Lasik before Layette

Life works better if you can see, it's a simple truth. I can see from from about seven a.m. when I put my contacts in til nine p.m. when I take them out. In the few hours of wakefulness that are not spent with my contacts in I have an old pair of glasses that I can kind of see through.


I walked in to my bathroom last night at about nine thirty and took my contacts out. I was in a hurry because Tate was starting to fuss and I didn't want her to wake up Lil Monster. I figured I could just quickly brush my teeth and head for bed to soothe Tate and drift off to dreamland.

I have been brushing my teeth for roughly twenty eight years. We all know the general routine: wet toothbrush, put tooth paste on tooth brush, insert brush into mouth and scrub. I follow this same protocol no less than three times a day every day.

Being in a hurry last night I skipped one very important step in my nightly routine, I didn't grab my glasses. I took out my contacts quickly, grabbed my tooth brush and the blue tube on the counter and squeezed a bit of paste on my brush. I am a creature of habit so I put my tooth brush all the way to the back of the left side of my mouth. Once my toothbrush had been inserted and I began scrubbing my molars, I noticed the lack of minty freshness that only Crest can bring. Not only was there a lack of mint but there was the odd flavor of powder.

I put the toothbrush down and grabbed my glasses. Low and behold I had indeed grabbed a familiar blue tube, but not Crest, it was Destin. Instead of toothpaste I was brushing my teeth with butt paste, disgusting!

The moral of this little debacle is simple, before you plan your baby's layette go get yourself some LASIK. Not everyone needs vision correction. If you get a headache from watching TV with out your glasses on you do not need LASIK before having you're baby. If you can't see that there is a TV in the room with out your glasses on, I am talking to you. Do yourself a favor and get your eyes fixed before you too wind up with butt paste in your mouth or something even worse.

Met in the Middle

Having a two year old and adding a baby is a sure fire way to misplace your spouse.  I don't mean Brad is lost some where in the wilderness, he's just not as close as he was pre-Tate.

   Before I got pregnant Brad and I slept in the middle of our king sized bed.  It was a nice arrangement and we had a routine.  He'd spoon me til I fell asleep then roll onto his back and let me remain tucked in his armpit.  This is what I consider true romance.  A man who loves to stretch out and not have someone on top of him agreeing to sleep with a small person wedged in his back.

   Once I became pregnant my hormones and newly heated state didn't allow for much cuddle time.  I was too hot and Brad's body temp after nine pm is about two hundred degrees.  So we hugged and said good night and remained on our separate sides of the bed.

   Now that Tate is here she sleeps in the middle of the bed.  Yes Dr Spock I know that "co-sleeping" is frowned upon because of the risk of rolling onto the baby.  Tate sleeps in the middle in her box.  It's a three sided box that serves as a small bassinet and keeps her safe from being rolled on, but it also keeps me from curling up into Brad.

    So routines change after having a baby, earth shattering.  But the changes aren't always bad.  I like sharing a son and a daughter with my husband.  I like having a little baby in the bed with me and I know it won't be forever.  I am looking forward to spooning again with the world champion spoon-er, but it can wait.

   We've adapted our bed time routine.  Now I get Tate's diapers, Brad fills the humidifier, we both go check on Turner one last time, Brad puts Tate's socks on her while I brush my teeth, I do one last diaper change and feed baby girl.  Then Brad stretches out as much as he can on his side of the bed.  I lay facing the middle and my big bear of a husband stretches out his hand for me to hold.  The angles involved prevent us from holding hands in the traditional position.  It's more like a hand shake.  But I think I have a pretty good deal so I am willing to "shake on it" every night before going to sleep.  

Get Your Squeek On

The squeaky wheel gets the grease, lie down with dogs get up with fleas, the cows always come home, one bad apple spoils the bunch. The longer I am on this earth the more of these sayings have been proved to me to be true.


I went on the much dreaded camping trip this weekend, but not before I got to squeaking. Brad might not have called it squeaking so much as all out bitching. Bitching/squeaking, what ever you call it, it worked. I did not have to go endure two days of hot sweaty boredom. We "discussed" the poor planning of the trip until an executive decision was made. I must give Brad all the credit, he picked a very nice campground in lieu of the crappy one with the great fishing. He selected a kid friendly, activity heavy, campground that unfortunately offered only worm drowning instead of real fishing. But his sacrifice was much appreciated and we all had such a good time swimming, biking, and playing on the playground.

Lil Monster made one appearance last weekend, but only a brief one. He reared his horned head when we insisted Turner get out of the pool. Lil Monster thought it best to remain in the water til the year 2011, but Brad is bigger and stronger than all monsters.

Making her debut this weekend was Tate's alter-ego: Princess Projectile Poopoo, or Princess Poo to her friends. I have never met a baby who could blow through a diaper like my daughter can. She is dangerous like no other. She lures her victims in with cherubic good looks and the smell of baby powder. Then when someone unsuspecting is holding her she lets out a grunt and steaming yellow crap sprays in all directions. She loves to ruin clothes, but that is almost too easy of a target. I swear she smiles every time she shits up her new car seat. It's hard to say that a two months old has a maniacal smile, but Princess Poo does. She watches me struggle to take apart the car seat yet again to wash it, and smiles a triumphant smile.

The upside of having Princess Poo around the house is her ability to stop Lil Monster in his tracks. What Monster can go about his monstering when there is a craptastic shit spectacle right in his own house? So Lil Monster, Princess Poo, Clyde and I, Queen Bitch f the Universe, managed to have a really good time together this past weekend. I guess we are kind of like our own little Justice League. Instead of Superman and his crew we have Clyde- the amazing snoring gorilla of a man, Lil Monster who's able to destroy even the strongest opponent with his fit throwing abilities, Princess Projectile Poopoo who smothers her adversaries in toxic yellow slime, and me, Queen Bitch, whose talents lie in being able to spot a bad time and prevent the atrocity from happening. We all have our talents, odd though they may be. We seem to compliment each other and manage to make up a pretty nice, if very strange, little family.

Spoil Sport

Spoil sport. That is what I am. My birthday is this coming weekend and my husband is supposed to be off. Great, right? Well, I'll let you know. He wants to go camping, whoopee! I pictured two days that I could sleep in, some shopping, renting movies that I wanted to see. But he wanted to go camping a few weeks ago with a friend from work and I vetoed. We were to stay in their camper with them and their two kids. My argument was the rational one- a new born in a camper keeping everyone up all night would ruin everyone's time, and just like that I was off the hook.


This time we have been offered a motor home to use. No blaming sleepless nights forced on others to get me out of it. Why am I like this? I went camping all the time with my parents and loved every trip. My sister and I would beg to go, so why don't I want to give this experience to Turner? The answer is simple: Because I will be the only adult on the trip.

I already don't get enough sleep. Brad, Tate, and I crammed onto a queen bed that isn't ours doesn't sound like fun. Cleaning a whole motor home after using it only to come home and have to clean the whole house and put away all the camping crap doesn't sound like fun. I am neurotic, I don't want Turner out of my sight in the Utah or Idaho wilderness. I don't want Brad to take him in a canoe. I know Brad loves him and would never let anything happen to him- in my logical mind. My illogical mind knows that no one can protect my kids like I can. Water makes me nervous. I don't want Turner in or around water that he can't stand up in. I don't want him any where near anything with a current.

There's a pool. Which would be lovely if Tate was two and Turner was four. But Tate is seven weeks old. Too little to get in a pool, too young to be outside much at all. I will certainly not leave her to go enjoy the pool. There will also be Brad's co-worker's drunk wife. I'm sure in her normal life she's lovely. I have met her and been around her three times, but on all three occasions she was lit up like the fourth of July and her intoxicated IQ was that of a fence post.

I think Turner and Brad will have a good time. They'll fish, swim, ride four wheelers, and do all the fun things that one does on a camping trip. I will be couped up in a borrowed motor home trying to avoid Mrs Margarita Lolita all while not swimming, not fishing, and not riding four wheelers. No, I will be the one packing and unpacking the motor home, sweeping all our tracked in sand, washing the dishes, refereeing Brad and Turner, and trying to keep a hot sweaty baby from being too miserable. I'll be the "Mom". Mom is the cleaner of messes, the packer of trips, the bedtime enforcer, and the fight breaker-upper. Mom is pretty much the wet blanket that gets thrown over everyone's party. Unfortunately with out mom there would be no party, who would pack the balloons and make all the food?

Then there is the fight that I am sure will happen. Turner and Brad will both be sleep deprived and grumpy. Turner will misbehave and Brad will get irritated. Then when Turner won't eat supper or cooperate over something small, Brad will let me know what all I must be doing wrong with our son. I have learned that my husband and my son love each other very much and usually have the best time being around each other. I have also learned that they do well spending small amounts of time together. Brad works seven days a week. He has been having maybe one day off a month and a couple half days if we're lucky. He isn't around to know our routines. I try to let him handle the kids how he wants. But, when it's two days straight of no routine, anyone with a toddler knows that is a recipe for disaster. The reason my son is a good kid is due partially to the fact that he has a routine and a regular nap and sleep schedule. Those will all be blown to hell and he will be a little animal this weekend. Brad will invariably blame me. He just sees that I am the one who is with Turner twenty four seven, so if there is a problem it, by default, has to be my fault. This kills me and makes me resent my husband. I am a pretty good mom, or at least I think so. It would be nice to hear it from my husband but I have given up that hope, he's not one for compliments.

So for my birthday it looks like I am getting an unwanted camping trip. Maybe I will have fun. Maybe Brad and Turner will get along. Maybe I will get a little sleep and it won't be as bad as I am thinking it will be. I hope to go and have fun, let go of the tension from my neck and relax a little. But I know I am not one to relax. I hope to write how my expectations were proved wrong and fun was had by all. I guess I'll have to wait and see. Happy Birthday to me.

Lil Mondter Meets Tate

Lil Monster decided to come meet the new family addition. In true Lil Monster fashion he snuck in unannounced. I thought Turner woke me up this morning, I failed to notice the horn gleaming underneath the bed mussed hair.


Lil Monster ran in my room at six thirty this morning and jumped up on my bed. He is a cute little demon. He then demanded oatmeal. My son, my Turner boy, always asks politely for oatmeal. Turner says "You want to share oatmeal wif me Mom? You have some from my bowl." Little Monster jumped up and proclaimed "I want OATMEAL!!!!!!! You not eat any of my OATMEAL!!!!!!"

Poor Tate. She was oblivious to Little Monster's loud decree. Nothing pisses of a monster like going unnoticed. Little Monster leapt over to Tate. I told him do not get close to her, she's sleeping. Tate likes to sleep in til about nine, but not this morning. Oh no, Little Monster put his grubby little finger on her eye lid and pulled it open while yelling "You wake? Now you wake!! Hahahaha...." Little Monster came with in an inch of having his hide tanned, but he's faster than me upon awaking.

Little Monster came with me to the chiropractors. What a mistake. The model spine that all doctors are required to display was grabbed and became Lil Monster's pet "talligator". He then chased the less dominate monsters who had come with their mom all around the office.

I foolishly decided to go to Old Navy and exchange some shorts for a different size. Just a quick errand before lunch and blessed nap time. Stupid, stupid mommy. Little Monster suckered me. He held my hand in the parking lot. He walked in and got a buggy out for me and then he launched his attack. We went to get the a fore mentioned shorts and in one quick move Little Monster mounted the top of the buggy scream at me to get Tate off his buggy. I pick my battles and this wasn't one of them so I packed the car seat and pushed the cart. Then little Monster protected his cart from passer-bys by growling and foaming at the mouth. Needless to say the sales associate had no problem exchanging the item with out a receipt. She had probably been given instructions via her headset to get the mom with the growling beast of a man child out of the store pronto.

Little Monster returned home with me and ate in a ravenous fashion. Mostering is hard work and builds a voracious appetite. After lunch it was time for a showdown.

In this corner weighing in at thirty seven pounds, the undisputed light weight champion Little Monster. In our other corner weighing in about twenty pounds more than she wishes Mommy. The title holder for the Western conference heavy weight division. The bell rings and I say the battle words "Nap Time".

Little Monster whips out his first attack, the smart mouth. "I don't need a stinking nap! I not going nap! I stay WAKE!!!" Mommy wastes no time and grabs up Little Monster and wrestles him into the beast's layer. Mommy takes a unexpected approach-No bathroom stop. Easier to wrestle Little Monster into a pull up than to try to force an unwanted urination. Mommy delivers her swan song move. She gives the kiss on the head, tells Little Monster she loves him, and walks out pulling the door to. Little Monster decides that though he has been driven back to his cave, he is not down for the count. Little Monster tests his lung capacity by yelling a siren song of woes and atrocities that his poor unfair life has dealt him. "I not need a nap. I gonna get up. I not sleeping!!!" Mommy is her own worst enemy at this point. Having no opponent in front of her she chooses to battle the dreaded invisible Mommy Guilt. The internal struggle lasts for about ten minutes, then she notices and odd sound---quiet.

Little Monster has given up and has laid down to recharge. Mommy does a silent victory dance, but doesn't indulge for long. Now mommy must restock her arsenal and get ready for the ambush that comes after the beast sleeps.

Mommy's Band Aid

I decided this week that the term "Multi-tasking" was not made to describe business executives who hold conference calls while working on thier PC. Nor was the phrase coined for teenagers who IM, listen to their IPod and do home work simultaneously. No the original multi-tasker had to be a mom.


I figured this out on Wednesday. I had a doctors appointment but decided to take the kids to the park beforehand. After the park I ran home and made Turner and I lunch while breast feeding my daughter. Then I found myself in the tub, rocking Tate's car seat intermittently with my right hand while bathing. My Left hand held my turkey sandwich and I was singing the alphabet with Turner in between bites. This personal three ringed circus is the reason I bathe at night when everyone else has been fed and is asleep. Prior to my soggy lunch on Wednesday I had never eaten in the bath. It wasn't a bad experience, while both are fun separately some things, like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, just don't go together .

Becoming a mom lets you experience things you otherwise wouldn't. Some are spectacular, you baby's first laugh, you're son's sense of humor. Some are gross- poop running down you stomach while spit up runs down your back. Some are down right strange- I would've never guessed I'd be eating while bathing with an audience watching. But all of it is fun and entertaining.

Turner's sense of humor is developing and he is often unintentionally funny. He watches my every move and is an ever present shadow. Turner was preoccupied while our family was here after having Tate. As soon as the last Grandma boarded a plane he was back with me every second. This closeness doesn't have boundaries, oh no, not even the bathroom is off limits.

I can't believe I am about to tell this, but it's too funny to keep to myself. Mr Nosey came in one day while I was getting a panty-liner out of the cabinet. I figured I could distract him by asking him to go get something for me, I was wrong. He started in " What's that?" "Nothing Turner, it's just something mommies have to use after they have a baby" "It's your band aid?" I thought this would end the inquisition. "Yes." "OK, it's a Band Aid because Tate blew up your belly and broke your butt."

He was satisfied, so he left me, falling off the toilet laughing. These are some of the things no one tells you that will happen. But they will happen and they will keep you smiling on the days that the crying and poop are plentiful.