I May Be Losing It Folks: 2nd babies and Talking Uteruses

I've come to realize I'm not really in control of my uterus. It was just a couple of months ago even the thought of adding another baby would send me into cold sweats. 

Pregnancy? No thanks. I'm enjoying drinking right now. And full control of my bladder. 

Toddler and a newborn? Haha. I maybe slightly off my rocker, but not masochistic. I'm not even sure the logistics of that combination are even possible. Seriously, when do you sleep? 

I'm pretty sure it's never. 

So adding another child to our little corner of crazy wasn't even on my radar. I would snort derisively at those who'd ask if we were planning on a second baby yet. You, people. You silly, silly people. 

Then my uterus decided it was time. It needed to show me who was actually in charge of this decision. And believe me. It isn't me. 

The thought of having another one suddenly wasn't nausea inducing. I started oohing and awwing over newborns instead of thanking the good lawd above it wasn't mine. Then I actually felt a twinge of jealously over a pregnant lady at the store. It was as if I didn't even know who I was anymore. 

After a couple drinks the other night, I heard myself trying to convince (read: bribe) the husband to have another one. It was an out of body experience y'all. Like when someone describes a near death experience, you know? They're all like, I was floating above my body and heard everyone in the room talking and then I saw a bright light and Jesus himself spoke to me. And you just smile and nod and think...you're a flipping nutcase. 

That's exactly how it was. Except my uterus was Jesus. My uterus was speaking for me. 

I still haven't quite convinced darling husband that another child is the greatest idea mankind has ever had. He's still just smiling and nodding and thinking I'm a flipping nutcase. In time I'll bring him over to the dark side though. 

And the Envelope Please...

So I took nearly a year off of this blogging thing. Again. I could be one of the worst bloggers in history, but have you perused some of the inanity out there lately? If you have a few hours you don't mind wasting and want to feel a whole lot better about your life or IQ, I highly recommend just reading random blogs or anonymous comments on HuffPost articles.  

It just cements my argument that we live amongst a nation of idiots. I'm quite certain I'm not the worst, but my extended absences make for a pretty good case against me. 

Let's just pretend I'm actually trying to win the worst blogger in history award. I gotta say guys I'm doing a pretty damn fine job of it. I may just win this thing. And I can't say I won't be all that disappointed. I mean, it is an award. And I've never actually won anything in my life. And I hear that maybe winners have to wear tiaras during their year long reign as Worst Blogger? What? No? Maybe I made that last thing up.  

In reality I'm just like any other mom. I really do love writing. It's my passion and when I'm away from her, I feel lost. She's my favorite mistress. But my ever present mom guilt keeps me from her 99% of the time. If I'm writing, I'm not spending time with my son and husband. I'm not tending to my family's needs. I'm neglecting some other portion of my life that outweighs my own desires.  

So, my mistress gets tossed aside. Left to be forgotten amongst the millions of other words on the internet. Pushed down in the dark corners of my brain filed with the rest of my pre-motherhood life. Tucked somewhere between weekend trips with the girls and sleeping in on Saturdays. 

She always pulls me back though. I always promise her this time it'll be different. This time I'll spend more time with you. This time I'll pick you first. 

But we both know that isn't the truth. My son will wake up from his nap. My laundry basket will fill up again. My body will win the fight to sleep. And she will be left alone again. Half written and half forgotten. 

I'm not unusual in that regard. Most of the mothers I know rarely take time for themselves. We are our families' backbone. We run this bitch and if mama ain't around this entire world we've worked so hard to build and maintain goes to shit. 

Well, at least, that's what we all think will happen. 

During the rare times I've actually made a concerted effort to take me time, to my utter horror all hell has not broken loose. My child has not been severely traumatized. My house has not been irrevocably destroyed. And my world which I spend so many hours of planning and worry and manpower to ensure is in perfect working order is still as I left it. Horrifying, I know. 

Yes, we moms, are the backbone of our family. We are superheroes smeared in baby poop. We are our family's CEOs. We are constant crisis negotiators. We are skilled event planners. We're janitors. We're personal chefs. We're nurses. We're pretend pirates and princesses. We're counselors. We're teachers. We're all these things at the same time. 

And yet we're still human. We're still women. We still need to refresh our spirits, remember our own needs and make ourselves a priority.

So, here I am today trying to follow my own advice. Trying to get back to me. 

So maybe I won't win mom of the year, but bet you I won't win worst blogger of the year either. 

A first birthday letter to my child

My child,

Happy birthday sweet boy. Today you are one year old. What a wonderful milestone for you. For me. I have so enjoyed watching you grow and learn and blossom from a tiny newborn, eyes closed, serene and fragile to a precocious toddler, eyes wide, curious and energetic.

Of the hundreds of photos I have documenting your firsts this year, my most special memories don't reside in a photo but in my heart. In our everyday moments. The moments we've spent learning from each other, exploring the world hand in hand, holding you for hours as you sleep, in the quiet of our 3 am's, in the giggles over breakfast and in the kisses before bedtime.

I cherish each one of these moments and every night before I sleep I pray I will be blessed with another day making memories with you.

I burst with pride as you explore your independence. And ache with sadness as I watch you slowly wander further into this world and away from my protective arms. Your awkward toddle will eventually turn into confident strides, your inflected babbling will eventually turn into articulate conversation, your tight grasp around my finger will eventually loosen and you'll discover this beautiful world waiting for you. But not today. Today you are still my little boy. Today you still need me to hug you after a tumble. You still need me to teach you the right words to say. You still need to hold my hand. And even after you've grown up and don't need me as much anymore, always know I'll be here for a hug after life's stumbles.

You've grown into such a sweet, smart, funny child. I love being your mother. It has given me more purpose than I knew I could have. If I do nothing else, this life will be full because of you.

Of course there have been hard days, cranky days, sick days, long days, tired days. But even in those days, just one gapped tooth grin, one whispered mama in the darkness, one hug with your chubby fingers round my neck is enough to fill my heart with joy. Enough to get me through a lifetime of hard days.

Today we celebrate you my child. We celebrate your year of life. And how you've irrevocably changed ours.

I pray you continue to grow healthy and happy. I pray as you grow, you will always feel our love and God's grace in your life. I pray you will cherish your everyday. Just as I cherish mine.

I love you my sunshine.

To the moon and back,
Mama

A Tale of Two Car Trips

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

The whining started shortly after we pulled on the interstate commencing the first leg of our road trip towards our new home. Being a seasoned traveling mama, I was prepared. Snacks: check. Favorite nursery rhymes: check. An arsenal of toys in the front seat in case one gets dropped (or in The Kid's case hurled from the backseat towards my head): check. Bring it kid. Ba-ring. It.

I passed The Kid his snack cup. Crunching and babbling replaced the whining for all of 10 minutes.

I turned up his nursery rhymes cd and jammed out to itsy bitsy spider so hard I almost didn't hear the whining getting louder. Almost. The Kid has a pair of Stephen Tyler-esque lungs on him.

I passed back his favorite monkey. Monkey did a stage dive directly back into the front seat. I passed back his favorite board book. Squeals of delight filled the car. Yes, mama winning! Five minutes later Goodnight Moon smacked the back window. As my arsenal of toys dwindled, anxiety slowly washed over me. I glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes in a 3 hour drive, we're never gonna make it there with my sanity intact.

In desperation, I passed back my iPhone only to feel it slip between our hands at the last moment and hit the car floor with a deafening thud. Game over. Screaming commenced.

And continued through the towering city buildings and moonlit pine. It continued through the small college towns and over the hum of the busy highway. It continued after our lunch break and all the way to the driveway of my parents house.

He brought it. Nerves shot and dreading the second even longer half of the trip the next day, I headed directly to Walmart and bought a portable DVD player.

Second leg: sweet glorious silence for 3 1/2 hours. Quiet through the backwood roads and crisp cotton fields. Silence pass the lonesome houses dotting the country roads and as the air slowly turned salty as we made our way closer to the shimmering coast.

Only intermittent squeals of delight, sighs of a sleepy little head and The Man in The Yellow Hat broke through the quiet.

Portable DVD player inventor, you win at life.

It's in the Box Marked Shanks

It's moving month. You know what that means! Relaxation and healthy home cooked meals every night!

I've got seven moves under my belt. You'd think I could do this with my eyes closed. You'd of course be wrong. I've been living somewhere between stress eating and manically packing for a couple weeks now. Two nights ago, the husband brought home candy bars and cokes for dinner. What? It seemed like a good food choice at the time. I've convinced myself packing 3 boxes is the equivalent to 3 miles on the treadmill. So I'm good there. Do not ruin that for me people. I will shank you. I have good shanking knife in one of these boxes around here. Somewhere. Where IS that box?

I've pretty much given up on marking boxes with useful information that may clue me to what it holds. Instead I have two boxes that are just marked baby shit and one that says husband's dumb crap he should've thrown away years ago in block letters and a smiley face. I think I'll make unpacking more interesting and have a couple boxes with a skull and crossbones marked dangerous explosives. Maybe one can have a stick figure guy turning into The Hulk and marked hazardous waste. Our moving guys should get a kick out of it.

My house looks like an alcoholic toddler lives here. Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo boxes are stacked amongst piles of The Kid's toys. How did he get so many toys? I keep finding them. Under the couch, in closets, between cushions. I think they're procreating at night. I suspect that squeaky giraffe is just a high priced escort. Slutty Sophie.

We still have a couple weeks left here, but my OCD requires me to have all the contents of my house packed neatly in boxes right now. I may have gone overboard. Maybe just a little. There's a chance I had to buy toilet paper today because I may have packed the last roll. And hand soap. And baby wipes. If the dog goes missing, I promise I'll voluntarily admit myself to the psych ward.

As obsessed as I am about needing to get everything in a box, my husband is as obsessed with bubble wrap. He bubble wraps the shit outta stuff. Seriously. He's a bubble wrapaholic. He makes late night runs to Home Depot saying he needs more packing tape. But I know. I know he's scoring more bubble wrap. The man needs help.

We're almost done though. Just two more weeks. We'll soon be sitting on our new balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, clinking our glasses and celebrating surviving our 8th move. And I betcha the $2 million I'm planning on winning in Vegas next summer that is the exact moment my husband will bring up his plans for the next move.

Where is that damn shank box?

Save the Date! November 1: My Intervention

I've prayed for the end of a really bad day. Who hasn't? I might have even hoped a craptastic Monday would turn into a drink-in-excess-Friday. But I gotta say this is the first time I have ever been relieved to see an end of entire month.

September, or the month of in-laws as it will be forever referred to in the family history books, has come and gone. And believe me I will refer back to this moment in history for a long long long time. Just know that, husband. A long time.

It was a doozy. The Husband owes me something big and sparkly. I'd accept large, glass and full of liquor as well. Wrapped in a bow. Because anything wrapped in a bow says I'm sorry for being an ass.

I love my in-laws. I really do. Great people who would move mountains for my kid. It wouldn't have even been all that bad if life, in general, didn't give me the finger once or twice this month as well. September was like a hellacious version of the 12 days of Christmas.

On the first day of September, my true love gave to me 6 bickering in-laws, 5 to-tal meltdowns, 4 cutting teeth, 3 days of fever, 2 long flights and one freaking car accideeeeeeent.

I've drank more in the past month than in the entire year. Don't judge me. Wine kept me from banging my head against the wall repeatedly. Or banging my husband's head against the wall repeatedly.

So October has arrived. And guess what...we decided to move. Because apparently another month of stress is just the cure for this pounding, nauseating September hangover. Yay. Moving is my personal hell. I must have been a dirty hooker in a past life because somehow I got a husband who actually enjoys moving. So we move. We move a lot. And I drink. I drink a lot.

Packing has been an interesting experience this time around. Two days into packing and I've packed 5 boxes. That's progress, right? Sure, considering The Kid has unpacked 2 boxes, broken a picture frame, eaten a coffee table book and wrapped his head in bubble wrap. I'd say it's progress.

Wine glasses are being packed last. I'll see you in November for my intervention, y'all.

SuperMom vs Germy McSnotface

We just experienced The Kid's first illness. No biggie, you say. Oh lest you forget my friends? We're FTPs. First time parents.

I've been awake for 72 hours with one hand permanently attached to The Kid's forehead like my palm had freaky mom powers that could detect the slightest change in temperature. If I were a superhero this week, that would've been my super power. I lost my cool super powers like being able to produce free drinks using only my boobs long ago. Now I'm SuperMom: faster than projectile vomit, stronger than a baby trying to yank the thermometer out of his bumhole, able to leap piles of laundry in a single bound. Lamest.superhero.ever.

Our first reaction, of course, was to flip our shit, race to the closest hospital and demand expensive medical testing. Then hunt down the parents of the child who got The Kid sick and unleash fire upon their souls. After briefly being held hostage by batshit crazy, we decided to wait it out and take him to the doctor in the morning. We are still currently trying to track down Germy McSnotface's parents and sneeze directly into their eyeballs. Too much?

We did spend a small fortune at CVS stockpiling any bottle of anything that looked like it could remotely make our child feel better. They could have scribbled "magic juice" on a piece of paper, slapped it on a gallon of milk and I would have paid $20 for it.

Also, I think my pediatrician may break up with me. Which is devastating, particularly because we just started really getting to know each other. We were having a good time, ya know. Not getting too serious. Just seeing each other occasionally. Then I blew it. I think I scared her off. Calling her all the time. Begging for her to come live with me. Did you know your pediatrician can't come live with you? She said can't, but I'm pretty sure she just won't. There's the real problem with healthcare in this country. Lack of commitment.

Honestly, The Kid was pretty sick but he handled it like a trooper. He did score three whole nights of sleepovers and all night buffets. And kicked dad out of the big bed. And puked on dad's last remaining pillow on the couch. Baby winning.

In retrospect, I knew he'd be okay. And I know I have many more weird kid germ sick days in my future, but I can't help but want to protect him from everything that may cause him pain. I'd take a bullet for this little guy. I get it now. I know. Welcome to parenthood, genius. Sometimes this whole parenting thing has to punch me directly in the face for me to learn a lesson.

Oh sweet Jesus no. My husband just coughed. It can't be. Anything but this. Not the...man flu.

I quit.