Babies

I was never much of a baby person.

Oh, I did the odd babysitting here and there in my teenage years.  I liked kids, they liked me, and it was easy money…. but I usually refused any jobs where the babies were younger than 8 or 9 months old.

If that sounds harsh it’s because the feeling was mutual – I didn’t really care for little babies, and little babies didn’t really like me. They let me know in no uncertain terms.

“Oh, Becky, it’s just in your head.  Here, hold her,” someone would say, depositing a blank-faced infant in my arms.  Almost immediately, the baby would stiffen.

“Relax – just hold her close,” they’d say.

“I am.  She feels like 2 x 4.”

“Just…. just relax.”

“I’M TRYING,” I’d say, through gritted teeth.  “Hey, uh… baby.  Hey there.  Good girl…. good…. girl.”

The baby would usually stare at me dubiously for a few more moments, and then burst into frantic tears.  Get me out of this imposter’s arms.  SAVE ME.  SAVE ME FROM HER UNCOMFORTABLE INCOMPETENCE!

It never failed – you could give me the happiest, most complacent, 100% asleep infant and I could have it crying in a matter of minutes, just by trying to hold it.

What can I say?  It was a gift.

The good news is that the first few weeks after a baby is born, they tend to be pretty much dead to the world.  They wake, they cry for food, you feed them, you change their diaper, and they go back to sleep.  In terms of being interactive, they’re about as socially fun as a hermit crab.

I think the reason they sleep so much in the beginning isn’t because they’re tired from birth…. it’s because it’s to give inept baby-handling parents like me a chance to figure out what they’re doing.  Eventually they wake up from the just-born stupor, but hopefully by that time you’re not as uncomfortable with handling your own baby.

Since I never had any desperate desire to have or hold little babies of my own,  I could never understand why people went so ga-ga over babies.  They weren’t all that cute, in the grand scheme of things.  They have swollen faces, they twist up their faces with really weird expressions, and they generally look kind of, well… weird.

I mean, here are some newborn otters:

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And here is a newborn infant (mine, to be exact):

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From a purely logical perspective, I think we can all agree the otters are cuter.  They’re fuzzy, soft, round little bits of adorableness.  You can practically feel your hand reaching out to pet one.

The newborn babies just kind of looks… pink.  And swollen.  And disgruntled.  They look like disappointed, naked little grubs…. and yet when I see those photos of the twins just after they were born, something wrenches on my inside, and I can practically feel my brain hitting the release switch on a massive load of bonding hormones.

It’s not just because they are tiny, or because they are mine… I think it goes deeper than that.  When I see tiny babies on the street, I think I am drawn to them because I know how incredibly fleeting that first period is.  I don’t see a newborn baby – I see DragonMonkey as he was when I first met him. Even though I wouldn’t trade the lanky, logical, fun boy he is nowadays, I miss his sweet softness.

Which, now that I think about it, is low-down dirty lie. He was only sweet and soft for the first 2 or 3 weeks.  After that he screamed and puked and was in all ways an incredibly high-needs baby….

But eh.  It’s a sweet lie.  If my brain is going to feed me lies, I don’t mind that one all that much.

Moving on to the whole point of this musing: I never really expected to be that “into” babies…. but lately it feels like I just can’t get enough.  You’d think it would the opposite. With two babies pressed to me all day long, you’d think I would be over holding infants, but the opposite is true.

The twins are 7 months old now, and the other day I looked at Magpie as she was stretched out during one of her naps, and I realized she no longer qualifies as a tiny baby. I saw my first hint of toddler.  It’s subtle, but it’s there – a slight lengthening of her forearms, the way she throws her arms above her head like a child instead of the tight curl of the just-born.

I’m not really sure what it is, but lately when I’m looking at the twins I can see the hints of the people they will become, and it makes me both proud and nostalgic, as if they’ve already grown, and flown away….

When in reality, Magpie is pressed against me, laying flat against the still-soft surface of my stomach.  Kraken is crashed out in his baby swing – he’ll be too big for it soon, but for the time being it’s a helpful bedtime tool.  Magpie though… lately she’s been weaning her own self off of the swing, much to my dismay.  It makes getting her down for the night a lot harder, and by the time she’s finally asleep I have a tendency to just sit still and hold her rather than risk waking her.

Besides…. the view is pretty sweet.  She’s sprawled over me in the complete, sleepy abandon that only the truly young seem to manage.  Her cheeks are flushed with the heat of sleep, one arm thrown back, lips pursed in a nursing dream.  I ought to put her down.  I ought to clean up the living room, or prepare the boys’ lunch for school in the morning.  Oh, sure, everyone likes to quote that “I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep”poem, but they forget about the other lines: “The shopping’s not done and the bills are past due, and out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo.”

There’s so much that needs to be done, not the least of which is getting to bed early.  I’m very, very sleep deprived this week.  I ought to go to bed early, so I’m not grumpy and mean tomorrow from lack of sleep.

But instead, I press my hand against Magpie’s head, feeling the pleasing curve of her skull beneath my palm.  I feel the heat of her skin against my own,  brush my thumb against the curve of her cheek, and I watch her breathe… and grow.

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Laziest Post in the World: DragonMonkey Dreams

If I  go through all my old draft posts and find the one that requires the least amount of editing (even if that means it’s been languishing as a draft for nearly four years), and if I edit it and then type these words…… it still counts as writing, right?  Right?

*******

The door slammed open to the boys’ bedroom, and the dark shadow hovered there for a moment, face indistinct against the haze of shadows and bright hallway light.

“Not that one,” he said, his voice raspy, almost guttural with its malevolent harshness.  His finger flicked disparagingly at the younger brother, who gripped the bedspread and stared at him in terrified silence.

Slowly, oh so slowly, his head rotated on his neck, before fixating on the DragonMonkey, who sat up abruptly in his bed.

“THAT one,” he said, his voice full of a deep satisfaction.

He crossed the room in one stride, lunged forward, and slammed the DragonMonkey face down on his bed.  The force of the attack was so sudden, and so fierce, that the DragonMonkey’s leg caught on the wall as he flipped.  His leg broke, the bone shattering and the foot dislocating, spinning the entire bottom half of his leg the wrong way.

The pain of that was overwhelming, and the DragonMonkey began to cry.  The man snarled at him indistinctly, angered by the sound of his tears, and with one dark look he swept him from the bed and slammed him on the floor.

Meanwhile, down in the living room I sat uncaring, typing on my computer. I heard the slam of the DragonMonkey’s body as he hit the ground, but I didn’t get up to check.  “Stop that noise, SQUID!” I hollered up, unaware, uncaring, unfeeling,,,,,oblivious that it was a bad guy abusing my children, and not the Squid jumping off of his bed.

*****

“And you didn’t come.”  The DragonMonkey narrows his green eyes at me.  “You were supposed to come.  You weren’t supposed to say ‘Stop that noise’.  It wasn’t Squid.  It was a bad guy.  And you were supposed to come save me from a bad guy.”

I sigh.  Again.

And I apologize.  Again.

“I’m so, so sorry, DragonMonkey.  That sounds like a very scary, very bad dream.  Mommy has bad dreams like that, too. And you know you are so much more important to me than my writing, and that in real life I would know if a bad guy was up there. I wouldn’t ignore you. I would go up there and save you from him, so you don’t have to worry about stuff like that.”

He glares at me, unappeased.  “But it wasn’t Squid jumping on the bed.  You said ‘SHHHH’, but it wasn’t him playing.  It was a bad guy. You shouldn’t tell me SHHHH. You should come save me.”

I take a deep breath and prepare to apologize again.

Seriously though, where does a four-year old brain come up with this, anyways?  I mean… if the ability to have incredibly realistic dreams is genetic, couldn’t he just get the nice ones?  How did he come with this Steven-King-worthy nightmare?  I mean, I know I have my own share of scary dreams, but SERIOUSLY.  If he’s got insecurities about how much I love him, or whatever created this nightmare, can’t he just daydream about me buying toys for other little boys, or something normal like that?

At least his happy dreams outweigh his bad dreams by a good margin.  Still.

Also, I’m sorry Bean.  Now I know what it feels like, when I wake up angry at you from my dreams.  I probably shouldn’t make you apologize, now that I know how silly it feels.

Although, really. I’m still a little bit angry.  You should have known better, even if it was a dream.

 

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Stomach Flu

I was looking at TimeHop today, seeing all the neat stuff I’ve posted over the years.

I mean, I’d use that whole “On This Day” memories feature of Facebook, but I still don’t have it….. not that I’m bitter.

Anyways, this was my post from October 8th of last year:

The vomiting.  The non-stop, soul crushing vomiting.
Friends don’t let friends get pregnant with twins.

Now, a year later, the twins are 6 months old, and we are celebrating in our own, unique way:

With a nice round of the stomach flu.

 

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Sick Magpies are sleepy Magpies.  Also, towels make lovely blankets when they are just going to get thrown up on a few minutes later.

 

At least if they are still causing puking, I get to enjoy looking at their faces between the vomit-fests.  It’s a nice perk.

 

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Norman: The Book-Eating Goat

It was 34 degrees out, I was 22 years old, and I was sitting in the snow.

Well, okay.  I’m exaggerating.  I wasn’t exactly sitting IN the snow – I was technically crouched on the edge of a set of wooden steps, outside a never-used guard shack – only my feet were actually in the snow.

There really wasn’t any reason for me to be crouching in near-freezing temperatures, on rotted wood, in the snow.

It’s just… I had finished feeding the horses, and it was at least 200 feet back to my cabin. The record snowfall made trudging something you had to pay attention to – with two feet of snow, you couldn’t just meander without looking.  it was too easy to fall into troughs, or holes, or other items that hid beneath the pristine, innocent-looking mounds of snow.

So in order to get back to my cabin, I would have to put aside the book I was reading and actually walk there.

That would take at least three minutes.

Did I mention it was my first time reading through the Da Vinci Code.  Whether you approve of the plot or not, Dan Brown knows how to write a good suspense tale, and I was at an incredibly crucial moment.

Having to wait three minutes while waiting to figure out a crucial plot element in a book is an ETERNITY.

So…. instead of walking back to my cabin and reading the remainder of the book while sprawled on my couch in luxurious warmth, I was crouched on the rotted steps with my feet in the snow and my nose turning numb.

Keep in mind this was back in 2003/2004 – Amazon wasn’t really a “thing” like it is now, and when you live hours from the nearest bookstore, the first time through any book will grip you like that, much less a bestseller like the Da Vinci Code.

I was just reaching the critical part of the scene when….

Norman happened.

Norman was a sweet, bottle-fed goat who followed people around wherever they went.  I do mean everywhere – somewhere along the lines Norman had decided he was a human, and that the company of horses was no match for hanging out with people.  It was cute at first, but eventually became a little annoying.  “Wranglers, the goat is out again” was a familiar cry coming over the ranch radio – that goat could slip out of everything.

Still – he had silky white fur and large, intelligent, amber eyes so it was easy to forgive him anything.

Until that day.  That day, Norman crossed a line.

I still own that copy of Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code. Did you know my copy falls open to the page that gives away critical information that’s crucial to the entire book (you know, the whole Last Supper thingie).
 
It falls open to that page because as I was sitting on steps in the snow…. just as I got to that particular page….
 
 Norman, came up behind me and ripped the page out of the book and started eating it.
It was like a scene from a cartoon.  I was in the mountains, trapped in by an epic snowfall, with no access to a replacement book….. and Norman had torn out the most important page of the entire book and was calmly eating it.
Look, I’m not proud of how I got the paper back, but let’s just say that I managed to make Norman understand that it was very, very important he allow me to retrieve the paper from his mouth.  The good news is that with a little bit of cleaning and a little bit of scotch tape, I was able to restore the page to my book and finish the story.  I forgave him for tearing my brand new book and trying to eat a critical page, and he forgave me for pouncing on him and making the mountains ring with the echoing cry of “NORMAAAAAAAAAAAAAN” as I retrieved it from his wet, sticky little mouth.

The bad news is that…. well, if you’re ever over at my house and if you ever want to read that particular book…. well, I just hope you already know the big reveal, because the book now opens permanently to that page.

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Yay For Procrastination!

Wasn’t I just bragging late last night that “my house is a relatively happy house”?

Dude, you totally missed my spaz-out hissy-fit I threw night, right after I clicked “Publish”.

Here’s the thing:  I decided to participate in the “Write 31” thingie.  In order to officially participate, you had to create a little button-thingie (you like my technical terms?  Be careful using them – they’re only for trained professionals).  Well, first you had to choose a category (I chose “Family”), then you had to choose a topic (I chose “How to Be a Crappy Mom), and then you had to create the button which was a hyperlink (or something?) and link up to the official Write 31 page.

Make sure you do it by October 5th! the website said.

I’m sure they intended that to read as “Do it on October 1st, but if you have to do it a day or two late, I suppose we can allow it.”

Me being, well, ME, I read that as “whatever you do, don’t do it before October 5th, because that’s just silly.”

So, as yesterday was October 5th, I clicked “Publish” and then went over there to figure out the button-link up-thingie.  I mean, it was only 10 pm at night on the absolute-last-day-possible.  I had two whole hours to work with. I wasn’t just on-time, I was practically early.

…..

And that’s when I discovered that the Write 31 link-up thingie runs on east coast time…. which is a full 3 hours ahead of me.  While it was 10 pm on October 5th in Oregon, it was already 1 am on October 6th on the east coast, and link ups had closed.

Normally I would have given a good-natured groan and simply gone on with my day….. but I’m running on a pretty horrible sleep deficit nowadays.  I’ve been staying up late every night to type not only write on my long-abandoned blog, but I’ve been writing actual posts with a theme and a TOPIC.

Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to stay on topic for five whole days in a row?

So, anyways, when I found out that I’d missed the sign ups, well…. I was just a little bit disappointed.

 

 

I handled it very gracefully.

 

I did not consider throwing the computer to the ground, only to remember it was borrowed, and expensive.  I did not settle for placing it gently on the couch beside me before stomping up to my feet and using my “special words”.

 

 

I did not ignore The Bean as he tried to figure out what was going on with me.
I did not stomp into the bedroom…. only to stomp back out to the living room to use more of my “special words” in an incoherent nearly unintelligible rant…..

 


… Only to stomp back into the bedroom with a “Well, FINE.  I’m just going to go to sleep.  It doesn’t matter anyways.  It’s all STUPID. DON’T BOTHER TRYING TO FIX IT.  IT’S ALL STUPID.  GOOD NIGHT.”

Okay.  Maybe I did do a little of that.

But seriously, you have to understand just how tired I’ve been every night as I stay up to finish my post…. my post which has been both ON TOPIC and following my theme.

How tired am I?

Well, after I stomped off to bed last night, I made a decision to chart how many times I was up at night, just so I could share with you.

Now, normally the Kraken is the crappy sleeper and Magpie is much, much better.  If I were better about sleep training she would definitely be sleeping through the night at this point.  Unfortunately, she’s been having a rough week this last week, so she woke up 6 times last night.

That’s 6 times between 10:30 and 6:30 am.

The Kraken was much better and only woke up twice.

Still – that was 8 separate wake up periods requiring me to detach one tiny little boob leech (yes, we’re co-sleeping – The Kraken between The Bean and I, and Magpie over on an Ikea crib we attached to the side of our bed like a little sidecar), roll over, pull the other baby close, and go back to sleep as they nurse.

Sure, I don’t have to actually get out of bed and walk to a different room, so I’m able to go back to sleep fairly quickly…. but it’s still waking up, and it doesn’t make for a restful night of sleep.

Anyways, now you know why I found my lack of involvement so disappointing, and why I had so few reserves to deal with it.

After spending the day thinking about it though, I have decided it’s actually kind of a good thing.  No, I won’t be able to officially participate….. but I’m still planning on doing the exercise, and I feel that by doing it on my own I am now free to choose my own topics. Sure, nobody was going to hunt me down with a pitchfork if I’d strayed while “officially” participating, but still.

So, there’s your warning.  If I start posting about pets, horses, books, childhood memories, working at the library, or whatever instead of my kids, you have been forewarned.

Now if you’ll excuse me, sleep (GLORIOUS SLEEP!) is calling me…. at least for an hour or so.  On the other hand, who knows?  Maybe tonight will be the twins’ first night sleeping through the night?

A girl can hope?

 

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Too Many Babies

Have you ever been curious what it’s like in my house?

Yes?

Well, I can show you.

It’s exactly like this:

Only, you know..... less green.

Only, you know….. less green.

 

I mean, I love my children… but four is a lot of kids, especially when two of them are less than a year old.

The thing is, for the most part, it’s a really happy household.  I’ve been really lucky in that my mom and stepdad essentially put their life on hold for the year and have been staying with us more often than not.  The good news is that their sacrifice has kept me sane.

The bad news is that, unlike most children who have a bunch of jealousy issues and upheaval whenever a new baby enters the family, my older boys think that babies are a piece of cake.

I mean, why wouldn’t they?  More babies = more time with their grandparents AND having someone around the house who actually manages to get laundry done in a timely fashion.

Unfortunately for them, I have a more realistic view of how much work babies actually are.

I walk into the room after changing Magpie, and plop her down on the floor in front of DragonMonkey.  He immediately pounces on her and scoops her up, squishing his face against her cheek in what appears to the world’s most uncomfortable kiss.

I give her about 6 more months before she explodes when he does that… but that’s a different matter entirely.

Luckily she’s still young, and since she was born with the same inherent personality of a golden retriever puppy, she simply smiles and waves flaps her arms happily.

“She’s getting too big,” DragonMonkey remarks in an overly adult tone.

“She is growing fast,” I agree, grabbing the Kraken from where he is whining in his swing, pulling him close to nurse him.

“Too fast” he says, and suddenly he looks mournful.  He pulls Magpie closer again, burying his face against her cheek again.

“That’s what babies do.”  I am not giving him my full attention – that’s because my full attention is focused on the Kraken, who has developed a terrible habit of grabbing at me with his pinchy, pinchy hands every time he nurses.  I don’t know why he does this – it’s not like I don’t nurse him every chance I have…. but it’s never enough.  To be honest, I’m not necessarily sure he’s even that attached to me.  If I could physically detach my boob and leave it with him while he lay placidly in his swing, I’m pretty sure he’d stay there till he was 25.

And if that’s not a creepy thought, I don’t know what is.

Wait…. where was I?

Ah, yes.  As the majority of my attention was being spent avoiding getting mauled by baby hands, I didn’t realize that DragonMonkey was “having a moment” until the living room became too still.

I glanced up, and there he was – eyebrows furrowed and eyes genuinely sad.  “I don’t want them to grow up.  I don’t want them to grow up too fast.  Then we won’t have babies in the house any more.”

Isn’t that kind of the goal?  “Yeah, that will be sad, honey.”

“I like having babies in the house.”

“Me too, honey, but all babies grow up.”

Suddenly, his face brightens.  It’s obvious he’s had an idea – you can practically see the light bulb flashing over his head.  “I know!  You can have lots more babies.”

The image fills my mind… and for a second, I just sit there, horrified.  “Wait…. what?”

 

“You can have more babies!”

“Uhhhh, yeah.  No way.  Sorry, honey.  These are all the siblings you’re gonna get.”

“But they’re growing up too fast!”

“Yeah, but the answer isn’t just to be perpetually pregnant and have an endless stream of babies.  That’s not going to solve anything.  TRUST ME.”

“But I like babies.”

“Me too, but if you want more, then you’re gonna have to grow up and have some of your own….. OWWW.  OW – NO PINCHING, KRAKEN.  Yeah, no more babies.  Sorry, DragonMonkey.”

“But…. But I like them.  It’s sad that they’re growing up too fast.”

“Yeah, well…. that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

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Dexterity: Day 4 of How To Be A Crappy Mom

Everybody talks about the benefits of breastfeeding your baby.

I suppose I could go into all the benefits, but that would require things like research, and linking articles, and not getting ready to drag my very, very tired self into bed…. only to realize I never wrote anything and forcing myself to sit down and start a post at 9:27 pm on a borrowed computer.

Was that whiny?   Don’t get me wrong, I love writing… but the twins haven’t let me sleep very much the past few nights, and this is pretty much what my brain is shouting at me as I type, making it very hard to focus on my story.

Please bear with me.

Moving on:

I suppose you’re just gonna have to trust me on the benefits of breast milk.  I mean, I suppose you could go research it for yourself… just keep in mind that a lot of those sites tend to be SUPER pro-breastfeeding, and kind of negative against formula.

 

How dare you use formula.  Ding Ding Ding.  How dare you.

How dare you use formula. Ding Ding Ding. How dare you.

I say however you want to get food in that infant of yours is all the same to me.  Besides, I’m not necessarily sure I believe all the stuff that breast milk is purported to do.

Are you concerned about your newborn getting sick?  Try breast milk! It’s chock full of antibodies!

Does your baby have an eye infection?  Try breast milk!

Do the people on your morning commute have trouble merging and cause traffic to back up?  Try breast milk!

Anyways, there’s all sorts of reason to breastfeed your baby, but nobody talks about the best part:

Nursing your baby = Guilt-free phone-surfing or book-reading time.

Oh, sure, you could be one of those uber-moms who manages to nurse her baby while simultaneously sweeping the kitchen floor…. but why?  Why would you do that to yourself, when you have this built-in alarm clock of a crying baby that gives you the chance to just sit down and be lazy every 2-3 hours?

I will admit that tandem nursing the twins has been amazing simply based on the fact that it’s literally impossible for me to do anything but nurse them.  It’s the ultimate in excuses.

What’s that?  The living room needs vacuuming?  Oh, I’m sorry… I just don’t have the time.  I’m currently providing sustenance to my tiny infants.  Oh, gee… the older boys need lunch?  Honey, can you make them sandwiches?  The babies are hungry, and if I don’t nurse them right now, my supply might drop and then where would we be?

 

There is only one downside to all of this:  by choosing to nurse, you are kind of the sole provider of food to the babies… and thus you do end up getting the short end of the stick when it comes to sleep.  This wouldn’t be so much of an issue except…. except I get really clumsy when I’m sleepy.

And this wouldn’t be that big of an issue, except that I like to read my book while I’m nursing….

And even that wouldn’t be that big of an issue if it were a light paperback, but the problem is that I have been reading most of my books on my phone…

Which means I either need to find a way to get more sleep, and thus improve my dexterity…
Or I need to quit dropping my cell phone on the babies’ heads while they are peacefully enjoying their meal.

Not only does it make me feel like a super, super crappy mom to watch them slowly screw up their faces and wail in fear/pain…… but I’m beginning to question whether or not they are even going to be able to pass the 4th grade.

 

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Well, This Scks

Lets see if I can do this.

1 2 3 4 5 6    8 9 10

Also

a b c d e f g h i    k l   n o   q r s t    v w x y z

That is all I have of a keyboard tonight. I so sad.  Very sad I cant do Day #3 however I need the letters that are not working right now.

The note above took WAY longer than it looks, trying to find words that didnt contain the vacant letters fro the list above.

Now I say goodbye to Day #3 of How To Be A Cray o.

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Rationalization: How To Be A Crappy Mom

It’s Sunday morning. I should make everyone bacon.

Oh, yeah.  Bacon and pancakes.  That’s the sort of thing an awesome mom would do on a Sunday morning.  She’d get up, and put on her blue bathrobe, start the coffee, and then she’d fill the kitchen with the scent of sizzling, popping bacon and delicious gluten-free pancakes.  She’d probably even hum a little tune, and remember to hug each child in turn, and inquire about their sleep in a pleasant, never-ruffled voice.

I’m gonna do it.  I’m gonna make them bacon and pancakes and I’m gonna totally be that mom today.

Oh.  Wait. I don’t have any more gluten-free pancake mix.  Crap.

Well, that’s okay.  It’s not like I said the word “pancakes” out loud.  The kids won’t know what they’re missing.  I can always make bacon and eggs instead – Lord knows I have enough eggs.  With, err, “three” chickens (just like the city ordinances require), I definitely have enough eggs.

Eggs and bacon is still a really awesome thing on a Sunday morning. It’s an American staple – who doesn’t love it?  Bacon and eggs.  I’m gonna be that awesome mom who makes the whole house smell like bacon and eggs on Sunday morning.

Except….. except I can’t find any bacon in the fridge.  Or the freezer.  Or the basement freezer.

Well, crap.

Eggs and…. eggs?  Or maybe Miguitas – eggs and tortillas?  How many times have I cooked that this week? Will they go for it?  I glance at the sleep-tousled boys in the living room, lounging in their mismatched pajamas as they stare blankly at cartoons.

“Hey boys… you guys want Miguitas for breakfast?  Or do you just want me to make them over-easy?”  I take a moment and pride myself in the way I managed to word that – it gives them the illusion of choice, but still leaves them without a real decision.  If that’s not being a real mom, I don’t know what is.

Neither boy bothers to take their eyes off the flickering screen long enough to respond.

“Chicken nuggets.  I want chicken nuggets.”

“Me too!  I want chicken nuggets, too!”

What?  Eww.  Gross.  “Chicken nuggets aren’t a breakfast food,” I say. “How about cereal? Cereal and milk?”

“No, thank you,”  DragonMonkey says, all pleasant politeness.

“Yeah, no thank you,” Squid echoes.  “Can I please have chicken nuggets?”

“Guys.  This is Sunday. You can’t have…. it’s just….”  I stare at them, frustrated.  It’s Sunday morning.  We’re supposed to be eating pancakes and eggs… or at the very least bacon and eggs. You can’t have a beautiful, Norman-Rockwell style Sunday morning with frozen gluten-free chicken nuggets heated up in the microwave on scratched Ikea plastic plates.

This morning was supposed to look like this… only with pancakes instead of turkey.

I mean, technically you can, but nobody is gonna be painting a picture of it any time soon.

I open my mouth once again, drawing breath to tell them no, that they can’t have chicken nuggets for breakfast, that it’s trashy and gross, and terrible nutrition, and we have higher standards than that, and….

… and at least it has protein?  I mean, what exactly are pancakes, anyways, but flat, uninteresting doughnuts that you pour sugary maple syrup over?  Chicken nuggets don’t have a high sugar content.  I mean, it’s not like they’re asking to shoot up heroin, or juggling puppies, right?  It’s just chicken nuggets…. and gluten-free ones at that.

Surely that gives me some kind of bragging power?  I mean, sure, we’re not eating gluten-free by choice, but the fact that it’s gluten-free (and therefore “healthy”) balances out the fact that it’s 7:30 in the morning and I’m pouring ketchup as dipping sauce for my kids’ breakfast, right?

Right?

there-was-an-attempt

 

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Write 31 Days – How To Be A Crappy Mom

I’ve got four kids, a horse I rarely see, a husband I vaguely remember, a dog I never walk, a house that’s never clean, and laundry that’s never done.

Obviously, this is a really good time for me to take on a new venture, right?  I mean, after all, this used to be called “The Blog of Becky: How Not to Live Your Life”.  I need to live up to it, right?

Anyways, the title is self-explanatory: I’m doing the “Write 31 Days” thingie.  In case you’ve never heard about it, for the month of October I will write 31 posts in a row, about a certain topic.  I’ve been planning on participating in this for several months, and as such, the topic I have chosen in:

 How To Be A Crappy Mom

I’d like to say the reason I chose this topic is because I spent several days coming up with a witty title, cross-referencing it against other people’s ideas, referencing the 31 topics I would address, etc, etc………

But if I did you know I’d be lying.

The truth is that my older boys were wild with energy tonight so we went to McDonald’s and let them blow off steam… where they filled up on sprite and fruit & yogurt parfait instead of eating dinner.

Yay, me.

Now they’re crashed out in bed, whereas my twins are now refusing to sleep.  I have no idea why they’re refusing to sleep, although I suspect it’s because their bellies hurt because I’ve fed them bananas too many days in a row and now they’re constipated.

Double yay me.

I could feed them nice organic baby food I got from the store, prunes or veggies or something…. but I forgot to pick some up from the store, and now it’s late and I don’t wanna go.

Triple yay me.

So, there you have it.  It’s 9pm at night, I have one kid latched on my boob, and I’m awkwardly typing over him while his twin sister whines in my husband’s arms as she waits her turn.

I mean, I could nurse them at the same time but I can’t tandem nurse and fit the laptop on my lap at the same time. Priorities, you know?

Also, I just remembered I really need to research the Gluten-Free festival I promised I’d take my oldest son to tomorrow, but instead I’m on Facebook, and if I don’t finish this up in less than 3 hours I will miss out on the “31 Days” aspect of 31 Days, and and and….

And “How to Be a Crappy Mom”.  It’s not the sexiest topic, but it’s probably the only topic I have plenty of material for without having to think too hard.

So, there you go.  I apologize in advance for the content quality.  Perhaps the quantity will make up for it?  I’m so out of practice in actually writing, instead of just sounding out the words in my tired, tired head.  I really mean what I say: I apologize in advance for the content quality – I’m hoping it will pick up by the end of the month.

And now, in the spirit of “How To Be A Crappy Mom”, I give you:

A love note to my daughter

 

Rat

 

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