Happy Christmas to all and to all a goodnight.

Every day my children are on this earth I learn something new about my own parents. Odd paradox, but true. This was Turner's first Christmas really "getting" the whole Santa thing. In turn, this was my and Brad's first Christmas being the real Santa.
As I argued with my son last night that bedtime was indeed a good idea and necessary, I smiled. I remember very clearly being on the other end of this argument. I still can recall the extreme excitement, lying awake trying to hold myself back from waking my mom and dad too early. I wasn't concerned that they would miss too much sleep, I was worried they'd say go back to bed.
This is my most favorite Christmas of all time. I suspect that next year will hold the same title. We put out milk and donuts for Santa(it's Turner's favorite snack and he wanted to share with St Nick). Then we set out magic reindeer food in the yard. We all laid in bed and read "Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house..." Even with having to threaten calling Santa to get Turner to lay down it was incredible fun. Setting out gifts and putting together toys put a big stupid grin on both Papa and my faces last night. Brad said he would be too excited to sleep. Part of the good time was knowing what excitement was in store for Turner. Another unexpected perk was being in on a secret with my husband. Knowing glances and suppressed giggles are pretty fun when shared with the man of your life.
After last night I realize that my parents weren't lacking excitement on the Christmas mornings of my childhood, they were pooped. I always wondered how they could just sleep on the most important night of the year. Well, they had put together toys, elfed and Santa'd, and made my perfect Christmas morning- it just took them all the night before to get it ready.
Now that I get to elf around on Christmas Eve night it has become even more magical than it was when I was Turner's age. Now I get to remember all the perfect touches my parents put on Christmas: The eaten cookies, the sleigh bells off in the distance, the beautiful display of my most wanted toys. Now I hold all those memories close as I make new ones for my kids. Being able to give my kids memories like my parents gave me is Christmas magic. Sharing a night of sneaking around, being quiet, full of excitement with my husband is about the most romantic thing I can imagine. I can't wait til next Christmas, only three hundred sixty four days to go...

I know how wonderful you are, now leave me alone!

When I am with my kids in the pre-dawn hours I feel a wonderous-ness coming from the both of them. I don't know if either of them will one day be president, but they they will be great human beings.
I am just getting to know Tate. She has a very defined sense of humor. Her personality is really starting to blossom. She loves being outside. The two things she clearly adores are the men in our lives, Papa and Turner B.
Turner has so much personality and a caring nature that makes me tear up more often than I like to admit. He genuinely cares for his friends and mine. He is inquisitive, insightful, and and he's my best friend. I love that little boy with all that I am, but he is driving me insane!
How can I, his maker, love him so totally and still have him make me loose my mind? The "Terrible Two's" have nothing on the stubborn, argumentative three's. He has contested every single thing I have said or done for the past week. I know that he is just a preschooler making sense of his world and testing his boundaries, but I am a middle aged mom hanging on to sanity by a thread.
I often wonder what exactly happens to my time. I look up at the end of the day and it's six o'clock and the house is destroyed. By the time Brad gets home I have picked up the living room three times, folded laundry, put laundry away, Turner pulls it all out of his closet and I put it away a second time, feed the kids breakfast, lunch and snack, clean up behind breakfast, lunch and snack, get groceries, iron work clothes, change seven diapers, wipe one big boy poop booty, sanitize the bathroom when someone (who will remain nameless) pees on the wall while not paying attention, wipe snotty noses eight times, make about twenty-seven trips up and down the stairs, change sheets, cook supper, struggle to get some food in Tate's mouth, rock a baby, make up some type of activity for after nap, and all the other things that wear away a day. While all this is going on I answer an on-slot of questions: What do bears eat? Why are you doing that? When will Tate get teeth? Is Pop coming home soon? Can I play with Play-Doh? Why can't we go swimming? Where's Becky? Can we go to Tyna's house? What's Ridge doing? Where is North Carolina, is it far away? Can I call Booyah? Where's my transformer? Are there monsters in my room? And on, and on, and on...
I think that the daily chores and barrage of questions mixed with bouts of crying baby and sleep deprivation are making me insane. Yesterday Turner got up from nap and went to the bathroom. He wanted to put lotion on his face, so he got two huge fist-fulls of Vaseline and proceeded to smear himself with petroleum. Those are the days that the Valium ferry should stop by.
I am torn between holding my children in a loving embrace and running away to join the circus. Why am I guilty about it? I have no clue, but I bet it was in the small print when I decided to be a mom. Maybe I have split personalities. 99.9% of me loves and adores both my children. It's that damn pesky .1% that makes me want to go lock myself in the bathroom and have a moment of peace. But it's just .1%, besides Turner would be screaming questions under the door anyway.
I have so many things to be thankful for this Christmas: Brad, without him I would have no Turner or Tate, he's my love and the only man I could stand to live with(I mean that in the sweetest way possible). I am Thankful for both of my kids. They are why I smile, laugh and breathe. And I am thankful for the Vietnamese lady who put on a strong set of nails for me. With out tough nails I might loose my tenuous grip on sanity and not be able to appreciate all I have.

Red ribbon day

I have often written about my husband. I've let the vast masses of the Internet know when he's on my bad side, likewise, I've waxed poetic about the parts of him that make me swoon. Tonight I sing his praises.
Bradley has gone and surprised me. This is not an easy task, I am the nosiest person I know. It's not my fault, I was born that way. The fact that I live with Brad makes it all the harder to surprise me, but he did it.
I've been wanting a new car for a while. When we had Tate the back seat of my Montero officially disappeared amidst the car seats. I've had my little truck for five years now and it has never let me down. But I have an eye for sparkly new cars and the smell of new leather intoxicates me.
Brad and I talked over the idea of getting a new car. We looked at all the seven passenger cars on the market. We talked to a couple salesmen. We looked at our finances and decided to wait til next winter to get something new and bigger.
I was a little sad when I thought about not getting a new car, but it was OK. We talked about it and it just made more sense to wait til I could get the car I wanted with all the bells and whistles.
I got both of my babies down to nap at the same time today, this is a rare occurrence. What is even more rare is the sound of a key in the lock at two p.m. I was a little startled but I saw it was Brad. I know how hard the man works, I know he never leaves unless there is a good reason or something is wrong. I knew he didn't have a reason to be home early so I thought maybe he got hurt at work or was sick. My husband never takes off. He worked through having bronchitis and pneumonia once, so something had to be wrong.
Brad walked in and said he came home early so we could go look at a couple cars. What a treat, Brad home early, and I get to get to go smell new cars! I told him it was nap time, he said fine we'd go when the kids got up. He asked me to come help him get some stuff out of his truck. I walked outside, but Brad's work truck was not in the driveway. In my driveway sat a brand new Acadia with a beautiful red bow on it.
I am not one to cry. I graduated high school, got married, and had two perfect babies without shedding a tear. Brad made me cry today. It wasn't the car, it was the bow. It was the fact that he listened and he was so generous. He knew what my dream car was. He knew the color, the features, and all the bells and whistles. He bought the car yesterday and had a DVD installed. He left work and surprised me. He gave me a safe, fun car. He gave me a car that I no longer have to worry if my kids are hot in, they have their own vents and climate control. He gave me a car that Turner and Tate can watch TV in while on long trips. He gave me the freedom to load up my friend Maranda and my kids' best friends and go anywhere we want together. Brad gave me what I wanted and I didn't have to ask for it.
Husbands, take note. You need not buy your wife a new car, but you need to listen. Brad gave me two very important gifts today. I got an afternoon with my husband, which never happens. And I got a great car, that is exactly what I wanted. He could have gone and gotten the truck he wanted but he got something that worked for us all. Now this doesn't come with out a price for me. He let me know that he figures he gets at least nine months of me picking up behind him with out me fussing about it. I got the good end of this deal. I'd be picking up behind with or with out a car.
Brad isn't known for his affectionate nature, but he wows me all the time. The car is fantastic, but it was the bow that made me cry. It wasn't just that he picked up a car, he meant for it to be a surprise and a gift. The bow made it so special. Today was a red ribbon type of day. Thanks babe, you rock, you always have and always will.

Let’s see what we can conjure up...

We are back to the land of the Georgia Peaches. The trip back to Louisiana was great, my sister's wedding was beyond beautiful. But, no matter how much fun a trip "home" always ends with me missing what is now my home. Hey there are no laws saying that a person must live in a state for longer than thirty days before claiming it as "home".
I was ready to get back into our little routines. We got back on Tuesday, unpacked and started the week off like we'd never left. Wednesday I took Turner to school and went to the gym to sweat away some tension. While Tate was in the gym's nursery Mrs Mamie Joe watched her. When I went to retrieve my little bundle of sunshine Mrs Mamie let me know that my baby looked to be getting "the thrash". After a bit of discussion we figured out that "the thrash" is what she calls thrush. (I knew Tater had thrush, I brought her to the doctor on Tuesday afternoon and got her some antibiotics.) Mrs Mamie Joe then asked me "Do you got yourself a conjurer?" This just left me dumbfounded, a conjurer? She then told me that "the thrash" can be conjured away. All I need to find is a man whose father died before he was born, then let the stranger blow three times in my baby's mouth.
I love eccentricity, love cookey people, I even love plain old weirdos. I love home remedies, but let a stranger blow into my baby's mouth? WTF!? You all know my psychotic germaphobia would never let this happen. It was endearing of her to want to help my daughter but not even after hell serves snow cones would I allow a stranger, or any person, to blow into Tate's mouth. Ah, there are so many reasons that the world as a whole thinks Southerners are nuts, Mamie Joe is at the top of the list.
I know that story will make me smile for years to come but I am having a hard time feeling chipper today. In an hour I get to take Tate to a pediatric specialist to have an ultrasound done on her chest. She has a lump under her right nipple, it's about the size of a blueberry. The first day I noticed it I called her pediatrician in Utah. We had just arrived in Georgia and I hadn't gotten a doctor here. They assured me it was just a cyst and it would be gone in a week. Well it's been on her for over two months. Her doctor here saw her yesterday and ordered the ultrasound just to be safe. I know it's just a cyst and she will be fine, but my stomach is in knots. Any parent knows the feeling. If anything is wrong with either of my children I get this sick in the stomach feeling. I felt this way the first time we took Turner to the ER. So if you are the praying type, say a quick one for Tate. I know she's fine and is just milking this lump thing for better Christmas loot, but I worry none the less. I'll let eveyone know what is going on once we know. Thanks--Tiff

Two more mintues part two

Little monster has been busy. Now that his verbal skills are right up there with ninety percent of college freshman he can demand new and better things. Little Monster was recently seen out campaigning. He's promising his constituents less naps and more junk if they join his march against order.
Little Monster has coerced Princess Poo to be his second in command. In exchange for him picking her up and dragging her around the living room, she will use her powers of poo against mom. The two of them are really funny. They squeal and laugh at just about anything, they are definitely a united front.
Little Monster is the spokes person for my dynamic duo. Being that he's the only one speaking English it just makes sense. He now asks for things on Tate's behalf: "Mom she wants to be carried by me", "Mom let her stay in the tub for just two more minutes". Princess Poo yells her agreement and the two soggy monsters get a few more minutes in the tub.
Little Monster, cunning charmer that he is, is using Tate's lack of language to his advantage. "Mom Tate wants me to get a trampoline so she can bounce too". Tate also frequently wants to watch Power Rangers and stay up late.
Life with monsters is interesting to say the least. I am so happy that my monsters both belong to the same union. They work with each other, which is everything I always wanted.

Ramblings of a sleepless woman

I need a sick day. Maybe not a sick day just a pass to get out of a day. I brought Turner to the doctor today for a flu shot. He was great the whole time til he saw the needle and was told he had to pull his pants down. My heart broke for him.
Brad has never been with our kids to the doctor except for a couple emergency room trips. He's never seen his baby get stuck with a needle. Worse, he's never seen the look they give you, like you betrayed them. How could Mom let someone hurt them like this? Even worse, how could Mom hold them down to be hurt?
I need Brad to take Turner back in thirty days for the other half of the flu shot for Turner. He's bigger and older. It's no longer a nasty surprise, he knows it's coming. He can also tell me that it hurts and scream for me to make them stop. I know it's good for him, hell, I made the appointment. It just kills me to watch my baby be in pain, even for that short little bit of time.
These are the times when I thank God over and over for giving me healthy kids. I like to think I am strong and tough, but I haven't had to watch over a really sick child before and hope I never have to.
My hormones are riding on a pretty good roller coaster here lately. When Turner was about four months old I left him for the fist time ever with my friend Nikki. I went and chopped off all my hair and dyed it black with neon pink highlights. My hormones were making me crazy them too. Tomorrow I am going to chop off all my hair again. No pink, out of respect for my sister's up coming wedding. I think it's my way of rebelling against the new constraints of life with an infant. Not rebelling against Tate, just the new found lack of freedom.
It is incredible to have a little soul who wants me non stop all day and all night. It's addictive, worse than any drug. Having a baby is better than the rush from a new relationship. It's falling in love with someone so totally that you even think their poop is cute. But it is also all consuming and exhausting. Or, am I supposed to say that? Well, it is exhausting.
I find myself day dreaming of a night where all I do is sleep for six or maybe seven hours in a row. But then I think she'll only be tiny for a bit longer, so enjoy every minute of it, both night and day. Sleep deprivation is a funny thing. It's like stepping through the looking glass, what a wonder land I live in. Maybe that's why I smile like the Cheshire cat, my life is perfect all turned upside down.

Me Me Me

Life has been busy as of late. Running Turner to school, going to the gym, getting groceries, cooking supper, cleaning house. But amidst the hum of all that's ordinary are moments that are extraordinary.
As we all know Halloween is fast approaching. Turner is going to be the mighty blue Power Ranger, and has been asking me to be the pink Power Ranger. After looking everywhere for a non-skanky costume I gave up and told him that Mommy would just be a witch. My lil boy answered me and said "But Mommy, you aren't a witch, you're my princess, be a princess." My apologies to any girl or woman who in the far off future thinks she will be remotely good enough to even contemplate dating my little prince charming, because no woman alive will ever be good enough!
I am trying to commit to memory every funny thing Turner says or every look on Tate's face when they are playing together. I want to always remember that every time we pass the petting zoo on the way to his school he asks where the "Cantaloupes" (camels) are. I want to always remember the smell of my babies, the softness of their heads pressed against my cheek. I have been trying to concentrate on all that is good in my life, and there is a lot.
While I am being thankful and grateful life keeps getting in my way. I will always remember the smell of sour spit-up, dirty diapers, billy goat mixed with feet smelling two year olds. I want to remember the softness is their voices, not the headaches their crying gave me.
I have been having one of those spells where I just don't want to do anything. I don't have any desire to cook, I dread folding clothes, why do I always have to do the dishes? I hope all moms go through these little crappy attitude spells and it's not just me. I think that the excitement of moving has worn off. The house is unpacked and now beckons to be cared for. The babies need constant attention, my husband always needs shirts ironed and lunches packed. Why do I feel guilty for just wanting a day that I do nothing. I don't' want to be asked to fix oatmeal, I don't want to have to cook, I want my clothes washed and put away for me. I want to bathe when I feel like it, with no one crying and making me rush. I want to eat dinner, go sit down and watch what I want on TV with out worrying about the dishes and the left-overs. I want to sleep all the way through the night and sleep late the next morning. I want to go to the mall with out a list or a stroller, shop for as long as I wish and try on everything I want.
I am selfish. Most of the time I like being needed by everyone in my family. Most of the time I cherish my time with the kids. Most of the time I like being domestic and helping make Brad's day a little easier. Most of the time, but not today. Today I want the things that aren't afforded to a mother of two small children.
I think if I was given this magical day where I didn't have a care in the world or any responsibilties I would be bored out of my mind. Turner and Tate fill every moment of the day and night for me. I love my time with each of them. They are both funny, insightful, amazing little human beings that I am proud to have had a part in making. The trick is being able to appreciate all you have even when you're mood is sour. So I am trying to breathe in all the little moments that make up my crazy life, both the good and the bad. Perhaps I will run away with the circus one day, but for now I'll continue to lead the three rings right here at home.

Too busy to what?

My baby boy is growing up, he started preschool this week. On Wednesday morning I drove Turner to school, the whole trip watching for Lil Monster's horns. Lil Monster must have been sleeping in, because Turner is who I dropped off and Turner is who I picked up.
On the way to school I caught myself getting teary eyed. I also took notes on how hyper paranoid I am. How could I, Queen of the Universe, let Turner go and be taken care of by mere mortals? They might not make him wash his hands before he eats, they might let him jump off of the monkey bars, they might let him eat too much sugar, or pick his nose. Despite my fears he had a wonderful day and is ready to go back tomorrow.
I will learn to enjoy my new alone time with Tate instead of spending it looking at the clock. I will even enjoy that Turner now has a part of his life that doesn't involve me.
Turner and I came home on Wednesday, ate lunch, had a cookie and we were talking about his day. Out of no where my son, my not even three year old little boy, farted so loudly I thought it must have blown the back of his pants to smithereens. After asking him if he was alright I started to laugh, after all when is a toot not funny? Turner looked right at me and said " I was just too busy to toot today". This made me fall on the floor. I asked what he meant. He said he was just so busy that he forgot he had to toot. I hope once I get used to our new little schedule that I fill the time up so much that I too will be too busy to toot.

Pack it up, Pack it in

So Little Monster has been lurking around all week. Our Papa Monster, Clyde, was in Atlanta this past week on the new job site. This left Little Monster, Princess Poo and I to man the fort. The week started off pretty OK, Little Monster was unsure of all the packing and he laid low for a couple days. Now that all of his precious toys and treasures are under siege Little Monster is in attack mode.
How dare I pack up his toys? Even worse how dare I pack up the pictures from his walls? I can hardly blame Little Monster for being upset. Little Monster was a sad sight today, sitting on his slide crying that it didn't work. How can a slide not work? Well, because it was laying flat on the ground having been taken apart by Pop. What a sight, tears streaming down his face, snot bubbles in his nose, wailing that his slide didn't work.
Tomorrow I board a plane and take leave of Utah. Will airport security let little Monster through? Are horns considered dangerous weapons? Say a prayer, not so much for us but for the poor people we'll be sitting by on both our flights. Poor unsuspecting travelers. A mom with two kids sits next to them, we all smile, Tate coos. Twenty minutes into the flight Turner is ripping at his hair screaming about not wanting a new house and Tate has sprayed poop on everyone in a two row radius. Lord please protect the innocent.
I am sure we'll survive the flights. We'll arrive in Louisiana where my secret weapon awaits, Booyah. Turner will be distracted from all the chaos in his life once he and Booyah have time to play. I will get a sweet break and some rest before it all starts again.
I can not wait to see the house Pop picked out for us. Little Monster will be excited to inhabit and new lair. He may be swinging form the rafters, if I don't stick him in a box first. Wish us luck, we're about to start the second leg of our adventure. What wonders will Georgia hold for us? I look forward to exploring all the new places with Little Monster, Princess Poo, and Clyde tormenting me the whole way.

See you tomorrow

Denial is my thing. I plan to go on like nothing is changing, even though I'll be leaving Utah on Monday. I am still going to friends houses, staying, watching our kids play, talking, and laughing like my life is not about to be turned upside down. I am great at denial and I am comfortable using it to get through these last few days here.
God makes your heart grow when you have kids. Mine got so much bigger, not only for my children but bigger for all people. It is so much easier to look at a situation and place myself in it now than it was before baby boy and baby girl came into my life. Before T-n-T I was annoyed by peoples kids running around, now I know it's better for them to run than to cry. Before my dynamic duo being late was inconsiderate, now it's what happens when there's poop on Tate's clothes or we can't find Turner's bear. Before my two sticks of dynamite I was me and now I am one of you- the moms. I think that's why my heart grew so much, so I could give pieces of it away.
I have been having to say a lot of goodbyes today. I want to stay a little too long, talk just a few minutes more, get in all my time with you. How do I go through my day with out Becky calling to make sure I am not sleeping late, and who will call at five for the daily recap? What do I do on Tuesdays at ten if I'm not meeting Tyna to let Turner go on a date with his girlfriend while our daughters grow together in front of our eyes? If Janisha isn't next door whose tree will I sit under and comiserate with? Will Lindsie still call during nap time and speak in hushed tones to not wake the sleeping babes? Kaleb and Kira will be too far to ride the four wheeler over to race around the yard.
How will I get through my days? All of you are my days. You are the women I have depended on. Each of you have been with me through some great times and some really bad ones.
Becky I met you when I moved to Orem, two souls looking for a friend in a Chuck-E-Cheese. Sounds like a great country western song doesn't it? I love your wit, your sense of humor, and your daughter. You are my vacuum-er. You came and vacuumed my floor during the hardest time of my life. I had just had a miscarriage and was not handling the everyday life tasks, you came and helped. You helped me more than you'll ever know. You've helped me pack and you vacuumed again. You always know when I need to tidy up, not so much my house but my mood. You brighten everything that surrounds you, I love you.
Tyna you were my husband's "Work Wife", and we weren't even in Utah. I feel like we grew up together. Phoenix was a wild time. We had all of our kids together, even though "together" sometimes meant talking on the phone over thousands of miles. You know when to call. I am not sure if you know how much I love when your name pops up on the ID. You understand the lifestyle of construction. You know the moves come too often and the true friends are hard to find. I am so glad I found you.
Janisha you are my ice cream lady. One of the most meaningful gifts I have ever been given was a pint of chocolate ice cream with marshmallows and almonds. I had just started to miscarry. You didn't say the typical "It's for the best" you knew it hurt like hell and nothing about it felt like it was for the best. You let me be scared and mad, but you brought me ice cream. Nothing anyone could have said would have made me feel better, but knowing you were there was the best thing in the world for me.
Lindsey you are my Pampered Chef. I met you at a party, you walked in as fresh as a breeze. I loved talking to you from our first encounter. Every time I have red polish on my toenails I will think of you and I so pregnant it hurt, getting our pedicures together.
Kira you were my blind date. We got to know each other on mom's night out. I feel a close bond to you, something about going through a really rough time along with another person makes them forever special to me.
So I can tell you all goodbye if I type it. I can't say the words to you, I can't take the tears. Turner has been telling me that we'll see all of you again. He doesn't know how right he is. When he sings louder than anyone else I'll see Olivia Z. singing right there with him. When he says "Watch this" I'll see Olivia O. the dare devil. When popsicles run down his face and arms I'll see Dallan and Makye. When he's in a group of big boys playing rough I'll see Tyler and Kaleb. So I know with out a doubt I'll see all of you and your kids again. I love each of you beyond your understanding. So If I am a little short in our goodbyes, it's because I am only so strong and this is something I can't take. So let's just say I'll see you tomorrow...

Farewell Fry Sauce

I am getting ready to bid Utah farewell. When Brad told me that we were being sent to Utah almost four years ago I was less than thrilled. Who moves to Utah? I'm not Mormon, so I didn't want to come here. I had preconceived ideas about what life in Utah would be like and made up my mind that I wouldn't like here no matter what. Now I consider Utah my home and I have newly acquired family here.
Now three years and two kids later I am deeply saddened to be leaving. I have given birth to both my kids here. I have made some the best friends I could ever imagine here. The people I am leaving behind in Utah are the women I learned how to be a mom with. I have learned so much from each of them.
Not all lessons have been about raising kids, some have had a broader applications. Like learning that Mormons are people too. Just picking, but before I moved here I had never met an LDS(Latter Day Saint) person. Aren't they the people with ten wives? Don't they dress like Little House on the Prairie? No they don't have more than one wife and they dress really cute.
I have gotten to sit in all of my friends' back yards and discuss potty training advice, cold remedies, what store has which cereal on sale, how to make a two year old eat, and all the other mom topics of the world. Unbeknownst to me these sneaky Mormons have crept into my heart. I may not take the Funeral Potatoes recipe with me when I go but I will be taking with me a deep love for the people of Utah.
What other state in our nation has Fry Sauce? We all like to mix mayo and ketchup, Utah just has it already made up for your eating pleasure. I have met and actually befriended women who know how to grind wheat and make their own bread from it. Potato Pearls, who knew? I still say passports should be required to visit Utah, yes it is that different from any where else I have ever been.
My neighborhood is a modern-day Mayberry. I have actually walked across the street to borrow an egg or a cup of sugar. We keep a full stock of pop-cycles to give to the neighbors when they stop by to play in the front yard. Utah is as close to a hidden utopia as one can get. Maybe I'm partial because my son loves it here so much. Every morning Turner wakes up and asks "Who we gonna play with today?" We could be meeting any one of his ten little friends to do who knows what? Parks, hikes, Kangaroo Zoo, Artic Circle- these are some of the fun places we'll be missing terribly.
Yesterday Turner was at my neighbor Mr Tanner's house. Mr Tanner is in his seventies and one of the nicest people I have ever met, he's also high on Turner's friends list. Turner had chatted with Mr Tanner and his wife Mrs Masako for a few minutes and was ready to head back home, we walked in the house and he said to wait he wanted to shut the door. I let him, but before he shut it he yelled "Bye Tanner, bye Sako, I love you" My heart broke a little. How do I prepare Turner to leave his life long friends? It is going to be a really hard next couple of weeks.
Packing and moving are a breeze, hugging your friends goodbye for the last time is what is really hard. I'll call, we'll write and email but I will long to sit with them in and watch the kids play.

LASIK before Layette

Life works better if you can see, it's a simple truth. I can see from from about seven a.m. when I put my contacts in til nine p.m. when I take them out. In the few hours of wakefulness that are not spent with my contacts in I have an old pair of glasses that I can kind of see through.
I walked in to my bathroom last night at about nine thirty and took my contacts out. I was in a hurry because Tate was starting to fuss and I didn't want her to wake up Lil Monster. I figured I could just quickly brush my teeth and head for bed to soothe Tate and drift off to dreamland.
I have been brushing my teeth for roughly twenty eight years. We all know the general routine: wet toothbrush, put tooth paste on tooth brush, insert brush into mouth and scrub. I follow this same protocol no less than three times a day every day.
Being in a hurry last night I skipped one very important step in my nightly routine, I didn't grab my glasses. I took out my contacts quickly, grabbed my tooth brush and the blue tube on the counter and squeezed a bit of paste on my brush. I am a creature of habit so I put my tooth brush all the way to the back of the left side of my mouth. Once my toothbrush had been inserted and I began scrubbing my molars, I noticed the lack of minty freshness that only Crest can bring. Not only was there a lack of mint but there was the odd flavor of powder.
I put the toothbrush down and grabbed my glasses. Low and behold I had indeed grabbed a familiar blue tube, but not Crest, it was Destin. Instead of toothpaste I was brushing my teeth with butt paste, disgusting!
The moral of this little debacle is simple, before you plan your baby's layette go get yourself some LASIK. Not everyone needs vision correction. If you get a headache from watching TV with out your glasses on you do not need LASIK before having you're baby. If you can't see that there is a TV in the room with out your glasses on, I am talking to you. Do yourself a favor and get your eyes fixed before you too wind up with butt paste in your mouth or something even worse.

Twice as nice

I have gotten s few random phone calls/comments since having my baby girl. Mainly "I'm worried about you" or "You seem so happy(with a vocal inflection that denotes surprise)". Why? I was happy and made it through number one. Hell, I even wanted a number two, so it really couldn't have been that bad the first time around.
I guess all the concern throws me. But as a clarification: I don't really like being pregnant, but babies, I love babies. I have already started trying to soften Brad to the idea of a third. How you ask? By telling Turner to ask for a brother of course. No I don't want another one right now, but Brad takes a while to warm to new ideas.
Life with two is actually twice as great as life with one. I have just let go of some of my crazy rules and standards for the time being. Honestly, my bed hasn't been made since Tate came home with us and it doesn't bother me. Instead of spending five minutes in the morning making the bed I spend five minutes laying in the bed looking at my angels. Turner climbs up and hugs me and Tate. Then he stays with me while I feed his sister.
Nursing a second baby is different. It's not the quiet time that it was with Turner. Instead it's time spent holding my girl while talking with my boy. It forces me to sit down and slow down. Turner will come a sit in the chair with me. He'll hold Tate's tiny hand and talk with me. We discuss Power Rangers, rollie pollies, what's for lunch, our favorite colors, we sing, and I love every second of it.
Turner has really blossomed into a wonderful big brother. Brad and I both worried if our kids would be close. I never had a brother and he's never had a sister. This is uncharted territory for the both of us. Fortunately for us, I see no way that they won't be the best of friends. When I hear Turner saying "It's OK my lil girl, don't cry, brother is here" I know he'll be her hero all her life. Every day Turner wants to know if she's talking yet, like it'll happen over night. He can't wait to play with her. He talked to my stomach every night asking her to come out. I have no doubt that when Tate does decide to wake and talk it'll be Turner's name she says first.

Get your squeak on

The squeaky wheel gets the grease, lie down with dogs get up with fleas, the cows always come home, one bad apple spoils the bunch. The longer I am on this earth the more of these sayings have been proved to me to be true.
I went on the much dreaded camping trip this weekend, but not before I got to squeaking. Brad might not have called it squeaking so much as all out bitching. Bitching/squeaking, what ever you call it, it worked. I did not have to go endure two days of hot sweaty boredom. We "discussed" the poor planning of the trip until an executive decision was made. I must give Brad all the credit, he picked a very nice campground in lieu of the crappy one with the great fishing. He selected a kid friendly, activity heavy, campground that unfortunately offered only worm drowning instead of real fishing. But his sacrifice was much appreciated and we all had such a good time swimming, biking, and playing on the playground.
Lil Monster made one appearance last weekend, but only a brief one. He reared his horned head when we insisted Turner get out of the pool. Lil Monster thought it best to remain in the water til the year 2011, but Brad is bigger and stronger than all monsters.
Making her debut this weekend was Tate's alter-ego: Princess Projectile Poopoo, or Princess Poo to her friends. I have never met a baby who could blow through a diaper like my daughter can. She is dangerous like no other. She lures her victims in with cherubic good looks and the smell of baby powder. Then when someone unsuspecting is holding her she lets out a grunt and steaming yellow crap sprays in all directions. She loves to ruin clothes, but that is almost too easy of a target. I swear she smiles every time she shits up her new car seat. It's hard to say that a two months old has a maniacal smile, but Princess Poo does. She watches me struggle to take apart the car seat yet again to wash it, and smiles a triumphant smile.
The upside of having Princess Poo around the house is her ability to stop Lil Monster in his tracks. What Monster can go about his monstering when there is a craptastic shit spectacle right in his own house? So Lil Monster, Princess Poo, Clyde and I, Queen Bitch f the Universe, managed to have a really good time together this past weekend. I guess we are kind of like our own little Justice League. Instead of Superman and his crew we have Clyde- the amazing snoring gorilla of a man, Lil Monster who's able to destroy even the strongest opponent with his fit throwing abilities, Princess Projectile Poopoo who smothers her adversaries in toxic yellow slime, and me, Queen Bitch, whose talents lie in being able to spot a bad time and prevent the atrocity from happening. We all have our talents, odd though they may be. We seem to compliment each other and manage to make up a pretty nice, if very strange, little family.

Little Monster meets Tate

Lil Monster decided to come meet the new family addition. In true Lil Monster fashion he snuck in unannounced. I thought Turner woke me up this morning, I failed to notice the horn gleaming underneath the bed mussed hair.
Lil Monster ran in my room at six thirty this morning and jumped up on my bed. He is a cute little demon. He then demanded oatmeal. My son, my Turner boy, always asks politely for oatmeal. Turner says "You want to share oatmeal wif me Mom? You have some from my bowl." Little Monster jumped up and proclaimed "I want OATMEAL!!!!!!! You not eat any of my OATMEAL!!!!!!"
Poor Tate. She was oblivious to Little Monster's loud decree. Nothing pisses of a monster like going unnoticed. Little Monster leapt over to Tate. I told him do not get close to her, she's sleeping. Tate likes to sleep in til about nine, but not this morning. Oh no, Little Monster put his grubby little finger on her eye lid and pulled it open while yelling "You wake? Now you wake!! Hahahaha...." Little Monster came with in an inch of having his hide tanned, but he's faster than me upon awaking.
Little Monster came with me to the chiropractors. What a mistake. The model spine that all doctors are required to display was grabbed and became Lil Monster's pet "talligator". He then chased the less dominate monsters who had come with their mom all around the office.
I foolishly decided to go to Old Navy and exchange some shorts for a different size. Just a quick errand before lunch and blessed nap time. Stupid, stupid mommy. Little Monster suckered me. He held my hand in the parking lot. He walked in and got a buggy out for me and then he launched his attack. We went to get the a fore mentioned shorts and in one quick move Little Monster mounted the top of the buggy scream at me to get Tate off his buggy. I pick my battles and this wasn't one of them so I packed the car seat and pushed the cart. Then little Monster protected his cart from passer-bys by growling and foaming at the mouth. Needless to say the sales associate had no problem exchanging the item with out a receipt. She had probably been given instructions via her headset to get the mom with the growling beast of a man child out of the store pronto.
Little Monster returned home with me and ate in a ravenous fashion. Mostering is hard work and builds a voracious appetite. After lunch it was time for a showdown.
In this corner weighing in at thirty seven pounds, the undisputed light weight champion Little Monster. In our other corner weighing in about twenty pounds more than she wishes Mommy. The title holder for the Western conference heavy weight division. The bell rings and I say the battle words "Nap Time".
Little Monster whips out his first attack, the smart mouth. "I don't need a stinking nap! I not going nap! I stay WAKE!!!" Mommy wastes no time and grabs up Little Monster and wrestles him into the beast's layer. Mommy takes a unexpected approach-No bathroom stop. Easier to wrestle Little Monster into a pull up than to try to force an unwanted urination. Mommy delivers her swan song move. She gives the kiss on the head, tells Little Monster she loves him, and walks out pulling the door to. Little Monster decides that though he has been driven back to his cave, he is not down for the count. Little Monster tests his lung capacity by yelling a siren song of woes and atrocities that his poor unfair life has dealt him. "I not need a nap. I gonna get up. I not sleeping!!!" Mommy is her own worst enemy at this point. Having no opponent in front of her she chooses to battle the dreaded invisible Mommy Guilt. The internal struggle lasts for about ten minutes, then she notices and odd sound---quiet.
Little Monster has given up and has laid down to recharge. Mommy does a silent victory dance, but doesn't indulge for long. Now mommy must restock her arsenal and get ready for the ambush that comes after the beast sleeps.

Spoiled sport

Spoil sport. That is what I am. My birthday is this coming weekend and my husband is supposed to be off. Great, right? Well, I'll let you know. He wants to go camping, whoopee! I pictured two days that I could sleep in, some shopping, renting movies that I wanted to see. But he wanted to go camping a few weeks ago with a friend from work and I vetoed. We were to stay in their camper with them and their two kids. My argument was the rational one- a new born in a camper keeping everyone up all night would ruin everyone's time, and just like that I was off the hook.
This time we have been offered a motor home to use. No blaming sleepless nights forced on others to get me out of it. Why am I like this? I went camping all the time with my parents and loved every trip. My sister and I would beg to go, so why don't I want to give this experience to Turner? The answer is simple: Because I will be the only adult on the trip.
I already don't get enough sleep. Brad, Tate, and I crammed onto a queen bed that isn't ours doesn't sound like fun. Cleaning a whole motor home after using it only to come home and have to clean the whole house and put away all the camping crap doesn't sound like fun. I am neurotic, I don't want Turner out of my sight in the Utah or Idaho wilderness. I don't want Brad to take him in a canoe. I know Brad loves him and would never let anything happen to him- in my logical mind. My illogical mind knows that no one can protect my kids like I can. Water makes me nervous. I don't want Turner in or around water that he can't stand up in. I don't want him any where near anything with a current.
There's a pool. Which would be lovely if Tate was two and Turner was four. But Tate is seven weeks old. Too little to get in a pool, too young to be outside much at all. I will certainly not leave her to go enjoy the pool. There will also be Brad's co-worker's drunk wife. I'm sure in her normal life she's lovely. I have met her and been around her three times, but on all three occasions she was lit up like the fourth of July and her intoxicated IQ was that of a fence post.
I think Turner and Brad will have a good time. They'll fish, swim, ride four wheelers, and do all the fun things that one does on a camping trip. I will be couped up in a borrowed motor home trying to avoid Mrs Margarita Lolita all while not swimming, not fishing, and not riding four wheelers. No, I will be the one packing and unpacking the motor home, sweeping all our tracked in sand, washing the dishes, refereeing Brad and Turner, and trying to keep a hot sweaty baby from being too miserable. I'll be the "Mom". Mom is the cleaner of messes, the packer of trips, the bedtime enforcer, and the fight breaker-upper. Mom is pretty much the wet blanket that gets thrown over everyone's party. Unfortunately with out mom there would be no party, who would pack the balloons and make all the food?
Then there is the fight that I am sure will happen. Turner and Brad will both be sleep deprived and grumpy. Turner will misbehave and Brad will get irritated. Then when Turner won't eat supper or cooperate over something small, Brad will let me know what all I must be doing wrong with our son. I have learned that my husband and my son love each other very much and usually have the best time being around each other. I have also learned that they do well spending small amounts of time together. Brad works seven days a week. He has been having maybe one day off a month and a couple half days if we're lucky. He isn't around to know our routines. I try to let him handle the kids how he wants. But, when it's two days straight of no routine, anyone with a toddler knows that is a recipe for disaster. The reason my son is a good kid is due partially to the fact that he has a routine and a regular nap and sleep schedule. Those will all be blown to hell and he will be a little animal this weekend. Brad will invariably blame me. He just sees that I am the one who is with Turner twenty four seven, so if there is a problem it, by default, has to be my fault. This kills me and makes me resent my husband. I am a pretty good mom, or at least I think so. It would be nice to hear it from my husband but I have given up that hope, he's not one for compliments.
So for my birthday it looks like I am getting an unwanted camping trip. Maybe I will have fun. Maybe Brad and Turner will get along. Maybe I will get a little sleep and it won't be as bad as I am thinking it will be. I hope to go and have fun, let go of the tension from my neck and relax a little. But I know I am not one to relax. I hope to write how my expectations were proved wrong and fun was had by all. I guess I'll have to wait and see. Happy Birthday to me.


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Stranger in a strange land

So we're here. I am feeling a bit out of place. If I am a Southerner, why does Georgia feel so strange? Well, I think it's because I am a Southern girl who grew to like city living. I feel like I stick out here. After three odd years in Utah I picked up lots of Utah habits. Modesty- Quit laughing all you LDS friends. I am a habit wearing nun compared to the hoochy skirt wearing tube top clad women who parade around half naked here. Being thrifty- not popular here. No everyone has to get bigger SUV's to keep up the the Bubba's next door. My eyes popped out of my head at the grocery store. Ingles would shut down if it were in Utah, no good Mormon mom would pay $4.89 for a box of corn flakes, they wait for the ten for ten sale at Macey's and buy a six month supply. Hoarding(I mean food storage) no potato pearls here.
Well marked street signs really make it easy to get around a new town, but missing ones give a place character. Let's just say Cartersville has lots of character. I am slowly learning my way around, and everything around here runs slowly. To get to anything I have to drive fifteen minutes, not unbearable. I miss being able to walk to the grocery or ride my bike to the vegetable stand.
This just doesn't feel like home, but I know I must give it a little longer than a week. I am trying but my frustration is getting the best of me. There are no Stay At Home Moms that I can find. Southerners think that we are the most family centered American sub-culture. We also brag about our friendliness. We'll as a person whose has lived in a few US states, the South does not hold the title for either. Don't get me wrong, they are friendly, everyone and their mama waves hello and goodbye to anyone who passes on the street. But I have yet to be brought a tray of cookies or and inedible Jello desert as a welcome to the neighborhood. If family is so important why have I not seen any? Just people, no moms and kids running around during the day. Cartersville is in no way a small town, but it is still small enough that people know who is and isn't from here. I sense a stand off feeling when meeting the locals. They are friendly, from a nice safe distance. The houses here are more spread out. It is nice to have a big yard but makes for a big barrier between neighbors.
Maybe it is all in my head. Maybe I am not giving enough of a chance to Cartersville. Utah is just a hard act to follow. I am seeking out other crazy at-homers, but local statues are preventing any success. I need a library card. To get one I need a utility bill in my name- no luck, Brad set them all up in his name. I could also use a Georgia drivers license-no luck. I tried to get one but failed to bring in my birth certificate, marriage license, and bank statement. My documents are still packed up here somewhere. So instead of cyber bitching perhaps I should get back to box unpacking. Hopefully I will be a card carrying resident of Bartow County in another week, then we'll see what all I can find to get into.

Mom’s Band Aid

I decided this week that the term "Multi-tasking" was not made to describe business executives who hold conference calls while working on thier PC. Nor was the phrase coined for teenagers who IM, listen to their IPod and do home work simultaneously. No the original multi-tasker had to be a mom.
I figured this out on Wednesday. I had a doctors appointment but decided to take the kids to the park beforehand. After the park I ran home and made Turner and I lunch while breast feeding my daughter. Then I found myself in the tub, rocking Tate's car seat intermittently with my right hand while bathing. My Left hand held my turkey sandwich and I was singing the alphabet with Turner in between bites. This personal three ringed circus is the reason I bathe at night when everyone else has been fed and is asleep. Prior to my soggy lunch on Wednesday I had never eaten in the bath. It wasn't a bad experience, while both are fun separately some things, like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, just don't go together .
Becoming a mom lets you experience things you otherwise wouldn't. Some are spectacular, you baby's first laugh, you're son's sense of humor. Some are gross- poop running down you stomach while spit up runs down your back. Some are down right strange- I would've never guessed I'd be eating while bathing with an audience watching. But all of it is fun and entertaining.
Turner's sense of humor is developing and he is often unintentionally funny. He watches my every move and is an ever present shadow. Turner was preoccupied while our family was here after having Tate. As soon as the last Grandma boarded a plane he was back with me every second. This closeness doesn't have boundaries, oh no, not even the bathroom is off limits.
I can't believe I am about to tell this, but it's too funny to keep to myself. Mr Nosey came in one day while I was getting a panty-liner out of the cabinet. I figured I could distract him by asking him to go get something for me, I was wrong. He started in " What's that?" "Nothing Turner, it's just something mommies have to use after they have a baby" "It's your band aid?" I thought this would end the inquisition. "Yes." "OK, it's a Band Aid because Tate blew up your belly and broke your butt."
He was satisfied, so he left me, falling off the toilet laughing. These are some of the things no one tells you that will happen. But they will happen and they will keep you smiling on the days that the crying and poop are plentiful

You've got something on your shirt

This whole have a second baby thing, not what I thought it would be. I thought this time I would be more organized. I thought nothing would take me by surprise. I thought that I may not be as wonder struck this time around, I was wrong.
I am just as powerless to Tate's charms as I was to Turner's. My delusional plans to keep getting things accomplished during nap time are a joke. Just as I laid on the couch and stared at my son, I now lay on the couch and stare at my daughter. I thought I would put her down and go do the mom stuff that I need to get done. Well I still get my mom duties checked off. But I do it while wearing baby girl in a sling so we still get to be cuddled up right next to each other.
While my mother-in-law was here she kept dropping little nuggets of advice. For example: Set her down, there is no reason to hold her so much. Don't get up with every cry, teach her to get herself settled back down. Etc etc. This is in no way bad advice, just not for me. It suited her while raising five boys. But as long as my back can bear the load, I will continue to pick up both my children as much and as often as I can. It will only be one or two more blinks of an eye and they'll be as tall as me and not wanting for mom to carry them. As for when they cry out, they need only do it once cause I'll always get up and see what they need.
Turner cried at midnight one day last week. I was bleary eyed and not too awake when I stumbled into his room. He wasn't fully awake either and I probably could have ignored him and he'd have drifted off back to sleep without any reassurance from me. But I did get up and go in his room to ask him what was wrong. My sweet baby said in a raspy dream heavy voice "Mommy, there are rollie pollies in my hair". I had to stifle a laugh. I brushed his hair off, then brushed the unseen rollie pollies from his pillow. He laid his head back down and was asleep. Now if I had chosen to just let him cry out and settle himself back to sleep I would have missed the chance to know what angels dream about.
I realize that new babies are a lot of work, but I have never been happier being this dog tired. Tate is one month old today. She has already changed so much. She loves baths. She is starting to smile, but only at Papa. She gazes at Turner with such concentration that I can not wait for her to be able to tell me what she sees.
Delirium is fun. Being a little wacky from sleep deprivation is a state I don't mind residing in. I make myself laugh. Yesterday I told Turner that I put his breakfast in the pool, I meant the living room. The look on my boy's face was priceless, mom has lost it.
I still think Brad and I were meant to do this together. His sense of humor keeps me lifted, he helps with out me asking, and the only thing better than looking at my two babies is getting to watch them with the person I made them with.
There are times when life is less than glamorous. Yesterday Turner was sick. I was up at five am changing sheets and disinfecting his room. Then at seven when he wanted oatmeal I fed it to him. After he finished eating he turned to me and threw up. I caught what I could in my hands, then let him spew what was left right into my bath robe. Hey, it kept it off the furniture. After clean up round number two I had to change Tate's diaper for the seventy fifth time. While I had her tush lifted making sure everything was clean she sneezed and shot poop onto my clean shirt and pants. But even after a morning spent smelling like poop and vomit I was still smiling. I love being the one who is there for them. I love taking care of my kids. I love my husband for buying me a nice washing machine. So if I can keep grinning on the days that literally "blow" and are "shitty", don't you wish you were me on the days when everything smells like roses?

Three years

I am learning that moving is a bit like breaking in a new pair of shoes. I liked my old shoes. They were comfy, soft, had lots of character marks and fit me perfect. Then I moved, nothing fit, I didn't know where anything was, didn't know anyone, and pouted a bit. Moving, much like buying new shoes, requires you to get off your butt and walk around, so I have.
Once I got myself up out of the house I discovered that Cartesville isn't as terrible I initially thought. I know my way around so I feel less claustrophobic now. I'm trying. I am following my own advice and getting involved in new things, church for one.
Utah will always be the place that I had both of my babies. Now Georgia is the place where Turner turned three. My sweet lil boy turned three this past weekend. In his short life he's lived in three houses, three cities, and two states. I know the three years have gone by, I have a boy who now stands more than half my height to prove it. I just can't quiet figure out how three years went by so fast.
I guess if you combined the time I spend at each chore it really has been three years since I became a mom. Twenty four months wiping a little tush, twelve months rocking and patting a tiny back, eight sleepless months, two months spent answering "What's that?", and one thousand ninety five days spent thanking God for the miracle I named Turner. I guess all that ads up to more than three years.
Kids take your life and super size it. I used to think my days were full when all I had to do was go to school, work, and hang out with my friends. Now I do all of that by nine a.m. and still have twelve more hours of things to get done before I can even think of a bath and getting into bed.
I have enjoyed the past three years more than I thought anyone could enjoy life. I have two new sets of eyes to see everything through. My birthday used to be the best day of the year, now everyday that I get to spend with the world's best boy and the world's greatest girl is like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one.
Now that Turner's in school I have new things to look forward to. My son now has a part of his life that doesn't involve Mommy, but he still chooses to share it with me. The ride home after I pick him up is the best. He tells me what all he did that day, sings me new songs, and gives me works of art that would make Van Gogh himself green with envy. While he's at school I also get to steal away a little time with my Tater-bug. She gurgles and coos and melts my heart even more.
Who knows what the next three years will bring? If the first three are any indication life will just keep getting better and better.

Meet in the middle

Having a two year old and adding a baby is a sure fire way to misplace your spouse. I don't mean Brad is lost some where in the wilderness, he's just not as close as he was pre-Tate.
Before I got pregnant Brad and I slept in the middle of our king sized bed. It was a nice arrangement and we had a routine. He'd spoon me til I fell asleep then roll onto his back and let me remain tucked in his armpit. This is what I consider true romance. A man who loves to stretch out and not have someone on top of him agreeing to sleep with a small person wedged in his back.
Once I became pregnant my hormones and newly heated state didn't allow for much cuddle time. I was too hot and Brad's body temp after nine pm is about two hundred degrees. So we hugged and said good night and remained on our separate sides of the bed.
Now that Tate is here she sleeps in the middle of the bed. Yes Dr Spock I know that "co-sleeping" is frowned upon because of the risk of rolling onto the baby. Tate sleeps in the middle in her box. It's a three sided box that serves as a small bassinet and keeps her safe from being rolled on, but it also keeps me from curling up into Brad.
So routines change after having a baby, earth shattering. But the changes aren't always bad. I like sharing a son and a daughter with my husband. I like having a little baby in the bed with me and I know it won't be forever. I am looking forward to spooning again with the world champion spoon-er, but it can wait.
We've adapted our bed time routine. Now I get Tate's diapers, Brad fills the humidifier, we both go check on Turner one last time, Brad puts Tate's socks on her while I brush my teeth, I do one last diaper change and feed baby girl. Then Brad stretches out as much as he can on his side of the bed. I lay facing the middle and my big bear of a husband stretches out his hand for me to hold. The angles involved prevent us from holding hands in the traditional position. It's more like a hand shake. But I think I have a pretty good deal so I am willing to "shake on it" every night before going to sleep.

Two more hours

"Two more hours, you rub my head." This was the request I got tonight from Turner as I got ready to walk out of his room after story time. He has no concept of time, but "Two more hours" has been what he asks for. Two more hours to play, two more hours of his show, Pop will be home in two more hours, and two more hours of me rubbing his head.
I'm no fool, I know it's a stall tactic to prolong his being awake. I choose not to care that it is a stall tactic and look at it as my son loves me and wants just a few more minutes with his mom. Leave me my delusions.
So if I had this "Two more hours" that he thinks exist for the fun stuff what would I do with my two more hours? Well, I think I would do what I already do. I would wake up and share a bowl of oatmeal with my son while holding my daughter in my lap. I would spend the morning catching up with good friends. I would rub Turner's head while Tate lays across my shoulder. My life is happy and I am thankful for it. Having a second child has only made it more full.
Tate is in my lap right now making her sweet sleeping noises and I can hear Turner talking to himself as he settles down for sleep. The only thing missing is Papa. Working late happens. We'll enjoy tomorrow or the next day when he's here for the supper time battle and the bath time fun.
So day two of me and two kids has gone OK. Yes, Tate is two weeks old but my parents were here to help, and what a help they were. I am dog tired and still have to bathe myself and my daughter, finish cleaning the kitchen, eat supper, fold one more load of laundry, feed Tate two more times before bed and I'll be able to hit the sheets with all my To-Do's checked off for the day. I figure I won't be able to accomplish much of anything on half of my days and only some of it on the good days. But who really cares if the bed is made every day? As long as the rumpled sheets are clean and the kids tucked in them are fed, happy, healthy, and above all loved, then my real To-Do's are done.

Hurry up

Quick, quick, hurry! Hurry up and run to town before Tate pees, poops, or needs to be fed. Hurry, hurry and get the laundry put away while Turner and Tate are sleeping. Take a quick second to check my email and file some receipts while I'm in here. So much time spent hurrying.
While my Turner was a baby there was so much time spent slowly. Slowly get up and have breakfast. Take our time and have a bath in the morning. Slowly get dressed. No rush to do anything much, just enjoy my boy.
Now it's different. Now I have to hurry to enjoy my boy. He's the blue streak that is zooming around. Poor Tate will have whip lash before her first birthday. I try to stop and slow it down. Take a second and make Turner hug me. Hold on to him a little too long. Squeeze him tight and breathe him in, little boy smell and all.
I am trying to sit and gaze into my baby girls eyes and see what kind of person is in there. I want to give her the same attention I gave her brother, but it's not possible. I guess this is why there's a difference between the oldest child and the baby of the family. Brad and I will unknowingly be more strict on Turner. We won't do it on purpose and it won't be in a mean way. It'll be how all first borns are raised-by parents who are new to every stage.
Then there'll be Tate. She'll be two and a half years younger. We'll know what stages are coming and want to treasure them because we'll have already seen it go by too fast with Turner. We won't want our baby to grow up, so we'll baby her. None of it is anything new. Brad and I are both the oldest and turned out pretty OK even with being our parents guinea pigs. On the other side of the equation are our siblings, who all are pretty OK too, birth order not with standing.
So I hurry to empty my thoughts. Hurry to grab my baby up and hold her. Hurry to peek into Turner's room and watch him sleep. Tomorrow I'll hurry to snap some pictures. I'll hurry to write all my kids smiles on my heart. I want to remember every day of my children's lives. Everyday that they are in mine is magic.

Avert your eyes

Not much time on my hands these days for mindless rambling online. I could go on and on about how wonderful my new daughter is. I could go on and on about what a fantastic experience it is to watch Turner learn about being a big brother. I bet I'll even write a few blogs about what kind of man my husband is when he is around his baby girl. There'll be lots of time for that in the future.
What is on my mind tonight is the creepy old man Walmart greeter. Yes, the supposed to be cheerful person who says "Welcome to Walmart", that's who I am talking about. Why is he on my mind? Because he's a clueless perv.
I ventured out this week with just me and Tate. Tunia and Booyah had Turner occupied so I thought I'd make a very quick trip to old Wally World as a maiden voyage. All went well. Tate and I got all five items on our list and proceeded to the checkout. While paying for our things Tate started to stir and I knew it was almost time to feed her. No biggie. I pushed our cart over to the Subway, which happens to be right in the view of perv greeter man.
It was ten thirty so there wasn't a soul in the Subway seeking a tasty alternative to fried fast food. Perfect. I went to a booth in the far corner and sat down. I got out my Snickers and my bottle of water and proceeded to get myself covered and ready to feed baby girl. Before unleashing my left concrete cantaloupe I looked around to make sure no one was staring and that the coast was clear. Well there he was staring intently. Usually if caught glancing a person will politely avert their eyes and act as if they weren't staring at you. Not you Mr I can't wait to catch a glimpse of your boobs. No you sat there and looked directly at me.
Well I of all people hate to shit on your parade. Unfortunately for you I have a nursing cover just for this purpose. Also this ain't my first rodeo. I can handle a roley poley infant under a sheet with out ever flashing an inch of flesh. Poor mister too cheap to buy porn, no boobs for you.
I have no hang ups about nursing. I'll do it where ever, but always in a discreet and tasteful manner. But geez people, don't stare. Now that I have that out of my system I am much more inclined to shout from the roof tops about having a newborn. The little soft hair and snugly head on my chest melts me. She smells like heaven and is almost edible she is so sweet.
Recovery from the second child is wonderful and so much faster than with Turner. She's only one week old and I feel pretty dang good. Turner tires me out but my paretns are here to run after him for another week. I am taking advantage and sleeping in while I can.
My daughter is already her own person. She has clear likes and dislikes. It is going to be an interesting life getting to see the differences between boys and girls. I have the best of both worlds and feel so very blessed. Now I have to go and get my behind in bed. I'll be up a couple times tonight enjoying my quiet time with the world's best girl, just like I did two years ago with the world's best boy. Good night--

Just two more days...

I have been slacking on writing. So as an update: My waist(or what used to be my waist) is about seven feet around. I'm due next week. We are going in on Monday to be induced. My doctor wants to go ahead and get the weight and pressure off my pelvis, fine by me.
My Mom is here with me now. I have slept so good at night because I'm not hurting nearly as bad since she's here doing all of my chores. Did I ever mention how great grandparents are? Well Turner's are fabulous!
I am excited. The idea of getting to meet my daughter in just a couple days is really strange. Of course I have all kinds of things to think about. Will this labor be quicker than Turner's? Will Tate be as easy to nurse? How long will it take me to get back to my version of normal? All things we'll be finding out after Monday.
Maybe my mind will be working a little better and I will get back in the habit of emptying it out again. Maybe I'll be too sleep deprived to even get to the computer. I know the first few months will be rough, but we'll get it figured out. Hopefully I'll be able to get some new pics put up of my new little girl. I can't wait to have pictures of Turner holding his baby sister. I will share them as soon as I can.
Now I am going to go enjoy my last couple days of feeling my baby kick and move. I 'll enjoy the last couple days of my son being an only child. I'll maybe get to enjoy one last date with my husband and get to see a grown up movie. Then it'll be off to the races- nursing, burping, diapers, baby poop explosions, pacifiers, snuggles, sleepless nights, days spent in a daze, and the constant silly grin that comes along with the joys of a new baby.

The first step is admitting you have a problem.

Hi, My name is Tiffany and I am a clean-a-holic. I stand here today and admit I am powerless to fight the compulsion. Once I smell Mr Clean or Clorox I am no longer myself and shouldn't be held accountable for my actions.
Yesterday I realized that I might have a problem. This startling revelation came to me as I was on my hands and knees inside my fireplace scrubbing away soot. What would possess a nine month pregnant woman to climb in a fireplace to clean it? I have no idea. It was like an alien abduction, I just blinked and realized where I was and what I was doing. But should Tate or any of my upcoming house guests want to curl up in the fireplace, it is as clean as a whistle.
The madness didn't stop there. My friend Leann informed me that vacuuming a vacuum is over the line a bit. Why? My theory is that you cannot clean with a dirty cleaning appliance. I cleaned yesterday and went to empty the canister on my beloved vacuum. After emptying it I was cleaning the filters like always and I got that itchy feeling. You know, that one that strikes when you know there is more dirt out there, you just have to find a way to get to it. So I did the sensible thing, I hauled the vacuum outside and scrubbed the inside of it with a toothbrush for thirty minutes. When I was satisfied that I had dislodged any dirt that may have been hiding I came in and got the Dirt Devil Cone out of it's cradle and vacuumed the inside of my big Bissell. This is a sad and never ending cycle. Once you vacuum one vacuum with another then one vacuum is clean while the other one is now full of the first ones dirt. But I had to stop short of vacuuming the inside of the cone with the Bissell, even an addict has standards.
My poor fish got caught up in the madness. Both the big tank and the small bowl are clean and sparkly this morning. After cleaning the fish abodes I was washing my hands and noticed that the soap dispensers were a little lack-luster. So I went through the house and collected all the soap pumps and washed them too. What good are clean soap dispensers if the garbage cans are dirty? You can't just wash your hands and throw your paper towel into a dirty garbage can. So the Clorox came out and now all my trash receptacles are clean enough to eat from. Now there wasn't much to bleach considering that I just bleached the cans a week and a half ago, but as I said before I am powerless against the compulsion.
This morning I have had time to bake a cake. While the smell of German chocolate filled the house I had time to Lysol wipe all the light switches and clean the computer key board. What is the point of all of this? To my crazy mind if I have the house clean and neat then it doesn't matter when I go into labor. I can happily be in the hospital and know that if anyone has to come to my house to gather supplies or help out with Brad and Turner that they will not think I am a slob when they bend over to inspect the fireplace. Likewise, should anyone come over and administer the "White Glove Test", my house would pass. Is any of it necessary? Of course not. But who among us can resist the smell of chocolate mingling with bleach and Lysol in the morning?

1cm down 9 to go

Here's the latest: I haven't been in a very poetic mood. I still notice all the wonder in my life, I just don't have the gumption to chronicle it. I feel bad for not keeping up with writing to the vast unknown of Myspace.
I am not a scrap-booker. I wish I did a better job at updating Turner's baby book, but I don't. I do journal. I print each blog out and save it. I have a few journals and odds and ends that I have written too. One day when my kids are much older I'll give it to them. They may not have cute books that are festooned with pieces of wrapping paper and little decorations, but if they really want to find out who mom was it'll be there in black and white.
All parents (I think) have fears of leaving their kids behind. I do, but mine are of a different slant. I know Brad would raise my children and care for them the same way he does now, as the best Papa a kid could ever have. They would be happy and well taken care of. They would be loved by both of their extended families. My worry is that if something happened, how would they know how much I loved them? Would Turner say "Yeah my mom stayed at home. She was just a mom". Through what I write they can one day look back at what I felt on different days. They can read what my heart had to say about them on the days that were perfect in their simplicity. Hopefully my kids will be able to see me as a person, not just a mom.
I try to always tell those in my life they are important to me. I sing and rhyme to my son. Turner asks me to sing the Turner song. It is made up and new everyday but always says "Turner is my best friend, I love him so much..." I hope he can remember all the fun we have had together. In turn, my son sings me the Mommy song. My heart melts as he belts out "My Mommy, I love her, she's the pink Power Ranger & my best buddy..". I can't wait to have a Turner and Tate song. I have a feeling it'll be about the best boy and best girl in the world, and maybe about the Power Rangers too.
No Tate yet, I sit and wait. I hope that every contraction is the beginning of labor. Yes, I am selfish and want relief from my aching joints. I want my body back. I want to be able to breathe again. More so I want to meet my daughter. I want to see my husband meet his little girl. I want to make my son the big brother he is meant to be. Breathing again is a novel idea. Turner has kept me breathless since I first laid eyes on him. I am sure Tate will do no less.

They have 32 flavors, but all I need is one...

I am in heaven. Did I have my baby, get a massage, a pedicure? No, even better, I had a chocolate blast from Baskin Robbins. I crave them with every ounce of my being. I think about them all day long. Nothing at this point taste better than a chocolate blast. Just to let you know nothing replaces one either. Ice cream by any other name isn't nearly as sweet. That's not to say I won't eat the other ice cream, but I will still want a chocolate blast when I am done scrapping the blue Bell carton.
My love borders on obsession. The guy who works at our local BR is my favorite person on earth. He looks like a girl and his front tooth is rotting out of his head, but I don't care. He makes the blasts, so he makes me happy. He did tell me today that I was weird. I was their only customer. Have Utahans gone on strike against the little pieces of heaven store? No, it's cold and rainy though. A little wind and rain is not enough to deter me from going to the ice cream parlor in search of delight in a cup.
I think the only thing that could make a chocolate blast any better would be to drink it while getting a foot massage. Possibly drinking it during sex, but that would mean Brad would be there wanting to share it, so that is not a good idea after all.
Gone are the cravings for pickles and cottage cheese. The days of ketchup worship are far behind me, I am now into the heavy stuff. Why do pregnant women crave things? My theory goes that our bodies know what nutrients we lack and make us long for foods rich in what ever it is we need. Tate is apparently low on cocoa and sugar, which we all know play a big roll in fetus development. Along that line of thought the baby's last weeks spent in the womb are strictly for putting on weight. That being the case I am craving one of the best put-er on-ers of weight there is.
I sit here full and content, for today at least. I fight off the chocolate beast for as long as I can. I try to go a few days in between chocolate indulgences, but the gap is narrowing. The bigger and clumsier my body becomes the more apt I am to give into it's demands. What's that? Can you hear the request for french toast suppers and pizza breakfasts from my unborn child? Yes baby girl, we'll have lots of sticky ooey gooey stuff during our last days spent as one.

It's worth a thousand words

I had pictures taken this week of a pregnant me. I am very critical of my appearance and was worried how a nine month pregnant Tiffany would look. I have been very pleasantly surprised.
When I see myself in the mirror I see the veins running all over me. I see the fatter arms, the puffier face, the bags under my eyes, the wrinkles that used to not be there. I dissect my appearance. I usually see only the bad parts. But when I saw these pictures I saw my whole self. Not so much the veins and wrinkles but more the twenty eight year old mom pregnant with her second child. Things aren't supposed to be perfect. The scars left from my belly being pierced didn't look half as bad from someone else's perspective as they do from my own. In fact, none of me looked like what I see in the mirror.
Being Mom to a two year old also lets me view myself from someone else's viewpoint. To Turner I am ruler of the universe, righter of wrongs, finder of toys, maker of rules, and cooker of dinner. I like the way my son sees me. I want him to always think I am the best, but I know that is a fool's wish. So, I try to enjoy the fleeting time when "Mom still knows best".
My pictures let me have memories of this time in my life. Having a life inside me that Brad and I made. This time when I get to hold my son on the outside, my daughter on the inside, and the two of them in my heart.
I love pictures, they are freeze frames of my memories. I carry my camera with me every where. I want to have a picture of every single day, then I can remember all of them. Even the ones that "nothing special" happens are very special to me. On those regular old every-days I get to see magic when I look at my son. I get to see Brad change into the man who I can't live without. And, for the past nine months I have gotten to see myself change. I have had to let go of my own wants and ideas and give into a life out of my control.
The easy part of having a child is almost over. In a few weeks I'll go through labor and have my daughter. That is when really hard part begins. So now I have pictures of the calm before the storm. Pictures of Turner and I while it's still just Turner and I. Life is about to change, and I can't wait.

Moo moo

I haven't been writing as much lately. My brain is consumed with the last weeks of pregnancy so it's hard for any other thoughts to escape the black hole atop my head. While in this mommy-brained state I have noticed a few things.
I noticed how the little things that change within you after having children are the things that really make you a "Mom". I swore I would never spit on my finger then wipe it on another human being's face. Well, I do it almost daily to poor Turner. When did this happen? I was boycotting Mother Nature's 409 not that long ago wasn't I?
If I am walking through the house and notice a Tums on the floor I pick it up. Tums are scattered through out my house, I have containers in the bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and living room. The placement of these in every room is a testament of my my heartburn and of the laziness that comes with being eight and half months pregnant. So while taking three Tums six or seven times a day a few fall and roll out of sight. These aren't toxic so I don't go ape and crawl around to find them. Once they are tired of a life spent hiding while on the lamb they show themselves. Like I said, I pick them up. Do I throw them away? Nope, just pop them in my mouth without a second thought. Sick, I know. I would never have eaten something that had been hiding under the edge of the couch for a few days pre-Turner. But now I figure it saves a trip to the trash can and postpones the heartburn for a minute or two.
Brad isn't wild about sharing his drinks with Turner, the back-wash factor and all. I am so used to it that we share everything. I have just devised a system to keep the backwash to a minimum. I always drink from straws. So I let him drink from my straw too. I just pull it away before he is quiet ready for me to. That way(or so goes my theory) there is still suction to keep all his spitty crumbs in his mouth and out of my drink. I must say it works pretty well.
Other gross mindless habits include eating food off of my son's shirt. Like a monkey I will pick something that has fallen short of Turner's mouth, landed on his shirt and eat it. Another tactic to keep me from having to get up and get a napkin or make a trip to the garbage can. Now I am not a great ape so the food findings must meet certain criteria. It must be just dropped, something tasty, and free of copious amounts of slobber. I am not an animal, I have my standards.
Like all mothers I have broken through my little aversion to bodily functions and fluids. When Turner was a little baby and still nursing we were playing on the floor and he started to burp and gag. I knew spit up was about half a second from spewing across the room. The burp cloth was no where in sight so I just pulled out the tale of my shirt and let him puke in that. Completely gross, but I didn't have to clean the carpets, just go change my shirt. Score one for the quick thinking, all be it grody, mom.
If anyone thinks spit up is nasty they have not entered into the potty training stage of life. Thank goodness we are through with that. But while in the middle of house breaking Lil Monster I got to experience all the smells and textures of poop that I never wanted to be acquainted with, it's part of my job.
There are so many more strange, nasty, and odd habits that I have now that I am a mom. I wish my brain worked well enough to remember them and write them down. I want to have a list to give to my two little ones for when they have little ones of their own. A list of all the things you swore you'd never do, but some how you are doing them anyway. As my mother says " The cows always come home". She was oh so right, and they are mooing loudly all the way here.

Anchors away

Why am I up tonight at 1:50 am? Memories won't let me sleep. Today we sold our boat. We've been wanting to get rid of it for some time now and are thrilled that it's taken care of. So what is my foolish mind up and running for? When I first woke up at midnight all the good times Brad and I shared in that boat started floating up.
We had two long, hot Louisiana summers spent together in that boat. Every Sunday and most Saturdays were spent loading up an ice chest full of beer and wine coolers and heading out on the lake. I loved sitting next to Brad flying across the water. My hair all tangled, the water so warm that it didn't really cool you off, tan lines, swamp burgers, worm buckets, friends, and the intoxicating smell of tanning oil on our skin. I loved the time we spent with the whole group, but I loved the time that he and I spent together alone more.
I am a little sad that Turner never got to go out on the boat with us. But you can't really bring your kids back in time. The summers we spent on that boat will always be just mine and Brad's. I'm sure that we'll get another one, but it'll be a more practical family fishing boat. For now someone else gets to make memories on our boat. It already holds so many.
So that is all it takes to rob a crazy pregnant lady of her sleep. Well, that and the little girl who likes to party all night long in my belly. My anxiousness doesn't need much to crank up and keep me up wandering about what she'll look like and how will Turner take sharing the spotlight.
So I'll never be bounced out of my seat heading across the lake in the Maxium again. I won't get to see Brad with his shirt off, golden red skin, hat on backwards, driving fast and smiling. Now our lives are more about car seats, naps, family supper, and story time in bed. Both parts of our life are and were fun and exciting. I wouldn't go back, not even for all the tea in China. Doesn't mean I don't like thinking of what all trouble we got into while we were back there.

Like a weed

My little boy is becoming a man. I can't fight it, and most of the time I don't want to. Turner is far beyond the mimicking stage. He has his own ideas and feelings and everyday he's getting better at expressing himself. He's learning what just about everything under the sun is and what is does.
Last week we were talking about boys and girls. He told me he and Papa were boys, then he went down his list of friends-all of whom are girls. He named his Aunt Abba-girl, all his uncles-boys. I started feeling left out so I asked him "Is Mommy a girl?" "No you not girl, you are my girl". Again, mark this down as another reason that no woman alive will be good enough for my son. He is either the sweetest child living, or the most calculating one I have ever met. I wouldn't want to be anyone else's girl.
My son has been being the most helpful little man I could hope for. The weather is good here so we play outside. Our friends are great so we play with them every morning. Utopia thy name is Utah. Now there is proof that my growing belly has cut off the blood supply to my brain.
I am giving in to this idea that I need to take it easy and sit still. Now if given the option of continuing on at a manic pace and getting a ton of things done for the next six weeks I would. But, my hips and left leg won't allow it. So here I sit typing instead of rearranging furniture and scooting along the floor scrubbing base boards. I am sure I will now over shoot my goal of gaining less than thirty pounds if I am not able to go, go, go like I want to. But it won't be the end of the world.
I am beginning to have foggy recollections of those first few weeks with Turner. I remember wearing Brad's boxer shorts to bed and thinking that I looked like a cylinder. I was fortunate I didn't look pregnant, but I didn't have a waist for a few weeks. I remember the shock when I got reacquainted with my thighs and feet, all things I had spent months with out being able to see.
I have been doing some thinking. So hold on and bare with me. I have always thought that most things in life happen for a reason, part of God's craftiness I suppose. Do the physical changes that come with pregnancy help you prepare for the emotional changes that happen once you are a parent? I think so. So no matter how selfish a woman, pregnancy takes her focus from thoughts of only herself and forces them to start including another human being. The nights spent with tiny feet in your ribs and getting up to pee every hour strips your mind and gets you ready to focus completely on someone else. Your blood volume increases from roughly eight pints to twelve pints. This massive increase strengthens your heart. So does this help prepare you for the increase in love you are capable of feeling once your baby arrives? Stretch marks? Not everyone gets them on the outside, but I know I have my share of them on my heart. It grew so much on November third two years ago that it nearly exploded. Pregnant women are short of breath all the time, especially in the last month. Is this getting me ready for all the moments that will take my breath away? Maybe.
Having something "Take your breath away" is just a figure of speech. If you believe that you don't have an adventurous two year old. Turner literally takes my breath away all the time. Last week I handed him his clothes and asked him to get himself dressed, I only expected it to keep him busy long enough to dress myself. He walked into my room five minutes later and I said "Look I dressed by myself". I was dumbfounded. When did he become able to do this?
Why doesn't he have to ask my permission to grow up? Well he doesn't, so I am trying not miss any of it. All the magical things he's learning to do will happen with or without me. I just have to be willing to sit back and watch, and of course try to have the camera ready. If I look closely enough I am sure I can actually see him growing. I know it happens everyday at nap time. When I lay him down he's my tiny sweet little baby and when he gets up and walks out of his room he is my sweet, not so little boy. If having one child make time go by this fast, will two double the speed with which it flies by? I suspect it will, but I have always loved the wind whipping through my hair.

A pain in my what?

I am not nuts, and I have a doctor to back me up on this. I have been having a lot of pain lately. To be more specific pain in my pelvic bone. I kept thinking it was normal or I was thinking it was just me being nuts. The sensation is like my pelvic bone is breaking in two. Well low and behold, I was right. My Doctor confirmed my suspicions that I am literally about to snap in two. He told me I have Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction. Great, at least I am not imagining it.
So what the hell is it? My pubic bone is separating. It'll go back after I have Tate. I just have to put up with it til then. All I have to do is avoid lifting anything, avoid stairs, and try to avoid anything that involves my pelvis. The pamphlets he gave me had nice suggestions like: Have someone take over your household duties til after your delivery. Have your spouse help you dress in the morning. Avoid lifting, especially older children. avoid bending. The authors of the literature apparently smoked a lot of grass to relieve their symptoms. I don't know a single mom who can just up and avoid their household duties. On that same note I can just see Brad helping me into my underwear everyday. Let's be practical. I will ease up on what all I do. I will start limiting my trips up and down the stairs. I already try not to lift Turner more than I have to. But I can't just not pick him up. What is the lesser of the two evils: Bend over and get him dressed or pick him up to put him on the counter to get him dressed?
I can not stand to feel worthless. I hate not being able to do what I want when I want to do it. My white flag is up. I surrender to this pregnancy. I can fight some things and this isn't one of them. I told my OB I've had a kid, a kidney stone, a boob job, a couple tattoos, and a few piercings, those hurt but were tolerable. This is something different all together. With most of them they were over in a few hours or days, they did not last six or seven weeks. I know if I follow my new set of rules I will get some relief but will Brad and Turner survive?
Brad isn't here much so he'll be fine. Turner is at the perfect stage for me to be pregnant around. He can play well without me as long as I am around to watch and talk to him. He is a great kid who minds really well. Besides, he helps so much I wouldn't know what to do with out him. He picks up all the stuff I drop, he gets things from the bottom shelves, and most importantly he makes me smile and know that it is all worth it.
So here I sit with my legs pinned together and my hips parallel as instructed and I feel better. The pain only comes when I move, so I'll just sit still(or try to anyway). I am way more fortunate than most people. I have great friends here who'll help if I ask. I have a wonderful husband who is helpful for the hour he's home a day. And I have two retired parents chomping at the bit to come out and help me "Avoid household duties". I just may have to give in and let them come out a little earlier than expected.
Pregnancy is the great equalizer. No amount of preparation can assure you smooth passage. No matter how healthy and in shape you are something will crap out on you and leave you more appreciative of the ability to walk up and down the stairs with out wincing. It is all just to prepare you for how powerless you'll be once you have your baby. That little person will hold you in the palm of their hand. Your own happiness will forever be dependent on their being happy. You will try to move mountains to make life easier for them. But they will do what they want when they want. Some of them will even marry a man and move to the other side of that mountain, damn kids.

Pay no attention to the large crazy woman

Let me preface this by saying I am not like this everyday. Most days I am a semi-normal person who looks and functions like the rest of the world.

Tonight I am having a lovely anxiety attack. These tend to creep up on me when all is right in the world. This is another reason I need things to keep me busy. Brad came home early today. He showered and was here as Turner woke up from his nap. He dressed himself and our son in matching shirts and similar shorts. We all went and got their haircut, then out to dinner. After dinner we came home and watched Turner drive his four wheeler. The boys showered and had a piece of cake, then we put Turner to bed. Brad and I watched a movie, and now my husband is sleeping. A perfect day on all accounts.
So why am I worrying? Because on perfect days when I have everything done, my mind has time to step back and see how great my life is. From that removed vantage point I can't help but notice how fragile the balance is. I have always been an incessant worrier, and it doesn't look to be stopping any time soon.
When I was little my dad was in a volunteer fire department. I would hear his alarm go off in the middle of the night. I would lay in bed praying for him to come home safe. I would then stay awake and listen to hear "Roseland one, ten-nineteen"". I knew that meant the fire was out and my dad was coming home. I should have been able to go back to sleep, but I never did. I would lay awake for the three or four hours he was gone and wait. Like my being awake meant he would come back safe.
I can be struck by fear over the silliest things. Brad being a little late coming home, especially if it's snowing. I know we live four miles from the job. I also know he doesn't wear his seat belt. I hear Turner cough in the middle of the night, and from a dead sleep I fear that he is choking. My heart skips multiple beats if my phone rings past nine at night. I can usually keep all these useless worries shoved down, but it's like a pressure release valve. They build up and catch up with me and I have to worry. I will pray for things that God doesn't place control over. I will beg for my children to have long healthy lives, I will then go down my list of things to protect them from: Disease, illness(should any be classified different from disease), cancer, leukemia, car accidents, accidents, pedophiles, poison in our food, kidnapping, and on and on. God knows when I simply ask for him to watch over my two angels that is what I mean. But when this helpless felling comes over me I am compelled to ask for specifics.
I have decided that most people with big personalities, us "Type A" folks, like being loud and bossy because we believe we can control our surroundings. I can control a few things, but not what I really desire. I want a written in stone guarantee that my loved ones will be granted long happy healthy lives. Too bad those aren't being sold on QVC. My normal rational mind knows that is a guarantee that can not be made, doesn't stop me from wanting it.
The flip side to my craziness coin goes something like this: I must, at all times, appreciate and cherish every single moment with my son and family. Sounds simple. But it is another stay awake and they'll be safe crazy rule. It is exhausting trying to remain present and appreciative in every moment of every day. I don't' ever want to forget one single day of my son's life. I want to remember every smile, every word, every smell, every everything that happens. Part of me thinks if I start just letting the days roll by and not knowing that everyone is special, then I won't be aloud more to enjoy. Is my God so cruel and maliced that if I let a day be blah, or worse- bad, he will take good days from me? No, and I know that. I said this was my irrational side talking, the one I should not let out or admit to having.
I realize that anxiety is fear of the unreasonable and unlikely, duh. Hey, it happens to every one once in a while, right? Mine happens more when I am pregnant or have just had a child. I don't do well with estrogen, never liked the stuff. It makes the world just a little too close for comfort.
There is an upside. I now have an outlet for my craziness. An open diary that I can dump all of this foolishness into and then rest. It is amazing what a little putting down your thoughts can do for a person. As I sit here my head clears and I feel sleep being with in my grasp. So off to to check one last time on the world's best boy, then to lay next to the world's best man. I will pray again, but this time for things of a more reasonable nature, like for God to help me hang on til this estrogen roller coaster is over