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.