Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

It’s My Party/My Humps Remix

April20

It’s My Party And I’ll Cry If I Want To

Yesterday marked the eleventy-hundreth time (approximately) I’ve thrown a party for one of my kids. It started with a kegger when Ben turned one (what?!? That is SO not trashy!) and persisted until he was ready to have a Kids Only party for himself. This is where I bow gracefully out of hosting and pay someone insane wads-o-cash to host the 10 kids somewhere OTHER than my house. Kids scare me.

Thankfully, by that time, Alex was ramping up to have a birthday party of his own for me to publicly express both my fetish for cakes and my fetish for encased meats.

And yesterday, in all it’s magnificent non-barbeque friendly weather was one of the best I’ve hosted yet. Especially since I didn’t have to stand shivering over the grill while it rained on my head. But whatever.

I don’t know if it’s the isolation factor of having a small baby–especially one that screams her head off in the car–or the fact that I’ve felt so unwell in the past year or so, or maybe because I’ve been dying to have something to celebrate without a …but… after it, but yesterday seemed especially full of The Awesome. The perfect mix of people, food and, of course, prescriptions.

Here is Amelia, in her fresh party outfit with her Uncle Paul:

mimi-and-paul

Here is what Amelia thought of her dress:

mimi-dress

You can practically hear her yell “MOOOOMMM, I look STOOOOPPID!” And then I took the dress OFF her.

Easter Dress: 1

Becky: 0

And the moment I waited all week for:

cake

The cake. The glorious cake. It was as tasty as it was classy. It also wasn’t as cool as last years cake, but they wouldn’t do the tiered cake order over the phone. And since said baby sucks to take in the car, I was not huffing my fat butt out there.

Oh well. Even if it didn’t have drug paraphernalia, at least it was classy.

Now for Part II of my II Part Post (doesn’t that look like it should be an alliteration?)

My Humps

After Ben’s sensory issues wouldn’t allow me to nurse him, I developed a major complex about breastfeeding. Specifically, that it was something that I’d failed mightily at. I didn’t, of course, take into consideration that my CHILD might be the problem, which, of course, he was.

So Alex was born with hair on his back but I was the one with a chip on my shoulder. I was Going To Breastfeed Him, Dammit, At Any Cost. And I did. I got up every 1-3 hours every single night with him to nurse him. For a year. I nursed him at least once an hour every hour until he was one.

Despite my initial delight at HIS delight at my boobs, I had really mixed feelings about breastfeeding. On the one hand, I was very proud of myself that I was able to do something I’d been previously unable to do. On the other, though, I didn’t find the joy that others seemed to associate with it.

I’m not a touchy-feely person and although I like cuddling my kids, I did occasionally want my own personal space. And I longed for the day when I could wear scoop-necked shirts and not v-necked ones. I also longed for the day when I didn’t have to let my nipples hang out in the breeze constantly. I’m not modest, but damn, it got old.

So when I got pregnant with Amelia and finally figured out it might stick, I figured I’d breastfeed again, but not exclusively, and that I wouldn’t give myself a hard time if

1) She couldn’t do it

or

2) She occasionally got formula.

And, well, I guess the inevitable happened: she decided that nursing was too much work, just like Dr. Sears warned me about! I’d call this a Nursing Strike, but I think she’s just done with the boob. And I don’t have the luxury of time to pump. Or should I say properly, I don’t want to make the time to pump exclusively.

I sit here and try to remind myself of the positives: I can lose weight more easily, I can finally wear shirts that don’t expose my chesticles, I can wear bras that don’t snap open and shut, and I won’t smell like a milk factory constantly. My body will be my own for the first time in 3 years. These are all true.

But she is my last baby. This is the last time I’ll nurse anyone. And I am conflicted. I wasn’t ready to have her grow up so soon. I’m not ready to put away her tiny newborn clothes, pack them up for the NICU I’m donating them to, knowing that this is the last time one of my flesh and blood will inhabit them.

I hate endings, no matter how happy they are. Even if it means new beginnings.

For today, my heart, it is wearing a frowny-sad-face.

posted under I Would Lact8 4 U, The Sausage Factory | 42 Comments »

iFarter (alternately: His Father’s Son)

April15

The Daver and I frequently play a game with our kids that I like to call “Whose Genetics Are THOSE?” Anything from cowlicks (me) to inability to turn away from the television while it’s on and drooling slack-jawed like the village idiot at it (Daver, obviously) to preference or distaste for foods (usually, shamefully, me) is fair game.

The genes we’re most proud of are quickest to be claimed: my luscious mane of hair, his ability to get more pee on the floor than in the toilet bowl or to put his dirty socks down the laundry chute, my ability to always be right no matter what. Those are the first to be asserted.

What’s left are the dregs. Or what I THOUGHT were the dregs until a couple of days ago.

You see, the stomach flu is making it’s way around our house in various forms. Ben barfed, I vacated my bowels while feverish on the can at 3 AM, Dave rode the porcelain God all afternoon and Alex (currently) has the screaming shits.

And with the screaming shits, comes, of course, the dreaded flatulence. The kid can now fart loudly enough for me to mistake it for his father. It’ll echo around a room and lay a fine greasy layer of sulfur all over everything, like the rotted egg of a gigantic chicken. I honestly had to check and make sure that Alex had not gotten his hands on my iFart application for my iPhone. He hadn’t.

This, of course, because I am most mature, I find hilarious. Side-splitingly so.

Laughter is a powerful motivator in the eyes of a two year old, so he has now learned to fart on command just to make me laugh. The sense of humor and desire to make someone laugh at all costs is all mine (doubt me? Read this. ‘Nuff said).

But the gas? That’s ALL his father. And I am SO jealous.

alex-farts

My own pocket-sized iFarter.

posted under The Sausage Factory | 33 Comments »

A Life Of Many Colors

April2

Today is World Autism Day, and although I am a rebel who tends to ignore such days as “World Water Day,” “World Bread Day” and my favorite “World Plone (huh?) Day,” I can’t seem to ignore this one.

My firstborn son, my Ben, is on the spectrum.

After his ebullient first birthday party died down and all the gifts were opened (although primarily by the adults) we noticed that Ben was gifted a copy of a Baby Einstein DVD called The Planets. After some hemming and hawing on my part since reading that the American Academy of Pediatrics was strongly opposed to allowing children that young to watch television, one day as I was trying to do some homework quietly, I popped it in the DVD player. I figured that the American Academy of Pediatrics didn’t have the issue of trying to finish a ten page research paper on the use of secret police during the division of East and West Germany during the 1980’s'”fascinating stuff, I tell you–while entertaining a toddler and that they could take their standards and shove them where the sun don’t shine.

And if they didn’t care for that answer, they could always come over and babysit for me.

Even though he’d occasionally caught Sesame Street on the boob tube, I’d never seen the look on his small face peering out from his dark brown bangs before. It took me a couple of minutes to properly identify it. Ben looked, to my shock, as close to happy as I’d ever seen him. The thirty minute movie captivated him and he danced wildly to the music, flapped his arms at the pictures of the planets, while even occasionally smiling. For someone who’d never taken the slightest bit of interest in anything around him save for the pendulum on the grandfather clock in the hallway at my parents house, or the scads of Little People he’d carefully line up in rows snaking around the house, I was stupefied by his reaction.

People, even his own mother, he could have cared less about, a reaction that I had expected 16 years later from him. As a teen, I understood it, as a toddler, I was flabbergasted. I’d thought that all babies were programmed at birth to like people. And animals! Who doesn’t like animals? Ben, that’s who. Animals, even the doting black labs and cuddly kitties we lived with who adored him, not a single one of those interested him in the slightest. If we’d all disappear, only to return to give him such things as food and sippy cups, he’d have probably been perfectly content. His need for socialization and interaction was simply non-existent. Which was hard for me to accept since I had been known to both talk paint off walls and feel suffocated without the telephone affixed to my ear. To each their own, I told myself. Not everyone has the desperate need to be as social as you are, Becky.

After the thirty minute DVD returned to the menu, filling the room with a loop from Holst’s Mars Suite, he indicated through a series of hand-gestures–as he rarely opened his mouth to speak–that he’d like to watch the video again. Still shocked and amazed by this new side of my son, I carefully depressed the play button and watched his reaction closely. Once again, as the movie began and the heavenly bodies were depicted on the screen, he was enraptured. For all of the soothing and comforting that he would not accept from us, this movie seemed to do it all and more. I’d never seen my quiet, strange son so happy and contented in his entire life.

Over and over we’d watch this DVD until I probably could have acted the entire feature out by myself and without prompting, but he never tired of it. Instead, he soaked it all in, able to not only name the nine planets by heart, but soon learning the names of their moons. I followed his lead, and took this pint-sized toddler to the bookstore to pick out a book of his choosing. Rather than enjoying the board book Goodnight Moon that I suggested, instead he found a copy of an encyclopedia of the planets, designed for middle to high school-aged children and became enamored. Before bed we read it, between viewings of his DVD we read it, we read it until the spine cracked and the pages were well worn, and he absorbed every single piece of information inside it’s cracked covers.

While his compatriots in the proverbial sandbox were learning what sound a doggie makes (woof, woof, for those not in the know), Ben was learning to differentiate and name the moons of Jupiter, all sixty-three of them and had become able to identify each and every one, no matter how blurry the picture was. His favorite was Io, but Ganymede was a close second. He would spend hours and hours constructing elaborate solar systems with all of his toys, and would try his best to get the distances between them as accurate as possible when working with Little People and balls. It was quite the uncanny concentration and devotion for someone who was not even two years old. I don’t need to tell you that this was at the same age when I learned how to eat my own boogers and how best to fart on the dog without making her run away.

The depth of his knowledge was both freakish and amazing; awesome and terrible at the same time.

posted under The Sausage Factory | 41 Comments »

And Now You Are Two

March30

Dear Alex,

Today at 5:18 you will turn 2 years old. I always hate it when people are all like “where does time go?” but seriously, kid, this getting too big too quickly has got to give your poor bedraggled mother a break. Stop getting so big!

(Pictures, for the interim, can be found here, at my Flickr account. I tried to upload a picture of me holding Amelia, and it was so big that it made my armpit look like a vagina)

The first thing I thought when I saw you was “OHMYGOD, I gave birth to Elmer Fudd” (but since I thought “OHMYGOD I gave birth to a statue” when I birthed your sister, I think you have it pretty good. I was in too much pain–no epidural for pushing and subsequent hemorrhage from his gigantic melon–when your brother was born, so I was barely conscious) but the first thing other people thought (besides your father, who may have gotten slightly teary while waxing poetic about your beauty) was “Holy Shit, he looks like Dave.”

And you do.

But, my love, you also look like your mother. And if people don’t see it, all they have to do is to hang out with you for an hour or so to realize that even if you’re not my spitting image–that honor was bestowed upon your sister, poor girl–you’re my clone. Your personality is all mine and I’m more than pleased to take credit for it.

Sure, you might be able to destroy a room faster than, well, a tornado, and maybe your screams of joy and horrifying temper may drive other people away (I’m looking at your grandmother on your father’s side) or to drink, but in every shriek of your gigantic mouth, I can hear me.

You’re 100% boy, all rough and tumble and stinky feet and throwing rocks, (although I just claimed ownership for your personality, I am not a dude. My sweater kittens and ability to shoot kids from my nether regions says as much.) which pretty much makes you your brothers exact opposite. You’re born opposites in every way I can think of besides the sweet streak that is obviously of your father.

I know it’s a lot to put on a child, and trust me when I tell you that it’s not something you’ll ever be able to change, no matter what happens, but you, my son, you are the one who made me feel like a mother. Your brother, as you’ll learn, was blessed with some pretty interesting issues and sits pretty squarely on the autistic spectrum. One of his challenges and one of the hardest things about parenting him is that he lacks a real ability to show his emotions. It’s okay in day to day life (who needs an emotional basketcase for a 7 year old?), but as a mother, it broke my heart so often I cannot believe it’s whole.

Then you came along, Sweet Baby J, and you reminded me that it wasn’t my fault, that I wasn’t just a lousy mother. While that certainly translated into a relationship that you couldn’t bear to be apart from me for even a single moment, it rarely bothered me. Nothing can top seeing you vibrate with joy, your little legs pumping up and down when you see me at the top of the stairs. You fill up the house with your “MMOOOOOOMMMMYY!!” and jump into my arms when I open them to you.

Nothing, not even a brand-new Prada purse can top that feeling.

I’ll admit, Mr. Jubbs, that I was highly nervous about bringing your sister home from the hospital, as you are an admitted Momma’s Boy. I was terrified that you’d try and club her to death with one of your many soccer balls (GOOOOAAALLL balls, as you call them, you soccer nut you) or poke out her eyeballs like a bird, but you seem….okay with her. You’re not really sure what to make of her which I cannot blame you for, but you know she’s yours.

I know that you think of her often because your mantra is this “Mommy, Dada, MeYA” and you chant this when you’re:

1) Happy
2) Sad
3) Mad
4) Hurt
5) Jubilant
6) Furious George HULK SMASH>

Your poor brother, who thinks that the sun rises and sets on you, has earned the name of “EW.” Which sounds nothing like “Ben,” nor has it ever been anything we’ve called Ben, EVER. But you call him “EW,” you drag him by the shirt or pants from room to room, occasionally insisting that he get on the floor so that you can jump on top of him and wrestle him silly. He doesn’t object–he loves it–and it’s one of your favorite things to do.

Last year, if you remember, I wanted to pay tribute to the little lives of babies I’ve met who have been lost too soon. I urged my readers to do something nice for someone–even themselves–in the name of these lost little souls and their parents, who wait here on Earth without them. The kindness that I saw was unbelievable and amazing: I have some of the best, sweetest readers on the planet.

So today, as I celebrate my son, I celebrate the lives of my lost nieces and nephews with kindness to others. I urge you to help me to spread the love. Do something, anything, kind for someone else. Leave me a comment, let me know what you do. I’ll randomly select someone to send something to.

Join me in remembering:

Hannah

Caleb

Baby JP

Kalila

William

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Aodin

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

Seth Milton

Abigail Hlee

JoeJoe Sherman

Baby Nick

Gabriel Anton

Ryan

Jonathan

Devin Alin

Jacob and Joshua

Baby K, Gabriel Connor, Christian Elliot

Emmerson

Baby Kuyper

Mara S.

(Please let me know via comment or email to becky (at) dwink (dot) net if you’d like me to add another to my posts of remembrance.)

So, Alexander, here’s to another year behind us. I can hardly wait to be your mother for another whole year.

I love you bigger than the sky, my sweet baby boy.

Love,
Mommy

posted under The Sausage Factory | 40 Comments »

Free To Good Home: One Uterus (slightly used)

March24

I always told The Daver that I wanted a couple of things in life: a monkey butler (proboscis preferred, because obviously but I’d consider a bonobo), unlimited fantasies about Britney Spears’s boobs, and three kids. While I’ve gotten the latter two, after that whole “monkey that ate that woman’s face thing,” I’m thinking the monkey butler is probably out. Unless I can dress him in a Richard Nixon mask and convince Dave that the former president is my butler.

Which could happen. Theoretically. He’s not home much (Dave, not Richard Nixon).

Dave, on the other hand, wanted unlimited access to Gummi Savers, a coffee cup with World’s Best Boss on the side in large letters, and a ridiculously expensive pillow. Notice that there’s no mention of crotch parasites anywhere here. We already had one kid and he wasn’t really all that wowed with the idea of having more.

Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t poke holes in condoms or “forget on purpose” my pills or anything quite so backhanded and sinister (probably because I am not smart enough to do this), but I was the one who pushed to have another.

And later another.

The idea was not to just “get busy” so that I could spend the rest of my days with my “hands full,” but to get ‘er over with so that we could be done having babies early, since we’d gotten a somewhat early start (21 and 23, not 14 or 15). That way, we told ourselves, we could spend our 40’s and 50’s enjoying the relative freedoms we missed out on in lieu of dirty diapers and spit-up stains and all nighters of a completely different ilk.

And here we are.

Done.

Free at last.

Now, I make a shitty-ass pregnant person, I’ve never lied about that. I feel like shit, I look like shit, and overall, I just can’t wait to be done gestating. Between that and worrying about additional neural tube defects in subsequent pregnancies (I have been on Folic Acid since Jesus walked on Earth), I’m pretty relieved to be done. But mixed with my sense of relief is a sort-of sense of sadness.

It’s not that I actually WANT more children–I don’t–it’s just that I’m now saying goodbye to a certain chapter in my life, never to go back again. The next time I rub my stomach in public will only be to convince the burrito to go DOWN NOW. And the next time I feel a phantom kick it will only be a burbling fart bubble.

But it’s clear I have issues with saying goodbye to pretty much any and everything. If a restaurant I’ve been to closes its’ doors, I get sort of nostalgic for it WHETHER OR NOT I’ve frequented it. I still occasionally miss nursing school (okay, that is a complete lie). Well, okay, I miss going to school.

I’m sure that from now on when my friends begin to have kids, I’ll always feel the slight tinge of jealousy and nostalgia for those early and exciting times.

And after I’ll inevitably mention this to The Daver, because I am both stupid and lack an internal filter I am certain that he will react by punching himself in the nuts until he’s sure that they’re no longer functional.

Oh well.

I’ll always have my love of Britney’s boobs to keep me warm at night.

posted under The Sausage Factory | 33 Comments »

Just The 5 Of Us

March19

The title should probably read “Just The 4 Of Us” since The Davers has been working, well, like the work-a-holic that he is (rough estimate is 80 hours a day, but who’s counting?), but I’d rather not sound like this post is all about bitching about being alone with my kids every.minute.of.every.day. because it’s totally not. Also: how awesome was THAT run-on sentence? (Answer: Awesomeness to the max!).

I remember when people would routinely stop me in the store, my biggest son beside us, my belly swollen with one child while her middle big brother played wack-a-mole with her as I held him in my arms, sweating, panting and generally full of The Unsexiness. They’d almost always say the same thing “Man, you’re going to have your hands FULL!” and I never knew how to respond. On the one hand was the obvious “Duh!” and on the other was my personal favorite “You’re being awfully sanctimonious, you fat sack of shit.” I mean, what do you say to the most obvious thing someone could point out. And they always said it so…gleefully. Like they were about to laugh at my misery.

ASIDE TIME! The other annoying thing that people liked to say? ‘”You’ve obviously been busy!” The implication is, of course, that The Daver and I hump like bunnies. Which would be more appropriate if our children weren’t nearly 2 and 5 years apart. But whatever. How do you respond to THAT? “Oh YEAAAHHHH! The sex is GREAT! And that new butt-plug? SWEEEEET!” *waggles eyebrows suggestively*

But even as those sanctimonious assholes would tell me that as I rolled my eyes (internally) at them, I knew full well that they were right. I was going to have my hands full. From experience, though, I knew better than to really spend a whole lot of time worrying about it. To me, worrying about that was like worrying about how it would feel to do a bowel prep for a colonoscopy. Sure, it sucks, but no amount of worrying would really prepare you for how much it would suck.

I hate to be the ones to inform them, though, that they were dead wrong. It doesn’t suck. Not even remotely.

Alex is having a hard time, that’s not debatable, but I’m beginning to wonder if it isn’t the standard 2 year old growing pains. He’s quick to decide never, ever to touch a food NO!NO!NO! that yesterday was his favorite (thanks to Ben’s autism, I’m intimately familiar with food issues and I don’t sweat them). He tantrums at the drop of a well, ball, these nasty long and drawn-out affairs that involve him throwing himself around the room while weeping histrionically and inconsolably (come to think of it, he sounds an awful lot like his mother).

He loves his sister as fiercely as someone his age possibly can, and when all else fails, I can throw him outside to play. But not in traffic. That would be uncool.

And Ben, oh my Ben, well, he just adores having a little sister. He’s the big brother I wish I’d had (my own frequently wiped the dog’s ass with a rag and then wiped my face with it. Oh, and pretended to be the boogeyman in my closet) and I’m shocked that someone as sweet as he could have come from my own loins.

That said, he’s developing the 7-year old attitude and lip and is actively trying to give me more grey hairs. Did I tell you he’s going to have 3 wives when he grows up? Because this is his plan: a harem of women.

*sighs*

Well, with all those ladies, one of them is bound to like me as a mother-in-law, right? Or is the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship always weird? Inquiring minds want to know.

And my wee cinnamon girl, my sweetest baby Amelia. She is wonderous and amazing and if she would only fall asleep without active work, she would be the ideal baby. She is also my last baby and I’m still not sure how I feel about that. But that, my fair Internet, is a story for another day.

She makes my family, the family I never knew I would be lucky enough to have, complete.

Diaper blow-outs and all.

Now I WAS going to put pictures here (although sadly for my #1 Fan, I will not be posting pictures of myself breast-feeding while walking through a store. Because I don’t have enough hands to take a picture), but my wordpress upgrade won’t let me. Well, it will, but the pictures are fracking huge and it looks weird. So, Internet, I am sorry, but I have no pictures for you right now.

posted under The Sausage Factory | 45 Comments »

Brothers And Sisters And Doctors

March11

The pictures, they speak for themselves:

AW! Lookit! Alex is FEEDING THE BABY! What an awesome big brother!

Oh, and there he goes, trying to pick out her eyeball.

Kids. I tell you.

—————–

To answer your burning questions, I present to you an abbreviated post! Hooray for small bits!

So, why the hell didn’t the doctor tell you about the encephalocele?

Honestly, I don’t know. I’m not sure if the whole litigation-happy climate made him wary of telling us anything before he knew for sure or not. I’m feeling much better about it today after being nearly bowled over by the news yesterday. Dave, predictably, handled it much better.

We went into surgery thinking that this was fluid-filled, which in retrospect, makes no sense so the news that there were actual glial cells inside that pocket was completely shocking to me. And it made me feel oogly inside.

Kinda creepy when you think about it.

Well, what does this mean for her development?

No clue. She appears to have all of her mental facilities intact, but she’s only 5 weeks old. The age when they sleep, poo and eat exclusively. So measuring milestones is an impossibility at this moment. She does eat, poo, sleep and wiggle which is a good sign. And when she looks at you, the lights appear to be on and someone appears to be home.

We have been flagged by the county (her diagnosis, not my shabby parenting) and will be followed by a public health nurse. That in addition to my own nursing experience ought to be able to ascertain any issues as they arise (or don’t. Let’s hope) and get her into proper treatment as needed. We’ve had much experience with Early Intervention, so I’m not scared of that.

We’ll handle it either way.


How are Alex and Ben adjusting to their sister?

Shockingly well, truth be told. Alex is a consummate Momma’s Boy and I was most afraid of how he’d take to having to share my attentions, but so far so good. Providence smiled upon us and we were able to enroll him in some in-home care 3 hours a day after my neighbor recommended her sitter. Who is awesome.

This seems to help.

A couple of months before Amelia was born, we’d bought another doll for Ben, who is nurturing it and loving it just the way he did with his first doll (bought when I was pregnant with Alex). Yes, my son plays with dolls and no, I don’t think that’s stupid. He may be a father some day and I want him to know that men can nurture as well. He’s loving having another sibling.

—————–

Anything else I failed to answer? My brain is mushy and stupid right now (okay. My brain is always mushy and stupid. I admit it.) so ask away.

posted under Abby Normal, Cinnamon Girl, The Sausage Factory | 39 Comments »

It’s Like The Punch Line Is Eluding Me

March9

I’m not a good joke teller. I have a steady repertoire of about 5 jokes–all of which are not kid-friendly in the least–and it’s like any time I try and add another one, I’m stuck with only remembering the punch line. It goes through my head in a circular loop, planted there like a song until something distracts it out of me.

Today, all I keep repeating is this “Drained wops keep falling on my head.” There was something about vampires and Italy, but I can’t recall it to save my life although I remember it being funny. Whether it was or not remains to be determined.

Last night was my first night since Amelia was born that I was genuinely on my own. The Daver has a job that while it leaves me to be a single parent most weeknights, was kind and flexible enough to allow him to work from home to support all of us. I can wax poetic about how irritating it is that he’s always on call or that work always seems to have A Big Problem whenever we’re doing something cool, but I’ll never forget how kind they’ve been to us.

I figured I could handle this, right? Sure Alex is sick and Amelia is catching it and so what if I was up the night before with my mind racing unpleasantly? I WAS A ROCKSTAR AND I COULD DO IT.

But last night my kids, who have inherited my sick sense of humor, had other plans that graciously allowing their precious mother 10-12 hours of uninterrupted sleep before awaking to serve me breakfast in bed and then clean my house for me. I know, right? The NERVE of them. And of course they seemed to sense that I had no backup for the following day.

Because my daughter was up until midnight, restless and cranky and just as I got her off to the Land Of Nod and firmly ensconced in her bouncy sleep my middle son began to shriek like he was being attacked. So off I trundled to get him another bottle of water and some cold medicine (did I mention we are all sick? Because we totally are.) and by the time I got in there I saw the cause for his screams.

Somehow, my darling most wonderful middle son took off his damn diaper and pissed all over the crib and his beloved ragged blankie. Awesome. But whatever, not the end of the world. Fixed that, popped him back into bed and once again shlepped my ass back to bed.

Second verse, same as the first, right? I fall asleep to be awaken after a brief moment to the melodious screams of my Alex. Finally at 2 in the morning I cried uncle after still not catching more than a couple minutes of sleep and begged Daver to help.

4:30 rolled around awfully early and found Amelia looking for a snacky-poo and by this time I couldn’t fall back asleep once we were done. And holy SHIT are babies loud sleepers or WHAT? I’d completely forgotten that.

So my day today has been…interesting. I’m so tired that I’m all jangly and I feel like somewhere, someone is laughing at me because I totally thought I could handle this.

Epic FAIL.

posted under The Sausage Factory | 33 Comments »

The Obligatory Picture Post

March5

So, last night in a fit of mad organizational skillz, I had The Daver help me to import some of our old pictures onto my Mac, something I’ve been meaning to do well, forever now. And what kind of blogger would I be without sharing?

(Oh, LOOKIT THAT, I finally joined the 21st century and got a Flickr account that I somehow need to add to my sidebar because I am totally adding additional pictures almost daily! Bonus! They’re all almost the same!)

Here’s Ben at his 3rd birthday party and holy shit does he look young. Damn, do I feel old now.

Daver rarely makes a photographic appearance here because he’s extremely un-photogenic. Just ask him. Oh wait, I just did. And he said “I’m really un-photogenic.”

I also rarely put my pictures up here. Why? Because I’ve been pregnant and/or nursing and thereby whale-like (La Leche League lied when they said breastfeeding would remove the pounds effortlessly). So you normally see older pictures of me if any. But don’t worry. I’m going to bring sexy back and get this weight off. Promise.

Also: am I high here? I THINK SO.

Here’s a trick: Which one of my kids is this?

Wait, the yellow might give it away. Oh well.

But who is THIS?

Okay, you win. Those were both Alex. So you’ll know THIS face from the acne and pink and bruising.

posted under Cinnamon Girl, The Sausage Factory | 34 Comments »

Scars And Stripes

March1

I’ve been pretty obsessive about documenting Amelia’s first days in this crazy mixed up world, although you’d probably not know it by looking at my blog. See, I always feel badly that the pictures are going to make my page load slowly although I don’t know if this is the case.

Either way, I’m going to start a Flicker account just like you crazy kids all have. My user name is MommyWantsVodka and here is the link. Then you can see just how badly I suck at taking pictures.

But I was just looking back to see if I’d taken any pictures of her third eyeball and it looks as though, nope, I didn’t. Probably a good thing since looking at it would make me weep openly. Hormonal, yes. Scary, also yes. My father, for those of you blessed to be my Facebook friend and be subjected to my status updates there (the only thing I’ve really done there. Which is stupid because it’s just like Twitter. Which I also have. Which, yeah.) posted one of the least flattering pictures of me that, well, I think might exist. You could see Amelia’s third eyeball there, but you’d probably not notice it because you’d be transfixed by the gigantic unkempt whale in the background.

I strong-armed him into removing it, thankfully, lest The Internet not find me sexy.

I may not have a picture of her third eyeball, but I do have this:

Oh, and this:

And this, which I warn you in all seriousness is pretty disturbing (it’s taken from far away, lest you all vomit onto your keyboard and send me the bill:

Yeah. I expected something a third that size and when the Asshole Nurse Practitioner (no really, that’s her name.) thoughtfully ripped the hat-shaped bandage from my poor daughter’s head, I nearly horked all over us all. Which, after she ripped out Amelia’s hair painfully, I probably should have. Bitch.

Anyway.

So, I suppose it’s a good thing that I’ve always thought scars were pretty neat. Because that one? HUGEMONGEOUS. You can’t probably tell from the angle which was deliberate, but it takes up most of the back of her head. It’s so foul looking that I spent our first night home crying over it.

Why yes, I am hormonal. My zit-covered face is pulsing proof!

Let’s just hope like hell that she never goes bald. Or if she does, she’s going to have to come up with one hell of a “this one time I was in a bar fight when I was like a month old. I cut a bitch!” story to regale people with. Or, I guess she could tell the truth. It’s a little scarier.

posted under Cinnamon Girl, The Sausage Factory | 53 Comments »
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