Jessica's Blog

one hand typing while nursing.

honey girl knows just the thing to top off a summer early evening.  we just got home from picking up big boy.  this time is honestly the most nightmarish of the whole day, as everyone is hungry, tired, grumpy and easily angered.  honey girl says, "momma! iwant to see monkey george... the MOVIE monkey george!"  i think about it a minute and figure, why not? 

big boy starts huffing and puffing about hating it.. all the while throwing his shoes off, flinging his lunchbox onto the counter.  I sigh and suggest other activities for him: blocks, books, legos, puzzles, magnets, computer... yadda yadda ARGH!

fyi... "monkey george" would be Curious George

no sooner does Jack Johnson start singing the intro, a hush falls upon the perseverating, griping, "outside voices" pontificating kiddos.  notice i did not say screaming mi-mi?  they smile, chuckle quietly to themselves... Little lady is latched on and oh-so-busy. 

peace is temporarily returned to the kingdom.

thank goodness for monkey george.... the movie... not the tv show...the movie.

ooop... now honey girl is launching into her hungry-thirsty whine fest..... she's almost three.  god help us.

Hubby took last week off of work.  We kept the usual schedule so that we could have time together and time with Little Lady.  Simply put... we kept Honey Girl and Big Boy in their schools and camps.

It was glorious.  Never underestimate the beauty of being able to have a conversation with a partner in life uninterrupted by a "mommy!" or "Daddy!" or "I want" or general fighting or noise of a 2 and 4 year old.  Little Lady is still too small to interrupt conversation.  heh heh heh.

I had a week of living the life most people think a stay at home mom leads.  As in: we sat around, watched movies, snacked, didn't do any errands or laundry or housework.  We let the kids stay up late an sleep in.  We got them to their activities "late" but what does that mean when you're two and four?!??  We simply hung out and took care of Little Lady.

Or, I should say Hubby took care of LIttle Lady.  With a fevah!  He took that little baby in his arms and babbled with her, gave her bottles, changed her, held her, and she got really really good at puking all over him with great regularity.  Often.  So much so I joked that he really shouldn't throw out any of his old t-shirts because he'll need them for a while longer; for the three and four t-shirt changes a day he's been doing. 

It is beautiful to watch the whole father-daughter bond grow, to see how she coos and smiles up at him, how she falls asleep in his arms.  Hubby puts Little Lady down for the night as often as I do.  Right now she's snoring lightly against his neck and he's waiting for her to be deep enough in sleep to put her in her crib. *fingers crossed* there they go.. up the stairs...and I hear a belch, we'll see how this plays out. ;-)

... and here they come back down the stairs.  Her wide brown eyes and little inquisitive 10 week-old look.  Guess that means I'm on!

It was a great week.  I am so happy Hubby mucked with my routines and shook up my days.

Dreams are very powerful.

I have had a recurring dream since I was eleven years old.  I have had this dream ever since I joined the San Francisco Girls Chorus.  The performing group was very very strict, to the point of being a mildly to outright emotionally abusive group to be a part of.  Such was the nature of the performance beast, though.  How do you get large groups of 11 to 16 year old girls to behave and perform in  a flawless manner?  Fear, intimidation, competition, expectation.  It was made very clear to us with great regularity that no one watching us perform gave a crap about us beyond our ability to perform flawlessly.  Not matter what, you smile, you put in your best or you will be seen as losers... like that dreadful boys chorus! *wink* Ah, it was a perfect match for a girl with a childhood like mine.

It was an amazing experience.  I traveled across the country and across the world.  I was in San Francisco Opera productions, Symphony productions (oi, the rehearsals!), performed all over the place all kinds of music, met all kinds of folks.  I'm being exceedingly brief.

But

The dream.

It's a very typical anxiety dream of not showing up where I'm supposed to, in the correct uniform, knowing the correct repertoire.  Was it the pinks, blue and golds, sweats, or reds?  Another part of the anxiety dream is the call time, because on time is fifteen minutes early.

In the dreams I get it all wrong, stand in the wrong section, completely lost when a song starts of what my part is.. all the while getting the evil eye from the director.  A look that could crumble mount Rushmore... a look that just might make Alberto Gonzales tell the freakin' truth it put such fear into the heart.

In some of the dreams it's all in the preparation.  I'm rushing through my house, ironing a uniform blouse, lugging my sweats from the dryer, desperately packing a garment bag and hoping to not miss a flight.

The dream I had Saturday morning was much like the preparation dream.  But something very VERY different happened.  In the dream I was packing up a bag and getting my music folder out.  All the usual feelings of rush rush rush, adrenaline, adrenaline.  But then I stopped.  I stopped, took a deep breath and sighed.  "I'm not going to do this anymore." I said to myself, "This simply is not fitting into my life anymore, I have too much else to do that is so much more fun, so much more important."  And then I picked up my cell phone to call the director to apologize, but that I was resigning from it all indefinitely.

Now this may not seem too significant, but when I told each of my parents about the dream they both gave a "Whoa!"  My dad thought it was really very interesting and "big" that it ended differently this time.  My mom of course thought it was great, then told me about her dream of being at My Gym and being asked to do a forward roll, and not being able to do it.

I'm taking it as a big green light from the universe to let go of commitments that don't fit for me or my family.  I'm putting a stop sign on things that make my heart race in that obligatory "must perform" kind of way.  I felt really good at the end of that dream.  I'm thinking the fact that I woke up between Hubby and a snoozing Little Lady smooshed up against my tummy and nursing had nothing to do with it. ;-)

Hey Grampa,

You have been on my mind quite a bit lately, so I thought I would drop you a line.  I decided to write you after I moved your leather jacket from Little Lady's closet to the office closet today, came across your sunglasses in my top dresser drawer, and your funky shirt folded up in a corner of another closet.  I know it's been over a year and a half, but I still get soothed by these sentimental reminders of you I have lying around.  They no longer smell like you, and the longer I have them, the more they become just things instead of your things.  But they prompted me writing, so there.

Big Boy stills asks about you, about what happened to you, about the cancer.  Sometimes he says he wants to know when you will be back.  That's hard.  We watched a movie of you the other day and Big Boy just watched and watched.

I'm able to think about you without feeling sad or upset now.  Yes, it's taken me this long.  More and more memories of you come back in funny ways.  Good memories, funny memories, quiet memories.  Or, I find myself doing things the way you would; saying things the way you would say them.  I don't get tripped up or weepy when I want to talk to you too often.  I think of you.  When I do something funny or just plain stupid, I swear I hear you laughing at me.  "If it's worth doing once, it's worth doing three or four times, right?"  When I do something well, I hear your saying: "I took more than my lunchbox to school, thank you very much."  When I'm not sure whether to gripe or be quiet I think of your "stay in your own little pile of S&*$ and shut up" joke. 

Today Honey Girl did the best impersonation of "the tired postman hop" of any family member thus far.... and she never saw YOU do it!  It was hilarious and I wish we had filmed it.  Maybe she'll do it again for her poppa's next visit.

Too keep it short (because I know you're busy watching over Grandma and Dad too)  I want you to know I listened to every word you ever shared with me;  the things you wanted me to know, the stories you wanted to share, the huge amount you loved me.  I'm now understanding more and more why people say our ancestors live on in us.  You are with me always.

Maya Angelou says you may not remember what someone says to you, but you never forget how they make you feel.  I think of you when I remember that quote.

Your no-good, ain't worth a quarter in Chi-ney money, hoodlum, homely, dumb-dumb grandaughter,
-GBJ (grand-baby-jess)

Now, ain't that just sad?  Ain't that pitiful?!?  See?!?  I hear you again!

Hubby was making me coffee today.  As he was getting the grounds into the filter ( I was nursing on the couch... Little Lady growth spurt.. ooof)  he started talking to me.

"So did you see that yesterday, or the day before..??? or was it two days ago?" he says
"Oh three or four?  I dunno"  I say

Then he gets a look on his face.

"Oh, man."  he nearly groans.. since Hubby is no whiner.
"What is it?"
"I can't remember if that was the third or fourth tablespoon.... could you come and eyeball it for me and see if it's right?"

... Once our laughter at the irony subsides, I make my way over with Little Lady attached to peek into the filter.

"You're one and half tablespoons shy."  I say with a chuckle.

hmmm... eyeballing: 1  engineering: 1  what will be next?

We tackled another closet today. 

We organized Little Lady's closet.  Container Store Elfa system as per consumer reports gold star rating.  We have only one more closet to do this to in the house and I imagine by New Year it will be done too.    It looks great.  And the boxes and bags and flotsam and jetsum are all off of the floor and in their places.  The room looks like a room and not a storage room that happens to have a crib/changing table and sleeping baby in it. Another room completely transformed and made livable.  It didn't kill us, since we knew we were keeping everything.  But.... *deep breath* now we can find things again.  We know where to put things again.  We have room to grow and change again.  I can now get Little Lady dressed in a timely manner and find what I want to dress her in.

This closet was a trickier job in that this room will become Big Boy's room in another year or so when either 1) he develops more modesty and would like to not have his sis see him nakies or 2) Little Lady is ready to share a room or ready for her big girl bed.  So we have dresser area, double hang area above it, long hang area, shelves.  OOoooooh, my inner Martha was drooling when I planned it out at The Container Store.  Space for the diaper boxes, wipes, garbage liners, steam cleaner, luggage, and with room to spare, please.  When Big Boy moves into that smaller room, his bed and desk (when he gets it)  will be out, and the shelves and such can transition to school work etc. storage and organization.  His dresser will go to Little Lady as she rooms with Honey Girl.

Girls dorm, boy dorm.

As a little bonus we also got a three hook hanger system for the kids bathroom.  This has taken the place of the towel rack that was there.  Now each kid gets a double hook for their towel and washcloth.  No more hooded towels hanging on cabinet knobs, no more towels blocking the light switch.  No more wondering whose washcloths were whose.  Or hanging them here and there.

I love this house so much.  So does Hubby.  We were talking about it today as I vacuumed up our construction debris.  This house is just so darned functional.  It just makes sense.  It fits us and our lifestyles to a t.  Tonight after putting the babes down, we sat down on the couches, took our few deep breaths of relaxation and transition to "grown up time" and I said, "We're never moving again."  Hubby smiled and said, "Nope.  And if we do... we'll just buy all new stuff."

A place for everything and everything in it's place.  I love you, house.  Now, if we could just get solar panels.....

It never fails.  These are some of my notes to myself.

Don't eat leafy greens.  Meaning kales, collards, mustards, beets or spinach. Gosh I love that stuff so much, and to not have it is a bummer.  The baby is up all night hollering and burping, arching and weeping.

Don't eat spicy things.  Even relish on a 4th of July hot dog will not be baby's friend.  Stick to ketchup.  Sorry, but Thai and wasabi might not be such a hot idea.

Sweets are appreciated, but not chocolates.  Especially any darker *goooood* chocolates.

If in doubt about if my diet is upsetting to the babe, have some rice and boiled chicken... if baby is fussy, it's not me!

I seem to forget this each time through.  I also seem to forget that while breast-feeding my body does not tolerate wheat or dairy.  What happens is I get a systemic breast infection of yeast.  It happens a lot to me.  Has happened a lot.  Once with Big Boy, twice with Honey Girl.  As of today, I'm there effin' again.  The exhaustion, aching joints, burning, stinging, stabbing let down,  tummy bloating, headaches.  It. Sucks.  No, not supper horrible, just more the nagging feeling of "when will I learn that this is just the way it will be every time???"

So I guess it's safe to say I will be enjoying my alternative grains and spending more time at Whole Foods.  Wheat Free Yeast free bread, making Hummus, enjoying peanut butter, quinoa, brown rice, kamut pasta, spelt, using olive oil.  YAY!  No, I won't put the fam on that diet.  The kids are dairy sensitive, but not allergic, and to not do  wheat for them seems idiotic.  Why torture them with spelt?  I have cupboards loaded with pastas.

I'm actually kind of okay with it.  I know I'll get better.  I know this is what my body does while making milk.  Doc thinks it may be due to the immune supression.  I think it may be due to all the stuff I avoid to not upset babies tummy, but eat in order to quell the nursing hunger, and how it throws my usual diet off balance.  I know that it's my body's way of keeping me on more of a straight and narrow in a stressful time.  I mean c'mon.  No wheat cuts out a lot of fattening goodies.  No sugar in my coffee, no ice cream, no cheeses, no wine or alcohol, avoiding things that are fermented.

I've been here, I've done this.  So tonight I am enjoying a glass of wine to say good by to it for a while.  *sniff* *sniff*  what's a no-cal girl without her chardonnay?

On I go.  Onwards and upwards, I have no doubt about that.

Little Lady has decided it's the breast or nothing.  At least not without a lot of fuss.  She puts Hubby through the paces when it's his time to bottle feed her.

It's understandable.  Formula is nasty stuff.  Many will say babies don't know any different.  I imagine that's true for babes who don't get both breast milk and formula.  But this Little Lady has made a very clear decision at eight weeks of age:  The formula sucks.  Give me the boob!

It's hard for me to see Little Lady with Hubby in this struggle.  The screams, the contorting, the red faced hollers.  For me it's more of a feeling of, "Ok, fine.  Here... take the breast.  You might not get your ten prescribed ounces, but clearly this makes you happier, and I get the sweet relief too."  But Hubby doesn't have that choice.  Daddies have to hold these unhappy babes until they fall asleep exhausted from screaming or fussing.  It's a bummer, really.

If she's hungry and the water for the formula is warmed, she accepts it a bit better.  She'll return quite a bit of it on the first burp, but she'll get it down.

I have to admit, I'm happy that my product is the (excuse the pun) cream of the crop, and that she seems to be thriving beautifully whether or not she gets the ten ounces of Lacto-free a day.  Considering how rough it was at first, it feels fantastic to be back to my previous "milk makin' momma" status.  That, I love.  Our pocketbooks appreciate it too.  The cost of formula is nothing to sneeze at.  We keep and use every coupon we are sent by Enfamil.

But still, it is not easy to see how patiently , gracefully, and lovingly Hubby handles this little creature that is screaming for him to take that bottle and shove it somewhere other than in her face.  Be nicer, sweet Little Lady; Daddy loves you so much and is there for you.. even when you seem to want to tear his throat out!

Little Lady gets her two month appointment this coming week.  We'll see how she's progressing.  I don't think Dr. B will be upset that she's not getting ten ounces every day.  I'll have to do an update on her, our graceful gorgeous luscious littlest one.

When I was eight years old, I was given a cool birthday gift: Barnaby the Bandstand Bear.  He was a beautiful brown bear dressed  in a red felt bandmaster's uniform.  Fake leather collar, yellow felt epaulettes.  He had a hat that had a big circle on it that read "Barnaby the Bandstand Bear".  He was  my new BFF.  He even sat out on the front step while I roller skated the next day.  It was the start of something big. 

Barnuby was in the napsack as my sis and I hoped from house to house in our post-divorce childhoods.  Different beds, dad's different apartments until he got a more settled house, mom's place before it really became our home in the city ie, before the other folks living there all moved out and it was no longer shared. 

Before I had that bear I never had a significant stuffed animal.  I had had a blanket named Mimi when I was a lot younger... I can blog about that some other time.  It wasn't much of a surprise I bonded to the bear.  Things were really horrible for my family at that point.  My parents were divorcing.  My mom had lost her marbles and was in the hospital.  Not many girls came to the birthday party because word had gotten out about the shattering of our family, and that my dad was the grown up hosting.  A MAN???  Around my daughter?!?!

Barnaby went with me everywhere.  Everywhere.  Every place I went, he went.  This was usually trips to see family and camping trips or camp.  One of the worste villains of the tween years of my life hid him from me at Girls Chorus Camp and I cleaned that heifer's clock.  I was 12. 

Barnaby won "most loved" in a teddy bear competition in middle school.  He was in the year book.  By then, the bandstand uniform was long gone history, it had worn off a couple years earlier.

In high school it continued.  I had a boyfriend who found it laughable, but couldn't say much more.  Barnuby had made trips to Hawaii, Arizona, New Mexico, Oregon, Washington, Canada,  North Carolina, Korea and Japan.

In college I had the perfect roommate, she had Bear Matthew Smith (Jillian, where is that bear now??).  Barnuby had travelled through Europe summer after my senior year, backpacked north of Yosemite,  and had done a cross country trip to get to Oberlin.

Barnaby did NOT road trip cross country and back  with me my senior year at Oberlin.  Dave's brother couldn't believe I decided to leave him at home, and sent me packing with his  bear, Snuffy.

After College Barnaby remained.  Barnaby was still in the picture when I met Hubby.  In fact, Hubby was the downfall of Barnaby in the best possible way.  I took Barnaby on a trip to Alaska (a writer's conference in Sitka) shortly after getting involved with Hubby.  I left him there!  I forgot to pack him home!  I got him back, no worries.  I left a message for the dorm where we stayed that a bear wearing a "bear hug" sweater and answering to the name of Barnaby was left there.. and they might find him walking by the water or checking out the bald eagles or going kayaking.  They shipped him back to me with a great letter about all he had done while enjoying Sitka.

My mom always said she knew Hubby was "the one" for me when I  left Barnaby behind on that trip.

Barnaby is now safely stowed upstairs in a closet.  I still hug him when I come across him.

I'm writing about Barnaby because I owe my mom an apology.  See, she has a bear that sits in the back of her car.  I put it there originally  back in 1987 when she got an Oldsmobile.  We jokingly called it her Inner Child... which has now been shortened to "I.C." 

My mom got a new car today.  A gorgeous Honda CRV.  We stopped by the dealership to do some hand holding.  Sitting; or... lying in tattered and (as Grandma Toni would say) sorry a#$ shape on the table in front of her was I.C.  Clearly it was salvaged from the volvo she was trading in.  I laughed and asked if she was really going to put the bear in the new car?  The bear looked up at us all plaintively from the table.  Faded.  Stuffing hanging out of little holes. 

"I want you to apologize for what you just said about I.C.[she playfully pouted out her lower lip]  Where's Barnaby, anyway??"

Apparently, after Hubby and I shuffled off to hunt the kids, an older couple at the next table whispered sotto vocce over to her, "Children, they just don't understand!  You KEEP your bear!"

My mom explained to me that the bear is a good luck charm.  With IC in back, she's not had any accidents.  The car before IC met it's demise by being hit by a train.  Thankfully mom was not in it,  but I digress...

IC is here to stay in your nice new car, mom... I apologize.  I'll let you visit Barnaby next time you come by.

I recently got  a new coffee maker.  Nothing special AT ALL... a simple Mr. Coffee 4 cup one, with a delay brew setting.  It was a joke between Hubby and myself that Mr. Coffee would be my new boyfriend because he would have my coffee hot and ready for me as soon as I got downstairs in the morning.

It is great when I REMEMBER to set it for delay brew... or when I get downstairs in a timely manner, such that the coffee is still yummy fresh when I get to it.  I could remedy all of this by getting one of those Cuisinart, or Braun, or Starbuck's coffeemakers, but I'm not ready yet.  So for now, I get really excited when the smell of coffee is what wakes me from my babe-on-boob stupor in the morning.

Hubby offers to make me coffee from time to time.

Hubby does not drink coffee.

Hubby is an engineer.

Just setting the scene up for you, people.

He looks at the 4 cups on the coffee maker, and the instructions for brewing on the bag of coffee grounds that reads "two tablespoons per 6oz cup."  His mind humms and gets annoyed at the concept of a six ounce cup.  A cup is a cup is a cup, right?!?!? Eight ounces is a cup, you bozos... but he plays along.  He puts in the appropriate number of grounds for the 4 cup coffeemaker and hits brew for me.  What a sweetheart.

I come downstairs, pour my coffee, have a sip and sputter it into the sink.  Ho-ly-crap!  What the hell happenend to the coffee!?!?!?  I could spackle the walls with it.  My mom makes high-octane coffee that pails in comparison to this.  I hold the caraf up to the bright sunlight and cannot see though the coffee at all, in anyway. 

I immediately knew what happened.  Hubby prepared the coffe for four cups of coffee.  Not four coffee cups of coffee.  He put in grounds for 32 ounces of coffee.

So I simply make another caraf of coffee my way.  I put in a filter.  I pour in the grounds.  I eyeball it and sense from the great coffee goddess above that it is right.  I put in the water... it percolates to a yummness.  I drink it and say "ahhhhhhhhh".

I tell Hubby about the coffee smiling, because I know what went wrong with the perfectly engineered coffee.  As I explain it to Hubby, I see him doing the calculations in his head.  Here goes:  A Mr. Coffee cup of coffee is only 5 ounces.  Yup, a cup that is only five ounces.. before you get upset.. listen further.  A Starbucks cup of coffee is six ounces.  So the caraf holds twenty ounces of fluid, aka. three and a third Starbuck's cups of coffee.

This was a fun converstation, especially when I told him how I measure my coffee and how it comes out good each time.  "Eyeballing" it?!?  And it works every time? uh-huh.

So a couple mornings ago, Hubby offered to make my coffee again.  I reassured him that no no no, it's okay.  I'll make my coffee.  But he was pretty adamant.  He was going to conquer this imperfect, screwy science known as making coffee.

When I got downstairs he was in the kitchenm, he hadn't gotten to doing the coffee yet, so I was going to do it, but he stopped me.  He. was. going. to. do. this, ok???  Okay.  I worked on kids/baby stuff while he stood with the grounds and the coffeemaker.  He did some thinking, took out our measuring spoons and was busy for a bit.

"Aha!" he said in spite of himself as he hit the brew button.

The coffee was fantastic.  Good like I make for myself.  It was ideal.  It was perfection.  I thanked him over and over for such yummy coffee, what was the trick?  He explained the math, and it came out to something like six and one thirds tablespoons of grounds to the caraf for the coffee to be brewed to Starbucks specifications.

We shared a good laugh. 

This story can be slotted into a file titled "What to expect when married to a non-coffee-drinking-engineer".  If he were a coffee drinker, we would no doubt have a hacked Cuisinart maker that could do espresso too under voice control via intercom through the house so i could groan "coffee" from my bed and it would be ready when I got downstairs... with a cherry on top.

It was a damned good cup of joe.  Thank you, Love.

I mentioned a while back that we were rather tired.  Yes, we were.  I did enjoy having Hubby home that week.  It flew by way too quickly.  We've decided he'll take another week off soon.  We'll keep the kids in school and enjoy more time together with Little Lady during part of the day. 

There were so many things about this recovery that caused me to hit a wall.  The stress on every part of the pie of life was pretty high.  The pain of the recovery was intense.  The issues I had around having to formula feed Little Lady were rough.  Honey Girl's adjustment was a tricky one that started falling apart well before the arrival of the baby and is only now mellowed.  Hubby spent a bit of his paternity leave time working on work stuff.  We were sleep deprived, loving it, working things out, trying desperately to appear for people in our lives who wanted us to appear.  As can be expected; folks who either had no interest in our lives prior to the birth of our baby... (or even thought ill of us) all of a sudden wanted to be friends again.  Ah, yes... nothing brings out the crazy like births, weddings and funerals.  I was having lingering health issues that baffled me, that I couldn't figure out on my own, and finally broke down to my doctor, "Please; I am so tired, I don't know what is going on... could you tell me?"  Who was to know if something was "wrong" or just part of the glorious post partem hell period of healing while caring for three young kids.

So why am I feeling better? 

I let a lot of it go.  Quite a bit of it.  I let go of family stuff.  Some people will never change.  My concern is my immediate family and caring for them and their needs. 

I asked for help.  I called back Diego and his crew into service.  Monday our house reached a level of cleanliness is has not known since they were here well over a year ago.  Fan-freakin'-tastic!  We can breath again without choking on animal fur or dust.  We just couldn't keep up.  I got help from my doctor and feel much better. 

I moved Little Lady to her crib in her room.  She was ready.  "Ready"  meaning sleeping for more than six or so hours in a stretch and us being done with our room being so cramped with the changing table and other baby accouterments.  I spend the early morning hours in there on the spare bed nursing and falling asleep again until wake up time.  This way, Hubby and I both get more or better sleep.

Self care.  Amazing how a fresh coat of polish on the toe nails, hairless legs, and a good moisturizer can make me feel like a new woman.  That and the dancing, walking, stretching...hey, I do what I can since sleep isn't happening, right? 

"This too shall pass":  The body takes time.  The joints take time.  Being on time might take time.  Figuring out how to cook for a family of five takes time.  If I build it, it will return.  If ever so slowly.  This is the hardest part I'm learning to release: patience with myself on this new learning curve.

Laughter!  Our lives are total chaos right now, finding the hilarity is what keeps us sane.  Little Lady's ability to "stealth vomit" is amazing!  How an eight week old manages to regularly miss the burp pad and send huge amounts of vomit down my cleavage into my bra and up under "the girls" is impressive.  That's a feeling and stench that can't be wiped away without a shower. If Hubby makes it through the morning without changing his shirt twice, Little Lady must have an empty stomach.  Honey Girl is potty training, and I am baffled as to how pee can NOT end up in a toilet or potty even when she's sitting squarely ON the seat!    I mean, if her knees are apart it flies forward, if her knees are together it somehow manages to go down the tops of her thighs and pour onto her feet. Lean forward, Honey Girl!  And best yet is when (like yesterday) I'm fielding a Honey Girl rogue urine stream situation at the same moment Little Lady hits me with a super stealth vomit situation.  Which gets squeals of "MOMMMYYY!!! BABY spit up!!!  On YOU!  Right THERE!" as if I didn't know that. This took place, of course, while at the preschool trying to hurry it up.  Ah yes.  Good times.  Parenthood kicks ass because of how well it kicks your ass! 

I am thankful to all the sweet words from friends.  You never know who reads your blog!  Cyber hugs are pretty cool.  I am grateful to have friends who chat me up even when I can't keep track of the conversation, who give me the occasional reality check, or who I call just to hear a different voice.. but have nothing interesting to say.  Yes, friends who know what a wacko I am and love me anyway!

I goofed around and did a silly online quiz last night.  It was (why I wanted to play with it) on a website titled, " Are you a slacker mom?"  I love that terminology.

My result was e-mailed to me and I had to laugh.  For friends who know me as a mom, you can get a chuckle too, as the result was as accurate as my Myers-Briggs assessment years ago of INTP.

"Your quiz score makes you: Zen Mom

How do you do it? Even when explosions are all around, you are able to take a deep cleansing breath and chant your mantra "this too shall pass." You are a calming influence on your kids in a hectic world. "

Well,  Ommmmmmmmmmm.  I sure as hell try to be!

ni-night

I just checked out Melanie's blog, and she has this posted.  I cried at the end as well, a lot due to what is happeneing in the background and how typical it is to parent life.  This song pretty much sums up parenthood of little ones.  Huzzah!  Or, I might say, at the moment.... parenting of Honey Girl, as she is very "age appropriate".... all the amazing frustrations and hair tearing moments followed by the same wonder of the beauty and love too.  Perfect!

I've gotten back to the studio.  Yup, the pole dancing, exotic dance, and now... the pussycat doll dance workout place.

The dance workout is the class I'm signed into at the moment.  I'm not ready to put back on the stilettos(too sleep deprived to think I won't fall on my face, big time), need to sweat, want to try something different, and know I don't have the abs for pole climbing *yet*.  Yes, I did call to sign in the day my doc gave me the go-ahead when Little Lady was six weeks old. 

The first class I felt like a bumbling oaf.  All the insecurities that would riddle me did.  My post-baby junk in the trunk/ cushion for the pushin'.... weight... had me feeling like the biggest chick on the hardwood.  Surprisingly (and gratefully) my abdominal strength was pretty good.  I was sore the next couple days, but not badly.. just the "gee, must have danced my rear off" sore.  I credit that to my continued 2-5 miles walking a day.

The second class was a lot more fun.  The awkwardness of new classmates and trying to be "good" at it first time through was gone.  We had a lot more fun.  There was more laughing, more compliments passed between classmates starting the dance routine over and over.  More instructor back talk, questions on how to do certain steps.  Toward the end of the class, the teacher was able to give us some great compliments.

"You are the best booty slapping class I have ever heard!" 
"I want you to have bruises on that butt cheek tomorrow!"
"Much better, Ladies!  Shake that junk in your trunk!"

It's funny the things heard in that class that even in context nearly give me the giggles:

"ok, hip... and peek a boo,  thrust... melt down... naughtygirl, now booty... and chest..."

I am really happy to be back.  I have a seven week old infant at home that feeds on me nearly constantly.  I have a near 5 year old and near 3 year old.  I have a post baby body that is still trying desperately to figure out what on earth just happened to it.  My day is run in fits and starts.  That class is beyond therapy, beyond exercise, beyond hip thrusts and walking with my chest out.  For a full hour I get to have my body all to myself to do with as I please.  I learn new things, I laugh, I sweat a lot, I get lost (sometimes quite literally) in the dancing.  It has really helped me be ok with where my healing body is at.  It has helped me accept the junk in the trunk, the jiggle in the walk that I'm sporting. 

I'm no dancer.  I dance at parties, while cleaning the house, with my kids all the time...I "dance" as much as I sing... a lot.  I do a little jig to make Hubby chuckle...but I'm no dancer.  I most definitely do look oafish during the workout, but the studio is not made for professional dancers.. it's made for ladies a bit like me.  I'm really glad it's there. 

Especially when I'm back home, cleaning the kitchen, shaking my rear and then singing out "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..."

;-)

I could teach you, but I'd have to charge!

I'm exhausted.  Near tears exhausted.  Have been for a few days... weeks.....  Yes, I hit a wall, and it was about time.  The whole powering through thing just isn't cutting it anymore.  If it doesn't fit, I (when sane and rested) know not to force it and this weekend was a glowing example of just that: pushing myself and my family to reach wholly unrealistic expectations for a new family of five, having it blow up in our faces, and trying to laugh about it, patch it up or make it better.  One of those, "maybe we should have just stayed home" kind of weekends. 

I'm too tired to laugh right now.  In fact, I think a darned good cry is in order.    It is not easy in the house of three kids, two cats and a dog.  I think we may just stay home for a while,  keep to ourselves (save the bear minimum of obligations), recoup, rest as best we can this holiday week. 

Hubby will be home, and I want to enjoy that.  I want to enjoy that a lot.

and I will if I let go of allll the other *stuff*.