As I write this, my sweet husband is getting the snip snip surgery. Yes, there will now and forever be a permanent vacancy in my uterus. No more babies. I am finding this day actually quite bittersweet (mostly sad, not sweet). While I understand my husband’s argument for why we shouldn’t have more children (and I did completely, well mostly, agree with him), there is still a little part of me that is saddened by the fact that I will never have that feeling again. I know that I have two beautiful, healthy children, and I am so blessed and grateful to have them. I also know that women over 35 have higher risks for birth defects, which would be devastating. My pregnancies were certainly not easy. I didn’t enjoy pricking my finger five times a day to test my blood sugar, or giving myself three shots a day, but it was all worth it. I did it with pleasure because I had a little precious life growing inside of me. That was the best feeling I ever had. The mothers reading this know what I am talking about. I felt so alive, so special, and so beautiful. For once I didn’t feel fat, but yet round with new life. I felt like a real woman taking part in the absolute best job on Earth – bringing new life into this world, being a mother.
I know that having more children would be risky, and it would also put a financial strain on us. We can barely afford daycare as it is. And, I’m sure from my husband’s perspective, he would love to live with the girl he married, not the pregnant woman he has had to live with two out of the three years of our young marriage! I know it wasn’t easy worrying about whether or not I would eat my snack on time so that my blood sugar didn’t crash, or trying to please me at dinner time – I never wanted anything we had in the house. It wasn’t easy sleeping alone night after night because I preferred the twin bed in the guest room.
I know all the reasons why today’s surgery was the right choice, but somehow I feel like a little part of me is dying. I say this with a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat, but yet the silly side of me wants to write – RIP Uterus. Job well done!
Gotta go do diaper duty! (Ew, it's a stinky one!)
Friday, May 16, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The Remote From Hell
I couldn’t agree more with Dr. John Gray’s theory that men and women come from two different planets (Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus). After all, I am starting to believe that men (little boys) are wired from birth to be techie freaks (gadget whore is a more appropriate term for my husband). From the time Lincoln was old enough to hold something in his hand, he was reaching for our cell phones and our Logitech Harmony One remote-from-hell. He even puts the phone up to his ear and points the remote toward the TV mimicking mommy and daddy. One minute we are watching Veggie Tales and the next minute Lincoln has changed the aspect (whatever that means) and is playing Veggie Tales and America’s Next Top Model with the PIP feature (picture-in-picture for all you women readers). I will never get back all the countless minutes I spend trying to undo and fix Lincoln’s remote rookie status.
This leads me to the point of today’s blog – my husband’s remote-from-hell. Let’s just put aside all of his other gadgets (iphone, ipod, Blackberry, specialized running watch, new GPS system, portable DVD player, not to mention all of his “gotta have” police electronics). When he first saw the Logitech Harmony remote it was as if Pamela Anderson was standing in front of him topless. His eyes bugged out and a drop of drool dripped from his enormous grin. He had found the mother ship. He was home! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my husband wanted to spend $250 on a remote control. Since I thought this was the stupidest thing I had ever heard, he assured me that he would spend HIS money on this purchase (this was back when we actually had an allowance every month. My nail salon lady misses me!).
Oh this thing is going to be great, my husband promised me! Now we don’t need all of the individual remotes for the TV, cable box, VCR, DVD, stereo receiver, etc. It’s all here on this sleek phallic shaped remote. But wait…now he disappeared down into the basement leaving me alone with our children for yet another hour while he “programmed” the remote.
After programming his new toy, he tried to explain to me how it works in a confusing, mind blowing 30 minute tutorial (again, more time out of my life that I will never get back). Look, honey, if you don’t know what to do, just push this “help” button and it will walk you through the process. So, the next day I am alone in the house and just want to watch my Baby Story episode. I push “watch TV”. Some of the equipment turns on. I get sound, but no picture. I don’t even know if the TV is on because my husband has taped a piece of cardboard over the actual on/off button on the front of the TV because he doesn’t want Lincoln touching it any more. (I can hear my dad scolding me for using my toes to hit fast forward on our VCR during the Xanadu years.) Ok, so I’ll just hit the help button like he told me. I hit help. It says “Did that fix the problem?” NO! Now it asks me, “Is the TV on?” Um, I don’t think so. I hit no. Nothing happens. “Did that fix the problem?” NO! Now it asks, “Is it on video input 1?” What the hell is that? UGH! I just want to watch my show, I yell at the TV. Somehow I managed that day to figure it out before hurling the damn thing at the screen.
Later I complain to my husband, “Honey, when I want to turn the TV off after watching a DVD it turns everything off but the TV.” He says, “Yeah, you have to switch it from watch DVD to watch TV first and then it will turn everything off.” WHAT? You mean there is a problem??? Luckily, my Martian always buys the extended warranty (I thought these warranties were just another way to get your money) and so he decides to return the remote. Just when I think we are getting rid of this thing, here he comes with the newest model. It’s touch screen, he says with a twinkle in his eye. Back down to the basement he goes for another install and programming session.
Now, when we have a babysitter over (usually a grandparent) we leave instructions for the baby. You know, nuke the chicken nuggets for 30 seconds, bath time is at 5:30, bedtime is at 6:00, make sure to read his favorite book, etc. But you should see the detailed typed out little manual we have to leave for the Logitech Harmony One! I'll never forget sitting in The Melting Pot having a romantic evening when the phone rings. It says "home". Crap! My heart starts racing. Did they break the baby? Does he need medical attention? Nope. It's the remote. They were calling to ask how to raise the volume! Are you kidding me? My mom now simply asks that we please leave the TV on tuned to her favorite channel and she doesn’t go near the remote for the night.
As I am writing this, my husband just called to congratulate himself on his latest scam at our local electronics superstore (his return scams will definitely be the subject of a future blog). His new GPS system apparently does not come with an extended warranty. So he went to two stores today and found the sucker who was intimidated by his uniform, badge, and gun who manually forced the system to give him the extended warranty. Bravo, honey! My hero. Now can you please slide by home and help me with this damn remote! It’s stuck on Kathie Lee. Oh, and bring home some diapers.
Gotta go do diaper duty!
This leads me to the point of today’s blog – my husband’s remote-from-hell. Let’s just put aside all of his other gadgets (iphone, ipod, Blackberry, specialized running watch, new GPS system, portable DVD player, not to mention all of his “gotta have” police electronics). When he first saw the Logitech Harmony remote it was as if Pamela Anderson was standing in front of him topless. His eyes bugged out and a drop of drool dripped from his enormous grin. He had found the mother ship. He was home! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my husband wanted to spend $250 on a remote control. Since I thought this was the stupidest thing I had ever heard, he assured me that he would spend HIS money on this purchase (this was back when we actually had an allowance every month. My nail salon lady misses me!).
Oh this thing is going to be great, my husband promised me! Now we don’t need all of the individual remotes for the TV, cable box, VCR, DVD, stereo receiver, etc. It’s all here on this sleek phallic shaped remote. But wait…now he disappeared down into the basement leaving me alone with our children for yet another hour while he “programmed” the remote.
After programming his new toy, he tried to explain to me how it works in a confusing, mind blowing 30 minute tutorial (again, more time out of my life that I will never get back). Look, honey, if you don’t know what to do, just push this “help” button and it will walk you through the process. So, the next day I am alone in the house and just want to watch my Baby Story episode. I push “watch TV”. Some of the equipment turns on. I get sound, but no picture. I don’t even know if the TV is on because my husband has taped a piece of cardboard over the actual on/off button on the front of the TV because he doesn’t want Lincoln touching it any more. (I can hear my dad scolding me for using my toes to hit fast forward on our VCR during the Xanadu years.) Ok, so I’ll just hit the help button like he told me. I hit help. It says “Did that fix the problem?” NO! Now it asks me, “Is the TV on?” Um, I don’t think so. I hit no. Nothing happens. “Did that fix the problem?” NO! Now it asks, “Is it on video input 1?” What the hell is that? UGH! I just want to watch my show, I yell at the TV. Somehow I managed that day to figure it out before hurling the damn thing at the screen.
Later I complain to my husband, “Honey, when I want to turn the TV off after watching a DVD it turns everything off but the TV.” He says, “Yeah, you have to switch it from watch DVD to watch TV first and then it will turn everything off.” WHAT? You mean there is a problem??? Luckily, my Martian always buys the extended warranty (I thought these warranties were just another way to get your money) and so he decides to return the remote. Just when I think we are getting rid of this thing, here he comes with the newest model. It’s touch screen, he says with a twinkle in his eye. Back down to the basement he goes for another install and programming session.
Now, when we have a babysitter over (usually a grandparent) we leave instructions for the baby. You know, nuke the chicken nuggets for 30 seconds, bath time is at 5:30, bedtime is at 6:00, make sure to read his favorite book, etc. But you should see the detailed typed out little manual we have to leave for the Logitech Harmony One! I'll never forget sitting in The Melting Pot having a romantic evening when the phone rings. It says "home". Crap! My heart starts racing. Did they break the baby? Does he need medical attention? Nope. It's the remote. They were calling to ask how to raise the volume! Are you kidding me? My mom now simply asks that we please leave the TV on tuned to her favorite channel and she doesn’t go near the remote for the night.
As I am writing this, my husband just called to congratulate himself on his latest scam at our local electronics superstore (his return scams will definitely be the subject of a future blog). His new GPS system apparently does not come with an extended warranty. So he went to two stores today and found the sucker who was intimidated by his uniform, badge, and gun who manually forced the system to give him the extended warranty. Bravo, honey! My hero. Now can you please slide by home and help me with this damn remote! It’s stuck on Kathie Lee. Oh, and bring home some diapers.
Gotta go do diaper duty!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Situation Sippy Cup
Ah, what we women won't do to make the men (in this case, little boys) in our lives happy! After my discussion about Lincoln and his spoons, my friend, Allison pointed out to me that men will just sit back and enjoy watching us scurry around trying to make them happy. Even at the tender age of two, Lincoln is already enjoying his power over the woman in his life. Enter the Sippy Cup Situation.
Out of the blue, Lincoln decided that he no longer wanted to drink from a sippy cup. He now wants a real cup just like mommy. The first time this happened we were at the food court eating a Chick-Fil-A kid's meal which comes with an apple juice box. The options were: a. squeeze the juice from the little hole made by the tiny straw into Lincoln's sippy cup, or b. let him try the straw (something he had never achieved before). But, wait, I didn't have a sippy cup because my dumb ass never packs everything I might possibly need while entertaining two small children. So, I asked for a small cup and decided to squeeze the apple juice into the cup and just see what would happen. Wait! You mean, I am the cause of the Sippy Cup Situation? Lincoln did surprisingly well for his first time with a big boy cup...his shirt was just mildly soaked due to lack of bib and spare shirt (again, my fault).
Fast forward to last week (a few days after the food court fiasco). Lincoln was sitting in his high chair in front of his 57th Veggie Tales of the morning (my lack of strength in saying NO to TV will be the subject of another blog) and mommy was scurrying around getting him his milk and two cookies (not the sugar-filled ones, but the gross Gerber banana ones). I know what you are thinking - you let him eat cookies for breakfast??? Yes, how else can I get him to drink his milk? Anyway, so I got Lincoln his sippy cup and he threw it back at me and said "PIPS". Well, "pips" usually means potato chips, but in this case he meant he wanted to take a "sip" without the top on. After several weak attempts to tell him no, he began adamantly demanding "help top" over and over again. I must have been out of my mind because the next thing I knew I was taking the top off and allowing him to drink it sans protective top. Thinking the situation was solved, I went to sit down on the couch to feed the baby. Nope! Now Lincoln demanded "pup" which means "cup". He did not want the sippy cup at all.
Off to the kitchen I went. This time I came back with a new cool neon green sippy cup with a pop-up straw. "Ooh, look at this," I tried to sell Lincoln. Nope! He was not buying it. "No, pup!" Mommy went back into the kitchen, poured the milk into yet another type of cup. This time I tried a little plastic kiddie cup that came with his set of spoons and bowls. I thought he would love this idea. Nope! Wrong again. Back to the kitchen. Get a back bone, I tried to tell myself. In a bold move I decided to pour the milk back into the original sippy cup with the top ON and make a statement. Yeah, right. "NO, NO, NO," Lincoln screamed, spoons flying everywhere. Ugh! Fine! Back to the kitchen I went. I poured the damn milk from the sippy cup into a regular grown-up cup and slammed it down on his tray. Can you guess what happened next? He spilled the entire cup down the front of his shirt and all over his tray soaking the spoons and cookies. Great! Now my poor second child, who had been waiting ever so patiently, had to wait yet again while I took Lincoln upstairs to get new clothes.
After all was said and done, my husband (the sleeping beast of the east), finally came down the stairs yawning after his 8 hour sleep (I forgot to mention that this whole morning milk drama happened after I had been up since about 4 a.m.). He handed Lincoln the original sippy cup. "Come on, pal. Time to go to daycare," he said as the little bastard (Lincoln) took the sippy cup from his daddy and drank! SON OF A .....!
This brings up a good point that I started to make in the beginning. Why did I rush around trying to make my little prince happy when my husband simply gave him a command and he followed it? My husband doesn't care about making him happy. My husband cares about teaching him a lesson, teaching him who is boss, and teaching him to suck it up and drink from the sippy cup regardless of the tantrums and tears that usually follow. I am all for having peace in the morning, and not starting a battle before Lincoln goes off to daycare for the day. What am I teaching him? That women, or at least THIS woman, will sacrifice her happiness to make him happy and cater to his every need. Somewhere in the middle there must be a compromise between my husband's drill sargent, hard-ass approach and my door mat catering service!
An update: Last night we tried giving Lincoln a little Dixie cup filled with a small amount of milk. He spilled the first cup all over the living room rug, to which Eric scolded, "why did you let him have the drink in the living room?" Then he spilled the second cup all over his high chair tray. In the end, he got a sippy cup which he wanted to bring to bed. Ugh! He knows we don't allow drinks in bed! Time to put on the boxing gloves. In this corner wearing a white wife beater onesie and weighing 25 pounds - Lincoln, the Mommy Crusher...and in this corner wearing a dirty old worn-out sweatshirt with spit-up stains and spaghetti sauce and weighing none of your dang beeswax...
Gotta go do diaper duty!
Out of the blue, Lincoln decided that he no longer wanted to drink from a sippy cup. He now wants a real cup just like mommy. The first time this happened we were at the food court eating a Chick-Fil-A kid's meal which comes with an apple juice box. The options were: a. squeeze the juice from the little hole made by the tiny straw into Lincoln's sippy cup, or b. let him try the straw (something he had never achieved before). But, wait, I didn't have a sippy cup because my dumb ass never packs everything I might possibly need while entertaining two small children. So, I asked for a small cup and decided to squeeze the apple juice into the cup and just see what would happen. Wait! You mean, I am the cause of the Sippy Cup Situation? Lincoln did surprisingly well for his first time with a big boy cup...his shirt was just mildly soaked due to lack of bib and spare shirt (again, my fault).
Fast forward to last week (a few days after the food court fiasco). Lincoln was sitting in his high chair in front of his 57th Veggie Tales of the morning (my lack of strength in saying NO to TV will be the subject of another blog) and mommy was scurrying around getting him his milk and two cookies (not the sugar-filled ones, but the gross Gerber banana ones). I know what you are thinking - you let him eat cookies for breakfast??? Yes, how else can I get him to drink his milk? Anyway, so I got Lincoln his sippy cup and he threw it back at me and said "PIPS". Well, "pips" usually means potato chips, but in this case he meant he wanted to take a "sip" without the top on. After several weak attempts to tell him no, he began adamantly demanding "help top" over and over again. I must have been out of my mind because the next thing I knew I was taking the top off and allowing him to drink it sans protective top. Thinking the situation was solved, I went to sit down on the couch to feed the baby. Nope! Now Lincoln demanded "pup" which means "cup". He did not want the sippy cup at all.
Off to the kitchen I went. This time I came back with a new cool neon green sippy cup with a pop-up straw. "Ooh, look at this," I tried to sell Lincoln. Nope! He was not buying it. "No, pup!" Mommy went back into the kitchen, poured the milk into yet another type of cup. This time I tried a little plastic kiddie cup that came with his set of spoons and bowls. I thought he would love this idea. Nope! Wrong again. Back to the kitchen. Get a back bone, I tried to tell myself. In a bold move I decided to pour the milk back into the original sippy cup with the top ON and make a statement. Yeah, right. "NO, NO, NO," Lincoln screamed, spoons flying everywhere. Ugh! Fine! Back to the kitchen I went. I poured the damn milk from the sippy cup into a regular grown-up cup and slammed it down on his tray. Can you guess what happened next? He spilled the entire cup down the front of his shirt and all over his tray soaking the spoons and cookies. Great! Now my poor second child, who had been waiting ever so patiently, had to wait yet again while I took Lincoln upstairs to get new clothes.
After all was said and done, my husband (the sleeping beast of the east), finally came down the stairs yawning after his 8 hour sleep (I forgot to mention that this whole morning milk drama happened after I had been up since about 4 a.m.). He handed Lincoln the original sippy cup. "Come on, pal. Time to go to daycare," he said as the little bastard (Lincoln) took the sippy cup from his daddy and drank! SON OF A .....!
This brings up a good point that I started to make in the beginning. Why did I rush around trying to make my little prince happy when my husband simply gave him a command and he followed it? My husband doesn't care about making him happy. My husband cares about teaching him a lesson, teaching him who is boss, and teaching him to suck it up and drink from the sippy cup regardless of the tantrums and tears that usually follow. I am all for having peace in the morning, and not starting a battle before Lincoln goes off to daycare for the day. What am I teaching him? That women, or at least THIS woman, will sacrifice her happiness to make him happy and cater to his every need. Somewhere in the middle there must be a compromise between my husband's drill sargent, hard-ass approach and my door mat catering service!
An update: Last night we tried giving Lincoln a little Dixie cup filled with a small amount of milk. He spilled the first cup all over the living room rug, to which Eric scolded, "why did you let him have the drink in the living room?" Then he spilled the second cup all over his high chair tray. In the end, he got a sippy cup which he wanted to bring to bed. Ugh! He knows we don't allow drinks in bed! Time to put on the boxing gloves. In this corner wearing a white wife beater onesie and weighing 25 pounds - Lincoln, the Mommy Crusher...and in this corner wearing a dirty old worn-out sweatshirt with spit-up stains and spaghetti sauce and weighing none of your dang beeswax...
Gotta go do diaper duty!
Friday, May 9, 2008
Wife Beater Onesie
In yesterday’s blog I mentioned Lincoln’s wife beater onesie. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the wife beater, it is a thin white V-neck T-shirt that a certain type of man wears (usually stretched to the max over his enormous beer gut and hairy chest). I became scarred for life by this term many years ago while living with my dad who went from lounging around the house in a designer monogrammed robe to a wife beater T-shirt and tighty whiteys shortly after the divorce from my mom. I am pretty sure he is back to looking his usual Rico Suave now that another good woman is in his life. Ha, ha!
A few months ago, Lincoln (my two year old, for those of you who don’t know him) began “exploring” in his pants. This exploring quickly turned into an all-day event. I know I probably shouldn’t allow him to spend the day digging into his drawers, but I actually find it kind of funny and cute for some odd reason (and, what man doesn’t spend at least part of the day in the same way). Soon this all-day event became most fun for my little genital-obsessed monkey at night. He would wedge his hand so far down his pajama bottoms that in the mornings he would no longer have a diaper on. His #5 Pampers was now pushed all the way down one pant leg and his bed was soaked. After three mornings in a row, I decided I had to do something. My husband was threatening to get out his duct tape!
This is where having a network of fellow mommy friends comes in real handy (no pun intended). I was explaining the problem to a friend of ours who also has a 2 yr. old son, and she suggested putting him to bed in a onesie instead of pajamas. Brilliant! So that day I went to Target in search of a 24-month size onesie. Well, they don’t come in cute little patterns, colors, or with little baseballs on them. Nope! They only come in wife beater white! But guess what, those beautiful little crotch snaps that I once cursed for being so difficult to undo, became my heroes. Lincoln wasn’t too thrilled to have his ACCESS DENIED! Sorry, buddy. The sheets are dry once again and all is right in my world.
Gotta do diaper duty!
A few months ago, Lincoln (my two year old, for those of you who don’t know him) began “exploring” in his pants. This exploring quickly turned into an all-day event. I know I probably shouldn’t allow him to spend the day digging into his drawers, but I actually find it kind of funny and cute for some odd reason (and, what man doesn’t spend at least part of the day in the same way). Soon this all-day event became most fun for my little genital-obsessed monkey at night. He would wedge his hand so far down his pajama bottoms that in the mornings he would no longer have a diaper on. His #5 Pampers was now pushed all the way down one pant leg and his bed was soaked. After three mornings in a row, I decided I had to do something. My husband was threatening to get out his duct tape!
This is where having a network of fellow mommy friends comes in real handy (no pun intended). I was explaining the problem to a friend of ours who also has a 2 yr. old son, and she suggested putting him to bed in a onesie instead of pajamas. Brilliant! So that day I went to Target in search of a 24-month size onesie. Well, they don’t come in cute little patterns, colors, or with little baseballs on them. Nope! They only come in wife beater white! But guess what, those beautiful little crotch snaps that I once cursed for being so difficult to undo, became my heroes. Lincoln wasn’t too thrilled to have his ACCESS DENIED! Sorry, buddy. The sheets are dry once again and all is right in my world.
Gotta do diaper duty!
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Bipolar Boy
Does anyone else feel like their toddler is bipolar? I guess it comes with the territory when you are talking about a two year old with limited communication skills (or your husbands, just kidding), but I know that it drives me crazy! A perfect example happened yesterday morning with my little demon, I mean, Lincoln.
Recently Lincoln has been doing something new in the mornings. Instead of waiting patiently in his bed and singing sweet little morning ditties, he now gets out of bed and knocks loudly at the door and screams "MOM". He can't get out by himself because my hunky weekend warrior installed a safety door knob. Lincoln (whose spoon fetish will be the topic of a later blog) also likes to stick his spoons under the doorframe. So yesterday morning after hearing his screams, I came upstairs and saw nine little bent plastic spoons in front of his door. Thinking I would be funny, I stuck them back under the door. Just then screams came from the other side - "NO Mommy! No, no no!" So I open the door and I am greeted by my little ray of sunshine (NOT) in his wife beater onesie (definitely the subject of a later blog). Before he tries to bolt out the door I have swooped him up and put him on the changing table (which he is way too big for). But before I have a chance to remove his 10 pound diaper, he starts shrieking, "POONS! POONS!" Congratulating myself for understanding his "needs", I quickly pick up his array of rainbow-colored spoons and bring them to him. "NO!" he shouts as spoons fly across his bedroom. What the heck??? Didn't he just ask for the spoons??? What should I do?
A. Pick up the spoons and try again?
B. Leave the spoons on the floor and ignore him?
C. Make him pick up the spoons himself?
D. Make him pick up the spoons AND give him a time out for throwing things?
E. Throw away the dang spoons and deal with the fallout?
Please, I'm begging you! Tell me what you think! I hope I'm not the only one with a bipolar toddler!
Gotta do diaper duty!
Recently Lincoln has been doing something new in the mornings. Instead of waiting patiently in his bed and singing sweet little morning ditties, he now gets out of bed and knocks loudly at the door and screams "MOM". He can't get out by himself because my hunky weekend warrior installed a safety door knob. Lincoln (whose spoon fetish will be the topic of a later blog) also likes to stick his spoons under the doorframe. So yesterday morning after hearing his screams, I came upstairs and saw nine little bent plastic spoons in front of his door. Thinking I would be funny, I stuck them back under the door. Just then screams came from the other side - "NO Mommy! No, no no!" So I open the door and I am greeted by my little ray of sunshine (NOT) in his wife beater onesie (definitely the subject of a later blog). Before he tries to bolt out the door I have swooped him up and put him on the changing table (which he is way too big for). But before I have a chance to remove his 10 pound diaper, he starts shrieking, "POONS! POONS!" Congratulating myself for understanding his "needs", I quickly pick up his array of rainbow-colored spoons and bring them to him. "NO!" he shouts as spoons fly across his bedroom. What the heck??? Didn't he just ask for the spoons??? What should I do?
A. Pick up the spoons and try again?
B. Leave the spoons on the floor and ignore him?
C. Make him pick up the spoons himself?
D. Make him pick up the spoons AND give him a time out for throwing things?
E. Throw away the dang spoons and deal with the fallout?
Please, I'm begging you! Tell me what you think! I hope I'm not the only one with a bipolar toddler!
Gotta do diaper duty!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)