Misery Sure Does Love Company


Not to say that I’m miserable. Well ok, I am miserable on certain days but if you ask my hubby I’m miserable every day. That’s because he only sees me after I’ve put up with two screaming kids for twelve straight hours. Anyone would be miserable, am I right? He misses all the happy, silly moments that also make up our day.He mostly sees me when I’m at the end of my rope, my nerves shredded from a long day of temper tantrums and meltdowns times two.

Nobody understands my misery situation like my fellow mummy who also has two little ones. I got some much needed time with her this past weekend. She graciously opened up her home to me, the hubby, and our two darling lovelies. Yes, she’s that nice! She willingly agreed to house our crazy clan for a few days. It actually wasn’t as chaotic as you’d think having a 3 year old, 2 year old, 9 month old, and 7 month old all under the same roof. Luckily they have a huge roof!

It was so much fun! All the babies bonded and had fun playing together. And we got to vent/share all our mummy concerns and stories, making me feel like everything I’m going through and doing is normal. So it’s safe to say that we were definitely in good company comparing sleep schedules, fussiness, and eating habits.There’s just something special about swapping parenting stories especially when you’ve known the other mom since she was a kid herself. You still remember when you were in kindergarten together drawing pictures of unicorns and rainbows and now your kids are playing play dough on the dining room floor together. Special doesn’t even begin to sum it up.

The first night we were there, the men were “allowed” to go out to the baseball game what with it being opening night and all. Maybe we were trying to prove something, but we agreed that everything would be just fine without them. We waved off their concerns if we’d be alright on our own with four little ones to feed, bathe, and put to bed. Clearly we were outnumbered, but puh-lease, we could do it with our eyes closed, one hand tied behind our back, and a baby attached to a boob. So we told them to enjoy their night out, guaranteeing us our own night away for later during the weekend. Suckers!

I’m not gonna lie, at one point I thought we’d never get them all to bed before midnight because at any one time one baby (usually mine) was fussing and being ignored. It just can’t be helped when you’re chasing a toddler with sticky fingers and a poopy diaper.

But I’m happy to report that we had them all tended to and quietly tucked in by 8. After feeling like we’d won the World Series of child-rearing, we literally high-fived over our wine glasses and settled in for some more mom talk until our yet-to-be-mom friend joined us and relieved us of spending the whole night wallowing in our shared misery, um, I mean motherhood. We got on to discussing more pressing things like Real H-wives and the last time we bought new underwear, you know, what really matters.

Just Sayin’

Dec 2012 253

This is now my reality. The little one used to be a dream. Would sleep all night without a peep. Never fussed or cried. Would be so quiet that I’d literally forget about her in the next room. Then she hit four months and turned into a nightmare.

I struggled for weeks trying to figure out what was the cause of her constant screaming. Could it be reflux? Colic? A sleep regression? A mental leap? Teething? That she hated me and wanted to extinguish my will to live? Yes, that had to be it! Because at her multiple awakenings in the middle of the night where she screamed bloody murder with no end in sight, it sure felt like that was her intention. But she’s just a baby, not capable of manipulation the books say. Pssshshaw, sure she is!

She has everyone completely buffaloed that she’s still the perfect baby I bragged about in the beginning. (I know, bragging about her was my first mistake.) She grins and coos it up, blowing just the right amount of bubbles and blinking her huge expressive doe eyes. However, as soon as we’re alone again, she lets me have it — assaulting me with her rage like she’s the warden and I’m her lowly peon.

I think I’ve finally figured out the problem though — I was starving her. My milk supply was low and she wasn’t satisfied. Pretty awful, I know. I am a complete bear when I’m hungry and she takes after her mummy. So I can’t really blame her for being pissed. And now I think back to all those terrible nights when she wouldn’t nurse but would cry and cry from hunger. All the frustration and empty threats of jumping off a cliff could all have been avoided by simply giving her a bottle.

Just goes to show that even as a second-time mom I have no effing clue what I’m doing…just sayin’.


Inca Hoots

inca hoots

was the name of a store in the pathetic excuse of a mall in the town I grew up in. Nobody ever bought anything from it as it sold southwestern style wall hangings and wolf figurines. Not exactly the mall’s demographic. When we were twelve my friends and I used to walk through it for a laugh. It seemed like the kind of crap our grandparents would own, and probably did.

What brings me back to the memory of this sad little shop is my middle-of-the-night awakenings from my two lovely daughters. Except lovely isn’t the term I use at two in the morning. I won’t write what I actually say because I’d be hauled away and you’d think I was the worst mother in the world.

I no longer have the perfect baby and it really pains me to admit it. Literally pains me. I don’t know what the hell is going on with the little one (or the big one for that matter) but she’s stopped sleeping through the night, doesn’t want to eat at regular times, and can’t be soothed by anything. It’s my worst nightmare because added to that is the toddler who doesn’t know the meaning of slow down. She’s on turbo speed twenty-four seven. Plus we just moved into a new house so nothing is where it should be and it’s impossible to get anything done.

So on the off night that the baby is sleeping better, the big one will decide it’s time to scream and cry right when the hubby and I have just drifted off to dreamland. And then they take turns whining and whimpering until the sun decides to come up (or even before) and we’re forced to start the day with only three hours of chopped up sleep, hence “in cahoots.”

It’s like having not one, but two Stewies. They both want to destroy me. And will most likely succeed sooner than later at the rate we’re going. I’ve seen them give each other the look before the big one is carted off to bed. I see the glimmer in her eye that says, “Don’t worry Sissy. I’ve got the first round. You can sit back and relax for a bit…save up for your turn.”

And I’m sure this is just the beginning. They will conspire for years to come. One will always be the lookout whether it’s to get the chair positioned just right to reach the candy cupboard (yes I have a cabinet for candy, how do you think I survive each day?) or when they’re teenagers rolling the car down the driveway. Something tells me they will always have their stories straight.

We are so doomed.

Silencing the Lambs

One of those muzzles that Hannibal wears would do me a lot of good right about now. Maybe it would calm my toddler as she’s thrashing around during one of her many temper tantrums. Thank god she’s not a biter (yet) or I might really need one of those masks. I joke that I’m going to invent a line of children’s straightjackets (all in adorable and kid-friendly prints) and use my daughter as the poster child. But somehow I don’t think it’ll go over too well. I can just hear all the critics already–abuse this and unfit parent that. Blah blah blah.

I’m not a first-time mom anymore. I have 2 kids under my belt, so I’m a seasoned pro…hah. But I feel like a first-time mom again because I’ve entered the toddler phase. This is one phase I would like to skip entirely and maybe the next sixteen years for that matter. I find myself wondering if there is an age limit on those safe haven places. Would I be taken to jail if I abandoned my toddler there? Would jail be a nice retreat…think of all the reading and writing I could get done.

I wish that babies could stay babies forever. I love the sweet smells, the happy coos, the wide innocent eyes. I’m not ready to deal with the defiance my toddler is already exhibiting. She’s not even two yet–two more months to go–and we’re already deep into The Terribleness. I have to tell myself that she’s so advanced and that’s why we’re here ahead of schedule.

Yet, I fear I won’t make it out alive. My hubby fears for that too. Before he went back to work after Baby #2, he voiced his concern that I wouldn’t be okay with two screaming kids — lucky for me only one of them is a screamer. I told him we’d be fine and we are for the most part. We have a routine and do best when we stick to it. But when we veer off track, it’s ugly and I have to figure out a way to silence the lambs that doesn’t actually include any type of slaughtering. I guess that’s where my old friend wine comes in.

Hello, old friend.


Six weeks ago today I gave birth to another beautiful baby girl. It was an amazingly quick Hypno water birth (how granola of me, huh?) It was exactly the smooth and easy birth I wanted and we were back home within a couple hours. Let’s all say it together, child-bearing hips. I’m just glad they were useful for something.

Not to toot my own horn or anything but I’m pretty awesome at popping out babies. The hubby doesn’t know how lucky he is. There was no screaming profanities at him while I squeezed the crap out of his hand with each contraction and no mention that “he was the one who did this to me” through gritted teeth and crazy eyes. It was quiet and peaceful but most importantly, quick.

He does know how lucky he is though, he was bragging to complete strangers at his job (thanks hon) about our easy birth. I say “our”, but we all know I mean MY easy birth. Of course he had it easy too…he didn’t have to massage my shoulders or feed me ice chips–it was over before we knew it! He barely had time to pick up Rashard Mendenhall for our Fantasy Football team–I kid you not!

It’s a shame that this will be my last unless we have any mistakes surprises in the future. I will miss being pregnant. But on another note, I’m glad to be able to sleep on my back again, to not have intense burning heartburn every night, and to pee an appropriate number of times in a 24 hour period.

This go round has been super easy from the start. Unlike our first daughter, we can set this one down and she won’t instantly cry. She lets me get enough sleep to form a complete sentence and she’s a champion eater (already up 3 pounds!) It’s like I hit the baby jackpot!

So I’ve been enjoying this babymoon, trying to savor each moment because it is so fleeting. Six weeks have already gone by. And as crazy as it sounds, I’d go back to the night I had her and do it all over again just to relive that moment when she entered the world and joined our family. It was pure bliss.

Strippers and Babies Don’t Mix

Pregnancy does some weird things to you physically and mentally. Your body balloons in size, the smell of chili makes you retch, you drool like a Saint Bernard in your sleep, and you lose all rational thought. Who wouldn’t want to spend nine months like this?

Besides getting to the uncomfortable stage since I’m near the end, I’ve had to deal with some pretty vivid and messed up dreams. This one from last night really takes the cake.

I woke up in a sweaty panic thinking that the hubby really was cheating on me with a Japanese stripper named Skoshi and that he didn’t care one bit as I cussed him out for being such an effing A-hole. Even his own mother was there telling him what a pig he was. And still he didn’t care that I was about to pop out his second kid and he was off gallivanting with filth! Confessed and flaunted it right to my face! The nerve, I know.

The hubby always thinks I’m crazy when I have dreams like this and wake up angry at him. He never remembers his dreams and if he does, they’re always about flying through space or killing zombies–typical dude stuff. So he can’t relate when my overly dramatic unconscious mind concocts these wacky scenarios.

I don’t remember all the details, but those were enough to give me an icky feeling when I woke up. But I was so happy that I indeed did wake up and it was all just a dream. Such a relief that I wouldn’t have to chop his balls off.

I’ve heard other pregnant women complain about similar dreams of infidelity because we don’t feel attractive anymore and are insecure because our bodies aren’t what they used to be. This makes sense because with each passing day I feel more and more like a beached whale despite the fact that I’m growing a human.

I just hope I can make it to the end without Skoshi making another appearance because if she does, this preggo mama is gonna give her a beat down!

Fog of Denial

You would think that my burgeoning belly (and the squirming baby inside) would snuff out this fog of denial that’s been lingering around me for the past 37 weeks, but it hasn’t. Well, it’s starting to as my midsection is so huge now that I can’t see beyond my belly button and every time I pick my daughter up it feels as if my crotch is gonna fall out from under me. These are pretty tell-tale signs along with the never-ending heartburn and mini-earthquakes inside my abdomen that soon I will give birth. But it’s taken nine months to sink in.

Don’t get me wrong, like I’ve said before I’m really excited to be welcoming a new life into our family and I was thrilled from the moment we found out we were expecting, but it all seems a little surreal still. I felt this way with my first so maybe it’s just the norm for me. Not until I’m holding this baby in my arms will it finally occur that I’m a mom to TWO kids!!

As the hubby stares in what is supposed to be awe at my changing physique (all I see is terror), he can’t help but comment, “There’s a baby in there!” Well no shit Sherlock. I wish for one day he could be pregnant and know what it feels like. I’m not complaining, I’m one of those freaks of nature that actually likes being pregnant but it’s something I usually don’t forget about on a daily basis as I’m sure he sometimes did in the beginning and still does. The other comment I love from him is, “Oh my god. We’re having another baby.” It’s these moments when I look at him like, “Duh, welcome to Earth…have we met?” No wonder I walk around in a self-induced fog.

Today the fog of denial was officially lifted. My daughter needed a box of diapers and realizing I didn’t have any for our new arrival (that’s how prepared I am!) I threw in a box of newborns as well. I purchased two boxes of different-sized diapers.

That did it.

Fog gone.

Holy shitballs, we’re having another baby!

Forever Hold Your Peace, Lady!

Today as I stood in the checkout line at the grocery store allowing my 18 month old to hold my bag of candy so she’d be quiet, this woman standing next to us said, “Oh you’re going to have another one pretty soon.”

“Yep, 3 or 4 more weeks.”

She responded with an exasperated look. “And how old is this one?”

“18 months.”

“Was it planned?” She asked.

Instead of saying it was none of her business like I wish I had, I said no, but it wasn’t unplanned. I politely laughed and said I was getting it all over with in one shot and never looking back to diapers or sleepless nights. (Hah, yeah right.)

She then proceeded to tell me that she started potty-training her son when he was…wait for it…four months old. Four months old?! Riigghhht. Like I really believe that. She was such a “veteran” that I doubt she remembered where she parked her car, let alone forty-some odd years before. Then she went on to share how she could only deal with one kid at a time, that’s why she spaced hers out 8 and 10 years apart. I’m sorry but that just sounds like torture to me. Why would you want to go backwards and do the whole baby thing over again once you have a ten year old? But did I say that to her face followed by a look of extreme disapproval? No, because I have manners and a filter, unlike her.

A checker rescued me and I was happy to leave Negative Nelly behind, but she kept right on talking as I made my way into the next lane. I couldn’t see her face anymore, but I could hear her jabbering away at me, spewing out more unwanted advice on how to potty-train my infant. At first I pretended to care as I hurriedly threw my items on the conveyor belt, then I said screw it and let her talk at the wall of magazines and bags of chips separating us.

To the next bitter lady that makes me feel this way about my life choices I shall say, “I’m happy my kids will be so close in age (ask me again in 2 months) and I could give a rat’s ass that my 1 1/2 year old is not potty-trained yet. Thank you, ma’am.”

God, I hope I never become that lady. And if I do, as my Mummy likes to say, “Just put a pillow over my face and say goodnight.”

Pinteresting, Very Pinteresting

I could blame my lack of blogging on chasing around my 17 month old toddler or I could blame it on my lack of creativity because baby brain has officially taken over, but I’m going to blame it on Pinterest. I’m a little behind in joining the craze, but now that I have, I see what all the fuss is about. It’s like window shopping without any kind of budget or guilt, loading up my online shopping cart with everything my little heart desires only never pressing proceed to checkout. I can “pin” and “repin” all sorts of pictures of outfits, dream homes, recipes, and accessories all the livelong day and not spend one cent (the hubby loves this part of it).

It should be called Greediest though as I want almost everything I see. Good thing I’m not a shopaholic or else this would be like crack cocaine.

So for those who don’t know what Pinterest is, it’s basically an online bulletin board of anything and everything you could ever want. It keeps all the things you like in one place so you can daydream and wish upon a star that you had enough money and time to actually attain any of it. It’s really sort of depressing in a way. Sure it’s great for recipes because that’s stuff you might actually use in real life, but the photos of faraway places and million dollar kitchens is just a fantasy and always will be. Makes me a little sad and adds to this fog of denial that I’ve been living in for…oh, probably my whole life.

Somehow seeing everything I’ve pinned in one place is enough though. It’s my 50 Shades of Grey, so to speak (no, I haven’t read the book…yet). It completely takes over my brain and enslaves me. I can’t help but look at my boards throughout the day and pin things I just have to have. Like that dress I could never pull off or those shoes that would collect dust in my closest.

Really, it’s nothing like 50 Shades of Grey. It’s probably the antithesis of it because it’s like shopping abstinence and we all know there was no abstaining of any sort in that book.

Guess I’ll keep enjoying my new-found addiction until this baby comes along and I have zero time for anything again!

Time To Bust Out The Chundies

Chundies, as I’ve been referring to them recently, are chubby undies. Or granny panties. Or circus tents. Or whatever creative way you want to say big ol’ chonies. If I’m going to be honest, I busted out the chundies long ago in this pregnancy but I’m only just now getting around to writing about it…as if you’d been waiting your whole life to read this.

This Mummy has never been a thong, thong, thong, thong girl. When did I ever have to worry about panty lines? Never! And even if I did, I don’t think I would sacrifice my comfort by wearing butt floss just so that others wouldn’t be troubled by my visible underwear lines.

I don’t really understand the whole thong phenomenon. I get it if you’re wearing some fancy, curve-hugging number or you’re Giselle sashaying down the runway but just in everyday wear? To work and to the grocery store? Doesn’t make sense to me! Why would I want a skinny little piece of string up my crack all day? Sounds like torture.

As much as I’m a comfortable undies kind of gal, there is something terribly embarrassing about chundies. They’re just plain big and unsexy. It’s like trying to fold a parachute — you can’t really tell the front from the back. You don’t want anyone else in the world to see them either on you or in your drawers. You pray that your shirt doesn’t ride up in the back exposing your chundies bunched up around the top of your jeans…yes, there’s so much fabric that they bunch.

Almost everything about pregnancy is weird and embarrassing. When your body is taken over by ravaging hormones and an alien literally sucking the life out of you, you want to be comfy at all costs. So your pride is the first to go and then it’s your pretty, lacy underthings. I feel sorry for the women who are too ashamed to join the land of chundies, putting their comfort (and asses) at risk for the sake of femininity.

For now and the next four months I’m going to enjoy the comfort of my chundies and then throw them all away in a ceremony marking the end of my baby-making days. But don’t be fooled, this Mummy will never completely leave her chundies behind (though I definitely should). As any normal woman knows, there is always a spare chundie stuffed in the back of your underwear drawer.