Motherhood Uncensored

There's a sucker born every minute. This one's name is Daddy.

Other than a few minor issues with bedtime rituals and late night visits, we've got a pretty soundly sleeping household, which means when some little person's sleep schedule goes awry, all hell breaks loose.

Believe me, it wasn't always this way. I've certainly suffered through months, even years of terrible sleepers. But oddly enough, when things are bad, you tend to get used to them. And when things are good, even the minor 10:30pm screaming like she's being attacked by a rabid bat interruptions seem like the complete end of the world.

I don't have any issues with CIO and have implemented it with much success when developmentally appropriate.

(How do you like my professional sounding disclaimer, eh?).

And really, I've learned that you can sort of tell when the CIO is actually going to work or if it's just a means to a very bad, still wide awake and now hating you end, which is what has been happening for the last few nights. 

A few nights ago, Margot woke up right as I was headed to bed, doing her aforementioned batshitcrazy screams that wouldn't stop, most likely due to the belated 18 month sleep regression and her two-year-old molars or one of those things that they try to make you feel better by. Just google "teething 22 month old sleep regression?" and you'll find someone, somewhere who says "Yep, it's a sleep regression and good luck but one day they'll wake up talking in sentences with the uncanny ability to chew beef jerky and it will all be worth it."

Yeah, fuck that.

But needless to say, her cries could not be quelled. Not with a rock and a pat. Or a few idle threats. Or with me pretending that she had stopped while I took a quick shower and a pee.

And so, I resolved to bringing her mattress into my room, at which point she walked right in, plopped right down, and slept soundly until the morning. 

Whatever. I got rest. The end.

So then Daddy came home and she proceeded to do the same exact thing at which point he went in, probably did the same rock, pat, idle, threat combination that didn't work for me. But instead, he brought her into our room.

And into our bed. On top of his body. 

The balls.

He might as well just start handing out candy for dinner around here because hell if I'm going to compete with that bullshit. And then, when I gave him a hearty, but delirious chastising, he put her down next to me, which while a littttle better than her on him was not exactly the resolution I was seeking.

By that point, his effort to effectively place her onto her own mattress on our floor like I had so successfully done the night before was moot.

And really, I can't blame her.

The kid just got a bowl full of candy, dude. She doesn't want your macaroni and cheese no matter how much Velveeta you piled on there.

Potty in the USA

In my humble parenting experience, it seems as though Margot is ready for potty training.

Now I'm in absolutely no rush to get her potty trained, regardless of how many people tell me how much of a pain and expense it is to have two kids in diapers.

Meanwhile, they're not coming to your house trying to potty train your kid. Or driving around town having to stop at every single gas station and Target bathroom.

Potty training is rush week for parents. Without the parties. Or the Zima. 

First of all, the whole taking off the diaper and attempting to save it so you're not wasting the precious diaper just so they can sit on the potty and grin at you for 15 minutes while you wait to hear the sound of the tiny tinkle hitting toilet water leaves much to be desired.

I mean, you can spend half your week's grocery money on Pull-ups that tell you when they've peed, meanwhile it's clearly obvious because they're drooping off their ass and have turned four shades of whatever or have glowing stars on their asses.

Yes, I'm sooooo glad that I spent all that money so my kid and I can be alerted to her own bodily functions.

She already knows when she pees, as evidenced by the stacks of diapers that are immediately ditched all around my house.

Every now and then it's one of those diapers, which sends me off around my house like some sort of animal tracker, attempting to sniff out where she's been and what she might have sat upon or contaminated between the time she took off her diaper and the time I found her. 

Sometimes I take a moment to bask in the glory of my own existence when I'm down low, sniffing the carpets like a bloodhound.

College professor. Book author. Poop tracker. Look how far I've come.

I really need something that will tell her that she has to go.

I also need a self-cleaning carpet.

She's been waking up dry for awhile now, and definitely likes her privacy when she's getting the zoom-zoom-zoom out of her boom-boom-boom.

But every time I sit her on the potty seat, she makes fake pee sounds with her mouth and then runs away, at which point she usually goes and pees somewhere.

So I decided screw it and take one of those damn online scientific potty training readiness quizzes and figure out if I should actually make the effort, or just duct tape her diapers on and call it a night.

And wouldn't you know, I learned that she probably is ready for potty training.

And that she's also a smart ass.

She Talks

Every day my husband asks me if Margot has said anything, and every day, I offer him a disappointing "no."

She definitely communicates with us, through a series of pitched grunts and squeaks and sign language, all of which we've learned to interpret fairly well.

"Fairly" being the operative word.

She actually does quite well with "b" words - like baby or bub-ble, ball-ball, bro-bro, and boon-boon - which sound almost exactly alike.

"Almost" being the operative word.

There's "done" and "more" - both quite helpful additions to her vocabulary.

And she can say "Dada" particularly well when he walks in the door, or "Mama" for the other bazillion minutes a day, like when she needs absolutely anything, even if it happens to be at 5:30am. 

But that's about it.

Now after waiting what seemed like ages for Drew to talk, there's no turning him off now. And he speaks quite well for a 3.5 year old.

And I know that Margot is the third kid, which means can do everything from get her own snacks and bowls (at the ripe young age of 20 months) to rope someone into pushing her around in a baby doll stroller all day long so she doesn't have to make that long walk down our hallway.

Let's just say she knows how to work her two very doting and loquacious siblings.

Yeah, yeah. And us too.

But hey! What's parenting without something to obsess and worry and Google 400 times about?

That was until this weekend when she came up to me and said "pee-pee," which could mean "pee-pee" or a few hundred other things.

Except she was pointing. To her diaperless bottom. And then to the carpet, which had a towel strategically placed on it.

So apparently the girl can talk when she needs to. And is probably smarter than us all.

Today we celebrate our service to this country with strep throat

If motherhood was a slot machine, then I hit the jackpot yesterday, or whatever you call it when all three of my kids have fevers at the same time. 

It was sort of like the time that all three of them pooped in synchronicity - all on separate toilets and diapers, mind you.

Thankfully, this time the only thing pouring out of them were the cacophony of whines.

Ever since Margot won the award for first ear infection in the family, I now have the unexplained-fever paranoia, which has led to at least one completely pointless pediatrician visit. And that time, she didn't even have a fever, or at least she did but it miraculously went away by the time we battled Atlanta traffic and did the 50 minute pilgrimage to our pediatrician.

You'd think after three kids I'd have figured out how to use a thermometer.

So, after a few days of a low-grade fever, no snots or boogers of any kind, and a couple of other kids with a cold, I figured I should take her in to see the doctor.

Except it's Memorial Day. And I was supposed to leave tomorrow for a work trip. And my military pilot husband doesn't have any personal days.

I guess that's what today is supposed to be.

So, it was either leave for my trip and let my sitter take the kids to the pediatrician while I was gone, or figure out a way to get her seen today. 

And the look on my husband's face indicated that today would be a really good idea.

As luck would have it, urgent cares require a minimum age of two to be seen, so the emergency room it was, which is usually just slightly less awesome than getting an enema except that I remembered a pitch I got awhile back from a company called InQuickER where you can basically pay a fee a hold your place in line (well, unless your kid's hand is falling off - then you should just go).

Hi. Brilliant.

That meant I arrived, walked in, and was seen immediately. 

In fact, it was so awesome that I brought Drew back later to do the whole thing again after Margot was diagnosed with strep throat. 

Thankfully, the older two kids are fine, save the low grade fever and chest congestion for Drew and a mildly red throat for Quinlan.

And we're fully stocked with antibiotics, generic Tylenol, yogurt, and anti-bacterial wipes.

I ultimately decided against the work trip, even though I could have probably used the hotel room without children, among other things.

But I have decided that it if my little third child needs to be first at anything else around here, she needs to pick something other than illnesses.

Let's just hope we put an end to this streak before college. Or, God help me, high school.

The power of two

In my recent fit of reorganization this week, I stumbled upon a bin of Quinlan's old clothes that just so happen to fit Margot. Aside from being a domestic zero at times (hey, at least it was an actual labeled bin and not an unmarked garbage bag!), I thought that I had sent all of her toddler-sized clothes off to my best friend when we were leaving Mississippi since I secretly knew we were having a boy and probably wouldn't need the dresses and 10 pairs of pink capri pants.

But alas, my sentimental and somewhat organized side must have taken over (yes, indeed, I have one, contrary to familial belief) and there they were, my favorite dresses and outfits.

And with them came the memories, many of which are documented right here when I started this blog nearly five years ago, when Quinlan was nearly 18 months.

The same age that Margot is now.

There was the Minnie Mouse costume that she insisted on wearing at the little consignment shop in our town and refused to take off. The Easter outfit that I carefully matched to her yellow leg cast to after she decided to do a crib dive. The white dress she wore in her 2nd birthday pictures.

Not until recently has it really hit me that I have two girls. It's been "3 kids" or "Girl, boy, and baby," but lately I find myself talking about "my two girls."

And it feels good.

The sister I had but lost. The close, loving relationship my friend and her sister have that I envy. The "hand-me-down" excuse to buy more expensive girl's clothes and shoes.  

And watching the similarities and differences of having two kids of the same gender unfold before my eyes.

There is something amazing about the combination of the familiar and the new, the feeling that I've somehow done this before but yet still experiencing it for the very first time.

It is the power of two.

[My husband got a new job, at least for the next few months, if you're curious about such things. Also, Amazon seems to be a bit back ordered on the Mominatrix book, so if you're looking to send it to someone for Mother's Day, order it from me - I can sign it for you and it will take about 3-5 days to get there].