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Reblog: Fighting the Great Armpit Fat War of ’12

26 Mar

A great post from a fellow mommy-blogger about bras After Kids – or “booby straps” as my 3yo daughter calls them…

Fighting the Great Armpit Fat War of ’12.


Reblog: 20 Ways to “Reset” When the Kids Are Having a Hard Day

15 Mar

I found this article from the web site of our awesome pediatrician. Check it out if  a day at home with the kids is starting to seem looooong.

20 Ways to “Reset” When the Kids Are Having a Hard Day.

Why raising toddlers is like living in an insane asylum

11 Mar safety scissors

A few months ago I was surfing the web, and stumbled upon a great post by another blogger-mom titled “Why having a toddler is like being at a frat party.”  The reasons include, “there is always a bad smell in the house that no one can locate,” “the toilets are never clean” and “there is always a boy naked from the waist down peeing in a potted plant”.  It’s good for a laugh if you have some time to kill. (And clearly you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this, right? 😉 ) Some of the reader comments are just as good as the original post. (“There are always fights that need to be broken up. And are immediately followed by ‘I love you, bro.'”)

Based on my own experience, I think there also needs to be a list titled “Why raising a toddler is living living in an insane asylum.”  Every day I have at least one moment that goes something like this:

My 2 y.o. daughter: (putting her hand to her eye): “Mama, there is something on my eyelash.”

Me: “What is it?”

Daughter (with a straight face, examining her hand): “A rooster.”

Me: “A rooster? Really?”

Her: “Yes, a rooster.” (She pretends to cradle something in her cupped hands. Then she walks out of the room. From the other room, I can hear her talking to her brother.)

Her: “Kenji, there is a rooster on my eyelash.”

His reply: “Oh.”

"there is a rooster on my eyelash"

"Mama, there is a rooster on my eyelash."

Then, there was that time when I came into the bathroom after hearing repeated flushing, only to find my son with his hand on the flusher, and the end of the toilet paper roll draped into the toilet. “Watch this, mom!” He exuberantly said as he flushed again and again, watching the roll spin as the the paper got sucked down the toilet.

Because these moments are both the highlights and the lowlights of my days – sometimes I have to keep from laughing while I am giving a time out.  So, without further ado, here are my ten reasons why raising a toddler is like living in an insane asylum.

1. There is always someone crawling on the floor barking like a dog.

2. There is a banging on the other side of the wall that no one notices anymore.

3.  You are constantly stepping in puddles of liquid.  Without thinking twice, you perform the “sniff test” to see what it is.

4. The remote control for the TV disappears every few months, never to be found again.

5. You hear yourself calmly explaining why it’s not a good idea to eat bubble bath, or drink bathwater.

6. You don’t flinch when you see someone eating cereal off the floor.

7.  During phone conversations, you frequently find yourself saying to the person speaking on the other end, “don’t worry about the screaming in the background.”

8. There is a group of people in the living room spinning around in a circle until they fall down.  After they hurt themselves, they get up and do it again.

9. You have the right to put away all potentially hazardous office supplies. Anything left out in plain view can and will be used against you.

10. You need to stop several times a day and do deep breathing exercises in order to keep from joining the lunatics.

(If you have ever lived spent an extended period of time with a toddler, I am sure you can add reasons of your own. I am sure I will have new reasons to add by the end of today.)

Now we come to the inevitable question – how does a sane person dress for living in the insane asylum? On the surface, it would seem the job would call for dressing in scrubs like a hospital orderly, which is a topic that I explored in a recent blog post.  By the end of that post, I conclude I am simply not willing to live my life in anticipation of the next, inevitable child-induced disaster.  I may be living in knee-deep in chaos, but why confine myself to that reality? I am holding out for the moments of sanity, which come more often now with my older child. My younger one is two, and on some days, it’s hard to imagine the madness will ever end. But who knows, maybe once they are older, I will miss these days. I have to confess, there is still a part of me that loves spinning around in a circle until I fall down, then getting up and doing it all over again.

Dressing for the Part of…Janitor?

18 Jan Baby Bjorn potty

Ugh. Snail trail. My 2 year old daughter is crying her eyes out because of something I did that offended her (really, because it’s 5pm and she hasn’t napped all day). I look down where her face is buried into my shoulder and I see that shiny mix of tears and boogers imprinted on my brand new sweater. After a moment of panic, I recover my wits and toss the sweater into the next room, and ponder the paradox of dressing for mommyhood while I sit on the closed toilet lid in the bathroom and try to calm my daughter down.

Just earlier today, I trudged through the same bathroom only to step in something wet – which is never good when you’re walking by a toilet in a kids’ bathroom. Bending down to examine the material, my fears were confirmed – pee pee puddle, which my daughter had just pushed her new baby stroller into, and her footprints were following her into the next room.  After giving my 5 year old son the third degree about his toileting accuracy, I brought out the cleaning spray and paper towels and went to work. A few minutes later, even though the bathroom smelled like bleach, and my wet socks were in the hamper, I still couldn’t shake the memory of pee on the bottom of my feet.

Now, seeing my new sweater discarded in a heap, I had to ask myself – whom am I kidding, trying to make a fashion statement  in this profession of motherhood- those with similar jobs, janitors and hospital orderlies, simply choose to wear scrubs.

With my daughter calm, but still wet and naked in my arms, I take a deep breath, and I do my best to put the hopelessness aside.  I pick up the sweater off the floor, wipe off the visible boogers with a washcloth, and put it back on. I’m going to get through the day without looking like I’ve been run over by a truck, I tell myself. I just have to stay calm and keep my wits about me.

Soon thereafter, my daughter announces that she has to go “poo poo” and I follow her back into the bathroom. Turns out the poo poo boat has sailed already and what she really needs is a change of diapers.  Now, we’re new to pull-up diapers and I guess my removal technique needs improvement because in an instant, a large turd that has bounced off my wrist and onto the bathroom floor, leaving a light impression of poop on my skin.  I read in a potty training book that parents are not supposed to show disgust in the presence of poop, so, trying to look encouraging for my daughter’s sake, I do my best to contain the hazardous material while keeping my daughter from stepping in it. Meanwhile, I can feel the poop stain burning its impression on my skin. At least the sweater has short sleeves… after the poop on the floor is contained, I leap up to wash my hands, lathering and scrubbing harder than Lady Macbeth. Finally, I clean up my daughter, draw a deep breath, and we all continue with our day.

Now it’s nearing bedtime, and my kids are in the bath. Just when I thought that my janitorial duties were complete for the day, I hear my son calling out, “Poop! Poop!” Yes indeed, little sister had planted a floater in the bathtub.  When it rains, it really pours. My son is old enough to know he needs to get out of the bathtub ASAP. Of course. this is not my first run-in with a waterborne turd – which my husband likes to call Defcon because of the dead-serious look I get on my face. Children are evacuated, toys are discarded, everything and everyone is sanitized. A good while and a half bottle of cleaning solution later, I restore hygienic order for the third time.

Am I crazy to wear a cushy, cashmere blend sweater while swatting poop around on the bathroom floor? Perhaps. But I don’t like the alternative.  If my clothes only serve the purpose of utility, I end up with the mommy version of scrubs – clothes that are stain resistant, effortless, and uninspiring. So I guess I wear the pretty sweater despite my better judgement, for the simple reason that it upgrades my job description. I am more than a janitor, waitress, and chauffeur.  In motherhood, I get to write my own job title – and I prefer teacher, artist, and life coach — who just happens to put on rubber gloves every now and then.

The first time my son pooped in the bathtub as a toddler, I was so overtaken with the ick factor that I forgot to laugh. Luckily my husband was there to remind me that it’s actually funny.  Funny for you, I grumbled to myself, because you’re not the one with your face in a bathtub full of hot bleach.  Now, a few years later, we can all laugh about it. After all, my son is the one sharing the bathtub with the floating turd – if he can laugh about it, then I should too.  We’ll be teaching my daughter the lesson of lightness; everyone steps in a puddle of pee every now and then, but it’s less about cleaning up the bathroom floor, and more about what you do afterwards.

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