I Need An Assistant.

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 Here are some of the people who watched me incorrectly eat a tamale.

I need someone to follow me around and assist me with LIFE, because I seem to be incapable of functioning at full capacity.

Like just now, when I opened our storage closet outside to get a beach ball out and somehow accidentally turned on the air compressor and freaked out and called Husband repeatedly (no answer … GOOD THING I’M NOT IN LABOR) before realizing the mayhem would stop if I just unplugged it from the wall.

Also: the tamale. Before Saturday, I’d never eaten a real tamale before. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is what it is. I didn’t realize you have to unwrap it from the corn husk before you eat it … I mean … they look just like burritos. So I was eating a lovely lunch this weekend with my fellow alumni and their families when I took a great big bite out of my tamale and discovered too late that the corn husk is not … biteable. And once you bite in, there is no ladylike way to deal with the situation. 

Also: the slide. Last week, I tried to be adventurous and take the boys to a park by myself. It was going well until TWO followed his big brother to the very top of the play set, a good 12 feet up in the air, and was standing on the top of a platform looking over the edge like he was thinking about jumping. Bigger kids were running all over the place and I just knew one of them would knock him down and he was going to break something.

I didn’t think any of this through before I climbed up to where he was, squeeeeeeeeeeezed through the opening with my huge belly, and picked him up. The only way down was via slide. So down all three of us went. A little girl was standing at the bottom and I yelled at her “MOVE!!! We can’t stop!” before we landed in a pile. I’m sure it was quite a spectacle, there were people everywhere but I was so stressed out from the ordeal that I was oblivious to the stares.

Never. Again.

In the past few weeks I have: screwed up our bank account, mismanaged multiple situations, called my children by the wrong names, and scheduled the delivery of the boy’s new bedroom furniture for tomorrow … not thinking about the fact that we still haven’t gotten the OLD furniture out yet. A queen-sized bed and huge armoire aren’t going to move themselves. I don’t know what I was thinking, but we have no choice but to press on. 

Tonight will be the first night that the boys will share a room — this was unplanned. We still don’t have mattresses for the twin beds that are arriving tomorrow. Until we can procure some, ONE will sleep in the toddler bed that his little brother rejected, and TWO will remain in his Pack N’ Play. Husband will have to disassemble ONE’s old bedroom furniture when he gets home from work, and I have no idea how he will get it out of the house. Good luck to him. 

I’m fairly certain from this point on, with the boys sharing a room, no one will be getting enough sleep. I normally do not operate in this helter-skelter kind of way. This is not who I am! Luckily, this weekend my friend Melody brought me something called Natural Calm. You mix it with water. It’s safe for pregnancy and I hope it will help me cope with life, because what I really need is an assistant and some Prozac.

Please make me calm.

 

Making A Difference.

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My mom gave me this book yesterday and I haven’t been able to put it down. If you have a son under the age of 18, you should read this book.

I’m finding it particularly helpful because I am not a man so I don’t really understand the maleness of my boys. I know better than to try to squash it, but I don’t really know how to shape it. The world doesn’t need any more sissies or sex addicts, so I encourage all mothers of boys to:

1.  Read this book.

2. Don’t shame your sons because their penis is their favorite body part; apparently that is normal. Our job is to teach them how to keep it in their pants.

3. Stop doing things for them that they can do for themselves. STOP IT. You’re screwing up their self-esteem. Let them be little men from the time they are small and build them up to be big men who know how to cope with life.

Clearly I don’t have all the answers — this is why I read self-help books. I just don’t want my daughter to be surrounded by idiots when she grows up. I only have control over the direction of two future men in this world, and they are both yelling at the top of their lungs because they want an ice cream sandwich. So … fingers crossed.
 

Spring Break 2013.

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This week has been one of the longest, most exhausting weeks of my life. Spring Break, you’re a a BITCH. I just have to make it through today and tomorrow. Then I’m taking the boys to my parent’s house so I can recover enough to shower and dress myself and drive to Mississippi for my 15-year high school reunion.

I’ve been trying to embrace this time with just two kids. I’m sure that is what my future self with three kids would tell me, that I should be enjoying this because shit’s about to get real, sister. I’m really trying to enjoy my days, taking one moment at at time and breathing deep yoga breaths between having puke blown in my face and watching ONE dump his little brother face-first into the Pack N’ Play as I scream “NOOOOOOO!”

We’ve watched a ton of TV and I DON’T CARE. I’ve fed them crap and I DON’T CARE. We have not visited the Easter Bunny or gone on an egg hunt or to the library or any of the other things good mothers do with their children. 

We have learned magic tricks and learned how to peel cucumbers and played outside until Mommy’s nerves can’t take it anymore. I’ve yelled and apologized a lot. I’ve hugged and kissed them a lot. I hope that they know that I love them both … and I’m thankful they are too young to remember this difficult season of life. 

This will not be the Spring Break that they think of when they reminisce about their childhood.  

Hopefully this one will be kind of murky.

Sesame Street with peacock hair and cowboy boots and mouth agape.

These moments help me cope with the OTHER ones. Yes, we are watching TV again.

This is TWO perched on the tray part of his high chair. WHY. GET DOWN, OMG.  

I haven’t seen Husband much. I’m too exhausted by 8:30 p.m. when he gets home to actually spend time with him. I mumble hello and shuffle off to bed in my bag lady clothes, feeling pity for the man who probably wonders what has happened to his wife.

I’m still in there somewhere. I’ll come back to life at some point. Right now I’m so jealous of women who have their husbands home at night to help them. Spoiled bitches. I’m angry at all of you and I HOPE YOU APPRECIATE YOUR MEN IF THEY ARE HOME FOR DINNER. Even if they park on the couch and space out, you can still have the luxury of telling the kids, “Go play with Daddy!” to get them out of your way.

I like to plan ahead.

I’ll leave you with this: now I finally understand how moms don’t have time to shower or poop. I hope that when this time of my life draws to a close … when all of my kids are ages 3 and up and know better than to climb on the kitchen counters … I really hope I can remember how to function like a normal adult who showers and brushes her teeth. 

I know, I know. Somebody needs to call the whambulance.

15 Years.

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This weekend is my 15-year high school reunion. 

Whaaaaaaat?!

I remember being in high school and seeing the old people come back and feeling a mix of pity and awe. And now, here I am. I am old. People will feel pity and awe when they see me. 

I went to a small, private, Christian boarding school in Mississippi for all of high school. I was 14 years old when I went, which is crazy. I still saw my parents every few weeks, but I lived in the dorm and was responsible to wash my own clothes, get myself to class on time, and handle my business. I learned how to be self-reliant and independent and confident — important traits for any kid, but especially for a girl.

Looking back on the years of 1994-1998 brings a lot of emotions … I cringe, mostly. Like it would have been nice if someone would have slapped some foundation and blush on my face from the get-go and directed me to a salon where I could have layers cut into my bushy head of hair. And I wish I hadn’t dated anyone seriously, I mean COME ON. I was a child who lived in a bubble with no idea of what she really wanted out of life. But most people have regrets from that time in their lives, and it’s humbling to look back and see how much I have changed since then.

Freshman year …

I feel so far removed from that time. But truthfully, going away to school shaped a LOT of who I am today and I’m grateful for it. My graduating class was small and close-knit. You can’t help but to develop a bond with people you pretty much live with for most of the year. 

Sophomore year …
Junior year …
Senior year …

Normally I would be completely stressed out about my appearance and would be tanning, dieting, pedicuring, and primping myself in preparation. In fact, I skipped my 10-year reunion because I was pregnant with ONE and felt fat and ugly. I’ve regretted it ever since, mostly because I wasn’t fat — I was pregnant — and that was a silly reason to miss out. This time is different because I’m older and wiser and hugely, ridiculously pregnant and there isn’t much I can do about any of it except throw on a horizontal-striped dress and call it a day. 

I’ve been telling Husband for months to make sure he gets off from work March 30th. I showed him on the calendar multiple times. I reminded him every few weeks. And yet, the other day, he tells me he can’t get off from work because it’s the last Saturday of the month and he is in the car business and it’s just not possible.  

OH, IT’S POSSIBLE. 

You cannot send your pregnant wife to her 15-year class reunion alone. What if there is some freak there who has a thing for hugely pregnant single women? Some sugar daddy looking to save a woman in need? No thank you. I definitely pulled the pregnancy card in this situation.

I have also informed him that one of us has to look hot, and it’s not going to be me … so … your move, Husband.

Anyway, I’m kind of relieved to have the pressure off and just go and enjoy. Maybe for my 20-year I will have brand-new, sky-high boobs to show off, and in that case I will certainly be concerned about my appearance. I’ll be really old by then, you know — THIRTY-EIGHT. And I will most likely be on the brink of a major “have to prove I’m still young and cool” crisis that will surely draw the looks of awe and pity.  

More Proof That I Am Slow.

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This just happened …



  
… because I am slow and TWO is extremely agile for such a young chap. I leaned over to turn off the water, and he slipped right in there like some kind of toddler ninja.

Rather than fight it, I just let it happen … which is my new motto. Just let it happen, and deal with it later. 

I’m sick of wiping my kid’s noses and kind of sick of feeding them, honestly. I’ve become very lackadaisical about both of these things. I have a certain number of times per day that I can haul myself off the couch to get more Kleenex, or bend way down to wipe oatmeal off the floor. And normally I’m maxxed out by, say … 11:00 a.m.

Normally, I actually enjoy housework. I like to clean and put things in order. I’m an orderly kind of person. I like to live in an orderly environment. But now? Now, I have this fantasy of simply refusing to wash one more dish or deal with one more wet, sandy towel or wipe one more nose. I am teetering on the point of not caring about order anymore, because I just want to lie down. 

And then I think to myself, “What’s the worst that could happen, if I just stopped cleaning and wiping noses?” Well … Husband would come home to a filthy house. And he would not notice. In fact, I believe he would happily add to the filth, roll around in it like a happy pig in a sty, clip his toenails on the living room floor and think to himself with glee, “FINALLY! I AM FREE TO BE GROSS!”

So … I guess that is the worst that could happen. 

28 Weeks.

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Here I am at 28 weeks with all three of my children.

We’re trying to make an effort to do a “family outing” every Sunday when Husband is home. Yesterday was fun — we went to an outdoor festival and the weather was gorgeous.

It’s all fun and games until the pregnant lady has to use a Port-A-Potty.

Open Letter.

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Dear Readers,

It has come to my attention that I might be scaring you a little. 

I’ve had childless friends email me and say that my blog has made them afraid to have them, and some people with only one child say they are now afraid to have more. Or, they kindly inquire about my mental state … which is understandable and appreciated.

I don’t want to frighten you with my honesty. In fact, I have no agenda other than to keep myself sane. Sometimes things happen, like I find my 18-month-old sitting on the dining room table playing in his older brother’s bowl of cereal, or he throws up on his third pair of clean pajamas or drinks toilet water AGAIN while his older brother eats butter with his hands out of the butter dish in the kitchen, and the only way I know to deal with it is to put them to bed and then write about it. 

So, let me be frank: I am stressed out and terrified. I’m afraid to take medication while pregnant, so I’m going to muddle through until the baby is born. And then I shall promptly order up a serving of Lexapro with a side of Percocet. I will not be attempting to breastfeed. I will love my children the best way I know how, which is to make sure I am happy and healthy so I can make sure they are.

Something changed about 3 weeks ago, like I literally felt a hormonal shift. My skin went from glowy to gross and I stopped liking my family. I started thinking I don’t want to be a mom anymore. I started thinking I don’t want to shave my legs anymore. All of these things take too much effort. I just want to crawl in a hole where no one can find me and eat Gummy Worms and watch Bravo TV until this baby is born.

I have also started to have panicky thoughts. What made me think I could handle three kids?! What will I do with another one?! She’s going to have colic, and I AM GOING TO DIE.

Last night I had to ask Husband to remove my toenail polish because I can’t reach my feet. That Husband, he’s a very kind man. He said, “Harmony, you can handle three kids. It doesn’t feel like it right now, but you CAN.” And you know, I thought I could too, at one point a long time ago when I could still see my feet. Now I’m an absolute hormonal mess and I feel like I can barely handle backing out of the driveway, let alone care for an additional person.

But. Pepper is on her way and I have to get it together. And I will. I had a very similar period of freak out before my other children were born, and we have made it this far. I sometimes space out and daydream that I am living some other life, but do I WANT that life? No. I want my life.

Strangely, I feel called to motherhood the same way a doctor presumably feels called to medicine, teachers are called to education, and church pastors are called to the ministry. Medical school is no picnic. Teaching sounds like a bitch, and I can’t even fathom leading a group of people to Heaven. 

Check. Please.

So, there are parts of everything that are tough, but you keep going because you love it despite of that toughness. And ultimately, the crap that you drag yourself through makes you better at your job and more grounded in what you’re doing. All of my work is worth it in the end, and I think it’s important for me to admit that this gig is pretty much the hardest, craziest thing I have ever done. 

I’m not perfect, I am a disaster. And so are you. It’s time we all laughed at ourselves, and STOP LOOKING AT PINTEREST, FOR THE LOVE.

Love and Laughter at myself and others,
Harmony 

 

050 Orange.

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I may or may not have hit the mailbox with my van this morning.

And someone’s vehicle in the Albertson’s parking lot last week.

Both were minor … very minor. No dents, just a little of their paint rubbing off on my monstrous van. But over the past few weeks I’ve just started to feel like I’m unraveling. I am a walking cliche. It’s not just that I can‘t DRIVE. I am also:

1. Acting like a lunatic

2. Unable to calculate anything correctly, even with assistance. I usually just tell Husband/the cashier/whoever I’m talking to on the phone “just tell me how much it is,” or, “just tell me what that means.“ I don’t care anymore if I sound dumb. JUST TELL ME THE ANSWER SO I DON’T HAVE TO THINK.

3. Slow in mind and in body. I can’t chase children and I don’t get jokes.

4. HUNGRY. So, so hungry. 

This morning I had my glucose tolerance test. I was supposed to fast for 6 hours beforehand, but I had to take a shower, make lunches, and get the kids ready for preschool and Mother‘s Day Out and I cannot do that without any food. It’s hard enough when I can’t drink my coffee … and before you say anything, I know I have a coffee problem. I do not wish to discuss it. I do what I need to do to get through the day. 

If I wasn’t pregnant, I would be taking crazy supplements from GNC to help me be faster, stronger, and smarter than my young. It feels like I’m in a constant battle to maintain my sharpness, and right now I’m losing. Coffee helps me hold on to just the tiniest bit of the cliff I’m hanging off of.

Anyway, clearly there was no way I could get through my morning without any food at all. My friend Lila just had her glucose test and her doctor said she could eat protein, but nothing that turns to sugar in your body … so if she can do it, so can I, right?! Yes. Yes I can. I immediately asked Husband to make some eggs, and he did, and I proceeded to eat all of them even though he was making them for he and I to split. I tried to act sorry.

I was not.

I won’t bore you with the details of my morning, but suffice it to say it was one of those days where I wondered why we are having more kids when the ones we have are so hard to keep a handle on. You know, the same question you’re probably asking yourself right now. ONE put two, perfectly-shaped, syrupy handprints on the wall. TWO seems to have discovered nakedness and now strips himself and runs away when you try to catch and clothe him. Husband has an irritable bowel. It was just a lot to deal with on a day when all I was allowed to ingest was water (and eggs). 

I then hit the mailbox, dragged the kids to their destinations in the rain, and after that, while I was searching in vain for a parking spot at the hospital where my OB’s office is located, my mother called to see “how I was feeling.” PISSED OFF. That’s how I was feeling.

Husband said we have our health and our happiness so life is not that bad, and I know he’s right. It’s not bad at all. I am just a hormonal wreck, lumbering around and crashing into things, looking for food. But I love my kids, and we do have our health, and I won’t be pregnant forever … and even if all hell breaks loose, there is always medication.  

So, CHEERS TO THAT!

This stuff isn’t half bad.