Yes I’m covered in urine, but don’t worry, it’s not mine.

Monday the kids and I got back from a trip to Kansas for little brother’s senior recital… his crowning musical glory before he heads off to musical grad school.

Usually when we go back we do it for a week but this time it was a lot cheaper to go the weekend before as well so we ended up being there 10 days.  Being there 10 days made me realize why we usually go for 7.  It’s right around day 6.5 that everything stops being awesome.  Up until then the suuuuper annoying things about my parents, small towns, red states, and being blown away every time you step out side are endearing and quaint because I’ve been gone so long… but then I remember why I moved a thousand miles away from everything and the vacation isn’t fun anymore.

But the trip did finally end and Monday we flew back to Phoenix.  It is not the first time I’ve flown half way across the country by myself with two small children, not even close.  I’m well versed in the art of keeping chaos in bay for a couple hours on an airplane (or at least closing my eyes and breathing deeply while everything breaks down) and in general they’ve both been awesome every time we’ve flown.  Even last summer when we came back and they both developed raging double ear infections that we got to fly with they still did a pretty stand up job of the whole bit.  So naturally I didn’t expect anything different from this flight.

The first half was uneventful.  They played, they opened and closed the window about a bazillion times, opened and closed the tray table about a bazillion and a half times, all the normal stuff.  Then Finn signed that he wanted a bottle so I pulled him up on my lap hoping he’d fall asleep while he had it but when he was almost finished he looked up at  me and grinned… and that’s when I felt it.

Baby dude was peeing, and for whatever reason his diaper was having none of it.  He was peeing all over himself and all over me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Also, this child pees more than most adults.  I don’t know what it is about his bladder but it’s out of control.

Right as I started looking around for a place I could take him to change his clothes they turned on the seatbelt sign so there was nothing I could do even if I wanted to.  I couldn’t even take him off my lap because, since he’s young enough that we didn’t to buy a ticket for him, that meant he had to be on my lap whenever the seatbelt sign was on.

And just then he realized how wet he was.  Poor dude was completely soaked… like, I’m gonna have to wring these overalls out in the sink soaked… and he was pissed.  (Pun intended.)  He wanted me to change him.  He wanted me to take his clothes off.  He wanted me to let him off my lap.  And I couldn’t do any of those things.

And he thanked me by completely losing his shit.  He shrieked at brain shaking volumes and pitches, arched his back, kicked and flailed and I’m pretty sure I saw his head spin all the way around at one point like that freaky little kid in the Exorcist.  And since this was all on my lap I was then also soaked, from nipples to knees, with his pee as well.  The tiny plane reeked of urine, childless people turned and glared, the people across the aisle from us covered their ears (dude’s got lungs), I apologized once or twice but then realized nobody gave a shit what I said so instead started loudly singing Finn’s favorite German lullaby in his ear to try and calm him down.  (It didn’t work.)

This went on for the next 45 minutes.

And just as I thought shit couldn’t go any further downhill I heard a subtle “click… click… click…” coming from next to me.  I turn to find Verona, who had been sitting there quietly the whole time, holding my phone and taking pictures of the shenanigans.

She shrugged and without missing a beat responded,

Well with logic like that.

About nine years later (at least it felt like that) the plane landed, I put Finn in the sling and piled all out belongings on my back like a freaking pack mule, and we made our way at a snail’s pace toddler’s pace out of what was now an incredibly smelly enclosed space to where David was waiting for us.

He hugged me, then backed up with a sour look on his face because he obviously smelled it.  ”Yes.”  I said, “I’m covered in pee.  No, I don’t want to talk about it.  I just want to go home.”

And go home we did.

And because I knew you would all probably ask for it, here is one of Verona’s pictures.  You’re welcome.

Believe it or not, I know more about my boobs than you do.

I could not breast feed. I couldn’t. Not that it’s anyone’s damn business or that there would be something wrong with it if I’d just chosen not to. But regardless, I couldn’t. Could not.

At least half the time that comes up with someone who has or is breast feeding they get this really sad look on their face and say something like “A lot of moms think that, but everyone can. Some women just need to give it more time.”  Or a short “It’s normal to worry you don’t have an adequate supply, most women worry about that at some point or another.” Then look at my poor, miserable, obviously suffering children with pity because their mama *bless her heart* just didn’t stick it out long enough to do what was best for them.

And you know what?  There’s nowhere positive a conversation can go after that.  Because I don’t want to discuss my boob issues with someone who already has that attitude.  I don’t want to tell them about my daughter crying in pain from hunger because at the advice of the hospital lactation consultants I was refusing to give her formula even when I suspected something was wrong.  I don’t want to tell them about the tearful conversation where the doctor sat me down and told me point blank that Verona was in serious danger, that she was starving to death, and that if I didn’t give her a bottle they were going to have to re-admit her to the hospital.  I don’t want to rehash the guilt I lived in for the better part of a year over knowing that I had intentionally put my child through that.  I don’t want to tell them what it feels like to have been a mother for less than a month and already be failing miserably at it because you’ve made breastfeeding a higher priority than the well being of your own child.

Because I’ve forgiven myself, gotten over it, we’ve all moved on.  And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life reliving it through useless conversations.

And I sure as hell don’t want to try and convince someone that what happened to me really does exist because, ya know what, I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.  The few times I have attempted the other woman either just keep staring at my kids with that look of pity because, oh poor things, they’re probably going to grow up to have two heads and be serial killers now because their mom is a quitter.  Or they respond sanctimoniously “No, I had a doctor tell me that doesn’t ever happen.  A doctor.”

To which I want to respond “I had my boobs tell me that you can go fuck yourself.  My boobs.”

I wonder if I could get a note from my doctor. Like in school when you need to prove something medical is a reality “Here, I have a doctor’s note.” I wonder if I can get a doctor’s note for this that I can keep in my purse and when this happens just yank it out, hand it to them, and then not have to engage in the same tired discussion yet again.

Or I could just start smacking people.  That’s another option.

My daughter is obsessed with pubic hair.

I recently had my very first, but I suspect not last, awkward conversation with my kids about puberty.  There are two  tendencies I have when my kids ask me questions about things and I’m still not sure if they’re good or bad ones.

1. I can’t seem to formulate cutesy answers fast enough so my automatic response is to just tell them the straight up truth.  Like the time Verona asked me where babies come from and instead of something about a stork or two people loving each other I said “From some lady’s uterus.”

and 2. I’m never sure how much information she’s after, and she’s obnoxiously bad at giving me any readable hints, so I just keep rambling until she stops me.  Like when she asked me what leaves were and I ended up talking to her for about 20 minutes about everything from photosynthesis to the importance of using native plants in landscaping.  I’m assuming at least some of that sunk in though because a few weeks later the babysitter told me they’d gone to the park and Verona had informed her that “pinecones grow on coniferous trees”.  So maybe I’m just creating a super genius.

Anyway, a few days ago I had just taken a shower (my big accomplishment for the day) and was still walking around in nothing but stretch marks and a smile when Verona walked up and pointed at my crotch.

Verona: ”Those are your pubies.  I want pubies too.”

Me: “You’ll get some.  Someday.”

Verona: “Tomorrow?”

Me: “God, I hope not.”

Verona: “Can I get some for my birthday?”

Me: “No.  You’ll get some when you’re older.  When you hit puberty.”

Verona: *stares blankly*

Me:  ”You’ll get some when you hit puberty, probably sometime between the ages of 9 and 14.  Although statically the cases of early onset puberty in girls has been rising dramatically in the last quarter of a century or so, so it really could be earlier, although I really hope it isn’t.  Hopefully I’m avoiding that crazy train by being insane about what milk I let you drink.  I read about that being a contributing factor somewhere.”

Verona: *stares blankly*

Me:  “But uh, all sorts of crazy things will happen.  You’ll grow really tall and get hair in your armpits and other sometimes seemingly random places.  Your boobs will grow and if you got my DNA on that front they’ll grow to be enormous.  Possibly so big you’ll get back problems.  But probably not, don’t worry about back problems, that’s not something you should be worrying about that this age.  Your back will be fine.  And your boobs too.  Everything will be fine.  Oh, and you’ll emotionally go completely insane for a couple years but that goes away so it’ll be ok too.  Oh, except you’ll start having your period so you’ll go a little insane once a month for day or two… but periods aren’t actually awful, they’re actually really they’re cool cause they’re part of being a woman and being a woman is great.  Womanly power and… um… I have a book about that somewhere… I’ll give it you to read when this whole puberty thing happens.  About your feminine spirit and whatnot.”

Verona: *stares blankly*

Me:  “Yeah, so, uh, that’s puberty.  Does that answer your question?”

Verona:  “And THEN I’ll get pubies?”

Me:  “Yep.  Pubic hair and boobs and height and periods and a generally more rounded shape and arm pit and leg hair and…”

Verona:  “But I can’t get pubies for my birthday.”

Me:  “No.”

Verona:  “Ok.”

My biggest accomplishment today was that I didn’t smack anybody.

Verona and I have had a rough week.

Girlfriend is two… and she is very, very two,.  And this week has been a clusterfuck of all the awful stereotypes about two year olds.  Most of the days I have spent almost 100% of my time either dealing with chaos or attempting some serious deep breathing and have gotten absolutely nothing else done.  But I’ve handled it all fairly well.  There has been the most minimal amount of yelling, soooo much deep breathing, and a level of patience that made me wonder where regular Jenna went.

One of the things that happened at the beginning of the week was after explaining that we could use the glitter in a few minutes as soon as I put the baby down for a nap, she climbed up the craft shelf, got all the glitter we had in the house, and emptied it all on the back porch.  So the whole rest of the week every time she wanted to do a glitter craft (which was all the time) I got to explain that we have no more glitter because you were being totally crazy sauce the other day and wasted it all, and she would start crying and be downright heartbroken that she couldn’t do a glitter craft… her absolute favorite thing in the world.  Natural consequences and all that.

But last night I decided she’d suffered enough, and in an attempt to mend the bridges and start the weekend on a good note we made a special trip to the craft store together, a fun mom and daughter only trip, and she got to pick out a giant container of glitter in whatever color she wanted.  A giant, very expensive container that should have lasted us a very very long time.

This morning she asked if she could do a craft with the new glitter and I said yes, that was a marvelous plan!  Give me just a moment to get our stuff together for it and we’d go outside and do it together.

But in the five minutes it took me to do that she climbed like a monkey, got her hands on the glitter, and I came outside to find this.

The entire container.  The entire giant container.  And one very unhappy boy with glitter in every crack and crevice in his body.  And one very unhappy mother over the fact that glitter is the herpes of the craft supply world and what gets tracked into the house will never, EVER leave.

I gritted my teeth and said in the least nasty voice I could muster “BED.  NOW.  GO.  NAP.  GO.”  After I took care of the saddest/sparkliest baby in the world and cleaned everything up I went in to the bedroom where she was still crying a little and said “We can’t talk right now.  I’m still too angry.  I just wanted to come cuddle with you because I still love you so much even when I’m angry.”

Which brings me to this moment, writing a story that I’m 97% sure we’ll all laugh about later.

Now who wants to bring me a margarita?

Sex After Children

My kids are “grass is always greener” kind of people.  Or more specifically they fully believe that the fun is always greater in the other room.  Elmo himself could be making balloon animals in the livingroom, but if I went into another room to do my taxes they would follow me in there, 100% sure that there was more fun in the taxes room… they just hadn’t found it yet.

Needless to say that makes finding the opportunity for uninterrupted sexy time difficult at best.  Even when they’re asleep the orgasmic vibes in the air wake them from rooms away.  And it has to be the vibes because when you have two small children you become a master at totally silent sex.  It’s like being a teenager all over again and having sex in your parents house… even the slightest bed creaking could clue someone in to what was going on.  Only now instead of worrying about your mom coming to break up the party you’re worried about your kids.  Your kids, who, by the way, are the direct results of previous parties… so you’d think they would respect it more.

But I digress.

Here are a couple ideas of ways to keep your kids distracted somewhere else long enough for you to get in a quickie without them crawling into the bed because they want to “cuddle” with the two of you.

The Kids Are Basically Bald Parrots Plan.

Kids, just like parrots, love shiney things.  If you put various shiney things around your backyard it will take a while for the kids to get all around and properly investigate all of them.  (Tip: This only works if you live in a city like ours with giant walls around yards so they can’t escape or get in any trouble.  Letting your toddler out into the world unsupervised in generally frowned upon.)

The Lock Em’ Out Plan

Shut the bedroom door and lock it.  The upside is that nobody can get in, the downside is they will stand on the otherside banging on it and asking for food… just like they do when you try to poop.

The Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend… and For The Sake of This Anaology Diamonds Are Cookies Plan.

Put the kids in the kitchen with a giant pile of cookies.  Cookies are a distraction trump card… every time.  (Tip: Try to plan you horizonal tango’s for right before dinner because the hungrier they are the longer they’ll be distracted by the sugary goodness.)

And finally, The Ship Them Off Plan

Send them to grandma’s.  Make sure you put the dogs somewhere else too though.  After you go through all that effort to get some child free bump and grind on the last thing you want is an awkwardly placed cold wet nose throwing off your mojo.

Night at the Plaid Sheep House

My kids are weird, and they only get weirder after night fall.

Last night I was laying down with V while she went to sleep,

everything was getting quiet when suddenly…

She kept telling me to “hang on a minute” while she very urgently bunched herself under the blanket, then decided that wasn’t enough and crawled under the sheet, then kept going further and further until eventually she was in a tiny ball under the fitted sheet next to the mattress.  Then I heard a little muffled but determined voice say from underneath it all…

I did what any good mother of a crazy person would do and felt around until I touched what I was pretty sure was her clavical, and that seemed to satisfied her because she came out and got into bed like a normal human again.

As I lay there listening to her sing a made up song about unicorns and unicycles I felt a tiny hand touch my face and turned to see Finn and woken up and was trying to crawl into bed with us.  So I pulled him up in and he squirreled around while Verona continued singing for a moment until he stopped, looked me dead in the eyes, and vomited all over the bed.

I sighed, got up and got a rag to wipe him and the bed down with, but as soon as he saw it in my hand he freaked out and started grabbing handfuls of vomit and furiously shoving it in his mouth like I was about the steal the only nourishment he’d ever get again.

Once everyone was cleaned up I decided I was going to bed even if they weren’t.  I shut the door so there was no chance of escape and curled up in bed while they crawled around playing.  Eventually they both passed out… Verona on the floor spooning with Barney the morbidly obese basset hound…

…and Finn across my face.

Confession Time

Being a stay at home mom can feel undeniably soul sucking sometimes.

There, I said it.  I love my kids, I straight up adore those squirrely little bastards, and I want to be home with them.  I’m not one of the moms who thinks she has a moral obligation to be home with her kids, or couldn’t financially afford not to be, I’m here because I want to be.

There are days full of enriching activities.  Lots of curled up on the couch together reading, seeing the amazing friendship Verona and Finn have with each other, and watching them blossom in so many ways.  But there are also days… plenty of days… where I look at everything I’ve accomplished (which looks like absolutely nothing) and sigh in exasperation “Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?!?!  24 hours of chaos, screaming, poop, and busting my ass and the only thing I can say I accomplished today is that nobody killed themselves?  THIS is what I think the best use of my life is!?!?!”

And that’s the truth.  Luckily those awesome days, or at least days somewhere in between, substantially out number the crazy soul sucking ones.

Come and get your cuddle on

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

Every dog needs a child and every child needs a dog.

Knowing that kids exist without a dog makes me want to cry.  Ok, not really cry, but it bums me out, and don’t tell me about how sad starving kids in Africa are… we’re not talking about that right now.

I say this as someone who didn’t have a dog when I was little.  I got a cat as a consolation prize from my mom after my dad left in elementary school but cat’s are judgemental bitches, even my much beloved Stormy who I turned out to be deathly allergic too, I loved to her pieces but by virtue of being a cat she was a judgemental bitch… and I mean that in the most affectionate way.

Then we (the “we” at my dad’s house) inherited two dogs.  A dumb as rocks cockapoo named Anna Mae and a morbidly obese beagle/chihuahua mix named Molly who got run over by a street sweeper and was horribly disfigured as a result.  Molly also may have been part cat because she was a judgemental bitch.  But not in the endearing way that Stormy was.  Moral of the story is I fell madly in love with both of them and swore if I ever had kids they would have a dog.  They would always have a dog.

So we do have dogs; two, formerly three.

And it’s a beautiful thing.

DPP :: Heat tolerance

December Photo Project

I sometimes live under the delusion that I am one of those crafty, organized, on-top-of-her-shit moms.  For the record I definitely am not, but if kids are allowed to pretend an empty box is a spaceship I should be allowed to pretend this.

In the midst of one of these fantasies I decided I was going to melt all the tiny crayon bits back together into bigger crayons so they stop covering ever square inch of the floor in my house at every moment of ever day… including the moment 30 seconds after I put them all back where they belong.  Sigh.  Kids.  Point being I’m tired of stepping on coloring instruments.  Moving on.

So I went out and bought one of those silicone muffin pans thinking it would be better than a metal one so I could bend it and pop the brand new, multi colored, giant crayons out when they were done.  It was adorable.  It was red and the muffin holes were shaped like hearts.  I carried it around Ikea like a baby with a smile on my face that said to everyone I passed ”I’m a crafty mom and am going to do crafty yet simultaneously functional things with this muffin pan.  It’s no big deal though, I do things like this all the time… because I’m one of those ‘got-her-shit-together’ moms.  Don’t worry, I’m sure if you try hard enough you could be like me too one day.”

When I got home I tore the wrappers of approximately 90 million broken crayons (that picture is maybe 1/4th of my total pile) and carefully organized them based on the knowledge of the color wheel that I acquired in 3rd grade so each crayon would only have shades that complimented each other in it.  My child deserves only the best in upcycled coloring materials!

Then I stuck it in the oven.

Then my kitchen smelled like burning.

Then I looked in the oven to find melting silicone and colored wax dripping all over the place.  Turns out the muffin pan I bought was in fact not a muffin pan but an ice cube tray.  Seriously though, who makes a square ice cube tray!?!?!  That’s just asking for confusion.  Well ice cube trays do not have the same heat tolerance as muffin trays.  Go figure.  I’m sitting on my couch in the living room now and can still faintly smell the odor of burnt crayola.

Sigh… the dangers of delusion I suppose.

Precursor to the birds and bees

The conversation I just had with Verona while she had Finnegan took a bath:

Verona- “Finnegan have weird belly button.  But cord fall down.  Now have normal belly button.”
Me- “Yeah, the stump of his umbilical cord fell off.  It happens to all babies, it happened to you too when you were a baby.”
Verona- ”Finnegan have normal belly button now.  Verona have belly button.  Mommy have belly button.”
Me- “Yep, we all have belly buttons.”
Verona- “Finnegan not have weird belly button now…”

(she stares at Finn for a few moments)

“but Finnegan have weird vagina.”