What We Feed Our Kids

When you are a mom you can find someone somewhere to debate whatever choices you have made for your child.  There are the basic debates that will live on forever, like, breast vs formula, spanking vs not, cloth diapers vs disposables, etc.  There will always be someone out there that knows more and has no problem pointing out what you are doing wrong when raising your kids.  Fortunately my ears go deaf and my eyes glaze over until such diatribes are over. 

Recently, Evie had her 6 month check up.  I had many concerns, well more than I had at her last appointment and more than I had with the older kids at that point in their lives.  She hasn’t rolled over, yet, either way.  She seemed to nap a lot, but I thought maybe I didn’t remember how much 6 month olds napped.  She was cranky much of the time.  And one that didn’t really catch my attention until after our appointment, she didn’t seem to smile as much as she once did.  Oh and one big one, she was a tiny baby.  I have small babies.  Both older kids were only 13 pounds at 6 months old.  With Evie things were a bit different.  I knew she would be small, but when you held up her she felt like nothing.  Everyone commented about it when picking her up.  I weighed her with the Wii Fit Plus and it said 11 pounds.  Not bad, but not where the other kids were and how right could a video game be?  So I pushed it to the back of my mind until we had our doctor’s appointment, which was only a week away.

I knew something was up when the doctor asked to weigh her again.  I saw the first weigh in and was shocked.  She was just over 10 pounds.  That couldn’t be right and the doctor thought the same, but the second weigh in proved to produce the same results.  Back in our little room the doctor showed the growth chart and it showed that Evie had dropped from it.  Our doctor never gives me any problems about the kids weight as long as they are on the chart.  He knows my kids and he knows that they are small, but when they fall off the chart after being on since birth then there is cause for concern.  And that is when it all clicked, the other kids had dropped off of the chart at some point in their young lives, too.  Amber dropped off briefly when she had gotten some vicious bug.  No real concern there, just another weigh in when she felt better to make sure there was nothing else wrong.  Sam wasn’t sick when he dropped off, but he was 9 months old.  That was the time when he was put on formula, which means he was back on that chart in no time.  Then there was Evie, her being tired, not so happy and never seeming to be full was all clicking.  I wasn’t making enough milk.  So that day I went to Target after our appointment and bought a can of formula.  She is now full and happy without a care in the world.  I wish I could say the same for her mother.

There is some guilt, of course there is, I am a mother.  I took a moment to wallow in my guilt and then moved on.  I had hoped, like with the other kids, to go a year breastfeeding Evie, but once again life stepped in to told me otherwise.  I will admit I had a choice in this matter, it wasn’t like I am misinformed or the doctor pushed formula on me.  Quite the contrary.  I chose my kids’ doctor for the simple reason he doesn’t push you one way or the other, but makes a more middle of the road suggestion.  His suggestion was to give her formula after she had nurse.  It was my decision to put her on formula and no breastmilk.  I know all too well how to build up my milk, I have been on Babycenter.com long enough to know just about every trick in the book.  I have often given the advice to other mothers, myself.  And the most important part in building a supply is time.  There is pumping after baby has eaten, there is eating certain foods (oatmeal), there are herbal supplements you can take (maple syrup goodness) and there is leaving baby on the breast for the majority of the day.  Time is the one thing that I don’t have much of.  I spend almost 4 hours a day in the car with just school drop off and pick up, alone, and then there is those pesky older kids wanting food, love and attention.  I am already with my back up against the clock everyday as it is to add the burden of building up my supply, which wasn’t doing too well with Evie nursing for 20 minutes every 2 hours.  All this was further solidified when after 2 days of only nursing once I was no where near being engorged.  Hell, there were mothers out there (on Twitter) complaining about being engorged and their babies were much older than Evie. 

I don’t like formula.  It is expensive, smells nasty and takes time and effort to make.  In the grand scheme of things all these problems are small and there are things about breastfeeding that I don’t like.  Hell, there are things about parenting in general I am not fond of doing, hello wiping butts, but we do them because it is our job and these things are small compared to the great picture.  So while I allowed myself a bit of crying over the what ifs, I knew very well that to wallow any longer would be unproductive and ridiculous.  I have spent my time on the Mother Martyr Train and my ticket was getting full and I need some of that space for guilt later in my children’s life.  So I have moved on.  Evie started formula a lot sooner than I thought and she is doing fine, which is the most important.  And I only have 5 months to deal with all this bottle stuff.  The point is that as her mother I am to get her to the next point in her life healthy and safe using methods that I my not particularly like but can manage to muddle through until their short shelf life is over.  Next up waking and talking and me reconsidering my stance on not drinking.

Keeping it Real

The real reason I am still wearing my maternity clothes:  It is true, I can button my pre-pregnancy pants and my shirts can make it over the barrel that I call  my stomach.  However, as a friend once called it, maternity clothes are outside pajamas.  They are roomy, when you don’t have a large belly containing a baby pulling at the stitches, and oh so comfortable.  The extra fabric makes me more comfortable about nursing in public.  I know there are nursing tops, but you need to have an engineering degree to work them while holding a squirming, screaming baby.  Also, I am either going through early menopause or my hormones are still partying it up in this bitch because I am constantly hot and most nursing tops are layers that can’t be removed.  I know one day I will have to toss aside my large, roomy clothes for the confines of my regular clothes, but, as I keep telling myself in order to feel better about the lack of weight loss, it has only been 3.5 months.  You can smack me when I say, “It has only been 18 years.”

The bathroom is the heart of this house:  I am hearing all the time that the kitchen is the heart of the house; it is where everyone gathers to talk and share a good time.  In this family, the bathroom has been the place to meet and mingle.  I am not sure who made this decision, but I would like to point out on the Internet right this minute, it wasn’t me.  We have 3 bathrooms in the house and one in the office out back.  Logic would dictate that if someone is in one of the bathroom that maybe the right thing to do is to go to one of the other rooms with a toilet.  Do I have to remind you that logic and children do not mix?  The exact opposite happens, if you are using a bathroom that is the one that is sought out.  It never fails if I am taking a shower, getting dressed, brushing my teeth or any of the other things that go on in the bathroom little people, and sometimes a larger, hairy person, magically appear.  Amber has to use our toilet at 5 in the morning, because…hell, I don’t know.  Sam has to brush his teeth while I am standing there buck nekkid doing my morning routine, even though there is a perfectly vacant bathroom down the hall.  And don’t think it happens just because it is the master bathroom, which is not all that, major questions must  be answered while I am showering in the hall bathroom.  See. Master bathroom not all that.  We all have to shower or bathe in the hall bathroom, because someone the size of a noodle designed our master bathroom shower.  I keep hearing that as kids get older they crave privacy, can someone give me a time line on that, because it is getting crowded and uncomfortable in here.

Evangeline really does fall asleep with a burp cloth on her head:  And since she is unable to get it exactly the way she wants it, I will help her out and put it on her head for her.  What are moms for?  We get strange looks all the time and I am sure someone is going to accuse me of trying to smother my baby.  I assure you it really does put her to sleep and she can breathe.  NO, we do not cover her entire face at night, but that would only be a concern if she was sleeping by herself, which she isn’t and OHMYGOD would she please start sleeping in her crib. 

Photographic proof. 

Calm, but not asleep.  Get the picture?
(That is how she rolls in the shopping cart. I guess the blue camo
is why I get so many “HE” is sooo cute.)

Then your older sister will take it a step further and give you the hat
that all the old people will claim your mother should have on your head, anyway,
in such nippy weather.  Which leads me to my next keeping it real item:
My kids don’t wear hats.  I have fought the good fight and, now, have given up.
The older 2 are still alive so I am guessing it is not that important.

I have no shame when disciplining my kids in public:  Sure I put up a good front when it was just Amber.  There was no yelling and everything was discussed at length.  Come to think of it that is how we did it at home, too. Interesting.  Then I had another kid, time got short and patience got even shorter.  At this point, you are lucky I am not screaming with the pedal to the floor near the nearest cliff, which in Louisiana is far, far away.  Lucky me.  Today, I warned my son that he would get a hide tanning if he didn’t stop climbing all over his sister.  Next, I took away Amber’s gymnastics class, because she decided it would be a good idea to rolling around on the floor of Toys R Us.  Who does that?  Yesterday, I grabbed Sam and fought every fiber of my being not to beat him in the bank parking lot when he decided that being mad at me was worth getting hit by a car.  He pulled away from me and came inches from hitting the car door of a car that was moving through the parking lot.  Luckily, my reflexes have become cat-like and the man was driving slowly.  All this happen without me dropping the carseat containing Evie.  I’ve got mad mom skillz, YO!

I am typing this while Evie screams in the background and I have told Amber to wait for her dinner*: This isn’t the first nor last time I will demand that my kids wait.  Frankly, Evie is often left crying in her swing at this time, because the other 2 seem to wait food at the same time every night.  It is hard and I would think not safe to hold a small baby while working with hot liquids or near hot surfaces, so really it is for her safety.  I have no excuse for the blogging, except that I never have time and I would hate to lose another idea, no matter how great or not great it might be.

The swing is more than our friend, it has taken the place of my arms and a rocking chair: When it was just Amber I had all the time in the world to develop bedtime routines, work on perfecting them and patiently rocking her to sleep. Repeat as often as needed.  All that fell apart once Sam came along.  There were activities we had to be at, another child to bathe and feed, and on and on.  These days I barely have time to pee or eat, which would explain why I eat most of my calories at night.  I am thinking that doesn’t help with weight loss.  I have started holding Evie on the sofa while I watch TV or surf the Internet.  She eventually falls asleep, but I fear at this rate she is lucky to get a bath most weeks and all hopes of a bedtime routine are lost.  I am hoping that it will just fall into place, kind of like it did with Sam.  Then I remember those days and cry silently, you know so I don’t wake the baby.

Everyday I think of weaning  Evie: Mainly for the weight loss.  Weird, I know, it goes against everything you ever heard about breastfeeding.  Well, stop reading those books, because they don’t know shit. Okay, I am a bit bitter.  However, the 13 extra lbs I am carrying doesn’t compare to the being able to stay asleep while feeding the baby or the spacious interior of my diaper bag.  Nuff said.

 *I am not completely heartless, I did stop what I was doing and proofread after the kids had dinner and the baby was sleeping. 

I Can’t Diet with Cake in the House!

Evangeline will be 3 months on October 24.  That is four days away.  Four. Days. Away!  And I am still not in my prepregnancy clothes. 

I know all the PC crap that is spewed whenever a previously pregnant woman complains that she hasn’t lost all the weight, yet: “It took 9 months to put it on, it is going to take 9 months to take it off.”  “You are breastfeeding, all that weight should be sliding off anytime, now.”  “With just a little exercise and eating right, you should lose the weight in no time.”  To all of that I say, bullshit!  This is kid number 3 and the weight never just slide off while I breastfed them.  Matter of fact, my fat hangs onto my body like it is waiting for the time I am stranded on some island and we all have to survive off my milk.  (Don’t think on that too long or you might just yak.)  I was Shredding, but even Jillian Michaels couldn’t cut through my mountain of fat.  I had high hopes, because there this mom blogger who started to Shred when she was 5 months postpartum and not only does she have a rocking new body, but a new found love of exercise.  Yeah, not so much for me.  I have 7 days left on my 30 days and I doubt I will finish it.  Frankly, the results I was getting wasn’t enough for me to continue to get up at 5am every morning after waking up multiple times a night after sleeping in one position  to avoid rolling over the little person sleeping next to me who demands to eat at all hours of the night.  My friend cut out eating out and she is down 13 lbs.  Woo!Hoo! for her.  I have adopted the same frugal policy and still can’t lose a pound. 

Confession time, I guess.  I may, just may, be expecting major results in record time.  I think this has always been my downfall in the weight lost arena.  I mean one should never expect to see a pound lost after working out for 2 hours, 5 days a week in the gym for a year.  I will give you, that I might have not pushed myself as much as I should, but there should have been some weight lose, right.  Even if it was a pound.  Hell, I think I even gained a little weight.   After that, not even the lure of child free time could get me into the gym, again.  So when I heard about the 30 Day Shred, I shouldn’t have expected to look like Jillian Michaels in 30 days.  Maybe, those last 7 days are the ones that will do it, but at this point I am not willing to try.  I have been sweaty and cranky for weeks and nothing, nothing.  

Second, exercising makes you hungry and carrots don’t fill you up.  Ah, sure you can listen while all those skinny bitches tell you how good low calorie, low fat food is, but they ain’t got nothing on Paula Deen.  That’s all I am saying.  Not only am I Southern, but Italian and neither of those groups are known for their low calorie meals.  Yeah, yeah there are vegetables involved in these food cultures but they are usually slathered in a cream sauce or tons of butter.  I did get the Cooking Light cookbook at Amber’s school book fair and we have been enjoying many of our dinners out of there.  I especially like it because it uses ingredients I would normally use, like whipping cream, but in much smaller amounts.  So you get the taste or creaminess, but not as many calories.  However, you get a little disappointed when you see the serving size.  I will be the first to admit that my eating habits could use a great big ol smack.  It is very hard to pass up the massive amounts of cake leftover from the pumpkin party or not letting good food go bad. *ahem*  People talk about will power and I guess I was in the cake line when it was handed out, because I obviously don’t have any. 

The worst part is that I know it can be done.  I see the results everywhere.  There are friends that have given birth close to me and they are back to looking like they did before they were pregnant.  There are family members that have worked hard and are back to their fighting weight.  I would like to point out that these family members are not blood related and this is where I blame my genes on that spare tire I am sporting.  Every night I tell myself this is the last day that I eat.  Oh yes, I make a vow to not eat again until I can fit into my jeans without fear of taking out someone’s eye.  Then morning comes and after feeding a baby for most of the night, Mamma is hungry.  I start off good and then it is all downhill starting at 10am.  Another factor is that I know I will eventually be back into my clothes.  It took about 9 months with Amber (when I stopped breastfeeding her) and about 3 months with Sam.  I was hoping that I would cut my record down with Evie, but no such luck.  I think my girls have the same effect on my body.  So, I will have to push aside the thoughts and wishes of  comments of how good I look after just having a baby.  It was my one Christmas wish this year.  And no it doesn’t count if you read this and tell me; it has to be true.  *sigh*  I will continue on with wearing my maternity clothes mixed with the few regular clothes I can wear and hope that one day I won’t be mistaken for the Michelin man breastfeeding a baby.

Baby’s First Spa Treatment

It has been 5 weeks since my last pedicure and in true SAHM eating bons bons pampered fashion I was jonesing for some feet TLC.  I was also sick of looking down, now that I can see my feet, and seeing a clump of snaggle toes.  A couple of weeks back I stubbed my toe on the rolling laundry basket and broke one of my big toe nails.  That meant that I had to remove my nail polish and start hacking away at my nails, because I can’t have one nail half broken.  That would not look right.  Nevermind that after I chopped off the tops of my nails, I looked like a badger had gotten a hold of my foot.  No matter, I was no longer a slave to my sandals and flip flops, because I can actually bend at the waist and have normal size feet.  I would just keep them in tennis shoes for awhile.  Well, that worked for awhile until the day came I wanted to wear something open toed (no know, something nice other than tennis shoes) and thought that the sight of my feet might actually cause people to wretch.  Right then and there, I decided that I would get me a pedicure at any cost.

I figured Evie is at the stage where she sleeps, eats and poops.  No problem, right?  I would just tuck her into the sling and I could enjoy an hour of someone working their magic on making my feet lovely to look at ,again.  I have learned after 7 years and 3 kids, that when you have kids there are some compromises that have to be made when it comes to things that you need want to do.  Sure I thought about the time where she might want to eat, but I have that covered.  *ahem* Or maybe uncovered is a better choice of words, as a veteran of nursing in public (NIP).  I have nursed many places, so why not the spa.  I mean there are totally naked women behind some of those doors.  I am sure a boob with a baby attached wouldn’t be such a surprised in this arena.  And it wasn’t.

What I didn’t count on was that Evie seems to be advanced, or my memory is failing due to momnesia.  I think it is the latter.  Evie has become more animated, lately.  She is not sleeping most of the day, anymore, and it is getting more difficult to get her to sleep.  I have discovered that her pattern is eat, burp, scream her head off, then sleep.  So, yeah, that scream her head off part was something I should have considered before making my selfish pedicure appointment.  In the end, things went pretty well.  There were some tense moments where I thought this was it, she is going to scream non-stop and I will have to walk out of the spa with half my nails done.   She did fuss a bit at the end, but I was able to walk out with fully painted toenails.  Next time I will be leaving her with her father, no matter how much he protest.  Sure she is a boobie baby, but there is milk in the freezer and I am sure she will stop screaming before I get back.  All that screaming makes a baby tired, so eventually she will fall asleep.

In other news, I came home to find Lord of the Flies going on in my home.  When SoHubby “watches” the kids in the mornings, when I have an appointment, he is in the back office and the kids are left in the house.  I never use to worry, because Sam could usually be counted on to watch TV until I got home.  Since Evie came along, I have asked him to get a few things for himself.  Well, this has opened up a whole new world for him.  All it takes is a knowledge of the location of juice, snacks and a stool and he is sitting in 3.5 year old boy heaven.  I walk into the house to find Sam with a pack of Oreos, the stool positioned by the fridge and something very gross on the doorknob.  This, and a couple of mornings where I had to take a nap (falling asleep while driving Amber to school) and he went out the garage door to the office, for me to realize that I can no longer trust that Sam will just play in the playroom or watch TV.  We are living in a new world and I am not too happy.  Adjustments must be made.  I go to sleep when the kids go to bed, at 7pm.  Ask me how happy that makes me.  Not very, but, at least, it is working at preventing me from driving into a ditch, canal, or off a bridge in the morning.  And I will have to lock Sam and SoHubby in the office.  Don’t even go there with me giving up my early morning, once a month, appointments to the spa.  There are so few things I can do without the kids around and if I lose anymore, I might just lose my mind, completely.

She Never Liked My Food

Since I have entered the cranky phase, I have let it be known more than usual that I am not happy with the children disliking the food I prepare for them.  I mean who doesn’t like mashed potatoes and ground beef, no real American that is.  It is annoying, to say the least, to have small children demand food and then make retching noises and threaten to vomit, because obviously I am trying to poison them with fruit, vegetables, meat and seasonings.  Oh the horror of seasonings!! 

It was particularly bad one night, last week, when I had made dinner and not one of my lovely children took more than 2 bites and then promptly demanded dessert.  Of course, there is no dessert because they hadn’t eaten.  Oh the screams and cries of tortured young souls that are denied dessert when not meeting the requirement of eating most of their dinner.  Notice, not ALL, but MOST.  I hope they never come up before a Senate Committee Hearing, because I am sure that there is torture and not sanctioned by the U.N.  I could be looking at some hard time. 

I could weave you a tale of woe about how hard it is to come up with a weekly menu that will be eaten by 2 adults and 2 small children and then do ALL the grocery shopping, only to be told I suck every night.  Okay, not every night, we do eat out frequently.  But SoHubby can do one better, as is always the case.  He likes to tell the kids the story about how Grammy, his mother, stopped cooking never to pick up a pot or pan in her life, again, and how Grampy, his father, had to then cook all the meals or the whole family would have starved.  Are you seeing where our daughter gets her drama?  It seems that SoHubby’s sister, not him of course because he was a angel and didn’t arrive until 10 years after his sister, and Grampy constantly teased Grammy about her food.  Luckily, I haven’t heard any examples of what was said, because I am sure the kids would then have an arsenal of insults to throw at me while NOT eating their food.  After such teasing, Grammy threw up her hands and vowed to NEVER cook again.  And it is all true, because in all the 7 years I knew the woman,  I NEVER saw her pick up so much as a ladle to make anything.  I guess that is why SoHubby is quick to throw a few compliments my way as to fend off a lifetime sentence of cooking meals.  I even have to press to find out if something was not quite right and admit I thought it was off before he would say a negative word about my food.  It ain’t all bad, I guess.

None of this detours Amber.  Oh no, she is right in the prime of her let’s see how far I can push Mom before she jumps off the highest bridge phase.  This morning Amber informed me that she only pretended to like my breastmilk when she was a baby and when I would put her down to sleep she would make her YUCK face.  Cue YUCK face.  I am not sure what she expected me to do with this information, but living with her father for 10 years has taught me a thing or two.  I ignored it.  She ain’t getting me to rend my garments and gnash my teeth all because she proclaimed that she didn’t like my breastmilk.  It only insures that she will get an extra heaping helping of crap stew and maybe a box of rocks for her birthday, instead of the iPod she has been asking for.  I come from heartier stock than that.  I came from a woman whose library of recipes included a large white gloved hand and a man that thought serving young children, who are not Asian, egg drop soup would be a good idea.  They didn’t stop cooking and neither will I.  I have just found a new form of torture for my kids, meals that include nothing but veggies and liver all the while I eat ice cream, chips and cookies right in front of them. BAMAWAHAHAHA!!!  I will keep on cooking and claiming no dessert until a reasonable amount of dinner has been consumed.  I am sure the kids can survive on their 3 weekly meals out and, bonus, it will keep them in their clothes longer.  Although, I will have to break this easy to the dog, he has been eating pretty good these last few months.

Hey, Dipshit

Note:  As I come across them, I will post other responses to this train wreck at the bottom of the post.  

I made the mistake of going too far to discover more about this whole Bill Maher vs Breastfeeding thing.  Kind of Crunchy Mama was very good at defending breastfeeding and proving that this guy is an idiot.  However, I have somethings to say that KOCM is too nice to express.  I don’t have that problem.

Mr. Maher you said that American women want a medal because we had a baby.  No sir, I am sorry you are so very wrong.  We would like to be treated with a little respect, like the rest of America, especially when we are paying customers.  We would, also, like to feed our children without a big issue made out of it. 

There were many references to breasts in your rant as sexual objects.  Well, I guess when you are a weasley little man that only feels self worth in the caliber of woman or quantity that you can bed I guess that is the only way you can look at it.  Breasts were put on this earth for more than your sexual pleasure.  Breasts, along with the vagina, are here to aid in the process of having children.  Breasts are not just here for men to drool over while slipping $1 into our g-strings, but to provide nutrition to growing babies.  The best, nature intended food for babies.

You mentioned that we are lazy, because we can’t or won’t plan ahead for our babies.  I can only assume that you are talking about pumping a bottle.  Well, Mr. Maher until you are hooked up to a breast pump until you get milk, I think you should shut the hell up.  I would have been happy to sit next to you in a restaurant and let my baby scream his head off, because he wouldn’t take a bottle. I know that you don’t understand much about birthing and babies, but babies have to learn how to suck on a bottle.  It is not something they are born knowing.  Also, babies have preferences and mine prefered their milk from the tap at body temperature. 

You went to a very low level by saying that this was an intimate act and you didn’t want to see it for free.  It would cheapen it.  Very funny Mr. Maher, I would like to point out that you can mind your own fucking business and stop staring at women breastfeeding their babies.  Just as my baby has a right to be fed anywhere and everywhere a child and it’s mother would be welcomed (as my state law says), you have every right in the world to leave, turn your head, mind your business, or just shut up.  I hate that people like you get to spew their dumb ass opinions and get paid, but I don’t go to your job and demand that you be removed.  I simply don’t watch.  Novel, I know.  Along these lines, I think I will complain the next time I am in a restaurant and some insensitive adult is talking too loud on their cell phone.  I am offended by this behavior and I have the right to have that person removed. 

Lastly, you decided to scrap the bottom of a New Orleans sewer when you said that dogs can have babies, so what makes it so special.  Well, I guess you have never been awoken early in the morning  to the screeching of 2 dogs going at it.  I guess you failed to realize that even dogs have sex, something that I hear you like doing with women that are out of your league.  Or don’t care the company they keep.  So, yes dogs, cats, rats, etc all can have babies, but they all have sex, too.  And how classy of you to compare breastfeeding to dog birthing and masturbation.  You are a classy, classy guy.  I can only guess that you are jealous that women are given such power as to give birth and nuture future adults.  I, also, believe that if you had a brain cell left in your head you would realize that breastfeeding is not always the best experience and it feels nothing like an orgasm.  It is a function of taking care of an infant. 

I hope that I have cleared somethings up for you.  I hope you understand that women are more than half the population and many of us are mothers and, yet, a good bit of us breastfeed.  I wouldn’t piss us off, Mr. Maher.  You know what they say, “The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world”.  Sadly, since you have no children of your own you will find yourself old and sad crapping into your pants without anyone to care.

Yours Truly,

Southern Mom

Breastfeeding mom to 2 future Americans who will decide your future and always do what their mother tells them.

In case you have no idea of what I am talking about, just go to the end of the clip:

You tell ‘em:

Chicky Chicky Baby

Shakesville

Breeders are Eaters, too!

My Civic Duty. (hee hee, Dooty)

I understand it is hard to get people to show up to jury duty. I guess if you showed up once then there is a good chance you will do it again. Normally, I don’t mind serving on a jury. I did once want to be a lawyer (I was tired after 5 long years at college, beside I snagged me a man so what was the point?) and do love all the legal based shows on TV, but twice within a year is more than one person can take.

Out of the 4 times I have been called, I have only served once. And once was enough. I was picked and served on a jury for a drug deal gone bad. I got to see lovely pictures of some dead guy. I got the lovely experience learning that this doesn’t shock everyone. And out of the other of the 11 people that served with me, I was the only one that had never seen a dead body before. This made me scared of the other jurors. The best part was that the rest of the jurors were sympathetic to the guy on trial. I mean come on this was his only offense and he promised he wouldn’t do it again. Let’s just say it was an eye-opening experience. I am thoroughly convinced that we should not let the general public decide these matters.

The other 2 times I could not serve because there was the question of my children. Amber was just over a year. I didn’t realize that this was a good excuse, so I packed her up for the day and headed into the jury poole room. The lady behind the counter greeted me with, “Ah no, you cant bring her in here.”. All you have to do is this…. Unfortunately, I have forgotten what she told me. I left that room to almost a standing ovation to my sheer genius of bringing my child to get out of jury duty. Little did they know that it wasn’t genius, but stupidity on my part.

I got a lovely grand jury summons only 3 weeks after giving birth to Sam (and if you are counting he will be a year old on February 2nd). However, they were smart enough to send a form to fill out where I could write why I couldn’t attend. I mean I could have dragged my lovely post partum, C-section ass in there with a crying, constant boob sucking, Creole mustard squirting baby in there with me, but I don’t think I would have made the best juror. I mean I couldn’t tell what was going on in my house during that time. Not to mention my mood, I would have yelled, “Hang ‘em” and asked to watch. So yeah, that wasn’t the best time for me.

I was thinking of sending a letter like this explaining why I cant attend jury duty, this time:

Dear Justice system,

I would love to attend your little jury party, but it seems I am unavailable at this time. I would love to get away from my kids for a day and sit in your lovely jury room to wait to be judge if I am smart (or dumb) enough to be chosen by the many Louisiana lawyers that grace your court everyday. It would be nice to stare at the same wall day after day or maybe I could read a book, if I could actually remember to bring one. I would probably end up with a diaper that I mistaken for a book and after about an hour those things just don’t hold your interest.

It would be nice to hear all the lovely things your defendant had been up to since the last time he graced the court house. I rarely get to listen to the under belly of life that lives only steps away from my house. I would love to get together with the other jurors and discuss the reasons this poor person should be allowed to leave your gracious accommodations. And not to mention the great free food that you so thoughtfully provide. My mouth waters at the thought of a dry po-boy on the hardest bread I have ever encountered.

I am sorry that I have these children to watch all day. It is hard work and unfortunately my husband has declared that he must work to provide us with food. I guess I could leave my youngest in his highchair with his automated baby feeder all day, but I fear that you will find it in your power to remove him from my care and I would be on the other end of the jury box. I don’t think that would serve any of us, well.

I would be more than happy to attend one of your little jury parties a little further down the road. Maybe 4-5 yrs. I know you are really desperate for attendees. My I suggest that you throw in a little better food and entertainment to draw in more jurors. I know it is hard with what you have to work with, but I have full faith that you will get the response you deserve.

Regretfully yours,

Wendy

Or maybe I will just check the box marked: Cannot read, speak English.

Bring Sexy Back…

please!!! I never thought my undergarments meant that much to me. True, I am a girl and like pretty things. However, I never went as far as every bra and panty combo had to match. (I know some girls that do.) I had 2 basic colors, nude and black. I would add color on occasion, but I was never real particular about it. That was because I could go into any store, be it Victoria Secret or Target, and find a bra that fit.

Well, among the other things that have change when having kids, so has my body. I know you are shocked, but get over yourself. I have never been small in the chest region, but I wasn’t carnival size, either. Well, after going through 2 pregnancies and 2 nursing babies, it has come to my attention that I can no long walk into the common store and purchase a bra off the rack.

I, finally, have been fitted properly and have discovered that Oprah is right, I have been wearing the wrong size all along. I always thought I was a 38 D, well come to find out I am a 34 H. Yeah on the 34, but booooo on the H. What the hell? Who even knew they went up that high?

After much search on the Internet, I hadn’t found much. I did try the mall, but decided that I need to take drastic measures when the salesgirl at Cacique was determined to get me into a 36H. (I wasn’t thrilled to be entering the Lane Bryant to begin with so I certainly wasn’t going to buy something that didn’t fit.) It was recommended that I try a local medical supply store. Can you believe it I have to go to a medical supply store? FOR. BRAS. No pretty displays of lacy bras and panties. I now have to shop for my bras among wheelchairs, diabetic shoes, and things that help you flush the toilet with your foot. Well, at least it is not Omar the tent maker. YET!!!

It has come to my attention that I cant even get a regular bra. I must stay with my lovely Medela nursing bras. Why, you ask? Well, it seems that the huge over the shoulder boulder holder makers cant seem to make a bra that doesn’t have a large seam across the boob. The nice lady, who got to second base with me this afternoon, explained to me that that seam is needed for support. I have some pride and since my hubby has seen me in the nursing bras and he is trapped for life, I don’t want everyone to see that huge seam through my shirt. I would have to wear a wool sweater to hide the bra and I don’t think that will work in our, hot as hell, summers.
Gone are the days when I could wear a modest yet slightly low cut blouse. The bra comes up to high. Gone are the tank tops or even slightly modest see through blouses. The straps are too wide to hide under a cami. Not only do I have to accept that I must wear granny panties to contain my humongoid butt, but I have to wear the matching granny bras. This people is the moment I discovered that life is not fair.

I think I will take my husband up on the offer of a little body work. *sigh*

Mother of the Year….NOT!!!!

I thought as babies got older the shit and puke fest would get less. Of course, my children have to be different. I remember a fond day of telling the doctor that Sammy is not as gassy or have as many bowel movements as Amber. He didn’t seem worry, so I thought nothing of it. Then the whole issue of Sammy’s weight came under question and I weaned him from the breast.

Formula was going to be great. No more titty show in the mall, restaurants or other public places. No need to worry if someone would come up to me and express their disgust. No explaining to anyone. (Not that I ever encountered any of these problems, but I was always ready with a witty remark and Don’t-Effe-With-Me-Look.) And the most important, finally Daddy could take part in the night feedings. What I didn’t expect is that my son’s ass would exploded 3-5 times a day. And the smell would cause small animals to run and hide.

We have been through some pretty bad ones, recently. There was the time Sam was starting with a virus. I picked him up from his excersaucer and saw the nasty concoction that brewed in his pants for awhile. There are the countless times the poop reached the top of the diaper, without exiting, and we had to master keeping Sam still while not trying to spread pooh on every inch of the changing pad, dresser and us. Our fingers never survived, but those were easily cleaned. However, my gag reflex never did.

Today, has to be the worse. I was ready to sit down, relax and give Sam his bottle. I picked him up and my finger sank into the warm gooey-ness that is shit. It was up his back, on his clothes and on me. Oh my god, I wasn’t going to make it. For a spilt second I couldn’t decide what to do. I shouldn’t throw him down and run, like I would do with a dirty rag. I shouldn’t hand him to Amber and let her decide what to do. I wonder if I could give him to George’s assistant (she works in his office in our house until the back office is done.) to take care of. No, I don’t think he pays her enough. Buck up camper and take care of it.

I ran up the stairs with Sam at arm’s reach screaming (Me, not him. Sam is laughing. Oh it is so hilarious when you are not the one cleaning it up.) the whole way. I head to the bathroom and turn on the water in the tub. I wiggle him out of his shirt. I had to hold him upside down to get his pants off. The whole time I am screaming, Oh My God!! and wonder why I had children. I dunk him in the bathtub, not realizing that I had the hot water on. Sam screams and I have to comfort him without get crap all over me. He doesn’t trust me at this point, so he is not going into the water easily the second time. I, finally, get him into his bath seat in the water. I race around trying to get myself something clean. I know, I know. I shouldn’t leave him alone in the water. Since, I have people in my house all the time, now, I cant let the ladies go while I clean Sam up. And yes, the poop had soaked me to my bra. Sam is clean and the crap has floated down the drain. He drank his bottle and drifted off to sleep. I guess it is easy to go to sleep with a clean, butt smothered in Butt Paste.

I can accept this kind of mess with a newborn or a sick child, but on a regular basis, COME ON. There must be something I can do, besides put a cork up there. I guess I will need to move him up to the next size diaper, even though he still has about 2 lbs before the weight limit. What do I do with all the size 2s I have? Damn me and my sensible buying ahead, so we never run out. The added plus is that Amber frequently asks me to wipe her butt after she has taken a dump. Will the poop madness ever stop?

Sweet potatoes can really make you think.

I was making Sammy’s sweet potatoes when I realize I have fallen short of many of the goals I set for myself when I was an innocent wide-eyed mom of one. I knew nothing about babies when I didn’t have any. I remember babysitting my niece and was given no instructions. The hubs and I decide to go to Walmart with our baby niece armed with whatever was in the diaper bag. The one thing we forgot was the bottle. You mean babies have to eat after the designated dinnertime? Little niece started crying in the check out lane and by the time we were in the car it was full fledged screaming. What is wrong with her? I have no idea. Just because I have the breasts and the uterus doesn’t mean I know what to do with a screaming baby. How true this will be with my second child

Once I found I was pregnant with Amber, I researched and read everything. My child was going to be healthy and happy. More importantly she wasn’t going to be like those wretched little brats I saw in Walmart all the time. (What makes people lose their mind in the Walmart? Is the low prices or the filth?) Then Amber arrived and things went haywire for a few months, but settled down. I never imagined what would happen to my relationship with my husband, but a little therapy later and we were doing much better. Thank you. Hubby asked when we were going to have another one and I stood up proudly and yelled, “I will never do this again!”

Then 3 years later, almost to Amber’s birthday, I found out I was pregnant with Sam. I was happy and had forgotten all that went along with having a baby in the house. I was lulled into getting pregnant again by the free time I had recently gained from Amber going to school. I was an innocent mother of one, then, and had no idea what was in store for me, but I had big plans:

This pregnancy I was going to be fit and healthy. Then the morning sickness hit and I couldn’t get my sick butt off the sofa to make my child lunch much less exercise. There are 2 reasons I gained 10 pounds less than I did with Amber: I was running after a 3 year old and I was stressed from being run from my home by a massive hurricane. Maybe you have heard of the bitch, Katrina. It might sound like fun to live in a hotel and eat in restaurants for a month, but I will tell you it is not. I was sick of eating out and buying foods that could only survive a hotel stay. I was ready to come home and take my chances with the MREs. Although, hubby was sick of MREs and was ready for anything resembling real food. We were both ready to get back to business as usual.

I was going to have a VBAC. I had talked to my doctor and I was ready to do what I had to to get this baby out naturally. However, I never got very far with this idea. The hurricane left my hospital under 4 feet of water and under investigation for euthanizing patients. My doctor had relocated and I was left to find someone, anyone, that could deliver a baby. Luckily, I did find a doctor, but sadly there would be no VBAC. My doctor was not thrilled with the idea and I wasn’t in a position to look for another doctor. Besides, the fact that I had no medical records. I mean the ERs were over flowing with people needing medical care and we were lucky that there was a hospital near us that was open. Of course, there were some tense moments in November 05 that we didn’t know if the National Guard would ever move out of the hospital. Come February I was graced with the appearance of my baby boy through a scheduled c-section. No fun, I tell ya.

Then there was the goal of breastfeeding for a year. I had learned from my misconceptions with Amber and was in it for the long haul. Well, that relationship ended just last week and I am truly sad to see it go. It is hard to see my son go after a bottle nipple they way he went after mine, but he is being fed and I guess that is all that truly matters.

Finally, I was going to make all of Sam’s babyfood. It will be cheaper and better for him. The information was overwhelming. Which foods should I get organically? Is it worth it to make the extra trip to Whole Foods to get the organic? And is it really cheaper? I had decided to compromise and buy what organics I could at the regular grocery store and go from there. Then I was faced with vegetables and fruits that I had never eaten much less cooked. So, the variety I thought Sammy would get was reserved to the basics that I knew something about: sweet potatoes, apples, pears, peaches and some frozen mixed veggies.

Who knew the amount of time it would take to make this food? Making dinner was hard enough without adding in making large batches of baby food. I managed to make his food for 4 months, but there has been a lot of store bought babyfood added for variety. Add to it a picky baby and you get a rather tired mommy. This realization comes as I made only the sweet potatoes I bought 2 weeks ago and threw away $10 worth of pears because they had gone bad. I had taken them out several times to make them, but I always got distracted. That will happen with a baby on the move and an older sister hell bent on getting him to share. All going on at high pitched screams every 5 minutes.

As I watched the sweet potatoes go round and round in the food processor, I think is this the easy part of parenting. Babies are pretty basic: feed them, comfort them and make sure they are clean. As kids get older they start to have their own thoughts and feelings, which they will express to you whenever and at the loudest volume they wish. It is getting harder and harder to get Amber to cooperate with our wishes. Before a simple threat of taking away a toy or a time out would straighten her right up, but now it doesn’t phase her. I imagine what it would be like when she is a teenager and we are rather old (43 and 52). Will we just give in because we are tired and weak? Being that we are so far removed from the teenage years, would we have forgotten how manipulative they are and fall for the stupid lines fed to us by our teenage children? This could all be mute, because I may not make it through Sam’s toddler years before I crack. I just worry that all the things I worry about now will not make a bit of difference in the long run. I wonder if I should prepare myself for what lies ahead or stay in ignorant bliss.

I have only been a parent for 4.5 years and the I am tired and beaten most days. I am scared that I wont make it the required 18 years. Then again there is a reason they give them to us when they are babies.