It's a jungle out there: Do you live with small animals? I DO.

I remember when a shower was a mundane part of my routine, something I did without fail in the morning at the same time everyday. That was also when I worked at a "job"- the kind you get paid for, that automatically comes with adult conversation.

In that lifetime, I just thought.... oh, it's time to take a shower, like oh, I have to pee or, oh, I just have to make a phone call.... no big deal, it'll only take a minute.

That was then, This is NOW.

Currently,any of these activities can be in the background of my mind all day, and it may take hours to turn them into reality. Or not.

These small-uncivilized creatures we call children, can change these activities to such a degree, it becomes an unexplainable phenomenon. You must master the art of distraction while trying to keep these animals/small children safe, so you can do ONE thing.

Some days, it feels like you're trying to survive in a jungle, swinging from tree to tree, trying to accomplish something.... anything, two things.

After having my first born, a shower became a luxury. That is, if I got to take one.
She was this little, screaming helpless being that I could NOT leave alone for one second. I would put her in bouncies, swings and saucers just inches from the shower and feverishly wash my hair so I could get out fast. It was like these surges of post partum anxiety would fill my body with a “Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up…” message. There was a voice yelling at me, telling me to take the fastest fucking shower possible.
No longer mundane, certainly not relaxing. Honestly , kind of nightmare – ish.

As my daughter grew into more of a mobile animal, I would do things like stick her in front of Barney (shoot me now), or really take a risk and let her play with her toys on the bath rug.
That would result in my finding her covered in Desitin like it was face paint.
Or she would pull every baby wipe; every q-tip and an entire roll of toilet paper would be strewn across the bathroom and the length of the hallway.

Little did I know, there would be more shower and bath treats in store for me with my second born.
Then, there are two small animals to contend with, if you ever take a shower again.

And let’s not forget, they also need to be bathed regularly.

I decided I was NOT going to let them turn me into a fat, sweat pants wearing mom with filthy hair.
Most days I resort to letting them kill each other in the living room and my “inner secret rule” is: when one starts crying, I’ll get out.

Then, I started to experience the joys of bathing my two-year-old boy.

He stands up and pees and yells with absolute glee…. “I peed mommy! I peed mommy!” So it begins, being proud of his bodily functions...... very similar to another man I know.

And, a bath for him has also become a game called: creating a fucking flood for mommy to clean up. I stupidly leave a goddamn cup in there every time, and he pours water out of the bathtub every night.

When am I going to learn?????? Last night I found myself wringing out yet another towel and draping it outside. Yes, I am white trash and I hang the fucking thing over the porch- the front porch.

This is getting rather drawn out. Who knew bathing could be so complex?

I am truly saving the best for last.

As I was pulling the drain up in the bath tub last night, I felt a soft, squishy thing in my hand, and no, it was not a bath toy.

My throat closed up like I was going to vomit.
“OH NO!!!” I yelled.

“I pooped!” Jaxson said with pride. Seriously, he was so excited.

As if the huge turd wasn't enough, the small balls of shit started to float to the top....
the smell of johnson's baby wash and shit. sense memory, sorry.

“Oh god Jaxson, seriously."

I have a son who shits in the bathtub.

Or would it be cuter if I said, “poops in the bathtub?"

I mean seriously, what the fuck?

when life gives you lemons......make lemonade.

My mom is dead. I miss her terribly and think about what it would be like if she were here for just one day to meet my kids.  I do believe she is always with me, but some days it just down right sucks that she's gone.

I'm just not spiritual enough to be eternally okay with not seeing her, not hearing her, not being able to call her after my kids go to bed. 

I have so many questions. The one thing I want to ask her is , "Okay mom, tell me the truth, was I as a big of a pain in the ass as emma is?"

I do think I know her answer. "Yes, Stacie, you were."

 I was alone last week. My husband was on a business trip and I thought about my mom a lot. I thought about how she did it as a single mom, and how hard it must have been. I knew it was hard, even as a little girl I would sometimes see the sadness in her eyes, how they would tear up when she would drive us home from school.  

She was always there, she was always the most non judgmental, loving, sarcastic person I knew. She was it. She was my mom. 

I know I am like that for my kids, even though I haven't done anything perfectly. I didn't learn from  perfect examples. Who does? I guess that's the point.

 I had this memory I wanted to share. I think this may  be the shittiest entry I've done because it's not that funny. I guess I'll just show it.

I grew up with a poster in my kitchen I will never forget. It was cobalt blue,

covered with bright yellow lemons that looked like they were cascading down a hill. At the bottom it said, ”When life Gives you Lemons, Make Lemonade.”

My mom would be sipping vodka tonic with lime, stirring the spaghetti sauce, and yelling up the stairs, telling my brother to turn the fucking music down, (Motley Crue).  Every time she sipped her drink, her lips would purse up against the glass. The ice would make that clinking sound, like pebbles tapping a glass.

With each swallow, her shoulders seemed a little softer, and the crease in her brow loosened.

She’d make a funny face with dripping spoon in hand, kicking her back leg up, and look at me and say, “Stac, when life gives you lemons! Make Lemonade!”

 “ yeah, okay nut ball” I would think to my teenage self, whatever that means.

I didn’t really know what it meant, except that I did think, lemons make lemonade, big deal.

Okay, make the most out of life, isn’t that what we all naturally do?

When Life Gives you Lemons, make Lemonade.

At that time I was 14 years old . I had no idea the lemons that would be handed to me. I had no idea how I was going to make my lemonade, especially with out my mom.

Across the kitchen there was a cutting board counter. It was a worn piece of wood with lots of knife marks and it smelled like garlic.

There was a glass case in the corner that sat there quietly. A Marlboro light 100 was enclosed in it, and the words…

“ In Case of Emergency Break Glass” were painted in red across the case.

One night I looked at the poster and looked back at the Glass enclosed cigarette.

It was a mixed message. Live life to the fullest but stuff your emotions with a cigarette and maybe a drink. 

My young mind understood that things weren't one way or the other. Things were messy and confusing and didn't make sense. contradiction wasn't just a part of life , it was the core of life.

“Mom, when life doesn’t give you  any good lemons, do you smoke that cigarette?”

My mom said, “ yep, that’s exactly what you do.”

Memories or Nightmares?

My daughter Emma turned four in May. She just started pre-school last week. It has been fantastic for her, and for me.

Will you judge me if I say.... Truly, a dream come true?

I watched her yesterday, before she knew I was there to pick her up . She was talking, laughing, truly socializing with her classmates. So grown up.
It dawned on me, she's a real person.

Shit, I remember when she was a baby.

 A wave of sadness came over me,  just for a minute.

When she was a sleeping baby, she was amazingly peaceful and sweet.

When she was awake, she was crying . And, when I say all she did was cry,  all she did was cry.

I tried everything: slings, baby carriers, Moby wraps, bouncing her on balls, the three S's , I shushed her so loud I almost cracked my own head open.

   The graco cuddle swing became a  permanent piece of furniture in our living room. We put her in that thing so much we had to replace the fucking batteries once a week.

I walked her, I paced her, I strolled her, I bathed her. She cried.
I turned on the dryer, the vacuum cleaner, the blow drier, the baby einstein music,. She still cried.

In the car, all she did was cry.
At times, I wanted to jump out  of my own window. unfortunately, I was driving.
My husband and I discovered the static station on a.m. radio. We blasted static. She stopped crying.  Was static the only thing that would quiet her? What a cosmic fucking joke.
 I imagined myself in a straight jacket being hauled into a room yelling, "Static, STOP THE Static, PLEASE just STOP THE STATIC!!!!!!!!!"
My life had been resolved to constant nursing , crying, and the occasional blasting of am radio station static.
I looked at my husband and I cried.

I nursed her. She cried in between feedings. On a good day, she would violently pull off while feeding, and scream at me.
I was miserable.
It was my turn to cry, I had no nipples left, and no self- esteem.

I was desperate for answers. I looked at other new moms. They were perfect at it. They looked thin and cute. Some even wore bikinis at pool play groups and nursed. Really?  
I was modest, I needed my hooter hider. It looked cute, but the damn thing made my boobs sweat like there was no tomorrow. There wasn't, all the days ran into each other.

The carrier with their little bundle of joy was always sleeping, quiet and demure.The  carrier with mine, was  filled with a bundle of red faced screams and curdled breast milk throw up.  
They're babies weren't crying 10 hours a day. WTF?
I was a fat, tired, inadequate mom with breast pads, and maternity clothes on.

This was not what I envisioned.   Elastic waists,  and boobs like cows, sexy.

I went to my doctor- she said Emma had colic and was allergic to my milk. (I read into that, "allergic" to my milk metaphor). Thinking on some subconscious level, she was allergic to me, as her mother.

I eliminated milk, cheese, ice cream, nuts, red meat, gluten, bread, pasta, and mostly all food from my diet, so I could nurse her without the crying. I guess it helped, but I was too fucking delirious to truly know.

My hair was on fire all day and most nights.
 I ate ground turkey and goat cheese for dinner every night and guerilla munch cereal for breakfast with goat milk. Let me tell you, DELISH.

Not my vision of living happily ever after with my newborn.
 I slept from 8pm until 1am for  about four  and a half months.
And by sleep, I mean next to Emma on a bed, a couch, a floor, or a rocking chair.

I do believe I suffer from some form of permanent brain damage from this period of time.

My heart though, my heart will never be the same.
I think it's a little bigger, after falling in and out of love with that red faced screaming colicky baby.

No one tells you what it's really like.............
(especially if you're as  lucky like I was.)

Balloons are the bane of my existence

Balloons, so sweet, so colorful, and so cheerful. Oh, and those convenient long ribbons for strings that cut my daughter’s circulation off her little wrist every time. 

Watching them float away in the sky for lost children, for celebrations, for birthdays, graduations, open houses. The list goes on and on.  Those goddamn balloons symbolize so many things in life.

 I cannot  get away from them. They fly over banners at car lots, they float on random street corners for garage sales, they are at every birthday party (except mine),any party, baby showers, grocery stores, and mailboxes, in songs. Will it ever end?

I want to take a guerilla size safety pin and pop every single last one. Oh, and one day I will.  Mark my words. When my kids are older, and less likely to be scarred for life, I will fill my kitchen with 200 balloons and pop every single last one with a vengeance and laugh. I like the number 200, it's enough for them to understand that I'm not fucking around.

With each pleasant POP, I will say, “This is for ruining the grant park festival!” POP. “This is for the 20 minute car ride of hysterical crying on 4^th of July, 2010!” POP. “This is for slipping out of my daughter’s hand in moving traffic.” POP.

“This is for being at every fucking grocery check out aisle with a picture of Dora, or spider man on your butt.” Do you really have to do that shit??????? I was just about to get out of Publix unscathed, you bastards.

We went to a birthday party yesterday. My kids  played with the bundles of balloons almost the entire party.

If they weren’t scratching each other’s eyeballs out for a bundle, they were running around in circles with them.  It was fine for them to fight amongst themselves, but when other kids got involved it was just embarrassing.  “ You need to share, you need to take turns,” “It’s not your birthday today.”    All of those words, in one ear and out the other. Balloons, always the priority.

The party came to an end. Both my kids left with yellow frosting stained faces, one shitty diaper, ( I had avoided  for almost an hour), and farwell party bags in hand, (to fight over later).  They each got a balloon to go!

Fucking fantastic.

The way home from the party was the highlight of the morning.

My 2 year old was crying because his balloon wouldn’t stay still. WTF? I can’t explain the properties of helium to him. (or was it the shitty diaper?) That had to wait for home.

Emma just kept wining that the string was too tight around her wrist, “mommy it’s too tight, and it’s tooooo tiiiggghht.” 

I blasted the radio. Now it’s Madonna, “Like a Virgin” and screaming with whining. All I could see in my rear view mirror were balloons.

“You mother fuckers,” I grumbled under my breath.

“You’re DEAD when we get home.”

The Pool USED to be relaxing

Remember when the pool used to be quiet, serene, rejuvenating? Perhaps even a place where you would take a nap, read a book, look cute in a bikini?

You’d pack a small bag, usually cute and colorful. You’d bring a book and a towel, Maybe even a diet coke and your phone, a mindless magazine.

When you have kids, you have to pack a twenty pound fucking suitcase in the form of an Ikea shopping bag.  You need towels, swim diapers, diapers, snacks, sippy cups, dry change of clothes, wipes, goggles, dumb swim toys that get lost.

The only relaxing moment I have, is when after the two hours, there is no shit in any of their swim diapers. Now that’s a sigh of relief .

Fortunately, the pool we go to has a no entry part with four fountains. This is designed for the newly walking babies who can’t swim. So of course ,my daughter has to stand on top of a fountain , head cocked with her pippy long stocking braid, yelling,

“ It tickles my vagina! It tickles my vagina!!!!!”  She then looks to the boy next to her, “Does it tickle your peanuts????”

 I pretend she’s not mine.

Yesterday, I decided to take my two year old son to the pool, while Emma was at school. I told him we were going to the pool, so the entire car ride to the pool he screamed and cried. “ I wanna go to the pool. I wanna go to the pool. I wanna go to the pool.”  Nothing moves fast enough for a two year old. “ We are going to the pool buddy.” I tell him, hoping for quiet.

He continues screaming.

Am I really going to try to reason with this mental patient? WTF? Don’t I know better?

I blast the radio. Coldplay, and screaming.

So relaxing.

We arrive. It takes a fucking hour just to get ready to get into the pool. His swim diaper, his bathing suit, his sunscreen. All while he is squirming around like I am applying torture to his every body part.

Then, I have to put on my swimsuit . As I’m sucking in my muffin top with all my might, and adjusting my saggy boobs, he is pulling all the toilet paper off the roll. I finally find my other thong in the midst of toilet paper. 

Oh, how I love my post 2 babies later body, just the way the spandex of a bathing suit accents that pooch. I notice all summer attire seems to accent my muffin top and waist…. What waist?

The pool feels good. It’s 120 degrees in Atlanta right now, so the water is nice.

Jaxson won’t let go of me.

He is kicking my muffin top, scratching my neck, and pulling my top down saying ,” boobs, boobs”. 

He finds a plastic tea kettle and fills it with water. He pours it over my head, fills it , pours It over my head, fills it, pours it over my head.  “Jaxson,” I say, “ Stop pouring water over my head!” I laugh trying to seem like a “fun mom” to the people around me. He continues to pour and fill, pour and fill, pour and fill. Then also head butts me when he gets the chance.

After one hour (5 hours in mom time) I decide we're leaving.

He has a temper tantrum because he doesn’t want to leave. I mean we were having so much fun.

It takes another hour to get him changed. 

No shit in his swim diaper though..........highlight.

As we are walking to the car I am thinking, now can I relax?

Hope he takes a good nap.

I mean, Come on, that was the whole fucking point to this exercise.

All the things I judged parents for, BEFORE I had Kids.......

I was delusional before I had kids, about having kids. I just thought it was all about being in control and having good boundaries. I thought my kids would listen to me. Well I was wrong. I think it is because I am their mom that makes it so they  listen to me.
 In fact, when Emma was a 2 year old, I used to tell her NOT to do things I wanted her to do and TO do things I didn't want her to do. That was literally the only way I could  get through some days.
Today I wanted a kiss from my 2  year old son so I told him, "NO KISSES." what do you think he did?

Before I got pregnant, I would watch parents I knew, interact with their kids and Think: I would never do that.

This is just a small list of all the "I would never's" that I have done  :

1.) I haven given my kids many many lollipops and cookies , and candy of all kinds to bribe them.
2.) I have told Emma Shrek is coming if she doesn't listen.
3.) My husband and I  have discussed sticking them in the shed  for a few hours, just for a break.(discussed doesn't really count.)
4.) Emma hit Jaxson so many times before he turned two. So, when Jaxson hit her for the first time, I had to run into the laundry closet and close the door, I was laughing so hard.
5.) I left both kids crying in the front room once, and drove around the block calling my husband crying        because I was going insane.
6.)  I Yelled like a nut case in the grocery store with people staring at me, and said "KNOCK IT OFF!"
7.) I had a huge temper tantrum once in the bathroom by myself and threw the bath toy container at the wall and it shattered into a million little bits.
8.) I let Jaxson play in the dog water at the park and I don't put hand sanitizer on him.
9.) I have thrown away TONS of  pooped in pants and underwear. Who really wants to soak shit?
10.) Allowed Emma to wear the same shirt and tutu everyday for 3 months so I didn't have to deal with the temper tantrums. (I washed them.)

The Man in Charge.

Emma is 4. She still believes there is a "man in charge" every where we go.
This man is watching and she will pay attention to the rules when he is present.

I know it is a scare tactic of which I am about to explain, but I was desperate.

Emma is not just will full ..... she is W I L L F U L L times a million. I found that things friends would tell me to do to help civilize, or control her,  would NOT work for Emma. Everyone else seemed to have a handle on it. It was blaringly obvious that Emma had the handle on me.

It all started a year or so ago at Bessie Branham, our neighborhood park.
She used to scream bloody murder when it was time to go. Many, many moms  knew me as the mom they felt sorry for with the out of control 3 year old. I mean she would kick and scream and really freak out. It would resume in me having to carry a flailing child out of the park almost daily.
It was so routine, I stopped feeling embarrased. Somehow, I think that's a bad sign. Just the beginning of a mother's life with no shame.

So, I started to point to the top of the hill at the park and say to her " the man in charge lives there and he sees everything we do at the park.  He is going to come down here and tell you to leave if you don't stop.... (insert behavior here)"
She always wanted gum at the park. (I'm the dumb shit that allowed her to have gum in the first place.) "The man in charge doesn't allow gum at the park." She would spit it out. (in my hand)
If you have a temper tantrum, the man in charge is going to tell us we can't come back to the park EVER.
When things got really bad, I told her the man in charge would take me away. I know, I know,  I took it a little too far. I only said that once, soon realizing it was borderline mean. Okay it was mean.

Now I know you are thinking, what a good idea! I think I'll use that-
Here iare a list of all the places where The Man in Charge lives:
 The Pool, Target, Lowes, Home Depot,  Publix, Kroger, random city sidewalks, airport gates, Ross(if you're making dumb decisions like myself), any waiting room at a doctor's office or otherwise, really, anywhere in public will suffice.

Pooper Scooper

The neighborhood moms host a play group once a week. We do this so we can possibly have one endless, interrupted conversation. At least it's a conversation of sorts.  Contact with another adult who can form logical sentences with out crying is pretty important right now.

 I hosted this particular week. My daughter Emma was running around with her pink pee stained princess dress, playing with all of her friends. With each new 3 year old, the noise level got higher and higher.

Some of the moms had babies too.  Quite a few moms were new to the neighborhood and I had never met them, so I wanted to make a good "impression"- what ever that means. It's not like I had make up onor even a cute outfit. My first impression "management"is deteriorating slowly.

I did make muffins (not from scratch) . It's been 15 minutes, and all of the muffins are demolished. Some are half eaten, one is squished, with a random straw sticking out of it, and the rest are crumbs on the floor. Anyway, Jaxson was still sleeping as people were arriving so I knew he would wake up soon.
So .... he starts screaming. "Oh that's just my son waking up" I laugh. All the moms do too, obviously a familiar sound to all of us.

I bring him out on the couch with me and he is being very sweet. He has his little half bald head nuzzled into my neck and all the ladies are talking about how cute he is. I start to smell poop, but I ignore it, I am too afraid to face what might be happening.  Suddenly, Jaxson turns his head and slides his hand across my face. Smelly, runny, brown shit is being smeared clear across my face, and into the strands of my hair. I want to DIE, and maybe vomit first.
"OH MY GOD" I yelled and everyone was looking.
"IS THAT POOP?????!" one of the moms asked loudly.
I was mortified. "Um Yeah " I cried, (because I was seriously crying inside.) "He has a habit of scooping poop out of his diaper and then it ends up on his hands.... it is so gross" I say. (I mean really?
What the fuck can I say? I have shit on my face and in my hair.)

I pop up off the couch to run for the sink, to rinse and soap, repeat, rinse and soap and repeat. I also have to remove all the poop from Jaxson's hand. It doesn't get any better than this.

Well now, the play date has barely started, and I get to smell like shit until noon. So much for image management.

Summer Mornings 2011 :Emma and Jaxson

OH MY GOD. If I have to split up another screaming match, clean up another piece of poop, get another cup of milk, or fetch another band aid for a wussy boo boo...I am going to snap.

This has been my basic routine every morning this Summer:
Emma comes in at 7 am or 7:15 (if Im lucky) and whispers in my face before my eyes are even open..LOUD, 4 year old whisper, "MOM will you WAKE UP." of course, I submit.
Then, Jaxson starts to scream from his crib because if Emma is awake, he's got to be awake.
I stumble into the kitchen, bleary eyed to fix my coffee. Oh, and I do have a husband, Matt, He is still sleeping.

Emma is following me the entire time and also wants to help me make the coffee. My willingness to allow her,  only depends on my patience level, which is usually low. Then it is time to get Jaxson (or Jaxsaroni as my husband and I like to call him, story for another time).  He is usually grinning from ear to ear,  jumping to escape his crib, which is  wet with pee and he is always  soaked. Yes he does wear a diaper, and yes, it is an goodnight huggie. He just drinks so much fucking milk- I think he pees a gallon a night. I proceed to change his pee soaked diaper thinking I can't wait to wash my hands.

But you see, changing his diaper is a whole process because it is duct taped. So I must remove and replace each diaper with duct tape.  I place a large piece of duct tape (color depending on what surprise in the rainbow my husband purchased.) across the front of EVERY diaper he wears, or he will rip it off within seconds.  I must duct tape his diaper because he also likes take his hand, stick it down his pants and scoop his poop (no pun intended ) and smear it on things. (more on that particular pathology for a different entry.)

So where was I ? oh!!!!  We have barely gotten to  breakfast.

After the hygiene process, and duct tape application, Emma goes to the bathroom by herself  (Thank God.) and I usually let them watch a show like Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Jaxson calls it hot dog.

Then I make breakfast , usually whole wheat waffles with lots of butter and small amounts of syrup .
Syrup that I try to find without all the crap in it. Emma eats pretty well since she turned four. And Jaxson throws all of his food all over the floor and chews up waffles and spits them out. Then he starts slamming the table with his mini fork like a sledge hammer.  He's 2, but really? It sucks to clean up EVERY morning.

So basically it's really an entire 2 hours to do 4 very simple tasks.

Can you imagine what the rest of day is like?