CANDY!!!

Soooo...this happened.

Dinner had been eaten, showers had been taken, toys had been cleaned up, babies had been pajama-ed, and Daddy was getting bottles.  Nine o'clock at night.

I went to the kitchen to start emptying a crock pot of chili into freezer container before bed.  Jack filled bottles and we chatted.  Both babies were playing happily.  Jack finished up and then took the trash out.

I could see Baby Girl a few feet away, standing up with her pudgy little fingers wrapped around the gate bars and shaking them like she was convinced eventually she would break that bastard gate.  Baby Boy was out of my line of vision, but every time I yelled his name he yelled back, "Mama, I share!"

I assumed, naively, that he was "sharing" his Leap Pad with me.  I had just downloaded a few new games and gave it to him to check out before leaving to ladle chili.  So it made sense that he thought we were sharing and it was his turn, since I had just had it.  Hmmmm....no.

I finish the chili, scoop up Baby Girl and walk around the corner to find Baby Boy sitting in a giant pile of candy wrappers - chocolate smeared across his guilty face, with MY stocking sitting next to him on the chaise.  There were at least a dozen chocolate wrappers, my stocking was empty, and his Leap Pad was exactly where I left it.  The ENTIRE TIME I was in the kitchen, this little thief had been eating my candy...five minutes before we went to bed.

Needless to say, our normal half hour bed time routine turned into two hours.  Most of that was spent physically reining him in after bouncing in the bed, "hugging" the sleeping dogs, or just running the hallway.  I am still afraid the worst is yet to come.  A toddler belly really can't keep that all in, can it? 

I foresee vomit in my future.

Motherhood.  The most glamorous job on the planet.

Thankful

Someone once tried to convince me that the positives in our lives are a direct result  of positive behavior - that God hands out blessings or trials based on your immediate behavior.  Helping your neighbor?  Great!  Here is a winning lotto ticket.  Gossiping about your neighbor?  Shame on you.  Speeding ticket. 

While I like the idea that if I am nice enough, I will be rich and trouble free...I think that the actual formula for blessings and curses is a bit more complex.  Hard things and hard times give us opportunities for growth and transformation.  Good deeds are often shadowed with other motivations or hidden agendas.  Sometimes we just straight up don't know what the hell we are doing.  I believe God's plan and plot chart for our lives is more complicated that a simple punishment/reward system.

And I have proof of this.

There is no way that I was ever good enough for all the blessings that I possess.

I am so incredibly thankful for this action packed, laughter filled, joyful journey that I am on.  My husband is kind and honest and generous and hilarious and ridiculously handsome.  He has given me five beautiful children that amaze us on a daily basis with how they are transforming into these fiercely independent little people that are already so much cooler than I will ever be. 

I am thankful for a busy year, rich with work and play, allowing me to stay home so all our children always have someone to call or help with homework or cheer them on.  I am thankful for our warm home, our comfy beds, and our full bellies  that we surely take for granted more nights than not. 

I am so thankful for our wide circle of loved ones.  When I see our family and friends interact and support our children, my heart grows three sizes.  There is so much love in this world for my family and this makes me so happy.

This year has been an eventful one for us.  We kicked it off by getting married and meeting Baby Girl...and we haven't slowed down once.  This life is busy and vibrant and sometimes crazy...and it is more that I ever wished for and more than I deserve. 

So to recap....despite my failings, I am blessed on a daily basis.  I will continue to try and live positively, not so I get rich but because I can't say thank you enough.  And if a winning lotto ticket happens to fall in my lap, then so be it.

Hero

Looming large in my world right now is the death of a young soldier from my hometown.  He died in Afghanistan on a mission...He died a hero. I knew him.  Somewhat.  A lifetime ago.  And I feel absurd for the level of grief I feel for a man I haven't seen in a decade, since he was a teenager.  Yet I cannot shake it. 

I met Mike when I was a shift supervisor at a local restaurant.  He was only four years younger than me, but at 21 and 17 those four years felt like a much larger gap.  So much so that when I read that he had died, I thought 'but he is just a kid' and was totally confused when I saw he was 31.  I did not know him well.  I didn't know his family or his plans or his story.  Here is what I do know...

I remember that he was a hard worker with a great work ethic.  I remember that I always wanted him to be on my shift because he was always in a great mood and got things done.  I remember that if there was a practical joke going on in the back of the house, Mike was probably behind it.  He was always smiling, always laughing, always doing his best. 

I have not seen him since I left that job.  I had not heard that he had enlisted.  I knew nothing of his life as an adult.   And still...when I heard that he had died defending my freedom to sit down and blog all these words any time I want...I cried.  I stalked the memorial Facebook page.  I felt like I should do something, say something...but there is nothing.  Tomorrow I will go hold a flag and watch the caravan bring him to the funeral home where his family will have the impossible task of saying final goodbyes.  There are no words that will make this okay.

I wish I would have known that he was out there...protecting and serving our country...protecting my family and my freedom.  I wish that I would have remembered him because I ran into him at a bar and remembered his ear to ear smile, instead of seeing it online under an awful headline.  I wish, I wish, I wish...

Thank you, Mike, for your service and your sacrifice.  I am grateful beyond all measure.  There are no words.

The Wrath of Shipping and Handling

Yesterday, I ordered family photo Christmas cards.  My transformation to middle class soccer mom is now complete.  I make freezer meals, vacuum daily, have a family calender, know how to do math homework from elementary through algebra, and half my wardrobe is made up of t-shirts from my kid's extracurricular activities...("This girl got GAME!"...says my chest right now.)  Now the other moms will let me join the Parent Volunteer Association without shaming me.  I might even get a coffee mug.

Anywhoo....

The card is adorable and anyone who has Facebook will, of course, already have seen all these pictures because I reside in a world of instant gratification where I need immediate 'likes' to validate my worth as a mother...but now they can slap us up on their fridge or tape us to their wall or - if we have been mean and forgot about it - just throw us in the trash and dump last week's leftovers on us while finally cleaning your fridge.  Maybe we made fun of your filthly fridge...

Regardless...I ordered them online and they are on their way.  When I placed the order, I was told shipping would take about two weeks.  I figured they needed some processing time plus standard shipping with a holiday tossed in there.  No problem.  I paid my $4.99 shipping fee for my one inch stack of 5x7 photo paper -which seems so silly now that I type it - and prepared to wait.

Tonight, an email popped up on my phone congratulating me on my order (thank you, it was a big achievement that I worked somewhat hard on for about ten minutes. Whew!) and letting me know it had shipped.  Yay!  It should be here sooner than expected - I love it!

Except.....no.  It shipped today, November 19th and the expected arrival date is December 5th.  Huh?  Now I know Thanksgiving is in the middle there and a pair of Sundays...but that is two weeks away!  I can send a package that size in the mail and have it arrive anywhere in the country faster than that.  I can send a KICKBALL in the mail that fast!  (Did you know you can stamp a ball and mail it???  Crazy, right?) To me, there is no possible way it takes that long to ship naturally.

Here is my theory:

I am being punished for being too cheap to shell out premium shipping.  My package is being deliberately sent in circles around the Midwest until that due date so I can be taught a lesson and next time pay up.  I imagine there is some guy, named Sal, in a warehouse in Chicago loading trucks...he sees my package and yells back to his bearded co-worker (delivery guys are hairy)..."this is that package for the cheap soccer mom...send it to Philly for shits and giggles this time.  Pay the $12.99 next time...moron."

Sal is not a nice man.

He probably has a filthy fridge.

Urine and Steak Sandwiches

There is a blog post that I read from a mommy blogger that lists all the things that are wrong and that went wrong and that could go wrong if she isn't a perfect mom.  And one of the things she lists is that the potty training toddler smells faintly of urine and the baby smells like a steak sandwich...and this reminds me that Baby Girl needs a real bath because I can't remember the last time I let her play in bubbles in an actual tub instead of throwing her in the kitchen sink for a quickie or scrubbing her from head to toe with Baby wipes for a quickie-er.  And no matter how much I do scrub my potty training Baby Boy, two minutes after he is clean he is proudly showing me how he stands up and dribbles pee into any concave surface like a big boy.  I would use the f-word here but I try to stay family friendly, so just imagine me slowly thunking my head against the wall.

This week is burying me alive.  Our children are unbearably demanding.  Baby Girl is starting to crawl so I must be hyper vigilant about every little speck on the floor.  Baby Boy needs to pee every 20 minutes and needs to learn to sleep in his own bed at a decent hour and needs to break the bottle habit.  I had not one, not two, but three parent teacher conferences.  There was a band concert, a pair of basketball games, an 8 th grade parent trip meeting...all to get children and/or myself to.  Tomorrow we have a birthday party at our house and I haven't managed to get the dishes fully done one freaking single day.  Jack  is work literally all day and I am in the house slowly sinking this week.  So tonight, when all the other inhabitants of my house are finally, finally quiet and not tugging on me or needing me...even though I know I should try and sleep while I can I seek out my mommy blogs and find a little comfort in seeing that my problems are not unusual, but normal.  My smelly children have counterparts.  No one else can get their kitchen clean daily.  Somewhere someone else is staring at surprise pee puddles in disbelief.  This week is brutal for many.  I am not the only mommy thunking her head on house parts.  And - because they keep blogging - I know that they survived. 

Academically, I know the odds are very good that I will survive, too.  I will likely look back at this post in a few years and laugh at what a drama queen I was.  But right now, right this very minute...I am sitting in our dark living room at midnight.  I left both the babies in bed with Jack and crept down the stairs for a moment alone to breathe.  He will never even know.  I broke into a secret stash of Oreos and am eating the middles out of a half dozen.  Someone is walking around over my head and I don't know if it is a baby or a dog but I am not moving.  No one knows I am here, and I need five more minutes.

No one will die of I eat Oreo middles for five minutes in the dark, right?

A Strategically Placed Lap

Baby Boy and I pretty much have a showdown every night before bed.  It lasts about two to three hours and although I am victorious in the end, it never feels that way.  I win the war, but these battles are giving me gangrene.  And not simple gangrene, but the nasty maggot loving kind of gangrene.

I am still not sure why he hates bedtime so very much.  He falls asleep for nap in about 2.4 seconds every day.  I suspect that after a quiet boring day home with just me and Baby Girl, he gets all wound up when the big kids and Daddy come home and he never wants it to end.  It could be from the ice cream he has for dinner.  We may never know.  All we know is that bedtime is a battle.

As befitting the epic nature of our battle, my son has many weapons.  Some of them are stealthy.  The pretend-to-be-asleep-so-you-loosen-your-grip move.  The fake have-to-go-potty move.  The aw-look-how-cute-I-am smile move.  The I-love-to-read move.  Slyly pulling in Daddy with the I-want-daddy-no-now-I-want-mommy move.

Some of them are overt.  Scream.  Wail.  Thrash your body like a grounded shark.  While screaming and wailing.  Rum (screaming and wailing) down the hall that tragically leads to just a different torture room with beds.  Fall dramatically to the floor in hopeless misery...while screaming and wailing.

He is also very adaptable.  When things aren't working he retires them for a while, only to yank them back out on an unsuspecting mama a few days or weeks later.  He also creates new moves when neccessary.  This picture illustrates his latest move...the "Mama...Lap!" move.

In this move he basically refuses to lay anywhere but my lap.  And he is super specific about how he does this - any part of my lap won't do.  He must be laying in between my legs with his whole little body curled around one leg with his head up on one hip.  Which, unless I cut him an airhole, means that is as high as I can cover up with my blankets.  It also means I need to lay on my back, which I hate and cannot sleep on.  Also...bladder pressure.  Damn kid was supposed to stop putting pressure on my bladder after I pushed him out, wasn't he?  I think it was in the contract...

I will prevail.  I come a little closer every night.  The minor victories are starting to pile up.  Last night he slept on his own bed for ten full hours straight.  There is light at the end of the tunnel.  I just hope the gangrene doesn't get me before I see it.

What Do I Do With My Arms?

Sunday mornings my alarm is set for 9:15 AM.  This is the latest I can possibly get up and still get my family in a church pew before the opening song.  I rarely need the alarm because my house gets moving pretty early, but when the babies have a rough night and we go back to bed at six or seven...well, then I need the alarm.

This morning I needed the alarm.  It went off and I turned it off and I don't even remember.  Jack had Baby Girl downstairs with him as of 8 am after a grueling night, I was fighting for covers and mattress space with Baby Boy - which shouldn't be as difficult as it is.  Kid has a death grip and a scissor kick.  Dangerous.  Not even my alarm could save me.

I woke up on my own at 9:45, panicked, and ran down the stairs.  I found Baby Girl bundled up, snoozing on her boppy pillow.  Jack was doing dishes in the kitchen.  No better way to start your morning that to encounter a hot husband...doing the dishes.  Be still my heart.  And then it got better....Jack told me to go ahead to church and he would watch the kids.  What?????

Now, I love taking my kids to church.  Nothing makes me more proud than to look down that pew and see my beautiful family.   As a stay at home mom, this is what I do...this is why we make the life choices we do...these kids are where almost all my energy and passion go.  I enjoy seeing the product of all that energy and passion all together holding hands and praying.  It makes my heart happy. 

But with an infant and a toddler and antsy  big kids...we have our hands full.  My main concern in church is to not drive the people in the pews around us screaming out the door.  We are always shushing mouths or wrangling flailing body parts or catching flying bottles or whispering treats for good behavior.  So to go to church alone...was something new and different and a little more reverent.

It felt off the minute I left the house.  I was driving in the minivan...alone.  That is not right.  It clearly states - in MSU stick people on the back window - that there are seven human beings in this family...and three canines.  It seems statistically impossible that I could be alone.  But I am.  So I cranked the radio to a child inappropriate rock song...that sadly is playing on a 'classic' rock station...and drive to church.  I spent an inordinate amount of the drive talking to traffic to fill the space where my toddler's questions about everything we pass would normally go.  I check over my shoulder to make sure the empty car seat base isn't sitting at an uncomfortable angle.  I park and automatically open all the van doors for my children that aren't with me.  Thank God I am at church where no one judges you...or that would have been embarrassing.

Walking in, I didn't know what to do with my arms.  How long has it been since I could walk somewhere without holding someone/something?  I usually have 4 or 5 someone/somethings I am juggling - holding the infant car seat, diaper bags over a shoulder, toddler attached by a hand or an entire arm if necessary.  Grocery bags or swim gear or some other soccer mom paraphernalia from time to time.  I forget how to move empty arms.  I settled between crossing and swinging them.  I probably looked like a weirdo alien that stole a human body and was trying to maneuver new and strange body parts.  

When I actually get inside church, I can sit anywhere.  No need for a long empty pew.  I sit in the same place as always anyway.  I do notice though this time that there are neighbors.  People do sit around us.  Huh.  I shake their hands and smile and wonder in my head if they saw me opening van doors for invisible children or playing with my rediscovered arms.  I actually sing all the songs and no one takes my order of worship and tears it apart to beat me with...although my nephews one pew up make periscopes out of theirs and check out the little boy across the aisle doing the same thing.  Cute.  I listen to the actual mass parts and the homily.   At the end, I just walk out.  Nothing to pack up, no one to herd out.  So strange.  Maybe I really am an alien.

But I am starting to feel like I have left something behind.  I feel like something is missing.  I have a quick lunch, run a fast errand, and hurry home.  I walk in the door and there on my couch is my gorgeous, kind, smart husband and our beautiful, happy kids.  And they all have big, giant smiles for Mama.

It was nice to have a morning to myself, infinitely nicer to come back home.

"Sleeping"

The top two pictures are of me "sleeping".  I had to take two to make sure you could tell that is me under the baby, the toddler, and the dog.  Those bits of gray are my sweatshirt - the one that I need to wear because Baby Boy is obsessed with sleeping not only in my bed...but in my lap.  Literally in my lap, curled up against a leg...sleeping.  Thus, I cannot pull my covers more than thigh high without suffocating him.  Thus, I need my sweatshirt in bed.  Baby Girl was just looking for a good cuddle and some body warmth so she is here until she falls into what I like to call wet-noodle-sleep.  The kind where I could flop her anywhere and she wouldn't care?  Yeah, we are waiting on that.  Then I will attempt to get her in her crib and Baby Boy at least on the pillow next to me....and then I will attempt real sleep, not "sleep".

The bottom picture is how my husband sleeps.  It is also why he has so many unexplained bruises in the morning. 

So Sad To See You Go

I just give up on sleep.

While I am at it...

I also give up daily showers, any form of shaving, peeing alone, getting a chore done from start to finish without interruption, owning any clothes that don't absorb baby bodily fluids well, eating any meal at the same time as my family, eating dinner at all, making it through a day without discussing poop, having an uninterrupted conversation, expecting empathy from my snoring husband, empty laundry hampers, watching tv in real time, semi-regular haircuts, words longer than two syllables, candlelight, reading for pleasure and not homework, current music, high heeled boots, finishing a to-do list, sick days, and....sanity.

Nice knowing ya.

No Socks

Here is the worst thing about laundry...

IT IS NEVER DONE.

NEVER.

Sometimes I feel all productive and efficient when I rock out a bunch of loads on a day spent home in my pajamas.  (Bet you didn't know you could feel productive AND be in pajamas, did ya?  Welcome to my world.  Don't be afraid.). So I will stare happily at the bottom of all my sorting baskets that are lined up and feel proud. 

Look at those empty baskets!

Tangible proof that I did stuff today!

No one can tell me they need a baseball jersey/blankie/favorite hoodie/lucky socks washed because...

...it is ALL clean!

Want something?  Look in your drawer!  No laundry here!

Ahhhh....

So I feel all happy and smug and I mentally cross the laundry room off my radar for the weekend.  I wear anything I want all weekend, no matter what the crazy Michigan weather is doing.  No problem.  I have burp clothes and blankies in every station in my house, no searching for one when Baby Girl uses her intestinal muscles to protest peas.  No problem.   I get kids' clothes out for church on Sunday morning and it all matches and is hole/stain free.  No problem.

Sunday night I am in bed working on shushing down babies.  Jack is standing at the dresser getting out work clothes for the morning, because after many mornings of me shooting upright and blinking like a crabby owl on speed, he has discovered that I am not fond of brights lights in the morning.  As he gathers his little pile of clothes, he says this...

"This is my last pair of socks."

What?????  How is this possible??  Laundry is DONE.  Over.  Finito.  Where are all your socks?  You must have misplaced them.  Stray animals with cold tootsies must be breaking in and stealing them.  You must accidentally be wearing six pairs at the same time.  You are acting like one of our kids and throwing clean laundry in the hamper just to make me do more and more laundry.  There must be SOME explanation, right?

Yes.

It is this...

Jack works.  Gets dirty.  Showers.  Puts on new socks.  Repeats all weekend.  Big Boy steals socks for "baseball socks". Crazy beagle dog stages war on any left in reach.  All five kids also wear clothes and pjs and use towels....

All.Weekend.Long. 

The nerve.

Kegal Does A Body Good

I did not do nearly enough kegals.

Two pregnancies and births later and my bladder has thrown in the towel.  Actually a towel would be helpful...and my bladder is the opposite of helpful...sooooo, pick another saying.

Let's start by being totally honest.  I don't think I did any kegals.  Maybe one, to see if I actually could do it.  I think I was discouraged by the advice to try and stop peeing midstream to identify the correct muscles...because what pregnant woman can stop peeong midstream???  C'mon now people.  Know your audience.

Both pregnancies, the thought crossed my mind that unless I wanted to be in adult diapers by forty, I should do the damn kegals.  After all, it is barely exercise, right?  I can do it sitting down.  And both pregnancies, I thought that I have way more important things to worry about...like birthing and raising this child.  Speaking of which...are any amount of kegals really going to combat the reality of childbirth?  I am not sure.

So I didn't.  And now?  Now it is sneezing season.

What the hell.

All the grossness of pregnancy and birthing and the foreverness of after birth fun...and now there is MORE???

I may never have pretty underwear again.

Purveyor of Weapons

On Friday, I am chaperoning our 9 yr old son's field trip to the River of Time.  If you live under a rock - or somewhere other than where I live I suppose - River of Time is a historical encampment where they live like people from other time periods, mostly war times.  They reenact battles, set up a blacksmithery (I am sure that is not a real word),  a mercantile with things to buy that are not authentic necessarily, but similar to things that are authentic....those sorts of things.

Today Boy came home from school and was all hopped up on smuggled bus ride sugar and youthful exuberance...and asked me if I was going to chaperone for sure.  When I said yes, he whooped it up...hollering and jumping around.  There may have been a living room cartwheels thrown in.  He was joyous.

It was such a nice moment.  I was so happy he was enthusiastic about me coming to his class and doing this with him.  He is a huge Daddy's Boy, so most of the time I am a combination of chopped liver and The Woman Who Washes Tje Baseball Uniforms.  It was heartwarming that he was so happy I would be there...

And then he says the following....

"Then you can buy me a cool rubberband gun because they won't let kids buy any weapons."

I am put swiftly in my place.  Chopped liver, Woman Who Washes The Baseball Uniforms...and Purveyor of Weapons.

Unanswerable Nighttime Questions

How does Baby Boy skip nap, be exhausted and crying by eight BUT still be awake and chatty until MIDNIGHT?

How does Baby Girl know the exact moment when my brain turns off and I slide into sleep, so she can scream like a wild banshee? 

Are there tame banshees?

How does my husband honestly sleep through the noise of all kinds of banshees?

How does Baby Boy know the exact moment his sister falls asleep, so that he can promptly pee through his pajamas?

What is worse...trying to find and attach clean pajamas to a mostly asleep whiny toddler?  Or having bare toddler skin stick to you all night?

How can Baby Boy show zero interest in any children's tv show during the day when I attempt any household chore without him...yet cry for me to turn the tv back on after Blacklist is over at eleven o'clock at night?

Why does Baby Girl insist on continuously spitting out her pacifier, placing it under her person, and then screaming like some kind of banshee?

What exactly is a banshee?

Will I ever sleep again?

Mysteries.  All of them.

9:39 PM!!!

It is before ten at night and ALL of our kids are tucked into their own beds!  The big girls are together, I just tucked Baby Boy into the room he shares with his big brother, and Baby Girl is stretched out in her crib snoring sweet baby snores.  Jack is passed out in our bed and all three doggies are curled into little circles in their favorite spots.

I really have nothing else to say in this blog, no witty comments or astute observations...it just feels so freaking awesome to have everyone tucked in and safe and happy.  And at a normal bedtime hour.  Life is sweet.

10:08 A.M.

10:08 A.M.

The time when this picture was taken, of my sleepy babies.  On the morning after Baby Boy woke up after wetting through - on my side of the bed - at 4am and was still awake when Jack's alarm went off this morning. 

In theory, I should be laying with them trying to catch up on all the sleep I missed last night, however...

I was up at 4 am to change Baby Boy's pajamas and give our bed the towel treatment.

I was up at 5am to feed Baby Girl.

I was up at 6 am when Jack turned on the lights to find work clothes.

I was up at 6:45 AM to make sure both big girls were dressed and on their way to school.

I was up at 7:30 to wake up our 4th grader and put him on the bus for 8 am.

I was up at 8:30 so Baby Girl could finish her earlier bottle she fell asleep on.

And at this point, all the up and down and the bright bathroom sunlight from that damn eastern window have me too awake to actual fall back asleep.

Quick, heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving for the contents of my bed...large dose of caffeine in any form I can find...bring on the day.

New Me

I am not a doctor.  I do not have any medical training or special therapy skills or book knowledge on postpartum depression.  I know that before I had children I believed this to be a small thing, a thing you could shake off easily.  I imagined it to be like being a little emotional and a bit sad for no reason.  I had no idea.

It seems like a total loss of self.  In the birthing of these amazing, beautiful children of mine, I sometimes felt like I could not lay my hands back on the person I was.  And on bad days, I couldn't even remember the person that I was...or how I got here.  There was a disconnect.

It was so much more than losing my old body and my old clothes.  It was more than losing sleep and time and hobbies.  More than long lost dinner dates with friends and conversations with words longer than two syllables about lively, debatable topics.  It was a total gutting out of old me and rebuilding new mom me. 

This New Me has good qualities, I am sure...but I don't exactly know how she works yet.  And it is frustrating when operating new machinery.  This New Me snaps at my husband while Old Me cringes a bit.  New Me just thinks of every minute he slept that I didn't and shrugs.  New Me cries over ridiculous things....tv shows and milk-less fridges and tragedies that I imagine will happen one day, but actually haven't happened.  Old Me thinks New Me is a colossal wimp.  How can I be tougher and sharper and more impatient AND be a marshmallow that cries at everything???

It makes no sense.

For me...this giant nerd that loves reason and organization and symmetry...that is the worst of it.  It makes no sense.  There is no rhyme or reason or pattern.  My schedule exists only for my family to shatter it on a daily basis and send New Me into a tailspin of tears, comfort eating, and binge watching Parenthood.  Which also makes me cry.  Damn Bravermans.

So I am doing this day by day.  Becoming familiar with the ownership manual on New Me.  Hoping to upgrade to Better Me and Saner Me and Less Weepy Me shortly.  Today is better than yesterday, and leaps and bounds better than last month.    In the meantime, enjoy the blogging.  New Me apparently really likes social media.

Queen of the Tigers

Baby Girl is fierce.

This weekend she woke up almost every two hours all night long.  There is definitely an adjustment period moving to her crib.  Apparently she is going to take after her Daddy and be a midnight mover and shaker because she is already spinning in circles and rolling around, checking out all corners of the crib. There is no stillness in any of my children, even when asleep.

So all this moving keeps shaking her pacifier loose and getting her feet stuck on the sides of the crib and all that jazz...leading to her waking up and objecting.  Last night may have been more my fault since apparently as I sleep walked through making her bottle I did not perform the kind of important step of adding formula....sooooo....I gave her a very filling 8 oz bottle of water in the middle of the night.  Oops.

She doesn't cry really.  She hollers.  There is no whimper, no sadness, no being scared or upset or confused.  There is just a gigantic burst of noise that sounds like she is issuing commands.  Last night, in my exhaustion, I imagined that she was scolding the tiger on her mobile.  It kinda sounds like this, with her yelling an indistinguishable phrase and then pauses momentarily before continuing on.

Baby Girl:  RAWR!! AHHHH!grumblegrumbleGRAHHH!

(silence)

Tiger:  But, I was just...

Baby Girl: NANA!!indignantsniffROAR! BWAAAAAA!!!

Tiger:  I am sorry, could I just explain...

Baby Girl:  Silence!  Fool.

Ok, that last part might have been a stretch.  Sleep deprivation does funny things to a person.  But the rest of it I can totally see.  That tiger has no chance.  Baby Girl will eat him alive.

12:23 AM

This might become a thing...number blogs......all chronicling the ridiculous times of night I am awake and blogging while feeding and soothing my genetic contributions to society.

Last night?  Last night was a fluke.  Last night I was pretty excited.  Tired and proud and excited.  I was up and down many times...but my babies were in their beds dammit!    Baby Girl still wanted her bottles but she was just fine lounging in her crib.  In fact, she was better than fine.  She slept like a little baby angel...who occasionally wanted yummy snacks and then went back to sleep on a food coma.

Not so tonight.

Baby Girl is anti-crib.  So much so that I haven't even attempted to put Baby Boy in his own bed, because at least as long as I leave him cozy with Daddy he will stay asleep.  One at a time.  Also, it is entertaining to watch him twist his body around and put various body parts in Jack's face.  Not that Jack wakes up, but he then unconsciously tries to contort his body to avoid the toddler appendages.  Fun stuff.

Baby Girl stays asleep if she is in her bassinet, if I rock her in the chair, if I hold her in bed, if I wear her as a vest while doing jumping jacks...but NOT when she touches the sheet on her crib.  Huh.  I did change her sheet today.  Perhaps she is opposed to this pretty minty green color?

Who's to know...

So my dreams of beating last night's number vanished almost two hours ago and I am just now about to put her down for the fifth time.  The record for staying asleep in her crib tonight is 15 minutes.  Please pray for me.

                              *****

1:57 AM...official time that both of our darling duet were actually finally asleep in their own beds.  Half an hour later, when toddler feet appeared, I didn't even attempt a return to big boy bed.  Mama needs sleep.  As Scarlett O'Hara said...tomorrow is another day.

Pepper Plants

Pepper Plant Update:

Ok, my pepper plants finally have started to bear fruit...and by fruit, I mean peppers.  Yeah!    Ok, let's go mild to hot.

Bell Peppers are pretty tall, but thin.  Could put 2-3 plants in a big pot next year.  Bad production this year but I hear that from other people.  So far only three green peppers, lots more flowers.  We shall see how lo g it stays warm enough to keep going.

Sweet cherry pepper plants look cute, like tomato pepper mixes.  The plants are medium sized, prob 3 to a pot.  I have 4 green ping pong sized peppers now.  They can ripen to red so I will leave them alone for a bit as long as it doesn't get too cold at night.

Banana Peppers love the pot.  I got three full pickling batches out of my gangbusters pot.  Nada out of the ground and fence one.

Big Chili produced three giant peppers.  Plant is medium sized, not too bushy.  Prob 2-3 in a pot.  Scoville 400-700.

Hungarian Wax gave me two peppers.  Plants never got big, could have put 5-6 in a pot easily.  SHU 5000-10000

Jalapenos produced a handful.  Plants are small, 5 to a pot next year.  SHU 35000-10000

Long red cayenne are super skinny, got three.  These plants were skimpy, they were abused heavily by my dogs.  I would prob try 3-4 in a pot next year.  SHU 30000-50000

Hot Thai are super cool.  Plants are medium sized and grow bunches of skinny peppers in the joints of branches.  So far I have about 15 and more should grow.  Maybe 3 to pot next year.  SHU 50000-100000

Caribbean Red apparently are my hottest plants.  They are little low plants that were dog abused so I am not sure how they would actually do.  I only got one off the fence plant.  Would probably put 4-5 in a pot.  SHU 120000-400000

Would not hang them upside next year.  Pots seem to be the way to go.

10:49 PM

On this historic night, at 10:49 PM...

Both little Larive babies are tucked into their own beds...in their own rooms...and are sleeping.

Frankly, I do not know what to do with myself.

There is this huge empty space next to my side of the bed where a bassinet used to be.  Nothing there but carpet.  The bedroom door can fully open and close without whacking anything.  The vent is not even partially obscured.  I can have all the air I want.

There is no lingering worry that any hanging robes or pushed off bedding will fall on Baby Girl and smother her.  She is safe in her crib, cozy in footie pajamas, sucking on a pacifier and stretching out like she is reveling in all this new real estate.

There are no concerns about Baby Boy getting trapped under one of Jack's muscles as he does sleep gymnastics in our bed or worries he will roll off the bed and hit the sharp corners by each of our nightstands.  He is tucked into his big boy bed only a foot off the ground with a comforter keeping watch between him and the edge.  When last seen, he was snuggled up next to his pillow and his monkey with his butt in the air. 

Jack has been sleeping like a baby long before our actual babies.  He is still mostly on his side of the bed with two of our dogs stretched out by his feet, bravely dodging his leg movements. 

Me?  I should be sleeping, right?  After putting both babies in beds and going downstairs to make Jack's lunch and take a final walk of the house and double checking the babies and setting out middle of the night bottles for when I am a zombie and need as little thinking as possible....I am still wandering the halls a bit.  Fussing over silly details and chores that could wait for morning.  Double checking Facebook to make sure I didn't miss a midnight pregnanacy reveal among my online friends.  Triple checking that both my babies are still sleeping and breathing and safe without me three feet from their person.

Yup.

It has been 29 minutes and I miss the soft sound of their breathing.  And the funny man-baby grunts Baby Boy makes as he changes positions.  And the contented sighs from Baby Girl as she settles into a comfy spot.

But as I type this, from my side of the bed feeling lonely without my babies...Jack rolls over against my back and leans into me and I remember how nice it is to not have baby limbs between us.   Oh yeah, this is why I am working on this.  Because I miss snuggling with my husband.  Very important stuff.  I have a good feeling about this.

UPDATE:  Midnight on the dot...one hour and eleven minutes later...toddler footsteps.  Sleepy adorable toddler face next to mine.  I cuddle him up, let him fall asleep curled up under my chin, and then put him back in his bed.

UPDATE TO THE UPDATE:  2:10 AM...one hour forty minutes later...I make stupid comment to husband about how well this is going.  Two minutes later, toddler is back with little outstretched arms.  He doesn't even need to be soothed, he is so sleepy he just melts into the bedding in an oozing pile of cuteness next to Daddy.  Which is good because one minute later Baby Girl hollers for her bottle.  Silly mama...do not tempt the gods of sleep.  I feed and soothe and both kids are once again asleep...in their beds.

UPDATE FOR THE UPDATE'S UPDATE:  It is 5:30 AM.  I just woke up to give Baby Girl her second bottle and found an adorable - and persistent- little boy tucked in my bed between me and Daddy.  I have no idea when or how he got here.  He stays this time.  Also, I found this in the hall leading from his room to mine.  Love this boy.

Cured By Dance

Last night Baby Girl was up seven times in nine hours.  Seven.  Tonight as I write this, I am nursing her for the third time in four hours.  Like always, as I set her down when she has passed into a cozy milk coma, I will say a quick prayer that she stays sleeping for at least a few hours.   While I am awake, I will worry about how she seems to be getting up more, not less.  I worry that she eats too much, that I am not washing her neck rolls enough, that she may develop childhood diabetes.  I worry about stupid things, like she will be kidnapped from my bedside or that I have an undetected cancer mass that will leave her without a mother.

When she woke up this last time, there was a toddler butt in my face.  For the second time tonight, I picked up his little deadweight body and carried him into his room and tucked him into his big boy bed.  If history is any indicator...he will be back.  As I lay back down I worry he will never sleep in his own bed, that he feels too skinny, that he will fall out of bed and hit his head.  I worry about more stupid things, like that he will wake up without me knowing and climb his dresser and fall or that he will be attacked by the two thousand bees that seem to live around our house and go into anaphylactic shock and die.

In the morning, just like yesterday and like all last week, I will get up at nine o'clock while both babies "sleep in".  I dont really think it counts as sleeping in if they were up all night though - it is just regular catch up sleep.  But I don't stay in bed with them for any catch up sleep of my own.  I let the dogs out and eat breakfast and pack up both their diaper bags and my gym bag.  I go back upstairs and lay out clothes and diapers for two.  I wake up Baby Girl and change and babble at her.  I wake up Baby Boy and convince him that he does want to go potty and put clothes on, even as he clutches the blanket up under his chin like it has magical restraining powers. 

I carry them both down the stairs at the same time because Baby Boy is always still clingy.  I throw night time bottles and any needed supplies down the stairs ahead of me and just kick them as we go because I never have any hands.  I detach the clingy child with fifty squirming hands and leave him on the couch, deposit the baby in her swing, and make morning bottles.  Baby Boy insists on sitting on my lap with a blanket in our spot on the couch every morning for a bottle.  Occasionally Baby Girl allows this and talks to her swing animals.  Usually though she objects and my lap is full of babies and bottles.  And as they cuddle up I worry that they will grow up and I will never get this moment back.  And then I worry that they will never grow up and I will never sit in a chair alone again.

We finish morning bottles and I wrangle dogs into kennels and both babies and their bags and my bags out the door into the van.  I think I locked the door behind me but there is no way I am going back to check.  I say a quick, fervent prayer that if we are attacked by thieves while we are away that they take all the dirty dishes.  We head to the gym, even though I am bone tired, where I will walk/run the track and then go swim with Baby Boy.  Because it is good for us.  By the time I have ushered both kids and our gear into the building, through locker rooms, and back out in the van...it has been two hours.  And I have done approximately twenty minutes of actual exercise.

When we get home, I return all the stuff and the babies to the house.  I attempt to feed Baby Boy actual solid food for lunch.  He resists and begs for his bottle.  Two plates of food on the floor later, I give up and it is nap time.  All I have to do is juggle this toddler and nurse his baby sister and get them back sleeping on their respective couch cushions and I can eat my own lunch.  At about two o'clock.

This is the time where well meaning people tell me I should nap while the babies do.  This is also the time where my husband believes I should get everything done that I never seem to have time for.  Sadly, neither are right.  The laws of nature demand that if I even think of resting, one of the babies will immediately begin to move and make noise.  It is never good to piss off nature.  On the flip side, there is no way I am doing any noisy house activity and potentially ruining the magical dual nap moment.  I will do every quiet thing I can think of, but it is never everything.  By the time the babies wake up and I make and feed them dinner and we play outside for a bit and I make Jack's lunch...it is bedtime.   And I feel like I have fought wars today...but it looks like I have done nothing.  I want to cry.  But the babies already are, so I put on my big girl panties.  And we do it again.  Every other week we do it with the three big kids too.

There are no bonbons while watching television.  Actually there are no bonbons at all.  Just a hastily swallowed Swiss Cake Roll while chasing a naked toddler that escaped the bathroom without underwear and gleefully realized he has dangling parts.  And the television may be on but I never fully understand what is going on in any show because someone has screamed and/or pooped through the important parts.  And the less important parts.  Pretty much all the parts.  

This is motherhood in our house at this moment.  It is a mass of contradictions.  Exhilarating and exhausting.  Inspiring and frustrating.  Sweetly sung lullabies and muttered curses.  Chaotic dance parties and sullen silent pouts.  Our five beautiful children are this whirling dervish of personalities and life stages; a brand new high schooler, an exuberant middle schooler, an experienced elementary kid, our high octane toddler, and the newborn baby girl.  Some days I feel like I can never keep up.  But some days one of them pulls me by the hand into the middle of the dance party and all is right with the world.

There Is No Coke

I woke up this morning ready to mainline a 2L of Coke.

Baby Girl woke up a bunch last night to eat, because she apparently has made an early life choice to compete in sumo baby wrestling.  And Baby Boy crawled into my bed at five, wide awake, and pointed out things that belong to Daddy and the dogs for two hours.  After that  he fell back asleep and then peed on me, while still sleeping.  In a move destined to get me nominated for mother of the year, I left him wet on my side of the bed and moved to Daddy's side and fell back asleep.  There was no way I was waking him back up.  In a nod to basic decency and to protect the cleanliness of my bed, I did stuff a towel up under him.  I am not a monster.

Soooooo...I want Coke.  But today is the first day in a plan to be healthier.  There is no Coke. I blame extreme weight loss tv shows.  I binge watched a bunch on hulu and got all motivated and now here I am with no Coke.  Goes to show you that no good can come from hulu.  Did I mention that there is NO COKE.

Instead,  in my fridge and my cupboard are beautiful little organized containers that I wrote my name on in huge black Sharpie to try and communicate to our children that the contents are for me.  You wouldn't think that kids would want to eat anything that could be on my healthy eating plan, but I have found that as soon as you think something is safe from kids - no matter what it is- the minute you think that, your child immediately thinks "Hmmm...perfectly portioned crackers in a sandwich bag looks amazing, so much better than these chips, cheese curls, and cupcakes.".   Kids are tricky.  Thus the heavily marked containers with lids.    I spent yesterday filling them up with a week's worth of food and if I eat them all the way I am supposed to, then the internet promised me I will feel amazing by Friday.

I have done this before, and it works for me...as long as I do daily hour long aerobics classes and take long walks every night.  Oh yeah, I was also single and childless then - now I have a husband and five kids.  Hmmm... I am only a few hours in this regime and I already have found several flaws that could derail this whole lifestyle change.

First, I am supposed to eat breakfast within a half an hour of waking up.  Which waking up would that be?  I will skip all the middle of the night waking up, because obviously they don't mean those.  So are we looking at the 5am feeding, the 6am pee incident, the 7am feeding, or the 9am alarm that goes off as I sit up reading Facebook, having given up on sleep?  I think that my babies are going to prevent me from optimizing my metabolic rate right now.  Just a guess.

Next, my FitnessPal app does not have a selection for deadlifting a hysterical toddler from the floor - which definitely burns calories AND builds endurance.  It also does not recognize entries of sprints to the road to keep your toddler from being smooshed by a truck,  deep breathing exercises after finding kids eating perfectly portioned crackers out of a clearly labeled container, or eye rolls. 

Further complicating this new adventure...no one told my toddler he has to cooperate.  My gym has a very lovely kidzone area so mommies can work out while their children play happily.  My toddler does not understand this concept as he mistakenly believes that we are kangaroos and if he looks hard enough, he will find my pouch and live there forever.  We are working on this.

Also...there is no Coke.

You Might Be A Mom If...

You might be mom to a toddler if...

...you have ever used the bathroom - while holding and/or feeding a child.

...your exercise regime consists of running stairs (after toddler), lunges (to catch falling toddler), and aerobic dance (one more time...head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes...)

...you have been peed, pooped, and puked on - all by 9 a.m.

...your basic food groups are cheese, crackers, and cheese crackers.

...your kitchen contains two wine glasses, half a dozen big plastic cups, and forty three sippy cups - none of which match each other.

...there is nothing you can't clean with baby wipes.

...you have lied and made a sad face while telling a child a toy was broken rather than replace the batteries and hear it sing one more time.

...you have to fight back the urge to punch people that innocently suggest you'd be less tired if you just slept when the baby slept.

...you don't know any current songs on the radio but hum Elmo's World in the shower.

...your last pair of decent jeans are also your "dress up" clothes.

...you can recite ten different books from memory.

...you trade stickers for pee.

Whole Wheat Pasta

In approximately 2004, on some reality cooking show, a woman made a whole wheat pasta dish.  (I believe you are familiar with my binge tv habit, yes?).   She made this dish - with tons of fresh veggies and a pesto sauce - for a challenge to create healthy kid food.  When they asked her where she got the idea, she told them she makes it all the time...with the assistance of her young daughter...and she loves it.

Let me get this straight.  She makes very healthy, fresh food her child not only will choke down, but loves AND she lets kids in the kitchen to help make dinner??

Lady, you're ruining the curve.  Knock it off.

Let's not even dwell on the kids in the kitchen part.  Our older two daughters can make sandwiches and boxed mac 'n cheese - but when they are done cooking it looks like they cooked for an entire squad of Army Rangers...that ate with their hands tied behind their backs...while doing jumping jacks...with every dish in my kitchen. There is rarely some picture of domestic bliss where I pass on generations of cooking secrets while wearing matching aprons in our house.  Sometimes I yell instructions from the living room on how to make brownie mix.  When I want brownies.  Sometimes.

So not only does her daughter help her make this, thereby seeing all the ingredients, but she also eats it.  I can't get Baby Boy to eat much more than a few servings of ketchup that he licks off any food I give him.  Does that count as a vegetable serving?  I am going with yes.  And whole wheat pasta?  I am not that mom.

I am the mom that embarrasses her kids during a shopping trip by getting visibly excited over a sale on regular, plain, starchy pasta.  79¢ a box?  Whaaaatttt????  Then as my daughters cover their heads in shame I gleefully toss ten boxes in one of our carts.  And then wonders if I shouldn't just buy ten more.  The kids think I have lost my mind. 
Which I must have, because I am on a grocery store with five children.

If you want to see heads turn, take a bunch of kids out in public.  I am not sure exactly what is so fascinating...like statistically one of them will explode without warning if they keep watching long enough?  Maybe?  But we are a bit of a spectacle at the grocery store.  We look a little like a very organized train, which is pretty much what I am aiming for.  Our modus operandi this summer is each big girl takes a baby, our nine year old takes care of himself, and I bring up the back to catch falling debris and make sure no one dies.  So far...no death.  

So, in conclusion... I let my kids pretend to feed Army Rangers, eat brownies, ingest their vegetables in liquid form, learn about the importance of a good sale, and I take them in public.

Hmmm...maybe I am the one ruining the curve.

Where Are Your Children?

So the other night, I went to dinner with my friend Charlotte.  Not counting adventures in the grocery store, this is my first night out since Baby Girl was born where I was alone.  Jack and I have had a few dinners out, I have gone out with the kids, and twice now I have gone in the steam room at the Y alone while Jack watched the kids in the pool.  I was so excited to go out with a girlfriend that I put on mascara and a real bra with underwires and everything.  It was fabulous.

Of course, we are both moms to little children, so over our adult beverages and dinners that we didn't have to share with anyone, our conversation went something like this:

Me:  Baby Boy refuses to sleep!
Charlotte:  Mine too! 

(insert talk about never sleeping)

Charlotte:  My baby boy has crazy poop!
Me:  Baby Girl has the strangest poop schedule!

(insert talk about poop and potty training)

Me: Baby Boy is starting swim lessons!
Charlotte:  My boy loves water!

(insert talk of baby swimming and how I almost killed Jack for sending our toddler down a 40 foot enclosed water slide with no life jacket all by himself)

We did discuss a few non-child related things as well, but kids take up a lot of your attention - even when they are home with their daddies.

So after dinner, I continued my big night out by traveling all the way across the parking lot...to the dollar store.  I have been wanting to go to the dollar store for a while now.  But every time I go, one or two or all five kids start doing something asinine or embarrassing and I flee the store with the few things I have.  I really wanted to take my time to peruse this particular dollar store because they have a very nice greeting card selection.

I hate, despise, loathe not having a card on hand when I want one because then I always just buy one at the grocery store.  And I hate, despise, loathe paying four bucks for something that is ninety percent likely to be in that person's trash three days later.  So I had this grand idea to buy a huge amount of cards for all upcoming events for months and months and months.  I had this idea months and months and months ago.  So when I had the prime evening alone time...I made straight for the dollar store.

After a good half hour of selecting cards and impulse buying window clings and baseball stickers, I got into line to pay.  When it is my turn I have to wait for an eternity because this poor clerk has to scan my cards each individually and I have them all tucked into the flap of their envelope.  So this is a process.  As she finishes up, a man behind me says:

"How did you get out of the house without any kids?"

It ends up being a nice couple from my church and we laugh and I explain that they are home with Dad and as soon as this clerk rings up my cards and I stop to get milk (we always need milk) I will be back home with them.

But how funny is that?

People are surprised to see me in public without a child attached.  I am with them so much, that people remark on it when I don't have them.  I hope my kids read this some day and realize how completely they overtook my life.  In fact, on days they are being unappreciative I may pull this up and show them.

"See how much I loved you???  I talked about your poop over filet and red wine!"

So my big night out was talking mostly about my kids, going to the dollar store alone, and being reckless and daring at 7-11 by buying a Cash for Life, that was a loser.  And then realizing I have totally lost my individual identity. I am now simply my kids' Mom. 

Sounds good to me. 

My Father's Fish

My dad is going to be less than thrilled that I  have shared this with the blogosphere.  Similarly, I was less than thrilled about being forced to eat stuffed peppers as a child.  Seems fair.

About ten years ago now, my dad built a small fish pond in his backyard.  It was originally a funny looking hole and has since grown into its surroundings a bit more.  Every year he seems to tinker with it, adding something new or adjusting a piece here or there.  Thankfully, there is a small fence around it...but let's be honest.  It's only a matter of time before a grandchild ends up in there trying to grab a fish.

Speaking of fish, my dad is raising goldfish in this pond.  They are pretty huge.  Goldfish apparently can get pretty big when you give them enough space.  Also, they are surprisingly hardy.  One year, frost came earlier than expected and their little pond dwelling froze over with them inside and they had to wait for a mini thaw before my dad could rescue them and put them in their winter home down in the man cave. I am not sure if all of them survived - because my dad refuses to Facebook - but at least some of them did because there are still giant goldfish in my parent's backyard.

Simultaneously to all this serious fish business, our 12 year old daughter decided she wanted fish again.  This feeling comes and goes about every six months.  I am totally for fish...in tanks with filters.  However, my better half has some old fashioned attachment to gravel and fishbowls.  He is anti-things-that-clean-for-you apparently.  No roomba for me.  Anywhoo... During the last round of fish-sanity, he and our daughter bought a little fish bowl with a nemo-like background and a crazy blue backlight, presumably to scare off all the sharks that hide in our kitchen.  The thing with fish bowls is they need to be cleaned.  Often.  By hand.  And let's be honest again...I have enough things to clean.

So our daughter is told she can have more fish but she is in charge of cleaning the fish bowl and feeding them.  This goes well for longer than I thought.  Playing with the old strainer and the gravel and putting her fish babies in Dad's coffee mugs is wildly entertaining for about two months.  We lose two of the original four and as her interest in them starts to wane I start looking forward to seeing them belly up in our kitchen.  They are 10¢ fish from the grocery store - how long can they last?

FOREVER.

These are industrial strength goldfish.  I don't know how they got mixed up with the normal 10¢ ones, but it must have happened.  They refuse to die.  Their survival is solely tied to the whims of a 12 year old...and they continue to live.  Week by week, she continues to put off cleaning their tank a little longer - so every time it is smellier and nastier.  She lets it develop 'algae' which seems impossible in this little bowl and is horrified when she realized she has to scrub it off.  After about two months of being dragged to the kitchen to take care of these fish she had to have, she breaks...

"Can we just throw them down the toilet or the garbage disposal already?????"

Awwww...sweet music to my ears.  However, we are not fish killers.  Also, as much as I hate the fish bowl, we are not looking to teach our daughter that when you are tired of a responsibility you just flush it down the toilet.  Wrong lesson.  When you are tired of a responsibility....you give it to Grandpa.

Sooooo...we bagged up the fish and sent them home with Aunt Lucy so she could dump them in the pond.

A week later I was visiting my parents and we were sitting outside by the pond.  I asked my dad how our daughter's fish were adjusting and he look at me, flabbergasted.

"Is that where they came from???  I have been telling everyone my fish finally spawned!"

Well, that's embarrassing.

Backyard Garden: Aug 1 Pictures

Update as of the first weekend of August:

* Potted banana peppers continue to be our breakout plant.  It is producing so much that we are unable to eat them fresh quickly enough, so I found a recipe to make refrigerator peppers.  It will work with these bananas and also habaneros and jalapenos.

* Peppers in the ground are finally making some progress.  All have flowers or mini peppers started.  Bells seem to be about twice as high as my hot varieties.  Jalapeno and banana are the only two on the fence that have peppers started.   Hanging peppers are still about half the size of potted/planted ones.

*  Tomatoes are all growing well in pots.  Supersweets have the most green tomatoes, followed by 4th of July, then Roma.  Roma is the only hanging tomato to have a green tomato started.

*  The one planter of lettuce seems to yield enough for a salad for Jack every other day.  I should increase lettuce pots next year.

*  Pickles have almost stopped producing, they have developed some kind of rot.  They seem to do this to some extent every year.  They just seem to dry and and die from the bottom up.  I should really research this.

Backyard:Before & After

Our back yard before this spring...and now.  So pretty :)

Doing Something Right

Yesterday, Jack and I took three of our kids to the YMCA for a little family workout and swim.  On the way in we noticed a half dozen police cars parked all around.  Jack and I finally realized it was because our city commission was meeting next door and there were people picketing out front.  We told the kids the police were there to keep the peace and went inside to sweat and swim.  Or sweat and walk behind a toddler in water.  One of those things.

On the way out, the kids (and Jack) wanted to drive by the picketers and they had lots of questions about this very exciting event, having never seen anything like it.  Jack explained that he has been in events like this many times, being a union bricklayer.  He explained to them that it is one of our rights to make our voices heard in a peaceful way.  And then they wanted to know what these particular people were protesting, which was the housing of illegal children in our town.  I have already posted my view on this here :

http://chroniclesoflarive.blogspot.com/2014/07/what-was-it-jesus-said-about-children.html

This is a hard thing to explain to a 12 year old and a nine year old.  How much do you tell them?  What is enough information to widen their world just a bit but not overwhelm them?  Is this hot button issue just too complicated and too adult for them to be exposed to right now?  We want them to be kids as long as possible but we also want them to be responsible adults someday.  This is a fine line to walk.

Here is what we said.

There are two groups protesting, each side has points.  Each side also has people that take things too far and create chaos.  Half of those people do not want kids from other countries staying in our city while their legal troubles get sorted out.  The other half wants those kids to stay here.  These kids they are talking about came here from Mexico and other countries because they live in places where they are very poor or in danger so their parents think they will be safer here.  But they didn't send them here the right way, the didn't follow the law.  So now we have thousands of kids here without parents or homes or meals - and they need to be taken care of. 

I will admit that I am biased because to me it is a pretty black and white issue.  We take care of children.  All children.  No matter the cost.  Period.  But to try and teach our kids to look at both sides of a situation and think it through, I did try and present the facts evenly - although I am sure my opinion crept in there.  Which I think is just fine, since we are also trying to teach our children to be compassionate, kind, loving Christians.

After hearing everything we had to say and seeing these seventy some people screaming at each other through a line of policemen, our daughter sat and thought in her seat in the van and then looked up at me and then matter-of-factly said the wisest thing ever.

"Jesus would want us to take care of them."

Yes, my darling girl, he would.

Head Trauma

Baby Boy gave me the first real heart-in-my-throat moment when he was about 9 months old and he took a header into the corner of our dining room wall.  He screamed bloody murder and when he turned his head there was a giant goose egg on the left side of his forehead.  It was ginormous and livid red and it throbbed when he cried; making it look alive, like some kind of angry mini alien squatting on my son's head.  It.Was.Awful.

But it looked way more awful than it ended up being and other than that first mental picture and heart in my throat feeling, all I really remember was thinking how ridiculous it was that my toddler would give himself a head injury right before bed.  Sure kid.  Anything to avoid sleep, right?

Well, he has done it again.  This time by bouncing on his big boy bed with his older brother laughing encouragement.  It was so exciting that he forgot to move his feet fast enough and his head kissed the wood hard enough to immediately bring back the pulsing mini alien, this time to the right side.  Symmetry, maybe?  I suppose, as a parent of a very adventurous toddler boy, that I should make friends with this alien.  Give it a cookie...ask politely about his family...see if he likes long walks in the park...and quick trips to the ER.

Fortunately we have a medical professional on speed dial, so we sent off a picture of the alien to Baby Boy's godmom who is an alien specialist. 

"Drown him!" she cried.

Oh wait, wrong story.  Different alien.

Instead she told us to stay awake for an hour or so...no problem since Baby Boy thinks bedtime is the devil spawn baby of green vegetables and cleanliness.  And then...then she said to wake him up...all night long. 

Convinced this was an evil joke my parents put her up to as payback for my teenage years, I asked for clarification.

"How awake are we talking?  Open his eyes awake so I know he is sleeping and not unconscious?  Or full out awake, exposed to bright light and talking?"

She replied that he actually needed to be really awake so I could check for signs of concussion.  Well, shit.

So I waited an hour, made Baby Boy go to sleep, and two hours later I woke him up to assess him.  Here is what I was looking for...

Does he seem disoriented or fuzzy?  Ummm...of course.  I just woke his ass up at one in the morning and I forgot to leave a night light on.

Can he walk steady? Ummm....of course not.  I actually am unable to get him to even sit up or hold his head up.  After initially waking up he now just keeps nodding back off into an adorable pile of boneless baby goo that melts off my lap into the pillow.

Is he cranky, irritable, or off schedule? What the hell web md?  Of course he is!  I just woke him up!  Off his schedule!  He is an annoyed pile of baby goo feebly swatting at me every time I attempt to make him get up.

This is freaking ridiculous.  He isn't throwing up, he does not have a fever, and he isn't breathing weird.  Mommy wisdom tells me he is fine.  Annoyed at my relentless prodding perhaps...but fine.

New plan.  Mommy wakes up every two hours to do a sheet check for baby vomit and/or fever sweat, listens for even breathing...and rolls over and goes back to bed.  Perfect.

Bikinis and The Old Gray Mare

Before I had kids I owned zero one-piece bathing suits.  Zero.  Courtesy of a pair of cruises and one magical summer mostly spent on the Tawas beach, I did have half a dozen bikinis and a handful of tankinis.  I also had a less than perfect body that I was still pretty comfortable in...I liked the way I looked.  And was unconcerned with anyone that thought I needed to be a size 2 to wear a two piece suit.

Now I have created, carried, and birthed two children in this body.  And she is showing a little wear and tear.  How does that song go?  The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be... Now, I am the sad owner of not one, but two one piece suits.  I call them "The Tent" and "Tent Jr."

I bought The Tent when I was first pregnant with Baby Boy.  I was four months pregnant when summer hit and I wasn't embarrassed to wear a bikini while pregnant as much as it was too much work.  It was uncomfortable and the ties pulled funny and everything was bigger and I couldn't see what I had actually shaved and what I may have missed.  Too.Much.Work.  So I bought The Tent.  It was actually not a maternity suit, it was just a black, skirted one piece in a larger size...ok, a few larger sizes, than normal.  And it worked and I loved floating, because a buoyant preggo belly is a lovely thing, and I was happy that summer.  Then I had Baby Boy.  I went out and bought Tent Jr, which was one size smaller than The Tent.  It was a little younger looking, sported a few polka dots and a little color...and it still is something a grandma would wear.  Very serviceable tank straps, sturdy structure, no sex appeal AT ALL.  Despite that...by the end of summer, I was pregnant with Baby Girl.  Jack must like polka dots.  

This summer...I am not pregnant.  And I refuse to buy another Tent in any form or color, with any dots or stripes.  No more skirts or industrial strength straps or lycra so strong I cry a little every time I have to wrestle with it to pee.  I am done.

Sooooo...

I tried my old bikinis on yesterday.  And I am still convinced one day I will use them again.  But not this day.  Not this summer.  Not while breastfeeding.  And despite my even less perfect body and the bearing of two children and all the changes that came with it...that is my only problem with wearing a bikini again.  A bikini top has not been made that can sufficiently contain the milk factory.  I can't be walking the beach, hear any baby in a ten mile radius cry and then nail some unsuspecting beach goer with milk in the side of the head.  It would be rude.

I tried finding another bikini top with more support, one to get me through this summer.  In fact, I kidnapped my baby sister to go with me.  She didn't believe me when I said I wanted to go bikini shopping.  And when my other sister called her and heard what we were doing, she didn't believe her either.  And I thought that was the saddest thing.  

Why should I be embarrassed that my stomach is soft and lined with stretch marks?  Why should I feel shame about something as silly as a bathing suit?  I don't see any men out there inventing full body swimsuits to hide their beer guts.  Surely it should more acceptable for me to show the marks of my labor than for a man to show the marks of his trip to the fridge?  This body MADE people!  Literally!  And then it FED them!  And now the muscles you might not see carry them and rock them and play with them all day.  And the soft spots that keep me out of swimsuit calendars support little heads when they are tired or sad or just need a good cuddle.  Those stretch marks and soft baby pooch are the visible reminder of how amazing and strong this body is.  And I am not ashamed that it is packaged in a size 14 with a less-than-defined waist and dimpled thighs.

How can I tell my daughters that God made us all in different shapes and sizes on purpose - and then hide from mine?  What kind of message would that send?  God gave me this body.  And I will continue to work at keeping it healthy and try and eat better and exercise more - to be a good steward of what I have been given.  That does not mean I am going to hide it...under a bushel barrel...made of Lycra...until it is deemed socially acceptable to showcase.  It is beautiful, we are all beautiful...And exactly as God intended.

So to my daughters...And the doubters...here is me, today, in a bikini.  Proud of this exact, flawed, strong, unique, amazing body that God gave me to do marvelous things with.  And as soon as I am done nursing your baby sister, you can watch me burn both the Tents...while wearing a bikini...with a really strong underwire.

Watch for Trucks

Baby Boy has screamed "Mama!" at least a hundred times in the last hour.  Mama is sitting in the rocker in the nursery, having just put Baby Girl to bed in her crib for the first night ever.

Daddy is putting Baby Boy to bed in his big boy bed down the hall.  This came about from a conversation that went like this:

Daddy:  I don't think pointing out all the trucks and airplanes on tv as you binge watch crime dramas on Hulu until midnight is the appropriate method for putting our toddler to sleep.

Me:  Thank you for your consideration and input.  Perhaps a joint venture into bedtime would help this situation.

Ok, I lied.  Here is what was really said:

Daddy:  Maybe if you ever turned the tv off he would stop screaming -

Me:  If you think you can do better...

I have handled the majority of bedtime up until now, simply because Jack pretty much just falls asleep.  He is very much a morning person.  When he comes up to bed he is ready to sleep...and our children are not.  This does not deter him.  He is a determined sleeper.  This leaves me juggling our one and a half year old that doesn't like sleep and loves his mama and our infant daughter that I am nursing. 

I do realize that hulu-ing our toddler to sleep is not the best method.  I know that he needs to cry it out in his bed and go to sleep.  But he won't stay there, which kinda throws a wrench in that plan.  I can't keep him contained and see to the needs of our new baby without some kind of distraction.  Not without more arms...I always need more arms. So, rather by accident, I discovered that if I told him to watch for the truck he would stop yelling and concentrate on the possibility of seeing a truck on the tv.  I needed that trick, that moment of concentration to keep him still.  And then hopefully a truck would show up.  If not, there is usually good odds that a car or an airplane or a doggie will appear.  That is, if you are watching crime drama.  Doesn't work with my cooking shows.  For some reason he is not as eager to watch for spatulas and immersion blenders.  Huh.

Anyway...the point here is my Baby Boy is crying for me, which makes me sad.  But my husband is helping me out with bedtime, which makes me happy.  Developing story...stay tuned.