My Children are Afraid of Cats

A Fear of Cats... and Other Things that Annoy Me

A few weeks ago, we tried to adopt a kitten. The key word here is "tried."

In less than 24 hours, it went from excitement and joy and love...

To this:

If pictures had sound, you would hear shrieks of sheer terror.

Now mind you, my children have been around cats their entire lives. I've had my adult cat, Sammy, longer than I've had my husband. The kitten has since moved in with a friend, but the fear of cats still remains. The kids cannot walk past Sammy without screaming in fear.

This morning, I sent Big Kid upstairs to get a clean pair of socks. He had "dressed" himself in a too-small shirt and pants, but had somehow missed his sock drawer. (Come to think of it, I wonder if he changed his underwear? Too late now.) Anywho, I said, "You have EIGHT MINUTES until your bus gets here. Run upstairs and get some clean socks."

A minute later, he comes downstairs whining. He's still barefoot.

"Where are your socks?! Your bus comes in FIVE MINUTES!"

His response? "I couldn't get them. Sammy is laying in the hallway."

Being the sympathetic mom that I am, I told him to march his butt back upstairs and come down with socks or I was going to send him to school late, with a note that explaining that he is terrified of big, fluffy, kitty cats who take naps.

Big Kid suddenly found the courage to change his socks.

Hunger Pains

My children are hungry all.the.time. It wears on a woman to hear, "Can I have a snack? Can I have a treat? Can I have pasta for dinner? No sauce. Just pasta and butter. I'm hungry mom! I'm SO HUNGRY!" all.the.time.

Sometimes I think to myself, there is no physical way that they are actually hungry. I mean, they have just eaten, and I can't remember the last time that I had anything except water.

This morning, Beam was sitting at the table. She was sitting in front of two plates, one contained a sliced up apple, the other contained a waffle. To her right were cups of orange juice and dry cereal. She got up from the table, after eating a bite of each, and yelled to me, "I'm HUNGRY MAMA!" I told her to eat her food. She went to the kitchen, got a stool, opened the cabinet, and demanded cheddar fishies. Not wanting to fight (and wanting to eat my own cereal in peace), I put some in a bowl for her. She walked to the living room, put the bowl on the shelf without eating a single Goldfish, and came back to ask me for a bite of my cereal.

Honest to God, I could rip my hair out some days. Every morning, I found myself shouting, "I've fed you seven times! I've been awake for FOUR HOURS and haven't eaten. Leave me alone for five minutes before I put you back to bed until dinner."

Grocery Shopping

Grocery shopping with four kids is so annoying that it deserves a post of its own. Some day, I will write that post. For now, though, I'll share this morning's annoyance.

I wear Muffin in a Beco carrier while we shop. I pray to the gods of the grocery store that Beam will cooperate and ride in the front seat of the shopping cart (she won't.) I direct Toast and Big Kid to hold onto the cart or walk beside me and NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING.

It never fails that the kids somehow end up wandering back and forth in front of the shopping cart, "leading the way," so to speak. They don't know if we need grapes or cereal or to restock our supply of vodka, so they have no idea where to go but yet, they end up in front of the crazy train. After running down two toddlers and fruitlessly trying to tell them to go left or right, I finally snap. I tell Toast to hold onto the cart. I tell Big Kid to hold his sister's hand. The conversation goes the same each and every time.

"You guys cannot walk in front of the cart. Hold your sister's hand and follow me."
"But it's STICKY!"
"HOLD HER HAND."
"She's so gross!"
"HOLD. HER.HAND. NOW. or you will not get a cookie from the bakery."
Relenting and taking his sister's hand, "Fine. Beam, you are SO GROSS."



Somehow, we manage to get out of the house with clean socks and buy fresh food at the grocery store. But I still don't get to eat it.

There's Something You Don't Know About Me

I debated whether or not I should write this.

We can laugh about my parenting mishaps. We can squirm with jealousy over my husband's fancy vacation digs (I'm kidding babe!). But do you want to know my heart? Share my pain? I'm not so sure. But I decided I would break the silence and write it anyway.

I am the mom of five babies.

I have a son, and you don't even know that he exists.

I'm not sure how to begin telling his story. My husband and I were surprised, to say the least, when we learned that I was pregnant. Big Kid was just six months old. I was one of those "lucky" ones who's cycle started right at six weeks postpartum, breastfeeding be damned. I wasn't supposed to be pregnant.

The  mini pill failed me. It would go on to fail me twice more.

We did the math. Baby #2 was due in July of 2009. Big Kid would be turning one a month prior.

I was embarrassed to be pregnant. Ashamed, even.  My new baby weight was easily disguised as "old" baby weight. I wore scarves and sweaters to cover up the fact that my belly was growing rather than shrinking.

We didn't celebrate the pregnancy. We only told our doctor, our moms, and my siblings.  If you had to know, you  knew, and that was the extent of it.

Somewhere around 16 weeks into the pregnancy, I began bleeding. I knew something wasn't right. I saw my doctor a few times, but nothing significant was found. Baby was thriving. We heard his heart beating strong.

The following weekend, I attended a friend's bridal shower. I began cramping regularly. I knew that whatever was happening was getting worse. I left the shower early, went home, and told my husband that we needed to go to the hospital.

We waited for hours. Finally, the ER doctor ordered an ultrasound. Baby was thriving. We heard his heart beating strong.

The doctor discharged us before radiology reviewed the scan.. I was given silly instructions, like  don't vacuum. Rest.

We were standing at the check out desk when a nurse stopped us and called us back in. I was being admitted.  Suddenly, I wasn't even permitted to walk or sit upright. They wheeled me up to the second floor.

It wasn't long before my OB arrived in my room on the Maternity floor. The news wasn't good. With tears in his eyes, my doctor told me that my cervix was funneling and dilating. We tried to stop my contractions with an awful drug called terbutaline.  If it worked, we could place a cerclage and hope for the best.

My water broke early the next morning, and our son was born a few minutes later.

He was the tiniest baby boy that I have ever seen.

My baby never took a breath in this world. And as his mom, I have failed. You see, my heart is beating strong. The air is mine to breathe. And yet, I have not used that breath to tell you his story.  You don't even know that he exists.

I have a son. His name is Michael Joseph, and now you know that he was here.

Taking a Shower

Taking a shower sounds simple enough. The more kids you have, though, the more complicated it gets. Some moms just don't bother, but it's one of those things that I refuse to skip, even if I have 12 kids (I won't). The key to getting it done is to simplify the process. So here it is. 

Taking a Shower in 1400 Easy Steps.

Put oldest kid on the bus.
Realize you have to leave in 1.5 hours.
Usher three kids upstairs.
Lock gates at both ends of the hallway so that no one wakes the sleeping baby or breaks their neck falling down the stairs.
Settle the baby down for a nap.
Hear your three year old shout, "MOM! I pooped AND peed!"
Wipe your three year old's butt.
Start the shower to let it warm up.
Help your two year old on and off the toilet.
Rescue your deodorant from the hallway. Realize the cap is missing.
Remind your two and three year old that the baby is sleeping and they need to play quietly.
Yell, "BE QUIET!" when they inevitably slam the bedroom door.
Pray that the baby didn't hear.
Get into the shower and realize that the hot water has been running for 12 minutes.
Wash your hair while refereeing a fight about a motorcycle.
Get out of the shower and dodge awkward remarks about butts and nipples while you try to dry off.
Help your two year old onto the toilet.
Wave goodbye to poop.
Search for a new diaper.
Apply deodorant. Share it with the two year old. Body odor starts young.
Dodge requests for snacks, orange juice, and complaints about eye pain. 
Search for a tie-dye shirt to no avail. Convince the three year old that his TMNT shirt is super cool.
Dig out some fresh nursing pads and your bra with plastic hooks.
Remember the days when cute bras were the norm.
Throw on yesterday's yoga pants and a tank top and usher the two older kids downstairs quietly, hoping that the baby sleeps long enough to put your hair up in a pony tail.

You're done! It's 9:30 am. Go eat some breakfast. You don't have to share, but you probably will.

Oh mama...

This morning, I was in the boys' bedroom as Big Kid was picking out his clothes for school. He chose his alligator shirt, the one that his nana brought back for him from her vacation to Florida. It is black and white, and the colors appear in the sun. He excitedly told me, "My classroom is really bright! I wonder if it will light up at school!" It was one of those moments that I wanted to pause. Bottle up. Remember forever.

I've been a mom for six years. I've got four kids. I like to think that I've learned a lot, but I know I have a long way to go. Some days, I wish I could go back in time and tell myself to slow down. Relax. That no matter how hard things were, how sweet they were, how exhausted I was, that this crazy train through motherhood was just getting started, and I needed to savor it.

Oh, mama. You are 39 weeks (8days7hours32minutesbutwhoscounting) pregnant. Your body aches. Your feet are swollen. You don't see how you can possibly grow any bigger. Oh, mama. You are just getting started. Some day, very soon, your little one will be born. But those aches won't go away. Your body will ache and cramp and groan as it tries to return to its original size. Your feet will swell from pacing the floors with a crying newborn. You arms will hurt so bad that you will be convinced that they will fall off because your sweet 32lb two year old insisted on being carried through the grocery store. But some day, very soon, you will miss being pregnant. You will miss the bumps and the kicks and the "Did my water break? No, that was just pee," moments of pregnancy.

Oh, mama. You are sitting on the couch holding that sweet eight day old baby. The newborn clothes are still too big on him. You adjust your shirt, prepared to nurse him for the 67th time that day. This is hard. Your body is tired. Your nipples are sore and cracked, and you aren't sure that your boobs can grow any bigger. They hurt so bad that a breath of wind could bring on the tears. Oh, mama. You are just getting started. Some day, that baby will be five months old. He will smile up at you as he drinks his milk, and you will realize that nursing got easier. It is the easiest and sweetest and most precious thing you have done. You have grown this baby from a microscopic egg to an 18lb giggling boy! And one day, you will sit down in that spot on your couch, cuddling that baby, and you will unclip that tattered nursing bra, and you will nurse him again. And that will be the last time that you ever nurse your baby. Maybe the tears will come because you realize that this phase of your life is over. Maybe you won't realize it is the last time and those tears will come later, as you look back and remember the days of nursing your newborn. You won't remember that you curled your toes and held your breath as he latched on. Instead, you will remember feeling the milk flow and the sweet weight of the baby in your arms, and you will realize, "I was just getting started."

Oh, mama. I see you. You are up for the third time with your eight month old. You are wondering if you will ever sleep again. Should you let him cry it out? Should you rock him back to sleep? What do the books say? What do the moms on Facebook say? What have you done wrong? Nothing, mama. You've done nothing wrong. You are tired, mama, but you are just getting started. You may get your baby to sleep now, but it won't be the last night that he wakes you up. He will get teeth. He will be sick. He will simply need a hug. One day, he will be three years old and he will get out of bed 47 times between 7:30 pm and 8:17 pm, simply to ask for water, request you to wipe his butt, or discuss spiritual questions of the universe that you have no answer to. It's tiring. The mamas of the universe are with you when you pour yourself a giant cup of coffee the next morning.

Oh, mama. You are wrestling with your 18 month old. All you want to do is put pants on him, but he won't comply. He has other ideas. Instead of putting on those pants so that you can run to the grocery store for more diapers, he's on the ground, kicking and screaming. The phrase "Terrible Twos" come to mind. Oh, mama. I'm sorry to say it, but you are just getting started. They don't call them the F*cking Fours for nothing, mama. Pick your battles, and stay strong. It's hard to discipline and train and teach all day and night, but it's worth it. You will recognize the fruits of your labors soon enough. So when you can't take any more, put them to bed. Get yourself some chocolate. Cry in the corner. It will all be alright. Remember that you are doing a great job.

Oh, mama. Sending your baby off to school for the first time. It's scary. Who will make sure that he gets to his classroom safely? Does that bus have car seats? What if he walks around all day with jelly on his cheeks after eating lunch in the cafeteria? What if he gets lost on his way to the cafeteria? Oh, mama. You are just getting started. You've gotten through the baby days and the toddler years, but your worries have changed.Now it's bullies and food allergies and "will he make friends?" It will be okay, mama. He will learn and grow in ways that you never imagined. But you may have to reconsider the way you spell things to your husband when you don't want your kids to catch on. Now, he will know what you are saying.

Oh, mama. Standing in a messy boys' bedroom, surrounded by superheroes and blankets and dinosaur teeth. You wonder if it will ever be clean. You wonder if they will ever find that missing library book. And you overhear an excited giggle, "I wonder if this shirt will light up at school!" One day, it won't be "cool" to wear a color change shirt to school. One day, it will be name brands and fashion and "What will my friends think?" Oh, mama. It's just getting started. Remember these innocent moments. The last six years have flown by, and before you know it, another six will be gone, too. Savor it.

And we are off...

It's Back to School time!

Big Kid is off to First Grade! Reading, writing, riding the bus. I can't wait to see how much he grows this year!

Toast is leaving the bread box for the first time. He's starting preschool this year.

I know that so many parents look forward to back to school season. I get it. After a busy summer, school is a much needed break from parenting. From 8:24 am to 3:09 pm, Big Kid is out of my hair. From 8:30 am to 11:30 am, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Toast is gone. That's nine hours a week of kid free time! I can relax, clean, and write. I can eat a bowl of cereal without children demanding that I share. I can shower without someone dropping Matchbox cars on the floor of the tub. I can enjoy the quiet at home. 

NINE HOURS A WEEK JUST FOR ME! 

Oh wait.

Enjoy your "break," you lucky ones! You know where to find me.

What do you have to complain about?

I was having a discussion with a Facebook friend this morning who was complaining (ironically enough) about parents who complain about their kids on social media.

GUILTY. AS. CHARGED.

And so are you. Don't lie.

Even if your "kid" can be locked in a kennel, you are probably guilty of complaining that he shit on the floor or ate your shoes. 

Life, and especially parenting, isn't all rainbows and sunshine glitter-covered unicorns who piss chocolate. It's hard. It's real. And there is plenty to complain about if you are doing it right.

My complaints today include:

My six year old who hasn't slept in two days and has kept me up all night long.
My two year old who is as mouthy as can be who screamed so loud at soccer this morning that people were staring at me. (Keep looking - she's fine!)
The mountain of laundry and dishes and crumbs that these small people keep creating and that I keep cleaning.
The fact that I am EXHAUSTED. And hungry. Or is it hangry? I can't tell any more.
Post partum anxiety. I'm blaming this one on Muffin just so I have something else to complain about because he's pretty amazing as far as babies go.

My point is - it's hard! Parenting is hard! It has it's amazing moments, of course. I am thankful for my beautiful, healthy children. I am blessed that I have been entrusted to be their mom. I am working so hard to raise them into happy, well-adjusted adults who will contribute positively to the world that we live in. But I'll be damned if the road to success isn't bumpy, and I will complain along the way. And since you read my blog and are my Facebook friend, you will get to read all about it. 

So here is a toast to the moms and dads and stepmoms and stepdads and everyone else who has taken on the enormous responsibility of raising a child. You are amazing. I know it's hard. If you want to share your kids' asshole moments on Facebook so that you can remind them to put their pants on for the 36th time without tearing your hair out, I will sympathize. I'll share my kid's own naked adventures and remind you that you are ROCKING this mama (or daddy!) thing. So keep on keepin' on.

Keep it real, parents of Facebook - the good and the bad. 

My kids can't be the only pains in the asses out there, right? 

"My life does not revolve around wiping your ass."

These words came out of my mouth today.

They were immediately followed by the realization that, sonofabitch, my life does, in fact, revolve around wiping asses.

But I wasn't going to admit that to my three year old, no matter how many times he shouted "I pooped AND peed!" while I was trying to shovel down my peanut butter cup flurry.

Such a glamorous life I lead.

Speaking of three year olds, why are they such little a-holes? I actually got into an argument with Toast today about the fact that I was not going to take him to Disneyland, in CALIFORNIA, tomorrow. He also punched his sister more times than I can count, refused to "nap" (and I use that term loosely), and had to be reminded six times to go get new underwear from his drawer, despite the fact that he could absolutely feel the breeze on his nether-region because he was doing handstands on the couch.

My two year old wasn't much fun either today, but it's really no fault of her own. She's had a fever since last night. Poor Beam. When it's up, she's sleeping on the couch. When it's down, she's accessorizing with plastic barrettes. I discovered today that she is a spitter when it comes to taking medicine. So I spent my time being covered in regurgitated ibuprofen and bribing her to please swallow her meds. At least two year olds are easy to bribe. I offered her a penny if she would take her meds before bed, and she was psyched. I'm glad she thinks pennies are big money, because we bought a new car today and pennies are about all I can afford now!

My new ride:

I got myself a new mom ride. And I'm glad I ran out to take this picture for my blog because I realized that the passenger side window was halfway open and there is a chance of rain tonight. That would have been fun. I already locked my keys in the damn thing once today.

And, meanwhile, my husband:

Gavin just reminded me that it's past his bed time. How did I miss that?

Muffin says, "Night, ya'll."

My Husband is Spending a Week at a Hotel on the Ocean

Yep.

And here I am. Telling my tale to you lovely folks.

We dropped Hubs off at the airport bright and early this morning. The poor man had to take three (quiet!) flights to Corpus Christi, Texas. A long day of travel, for sure. He texted me to let me know that he landed safely. And he sent me this:

That's the view from his (quiet!) tenth floor balcony. He's ON THE OCEAN. If your screen is too small, that blue stuff? Yeah - salt water. Waves crashing. I'm pretty sure those little dark things in the lower corner are palm trees.

Woe is my husband. He misses his family.

Meanwhile, here at home, it's been sort of a shit show. A shit show and an orange juice show and a "Get to your rooms!" and a "Why won't you just go to sleep?!" show.

I stocked up on yogurt smoothies. Kids love 'em, I got them for $1. I told those same kids that they couldn't have them until after dinner. After four trips to the car, I got the groceries put away, reminded the kids that they could NOT have yogurt smoothies, and sat down to nurse Muffin. Who comes wandering out with an open bottle of orange juice, but Beam. Before I can grab it, she dumps it. All over me. All over Muffin. All over the couch. All over the ottoman.

I scream. Unlatch Muffin. He screams. I glance in the kitchen to see Big Kid and Toast OPENING YOGURT SMOOTHIES. The fridge is wide open.

Yep, I lost it. Pretty sure all five of us screamed for a good seven minutes.Three of us, while in bed, two of us, while cleaning orange juice and changing our clothes.

Meanwhile, my husband:

Beam, my two year old, has been actively trying not to poop for two days. (For you non-parents out there - withholding poop. Yes, this is a THING. You're welcome.) This results in her banshee-like screams every 20 to 30 minutes, followed by, "I'm pooped. I'm pooped a lot. Change my diaper." (Her diaper is clean. I tell her so.) At one point, while I was trying to make dinner, she stopped screaming, stripped down to her diaper, strapped herself into Muffin's bouncy chair, and started singing Five Finger Death Punch.

That was a lovely three-and-a-half minutes.

Meanwhile, my husband:

And now, Muffin has awoken from the land of dreams. He's screaming, again.

Big Kid and Toast are (quietly, thank God!) creating a "Car Roller Coaster" on the living room floor. Even though access to Muffin is blocked, I guess I still have to risk life and limb and my poor feet and try to climb over 750 Matchbox cars and retrieve the screaming baby.

And meanwhile, my husband:

And his hotel? Not only does he have an ocean view from his room, because you know - that's not enough. 

THAT SHIT HAS A ROOF TOP POOL. Surely he will send me some pictures of that later this evening. 

After he eats a steak and drinks a beer. No cold tacos and grapes for the big guy.

Sorry

This morning, at precisely 7:19 am, Big Kid came to me and asked a question.

"Can we play Sorry, mommy?"

Now aside from the fact that it was 7:19 am, Sorry is one of my least favorite board games. It's right up there with Chutes and Ladders. (Have you seen the new version? It's the worst!) And there were a million things that I needed to do at that time. I had to sweep the floors and fold the mountain of laundry that has taken over the chair and feed the cat and clean up the breakfast dishes and...

I didn't say any of this, but I groaned. "I haven't even had breakfast yet, bud."

And how did Big Kid replay?

"I'll make you some breakfast, mommy!"

Many days, my children make me crazy with their demands and neediness. There are moments, however, that remind me of how sweet their little spirits are. They are kind. They can look past my perceived flaws as a mom. They can be giving and generous toward me even when my mind is elsewhere. They are not yet corrupted and ruled by outside demands and running to-do lists. Life really is as simple as chocolate chip pancakes and a game of Sorry on a cool Friday morning. 

So Big Kid and I played Sorry after breakfast. And he kicked my butt.

Afterward, he had two questions:

"Can we play again?"

and 

"Can we go to Chuck E Cheese today?"

Sigh. 

How to Choose Your Favorite Kid

We know that you love all of your children. No question about it.

But let's be real - you have a favorite kid. Sometimes your favorite changes by the day. Sometimes it changes by the hour. Sometimes it changes by the minute. Shit, sometimes all of your kids are hellions and if you are being honest with yourself, your favorite child is the cat. Or your husband. (Wait, forget that noise because he's at work and he's missing all of the "fun.") 

If all of your kids are angels and you can't choose a favorite, I hate you, er, here is some criteria to help you make your choice.

The Sleeping Child

If one of your kids is sleeping peacefully, particularly in the middle of the day and especially if that child is three years old and gave up napping two and a half years ago, that child is your favorite. Babies who sleep through the night at a young age get bonus points in this category. The quiet, sleeping cherub always wins. 

The Independent Child

Kids are so needy. From the time they wake up, they need things. Desperately. And quickly. They simply cannot survive a minute longer if they do not get a cup of apple juice, Goldfish crackers, or a partner for their 47th round of Chutes and Ladders. They are SO DAMN NEEDY. If you can't get your kids off of your case, you will probably find that the independent child, the one who is playing quietly with a fire truck or pouring a glass of water - without spilling a drop - is your favorite. At least until he needs something.

The Kid Who Ate Their Veggies

Some kids are naturally drawn to healthy foods. Others request chicken nuggets at every meal. I'm on kid number four, and I've got one chicken nugget kid (here's looking at you, Toast!) and two who will eat just about anything. The baby is yet to be determined. Anywho, I always adore the kid who will chow down on their broccoli and ask for more. Even if they dip every nibble in ranch dressing. A victory is a victory.

The Polite Child

Kids are a work in progress. Aren't we all? I'm still training mine to use their manners and not their whiny voice, but they do well most of the time. It always makes my heart sing when they are exceptionally gracious and polite. "May I please have some more ranch dressing for my green beans, Mommy?" Yes, yes you may, favorite child. Yes, you may.


It was a good day around here, and I think all of my kiddos hit Favorite Kid status at some point today. Except Beam. 

She colored herself green and took a crap on the floor. 

Maybe tomorrow, sweet girl. Maybe tomorrow.

A Life of Leisure...

Hello and welcome! 

I'm Megan, and these are my kiddos:

From left to right, we will call them Beam, Muffin, Big Kid, and Toast.
From left to right, they are 2 years old, 3 months old, 6 years old, and 3 years old.

Yes, my husband and I had four kids in six years. We may be insane, but would you LOOK at those babies? We hit the jackpot. Not a goofy one among the bunch.

My husband swears that the last three were a surprise. Beam and Toast definitely were. But the last one, Muffin, he sure wasn't. Not to me, anyway. I guess hubs wasn't paying attention when we had that whole, "I want another baby. I'm ovulating. We are going to have sex every day this week," conversation. 

He must have gotten caught up on the we are going to have sex every day part.

(If I ever get that giddy "Oh, newborns! I WANT ONE!" feeling again, I promise to take it here first and you all can verbally beat it out of me, okay?)

Anywho, eight pink lines later, here we are. Living a life of leisure. 

How did I realize that we live a life of leisure? It wasn't earlier today when I was restocking 16 bottles of Johnson & Johnson Baby Wash that Toast knocked down, while trying to stop Beam from climbing on a diaper rack, with Muffin strapped to my chest. No, that is far from leisurely, I suppose.

I realized that I live a life of leisure when my husband told me so.

Last Sunday night, we had this exact conversation:

Me: Geez, Sunday already! Back to work tomorrow.
Hubs: Yep, back to work for me. You get to continue living your life of leisure.
Me: Blank stare.

He was kidding, of course. Though most days around here do not involve knocking down entire baby wash displays at Target, things are busy. We have fun. We work hard. And there is a LOT of noise.

This is my journey through motherhood, and I hope you will join me. Whether you are bringing home the bacon, frying the bacon in the pan, one of those amaze-balls moms who does both, or even if you want nothing to do with the bacon and simply want to sit in peace and eat microwave s'mores and watch reruns of 19 Kids and Counting (No? Just me?), we are all in it together. 

Let's do this.