The Diaper that Ate Cleveland

I just giggled. And giggled and giggled and giggled.

What else could I do? The whole situation was so absurd -- there we were, rather experienced parents, faced with the diapering situation that proved we had somehow sinned against nature.

And I giggled.

Y'all have read my disclaimer to the right, right? This is one of those bodily fluid posts. Actually, it's really a comedy of errors post which uses a dirty diaper as the antagonist. Scott and I are the protagonists, though our actions were less-than-heroic.

Here's the setting: a small lobby in an academic building at a large local institution where we have brought our older two children to be experimented upon. Cue maniacal evil laugh. No, really, they were taking part in a non-invasive psychological experiment where they looked at images on a computer and touched the screen -- nothing painful, nor scary, though they were ensconced in a sound-proof booth.

Milo was first up and after he was whisked away, Scott and I decided to change Willa's poopy diaper. Willa is a power pooper -- she only goes every 3-4 days and when she does, she can fill a diaper like none other. We knew this was going to be a two-person job as there wasn't an adequate place for us to lay her for the change, so she was on her diaper pad on a low vinyl loveseat. Violet was sitting by her feet, Scott was prepped to grab her legs, and I was ready with the wipes.

First error: Not picking the floor. For reasons that will become obvious at some point in this growing narrative.

Second error: Not assembling all of the diapering needs before starting. Also for reasons soon to become apparent.

So I unsnap the diaper cover (we're cloth diapering) and discover poop of the normal amount and consistency. Scott holds Willa's legs, probably higher than she'd like because she starts making yowl-y discontent sounds. At this time, the diaper mess is contained in the diaper and I am working systematically to get the poo off of her. For an unknown reason, Scott lets go of her right leg and she immediately puts her tiny sock right into the diaper. He grabs her leg and peels off the sock as I chide him for letting go.

Good-naturedly he replies, "Yeah... that was a bonehead rookie error. I was pulling down my shirt." OK, I get not wanting to show your back hair to the world, but we were the only ones there. If only we'd stopped there...

As I'm about to get the last of the poo, Willa suddenly decides she wants to check out what's going on down there, flailing her arms towards the mess. I grab her hand before it comes in contact with the poo, but her shirt became an unfortunate casualty. Finally, I wipe the last of the poo from her bum -- it was a five wipe diaper (to this point). Scott gently peels her poopy shirt over her head as I turn my back for a second to grab a new diaper cover (I already had the diaper in hand).

Third Error: Turning our backs for just a moment.

As I turn back around, I notice a growing wet spot under my babe. She was peeing. And the diaper mat is not absorbant. I stood there, frozen, thinking, "She's not going to pee THAT much, is she?"

Right? Wrong.
RIGHT?? WRONG!!

Fourth Error: Freezing up like a popsicle in Antarctica.

Fifth Error: Not watching where your feet are going when you're moving.

Scott notices my statue impression and dives into the fray to soak up the pee with the poopy shirt he's holding (instead of the absorbent diaper I was holding like a white flag, surrendering to the situation). As he lunges past me, he catches his toenail on something, breaking it and crying, "Ow!"

He folds the diaper mat around Willa like a taco shell to stem the flood of pee from soaking the couch, all the while sucking air through his teeth and exhaling "Ow! Ow! Ow!"

And that's when I lost it. I fell into a giggle fit that lasted at least ten minutes.

In a matter of moments, I had Willa re-diapered and had shown Scott where the spare onesies were. We wiped up the pee, dressed the baby, crammed every soiled thing into my wet bag, and then looked over to see the absolutely horrified look on Violet's little face.

What was running through her mind? Was she appalled by the bodily functions of her infant sister? Fearing for her life at being left in the hands of us as parents? Wondering how she managed to make it to the ripe old age of 3 and 3/4 without suffering physical harm? All of the above?

So, anyway... Just when you think you've got the whole parenting thing figured out, Revenge of the Diaper will strike and put you right back in your place.

Lend Me Your Ear

My brain is leaking out of my ear.

Well, not really my brain, but my eardrum ruptured this morning and it just sounds funnier to say it's my brain evacuating me than ear fluid, right? Especially since I had a doozy of a day yesterday and took to the interwebs before I had a chance to gather myself together and process my day like the adult I'm supposed to be. D'oh!

Today?

Much better all around. 1. My ear doesn't hurt anymore -- it's just drippy and gross and I can't hear with it, but it's not painful. 2. I got more sleep last night than I did the night before.

Number 2 is the biggest reason I'm feeling more like myself again. I think it's a foregone conclusion that every post I make where I sound like a whiny-assed baby was preceded by a Night of Little Sleep. I really don't even need that much more sleep to make a difference -- last night I crashed from 11 - 2 and 3:30 - 5 and 5:40 - 6:30 and feel oh-so-much better than I did yesterday.

Heck, I even peered silently at my sleeping children (all of them) before I left for work and thought "I'm gonna miss you guys...". Not "Oh, good gravy, WHY did I think I needed more than zero children?" like I thought yesterday.

So here are some witty musings on a ruptured eardrum:

a) My kids will be able to get away with a ton of stuff today, provided they do it all to my left side since I can't hear.

b) People freak the freak out when you say you've ruptured an eardrum. It actually feels better than the ear pain (I promise), though the yellow gunk I keep dabbing away is pretty icky. At least it's not blood!

c) I'm going to the doctor as soon as Scott gets home from work today. And I'm looking forward to it! Think about it -- when you're at the doctor, you get to talk about yourself, you are the center of attention, and they have to make you feel better. Plus, I'll totally get to wander around Target all.by.myself as I wait for my prescription to be filled. What could be better than a solo trip where I'm guaranteed to have to walk around for at least 20 minutes as they process my prescription?

d) I have a built in excuse for ignoring whomever and whatever I want -- what was that? Did you say something to me? You sounded a bit like Charlie Brown's teacher. Wah-wah. Wah wah wah-wah wah wah.

Hey -- why don't you all send me some more ideas on why it's a super thing that my eardrum ruptured? Go ahead and be as goofy as you dare...

But mostly I'm looking forward to that trip to Target. It's gonna be my light at the end of the ear canal today. Pretty pathetic, huh?

Myth Bustin'

Have you heard this one? Early walker, late talker.

Or this one? Boys talk later than girls.

While either or both of those might be true for some kids, I'd like to challenge these statements and assure you that they are, at least for my family, not factual.

Early walker, late talker...

What I really hate about this platitude is that it implies that it implies that your early walker is somehow showing a tendency towards stupidity. Or that your early talker is so patently uncoordinated that he or she will never learn to run in a straight line or something. If that were the case, wouldn't half of the population be stumbling drunkenly across the room while debating particle physics and the rest sprinting around gracefully while extolling the virtues of Michael Bay films?

I get that sometimes a child will focus on developing in one area and hit a certain milestone before another milestone. And that is completely normal. But so is the kid who learns to walk and talk at about the same time. So down with that platitude!

Boys blah blah slower than girls blah blah...

Again, I really think you need to take this on a case by case basis. My daughter developed speech ahead of her scheduled milestones, that's true. But my son? He blew her out of the water. In fact, he was so verbal so early Scott actually asked me if Violet was slow. (Ha!) One his first birthday, mILO used an actual sentence -- signing the word "more", saying "turkey" and signing "please." More turkey, please. Heck it wasn't just that he used a sentence, he use proper manners. All right, that was a sentence fragment, but you get the picture.

OK -- before I sound like one of those moms who brags all over her kids, he also can't remember from one day to the next where he's left his shoes. Hint: in the same place they always go.

But, yeah -- give your boys a chance! They aren't Neanderthals simply because they have that Y chromosome -- nah, caveman behavior takes some practice! It takes some talent to become a big ol' Weiner, you know...


This post is part of the Multiples and More Question of the Week Link-Up. Brought to you by frazzled parents of multiples everywhere. Or anywhere. Or nowhere. Or here.

Back to Work!

Yesterday was my first day back to work since I was placed on bedrest on April 8th.

For some working moms, the transition back to work is tough. I can't say that it is terribly difficult for me because each time I've gone back to work, Scott has had an additional week or so of paternity leave during which he cares for the new baby. And, given that I love and trust the man enough to want to have a gaggle of children with him, I have absolutely no qualms about leaving him alone with our kids, even as itty-bitty infants.

I just deleted a Judgy McJudgerson paragraph about choosing to have kids with someone you don't trust. It's too early in the morning (4 a.m.) for snark.

And this is how the summer will go: mommy works until noon, then comes home. Not a bad gig, let me tell you -- I get to come to work where I can choose whether or not to have music playing and definitely don't have children fighting all around me all day and then, about the time that I start to miss everyone, I get to come home and take over house mama duties so that Scott can work int he yard or go to meetings or whatever. And then we all get to hang in the evenings. Well, if hanging out includes t-ball games and swimming lessons, which it does this month.

Anyway, I came home from my easy first day back to pull into our driveway and be greeted by raucous giggling. And two blonde children who came dancing out from their hiding place behind Daddy's truck wearing nothing but swim diapers. Keep in mind that neither of these children have worn diapers for eons and that the diapers they had on were for babied up to 24 pounds. It made me pretty glad that we live out in the middle of nowhere...

Oh, and the babies were just fine, too.

School's Out for Summer!

The twins are seven weeks old and we're still eating every 3 hours. Mama is still pumping about half of what babies need to eat. The weather has been hotter than hot the last few days.

And school is out for the summer.

While the twins are getting the hang of being on the outside, my older two kidlets are just wanting to be outside. Which is great when it's not 90 in the shade. We're blowing through sunscreen like we have stock in Coppertone. And drinking gallons of water. And using gallons of water for the Slip'n'Slide, which is stationed right outside the kitchen window because I'm not sitting outside with wee tiny infants when the heat index is 100 degrees.

So Milo and Violet have been enjoying the kind of summer that I did when I was a kid. you know the one -- where your exasperated and annoyed mother, tired of hearing yet another "But she blah, blah, blah" or "Mom! He blah, blah, blah," sends you outside largely unsupervised to discover the wonders of your own backyard.

Activities my children have discovered:

1. Running around (duh)
2. Driving the battery operated Gator
3. Riding bikes on the corn crib pad
4. Slip'n'Slide
5. Climbing all over the play set
6. Heaping tons of flowering weeds on Mocha's grave
7. Sidewalk chalk
8. Weeding the strawberries
9. Blowing bubbles
10. Flying a kite


They have also done the following:

1. Left every pair of shows they own outside to get rained upon
2. Pulled up flowers I kinda wanted to keep and strewn them on Mocha's grave
3. Semi-washed the van -- now it looks like someone puked road dust on the side of the van away from the hose connection
4. Gotten more invisible scrapes, cuts, and bruises than I could imagine
5. Lost juice pouches to the prairie
6. Left their bikes out all night, thankfully there's been no rain
7. Squashed the carrots and radishes we planted along our sidewalk instead of landscaping with perennials that I would likely kill
8. Left sunscreen-y footprints all over my wood floors
9. Tried to fly said kite under the only power lines on our acre and balked when I sent them away from the power lines
10. Made their dear mother insane during the heat of the last few days by bouncing balls in the house, whining, begging for snacks all day long, changing clothes thirteen times a day, leaving Legos on the floor like landmines, leaving half-drunk cups of water all over, insisting on watching the most inane cartoons on Netflix, fighting constantly over nothing, and hopping up and down in tears any time she asks them to quiet down, put something which they had gotten out away, or wait ten minutes for a meal instead of having a snack.

And school's only been out for a week...

Hey, Look! It's a Freakishly Huge Pregnant Lady!

Hey! It's Sunday. I don't normally post on a Sunday, but after a series of unfortunate events (none of them mine, naturally), I ended up sleeping up on the couch through a loud, loud thunderstorm. Which apparently scared the poop out of Tess. And onto my toy room floor, grrr... So after cleaning that up, I'm wide awake for the day.

I thought I'd show y'all what one might look like if one were 47 weeks pregnant with one baby. Or what I look like 32 weeks and 5 days pregnant with two. Since my doc seems pretty convinced I'll carry to term, I have decided that my ultimate goal is to beat her previous "biggest belly" record of 56cm. Which I will do if I continue to grow at a rate of 2cm per week -- I'll hit 57cm at 38 weeks, or eviction time.

I hope I don't spoil your brunch by posting this pic...

Barbie Lipstick

There is a book out there that I am dying to read. So, I guess if my doc puts me on bed rest tomorrow (not likely, despite the weekend contractions) I know for which book I'll be sending Scott to the bookstore:

Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches from the Frontlines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture by Peggy Orenstein.

Why? I listened to a fabulous interview on NPR the other day and, given the recent girly-girl transformation Miss Violet has undergone, it seems like the book would speak to me, particularly since I'm shortly to become the mother of two more daughters.

I don't know that I am terribly concerned with Violet's princess/Polly Pocket/Barbie/My Little Pony/Lalaloopsie/Strawberry Shortcake fascination -- after all, I, too, owned Barbies and Strawberry Shortcakes and Cabbage Patch Dolls as a child and I'm not really an uber-girly girl. Yeah, I prefer to look put together over looking disheveled and homeless, but I've never had a mani or a pedi and my hair color (all of it) is *gasp* my own. How can I help it that auburn with blonde highlights is hot? That's the way it grows out of my head.

The small part of me that is concerned is mostly concerned about the future. Right now, Violet still lets me buy her clothes and generally doesn't have a fit about what she wears. Of course, I'm a total square and can't stand the prosti-tot look, so she does not own belly shirts, Daisy Dukes, or sassy little wedge sandals. Not gonna happen. She does have canvas Mary Janes with lavender rhinestones and flowers on them. She does have a pair of black fake Uggs. She does have chapstick, but it's colorless ad not shiny and she wears it to bed and when playing outside to prevent chapped lips. For the record, so does Milo -- well, the chapstick part. I think he might balk at rhinestoned shoes.

I don't dress like a hoochie-mama and my daughters are not going to dress like mini-hoochie-mamas. For me, it's not a body image thing -- I spent countless hours as a teen in front of a big ol' mirror watching myself dance in ballet class while wearing a leotard and tights. I know what my body looked like then and what it looks like now. Yeah, when I was in high school, I probably would have been cute in a micro-mini and baby T, but I had absolutely no interest in wearing that. I guess I preferred my brain and my personality to do my talking.

I can't say that I am a terribly modest person, either. Years of fast changes in the wings and group dressing rooms have pretty much stripped that from me (har, har). If everything that should be covered by undergarments is covered, I'm good to go. You might be scarred for life by seeing my web of stretch marks, but I'm not scared of them being seen.

It is going to be a tough road to navigate, I'm sure. I want my daughters to feel confident and empowered by the strength of their bodies without feeling the need to let their bodies do all of the talking for them. How do I teach that?

Given their genetics, none of my kids are going to be runway model-material. That was never a dream of mine, yet I surely do remember my sister and cousin having modeling aspirations. And as I was waiting outside Milo's classroom for his parent/teacher conference, I flipped through the class's "What I Want to Be When I Grow Up" book and at least four of the girls listed and drew fashion models as their choice career. *Thunk* (that was my jaw hitting the ground) Seriously?? These girls are a mere two years, or maybe three, older than Violet and ViVi has no clue what a fashion model is. Or what she wears -- and doesn't wear.

So, yeah. Be aware that one of these days, I will be reading Ms. Orenstein's book. I hope it doesn't depress me... But, if it does, I'll remember how Violet bid me goodnight last night:

Mom, you're so pretty! You're fashion style! You're Barbie lipstick with lots of shoes!

Really? I guess if Barbie lipstick needs a crane to get off the couch, wears nine-year-old loafers most days, and is happy to find a shirt that covers all of her belly...

The Classics

Lots of life happening right now -- I suppose I could post about some or all of it, but I'm wiped, so I'll get around to it sometime.

First of all, the short blonde ones are fine, though they have yet another cold. Snot for everyone!! They have also been pleading to play outside in the mud (February thaw in Iowa), but I am refusing to let them on the grounds that I can't really get down to scrub the floor right now. I am also finding it difficult to sit on the floor to help Violet put together puzzles, to get off the couch an infinite number of times to help a child, and to tie my snow boots. Please, oh, please let the snowy weather be closer to done...

Valentine's Day has come and gone. We celebrated by having the popcorn party with the kids that didn't happen either Saturday or Sunday as planned. So, yes, we all had the oh-so-nutritious supper of popcorn, PB&J, string cheese, and applesauce. Followed by Wild Berry Skittles for dessert. To top off the romantic evening, Scott and I watched an episode of Phinease and Ferb in our pajamas before bed. Yeah, the kids were already asleep...

We took the opportunity to expose the kids to some classics this weekend. First up was "Annie." Violet was captivated any time the girls sang or danced. Milo said, "Why aren't there any boys?"

So we made up for the estrogen of "Annie" by watching "Peter Pan" with Kathy Rigby. Violet was uninterested because Tinkerbell didn't look like the cartoon and Milo offered the Lost Boys the following advice as they were tied up on the deck of the Jolly Roger watching Captain Hook prance about, "If it were me, I'd stab Captain hook right in the heart. If I knew where the heart was."

And yesterday morning, Milo was the first to the remote. I came upon him watching, of all things, the battle scene from the ancient filmed version of William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. Because every five-year-old kid needs a dose of iambic pentameter to start off Valentine's Day...

Miss Violet has been making up stories to tell us. They usually involve at least one princess, a castle, and either a horse or a prince, depending on her mood. She vividly describes the princess's dress and hair, but is sketchy on the remainder of the plot. All of them start with "Once upon a time..." and conclude with the crazy-cute "bee end!"

And there's a stinger for ya...

So, Scott Was Out of Town...

So I had about a billion ideas for posts that I was going to make this weekend after the kids went to bed and before I curled up on my Snoogle for a pregnant night's sleep, but they never materialized.

Why?

Scott was out of town.

Most people who know me understand those words and sympathize with me the instant they see them. You see, when Scott is out of town, the Bermuda Triangle of Weirdness descends upon our house. It never fails. This happened even before we had kids -- I'd come home from work to find an appliance broken or that the dogs had gotten into the garage and shredded a crazy amount of paper all over the yard or who knows what.

The strange events did very definitely take a turn for the worse once kids came into the picture. One of them would get sick or I'd be invaded by rodents or something insane would happen.

This time? I got sick. Well, sicker. I came down with the cold the short people had on Tuesday, stayed home from work all day Wednesday and felt much better on Thursday, though I was still producing enough snot that if I were a snot miner, I'd have hit the mother lode. All in all, it was a pretty typical cold.

Until Friday.

About the time that Scott was headed out of town, my left sinus started to ache. By the time I picked the kids up from school, the ache had become a throb. By the time I got the kids fed dinner, the throb had become a vise. By the time I got the kids to bed, the vise had tightened down so far that I felt as if something roughly the size of a football was wedged in my face.

I was blinded by the pain -- and Tylenol (a pregnant woman's only pain reliever) wasn't touching it. I tried my neti pot and discovered that I was so congested the rinse wouldn't even go into that sinus. I gagged and spluttered as I spit it out, frustrated that nothing was helping.

After some welcome assistance from Scott's mom, who watched the kiddos when I went to the doctor, I managed to get a script for antibiotics. Which I began taking immediately.

Since you cannot take crazy high-powered antibiotics while pregnant, the third-string Amoxicillin was pretty much our option. So, no instant relief like I might get after the first dose of a Z-Pack. Nope, I was near tears all day Sunday and ready to melt into bed when Scott finally made it home last night.

I don't know if just having him in the house was enough for me to relax and actually sleep last night or if my poor body decided that it was going to pass out cold from exhaustion (the pain had kept me awake much of Friday and Saturday nights), but I slept HARD last night, getting up only once to use the bathroom and take another dose of Tylenol. I didn't even feel the normal pregnancy-related sleep discomforts, if my hips hurt last night, I didn't notice.

And this morning?

I woke up and blew a copious wad of fluorescent green booger out of my left sinus and feel merely sick, not feral with pain.

Of course, I also woke up to a sneezing hubby...

The Ten Commandments of Pregnancy

I'm old. Really, I am. I'm old to be the mom of such young kids, and I'm OK with that. I'm pretty sure that it is written in purple and red ink in my file at the OB "Advanced Maternal Age." I'm a geriatric pregnancy, but I wouldn't really have it any other way.

Why am I commenting on this?

Because in some of my spare time on the weekends I stop by a couple of pregnancy message boards online and find myself shaking my head like a stuffy old librarian shusshing some giggling teenage patrons.

Never in my life would I try to pass myself off as a pregnancy or parenting expert -- I'm certainly not that. But, most of the time, I do feel like I got my fair share of common sense.

So, inspired by message board insanity, here are my commandments for pregnant women, written by an old-as-Moses mama:

1. While your pregnancy might consume your every waking (and sleeping) thought, it isn't going to be the most important thing to everyone you know. Please do not feel hurt because people in the grocery store didn't bow to your fertility and hand you the case of Diet Mt. Dew from the bottom shelf.

2. No one else will remember what you can and cannot eat. It is not appropriate to throw a fit because your brother-in-law had a cookout and served hot dogs. You might have to quietly fill up on potato salad and baked beans instead.

3. If you are a first-time mom, you will get lots of advice. Some of it will be great, some of it will be ludicrous, but you should smile, nod, and say, "Thank you! I'll keep that in mind" no matter how looney the advice is. It shows the advice-giver that you are listening and appreciate that they have thought of you at all, when it could so easily be the case that they wouldn't.

4. Every pregnant woman is tired and uncomfortable. Some more than others, but most of the symptoms most pregnant women have are totally normal. Getting into a "my symptoms are worse than yours" duel only shows that neither of you really feel that badly -- the ones who are so sick they can't complain get my sympathy.

5. If you say you're feeling "more uncomfortable" than you've "felt in my whole life" at 24 weeks pregnant, I just *might* think you're a bit of a weenie. You've still got 16 weeks to go, sweetie... and baby ain't gonna get smaller...

6. Your husband/spouse/co-parent is a human. And your friend and life partner. Please keep that in mind. Yeah, you may not be able to control your every emotion, but think before you speak and breathe before you think. You'll both be happier if you do.

7. Along those same lines, don't expect him/her to be able to read your mind. And then get mad at them for not doing it well. Talk about unfair expectations...

8. Your husband/spouse/co-parent absolutely does get a say in how you raise your child, unless he/she is unfit (and then I question why you're having a child with him/her). One parent does something one way, the other parent does it a different way. Does it really matter which way is "right" if both ways result in a healthy kid or completed task? Yeah, Scott unloads the dishwasher and I have to play "find the hidden measuring cup" the next time I cook, but he just unloaded the dishwasher so that I didn't have to -- how could that possible be a bad thing?

9. If you know you're going to get pouty when someone doesn't love the baby name you've been saving since you were 12, don't share it until your baby has arrived and been named Princessa le Pinque or whatever. It's much harder for people to make comments on a name once it is attached to a baby. On the other hand, if you pick a name that is out there (like it is orbiting Pluto), you know not everyone is going to like it. Toughen up and name your kid something you love and tell the rest of the solar system to take a hike.

10. Even if you are miserable, please remember to enjoy something about your pregnancy every day. You don't have to dwell on it, but take the time to think, "I am so glad to be carrying a healthy baby" each day. There are too many people who know the pain of loss, there are too many people who know the pain of infertility, there are too many people who know the pain of disability for you to not care and to wish your pregnancy done so that you can lose the baby weight, have a drink, or whatever.

Experienced mamas out there -- do you have anything to add to the list?

Alec Baldwin, The Man of My Dreams?!? What??

Alec Baldwin, get outta my dreams.

Seriously.

The last few nights I have had dreams that I can barely remember, except for a few small details. And all of the dreams have one thing in common: Alec Baldwin.

These aren't sex dreams. Nope, not at all. They aren't really any kind of dream, I think. But in each one, I'll turn a corner or something and there he'll be -- Alec Baldwin, doing something normal.

In one dream, just before my new supervisor started, I was working in my office when the Associate Dean of the College brought around my new supervisor, Jack Donaghy from 30 Rock. Played by Alec Baldwin. Does that make me Tina Fey? I'd be OK with that, she seems bright and funny.

In the next dream, I was outside weeding my front flower bed, Milo and Violet were running all over and the twins were snoozing on a blanket in the shade. Scott was doing something with the chickens, when Alec Baldwin biked up and asked to buy a dozen eggs. Yes, he was biking on a gravel road. Wearing a tuxedo. And no helmet.

In the last dream, I was at the grocery store all by myself (whee! a mother's escape!) and as I was reaching for a carton of yogurt, Alec Baldwin asked me to recommend a flavor: strawberry or peach. Strawberry, of course. He still wasn't wearing a helmet.

I don't get celebrity crushes. Especially when the celebrity seems to be a bit of a, ahem, flake. I think this is mostly because Scott and I have been streaming 30 Rock on Netflix through the Wii and watching it after the kids go to bed. At least I hope that's the case. I told Scott about it and he nearly fell out of our bed laughing about the yogurt dream. Then again, he once told me about a dream where he walked in on me in a compromising position with Ted McGinley from Married With Children. I think I laughed equally as hard at that one. Thank goodness neither of us gets jealous of our spouse's insane dreams...

Stay tuned to see what else I dream about Alec Baldwin... I know you're as befuddled as I am about it. It's kinda like watching a really fat chick waddle by with a whale tail -- you want to look away, but the rippling buttocks are mesmerizing...

My Hubby's Thing

My hubby has a thing. Well, I think most men have a thing, but I'm talking about a thing.

What I mean is that he gets on these food jags where he'll eat the same thing over and over and over, day after day for weeks on end, then he'll suddenly stop and not want to eat it for months. Usually after I have stocked up on said item.

Right now his thing is fake crab nachos. Except they're really not nachos -- they're tortilla chips with melted shredded cheese and fake crab. He's eaten them every night since Christmas Eve, I think.

Other things he's eaten:
Red Vines
Seafood subs from Subway with pickles
Trail mix, but nothing store bought because it might have something that isn't M & Ms, raisins, dry roasted peanuts or peanut butter chips in it. You'd have thought I bought him poison when I got him a mix that had all of that, plus almonds. Almonds = bad, I guess.
Popcorn, but not air popped with real butter and salt. Nope, he likes microwave popcorn with this unnaturally orange butter-flavored popcorn salt on it (and lots of it).
Peanut M & Ms
Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (but not the minis)
Instant apples & cinnamon oatmeal
Honey Nut Cheerios
Frosted Flakes
Starburst
Jelly Belly Jelly beans, but only ever the tangerine and cherry flavors
Sunkist strawberry soda (blech)

And here I am, the pregnant one, whose only cravings are for sushi, a margarita, and a nap -- none of which I can have right now.

Idiosynchrasies

So, I can admit to my many crazy issues -- well, most of them aren't really crazy or really OCD, but some are a little strange.  Why am I writing this today?  Because I feel that the other creatures inhabiting my house are trying to sabotage my sanity my messing with my head in little ways.

Like yanking the sheets and blankets in such a way that they don't all line up, folded neatly under my chin with the flat sheet holding the fold together like a sandwich.  So every night I straighten my bed, getting it all smooth and ready for sleep and every morning I wake and it is a tossed salad instead of a sandwich. 

But, more importantly, is the closets.  Although, given my housekeeping skills, you might doubt it, but I like an organized closet.  Really, I do!  I like all of the short sleeved shirts together, the long sleeved shirts together, the sweaters, the pants, the skirts and the dresses all separated so that it's really easy to tell what I'm looking at when I select my wardrobe for the day.  Or the kids' clothes for the day.

I know it is impolitic to complain about someone helping you with housework, but I'm gonna do it anyway.  Love my hubby, can't stand that he can wreck a closet simply by picking out what the kids wear for the day.  Oh, I let him have his own closet any way he wants it, though I don't understand how the shirts keep from sliding off the hangers if you don't button at least the top button, but that's his deal, not mine.

Anyway, I have a very simple system in place so that I don't have to scour every closet looking for hangers come laundry day -- I put the empty hanger on the front of the closet pole.  Eventually there is a happy little family of empty hangers there and I grab the whole lot of them knowing that I usually have only a couple of extra hangers per closet, so I'll be hanging up roughly the same number of garments as I have free hangers.

However, when helpful daddy grabs clothes for the kids, he leaves the empty hanger in the same spot where it was hanging when full.  As a result I need to spend a few precious seconds sifting through the clothes to come up with the right number of hangers for the load I'm about to hang.  OK, this isn't really a HUGE deal, but it also isn't really a HUGE deal to move the darn hanger.  After all, you have to take the hanger off the pole to get the garment off anyway, right? 

So those are two of my goofy idiosyncrasies.  What are yours?

Why I Hate Toy Commercials

My kids have fallen victim to the great advertising ploy that is TV.  They are beginning to make me nuts, shouting, "Mom!  Can I have this?" at every commercial.

At first, I responded with a pat, "Hmm... why don't you put it on your Christmas list," but that's not doing anything to quell the onslaught anymore.

Of particular disgust for me are the 12-inch fashion dolls advertised with real "fake" snow.  What??  After cleaning up lunar sand and modeling dough, they throw THIS crap at parents?  Real "fake" snow???  What on earth could this substance be?  And why would I want my kid playing (making a mess) with it?  Ugh...

And the one that gets Milo every stinkin' time -- the collapsible RC cars shown in a classroom with the kids tricking their teacher.  He actually said, "Hey, mom!  Those are for school because your teacher won't see you playing with them!"  Ummm... nope, buddy.  Not gonna happen with MY kid.  First of all, he's still young enough that he hasn't' figured out how to smuggle anything anywhere yet.  Secondly, he tells me everything he's doing (and I do mean EVERYTHING) all the time, so he doesn't yet have the capability to fib me to get a toy to school that he's not supposed to have there.  not to mention that he rides to school with his best buddy and can't help but tell him what hes' done and will be doing.

So, seriously, toy makers -- stop advertising your junk in ways that make it impossible for parents to explain to their kids why they don't need your junk.

And why the heck can't kids be happy playing with boxes, sticks, and scraps of yarn anymore?

Will Wonders Never Cease??

Last night, my husband made a startling admission to me.  No, he didn't admit to alien abduction or something illegal or immoral.  But if you just knew him, you'd know how completely out of character this was.

What was this stunning admission?

He put lotion on his hands.

You heard me right -- he actually lotioned his hands.  This from a man who has dared to laugh at me every winter as I slather on the Eucerin, massaging it deep into my cold-chapped hands, healing the wounds of winter.  Every time he has caught me doing this, he always comments, "If you didn't do THAT your hands would toughen up like mine!"

Apparently the hard work of chicken farming, welding, and loading in a show in the dry brittle air has turned his thick hands into flexible loofahs.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen...

And then, in a hoarse whisper, he continued.

"And... I used Chapstick."

THAT was almost enough to send me into preterm labor, let me tell ya.  My darling cannot stand lipstick/lip gloss/Chapstick and will go so far as wiping my kisses away if I am wearing a lip treatment because he "hates the slimy feel."

Something tells me I'm gonna have to check his toenails for polish when he's asleep tonight...

The Night that Never Was

Some days it just doesn't pay to even try to go to bed.

Last night was one of those loooong, never-ending nights.  First of all, it is not good for me to watch episodes of "The Walking Dead" and "Dexter" before I try to sleep.  Not good at all.  I'm not a scaredy-cat or a weenie, but the tension in these shows makes it darn near impossible for me to shut off my brain.  So, yeah, bad choice on my part.  Well, OK, I wouldn't have even watched the zombies if it wasn't for the horror-lovin' man I married, so that one is his fault.

And then there was the thunderstorm.  Yep, you read correctly.  A thunderstorm on November 21.  In Iowa.  Sigh...  Ever since we moved out into the country, Tess has developed a fear of storms.  I don't know if it's because they're louder or brighter or windier, but she'll lay at the bottom of the steps whining.  If someone doesn't respond to her, she escalates to moaning.  Then to yipping.  And, finally, to barking.  Which is the point that I fly out of bed, cursing and grumbling down the stairs to sleep on the couch.

Normally, this would be where the story would end -- with me sleeping the rest of the night on the couch, trading a c-pap wearing hubby for snoring, farting dogs.  Normally.

But not last night.  Nope.  At 3 a.m. my darling princess starts crying in her sleep.  I gave her a moment or two to see if she would settle, but she didn't.  That meant I also gave daddy a moment or two to wake up and realize what was going on, which, thanks to Mr. Ambien, he did not.  So I stumbled back up the stairs to comfort her and help her not tip into the toilet when she fell back asleep going potty.  Daddy and I met each other at her bedroom door, him looking confused and me looking like one of The Walking Dead.

No more thunder (or so I thought) and I go back to sleep in my bed.  Again, thanks to Mr. Ambien, daddy is out in mere seconds while I try to position the pillows around the rapidly growing belly for minimum discomfort.  I drift off to sleep...

Until 4:45 a.m. when a second round of storms go through and I end up stumbling BACK down the steps to quiet the dog before she wakes the rest of the house.  I conk out on the couch when click! the table lamp on the timer clicks on to start the day.  Only it's an hour early because I have forgotten to reset the time with the conclusion of Daylight Savings Time.

I.
give.
up.

Uncle!  Uncle! Uncle!

ZZZzzz....

Today was a tired, tired day.  I'm just wiped.  Violet was in a super mood, but Milo was tired -- and he should be.  We let them stay up a smidge late last night and then he woke up early on top of it.  It was darn sweet that he wanted to talk to the babies this morning, to tell them "Good morning!"

I just wish it had been at 7:30 instead of 6:30.

When Milo is tired, he does not deal well with frustration.  So he was not a happy camper when struggling with a Wii game this morning, nor did he appreciate it when I realized halfway into making a batch of sugar cookies, that I didn't have enough flour to continue.

So, yeah.  Tired day for mama and tired day for son.  Hopefully, well both sleep better tonight!  Although, I'm just guessing that he doesn't get up three time to pee...

'Till Jeweler Shall We Part

I had to do something today that made me pretty darn sad.

I had to have my wedding and engagement rings cut off of my finger.

How did I get into this predicament?  Well, I managed to get the sucker off when I was about 7 months pregnant with Violet.  It was tough, but after some persistence, ice, olive oil, and dental floss, I did it.  After she was born, I crammed it back on there where it has stayed -- for approximately 3 1/2 years, stuck as stuck can be.

Here I am, pregnant again and still fat.  Sure, I'm only up about 4 pounds (not bad considering there's two in there and I'm almost 16 weeks), but, as I told the pleasant jeweler who helped me escape my matrimonial bond, I'm not going to get smaller for a while.  I don't think that this was the first time someone had wandered into the store to ask for help in this predicament, he was very gentle and helpful and the skinny sales lady wasn't judgmental --I was actually afraid that someone might give me a dirty look or two for allowing myself to get fat enough to grow around my wedding ring.

But as the ring separated and the jeweler gently pried it open enough to slip off my finger, I had a brief moment of "AAAaahhhh!  Don't take that!  My Scottie picked that for me!"

I joked with my patient hubby, "This doesn't mean I think I'm not married, I promise!"  But I feel naked.  I must touch that ring a thousand times a day, the cool metal serving as an unconscious touchstone.  Now I feel a band of a different sort -- a narrow band of compressed finger fat that marks the place where my ring was.  My finger IS naked.

Logically I understand that it isn't safe to have a ring on your finger that is too small.  Logically I understand why I made the decision to have it surgically removed.  But, honey, I am still very much married to you and always will be.  I promise this.

I do.

Overheard at My House Today

If you were hanging out with us around the old homestead today, you just might have heard the following conversations:

Scott: Why aren't kids born with an intrinsic knowledge of how to put gloves on?

Milo: Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom! Mom! MOM! MOM!! MO-O-OM!!!!
Me: What?!? (I was in the shower)
Milo: I just wanted to say I love you.
Me: Shakes dripping wet head while shivering in a towel, leaving wet footprints




Violet:  Can't catch me 'cuz I'm the gingerbread man!



Milo:  I think it doesn't get foggy in town because the buildings scare it away.

Violet: mumble, mumble, mumble
Scott: What did you say?
Violet: mumble, mumble, mumble
Scott: What did you say? Honey, what did she say?
Me: She said she has to go potty. You'd better move!

Sonic and Cauliflower: Revealed

Oh, so many of you were close!  Sonic and Cauliflower are...

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

The names for the twins suggested by our older children.  And what we are calling them in utero for lack of a better option.

When asked, "What shall we name the babies?"  they responded immediately -- Milo quipping "Sonic for  boy!" and Violet squeaking "Cauliflower for a girl!"  Milo was nicknames "Worm" and then "Fergus the Fetus."  Violet was "Wiggle" because I felt her at 12 weeks and then "Kiwi," provided by Uncle Furry. 

And these two are "Sonic" and "Cauliflower."  At least for now.  I'm only almost 14 weeks, so I'm pretty sure we'll think of something a bit more, umm...  namely for them.  In the mean time, I very selfishly get to enjoy their twin dance party.  Apparently, they love it already when they hear their siblings voices.  Gotta love it now because pretty soon I'll be warning the ones on the inside to "quit poking your sister (or brother)" as much as I chide the ones on the outside.