I'm totally going to be a nurse. A registered nurse. Hopefully a registered nurse on a labor and delivery floor. There will be blood and amniotic fluid and barf and poo. I'm okay with all of that, believe it or not. I mean, I'll have gloves, and I can totally handle it.
Here's where I admit my Achilles heel: snot. I have major, major issues with snot. Literal gagging with watery eyes issues. I just hope and pray that a) there's not a lot of snot on a L&D unit (And please, don't comment to tell me you deal with snot on a daily basis. I don't wanna know right now) or b) I get used to it. Fingers crossed, eh?
The other day I had all the kids in the car on our way to my mom's house. We were peacefully driving, humming along to the radio when I hear Big D say, "Smella! What is THAT?"
I glanced in my rear-view mirror at Smella. There were...smeary, viscous marks on her window. I reflexively gagged.
"Smella, what did you do?" I asked. "Did you just wipe your nose on the WINDOW?"
She nodded and then I died.
"You can't ever, ever, EVER do that!" I shrieked. And at this point, Big D is chiming in with me. Perhaps snot phobia is hereditary?
"But mom," she says sensibly, "I didn't have a Kleenex."
I may have shrieked at her a little more about grossness and responsibility and asking for a motherfucking piece of paper or grocery bag or something before doing that again. I think she got it. I hope she got it. Or I'll have to seriously consider leaving her on the side of the road the next time that happens.
Big D will help me.
They took him away after that initial meeting. They always do. They take him away with the promise that they'll bring him right back. They just need to do this, and one of these, and some of that.
They wheel you to another room, your now slightly jiggly belly, empty. And you sit and wait, alone, because your husband has went with the new baby, torn between staying with the woman who just birthed his first offspring and following the helpless offspring. The shiny new offspring always wins.
And you wait. Patiently at first, because you want him to be safe, to be healthy, to be thoroughly checked out. But then you start to worry. And you start to feel a little lonely. And then it turns into an all-out panic.
And finally, after two hours, a nurse wheels your shiny new offspring back to you, followed by a giddy if not exhausted dad. And she drones on and on about feeding and diapering and poops and umbilical cord care...and it's all you can do to not rip her face off and demand she give you the baby. NOW.
And then she finally shuts up and hands over the goods. And he's there. Warm and pink and soft and blond. So much blond hair. And you finally get to nuzzle the sweet, soft spot of his neck and examine every toenail and fold, and get to whisper his name into his ear, and you break into sobs.
And when your husband asks if everything's okay, you nod and assure him you're fine, excellent in fact, you just missed the baby.
What you don't tell him is that it's more than missed, it was an ache. A frantic, panicky ache. But now that he's here, and you have him in your arms, everything in the whole world is just fine.
***
Big D turned eight years old yesterday.
For some reason, all day long, while I baked cupcakes and wrapped presents and anticipated the look on his face at chocolate chocolate chip frosting, that frantic, panicky feeling would come. He's eight, well on his way to being taller than I am, smarter than a kid should be, still has a ton of blond hair, and I adore all of that.
But I think I miss that warm and soft and pink baby something fierce.
1. I'm still here. Barely.
2. I had to drop my math class because when I went to double check the ASN curriculum, the math I was taking no longer fulfilled the requirement. I was a little more than happy to.
3. It's hard, going back to school, three kids, blah, blah, blah. But it is and will be so beneficial to this whole family. The added income once I'm a RN will be great, but the kids watching me do this is the real bonus. I took Big D with me to drop that math class, and he was in awe and had so many questions. I answered all of them and then some. Brainwashing starts early up in this house.
4. The husband pondered which sounds better: President Obama or former President Bush. Either one makes me so giddy I could cry.
5. Something that has been making me giggle all week: When asked where something is, like a sippy cup or his blankie, Boobers points all haphazardly and says, "Dere." Also cute if not a little disconcerting: Big D and Smella playing "squirrel" where one is appointed the squirrel and the other the "keeper." Squirrel crawls around saying, "SQUEEEEEAK" while the other throws food at it. People should procreate just for that kind of shit.
For the past few weeks, three-year-old Smella has been trying to give up her nap. It pains me. I used to put both babies down for the afternoon and have a good hour and a half to two hours all to myself until Big D came home from school. I would occasionally do a little happy dance in the hallway after shutting their door. I could do homework. I could nap. I COULD PEE ALL BY MYSELF.
But I realize that at some point, kids stop taking naps. I know this. Big D gave up his nap around this age. I also remember the godawful transition of it. Sure, Smella can survive without a nap, but is she pleasant? Uh, not always. If she doesn't nap in the afternoon, then you can count on a whiny, inconsolable mess of a preschooler around 6:30, which is way too early for bed. She's in that phase where she could still use a nap but is getting too old for one.
Another thing exacerbating the problem is that we converted her crib from a happy baby cage into a toddler bed. Smella discovered a few weeks ago that lo! she can climb out of a baby cage! Since it's dangerous for her to practice her Houdini-like skills with only Boobers as a back up, we took the rail off. And now keeping her in bed is a whole other exercise in self restraint. On both our parts.
While she's very cute and sneaky, she's not the most clever. Most of the time we know she's out of bed because of all the thumping she does. Girl hasn't perfected tip-toeing yet. When she decides to get out of bed and thump around, she likes to grab things that make noise. So if you missed the elephant-like sounds coming from her room, the singing and pinging of her Little Einsteins laptop will clue you in.
I've threatened with my ugliest mommy face, punished, cajoled, begged. Nothing works. She'll eventually go to sleep, sure, but first it's party time in the babies' room! I'll creep down the hall so she doesn't know I'm coming and fling open the door to catch her red-handed. Nothing phases her. She'll shuffle back to bed, promising to stay there, but only after she's completely exhausted will she fall asleep.
I suppose duct tape would be taking it a bit far, no?
While I was at work last night, the husband made a valiant effort to take the tree down. Finally. Everything is boxed up and ready to go, and now all I have to do is vacuum up the "needles" from our very, very fake tree. Assholes. People have fake trees so they don't have to deal with real ones.
The husband disassembled the tree last night after the babies went to bed, so when Smella came out of her room this morning, bleary-eyed and crazy-haired, she got to the living room and gasped.
"OH NO! Where did the tree go?!"
I thought for a moment she was really going to cry.
Big D scoffed at her and told her Christmas was over, the tree has to go away. She accepted that answer, but keeps wandering over to the boxes, running her small hands along them. The girl loves Christmas and all the trimmings, and I think she may be a little wistful that it's over.
I have NO idea where she'd get that from.
So Christmas was lovely and fun. The kids had a blast, and I've been busy drooling over and buffing and loving the new set of cookware I got. I know. Cookware. But it's some kickass Wolfgang Puck cookware, and it's heavy-bottomed and oven-proof and SO SHINY.
Things are slowly getting back to normal here, but I'm sure all won't be completely right until Big D goes back to school next Tuesday. Seriously, who starts school on a Tuesday? How weird is that? And why won't he quit making Smella shriek at the top of her lungs all day? And why won't she fucking NAP so I get at least an hour reprieve in the afternoon?
The mutha effing tree is still up, and I have no idea when I'll have time to take it down. Oh, sure, I could do it during the day, but the husband is at work. That means I'd have to do it all by myself. He's the one who usually hauls the boxes in and out of our storage shed while I carefully and lovingly pack the boxes up. From the couch. In the warm. So you can see where doing it alone would be a problem.
So there's my attempt at blogging again. I know, right? Lame. I promise to post something substantial and brilliant later. At least by Friday. Yeah. Or something. I have to go caress a stock pot now.
It's weird. Christmas is next week, yet I feel so freaking...relaxed. School is over, finally. I only have a few days left of work, and then I'm off pretty much all of next week. My shopping is done, and the majority of it is wrapped. All I have left is to cook and bake what I want and enjoy the babies.
And, oh, the babies. Big D of course absolutely "gets" Christmas. And I know I only have a year or two before the whole gig is up. Not that it stops being fun for him, but I know from experience that a tiny part of the magic is gone. I'm taking advantage of his naivete while I can.
This is the first year that Smella completely understands Christmas. We get gifts, we give them, Santa comes, cookies, wrapping, secrets...she loves it all. She one hundred percent believes, and it's so much fun to watch.
Boobers comprehension is limited, but he's loving the decorations and ornaments and exclaims "WOW!" at every light, bauble, and bow. I can't wait to see his face on Christmas morning when I finally let him open the presents I've been trying to salvage from his baby hands all month. I'm not sure he'll know what to do with himself.
So for the next week, I'm going to immerse myself in the holiday. Watching and feeling it through my babies' eyes makes it magical and breathtaking again. And instead of rushing around and running myself ragged, I want to slow down, drive around and look at lights, bake cookies with the kids, sing "Jingle Bells" at the top of my lungs, watch Christmas movies, and actually enjoy myself.
It should be a nice change of pace.
The husband and I took the three kids to have professional pictures taken for Christmas. This was the first time I've attempted this feat with all three, and I'm thinking that after Saturday, it was probably the last, despite my mom's pleas.
Our appointment was at 10:40, and we arrived promptly and were told it would be 10 to 15 minutes. Fine. We browsed Target. I tried to keep Smella's curls under control. We went back to the portrait place and were told it would be another 10 to 15 minutes. FINE. By now the kids are bored and whiny. We browsed the $1 bins, trying to keep the kids from rolling on the floor and clean.
We were finally taken back almost an hour after our scheduled appointment.
The photographer was sweet and has three kids of her own, so she was understanding of my COMPLETELY NUTBAG CHILDREN. Big D refused to listen to instructions AT SEVEN YEARS OLD, Smella was easily distracted by bright, shiny objects, and Boobers forgot how to smile. The smiliest baby in the world was stone-faced sober.
I should've known better; I've tried taking pictures at home of all three of them at the same time. But I figured that in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people, things would go a little more smoothly. Cha.
By the end of the appointment, Smella was whining for a drink, Boobers was crying because I wouldn't let him destroy the fake Christmas scene they had set up, and Big D was bouncing off walls...because, uh, that's what he does, I was sweating and gritting my teeth, and the husband was vowing to never do that again.
But we have lovely, lovely Christmas pictures to stuff into my Christmas cards. I certainly hope my mother's happy. Next year, I'm making her take them.
Boobers has been working on his animal sounds. Occasionally they sound deranged.
Let me tell you how absolutely cool I acted yesterday during dinner. I was ever so proud of myself. I spent yesterday cleaning the whole house and doing countless loads of laundry, but I still managed to cook dinner. There was a recipe in last Sunday's paper for a pork tenderloin with Asian peanut sauce, so we had that with buttered noodles and green beans.
My oldest? Big D? He's kind of a butthead when it comes to eating. As in, he doesn't really like to eat anything save for chicken nuggets and maybe a grilled cheese. In the past year, I've put my foot down and said that I will NOT be making a separate dinner for him; he has to eat what I cook or nothing at all. Oh. And he's not allowed to vocalize just how gross or yucky or smelly dinner is. For the most part, this has worked okay, and he's even realized that hey! manicotti really isn't disgusting!
Baby steps, people.
So on to my tenderloin. It was perfectly cooked and tasty, and I love peanut sauces. Big D started bitching immediately, and Smella, being the small mockingbird she is, echoed all of his sentiments. I gently reminded them both of how rude it is to tell me repeatedly that dinner stinks, so shoosh and eat already. They both got hesitant bites, and Big D told me that was the weirdest tasting barbecue sauce* and Smella echoed that yes, it was stinky barbecue sauce. EWWWWW. GROSS. IT SMELLS BAD. YUCK.
I sucked in a breath and then slammed my fork on the dinner table and um, "voiced loudly" that they were to both stuff a sock in it and not speak for the whole rest of the meal. Either eat or starve to death. I was met with blinking eyes and the husband trying not to make eye contact with me.
The best part after a person explodes like that is the aftermath. Lots of cleared throats and clinking of silverware while the husband quietly adds up how much therapy will cost for three children.
Whatever. Wanna know what we're having tonight? I'm throwing tepid corndogs and ketchup at them and letting them figure it out.
*What? You think he'd eat it if I told him there was peanut butter in it? Come on.
1. Just a friendly reminder, once again, to leave when a place of business closes. Please don't wait for me to walk into the lobby and jangle my door keys suggestively in your direction. It's just awkward for everyone.
2. I only have about six weeks left of school in this semester. It looks like I'll be winding up with a 4.0. Hot damn. We'll see how long it lasts.
3. Big D has had a 4.0 gpa since 1st grade. It runs in families!
4. How's about Tuesday night, huh? Could it be any more awesome than that? Was I the only one pinching myself all day yesterday to make sure I wasn't dreaming?
5. Did you know the day after Halloween all the fun-size Snickers, Butterfingers, and Skittles go on sale? Did you also know they go ahead and vomit Christmas all over the fucking aisles? Hello? I think we forgot about Thanksgiving.
We took Smella trick-or-treating last year when she was a touch over two-years-old. She was a bumblebee, and blond and cute, but she really didn't grasp the concept. Yes, she loved candy, but that whole speaking-to-strangers thing really bummed her out. She's shy until she warms up, and unfortunately the whole "Hi! Trick or treat! Thank you!" isn't long enough for her to warm up.
I've been talking about trick-or-treating for the last several days. I tell her she's going to dress up, have her ghastly orange pumpkin bucket, and then she'll need to say "Trick or treat!" after she knocks on someone's door. And then she has to say "Thank you!" after they slip her candy.
"But what else do I say?"
"That's really it. 'Trick or treat' and then 'Thank you.' Do you think you can do that?"
"They'll give me candy?"
We've had this same conversation over and over. It blows her mind that people hand out candy for free. She insists up and down that she'll say what she's supposed to, but I have my doubts. Nonetheless, I'm so excited. Smella sort of gets it, and Big D totally gets it, and this year Boobers will be wearing the same mouse costume that the other two wore on their second Halloweens.
I love this part of parenting. Adorable, happy kids and free candy times three. It doesn't get any better.
1. We're going to see Ben Folds tomorrow night. BEN FOLDS. That's really all I need to say.
2. The beauty of having a husband who is smart? He helps write your research papers. The beauty of online classes? That you can have your husband help write your research papers.
3. Can we just agree that petulant, whiny little bitch Kenley needs to go home already? Did you see the "hip-hop" ensemble she whipped up? She even had LL Cool J stuttering.
4. In the span of about two weeks, Boobers has had a black eye, a huge goose-egg on his head, rug burn on his nose and upper lip, and last night I was informed he somehow fell and bit his lower lip. He's our little prizefighter. Not a winning prizefighter, mind you, but still.
5. Perhaps the only good thing about fall is candy corn. And the best thing about candy corn is that I can only eat about five pieces (or two of those pumpkin ones) before I get a little gaggy. It's like they are their own portion control! Also, at my local Target, I found caramel and chocolate candy corn. Huzzah!
5b. "Huzzah" is a real word. I had no idea.
I promise this will be the last time I speak of $35 next-day shipping. Last time. For this semester at least. Promise.
I ordered my psychology book online on a Monday afternoon. After forking over money to receive it really, really fast, it was delivered Friday. That's four days.
I had to reorder a book for my first year seminar class. (The dude at the brick and mortar bookstore handed me the wrong book. That's a completely different ranty post.) I ordered the book through the same online store on Saturday afternoon. I used regular ground shipping. Want to know when it came? THREE DAYS LATER. I opened the box, not really believing it would be the book, but it was the book, delivered faster and cheaper than next-day shipping, and then my head exploded.
So that's it. I'm done with the fucking textbook-shipping talk.
Today you turn three. I've been doing that thing all day where I go, "And this time three years ago, I was at my weekly doctor's appointment or driving to the hospital..." Right now, at this time three years ago, I was probably still in the process of answering all of those admittance questions, hanging out in my hospital gown, a bundle of nerves and excitement. You were born a little after 10 PM. An easy labor and delivery, all pink (and a little cheesy) and adorable.
You've changed so much in the past year. You've perfected screaming. You've learned that by screaming, almost anyone will do anything you want to make you stop. You know how to count to eight. I no longer have to buy diapers for two babies. You finally had enough hair to cut! You know how to use those dimples and blue eyes to their full advantage.
You adore your brothers. Big D can make you giggle faster than anything, and Boobers is a constant source of practicing all your empathy and mothering skills. I know that if Boobers needs anything, you'll be first in line to help. As the only baby girl, you're equally adored, and will probably always be the go-between.
You had a blast at your party on Saturday. You reveled in the fact that everyone in the room was singing to you, and you had enough steam to blow out all three candles by yourself. You were so proud of yourself, and I was of you too.
I adore you. I love the conversations we have on a daily basis. Like, "You have to work today? But I don't want you to! I neeeeed you here!" I adore your screaminess, your fierce determination, your utter stubbornness, your dimples and your crazy blond curls. You're my only, my most wanted, my lovely baby girl. Happy birthday.
Love,
Mom
1. I have three children. I can't even tell you how many times I've held my baby for some nurse to poke with a needle. Today, when the otherwise very sweet nurse stabbed my fifteen-month-old's chubby, dimpled thigh two times, I wanted scream velociraptor-style and then rip her head off. SHE MADE MY BABY CRY. Apparently it never gets easier.
2. While Boobers completely recovered and is just fine now, I still used him as an excuse to get out of something I didn't want to go to tonight. If you're going to feed, clothe, and rip people's heads off for your kids, the least they can do is give you an out for something once in a while.
3. I officially start school on Monday. I'm taking seven credit hours. I already know that I'll have to do a research paper for the English class I'm taking. I'm already overwhelmed and nervous that this will cut into my blogging time. Fucking higher education.
4. Oh, and school? I don't have books yet because I'm taking online classes and the damn online classes don't show up online until the very first day of school. Look, I like procrastination as much as the next gal, but not when I've invested several thousands of dollars on something. Speaking of, WHERE IS MY STUDENT LOAN?
5. This post right here makes my 94th post. That's only six away from 100! (I did the math for those who have trouble with it, like, uh, me.) I'm thinking I'm going to have a little contest to celebrate and to make all you lurkers delurk. So keep an eye out for it, and prepare to be dazzled by fabulous prizes! (Okay, a prize, and it probably won't be SUPER fabulous. But still.)
While sitting on the couch, Boobers and Smella snuggling in my lap, Smella declares that she likes her baby brother.
"You do?"
"Uh huh. And he likes me!"
"I think he does too. Do you think we should keep him?"
"Yep."
"Should we throw him in the trash?"
"No!" Complete with horrified expression.
"Okay, no trash. Should we give him to C (a close friend of mine that Smella adores)?"
"Yes!"
"But I thought we were keeping him! Why do you want to give him to C?"
"C likes him too! We could share!"
Okay, okay. I guess maybe Barney isn't all that bad. Just look at the lessons she's learned already!
It's happened. One of those "my kids will NEVER..." happened. See, I always took pride in the fact that MY kids only watch kids shows that I could tolerate. My children's baby-sitter was going to be high quality. That meant no fucking Barney.
Big D was born in 2001, right at the height of Barneydom. The few kids I had baby-sat for before Big D were completely and utterly addicted to Barney, so by the time I had Big D, I knew I had to keep him as far away from the dinosaur as I could. And it worked. Big D was hooked on a lot of other less migraine-inducing shows, like Blues Clues and Dora. Those I could handle. The cheesy, singing purple guy? No.
Sometime late last year, a good friend of mine sent me some of her daughter's outgrown clothes for Smella. Some of them were a bit too big still, so I tucked them away while we waited for a growth spurt. A couple of weeks ago, I dragged that box out, hoping to find some pj's for Smella. There was a Barney t-shirt. Barney and his good chums BJ and Baby Bop. I tried to quickly hide the evidence, but it was too late. "Mommy! Who is THAT?"
She has bugged me ever since that day to watch Barney. I have no idea how she knows Barney is a show. No one let it slip over here. So this morning, as Smella wore her t-shirt, she insisted I put Barney on right.this.minute.
In a moment of weakness, I did.
Not only did Smella thoroughly enjoy the show, her baby brother busted several moves to the chirpy, syrupy songs.
It only took one hit off the crack pipe that is Barney, and they're already scrambling to sell toys to get their next fix.
I'm not even sure they make new episodes, but On Demand has some.
They've watched two of them already.
I'm looking into DVRing some reruns that are on later this afternoon.
I should've torched that damn t-shirt.
