Ways in Which my Fourth Pregnancy has Turned Me into a Toddler

I’m pregnant.  Again.  31 weeks pregnant to be exact.  This one was not exactly “planned,” so to speak.  I ran into an old high school classmate last week, one who was about as pregnant as I am with a toddler about as old as Red.  And as she so succinctly put it, “so this one was a surprise too, huh?  ‘Cause you’d have to be crazy to plan on having kids this close together, right?”  Which is pretty much how I felt when I put two and two together last February and took a pregnancy test.  Crazy.

Anyway, I’ve now had time to (for the most part) get used to the idea that I will have four kids in five years.   I’m even finding some positives in the whole barrel of insanity that will be my life.  I can see the fun to be had with so many kids this close in age.  At this point what’s one more, right?

But pregnancy.  Ugh.  I’ve never been a super pleasant pregnant person.  I’m not one to marvel over the amazing things my body can do in pregnancy.  I’m more likely to crab over the million annoying side effects (number one on my list: the weird way my sinuses get completely blocked during the nine months my womb is occupied.  I’ve cornered the market on BreathRight strips.  I’m thisclose to wearing those things during daylight hours.)  The novelty of pregnancy wears off with each successive pregnancy and this fourth one is for sure the absolute worst.  And then, because I have a three year old and a one year old, I realized that this pregnancy has turned me into a freakin’ toddler.  Let me explain:

Exhibit A.) The Hangry Toddler Meltdown.

Red is pretty known for the “Hangry Meltdown.” When she gets hungry, it comes with a side of anger.  And now, in my third trimester, I can relate sister.  On more than one occasion I’ve found my hunger growing as I prepare meals for the kids.   By the time I’ve doled out three cheese sandwiches with fruit and yogurt I’m not only starving but also irritated that these small people get to eat before me.  The longer it takes for food to make its way into my mouth, the more the rage grows.  Heaven help the kid that asks for more milk just as I’m sitting down with my own lunch.  I’m not proud of it, but irrational, over the top tirades about how “mommy just wants to eat her lunch with out getting up to refill milk fifteen times” have been delivered to dumbfounded and slightly terrified children.  I’ve wanted, on more than one occasion, to throw myself down on the ground like Red and just cry.  The only thing that stops me is the fact that my giant belly makes getting up difficult.

Yep.  This.  I get it Red. 

Exhibit B.) I keep toddler sleep hours.

In the first few months, when my normal first trimester exhaustion was enhanced by the fact that I was still nursing Red, I slept when she slept.  Meaning I put a show on for Toots at nine and passed out while Red took her morning nap.  Then I slept again at one when both girls napped.  And then I went to bed at seven with all three kids.  And I was still exhausted all the time.

All I want to do is sleep.

 Now, in the third trimester I’ve graduated to a sleep schedule more like Toots.  A nap around 1:30 or 2:00 is probably a good idea for me, especially if we’ve had a busy morning.  Like Toots, I can push through and skip that nap but it makes for an ugly evening.  If Toots and I have gone hard all day without a siesta we’re a mess by 5pm and need to be put to bed by 6:30, usually crying.  It’s been a bonding experience for the two of us.

And finally, the icing on the freakin’ cake:

Exhibit C.) My bathroom habits are identical to a potty training toddler

You guys.  I can’t even.  I didn’t think it could get any worse than when I was in the final weeks of my third pregnancy with Red.  My poor bladder was like the guy who should have probably retired five years ago.  Still working, but not super effective   Toots was potty training at that time and there was definitely an afternoon when we both peed our pants a little at Target.  At the time I thought that was as low as it could get, pregnancy humiliation wise.  This time around my bladder didn’t even try to pretend like it was still up for the challenge.  As soon as that pregnancy test revealed a plus sign my bladder put the “Gone Fishing” sign on the window and booked a first class flight seat to Vegas.  Where it’s apparently remained for the duration of my pregnancy. 

I pee all. the. time.  Everything makes me have to pee.  The sound of the shower makes me have to pee.  Hearing someone else peeing makes me have to pee (which is fantastic when I am constantly taking small children to the bathroom all day).  If I take a sip of water, thirty minutes later I’m running to the bathroom.  And I’m absolutely running because for some reason, with this fourth pregnancy, by the time my brain registers the need to pee, it’s five minutes too late.  When Toots was potty training she would get to the bathroom and say, “I just peed a little bit on my underwear.  But that’s ok.  It’s just a little bit.”  Yep.  I get it.  I’ve lost the ability to hold it. 

Also, that thing with toddlers where you make them pee before you leave the house and then, no matter what, thirty minutes into your tour through Mariano’s, with a cart full of groceries, you’re rushing down the aisles to find a bathroom?  Welcome to my life.  I have to plan my outings around the every 45-minute bathroom stops I will need to make. 

Maybe I should just succumb to it, wear batman underwear and no pants, 50 necklaces and not leave the house again until the baby comes.  This is how Toots rocked potty training.

You guys, please someone who has survived four pregnancies please tell me this will get better?  I’m not going to be stuck like this forever right?   Someday when I sneeze I won’t also pee a little too?

An Open Letter to Chipotle

Just two of my kids enjoying your fine cuisine.  These two aren't even the messiest.

Dear Chipotle,

First of all, I need to thank you.  Eight years ago, after completing my first half marathon, I sunk my teeth into my first burrito and it was love at first bite.  You became my very favorite post-race beast feast spot.  With my running days on temporary hiatus I’ve pared down to a burrito bowl, but still nothing beats your cilantro lime rice.  And you, dear Chipotle, are the only fast food establishment that my husband and I can agree on.  This is no small feat.  You’ve saved our marriage (or at least money on therapy- all problems can be solved over your chips and guac).

Now that I have kids I’m even more indebted to you Chipotle.  There are very few places I can go with the kind of quality food you provide.  Nothing fried, or chock full of preservatives and crap.  And my kids LOVE you.  Because of you Chipotle my daughter asks for rice and beans whenever and wherever we eat out.  Even at restaurants that do not carry rice and beans.  They are always up for Chipotle, just like their mom.

Which brings me to my real reason for writing, dear Chipotle.  I feel as though it’s time for me to address the one sided, almost abusive, nature of our relationship.  I’ve been a taker with you, Chipotle.  You give and give and give and I do nothing but take.  And it’s time for me to apologize. 

I can see the look of fear in the eyes of your wonderful employees when my brood and I come through your doors.  Three small children are no one’s favorite customers.  But for you, Chipotle, those rice and beans we love so much are the very bane of your existence I’m sure.  I know you know what’s coming when I stroll through the line asking for two kid’s quesadilla meals and extra sides of rice and beans.  I can see the resignation on your face and the knowledge that 75% of those tiny grains of rice and sauce covered beans will end up on your floor.  I’m sorry.  I feel the deflation when you size up the eight-month-old in my arms and realize that extra order of rice and beans is for her.  I’m so very sorry.  And yet despite the food explosion that we both know is coming, your employees are nothing but kind, helpful and upbeat.  It's a miracle really.

Please know that I try my hardest to clean up after the animals have feasted.  As you can see by the bean sauce that covers my eight-month-old’s hair, ears, eyes and hands, she is not exactly a neat eater.  Rice is stuck on every inch of her body and somehow made its way into her socks.  I wish the mess was contained to her being but alas it is not.  Bean sauce covers every surface within her reach and even, inexplicably, the table next to ours.  I use eleventy million wet wipes to wipe down these surfaces and give her a bath in your bathroom sink.  I wipe off the piles of rice and beans scattered on the chairs of my other two children.  But it’s the floor that defeats me.  The floor, so covered with rice and beans, now looks as though my children’s meals actually exploded at some point.   I only purchased three orders of rice and beans, but like rabbits that wonderful combination of carbs and protein appears to have multiplied.  At least eight orders worth are now covering your floor.  I’m not sure my kids consumed the food as much as smeared it on their faces and clothing before brushing it onto the ground.

I’ve thought about asking if I could borrow your broom, but you are so dear Chipotle that I know that you would never let me do it myself.  I’ve even thought about smuggling in my own dust buster and trying to remove all evidence of our dinner explosion before we leave.   But it’s hard enough to get all three of my kids through the door, much less a smuggled cleaning utensil.  And so instead I avoid eye contact as I pack up my three howling children, so ashamed am I to leave behind such a catastrophe in my beloved restaurant.  As we shuffle out with our heads down I turn and leave your fine employees one last apologetic, chagrined look, my eyes pleading with them to understand the depths of my remorse for the mess I’ve left behind and the deep need to be allowed back again.  I need you Chipotle, please don’t kick me out.  I’m sorry for the ways I take and abuse.  I promise it won’t always be this way.  Someday these urchins will learn to eat neatly.  I hope.

Sincerely,

An indebted customer

Parent Fails

I make, on a regular basis, more than my fair share of mom fails.  There are just some parenting things that I am not good at.  And today, I’m naming them.  (Lucky you!)  I name these not because I plan to work on them.  I really don’t.  I name them more as a path towards acceptance.  Much like my list of things I don’t do, these are the parenting things I admit defeat on.  I can stress about keeping on top of these mom fails, or I can keep my kids alive.  For right now, I’m choosing option B. 

 And now, in no particular order, my top 7 parent fails (it was 5 but then I thought of 2 more):

1.)  Making my kids brush their teeth.  I’m awful at remembering this.  Seriously, Monster brushes his teeth approximately once every 3-4 days.  Other things in this category I’m the worst at: taking my kids to the dentist regularly ever, kindly telling them that they have bad breath.

2.)  Weather appropriate accessories.  For some reason I cannot seem to get my kids out of the house in weather appropriate accessories.  The other night, in the middle of a snowstorm, in an attempt to just get out of the house that we’d been trapped in all day, Tommy and I took the kids to the restaurant two blocks away for dinner.  Because the car was in the garage we decided to walk there.  We got half a block away when I looked down and realized Toots was not wearing any shoes.  Just socks.  In the middle of a blizzard.  Monster’s three winter hats have all been in my car for at least a week.  He plays outside for recess at school and all of his hats are in my car.  In the summer we’ve been playing outside for about a half an hour before I realize that I didn’t put sunscreen on.

3.)  Child proofing the house.  I know that there are a plethora of child proofing products available at Target.  Unfortunately I can never remember to pick them up during one of my twice (thrice?) weekly trips there.  And so poor Toots continues to fall down the bottom two steps.  Yes I realize a gate would probably help.  But that’s a lot of work.  So is installing those drawer protectors.  Instead I’ll just continue to pick up the sandwich bags Toots strews all about the house.  Additionally I’ve come to realize it might be wise to invest in some closable boxes for Monster’s markers and crayons so that my daughter doesn’t go around looking like she ate a smurf on a regular basis.  But again, that probably won’t make its way to my Target list.

4.)  Doing creative crafts and projects.  I know I was once a teacher, but I was NOT an elementary school teacher.  I don’t craft.  I have never looked on Pinterest for interesting projects to do with the kids.  I kind of think Pinterest is the devil.  My sister-in-law once gave me an awesome “toddler activity box” (that she saw on Pinterest) and every “crafty activity” has totally gone unused.  I open it.  I think about it.  I decide to save the crafts for another day.  It is never another day.

5.)  Teaching my kids stuff they are supposed to know.  Monster’s therapists will ask me from time to time how he’s doing on his colors.  I usually lie and say great.  The truth is he’s doing as well on his colors as he was the last time she worked with him.  Because I certainly have not practiced with him since then.  Monster didn’t know his body parts until he was like two and a half.  Partly because of his speech delay, but mostly because I never really thought to work with him on it.  I’m fairly certain that his hearing loss, and subsequent early enrollment in school, may be the best thing that ever happened to him.  Otherwise Monster would likely go to kindergarten not knowing letters, colors, numbers or how to spell his name.  Poor Toots.  She can hear so no early intervention pre-school for her.  She’s in real trouble.

6.)  Speaking to my kids in age appropriate ways.  I can’t help it.  I work with teenagers and that tends to extend into my parenting.  I’m sarcastic with my two year old.  Instead of telling him to “calm his body down” I say, “if you kick me in the boob one more time while I’m changing your diaper I will force you to change your own diapers even the really soup-y diarrhea ones that you need to take a shower after.”  I tell my crying 10 month old she’s being a total diva on par with a Bachelor contestant.  On particularly hard days I may or may not accuse them of driving me towards alcoholism.

7.)  Not laughing when they fall down.  I know.  I know.  This one is particularly bad, but I truly cannot help it.  When my toddler takes a huge spill I can’t not laugh.  Have you seen a two year old try to take a corner at 50 mph, turn too soon, hit the wall and then ricochet off of it, tumbling to the ground?  It’s hilarious.  Luckily when I hold him close as he cries he can’t see the tears of laughter falling down my face.  I’m hoping he assumes the violent laughter shakes are sobs of solidarity.

And there you have it.  My top 7 (of about 500+) parent fails.  I’m cool with it.  My kids are still alive.  They sleep and eat pretty well.  They are mostly fun to be around.  They haven’t tried to murder anyone yet.  My work here is probably done.

So you want to sell your house?

So you want to put your house on the market while you have an eight month old and a two year old at home?  First of all, let me congratulate you on reaching a new level of insanity.  Many are too afraid to put themselves out there and go for this brand of crazy, but not you.  Kudos. 

Might I make a suggestion right off the bat?  Hire a cleaning lady.  Before the house goes on the market you will need to do an extensive deep clean.  No one in their right mind can do that with a baby and a toddler.  Outsource.  She will spend the day scrubbing areas of your home you never even noticed were dirty but now that you see them clean you wonder how you ever lived in such a slovenly pigsty.  If (when) you are satisfied with her work ask her if she would consider becoming your sister wife.  At least until the house sells.

Now, once you’ve taken great pains to clear out your years of crap in an attempt to “de-clutter” and hired your future sister wife to make the place shine like the top of the Chrysler building it’s time to officially put the house on the market.  Are you wondering what to expect when this all goes down?  Well, expect to live with a low level of panic and anxiety twenty-four- seven.  Your home, at one time a safe and moderately tidy respite for you and your family, is now a battlefield.  Imagine you and your family moving into one of those historic home museums like Graceland.  Kept in the exact, pristine condition, as it was when Elvis roamed its halls, Graceland is no place for a two year old.  Your house is now Graceland and every time you leave the house you must leave it exactly the way Elvis did, because you never know when someone might want to drop by for a showing.  In my experience two year olds respond very well to requests to not touch anything. 

Maybe it’s just my monster, but he seemed to have a knack for getting into the most obscure, tucked away things on days we were trying to get out of the house for a showing.  Never before had he noticed the flags rolled up and tucked away in a corner behind the coat rack.  But today- as we are frantically trying to shove everything out of sight and race out the door before an 11:30 showing?  Today is the day he must discover how to unroll an American flag.

And your eight month old will repeatedly spit up on the duvet cover of your made bed moments before you need to leave the house.  The dried spit up on the brown cover will leave an unseemly stain that suggests a Bret Michaels sex party last used your bed.  And of course there is no time to wash the cover and flipping it is useless because the other side contains a similar looking stain from yesterday’s spit up.  So there’s that.

Inevitably there will be a day when you will bust your butt to drag two unreasonable kids out the door leaving the house immaculate in the process only to return home to find your porch door locked from the inside.  A porch door you had locked earlier that morning while your toddler was playing in his little tikes car on said porch.  A porch door you forgot to unlock when you left out the back door.  A porch door for which there is no key.  This may or may not cause you to drop some language bombs that are not for the faint of heart.  Because, hello, you just about killed yourself getting out the door and unless the realtor showing your house had the sense to enter through the back you just locked a potential buyer out of your home.  Mother Ef.

You will go through various stages of love/hate with your home as it stays on the market.  You will find yourself nostalgic, waxing on about all the memories this home contains.  You will hate every single thing about this house and hope and pray some poor schmuck will not notice all it’s flaws and take it off your hands.  You will find yourself deeply insecure that you could ever have bought and loved a house that no one seems to want.  You will be thankful you have a home at all.

And there will come a day when you become so disillusioned with the process and so sure that no one will ever want to look at your house again.  On that day you will leave for a long, far from home excursion with dishes in the sink, toys strewn about, beds unmade and underwear on the floor.

And of course on that day, hours from home you will get the call… “someone would like to see your house in an hour…”