Determination.

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The childproof lock that we screwed into our refrigerator is broken. Someone — Husband? Maverick? — slammed the plastic clasp in the refrigerator door one too many times, and now it won’t lock. Once again, we are trying to figure out how to keep Asher out of the fridge. And if you’re wondering what is wrong with these people/their kid can’t possibly be that difficult to contain, I submit to you this:

THIS is what happens when you fence in your entire yard and turn your back for a few moments, assuming your child is safely contained.

Nope.

My friend Kate said he just needs to get a little bigger, so he can’t fit through the slats in the fence. I said no, he’ll just climb over it. She then said maybe if he was fatter …. ?? And slower … ?? And then, all at once, we accepted it. The kid can’t be corralled.

I think it’s time to focus my efforts on street and stranger safety, so when he does manage to escape, he will know how to come right back without getting harmed in the process. Here he is collecting pine cones in our front yard. It was a very serious matter.


It kind of freaks me out to have two little boys with such determination running through them. Maverick has been a major challenge pretty much since birth because of that damn determination. And now we can see it in Asher, who will silently work on something without you noticing, red-faced and narrow-eyed, and the next thing you know … he’s disappeared. Or standing on top of something way too high. Or holding a gallon of milk.

Sometimes people will comment that they don’t know how I do it, take care of these kids full time with such long days. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s that same determination that scares the crap out of me when I see it in my kids. The determination gets me through things like a trip to Wonder Cuts by myself, which is what we did today after we got Maverick from school.


He was determined to feed his sister.

Asher was determined to do a chin-up on that handrail.

I was determined that we were getting haircuts, and no one was going to make a fool out of me but me.

The Urologist’s Office.

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You haven’t lived until you have hauled three small children to the Urologist’s office to drop off a “specimen” in a brown paper bag.

I’m just saying.

There are many, many ironic and hilarious pieces to this story, but I think my favorite is what happened after I dropped off the brown paper bag. I wheeled the double stroller past Maverick, who was holding open the door that led into the waiting room full of people – mostly men. Old men, young men, men who looked angry, and men who looked relieved. Maybe they were there to get vasectomies, maybe they were there to fix a problem with the pipes … who knows. 

What I do know is that the baby got hungry at that precise moment and started to scream, which was partially drowned out by her two older brothers who were holding out their arms yelling “I’M A ZOMBIE! I’M A ZOMBIE!” (Why. Seriously.) while laughing hysterically. I decided it would be better to feed her in the waiting room instead of in the hot car, despite the circumstances, and that is how everyone present ended up being subjected to 15 solid minutes of my children at their absolute worst.

I could not help but to notice the stares from everyone within earshot. And they weren’t the “Oh, look at the cute children!” kind. They were the “Shut those freaking kids up!” kind. And so, in an effort to quell my embarrassment over the entire ordeal, I told myself we were really doing all of the people there who were considering vasectomies a favor. I may as well have been wearing a big sign that read:

You’re doing the right thing, sir.

Things That Make Me Happy.

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Man, it’s been too long since I did a “Things That Make Me Happy” post. Here are a few of the latest things that make me smile.

1. This article from the New Yorker. A friend of mine posted it on Facebook, and I heard myself saying aloud as I read it “FINALLY! Someone wrote something about red shirting that makes sense!”

2. I woke up to find this scene in my living room this morning. They are two snoring peas in a pod.

3. My new shirt.

4.  Sack racing children.


Passports.

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Today I got up at 5:30, showered, caffeinated, woke up the family and got everyone out the door to their respective destinations. I also gave Pepper a bath, because she woke up with poop up to her armpits. 

Maverick went to kindergarten. Asher and Pepper went to Mother’s Day Out because I had a hair appointment this morning. Today was the first time I’ve left the baby with someone that was not a family member for any amount of time (aside from the gym nursery), and I was nervous, but we both did marvelously.

I got my hair done. I went home and did a few things like locate, and get rid of, a strange smell that was coming from the garbage can. I went back to the school and picked up Maverick and the baby, but not Asher, because Maverick had to go get his allergy shot at 1:30 and I know better than to bring Asher into that situation.

I know this is boring and you can stop reading now if you want to, but this is the point where my day went from normal-mom-busy to absolutely-batshit-insanity and if you want to know why mothers are the way that they are … then here you go.

I stopped at the drugstore and got a toy to use as a bribing tool to keep Maverick from running off at the allergist’s office. Every time I take him he tells me he won’t wig out on me, and every time he totally loses it and tries to run away when they call his name. There is nowhere to run, but yet … he tries. He runs into storage closets, the doctor’s actual office where pictures of his family and diplomas are hanging — RUNS AWAY.  Today I had the double stroller with the baby in it, and I just couldn’t. So I promised him a small toy if he would just get his shot, and not make a scene. 

He agreed.

We went to the allergist’s office. We signed in and waited. And waited. 

The baby pooped.

I had no baby wipes. 

I asked how much longer we’d be waiting. The receptionist apologized and said she didn’t know – we were waiting on the doctor, who has to be in the office when the nurse administers the shot just in case something goes wrong. Okay, no problem. But by now it was 20 minutes past our appointment time, I had a baby sitting in poop, and Asher needed to be picked up soon. So I had to reschedule and get us back on the damn elevator and go down 4 floors and into the clinic store to buy baby wipes while the entire time answering a series of questions from Maverick.

I bought wipes. We took out a trashcan trying to get the stroller into the bathroom. 

I realized I’d brought in my purse, and not the diaper bag, so I didn’t have a diaper with me.

We went to the van. Maverick got in. I gave him the toy I was planning to use as bribery just so he would stop talking to me for a few minutes as I prepared to change a poop diaper in the blazing sun. A car was sitting behind me waiting for us to leave so she could take my spot. I walked over and said “I have to change my baby’s diaper and it’s going to take awhile … you may not want to hold up traffic.” She drove away, but the people behind her proceeded to sit and wait. And wait. And drive off, after probably getting annoyed, and the next car sat and waited, and on and on and on. I tuned it out because I was literally dealing with the worst diaper situation ever.

While I worked, I had the following thoughts: I hate Huggies wipes. HATE. They suck and I will never buy them again. I hate the sun. It’s too hot. I hate the fact that I’m a sweater. Why am I pouring sweat like I’m working out when all I’m doing is changing a diaper?! I haven’t worked out all week. I will never overbook myself again. I need the gym. I hate the allergist. Why can’t he be on time? It’s not hard to be on time. I WAS ON TIME.

We picked up Asher from Mother’s Day Out. By the time we got home, two out of three kids were crying. The drama escalated. Pepper pooped again. Then I realized my stomach was really feeling … not right. I washed everyone’s hands. Shortly after that, I was in the middle of making sure Asher didn’t get smothered to death by couch pillows when Husband called.

***

Husband: Hi! 

Me: Hi.

Husband: Whatcha’ doin?

Me: Seriously?

Husband: Oh … uh …

Me: WHAT DO YOU NEED.

Husband: Well … if you have time, do you think you could look up how long it takes to get a passport?

(Maverick is on Asher’s back wrestler-style, cramming his face into a pillow and Asher is screaming for help.)

Me: WHY CAN’T YOU LOOK INTO THAT?

Husband: Because I’m at WORK.

Me: —

***

Now, my husband is a smart man and if he took the time to think about it, probably knows I WAS ALSO AT WORK and did not have time to do internet research because I was maxed out trying to keep everyone alive. But unfortunately, he didn’t think about it, so I had to be mean to him.

And this is why men think women are irrational bitches, and women think men are stupid. 

Hopefully he was asking about the passports because he plans on taking me somewhere fancy and exotic as a reward for doing such a fantastic job, but after I was rude to him, he probably doesn’t want to go anywhere with me. So maybe I’ll just flee the country on my own.

 

Glory, Glory.

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Ugh. Weight.

I’ve been gym-ing it for awhile but the scale hasn’t really budged. I guess the official word for that condition is a plateau. After a few weeks without losing anything, I grudgingly started counting calories … and then I quit. Man, that sucks, calorie-counting. I can’t function under that kind of pressure.

So I was feeling pretty discouraged. I know — Pepper is only 3 months old, she is my third baby in under 5 years, blah blah blah. That doesn’t change the fact that nothing fits me. Not my underwear. Not my pajamas. Nothing. Everything is too tight (my normal clothes) or too big in the wrong places (my fat clothes … sort of) and I refuse to go buy new things because then I’ll just get comfortable in them and stop trying to fit into my old stuff. It’s just Ugly Town until who knows when.

After Thursday’s Zumba class I was lugging the baby in her 15-pound carseat, carrying a diaper bag and a workout bag, and dragging Asher by the hand across the parking lot when an older lady who was in my class stopped to speak to me. As I loaded the kids into the van one by one, she said something incredibly nice and encouraging: “I am PROUD of you. For making yourself come to the gym with these little ones, and trying to lose weight the right way. You’re doing great.”

It almost moved me to tears, and then I started making self-deprecating comments because I can’t seem to accept a sincere compliment without putting myself down, and then she cut me off and said “Honey.” So I made myself shut up and say thank you. Because she’s right. I should be proud of myself. It’s hard to make myself exercise. Everything and everyone else gets in the way. I’m tired. I want to lose a lot of weight, and the overall goal can be overwhelming. I don’t have time to plan my meals properly and I end up eating crap most of the time. I have a flap where my lower abdomen used to be. 

I needed someone to validate my efforts and give me encouragement and I didn’t even realize it. I hope one day, when I’m older, I can offer encouragement to a complete stranger who is struggling with her children and her body.

And so, I re-made the decision to just be proud of myself. I’m working towards a goal. I’m always working towards a goal. The most important thing I need to remember is to be proud that I bother to work towards something at all, because I have three small children who are sort of sucking the life of out me. My vanity and selfishness are the only things saving me from a life of sweatpants and Husband’s old t-shirts. 

And THEN do you know what happened?! 

I put on a pair of jeans that wouldn’t go past my hips last week. And I wore them all afternoon.


 Glory, glory hallelujah! There is hope after all.

Moms Night Out.

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I got an email invite today for “Moms Night Out: Sewing 101.”

(crickets)

It is my opinion that “Moms Night Out” should not involve sewing, crafting, or even cooking.  It should involve drinking and having to do nothing but sit while food is brought to you, if food is involved at all. I have a lot of mom friends who would disagree with me, and that is fine — they need to go ahead and RSVP to Sewing 101. In fact, let me know who you are and I will forward the email to you.

My friend Anna says she sews and drinks simultaneously sometimes and it works out pretty well, but I’m fairly certain that if I tried to do that I would wind up with something sewn to me. My friend Amy said there is resurgence of interest in learning basic homemaking skills amongst the hipsters and feminists, and asked if this was possibly “cool crafting?” Because if so, I should go. I said no. This is not a hipster or a feminist thing, because if it was I wouldn’t know about it because they wouldn’t have invited me.

I am not a feminist, I am not a hipster, and I’m not the kind of mom who gets excited about crafting. I’m not TRASHY, but I guess I’m the kind of mom who would consider an awesome night out to include a lot of: 

1. not worrying about my children,
2. not threading a needle, and
3. possibly a taxi.

Husband thinks I need to start my own mommy group. Maybe he’s on to something. I seem to be having trouble finding other moms like myself out there. I don’t have any tattoos, I pray, and I am very well-behaved, but if I’m going to have a night out, I want a night OUT.

Needless to say, my reply was “not attending.” 

My (Psuedo) Problem.

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I got problems, although I feel like other people have real problems. Real problems are things like abuse, unemployment, drug addiction, prison time, and genital herpes. My psuedo-problem is that my two-year-old wanders in the night.

Back in April, we made the transition and put the boys in a room together. For a long time, Asher continued to sleep in a Pack N’ Play because he just wasn’t embracing the big bed. Then Pepper was born and — forgive me, but I really have no recollection of what happened when because it’s one big blur — at some point Asher started climbing out of his Pack N’ Play. So we decided it was time to put him in the big bed.

He’s done great with it. For naps he normally sleeps in his bed the whole time and no longer tries to get out of his room, but I still lock him in there (the doorknob is turned around backwards) until he falls asleep and then I unlock the door. Night time is a problem, though, because he shares a room with his 5-year-old brother. Maverick needs to be able to get out if he needs water or has to use the bathroom. 

What we have been doing is putting Asher to bed, letting him have about 30-45 minutes to wind down or fall asleep before Maverick goes to bed, and then leaving their door unlocked for the night. The problem is that Asher has started wandering around the house really late at night. It really breaks my heart because while he has been acting strangely since the baby was born, it really ramped up after his latest E.R. visit. Sometimes we’ll find him sleeping in the hallway, in odd places in their bedroom, or in the middle of the living room floor.

Last night I woke up at 3:30 and saw that our bedroom door was standing open, so I jumped up and went into the hall. When I realized the boy’s bedroom door was open, I went in and saw that Asher was missing from his room. I spent the next few NERVE-WRACKING minutes trying to figure out where he was before finding him face down on the floor next to the couch. I put him back in bed, returned to my bed, and willed my heart to stop pounding.

How can we get him to stay put?! Baby gates are a joke. We do have one that is screwed into the wall to keep him out of the kitchen, which he figured out how to open about two weeks after we installed it. Now we have to tie it shut with a belt looped in complicated ways so he can’t undo it. His current project seems to be figuring out how to remove the childproof knobs on the exterior doors so he can escape down the street.

As it stands now, we clear the living area of anything hazardous before we go to bed, turn off the lights, and hope for the best. I can’t help but to think there is a better solution, because I am losing my mind with worry over this kid.

YOU ARE AGING ME, ASHER. STOP IT.

 

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