September ROFLs!

*** Update!

I forgot a nominee! I suck, but in my defense I haven't slept since 2007. See the added nominee below in red. ***


I'd love to write a knee-slapper here - you know, since this is the first ROFL Awards in about a bajillion years and I have a sexy new co-host. But C.C. is still not sleeping... blah, blah, blahdee, blah. So on and so forth. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. And the cow jumped over the moon.

Wait. What?

Oh yeah. The ROFL Awards. Right.

I'm so glad to have these awards back because the world needs more funny. And the Vice Presidential debate is just not cutting it.

My nomination for the relaunch of the ROFLs is for a post written by one of the best women blog writers out there. And I'm not just saying that because she's paying me.

She usually writes some pretty serious stuff but this post - which is actually a re-post actually but I don't care because... well, because I just don't care - made me pee my pants. Which, come to think of it, really isn't that hard after having two kids. But it is damn funny. Especially since it's all about talking babies and believe me, after staying up all night every night for a month with an infant a parent starts to believe that their baby is really talking to them. Usually in four letter words.

So my nomination this month is for Blog Antagonist's Out of the Mouths of Babes.

Congratulations BA!

On to this months nominees:

Motherbumper awarded For a Different Kind of Girl

Let the Dog In! awarded Derfwad Manor

Charming & Delightful awarded Flutter (for this guest post at One Plus Two)

The Heart of a Cult awarded Skepchick

Backpacking Dad awarded every post he's ever written. Seriously.

Can We Kick The Bar Here and Growing A Life awarded The Blogess

A Smeddling Kiss awarded Petunia Face

Hope 4 Peyton awarded The Sphors Are Multiplying

All Rileyed Up awarded Scribbit

A Schmitty Life awarded In The Trenches of Mommyhood

Missy McKerroll awarded OKJIMM'S EGGROLL EMPORIUM

Oh, The Joys awarded Mom Voyage

Momma's Tantrum awarded Killing A Fly with A Ukelele

Tales from the Dad Side awarded Avitable

Patois awarded Joy Unexpected

simplynutmeg awarded The Well Read Hostess

Sugarplum's Mom awarded DooDaddy

Midwestern Mommy nominated Hola, Isabel!

Rusti awarded Boobs, Injuries and Dr. Pepper

----------------------------------------

Don't forget to get your nomination in for November's ROFLs. Send them either to me at Chicky Chicky Baby [at] Hotmail [dot] com or Oh, the Joys, my partner in crime and funnyness (shut up, it could be a word) at OhTheJoys [at] Gmail [dot] com.

Oh hai. You has help? I can has some for her?

My friend Sarah needed a safe place to vent, so when she came to me I said, "Sure, here are the keys. Lock up when you're done. I'm going to go take a nap."

Plus, she offered to babysit in return. She doesn't know that, but she totally did.

But please, help this poor lady in need. She has three young boys, for chrissake. She's tired from wiping all that pee off the toilet, so you'll understand if she needs to bounce a few things off of someone who can cut their own food.

If you need me I'll be sleeping. Better yet, you don't need me that badly. Don't even dare try to wake me up.
-------------------

Shhhh…Sarah here from In the Trenches of Mommyhood. *whispering* Tania is getting some much-needed sleep. So while I’m here playing with the girls, Tania is graciously allowing me to vent on her blog about something that I am unable to mention on my own – THE IN-LAWS.

We’ve had computer “issues” in the Trenches. Basically, I lost 5,000 PHOTOS IN ONE FELL SWOOP! 4 YEARS WORTH OF PRECIOUS MEMORIES!

(Crap, I hope I didn’t just wake up Tania with my yelling.)

Anyway, it was apparent we needed some help. Thankfully, Hubby’s assistant’s husband is a tech guy. She reads my blog, and offered up his services. They came over on Saturday afternoon, along with their 2 little girls, and Brian went to work. Photos restored! Wine consumed!

It was when I was in the kitchen, preparing some appetizers, that I heard something. A car was pulling into our driveway.

The next thing I know, my IN-LAWS walked into my house. Uninvited. While we had guests.

Needless to say, I was FURIOUS. And needless to say, our guests left fairly quickly. Perhaps because they felt uncomfortable? Perhaps because they felt rushed out the door by the random arrival of Hubby’s parents?

So, upon our guests’ departure, I went about my business. Feeding the boyz dinner. Cleaning up the kitchen. Folding laundry upstairs. Anything to avoid contact with the party-crashers.

Eventually, they left.

And then I lit into Hubby: “What was that?! Why were they here? And did you know they were coming?”

He fired back, “No, of course I didn’t know. My dad asked me yesterday what we were doing. I told him that they would be here so Brian could fix the computer. That’s all. They’re 65 years old. They have nothing else in their lives. They don’t know any better. So don’t be mad at ME!”

So, to summarize:

My in-laws knew we would be having company.
They saw a strange car in our driveway.
Yet still walked into our home as if it were no big deal.

Mind you, this behavior is nothing new. Their “drive-bys” usually occur at the most inopportune times – either just when we’re ready to sit down and eat or else right before we’re ready to put the boyz to bed.

THEY KNOW what time we eat dinner. THEY KNOW the boyz’ bedtime.

I’ve held my tongue all this time (over 7 years). Smiled and grinned and offered them a drink upon their disruptive arrival, while silently seething inside.

But I’m done. This was the last straw.

I’ve decided they need to call us first before they just stop by. Which is all well and good IN MY HEAD, but how do I make this rule clear to them? Gulp.

Do I confront them myself? Yuck. Awkward.

Do I make Hubby do it? After all, they’re HIS parents, right? (For the record, Hubby readily agrees that it was extremely rude of them to stop in when they knew we had company. However, he’s nowhere near as irritated as I am.)

Or do I just GET OVER IT? The nice daughter-in-law buried inside me thinks this is the right answer. I don’t want to be a bitch. I don’t want to make any waves. I don’t want to offend them, even though they BUG THE SHIT OUT OF ME. They’re awesome grandparents. They help us out. They love the boyz to death.

What would you do?

Crazy days and desperate nights

When a prisoner of war is forced to go without sleep for consecutive days at the hands of his captors it's called torture.

When a woman or a man is forced to go without sleep for consecutive months at the hands of their infant it's called parenthood.

I'm willing to bet the amount of sleep I'm working off of right now would seriously impair my judgment if I were to use heavy machinery or drive a car.

On top of it all, my body is so run down I've developed a nasty head cold which is making it impossible to sleep, even if C.C. decided to allow it. Which she won't. Last night I got two hours of sleep. I'm not exaggerating even a little.

I barely get a break. I just can't seem to keep up with her demands; her demand to nurse, her demand for comfort, her demand to be walked, rocked, bounced. Her demands are loud and urgent. Her cries are piercing and angry.

She kicks and punches her arms with such force she makes swaddling nearly impossible. And those Swaddle Me blankets? Please. I don't think a baby sized straight jacket with buckles could hold her. But she needs it, she needs to be held tightly or the constant movement will escalate to a frenzy and she'll become nearly inconsolable.

She's teething.

She's rolling.

She's growing.

She's not quite four months old.

She needs.

She demands.

She's exhausted me. She's exhausted my husband. She's exhausted herself.

I love her. I go to her whenever she needs me. But at two a.m., after trying to comfort her back to sleep for over two hours, knowing I'll be doing it all over again in another two, there is rage and fury and tears. So many tears.

I love her. I resent her. It's visceral. I plead and beg and yell and coo. I tell her I love her. I demand her to tell me what's wrong with her. I punch the mattress and press my head into pillows to stifle my screams of frustration. I hold her tight to my body trying to will my love into her.

I leave the room and let her cry. If he's home, I hand her off to Mr. C. and lay with the pillows over my head trying to block out her cries. But still she demands me.

I hate myself.

I feel like I'm failing her.

I'm doing all that I can for her.

I love her.

I'm exhausted.

This is what my life has come to

Meet my new best friend, Box o' Wine.

Mr. C. brought this home yesterday and shortly after my head exploded. But that just means that since I don't have a tongue (remember, head went boom) I can pour it straight down my throat and strangely enough it's still satisfying. And I don't have to deal with the cardboard aftertaste.

Because the next step is barbituates in her apple juice

The kids are kicking my ass.

No, really. Chicky just tried to kick me. Unfortunately for her she's too short to reach my butt and ended up on hers.

You can laugh. It was kind of funny.

That girl has more crazed energy than a Jack Russell Terrier after six double espressos. I'll do just about anything to get a bit of peace. Even... *gasp*...Video Games.

I'm reviewing the VTech V-Motion Active Learning System for PBN (Late, unfortunatley, because the kids are kicking my ass. Oh, I said that already?) over at my review blog today. It looked a bit like a Wii Fit for the preschool set but did it live up to my expectations?

(dun dun duunnnnnn)

Zoloft. Zinfandel. What's the difference?

Me: "We really need to sit down and make out a strict budget and stick to it. Things are so expensive right now."

Him: "Fine with me. What were you thinking?"

Me: "Well, for instance, we really need to put aside a certain dollar amount for things like kids clothes. They're both growing like crazy it's hard to keep up. I'm just glad that C.C. can wear most of Chicky's old baby clothes."

Him (nodding but barely listening): "Mmm hmmm."

Me: "And we need to be tough on how much money we spend on wine. No more stopping on the way home from work and picking up a random bottle. We need to be tough about that. I think wine should fall under 'Entertainment'."

Him (perking up): "Can't we put that under 'Medication'? I mean, that's what it is, isn't it??"

Me: "You know I'm totally going to blog that, right?"

Him (lost in thought): "I wonder if we can leverage my Flexible Spending Account for that?"

The Rawfuls! Um, the Rohfuls? No wait, the ROFLs!

Once upon a time, there were two women who thought "Hey, the blog world is way too full of itself. We should be rewarding those who rage against the sober, and the serious too, and celebrate the laughter with pointless buttons that will clutter up our sidebars and awards that don't even come with a stuffy banquet and complimentary baked stuffed chicken!"

Okay, I have no idea if they thought that. What I do know is that from these women's loins sprang forth the ROFL Awards!

(Not really from their loins because that would be weird. I mean, how would you even explain that to your OB? And to your significant other? And, hey! Look over there! It's a bizarre tangent!)

But! I'd be lying if dry poultry with a choice of two sides wasn't somewhere on my mind when they passed the reigns to me and a certain Canadian. Because if there's anything I love, it's banquet food.

Wait, I had a point here. I think. I'm working on three hours of sleep so just work with me, okay?

The ROFLs. Right.

Unfortunately, time constraints, family obligations, and a lot of persistently heavy posts beat the poor ROFLs into hiding. For all its bravado, the ROFLs is a sensitive beast and it took a mighty warrior to ride in on her magnificent steed to coax them out of their hiding place.

It was... The Nominatrix!

And my, how she rode that steed. She rode it hard and proud, with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. Which is strange since she has a preference for riding park rangers.

What was I saying?

She spoke to them of sun dappled meadows full of happy, dancing children who slept 12 hours at a time and lured them out with bits of Twinkies, a nice Pinot Noir, and promises of laughter and ponies and rainbows. And laughing rainbow ponies drinking Pinot Noir.

And on the seventh day, she rested.

(Three hours of sleep and we'll see how well you do with keeping your stories straight. The only thing on my mind today is the ROFLs and sleep. And more sleep.)

Anyway.

Jessica of Oh, the Joys and I are bring back the ROFL Awards but we NEED YOUR HELP. Yes! All caps! That is how much we NEED YOUR HELP.

But how, Tania? How can I help?

Funny you should ask.

Nominate a post for the September ROFL Awards!

The deadline is October 1st.

To nominate:

1. Pick a post from the month of September that made you laugh.

[Please only choose original material written or developed by a blogger, any blogger - i.e., not a YouTube video, cartoon, or joke circling the Net. Because, dude, lame.]


2. E-mail me a link to the post that you are nominating AND a link to your blog by October 1st.

[Jessica and I will send you the award button so you can share it with the blogger you've nominated.]


3. On Friday, October 3rd, write a post on your blog about the post you chose.

[Please link back to this blog and to Jessica at Oh, the Joys so that people can see the full list of award winning funny posts.]


4. Send the award button code to your awardee so they can post it.


We're also rebuilding the ROFL Award mailing list.


If you want to be included on the mailing list and recieve monthly notifications about the upcoming ROFL deadlines, leave a comment here with your e-mail address listed or Jessica an e-mail at OhTheJoys(at)GMail(dot)com.


Feel free to e-mail me with questions.


I can't wait to bring back the funny! Right after I get some shut eye.

Maybe we should change her name to "MeMe"

C.C. is a talker, a big one, and the more tired she is the more talkative she gets. Which means she'll probably grow up to be that really annoying girl at the slumber party who dares everyone to stay awake all night long. You know the one, the girl who will put your bra in the freezer if you're the first one to fall asleep and then tell all the boys at school about your icy boobs.

But even when she's perfectly rested C.C. is the type of baby who likes to engage whomever is near, and that someone is usually me. Her eyes will follow me where ever I go and when I turn to look she shoots me the sweetest smile before chattering away. And that smile is the reason why she's still allowed to live in my house after waking me up every two hours last night.

Repeat after me: No matter how much I want to staple my kid to the wall, I must stay positive

Now, repeat that 50 times and read my review on "Ready for Bed" and "Ready for the Day" (for the Parent Bloggers Network), books not only for kids but also to remind parents to stay positive and help their kids make correct decisions. With all we've been going through lately they've definitely helped.

Seriously. Go read now.

Meta blogging through real life. Now with more blasphemy!

Even though I sounded like a whiny shit on my last post (come on, admit it. I was pretty whiny even if life was kicking my ass) you all left the most wonderful comments anyway, so I thank you from the bottom of my cold, dead heart.

I always told myself that if I was going to post something on this blog it was going to be 100% truthful. I may not include everything that is going on in my life but what I do share I am open and honest about. Warts, whine and all. I am not this open in my real life but here, as strange as it sounds, I feel safe to let it all hang out. Figuratively speaking of course. I'll leave the boob flashing to my more uninhibited friends.

The other night I shared this blog with a friend of mine (Hi K.!). I had recently begun to open up about this site with my friends - when in the past I had kept it secret from all except my husband and sister, even going so far as to use a nickname instead of my real name (Have you noticed yet? Look to the right. Higher. Higher. Yeah, that's it. That's me. Hi! *waving*) - so I felt comfortable doing so. Especially since she answered an email of mine practically begging for a playdate with a plea of her own. She's also a new mom of two and going through the same crap that I am and it seemed like she felt a little alone in her woe. So off I sent my site address.

Alone? Ha! I'll show you how NOT alone you are, friend. There's a whole community of people out there who know exactly what you're going through. Let me share the love with you.

I don't feel as comfortable doing this in real life. Sharing, I mean. I don't think I'm going out on a limb here when I say that in my every day travels to preschool, playdates, and visits to our local fight club other parents seem to have their shit together when I feel like I'm falling apart. I know this isn't true, but damn if the mothers especially seem to have both feet firmly in reality when I'm floating in the ether. It makes me want to shake them. What is your secret?! Why are you handling this so well?! And who does your hair?? Because it looks fabulous.

It felt like there was a short period after C.C. was born that whenever someone asked me how I was doing I felt compelled to tell them exactly how I was doing. They would ask innocently and out would come this vile spew of words before I could shut my big yap to stop them. And their faces, oh lawdy, the look on their faces when they realized their innocent question was getting them covered in my emotional vomit... After that I figured it was better just to keep my feelings to myself. Everyone was left decidedly less gooey.

And that's the beauty of this medium. When I need to purge, I purge. You can choose to read now, save it for later when you feel ready to deal, or move on quietly. Rarely, but sometimes, someone will tell me to suck it up, and sometimes I need to hear that, but for the most part you offer kind words and virtual hugs and reassurance that things will get better. Here, have a glass of wine and a Xanax, you say to me. This too will pass.

Okay, you've never offered me a Xanax. Ahem.

This is not to say I don't love my real life friends and know they'd be there for me. There are just some barriers to break down before I can feel comfortable enough to pick up the phone to any one of them and scream "GAAAAAAAAH!" and hang up and know that they'll know and understand and empathize. The women I consider my friends today (Hi guys! Please don't look at me too funny when we next meet, 'kay? This will all make sense. Promise.) were not made in the same way I had made friends in the past. We have come together because our common thread is our children. We also came together because there was something about the other that we liked, yes, but our kids were the ice breaker. Strange relationships these are. Strange and wonderful but odd and sometimes uncomfortable during the feeling out process.

Which is why I finally came out of the blog closet and shared.

(Yes, that was the point of this post. I knew I'd get to it eventually. What? Like you've never had a brain dump before?)

Now if they choose to read, my friends will know exactly how I am feeling. No pretenses, no pretending, just me and my baggage. Maybe I can convince a couple of them to start their own blogs. It's very therapeutic. Kind of like confession.

Forgive me mothers for I have sinned, it's been 9 days since I've bathed my baby.

Say five Goddammits, ten Jesus Christs, and have two bloody marys. Go in peace, my sister.

If they chuckled at all at that last bit, we'll all get along just fine.

Crying in my w(h)ine

When I was two years old my Mom and Dad and my grandparents, my Dad's parents, took me on a family trip to the sweetest place on earth - Hershey Park, Pennsylvania.

It turned out to be, apparently, the family vacation from hell.

I know this because my parents have never let me forget how I ruined that trip for everyone because I was such a brat. The story still comes up periodically and my dad - and before she died, my mom - takes great pleasure in telling whomever will listen how I screamed and cried all day and how my poor mother broke down and my grandparents had to step in and take me away for a few hours so that sainted woman who so generously carried me for nine months and then forcibly pushed me from her lady parts could get a few hours of peace away from her ungrateful toddler.

Yeah, that's fun.

What is sometimes included is the conditions of the day - Hot and Sunny. Very hot and very sunny. What is never included is if I was given adequate food, snacks and liquids to balance out the heat, excitement and inevitable chocolate overload. If I had a nap that day or how I was sleeping during that trip overall. But for the past 33 years I've had to listen about how I single-handedly ruined what might have been a lovely family vacation with my terrible behavior.

So to recap - I was probably not eating right and was probably hopped up on sugar. I was in a strange place, away from home, and probably overexcited. It was 90+ degrees. I was TWO FREAKING YEARS OLD. I'm going to be 36 years old in a few days and yet I'm still subjected to this story and the blame, always the blame. My parents have never taken any of the blame onto themselves. Ever.

Why yes, I do have a wee bit of a chip on my shoulder. Why do you ask?

I mention this because we've been having a tough go of it with Chicky lately. Her turning three (apparently an even tougher age than two for some kids and a little nugget of information SOMEONE should have told me before I decided to have unprotected sex, thankyouverymuch) coincided with C.C. being born and our subsequent move to a new home, not to mention her starting preschool. A lot is going on in that girl's life and I don't know if it's all the changes or just the age, but whatever it is I'm failing her. Yes, I'm failing her.

She whines and cries more than any child I've ever seen and most days I just can't deal. I'm trying my best but she breaks me down. And sometimes, in my greatest moments of weakness, I blame her for being hateful and defiant. I blame her for peeing on the floor when just a minute before I reminded her to use the bathroom. I blame her for being too rough with her sister and making her cry. I blame her for my headache after she's spent the past hour running through the new house screeching at the top of her lungs. I blame her for being three.

Isn't that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?

But then I remember how my parents made me feel every time they brought up that day in Hershey Park and I hate myself.

I told Mr. C today, after a particularly draining afternoon, that I need to go back to work. Not necessarily because I need the personal fulfillment but because I need to give my children to someone else to deal with for awhile. I probably don't have to say how that made me feel, right?

Oh. I do? Like shit, that's how. Like a big pile of steaming dog shit. Not a nice visual, but it drives the point home.

What can I do? I'm desperate and I need help. I'm reaching the end of my rope, so I'm asking you, Internets, what do you do, what have you done in the past, that has worked? A book, a method, a roll of duct tape?

Another glass of wine, perhaps?

I wait anxiously for your suggestions. Really. Anxiously and exhaustedly. Because if there was any time that I refuse to be like my parents, it is now.

Crazy going slowly am I

Have you ever had one of those days when life is just too overwhelming and every day obligations have pushed you to the edge of insanity and then your children, whom you love and hold more dear than any other being on the face of the earth, so much so that you would willingly step in front of a bus to save their precious little lives, collectively pick you up and toss you over that cliff into a deep, dark pit of despair so that you're left sitting on the floor in the corner of your bedroom hugging your knees, rocking back and forth, singing "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow", and plotting your escape from this life you've created for yourself by running away with the guy who runs the Tilt a Whirl in one of those traveling carnivals that set up for the weekend in the local bank parking lot - you know the one, the guy with the missing front tooth and acid washed jean jacket - because residing in a beat up pop up trailer with some guy named "Hacksaw" and cooking Chef Boyardee on a camp stove in a housecoat while chain smoking Pall Malls sounds far more pleasurable than having to deal with one more whiny preschooler meltdown or wiping one more shitty ass?

Just me?

Yeah, thought so.

If one more major life change happens I think my head will explode

We're in.

The house, I mean. We're in the new house. Can I just say... Wow. If you're planning on moving with young children don't do it. Take some advice from your pal Chicky and just don't do it. Or, if you decide to not heed my good advice and move anyway, don't expect it to be sunshine and puppies. Not that we expected sunshine and puppies, not even unicorns and rainbows, but maybe flowers and a brass band....

What was I saying?

Oh yeah. Moving.

We're exhausted. Moving, whether it's five miles or five hundred miles, is tough. And to add insult to injury C.C. has decided that sleeping at night really isn't her thing and partying at 3am is. So that's fun.

Alright, she was sleeping in this picture. And maybe we forgot she was out there with all the commotion going on. But when we remembered she was still sleeping so it's totally okay and not necessary to call the proper authorities on us.

The new house is fantastic, I think, but it's hard to see the house for the boxes. Our anniversary was this weekend, but that kind of got overlooked in all the madness. I'll have all sorts of stories soon but I have something much more important on my mind today.

Chicky has started school.

My baby started preschool this morning. I'll admit I did get a little teary eyed when she took her friend's hand and they walked into the classroom without so much as a kiss goodbye. I'm a big enough woman to own up to it. I'm a bit weepy this morning. She's never been to anything like this before without me. She's never been to daycare, never had a babysitter who wasn't a relative or close friend even. Cutting the cord is tough, I just didn't expect it to be done so quickly and without any ceremony. And without even a hug.

With her new "pack pack". If I had a pack pack I'd keep my Zoloft in it.

But while she's at school I need to unpack more and find the cat, which I'm pretty sure is in a box around here somewhere, so I'll be back soon with those stories I promised before. Because the world loves a good moving story. It's right up there with a play by play of your great Uncle Harold's gall bladder surgery. You're excited, I can tell.

Lame-O

Moving in four days. Packing constantly. Trying not to staple a certain whiny little Chicky to the wall while soothing babe in arms (no really, she's in my arms as I type this. Left arm almost completely asleep. Send help.) and simultaneously nursing said babe in arms while she goes through growth spurt from hell. Will update soon with pictures - because you really must see the mountain o' boxes taking up residence in my bedroom to believe if - when babe in arms going through growth spurt from hell starts sleeping again. In her own bed for more than 45 minutes at a time. For realz.

Until then, answer me this - How can one small family obtain so much crap in six short years of living? Guess I'll add figuring out that great mystery to my list of things to do. If I could find my list of things to do.

*sigh*

I wanted to nibble on her tummy but didn't want to risk waking her because she was FINALLY SLEEPING.

Out of the mouths of skinny babes

Scene: My bathroom.

Our heroine (that would be me) steps out of her shower after quickly washing off the sweat from that morning's power walk. The one where she pushed more than 40 pounds of child plus a big ass stroller up and down some tricky hills for a couple of miles.

Okay, not super tricky, and not necessarily bigger than your average hill, but they seemed that way to me.

Fine. They were probably no bigger than your average ANT hill. But to me they were my Everest.

Anyway...

Our heroine steps out of her shower and steps in front of the mirror to survey the damage her recent childbirth and crazed cookie consumption did to her once smokin' bod.

Okay, maybe not smokin', but definitely doable. If you catch my drift.

Anyway...

Next to her sits her three year old daughter. A vision in a cat hair covered t-shirt and that morning's breakfast still on her cheeks.

Woman [sighing and making faces at herself in the mirror while grabbing at her love handles and stomach roll]: I'm fat and I don't like it one bit.

Child [playing with cheap Mardi Gras-type beads while sitting on a pile of towels that need to be washed, chanting]: Fat Mommy, Fat Mommy. Fat Mommy, Fat Mommy. [pausing to assess] Yep, you're fat Mommy.

Woman: You're not supposed to agree with me. You're supposed to tell me you think I'm beautiful no matter what.

Child [thinking]: Hmmm. You're beautiful, Mommy.

Woman: Thanks, hon.

Child [dancing away]: And fat. No matter what.

Too much television isn't bad as long as it's educational. Right?

We're moving in two weeks. TWO WEEKS.

Oh my Christ.

So Chicky is spending a lot of time watching DVDs while I try to fit an entire room full of crap into two cardboard boxes. The way I see it, as long as she's zoning out in front of the boob tube she may as well be learning. Today at my other blog I've got a review for PBN of the "Meet the Sight Words", a DVD geared toward helping young kids learn how to read. You should check it out.

And now I will go back to frantically packing. Do you think I'll need bubble wrap for the cat?

Fear and Loathing in Barnes and Noble

I don't know when the day will come when I will know without a shadow of a doubt how to handle certain sticky social situations (try saying that three times fast) involving my kid and another child but I do know one thing - If I catch you physically assaulting my daughter I'm coming for you. So you'd better watch you ass.

And no, I don't care if you're only three years old.

Let's start from the beginning, shall we?

The weather here in the Northeast has been sucktacular this summer and as a result every parent has the same frenzied, haunted look that a person gets when forced to spend day after day stuck in the house with small, rabid little beasts with pointy teeth and sharp claws. Or as I like to call them, preschoolers. So yesterday when it rained yet again, I packed up the girls and went to our crappy weather destination of choice - our local Barnes and Noble.

I like hanging out at B&N. Not only are there new books to read to Chicky that I haven't read at least a gazillion times, magazines to peruse, and a Starbucks on site, but there's also scheduled story times for the kids and a germ infested train set to play with that every ankle bitter in a 20 mile radius has sneezed on. Legal stimulants, the ability to look over the latest People magazine without having to pay for it, and a decent case of bubonic plague all in one place. How can we go wrong?

Well, apparently I was not the only parent to have that idea. The place was packed with strollers and mobs of kids were running around high on cupcakes and freedom from the four walls of their home. It was a recipe for disaster but I was desperate.

Chicky and I shared a sandwich (that I ate most of), sat for storytime (that I did most of the listening to), did a craft (that I did most of) and paid for a book for me (what? I needed a reward for all that effort) and it was still raining outside so we headed back to the train set. In hindsight, I know that was a bad move. I should have steered her toward the picture books. But she wanted to play with the other kids and I needed a moment to soothe a squawking C.C.

The train area was overrun with boys which normally is great for Chicky as she's a pretty physical kid. But my girl was no match for one boy in particular. One her own age but much bigger than Chicky, my little peanut.

She had one train, he had five. She wanted to push her train around the track, he wanted her toy to add it to his stash. He grabbed at it, and Chicky - bless her little heart - would not let go. Not even when he dragged her in a complete circle around the train set. Thankfully there was a nice grandmotherly type there to intervene while I shushed C.C.

But where was the parent, you might be asking yourself? Because I know I was. More like, WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR MOTHER, YOU LITTLE SHIT.

No mom, just dad. Sitting right there in front of the action. Busy flirting with a young mother instead of watching his little bully.

Now I don't care if you're a mom or a dad. Parent your damn devil child. Don't sit there and pay more attention to the 20-something mom with the big tits.

I should have left then but I wanted to let the kid redeem himself. Besides, it's going to take a lot more than someone under three feet tall to run me off.

Yeah, bad idea.

Did the child learn? Uh, no. Did the dad take his eyes off the young mother's chest long enough to watch his kid? Of course not. Before I knew what was happening the boy had Chicky in a full on headlock. It seems like he reached across her body from over her shoulder to grab for the toy and Chicky, once again, would not let it go.

Uh uh, see? Now you've gone and pissed me off, kid.

I had to run across the dad's line of sight with a squealing infant in my arms to stop the little bastard boy from choking my daughter. The grandmother again stepped in to help since the father didn't even notice his son was about to asphyxiate another child.

And as I was reaching for the boy's arm to remove it from Chicky's tender throat she, being totally freaked out about the whole thing, picked that moment to push away from the kid, knocking him off balance and causing him to bump his head (lightly, I swear) into the shelves behind him. I'd be lying if I said I didn't take some perverse satisfaction in that.

Oh right, like you wouldn't?

The kid whined a little that his head hurt and still his father couldn't take his eyes off the woman's cleavage to see what had just happened. That was it, I was done. And I wasn't the only one. Three other parents, including the grandmother, took their kids away from the train set and away from the bully. Apparently, he had been a real monster even before we got there. All that was left was the dad with boobs on the brain and the owner of said breasts and their two children.

I try not to be a helicopter parent because I want Chicky to learn to work certain things out for herself. And Chicky has certainly had her fair share of timeouts from being too rough with other kids. I'm not the world's best parent and I screw up a lot, so I'm not trying to pass myself off as Super Mom. But I wasn't put on this earth to parent another person's kid. So when kids could potentially be harmed I have to step in, whether it's my kid doing something wrong or someone else's. There's no question about it. It could have been a dicey situation, the dad could have taken issue with me disciplining his kid (because I did tell the boy before he bumped his head and before he had removed his arm from my Chicky's neck that what he was doing wasn't right and was hurting her) if he had paid attention for even a second and saw what went down. Instead he ended up looking like a bigger boob than the ones owned by the young mother whose pants he was trying to get into.

And she had a ring, dude. I guess he's just not that observant about anything.

Paris in training

I took the girls for a walk around the neighborhood the other day. Chicky insisted on bringing an old cell phone of mine and a stuffed dog in a cloth purse she received for her birthday from one of my well-meaning relatives. With those accessories and her over-sized sunglasses she drew a lot of interesting looks from our neighbors.

It's all cute now, but if she tries to leave the house without underwear I'm going to have to lay the smack down.

Still can't convince him he's not the baby of the family anymore

Fisher will always be my first baby, but if he doesn't stop looking at the pacifiers and the stuffed toys with lust in his eyes I'm sending him to military school.

I'm pretty sure Mama never told me there'd be days like this

C.C. is passed out in front of me, all scrunched up in her car seat under a blanket that is slightly more fragrant than I'd like it to be, wearing a long sleeve shirt on this warm summer day and newborn pants that don't really fit.

This was not the outfit I put her in before we left the house today.

No, the other one matched. It fit. It was goddamn adorable, okay?

Then I took her to see the doctor.

Everything was going swell at her two month appointment. She was smiling and cooing at the doc. I was told developmentally she's doing spectacularly and she's growing like a weed. Yes, everything was going along swimmingly until...

Until she got her foot caught under the protective paper on the exam table and it scared the holy hell out of her and she began screaming at the top of her lungs for a good five minutes straight until I was able to finally calm her down. Five torturous minutes where the doctor looked at my baby and me like one of us had sprouted another head.

That was fun.

But wait! There's more.

Then they gave her the two month vaccines. Then she screamed bloody murder for a good fifteen minutes because they stuck needles in her tender thighs. Chubby baby thighs suitable for snacking on, not sticking sharp things into.

FOUR freaking needles. In my sweet baby's adorably chubby, very tasty, extremely sensitive, thighs.

As if the screaming and the crying and the gulping of air - because the hysteria, oh my Christ, the hysteria - wasn't enough, I had the brilliant idea to try to nurse her to calm her down.

Well, what would you have done?

My sweet, chubby, tasty, high sensitive and now hysterical baby decided that screaming was easier without a tit in her mouth so she screamed whilst trying to gulp down a very strong gush of milk, until she finally tore her wee head away, letting fly a gusher-like stream of breast milk that would make the caretakers of the fountains at the Bellagio proud, and in her own way told me to GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME, YOU CRAZY BITCH. LET ME SCREAM. Better yet, LET ME DIE.

And just when I was about to call to the doctor to get a sedative - for me - C.C. got eerily silent and...

Projectile vomited all over the exam room.

Think Linda Blair, but cuter.

Fortunately, I came prepared so I had a burp cloth and a bib in my free hand and was ready to catch any spit up. Unfortunately, this was not spit up and the flimsy material could do nothing to stop the gusher of spew.

Meanwhile, during the screaming and the thrashing and the choking and the crying and the hurling, Chicky was dancing around the room, standing on chairs, crawling on the sink, yelling for crackers and water and stickers and CAN WE GO HOME NOW?? I WANT TO GO HOME NOW. I WANT TO GO HOME. RIGHT. NOW!!!

Indeed, can we go home now?

Uh uh uhhh, not so fast.

First I had to clean up the floor, then I had to clean up the baby, then I had to hose down my hands and arms, and then I had to go rummaging around my humongous bag for a fresh set of baby clothes that apparently I packed when C.C. was four days old.

My apologies to the nurse who had to clean up the rest so I could get my children the hell out of there before someone mistakenly called the proper authorities because they thought they heard hara-kiri going on in the next room.

That was three hours ago and C.C. has been passed out ever since. She smells and her clothes don't fit and the blanket she's laying under is kind of gooey, but she's sleeping peacefully and she will wake with no memory of the torture her mother and doctor put her through.

I, however, am wondering if it's too early to submerge myself in a vat of gin.

And don't even get me started on what happened while Chicky was supposed to be sleeping in her room just now. It involves fecal matter and I just don't want to go there.

Make that an extra large vat of gin.

Now I will reward myself with some of that chocolate

First, I can't think of anything to write about. Then, I'm all over the internet yappin' away.

Today I'm blogging at not one, but two blogs other than my own. First up, I'm over at the New England Mamas talking about my own secret place to get the best homemade chocolates (Mmm, homemade chocolate. Mmm...) and then I'm over at my friend Sarah's blog pinch hitting for her while she's off having an actual vacation. Damn her.

And for all my New England readers, don't forget we're having a contest at the NE Mamas. Share with us your secret spaces or hidden gems and you just might win something. Uh huh. That's right. Spill it.

After I rest up from all this writing business, I'll start working on your questions. You're waiting with baited breath, I can tell.

Cancer, Cancer. Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when it comes for you?

I've had this post kicking around for a couple of weeks, but with Lisa's news yesterday this seems like a good time to post this.

----------

When I was pregnant with C.C. I had an appointment with a genetic counselor because, in the prime of my life at age 35, I was classified as a woman of "advanced maternal age" and I hadn't yet decided if I wanted to go through amniocentesis.

There was nothing in my or Mr. C's family history that caused any alarm for our yet unborn baby but while mapping out my family history red flags popped up for me. A bunch of red flags. Big, crimson ones that didn't have any cute welcomes beckoning to me like "Eat Here. Early bird specials, including dessert, starting at just $7.99", "Half price apps. after 7pm", not even my favorite "Half price drink specials Tues. and Weds." or "99 cent draughts". Just scary red flags with the word "Cancer" written on them in big block letters.

My mother died of colon cancer four years ago. My grandmother, my mother's mother, died of ovarian cancer, a related form of disease, last year. And years ago my Gram's half sister died from breast cancer, a cancer related to ovarian. It was like following a daisy chain. Unfortunately, I'm the half hitch and from the looks of things I'm barely hanging on. One tug and the whole thing will let go, metaphorically speaking.

Metaphors make the cancer easier to take, didn't you know? Follow the yellow brick cancer trail! Follow the yellow brick cancer trail! Follow, follow, follow, follow...

I had my own brush with cancer ten years ago. I had an aggressive form of the HPV virus and within a year I went from clean pap smears to Oh my CHRIST. Get thee to a doctor NOW or you'll get THE CANCER.

I was treated. Cells were removed. My feet were in the stirrups more times than I'd like to remember but everything worked out fine. Unfortunately, this diagnosis coincided with my mom finding out her cancer was progressing faster than had hoped and major surgery had just been scheduled for her. It was a dark time in my life.

My mom was diagnosed with colon cancer when she was just 44 years old and since there is a genetic link, doctors told my sister and me that we would have to start being tested when we reached the age of 35, or roughly ten years before the age my mother was diagnosed. Let me tell you, I'm not looking forward to some physician I don't know shoving a camera up my butt to have a look see but I'm going to do it. I have to.

But before then I have another appointment with a genetic counselor in September. We'll chat, maybe talk about the good old days when my mom's insides were being ravaged by cancer and about my grandmother who refused to be tested even though her oldest daughter died a horrible death at a ridiculously young age.

I'm not sure but if you research my last name you may find it's English for "Ostrich who sticks his head in the sand because if you don't know bad things are coming then they'll just go away. LA LA LA LA LA".

After that, who knows? Maybe they'll recommend genetic testing to determine if I'm, in fact, predisposed for the big C. And that, my friends, scares the beejebus out of me.

I'll get tested. I'll go every year if I need to. I'll drink that vile liquid that will clean my insides out better than Roto Router on a clogged toilet (Oh the symbolism!). I'll bitch to my doctor that I will not have any of those other tests that are only good about 10% of the time and just put on the pith helmet already and grab your pick ax because it's time to go SPEELUNKING! I'll fight with insurance companies who probably don't want to pay for this procedure for someone my age. I'll do all of that...

But do I really want to know, really, truly know, that the damn cancer is coming to get me? Would you? How much information is too much? If you were me, would you take a cue from my dear, ostrich-like grandmother and not want to know anything or would you face it head on?

Ha! I scoff in the face of cancer! HA HA HA H... *cough* *gag* *whimper*

Would you willingly get a test that would tell you as definitively as possible that if the screenings fail (which they don't usually) you'll end up with this disease? And if you did, what would you do with the information?

I may be a heathen but I know when someone needs my prayers

Whether or not you are familiar with Midwestern Mommy, please go to her blog and leave her a comment or send her an email with your thoughts and prayers. She just found out she has cancer - either colon or lymphoma, she wasn't sure at time of posting - and though she's trying to put on a brave face, joking about the inevitable weight loss, she desperately needs your best wishes.

And please, even if you're not a church goer, say a prayer for her family as well, especially her beloved husband and her adorable little boy (and hell, for her dog too!). They need all the support they can get during this difficult time.

Ask me a question and I'll tell you no lies. Unless you want me to.

Oh hey, lookie here. I've got a blog. I should probably write something, eh?

Um...

This is the first time in my blogging career (and I use that term VERY loosely) that I've been at a total loss for words. Maybe it's because I missed Blogher this year. Or it might have something to do with that new baby of mine. Or maybe it's all the energy that is required of me to keep watch over my two children. Because you never know when Chicky will try to love C.C. so much that her little head pops right off.

I know this is lame, and I know I've done it before, but I need a small push to keep writing. So ask me anything and I'll be as honest as I possibly can. Any questions you've ever had about me just ask away. I'm an open book. Want to know about me in high school? Anything about my childhood? Musical preferences? Embarrassing stories (be specific please)? Favorite sexual position?

Okay, scratch that last one. I don't want to bore you all to death.

I need ideas or this blog will slip away from me while I'm busy trying not to duct tape Chicky to the wall.

So, what do you want to know about me? Anyone? Bueller?

Ooh, ooh! I've got a question. Can you come over here and wipe my butt?

She's got the whole world in her hands

With both my mom and my grandmother gone I don't have too many people left to remark on how my kids may look like me or like someone else in my family. It would be nice to have someone who can say with some authority that Chicky has my nose or Caroline has my eyes. My aunts were both pretty young when I was born and my Dad is just not one of those people who remembers those types of things, especially when there are much more important things to remember. Like Frank Zappa lyrics. My mother in law is always quick to compare Chicky or C.C. to people in her family or my father in law's clan but always seems to forget that I did have a part in creating these children and they did not spontaneously appear from a drop of her son's sperm. I'm not looking for an award but a little credit would be nice.

When she was a baby I always thought Chicky looked a great deal like Mr. C. Random people, nice old ladies especially, like to stop me in stores to let me know that she's the spitting image of me but I don't see it. When C.C. was born, though I saw a great deal of my husband in her, I knew immediately that this child was going to take after the women in my family, my sister, mother and grandmother especially. She really reminds me of my mom. So much so, in fact, that while counting her fingers and her toes I took note of her fingernails, her long nail beds and the spindly length of her fingers, and thought, Her hands look exactly like Mom's. I don't need anyone else to agree with me. Others can compare her to a living or dead relative but this is proof at least to me that she did come straight from my vagina.

So, you're headed to Blogher without me.

No I'm not going to Blogher. Yes I'm very sad about this. I'm tired of receiving invitations to parties that I won't be attending. I'm missing the wonderful women I met last year who will either be attending the conference or the BFF get together. Instead I'll be packing up my house because we're moving at the end of August or I'll be sitting on my couch with a newborn attached to my breast. Or maybe I'll be trying my best not to scream at the three year old who pushes me to madness each and every day. Sounds like a good time, doesn't it?

But pouting does not become me. I genuinely want everyone who is going to have a great time, even if I won't be there to share it with you. For you newbies here's a few words of advice: Try not to drink too much because there will be cameras EVERYWHERE (in other words, do as I say not as I do) and drop your guard a little to let in a new friend or 30. Don't forget your swag and your business cards and feel free to pack that extra pair of hot shoes or cute skirt because you won't be alone in your over-packing. And remember that your self perceived awkwardness is just that. You'll be in very good company so smile and shake hands or hug or squeee or do whatever you told your new friends you would in their comments. And fer chrissake, have a good time and have a drink for me.

Me? I already told you what I'll be doing. I'll also be thinking about my Gram and mourning the loss of her. I'm not trying to be a downer. Instead I'd like you to really appreciate the opportunity you have before you. Enjoy every minute to the fullest even if you're completely overwhelmed because as soon as you get on that plane to go home you'll be missing the experience that is Blogher.

In the meantime I'll be sitting here patiently waiting to hear who drank too much, whose shoes were the cutest, who was nicer/nastier/goofier than expected, and all the other news you all will be sharing from San Francisco. And there's always next year. Oh yes, there is next year so drink your fill now because in '09 you'll be fighting me for it.

Love to you all.

*Smooches*

We interupt this heathen moment...

... to let you know about my latest review of Tiny*Prints personalized cards for the Parent Bloggers Network.

Go there, go there now.

I will now go back to hiding from the inevitable lightning strike.

And instead of casino chips you get The Father, Son and Holy Ghost

Chicky: "Mommy, is that a castle?!"

Me: "No, Hon. That's a church."

Chicky: "A church? What's a church?"

Me: "Uh..."

Mr. C: "Uh..."

Me: "That's where people go to... Uh..."

Mr. C: "Yeah, that's where they go to... Um..."

Me to Mr. C: "Oh God, how do I explain praying to her?"

Chicky: "Do they go there to play games?" Praying/Playing. Whatever.

Mr. C: "Yes! They go there to play games. Lots of fun mind games. And if you play the game correctly you get to go to heaven."

Chicky: "Oh. I don't think I like those kinds of games."

Me: "I won't argue with you there, kid."

Because after a few sleepless nights a woman starts to hear things

Psst. Hey. You wanna break me out of this straight jacket? Put down that camera, will ya? What am I, a burrito? For crying out loud, I'm a baby fer chrissake. Stop laughing! What, am I here to amuse you? Sure, you think this is funny now but wait until you see what I've left for you in my diaper. Let's just say it's not something you'll want to photograph for the ol' baby book. Yeah, who's laughing now?

And don't even get me started on where you can stick that pacifier.

I'm forever blowing bubbles...

... Pretty bubbles in the air.

Chicky takes her bubbles very seriously. And I want to french kiss the person who thought to put soap in a bottle along with a wand to make the most simple - and yet the most addicting - pastime ever. Not just that, but it's something that I can do one handed. Score.

So to recap: Chicky is happy because she's doing something she loves, I'm happy because we're out of the house enjoying the sunshine, and C.C. is happy because she's not left alone in her swing while I try to cease Chicky's whining because she's booo-ooorrred and, Mama, put the baby down, put her down, put her doooo-ooowwnn. It's a win-win for everyone... Except for C.C.'s future therapist who would have been able to pay his kids' way through college solely on the poor girl's need to work out her abandonment issues at the hand of her older sister. Though I would explain to her one day that if there were no bubbles, time with a therapist would be much better than throwing money at a proctologist.

Okay, so maybe, just maybe, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today

To the asshat woman who parked her humongous SUV mere centimeters away from my not quite as humongous so therefore totally socially acceptable SUV in the parking lot of the playground when there were at least 20 other empty spots you could have taken, including the six on the other side of your car, but you chose not to because I was parked in the only shady spot in the parking lot and you thought you could back your gas guzzler next to my only slightly better on gas but not really but I feel superior anyway car, obviously trying to bogart my cool air on this 85 degree day for your brat kid who pushed my angel okay not an angel but as far as you know she's a goddamn cherub child when they both went for the stairs to the slide and your kid was older and bigger and less attractive than mine and should have known better and you didn't even say anything to your devil's spawn little girl about how she should act like less of a little prick more appropriately on the playground, you shithead, and then you gave me a look of death when my baby started screaming and I tried to wheel my carriage out of the playground and maybe drifted into your breathing space and then I couldn't get my older kid or my big postpartum ass but even though I had a baby four weeks ago it's still smaller than yours myself in the car without contorting our bodies into positions that should only be seen in pretzels just to get into our car because your tank car was so damn close to mine and by the time we finally were all packed up I was covered in boob sweat and both kids were screaming so that I swore under my breath at you that I would find out where you lived and would leave weekly flaming bags of dog shit on your front steps,


I opened my door into the side of your car and I left a nice dent in the side of it. And I don't feel even a little bit bad about that. Have a nice day, bitch.

Not very appetizing

This is what I found on my kitchen table after putting Chicky down for a nap just now:


Hmmm.

Well, I guess it gives new meaning to the phrase "She's really got a stick up her ass".

You don't suppose she's trying to tell me something, do you?

The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing

Don't blame me if i don't post often. Blame She Who Must Be Held ALL THE TIME.

It took me at least a half an hour to type this with one hand because a certain someone refuses to be put down. Ever.

Yes, I have a sling and I use it constantly and yet, there's something about the sweatiness of my bare arm that lulls my child to sleep. Nothing says comfort like second hand body wetness.

There are more hours than I wish to admit that I find myself carrying this girl just to stop her from screaming. I think she's still pissed off about being evicted from my uterus. Not only was she ten days late but she also came out with the umbilical cord wrapped around her leg three times and once around her waist. I'm only surprised she didn't come out shouting "ATTICA! ATTICA! ATTICA!"

One good thing about toting around a baby: My biceps are going to look amazing by the end of the summer. But if I don't watch myself, since I tend to carry her in the crook of my left arm, I'll start looking like Reggie from Lady in the Water with one well muscled arm and one, um, not.

This may work for M. Knight but that look does nothing for this Chicky.

So if you don't hear from me as often for the next few weeks it's because I'm physically tied to this little human being.

She's snoring so maybe I can put her in her swing for awhile. Wish me luck. Or, at least, wish me stronger muscles.

George Carlin - RIP, Man

The forecast for today and tonight is going to be... Dark, because George Carlin passed away yesterday from heart failure. No, sorry, he didn't pass away. We didn't lose him. He died. And he was only 71. That sucks, Man.

Maybe you knew him for his notorious Seven Dirty Words. Or maybe as the Hippie Dippy Weatherman. I knew him as the man who was in some way, either directly or through my father who is a HUGE fan of Carlin's, almost totally responsible for me having a mouth like a trucker.

Thanks a fucking lot, George.

The effect George Carlin had on my father is profound. Listening to my dad talk is like listening to a Carlin show, and it goes beyond blatantly stealing lines from his act. Even the way my dad talks, the cadence of his speech and the rise and fall of his voice is a rip-off of George Carlin. It used to bug me, I used to wish my dad would get his own shtick, but now I know it was the highest form of flattery. Imitation to the point where he didn't even know he was imitating the man any more. He was trying to become the man whose opinions he greatly respected, and through that it shaped the way I thought too.

So in honor of the man who should have been making us laugh well into his 80's and 90's, I'm going to use the word Cocksucker as much as possible today. Maybe I'll poke fun at religion in mixed company. At the very least I can say things as they are and not use any soft language. The world is fucked up but there's a lot of humor to be found in it and we have George Carlin to thank for that.

And in the end the love you take is equal to the murder you don't commit

It's true what everyone says - A parent's heart grows to accommodate the love for their second child.

I wasn't sure if I believed that before I had C.C. - I mean, how is it possible to love someone as much as you do your first born? Then again, I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to love anything as much as I loved my dogs. And yes, that's more than a little screwed up - but now I do. My heart has grown and stretched to accept this new child, much like my stomach grew (and grew, and grew) to accept her as she grew inside me.

If this sounds disgustingly cliche, even throw-up-in-your-mouth repulsive, it is. It's horribly sappy and sentimental. Ooh, a mother's love knows no bounds. A mother loves her children equally.

Blech.

If I don't watch out, the next time I use the toilet rainbow colored unicorns might shoot out of my arse.

I've found, however, that this horrible sentimentality is necessary to the survival of the first born child more than for the emotional well being of the latest addition. Actually, it's necessary to all parties involved but to the eldest, or elder children if there is more than two children in your family, especially. If a mother's heart didn't accommodate all her children, then how would the first be allowed to survive when they insist on pushing the sleeping infant in her battery powered swing when the baby is FINALLY SLEEPING AFTER SCREAMING FOR THE PAST HOUR and OMG, IF YOU WAKE HER I WILL MAKE YOU SLEEP IN THE GARAGE? OH, LOOK! YOU WOKE HER UP. COME HERE SO I CAN SQUEEEEEZE YOU REALLY TIGHT, MY SWEET.

The love, man, it's overwhelming.

Chicky loves her "Baby Sister Caroline", as she must be called at all times so that it flows from the child's mouth as all one word. She loves her to a fault. She wants to hold her constantly, especially when the baby is sleeping or attached to my nipple.

"Can I hold her?"

Not right now.

"Can I hold her, puh-weeze?"

Later.

"Can I hold her now?"

Not. Right. Now.

"Mama, can I hold mybabysistercaroline NOW?"

Anyone have an ice pick I can jam in my ear?

Repeat at least 50 more times until I finally get exasperated enough to shoot laser beams from my eyes in her general direction. And then repeat another 50 times because she can deftly avoid the laser beams at this point.

"But why can't I hold her?" *Whine. Kick. Stomp. Hit the couch in the general area of where I'm sitting and throw a toy.*

Uh, because she's using my breast as a chew toy right now, Honey. Now run along and play with something sharp, m'kay?

I love Chicky. I think I love her even more now that C.C. is around, and I'd have to because I've never been closer to pitching her out a window as I am on any given day. Even closer than when she was a colicky infant and she would scream for 20 hours out of every 24. I love her because she pushes me and, even though I'm pushed passed my limits and snap on more occasions than I'd like to admit, the next day I'm better equipped to handle her. I love her because she makes me go to that dark place that parents go to sometimes but can just as quickly snap me out of it so that I'm smothering the poor girl with kisses instead of a pillow. I love her because when I can talk her off that ledge of full-fledged preschooler meltdown, I feel pretty damn good about myself as a parent.

(Step away from the tantrum. That's right, put down that My Little Pony you were planning on throwing at my head and come give your Mama a kiss. Good girl. Here's a bag of sugary cookies now run along and play in traffic.)

(Crisis averted. I freaking ROCK. Yeah.)

Now, lest you think I'm on top of this game let me put those thoughts to rest right now. I'm running out of ideas here. Since Chicky is in such desperate need to help out and pitch in when it comes to her sister I need to involve her as much as possible or dare incur the wrath of Psycho Chicky.

Psycho Chicky? Qu'est-ce que c'est?

That's the part of her personality where the whining reaches window-shattering decibels and if you don't look out someone is going to get hurt. She's prone to dramatic meltdowns but I have never seen her go so far off the edge of reason than since we brought C.C. home.

We do what we can to keep her involved - everything from fetching diapers to handing over baby wipes to throwing away the dirty diapers (Hey, she insists) - but even though I have the most proficient pooper in the world living under my roof and waking me up every few hours to feast from my fun bags, there are only so many diaper changes a day. After that... Uh...

Yeah, I've got nothing.

I'm sure we'll work it out and life with two girls will become easier. Probably just in time for puberty to set in and the real fun starts.

Until then, I'll try to allow the excess love to flow from me and wash over my dear children. Maybe it will rinse some of the drama away. Or maybe we'll just end up all wet.

Because I didn't have enough to do

Awhile back, Sarah asked me to describe my dream house. I was being kind of silly when I wrote about it never thinking we'd ever find anything like what I had described.

Well, guess what? We found it. My dream house really exists and it's up for sale.

A week after C.C. was born, on a 95 degree day, we went to take a look at the inside. I don't know why we even bothered because I was sold before we even drove up the driveway. It's not the complete realization of my dream home (no pool, not by the ocean, no 48" gas range - yet.) but just about everything else was exactly how I had imagined my forever house to be.

Mr. C took one look at my face and knew I had to have the house. The poor guy hardly had a say. I guess I owe the man a few favors. Ahem.

So this past week while I should have been still resting a bit, we were viewing the house a second time and having meetings with our realtor. Then we spent the weekend in negotiations with the owners (who just happened to also be the listing realtors and the builders of this home. Can you say "Emotionally invested"? I knew you could.). After some bumpy first offers we finally settled on a price yesterday. Which means...

Holy shite! We're moving into my dream house at the end of the summer!!

That's just the front yard. Mr. C and I are already planning the first whiffle ball tournament on that lawn. Anyone want to play second base?

I think I need to lie down.

Sure, Mr. C will be even more indebted to "the man" and I'll be going back to work a little sooner than we had planned and I might have to sell a kidney or other vital organ to pay for the place, but seeing my girls run around the large yard getting grass stains on their knees will be worth it. Bringing them out back and walking through a small path to see the horses graze in the farm behind us will be worth it. Taking my dogs and my kids and walking out our driveway and almost immediately into the abutting conservation land for long hikes on nice days will be worth it. Sipping wine on my front porch or in my sunroom or in the jacuzzi tub right outside my bathroom, naked because there are hardly any neighbors to see my flabby ass, will be so freaking worth it.

However...

(you knew there had to be one.)

It may sound strange but I'm completely terrified. I don't think it necessarily has anything to do with making payments but everything to do with my dream being realized. I can't explain it, it just makes me jittery. Feel free to psychoanalyze me.

Adding to our good fortune, and my jitters, my inlaws are buying our home so they can be closer to their granddaughters. It makes me feel a lot better about selling this place, the home where Mr. C and I got married, where we brought our kids home to, where our pool is (ahem), where we put our blood, sweat and tears in to, to keep it in the family.

For the past week I've been pouring over the pictures of this house but never daring to dream of where I would put my living room furniture or what color I would paint the baby's room. But now I can.

Holy crap.

I'm starting to feel woozy now. But there's no rest for me, Mama needs to find a job. I may be realizing one of my dreams but this dream don't come cheap.

Anyone need a dog trainer? Hmmm??

Mmmm... Tastes like chicken

Sure, I could write a real post....





Or I could spend my time trying to decide what part of her to start chewing on first. The fleshy part of the upper arm? Those plump little lips? Ooh, I know! The cheeks! Yeah, totally the cheeks. I just want to chew on them until she screams. Nom, nom, nom...

It's not cannibalism if it's the mommy who's doing it. It's true. Look it up.

Sometimes breastfeeding really sucks

I nursed Chicky for a full year. After delivering C.C., the nurses apparently took that information to mean that I was an old pro at this breastfeeding thing, which couldn't be farther from the truth, and only offered me minimal help and advice. To be fair, while in the hospital C.C. seemed to take to nursing like a fish to water but since being home she's gotten a little lazy. Her latch is good but her mouth seems too... Small? Not to downplay things but nursing is not going well.

Oh, the pain!

A couple of days ago it got so bad that I was literally screaming into pillows to muffle my cries. I bit into the pillows too. Anything to keep from punching my poor husband in the balls for putting me back into this position.

We're working through things but it's still very painful and if I read one more website that says if I'm nursing my baby properly it won't hurt I may very well start writing threatening emails to the La Leche League complete with pictures of my bleeding nipples (sorry, too much info? It had to be said. It's just not cool to find blood in your breast pads.).

And to add insult to injury we're going through a horrible heat wave in this part of the country and that always seems to bring about a raging case of mastitis when coupled with a less than perfect latch. I went through this a number of times with Chicky but it never gets easier to deal with, does it?

I just need to know one thing - If nursing is so natural then why is it so damn hard?

One of those times when Madison Avenue totally got it right

A baby does change everything.

Case in point - I have a blog? Who knew?

And people sleep? At night? Really?

And and... Boobs aren't normally ready to spontaneously fall off and crawl away in painful defeat? Mine were once free of the hungry badger that now hangs off them? Gah-aawwn.

And and and... There once was a time when I didn't have this beautiful, perfect little human being in my life? I really can't remember it.

Our new girl, C.C. as she will be referred to henceforth (or until I get sick of that nickname and decide to change it), is a champion daytime sleeper and a party animal at night. She is a blue ribbon nurser who has shred my poor nipples to bits with her improper latch but we're working on that. She is the new love of my life but has created her own spot in my heart instead of pushing her sister from her perch. I'm truly lucky.





And more than just a little stir crazy. I can work on that.

I don't rest well but this time, with this baby, I am forcing myself to stop and enjoy and take care of myself and her. That is very different for me.

But change is good, right? Okay, sometimes it's good and sometimes it freaks me right the heck out but in this case it's very good.

However, you should probably ask me again tomorrow.

Sweet Caroline

Better late than never...

We'd like to introduce you to our latest, if not more than fashionably late, addition to the family. 8lbs 4oz, 20 1/2 inches long, and one fantastic faux hawk in the making. Mom, Dad and baby are doing well while Chicky spends time with her grandparents, being allowed to eat chocolate covered donuts and being spoiled rotten.

And all was as it should be. For now...