The Toe Chronicles

I've been truly too insanely busy to blog lately and  while this is a purely recreational sport for me (well maybe more of an intellectual activity, the only thing that is getting much exercise is my fingers) I always wish I could update more often. I keep running across these truly spectacular blogs that update several times a week or even daily (!) Just finding the time and mental energy to bang out that many blog entries makes me tired even thinking about it, so for those of you who actually read this ramble fest... I'm sorry, but I highly doubt that I'll ever be a daily blogger. Plus there just so many other things to cram into my daylight hours. Namely taking care of children (and all that entails) and every once in while I'll take a crack at the scary laundry pile or sweep the floor (housekeeping obviously isn't my forte... I'm working on that). And then, my favorite time of day: bedtime. I have several precious hours of silence and I either play on Facebook (sadly I spend way too much time on there) read another book, or maybe blog. Today I obviously chose the latter.

Baby Toe Rings

Mommy, why are you waving shiny sharp things at me?

Last night, Kiki suffered a traumatic event. To be more accurate, Mommy was traumatized, Kiki  felt just fine. Due to the fact that the child NEVER stops wiggling and LOVES pulling/chewing on/depositing spit up in hair, she somehow managed to get a hair tightly wrapped around her little toe. This isn't the first time that this has happened, and normally (with some impressive tweezers/ pin/ nail clipper skills) I can unwind the offending hair. This time she managed to really wedge it in there.

The offending mermaid hair

I got her up from her afternoon nap and noticed her toe was a really abnormal shade of bright red and there was a deep line around the top that obviously didn't belong there. Of course my heart stopped and I immediately began freaking out. Kiki (after her obligatory post nap feeding) was perfectly content and all smiles. I took a deep breath, gathered my shiny scary looking instruments and warned her "I"m truly sorry baby, this is gonna hurt". She grinned at me, utterly oblivious to the imminent pain. Cue Mommy Guilt.

As I began to poke around her misshapen toe, I realized we were in trouble. In the past, the hair had always been very noticeable. I have pretty dark hair and against her (mostly) Irish skin, I'd have to be blind not to see it. This time around, there wasn't a hair to be seen. After 30 minutes of investigation, a tiny blond hair finally showed up. Ellie (with her crazy long mermaid hair that she refuses to let me cut) was the culprit this time. I got the hair off and hoped and prayed that her pretty little baby toes would stop looking so alienesque.

Dancing (into the ER) with my Two Left Feet

Fast forward several hours and she woke up around 10 pm to eat (again) and I checked the toe again. Much to my horror, it still looked scarily swollen and segmented. I reluctantly decided that an Emergency Room visit was in order. Now due to my extreme klutziness, I have spent more than my fair share of time in the ER. For example, when I was 7 months pregnant with Kiki, I was leaving the bookstore (typical) and walking back to the car. Keep in mind this was a parking lot, a very flat parking lot, and somehow (don't ask me how) my foot slipped on a nonexistent bump. Can you see how this story is going to end? My foot freaking hurt, but I made it back to the car. I almost exchanged PG-13 words with the group of teenage boys who had witnessed my graceless moment and the juvenile chuckling wasn't going over well with the pregnant woman in pain. Lucky for them, I was concentrating too hard on reaching the car without falling on my face.

We drove home. I sat in the passenger seat gritting my teeth and promising God all kinds of crazy things if He would just make the big owwie go away. ("Dear God, I'll be good forever. I'll never ever lose my temper again. I'll never ever wear flip flops on a flat surface. I'll never ever lose my patience with my kids or let my hormones get the best of me. I promise. Just make it stop. Pretty please? With a jar of cherries on top?")  My husband thought he was in trouble and I was mad at him because I was so silent (in reality I was too busy begging God for a supernatural Vicodin and if I had talked I might have screamed). We got home, I hopped (literally) into the house and claimed the couch.

And I refused to go to the ER.

Surprise!

I simply couldn't believe that a person could possibly break a bone walking on a flat surface. After four hours of whining, my husband convinced me that I should probably get it checked out, so I reluctantly hopped into the ER. (Hopping played a large role in my life for the next few months.)  I'm sure anyone who has gone to the ER can empathize with the awful waiting time, and this time was no different. I might be a horrible person, but I spent my 2.5 hour wait watching the man next to me moan, cry, and literally fall on the floor and dramatically writhe in pain. Now I have no doubt that he was in pain and I really did feel sorry for him, but he was so over the top that it was impossible not to watch. The whole ER was watching him. There is a reason why men don't give birth.

Long story short, my foot was broken, I was given a very sexy cast and sent home with a pair of crutches. I abhor crutches. After my toe slicing incident, I was not looking forward to the hop, shuffle repeat routine while 7 months pregnant. Ellie and Maya were infinitely amused by mommy's new style of walking and spent an endless amount of time hopping behind me chanting "Mommy hop, hop, hop hahahahahha". To add to my dilemma, my husband was getting ready for his deployment to Afghanistan and we were moving to Ohio. Packing up a house and crutches don't mix. On the plus side, I have never received so many pitying looks from strangers or had so many doors opened for me. After 6 endless weeks of the plaster cast, the kind doctor allowed me a walking cast and I had the most blissful shower of my life. In fact, I'm pretty sure it ranked in the top 5 showers of my life (the others were probably after breaking my arm and giving birth). I've never been more excited to scrub my leg. Anyhow, this was a huge tangent.  The point is I'm klutzy. In fact I should probably win awards for my klutziness.

Operation Hairball

I love you, I love you, you love me!

Back to our Kiki story, we walked into the ER and I was prepared to wait hours and hours with a fussy child. Thankfully everyone proved me wrong. We were in and out of the ER in under and hour and Kiki has never been more charming in her life. Every person that crossed her path was graced with her benevolent smiles and coos. I'm pretty sure she was just thrilled to be out of bed and was determined to do everything in her power to stay that way. I also think she suffers from Youngest Child Syndrome and was just loving all the undivided attention that was being poured on her. After our speedy admissions process and a liberal dose of nurse admiration, the doctor came and examined the toe. Kiki smiled the whole time. Six nurses crowded into the room just to watch the doctor pull out the mad scientist magnifying goggles and poke my kid's toe. The doctor spent some time quizzing me on how the hair had gotten there in the first place. Obviously I had no clue. I mean what did he expect me to say? Oh you know doc, we play this really fun game, I roll her around in a hair ball and we see how fast she can twist the hair around her digits. The real fun part starts when we race to see how fast I can get the hair off of her fingers and toes. Geesh.

Totally chilling in the hospital bed

After much examination, it was determined that there wasn't anything on her toe anymore and the hair had been so tight that the poor kid's toe had gotten a cut. We were dismissed with neosporin and instructions to "remove hair from her environment".  He suggested a lint brush. I'm still mildly offended. 

So Kiki still has a really strange looking toe and I'm still concerned. I thought about putting a picture up here, but it looks nasty, I realize that most people aren't interested in being grossed out.  Hopefully things will go back to normal soon because whether she knows it not, it's nice having 10 toes and I'm pretty sure she'll need them in the future.

 On an entirely unrelated note, besides the 4 Christmas parties and Kiki's baptism, we also have 3 family birthdays around Christmas. Ellie and Maya's new favorite song is "Happy Birthday" and we are serenaded about 25 million times day. Happy bbbbburrfffdaayyyy tooooo yooouuuu!!!!!

Roll, Roll, Wedge, Repeat

And I attained this position how?

I have been very very lazy about blogging lately. But things are just starting to get crazy around here. Christmas is always a rather crazy type of year, I love it. It's definitely my favorite time of year and even though getting ready for it is utterly insane, I don't think I'd change a single moment of it. However, that does mean that all of my mental energy has been devoted to Christmas-ing and all the preparation that that entails, not writing about my amusing children, although there has been no shortage of amusing incidents lately. I have a feeling my children will never stop being entertaining and will someday provide me with enough material to write a book, whether they agree to be the subject of a book is an entirely different story.

Open mouth, insert universe

The newest biggest thing lately is that Kiki has become somewhat mobile and has officially entered my favorite time of childhood (thus far). She is just big enough to entertain herself on the floor for a bit, but (thank heavens) isn't mobile enough to get into serious trouble. Transportation from Point A to Point B just isn't in her physical repertoire yet, and I'm very happy about that fact. At this point in her life, fingers and thumbs exist only to shove into her mouth. She apparently isn't content with just sucking her thumb, she must suck 4 fingers and a thumb. I have a feeling that I have another loud mouth on my hands. She also hasn't figured out that those appendages at the end of her arms have another highly useful function: picking stuff up. Once she develops this ability, all of those utterly fascinating choke-able objects are fair game and I'm sure she will be inserting them into small orifices (mouth, nose and ears happen to be the most accessible) as fast she possibly can. Can you see why the rolling stage is my favorite? 

Her miraculous mobility happened overnight. One day she was quite stuck in one place. Her rolling abilities were limited to stomach to back, and as long as you kept her on her back (much like a stranded turtle) she was pretty much stuck. And then one day... flip. The look on her face was utterly priceless. It was equal parts bewilderment and pride. If she possessed the power of speech I imagine her victory speech would have sounded like "Ohhhhhh, nononononono NONONONO. What-is-happening-to-meee.... Oh. Heck YEAH! I knew I could do tricks. Now replicating that feat will be an entirely different story". Her single roll quickly turned into multiple rolls, and by the time I walked back into the room, she had wedged herself under the couch and was kicking and screaming frantically. After I rescued my stranded turtle, she gave me the most traumatized look that just said "how could you let me do this to myself, Mommy?"

And then she promptly did it again.

I'm sure you've heard the phrase "the definition of insanity is repeating an action expecting different outcomes". And while she is a bit too young to claim the insanity clause, this seems to be precisely her line of thought. Roll, roll, wedge, scream, rescue, repeat.

Mission Mobility: Accomplished

By now, she is quite the "Rolling Jedi Master" and the floor is her domain. My newest motto (generally shouted at top volume) is "WATCH OUT FOR THE BABY". Thankfully, both Ellie and Maya seem to remember that the smallish child owns the floor and they have gracefully surrendered the territory. I mean they have much bigger fish to fry. Who wants the floor when there are tables, counters and pianos to climb? Diaper changes have also become quite interesting. If I was a fast diaper changer before, I've improved my speed by several minutes. Kiki is no longer content with the stranded turtle pose and is only happy if she's on her stomach, watching the world go by (either that or gazing soulfully in my eyes for hours at a time). Therefore a diaper change now includes me rapidly changing the soiled garments while vainly trying to keep the flipping child in her rightful place. Imagine trying to put a diaper on a 2 ft squirming angle worm. That kicks. Not as easy as it sounds

Praise Mommy from whom all goodness flows...

Kiki also comes fully equipped with a 2 hour timer. Its quite impressive actually. Each nap/ playtime is interrupted almost exactly at the two hour mark and it is Mommy's honor bound duty to feed the child. If the food does not make its appearance in a timely fashion (because God forbid Mommy might have something else going on right that second) Kiki vehemently protests. And we've already discussed her ""break the sound barrier crying". This two hour timer wouldn't be an issue, except for the past month she has decided that she needs to be fed and watered all night. Every two hours. Which makes for a very tired and frustrated mother. Because at the ripe old age of 5 months, she is perfectly capable of going at least 4 hours between feedings. But I'm having an exceptionally hard time convincing her of that fact. But like the other baby challenges life presents, I will (patiently of course) sigh and repeat "This too shall pass". Maybe if I repeat it enough I'll actually start believing it.

The disadvantage of being the youngest

Along with the increased mobility and impressive head control (that large 96 percentile head must be hard to lug around) Kiki has also developed super sonic hearing. In fact I'm pretty sure it goes beyond super sonic hearing, I think she has a Mommy Sensor that goes off whenever I am within 5 feet.  The days when I could tiptoe in and out of the bedroom to grab a forgotten item are long gone. I figured out this new super ability last week when I tried to sneak into my bedroom to get some clothes. On this particular day, I carefully opened the door and cautiously crept my way across the bedroom floor (taking very special pains to avoid all the squeaky floorboards). I was half way across the room when the baby began to stir, I froze in my tracks and contemplated the effectiveness of the opossum defense mechanism (drop to floor, play dead). Instead I adopted the deer in the head lights pose and froze as Kiki's little head jauntily popped up. Oh please, oh please. Oh you can't see me. I'm frozen. I'm invisible. Go back to sleep. I held my breath and hoped against hope that my very alert looking baby was still clueless enough to not notice me.  She scanned the room and then immediately honed in on me with the accuracy of a tractor beam: "Oh Mommy! There you are! How nice to see you!" The giant grin appeared and the arms and legs began waving in excitement, Mommy was suckered in and Kiki was rescued from her bed.

So anyhow, I have increased mobility and a fantastic Christmas to look forward to. It's gonna be awesome.

Wishing everyone a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year!

"Die" Kitty Cow: how my kids slaughter the English language

One late late night about 6 years ago, I was holding a very upset and very distraught infant Ellie. She had been crying for close to an hour and I hadn't the foggiest idea what was the matter with her (there goes Mother's intuition, right?). At one point, I held her up and stared directly into her beet red screaming little face and said "why can't you just TELL ME what's wrong???? I can't wait till you can talk!?!?" Oh, how I've learned to rue those words.

Fast forward a few years, and Ellie has definitely learned how to talk, in fact it's nearly impossible to shut her up. From the time she could smile and wave, Ellie has always been the social butterfly. She said hi to anyone. And when I say anyone, I mean anyone. The lovely old ladies who cooed and fawned over her at the grocery store were gifted with her most charming smiles. But she would also try to jump into the arms of the mildly alarming man who looked like he hadn't bathed in weeks. Her benevolence was never discriminatory. One of the first words she learned after "Mama" and "Dada" was "Hi", and this fascinating new word was applied liberally to every hapless passerby.

Now the English language is a rather difficult language to master, even more so to a small child who has been mostly subjected to a twisted form of English known as Baby Talk. I'm not sure how anyone learns how to talk when they spend the first formative months of their lives hearing, "Ooo's a bwiigg widdle gwirl, oh yessums we are!" So Ellie had the "hi" part down pretty well, but the "goodbye" part was a bit trickier, instead of a clear "bye", we all received a cheery: "die!" I must admit, I secretly loved the looks on people's faces when my 1 year old cheerfully told them to "die" and merrily waved at their somewhat shocked faces. But sometimes it got a bit spooky. One particular time, my sister was putting Ellie down for a nap, and as she was laying down, Ellie was waving and chirping "die, die, die!" to her. No child likes going down for a nap, but wishing death upon the bringer of the nap is pretty extreme.


Due to Ellie's extreme chattiness, Maya's vocabulary is pretty extraordinary for a two year old. When you have a six year old sister that you adore, of course you're going to mimic everything she does, which includes talking continuously. We've been dealing with full sentences for a bit now, which only means I have two girls who talk non stop all day. Last week I was working on animal sounds with Maya, some of them familiar, some of them new:

Me: Maya, what does a cat say?
Maya: Mew
Me: Oh good. Now what does a dog say?
Maya: Woof, woof.
Me: Great. Now what does a chicken say?
Maya: Pot Pie!!!
Me: *uncontrollable snickering*

One guess what her favorite dinner is? Poor chicken.

Bring on the good stuff Mommy!

Now a bit of background on my middle child. Not only does she possess a large vocabulary, she is also the proud owner of an incredible appetite. When she was 4 months old, she began begging for my food. Actually, she wasn't so much as begging as she was trying to launch herself face first into my plate. The child was starving. I normally hold off the solids until the baby reaches 6 months, but she seemed SO hungry that I reluctantly pulled out the nasty rice cereal and prepared for rejection. From what I've heard, most babies hate rice cereal. You insert the gelatinous goodness and they immediately push the foreign-not-breast-milk/formula right back at you.  And I don't blame them, it looks gross, smells gross, and I'm willing to bet it doesn't taste like cherry pie. If you've ever seen rice cereal it's relatively thick, with a consistency like paste and as far as stickiness goes, it can give super glue a run for it's money. Oh yum. So Maya got her first taste of the gluey rice cereal, promptly ate 3 times the recommended serving size and cried when I finally stopped the flow of gooey cereal.

I wasn't joking about the food nose dive.

And she never looked back.

After that, nursing was pretty much an afterthought. Maya adopted the: "forget you Mommy, I've got the good stuff now" attitude. By the time she was around 9 months old she was eating 2-3 bananas and a bagel for breakfast and then turning around and eating just as much for lunch and dinner. Most meals she ate more than I did, sometimes she ate more than her dad. Of course I was mildly concerned that I was raising a small gorilla, but since she never showed any serious primate behavior (besides consuming her weight in bananas) I didn't get too worried. You've heard the phrase: "a bottomless pit"? That was Maya, she was a black hole of appetite disguised as a cute 9 month old baby.  In the past few months, her appetite has finally slowed down, for which I'm extremely thankful. (She's also turned into a rather picky eater, but that's another story for a different time).  I gave birth to three girls, I never bargained for feeding a teenage boy too.

Welcome Home Pumbaa

Only Disney could make something so horrifying look so cute and harmless.

 **WARNING: if disturbing images give you nightmares, close your eyes, scroll down and skip the picture.  It's not a pretty sight**

On an mostly unrelated note, my dad is a hunter. I grew up watching him suiting up for his deer stakeouts. And it was a relatively common occurrence to wake up one winter morning to be told  that there was a deer hanging in the garage (which we raced to inspect immediately). Personally I'm not a hunter. I'm not going to sit in a tree for hours hoping a deer/ wild animal will just so happen to wander by me so I can shoot it. It sounds boring. And cold. But more power to you if you have the patience and several camo parkas. On one of his more recent trips he went to a game preserve and bagged a wild boar. When I heard the news, I was happy for him. I mean great, sounds like fun, it's not my cup of tea but it's not like I would have to deal with the thing, right?

I was also under the impression that a wild boar looked something like Pumbaa from The Lion King. Sure he'd be kinda fat and hairy. But he would have cute little tusks, he'd be generally nice and look like the type who would like singing "Hakuna Matata", maybe even toss in a few dance steps here and there. Obviously I never paid much attention at the zoo when ever we passed by the wild boar exhibits because the non-cartoon version of Pumbaa is UGLY and nightmare inducing. I'm pretty sure he's never even met Wilbur and Babe or maybe he just ate them for dinner. (I don't think he even has a passing acquaintance with "No Worries for the Rest of My Days". Although if you stop and think about it, technically our Not-Pumbaa's days are over and he pretty much doesn't have anything to worry about). I feel pretty betrayed here, is everything Disney taught me a lie?


My dad had the boar mounted and with mild trepidation brought it home. In all fairness, he did warn us that it was rather scary looking and he even promised that he wouldn't hang it in the living room. I told him he was free to hang it in the living room, but I would hang a sheet over it so I wouldn't have to stare at it and if my kids had nightmares, he would be the one who got to wake up and deal with them.

Pumbaa, the Kitty-Cow

My dad walked in the door with the large ugly dead pig and Maya took one terrified look at it and ran as fast as her little legs could carry her to the other side of the room. She peeked out from behind a chair and when she was certain the pig wasn't going anywhere she exclaimed: "A Kitty-Cow!" Since we're pretty much city dwellers, and she hasn't had too much actual face time with cows, I can understand the confusion. But if a kitty cow actually existed outside of my two year old's imagination, I would think it would be kinda cute. Maybe a smallish shaggy version of old Buttercup that has whiskers and likes to purr? Hmm, maybe it's a disturbing animal no matter how you think of it.  I suppose from a 2 year olds perspective, that was as good of a name as any. Thankfully, "Kitty Cow" is not living in my house, he is peacefully residing at a friend's hunting cabin where he is free to give all the deer and cute birds as many nightmares as they want. I stood on the porch and watched our Kitty Cow go to his new home.  I waved gleefully, "die"... errr... bye...Kitty Cow!



Mary must have had a little brother

Nursery Rhymes seem to be a theme lately, last month I was going through my "(Not so) Old Woman in the Shoe" identity crisis and this month Ellie has taken upon herself to revise an old classic. I was sitting peacefully in the living room when I heard Ellie playing the piano and warbling away at the top of lungs. The tune was familiar, Mary had a Little Lamb. However, Ellie must have felt the old fashioned lyrics needed a  modern twist because she definitely edited:

"Mary had a little man, little man, little man!
Oh, Mary had a little man and she threw him in the snow." 

I'm pretty jealous, why didn't I think of those lyrics first?

So I'm curious, do you have any childhood stories of the brutal slaughter of the English language? Or maybe a Kitty Cow or two of your own?

They're coming for you Neo: Parenting and Paranoia. A Dirty Story.

While this was my favorite movie at age 13, I don't believe my children are evil robots. Yet.

Warning: For those suffering from weak stomachs or just cannot abide the thought of dirty diapers/ baby puke... read no further. You simply can't be a mom without having to wade through disgusting bodily fluids of some sort. I've found that the key is to some how find it funny instead of vomit inducing.

Knock, Knock Neo

I look like I'm smuggling watermelons

Every time I have a baby (that would be three times now) I develop an all consuming Persecution Complex. My initial symptoms began to crop up in the very beginning of pregnancy, right about the time morning sickness hit. First off, I would love to get my hands on the doctor that named it "morning sickness",  because obviously he/she never had my brand of "all-day-every-day-for-6-months sickness". Right about the time I realized I would be spending the vast majority of my day cultivating a friendship with the toilet, I decided that my unborn baby hated me. She obviously had serious beef with all of my food choices, and therefore spent all day just hitting the reject button for fun. Ham sandwich? Reject. Cucumbers? Reject. Ice Cream? Not in your dreams Mommy, Reject. My antagonistic relationship with my child grew as she outgrew her living space. Those gentle little flutters rapidly transformed into jabs, then punches and full out fist fights. As I would attempt to pry a little foot (or head or arm, I could never quite tell) out of my rib cage or try to persuade my child that dancing the rumba on my bladder was not a good option for either of us, I became more and more convinced that she had it out for me.

Luckily, my birth experiences haven't been too horrific. (Thank you God for epidurals). And out of consideration of those with sensitive stomachs I won't go into the gory details. Needless to say, after all that HARD work, and the little one actually arrived, I readily forgave her for all the reject button pushing and bladder punching she had done. All three of my little girls were perfect angels in the hospital. They barely cried, the first time around I smugly thought I had produced a miracle child. She didn't cry! This parenthood thing was going to be a piece of cake! (Do you notice a trend here?) Then we got home and the shock of their forceful eviction from their former home wore off and they discovered their lungs. And the parade of dirty diapers and spit up stained clothes began.


The Perils of Parenthood

Postpartum Psychosiss (PP)  is a real and dangerous mental state that can affect women after giving birth. In my opinion the DSM-IV should add another unofficial mental state to their lists, Post-Baby Psychoticness (PBP)  While this mental state isn't nearly as life threatening as PP, it is never to be discounted. Post-Baby Psychoticness can strike down both parents, although the mother is generally afflicted with a more acute case due to the physical trauma of child birth and a massively unfair dose of hormones (although the father can be equally traumatized by having to witness the birth and the verbal abuse directed toward him during the actual delivery.) Some of the tell tale signs of PBP include:

• Glassy glazed eyes, inability to focus, droopy eyes
• Tendency to stop in mid sentence, mutter "Must. sleep. no. sleep. gimme. coffee."
• Constant incoherent mumbling
• Hair trigger emotions: if refused chocolate/coffee/nap/anything, the parent may have a psychotic break which may be life threatening. Or they may just weep copiously 
• Ranting, raving, screaming,  and much wailing and gnashing of teeth 
• Paranoia/ Obsessive Compulsive Desires: parent is seized with the need to check that the newborn is still breathing, multiple times a day. 
• Amnesia: simple facts about pre-baby lives are simply forgotten, they've also forgotten what it's like to take a shower every day or sleep more than 3 hours in a row.  
•  Personality changes: a previously stoic woman may find herself tearing up at Hallmark commercials, Disney movies or anything that may hint at emotion. This will never go away.

No parent of a newborn escapes some form of Post Baby Psychoticness. Recently, when I was in the middle of my newborn haze with Kiki, a friend of the family was admiring my little family and innocently inquired how many kids I had. I gazed at her through bleary eyes, paused and said "I have... three? Yeah, *pauses to mentally count children* I have three girls." Yes. I forgot how many children I had. But to be fair, I had gotten 3 hours of sleep the night before and it really felt like I had alot more than three kids that day. 


**Disclaimer: I am not a psychiatrist, and in case you didn't pick up on it already, Post Baby Psychoticness doesn't really exist (although in my mind it does). I wouldn't recommend waltzing into a doctor's office and demanding happy drugs to deal with your severe case of PBP.

 Getting my hands dirty...

But back to my Persecution Complex. Perhaps it is due to the fact that I am generally massively sleep deprived (and I like my sleep) but my half joking belief that my child "has it out for me" turns into a deep seated conviction after we leave the hospital.

And this is where it gets gross.


I frequently complained to my husband that "_____ (fill in child's name here) hates me". Yes, my paranoia had reached epic proportions. But between the constant "diaper surprises" (open diaper, get peed on) and the uncanny accurate aim of the spit up, the only logical conclusion I could come up with was that my child popped out of the womb with a life long grudge against me. This time around, my paranoia soared to even greater heights, I began to suspect my children of somehow holding secret meetings while I was otherwise occupied. I'm not sure how or when they arranged these clandestine pow-pow's, I just know they had to have happened. Because everyday, without fail, the minute I would get one child down for a nap, the other child would immediately start hollering. Literally.the.very.same.second. Their timing was utterly diabolic. And I don't think it's possible without some sort of planning meeting.

Taking a stroll down memory lane, I vividly remember my very first diaper change. I was nine years old and my baby sister had been home for a few weeks. Up until that very fateful day, I had adamantly refused to change all dirty diapers but had very gamely handled all wet diapers with a great deal of expertise. One afternoon, I laid my sister down in her crib and began to change her, fully expecting a wet diaper. Much to my horror, it definitely was not wet. I quickly dashed down the hall screaming "Mom, Mom, Mom, the baby has a dirty diaper, come change it!" My mother had just survived a particularly horrible c-section with several complications and was in no condition to change said diaper, she said "Go ask your dad." So I frantically scurried down the hall, yelling "Dad, Dad, Dad, the baby has a dirty diaper!" His reply? "Go tell your Mom." This game was played several times until it became clear that the time had come, I was going to learn how to change a dirty diaper. I hesitantly reentered the baby's room and found her laying in the crib happy as a clam. But in my haste to get my parents, I had forgotten to refasten her diaper. She was covered in poop from her little neck to her tiny little toes. And it was my job to clean her up. I spent the next 10-15 minutes resolutely cleaning the child up, I used about half a box of baby wipes and spent a good portion of the time gagging. Eventually she got clean, and I'm very proud to say I didn't throw up. My first diaper change definitely left a lasting (and scarring) impression.

Ensuring the propagation of the species, one smile at a time

Generally by the time the child in question started sleeping through the night (around 3 months old), my paranoia (and Post-Baby Psychoticness) slowly abated. The child in question also got much cuter. Now I'm not saying any of my children weren't absolutely beautiful, but from a purely objective viewpoint, most newborns look like, well, wrinkled old men. They are squished, wrinkled, red and their skin doesn't quite fit them. I've heard Bill Cosby liken them to lizards because they change color so often, and I don't think he's far off. By the time my kids reach 3 months old, they've developed those pinch-ably cute chubby cheeks and thighs and they've also learned one important defense mechanism: the smile. I firmly believe that children are cute because if the weren't so adorable their parents would:

         A) never ever have more than one child (unless they happen to be the martyr type or just like pain)
         B) most children wouldn't make it past the first few months of life.

Deceivingly innocent

This might sound unbelievably harsh, but after my impish two year old has broken the third glass of the morning or somehow rooted through the fridge and spilled a whole gallon of milk on the floor, I am quite tempted to toss her in the yard with a sign around her neck that says "Free 2 year old to good home". Enter the "cute defense mechanism". If these children weren't born with the innate ability to be so gosh darn cute, I firmly believe our species would have died out centuries ago. There's something about the innocent smile of an adorable two year old that tugs at your heart strings that some how makes you ignore the pool of spilled milk that surrounds her.

Well, most of the time you can ignore the spilled milk.

But to all my friends with newborns or friends soon to have newborns, I wish you luck during your Post-Baby Psychoticness. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on or a nap, give me a call. With three kids, I don't have a social life.

Capitalism and Unclothed Catnaps...

There are a few things on my mind right now, primarily money and nudity. Most of those issues tend to be rather controversial and polarizing, so fair warning :)


The Horrors of (Toddler) Stripping

Picture of innocence, right?

To continue with my day, I arrived home to two out of my three children screaming at the top of their lungs. This is a normal occurrence. First I rescued Kiki from her baby prison and then quickly went to break Maya out of her toddler jail. She had been ominously screaming "Mommy, poo poo, owwie, I wanna get DOWN" repetitively and urgently so I figured that it was time to spring her. When I cautiously opened the door I was greeted by a pathetic scene. Maya was clinging to the bars of her crib, drool running down her face, chin and arms. Tears were pour copiously out of her little red eyes.

And she was stark naked.

Upon further questioning, she explained that she was "all wet mommy" and "diaper 'frew floor". All that came out of my mouth was a semi-hysterical gurgle. I was immediately torn between the desire to either laugh uncontrollably, shout in frustration or run and grab my camera to capture this priceless moment to share with her first boyfriend. Since I still had Kiki squirming and squawking in my arms, I managed to trample all the little bubbles of hysteria that were threatening to escape and gingerly tucked Maya under my free arm and carried both of them downstairs. I quickly threw a fresh diaper on Maya and put Kiki in her chair and ran upstairs to inspect the damage. With her natural propensity for trouble, Maya had not only managed to strip all of her clothes off, but she had thrown everything in arms reach all over the room. And then she wet the bed.

Priorities, priorities...

But I have recently subscribed to the "divide and conquer" method (hey, if it worked for Ancient Rome, then it definitely should work with three little kids right?) My immediate to do list presented itself. Maya was standing in the middle of the living room, hollering that she wasn't wearing any clothes. Kiki was in her chair, also screaming, because she was so hungry that her stomach lining must have been self digesting. And then there was all of the bed linens to change, Maya would need a bath, plus the neglected oldest child was also wasting away with hunger.  I attended to the starving child first, a fact which did nothing more but piss Maya off further. (How dare I leave her naked?) I informed her that she probably should have kept her clothes on in the first place and I would put her shirt on a minute. After the youngest and oldest needs were sufficiently met, I informed Maya that it was bath time. Unfortunately the kid loves bath time, and I feel like I may have positively reinforced the whole bedtime stripping act. (I take off clothes and pee my bed and then get a bath. Yay!) I sincerely hope this doesn't become a repeat performance, because I will not hesitate to pull out the duct tape. By which I mean I will duct tape the diaper, no, I will not duct tape her to the bed, even though that would also solve the clothes problem. Eventually everyone was fed, clothed, cleaned, changed, Lysol-ed and relatively happy. And I have yet another story to add to my arsenal of embarrassing Maya tales. Bring it on First Boyfriend!

Capitalism: they get 'em early

Lately Ellie has shown signs of actually being related to me. I say this with surprise because I apparently have not mastered the art of passing on my genes and my children don't look a thing like me. I'm half Japanese, so I'm of the black hair/dark eyes stock. All three of my children have dirty blond hair and blue eyes. I am routinely asked if I'm their stepmother or if I adopt (No ma'am, I was there. For ALL of it). Although my children look like they belong to someone else, every once in a while, I see a familiar bit of my personality or childhood quirks popping up. (Sleep walking anyone?)

My sisters and cousin's normal lemonade stand.

When I was a child, maybe 6 or 7, I decided that I just didn't have enough money. Now most children sell lemonade or Kool -aid or something a bit more conventional to make a bit of pocket change, but not I. I came up with an ingenious solution. People didn't want boring old Kool-Aid, it didn't last very long anyhow. I would sell... rocks! Rocks last forever! So I spent an afternoon picking up rocks in our backyard and then began my door to door campaign for more money, cup of rocks in hand. I distinctly remember knocking on my neighbor's door. Mrs. O'Brien was really a very lovely old lady who had patiently put up with my "visits" in the past. I explained that I was selling rocks and proudly displayed my stony wares. Believe it or not, the wonderful woman actually bought a rock, never mind the fact that her own yard was filled with the same unremarkable product that I was plying. Perhaps my rock bottom (ha!) price of one penny was just too good to pass up? All in all, I managed to wheedle several soft-hearted old ladies (and my mother) into buying my miraculous rocks. Capitalism at its finest.

Ellie has recently discovered that our backyard is full of acorns that are starting to sprout. They're actually rather cool to look at. After she pulled one or two of them up, I could literally see the little wheels in her little 6 year old mind turning, "Mom, do you want to buy an acorn?" I asked her how much they were and she replied, "Oh Mom, you can buy them for free". Clearly the concept of money, buying and selling hasn't taken root quite yet. We went on a walk in the neighborhood and every single person we met was told they could "buy an acorn for free". I'm hoping that this trend will catch on and Walmart will adopt this pricing policy.

The true selling point is the 6 year old charm

My little entrepreneur took an actual step in the business world today. She acquired a business partner (the little boy up the street), since they already had a compelling product (half sprouted acorns) all they were missing was a slogan and well, money. It turns out her business partner has a much better head for business than Ellie and after they harvested their crops, they began running up and down the street yelling:
Little Boy: ACORNS!
Ellie: FOR SALE!
Little Boy: ACORNS!
Ellie: Hey, you're going too fast!
Little Boy: Ok.. A...C...O...R...N...S.
Ellie: F..O..R  S..A..L..E.
They fixed their price at one for a quarter, or two for two quarters (quite a bargain). And after 30 minutes of pitching their sale, the kids had made $2.00. Color me impressed.

I tried really hard to think of nice tidy conclusion to this rather untidy blog. But try as I might, I can't figure out a single way to tie in confession, my daughter's nap time stripping act and Acorns for Sale. So I give up, draw your own conclusions :)

Old woman in the shoe, I totally get you.

Whipping and no food. Acceptable in 1794, not so much in 2010.

We all grew up with it, but let me refresh your memory:

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,

She had so many children she didn't know what to do,

So she gave them some broth without any bread

And whipped them all soundly and sent them to bed.

In the past few days I have completely and totally empathized with the poor lady. Now three really isn't that big of a number. But for me, in this stage in my life and at certain times, it definitely seems to be quite large. And for the most part I DO know what to do with them, and as tempting as it is sometimes, it doesn't involve starving or whipping (although early bedtimes is an option). When I think of my friends that have 5 or 6(!) kids already, I feel like I have absolutely nothing to complain about. But throw me a bone here and let me whine just a little bit.

Chop-chop Mommy, some service here.

Today was just one of THOSE DAYS (and yes, the caps are entirely necessary). The imps of mischief and misbehavior had possessed all of my children starting the library trip. We had to cut our educational visit to the sacred hall of learning short because middle child  began to emit a rather unpleasant odor and mommy forgot diapers. Youngest child had been fussing continually and not even the fantastic baby carrier was working it's magic. Oldest child was stuck on broken record mode and the questions were coming fast and furious. Eventually, we managed to cart both books and children out the door and into the car with minimal screaming. Kiki immediately began her impressive impression of a fire engine siren and continued to serenade us all the way home. Maya chimed in every few minutes with a forlorn "Mommy, owwie, poo-poo". 

Once we *finally* got home, the real chaos began. Kiki really began to wail in earnest (she was wasting away with hunger. Last meal: 1 hour ago) and then Maya joined in at the chorus (she had developed a diaper rash). To complete the symphony, Ellie began whimpering, then hollering (mysterious stomach ache). At this point, rational thought was barely possible, but I just began to work my way around the room, attending screaming child after screaming child. On a side note, did you know that an infant's cry can reach up to 110 decibels? 

                                                                                                Decibel Comparisons

                                                                                                                                    (for your edification)

After introducing PERMANENT marker to my couch :(

0: The quietest sound you can hear

30: Whispering

60: Normal conversation (comfortable hearing level)

70: Recommended level (50% volume on Apple iPod with earbuds)

85: Telephone dial tone (start to need hearing protection)

100: Subway train

110: Baby crying/ jackhammer 

120: Ambulance siren/ Planes on airport runway

140: Jet engine at takeoff

According to the experts, long term exposure to noises louder than 85 dB can cause hearing loss. I no longer wonder why my ears sometimes ring after one of Kiki's vigorous lung exercises. I forsee "huh?" and "what did you say" being a staple in my conversations in the near future. And my children have no one but themselves to blame.

Back to my "old woman, shoe" quandary. I honestly don't think three kids is a ginormous amount of children. Most days it's quite manageable. In fact one day I was at Walmart and was juggling the children (quite expertly in my opinion). I had Maya in the cart (which was piled high with groceries and assorted Walmart-ish goods), Ellie was hanging off the end of the cart and Kiki was strapped in the baby carrier. An older man walked by and stopped in his tracks, his mouth was slightly agape.

        "Wow, you have ALOT of kids", he stammered, somewhat awestruck

        "Ummm, I just have three, it's not that many." I replied somewhat puzzled.

The (obviously) childless man insisted that three was a large number and I figured that I might was well agree with him, it was pointless to argue. It's rather sad that in our society, three is considered such a large number. We are expected to pop out our 1.5 children, a boy, a girl, and be done with it. God forbid you might have another child.

Three is certainly manageable, but I do think it would only be fair if God would automatically grant every mother an extra set of arms with every child they have after two. Because I would really really appreciate an extra arm or two, and while he's at it I would really like my brain back.

Personally, I think this would be ideal. Sure I might look freaky, but I would more than enough hands for each kid.

P.S. I'm 26. And while I have already found several gray hairs, I would like to state that I am NOT old. Although if we have too many repeat performances of library night, I might have to pull out the hair dye soon

They say change is good for you....

So to be super annoying, I changed the whole name of the blog. "Head above water" was just a tad bit too nautical for me, and to be honest... most days I like to think it's not such a desperate situation. Well sometimes  I DO feel like I'm drowning when all three are clamouring for my attention at the same time. Especially since their primary mode of communication is screaming and/or whining at very high volumes. No wonder people go deaf in their old age, their ears get stressed out after dealing  with all the kid noise. If things don't quiet down sometime soon, I can look forward to hearing aids by age 30 (new fashion trend perhaps?)

After a great deal of pondering and deep thinking (ok, maybe not that much... but I did break a mental sweat. I did!) I decided that "The Young and the Sleepless" suited me much better. There was a very close shave where it was almost named "The Memoirs of an Amateur Mommy", but after thinking about it for a while, I realized it sounded a bit like a really bad adult film. Not what I had in mind at all. Since I definitely keep my clothes on (due to a postpartum body and a strict moral code) and I really don't want to sound like a bad porn, that option was out.  And sleep (or lack thereof) seems to be a big factor in my life. Once my babies have grown a few feet taller, refined their vocabulary and (in some cases) grown some hair, I'm sure I'll still be spending many sleepless nights worrying over entirely different issues. I think all women should kiss a full night's sleep goodbye the moment that second line shows up on the pregnancy test.

So yes, sorry about the name change. If you decided to" follow me " you'll probably have to re-click the link. (Don't quote me on that though, I have NO idea what I'm doing with this whole blogger thing in the first place).

Because it makes me happy...

The creator Baby Blues must be hiding in my closet chronicling my daily life (minus the boy... we're still missing that bit of testosterone). This one is a bit out of season, but appropriate none the less.

Secret: Mommy Doesn't Know Everything....

Maya and her infamous head :)

Each child is utterly and completely unique. When I began this adventure called motherhood, intellectually I knew this fact, but somehow I never managed to completely comprehend exactly HOW different each child was. When Ellie was born, I was afflicted with all the worries and joys of a first time mother, each breath was counted, every ear piercing wail meant she was dying and those first gas induced smirks were a certain sign that my child did in fact love me (those smirks still means she loves me). Once Maya made her entrance into the world, I was filled with certain smugness, I had done this once before and survived.... I knew what I was doing. I wasn't going to be that nervous, paranoid, newbie mother any longer. I had earned my mommyhood badge and this second child was going to be a breeze because I definitely knew what I was doing. WRONG.

As it turns out, Ellie was an exceptionally easy baby. She (and I) only dealt with a week or two of sleepless colicky nights and then she rapidly adjusted to her little life with her characteristic sunny disposition. Being a first time mom, I was in no position to appreciate the godsend my first child was. My mother insisted that she was a very easy baby, but out of my infinite wisdom and experience, I thought she was nuts. Didn't she see how much the kid cried?

When Maya made her grand debut, I was utterly confident. After she had had been a permanent resident for 2 weeks, my confidence was shaken. Where was my happy baby? Why wouldn't this new child stop crying? And why in God's name was she constantly soaking my clothes with spit up? Obviously I wasn't as knowledgeable in the mommy area as I had previously assumed. As both kids have grown older and developed very different personalities, I am continually forced to accept that I am (sadly) not omnipotent.


Confessions of a (toddler) drama queen

Ellie is a drama queen. Each and every incident in her 6 year old life is something to write home about (or in her case, proclaim loudly at the top of her lungs to the whole world... preferably from the top of a roof or chair or high object). For example, when Ellie was around 2 or 3, she was routinely sent to her room for some misdeed or another. One particular time, her feelings were especially injured and upon discovering that she was being banished to her room, she stamped her foot, declared "You are not very nice" and promptly fled to her room, sobbing the entire way. A peek into her room revealed her laying face down on her bed, sobbing as though Justin Bieber had cut his hair and her world had ended.  At the ripe old age of three, she was the picture of teenage angst.

I'm scared to see what actual hormones will do to the child.

Ellie has also informed me (quite matter of factly) that when she grows up she is definitely going to marry two guys, Joe Jonas and Michael Jackson. I can guess where the whole Jonas Brother thing came from (we will be cutting down on her Disney Channel consumption). And I'm mildly upset that she didn't at least pick the cute one. (Come on, Ellie... Nick is the only cute one in the entire group!) But I'm completely stumped as to how or why the King of Pop is the unfortunate object of her affections. I tried to explain to her why a relationship with Mr. Jackson just wasn't in the cards for her, but somehow I don't think I made my point clear.

Me: Ellie, I don't think you can marry Michael Jackson, he's dead

Ellie: Oh. But is he married?

Me: Ummm.... no. But honey, he's dead.

Ellie: Oh, that's ok. He doesn't have a girlfriend does he?

Me: No, he doesn't have a girlfriend. But he can't have a girlfriend, he died a few years ago.

Ellie: That's ok. I'm going to marry Michael Jackson.

Me: Ummm.... sure?

I cannot wait to tell this story at her future wedding (which hopefully isn't to A. Michael Jackson or B. a Michael Jackson impersonator). I also pray that she gets over her polygamy thing.


I swear Mommy still loves you...

Injuries, whether large or small, are inevitable in childhood. What is completely  unpredictable is how each child will deal with them. Maya spends a good portion of her day being doctored up from painful encounters with counters, floors, sidewalks and other sharp objects because she hasn't quite mastered the art of coordination (hands, feet, walking, floor... it's alot of work for a 2 year old). But unless the injury is truly serious, most times she just brushes herself off and continues to calmly destroy my house. She even takes vaccines and doctors visits calmly and in stride. On the other hand, Ellie may have inherited a thing or two from her mother.

Fun fact about me: I am a wimp when it comes to needles.

I am convinced the only reason that I've survived childbirth three times is because a wonderful doctor somewhere invented epidurals. When I was 17, I managed to almost cut off my toe with a paper cutter (long story). 14 painful stitches later, the doctor informed me that I would need tetanus shot. I just had sliced my toe and survived the stitches by grinding my teeth and thinking not very nice things about paper cutters and doctors. But the moment they mentioned a shot, I dissolved into tears and begged the nurses to reconsider. Did they really need to? I would be good, no needles please??? I kept up the meaningless promises and shameless begging until they actually gave me the shot. Then I realized, oh, that didn't hurt. God help Ellie if she has kids.

Kiki: You're going to stick what, where?



The differences between my children have never been as clear as it was in today's adventure at the pediatrician’s office.  Ellie began eying me worriedly the moment we set foot in the doctor's office and began pestering me "Mom, I don't have to get shots today, do I? Do I? DO I?" When I reluctantly informed her that she did have to get a few shots, she proceeded to hide under examination table.

Maya excels at the suspicious glares

Words cannot describe the absolute ridiculousness that ensued once the doctor made her appearance, and the necessary shots were trotted out. I must have been extra sleep deprived when I made the appointment, because all three girls were due for shots at the same time. When the menacing trays of vaccines entered the room, Ellie was still cowering under the examination table, Maya was cheerily greeting the nurses and Kiki was spitting up on me. I handed my youngest geyser *ahem* child, off to the male nurse (who looked really uncomfortable with his baby holding duties), and proceeded to coax/ drag Ellie out from the table. Thankfully Ellie is still a rather small child and I am still bigger, because she was clinging to that table leg like a starving leech. Maya was curiously peering around my legs, "Ellie... huh?? Why??? Ellie, owwie?? Huh??" Once my oldest was finally positioned on the table I was faced with another issue, how to get her pants down? It took both the nurse and I several minutes to finally get her ready (she probably scarred every other small child in that clinic... her screams were horrific). She sobbed nonstop until the actual shot happened, during which she stopped in surprise... oh.... it didn't hurt that much. But then she saw blood, and the waterworks started over again.




Kiki modeling the cherry tomato look

To be fair, we did the process chronologically (also by how difficult it was to catch them). Next up on the chopping block was Maya. She willingly submitted to the indignities of the poking, stabbing and pinching of the nurses (while Ellie was still sobbing away in the background). She cried briefly after the initial pinch, and then the smile made its reappearance. I heaved a sigh of relief, at least one child wasn't going to hate me forever for subjecting them to needles. Kiki had her turn with the needles (she's too young to really argue about the process). She turned an attractive shade of tomato red and screamed at me in anger. And then, thank God, we were finally done. I felt like a butcher. Pull 'em up, yank the pants down, patch 'em up and grab the next one. We staggered out of the doctor’s office, Ellie still had tears streaming down her face (the lollipop helped quell the louder sobs) Maya was still cheerfully greeting strangers and Kiki was still spitting up.

Yet another fun fact: karma works. I put my mother through hell when I had to get shots.

So the lesson learned here? I still have many lessons to learn. Motherhood is an ever evolving, ever changing, ALWAYS interesting adventure that never is going to end. Thankfully each child is different, a doctor's appointment with 3 drama queens would have been even more disastrous and my laundry pile with three spit factories would be a nightmare. God knew what He was doing. I obviously don't.