Laissez les bons temps rouler

My in-laws will be here this afternoon. Maddie is beside herself with excitement. As soon as I opened her door this morning (at 6freaking45) she shouted “Today’s Nana and Papa day!!!!” As soon as I woke up, I thought “I need to clean the ever-lovin’ bejebus out of this house today!!!” Not quite the same level of excitement.

Tomorrow we’re taking the whole family to the State Fair of Texas. Gerald and his parents have never been, despite being native Texans. WTH? I’ve been and I’m a yankee, for cry’n out loud! I’m pretty damn proud of my mad money-saving skillz, yo. Check it: Fair admission is $15 per adult, $11 per Senior and $11 per kid over 2. So, for all of us to go, the price was $63. Plus $15 for parking. EEEEK, right? Well, I did a bunch of digging around and will be getting all of us into the fair for $8, plus $15 for parking. Can you believe it!?

Turns out Thursdays are free for seniors. That’s $22 off. It’s also Coke day which means everyone gets in for $4 with an empty 20 oz Coke bottle. That’s $30 off. Then, it’s also Cinemark day which means you get in free with a Cinemark ticket stub. Since I go to Cinemark most of the time I see a movie, I dug through all my purses and found a stub from taking Maddie to see Toy Story 3 in June. That’s $4 off. So, I only have to pay $8 for me and Gerald and for parking. Pretty awesome, right? I’m so smug it’s ridiculous.

Is my Freudian slip showing?

I’ll admit that since I’ve had Sam I’ve been completely mentally unbalanced and in a sleep-deprivation stupor a little scatterbrained. I noticed today, however, that things may be a tad bit worse than I originally thought.

First, as I was quickly scanning my inbox before taking Maddie to school this morning, I saw an email from Zappos. The subject line declared: Your perfect boobs are waiting for you!

This caught my attention for two reasons: One, since when did Zappos start spamming about boobs? Two, OMG I need perfect boobs! I wonder if they come with the legendary Zappos customer service? “Oh, they don’t fit as well as you expected? Well, we’ll be happy to replace them!” Turns out, Zappos was trying to tell me about my perfect boots. Hrmph.

Then as I was browsing through our selection of kids’ movies, I saw a Baby Einstein video that scared the bejebus out of me. Baby Einstein: Baby Satan’s Music Box. First thought was “Baby Satan???” I know TV is bad for young kids, but SATAN? Then I thought, “Well, it’s pretty darn nice of Baby Satan’s parents (the elder and Mrs. Satan, of course) to buy him a music box. Hell can’t be all that bad if there are music boxes.” Yeah, it wasn’t Satan so much as Santa.

Sheesh, you juxtapose one little letter and suddenly you’re giving yourself a friggin’ heart attack.

Blog Fodder

I just read this article on CNN and got all kinds of stabby. Oh, and don’t even go near the comments unless you want your face to melt off.

Should moms stop blogging about their kids?

Hell, no.

As a mother and a blogger, my children provide vast amounts of blog fodder. I enjoy telling you stories, getting empathy on the sucky stuff and making you laugh with me. I don’t think I’m taking advantage of my kids or exploiting them at all. As a motherless child, I would be THRILLED if my mom had left me such a detailed account of my childhood, our lives together and who she was as a person separate from being my mother. Will my kids feel the same way? Maybe, maybe not. But it’s here if they want to read it. There are some posts that are going to be tough for them to read, some that will embarrass them and some that will convince them I’m completely off my rocker. I take responsibility for that and I’m not going to be surprised when they react accordingly. When they’re old enough to have a say in the matter, I may start asking permission to post certain things. However, I won’t stop posting about them entirely. That’s not up to them. Does this make me a bad mother? No. Beating, starving or otherwise abusing children makes a bad mother. Writing about your kids? Not so much.

I honestly don’t understand those people out there that are so very annoyed at those of us who talk about our kids. When someone blogs about a topic I’m completely uninterested in, I skip it. If an entire blog is about a topic I’m not interested in, I don’t read it. Why should moms have to stop blogging about kids because childless people don’t want to read about it? That makes no damn sense. They’re not reading my blog anyway, so why should I change the content to make them happy? That’s one of the most messed up things I’ve ever heard. Don’t listen to music you don’t like. Don’t watch TV shows or movies you don’t like. Don’t read blogs you don’t like. I’m not shoving my content down your throat or reading it aloud in your ear. This seems self-explanatory to me.

I’m not personally a fan of Heather Armstrong, but I’ll defend her right to blog about her kids, her PPD, poop, or whatever the hell else she blathers on about. So what if she’s turned her blog into a highly lucrative revenue stream? So what if she’s got a fancy new house and all kinds of sponsors and TV deals and book deals? Who cares if she got there because she wrote about her kids or her dogs or her family? Does it matter?

Apparently, to some folks, it matters a whole lot. I’m just not one of them.

DIY Halloween

Halloween is only a month away!!!!

Normally, this wouldn’t really bother me but I’m planning on making Maddie’s costume this year. She’s still young enough that she won’t care if it looks like ass is slightly wonky and it’s cheaper than buying a costume. The problem is that she changes her mind every day about what she wants to be. I need to pick something and stick with it so that I have time to miraculously get some crafty talent make it before the big day.

Have any of you made costumes in the past? Got any advice for a non-sewing-machine-owning friend?

It’s Friday. Here are some Facts.

* I am so sleep-deprived that I’m no longer a fully-functioning adult.

* The grocery store was out of Honeycrisp apples today. I almost cried in the produce section.

* Maddie’s favorite breakfast item is a toaster waffle. In order to try and reduce grocery costs, I’m going to make a bunch of waffles this weekend and freeze them myself. Not only are they cheaper but I can control exactly what goes into them. (Short answer: Bisquick.)

* Speaking of making things myself, this go around I’m making my own baby food. I got an immersion blender last year that works well to mush up stuff. Well, to be honest, I’ve only mushed up apples for applesauce so far, but it’s a Kitchen Aid. So I’m certain it’ll work well on other stuff, too. Those people know how to make a kitchen appliance.

* So far, Maddie has asked for roller skates, new games for her Leapster 2, books and a dress for Christmas.

* I just tried to self-medicate my depression with a candy bar. Now I’m depressed AND nauseated. Also, throw in some self-loathing for trying to use food to cope. Because what I need is to fail at gastric bypass and weigh 300 lbs again. That’d be swell.

* We’re not going home to Cleveland for Christmas. There’s no way to afford $1000 in airfare and presents. We’re going to try and visit next summer instead. Which I’ve said for the last two summers, but who’s counting?

* Sam is supposed to be napping but he’s grousing and crying and moaning instead. It seems I can only successfully get one kid to sleep per day.

* And… now he’s woken up Maddie. GUH-RATE.

I realize this is a miserable excuse for a FFF, but I’m not going to fake a good mood on my own damn blog. I’ve got to fake it in front of my kids and that’s bad enough.

Done and Done

There are several instances in life when friends and family tell you “You just know.” I heard it about finding the person I was going to marry. I heard it about choosing a career. I heard it about the number of children I was going to have.

Each and every time, I just knew.

When Maddie was a newborn, I swore up and down that I was never having another baby. A crappy pregnancy and awful birth will do that to a person. However, as time healed my wounds and my daughter got more and more awesome, I realized that I wasn’t quite done yet. I knew I wanted another baby and I was sort of scared that I was the type of woman who would want babies forever. I knew Gerald was happy with one child and it took a fair amount of convincing to get him to agree to a second. There was no way I was going to get more kids and keep him as my husband, you know?

Turns out, I’m not that kind of woman. Oh, I’ll still love babies and their porkchops and daydream about them for the rest of my life, but I’m through wanting more. I have that sense of rightness that tells me our family is complete. It was always supposed to be Gerald, me, Maddie and Sam. This is our family. I’ll have fun snuggling my new niece or nephew in March, and I’ll always offer to hold friends’ babies, but I don’t feel the need for another one of my own.

A couple of days ago I went to our storage unit to get some of Maddie’s toys for Sam now that he’s interested. We were given a new exersaucer, so I threw Maddie’s moldy one in the dumpster. As I did, I had the weirdest sense of loss. That was my first baby’s favorite toy. It felt like I’d lost something, which was ridiculous because said “baby” was sitting in the van, singing along to Wubbzy tunes on my iPod. I shook off the weirdness and came home. I cleaned all the toys in the backyard with bleach and Magic Erasers and waited for them to dry. So far, Sam loves the jumperoo like nobody’s business. It felt great to see him enjoying the same toys Maddie played with.

I also brought home my maternity clothes. I made sure everything was clean and boxed them up for Jess. As I did, I again had that sense of loss. I was never going to wear these clothes again! My belly would never be round and full of baby again! WAH! Nevermind that I find pregnancy absolutely miserable and I don’t even want more kids.

I guess even when you’re done, your ovaries keep shouting “babies! babies! babies” Maybe I need to have those suckers removed.

Imaginary Slights

I have a weird idiosyncrasy wherein I make up that friends/acquaintances are mad at me and avoiding me. Usually, there’s nothing that I can identify that I’ve done wrong, but this doesn’t stop me from fretting. And fretting. And lying awake at night fretting some more.

I imagine slights where none were intended. Or were they intended? Oh my gawd, they were probably intended. Here I am, thinking I’m just a mental case, when in reality people really DO hate my guts! GAH!!

If someone stops commenting on my blog, it can’t possibly be that they’re too busy with their own lives to do so, or they just don’t have anything to say about my posts. It must be because they’ve suddenly decided they can’t stand me. God forbid someone not acknowledge my reply tweets. I get Nervous Tummy and the fretting begins in earnest.

I think maybe this is exacerabated by that fact that I have very few close friends. (Close as in “proximity.”) I have such wonderful friends, but they’re so far away from me. (Damn you, internet, and your ability to introduce me to people across the country!) I put all my eggs in the social media basket. Sometimes I think this is so unhealthy and I really ought to commit web suicide. No more blogging, no more Google Reader, no more twitter, no more facebook. I should just concentrate my efforts on developing closer close friends. Then I get scared and realize I don’t want to lose you. Even though you hate me and give me Nervous Tummy.

Month Four

Oh Sam, my Sammy Sam,

Today you’re four months old. (Today, I am 34 years and four months old. I love that we have the same birthday. I’ll always know exactly how old I am. Although, the ladies at the pediatrician’s office look at me funny whenever I announce your birthday as “5/13/76.” It takes me a minute to remember that’s my birthday and yours is 5/13/10. A slight difference, no?) Sometimes it feels like you’ve always been here with us and other times it’s like you just arrived. You fit so well into our family and yet cause so much upheaval. You’re sunshine and smiles and thunder clouds and lusty cries. You are full of muchness.

Of course, at four months old you are the perfect baby; huge in every respect. 15.5 lbs, 25 inches long, 17 inch noggin. You’re still not sleeping through the night, though. As a matter of fact, you were up demanding to be fed no less than SIX TIMES between 10:30pm and 8:00am last night. Not cool, mister. I’d appreciate it if you’d kindly shut yer yap and let me sleep already. Capicé?

You’ve reached the “oral fixation” stage of babyhood. I call you my little Venus Fly Trap. Anything that gets too close to your mouth ends up covered in drool and severely traumatized. I tried to kiss you this morning and you tried to eat my face off. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I adore your enthusiasm, if not the slobber. You’re trying very hard to suck your thumb but are having difficulty perfecting the mechanics of keeping your thumb straight and the rest of your fingers out of the way. Your sister, who happens to be a champion thumb-sucker, has kindly offered to show you exactly how it’s done on multiple occasions. I have a feeling that your determination combined with her tutelage will have you sucking away soon enough.

Sam, you are a joy. And a pain. Much like every other child in the known universe. I feel so ridiculous about being upset when I learned you were a boy. You’re YOU. You’re my Sammy Sam. My Crabicus Finch (deadest shot and crabbiest baby in Maycomb County). My Stinky Pete. My boy. And I couldn’t love you any more if I tried.

Love,
Mama

P.S. I’m serious about the sleeping thing. Get on that, wouldja?

Garage for Sale

I’m going to have a garage sale. We have so much stuff that we’re not using and we’re paying good money for a storage unit to house said stuff and that’s just ridiculous. (FYI- We park both of our cars in the garage. With the heat and severe weather in Texas, it just doesn’t make sense to park outside when one has a perfectly good garage. But that means we can’t use it for storage. Hence, the unit.) Anyhow, I’m completely ignorant about all things garage sale related. I’ve never had one myself and my parents never had one when I was growing up. I’ve never participated in one in any way, form or fashion.

Those of you who have, will you give me the benefit of your wisdom? What have you learned that will help me have a successful sale? Thanks a million!

Nautilus

When things get bad I have the tendency to turn inward. To tuck myself into my shell and just hope that all the bad stuff will magically go away on its own. I plug my ears and sing “la la la” and ignore that things are falling apart around me. If I don’t acknowledge it, then it’s not really happening.

Now that I’m a wife and a mother, this is no longer acceptable behavior. One of the best therapists I’ve ever worked with once told me that we will continue a behavior until it no longer works for us. No matter how insane it might be, you’ll keep doing it if it makes you feel the way you want it to. Well, my shell-tucking days are over. This coping mechanism no longer makes me feel safe. It makes me feel horrible. I lie awake at night at worry. I worry during the day. I worry all the time. And the things I do to distract myself from the unhappy feelings just make my situation worse.

I vow to face this situation head-on. No more hiding. No more pretending this mess isn’t real. No more denying that there’s a problem. There is a problem and it’s of my own making. I’m responsible for getting myself into this mess and the only way out will be to dig myself out. It will suck and it will take a long time, but I will get out. I am completely capable of doing this. I won’t like the sacrifices, or the shame or the guilt, but I will wade through all of those things to be on the other side. I want to live without this cloud of dread and worry hovering over me every second of every day.

I am a grown up and it’s time to act like one, damn it.