My end of conversations with kids

I haven't blogged in awhile, sorry. I've been trying to do some "recon." I've been paying close attention to the conversations I have with Hannah, and the little boy I sit for (name withheld, because hey, it's the interwebz.) Could you imagine if these things were being said to other adults?

"Can you guys just go away, and let me wipe my bottom ALONE?"
"Don't pull on those knobs! Those are Lily's (the dog) nipples!"
"I understand that you have a booboo, but, I'm not kissing one THERE."
"If you would just stop touching it, you wouldn't have to worry about it feeling funny." (Little Guy is going through a touching himself phase.)
 "Yes, you and Daddy have the same boobies."
 "No cars in your underwear."
 "What did you just do with that booger?"
 "Because it's magic, that's why."
 "I know this soda has ice, but really, it's super spicy."
 "You can't just ask random neighbors for snacks when we go for a walk. We only do that on Halloween."
 "Does the backyard LOOK like a toilet?"
 "I asked the dolphins. They said they are super excited you're coming."
 "Do we put that in the toilet? No. Only poop, pee, and toilet paper."
 "Please leave him alone. I promise, he is NOT one of Santa's helpers."
 "I know YOU know why you were in time out. And, yes, part of it IS because I told you to go there. But, I want to make sure you actually know why you went, so tell me something besides, 'Because you told me to.' "
 "Yes, it does look like a piñata, and piñatas ARE super fun to hit, but, it is NOT a piñata, and if you see one outside, without a party going on, DON'T hit it."
 "WHY is there a toothbrush in your hair?"
 "Don't let this water get in your mouth. Do you have any idea how much pee is probably in this pool??"
 "Have I ever NOT fed you?? Then stop telling people that!"

There's a ton more, I just forget to write them down sometimes.

Kids...aka "Nature's Alcoholism"

So, Dan and I were having a beer tonight while cooking dinner, and, it hit me. Kids are another form of addiction. Only, without the oozing sores and dead teeth.
 Don't believe me?? THINK ABOUT IT.

Let's review some common symptoms of addiction. I watch, "Intervention," on A&E, so, I'm pretty sure I'm just an online diploma away from being an expert.

Extreme mood changes – happy, sad, excited, anxious, etc (Hmm. Sounds like pregnancy to me.)

Sleeping a lot more or less than usual, or at different times of day or night (Oh, look! Clearly, this person has a newborn!)

Changes in energy – unexpectedly and extremely tired or energetic (again, sounds like a new baby is around!)

Weight loss or weight gain (Pregnancy)

Unexpected and persistent coughs or sniffles (Kids are germ factories, and, it's well known that germs are the only thing they willingly share.)

Seeming unwell at certain times, and better at other times (Baby blues)

Pupils of the eyes seeming smaller or larger than usual (I attribute this to never leaving the house, because with a new baby, often, you don't even know what day it is.)

Secretiveness (I hide to eat candy and other goodies alone.)

Lying ("Mommy is going to bed too, Hannah! I promise!")

Stealing (I steal my kids' Halloween candy. And Easter. And Christmas.....)

Financially unpredictable, perhaps having large amounts of cash at times but no money at all at other times (goes without saying when kids are involved.)

Changes in social groups, new and unusual friends, odd cell-phone conversations (I went from the party crowd to the mini-van crowd. I also may, at times, discuss my kids' pooping habits over the phone.)

Repeated unexplained outings, often with a sense of urgency (NO, HONEY!!! LET ME GO GET MILK!! I DON'T MIND AT ALL!!! It may take an hour or so, though.)

Drug paraphernalia such as unusual pipes, cigarette papers, small weighing scales, etc (I have baby wipes, cloth diapers, and coconut oil scattered throughout my house. Also, breast pump attachments.)

 Lack of good hygiene (New parents are known to go for days without showering.*)

 Loss of focus (I try to go on date nights with Dan sometimes, swearing I need a break. We end up talking about the kids.)

See? You start out with just one. Then, you're pretty sure you can handle another. It just goes from there. The next thing you know, you're spending all your extra money on the latest kids' fashion item on Etsy, while you're not even changing out of sweatpants before you go to the grocery store. You'd lie, cheat, and steal for them, and the whole time, you'll deny you have a problem. "They're my kids!!I don't have a problem!"
See? That's what all addicts say.

I should know. I'm one of them. Hell, I even do in-home daycare, because I NEED to be surrounded by children. Hmm. That came out creepy. Ya'll know what I mean.

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*Please don't chime in about how you had quintuplets, and not only showered daily, but also kept up on laundry, and cooked a full dinner every night. Or, if you do, don't leave your real name, because I hate you, and you're lying. Unless you live with Grandma. Then, it doesn't even count.
 

Personal flaws in marriage

 I love my husband. He's thoughtful, helpful, smart, caring, and all around fantastic. I've got it good, and I know it. He cooks, cleans, bathes kids, NAME IT. That being said, NO marriage is perfect. We both have our flaws (well, I don't. I think we all know how awesome I am. Just do me a favor, and don't actually ASK Dan. Let's save time, and assume I'm always right). The key is OVERLOOKING those flaws. Which, I think I'm pretty awesome at.
 This past weekend, my awesome stepmom and little brother came for a visit. For one of the first times since Evie was born, Dan and I had to sleep in the same bed. Yes, I usually sleep on the couch. Now, before all my awesomely feminist friends cry out, "Oh, HELL NO, make that terrible MAN sleep on the couch," calm down. I LIKE it. Our couch is super comfy. It is angled just right that it supports my back while I lay on my side, all snuggled up, nursing Evie. I sleep out there willingly, because she doesn't sleep through the night, and since she is breastfed, why make him get up, and be sleep deprived, too? Clearly, flawless wife-stuff right there, huh? ;)
 Whoa, I'm off topic.
 Anyways, we had to sleep in the same bed. I forgot what that's like. You're probably picturing us all curled up together, clearly in marital bliss.Come on, ya'll. HAVE YOU BEEN READING THIS BLOG?
 It was hell. I forgot that Dan snores like... Well, a person who snores really loudly. He also has this annoying habit of ending up laying diagonally across the bed. There's something even worse, though. Teeth grinding? Nope. Sleepwalking? Nope. Talking?? Nope.
 SLEEP FARTS.
 Holy shit. <--- See what I did there?
 Yes, sleep farts. My wonderful husband has, straight up, without question, the worst gas problem while he sleeps. Some silent, some loud, ALL toxic. He's the Master of the Dutch Oven. King of Stink. There's no other way to describe it. His gas has woken me from sound sleep. It's the stuff of nightmares. Do you watch, "Doctor Who?" Remember the episode with the creepy gas mask people? I wasn't creeped out. I was jealous of their gas masks, permanently attached to their faces. Such bliss!!!
 I'm not forgiving. Crap. A flaw. I'm here to confess publicly. To bare my soul to you all.
 Sometimes, when he lets a bad one rip, I'll kick him. "Whoops, sorry! Must have been dreaming!" Sometimes, I'll elbow him, "MY BAD!!" I've even been known to do the roll-over-and-smack-him-in-the-face-and-pretend-I'm-sleeping move. Before you all condemn me, IT'S TOTALLY OKAY. He doesn't mind!
 He doesn't even remember!!!!

 I'm a terrible wife. I try to make up for it, by letting him sleep. I can honestly say, even with new babies, we've never had the "who got more sleep" argument. I let him have his weekly poker nights with the guys, I try not to whine when he is watching ESPN, while checking his ESPN app on his iPhone and iPad ( WHO DOES THAT??).
 But sleep farts? I turn into Joan Crawford, bitching about damn wire hangers.
 Whoopsies.
 Sorry, Dan. Just go back to sleep, and forget you ever read this.
  LOVE YOUUUUU!!!!

Naps

Moms love naps. Most of us live for the moments when our children are unconscious, and we can finish that coffee that has long gone cold, or read, or even shower... Just kidding. If you're like me, that magical time of day is spent hurredly scheduling doctor appointments, returning phone calls without children screaming in your ear,* or just trying to at least keep the family in clean underwear.
 Besides loving our children's naps, moms WANT to nap. But it never happens.

 Dads always get the naps.

Let me preface this by saying that I have a very helpful husband. He honestly does do his fair share of household stuff. He will bathe kids, cook meals, and cart the littles to their extracirriculars. He's very caring, and encourages me to nap on the weekends. Encourages, but doesn't facilitate.
 All week, I have a pretty set schedule with my kids, and the extra two I watch. After lunch, is nap. Always.  And, I try to extend that schedule over to the weekend, in the hopes that I'll get some sleep.
 Sometimes, it just doesn't work. We'll get sidetracked, and before we realize it, it's too late for H to lay down. Then, the chaos ensues.
 I say I'm tired. D encourages me to go take a nap. He'll watch the kids. HE'S GOT THIS. So, I go lay down. I get comfortable, start to even drift off, and IT HAPPENS.

 Knock knock knock.

The sound of a child's hand hitting my door. I ignore it. Surely, D will stop the intruder. The bedroom is right off the living room, HE CAN FREAKING SEE THEM.

Knock knock knock... "Moooommmmmmmmyyyyyyyyy!"

Dan, "Leave Mommy alone! She's sleeping."

"MOOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYYY!!!" KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"Hannah. I said leave Mommy alone."

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

 "HANNAH!" -- This shout of the name is followed by the sound of little feet, running away. Oh, cool. D must have stood up, which is the universal code for "Parent means business." TIME FOR SLEEP.

"Waaaaaaaaaaaa."
Crap. The shout woke Evie up. Surely, she'll settle back down. I just nursed her, right before I came in to lay down.

"WAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!" Nope. Definitely not settling down. I sigh, and call for Dan to bring her to me, so I can give her a dose of baby knock-out juice.** Once it's been administered, and she is clearly asleep, I text Dan to come get her (text, because NO WAY am I about to do anything louder than breathing), and he does. SUCCESS!! Time for sleep.

I start to drift off.

BOOM CRASH.

"HANNAH, GET OUT OF MY ROOM!" Shit. She's infiltrated Nick's room.

"HANNAH, GET OUT OF NICK'S ROOM," Dan shouts.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! I hear Dan curse. He forgot Evie was passed out on his chest, I guess (?!), and naturally, the sultry sound of his booming baritone has woken her up.

 I sigh, and gaze up at my ceiling, waiting for a minute to see how it all plays out. More thuds from Nick's room. Evie's crying has picked up a notch.

A nap isn't happening.

I go out, and take Evie while Dan stops the other two from killing each other. He puts on a movie for them, or sends them to play outside. I feed the baby, while sipping another cup of coffee, and glance over to where Dan has layed on the couch.

He's passed out. SNORING, even.

Dads always get the naps.

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* Sometimes, waiting for naptime to take care of calls doesn't help. No matter what, if I'm on the phone, someone needs something, RIGHTTHISMINUTE.

** Relax people. Baby knock-out juice is breastmilk. I don't drug my kids. Often.

S#!@ my kids say

If you're my friend on Facebook, then you might know a bit of the personality of my middle child, Hannah. That child is a tornado, gift-wrapped in a freakin' hurricane. I love her spunk. Her creativity. Her generosity...just so many things that would take me much too long to post here (but I try to put snippets in her baby book).
 But sometimes, juuuussssst sometimes, she makes me want to hide in the closet in my bedroom, clutching a bottle of tequila, cursing the day I ever thought it would be a great idea to have children.
 Hannah has, so far, not met a single person that she doesn't like. Not a single person that she doesn't want to talk to. Everyone she meets is her friend. I know, I know. What's not absolutely endearing about a sweet little girl, with big, chocolate brown eyes, explaining the world that she sees through them??
 Simple. Hannah lies.
 Now, I don't mean tiny, 3 year old lies. Not the cute ones, where they insist that they're 4 instead of 3, or tell you that their actual first name is Princess. I wish. Nope. I don't get off that easy. She tells the WHOPPERS. The lies that make you want to at least consider just driving out to the country, and leaving your child next to a nice farm. Surely there's a nice family on that farm, and they'll give your child a wonderful life, with open fields for them to run all day, and quaint wood stove for them to sleep next to at night!
 Nicolas never had this problem. The worst thing he went through (so far) was a month long period, when he was about three years old, when he thought every person who was not white, was Latino. And, he would use his Spanish-speaking skills learned from, "Go, Diego, Go!" to try to converse with all these people. If you've seen my son, or heard him speak, you would know why that's not really embarrassing, but HILARIOUS.
 Back to Hannah.
 There's been some blog-worthy tales lately. About 2 months ago, Hannah was jumping on the living room couch. You know, fun little kid stuff. At each end of this couch, I have end tables that are pretty much level with the arms of the couch. I think you know where this story is going, Dear Reader. To keep it simple, Hannah ended up with two staples in the back of her head. But, the worst part was when the paramedics came (yes, I dialed 911. I was home alone with the girls, and the car seats weren't installed that day. THANKS, DAN.) After being filled in, one of the paramedics cheerfully sat down to examine Hannah's head, and asked her the worst thing he could possibly ask her (in my case, anyway).
 "WHAT HAPPENED?"
 Hannah, all 3 years old and cute, looked him square in the eye, and said, "My mommy pushed me down."
 WHAT.THE.HELL.
 There's no way for me to make a quick recovery. I can either stutter out that she's lying, and OF COURSE I did NOT push her (and look guilty), or stay quiet, hoping he surely knows better (and look guilty). Me? I just laughed nervously, said something about crazy shit kids say, and tried not to make eye contact (and looked guilty).
 Just today, we went grocery shopping. We were in the produce section, and it was kind of chilly. Hannah was in short sleeves, and was complaining about being cold. I half-assed consoled her (hey, I was trying to pick some damn avocados), and told her we would be out of the cold section soon, yadayadayada. To exact her revenge for me not taking her seriously, she yelled, "YOU ALWAYS MAKE ME BE COLD AND HUNGRY!!!"
 I swear, that shit echoed to the back of the store.
 People looked at me, with their judging eyes (and probably their smartphones. I better check YouTube here in a bit). Employees, old people, other kids... Everyone. Except one other woman. She had a little girl, about 3 years old. This woman looked at me with eyes that looked like she's seen battle. Cold and empty. I knew, in that instant, that she has felt my pain.
 Lady, if you're reading this, I'll look for you next time I go to HEB. I saw that cheap box of wine in your cart, and I have a feeling we could be best friends.
 Soul mates.

My very first post! And there's poop involved.

Parenting is hard. Not just in general. Today. Every day, really. For me.
 My 3.5 year old is at a crossroads in her life, and it hasn't been easy. Since she was born, I've been waiting for her to be more independent. As parents, that's what we want, right? We want our offspring to be able to, "do it themselves." We want to be able to drink that coffee while it's still hot, or maybe actually finish an article in the paper, without having to pause and replenish juice, or goldfish crackers, or whatever the hell it is they're yelling in our ears about. 
 Hannah? She's there. And I'm not ready.
 She wants to wipe her own butt.
I know what those of you without children, or maybe only one young child are thinking. "Is this chick crazy?? Why the eff wouldn't she want her kid to wipe her own ass??" I remember when Nicolas (now 8) was little. I thought the same way. I dreamt of the day when he didn't announce to me that he was, "taking the Browns to the Superbowl." (Yes, he really would say that. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have taught him the phrase to begin with. But we're not here to point fingers.) I couldn't wait to not have to pause whatever I was doing, and wipe his bottom. I PRAYED FOR PRESCHOOLER INDEPENDENCE.
 And I got it. Do you know what came with that independence?
 Clogged toilets from too much paper.
 Little logs left for my viewing displeasure, because, more times than not, he didn't flush.
 Empty TP rolls when I wasn't expecting it.
 Dirty little pairs of Underoos. There's nothing worse than unthinkingly just grabbing up some dirty skivvies, and realizing you just got a palm full of preschooler poop. Well, there's actually way worse stuff, like war, famine, genocide, and some other big ones, but when you're palming poop, it's pretty much an instant day killer.
 Endless arguments. "Did you wipe?"
"YES, MOM."
"Let me check and be sure."
"MOOOMMMMMM. NOOOOO. I"M NOT A BABYYYYYYY!!!"
 "Do you promise you wiped? Really, really well?"
 "Yes!! Now, PLEASE stop talking about it Mom!!"
And it never failed, an hour later, little preschool fingers were itching a little preschool bottom. Digging those little "unner-wears" (as he used to call them) RIGHT into that poop he DIDN'T wipe. Then, we had to go into the bathroom, re-wipe, re-wash hands, and change unner-wears. It was a never-ending cycle. So.Much.Laundry.
 I'm not ready to go through it with Hannah. Letting me do the dirty work saves so much time in the long run, but she doesn't hear that. She's "HANNAH THE BIG GIRL" (She tells us all the time).
 But, I've learned.
 I have Daddy collect all the dirty laundry at the end of the day.
 Bring on the preschooler independence.