Pet Peeve

Here’s a pet peeve of mine. Upon hearing the story of my children’s births, inevitably there is someone who will say, “See all you had to do was relax to get pregnant.” Um, no. First, saying that when I couldn’t conceive was utterly non-helpful. Saying it now is just silly and makes you sound like you think you’re omnipotent. Second, that time in my life was more stressful than any other I can remember. We’d gone through two failed matches, one of which involved an elaborate lie that kept us on the hook for over a month, and CJ’s due date was changed from September to November. His birthmother had issues of her own so contact was spotty at best. We were tied in emotional knots, trying to be excited but so scared of being let down again. And somehow in the midst of all this, one lone sperm found an egg and decided to stay long term paying no attention to John’s or my emotional states.

So, please, consider this a PSA. When you run into someone with a similar story, don’t bluster. Just be pleased for them, thank God or Fate or The Flying Spaghetti Monster or Chaos, and tell them both kids are adorable. Don’t analyze or guess or in any way try to figure out why it happened just glory in the fact that it did.

Thank you for your time.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Motherhood Exposed: Eating with the Kids


So over at The Little Hen House, Morgan, has come up with a great little blog hop called Motherhood Exposed: Sometime This Job Sucks. So here is one of mine. I hate eating with my kids. Family dinners at home aren’t bad. The kids know the routine and for the most part they are uneventful and even pleasant-like. But breakfast and lunch? It’s me, a 21-month-old and a 14-month old, neither of whom talk or will let me help them eat their food in any way. I am a very social creature, so these meals are excruciating. Sometimes the hubs (daddyrunsalot.com) is not home for dinner, and that’s even worse. I am always so tempted to eat in front of the TV for company, but the mom guilt overrules that. I have read books aloud during a meal and played audiobooks and podcasts just to not have to listen to.
And let’s talk restaurants. I love eating out. If it wouldn’t bankrupt us or make me die by 40, I would eat out every meal. I love being waited on, not worrying about any kind of clean up, just being able to chat and relax. Hmmm. That is a thing of the past. Apparently, restaurant highchairs are sprayed in some kind of kidicide because the second we try to thread their feet through the leg holes, they are screaming. Sitting on laps or in the booth or a booster may last for a while, but the only thing that really makes them happy is walking around and around the restaurant.
I can’t wait until they can color without eating the crayons.

Pet Peeve

Here’s a pet peeve of mine. Upon hearing the story of my children’s births, inevitably there is someone who will say, “See all you had to do was relax to get pregnant.” Um, no. First, saying that when I couldn’t conceive was utterly non-helpful. Saying it now is just silly and makes you sound like you think you’re omnipotent. Second, that time in my life was more stressful than any other I can remember. We’d gone through two failed matches, one of which involved an elaborate lie that kept us on the hook for over a month, and CJ’s due date was changed from September to November. His birthmother had issues of her own so contact was spotty at best. We were tied in emotional knots, trying to be excited but so scared of being let down again. And somehow in the midst of all this, one lone sperm found an egg and decided to stay long term paying no attention to John’s or my emotional states.

So, please, consider this a PSA. When you run into someone with a similar story, don’t bluster. Just be pleased for them, thank God or Fate or The Flying Spaghetti Monster or Chaos, and tell them both kids are adorable. Don’t analyze or guess or in any way try to figure out why it happened just glory in the fact that it did.

Thank you for your time.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Even the Kids Know You’re Nuts

I have what polite people refer to as independent children. I call them stubborn. For instance, I cannot feed them. If I try, say, yogurt on a spoon, they grab for the spoon to try and shove it everywhere but their mouths. They don’t speak, but they say “Myself!” with their eyes.
Another way this “independence” manifests is the brushing of teeth. They will not in any way, shape, or form allow me to guide the toothbrush, so there is actual brushing. Instead I hand over the brush fully loaded with fake baby paste/gel, so they can suck and gnaw on it. I do not in anyway see this as useful dental care. My strategy has become to demonstrate what I want them to do by overly exaggerating the brushing of my own teeth. This? They find hilarious, so they are now sucking and gnawing on their own toothbrushes while laughing.
Parenthood is an absurdity sometimes.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

When Even the Kids Think You’re Crazy

I have what polite people refer to as independent children. I call them stubborn. For instance, I cannot feed them. If I try, say, yogurt on a spoon, they grab for the spoon to try and shove it everywhere but their mouths. They don’t speak, but they say “Myself!” with their eyes.
Another way this “independence” manifests is the brushing of teeth. They will not in any way, shape, or form allow me to guide the toothbrush, so there is actual brushing. Instead I hand over the brush fully loaded with fake baby paste/gel, so they can suck and gnaw on it. I do not in anyway see this as useful dental care. My strategy has become to demonstrate what I want them to do by overly exaggerating the brushing of my own teeth. This? They find hilarious, so they are now sucking and gnawing on their own toothbrushes while laughing.
Parenthood is an absurdity sometimes.

– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Pissy Day

Yes, I am the baguette with my salad. French bread makes my life worth living, so fuck the apple and multigrain shit. I might even put butter on it, so there. I got my ass up. I got the kids and myself out of the house pretty close to on time. I lugged the kids to child watch, went through the guilt inducing process of peeling them from my calves and running for the door while they scream my ultimate betrayal at my fleeing back. On to the spinning bike I go to sweat for an hour while I gasp trying to reach the desired resistance and rpm (neither of which I did actually reach.) So it did not help my tension level. And so lunch where I want French bread and butter with my salad. Fuck. stupid fucking weight. I just suck at everything no matter how hard I try. It’s that kind of a day.

Fuck.

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Sand, It’s What’s for Dinner

I love the beach. Me, a beach chair, a good book and the sound of the surf for hours at a time. Nothing is more relaxing.

At least that is what I remember.

Now it takes three trips from the car to the Compound (That would be four pop-up canopies we put up for our large group), and I barely get to put my butt cheeks anywhere near my beach chair. Because toddlers at the beach are non-stop, especially with they are my children. I ask you what one-year-old crawls pell-mell towards the waves, giggling all the way? What 1.5-year-old thinks dumping handfuls of sand into his hair is the more fun he has ever had? The answers naturally are my kids. Seriously, it was the best vacation ever.
As the Compound can attest to, we go to the beach with a group of about 20 people, give or take as some come for a couple days as others leave, and at least a third of them are four and under. So we do set up a canopy town and have every sand toy known to Man.
Leila and CJ were at the beach last year, but they didn’t really do anything exciting. This year it was all about sand and surf. Sand was mostly about eating it and wearing it. I am not a person who minds sand. I love the beach. Sand is part of the experience, but they were coated from head to foot in it thus, I was covered in it as well. It was a little much even for me. They thought it was food and a toy all in one!
Both of them loved the water. They are really fearless. CJ is a tad more reserved than Leila. He would go in if he was firmly holding on to an adult, but as I stated previously, Leila would crawl down the beach like a maniac towards the ocean. She loved it.
All in all, they are beach babies which is great because we are beach parents. I can’t wait for the new memories and milestones each summer will bring.