Namaste.

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I have had a rough 24 hours that involved vomit and two children that took turns alternately waking me up all night long. At 4:45 this morning I had to make the decision to either get a few more hours of sleep, or run to Walmart while I had the chance. 
I chose to sleep.

I need to go to the store. Badly. But Husband is at work and won’t have a day off until Sunday. It is now Tuesday. So at some point, I’m just going to have to suck it up and haul a sick child and an infant into public so I can get children’s Tylenol, canned pumpkin, and chopped pecan pieces. Because I have to do a practice run on the cheesecake I’m planning to bake for Thanksgiving. Priorities, people. 

I was beginning my descent into self-pity (why does he have to work all the damn time? oh yeah … so we can pay our bills) when I made the conscious decision to stop my inner complaining and NAMASTE.  

30 minutes of yoga later, I have a whole new outlook. I may not eat my young after all. At least not today.

The Messiest Man in America.

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My husband ate one of these cookies last night.  

I didn’t make them. My mother-in-law did, with the help of ONE. I like the fact that they have handles.

So he ate a handled cookie, and somehow managed to drop icing on the kitchen rug, grind it in so deep with his feet that I had to wash said rug in the washing machine to get it out, and then he tracked the aforementioned icing all over the first floor of our house. 

I think the tracking actually took place this morning, after he was ready for work. In fact, Husband, if you are reading this, why don’t you take a look at the bottom of your shoes?

I’m not mad at him. But only because it’s white icing. This same exact thing happened once before, but it involved red sprinkles that were all over the carpet around the couch. Now THAT was a bitch to clean up.  

I may have had to stop one of my children from eating the icing out of the carpet. Both times.

Road Trippin.

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I just got back from a five-day road trip to my hometown of Baton Rouge, LA. It was a whirlwind, last-minute trip. I loaded up the kids and went. And let me tell you, after the experience I had in Tuscaloosa that involved me, a packed Panera Bread, two children and an LSU t-shirt worn by yours truly … 

I can do anything. 
I can go anywhere. 
Seriously. New York City with kids? Yes. Black Friday shopping with kids? Yes. Nothing scares me anymore. Forcing myself to just go out and do whatever I feel like doing, kids or not, has done wonders for my self-confidence as a mother. I am not one to just sit at home all day, every day. I like to get out and do stuff. It’s intimidating, but so worth it to conquer your fears.
Nothing bad will happen. Aside from people staring. And you may get snotty looks, if you decide to drag your children into eateries like Panera where people go to work on their laptops or have deep conversations. To all of those people, I am sincerely sorry. I know we took up a lot of space.
IJUSTREALLYWANTEDACUPOFSOUP.

ONE stayed in Mississippi with Husband’s mom and grandparents and I took TWO with me to Baton Rouge. 
As you can see, he learned how to fish.
ONE with his second catch of the day.
This is pretty much the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I am sure you’re probably rolling your eyes … unless you’re related to me. And if that is the case, you’ve likely already recieved a copy of this picture via text or email.

I suppose I should just come to grips with the fact that I am just as annoying as any other mother who has ridiculously smart and cute kids.

I am extremely homesick for Louisiana. I miss the people, the culture, the cheap LSU gear that is readily available, and most of all — my family. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go get a tissue.

Monster Spray.

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Motherhood can send you to places you never dreamt you should or would ever go. This is why we should probably not judge other people. I’m making a conscious effort to be less judgy of my fellow moms. As far as the rest of the world … they are still fair game.

ONE is convinced that monsters are in his room. Specifically, they live behind his curtains. I have tried everything to convince him that:

1. Monsters do not exist.

2. No monsters live in our house.

3. His room is safe.

But NOTHING is working. I dread bedtime. It sucks. No, really. IT SUUUUUUCKS.

I now understand how people end up with children sleeping in their bed, or why parents are willing to lay with their kids until they go to sleep. I am so desperate for bedtime to not be a horrible experience that I am willing to do almost anything at this point. Well, except letting him sleep outside of his room.

The thing is, I know that if we start doing stuff now like letting him sleep with us, he will continue for a very long time. I personally can’t handle the mere thought of having kids in my bed. That is MY BED. I need some space. I have to draw a line somewhere. For approximately 18 hours a day, I have a child attached to me or crying for me. I NEED TIME AWAY FROM THEM.

And so, I decided to try “monster spray.” If he can’t be convinced that they aren’t real, maybe I can convince him that I “sprayed” them away.

Am I enabling his fears?

Probably.

I can’t think clearly anymore at this point. I am simply tired of feeling like a terrible mother who abandons her son in his super-scary (his words, not mine) room every night and makes him stay in there. No nightlight, flashlight, lamp or stuffed animal is making it any better. 

Let’s see what a defaced bottle of Febreze will do. And, if this doesn’t work … I always have this book to fall back on.

Now that, my friends, is funny.

Oh No.

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I was feeling not great, but not horrible about my postpartum figure … until yesterday. That’s when two things happened:

1. I managed to button and zip up my size 12 Gap jeans.

2. I saw myself from behind and it scared the daylights out of me.

You see, last weekend we took ONE to a birthday party. Here he is, holding some stranger kids at swordpoint. I cropped them out, since I don’t know them or their parents, and they might not appreciate being posted on the internet. And I have to say, I’m quite proud of myself for being so mannerly.

One of the other moms took pictures at the event, posted them on Facebook, and tagged me. Which was awesome, since I didn’t take pictures at all. I excitedly clicked through them. 

Then I saw this one.

It took me a minute to realize the chunky chick standing behind my son was me. GOOD GRIEF.