In the morning we stand on our porches and watch the kids go to the bus stop. The “bus stop” is the end of our neighbor’s driveway so they don’t have far to walk. So while it does not require supervision it is supremely entertaining to watch Em and Kellan interact with one another in the morning. Somehow their behavior in the morning is a glimpse in to the secret life they have at school. By the time they get home in the afternoon and run around in the yard before the darkening sky indicates it is time to head in for dinner they are no longer kindergarteners, school children, it has all but worn off and they are just kids.
Yesterday morning as Em raced across the street Amy called from her front porch, “Em has a boyfriend.” My eyes (without my glasses yet, admittedly) went right from Amy to Emily. She continued on her path, darting across the street, but when Amy shouted the boy’s name, Em switched gears and suddenly instead of a six-year-old girl headed to the bus stop she was a linebacker, racing towards Kellan with all the strength her little 45 pound body can muster. There was some truth to this story evidently.
She came home from school and was playing in the yard with Kellan while MQD and I made dinner last night. “I want to ask Em about her boyfriend tonight, but we have to be cool, not push her and not laugh at her. I want to make sure she can talk to us, yanno?”
We concluded that we could of course laugh at her behind her back all we wanted, the grand prize of parenting. The laughter behind closed doors at your children’s expense. (In case you think your parents never laughed at you, call one of them right now and ask, I’d bet without hesitation they could recount a time when you did something completely absurd and you thought no one noticed at all. )
“I heard you have a boyfriend. Kellan says he is nice. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Do you like him?”
“Yeah. But I don’t really really really really like him.”
I waas only slightly less stunned when I heard the words Emily and boyfriend in the same sentence. How I miss that fuzzy haired girl.
“Did he ask you to be his girlfriend?”
“Yup. I told him I had to think about it. And I think I’m gonna say no.”
Tagged bus stop, crush, Emily, front porch, grand prize, Kindergarten, Parenting, school
A Dirty Business
Before you say ‘”Awww… look at the sweet baby” let me remind you – Parenting is a dirty, nasty job.
I combat the filthy nature of the job with my disgusting sense of humor pretty regularly. The reality of parenting an infant is that they are not particularly entertaining. Falling in love is magical. But magic won’t make your sides hurt with laughter. So, I really can’t look to Lucy to keep me amused. I have to take responsibility for that. Luckily I find myself pretty entertaining on a regular basis. Add in the delicious hilarity of being wildly overtired and I am like my own personal stand up show all day long.
I talk to my kids. A lot. Even when they are not listening. Especially when they are not listening. I can remember a day that I was jabbering away at Emily. We were taking a walk, she was in her jogging stroller and I was yammering on about someone we had just seen at the beach and it dawned on me… someday she will understand what I am saying. And lawd almighty she might even repeat it. I was going to lose my most frequent audience member. It was only a matter of time.
Enter Lucy. The newest and biggest fan to my twenty-four hour a day comedy show. The biggest difference to my parenting this go round? She is not my ONLY audience member. I have to mind my tongue as I jabber mindlessly when Em is in the room. And MQD? Will he appreciate my antics?
So far, so good. This morning was a good morning. Em left to catch the bus and MQD and I hopped back in bed with Lucy Q for a spell. She is her cheeriest in the morning so I have been encouraging him to spend a few minutes in the morning and take in that face. Because the evening, when the witching hours reign supreme, that makes up the lion’s share of his time with her. And that’s just no fair.
As she wiggled and squirmed and her face turned bright red I started to blather. Keep talking and you can often distract the little one from crying I have found. “Let it go, kiddo. That’s a poop face, isn’t it? Liberate the poop prisoners!!!” In the middle of chuckling over my fine moment of alliteration I looked up to see MQD’s face. The moments when you know you married the right guy, they can come in so many different forms. “From your ANAL PRISON!” and he smiled.
The man gets me. And evidently he embraces my perverse parenting style.
Give me an inch and I will take a mile. He encouraged me. Big mistake. “Hurry up and poop, little miss, and I have a BIIIG breakfast for you. No piece of fruit. No continental breakfast. Fuckin’ french TOAST on some thick ass bread, this shit is FIR REEAALL. They’ve got CHEESE BLINTZES!”
“And creeps. And Organic Coffee!” chimed in MQD.
And then breakfast was served. Evidently someone had sidled up to the all night buffet a few times during the night. But only one side. I woke up more than a little lop sided. I wasn’t kidding about that big breakfast.
Lefty is for breakfast. Evidently Righty was open all night.
And lest you think this entire elaborate tale was just a complicated plan to post a picture of my grossly uneven boobs? You should know that the Poop Prisoners were liberated. All over my shirt. Turns out this shit IS for real.
Lucy's idea of a Party. With a capital P. For Poop.
Snow & Comfort Food
The snow has melted. Less than 24 hours later and there is almost no evidence of what may prove to be the only snow fall we see this winter. But my refrigerator and my stomach still tell the tale.
Em had the day off school yesterday and we had big plans. We were going to eat. And stay in our pajamas. (And watch Judy Moody’s Not Bummer Summer, but I was slightly less excited about that than she was. ) I checked in with MQD mid-morning to see what he’d like for dinner and he responded immediately “Shepherd’s Pie.” I’ve never made Shepherd’s Pie but as far as I know, there is no way to ruin meat, gravy and mashed potatoes in a casserole dish.
Early yesterday afternoon it seemed like my dreams might not be realized. By lunchtime I was out of my pajamas and running to the store for a five pound bag of potatoes. An hour later I was peeling that bag of potatoes while Lucy slept in her car seat.
While the potatoes boiled Em and I watched some of her movie and I fed the little lady. I erroneously thought she might get back to sleep. In case you are wondering, if you are ever preparing to enter a contest that includes the Triple Dog Dare Challenge “Mash five pounds of potatoes with your right hand while you jiggle an eleven pound baby with your left hand” I’m your girl.
Later that evening MQD says “Dinner looks good, baby” and I suppose I could have been more humble. “It damn well better, the potatoes alone took me two hours.”
I promise it is not my lack of employment that is making me all cook-y. It’s the cold weather. Two winters ago was the Winter of Italian Wedding Soup. This month marks the start of the Winter of Shepherd’s Pie. I cheated a bit and used McCormick’s Brown Gravy mix because I forgot to grab Worcestershire at the store. But it was a smashing success. I will be eating and then repeating this meal.
Em was Clean Plate Club all the way.
Lest you think I am gonna get all whole foods, hippie dippy on you…. fear not. We had dessert, too. A certain little lady turned one month old yesterday. So a cake was in order. I’ve seen this recipe before but decided to give it a go. The Two Ingredient Cake. Pick your poison – One can of soda, one box of cake mix. Mix. Cook and enjoy. We opted for Sprite and Strawberry cake. Cream cheese frosting, of course.
It has that Pop Rocks “Holy shit what I am eating is totally artificial” flavor and it makes my teeth feel like they are wearing a sweater but damn… it is tasty.
I cooked this entire dinner with a wide awake one month old Lucy bouncing on my shoulder. Evidently it wore her out. Because she fell asleep in the middle of her party.
The Pre-Party can sneak up on you, little lady. Take it from your mother. She has slept through a few parties in her day.
Like a baby…
Co-Sleeping, specifically bed sharing, is a hot button for a lot of parents. Whether you sleep with your kids in your bed, in a crib, in a bassinet, it seems to matter to people. How often do they wake up? How long do they sleep and even more importantly how do they get to sleep at all? Do you hold them? Rock them? Nurse them?
When Em was little I spent a fair amount of time thinking about why everyone seemed to care so much about how long she slept? Even strangers in the grocery store would say “What a pretty baby…” and then quietly ask “How does she sleep?” in a hushed, secretive tone as if they were asking after your 85 year old great uncle’s 20 year old girlfriend.
I thought there was certainly a right or wrong answer. And I quickly realized that for every person that asked there was a different right and a different very, very wrong answer. I developed a quick and easy response “She sleeps like a baby, of course.” That seemed to satisfy the strangers. And I am fortunate enough to have friends and family that largely believe that how we choose to parent (including feeding and putting to bed) our kids is really not their problem.
That having been said… I feel pretty strongly about the choices we make as parents. And one of the things I feel most strongly about is where my babies sleep. With me. Maybe some day I will write a big long informational blog post about safe bed sharing and the numerous reasons that I believe it benefits both the parents and the baby.
But today? Today I just want to share one reason why I like to sleep with my babies. And it has nothing at all to do with the attachment, the ease of night nursing, the increased safety and decreased risk of SIDS in belly-to-belly, nose-to-nose sleeping by the mother and infant…. it has nothing to do with the sleeping at all.
It’s the waking up.
I am a morning person generally. I like the morning. The quiet. The promise that a fresh day holds. But now, when sleep often eludes me for hours, even days at a time, it is harder to awake with a song in my heart. Or even a kind word.
But if Lucy slept in another room… I’d still be waking up just as often, to comfort her, to feed her, to change her.
But I’d miss the morning. The moment she opens her eyes. And finds the whole world all over again. I’d do anything to spend five minutes inside her head. See things as she does. And the moment she wakes, her grabby hands on my face, her little feet digging in to my pajama pants, her big toe stuck in my belly button, this is as close as I can get. And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Posted in Attachment Parenting, Family, Parenting
Tagged attachment parenting, bed-sharing, co-sleeping, family bed, Lucy, Parenting, sleeping
Man Cave
I am a firm believer that every man should have his own Man Cave. This is not always possible. But it’s a great idea if there is any way you can swing it. Before you convince yourself that this is a belief I have only recently begun to have in the last few days (since deciding to become a capital H Housewife) I should mention that the Man Cave is not just for the man.
The Man Cave benefits everyone in the family. “Wanna listen to shitty German metal bands, Dad? Feel free. Let me invite you to spend the morning in your Man Cave.”
“You like that painting do you, Dad? Go ahead and buy it, sweetheart. It will look lovely in the Man Cave.”
MQD had a Man Cave in our old house. We had a three bedroom. One for us, one for Em and one for MQD’s desk, his creepy painting, his porn-addled single guy computer and his Don’t Tread on Me flag push-pinned to the wall. It was perfect.
And then we moved. To our Grown Up house. And we have three bedrooms. One for us, one for Em and one that is theoretically Lucy’s, but it is actually for the grandparent’s. The Guest Room for now, but frankly, a new baby brings just one kind of frequent guests. Grandparents.
We no longer have a Man Cave. I campaigned briefly to turn the shed in to the Man Cave. But it fell on deaf ears. Occasionally we discuss getting a new shed, and wiring it. And then I start to get jealous, and say we need TWO sheds if it will actually end up an auxiliary living room in the back yard. Indoor/outdoor carpeting and a window unit air conditioning unit and it starts sounding like a dream come true. Add in a thrift store couch, a mini fridge and a three foot tall bong and suddenly I’m in college and foot loose and fancy free… I need only step in the back yard turn up the Beastie Boys and…. Sigh. I got lost there for a moment. Mom Caves are a totally different animal. They exist only in the recesses of my mind.
And really the main reason every house needs a Man Cave is because the rest of the house is Mom Town. Let’s face it. I don’t get to ban the rest of the family from any of the rooms. I pee with the door open and frequently entertain a guest while pooping. But much of the house is my domain.
And now sometimes there are moments that I think “Damn, I wish we had a room for weird shit that I know Mike will LOVE.” Today I wished I was that footloose gal with expendable income and a boyfriend that had his own place. Because I saw something that I wanted to buy for this boy I am crazy about. He would have been over the moon.
Not only do I not have $60 to piss away, but there is no Man Cave in which to store it. MQD, you’ve probably already guessed what it was.
For now, just know I haven’t forgotten.
I went to the mall today. And I wanted to bring this woman home for my husband. But sadly we don’t have a spare bedroom or a basement. Some day, my love. Some day…
Baby Butt!! What ! What!
There are few times in the course of our lives as women that anyone says “Holy hell, look at the dimples on that butt!! Love it!” or “Oh man, I just love the chubby elbows!” And I for one think we should embrace it!
Last weekend I had the pleasure of a visit from a dear friend and our wedding photographer, Carrie Roen. She has posted a sneak peek at a few of the images from her shoot and I am drooling over Miss Lucy Q’s adorable butt. Someday Lucy will roll her eyes and say “Mom, someone told me that my butt is on the internet. Is that true?” And I will, of course, say “It damn well better not be, young lady!” and promptly delete this post. But for now… Lemme introduce you to the young lady’s best side.
I can’t wait to see the rest of the images. Carrie has an incredible talent for capturing moments that you would not believe if you’d not seen them yourself. For example, as I sit here this morning, with toothpicks holding open my eyelids, I’d swear to you that Lucy does not actually EVER sleep. But photgraphic evidence, kids. She does. She will again.
When I was younger my dad used to say that I was a great kid… “when you’re alseep.” Not until I had kids of my own did I truly understand the majesty of a sleeping child. You have the time to see them, to smell them (even if they do smell like old noodles!) and to just absorb them when they are at peace. And quiet. And not moving. And quiet.
Shout out to Moonshine! And a stellar picture of Kellan's dad!
My other favorite moment in time that Carrie captured for me? After MQD and I were wed. After the toasts. After the family portraits. (And maybe after a wee bit of moonshine) she took MQD and I out in to the grass and we just walked. We walked and we laughed and we talked and we had a few minutes to ourselves. I have since told everyone I know that is about to get married to take these few minutes for themselves, you won’t get them back. There has to be a more romantic way to describe it than as the “Holy shit we just got MARRIED” moments, but for me… that is what it was.
And either I was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, or I was pretty damn excited about what we’d just done. Thanks, Carrie, for amazing pictures to help me remember some pretty special times in the last few years. And thanks even more for a conversation in my kitchen at the beach so long ago. I felt brave that day. And you were part of it.
Posted in Family
Tagged brooke mayo, carrie, family portraits, Lucy, newborn photos, photography, sleeping child, wedding photographer, wedding pictures, wedding portrait
Seriously?
I have written numerous times over the last two years about how Emily June has a knack for saying just the right thing. When I am questioning a big decision or an outfit or cutting bangs, I often look to her for advice.
So, naturally, last week I asked her what she would think if I were to quit my job and stay home with her. “We can spend the whole summer together, Em. Get our chores done and work on a little homework in the morning, spend the afternoons at the pool. I’ll even be able to help out in your classroom next fall if you want me to. I’ll never miss a field trip.”
So, I was selling it big time. Trying to anyway.
She stopped what she was doing and looked at me. Really looked at me. “Seriously? Are you SURE you want to do that?”
To say it was not the reaction I’d hoped for would be putting it mildly.
I don’t usually eat fortune cookies unless it is with a meal, but on Friday before I went to work I needed guidance. Since I did not get the guidance I had hoped for from my six year old, it seemed wise to seek advice from a mass produced dessert item. I opened the junk drawer and I fished out a fortune cookie.
It was just what I was looking for.
Tagged Emily, fortune cookies, Parenting, Quitting my job, SAHM, stay at home mom
Marital Relations in Three Easy Steps
Jeans come in a lot of varieties. Unfortunately for me the only pairs of mine that fit in a manner that will allow for me to both stand up and sit down were first trimester maternity jeans. Their elastic waist band and relative stretchiness are fantastic for the gal that is not interested in wearing them ten days in a row. By mid afternoon I can’t keep them up and nothing says “these pants don’t really fit me” like constantly tugging at them. I can forget all about the second day. And by day three? They are like clown pants by then.
So, I was left with two options. Squeeze in to my pre-pregnancy “fat jeans” (the jeans I wear right before I get my period, to events that require heavy eating or when I am planning on napping in my clothes) or buy a new pair in a larger size than I care to admit.
I chose option two. I’d rather wear large, unattractive jeans than feel like a sausage. The dreaded Mom jean, capable of making your perfectly round ass look completely flat or the “boyfriend jean” a fancy way to say completely unflattering on everyone that is not 85 pounds or has any hips whatsofuckingever were on sale the day that I decided I’d take the plunge. I was not, I repeat, not paying full price for jeans I only planned on wearing for a short time.
The Mom Jeans won. I thought I’d be fine. So what if they made my ass look like the broad side of a truck? Stacy London has informed me that Lee Riders will be instantly slimming, and that it will be “easy to look and feel my best.” And they’re cheap. Less than twenty bucks cheap.
Four days. My Lee Riders and their slimming tummy control. We made it for four days before I decided that when you have no abs whatsoever and you wear a nursing bra or a shelf bra tank top that smashes your girls in to pancakes, albeit gigantic pancakes that give you armpit boob and cleavage all at once it is not wise to wear jeans that come up to said armpits and completely disguise your ass. My ass is is the only place that twenty extra pounds comes in handy. What was I thinking? I needed ass-friendly cheap jeans. STAT.
Old Navy coupon – you and me. It was on. It took six pairs of jeans. One friend. One dressing room. Zero cocktails or tears. And The Diva Skinny Jeans and I have made friends. I intend to wear them every day for at least the next month. And at thirty bucks that is still only a dollar a day.
And when you have two more weeks before you get, ahem, back in the saddle (post partum six week check up and a brand new IUD on February 28th, hollaaa! Leap year will be memorable this year!) it is important to start early. Prepping yourself mentally. For the Big Event known as “resuming marital relations.”
Here’s my guide. Three easy steps.
Step 1. Get a pair of jeans that make you feel like a girl. A regular, good looking, “might some day retire the ginormous full coverage cotton panties in favor of the fancy grown up lady knickers” girl.
Step 2. Start trying to be less critical. See yourself as others see you. Not as your slightly Body Dysmorphic Disorder-ish self views you. Step 2 is easy if you have a little loverboy living across the street. This weekend Em’s buddy, Kellan, breezed through the living room and stopped dead in his tracks. “HOW DID YOU GET SO SKINNY SO FAST??” and he hugged me. He said I was cute. He’s six. But I don’t care. I told MQD if he ever comes home to a Dear John letter explaining that I need to feel beautiful, go find Kellan. I’ll be with him.
*source unknown
Step 3. Make peace with the “tiger stripes.” Last week MQD sent me this image. He had seen it on a clever how to be a good dad blog. I’ve since seen it in several places around the internetz. It would be a hell of a lot easier to make friends with my “tiger stripes” if I had abs of ummm… not even steel. What is a slightly less strong metal? Abs of brass? Shit, I’d settle for abs of cottage cheese if I could just have a visible waist. I digress.
Step 3 ain’t easy. But then neither is pimpin’. And neither is just getting the fuck over yourself I have discovered. But it seems the most direct path towards acceptance for me is to spill it. The truth. My big deep, dark secrets spilled out in front of everyone. A couple of weeks ago I posted a picture of my post-partum self. I received a lot of kind comments and emails. But it still sucked.
And it still sucks today. But I am making progress. Because if I have to be totally honest with myself I am more inclined to want to photoshop out the toothpaste on my bathroom mirror than the armpit boob or the stretch marks. Now I can’t guarantee that is forward progress. But it has to count for something.
Posted in Exercise, Family, Pregnancy
Tagged maternity jeans, Post partum, postpartum, pre pregnancy, Pregnancy, self esteem, self image, stacy london, stretch marks, trying on jeans
Lucy, the Perfect Sweater
Have you ever had a sweater that was the Perfect Sweater? As hard as you try you couldn’t find anything wrong with it. You can wear it with everything, blue jeans, sweatpants and a dress. It is precisely the right temperature no matter what it is like outside. You show this sweater a lot of love. Adding to its perfection – it never seems dirty. No matter what has spilled on it, it smells fresh and clean and remains unwrinkled.
And then one day you decide you should wash it. It’s not even dirty you just feel like you should wash it. So you’re really careful. No Woolite, no fancy detergent. Just water for this Perfect Sweater. No dryer, no washing machine. Wash that sucker by hand in the sink.
Then after you wash it it’s just never the same. It is like a kleenex. Little bits just fall right off. It’s a disaster. If someone saw you in your favorite sweater they’d ask you “What did you do to that sweater?”
And if you were say, overtired you might reply “I just fucking WASHED it, okay? I had been wearing it every day for two weeks, I just thought I should wash it. I was trying to do the right thing!!!”
Yeah, that’s what I did to my baby. Lucy is the Perfect Sweater.
...and the baby, ashamed of her flesh eating disorder.
Posted in Parenting, Pregnancy
Tagged blue jeans, Pregnancy, SAHM, sensitive skin, stay at home mom, stay at home parent, sweater, woolite
Little Margarita
I want to call you every fifteen minutes just to make sure you are real.
I am 100% inside out. I know that the end result will be great.
I have been employed outside my home for at least 40+ hours a week for as long as I can remember. Until Em was born it was more like 60 or 70 hours.
I am working from home today. Hiding out, putting off the conversation where I know I will get teary-eyed at minimum, in all likelihood full on ugly cry at the idea of leaving my job behind.
Lucy hasn’t slept very much today. She seems to be staring at me every time I look at her.
Weird. I feel like I finally saw her yesterday and it seems today, on her 20th day of life she can really see me, too.
Em looked like she was 6 going on 16 this morning as she left for school.
It is not even two in the afternoon. And I’ve heard Bloodkin’s “Little Margarita” twice already today.
I’m thinking a Big Margarita might be in order tomorrow evening.
Everything you heard about me is true, my Little Margarita.
But I’m so in love with you, my Little Margarita.
I am the bastard son of Neal Cassady.
You’re splashing salt and cactus juice all over me.
You’re my Little Margarita.
Posted in Family
Tagged Bloodkin, Margaritas, neal cassady, Parenting, SAHM, working from home
Excitement on the side 