Wordful Wednesday: Some Days

Some days are like a much-labored-over, fresh pan of lasagna falling face-first on the bottom of the oven...

Or like pencil, crayon, paint, and stickers on a freshly-cleaned counter top...

Or like bites taken out of school work...

Anyone know how to get an almost-three-year-old to stop eating paper? I'm desperate.

But then other days are like Nutella mustaches...

And cute, new baby teeth finally coming through...

And sunny, blue-eyed smiles.

To Walmart Elderlies Everywhere:

I did a post similar to this already, but because unsolicited advice is thrown at me in a continual stream--and because just the other day I wanted to explode with some more "Eff Offs," and Just Jennifer created a new meme at just the perfect time--I'm going to vent. Again.


So here is my first installment of Fantasy Eff Off Friday. Got something you need to vent about, someone you want to lash out? Go link up!

If you're an avid follower of my blog, you probably know I hate Walmart. With a passion. I'm grateful for the convenience, but there's just something about being there that makes me agitated and on-edge. Beyond the vast spaciousness or the confusion that comes because they've moved something to a different aisle yet again, or even beyond the fact that the items I need always seem to be out of stock or off the shelves.

Or even beyond the fact that I ask Sam if he needs to go potty when we first get there, and every time he says no. And--every time--thirty minutes into it, he decides he does have to go...soooo bad. Now that I have my cart full of merchandise. And no merchandise is allowed in the restrooms. And I can't send him in alone. Or leave my cart with the other kids outside the restroom alone.

Even beyond that.

I turn into Momzilla as I'm pushing that cart down the aisle, trying with all my willpower not to ram into old women in motorized carts, slow people, or just those people who love to block the aisle in general. I. Just. Want. To. Get. Out of there. I'm alone with all three kids. And that says it all. Josh opening the shampoo and squirting it all over himself, the cart, and inside my diaper bag when I'm not looking: that says it all.

Oh, great. Another trip to the bathroom. Where I ask the lady employee giving me the evil eye to watch my cart, since I can't take it into the bathroom with me. She looks overwhelmed just from looking at my kids, and can hardly nod. I take that as a yes and leave her alone with my stuff. Trusting she's not some thief, since my wallet is in there, too.

So, if you see me at Walmart, with a red face, a sweat-gleamed brow, and steam coming from my ears, it's probably best just to keep walking. Keep your mouth shut, try to ignore my bad parenting, and whatever you do, do not make eye contact.

I ask myself, why does it seem like the unsolicited advice always occurs at Walmart? And why do I keep going to such a monopolized mall when I hate it so much?

Oh yeah. The convenience. They're cheap, and usually have everything. The less stops I have to make and the less times I have to drag my kids out of the car, the better. So you win, Walmart. Again. As always.

And Wednesday was particularly bad. We'd just gotten done spending an hour at the ER so they could followup on Josh's stitches--an hour of waiting, just so they could take a gander and tell me everything looked fine. It was just me and my kids, and when it's just me and my kids in settings such as doctors or hospitals, they love to make me miserable.

Even beyond the way they do at Walmart.

This time, they all decided to cry at the same time. Sam kept pulling back the curtain to the space next to us, where some sickly woman waited. He also had to yell and run around, since he knew it was a place he shouldn't.

Then there was Josh. When he wasn't crying from being back in that place, he was also pulling back the curtain, swinging on it, and dancing in it. And I tried to control them, people, I really did. But when I have the joyous background noise of Luke's screams, I have to weigh my priorities. Preserve everyone's hearing, or hold down my kids?

I picked preserve everyone's hearing. Especially because I heard the woman next to me tell the doctor she had a migraine. And when I decide to feed Luke, my kids know my hands are tied. And they become even more out-of-control.

Sometimes I just wish I had six arms. And that's what I wanted to say to all the silent watchers. That and, "No, I'm not a single parent. I just feel like it sometimes."

And, "Yes, I did have to bring them all."

Needless to say, all I got were either looks of pity or looks of chastisement.


Ugh.

And then to top it off, I had to lug all three kids to the car afterward during a massive monsoon. Massive.

Oh, and we were parked as far away from the entrance as we could be. By the time we got to the car, we were completely soaked through, Josh was crying (he hates water), and Luke was screaming. I guess there was one good thing though. Sam was laughing, since he loves getting wet.

That was when we ventured to Walmart. Stupid, you might say? Why not wait until someone is with you, you ask?

In our situation, it doesn't matter if all the kids are crying, it's raining, or I'm tired. If we are in town, we have to take advantage of Walmart. We have to knock down the shopping list, since we don't have the convenience of living close to civilization. We take advantage while we are there, before we venture 1.5 hours home.

We waited in the car for a bit, until the rain slowed, and when we finally got out, I put the baby, in the car seat, at the top of the cart, Josh in the main part of the cart, and Sam walking next to us (thought I wish he wasn't, since he runs up and down the aisles and gets into everything). Oh, and the diaper bag is in there with Josh, too, getting ransacked.

So, where do I fit the hoards of groceries I have to get?

My only option--unless I let Josh walk, too, which I try to avoid, since he wreaks more havoc than Sam, and I wouldn't be able to accomplish a single thing in that store--is to have Josh stand by the diaper bag in the cart and hold on tight.

And now that I'm typing this, I'm thinking that maybe I should get a leash. Hmm...good idea. Kinda wish I would have thought of it sooner.

Anyway, when the groceries start piling up, I did just that: made him stand. And that's when the looks of judgment come. And the comments. All from old people who haven't had kids in probably fifty years.

"Sit down, young man!" an old man told him, as though he was his guardian and I wasn't standing right there. As though I'm some dense breeding machine who isn't fit for parenting. "That is dangerous! There are hundreds of deaths each year by kids who've fallen out of shopping carts!"

And even more irritating was how stern his voice was, like Josh was being horribly naughty.

I. Swear. To. Hell. I will punch you.

Instead I glared, fuming inside. I stayed silent as he sent me his reproaching eyes and I sent him the eyes of a defiant daughter in return, and then he eventually passed.

Seriously, where does he come off?

Next, another old man, glaring at my rowdy kids in passing, jeers, "How many more are you gonna pop out?"

I laugh politely, not trying to hide the edge coming through, and move my feet faster, desiring to be outside those Walmart doors even more desperately now. Especially because I noticed Josh was tearing holes in all the boxes of pasta I just put in the basket.

Next, I'm standing there, comparing two products and trying to determine the best value with the coupons I spent too much time searching for, and the kids are taking advantage of my loss of attention. Because if I had my attention on them 100% of the time, there's no way I'd be able to shop. And they know that.

By this point, Josh is out of the cart because there is simply no room for him, and both he and Sam are racing down the aisle and knocking things down. I stop what I'm doing and sternly snap, "STOP running. NOW!"

An older couple passes, and the woman says under her breath to her Marlon-Brando-in-his-older-years-looking husband, "You hear that? You hear her?"

Really, woman? I will chuck this carton of eggs at your head.

Lastly, not even a minute later, I have the kids herded at the basket, my eyes still comparing products, and the kids decide to start crying, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!..."

"Kids!" I yell. "Stop! For just one second!" I feel like Chris Farley as the bus driver on Billy Madison.

"Aw," the old lady next to me says, sending her mushy grandmother-like stare at my boys, "They just want your attention, Mommy. They're not misbehaving, they're just telling you they love you. Nothing wrong with that."

And there you have it: the WORST comment of that day. I felt my eyes twitching as my heart raced, and I clenched my fist in an attempt to keep myself in check. Before I could kick her in the throat, I stormed off, forgetting the eggs I needed in the process.

Because apparently I'm a self-absorbed mom who pays no attention to my attention-starving children.

Lady, you had NO idea what my kids were putting me through that day. In fact, you do not know my kids at all, or the way they misbehave vs. the way they show affection.

To all of you who felt it was your place to judge me on yet another stressful, hair-pulling trip into town on Wednesday, I say....

Eff Off!

Sigh. There. I said it.

Maybe next time I will actually get the guts to say it to their faces.

Probably not. Which means I will continue to use my blog as my venting platform.

Worst Memory

*Post inspired by the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt, "Your Worst Memory."

I had to copy and paste from an old RemembeRED post for this, one about affection, because by far, this experience is the worst memory of my life: when Josh got stung by a scorpion last summer. And rather than rewrite the same story, I'll just paste my same words here:

Never had physical touch meant more to me. What if I never got the chance to touch my baby again, while life still flowed through his veins and his soul still resided in his new, perfect, cherub-like body?

The last hour had been Hell. The worst Hell I'd ever experienced as a mom, and I could only pray I'd never experience worse. We do all in our power to protect our children from the millions of threats in this scary, uncertain world, and all it took was five minutes without my attention. Five minutes for that little intruder to make its way into our kitchen and attack my baby as though he was the one trespassing.

They call them "bark" scorpions, and they are everywhere in Bagdad, Arizona. We usually spray on a monthly basis, but sometimes we go longer. Sometimes we miss a month because, really, what could go wrong?

Well, everything went wrong. And I will never miss a month again.

It stung my child on his finger, and when he first started screaming, I knew what it was, even though I couldn't see it. And there it was, hiding under his toys. I was worried, but because I'd heard scorpion stings weren't much worse than a wasp sting, I let him cry. And cry.

But he wouldn't stop, and I grew extremely worried.

Especially when he started trembling. He started seizing as soon as we got him to the Bagdad clinic--the last place equipped for this. His tiny, eighteen-month-old body jolted around in my arms, and I didn't understand how it could be so bad. But I later learned that the poison attacks the nervous system in bodies so small, and would attack it for over twenty-four hours if we let it.

I held him tight, my tears wetting his white-blond hair, while he moaned and his limbs moved about uncontrollably. They told me to hold his arms down, keep him tight, and I was in shock. In shock that I had to do such a preposterous thing.

Please, God, I prayed. Please heal my baby. I passed my love--strong enough to move a mountain--into him, telling the universe to make him better.

But it didn't.

An hour later the helicopter finally came to fly him to Phoenix Children's, because they were the best equipped for the situation. His seizing was worse, his eyes in the back of his head, and they took him from my arms. They burned, and so did my chest, and my round, pregnant belly felt more sick than it ever had. They told me his daddy should ride in the helicopter with him because it wasn't safe for a pregnant mother.

So I sobbed again, my soul in anguish and my heart throbbing.

And the 2.5 hour drive to Phoenix was the most painful 2.5 hours in all my life.

Please, I cried out loud, I will never complain about having to hold him again, I swear. I will never complain that he needs me too much. My arms were empty and I craved--more than I'd ever craved anything--his affection. His arms snug around my neck, his laugh in my ear.

Please, give me at least one more opportunity to see him again. Please, please, please. Please don't take him from me.

His song--the song I sing to all my children--came on the radio, track eleven's turn, and my trembling hands turned it off. Prematurely mourning, yet fighting with all of me to will him to live. But in the silence I heard the helicopter overhead, reminding me my baby was way too far away, in the sky with his father...too close to living with his other Father.

And, many tears later, his Father heard my prayers, knew I simply could not survive without my Joshua. The Children's hospital was the only hospital in the state that had any vials of scorpion anti-venom--four, to be precise.

And four just happened to be the exact amount he needed.

Coincidence?

I think not. A miracle, in its fullest.

And within two hours, his muscles relaxed, and I held that lethargic, perfect baby as long as I could. And even all night wasn't enough.

Pour Your Heart Out, "Bad" Mommy

Sometimes I'm not a good mom. The secret's out. Actually, it's no secret. Unfortunately, I think anyone who watches me parent for longer than an hour can see it.

And I'm not talking about the little things. Like the fact that I sometimes act like I don't know they're getting into trouble just because I don't want to deal with it. Again. Because I've already wasted so much of my breath telling them that day NOT to do what they're doing.

Or that I sometimes give them stickers after they've begged for them, just because I want something to occupy their time. Even though I HATE that they put them on EVERYTHING.

Or that I call them by the wrong name ALL the time, sometimes going through all of their names before I figure out who it is I'm actually talking to. Yes, Mom, I've turned into you in that way. I'm sorry for giving you crap about that when I was younger.

Or that I don't give them baths every single day. And some days I even forget to brush their teeth. And make them wash their hands.

Sometimes I even go weeks without trimming their nails. Horrific, I know.

It's not even those things that brand me a "bad parent," in my mind. If you've read my blog, you've heard me mention more than a few times that I have the worst patience in the world.

In fact, I'm sure I don't have any left at all. Just ask my children and my husband. And the handful of customers at the gas station that heard/saw me blow up at Sam in the car while Dave was filling up. I yelled. Loudly. Even maybe screamed a little but.

And people stared. And Dave was embarrassed. He told me he'd never been so embarrassed as an adult.

Yep. Ouch. Talk about being put in your place.

But I deserve that, I really do. I've been working on it, hard. I've been trying really hard not to yell at my kids when they frustrate me and talk over me and try telling me what to do. Or scream in my face, "No!" repeatedly while I'm trying to instruct them.

Breathe, I tell myself, even now, because just thinking about it speeds my heart and heats my core.

And if I don't gain some measure of control over it, I fear I'll have a heart attack by the time I'm 35. Either that or a whole head of gray hair (IF I have any left by then). Sometimes I just don't feel cut out for the parenting thing.

Because I know it's not my kids who need to change. It's me, 100%. They're just being kids. It's the name of the game. I'm the one who's acting up.

And I know, I know. Every mom feels that way at some point. And I know everyone's kids drive them crazy, and every mom loses it. But I do feel a little more out of control than most, a little less tolerant.

Okay, a lot less tolerant.

And I don't get it. I don't get why I can't handle things in the same way other people can, or how I can be filled with so much rage or frustration, when at the same time I'm filled with so much love for the little people that drive me to insanity. Because really, my favorite thing in this entire world, no matter my mood, is hugs and kisses from my kids.

So how do I calm myself, how do I feel normal inside, so I can actually feel like a decent mom? I know I've made posts similar to this before, but it is PYHO Wednesday. So I'm taking advantage. Again.

I don't like being this way. I don't like that every little thing gets under my skin and I react before I can stop it. I hate it, and I want to change. And I'm trying. But some days, I just don't feel I can measure up.

Some days, I just want to cry.

Lesson Learned: Going to Bed Hungry

*Post inspired by the TRDC RemembeRED prompt, "Lesson Learned."

Write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned." 

Written from my son, Sam's, POV.

"This'll be the last time I tell you to eat." Mom's eyes are on fire, her voice stern. It cracks, and spit even sprays from her mouth. She acts like she means it, but she can be a pushover sometimes. I know how to work her.

"But Moooom, pee's coming out!" I say, crossing my legs and doing a little dance in my booster seat. Mom hates when I pee in my underwear, even a little.

"Nice try." Her voice is hoarse now. Probably from all the yelling. She says it's not yelling, that she's just talking firm, but the vein bulging in her neck says it's yelling. She even cussed once. Surprise, surprise.

"You only have two options," she continues, hand on her recently chubby hip. "You can either go to bed hungry, or eat and stay up for ten extra minutes." She doesn't mean it. Mom would never let me go to bed hungry. She loves me too much.

"But, Mom...the pee..." I continue to dance, adding a whimper to the plea.

"You can pee your pants, for all I care. Sit in your own pee. But you're not getting up from that table until you're done. Not unless you want to go to bed." Her eyes bore into mine, telling me she's no joke. But on the inside I still laugh.

On the outside, I groan.

She glances at the clock, and so do I. The position of the long and short hand tell me it's after seven o'clock. And I know that means it's after bedtime. Mom's time. She sighs, her face turning red, and looks back to me. I'm starting to wonder if she's getting serious now, after eight threats.

Now she stomps over, huffing, and yanks my chair away from the table. I scream and cry because I'm four, and what else am I gonna do? "No, Mom! I'm hungry! I'm really hungry!"

"If you were hungry, you would've eaten your dinner. You had the last hour and a half to eat, so don't try that on me! It's bed time. You can go to bed hungry." Oh. My. Gosh. She actually means it.

"Mom!" Tears stream down my cheeks, and so does slobber. I like to make a good show.

She's dragging me down the hallway, heading for that darkened doorway. My room. She wouldn't dare.

I scream louder, cry harder, pleading. "I'm soooo hungry! I want to eat!"

But when she puts me in bed, turns off the light, and closes the door, I stop screaming. I cry silently, stunned she actually put her starving child to bed.

Through the door, I hear, "Maybe next time I tell you to eat, you'll listen."

My tummy grumbles and I can still smell the taco casserole, untouched on my plate.

Lesson learned.

The Simple Things...

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "The Simple Things..."

I like the simple things. The simple things are what move my day forward, give me the boost to last through the not-so-simple things. And today my day was full of the simple things. The kind that remind me just how blessed I am and just how happy (and on some days, how happy I should be).

Like the fact that the baby let me sleep eight straight hours without interruption both last night and the night before, which is a miracle. Knock on wood.

Like the fact that I was able to pump some breast milk this morning after feeling down in the dumps all week about losing my milk. (Turns out I'm not. Turns out kids go through growth spurts, or something like that.)

Like the fact that the boys both wanted the same breakfast this morning, which makes my life that much easier.

Like the fact that Dave took over disciplining a very strong-willed four-year-old on his lunch hour, just to give me a break from it. (I think slamming the child's door and saying the naughtiest of naughty words under my breath is a cue that it's his turn.)

Like the swelling emotion all throughout me, emerging in the form of chills and goosebumps, just from watching a moving, heartfelt dance routine. (Thank you, So You Think You Can Dance.)

Like blond curls and blue eyes, that remind me children are beautiful angels and not demons. 

Like the thirty minutes I got to myself to write today.

Like freshly cut grass, done by none other than my husband.

Like phrases from my two-year-old, such as, "Mommy, you get spanking," because they show me just how far he's come in his speech.

Like the precious swatting of a tiny hand on your behind after said phrase.

Like the fact that my four-year-old can still hug me and tell me he loves me after I've just punished him in the worst way I could punish him (taking away his computer privileges).

Like my two-year-old saying, "I you, too," because that's how he says he loves me. 

Like cold cereal for dinner.

Like the visit of a good friend, because it reminds me I'm an adult and can still have adult conversation.

Like my husband retelling the story of how we met, even though I've heard it a million times (after all, I was there), because the part about how he felt when he first looked at me makes my heart skip a beat and makes me feel, in some small way, a part of some romantic movie. 

But mostly, it reminds me that aside from the frumpy sweats, the greasy ponytail, the stretchy tummy skin, the PB&J sandwiches, and the yelling mommy voice, I was once--and maybe even still am--a beautiful, strong woman, who has the love of a caring, amazing man.

The simple things.

I just might lose it.

I've never taken part in Shell's PYHO (Pour Your Heart Out) Wednesdays, but I figured I should today. Before I explode. And this will be my last post for a short time, since we are leaving for Idaho tomorrow! Woo-hoo! If I get the chance, I might blog from there, but I'm not counting on it.

It's just been one of those days. You know, the kind where you've procrastinated things all week and decide that you'd do it all in one day--one day before you leave on a ten-day vacation? Or the kind where your kids are unbearably cranky, extra whiny, extra bratty, and cry at the drop of a hat? Those kinds of days suck on their own, but to have them both on the same day is just downright annoying.

I admit that the procrastinating is my fault. I've always been really good at that. I always think I'll have plenty of time in the future to get certain things done, and I'm wrong. Every. Time.

So instead of getting things ready for our trip this week, I've been using my few minutes of free time here and there to rewrite my first manuscript (the one I don't really consider a manuscript at all because of how absolutely horrible it is). I've always loved the characters, but felt a little ashamed of the story, and even more ashamed of the writing. So, I thought, why not rewrite it all, start from scratch?

It's something I just started doing for fun, because of the fact that I'd written it off a long time ago, but now that I'm back into it, and I'm seeing that it actually has some promise with the way I'm rewriting it, it's been hard to step away. It's been hard to find that balance, as it usually is when I'm into something I'm writing.

So that little thing I decided to do for fun has now turned into a passion that fills nearly every moment of my free time, which isn't much. And between that and a screaming baby (which I explain below), I have been a procrastinating whore.

It's a problem. And the first step is admitting it, right?

Anyway, I'm suffering from the consequence today. Here I am, with a massive to-do list and three kids that are driving me BONKERS.

It took me an hour just to fold laundry. Yes, an hour. Because my two-year-old's favorite thing to do is laugh when I pull my hair out and scream destroy a good ol' pile of freshly folded laundry. Twice.

And cleaning up the toys in the family room and their bedroom? Well, that was a two-hour job. After gathering all the puzzle pieces and having the kids put them together again, Josh also decided it would be fun to act like the spawn on Satan throw them all in random directions when I wasn't looking, including, but not limited to, behind the couch, behind the TV, on the shelf, and in the laundry (which was still destroyed at this point).

He also got a kick out of the fact that when I finally got their room clean an hour later (it was absolutely horrific, I tell you) and I put him in timeout, he locked himself in and destroyed everything I just cleaned while I begged from the other side of the door for him to unlock it. (After that episode, I messed around so much with the lock that I accidentally broke it disabled the lock on their door to prevent future episodes.)

And perhaps the most horrifying of all is that I have an almost-six-month-old who is the most high-maintenance individual I have ever had the pleasure to encounter. And people, I promise I'm not over-exaggerating this one. I am literally at my wit's end. If there is anyone out there who has a baby like this, any pointers will be helpful!

The constant soundtrack to my day (unless I am holding him) is a high-pitched scream that makes my head hurt. He cries ALL. THE. TIME. And I don't know why. I love the baby to death--really. He is so cute and fun and when I'm holding him, he is pleasant and happy and oh-so-kissable.

But I put him down and it's like I'm dealing with a starving, neglected, raging demon. (Those of you who are judging me for my word choice, come to my house for an hour and you will share the same opinion, I promise you.)

There is something about that screaming that not only hurts my head, but makes me grumpy, on edge, and triples the stress in the air. It makes me not want to do anything during the day (which is why I procrastinate in the first place) because listening to that in the background is torture. It's in the background to everything I do. EVERYTHING.

Doing the dishes: screaming. Sweeping/mopping the floor: screaming. Bathing the two older boys: screaming (and of course the crying from my older kids because they hate water). Giving my older kids lunch: screaming.  Disciplining my older kids: screaming. Dealing with an unruly, whiny child: screaming. Trying to unlock the children's door while pleading and nearly crying myself on the other end: screaming.

And it's not just the screaming that's getting to me, but the nursing, too. I've never enjoyed nursing with Luke. Never. And that is really sad to me. He's a miserable nurser. He squirms and fidgets the whole time, not to mention claws. I have scratches and abrasions all over my boobs, ribs, and chest because he doesn't know how to lay calmly when he eats. I have to use one hand to hold the boob in place (it comes out if I don't, thanks to the pulling, the squirming, etc.) and the other to try and keep his hands down.

And part of his behavior is out of habit, I think, since in the first few months of his life he suffered with my over-active letdown problem. But now it's just irritating. And it saddens me to say that I can't wait until he's older, when I'm ready to wean him.

So, you may be asking to yourself, why is she blogging if she has so much to get done?

And the answer is because I want to. Simple as that. I needed a break, the baby is asleep, and it's quiet.

Ah, that quiet.

And I'm tired. I'm tired of a fussy, needy baby, and I just want him to be happy. So there's my venting for the week.

And I just want to add that as I type, I can hear Josh throwing all the toys out of the drawers in his room again. For the third time. After the two hours his mom has spent cleaning it. He is supposed to be asleep.

And I'm just too tired to care now. It's why I don't clean on a usual basis.

Did I mention I'm tired?

Gratitude

Thanks, for the idea, Allison! Check out what she's grateful for at Mama Wants This. 

I figured I needed a little gratitude on this blog. Especially since my last post generated comments like, "Someone's having a bad day..." and "Are you serious?" My mom even asked me if I really drank margaritas. I laughed. No, I don't really drink margaritas, or read romance novels.

I just write them.

(Again, a joke. Kind of.)

So, besides the givens, like my family, here's what I am especially grateful for this week. It's the little victories, right?

• Matt Nathanson's song, Little Victories. Pun intended.
• Josh saying more words and making communication that much easier. He's even started putting two words together!
• Reassuring comments from his speech therapist on just how great he's going. Plus, she says we are her favorite.
• New recipes.
• Air conditioning.
• The news that we will be going to Idaho next week, therefore getting me out of Bagdad.
• Ashley sending William home. Seriously, grow up, little boy. (Bachelorette is my guilty pleasure. No matter how irritating Ashley is.)
• The accumulated seven hours of sleep I had last night--almost double what I usually get.
• The sprinkler, because it gets Sam outside for hours each day. And I loooove the break love that he can get time in the sunshine.
• That Josh is even thicker in the chest than he was last week. It makes snuggling and hugging him SO much fun! He's my little football player.
• My Mag07 came in the mail. Maybe I will actually get to enjoy eating again!
• One of my manuscripts was returned by mail, meticulously edited by a friend.
• Chubby, rolly baby thighs.
• Master Chef, because it has inspired my husband to want to learn to cook something really well. And that means I might get a night off cooking.
• Oreos.
• Finding cute matching shirts for all three boys at Target...ON SALE!
• That the bug man sprayed our attic. One more obstacle for scorpions.
• Luke's screechy velociraptor laugh.
• A husband who is understanding when he gets home from work and it looks like nothing has gotten done.
• The mom and writing blog communities, and all the wonderful posts I get to read every day, from wonderful, funny, talented people that make me feel not so alone!
• Baby feet.

Keep your unsolicited advice to yourself.

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "List 10 things you wish you could say to strangers who share unsolicited advice about your parenting skills."


Beware, all. Remember, this post is things I wish I could say. So they might be mean. But that's why I don't say them. I also thought it was funny that after I made this list, I realized that a lot of this stuff is centered around Walmart. I guess that's when I get the most unsolicited advice.

1. "What are you looking at?" Yes, I notice your daggers when I'm walking through the store with a baby, toddler, or child (or all three at once) throwing a temper tantrum. You don't have to say anything, because your old, judgmental eyes say it all. What do you want me to do--beat them? I would, trust me. I'd spank those little bums in public if I knew I wouldn't get reported to child services. So instead, my threats of spanking them "when we get home" will have to do.
2. "Yes, high fructose corn syrup is bad!" I know you think that because we had it when we were little and we're all still alive that it's okay, but they didn't have the research they did back then. It really is one of the worst things we can ingest into our bodies (and I know because we have done research and know the effects). And I want my kids to be healthy. I know, I'm horrible for letting him miss out on pop-drinking at age two. He just might have to go to a support group for it someday.
3. "Wait...where's your kids? Oh yeah...YOU DON'T HAVE ANY!" So until you do, please stop acting like you know anything about what it's really like to have and raise a child. I promise you, they're not that easy to control.
4. "My kids watch TV. So kill me." You say they might end up mindless, ADD children, but I say that my son learned his ABC's from Brainy Baby videos when he was fourteen months old and learned how to count to ten in Spanish from Dora when he was eighteen months old (Though I do loathe Dora). So, no, I don't feel guilty for using the TV as a babysitter when I'm in desperate need to get something done. Like dishes, or showering, or laundry. Or sitting on my back porch with a margarita and a romance novel. Ha!
5. "No, ma'am, my baby isn't hungry. No, ma'am, I'm not neglecting my child." So maybe only the first sentence applies, but when my baby is crying hysterically and you ask me if he is hungry, isn't that what your saying anyway--that I need your helpful prompt to remember that I have a baby in need of me? Lay. Off. He's tired, sick of being in his car seat all day (because to go anywhere we have about three hours of driving time), and basically cries every time I'm not holding him. So if one more old maid in Walmart asks me if my baby is hungry, I'm going to punch you. Okay, maybe not. I'll probably just smile and shake my head, but know that inside, I want to punch you.
6. "Don't talk to me until you do your research." Because I promise you, I have. And I know I'm doing what's best for my children. Even if that's different than what's best for yours. Even if that means you think they're disease-infested, germ spreading children because they're on an alternate vaccine schedule.
7. "Yes, dummy, breast is best." I don't judge anyone for their decision not to breastfeed, and I understand not everyone can--heck, I couldn't breastfeed my first child. So don't tell me I'm not doing what's best by nursing my child. Because, really...your argument sucks. Other than your claim that I need to put myself first and take care of me, and get more sleep at night so I can enjoy my children more during the day, you have nothing to back it up. And I'm sorry I put my baby before me. I'm a mom. I nurture. I nurse. That's what me and my boobs were made for, and that's how I love it. So, lost sleep, sore nipples, and all, I won't stop. And going off of that...
8. "Since when did you become a lactation consultant?" Yes, I have tried everything, and I mean everything, to nurse my baby (speaking of my first). That includes countless nurses, grandmas, aunts, and three real lactation consultants. And everyone was stumped. I spent hours and countless hours up in the night and meeting with people to try to get my baby to nurse. He hated it, no matter how many tears I spilled and how many prayers I prayed--so I could be the mom I wanted to be. So I didn't feel like a failure. In fact, after six weeks of constant refusal from him, I pumped all day, every day, until he was six months old, just so I could feel like I was doing what was best. So do not tell me that you have the magical solution. Because I guarantee I've heard it and tried it. And no, they will not just give in when they get hungry enough. I promise you. And I will not let my child suffer from malnutrition. Just because your babies were good nursers doesn't mean everyone's baby can be.
9. "Talk to me when you have a fussy, high-needs baby." Until then, don't even pretend to know what it's like. It's great your children are angels, sleep when, where, and how you want them to, and are happy laying by themselves, but letting my baby "cry it out" isn't going to change a damn thing. No, I did not make him this way by "loving him too much." My kids have been high maintenance since the second they came out of my lady parts. Baby, they were born this way.
10. "You're right...I am too stupid to realize my child is danger!" Thank you so much for telling me he might fall out of the grocery cart. I don't know what I would do without your eyes. After all, I'm just a mindless breeding machine with a baby wrapped to her chest, a child sitting in the front of the cart, another child in the back, and every other inch of space occupied with groceries. 

Oh wait...I just realized my child is standing because I told him to.  

Because I don't have four arms and can't push two carts to carry all the millions of groceries I buy, and because of those millions of groceries there just isn't enough room for him to sit, and because I live an hour and a half from the nearest Walmart and have to stock up on groceries on the rare occasion I get to go, and because I have to make these long, obnoxious trips to town by myself, and because I don't want my kids to run away from me in the grocery store (I swear, if I did let him out of the cart, he'd be gone in a second)... And because, because, because...

I do what I can. Even if that means one of my children will stand in the back and hold on. 

But what do I know? I'm just a mindless breeding machine.

Whew. Felt good to get that out.

Wordful Wednesday: A Day In the Life

Being a mom, you find all sorts of surprises as you go throughout the house each day. This was my most recent. When gathering dirty clothes that had been stuffed and thrown into every crevice of their bedroom, I came across this. And instead of swift punishment, I grabbed the camera. Oh, four-year-olds.

Sam marking he and Josh's territory...twice

And then came the laundry...

Wednesday has been designated "laundry day." One of many.

He may be smiling, but don't let this expression fool you. He has been a rotten handful the past few days, for reasons I can't determine. As it usually goes with babies.

Luke cuddling Elmo

Picking your nose and crying at the same time takes talent.

Josh after a nap

Sam's idea of a silly face

Kittens, kittens everywhere.

Their favorite place to sleep/hide/play is between then fridge and cupboards...

And in Luke's carseat.

R.I.P. Gray Kitten. It breaks my heart whenever I see your picture.

And then there were four.

*Linked to Angie and Amanda's "Wordful Wednesday."

The Terrible Horrible No-good Very Bad...Mom

Today was a lose for me, as a mom. We got the flu in our house yesterday, starting with Sam. He's better now, though he still doesn't have much of an appetite, but today I've been feeling it. I'm not even sure if that's what I have, since I'm not throwing up or anything, but I've just felt really cruddy in general, and weak and dizzy and exhausted, and my stomach hurts when I eat anything.

Anyway, it was just one of those days. You know, where the kiddos stay in pajamas all day, the dishes don't get done, the house doesn't get clean, dinner doesn't get made... And when I'm not wiping butts and feeding kids or rocking babies, I'm just lying around on the couch telling myself I don't really need sleep.

I'm filthy. My kids are filthy. My house is filthy. And all I want to do is snap my fingers and make it all better: my kids, myself, my husband. So what do I do?

Lay around instead.

And I want to shower. And exercise. But what do I do?

Lay around.

I feel so unproductive and like a waste of space, counting on tomorrow because today is already out the window. And then it all gets tied up with the prettiest bow that crap can be topped with: my son telling me hates me.

I was in the recliner trying to rest and Sam wanted so badly to sit there with me and cuddle, and I was fine with it as long as he kept his legs to himself. I told him 3 times not to kick me. But have you ever heard of a four-year-old that can actually keep their legs still? I haven't, and I got upset after the third time. So, rather than wasting my breath again, I forced him off the chair and told him to go sit on the couch.

Immediately, already, I'm hating myself, wondering if I should get the medal for worst mom in the world because I denied my first born child cuddling rights (though I doubt it'd be a medal. Probably more like poop in my face or something). And then, with hurt in his eyes, he sits on the couch and says, "Don't talk to me anymore, because I hate you, Mom."

Ugh. Talk about a dagger, right in the heart. That hurt. Literally. And that was the first time he's ever said it to me (though he has said it to Dave in the past).

Now, I've always been a big hater of the word hate (pun intended), especially when in reference to a person...and even more, a loved one. I grew up never allowing myself to even think the words "I hate you" in the direction of my parents, and I am proud to say that I have never uttered those words to them.

My son is four and he's already told me that.

I guess the positive side to this is that he really doesn't know any better, when it all comes down to it. He's just mad and doesn't grasp the true meaning of the word hate, and I really do get that.

But it still hurts.

Sigh

There's always tomorrow.

Davenports Lately

Other than participating in Mama Kat’s "Pretty Much World Famous Writer’s Workshop" this week, my blogging has been nonexistent for the past three months. And it’s not that I haven’t had anything blog-worthy happening. It’s been a very eventful, crazy-busy past three months, and since I’m way past due, I’m just going to condense it all into one blog post, pictures included. So...*takes a breath* here we go...going in (kind of) order.

I already blogged about my sister, Heather, and her family (the Lees) coming in the beginning of February, but shortly after that, we had an asbestos problem in our house. I won’t get into all the dull details, but basically, we had to move out and were living in temporary housing for about two weeks while they took care of the problem. And it was the most luxurious mobile home I’ve ever seen. Just ask my mom and dad, or Dave’s dad and his sister, Mary, since they all just so happened to be visiting during that time. Yeah. Huge bummer. Anyway, it all worked out.

Like I said, my mom and dad came to visit during that time and though I hated that we were in that state of limbo when they were here and it kind of put a damper on everything, I absolutely loved having them here. The boys loved having Grandma and Grandpa “Colfart” here and I was so glad they got to meet little Luke, who was about six weeks old at the time. Thanks for all your help, mom and dad, while you were here. And thanks for introducing Sam to computer games, Grandpa. Really. A day hasn’t gone by since then that he doesn’t beg to play them.

Unfortunately this was the best picture we could get of Grandma and Grandpa "Colfart" with the kids...


The week after my mom and dad left, Mary and Grandpa Meyers came (Grandpa for just that weekend and Mary for the entire week). Again, the timing was poopy because it was our last week living in luxery in the mobile home and it was quite possibly one of the most boring weeks of Mary’s life (I’m guessing). But she was a HUGE help and a lifesaver, because on the day we moved back into our home, she was there helping me with the kids the whole time. So even though you probably never want to come back, we loved having you, Mary, and we so appreciate all you did!


The same day that Mary left, Jessica, Dave’s other sister, came to stay with us, and she was here for a week as well. Lucky for her, we were back in our home by then and all moved in. As always when she comes, it was a ton of fun and we loved having her, too. And in about two weeks, Dave’s other sister, Jenni, will be coming for a week! It’s been so awesome having everyone come. It makes us realize even more how much we miss having family close.


Then, to add to it, my sister, Cindi, and her family (the Lindsays) were here for about a week a couple weeks ago. Sam and Josh loved it, because they got to see their cousins Aaron and Abbey. It was the first time everyone was really old enough to play together and I just loved seeing the boys play with their cousin. I wish they had them closer. They had so much fun, and Sam asks to see Aaron all the time now. They also slept in the same room together. Let’s just say we adults didn’t get much sleep. Enough said. But we would have them again any day and the lack of sleep was worth it!

Cindi and I being silly with lots of makeup on.

Sam, Josh, and Aaron eating their hot dogs at the river.

Abbey and Luke.


We also had Luke’s baby blessing on March 6, when he was exactly two months old, and we were lucky enough that Grandpa Meyers and Aunt Mary were here for it. It was beautiful, and he wore Josh’s blessing tux from Aunt Nadine. Mostly what I remember from it was feeling overwhelmed with the realization that my boys will all be adult men someday, getting married and having kids of their own, and that thought just kind of blew me away. I can’t imagine it. The joy, yet the sadness of separation. It makes me want to treasure these years with them even more. My beautiful blond boys.



Your baby blues, so full of wonder,
Your curly-cues, your contagious smile.
As I watch, you start to grow up,
All I can do is hold you tight,
Knowing clouds will rage and
Storms will race in,
But you will be safe in my arms.
Rains will pour down,
Waves will crash around,
But you will be safe in my arms...
-In My Arms, Plum

Sam started T-Ball in March and that has been going as wonderful as can be expected! He is learning, as is the whole team, and I just love watching him out there. There might not be much structure or many rules, and they might not keep score, but I’m a proud mama sitting in the stands nonetheless. There’s just something about it. I love watching my little blond string-bean batting left-handed and standing in the outfield with his glove on and his huge hat falling over his eyes as he kicks the dirt and wonders what he’s really doing out there.

The cutest T-Ball player ever.

Waiting on second base.

Josh watching through the fence and wishing he could play, too.


He is getting funnier and smarter everyday (and more trying, I must say), and I have had people tell me I need to start keeping a book of “Samisms” because of all the funny things he says. One thing I’m not enjoying, however, is that he’s entered a lying stage, just this last week actually. His most famous phrase this week has been, “I don’t know.”

Me (seeing a kitten slide across the floor and crash into the cupboard): What did you just throw?
Sam: I don’t know.
Me: Don’t lie, Sam. That makes it worse and you will get an even bigger punishment for not telling the truth. We don’t lie. Tell me again, what did you throw?
Sam: I don’t know.
Me (face reddening, patience diminishing, just wanting him to admit to it already): Sam...
Sam: It was nothing, mom. I threw nothing.
Me: You’re lying. I saw the kitten you threw. Did you throw a kitten?
Sam: It was Josh.
Me (huffing with rage, but keeping it inside): That’s not true. I saw Josh, and he didn’t throw it. I want you to tell me what you threw.
Sam: I threw...a magnet.
Me: You’re lying again!
Sam: It was that hat right there.
Me: You really think I’m dumb, don’t you?!
Sam (dramatically shaking his head): No.
Me: Then tell me the truth! If you lie ONE MORE TIME, I will send you to bed! This is your last chance. WHAT. DID. YOU. THROW?
Sam (sighing): A kitten.

And so it goes. And this type of thing has been happening every day, about five times a day for the past four days. I hope it’s not a long stage.

Onto Josh. Well, since we moved Luke into the crib and into the guest-room-slash-office (Hallelujah that we have our room back!), we have moved Josh into the toddler bed and Sam into their new bunk bed. I was worried about this at first because Sam did very well with the toddler bed at Josh’s age, and since Josh does everything opposite than Sam... Anyway, it hasn’t been that bad. He generally stays in bed when he is supposed to, so I have been very proud of him. That--along with his first haircut that made him look like such a big boy--has pulled him further out of his baby stage and more into his toddler/little boy stage.

Before the haircut (Gosh, I miss those curls!)...

...After.

Both boys after their haircuts.


He’s even been doing better with his speech. His speech therapist, Ann, comes once a week and it’s been a great success. Sam and Josh both look forward to her coming every week and literally jump up and down with excitement at the window when she pulls up. They love her toys she brings them and the attention she gives them. She’s just wonderful.

He’s still not at the level he should be, but we see a definite progression and she is not worried about him at all. He will come around soon, and he is showing a lot of strength in every other area. She has confirmed my thoughts that he is a very smart boy, but that it just wasn’t showing because he wasn’t verbalizing anything. She thinks he will be an engineer or a mechanic, with the way he loves to use his hands, and very precisely. But he is learning to use more sounds and say more words every single week, along with the fact that he sings ALL the time now. It’s also been harder on him because of his always, ongoing congestion that he never gets a break from, which turns him into a mouth breather. Which makes him want to talk even less.

Luke is still very healthy and this past week has had his first cold ever. He’s been stuffy and I’ve had to use the annoying booger syringe on him a few times a day, but other than that he’s been doing great. He’s started sleeping much better now, too. I get two good, long naps out of him a day, put him to bed around seven, and he gets up about twice to nurse in the night. He still has difficulty with nursing, but he is doing it better now. And for longer.

He seemed really small to me, and to everyone else who sees him, but at the doctor last week we discovered that he is in the fiftieth percentile for height and the thirtieth for weight. So at least he’s well on the charts. Also, his "lost" testicle came down during the last month and now he probably won't need surgery at six months old! YAY! It's not all the way down, so they still need to monitor it, but it's making progress.

About six weeks old...

About 8 weeks old...

My baby and I at almost 4 months old (about 2 weeks ago).


He is laughing and smiling ALL the time, even though he is a high-maintenance baby. He NEVER wants me to leave his side and makes his frustration known when I do. Just ask Dave. And anyone who’s stayed at our house for over a day. He has this high-pitched cry that just makes Dave want to bang his head against a wall, too. Definitely a mama’s baby. But when he’s not mad (and even sometimes when he is), he is always ready to smile and laugh. And mostly at Sam. To him, Sam is the funniest person in the world, and I love watching them laugh together.


All my angels are so precious to me. I just love love love being the mom to three beautiful, and sometimes yucky, boys.

We’ve also had some other babies in our house. In the beginning of April, Bauer (our cat) had a litter of five kittens: three black, one gray, and one grayish striped one. They are absolutely, teeth-grittingly, squeezably cute! So precious and small and fuzzy. I think I had forgotten just how cute kittens were and I’ve loved having them here.


But. They will turn into big, annoying cats someday, and we are going to be getting rid of them in the next month or two. So if anyone knows anyone who wants a kitten...let me know. (Pretty please)

I decided that once my novel(s) are out of editing stage (a friend of mine is being my critical eye), I will start the querying process again. The quick, always easy, simple querying process (sense the satire). I think by then, I won’t want to pull my hair out as much because Luke will be a little older, and I’ll be able to devote a tad more time to it. My friend, Steve (whose opinion is valuable to me in this area), is currently going over Prayers to Russell, and then will be going over The Exception later on. It’s always so hard to know what works and what doesn’t, and there’s only so far you can get editing on your own. Eventually, you come to a point where you need that outside opinion, that outside pair of eyes. And not just someone reading it and giving a generalized statement about the work, but really breaking it down and saying why or why not certain things work/don't work. And it’s really difficult for people in their busy everyday lives to devote that kind of time to helping me out, so again, Steve...thanks SO much! I owe you.

And, as always, if there is anyone else interested in reading my work, I am always willing and open to that. Even if it’s just for a casual read. Even the most generic opinions help.

In the meantime, to keep up my game, I decided to start participating in—another plug—Mama Kat’s Pretty Much World Famous Writer’s Workshop (see last two posts). Not that it will give me any writing credentials, but it’s fun. Every week she offers five different prompts, I pick at least one, and write on it. Just to keep me writing. And to keep me blogging. :)

Aside from that, I recently entered a short story of mine (my only) in the Writer’s Digest Annual Writing Competition. I had written a short story a year or so ago, and when I looked back at it about a month ago, I was absolutely HORRIFIED. So, I based it off of that, but completely rewrote it. I submitted it a couple weeks ago, but won’t know if I even placed until about October.

Anyway, here are some other pictures to illustrate what we’ve been up to. And next time I will do better at blogging as life happens, so that the posts aren't so long. :)

Dave, Sam, and Josh before a bike ride.

Sam showing off his new Star Wars Bed set on he and Josh's new bunk bed (he picked out the Star Wars theme all his own)! Josh doesn't get to sleep in it for another couple of years, but he wanted to be in the picture anyway.

Sam and Josh on Easter after their egg hunt in the backyard.

Cuties at the park.

NOT the Terrible Horrible No-good Very Bad Day

While Luke slept much better through the night last night (I almost got a whole 6 hours of sleep!), he is struggling today, for one reason or another. Even more than usual I mean. Here's what my day has consisted of:

Giving the kids a rushed breakfast of cold cereal, changing poopy diapers and pee-soaked clothes, starting a load of dirty toddler sheets and towels (since we don't have a single one clean) and hoping Dave can finish it when he gets home since I don't have time, quickly making PB&J sandwiches for lunch (for me AND my kids) so I can get back to taking care of a crying Luke, and being a human pacifier in between as I daydream of taking a shower and being clean...all while my eyes and ears are tortured by Caillou and Martha (PBS Kids) so that my older kids are occupied and not getting into trouble.

And though I sit here most of the day--in my PJ's and still without a brush being ran through my hair--consoling a needy, uncomfortable baby (even as we speak) while trying to stay awake and trying not to long for more glorious things, I don't allow myself to believe that my situation sucks, that my life is meaningless, or that I'm accomplishing nothing, like much of society would view it.

Instead, I know I could be doing nothing better, and that the sacrifices I and other mothers make are greater than any shower, perfectly clean house, or even a book contract with the most prominent publisher I could dream to snag. I know that, and am so grateful to have this privilege of unsightly, yet beautiful, motherhood...

...Even as I sit here nursing the baby for the third time in the last hour (one-hand typing...oh yeah!), and smelling the overflowing kitchen trash a few feet behind me. Ew.