Motherhood Uncensored

It could be worse. It can always be worse.

I thought that the toilet was the one place where I could rest assured that for five entire minutes while #2 is being shown who's boss there would be no tomfoolery of the near three-year-old variety. 

Parenting Dictionary

Noun: The potty. Defintion: A veritable toddler straight jacket in the form of a porcelain bowl that holds tiny butts in one place.

Yeah right.

As it turns out, I overestimated the maturity level of my near three-year-old and the confining qualities of the toilet because during the small span of the 2.43 minutes between him screaming "I'm DOOOOOOOOOONE" and me getting there [which by the way should be noted that he screams "I'm done" at least three times before he is actually done and I have yet to figure out why he screams it when he's not actually done because how are you fooled by your own poop I mean don't you know that you're not done and if so why bother yelling it other than trying to torture your poor mother slowly and painfully because she once accidentally hit a squirrel with her car another life and didn't stop and now it's payback time] he unraveled yet another roll of toilet paper and covered the entire bathroom in baby soap.

But instead of bursting into tears, I cracked a beer, cleaned the entire bathroom with the toilet paper and soap, and then thanked him that it was the soap he decided to spread around the room.

And not poop.

You've gotta get them vaccinated

There are only three men I'd fly alone with three kids for.

My husband, Ryan Reynolds, and David Wescott.

David's just one of those good eggs, albeit a self-admitted PR flack, but when he asks me to do something, it goes high on my priority list, especially when it has to do with vaccines.

Yes, that's right. While moms from across the blogosphere were being wooed by Nestle, a small handful of us (some of whom I helped suggest) were donning disposable lab coats and shower caps to explore the inner workings of the GlaxoSmithKline vaccine facility.

I told you I live the glamorous life.

Now before you try to call me a "sell out" like a few of my colleagues who attended this event were accused of being - because you're right, getting plane tickets, a rental car, and a deli platter lunch to listen to a series of vaccine experts and factory managers discuss diseases is completely selling out (you got me!) - let me tell you why I went:

I reallllllly wanted to spend 45 minutes at 8pm on a Thursday night strapping three car seats into a Kia Minivan at the National Car Rental joint.

Okay, not really. But seriously, car seats are hard to do in the dark people.

I can assure you it was not for the free "vacation." The trip to Marietta, Pennsylvania with my three children, that included dropping them off with my in-laws and then driving two hours from Philly and back was not a vacation. 

Nor was it for the swag.

I got a lined notepad and bic pen so I could take notes.

At least I didn't have to fight anyone over it.

We're not boycotting pads and pens are we?

Phew.

No people. I went because I'm an academic. Or I used to be. You know, when my brain wasn't jello. And I'm very interested and I'll be honest, skeptical, of certain vaccines.

My level of fear and understanding about vaccines has evolved since having my oldest daughter. It's hard, as a parent, to swallow the numerous research studies and news reports that clearly show the efficacy of vaccines along with the equally numerous stories of parents dealing with adverse reactions to such vaccines.

I've also experienced two ends of the vaccine spectrum.

My sister died in 1980 from complications from Hib, which has now been almost completely eradicated thanks to the vaccine of the same name. 

My husband's aunt died in 1960-something from complications related to the old DPT vaccine.

So when you say vaccines don't do anything, you're wrong.

And if you say people don't have bad reactions to them, you're wrong too.

I'm not surprised, nor am I offended, that the group that spoke with us, including the facility director and on-staff pediatrician, were completely and adamantly pro-vaccinations.

But what I was surprised about was their dedication for what they've taken on as "their cause."

It's clearly more than a business to them.

There have been many people, including myself at one time or another, who imagined these drug companies pumping kids with chemicals without thinking too much about the consequences just to make a buck.

But putting a face to this business, many of them female faces, most of them parents with children, was eye-opening.

Understanding the power that vaccines have had in our society, and knowing that when we choose to vaccinate our children, we're not just protecting them, but we're most likely protecting their friends and their friends (and on and on) is something that I don't think many people consider.

This doesn't mean that I'm going to run out and get the H1N1 vaccine, or even the seasonal flu vaccine. After much heartache over it last year, I ended up getting the older two the vaccine and a few days later they (including my husband) all had the worst stomach virus ever.

I'm still researching and trying to formulate my own educated decision about them.

But I will say that since visiting the facility and speaking with the professionals, I've seen a different side of vaccines. And believe me, it wasn't the blinged out cars and fancy handbags of high level executives.

It was the real, humble, and passionate faces of men and women who truly believe strongly in the power of what they do.

Regardless of how I feel about vaccines, I can't help but appreciate their passion. Only next time, I'd really appreciate if they'd have Ryan Reynolds there to give some shots. I'd happily volunteer myself as a veritable pin cushion.

---

A few interesting tidbits:

- Vaccines are tested within the typical newborn schedule. So when they test a new DTaP or whatever, they don't just test it alone. They test it with the other vaccines that are supposed to be taken at that time.

- You should report any and all reactions, no matter how big or small they are, to your doctor. My son had a week long low grade fever after his 3rd Hib and Prevnar series and my pediatrician decided not to give the 4th dose. It's important to report anything so that they can track it.

- When you're taking your kids to get vaccinations, topical anesthetic does work, but you need to plan ahead. Just make sure you tell the nurse where you put it (you might want to mark it on your kid's body with a marker or bandaid). You can also try Buzzy, a pretty cool product that can make shots less painful for your kids.

You can check out the posts from the other bloggers that attended as well (Lindsay didn't attend, but she's got a great post up about the H1N1 vaccine), as well as GlaxoSmithKline's corporate blog:

UpperCase Woman, CreatureBug, Sarah & the Good Squad, and The Feminist Breeder

I will not be broken

Since my husband's been gone, I've cleaned poop out of the tub and off the floor. And I won't even say off where I've tried to clean permanent marker. 

Then it was the series of bathroom products, including Sarna Lotion (have you smelled that shit?) and toothpaste, off my daughter's sheets - that after I had already washed them just to wash them.

So much for being proactive.

I found string cheese in my silverware drawer and a ball of lox (yes, lox) in the toy bin.

And to top it all off, my son, the evil culprit in this scheme to break me before the month's end, decided to turn himself into a tiger using a black whiteboard marker.

I practically thanked him for using something that I could wash off with a washcloth.

I do my best to start the day with patience, you know, the whole "yell when I'm happy, whisper when I'm mad," but after the third shit pile and the carpet permanently inked with toddler scribblings, I'm beaten into submission.

I have yet to find the one thing that actually works, other than give him my complete and constant attention or stick him in front of the television for the entire day.

The whole 123 Magic is a little complicated when the negative behaviors are coming so rapidly that I don't even remember what number I'm on.

"Wait, I think I was on one now three, oh shit kid just go to the corner."

After giving stickers and taking toys, last night I finally had to put him back in his old room, in his empty crib, in the complete dark and let him scream for a solid 10 minutes so I could scrub toothpaste off my daughter's sheets.

His nearly three-dom ebbs and flows, from entertaining chatter to constant, almost to-the-minute battles, where within seconds unattended, he's wrestling and nudging one or both of the girls. 

Cue screaming, shrieking, and the under-5 super duper lightweight bout in my living room.

I realize I need to pay more attention to my Cesar Millan approach with him - you know, walking him until he's butt tired and all he can do is submit.

But that's hard when it's pouring outside and you've got two other kids and you actually need to get a little bit of work done.

Hell, I'll take even one coherent uninterrupted email.

I'm doing my best to unplug, even though much of what (and who) is keeping me sane these days happens to be online.

And I want to savor this time we have together because all too soon there will be no messes left to clean up and the only artwork he'll have on his body was tattooed on by some guy name Joe-Bob.

All I can say is that it damn sure better say "Mom."

Isn't she lovely?

Margot is small for her age.

I've gotten used to saying that everytime someone asks me how old she is.

"Let me guess. Around 7 months, right?" they'll ask, surprised that she's almost a year old.

I say it not because I care that she's small or that it bothers me, but mostly so I don't have to hear about their nephew who's a whopping 20lbs at 6 months.

"I don't know what they feed him but boy he's a giant!"

Little do they know that little Margot, my bright, perennially cheerful daughter could kick that roly poly kid's ass.

Truth be told, I was a little worried that my dainty little flower. with her ridiculously adorable pageant wave, would be in for a rude awakening- also known as her brother Drew.

But then he decided to stick his finger in her face one too many times in the car and she put her mighty choppers to good use.

Apparently she's been flying under the radar, batting her eyelashes, so much so that most people that meet her inevitably ask "is she always like this?"

And yes. She is predictably pleasant.

But this girl is also a little ball of fire, screeching at even the slightest violation of her personal space, enduring shoves, pushes, and tackles with as much gusto as Rudy, and climbing on chairs and tables with no fear.

And while I have yet to figure out how to handle the shopping cart seat surfing, I'm feeling that for the first time that my baby is disappearing. 

But God is it lovely.

Happy 1st Birthday, Margot. You are love, sweet sweet love.

Rhymenoceros

Just a few months ago Drew could barely squeak out an entire sentence.

But as we parents learn all too quickly, the sleep stops, the ravenous eating begins, and in between the rabid monkey style tantrums, the kid starts speaking in paragraphs.

All the time.

And really, the chatter itself, though incessant, is rather entertaining.

Like the conversations and then arguments about the size of his turds with his older sister, or the reciprocal questions he asks me like "What's your favewit cuh-wer, mommy?"

And who can complain about hearing "I missed you, Mommy" (you know, after the one precious daily hiatus called "naptime").

But lately he's taken a turn for the worse. And I don't mean cursing, or backtalking, or singing the same God damn song over and over again "We represent, the Lollipop Gear, the Lollipop Gear NO MOMMY IT'S NOT GUILD THAT'S SILLY WHAT'S A GUILD?"

(okay maybe I do mean it dear God make it stop)

I mean the rhyming. The spontaneous rhyme fests that sound like a poor white boy stumbling along in some rap competition.

"Could you please use your napkin, Drew?"

"NAPKIN, FLAPKIN, HATKIN, BAPKIN. Bwwwwaahahahahahaahahaha!" *snorfle, chuckle, gag, snort*

Seriously, just add a few "yos," some "hos," and some groovin' back beats, and you've got a top 40 rap song.

WORD to yo mothah.

He rips apart pet names like nobody's business, which generally ends up getting him in trouble because no matter what he started with, he ends up with poop.

"Hey Drewboo [his nickname], come here please!"

"Hey POOPOO! STINKY POOPOO!"

It's even better when company's over, mostly because you don't exactly know which word will suddenly strike his inner poet.

"Seriously, that toaster is a piece of junk!"

"PUNK! You're a punky punky junky monkey!"

As a writer and once poet myself, with such works as "Happiness Grove" (unpublished, 1983) - you know, "where all the traits of love have been wove...," I appreciate his creativity.

And any kid who can somehow go from the word "blue" to the word "cooter" (several times actually, at the grocery store, really loudly), has my utmost respect.

This kid's going somewhere. I just know it.