Because I Don’t Do Sappy Very Well

They tell you that motherhood profoundly changes you. They tell you that you’ve never imagined love that deep. They tell you that you will become more selfless than you’d ever imagined. They tell you that your life will never be the same.

And you realize it quickly, as you stare into that little face. As you function on two hours of sleep. As you read the same story for the 1,000th time. As you try to give your friend advice on what to wear to a formal event and realize you haven’t been to one yourself since 2002. As you physically miss your children when they spend the night at grandma’s.

What they don’t tell you is how your capacity for grossness will change. Sure, they mention dirty diapers. But I was a nanny. I baby-sat. Dirty diapers hadn’t fazed me in the first place. But it wasn’t until I was a parent until I realized that dirty diapers are merely the tip of the iceberg.

Ironflower had gastric reflux for the first 8 months of her life. She threw up everywhere, all the time. We told each friend she threw up on that could call themselves aunt or uncle. And I, I whose stomach had retched so easily at just the thought of vomit, was totally calm. In fact, I became rather scientific as I cleaned up each round of vomit – what color would it be this time? Hot Guy was even more impressive, though. Once, as he held her over his head, she threw up. Into his open mouth. The fact that he didn’t run screaming out the front door then has always made me a bit complacent about our family.

Next came Lovebug. He seemed so clean, comparatively speaking. Rarely threw up. Had lots of little poops instead of big explosive ones. Wouldn’t eat baby food, so he didn’t really eat solid food until he was old enough to keep it in his mouth. I should have known that he’d get back at me eventually. He STILL won’t poop on the potty, you know. He waits until bedtime when he’s wearing his training pants and then goes for it (Although the other day he went up to his room in the afternoon, changed into training pants, pooped, then changed back into his underwear. Quite a kid, my Lovebug.). Then takes off the training pants and drops them on the floor. The carpeted floor of his room. So now I’ve been an expert at scrubbing shit.

Now the bodily functions of my children don’t bother me at all. I don’t even have a moment of nausea, or repulsion. Which is why – and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, except that I’m kinda hoping that someone else will admit to doing the same thing – I watched as ChunkyMonkey pooped this morning. He’s just started having solid ones. Thinking he was done, I started to change him. But he had more and I watched it come out. I was kinda fascinated. I have never seen that much poop come out of a baby. Seriously, it was impressive.

If anyone had told me five years ago that I would just sit there and watch my baby’s poop come out, I would have thrown a drink at them.

So yeah, there’s deep love and fierce protectiveness that comes along with motherhood. And, apparently, also an ability to appreciate a big poop.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Stream of Semi-Consciousness

Ironflower threw up at school this morning. (Yes, she had school. Long story.) Anyway, I feel SO guilty. She said her tummy was upset, but I attributed it to her usual morning complaining (we are not a morning family) and her runny nose. Hot Guy took her to school, but he forgot her bag. And I forgot to remind him, because it’s not like she really NEEDS the bag, right? She’s never touched the spare outfit.

So not only did the poor kid puke, she had to wear too big borrowed clothes while Hot Guy went to pick her up.

Once again, we are totally the white trash family at the preschool. Feeling sorry for Ironflower led Hot Guy to stop by the movie store while getting stuff for dinner. (The way we’re going, we should probably just give up and let them watch Nascar and wrestling and horror movies every night during dinner. But I digress.) And even though we normally eat dinner while watching a kid’s movie only on a Friday night, we’re doing it now. And we’re watching Barbie and the Diamond Castle.

I’m actually kind of liking these Barbie movies. They have surprisingly good messages and music. Even Lovebug likes the music.

But, well, I’m liking this one for another reason. As it started, Hot Guy mentioned that the guitar playing friends reminded him of the Indigo Girls. Suddenly we started (in code the kids couldn’t understand, of course) pointing out all the ways that Barbie and the Diamond Castle could, in fact, be a nice lesbian love story. Begcause whenever we talk in code around the children we totally regress, this has been amusing us greatly.

Try to keep that in mind if you’re ever forced to watch the movie.Because it TOTALLY works.

And if you want a real lesbian love story, watch the movie Go Fish.

An Actual Dirty Little Secret

I’ve hardly ever had a job that didn’t involve kids. Babysitter, nanny, teacher, tutor. . .MOM. I like kids. I do.

But, um, I don’t really like playing with them.

I love watching them play while I also watch TV or check my email. I love teaching them new things. I love reading to them. I love cuddle time. I’ll play active games, or sing songs willingly. I like going to the park and story time and other outings.

But playing princess dolls and trains? Not so much.

I feel like I just came out or admitted an addiction. “Hi, my name is Jerseygirl and I don’t like playing.”

“Hi Jerseygirl!”

It’s not so much that I DISlike playing with my kids. It’s that I get bored. I’m the kind of person who likes to read and watch TV at the same time. I like to check my email when I’m on the phone. I also like to read and/or watch TV and/or check Facebook while I play princess dolls. Because making the appropriate responses during Ironflower’s stories? Not so interesting. While she’s very creative artistically and when she’s telling a story, the princesses tend to do the same thing. Over and over. And over and over again.

Once Hot Guy asked me who had taught Lovebug to crash his trains and cars. Because we don’t let him see violent stuff and because this was before he’d started preschool, Hot Guy wondered how his little boy had learned to stage crashes.

I hated telling him that I had taught our innocent little boy to crash things because I got bored pushing them around and around. Strangely enough, Lovebug no longer wants me to play trains with him. It’s almost like he doesn’t trust me with all of his expensive Thomas toys.

Sometimes I imagine Ironflower on the therapist’s couch lamenting, “And every time my mom played with me, she had to watch Ugly Betty or Top Chef too. Now I think I’m boring and that’s why I have 87 piercings.” But then I think about how much therapy she’ll need if I starting banging my head against a wall while we’re playing, so I’m reasonably sure that I’m doing the lesser of the two evils.

What do you think?

Yet More Suckage (Drainage?) From The Wound

Oh no, it’s not enough that I had to be in the hospital, have another surgery and spend hours of my life cleaning out a huge wound. It’s not even enough that the stitches my doctor kindly put in yesterday to speed the healing hurt like a motherfucker. Nope.

I’ve apparently warped my daughter into the bargain.

Today at lunch Ironflower mentioned that she would never get married. Not that I’m in any rush for four year old to elope, but I was a little concerned that she was writing the whole process off at such a young age. I asked her why. She told me that it hurts. I was confused, until Hot Guy was able to explain.

She’s told him that she doesn’t want to have babies and “hurt like Mommy.”

I feel like such an asshole. A whiny, cranky, horrible asshole. Clearly I’ve complained too much. I’ve warped my kid. She’s going to wind up in therapy and it really will be all my fault.

How do I fix this?

And I really have to fix this, because Ironflower has enough issues on her own. Last night she was very curious about whether you go to the bathroom after you die.

Busted

Yesterday we had dinner at my parents’ house. This in itself is a regular occurrence as my mother is a fabulous cook, plus we like having outside confirmation that our children are brilliant little hellions. Anyway, one thing about eating at my parents’ house is that you are guaranteed to get a salad and a green vegetable (unlike when you eat at our house half the time, but that’s another blog). Usually I consider this a bonus, even though my children refuse to eat either. But yesterday the veggie was asparagus, which is a definite winner of the “Vegetables I Still Hate” award in my happy little world.

But I always put some on my plate to set a good example for my children. And to shut my parents and husband up. Anyway, usually the asparagus remains on my plate until it is carried out to the kitchen and surreptitiously dumped into the garbage can after dinner. But yesterday, right after I asked for more mashed potatoes, Ironflower piped up with, “But Mommy, your asparagus looks like it’s getting cold!”

Naturally, every eye went to my plate. My plate with it’s three lone stalks of asparagus among the dregs of pork roast and mashed potatoes. It was like being eight years old again, faced with eating the horrible asparagus so that I could leave the table and go play with my Barbies. Realizing that using my 8 year old solutions of whining and/or hiding the asparagus under bread crusts, I ate the asparagus. With a pleasant expression on my face so that my children would see that asparagus is yummy. Just like mashed potatoes.

But you know what? I still don’t think asparagus is yummy. And I think Ironflower could tell.

Happy Birthday, Ironflower

(This should have been posted yesterday. I suck.)

My big girl, I can’t believe you are four today. I can’t remember life without you – and yet it seems like just yesterday we were waiting anxiously for your first cry (Ironflower got a dose of meds during the c-section because it took SO long for them to get her out, thus her first cry was delayed long enough to terrify us). You are such an amazing kid. It seems as though you’ve been making up for that delayed first cry ever since, with your precocious talking abilities.

I love that you can talk to anyone about anything. . .without stopping. I am so proud of how hard you are trying in dance class, even though it hasn’t come easily for you. And you are such an amazing big sister, often willing to share and always willing to hug. Your memory always astounds me, as does your imagination.

Right now you love princesses so much that I’ve even purchased Barbie products for you, something I never thought I’d do. Though I confess that it’s probably my fault you also love make-up these days. What makes you especially cool though is that you also love dinosaurs and your knowledge of them is already encyclopedic. And your favorite TV show is 64 Zoo Lane, about a little girl and her animal friends. You recently saw Into the Woods – and impressed all those seated around you with your ability to pay attention – and I think as of right now that is your favorite musical.

You have handled the arrival of a new baby brother with total aplomb. You love to sing him lullabies and nursery rhymes and you imitate the way I talk to him perfectly.

We love you so much, honey. And we are so proud to be your parents.

No, I’m Not Dead

An evil virus attacked my computer last Friday.

I have been without it since. Without my emotional crutch creative outlet, I have learned a few things:

1. Watching children’s television with my children – and without my laptop – is pretty boring.

2. Going to bed early is not that beneficial when you wake up four or five times every night anyway.

3. I missed you guys. Which doesn’t mean that I’ll manage to actually catch up on my Reader before I have this baby. . .in November.

4. I wish I was one of those techie people who could fix her own damn computer.

Anyway, the evil virus is gone and my computer is in better shape than it was before. In other news, both Ironflower and Lovebug started preschool this week. Ironflower has moved up to the three mornings a week class with her usual confidence and aplomb. AND she didn’t even cry when it was time to leave this year.

But the real surprise has been Lovebug. He’s always been clingier and more prone to tantrums. And yet he ran into the classroom without a backward glance. I’m sure it helps a lot that he has the same teacher that Ironflower had last year (and has the other days of the week this year) and that he’s been itching to play with those classroom toys for months. But I thought he might get upset when he realized that I would be leaving. Nope. And according to the teacher he’s been a great little helper and rule follower in the classroom. I am so proud and amazed. . . . . and wondering what I can do to inspire the same kind of behavior at home.

Ironflower also started dance class this week. As usual, she was friendly to all the other kids and completely comfortable in a new situation. And possibly testing the waters to see how closely she had to follow the teacher’s directions. She looks so cute in her dance clothes that I can’t stand it.

So now, between the minivan, the daily school run, the speech and dance classes and my ignorance of style, the transformation is complete. I am a suburban mom. Next spring I’ll be a suburban soccer mom. Is it horrible that just typing that makes me want to get another tattoo?

Should I Post This In Town?

Dear fellow Carnival patrons,

I apologize for allowing my two year old to go into the climbing structure. He was tall enough, you know. And he did just fine climbing everything. How was I to know that he’d balk at going down the slide? Sure, his father suspected as much, but he hasn’t been to the park with us lately. I assumed he was underestimating Lovebug. Apparently I was overestimating Lovebug. Anyway, I’m sorry that your children had to wait for five minutes while the carnival worker went up and helped Lovebug climb back down.

I must also apologize if you overheard me snap at my three year old while we waited for her brother to get out of the climbing structure. She had already been through three times and all she had to do was wait five more minutes before we took her on the roller-coaster. Which I had already explained. Twice. So I was a little testy, okay? Don’t act like you’ve never snapped at your child.

But I will not apologize for the stench of the young man running the car carousel – that was NOT my fault. Nor will I apologize for the announcer who announced where the face painting was every five minutes for TWO hours. And the fact that all the rides cost at least two dollars? Also not my fault.

You could say it was my fault that my daughter screamed whenever someone bumped into her, but you would be wrong. Knowing that carnivals are breeding grounds for child snatcher types (but also wanting the kids to have fun – WHICH THEY DID), I may have been overzealous when I told Ironflower that if any stranger touched her (not that I was planning on letting go of her unless she was on a ride) she should scream. But it’s not my fault that a mother has to tell her child that – blame the pervs and sickos out there, not me.

Sincerely,

Jerseygirl89

Our Family Just Keeps Growing

No, we’re not adopting Sam and Celia.

No, I’m not having twins. (at least, not that we know of) – just kidding, Hubby!

We have adopted a goldfish. Hubby rescued him from a play he was in.

Ironflower and I discussed names immediately, because we’re girly like that. I tried to include Lovebug, but he was too busy at his train table. Anyway, Ironflower declared that, “He’s a boy because he’s orange.” So I asked what boys’ names she liked. She looked confused. I tried suggesting some boys’ names. After going through her classmates and a few cartoon characters, I threw out the name “Spike”. I may have been a little frustrated by then. Anyway, Ironflower felt that Spike was the perfect name for our goldfish. (I shudder to think of what this means for her dating choices as a teenager)

So now we have Spike. And I don’t think we’ll be involving Ironflower in the choice of NewBaby’s name.

Preschool Humor

Tonight at dinner (which she had to delay coming to because she had to “check her email” on her baby computer) Ironflower shared this:

Ironflower: Daddy, do you want to hear a joke?

Daddy: I’d love to.

Ironflower: What do you call a bear with a sock on its foot?

Daddy: I don’t know.

silence

Daddy: Well, what?

Ironflower (giggling and shaking her head in a “silly Daddy” way): A joke!