Firstborn

There is something different about the relationship between mother and firstborn vs. mother and.. otherborns (? What? Yeah, I made it up). I was so sure about everything when I first had my Hurricane; strangely, I didn't suffer from the lack of self-confidence that many first time moms do (oh, don't think I got off easy; I was really insecure when I had my second child). I knew exactly what I wanted to do; how I wanted to nurse him, dress him, change his bum, bathe him, how to handle a fever, etc., and I did it exactly the way I thought I should. Every day for the first 3.79 years of his life, even after the Princess came along, Hurricane and I would snuggle on the couch first thing in the morning. In the quiet livingroom, no radio, no TV. Sometimes for 3 minutes, sometimes for 20 minutes. We cuddled. I sniffed him. He talked baby jibberish. Magical, it was.

Of course, time marches on (Metallica, anyone?); another new baby comes into the mix. Things get too busy with two crying babies, little Hurricane gets to be little-bit-bigger Hurricane and no longer wants to cuddle with Mama Bear on the couch and let her sniff him, or Mama Bear doesn't have time to cuddle with the Hurricane right then.

Then little-bit-bigger Hurricane gets to be even-bigger-now Hurricane and is living life to the Extreme Max, man (insomuch as a 4 year old can). I feel like I am losing my little firstborn baby boy. I feel like I am running and running, but no matter how hard I try, I can't catch him. I want to reach out to him and yell, "Wait! I just need you to stop for a while until I catch up with the other two babies - don't grow anymore, ok? I just need more time with you before you get too big and I'm scared we will lose this.. whatever this is, ok?"

I guess because my other two little ones are still little, and I can make them cuddle with me, I don't feel those losses yet. Or maybe it's because after 3.64 years of cuddles everyday with my Hurricane who smells like dirty dog and baby soap, I miss that everyday-ness. (Yeah, I totally did it again there.)

Since I am all about being part of the solution, here's my input: what if moms got 10 minutes each morning to cuddle with the little baby their big kid once used to be? Think how wonderful it would be: so your 8 year old is a total shit today and you want to throttle him/her? What, your 16 year old just told you to f*ck off? Pffft.. wait until tomorrow; you'll get 10 minutes to cuddle with the adorable little toddler he/she used to be. Not so bad now, hey?

I am totally going to do this once I figure out how to warp reality to my will. Without benefit of superpowers (didn't win that genetic jackpot), voodoo (too much like work), or any sort of astral or meta-physical training. (I failed physics 101 in college. Twice.) Who's with me?

Not Me! Monday

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.

Ahh, returning to Not Me! Monday.

What didn't I do this week?

Well, I didn't grab a clean diaper and whack two mosquitoes with it, wipe off mosquito guts, then put the diaper on my child. That. would. be. disgusting.

I also did not dress in a slightly see-through tank top (with a matching color but slightly darker bra underneath) and head into town to do some running around on Friday. (It sounds trampy when I write it, but really, it wasn't. I was wearing one of those La Senza super push up bras that makes my sweater puppies look really good.) While in town, I did not stop to get Frosty Shakes from Wendy's (my new favorite Free Day treat) and get caught in a torrential downpour when walking from the restaurant back to the truck, while carrying 4 drinks (Me to Wendy's counter guy: "Oh, no thanks. I don't need a drink tray, I'd rather struggle. Why? Because I'm a f*cking moron."). Good thing that slightly see-through tank top did not go completely see-through. That would be un-classy of me. Greatest Sister Ever (who was with me) did not pee her pants a little from laughing at me.

I did not totally forget to Engage Brain and give my 19 month old daughter a small Frosty Shake of her own with an easily removable lid. If I did do that, it would have led to her ripping the lid off and using her hand as a spoon to scoop out said Frosty Shake, then turning the cup upside down and dumping chocolate shake all over her, and then touching everything within reach; leaving chocolate all over her carseat, the back of my seat, the door, the window, herself. That would have been just stupid. Good thing I did not do that.

After not completely soaking through my slightly see-through tanktop, I did not have to stop at another grocery store, forcing me to mad-dash through the still pounding rain yet again. Even if this did happen, I would definitely not have ripped apart the truck only to realize that I had forgotten any sort of outerwear/sweater to cover up my indecent self.

The lady behind the counter at Superstore did not look at me like I had walked in wearing only cowboy boots and pasties.

Remember when I didn't wear jeans and a black shirt in the blazing sun and spend all evening sweating like a fat guy after too many bear claws? Yeah, I don't either. Good thing I didn't do it again on Saturday. Only this time, I did not wear jeans and a black t-shirt to our locale parade and fun day. I did not spend 4 hours (again, no sunscreen on me) walking around getting a sexy sunburn on my arms, not giving myself farmer's tan and gorgeous pit stains. (Black shirts do show sweat marks - especially sweat marks that creep down from armpit to hem and around the front and back).

Putting together the swing set today did not almost come to blows because Hot Stuff is not so frustrating he makes me start looking for brick walls to beat my face against. I did not jump in the truck after less than 5 minutes of "teamwork" and head into town bitching the whole way to my sister about husbands who feel the need to pull out a drill and drill holes where holes shouldn't be drilled, instead of reading instructions.

I did not get back from town and have a big ole smirk on my face when I noticed that Hot Stuff had put the swingset together the way I told him it was supposed to go. I also did not rub it in a few times. That is uncouth and I would not do that. Nope! Not me!

Take this job and love it.

I went back to work when my first son was only 2.5 months. (Don't stop me if you've heard this one before.) Not really back to work, but I had to finish nursing school so I didn't really have a choice. Technically, I was working for free. Yes, apparently slavery is still legal, but now they call it "practicum placement." I finished when he was 4 or 5 months old, and it just seemed natural to slide right into a job.

When my daughter was born, I took the first few months off, then started going back to work on Fridays only. It was kind of a nice balance, because I was already preggo again, but it gave me time to be a grown up with other grown ups, and do the job I love.

Little Dude is now 7 months old, and for the last few months I have been gearing up in my mind to go back to work. Only.. it's not going to happen. The cost of daycare for 3 kids is astronomical. Because my husband made "too much money" (HA! As if! There is no such thing, stupid Canada Revenue and stupid Alberta government) last year, we do not qualify for daycare. It does not matter that we are just making ends meet this year due to the screeching halt of the oil and gas industry.

I am still struggling with the concept that I will not be going back to nursing for the forseeable future. I love my job. I love the fact that, in a small way, I make a difference. I have had bad days at work before, but never a day so bad that I wanted to quit.

This is kind of late in coming (although I am one of those people who seem to be a few steps behind everyone else in learning these big facts of life), but I just realized that being a stay at home mom is a job, and I should treat it like a job. With a schedule and stuff. Not just willy-nilly the way I have been doing it until now. So far, though, I have come to the conclusion that being a stay at home mom is not as easy for me as going to work. (Big revelation coming...now!) I am just not that creative when it comes to finding fun stuff for my kids to do that also has a bit of learning thrown in. That doesn't cost much. Or is free. We live in the country so most activities require driving into the city. I would love to take my kids for walks where we live, but we live right on a secondary highway that has lots of big rig traffic.

Oh, woe is me.

We did just buy the kids a swing set that Hot Stuff and I are going to put together tomorrow, so that will keep them busy for.. 15 minutes. Until somebody falls off/gets pushed off/starts crying because the other kid is on the swing they want to use. That is, of course, assuming Hot Stuff and I actually manage to put the swing set together without bodily injury - either from the heavy pieces or each other. Assembling things is not one of our stronger Team Sports. Once you throw a fussy baby and two other kids "trying to help" and it pretty much becomes a 3-acre cage match.

Questions of Great Importance.

Who the hell put our gas meter right next to the front door? And why do mosquitoes like to hang out around our gas meter? And who keeps leaving the effing door open so said mosquitoes can come in and take up residence like vagrant squatters? I don't believe in killing living things without a reason, but I make an exception for mosquitoes. Filthy beggars.

What possessed my husband to use gasoline to "disable" an anthill? (His karma is f*cked now.)

Why does my son the Hurricane think it's hilarious to hide on mom and dad, so we are running around checking the barn and other outbuildings and freaking out with hearts that stopped beating until we hear a little voice coming from the couch?

Why does my own stupidity still amaze me, after living with myself for 31 years? ie. Wearing jeans (and a tank top.. with no sunscreen on my pale self) on a sweltering, sun-glaring down, feelin' like a french fry kind of day. And forgetting to bring a bottle of water to soccer, forcing me to steal precious water from my children's water bottles.

I have discovered that my darling baby, Little Dude, is not actually human. He is a Baby Alligator. Have you ever tried dressing/feeding/giving a bottle to/changing the diaper of a Baby Alligator? It is as fun and easy as it sounds.

The Hurricane has a new passion in life: temporary tattoos. Grandma bought the Hurricane a bag of Bakugan temporary tattoos. I am not talking about a little strip of oh, say, 3 or 4 tattoos (what I would consider a reasonable amount). This is the Jumbo Super Mega Pack of tattoos. This bag must have at least 50 temporary tattoos. (Boy those grandparents really stick it to ya, don't they? Being all fun and spoiling kids.) My little boy was over the moon!! He ever so patiently cut them all out, one by one, put them all back into the bag, one by one, making sure his little sister was suitably warned to maintain a specified distance during the cutting and bagging process.. and then snuck into the bathroom. He walked out looking like some kind of lifer that escaped from the Treehouse TV version of a maximum security penitentiary. His arms are covered in Bakugan tattoos. He has 4 on one arm and 5 on the other. From elbows to hands. I almost don't want to make eye contact because I hear that's an insult in the Pen. I checked his toothbrush to make sure he hadn't filed it down to make a shiv. Just in case. I had no idea "misspent youth" started this young.

Foamy Bat vs. Face

As a mother of little children who figure life with their siblings is a Death Match and must turn everything into a weapon with which to bludgeon each other, I have had opportunity to visit my local Emergency Room a couple of times.

Invariably, one or more concerned souls looks at my small bundle of hot mess and says, "Oh, your little one has a boo-boo, poor dear." I wish I had the nerve to say something inspiring, other than, "Yeah."

Something like, "Actually, I'm having a herpes flare-up and I'm here to get a UV treatment and some more Valtrex."

Or, "The officer told me to wait here so I can be admitted to the Psych Ward. But I'm smarter than them, you'll see."

Or, "I tested positive for Tuberculosis, but don't worry, I don't think I'm contagious anymore. What day is it again?"

Results of Foamy Bat vs. Face:




Love hurts.

They're going to take me away (hee hee)

My face hurts from fake-smiling so much this week. Mostly the week with the in-laws went well, although there were some awkward fake-smiley moments. Such as the moment my husband asked me (in front of his mother) if I was going to "play nice" when his sister (aka Slightly Psycho) came over to visit. Such as the moment my mother in-law rolled in at midnight one night and I came downstairs when the dog barked, only to see Dear Ma stagger in and weave to the bathroom. Such as the moment the next day when Father Inlaw claimed she only had two glasses of wine. Such as every single moment of my nephew's birthday on Friday afternoon (who has a kid's party on a weekday afternoon??), especially the moment at 5:30 when I realized I was half an hour late to pick my sister up and yelled, in front of lots of small kids and their mothers, "Oh Sh*t!! I forgot to pick up M!!" and then proceed to toss my baby like a football to my husband.

Oh my garsh, I sure am glad I have somewhere to put these thoughts. You'd never know how uncomfortable I am around my sister-in-law, as I work very hard to be polite for the sake of my husband and in-laws, but I would rather electrocute my nipples than put that much effort into something. Especially fake-smiling.

Life Lesson: If you let your 20 month old girl and her 4 year old brother play while both are under the alleged "eagle eye" of your husband, said 4 year old will get annoyed, pick up a hard plastic scratchy-foam-covered bat and smoke said 20 month old girl in the eye. Hilarity ensues. And by hilarity I mean blood curdling screaming, daddy yelling, 4 year old wailing, 40 minutes driving to two eye doctors to find out they are both closed, heading over to emerg because you're grossed out by eye injury stuff and have an out-of-control imagination, 2 hrs waiting, suspicious and huffy looks from others, doctor saying baby's ok after a 2 minute assessment, driving home in weekend traffic hilarity.

Wow. My girl has quite a shiner. I wanted to get her a shirt that says, "You should see the other guy." My husband, sick wacko that he is, thinks we should get her a shirt that says, "Daddy loves me."

I weigh 160.5lbs

Just sayin'.

For the last mmm.. 1000 weeks (as I weigh weekly), I have been unable to break under 160 lbs. It is fa-reaking frustrating sometimes!! I am asking for-- nay, begging, for suggestions from any or all of the... 4 of you who may be reading this. (Yeah, I said 4. So what if I am grossly inflating my readership?) I am sticking to my diet like white on rice and have increased the intensity of my workouts.

I have also tried snorting massive amounts of cocaine and speed to boost my energy, nicely balanced out by shooting steroids into my ass cheeks. (That was a joke. No, it's ok, I laughed.)

Speaking of white and ass, wow, I am one fish-belly white-assed chick. My face, which because I am always in a flop sweat from running from kid to kid and am always 10 minutes late for everything, is normally beet-red and sweaty apple-cheeked, so you can't tell how post-mortem pale I am. I made the mistake of putting shorts on yesterday and now I am legally blind. Only because I am such a computer geek good typist can I still type my blog. Can you tell I just figured out (read: googled) how to do the crossed out words thing?

The whole reason I put on shorts (other than it was so freaking hot I Confessed & Repented) was to get some sun on my legs while I gardened, but I think I am actually so white that the UV rays are being reflected back toward the sun instead of being absorbed.

Sidenote: Ooooh.. I just got busted by Hot-Stuff. I never actually told him I had a blog (because then I knew he would want to read it, and frankly, I wanted one little corner of privacy to myself), I always just told him I read other people's blogs. I am a terrible wife and a lousy human being.

I digress.

Me gardening is a novel concept. I have no idea what I'm doing. I bought seeds, germinated them, forgot about them, planted them too late, they all died. I bought already germinated (by professional amateur gardeners) plants that looked like they had a fighting chance. Brought them home, left them out overnight, forgot to water them, put them in the garden and watered the sh*t out of those puppies. A couple of them look kind of wilty and a couple of the tall ones (flowers don't have names for me; they are classified by height and color; ie. 'the tall purple ones' or 'the short green things') are already falling over. I am already deciding what plants I am going to get and murderize tenderly care for next. After these ones die.