To Laugh or Not to Laugh

Random cute pictures from Dozer Days to draw you in:

I have received inquiries as to why I haven't written in a long time. My wonderful mother-in-law checked in to make sure I hadn't gotten all perfect. Mwahaha, I said! My answer: I haven't found anything funny. Oh how sad that is! It's not that life has to be a barrel of monkeys at all times, but laughter is something that I think is necessary for the survival of our spirits, and I pride myself on having a lot of smiles and laughter sprinkled throughout my life.

Mas has been his own version of a nightmare, and it's made me sad. As I said to a friend, "this is a hard time for us." I won't go into details of toileting (which has contributed to the stress), but we are making yet more modifications in hopes of a peaceful home, and they seem to be working finally. Hope re-entered our home.

So I am here today because I finally found something funny, and I want to reiterate one of my previous lessons o' life. Let me start with what I found funny:

I was doing a plank today, and I looked down toward my chest. My shirt was falling loose, so I could see all the way to my feet. Trust me when I say that I wouldn't show anyone the sight I saw--not even Superhubby! Oy! I'm all good with the postpartum belly, and I'm working on getting healthy and dropping weight to be at my healthiest, but seriously . . .

So my belly is hanging down, and it's LOPSIDED! I must admit I had some clue, as both pregnancies have moved my belly button off-center, but it was funny. And then it got funnier (or some may view it as sadder). I naively thought, "What does it look like when the shirt isn't shading it?" OY!!!!!!! This is when I laughed out loud. I'm tempted to take a picture, but, as I stated previously, that would create the sore eyes that other sights are made for. Suffice it to say that it's all things stretchmark, lopsided, fatty, and misc.

But I laughed . . . and I thought to write about it . . . and I'm taking it all in stride. I'm really not feeling bad about my body; rather, I am feeling really proud of myself for being proactive. And this leads me to the lesson. I--and we--have to grab up the accomplishments where I can get them. I've been doing something physical every day, even if it's just running up and down the stairs 20 times and doing 2 planks. (That was tonight's workout). I'm cutting calories while eating tasty, healthy things. I still love my kids. And I still tell them that every day. Even when #1 is making me batty, even when #2 wakes up the second #1 goes to sleep. I have successfully dismantled the floating island of trash laundry. Even in the darkest of times, I've read to the little ones and sung to them and kissed them.

So if you ate well today, moved a little more, laughed, said something nice to someone, recovered from a crying spell, didn't say a bad word, folded a shirt, paid a bill . . . pat yourself on the back. There are many miles to go on the road to wannabe perfection (or at least sanity and serenity), but today I am celebrating reaching that little 1.0 mile mark sign that you see on a million-mile hike.

And now . . . pictorial representation of my life. Sister joked that this is how I wish my life were:

And this is how my life actually is:

Too Perfect?

Sometimes I think: "What if I stop being so imperfect and have nothing left to write about on this blog?" Fear not, gentle readers! Fear not, me . . . there's really no chance of that.

Yesterday began like any other day, and those of you who read this regularly know what that means. Let me say that Mas has stopped coming to wake me up and instead plays and reads by himself when he gets up. While that sounds great to the tired ear, it's not so great when that means he is just sitting in his own p-o-o-p. So when I awoke for the second time that morning (first time being with Shaifali around 6:15) at the alarmingly late hour of 9:15, I snapped out of bed and ran to my babe's room. He was looking out the window at the construction equipment outside and singing and talking to himself. I tried to get a picture, but the camera ran out of batteries.

The cute scene often fades into a scene of melodrama when I tell him that it's time to go to the bathroom. Cue screaming. Cue lying on the floor of the bathroom (yuck). Cue crying.

You get the picture.

So I'm telling him in a neutral voice (at first) to please stop screaming because it will wake his sister up and that's just not a nice way to wake up.

Yet he continues to scream in my ear. So I lose it (as this seems to be my biggest trigger for patience loss) and carry him downstairs to the bathroom and put him in there announcing that he can stay there until he's done screaming. My blood is boiling now, adrenaline running through my veins. I want to swear, and I manage to only say one bad word under my breath as I'm walking away from the closed door. Success? I suppose it depends on your definition. I call Superdad to find out what I can do to gain my composure for the next bit of time before friends come for a visit to restore sanity. Deep breaths, just get through it, and all that.

So I decide to meet the basic needs of my child because that's all I can muster at this moment. I go back down and get him cleaned up without saying anything more than basic commands. "Stand up." "Foot up." "Wash your hands."

He says, "Doing, Mom?" and other things in a perfectly calm voice. He's over it at this point, even if I'm not.

I continue to care for the basic needs of my mugwump with a blank look on my face and with no words. This leads to my just preparing his granola and banana for him in a bowl instead of giving him the granola in a bowl, the soymilk in a measuring cup for him to pour, and the banana unpeeled on a cutting board with a knife for him to cut himself. I'm not going to lie: I knew that this had the potential to set him off, but it was all I could do. So I set the bowl down and walk upstairs as the hysteria begins as a drop only to turn into Niagara Falls.

"My banana! Do. My. Self! My banana, Mama! Mom! Mom! My banana, Mama! Self! Mooooom!!!!!!!" Rinse and repeat and increase intensity for the next 10 minutes. By this time, Shaifali has awoken, so I am nursing her upstairs and numbly listening to the extremely sad sounds of Mas crying and yelling and not eating his granola. I remember, from when I was little, the feeling of stuttering inward breaths followed by a sharp exhalation. I heard it again with Mas yesterday.

He finally staggers upstairs to say more calmly, "banana, Mama." At first I couldn't respond. Then, after he sweetly says hello to his baby sister, I try to explain to him that I was very mad and sad that he had screamed at me and ask him if he remembers. He really has mostly forgotten that incident and was somewhere else in his day. So we both apologize--he for screaming and I for only being capable of the bare minimum, and we move on. He then eats his first bowl of granola and has a second, for which I set out the cup to pour his own soymilk and the banana, knife, and cutting board to cut his banana.

So these moments of imperfection . . . these times when all I can do is care for his or her survival needs and not for their thriving needs . . . they aren't every other minute, and they pass. And I like to think I make up for them. Mas tells me I do. Just as he makes up for the screaming fits. It's evident that I'm doing ok and that so is he, and here's the final scene that tells me so:

It's now 1:45 pm, and I'm rocking both of them at the same time before his nap. He is completely relaxed and snuggled into me and pats his baby sister while he rocks. He searches for her hand and holds it. After I manage to carry both of them so I can drop him in his bed, I dip her down so he can kiss her. Then I give him a kiss and tell him sweet dreams and that I love him. He is smiling.

And that happiness is the last image I have of him until he wakes again.

My New Invention

For those who are still committed to the idea that breasts are for aesthetics only, please stop reading. We'll see you in another post, though I can't imagine you'll really like anything I write, so maybe not.

I've decided that we should have moldable breasts which can be changed to fit any situation we might find ourselves in. This thought comes to me, of course, in the midst of nursing days and finding things wanting to visit the southern hemisphere. Check this commercial out:

The all-new mooooooldable adjustable breast! Now available in a bra near you. Child crying in a carseat in the back while you're driving? No problem! Your new breasts can stretch to a length of five feet so you can comfortably nurse while stuck in rush hour traffic. Have a hot date tonight? No worries! Your breasts can be molded and lifted to look just right in that new dress. Feeding a hungry baby in your lap while trying to send an email? The National Geographic setting is the one for you. And for bathing suit season, you choose the size and shape that makes you look best.

I'd buy it. Wouldn't you?

Talk Nicely!

Yesterday, I was awful in the wee hours of the morning. Poor Superbaby needed to poop and couldn't, so she woke up more often than usual and thought she should be up for good by 5:30. I don't rise at things that start with 5; I know that's spoiled, but that's the way I roll. I spoke harshly to poor Superbaby! I didn't yell, but I didn't talk nicely either. For all the talking we do about "ask me nicely" and "talk nicely" with Supertoddler, we sure slip up sometimes too. "Why are you awaaaaaaaaake?!?! Why won't you sleeeeeeeeeep?!?!" She answered me by pooping out of her diaper cover, through her pajamas, and onto my pajama pants.

I deserved that.

Then she (and finally I) fell into a much-needed deep sleep.

Fast forward a couple hours where Mas needed a bath for the no-need-to-mention-it-by-name-anymore reason. After I apologized to her for not talking nicely or being sympathetic, Shaifali said she was sorry for pooping on me and keeping me up and that she'd like to make it up to me. I told her to start here:

Suddenly struck by early onset teenageritis, she said, "I'm not so sure about this":

Procrastination ensued:

She finally got it done:

The rest of the day went smoothly. Here's to quick recoveries from all of the blunders that make us human and sometimes feel like speed bumps on the road to raising good humans.

Survival of the Fittest

Mas has a new two-part trick. Part one is waking himself up fully whenever he even stirs. So even if he is super sleep-deprived and shouldn't be up, he will wake up. Part two adds the elements of excitement and surprise to the mix: he comes out of his room whenever he wakes up. Put these together and you get last night: a little weirdo walking into our room at 3:30 in the morning. Or you get this afternoon: a little weirdo walking into our room while Shaifali and I were sleeping during said weirdo's supposed nap. Sometimes he doesn't go to sleep when he's supposed to and makes random noises and plays in his room. Then he comes out and announces, "Mas wake up." I've tried to tell him that announcing you've woken up presupposes that you were ever asleep, but he's not buying it.

Here are pictures of how I found him "napping" after I sent him back for more sleep:

Today was filled with screaming and hitting and devilish grins and timeouts. And Shaifali, labeled the Good One for her developmental stage, was unusually hard to put down to sleep.

I called my sister and parents to offer them a free toddler. I told them it was a one-day special, though it could be extended. Shaifali has the price tag of $50,000 today. I only put a price tag on her as an investment for two years down the road. They're thinking over the freebie option and said they'd call me back. I've been waiting by the phone, but it hasn't been ringing. Hmmm.

Survival of the Fittest. If surviving is all it takes, then count me among the fittest. It was a survival mode kind of day today. Not the usual chaotic kind of day that kicks me into survival mode. Just the, "if he screams in my ear one more time . . ." kind. To be honest, I can't even remember what had me so ticked off. Selective memory coming through for me once again. (I do remember battling him to get back the chair I had been sitting in to eat some food. I only got up to change the radio station.)

Upon Superdad's return, we made ourselves feel better about my bad/mad/annoyed day by becoming toddlers ourselves and mocking poor Supertoddler. He has made up a song which consists of the lyrics: doing, doing, doing, doing, doing, doing. He says "doing" to mean "what are you doing." Future copyright freak that he is, he doesn't like other people singing his song. So we tormented the poor child by singing it to him. I even did it again to get a video to share with you:

Pathetically, my antics worked to make me feel better. I stop short of recommending that you all stoop to a toddler's level for comfort.

On to the goodness! All day, I kept thinking about my friend who had gotten to go to Happy Hour at this nice restaurant in town a few weeks ago. I love going on a date with myself, and I daydreamed of that today. I am a lucky lady and feel very fortunate. Superdad granted my wish! I jokingly said that that's what I wanted (swear I wasn't dropping a hint), and he said, "do it!" So I did.

We don't have a lot of extra money for such extravagances, so you better believe I relished every beautiful part of it. I made sure to chew slowly to enjoy every flavor and maximize all the nutrients. I sipped my Lemon Drop (first alcoholic drink I've had in a year and probably second alcoholic drink I've had in three--oh my!) throughout my meal. I did a minimal amount of people watching/eavesdropping and a maximum amount of reading my O(prah) magazine. And I ordered well. Calamari with spicy aioli. Bosc pear and Roquefort salad with endive and lemon. And the best darn butterscotch pudding with whipped cream and sugar cookies I've ever had. I brought half of that home for Superdad.

Rest assured that I didn't leave all my Supermomness behind. I skipped over to the drycleaners mid-meal to pick up Superdad's pants for him. I like to think I'm cool for being able to hop out of relaxation mode for four minutes, then hop right back in. The jury is still out.

I'd like to say that I'll never complain again and that I'll be able to keep this feeling with me forever, but I'm not that unrealistic. But I will continue to appreciate my partner for all he is, give myself time away from the kids so that my deep appreciation for them is renewed (even if it's just for a free nighttime walk), be thankful for this pretty lavish experience, and count the blessings that are my family and friends. In this time of life--where it's a fantastic weekend day where Superdad takes a shower by 1:00 and I get the whole house to myself for a few hours so I can clean (true story), it's all about seeing the good through the poop- and screaming-filled haze.

Superbaby earns her name

Bad Mama; Good Story

And now an interlude from the usual theme of poop. Though there are stories to tell about that, as always, you must have a break from it in order to appreciate it. Today's story involves beer.

The beginning: yesterday, I got sick. Perhaps another case of food poisoning, as Mas seems to be going through something too. Superdad had to come home from work early to take care of the kids, and I was down for the count until about 10 pm. The wee ones, of course, couldn't go easy on him. Though Superdad got Mas to bed at 7:30, Mas didn't go to sleep until 9:30, coming out of his room every 20 minutes to use the potty . . . and use is a very loose term that really means pretend to use. Between the potty breaks, there was unwanted musical entertainment coming from his room. And, of course, Shaifali stirred and cried every time Mas got up, causing Superdad to run from room to room trying to calm the masses.

We barely keep the house together when there is a 1:1 ratio, so I should have realized our house was going to be ridiculous when I saw it today.

Me to myself: "Why is there a half an avocado that has been left on the counter to rot?"

Me to myself 10 seconds later: "Oh. Because poor Superdad was by himself last night."

Me to myself: "Why are Mas's pants and plastic diaper covers on the floor in the bathroom?"

Me to myself 10 seconds later: "Oh. Because poor Superdad was by himself last night."

Me to myself: "Why is there a half-eaten can of turkey chili that has been left on the counter to rot?"

Me to myself 10 seconds later: "Oh. Because poor Superdad was by himself last night."

I could go on.

I was sitting on the bed in the guest room, where the remains of Superdad's night lay on the bedside table, when I see out of the corner of my eye a child with a bottle:

When I saw him, he actually had the bottle to his mouth. At first I said, "no, no, no." Then I changed my mind and said, "go show Daddy." He did. Superdad lodged a complaint that our child smelled like beer a minute later. Child lodged a complaint a minute later with a slightly sour look on his face that his mouth hurt/didn't taste good. Bad mama; good story.

Disclaimer: I posed him for this picture after the fact, putting the bottle in hand yet again.

Editor's note request by Superdad: He had consumed the whole beer; the beer smell was just from the bottle. No minor consumption of alcohol.

Avocados and What Matters Most

It ended with throw-up. Ok, apparently I like a dramatic first line. My stock line is, "it started with poop," which today it did, mind you. But I'm talking about three nights ago, so I'll back up to the beginning, which is the imperfect part. We had visitors this past week, who, thankfully, are like family, so there's no pressure. Mas is in love with the two boys (at times hugging them while gazing at them and repeating their names over and over), who are 3 and 6 years old. There was a whole troupe of us going to the awesome community center pool--which has a waterslide fit for both adults and kids, a current channel, a vortex, and a wading pool. It seemed I had planned a really fun activity for my boy.

We were to be four adults, three kids, and one baby. But I was alone in the morning. My challenge is always getting out the door. I may have mentioned before that I would have a dozen kids (not really) if I could remove poop/toileting and getting ready from the equation. It took me an hour and a half to get ready. 30 minutes of that were mediocre, 30 minutes of that were great (child happily reading books to himself), and 30 minutes were awful (avocado on the walls). So there I am absolutely losing it, again finding myself yelling: "and I planned this for you and I'm sick and don't even want to go and you don't even care and . . .."

Well of course he doesn't care! He's two! I can't figure out why I don't get that yet. Darn you, thick skull!

I knew it would be fine once we got there, and it was. He had SO much fun, as did I. Shaifali fell asleep in the loving arms of her Amber, riding around in the current channel. Mas went down each slide once and declined to go again, instead giggling and laughing as he explored the other areas. He was just plain adorable and joyful. I wish I had pictures of them--Shaifali in her orange and white striped, size 12 months (she's now two months old) bathing suit, and Mas in his orange surf shirt and swimming trunks with sharks. Water and cameras don't tend to mix well. It really was lovely.

Fast forward to the evening when we had a lot of people over for the last dinner with our friends. We had 15 people here, including babies, and Mas had about four helpings of homemade tacos and apparently the equivalent of 1.5-2 mangoes (pictured left). This kid always eats a lot and can pack down some serious fruit with no consequences. Usually. The mangoes didn't take. At 1:00 am, we peeked at him (as we often do), and he was all snuggled at the edge of his bed, butt in air. I moved him up to the top. Two minutes later there was screaming and crying. The mangoes made a return visit . . . an extremely unwelcome return visit. Poor guy threw up twice, the second time directly on me while I rocked him.

I comforted him and read to him and sang to him and bathed him and gave him tons of love. The smeared avocado was forgotten, as was my yelling at him about it. I was there for him when he needed me, and that's where I am still--and will always be--a Supermom.

Author's note: I, at least for the time being, seem to have learned something. Some years from now, I won't care about smeared avocado; if we have to retouch paint to sell the house, that will be ok. It won't matter that it took 20 minutes to leave the house all the time; someday, our kids will run out the door with their friends in .20 seconds. I'll forget about the screaming; our parents seem to have. What matters is that we have relationships with our kids where they remember: how often we told them we love them more than they remember how often we yelled at them, how many times we hugged them more than how many times we ran away to our rooms to hide, how we supported them through thick and thin, how we did our best to make them happy, how we tried to give them the best of us even if they sometimes got the worst. With this in mind, I was able to have patience until 4:00 pm today! That's a Monday record!