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So you have a bad day, taking . . . down. Sing a sad song just to turn it around. You say . . . don’t lie. Something something something. You had a bad DAAAAAY. You had a bad day. Maybe I should sing this for Kelly’s lip-sinc contest? Dear Nurse Having a Bad Day, I’m so sorry my two children and I are bothering you at your workplace. I’m so sorry that one of them is in the sling, fussy and unhappy because I interrupted his nap to drag him to this place of needles. I’m so sorry my four year old is inquisitive and squirmy and trying to read his free copy of Highlights {doesn’t that take you back?} from the lobby–a copy which you are quick to inform him MUST STAY IN THE LOBBY. Did you have a bad night? Did you not get enough coffee? I am genuinely sorry. I understand. I also had a bad night with a four year old who couldn’t sleep, a thunderstorm with lightening and thunder so pounding I literally leapt up in bed and snatched my baby to my chest shaking when I thought our house had been hit. It hadn’t. He didn’t like that kind of middle of the night wakeup that didn’t involve immediate nursing. I also haven’t had breakfast. Because I was sleeping til the last minute, trying to avoid the puddle spots all over the bed, some dried, some fresh of either spit up, or a leaky diaper. I…
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What am I, Italian? Love the hand gestures, dork. My parents generously offered to watch the big kids for a weekend getaway for us and BabyLoves to go to the Lodge. It’s our magical home away from home in Wisconsin. The acreage includes hills, a trout stream, paths in the woods, lots of woods, more bugs and dirt than you can shake a stick at. It’s paradise. We scooted out Friday night in time for the stars to guide our path. We slept in. We talked all day. I mean, literally. It was probably the first time we’d had uninterrupted conversation for . . . years? I took my time cooking in the kitchen. No rushing, cajoling to eat, or fake “gotta go potties” so they can escape. Just sweet meals with my sweet man and big baby. Heaven. Later that night my parents dropped off the big kids so SuperBoy & AA could camp in a tent in the yard–a big notion drawn from reading the Hardy Boys aloud. And they could all go fishing. Not sure if there were any worms on those hooks. Not sure if they had hooks. That little white speck? That’s SweetPea–view from kitchen window! That little red speck? SuperBoy harassing her. This reminds me of a Thomas Cole sort of painting. Enormous landscape; small people. Because a girl needs to know how to catch dinner: And a boy needs to know how to wash up afterwards. And my heart & hands are full, wearing my…
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I couldn’t have ordered up an easier sleeper. *dodging shoes & old tomatoes now* Please, take pity on me as SweetPea never slept through the night til after we night weaned her (that’s fancy crunchy talk for stopped nursing her when she cried and woke up at night) at 12 months and then my poor sainted husband spent 4-6 weeks rocking her back to sleep most nights. Now you can think, oh, you should have let her cry it out; it’s your own fault she was a bad sleeper. Had that thought or similar? Fair enough. But she was a real peanut size wise and breastmilk was her best caloric intake. And I didn’t intend for it to keep going. Every night we’d stare at the ceiling and murmur out of exhaustion to each other should we go get her? should i go in there and nurse? should we come up with an actual plan here? So when this fat baby–sorry, but when you start out at an ounce shy of 10 pounds and you’re already clear up near 15–I mean adorably big baby latched on happily, nursed himself asleep, and has been an amazingly sound sleeper ever since the get-go, we have been relieved and delighted. I’ve written a ton about sleep and lack thereof. So search sleep on the homepage if you need tips or help or commiserating. My most read post on it is this little ditty here. I have a new sleeping helper to tell you about, too. I…
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Three kids. Oh. Wow. We have to adjust and adapt. Lots of this lately: Baby wakes up and has wet a little through onto the bed. Spit up. On me. The bed. I remove his diaper and think–where’s a clean one–while I’m fumbling for it, his lovely water fountain of pee erupts like a happy geyser. Me wet. Bed wet. Pillows wet. Still fumbling for a clean diaper. Cursing my glasses as I can’t find them. Get new diaper. Before I get it on, the churning of the poo begins and then me, bed, pillow (wet), clean diaper, and freshly awakened husband sprayed by a hose of poop. Then things like this happen. Big kids in tub with me and baby. SuperBoy decides to dump water on his sister who in turn decides to practice her swimming kicks–in his face. They’re both crying, the baby in my arms is trying desperately to get away from me, scooting scootching toward them, the fight, the thrill, the fray. I’m hollering for AA to come get the baby so I can deal with the big kids. When we do all get out of the tub, dripping in annoyance with each other, and I put her on the toilet, she promptly forgets her head is her center of gravity and falls off. Splat. Right onto her head by way of a stool catching the corner of her temple. Screaming. Everyone. So you could say it’s a little busier around here. We’re still determined to be as crunchy, natural, odd-ball as possible. Despite…
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She’s the world’s most opinionated 2.4 your old I’ve ever met. She has very definite needs. And shares without equivocation. “Mama, where is Cloe and Darling and Thumper . . . oh, Thumper is at church with Jesus. My dollies need to come with me and nurse. And I’ll tuck them in. They will love me.” “Can you HOLD ME?” Arms up stretched. “NOW?” x 100/day. “I NEED you. I need you to take my hand and walk me to my room. Then you can sit in the rocker with the baby and sing to me while I play in my bed.” Her bed. Her favorite place on earth. It’s just an Ikea cheapie crib that now has one side down & a little plank up. Does that qualify it as a converter bed? Converter crib? Toddler bed? Whatever. It’s her big girl bed and that’s all that matters to her. She must have at least three swaddle blankets, five stuffed animals/dolls, and two pacifiers. One for her and one for one of her babies. This is coming from a girl who never wanted a pacifier as a baby herself. Me thinks she’s teething those back molars in. And don’t forget her night stand. A little second hand mini drawers covered with one of my blankets I made for her. It houses her water, her assortment of chokable hazards, and her hair accessories that she refuses to wear, and simply admires. “Holy God we pwaaaaise thy name . . .…
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I went to Texas. Again. With BabyLoves. In the sling. This time it was for another conference. Last time was all about being women together. And supporting each other. And rap karaoke. This time Megan, Bridget, Lauren, and Grace hosted us. Such sweet hostesses. They went so above and beyond. Every meal was sponsored. The drinks (no alcohol for this paranoid nursing mama) were DELICIOUS {hand squeezed lemonade, anyone?}. All the restaurants we went to were interesting and good, darned good food. The sponsors were generous with their swag and very generous with their insights. Every time I turned around, we were doing something fun and interesting. The ladies even played a little pass-the-baby so I could be bebe free for a few minutes to take notes when he wanted to a-gooop on me. Support these ladies. Follow them. They’re doing great things. I want Bridget’s lipstick. Bloggers of the world: come together for delicious food, amazing gifts, spurring conferences, and the opportunity to have an intimate luxurious weekend to learn, laugh, and love. {love? yes, love. we loved the freedom to wear heels. yes, I wore heels. and yes we had lots of girly moments wherein we said “i just LOVE you!”} My sweet roommate Kelly and her beautiful shop with wood wall hangings, Britt of the infamous cattle ranching in New Mexico {infamous for her beautiful photos and fabulous style}, Olivia of her lifestyle blog & handsome son who is my son’s best friend. They drooled on each other. Can’t…
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