after the actual christening was over.
The pastor transcribed her name wrong, and left the last letter off, not realizing anything was wrong as she has a fairly unusual name (she's going to hate me for that one day), so he spent most of the service apologizing and correcting all the spellings.
After the service I threw her into an outfit that Grammy had bought last summer, way before we even knew what sex she would turn out to be. We had great faith that she would be a girl.
So that was my weekend. Entertaining grandparents, keeping the house clean and having my child brought into the church. A nice way to spend the weekend. Tomorrow's post will be talking about one of the principles of AP.
In case you didn't guess, we practice a form of AP parenting here. That's Attachment Parenting. Before we had kids, Hubby and I had long talks about what we wanted to do and not do as parents. There was a very very long list involved. On the list were things that our mothers did which we loved and hated. Things that we wished our fathers did but were never there to do. After we had our list made I did a little internet research and stumbled upon the API website and then their blog. I sat down and read. I discovered things I would have never ever thought about doing.
Things really clicked for me the more I read. I loved their philosophies – the eight principles of parenting especially made sense to me. In fact, we had already planned on doing most of them and the ones we hadn't thought of, just made plain sense.
I'm going to be writing about each of the eight principles and saying how we follow them and what they mean to us and how we decided that they fit how we wanted to parent.
For us, being a parent is so much more than just having kids and making sure they keep on existing. It's a complex blend of needing to set good examples, to wanting to see them be their best (even at their tender ages!) and working on maturing and developing our own ideas to match with theirs.
Hubby and I still have clashes where what one thinks just doesn't mesh with the other. Even though we had long talks before hand, now that the kids are a reality we see some of our ideas were pipe dreams and we fight to change our thinking and make the correct choices.
Some days it's very hard, other days it's so easy.
My son is not what you would call a good sleeper. He never has been. This is mostly my fault I guess. We co-slept. Probably for far too long. He moved into his own bed when he was a little over a year and a half. He would sleep ok when we were in bed with him. I would take him up to bed and lay with him until he fell asleep. This worked until he was about a year old and realized that he could just climb out of bed when he woke up. When we were all in the bed he slept really well. We didn't after he got to a certain size. Then we were constantly woken up by elbows, knees and feet flying toward us.
We moved him out of our bed into a crib next to our bed for naps when he was a year old. I didn't want him crawling out of bed and possibly falling down stairs or something. He hated it. We ended up using the Sleep Lady method and it kinda worked. We also used crying it out which just about broke my heart. But there was just no other way. He wouldn't fall asleep by himself. My husband had to climb in with him on a couple of occasions just to get him to sleep.
He transitioned into a pack and play next to our bed for all sleep activities when he was a year and a half. I was 7 months pregnant and we really wanted him completely out of the bed before Little Bit came so that he wouldn't feel like we were replacing him or something like that and so that when she was sleeping in the bed, there would be less jealousy. We spent nearly a month having him scream for hours every time we put him to bed.
Then one day, he stopped. We would take him up to bed, give him a hug and a kiss, make sure that he had his teddy and blanket and put him down. He'd be asleep within two minutes. We had to play around with when we put him down for a couple days to make sure he slept all the way through the night, but we thought we had it sussed out.
We had a couple days when he didn't want to go down or when he woke up but it was great. We moved him into his own room at 20 months and it was fantastic. Not a whimper or a moan any time we put him down.
This past week has been... not fun. He has not wanted to sleep. Any time. Naps have completely gone out the window. He won't go down for love or money. I've tried moving nap time by a couple hours and having him expend lots of energy beforehand. No luck. He crashes at about 3 or 4pm so I know that he really needs his nap still. Night time has been worse. He cries, screams and climbs out of his crib. He also knows how to open his door so he just stands in the doorway screaming and crying while hanging over the gate in his doorway. We can't let him cry it out because he won't stay in bed and we end up spending hours sitting next to him so that he will get at least a little sleep.
He's also been waking up at 4 am every day. Even when we put him down really late.
I'm slowly losing my mind. This kid needs to start napping again and going down to sleep at night.
In my kitchen stands a book case. It has five shelves and four of those shelves are dedicated just to cook books of various sorts. I have several homemade ones that chronicle the recipes of my grandparents and great grandparents, I have ones that feature mainly kids' meals and I am the proud owner of nearly every Company's Coming book. Not to mention the entire shelf dedicated to vegan and vegetarian meals. Some of my favourite books include the Pillsbury Kitchens' Cookbook and my Encyclopedia Cookbook.
I have an obscene number of books, but I generally use them all at least once a year. Maybe just the once, but some of the more popular ones get pulled out on a weekly basis. This is what happens when you marry a picky eater, raise another and then refuse to eat meat yourself. You end up scouring books for things you can all eat, or in a pinch, two or three meals with the same basic ingredients you can make at once.
This brings me to what I made last night. My new favourite book is one I picked up in Disneyland while we were there (it was my souvenir) and Oh. My. Goodness. This dessert! It's so easy, and so yummy and gosh darn, I can make it with two babies yelling for my attention.
Last night I made Twinkie Tiramisu. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Twinkies don't exactly scream decadence, but really, just try it. I've never made proper tiramisu, but I'm positive that it has to be easier and it tastes just the same if not better.
Now I'm not sure what the copy write issues might be but needless to say I won't be posting the recipe. I will say that it calls for several Twinkies layered with a pound of mascarpone cheese mixture and espresso liqueur mixture. Yummy. This is a picture of what was left after dinner tonight. Although it was made with a junk food staple, this was a grown up dessert so we have left over's. I foresee them not being there by tomorrow evening, so I'll have to figure something else out for dessert.
So I'm a long time member of this online forum. It is fun and I've been on it for almost a decade (god I feel old). I've made some really good friends on there.
One of them is Alex Clark and she has started a blog! It has some great links to photoshop tutorials and to amazing Etsy artists.
Oh, and did I mention that she has a giveaway on right now? She is an amazing artist in her own right and makes some beautiful jewellery and is giving away a pair of earrings.
So everyone (anyone out there?) head on over to Not a Stupid Blog and enter. Right now there is a good chance of winning and aren't they pretty? And then if you feel like it head on over to her Etsy – Alex Clark
Yesterday my son didn't nap. Wouldn't go down, screamed and fussed and climbed out of the crib again and again. So we finally gave up and just went on with our day. He was a wretch. Absolutely terrible. We all have off days though so we blew it off. Then it was time for dinner. Hubby put the Sprogling into his chair, went to grab something from the fridge and found the Sprogling asleep. So we left him there, because you know, we are amazing parents.
This was about 6pm. At 7 we moved him from his chair into his bed and held our breath. He stayed asleep. We started having visions of him sleeping through the whole night. It was midnight and we were in bed and so was he. We fell asleep congratulating ourselves on a job well done. 4am then arrived accompanied by the screams of the Sprogling. He was awake and by everything that was holy he was staying awake.
We tried brining him into our bed. We tried laying with him in his Big Boy Bed. No luck. So we have been up since 4 now. I fully expect both the kids to crash by noon. Little Bit heard her brother at 4 and decided that it was a dandy time to be up as well. She has a cold and is fussy anyways. Do you know what children who have been up for 5 hours (and it's only 9) look like?
They look a little something like this. Little Bit fidgets and cries, and the Sprogling has decided that he is getting tired now. I would show you a picture of what mama looks like when she has been up since four, but I couldn't take a picture of myself that wouldn't scare small children. So it will be a battle to keep them both awake for another three hours to get them back on schedule.
My hubby is British and I'm Canadian. It's always a pleasant five minutes or so when we meet someone new and explain how we met. It goes something like this.
When I graduated high school my dearest wish was to get as far away from home as possible. I only applied to overseas universities. I was accepted at a couple of places but I chose a smallish university in the South West of London.
Well after arriving, with my three four foot tall bags (enough stuff for three years) I soon discovered that my program was a joke. It was so simple that I could finish all my work in about two hours and that left me with an enormous amount of time to fill. So I spent most of my time looking up interesting places to go look at and take photos of.
One day I'm wandering around Hammersmith when I realize that I have absolutely no idea where I am or how to get where I want to go. After walking morosely back and forth along this one street a couple times, this lovely gentleman sitting in a cafe decides to take pity on me and ask me if I'm lost. "Yes" I mumble, while staring intently at my shoes. I glance up and give him, what I hope is an endearing smile. I tell him where I mean to be, and he gives me directions which I gratefully take with blind faith.
Nearly half an hour later I find myself not at the museum that I want to be, but at a pub. And who is there, but that very same gentleman. He introduces himself. He invites me in for a drink. I agree to a drink. One turns into a couple. I stupidly accept a ride from him and a mate (I mean he could have been an axe murderer!)
The next couple of weeks are spent talking to, writing to or being in his company. I went away for a week at Christmas to Scotland and when I came back he had a £400.00 cell phone bill.
Fast forward a little over a month and its New Years Eve. We are at a party at that very same pub watching one of his friends play in a band. It is a wonderful night surrounded by friends. At midnight I'm thrilling a little over the fact that I'll actually have someone to kiss and turn to lay one on him only to find him on his knees with a ring in his hand.
Fast forward again to five months on and we are married. Our ceremony is presided over by his aunt and our reception is held at that very same pub once again.
And that is the condensed version of my whirlwind romance and how I met my husband.
One day I'll write the longer version, including that how on our first date I actually fancied his friend more than him and other secrets.
So I'm going to come right out and say it. I'm only 22. Actually I'm one month shy of 23, but to the world at large it's the same difference. I had the Sprogling when I was 21 and Little Bit at 22. I plan to have one more in the next couple years. And then I'm done. All my procreation accomplished before the ripe old age of 30.
I'm really glad that we started early. It took us two years of trying to get the Sprogling. I was only 18 when I miscarried our first baby. I was poked and prodded and diagnosed with unexplained infertility issues and spontaneous miscarriages. It just about broke my heart and put a huge strain on our marriage (yes, I got married at 18). Having gone through high school petrified that I was going to get pregnant every time I even fooled around with a guy, it was a huge shock to not be able to get pregnant. To have doctors tell us that we are in what should be the prime of our childbearing years and we should get pregnant if my husband even sneezes on me. Two years was more than enough of infertility. It left scars that I'm still dealing with now after two babies. That brings us to how we got Little Bit though. Having taken so long to get the Sprogling, we started, well not exactly trying but definitely not trying to prevent pregnancy fairly soon after him.
Being a young mom has repercussions though. When it was just the Sprogling, I had people come right up to me and chastise me for getting pregnant and dropping out of high school , which, uhm, I didn't. I'd get snotty looks and on that fantastic day at the playground I got asked if I was babysitting. I was in my second year of university when I got pregnant with him and walking the halls 5 months pregnant I'd get looks of pity from everyone that I passed. They treated me like pregnancy was a disease that they could catch from touching me and it was something they didn't want.
Now it's just really hard to make friends. Most of the people that I meet with kids are in their late 20's or in their 30's. They either think I'm too young and slap "unwed mother" on my forehead and don't bother getting to know me or they get squicked out because I've been married and had children longer than they have. I have one firm girl friend; she had her first baby three months ago and is the same age as I am. We have a lot in common and it's fantastic to have someone who really gets everything that I'm going through and I can be there for her when her baby starts doing something new and terrifying (not pooping for 14 days anyone?).
Thunder and lightning scare me witless. Like hide under the covers and shake, kind of scared. Yes I know it's an irrational fear, that unless I'm out golfing or something the odds of lightning actually doing anything to me are slim to none. All the logical arguments fall on deaf ears, that's why it's called an irrational fear. It's hard playing the adult when all you want to do is hide but somehow I manage. Right now I am sitting in my darkened living room, typing on my unplugged computer. The television is turned off and unplugged, because it is huge and a million years old and if it ever goes to television heaven we won't be able to replace it with anything comparable.
My son is happily playing with a book with flaps and noisy buttons to push. My daughter is happily chewing on part of her exersaucer. I am showing great restraint by not bundling them up and hiding in the basement. They don't seem to care about the lighting that seems to be hitting right outside our window.
*FLASH* One one million, Two two... *BOOOOOOM*
I think the storms getting closer.
Our house actually shook a little with that one.
I think it all started when I was little. My childhood house sat atop a hill and when there were lightning storms they were severe. My parents loved watching them and used to make me and my sister come and sit in the living room, with floor to ceiling windows and watch with them. My sister used to tell me that it was giants making the noise and that the thunder was the sound their footsteps made as they smashed people. Thanks sis.
*FLASH FLASH!* One one... *BOOOOOOOM!*
Yup, it's getting closer.
*FLASH BOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!* That last one actually burned my eyes as I looked out just as it hit. I think it must have hit our neighbours' house.
Nope, after peeking out my window it appears to have hit their tree in the front yard. I don't think they are going to be very happy about that.
So two days ago, Little Bit turned 6 months old. We celebrated with a trip to Denny's. Actually Mommy just didn't want to cook; it was just a pleasant coincidence that it was her half year birthday.
But what turning 6 months old really means is that it was time for her vaccinations. Now with the Sprogling, up until his 18 month ones it was like he didn't feel them. He'd just sit there with a slightly bemused expression on his face and then demand to be let down to play with the toys.
Little Bit seems to instinctively know that she is going to get pokes and starts to fuss from the moment she gets up. This morning instead of her regular toothy smile, I got greeted with a nice loud wail. Our appointment was for 8:30, so that if something does go wrong and she reacts, there will be emergency facilities open and less crowded than say at midnight. It's freaking amazing how busy an emergency room is in the wee hours of the morning. But getting back to the vaccinations; we arrived there just a few minutes late this morning (minor miracle). I had managed to forget all the forms that I needed but the nice check in lady decided that I was still allowed to go back and have them torture my child.
Got her undressed, weighed and measured. My teeny tiny Little Bit is getting big! Almost 15 lbs now. They tell me that I can dress her again and I wait to be called in. The Sprogling runs away a couple times, to go and flirt with the receptionists.
They finally call us in and I have the obligatory chat with the nurse. The Sprogling spends his time methodically mapping out the room and deciding how to best destroy it. Little Bit is smiling and giggling away. They have me position her so she's almost cradled and she immediately starts rooting and thinks it is time to nurse. As I don't immediately whip my baps out she starts to pout. Right about then the nurse gives her the first needle. Her eyes get wide. They start to water. Her face starts to scrunch up and looks like it is imploding on its self. A high whine that starts at her toes and comes blasting out of her mouth starts. I quickly pick her up and cuddle her. I managed to avert the worst of it and she settles down again. Then they have me turn her around and cradle her again.
Now Little Bit is thinking that it is definitely time to start nursing. She turns her face towards me just as the nurse jabs her leg. This time there is no build up. The flood gates open and she hollers. I quickly stuff a boob in her mouth and the Sprogling comes over and pats her back and gives her a kiss. She sits there nursing and giving little hiccup sobs. Her poor little legs both have a plaster on (which the Sprogling seemed determined to peel off of her) and she's spent the next fifteen minutes giving me the most evil looks.
Now she's bouncing back an forth between being my happy, smiling Little Bit and screaming her head off at me. Today will be fun.
I woke up to the sun shining and the birds singing so I dragged the kids out of bed to do some Garage Sale-ing. I live smack dab in suburbia so the second the weather becomes agreeable the fluorescent signs start popping up and whole neighbourhoods become open air markets.
Now there is an art to shopping at garage sales. You must get up early. Many yard/garage sales start at 9 am. That means you should be out to your first garage sale by at least 9:30. You need to wait long enough that they should have gotten everything out, but not too late because the good stuff gets snatched up fast. Make sure you have some cash. But not too much. Remember, this is stuff that other people don't want so the majority of it is crap. There are some lovely gems buried in the crap though. First you find a couple in your area. Then you plan your route (or not. I just drive around and try spot as many signs as possible). Then you do a slow drive by. If you don't immediately see something of interest Do. Not. Stop! If you were to stop at every garage sale, you would waste your morning and end up with far too much junk because they suck you in. Now let's say you see something of interest, for us it is if they are predominately kids' stuff oriented garage sales. We do a slow drive by and then park as close as possible. Now here is the tricky part. I have two kids so I do a quick pop out and closer look-see. If there is something that I may really want to buy I go and grab the kids, because baking your children in a warm car is frowned upon.
I let the Sprogling try out the toys I'm considering buying for him and show Little Bit the clothing and soft toys that catch my eye. If the Sprogling seems to like the toy, it goes in the maybe pile. I walk up and down and look at everything and then I take a second look on the stuff that I want and grab the best item or two. Do not buy everything. Chances are you do not need it all. Then pack the kids back up and scoot before you reconsider and buy more.
Rinse and repeat!
Today was a good sale day. I grabbed a bundle of soft reading books that as soon as I wash them, Little Bit can chew on to her heart's content instead of ruining her brothers' board books. Patrick got two toys that closely resemble his favourites at the nursery at church, so I know he'll play with them and hopefully he won't be so possessive of the ones at church. And the steal of the day were some of those puzzle foam mats.
You know, like these, but multi coloured.
Those suckers usually cost nearly 30 bucks a pop normally for a pack of 4 and I got 4 packs for $40.00. It was more than I planned to spend but I've been eyeing these for a very long time. With a daredevil toddler in the residence, you begin to worry about cracked heads more than ever.
Great day for Garage Sale-ing and now we are home sipping on bright red drinks and developing juice mustaches.
So the Sprogling was 8 months old when I discovered I was pregnant with Little Bit. It had taken us a good two years of trying to achieve him and countless doctors prodding at us, so knowing we wanted a second one, we decided to start not using protection with the idea it might take us that long to get pregnant a second time. Ha ha ha ha. Now I've never been what you would call skinny. I had a fairly good figure when I was in high school and had a really great one in university due to being broke and not eating a lot. Then I met my husband. He is exactly what you would call skinny, with a metabolism to match. So when we were dating and eating out a lot, I started putting on a little weight. He'd take me to fancy restaurants and we would drink some wine and have pasta and dessert. After we got married, I started cooking for him more and started putting on more weight. Not a lot but I was about 15 pounds heavier than I was when he first met me.
Then I got pregnant. I was ill from the day I conceived to until 5 hours after giving birth, but I was still HUNGRY the entire time. So I got inventive in what I would eat that wouldn't upset my stomach but would satisfy my cravings. I worked really hard to not eat complete crap, but 4 weeks after giving birth I finally stepped on a scale and I was 40 pounds heavier than I was before I had gotten pregnant. Not to mention I had a lovely pattern of stretch marks over the entirety of my tummy. So I set to exercising, not my favourite thing in the world. I kept at it and managed to lose twenty of those pounds. Then I got pregnant again.
I had gained all that weight even when I had tried to eat well and kept up some kind of exercise routine so this time round I decided to say, screw it. I ate what I wanted, when I wanted. I still had exercise (you try not getting any when chasing after a fully mobile toddler) but I didn't care less about the weight I was putting on. I somehow lucked out though. Again, 4 weeks after giving birth to #2, I stepped on the scale and was exactly 2 pounds heavier than I was when I got pregnant. Apparently all the weight gain this time was baby and fluid.
So I tallied it up and plugged all the numbers into the BMI calculator and it tells me that I am way overweight. Thanks. Just the pick me up I needed. I need to lose 25 more pounds to be firmly in the healthy weight zone. I don't think I've ever been that skinny. I think I need to lose ten more pounds before I'm happier with myself. I'm taking it easy with the exercising, but I'm trying to be really good with the food. I know I need to eat healthier and it can't hurt my kids to eat healthier either. Some weeks I do better than others. Last week I lost 4 pounds because I managed to get in 45 minutes of exercise every night and I only cheated a little on the food. This week I've lost almost a pound. I haven't been able to exercise and we've eaten poorly every night. But I'm not beating myself up over it. I'll get there and eventually my stomach will look better. I'll still have my badges of honour, but they will be faded and I'll feel good about myself and that will show in more ways than the purely physical.
I believe I have already come out as a geek on this little blog. I read far more than is healthy for any human being and I enjoy every second of it. Add that to the fact that I mainly read science fiction/fantasy and ancient history text books and I creep ever closer to owning a pocket protector.
My other little obsession is video games. As a teen, I was a console snob. I owned every Nintendo console made (at the time the latest was the Gamecube) and played as much as possible. I was terribly popular with a certain subgroup of boys in my high school. We had epic battles playing Bond on an old N64. (Come on people, paint ball mode!) I eventually branched out and bought a PS2 because DDR was all the rage in our group and I rocked, or at least thought I did. I have a sneaking feeling that I may have won during our little competitions due to lack of proper breast support and a tendency to hop around and not through any skill what so ever.
Now a days between my husband and I we only average a couple hours a week playing on our consoles. We own a Wii (because it's just so cool.... and I felt I needed to continue the tradition) and an Xbox for the online capabilities. I generally get on the Wii for about a half hour a day, and that is me playing Wii Fit. The time spent is fun, but not really playing a video game. My true obsession these days, dare I say it, is WoW.
I admit it. Late at night, after I get my kids off to sleep, I creep into my living room, throw on a pair of headphones and pretend to be an Elf. And kill things. Lots and lots of things. Some days I play for the side of good, some days for the side of evil. I flip flop and have a gazillion toons because my attention span is akin to that of a goldfish. I get bored just hacking my way through levelling and I needed to find out all the story lines for every race so I have at least one of each and then I needed to try out all the different ways to kill things so I've tried every class. I definitely have favourites that I keep going back to, but for variety I like to have a couple toons in different classes and professions levelled about the same so that I don't get bored.
I have decided that this is a fantastic release. I spend all day trying not to get upset at something the Sprogling has done (hitting his sister in the face anyone?) because really? He's a nearly two year old, what do you expect. So I hold it in all day and in the evening I go and bash and cleave things to death. I figure I'm a much better balanced Mommy for doing this and the only things that are getting hurt are pretend creatures, most often some kind of undead or pig.
I love to read. I've had a voracious appetite for books ever since I first realized that words strung together told stories. I have a distinct memory of sitting in my desk at the tender age of six and having an "Ah Ha!" moment and finally figuring out how everything went.
My husband has put a cap on my book spending. I can't do libraries. I am just too freaking lazy to get the books back on time and then after a couple months I just plum forget to take them back at all. So no libraries. And I don't like e-books. There is something almost spiritual about opening a hard back book and hearing that first little crack as the binding bends. Then smelling the ink and flipping to the first page to read the deep black letters on the white page. Mmmmm. So I buy books. Lots of them. They litter my house in piles. They sit in my bathroom, in the living room and all over my side of the bedroom.
I use books as an escape. During my precious hour and a half where my kids naps over lap and that last hour of the day that I sneak in before sleep I dive into different worlds. I read purely fluff these days. No deep thinking. Not when I need the time to let my brain rest and recoup. So I read a lot of fantasy and science fiction and I just block out the rest of the world. I can have whole conversations and never recall what was said. My husband's favourite trick is to start a conversation with me about something
I've recently finished my last stash of books. I'm only allowed a ten author roster at a time so I go through the new books at a steady pace. In desperation I have dug deep into books that I've been carting around for the past couple years and found some classic bodice rippers left behind from when my sister was still living with us. I am appalled at the writing, disgusted by the plots but still I can't put the latest one down. There is something that just keeps me reading even though I can feel my i.q. dropping with every paragraph.
I hate cleaning. I really enjoy the feeling I get when something is all shiny and clean and pretty, but the actual cleaning to get to that point bites. I once had a job as a maid at a motel. Yah, that lasted all of one week. I don't like cleaning up my own mess, cleaning up other peoples was just too much. It didn't help that the week I worked just happened to coincide with two major festivals in my home town, the annual Elvis festival and a huge Harley Bike show. Do you know how disgusting Elvii can be? *shudder*
When it was just me and the Hubs, I was actually pretty good at keeping our house clean. We had two dogs and two cat's so I ended up vacuuming and sweeping a whole heck of a lot, but it wasn't too bad. I did laundry once a week and put it right away.
When I got pregnant with the Sprogling I ended up spending nearly three months sitting on my ass doing pretty much nothing because I was no longer working or going to school and I felt like hell warmed over. During that time it was really easy to let the dishes slide or to just smell check clothes until there were none left that didn't have a pong.
Now that I have two kids, I totally use them as an excuse to not clean. See, no one else in my limited family/friends that are willing to babysit group can handle both of them. I actually had a friend babysit then for a day and after two years of begging her boyfriend to let them start a family she texted him saying that she no longer wanted kids. I got a heartfelt thank you from her boyfriend. But the fact remains that when everyone else has my kids they experience the full effect and they forgive me a multitude of things because they can't imagine having to cook and clean while juggling both the kids. The truth is that I can manage them. I have more practice.
I sometimes just don't wanna do the floors for the tenth time that day. Or wipe up yet more yogurt from the floor. It just gets tiring. They both make sooo much mess and it take all my time to just keep on par with them. So some days my husband comes home to a sparkly clean house, and others he comes home to a place that looks like I rented it out to the local junk yard. The days that my cleaning sucks, I totally blame it on the kids. "Oh, the Sprogling didn't nap today! There's no way I could have done the dishes when he didn't nap!" or "Little Bit was super clingy and I think another tooth is coming in. I just couldn't do the vacuuming when she wanted to nurse all day."
Yah. Not exactly a good thing to do, using your children as excuses. But something I plan on doing as long as I can possibly manage it.
My son has a talent for making messes. If there is trouble to be found, he will find it. Usually running at full steam. If there happens to be several messes to be made he will usually find the one that causes the most grief or takes the longest to clean up. We affectionately call him Destructo Boy and Doom Baby. Take yesterday for instance. Yesterday he decided that it would be a great idea to open up the pantry, take out his sister's baby cereal and methodically shake it all over the kitchen floor. I mean over the entire floor. Frustrating because I didn't even realize he was in the kitchen, but my own darn fault for not being more vigilant.
At Christmas I got a shiny new Iphone from Hubby and it quickly became a treasured and highly used part of my person. Except that I had just given birth to Little Bit two weeks before and was still a little absent minded and exhausted. My son got a hold of it and it disappeared. Gone. Poof. We searched high and low for it and we couldn't find it anywhere. We even opened up venting to make sure he hadn't dropped it down one of the floor vents. I finally went through garbage bags that we had already taken out back and there it was, coated in old macaroni and cheese. He had thrown out my phone for whatever reason that only makes sense in his little baby mind.
I adore my kid but on days like that I just don't understand what he could be thinks. Mostly it's probably just a "If I do x than what happens?" but some days it seems like he's doing it just to spite me. Like he know full well what's in the diaper bag but still feels the need to go through it and empty if of all its contents, even though it doesn't have anything that he actually likes to play with in it (we've taken out the Vaseline). The other times he makes messes, almost not on purpose is just that he runs everywhere. He once ran into a display at the grocery store with spectacular results. He was just going a mile a minute and didn't see it.
Crap. It's gone silent. This can only mean that he's found something to play with that he shouldn't. Gotta go.
So through the wonder that is Facebook I've been slowly, sort of connecting with old friends from high school and beyond. It's been nice and in some cases surreal. Yes, you got it, I got "friended" by the person that tried their best to make my life in living hell. After consideration I decided I didn't want to be mature and sensible and possibly deal with more crap from them and ignored them.
But as I've been talking and reconnecting, it has become ever more apparent that I have little in common with these people any more. I mean they are all nice people, but I dread it when they ask me simple questions like "So what's been going on?" or "What did you do today?"
Because, you know what? They don't want to know. They don't want to know that my son had a diaper blow out and I had to hose him down for ten minutes before I could convince myself to get in there and scrub. They don't understand my joy at how my daughter is now sitting up by herself and starting to eat solid foods, or how that last fact means I have to change both of our clothing after every meal. One friend, a couple years older than me was chatting to me and asked if everything was good, and I said "Yeah! But it's kinda dull to talk about. It's mostly diapers and cleaning over here." He gave the cyber version of a shudder and said "That right there is why I am never having kids." I mean I do understand his point. I had just finished telling him how I spent most of my day changing bums and following behind my toddler cleaning up the messes he made, but it hurt a little. He didn't give me a chance to tell him how lovely it is to pick my son up and have him give me a big hug and a sloppy kiss. Or how my heart melts every time Little Bit smiles at me, showing off both of her teeth.
But really, just as my friends don't want to hear about the blood and gore that comes with parenting, they really couldn't care less about the happy moments either. That picture you have where your kid is making spit bubbles that just about brings a tear to your eye every time you see it? It really doesn't have the same impact on your childless friends. They miss the point.
So now I give a stock answer of "My kids keep me busy" and I move the conversation along. I've discovered that they really would rather talk about their job/clubbing/that person they met in the gym/etc and I would too. Because I know I have the better deal, and right at the moment one of them is dumping animal crackers on the couch which I will have to clean up, but after that, I'm sure to get kisses.
We watch TV in this household. Before I had kids I had visions of days spent playing on the floor with my kids, of having peaceful afternoons of snuggling and reading. Then I had The Sprogling and I realized how very lonely and, yes I’ll admit it, boring being at home, alone all day with someone who can’t talk. So I gave up and allowed the TV to be turned on during the day. I do try to keep it off as much as possible but we do have a television watching routine. I plug in a movie when The Sprogling is eating breakfast so that I have that precious half an hour of time to feed Little Bit and clean the kitchen. Not to mention that this is generally the only time during the day I get to go to the washroom all by myself. I’ll generally try to keep it off until lunch time on good days. On bad days I turn on PlayhouseDisney and hope for the best. During nap time is Mommy TV time. I put on a PVR’d episode of CSI or Trueblood and sit and enjoy a little gore. And then the television is completely off until 5 o’clock rolls around. At this time we have a routine. Little Bit goes in her exersaucer for as long as we can get away with and The Sprog and I have a cuddle. We watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. I try to solve the puzzles before the contestants and The Sprog cheers them on. Every time a puzzle is guessed he stands up and claps his little hands wildly, I cheer and laugh at him. I know there are people out there who would say that I am failing my kids in some way by having the boob tube on so much. And I totally admit, there are days where it is never off. Those are the bad days. But on the days that I have it on, I need every moment that I can glean in order to not pull my hair out or start crafting ebay ads offering up my kids for an extremely reasonable price.
So about a month ago, my family and I undertook a trip, which in retrospect, may have been a little ambitious. Hubby, myself, Grandmama, Auntie J and my two babies under two, decided to go to Disneyland. Yes you read that right. I took two tiny children to Disneyland, even though they will never remember the trip. The actual trip itself went rather smoothly. Hubby and I even got a night by ourselves! The first one in five months! (Why yes, that is the age of my youngest, why do you ask?)
The part that caused the most stress was the flight home. It was an afternoon flight, meaning that the Sprogling, my nearly two year old had missed his nap due to having to be at the airport much too early, because we were flying to another country, yo. So my kid was strung out and tired and frankly, there wasn’t enough chocolate and toys in the world to keep him completely quiet. Now please keep in mind, that we have two itty bitty kiddies at this moment. Do you know what that means on an airplane ride? It means that they can’t sit together in the same block of seats because there is only one extra air mask per row. What that means in the grand scheme of things is that Hubby and I couldn’t sit next to each other and we had to keep passing babies back and forth when one got too tired of trying to wrangle the Sprogling.
So yes, I admit, my kid was in a loud and twitchy mood. But you know what? You could see that as soon as you entered the plane. And yes, we got to enter first, because we had TWO strollers, FOUR carry-ons, and TWO babies to lug onto the plan, so you can just keep the hairy eyeball to yourself, thankyouverymuch. Hubby got the dubious pleasure of having the Sprogling on his lap for takeoff and as such was seated with the Sprogling on his lap long before the rest of the passengers got on the plane. This is when the passenger I am lovingly going to call “Douche” entered the plane. He saw Hubby and the Sprogling. He knew exactly where they were sitting and he came with his lady friend. They had the two seats in front of Hubby. He sat directly in front of Hubby. Then he proceeded to put his seat the entire way back.
In case you haven’t been on a plane in a while, this took the approximate 18 inches of lap space down to maybe an inch and a half. Guess what? When you take away all the space, kids can touch/kick/bump the seat all the easier! Yes, they can! And guess what? That’s exactly what they will do. “Douche” then proceeded to turn around every ten seconds to glare at Hubby and the Sprogling. Finally when it looked like “Douche” was about to punch my toddler in the head, I offered to trade seats with him and his lady friend. After telling us how awful parents we were, they switched. After telling us that “Douche” had just had foot surgery and he really couldn’t be jostled and we should do better to make sure that our kid didn’t kick seats.
Well bless my soul! You just had surgery! I am so sorry! It’s not like you couldn’t see my kid and perhaps ask your lady friend to sit in that seat instead of your poor broken self. And dude. It was your foot. There was actual fairly good leg room on this plan and there is no reason you had to shove your seat all the way back.
