What's The Deal With Those Baby Clothes Anyway?

After four kids, I feel like I’m an expert on baby clothes. That’s completely justified, right? I’ve dressed 3 of them and I’m right in the middle of number 4. After all these kids and their clothes, I have a few observations to support why we should just scrap the whole idea and put them all in sleep sacks and onesies for the first five years.

POCKETS. Why? Is this necessary? Does Junior need a place to keep his wallet? Does Juniorette need a place to carry her lipstick? Nope, it’s all just to make them look like miniature grownups. Which is why we still buy them because come on, how freaking adorable are they in their little denim jeans with real working pockets and everything? But all cuteness aside, those pockets are the epitome of completely unnecessary. And if they’re unnecessary on toddler jeans (I guess conceivably they COULD use pockets), how useless are they on teeny, tiny baby’s jeans. Actually, now that I think if it, why do we even have jeans for 3 month olds? We’re going to torture them enough with vaccinations, bulb syringes (A.K.A. The Booger Sucker!) and cutesy headbands, why can’t we let them have comfortable pants. Or better yet, those one piece jobbies. And speaking of…..

THOSE ONE PIECE JOBBIES. I love these. No, you don’t understand. I loooooooove these. No socks to keep on, no worrying about matching tops and bottoms, just one piece of clothing that covers the naked squirming child. I don’t know why, but there’s just something about the one piece outfits that make me think of words like “cozy” and “comfy” and (in winter) “warm”.  Perhaps it’s just me reflecting my own loathing of pinchy, squinchy pants onto my babies, but I seriously think that we should make one piece outfits acceptable for adults to wear as office attire. Even after they graduate to the footless one piece jobbies, which aren't as good but still bring words like "lazy weekend" to mind, I think these are the penultimate in baby clothing.

LEG SNAPS. Ugh, I have a love/hate relationship with these. I remember, in my naïve youth with baby #1, when I thought these were the best thing since sliced bread. I mean, you can change the kid’s diaper without even taking his pants off. Genius. And it IS great. Until one day when they realize, ‘Hey, what are these cool things? I can move them. A lot. Especially when Mom’s changing a diaper.” And if you get a baby or toddler who is 1000% pure energy and hates diaper changes? It’s already like wrestling with a greased up octopus, let alone trying to add pants that have to snap up. I can’t be sure I wouldn’t say screw it and just let the kid walk around in his unsnapped pants-skirt. Yeah, we’re Scottish. As of when? Five minutes ago. Deal with it.

FEETY JAMMIES (THE ZIP UP KIND). I love these almost as much as one piece outfits. Probably more considering the easy zipper versus leg snap thing. Also, and it seems like I might be forcing my own weird hang ups on my kid, it’s the whole comfort thing. Who hasn’t seen a baby or toddler in those cute, feety pajamas and thought, ‘Aww, I just want to snuggle with that delicious bit of babyness?” Maybe it’s a parent thing (Bedtime = Parental Brain Reload Time) but those kids in their sleepwear are just Too. Damn. Cute. 

ONESIES. These are either awesome or completely sucktastic. Personally, I'm a bit of a onesie-aholic. I love them layered under clothes in the winter and I love them AS clothes in the summer. It keeps that constantly moving bundle of energy contained in one cloth. Until they have a "poop-splosion". Then a onesie is just a kiss of death. "Awww crap, he pooped right up his back! How am I going to get this off without smearing poop all over the kid?" The answer, which I only found out on baby number four, is that onesies have those weird shoulder things in order to roll it down around the kid in instances of poop-toberfest. (Yep, I'm thinking that four kids and 26 poopmanias later, THAT would have been handy information to have from the start.) Honestly though, up or down, that kid's going to need to be plopped in a bath A.S.A.P. anyway. Well, unless you've used 17 wipes and feel they're clean enough for now. I'd probably use 17 wipes and still give him a bath due a little bit of Macbeth Syndrome. (Out, out damn spot!)

SO, basically, all this supports my love of one piece, comfortable clothing. Kind of like the kind they will one day prove socially acceptable for adults. Hey, it could happen. Maybe I'll get a petition going or something....

I've got a case of cuteness overload with this one!

Don't Make A Breastacle of Yourself

Now that the baby has decided to ignore my strict admonishments and grow up anyway, we've come to the first crossroads in parenthood. The one year mark. Even though I'm still not sure where that time went, we now find ourselves stuck in the weaning process. If you've never experienced this, it's when you gradually start the transfer from Mom milk to Moo milk. And it seems to be causing me some mixed emotions. So that brings me to:

Five Reasons I'm Torn About Ending Breastfeeding

1.) I'll finally get my body back. For almost two years now my body has belonged to this alien being. First as a studio apartment for my little embryonic darling, and then as a 24 hour wet bar. So really, it'll be nice to be able to have ME back. It's been so long that I might have to take myself out on a date to rediscover who we are. See if we still have that connection.

2.) On the other hand..... This is the final time that the ladies will have a job other than decorative flesh orbs for my husband to ogle. No matter how many times I've gone through it, I'm still amazed that a woman's body can grow and sustain an actual living person. So to have this be the last time I can perform a miracle and go back to just boring old non-miraculous me, well, it's disheartening to say the least. Now if I want to perform miracles I'm going to have to walk on water or cure cancer with my hands while I chant and let live poisonous snakes slither around my neck. Blech.

3.) And what about the convenience? Yes, I'll be honest, breastfeeding was so much easier for me than bottle feeding. Now I have to wash the bottles, buy the milk,  then heat it to his royal highness' perfect temperature, then repeat the process again in a few hours. Before I just whipped a boob out and popped it in his mouth. Okay, okay, crude yes, but you get the idea. It was always there, always ready and always the perfect temperature. I'll admit, I've been really spoiled.

4.) But let's not forget that this also means NO MORE PUMPING. Oh yeah, I'm pumped. About not pumping. What most people fail to realize is that breastfeeding takes a lot of work. Well, maintenance anyway. If I'm not feeding the baby, I have to express the milk to keep the supply up and to make bottles for the sitter to be able to feed the bambino while mama's working hard to bring home the bacon. If you don't do either of those things, those milk glands start filling up and pretty soon you'll be able to sympathize with your husband the next time he starts complaining about "blue balls".

"I don't want to hear no complainin'! You think that's bad, try having blue boobs! Ten times the size and just as uncomfortable!"

5.) Lastly, this also means that he's already starting the process of leaving. Because face it Mom, that's what growing up is. A bunch of small steps leaving you behind, until they're ready to leave the nest for good. Ultimately, that's what we're preparing them for, right? (If we do a good job, they leave and don't try to move back in after college!) But when it's the last child, and you know that the baby making factory has gone out of business, closed its doors, fired all its employees, and handed out severance packages, it's bittersweet. I'm always wondering if this feeding might be the final one and I won't have appreciated it enough. So to be proactive, I'm overly sensitive and weepy about every feeding now. Just to make sure that I'm not taking any of these last moments for granted. I'll probably end up making a spectacle (breastacle!) of myself, but I can always blame it on global warming. Or terrorists. Or the lack of a Sonic restaurant in our area.

If you read any of this and could relate, well, you've probably been through the nursing and weaning process yourself. If you read it and thought I'm crazy, well, you're probably not too far off the mark. But don't tell my kids, they still think I'm normal. Well, some of them anyway. Ok, ok, the youngest two. ALIGHT....at least the baby.

Resolutions Shmesolutions

We are now solidly through half of January and you know what that means right? 80 percent of resolutions have already been blown to bits. And do you know why? Because people make them too grandiose. You need to start small, build your confidence. Only then can you move onto bigger and better resolutions. It’s for that reason I present you with my “2015 List of New Year’s Resolutions That Are Completely Doable Because I Didn’t Get Too Big For My Britches And Kept Them Small” list:

1. Breathe. Ta-da! Accomplished. See that? I’ve just boosted not only my confidence in myself and my goal attainment abilities, but I’m also alive. So maybe next year I can add something special and fancy to this one. Like: Breathe underwater while scuba diving in the Caribbean after winning a ridiculously large pot of money in the lottery.

2. Wake up every day. Ok, so I’ve already accomplished this a bunch of times (Thank you God) but it’s still ongoing because I made it open ended. And even though every day is pretty much forever (Please God), I can still consider this one fait accompli so long as I wake up every day. So, one small step for momkind, one giant leap for, uh, me? Yeah, that sounds good.

3. Eat better. See how I avoided that evil four letter D word? I deleted it from my vocabulary so that no longer will I utter the word diet. Oh crap. Ok, NOW it’s deleted. The beauty of this phrasing is that as long as I add one healthy piece of something every day, I can technically be adhering to the letter of the law. Well, resolution. So maybe I ate 4 pieces of pizza and half of a chocolate cake…..I ate a piece of broccoli and a celery stick so I’m even. Actually, since celery is a negative calorie food and I had to burn calories just to nosh on it, I’m pretty sure it completely cancelled out that half of a cake. Maybe I should eat the other half to make up for it.

4. Learn all the latest politically correct terms. I know I can’t say retarded anymore, even if I truly believe that someone’s brain must be lacking any sign of intelligent life, but there are countless other things that I’m not allowed to say now. Things like dumbass, moron, or bimbo brain. I have to replace them with such phrases like: assically handicapped (dumbass), brain cell challenged (moron) and peroxide induced cranial trauma (bimbo brain). These are the types of phraseology I need to learn lest the language police show up at my door. (Ok, they’ll probably still show up at my door even if I do learn the correct terminology, but at least this way it will look like I’m attempting to reform my wicked mouthy ways.)

5. Learn to be more tolerant of the assically handicapped. Some people just need to be treated like a slow two year old with a learning disability. I say this because there’s no way I’d be mad at a 2 year old learning disabled child, but give me some moron (ahem, I mean brain cell challenged) asshat (Oops, I don’t know the PC term for that one!) who can’t seem to figure out what the pointy stick on the side of their steering wheel is for (Spoiler alert! It’s to indicate your vehicle is turning!) and it’s angerpalooza. So my theory is if I picture all these ridiculously intellectually stunted apes as innocent children, I might be less inclined to want to swear at them. Maybe.

6. I won’t strangle my teenagers. I won't strangle my teenagers. I won't strangle my teenagers. I won't strangle my teenagers. I might strangle my teenagers. I mean, I won't strangle my teenagers.

7. Don't leave the house naked. Listen, I'm really doing everyone a favor with this one. Until they learn how to airbrush what the public sees on a three dimensional person, well, layer, layer, layer.

There you have it folks, my totally doable....aw, crap. I already screwed up number 5. Well, there's always next year, right?

Calvin and Hobbes totally get me.

Christmas Card Evolution

I've been mentally writing this post for a while now but ended up missing the mark on timeliness because the holidays refused to slow down. So before you proceed, I ask that you dial your mental calendar back a day or seven.

I love Christmas mail. (On the other hand, I don't like post Christmas mail at all.) Not only am I sure to be collecting packages from my online Christmas shopping, but there's also the cards. Christmas cars are exciting because it's mail that's not a bill. With email and texting and social media, we don't use "snail mail" much anymore. But I've noticed a certain pattern with card sending and I think it directly corresponds to age.

See, when you're first starting out, maybe single, or maybe newly married, the process goes like this:

The day after Thanksgiving: Prepare list of card recipients.
Two days after Thanksgiving: Buy cards and postage stamps.
Three days after Thanksgiving: Fill out cards, including a small, personal note in each one. Address and stamp envelopes. Place in mailbox the next day. The whole procedure is completed by the first of December.

Having a child might change this scenario, but not by much. It might now include making personalized photo Christmas cards to show off your super special progeny and also, it might cause the timeline to be off by about a week. So now the entire process is completed by the end of the first week of December.

Now adding another kid can either put this timeline off by another week if you're super organized or, if you're like me, it could mean you only manage to get the cards out every other year. You have good intentions, but they get buried under school concerts, baking for parties, and trying to wrap presents in the 35 minutes between your kid's bedtime and you passing out in an exhausted heap.

Anything after those two kids though and you're entering serious fairy tale land. "Once upon a time, Mommy had more than three brain cells and used to mail magical cards of Christmas joy to her friends and family. Then youse guyses was borned and hooked on phonics stopped working for me. The end."

This becomes the new card sending process:

Thanksgiving: I should send cards early this year and get ahead of the game this year. I'll take a picture of the kids tomorrow.
Four days after Thanksgiving: Crap, I forgot to take a picture of the kids.
December 3rd: Sh*t! I still haven't taken a picture of the kids. I really want to send picture cards because I forgot to send them last year. And the year before.
December 8th: Oh. My. God. Are you kidding me? I need to get those cards ordered. Where's my camera?
December 15th: Are you %@$*# serious right now? I might as well just buy some cards at Target at this rate. If I buy them tonight I can get them to the post office tomorrow and they'll arrive before Christmas.
December 16th: Ugh, I forgot cards last night. How did I still walk out of there with $78 of crap?
December 20th: Holy crap, how did it get to be 5 days before Christmas? Maybe I can still sneak some cards out. There's still 4 mail days until Christmas after all.
December 26th: F**k. I forgot cards again this year. Maybe I'll take a picture right now and start on next year's right now. No, I'm sure I'll get them out on time next year.

Of course, I now manage to complete the whole "card trick" every third year. And only because Walmart has a cool function that allows you to order and pay online and stop by the store to pick them up. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure my card days would have been long over. Of course, once I'm retired and have all that time on my hands, I'll have the ability to be organized and prepared again. Too bad that's still 20 years away.

In My Honest and Clearly Superior Opinion

Do you know what “IMO” stands for? It stands for in my opinion. (Yes, I’m that hip to know popular acronyms. Without having to ask my kids first!) Opinions remind me of a funny saying I once read: Opinions are like assholes, everyone’s got one. (I’d like to give credit for whoever coined that phrase but sadly, I don’t know. I could Google it or just tell you some really wise person with a good sense of humor made up a funny saying.) 

Sometimes we disguise our opinions and call them “advice”. Because really, advice is just one person telling you something they think you should do. For some reason, advice is rarely received well and the hardest to swallow usually involves parenting. Because parenting seems to be some super competitive sport with everyone trying to come in first place. And if you’re doing it “wrong”, you should try it *my* way instead.

Now, I’d like to be on my high horse and say I've NEVER been guilty of passing along unsolicited parenting tips. I’d like to. But it would be a big, fat, juicy lie. Because I think all parents have that one, crowning glory that makes them feel like they've mastered the whole parenting gig. Face it, if we didn't get one of those moments, we’d all be drooling, straight-jacket wearing messes in the parking lot from trying to raise our kids. It’s probably God’s way of giving us a self-esteem boost and saying, “You can do this.” So we share our achievements and try to make all those who use our non-working, obviously not as important method of potty training/sleep training/teething relief conform to our ways. Come to the dark side. We have cookies. (I love this line. This is either from another really clever person or a t-shirt. Or maybe a movie. I forget which. Some files were deleted the last time my brain crashed.)

Here are some of my favorite (sarcasm font) scenarios where parents get, ahem, “positive feedback” from others:

The Great Sleep Debate. 

Okay, yes, I mentioned I was tired because my ten month old baby started teething and gets me up twice a night again. It was probably an attempt to warn you not to expect any great surges of brainpower because I’m not sure all units are functioning. I don’t need a fix. I don’t want to let the baby “cry it out”. What kind of monster am I here? This little creature’s been on this planet less than a year and I’m supposed to say, “Suck it up kid, mama’s gotta work in the morning.”? Hey, how about, “You’re cramping my style kid, mom needs a solid 7 in order to get through the work day without stabbing someone at the water cooler.” (That one might be a bit violent for the under 40 crowd.) I’m sure this is temporary and at some point the kid will realize how awesome sleeping is. If he’s 5 still sleeping in a porta-crib in my bedroom, please start the intervention. Until then, I’m gonna snuggle this one before he gets too old for such things.

Food Issues, numbers 1-429. (This is a conservative estimate.)

Kids are odd little things when it comes to food. They don’t eat green foods, things can’t touch on their plate, they only eat grilled cheese and pickles for a 6 month stretch…..and on and on. If you have a picky eater, meals outside your home suck. And because other people are present for this, they feel obliged to point out your parental deficiencies because their child loves all vegetables and only eats organic foods. They can hardly believe that their precocious palated child is hobnobbing with your processed food loving chicken nugget and mac and cheese covered kid. Never mind the fact that they aren't the ones who have to deal with the nightly dinner torture of a whiny, crying, stubborn kid who fights about eating foods other than his safe 5: mac and cheese, chicken nuggets, pizza-but-not-the-square-kind-only-the-triangle-kind, string cheese, and Lucky Charms. Never mind the fact that at least you’re feeding your kid and while you’re pretty sure he’s only getting 37% of his daily nutritional requirements, you've found handy things like gummy vitamins and that Pediasure junk to make sure he grows up and doesn't have rickets or bone stuntedness. While I’d love to get my kid to drink kale smoothies and eat tofu burgers instead of that evil red meat, I can’t even pretend that I’d like that crap. I’m not up for drinking anything green on purpose and if you made me switch my red meat to tofu I’d react VERY badly. So let’s just congratulate each other on making it through another day where we found enough food groups that didn't offend that 3 ½ foot tyrant of ours and that he isn't going to bed hungry. Can we just do that?

Developmental issues. (You know, those annoying milestones and whatnot.)

Oh. My. God. Yes, you are clearly raising a genius who was potty trained at 18 months, spoke in full grammatically correct sentences by 2, and could do a 100 piece puzzle in 48 seconds at age 3. Thank you for sharing. Meanwhile, I’m struggling to stop myself from rushing out and buying him a sturdy helmet to protect his head since he’s starting to pull himself to a standing position and falls and smacks his head about 10 times a day. He has the perfect knack for finding sharp corners with his noggin and it’s stressing me out. And God save me when the why phase comes into play because I barely made it through the first three times with my sanity intact. (Actually, it’s debatable if it truly is intact but that’s a story for another day.) While I’m proud of your sweet lil’ dumpling for her accomplishments, please shut your pie hole, you’re making the rest of us sleep deprived, thought lacking, slobbering parental units feel like we’re lacking. Which we really are and what we’re lacking is brain cells. Because our kids ganged up on us and systematically snuffed out every single iota of intelligence we used to possess and replaced it with lost shoe whereabouts, favorite foods, and the lyrics to half a dozen kid’s shows theme songs. We need a new slogan moms and dads. How about this “Parenthood: It’s really not a competition!”

So the next time those golden words of wisdom are poised on the tip of your tongue, ready to take flight and nestle into someone else’s subconscious, maybe you should just swallow them instead. We can all become card carrying members of the “A-OK Parents Club” where our children aren't perfect, but they ARE breathing and beating on their siblings, so we must be A-OK!

An Ode to Thanksgiving

I flipped the calendar,
quite surprised to see,
that November had arrived,
it snuck up so stealthily!
Time for the ultimate feast,
gathering friends and family,
Making a giant shopping list,
for turkey and jellied cranberry.
(I'm kidding about the last,
no one here will eat it,
red, gelatinous, gloopy goo,
has never been a big hit!)
I hit the stores in search of,
the biggest turkey I can find,
how many people am I feeding?
Well, just me and the family of mine.
Okay, sure, it's a bit much,
we'll be eating turkey leftovers for days,
but it only comes once a year dammit,
so eat it til your eyes start to glaze!
(And like it!)
Checking my list, twice like I'm Claus,
Gotta get stuffing, rolls, and potatoes,
Don't forget the gravy fixings,
My plate needs to be a river that flows,
Over the mashed potato mountain,
then through the stuffing valley,
resting on piles of perfect turkey,
until my plate's having a pep rally!
Now shopping's done and turkey's thawing,
the days go by too slow,
until finally it's Thanksgiving morning,
and our excitement starts to grow.
Set the alarm to get the bird in the oven,
'cuz the largest one I truly found,
Haul the beautiful bounty over,
to the oven with barely a sound.
(If you don't count the grunts,
or the groans and the moans,
as I struggle not to drop this thing,
or ask the hubs for a strength loan!)
Make all of the desserts,
don't forget the relish tray,
Peel about 1,000 potatoes,
okay, not really, it just feels that way!
The flight of the bumblebee,
is going on in my kitchen,
get it all on the table,
without a single hitch-en.
Fifteen minutes later,
after everyone's stuffed,
on the meal that cooked 5 hours,
comes the part that's truly rough.
Clean up the kitchen,
and scrub down the dishes,
I'm a crazy woman,
my cleaning skills are vicious.
Finally it's done, time to have pie,
yay, there are more dishes,
is that a tic in my eye?
Then it's off to visit family,
to extend our good wishes,
pardon me if I fall asleep,
it must have been all those dishes!

Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers! Enjoy your friends, your family, and most importantly, your turkey! (For life is short and poultry's only cheap once a year!)

The Hostess With The Mostess

Every year at Christmas, my siblings and I traipse over to my parents on Christmas Eve. From there, food is eaten, presents are opened, and merry is made. Since I have the week of Christmas off this year, I offered to host the party.

Immediately after the words left my mouth I thought, "What the hell was I thinking?" Have I seen my house? The one in a perpetual state of home repairs? The one that's small and cramped? The one with four kids? I think if the baby would just start sleeping through the night, I'd get some of those lost brain cells back that are obviously affecting my decision making abilities.

Once the panic attack subsided, I considered that the amount of organization and list making required for me to pull this off is probably my Christmas gift from my parents. Seriously, I love lists that much. Sometimes when I make a TO-DO list and I've already done something, I'll add it just for the satisfaction of crossing something off. Yeah, I see all those eye rolls from you organizationally challenged people. I say you're jealous of my mad list making skills. Don't be a hater. Or if you're going to be a hater, at least make a list of people who deserve it.

There might be a slight problem with time, however, as I have not been able to find a device that will effectively lengthen my day, nor one that will just freeze time or clone myself. (Basically, all the superhero movies ever made are one big, fat LIE!) Since denial is a close friend, I choose to not acknowledge that this could be an issue. After all, how many days are there until Christmas Eve? What? Thirty eight? Holy crap, I'm in trouble. Especially since I haven't made it out of the menu planning stage. And the dust bunnies have staged a coup that I have to overthrow.

Thank God for slave labor, I mean, uh, children. Yes, that's right. Three free "apprentices" that I can put to work to ensure that the evil Dust Bunny Overlord isn't successful in his attempts to dominate my household and that I actually remember to preheat the oven so that I can cook whatever delicious meal might make it through my intense list making sessions. Three unpaid "helpers" to set the table, put together veggie platters, and chase down the baby to take the current object of his fascination out of his mouth (Because let's face it, it's always in the baby's mouth and it's always something they are not supposed to have.) and keep us from having a trip to the ER to remove a pencil eraser that magically appeared on the floor even though "no one" dropped it.

This holiday season will be crazy with a dash of fun and a touch of love. (Only a touch because there's no love in party planning dammit! Kidding. I think. I'll get back to you on whether or not that's true next month.) And if I survive the insanity that the next few weeks will be, I think someone should throw me a party. Just as long as I don't have to do any of the planning, preparation, or decorating.

Or panic and run around like a mad woman?

A Tough Age in Diaperville

When it comes to kids, there are always a few stages that are tougher than others. The terrible threes. (Yes, I said threes. Two’s were terrific. It wasn't until three with the “I can do it myself” tantrums that I started wanting to pull my hair out.) When they meet their new best friend “Not Me”. The teen years. There’s one age that I consider to be the hardest, however, and I promise it’s not because I’m smack dab in the middle of it right now. It’s the in-between stage. In between what? Sitting and walking.


When your baby’s first born, you can plop that little miracle anywhere and trust that they’ll be there when you come back from the bathroom, the kitchen, the closet you hide from your older kids in. Which is a good thing since you’re still recovering from birth and the up-at-all-hours-of-the-night thing. I think that’s God’s way for new moms to not lose the baby. You only have so many brain cells left after pregnancy, labor, and taking care of the precious new bundle.


For the first few months, life is GREAT! You have so many devices for that child that you rotate just to amuse yourself since they’re probably only eating, sleeping, and/or pooping in said piece of equipment. The swing, the bouncy seat, the bassinet/cradle/co-sleeper/play pen, the exersaucer, the stroller…..you have options baby! Until those wily little creatures start eliminating those options. One by one.


Like the day they learn to roll over. Now you can’t leave the baby anywhere other than flat surfaces because you’re terrified that they’ll roll off somewhere. (Although how do you usually know they can roll? When they roll off the bed/couch/chair and make you feel like the worst parent in the history of parents and you spend a week spoiling them until you talk to other parents and find out their kid rolled off of something too so you must be normal. Or at least not the worst parent ever.) And I don’t know about your kids but mine rolled before they sat up. So I couldn't set them up on a nice, cushy floor without 20 pillows surrounding them just in case they topple over. Which they will because they can’t sit up unassisted yet. So you think you’re being clever, setting them on the floor with an entire bedding section as well as half an infant toy section, dreaming your big dreams about getting the dishes done while the heavenly angel plays on the floor. Except you have to look every 30 seconds to make sure they didn't topple and smack their head, or jam a toy in an eye or nose, or scoot themselves next to an outlet that they can stick a metal tin soldier in and electrocute themselves. (Hey, a Momagination is a scary thing!) So you don’t get much accomplished other than a few gray hairs and maybe some heart palpitations when you thought they managed to make contact with a surface other than the 10 square feet of pillows.


Rolling also takes away the option for those handy, dandy play mats with the dangly parts that you could plop them under and let them be mesmerized by the lights and colors and music for 45 minutes while you remembered what it’s like to eat a hot meal.


Then they’re hot shots who can sit up and it’s amazing! Except now that removes the swing and the bouncy seat from the list because they're too dangerous once they learn how to lean forward. That is if they were still on the list and they didn't get too tall/heavy/motion sick before this. But you’re slightly mollified because at least the can sit up alone now and you can put them on the floor with 14 pillows instead of 20 and only look once every 49 1/2 seconds.


It’s at this point you realize you can only put them in the high chair, on the floor, in the crib/play pen, or in the exersaucer/walker/whatever toy you got at your shower to entertain and hold the baby’s diapered bottom so you can do awesome things like shower and go to the bathroom. (Unless it’s the First Child, in which case you might have gotten a case of New Momitis and don’t know you don’t need every piece of baby equipment just because someone thought it up.) But your little cutie pie will only be happy for an average of 13 minutes with each activity until you realize one day that it took an entire day to wash 4 dishes and fold half a load of laundry because YOU were the baby’s entertainment. Yes, YOU got to be a three ring circus for your child, shuffling them from one activity to another, holding them, rocking them, feeding them, cleaning them, changing them, begging them to go down for a nap so you can shower the spit up and strained carrots off of yourself. You start to wish they would crawl because then they’ll be able to entertain themselves at least, even if it is with every single dust ball, stone, dog toy, and small object you didn't know was under the couch until they tried to put it in their mouth. Basically, you’ll wish they could crawl until they actually do.

But for right now, you’re in the in-between stage. And it’s exhausting.

The best, most half-assed circus EVER!

If You Are What You Eat, I'm in Trouble

I can’t eat organic foods. I’d like to be one of those granola munching, yoga mat toting, all-natural-foods-are-the-only- thing-I-put-in-my-body types. But I can’t. Because I can’t afford it.

For some reason, organic food costs a lot more than its non-organic counterpart, something that is mind boggling to me. You mean to tell me that food, which has nothing done to it, costs more than the food that was sprayed with pesticides or used a chemical laden fertilizer? So, to go back to our natural, organic roots, we’re paying more? Ok, one more time. We pay more for less and less for more? I’m still not getting it.

Who knew grandma and grandpa were so hip?

Do you know what doesn’t cost more? Pre-packaged, over processed foods loaded with artificial this-es and that-ses that contain more fat than an entire season of The Biggest Loser contestants. Yep, all the really bad for you stuff is all us middle class working stiffs can afford. You know the saying, “You are what you eat”?  I’m in trouble because that means I am cheap, easy, and quick to heat.

Add other stumbling blocks like family size and parents who both work full time and this is a recipe for convenience food. Sure, I’m aware that those hot dogs are terrible for you and one day we’ll probably find out they cause cancer somehow. Unfortunately, right now, I have to make sure one kid is at soccer in a half an hour and a second one has to be at drama rehearsal. So that long, leisurely dinner with organic kale and steamed broccoli on the side is a distant dream. (More distant since none of my family would eat kale, organic or otherwise.) Plus, the hot dogs cost 1/3 of what it would cost to get enough steak to feed the same number of kids. Now, I know Math was never my strong suit, but even I can do this basic addition.

Even when I try to offer my kids healthier alternatives I can’t win. For example, if I bake cookies they won’t have all the preservatives and additives that the pre-packaged crap has, right? Sure. Except, you’re not really going to use that flour are you? It’s been bleached. And that white sugar? It’s also been bleached and I think there was even an article explaining how refined sugars cause cancer. Dammit people, I just wanted to bake some love in the form of chocolate chip cookies for my kids. Now I’m killing them with over-processed foods again. (Maybe this is the origin of the phrase “Killing them with kindness”.) And that milk I planned to give with those cookies? Well, you know it has a ton of hormones that they give to the cows, right?

So if I can’t afford organic I’ll have to settle for whatever I can afford that will fill my children’s stomachs while providing them with at least the basic nutrition to help them grow. (Even if those growths will one day have to be removed.) So we’ll just say until I win the lottery (or until someone generously donates to the “I’m tired of working so give me money for no reason” fund), it’s soccer night. That means dinner’s full of GMO’s, HMO’s, FBI’s, and CIA’s. Plus some ET’s, ESP’s and NCAA’s to boot.

The Mom's School Supply List

Every year there are long lists of supplies that my children HAVE to bring to school with them. So every year I am shopping the summer sales, trying to get the best deals on pens and index cards and glue sticks. Now that I have yet another exhausting marathon shopping spree completed, I want to know who's taking care of the Mom School Supply List. Oh yes, I have one. Here's what it contains:

1. Clean counters. Did you know that crumbs hide from anyone under the age of Mom? It's true. My kids are physically unable to see the crumbs scattered across the counter from their constant food shoveling while I'm slaving away on a hot computer at work. Once I leave said computer and make the trek home, the crumbs instantly become visible again, leaving me with the compulsive need to wipe the counters, the chairs, the table....basically anything the kids might have touched in the 8 hours I was away.

2. Peaceful lunch hours. I love my kids. Oodles even. But there's a lot to be said for a blissful hour with no ringing phones, fax machine chatter, television noises, or squabbling kids. One quiet, serene hour in which I can leisurely eat my lunch, maybe read a bit, or even contemplate my navel if I so desire. (Which I usually don't, but what if that's because I don't have uninterrupted contemplating time?) None of which is easy to do when I arrive home for my midday meal and I'm greeted at the door by a dozen "Mo-om!" tattles.

3. Smaller energy bills. Now that the kids are in school all day, I won't have a 7 year old standing in front of the fridge, with the door open of course, for large periods of time. (I'm not sure if he's wondering if new stuff appears by magic when he's not looking since he's always conspicuously absent when I need help putting groceries away or if he's just really indecisive and needs visual cues.) The TV won't be on in 3 different rooms (for two kids) and I won't have to shut off lights and appliances left on in every room in the house three times a day.

4. Sanity. Yes, I do have a little left. Not a lot. I do prize what's left though. You know how they say "pick your battles"? Well, no one told this to my kids. Or maybe someone did and they just don't care. Regardless, I have to referee at least a half dozen bickering squabbles a day. I can at least take solace in the fact that no one's punched the other one out. (But there were days when I came close!) Plus I think one of the parenting books says this builds character or conflict resolution abilities or some crap like that. So the upside to my asylum stay will be exceptionally talented arguers.

5. Control of the temperature again. The 7 year old likes to sit in front of the air conditioning, get cold, and then turn it off. This wouldn't be so bad if maybe a window or three were opened in its stead. Alas, nary a breeze is moving when I come home to a stifling hot, smelly house. (What does it smell like? Stale air, sweaty kids and dog farts! A body can't live like that!) Does it occur to the child to not sit in front of the AC unit? Not even a little bit. Or perhaps use a blanket or a sweater? Nope. Doesn't he know you can't leave adults and dogs in a hot house? Geez.

6. Guilt free eating. Why is it a kid can hear the crinkle of a food wrapper at fifty paces? I swear, there could be a snack cake sitting in the cupboard for 2 weeks, completely untouched with no interested takers, and the day I eat it I'll hear, "Oh, I wanted to have that." Or worse, if I'm trying to eat an entire smidgen of chocolate without wanting to share, I have to hide somewhere so they don't hear the unwrapping process. I'm now a secret chocolate consumer just because I'm stingy and don't want to share it with my kids. Which is bad, or so I'm always telling them at least. So I have to share. Which is why they need to be at school. So I can be selfish and not feel guilty about it.

At this point, getting just half of my list would be a bonus. Sanity doesn't even have to be one of them since I'm so close to empty anyway. I'd have to insist on the guilt free eating though. If I'm going to be crazy, at least I'll have the enjoyment of desserts.

Can I get an Amen?