Be Careful What You Wish For...You Might Get Pregnant

This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!

I realized yesterday, thanks to a handy iphone pregnancy app, that I am now 38 weeks pregnant. This came as a bit of a shock, because, of course, it means that technically I could have this baby at any time. Like, even tomorrow. TOMORROW.

(OK, yes. I admit it: I am kind of a bad mom for needing a pregnancy app to tell me how far along I am. With my two previous pregnancies I knew to the day where I was in my gestation. What can I say? I'm older this time around, and I have a 3-year-old and 5-year-old to keep track of. Not my fault. Well, mostly not my fault.)

So. The baby could come at any time. I should be worried, because we are not ready. AT ALL. I haven't retrieved our bassinet from my friend who has been using it, the crib mattress is currently on the floor ready to catch my 3-year-old the next time he falls out of his bed, and I haven't boiled the
nipples for any of our bottles. (And before you get snippy about the fact that this baby will probably be fed formula from early on in his/her life, read THIS.)

So, yeah, if the baby were born tomorrow, we'd have some scrambling to do.

However, I'm not worried. My oldest son came at 41 weeks, and my younger son took even longer than that to be fully cooked. Odds are we have three more weeks. PLENTY of time to get that infant car seat installed. LOTS of time to pick a name. SCADS of time to replace all the newborn clothes I gave away three years ago. No problem! And after all, this is my last pregnancy (for REALS this time) and I want to enjoy it for as long as I can.

On the other hand...I haven't been enjoying it quite so much this time.

While this pregnancy has been easy compared to some women's pregnancies, it's been a rough-ish few months for me. It started when I got shingles, which I really thought was an old person's disease. (It's not.) Then the baby was breech for a while and my dreams of a natural, probably-unmedicated birth were put on hold until he/she got with the program and turned around. Recently, I spent a week with a terrible cold, and just when it started to clear up...I got pink eye, which I really thought was a young person's disease. (It's not.)

I figured the worst was over until I experienced something I'd never heard of before: an ocular migraine. Basically, your vision gets all screwy for 30 minutes or so, and your kids get to watch extra tv while you panic and call Labor and Delivery because you're certain you have a tumor or a stroke or something. If you're lucky like me, you get a wonderful midwife on the phone who explains what's happening and as if by magic your vision returns to normal pretty much instantly. So. Much. Fun.

But, despite those discomforts, I'm pretty excited to meet our baby. I'm excited to start calling it "him" or "her" instead of "it." I'm excited to start learning his/her personality. (Though I just know already that he/she will be a good sleeper. I SAID, I KNOW IT.) I'm excited to see my 3-year-old become a big brother. I know there are sleepless nights and poop-soaked days ahead of me, but I'm ready. I still have doubts about how I will handle being a mom of three, but I figure we'll all muddle through it somehow. It won't be perfect, and at times it will probably be a big ole mess, but we'll figure it out.

So, given all that, I thought this month I'd revisit the blog post that started it all...

Dead Womb Walking?

I wrote it back before I got pregnant, when I was still trying to figure out if we should have a 3rd baby. Enjoy it!

Don't Tell Me What to Feed My Baby!

Not long ago on my blog, I shared my indecision about trying for a third child. Despite the lack of sleep, I always look back on my boys’ baby years fondly; the late-night snuggles, the milestones, learning our new family member’s personality. But there is one part of those baby years that brings back more bad memories than good:

Breastfeeding.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am absolutely pro-breastfeeding. I believe women should be able to nurse their babies pretty much whenever, wherever they want to without any objection from anyone.

Poor, miserable, formula-fed baby

But that’s not all I believe. See, I tried my damnedest to breastfeed my first son. But, after a few weeks, the kid wasn’t gaining weight. In fact, he had started to LOSE weight. After a frantic trip to the pediatrician, hours of pumping at all times of day and night, and more money than I care to think lactation consultant tells you to give up breastfeeding, you know your tatas just don’t have the goods.)
about spent on a lactation consultant, we came to realize something: I couldn’t effectively feed my baby with my breasts. (And believe me, when a

I cannot tell you how horrible I felt in those first few weeks that we started feeding Matthew formula. I just knew that I had failed as a woman and a mother. It seemed that every time I logged onto my online new mother’s support group, or got on facebook, or even just opened my favorite gossip magazine, I was hit over the head with the message: BREAST IS BEST! FORMULA IS EVIL! YOU ARE A BAD MOM IF YOU DON’T BREASTFEED YOUR BABY!  (You know what’s really evil? Supermodel Gisele Bundchen spouting crap about how breastfeeding should be a “law.”)

This attitude has got to stop. Yes, breast milk is best for babies. There is no denying that. But we are so lucky to live in a time where technology has provided us with a substitute for breast milk that is almost just as good. Not only is it almost as good, it is a nutritious, healthy, perfectly FINE way to feed babies. My boys both thrived on formula—they hit their milestones right on time, they had matching height and weight percentiles, they are intelligent, caring, wonderful little human beings. If I hadn’t had formula to feed them (or a live-in wet nurse, I guess), they literally would not have survived their infancies.

People have asked me, “But, didn’t you miss the bonding breastfeeding provides?” After I take a few deep breaths and convince myself not to punch them in the throat, I explain that bottle-feeding can be just as bonding as breastfeeding. I’ve done both: I know that I can snuggle, kiss, and gaze at my baby if there’s a boob OR a bottle in his mouth. (I can also watch “Grey’s Anatomy” either way, and I did that sometimes, too.) And guess what? If I want the ever-important “skin-to-skin contact” that breastfeeding provides babies and mothers? I can take my shirt off and rock that bottle with the twins hanging free and loose. Been there, done that (lucky for everyone, only in the privacy of my own home).

What can I say? I guess it's all the formula we fed him.

New mothers choose formula for a host of different reasons. Some, like me, can’t breastfeed. Some have to go back to work and can’t fit pumping in to their schedules. Some find breastfeeding painful or uncomfortable. Some need more than 3-4 hours of sleep in a row. Some just plain don’t like it. But guess what? None of that matters. We should support mothers who FEED THEIR BABIES, which, as it turns out, is pretty much all mothers.

We need to stop shaming mothers for choosing formula over breast milk and focus on other things that actually have a major impact on babies’ lives. Let’s put our time and energy into educating parents about SIDS, for example. Babies DIE from SIDS. Or how about helping new parents learn about car seat safety? Babies in improperly installed car seats can DIE in an auto accident. DRINKING FORMULA DOES NOT KILL BABIES.

The thing is, I am all for supporting new moms who want to breastfeed. I am even all for encouraging reluctant moms to give it a try. I think new moms should have easy access to help and advice from experts who can make those first few weeks of breastfeeding, which are often the hardest, easier. I don’t think hospitals should send home formula samples unless parents ask for them, and I don’t think maternity ward nurses should feed babies formula without their parents’ consent. But I also think women should not be made to feel embarrassed or ashamed if they choose formula.

So, yes, I am pro-breastfeeding. But I am also pro-formula feeding. In fact, I like to say that I am PRO-FEEDING. Feed your babies. Feed them something that will allow them to grow and thrive, like breast milk or formula. And the next time you see a woman with a new baby at the pediatrician’s office, preschool drop-off, or, God help her, the grocery store, give her a smile. Tell her that her baby is beautiful. Tell her she is doing a great job. Because chances are good that she is feeding her baby…probably many times a day and at least once or twice at night. And THAT’S all that matters.

This essay was originally published on November 14, 2012, as one of my entries in the Blogger Idol contest. You can see the original post, along with the judges' comments, HERE.

I'm Pregnant and Nesting...Sort Of

This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!

It's been a long 34 weeks...

It occurred to me recently that I never officially announced my pregnancy here on my blog. So, let's get that out of the way:

I'M PREGNANT!!

But before you start oohing and aahing and wishing me a happy and healthy nine months, you should know something. I'm not just pregnant. I'm SUPER pregnant. Like, light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel, can't-see-my-feet, 34-weeks-along pregnant. I just kind of forgot to announce it before now. Blame it on hormones.

Anyway, like a waddling, heavy-breathing, not-really-all-that-effective ninja, I've sneaked along to that point in pregnancy where the nesting instinct starts to kick in. I want to dig out the bottles and the baby clothes and set up the all-important baby swing. I want to install the infant car seat and get the Boppy out of storage. I want to set up the baby's room so it actually looks a little like a baby's room and less like the play room that it currently is.

But I can't. I just can't get it done.

Sure, there are the usual deterrents. My two young boys, for one, who will go from happily playing together to trying to kill each other the minute they see me engage in any activity that doesn't involve them. My current physical state doesn't help, either. I'm big, I'm tired, and I spend a lot of time limping around holding on to my butt thanks to what I'm told is a pinched sciatic nerve.

And sometimes this happens.

But the biggest obstacle to me getting everything ready for our new little one is an even more daunting problem: Our house is a godawful mess. It's not that it's dirty, exactly, (as long as you don't look inside the microwave) it's just, well, cluttered. We have a lot of stuff, and no matter how often I put it away it ends up all over. All over the dining room table, all over the living room floor, even all over the tiny counter next to the bathroom sink (WHY do I find Hot Wheels there every morning? WHY?)

So, this time around my nesting process includes what I'm calling "pre-nesting:" the sorting, organizing, and purging I have to do so I can actually nest. Since I'm actually at the "pre-pre-nesting" phase (the one where you look around and think about everything that has to be done then sit down and check facebook), I've been reminded of this post a lot lately:

I Don't Think We Could Charge For Admission...

Enjoy! And step carefully on your way out!

Pregnancy and Grief, Or How To Get Nothing Done

This post is the latest in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy!

You know those days where you have to keep reminding yourself how much you love your spouse, or you'll end up killing them?

I think my husband is having one of those days.

Oh well, at least Ryan gets me.

I have to admit, I've been a bit of a mess lately. I'm 30 weeks pregnant, so, thanks to hormones, my mind and body don't always feel like they are totally under my control. (This explains why I frequently walk like an old lady and sometimes call my kids by the cat's name.) We also happen to have a lot going on right now, including buying a bigger car, filing our taxes, dealing with an incompetent cable/internet company (I'm looking at you, AT&T U-Verse), and preparing for an upcoming family trip. I'd say I was juggling a lot of balls, but that would only be true if "juggling" meant "kicking around a bunch of balls and occasionally maybe throwing one up in the air and hoping it doesn't hit anyone in the eye."

It's a lot to handle under normal circumstances, but unfortunately there's even more: Late last week, my beloved great-aunt Ruthie--whom I have always considered a third grandma--died unexpectedly.

So, on top of the day-to-day absurdities of everyday life (seriously, AT&T? Thirty-five minutes on the phone to resolve NOTHING?), I have been flooded with grief and memories of my Aunt Ruthie. And, because my Aunt Ruthie and my mom were so close, I am also being flooded with memories of my mom. I am missing both of them so much right now it sometimes physically hurts. And the juggling thing? Those balls have rolled under the couch and are collecting dust and cat hair.

I haven't written much about my Aunt Ruthie on my blog, but back in October I wrote about my memories of my mom and our frequent trips to visit my grandma (Aunt Ruthie's sister). So while I get a broom and attempt to knock those balls out from under the couch so I can get them back up in the air again, go ahead and revisit this:

Arizona Memories, Or How I Learned My Grandma Is A Stone-Cold Killer

And while you're here, I'd appreciate any ideas you have on how I can apologize to my husband for my sub-par juggling skills. It'll get better...probably.

Mommy? No! I Am...VAGINA PERSON!

You are a poopy stinky butt!

Well, not YOU, exactly. Really, more like everyone. Everyone is a poopy, stinky butt.

According to my four-year-old, that is.

The Stinker has entered a lovely phase—The Potty Talk phase. Sometime in the last few months, he discovered that toilet talk is not just regular funny, like he thought it was before. Toilet talk, it turns out, is over-the-top, spit-milk-through-your-nose, fall-on-the-floor-with-your-friends-laughing funny.

Do you know how hard it was to find an appropriate picture for this post?

My first response to the potty talk was a huge mistake: I told him to stop it. Talk about adding fuel to the fire! Now poop is hilarious AND Mommy doesn’t much like it! Let’s just say the resulting verbal poo-splosion was epic. If he wasn’t talking about poop, pee, or penises it was only because he was cackling maniacally at his own genius.

But then, things got even worse. He took it up a notch: He discovered the word “Vagina.” And oooooohhhhh does my boy love to say “vagina.” He uses it creatively, throughout the day, in a wide variety of situations. For example: I am no longer “Mommy”—I am “Vagina Person.” As in, “HEY! VAGINA PERSON! LOOK! THIS STORE SELLS HOT WHEELS!! CAN I HAVE ONE, VAGINA PERSON?? CAN I? CAN I???” Another fun example: He made up a Vagina song, which he then taught to his younger brother. It goes like this: “Vagina! Vagina! Beautiful vagina! Vagina! Vagina! Let’s talk about vagina!” They like to march around the house singing it when the UPS guy stops by to drop off a package or when I’m on the phone with the pediatrician’s office.

The good news is that I have managed to contain the madness:  He doesn’t break out the potty talk at preschool, according to his teacher (that was a fun conversation). But the effort to hold in all those “vaginas” and other potty words during school hours is apparently monumental—as soon as I close the car door at pick-up time, he lets loose with a violent stream of 4-year-old profanity that sends his brother into fits of giggles and makes me want to bang my head against the steering wheel until I no longer care.

The other good news, I guess, is that neither of my boys has managed to pick up any “real” profanity…yet. They truly believe that the worst word on earth is “stupid” and I hope to keep it that way for as long as I can. Because I can just imagine the day that they discover actual curse words—it will be like a whole new world has opened before them. A world filled with ways to embarrass and humiliate Mommy. A world strewn with shocked and horrified grandparents and teachers. A world where Mommy can no longer go to Target without suffering the judgmental stares of her fellow shoppers.

And a world without Target is not a world I want to live in.

Vagina Person

(No joke: Do a Google image search of "vagina person" and about 5 photos from my blog come up, including this one. OF ME.)

(Oh, but also? You probably don't want to do a Google image search of "vagina person." Trust me on this one.)

Sorry Kids, Mommy's Outta Here

This post is the second in my "Way-Back Wednesday" series (on the third Wednesday of each month, I revisit one of my favorite posts from the past). Enjoy! 

Sorry Kids, Mommy’s Outta Here

That’s right. I’m packing my bags. Leaving my family behind. In just two days, I. Am. Out. Of. Here.

Ok, truth be told, I’m only going to be gone for 3 days—and then I am most definitely, almost probably, coming back. I’m heading out for a girls’ weekend with my six college besties, and I can’t decide if I’m more excited for the actual weekend or for the airport and plane ride experiences.

Sad, isn’t it? I mean, you know you’re a mom of young kids when a trip to the airport and a 3-hour flight BY YOURSELF feels like a spa day. I’m already dreaming of it: Getting through security will be a breeze with no car seat, no stroller, no sullen preschoolers who refuse to answer the TSA agent when asked for their names. After security, I’ll stroll to my gate, maybe stopping at Starbucks or McDonalds for goodies—that I won’t have to share!—and then by a book shop for trashy magazines. And boarding will be lovely: I’ll just waltz to my seat and plop down to enjoy my snacks and gossip rags at will.

But then the real magic will begin.

The plane ride.

Here’s what I WON’T be doing during my flight:

• Reading “Little Critter” books out loud.
• Eating smashed PB&J sandwiches and soggy cucumber slices.
• Learning how to play the “Elmo’s ABCs” app on the iPad so I can help my kids with it.
• Watching “Cars 2” for the 93587935798357^th time.
• Holding someone else’s barf bag.

Here’s what I probably WILL be doing during my flight:

• Reading something—ANYTHING—for grown-ups.
• Eating whatever delicious goodies I could find in the terminal without worrying about modeling good habits for my fellow travelers.
• Smashing my 4-year-old’s high scores on my iphone’s “Angry Birds” app.
• Watching a PG-13 or even (gasp!) R-rated movie.
• Politely ignoring pretty much everyone around me as much as possible.

So, as I pack my one incredibly small suitcase and my definitely-not-a-diaper-bag purse, I leave you with this link to celebrate this month’s “Way-Back Wednesday.”

photo credit

All By Myself

It’s about a trip I took with my kids that went horribly, messily wrong. And it explains why I now carry large ziplock plastic bags with us whenever we all set foot on a plane together. Because those tiny airplane motion-sickness bags?

Ineffective.

By the way, if you’re looking for even more Crazed goofiness, I’ve been featured on a couple of other blogs recently. Check them out:

Last January, my friend Daddy Knows Less let me rant about childless people who think they know everything about parenting. (And yes, I was one of them once.)

And then, earlier this month my friend Martinis and Minivans interviewed me for her "Inside the Blogger's Studio" feature. Read it to find out what hilarious lie I told my kids to get them to eat their veggies.

Pinterest + Preschoolers = PAIN

Well, I may be the last on earth to do it, but I was finally hit by the Pinterest Plague. I bit the bullet a week ago and signed up. And now? Now, I have plans.

Big Plans.

Home decorating plans. Cleaning-my-house plans. Making-darling-and-incredibly-thoughtful-Valentines-Day-crafts-for-my-husband plans.

Lots and lots and lots and lots of plans.

For now I’m still in the research phase of most of these plans. It could take weeks, months, even YEARS for me to gather the necessary photos, infographics, and how-to lists needed in order to effectively put these plans in motion. That’s ok. I don’t have a lot of time to distress and paint old wooden frames at this point anyway.

But I did find one thing on Pinterest that I decided to try right away: an incredibly cute, easy Valentine’s Day craft for kids. Here’s the photo I found and the link to the website:

Click here for the original post

So cute and easy, right? My four-year-old son had a playdate with his best little girl friend coming up, so I decided to take on my first Pinterest Parenting moment and bust out this craft for them.

Well, as I should have expected, things did not go exactly as planned.

I got the kids started, and they were very excited. For about 30 seconds. Then, some things started happening.

First, they asked for other art supplies—markers, stickers, ribbons, stuff like that. Stuff that was NOT mentioned on Pinterest when I found this activity. I had misgivings—WE WERE DOING A PINTEREST CRAFT, not improvising some random art project like preschool hippies!! But I don’t like tempering a child’s natural creativity in general, so I went with it.

Next, they started experimenting. My son became fascinated with a glob of glue from his glue stick and began poking at it. Then he scribbled on it with a marker, yelling, “I’m dying it!! I’m dying the glue!” Then he used the marker to draw on his hair. Again.

Of course, distractions were inevitable. I’m not sure how jumping up and down, flapping one’s arms and shouting, “Look! Look at me! I’m flying! LOOK AT ME!!!” is part of anyone’s artistic process, but there was my son doing just that. His friend was unfazed and, after watching his antics for a minute or two, went back to using her rebel art supplies to do non-Pinterest-endorsed activities like coloring on top of stickers.

Finally, they finished their Valentines. Here are the results:

My son's valentine

His friend's valentine

Um, yeah. This would be MY valentine. Mommy, FTW!

At this point, my son’s friend became inspired and hid herself away in another room to make a “secret valentine.” When she emerged, she handed my son this:

awwwww....

Well, my little guy thought this whole secret valentine thing was a great idea, so he hid HIMSELF away in the other room to make one for her. When he emerged, he gave her this:

ummmmmm...

Apparently, my son’s “POOP” valentine somehow reminded the kids that playing with underpants is always a fun game, so they moved on from art supplies to that. To my son, the Underpants Game just means wearing underpants on your head and body and throwing them around the house. Like this:

He takes after his father.

So he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his girl friend’s suggestion that they use the underpants for a more practical, organized activity: to make a treasure trail (duh). So then I found this in our bathroom:

I love how they are evenly spaced.

There’s really nowhere to go but down after fun like that, is there? Thankfully, my friend showed up to claim her daughter right about then, so we’ll never know what might have happened next.