Archives for November 2013

This is what my weekends have become.

I was going to go watch Catching Fire with my best friend this weekend but instead I ended up on #PoopWatch2013 with my preschooler.

First of all, I’m totally going to have to delete this post from the internet before my child is school age and can read and realizes it’s out there because this is going to be humiliating, but for now, it’s going up on this blog.

Second of all, if you aren’t a parent, you are going to have zero interest in this post. Even if you are a parent, I still can’t promise that you are going to have any interest in this post. But whatever, I don’t care, like I said, I’m putting it out there anyway.

My child has this..fear of going poo. Ever heard of it? I SURE AS HECK HADN’T. I didn’t know this existed until I became a parent, but apparently it can be pretty common in small children. Here’s how this whole lovely situation spiraled out of control:

It all began with potty training about a year ago. See, my daughter viewed going potty as an inconvenience. She didn’t want to stop what she was doing to go. So she held it in. And held it in. And then she got constipated. And then she finally went and it was painful. That was the incident. That was it. Ever since then, we have been living in POO HELL.

See, now she has a phobia and she continues to hold it in and hold it in. She continues to do this because she still views it as inconvenient, but more so than that, she’s scared because she remembers that one incident. Except now, it’s not just one incident. One incident has turned into MANY, MANY incidents because she goes through this cycle of holding and impacting herself. So she has had many painful poos over the last 12 months or so.

We’ve been to the doctor, oh so many times. She’s fine. She has no medical problems: just fear and stubbornness. So we had to put her on Miralax and she is supposed to get dosages every day. This kind of makes it nearly impossible to hold it in. So that’s lovely.

Well, folks, we got comfortable. Every thing was going well, or “coming out well” and I guess we just thought she was fixed. We were warned not to think this. We were warned that correcting this problem was going to take a very long time. Anyway, we were stupid and got comfortable anyway. Also, we just moved, and the holidays are approaching and what not, so sneaking Miralax in her beverages kind of slipped off our radar in the madness. Whatever the reason, we stopped the daily dose of Miralax.

Big. Big. Mistake.

The result was that this weekend was FREAKING HORRIBLE. I wash’t sure how long it had been since she had gone (Yes, yes. Mother of the Year, I know. But my husband and I work alternating schedules: he’s with her during the days and I’m with her in the evening. It’s hard to keep up sometimes.)  Anyway, I knew it had been at least a week since it had happened on my watch. My husband wasn’t sure either. All I knew was Bella was straining, and cramping, and whining and complaining of pain. By that evening, whining and cramping turned into full on panic, both for me and for herself. She was incredibly moody and pleading for someone to help her. I tried giving her a suppository (..yay), which our doctor has told us to use when she REALLY needs some assistance but it didn’t help, just made her cramp and feel worse. She laid down on me and whimpered for awhile and then fell asleep, I suppose out of frustration and exhaustion.

Sunday she was acting fine for quite some time (while I loaded her down with fiber and laxatives), but then in the afternoon, the cramping and straining came back. It all came down to this: I put her in a warm bath for about 20 minutes, then took her out and put her on the potty. I set up a little table in front of her while she sat on the pot. I placed one of her Christmas presents (a Polly Pocket play set) on the table and let her open it and then she was allowed to play with it, as long as she kept sitting there. She also had a cup of juice laced with Miralax and an iPad set up to stream her favorite shows.

After about 15 minutes, she finally made her move and it was a definite cause for celebration.

10 years ago I never would have thought that I would be sitting in a bathroom, bribing my 3 year old to have a bowel movement. And 10 years ago, I definitely never would have imagined how utterly excited this event would make make me. It’s funny how your life changes. Not funny in a ha-ha kind of way. Funny in kind of a terrifying way.

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Remember that time you yelled at a stranger in CVS? No? Oh wait, that was me.

While standing in the card aisle at CVS this morning, holding a few bags of chocolate for some coworkers, I was approached by an ignorant man who felt the need to comment on my size. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. It is exactly the 2378487459th time this has happened. I’m 5 feet tall and when not pregnant, I weigh about 100 lbs. At 7 1/2 months pregnant, I am still under 120 lbs. I only say that to acknowledge that I am fully aware that I am a small person. I don’t however, think that that should make it okay for a man <it’s ALWAYS a man, a random strange man that I do not know> to comment on my size, pregnant or not. I’ve been called “little bit” more times than I can count and I’m pretty freaking sick of it.

Usually I either ignore these comments or say something slightly snarky that they don’t even pick up on. But today. Oh today. Today something just snapped.

The conversation went pretty much like this:

Ignorant Middle Aged Man: “Hey! What are you? A pregnant fourth grader?”

Me: “Hey! What are you? An obnoxious asshole?”

IMAM: “Oh…I was just um, messing with you because you’re so tiny.”

Me: “Oh, well then. Let me tell you something: I’m almost 30 years old. I’m already a mother of one. I’m married and I have a college education and a full time job. So no, I’m not a pregnant fourth grader.”

IMAM: “Man, pregnant women are moody.”

I ended our delightful exchange right there and walked off, but here’s the thing: he totally just wrote it off like: “Man, crazy pregnant women!”

Okay yes. I was a pregnant woman standing in the card aisle holding armfuls of candy. And yes, I did kind of jump all over a stranger when I could have just shrugged it off, but do you know what I realized? I don’t have to shrug it off. I don’t have to feel awkward and weird about my short stature and body type just because some random idiot felt like pointing out the obvious. In my opinion, he deserved to be called out and put in his place and he deserved to be the one that ended up feeling awkward. Not me. Maybe he will think twice next time before he says something ignorant to a woman or any PERSON anywhere. Commenting on someone’s size really isn’t okay, it doesn’t matter if they are short or tall or skinny or overweight. Just keep your mouth shut.

And commenting on a woman’s size when she is pregnant is beyond unacceptable, especially when you are going to say she looks like a pregnant 10 year old.

 

 

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Tacos: it’s what’s for dinner. Except…maybe not.

Last night we had dinner with my parents. My mom made tacos. Mmmmm tacos.

Except not “mmmm tacos”.

We all took that first bite of taco to discover that something was very, very wrong. I’ve spent the last 24 hours trying to come up with an accurate description of the taste. Currently, I’ve settled on “burning chemical rancid nastiness”. We pinpointed the offending taste to the taco shells themselves.

My sister located the box that the shells had come in and inspected the expiration date. Do you want to know what that expiration date was, reader? Do you?

Was it 2012? Noooo. It was not 2012.

Was it 2011? Noooo. It was not 2011.

Was it 2010? No and I’m just going to stop this right here because this could go on for awhile.

It was 2007. TWO THOUSAND AND SEVEN.

Here is the one thing I have learned from this experience: if there is ever a zombie apocalypse and I am forced to scavenge for food there is one thing I won’t be eating if I happen to stumble across it in someone’s pantry, and that is 7 year old taco shells. Just trust me on this.

Here is the second thing that I learned from this experience: we need to go through mom’s pantry and do and expiration date check. Immediately.

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Let’s talk about pregnancy

I am imagining that the title of this post be read like the lyrics from Salt N Pepa’s “Let’s Talk About Sex”, only you take out the words “sex” and “baby” and replace them with pregnancy. That’s in your head now, isn’t it? You are welcome.

Anyway, if you’re wondering where I am mentally with this pregnancy lately, I’ll tell you.

I am fully convinced that my IQ has dropped a few points over the last few months. In the last 48 hours I have: lost my debit card, thrown away a bill I intended to mail, caused two minor kitchen fires at work involving two different appliances, and worn my underwear backwards for almost an entire day (please don’t ask me to explain how that is possible. Just trust me on it.)

This whole thing would be a lot easier if I could just hide in the house all day and take cat naps and eat Cheetos. If I wasn’t expected to be a functional member of society that has to operate ovens and microwaves and wear her clothes correctly, I would be a lot better at this.

 

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What I have learned about dressing children.

Alright, Gymboree. We need to have a talk.

You send me an email just about every other day. 20% off! 30% off! Everything in the store $16.99 or under! Free shipping today only! I get it. SALES SALES SALES. SALES FOREVER.

You keep sending me these things because you know I am a sucker when it comes to buying clothes for my kid (soon to be kidS). But let me tell you something, Gymboree, and all other places that sell cute clothes for our wee littles: I have wised up a considerable amount since having my first bouncy baby girl.

Have no fear, internets. I am going to share that knowledge with you and hopefully it will spare you the heartache and near financial ruin that I experienced as a first time mom.

First of all, I’m still a clothes buying whore. That won’t ever change. The other day I was laying out Bella’s clothes for the next 5 days and matching her panties and socks to her outfit. I’m having to plan out her wardrobe for the month because I have to make sure she wears all her turkey shirts. Yes, I said shirts. We have more than one turkey shirt. It IS November, after all. It was the same way with Halloween. It will be the same way for Christmas. Oh what the hell, it’s the same for every holiday, even Valentines, St. Patricks and the 4th of July. I have an addiction to festive holiday attire.

But heres the thing: I now consign, yard sale, shop sales, use coupons and beg friends for hand me downs. For the most part, my days of buying overpriced hand made items off Etsy are over.

Let me explain why: kids are fluid factories and when they aren’t being fluid factories, they are busy being messy little mud trolls.

I learned this very early on when my newborn with acid reflux stained not only her clothes but my own with her projectile vomit several times a day. Most people don’t have babies with acid reflux and those people are lucky.

As she got older, it got worse: food stains, dirt stains, more vomit, diaper blow outs, and grass stains. If there is an item that will stain her clothes within a 5 mile radius, my kid will find it.

What became my new best friend? PLAY CLOTHES. New moms: go hit up some yard sales and buy some used clothes now and stuff an entire drawer with that crap. Heck, stock an entire dresser with it. You’re going to need it. Trust me. Your kid probably won’t look cute in the those acid wash jeans and that airbrushed t-shirt from 1988 with some other kid’s name on it, but at least you won’t be standing over the washing machine cursing to high heaven while you try to scrub some impossible stain out of a brand new outfit your kid has only worn ONCE.

Okay, so I mentioned that I still have a clothes buying issue. I do. I still buy new clothes and put Bella in cutesy outfits here and there, but I never spend a great deal of money on her “new” clothes. My rule is that if I am going to buy something new, I don’t buy it unless I am okay enough with the price that I won’t cry if she only gets to wear it a handful of times before she destroys it and it has to take up residence in the play clothes drawer.

I also only let her wear these cutesy clothes when she will be with me. Why? Because I don’t trust other people to help her take care of her clothes. There is a very good reason I say that: it’s because they won’t. Baby sitters, grandparents and even daddies JUST DON’T GET IT.

One time I sent Bella to a someone’s house in a new outfit only for her to come home covered in spaghetti sauce. Another time I left her with a sitter and she came home covered in grass stains. My sister straight up told me she doesn’t care about trying to keep Bella clean, she’s just trying to make sure that both of them stay alive. Other people are going to be prone to do and allow things you would not. Like letting a 2 year old eat spaghetti with their hands while fully clothed or letting them roll repeatedly down a grassy hill.

Another place my kid will get insanely dirty when I am not around is at preschool. She has come home covered in paint that REFUSES TO COME OUT OF HER CLOTHES NO MATTER WHAT I USE. I had to learn this lesson. I was all about sending her to school looking all adorable and matchy with hair bows and what not only for her to come home with severely ruined clothes. It’s really my own fault. Of COURSE she is going to play outside and make artwork at school. Do I really expect her teacher to be paying close attention to whether or not she gets crap on her clothes? I’m sure her teacher has more important issues to deal with, like making sure the children don’t bite each other…or that they learn and stuff.

Anyway, that’s what I have learned about dressing my kid. I made a lot of mistakes with Bella and wasted a lot of money simply because I was obsessed with the idea of playing dress up. Hopefully with this second baby, I will do a lot better. I’m already convinced I will, because this kid has boxes and boxes of hand me downs. Some of which are stained and can serve as her supply of play clothes. WIN.

 

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