The honeymoon is over. I don't know how to write a "keepin' it real" post without it sounding like I'm complaining. I'm not. But parenting is a trip. These little buggers creep into your heart and soul and mess with your brain. On a purely logical level it goes against all reason to enjoy being puked on (multiple times), sleep deprived (consistently), and then left to clean up the mess (sometimes at 2 and 3 o'clock in the morning). (Oh, and none of it was due to the newborn.) And yet you'd still cut your kidney out with a butter knife to sell on the black market if you thought it would be good for them. Most days. Others you would sell the little terrorist for a Dr. Pepper. (Love Holly for calling little boys terrorists!)
Porkchop is miserable. It is miserable to see him miserable. On top of his collar bone, he caught a cough and when he gets sick it goes straight to his lungs. He hacks, wheezes, and can't get comfortable. It is so sad. He is happiest and most comfortable sleeping in his carseat. As much as I'm ready for summer, I'm also glad is not too hot to let him take a nap in the garage. Unless you work for CPS or know my full name and address, in which case I never said that. You'd think this would all slow him down. Uh, no.
"Please do not roll your brother across the lawn in the tent. His arm is broken." Yes, I said that.
Juju is the easiest baby to nurse ever. Good thing. Because I am the non-lactation expert. I can do every bottle and syringe, but actual nursing uh, how do we do this? She is like the little sucker fish on on the bottom of an aquarium. I appreciate how uncomplicated it is. She's nursed in the Moby while setting up tables, painting Porkchop's big boy room, Kinkos parking lot, and of course all night long.
Scrunch got a little girl haircut. It is adorable, but makes me a little sad. She was hovering unusually close while I made dinner the other night. "Scrunch, what are you doing?" "I need to learn to be a grown up so I can take Porkchop to the Play Place." I had told her earlier we didn't have time to go to the Play Place and that it was too windy. She offered to let me stay in the car with Juju and she would watch her brother. Um, no. Because YOU'RE FOUR!!
A friend stopped by last week and saw that I had made my baby wipes and commented on them sitting on the counter. "I know you make your wipes, and detergents, and stuff (and now even our shampoo), but I love that you're not one of those psychos." "How do you know?" "Because they're sitting next to your McDonald's cups." Busted. I had brought them in from the car from the night before. In my defense...1) at least I cleaned out the car. 2) You cannot imagine the look of pure joy on my children's faces when I say we're going to the Play Place. It is win-win all around. We eat, leave the mess, they play with Papa in charge, and I take RooBaby to walk around Home Goods. And 3) I have resisted finding the YouTube video about what is in a chicken nugget because well, I don't want to know. I love me some chicken nuggets. We don't eat them every day and my kids will eat spinach, and cabbage, and kale. Go ahead and judge.
I successfully grew eight containers of wheat grass that made the cutest centerpieces. I also forgot all about my tulips I've been forcing inside for my table and managed to do them in. Bummer.
I cast this on. Twice. And that's as far as I've gotten.
A random text I sent this week, "Will our children see us as examples or wackadoodles?" Recipient's response, "Wackadoodle examples." Good to know.
I also randomly asked my sister on FB if she was P.T. when she said she was puking (she is a teacher). When she said, "Heck no!" I responded with, "You're not potty trained?!?!!?" That's what happens when I get tired and lost in Mommyland. I revert to the intellectual maturity of a twelve year old. I also consider reading The Hunger Games.
My in-laws will be here tomorrow.
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