Need a last minute Christmas gift that is festive, adorable, and easy to make? Then check out my latest Holiday Hacks from TLC #LifeHacks where I’m whipping up Santa Hot Coco Kits that are perfect for everyone on your holiday gift list.
We Lost Her Lovie. It’s Time To Panic
Only a parent can understand the sheer panic and distress when a beloved “lovie” has gone missing. Whether it’s a thread worn blanket, a cyclopsed bear, or a filthy dirty rag doll, that “lovie” often means sleep or no sleep, cry uncontrollably or peace and quiet, a glass of wine for Mommy at night or drinking straight out of the bottle when the kids aren’t looking. As a parent, part of our duty is going on frequent expeditions for that special friend. So when we lost my daughter’s significant other, I went all Code Red, Code Red this is not a drill. Repeat this is not a Drill.
“Baby” was dubbed with her unoriginal forename long before my girl could even scream at the top of her lungs “Where’s MY BABY?” Since she was a tiny peanut, she could only sleep if Baby was by her side, well to be more specific, Baby had to be across her face. When I would hear my infant fuss or cry in her crib, I would roll over to my snoring husband, shake him a few times, then jab him really hard in the ribs (you know, just to make sure he was up) and say “Go put Baby on her face.” Within seconds of Baby being applied to her face, silence. That silence was only broken by the other cry that meant “Where’s the boob at, Lady?”
Even now when I peak in at my slumbering gal, this is how we find her
There is a strict policy for all guests: if you are in her bed, you must have a Baby on your face too.
Baby must can also be worn in times of stress, anxiety, fear, anger, or just hanging out.
Learning from other mothers, I knew it was imperative to have backup Babies, but no matter how hard I tried, Baby 2 and Baby 3 never made the cut. Their fresh faces and pink dresses were turned away for the muted attire and reeking Baby she has grown to love.
Our nighttime ritual always includes bath, books, and a Baby search party. Usually my girl has no idea where she’s left her beloved and my patience runs thin as we all search for her. “Baby needs to stay in your bed,” I tell her “No more searching for Baby every night.” She nods and I nod, but we both know that tomorrow it will be more of the same.
So last week when Baby went missing, I assumed it was the usual game, but this time Baby was nowhere to be found. After tearing thorough every possible hiding space, we had to abandon our search for the night. I assured her that Baby 3 would suffice. With a little sob, she agreed and went to bed with Baby 3 on her face. Surely Baby would turn up tomorrow, but after four days and no Baby, I started to think she was a goner. Could I file a missing persons report for Baby? If the officer was a parent surely he would understand.
Slowly she was adjusting to Baby 3, but I was the one longing for the original Baby. Even though that toy smelled like old milk and dirt and I was afraid to wash her for fear of decapitation from lack of stuffing, it was my baby’s lovie and the one thing she cherished the most in this world. I envisioned someday sneaking Baby into her pillowcase when went to a sleepover with friends or Baby finding her way into dorm room when she heads off to college. I was CRUSHED but my daughter was dealing.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to find Baby. The day she disappeared, we had a marathon day of errands so I called every place Baby had been. I grilled each person that answered the phone about Baby’s whereabouts. Nothing. In an act of desperation I searched the house high and low one more time. Nothing. Just before I gave up I remembered yelling at the kids for making their own bobsled team out of the old crib mattress and bed in the spare bedroom. I swung the door open and started searching the room. And there, wedged between the wall and the bed was Baby. Her half-smirk beckoning me to save her. I hugged that dirty little doll, tried not to vomit from her smell, and raced up the stairs to return her to her sleeping owner. I tucked Baby under my daughter’s arm and breathed a sigh of relief. Mommy:finder of all that once was lost.
The next morning my little girl came downstairs shaking Baby “Mommy! It’s Baby! She’s back!”
“I told you Mommy would find her! Oh God get her out of my face. I might puke, and this time I’m serious. If you lose her again, Mommy is not going to find her.”
I will ALWAYS find Baby for you, but for real, get her out of my face. She stinks.
The Baby Blocker: Keeping New Siblings From Happening
If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you know that I’ve been grappling (check out that SAT word) with adding baby number three to our brood. I’ve written reasons why I really want to be knocked up again. And some really valid reasons why I would have to be out of my mind to let my Eggo get Preggo.
Here’s a little secret I’m going to let you in on: Hubby and I decided we are going to pull the trigger and try for another baby, but then it happened. The Baby Blocker. Not familiar with a Baby Blocker? Well, let me introduce you to her.
Remember being in your glory days single days of hitting the bar and party scene? I know, it’s been a while, but you remember those questionable fashion, hair and make out partner choices, right? Did you have that one friend that made it virtually impossible to capture a guy’s attention? Maybe a handsome fella caught your eye, you were having great conversation or he was impressed with the way you drop it like it’s hot on the dance floor. Then that one friend comes along and ruins it all by saying something lame or chasing him away with her Carlton Banks dance moves, or worse she starts to rub up on him in a really bad Pamela Anderson kinda way. Remember her? The “c@*k block”— I know, gross word but really that’s what she was.
Well imagine you and your main squeeze decide that more is merrier and you get ready to “pull the goalie” and BAM your two year old throws hourly tantrums, fights you on every single loved decision you need to make in a day, screams loud enough to break every window in the house, decides she doesn’t want to be cared for by anyone other than Mommy, but most days acts like she doesn’t even like Mommy, and is generally just, you know, a terrible two. Well friends, meet the Baby Blocker because under no circumstance would you DREAM of having another baby right now. No thanks. This shop is closed.
My son is still easy breezy other than the constant boo boos, wrestling, jumping off high places, refusal to wear pants, and finds bodily functions and fluids a hoot, the kid is pretty much a peach. But that little one is giving me a run for my money.
I’ve discussed this Baby Blocker phenomenon and turns out, they exist in lots of places outside of our home. It’s true! In fact, after a brief survey (OK I asked my friends), it seems that many second and third children only became a reality because the Baby Blocker went on a brief hiatus or reared it’s tantrum head a few months after conception.
It’s gotten so bad that Hubby will try to give me a back rub and I run away like a bat out of hell. From across the room I yell “Watch it, buddy. I know where your back rubs lead!”
While the Baby Blocker was serving another sentence in time out, I sent up a small prayer to help me make it to bedtime without diving headfirst into a bottle of Cabernet.
So where do we stand with bambino numero tres? No time soon. Hopefully the Baby Blocker drops the act before I hit menopause. There is hope; while I was writing this, the Baby Blocker snuggled up next to me, gave me the sweetest kisses and told me she “really loves Mommy.” Oh wait, she just threw her chocolate milk at her brother. She’s BACK!!!
She is Going to LOVE School…Until She Totally Doesn’t…
On Mimi’s first day of “school” ( a one morning a week program for two year olds at a local church), I fully expected her to saunter up to the front door and kick it open with her purple sparkly sneakers. She’d throw her little hands up in the air and announce “Yo, bitches. I’m here!” And as if on cue, the tiny tikes in her classroom would create a tunnel, much like on Soul Train, which Mimi would dance through and high-five each classmate as she passed them. She would end this elaborate entrance with some sort of split. Probably with jazz hands… Maybe even glitter…
Yes, friends, this is what I expected and while I should have been surprised and shocked that my two year old was using the term “bitches” and using it in the correct context, what really happened knocked my socks off.
Miss Independent, Miss Self-Sufficient, Miss I-Will-Take-On-Any-Slide-At-The-Playground is going to rule that school….until she totally didn’t. The second we pulled into the parking lot she tried to everything to get the hell out of there. “Mimi go home with Mommy?” “Let’s call Daddy and go home?” “No school! No SCHOOL!”
“Come on, honey,” I told her “You are going to love school!” But the no school chant turned into sobs as I walked her down the hallway to her classroom. You would have thought I was walking her down the Green Mile not to a toy filled room with cookies and new friends. The teachers were able to distract her long enough for me to book it out the door; however, I bombarded the director by giving her every piece of contact info possible (for real, she wasn’t going to tweet me “come get your kid #sobbing”, but I just wanted to cover all of our bases). Sure enough, the call came: Mimi was still sobbing and wanted Mommy.
Rushing into the classroom, I scooped up a red eyed, snotty, sobbing Mimi and covered her with kisses and hugs. Feeling like the worst mother ever, I searched for the nearest blunt object to dig out my own heart. “Bring her back next week,” her teacher whispered. “We’ll try it again but maybe a shorter day.”
Grandmothers are always the worst to call in these sorts of situations.
Mom: “Oh well, guess we can try again next year.”
Me: “Next year? How about next week? We have to try again.
Mom: “Really? Well if that’s what you think is best.”
Me: (Takes a deep breath—remembers she is taking my family to Disney) “OK, Mom. Thanks for the talk”
My husband was no better. After convincing him that we needed to give it another try, I asked him to give Mimi a pep talk about school for next week. Clearly I confused him with my use of “pep” talk because he re-watched a few poignant coach to player speeches from Friday Night Lights. My concerns were validated when I eavesdropped happened upon their conversation and heard Mimi exclaim “Clear eyes. Full hearts. Can’t lose!”
The next week at school her new chant was “No crying at school” and “Mommy always comes back,” but this drop off was even worse. I think she may have yelled out “Traitor!” at one point. However, the teachers assured me the minute she hit the playground she was a happy lady.
If nothing else, I will think of this moment in retrospect, probably when she is 16, rolling her eyes at me, trying to wear inappropriate skirts that will reveal her who-ha with one wrong move and saying things like “You just don’t get it, Mom.” Instead of dragging her inside the house by her ponytail, I will remind her of the days she loved me, and missed me, and didn’t want to go to school because she couldn’t see me. Then I’ll burn that short skirt, drink wine straight out of the bottle, and wait for her to get out of her teens and become a Mamma’s girl again.
10 Ways To Know You Aren’t Done Having Kids
Deciding to add to your brood can be a difficult decision, but luckily for you, I have devised a simple quiz to help you determine if you can expect a bun in your oven in the near future.
- While sitting among the ladies waiting for a pap smear at your yearly exam, you longingly look at the pregnant women and wish you were “playing for the other team”.
- When you hold someone else’s baby, your ovaries make a sound like a sad trombone.
- You have baby names picked out, and if someone on Facebook uses that name for their kid, you only refer to them as “name stealer” and “worst friend ever.” You also make outlandish claims that their baby looks like Winston Churchill.
- You have a secret board on Pinterest where you pin ways to announce the new pregnancy and birth. Plus you really want to have a gender reveal party because they’re just cool and they didn’t have those cool things the last time you were pregnant.
- Sorting through your kids’ piles of outgrown clothes is enough to send you over the edge or face first into a huge glass of wine.
- Seeing a pregnant woman in the grocery store makes you sigh out loud and your uterus weep.
- Your garage looks like this:
- You just got a “save the date” for your cousin’s wedding that is happening on a tropical island next year, and you’re just not sure you can commit…yet.
- You spent last weekend “cleaning up” the guest room.
- You’ve started to kid yourself that the awful side effects of pregnancy really aren’t so wretched,“Morning sickness? Oh it wasn’t that bad!” “Who needs sleep?” “Labor and delivery? ‘Tis but a scratch!”
Results:
0 We get it, you’re done. DONE. You’ve sent your husband off to the guillotine and tossed out the baby bibs as soon as your last kid could wipe their own face.
1-3 You may have thought about having another kid, but then your current children performed their magic (tantrum, multiple trips to time out) and they cured your baby fever ASAP.
4-7 You put up a good front, but you could be convinced either way. You’ve got a mild case of baby fever, but it wouldn’t take much for you to “pull the goalie.”
8-10 Come on, who are you kidding? You already have one leg up in the stirrups.
How Much Wine is in My Glass? A Science Experiment
Do you drink wine? Shut up, me too!
Since it’s socially unacceptable to crack open a bottle of red at 8 AM, do you wait until your kids are asleep to booze? Yes! Come on, this is just too strange! Wanna be best friends and get a BFF necklace like this:
You know what else I really love, new best friend? I love science experiments. Maybe it’s because I really loved Mr. Wizard’s World as a kid. Remember that guy?
The other night I was pouring myself a glass of wine into my favorite Pottery Barn wine glass, and the Mr. Wizard in me started to think about volume. Not the volume that my daughter can reach while she is mid-tantrum, but the volume of wine that my HUGE wine glasses can actually hold.
Now I know these aren’t normal size glasses, but my days aren’t normal sized and they call for big, fancy wine glasses that can hold the amount of “Mommy Juice” needed to take the edge off the day’s tantrums, messes, clean-ups, butt wipes, nose wipes, school drop offs, school pick up… you get the idea.
So I decided to perform a little experiment. How much wine can my Pottery Barn wine glass hold and what do these findings mean for me?
Here is my list of equipment:
- Pottery Barn red wine glass
- Pottery Barn white wine glass
- Water
- Blue food coloring
Why blue food coloring? Well blue is the most scientific color, just ask the makers of maxi-pad commercials.
Now on to my methods: these are the wine glasses full of water that is pretending to be wine. I know the glasses are a little full, but just imagine Mamma had a really bad day and stop judging for the sake of science, OK?
So how much wine do these glasses hold?
Holy cannoli that’s a lot of grape juice! Just under three cups for the white wine glass and just over three cups for the red.
I decided to consult the most reliable online source, Wikipedia, and according to them, the average “pour” for wine is five to six ounces. That looks like this:
Ridiculous? Hand me that bottle. No one has time for you to be stingy with the booze.
Now somewhere in the article is stated that the wine glass should be double in size so the wine can “aerate,” but I can’t bothered with those sorts of details.
And now the most important part of the science experiment: what conclusions did I come to.
- Clearly the designer of Pottery Barn’s wine glasses was a mother that needed a break at the end of the night
- Why go out and deal with stingy “pours” at stuffy restaurants when you can just fill your glass right to the rim at home?
- When it seems as if there isn’t enough wine in all of Napa to ease the sting of a really rough day try this combo: jar of peanut butter in the AM and wine after the kids’ bedtime.
- In the end, many of my results are still inconclusive. The only thing I can do now is further testing. Care to join me on my next round of experiments, best buddy?
Mornings are hard, old stuff in the closet, and sounds to love and hate
What is the oldest thing in your closet? Come on, you can tell me. Wanna see mine? Well then, you have to watch the vlog for my answers!
And here is the video that refused to go into the vlog. Proof that the white noise works!!
Now tell me your answers!
Finding “The Babysitter”
Some people will tell you that as a parent the most significant moments in child rearing are the milestones like the first time your baby walks, says “Mamma”, or is old enough to wipe their own butt. I’m here to tell you that is crap. Sure, sure those are all important moments, epic moments. However, the most important moment of a parent’s life is stumbling across a great babysitter.
Not just any old babysitter but “the babysitter.” Your go-to-gal for date night. The one that your children (and you) leap into the air for joy upon her arrival. The one that probably takes better care of your kiddos than certain family members (uh-huh, you too?). The truth is “the babysitter” doesn’t just take care of your kids; they can save your life or at least your sanity.
I knew I had found “the one” when someone inquired about my babysitter and I got all Gollum on them and referred to her as “my precious”.
I spotted our Ashley on the playground while my son ran around like a wild man, my daughter was just a tiny newborn, and I was an exhausted and overwhelmed mess. On that day, the playground was full of the usual suspects:
- the nanny chatting away on her cell phone and aimlessly pushing the tiny babe on the swing while her other charge pushes your kid down in the mulch
- the intimidating gang of babysitters that huddle around the park bench—don’t make eye contact, don’t make eye contact
- the overzealous babysitter acting out Beauty and the Beast for her small gang of minions
And then it was like the fog lifted when I saw a little girl I knew from the mommy and me gym class scene playing with a very attentive babysitter who spoke sweetly to the tiny lady and smiled the entire time.
Strategically I scooted my daughter’s stroller up to this vision on the playground and started chatting her up. She was kind, well spoken, experienced, and in 30 seconds I had bribed her to become my new babysitter. When she agreed to watch my kids once a week Rihanna’s “We Found Love in a Hopeless Place” started playing in my head.
After two blissful years my babysitter decided to ruin my life and is going back to school to become a teacher. How dare she try to better herself and the lives of other children and not sit around to be at my beck and call on the rando days I have something to do? I kid, I kid (sorta).
Even with her packed schedule, she still squeezes us in so I can take Hubby out for his birthday and helps me out in a pinch. She’s even coming early so I can shower and get ready in peace. See, I told you this one was a gem!
So here is my advice: if you find an Ashley, “the babysitter”, move her into your house and never let her go. Be sure to feed her, but just keep her close so that she doesn’t wander too far.
And don’t you ask for her number, unless you want me to look like this:
I’m Over at One Classy Motha with Helpful Tips
Pacifier addiction is a real and very serious issue. It effects millions of families each year. That is why I am hanging out with Kim from One Classy Motha to share my story about paci addiction and how my latest invention can help those in your family suffering from pacifier addiction. Click here to find me.
After you read my post, click around and check out what is going on at One Classy Motha; seriously she is a HOOT and you will thank me later.
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- Next Page »