Horton Hears a Baby Boo

It all happened when I picked up Baby Boo #2 from her high chair. Her chubby thighs remained glued to the high chair pad for just a fleeting moment. In that revealing instant, the pad lifted up and the nightmare was exposed.

I inhaled deeply and hesitated even as I am writing this.

An ocean of crumbs, unfinished snacks and meals lay beneath that pad. The smashed peas and damp, flattened crackers were recognizable. Most chilling, however, was the unrecognizable; the gelatinous black mass that seemed to quiver in fear under my sharply peering eye. In my panic, I imagined an eyeball and a furry, segmented leg moving among this cluster fluster. Much like Horton Hears a Who, I peered into another universe, a place made of table scraps and discarded tidbits, dried applesauce and black banana chunks; sticky, fuzzy morsels of some long ago feast.

What kind of a moldy science experiment was flourishing beneath my infant’s diapered buns? What kind of a mother allows her child to sit atop a mini landfill? And, worse yet, how long had this garden been growing?

Dear Horton,
I know a person’s a person no matter how small,
But your world is about to suffer a terrible fall…

“Squirt , squirt, wipe, wipe , scrubbidity scrub…”

My husband giggled as he passed me in the kitchen. I glared at him, disinfectant in one rubber gloved hand, face mask twitching from my irritation. What, pray tell, is so funny?

He smiled widely, happy to shatter my delusions of cleanliness.
“She has a stash just like that in her car seat.”

My mini van? My precious mini van?!! The horror.

Cool Like That...

Cool Like That..

I remember when I was cool like that, lingering over cocktails and shaking my caboose under the strobe lights at the local hot spot. The better part of my energy was spent eyeing the newest fox in town. My wardrobe was bursting at its designer seams. full of hip huggers and size 2 slinky numbers. The top on my ride was usually down, highlighted hair in the wind. “Catch me if you can, cowboy,” followed by a wink and a smile was my M.O.

Now, my calling card has changed.

“OK, who pooped?”

“Sit still. I gotta wipe your boogies.”

“And shove another pea up your nose and I’m gonna get ugly!”

These are among the most common utterances in my typical day. Nowadays, I get giddy when Lee Riders go on sale at the local Wal-mart. Most of my energy is spent chasing people with poopy pants. My nights out often include a burger and a balloon. The highlight of my week involves veggies and a cooperative 3 year old. And my mini van is the slinkiest ride on my cul de sac.

Such is the life when a girl is swept off her feet by a new in town stranger, a wide smile, a fat diamond ring and one smoking hot hiney. Kinda caught this gal unawares.

To Diaper a Beast

Now, I’ve seen a wiggly baby with a full diaper before. After two babies, I should be a pro at diapering a wiggly baby (ya think?). But, this one is different. There is almost a premeditation to her wiggles. (Ha, ha, let’s see how much I can frustrate my adults!)

Once the diaper is off, she twists that dirty bottom counterclockwise, while simultaneously turning her upper half clockwise, legs in a bicycle spin, back arched and hands thrashing wildly reaching for anything to smear, stain and otherwise ruin your day (or outfit). If you are lucky, you can manage to grab a foot and elevate her soiled lower half before it makes contact with A. your hand B. your hair C. your sleeve D. the carpet or E. whatever happens to be unlucky enough to be within a 12 inch radius at the time. Once the wipes are whipped out, the bicycle spin accelerates, the screaming escalates and the whole frenzy reaches a tipping point. The naked target is moving about wildly, making your aim a little off. If you’re lucky, you may land one or two good wipes to the bull’s eye. A good wipe to any part of the lower region counts for points, too. ( Bath maybe later?)

Now, for the re-diaper. At this point, the naked target has righted itself, much like a toppled turtle, and is rapidly heading for the nearest exit. You, being the fool that you are, chase your little target, diaper in hand, hoping for a tidy and quick resolution to the problem. Hopefully, by this time, the reinforcements have been called in and have circled around to head her off at the pass. Once trapped, the wild beast will not respond to reason (even with tasty bribes). Rather, the frenzy will escalate to such a point that one considers that perhaps it is easier to deal with a stained carpet for a couple years. However, with a good wrestling match, much sweating and physical exertion, two adults can diaper a 12 month old with minimal damage.

However, as the whole task repeats itself every 2-4 hours, a martini may be in order. Might I suggest a strong one?

The Mommy Watering Hole

During my first year of motherhood, I stalked moms at Target (see Mommy Isolation), I dabbed my toes into Infant classes (see Baby Gymboree and Baby Sign Language), before finally stumbling upon MOMS Club.

I finally found it! It was the watering hole of the mommy jungle. Here, mommies of all types, lionesses and gazelles, lingered together seeking refuge from the Stay at Home world. They banded together to form walking clubs and playgroups. They ventured out on Mommy Night Outs and field trips. They asked speakers to come to monthly membership meetings to disperse advice. They gave freely to charities, shared advice and swapped stories.

I quickly infiltrated the group, poking my nose into the Book Club, joining a playgroup and lending a hand in the Heart to Heart Club (making meals for new moms) before finally landing on the board. Yes, I took on a leadership position. I sometimes come to the board meetings wearing one slipper (I am not the only one), but I am there with (one… two) , yes, both my kids.

I support and incorporate new members and help them form new friendships. In so doing, I have formed wonderful friendships for myself, my daughters and my hubby. Families to grow with, I say. I also have found a tremendous feeling of satisfaction. “Even if I can help just one new mommy make a friend …” is my motto.

So, if you are a lone wolf howling in the woods of Stay at Home Mommydom, the watering hole is calling you.

http://www.momsclub.org/

Stroller 101

My stroller was on its side, like a wounded animal sprawled in the middle of the parking lot. Baby Boo was strapped in the car, howling. (see Colic?) And, I was appraising the wounded animal nervously.

“I think it’s dead.” I told my hubby over the cell phone. My hubby’s voice droned on and on over the cell phone, spewing stroller technical support my way. It had been my first solo outing since the stork had arrived with my first baby and, so far, the outing was a train wreck.

I had been successful in my attempt to strap Baby Boo in her car seat. I had spent the better half of the morning wrestling and restraining her little wiggly body into her infant car seat. Wasn’t that the hard part? (gulp)

Getting the stroller out of the trunk and erecting it to a full standing position proved to be a colossal act of eye hand coordination, mental focus, fine motor dexterity, and physical strength. Releasing the infant car seat from the car was another stumbling block (thanks to the secret release button). Placing the car seat on to the fully erected (get your mind out of the gutter) stroller challenged my spatial skills and tapped into a hidden reservoir of engineering ‘know how’ I didn’t know I had. The surrounding air had been littered with colorul and creative utterances ( who me?) and my post partum belly fat flopped with each push and grunt.

“Push the release button or the stroller will collapse from the weight of the car seat.,” my beloved tech guy continued.

Another button? Hit the wrong button, the whole thing collapses, hit the right button, nothing happens unless you simultaneously pull upward while applying pressure downward until you hear the victorious click. Check the brake. The brake always throws a monkey wrench into the pot. Flip the safety bar otherwise the whole kit and kaboodle could go head over heels. Adjust the strap. A twisted strap will cause the male portion of the safety belt to meet up with the female portion ( I know what you’re thinking) in such a way that they will be not be undone without the use of a screwdriver. Not a task for the faint of heart.

“Did you hear the click?” My tech support was getting anxious.

Yes, I heard the click. Yeah, for me! I was proud. I could do this Mama thing. I walked proudly with my fully erected stroller, finger nails broken, hands greasy, forearm scratched and beads of sweat glistening. Now, I just hope my tech support guy would be available for the ride home.

Grandma's Birthday

It was Granny’s birthday today. My daughter sat in the window for hours watching and waiting for Granny’s car. She watched the cars pass, hoping each time that it would be the one to pull into our driveway.

When I was a little girl, I thought birthdays belonged to just me, a moment in time wrapped up in a tidy bow. A day full of fat balloons and smiling faces….a day of crumpled paper, discarded bows and shiny new toys. A day to remember, a day to call my own.

Now, I know better. Birthdays also belong to mothers. They belong to mothers who count down to due dates and breath between contractions. Mothers who fret through doctor’s appointments and prenatal tests. Mothers who search through baby name books. Mothers who decorate and feather the nest…waiting….Waiting through the nausea and fatigue, the discomfort and growing stretch marks. Mothers who labor and sweat, and in the end, hold their new babies in hospital rooms and wonder.

Birthdays belong to Grandmothers. They belong to Grandmothers who patiently watch the generational ebb and flow. Whose words of wisdom fall on deaf ears and who watch in silence allowing their daughters to stumble and fall… to learn to walk, run, fly and yes, birth, the way they need to learn, on their own, in their own way, and in their own time. Grandmothers who would rather ignore their own birthdays, but agree to all the fuss because a little girl sits and waits in a window watching for her Granny to come.

Birthdays are for little girls. They belong to little girls who spend their afternoons sitting at a table, crayon in hand, and head bent. Little girls who carefully trace their name on homemade birthday cards. Little girls who help tie bows on carefully wrapped presents and stir batter for a chocolate birthday cake. Little girls in footed pajamas who can’t wait for tomorrow. Birthdays are for little girls who sit in windows waiting and watching because it is Grandma’s birthday.

http://www.onceuponafamily.com/

My Fairy BreastMother

For the past year, I have been viewed as a food source. My nursing baby eyed me in times of hunger in ways I have never been eyed before. However, the feast is just about over. I am almost finished weaning my baby now. We’re down to one feeding a day. My feelings are mixed….Surprise ( these tea cup boobies provided sustenance to another living being for a year??)….sadness ( She doesn’t need me the way she used to.)…..joy ( Thank God she doesn’t need me the way she used to!) ...mild panic ( they didn't shrink, did they?)

It has been quite the experience and I have a few ladies I need to thank…

The Breast Nazi who taught my Breastfeeding class when I was pregnant deserves a nod. “It is simply unacceptable to nurse a baby in a bathroom,” she snarled with disgust. “The more we nurse openly, the more accepted it will be.” Although, I did agree with the theory, I simply didn’t want my boobies to be soldiers in a political agenda. I just wanted to figure out how to nurse my baby. “Position please!” she barked as she walked around checking that we were positioning our ( covered) breasts correctly. In the end, she did give me some food for thought. But, at the time, her frosty demeanor made me run in the other direction in search for a lactation consultant with a softer touch.

Then, I found her….She flew into my hospital room with her fluffy angel wings widespread and calmly showed me the way…. My Fairy Breast Mother…. She lowered my anxiety, calmed my worries, and sat with me patiently. Maybe it was the drugs from the C-section, but I could have sworn there was a glowing light surrounding her and a harp playing softly while she spoke.

“ Nurture the mother and the mother will nurture the child,” she said while pouring me Breastfeeding Tea. (http://www.tealand.com/MothersMilk.asp)

She disappeared into thin air as quickly as she came, returning to Breast Fairy Heaven. But, she left me with words of wisdom. “Trust your instincts. Relax. Put nursing first. Do as little housework as possible. And if you ever need me, click your breasts together…( little joke) “ Common sense, I know. But, sometimes common sense is not so common.

“So, how much did we pay her to tell ya to relax?”

Don’t worry, ladies, He didn’t ask that question a second time.

http://www.earthmamaangelbaby.com/

Mommy Primping

I remember when I was an unfettered maiden, free of children and martimony, singing to my animal friends in the forest....I spent hours gazing at my loveliness in the mirror brushing my silken locks, applying lipstick and primping for dates. I would try and re-try on my new outfits, many still with tags. Should I wear strappy sandals, boots or my mules? Should I carry a clutch, an over the shoulder purse, or oversized handbag? Skirt or little black number? Blouse or tank? Sinfully skin tight low rider jeans or capris? And if we were past magic date #3 ...ahem, I mean...date #10, thong or bikini? Perfume or all body splash? Should I wear the matching lotion? Should my hair be adorned with sparkly clips, captured by a tortoiseshell clip or worn free and loose, blown dried, moused, dyed and spritzed? Taupe eyeshadow or black eyeliner? Both? Oh, you nasty vixen. Lipgloss or lip liner? Matte lipstick? Should my nails be French tipped or natural? The pearls or gold chain? Oh, the choices. So many details and so much time to gloriously decide....



As for today? I still primp....



1. Hair in banana clip ( why did these ever go out of style?)

2. Stretch pants retrieved from dirty clothes hamper.

3. Clean shirt taken from bottom of clean clothes basket.

4. Shirt thrown in dryer for 2 minutes to get rid of wrinkles.

5. Sniff arm pits

6. Quick pit wash with wet wash cloth

7. Can't find deodarant

8. Use hubby's Speed Stick

9. Sniff nursing bra

10. Rate its stinkiness from 1-10

11. Baby crying.

12. Get baby wearing only bra and pants.

13. Nurse baby

14. Can't remember where shirt is.

15. Decide not to worry about it.

16. Not leaving house today anyway.


Ahh, the luxuries of a Stay at Home Queen!

In the wild, if one interrupts a lactating mother...

I came across this blog that details a woman's experience while breastfeeding in her seat at the back of a plane. She was asked to "please cover up." I know, some may think it is the "decent" thing to do. I know I personally was a big 'cover upper' when it came to nursing my babies, but this made me think...Why is nursing considered indecent? Why is it OK to shame a nursing mother... to embarass her? Strong negative emotions can inhibit milk production. ( at least for me it did). So, I don't think it is a stretch to say this flight attendant needed a good swipe across the face from this mother's claws.

In the wild, if one interrupts a lactating mother, they get eaten.

I am a nursing mom. Hear me roar.

http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/09/under-blanket.html

My mini van...

"We're buying a mini van!"

Four years ago, I was newly pregnant and gushing to my co-workers in the teacher's lounge.

"It seats 8 and has too many cup holders to count!"

My dreams of becoming a Stay at Home Mom were coming true. I would hand in my resignation soon and happily drive away into the mommy sunset in my ...(sigh)...minivan.

"It is so easy to drive and maneuver," my squeal continued.

My comments were met with forced smiles and a suppressed giggle or two.

I had promised my new Dream Machine to take care of her. I would keep her maintained and well kept. I would fill her up with clean, well dressed babies securely strapped. I would wash and vacuum her weekly. I would not be one of those mothers who, as she drove, threw crackers over her shoulder to silence the masses in the back. Oh, no. I am a teacher. I know about structure and discipline. My stay at home life would be full of squeaky clean, bubbly, fresh, heavenly, mini vanly scenes.

As for today? I still love my minivan.

She still sits 8. ( if I take out the double stroller, the single stroller that fits the car seat, the umbrella stroller, the Baby Bjorn, the shopping cart cover and diaper bag full of unused newborn diapers).

I am still amazed at all those cupholders. ( just please don't use the cupholders in the back. There just might be a dirty Kleenex or two in them, and no! No! Don't use the ones between the driver and passenger...you'll crush the Goldfish crackers...oh, that one over there might be empty...oh, never mind...something sticky at the bottom, but if you take this diaper....I think this one is clean...you could wipe it up...)

She still is easy to drive and maneuver. I can manage to keep her in the lane, one hand on the wheel, as I pass back sippy cups, loveys, and crackers to silence the masses. I've even managed to wipe a nose, tie a shoe, change a DVD, cradle a sleeping head and dislodge a cracker from Baby #1's throat, all with one hand on the wheel and ...yes... both eyes on the road.....Yes, Officer, I did say both eyes.

And, although she smells of fermenting formula, rotting cheese ( where is that coming from?),
and baby vomit ( I remember that one.), I still love ...*sigh*... my mini van.